Sketch a Falling Star (7 page)

Rory raised her hand. She didn’t actually have any questions, but she knew that Zeke did. As he wasn’t in a position to ask for himself, she decided to ask for him. Joe nodded in her direction.

“What can I do for you, Ms. McCain?” Rory was sure she heard a note of disdain in his voice. Well, she knew exactly what he could do with it, but she kept that graphic thought to herself. “Doesn’t it strike you as a little strange that a man like Mr. Wright, who was fit and in the prime of his life, was the one casualty?” she asked.

The detective shrugged. “It might be as simple as his location in the canyon when the flood hit. Beyond that, no one can account for the whims of fate, not even you, I imagine.”

Rory counted to ten…then to twenty. At twenty-five her anger finally boiled down to a low simmer. “Thanks for that pithy observation,” she muttered to herself. Richard Ames, who was standing next to her, chuckled.

“Remind me not to ever get on your bad side,” he whispered.

“What bad side?” she whispered back with a smile.

For the next five minutes, Joe answered questions from the press related to the procedures for flood warnings and the issue of whether another layer of precaution needed to be put in place.

“There is one other piece of information I want to leave you with before I wrap up this briefing,” Joe said when the Q&A was over. “During our investigation we discovered that Preston Wright was not actually the deceased’s name, but one of several aliases he’s been known to use. His actual name is Brian Carpenter. That’s all I’m prepared to say about it at this time.”

Leaving an armada of questions in his wake, Daniel Joe left the podium and exited the room with Walter Begay at his side.

Chapter 7

R
ory was in complete agreement when the Way Off Broadway Players voted to cancel the rest of their ill-fated trip. Their hearts weren’t in it anymore, and they felt they should be home to attend Preston’s funeral. Of course, he’d never technically been Preston. But since they’d known him for nearly two years by that name, they were all having a hard time thinking of him as “Brian,” and a harder time still trying to make sense of his need for an alias. They’d spent much of the flight home conjuring up all kinds of elaborate scenarios that would explain it, from the Witness Security Program to more colorful possibilities, like a serial killer. What none of them could fathom was why a person who needed an alias would jeopardize his anonymity by performing on a stage for all the world to see. Well, parts of Long Island anyway.

Upon arriving home from the airport, each member of the troupe found a voice mail from Clarissa Carpenter with the pertinent details about Brian’s wake and funeral. She apparently subscribed to the actor’s motto that the show must go on. And the sooner the better. Rory suspected that most of the troupe would be attending the wake not only to pay their respects to their colleague, but also in the hope that they could learn more about his secretive past. After all, you never knew what a distraught relative might slip and say at such a time.

When Helene called to see if Rory wanted to go with her to the wake the next day, Rory took a few moments to decide. She’d already mapped out a full day of buying groceries, doing laundry, playing with Hobo and catching up on her current cases. In the end, curiosity trumped nearly all of that. She reasoned that if Brian hadn’t died, they would all still be in Arizona anyway. Her “to do” list could wait another day to be done, with the exception of Hobo. He wouldn’t be cheated out of a single belly rub, throw of the tennis ball or general hugging and cuddling.

Although it was late when their flight landed at JFK, she’d gone directly to her parents’ house to pick him up, unwilling to spend her first night home without him. He’d been deliriously happy to see her, dancing around in circles and barking with joy, his whole shaggy body wagging in counterpoint to his tail. Her father had feigned heartbreak, claiming Hobo had led him on.

“There was a lot of bonding going on between the two of them,” her mother had explained with a wink. “They played ball together. They sat together on the couch every night watching TV. They shared snacks. Aside from a few unsavory habits, Hobo is the son your father never had.”

Rory had promised to bring him back soon for a play date.

That first night back home Hobo had sniffed his way into every corner of the house and every inch of the backyard before he was satisfied that nothing was amiss. Rory had done her own walk through each room checking for Zeke, not that she’d expected to find him there. He was probably still recovering from his trip to Flagstaff.

