Sketch a Falling Star (29 page)

Aside from that, when Rory had left Abner’s house that day, she’d had everything she’d come for, and since it had taken only one afternoon, she’d been left with a free day to enjoy like a real vacation. She’d been out hiking in Sabino Canyon early the next morning when Leah called.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings again,” she’d said. “The woman you sketched in the SUV remains a mystery. In spite of her talent for breaking and entering, she hasn’t made the criminal database, and she’s not a comrade in arms. I know that isn’t what you wanted to hear, but I have to admit I’m kind of glad. Contrary to conventional wisdom, there
is
such a thing as bad publicity, at least when it comes to the police.”

Rory had stepped to the side of the trail to allow other hikers to pass more easily. “Hey, I’m completely with you on that. I just had to check all the possibilities.”

“Could the sketch be somewhat off, because you didn’t get a good enough look at her?” Leah asked.

“I could swear I did.”

“Listen, you were trying to avoid a collision. That’s not the best scenario for a cool-headed, objective memory of a face that flashed by you in a second.”

“You’ve got a point,” Rory grumbled, “but that doesn’t get me any closer to figuring out who she is and what she has to do with my case.”

“Those questions will still be around when you get home,” Leah said, “so you may as well enjoy the rest of your time out there. Otherwise, that woman, whoever she is, will be guilty of stealing your vacation on top of everything else.”

Rory knew she was right, but it had been difficult to let go of the disappointment. She’d resumed her hike, channeling her frustration into a faster pace that left her tee shirt clinging to her body in sweaty patches.

Back at the hotel, she’d showered and changed her clothes, then treated herself to a ridiculous lunch consisting of a chocolate-ice-cream soda and salty, greasy french fries, which made her feel a whole lot better. Her uncle Mac had introduced her to that guilty pleasure when she was nine years old. They’d made a pact back then not to tell her mother, and to the best of Rory’s knowledge, her mother was still in the dark about their snacking habits.

After that she’d spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing in the shade of a palm tree at the hotel pool, questions about the mystery woman temporarily deep-sixed beneath a sugary, fat-filled high. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so marvelously unfettered. No one was expecting anything of her—no family members, no Way Off Broadway Players, no deceased marshal, no Hobo. Although, to be honest, she was beginning to miss the dog.

By the time she’d settled into another middle seat for the flight home, she was feeling mellow enough not to care that she was wedged in between two oversize men. She even managed to fall asleep for a few minutes. But her “mellow” ended abruptly when she was awakened by a tap on her shoulder. Judging by the reactions of the two men, she realized she must have jumped up from her seat as if she’d been poked with a cattle prod.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, miss,” said the man in the window seat. “I just need to get out to the bathroom.”

Rory tried to gather her wits as she stood up and followed the man in the aisle seat out of the row. She was still half expecting to see Zeke, or parts of him, floating nearby. But since none of the passengers looked like they’d seen a ghost, her heart slipped out of her throat and back into her chest, where it belonged.

Once she and her seatmates were reinstalled in their designated places, she withdrew the journal pages from her handbag. There were a lot of entries in the diary that she hadn’t asked Lydia to copy for her. Since they weren’t pertinent to Zeke’s quest, there was no need for him to see them. They’d been difficult enough for her to read, and that was with a buffer of more than a hundred and thirty years and no direct connection to the family.

In those pages, Katherine Jensen had described the way they’d struggled with the loss of Betsy. Her husband, Frank, devoured by an angry sadness, worked late every night until sleep felled him at his desk, where she would find him in the morning. Their sons put up a brave front in public rather than risk being ridiculed by the other boys, but Katherine heard their breathless sobs during the night. Then there was her own exquisite pain, which hollowed her out, leaving a deep numbness in its wake, so that for a long time, she could hardly feel anything at all.

Remembering her words was enough to make tears spring up in Rory’s eyes again. She clenched her jaw and blinked them away before anyone could notice. The last thing she wanted to do was draw the stares and curiosity of an airplane full of people. She quickly unfolded the less emotional entries she had with her and got busy reading them for the second time.

July 9th

A stranger came into the store today asking for Frank. He had a hard look to him, the kind of look that makes gentle folks shrink back. I can’t imagine why such a man would know my husband by name. Before I could excuse myself to find Frank, he came out of the storeroom carrying a twenty-pound sack of flour. Upon seeing me in conversation with the stranger, he dropped the sack on the floor and made straight for us. I don’t know how to describe the expression on his face. It was both grim and pleased, and I would be happy not to ever see it again. He called the man Hargrave but made no attempt to introduce him to me, which I find peculiar, because my Frank has always been the politest of men. He led this Hargrave back to the storeroom and shut the door behind them. They came out less than ten minutes later, and Hargrave walked past me and out of the store without so much as a “thank you, ma’am” or “good day.”

July 10th

Frank told me that he has contracted with Hargrave to find John Trask, so that he may be brought to justice for taking the life of our daughter, Betsy. Although I understand and share his desire to see Trask punished, it will not bring Betsy back. I don’t like the idea of Frank dealing with a man of such low principles. I fear that no good will come of their association.

July 11th

I was setting out the new bolts of material in the store this morning when I overheard Frank speaking in a hushed voice with his brother Max. He was telling Max that he’d instructed the gunman to kill Marshal Drummond as well. He said it cost double for the marshal as he’s a lawman. I could scarcely credit what I was hearing. This does not sound at all like the Frank Jensen I married. As soon as we were alone, I questioned Frank about it, and he did not deny any of it. When I tried to reason with him, he told me to stick to women’s business and leave men’s business to him.