When she brought her suitcase upstairs, the bed looked so inviting that she wanted nothing more than to snuggle under the covers and drift off to sleep. Unpacking could wait for the morning. Hobo had already jumped onto the bed and was busy arranging the quilt to his liking. Then he turned around three times in a primitive doggie ritual before collapsing into a heap. Rory changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed too. When she tugged part of the quilt out from under him, he didn’t even stir.

She closed her eyes, savoring the special contentment of being in her own bed again. The stress of the past few days was slowly draining away. She was on the threshold of sleep, the place where thoughts unravel into dreams, when she thought she heard someone whisper, “Welcome home.”

T
rading the lively sounds and brightness of a sunny spring day for the dim quiet of the funeral home had an immediate effect upon the psyche. The step automatically softened, the voice lowered, as if not to disturb the eternal rest of the departed. Rory had long suspected it was a subconscious effort to keep the angel of death from knowing you were in the neighborhood.

When she and Helene walked into the room designated for Brian Carpenter, they were surprised to see how few people were there. Clarissa had made it clear the wake would only last one day. Maybe some people had stopped in earlier, and others were planning to come by after work, but that wasn’t enough of an explanation to suit Rory. When a person in his forties died under such tragic circumstances, there was usually a great outpouring of sympathy from even the most casual of acquaintances. Of course, that depended largely upon whom Clarissa had informed about the passing of her son. If he’d been in the Witness Security Program or was a serial killer on the lam, it was understandable that she might have chosen to keep it as low-key as possible.

Given how empty the room was, Clarissa was easy to locate. She was standing to one side of the casket talking with an elderly man who was nodding solemnly at what she was saying. Since Rory and Helene didn’t want to interrupt their conversation, they slid into the last of several pews behind the three members of the troupe who were the only others presently in attendance. Amy and Greg Renato, the newest members of the Players, were sitting beside Andrew Dobson, the troupe’s director. According to Helene, Rory’s only authority on the subject, Andrew was a moody, frustrated playwright who taught high school English to pay the rent and hated to be called “Andy.” The few times Rory had seen him before the trip, he’d always been wearing the same, sour expression, as if he’d taken a bite out of life and found it bitter with disappointment.

“It’s not exactly standing room only in here,” Helene whispered, leaning closer to her colleagues.

Amy twisted around in her seat. “I know. We’ve been here forty minutes, and that guy with Clarissa is the only one who’s come in.”

“Actually I’m glad you showed up,” Greg said, “because we need to get going; we just didn’t want to leave Clarissa alone in case that guy doesn’t stay long.”

Rory nodded. What could be sadder than holding a lonely vigil at a loved one’s wake?

Andrew was already standing. Tall and thin with hunched shoulders and a beak of a nose, he reminded Rory of a vulture looking down at them. “Well, I’m afraid it’s hello and good-bye for me,” he said, edging out of the pew past his companions. “I’m late for a dentist appointment. I’ll see you three at rehearsal Monday. Rory, I hope to see you at our next production.” He was gone before Rory could assure him she’d be there.

Amy and Greg stayed to chat for a few more minutes, leaving just before the old man did. Now that Clarissa was alone, Helene and Rory made their way down the aisle to pay their respects, hoping someone would show up eventually to relieve them.

Clarissa appeared far more composed than when Rory had last seen her, across the lobby of the hotel. Her makeup was flawless, her short blond hair liberally streaked with highlights. She looked a good ten years younger than she had to be, considering her son’s age.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she said after they’d introduced themselves and murmured their condolences. “Are you both in the troupe?”

“I am,” Helene told her. “My niece plays a supporting role by being in the audience.”

Clarissa sighed. “I wish I’d made it my business to come out here to see more of Brian’s plays. One of those pointless regrets, I guess.”

“So you live on the Island?” Helene asked.

“New Hyde Park. My husband and I bought our first house there. We meant to move on to something bigger and grander, but we never got around to it,” she said with a little shrug.

“I’ve been a widow for five years now, and at this age, I don’t have the energy to start uprooting myself. So my first house will most likely be my last house too. Besides, where would I go? Brian was my only child.” Tears rose in her eyes, but she clenched her jaw against them and held on to her composure.

Rory tried to think of the right thing to say to bridge what was fast becoming an awkward silence. But aside from a few platitudes, she came up empty.

“The troupe and the audiences will miss Brian,” Helene jumped in. “He was really talented—like a chameleon the way he became the characters he played.”

Clarissa smiled ruefully. “I can’t say that I’m surprised.” She turned to Rory. “So how do you spend your time when you’re not an audience member?”

“I have a small PI firm,” Rory said, thinking that all the mourners she’d known wanted to talk about their lost loved one. Yet Clarissa had changed the subject as if to avoid such a discussion.

“And she used to be a sketch artist for the police department,” Helene added proudly.

Clarissa’s face brightened. “You’re not going to believe this, but after Brian is…well…settled, I was going to look for a private investigator. And you know what they say—there’s no such thing as a coincidence.”

“I’ve always subscribed to that theory myself,” Helene said. “And you won’t find a better investigator anywhere. In fact, you may have read last summer about how Rory solved two murder cases the police hadn’t—”

“Aunt Helene,” Rory interrupted sweetly, “let’s not bore Clarissa with my résumé.”

“That’s okay,” Clarissa said. “I really think you’re meant to be the one. Do you mind if we talk business for a few minutes?”

Although Rory didn’t think it was the right time or place for a business meeting, she supposed it was up to Clarissa to decide on the proper etiquette for her son’s wake.

Helene promptly excused herself to give them some privacy, and a moment later, Rory found herself seated beside Clarissa in the first pew, feet from where Brian lay in repose.

“As a rule I refrain from talking about my son,” Clarissa began stiffly, “so this is going to be a bit difficult for me.”

“Take your time,” Rory said, “and please be assured that anything you tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence.”

She nodded and produced a lopsided, little smile as if she had half a mind to continue and another to cut and run. Rory watched the inner struggle play out on the woman’s face.

“Okay,” Clarissa said finally, “here goes. My son could be both utterly charming and absolutely despicable. As a result, he had a fair number of enemies, which is why he moved around a lot and used aliases.”

Apparently, Clarissa didn’t believe in not speaking ill of the dead. Rory thought she might have at least waited until her son wasn’t in the same room.

“I’ve been expecting this day for the last twenty years,” Clarissa went on. “I knew Brian would die in a violent way, though I didn’t anticipate it happening quite like this.”

“Are you saying you believe Brian was murdered?” Rory asked, hoping her voice didn’t betray how ridiculous she found the question.

“Yes, I think it’s a distinct possibility.”

“But you do know that he was killed in a flash flood, right?”

“I do.”

“And that the police investigation and coroner’s report all confirmed that it was an accident caused by a horrific mistake on the part of someone at the weather bureau?”

“Yes.” A bored expression had settled over Clarissa’s features as if she were waiting for the inevitable questions to run their course.

“The odds of someone succeeding at murder by flash flood must be astronomical,” Rory pointed out.

“Which is why the killer didn’t plan any of it.”

“An opportunistic murder?” she asked. “Someone wanted Brian dead and was willing to wait until the perfect scenario might present itself?”

Clarissa nodded.

“People bent on revenge aren’t generally known for that kind of patience,” Rory pointed out. “And even if you’re right, how did someone manage to drown Brian while not also succumbing to the flood? Brian was probably the strongest, most able-bodied person in the canyon that day.”

“Believe me, I’ve considered every one of your questions and others you haven’t thought of yet. And no, I haven’t completely lost my mind.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I know, dear, but let’s just assume for the time being that he was murdered.”

The old saying that the customer was always right popped into Rory’s head. “Okay,” she said, although she thought it was a waste of time.

“Even though Brian may have deserved what he got,” Clarissa said, “I can’t live out the rest of my days without knowing what actually happened.”

“That’s certainly your right,” Rory said thinking she wouldn’t have much of a business if people didn’t feel the need for closure.