July 25th

Two weeks have passed, and to the best of my knowledge, Frank has not heard anything from his hired gun. Perhaps this is why he is so impatient and irritable with the children and me. I know what troubles him, but the boys have no idea. Noah has told me that he misses the father he once had. I try to comfort him. Nothing is the same anymore.

August 5th

Frank is of the opinion that something has gone amiss with Hargrave. He asks everyone, especially strangers who stop into the store on their journeys, if they’ve heard of a gunfighter meeting his end. So far no one has.

August 6th

When Frank is not busy at the store, he comes home and paces from room to room, locked in his own thoughts and misery. I have tried talking to him, but he tells me to let him be. I feel like I’m losing another part of my family.

August 10th

Frank is gone. He woke me before dawn to tell me he was leaving. He said he must find out what became of Hargrave. If all went according to plan, the gunman would have returned for the rest of his money. If he needed more time, he was supposed to send word about his progress. They’d shaken hands on the deal. I didn’t point out that a handshake with a hired gun was not likely to be worth much. Frank already knows this, but he has clearly chosen to ignore it. When I told him I don’t know how I will manage the children, the house and the store by myself, he said he had faith in me. There was nothing more for me to say. I could tell by the emptiness in his voice that he had already left.

As Rory read the copied letters, she had the uncomfortable sense that someone else was reading along with her. She glanced to her left and met the startled eyes of the man in the aisle seat. He gave her a sheepish smile before quickly looking the other way. She refolded the pages and stowed them back in her handbag. She really shouldn’t be expecting privacy in an airplane, where people were crammed together like sardines in a high-altitude tin can. Reading the letters again would have to wait until she was home. She plucked the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of her but found it hard to concentrate on the articles about great places to visit and expensive items to buy. The diary and letters were still uppermost in her mind, as they had been from the moment she’d first read them. One question in particular refused to be silenced or ignored. Why had Frank Jensen hired Hargrave to kill the marshal too?

Chapter 29

“I
don’t take kindly to bein’ deceived,” Zeke said, his eyebrows lowering like dark clouds before an advancing storm. He was standing in the hallway outside Rory’s bedroom, watching her unpack. His hair looked more disheveled than usual, as if he hadn’t taken the time to “comb” it in his rush to confront her.

“I never lied to you,” she said calmly as she slid two tee shirts into the top dresser drawer.

“But you did trick me, so own up to it. Don’t go playin’ semantics with me.”

Rory looked up at him, realizing a second too late that her expression was a dead giveaway.

“Surprised I know a word like that?” he asked with the sly smile of the cat who’d just caught the mouse pilfering cheese. “It’s never wise to underestimate me, darlin’, in any respect.”

“Look, I just needed to get away,” she said in a cajoling tone, “and I figured if I mixed a little business with pleasure I could deduct the trip as a business expense.” It was a good thing she could think fast on her feet. The excuse even sounded genuine to her.

“No, you’re not gettin’ off that easy,” Zeke said apparently not buying any of it. “The truth is, you didn’t want me gettin’ in your way out there. I believe in callin’ a pig a pig if it wallows in mud and oinks.”

Rory started to shake her head.

“Don’t you try denyin’ it. It’s past time for some straight talk here.”

“Okay,” she said. If he was insisting on the bare-naked truth, she would give it to him. She walked over to the doorway, stopping inches from him, the threshold between the bedroom and the hall lying between them like a disputed boundary between hostile nations. “You’ve been so paranoid about keeping some secret or other from me that I thought you’d prevent me from finding out anything, including the name of your killer.” She was speaking in a calm, reasonable voice, hoping to keep the tension between them from escalating. “I can’t work in handcuffs or with blinders on.”

Zeke didn’t have an immediate comeback for her. Judging by his unsettled expression, he seemed to be wrangling with her accusation, trying to decide what response would best serve him.

“Why are you so concerned that I’ll find out this secret of yours?” she went on. “Everyone has something they’re not proud of. How awful could it be?”

“Why do you feel the need to stick your nose into business that ain’t yours?” he countered.

“Your life became my business when you insisted I find out who killed you,” Rory reminded him, her tone sharpening in spite of her efforts at détente.

“Well then, I’m takin’ you off the case.”

“Too late. I already have the answer,” she shot back. “And as it happens, that’s all I found out. So it seems your big secret went to the grave with you.” Damn, this wasn’t at all how she’d imagined telling him that in spite of all odds, she’d found out who’d killed him. Talk about blowing a presentation.

The news seemed to hit Zeke like a round from a.45, his image wavering under the impact. “What…what are you saying?” he asked, stumbling over his words. “You know…you know for honest and true who shot me?”

“Yes.” Rory had never seen the marshal quite so off balance before, and she had to admit that she was probably enjoying his discomfort more than she should. But he was the one who’d insisted she continue the search her uncle Mac had started, and now that she’d succeeded, he was acting like a pro surfer pulled under by a wave he hadn’t seen coming.

“Do you plan on sharin’ that information with me anytime soon?” he asked once he’d regained some of his composure.

“I think you should read it for yourself so that you get the context and all.” Rory had come to that conclusion during the flight home. News of this magnitude needed to be couched in the proper terms.

“Why can’t you just give me the answer without all the fanfare?”

“Humor me, please.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, “but I’m not a patient man.”

“Gee, I never would have guessed that on my own.” She wriggled past him and took the stairs down to the bench in the entryway, where she’d left her handbag.

When she walked into the kitchen, the marshal was pacing around the center island as if he’d been waiting untold hours for her to arrive. Hobo, who’d been passed out under the table after the excitement of her homecoming, was now pacing at Zeke’s heels like a mutant shadow. The dog looked up at Rory with a baffled expression that clearly asked why the marshal and he were going in circles.