Sketch a Falling Star

by Sharon Pape

  Zeke had been pleased to hear that she would soon be back on the trail of his killer but somewhat less thrilled about the prospect of rattling around in the house all alone for seven days.

  “It’s one week—you spent decades alone before Mac moved in,” Rory had reminded him. “I’m sure you’ll be able to manage.”

  “Well, I expect I could drop by from time to time to see how you’re doin’ out there,” he’d said, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

  So this was where the conversation had been leading all along.

  “It’d be mighty nice to see my home again,” he’d added with a nostalgic sigh.

  Nice touch, Rory thought, not buying any of it. He’d clearly had the whole little act worked out before he’d even opened his mouth. Since he’d improved considerably in the art of traveling beyond the confines of the house, it had become more difficult for her to lobby against his trips. He had the posture and gait of the living down cold. And he hardly ever made the mistake of walking through walls anymore when he was out in public. He’d even updated his wardrobe with some slacks and a few nice shirts so as not to draw attention, although he made no bones about how much he disliked the cut and fit of modern apparel. In the house, he always reverted to the clothing he’d worn when he was alive.

  “I understand that you’d like to go back home for a visit,” she’d said evenly, “but I’ll be able to concentrate better on the investigation if I’m not constantly expecting a three-ring circus to march into town.”

  “You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, darlin’,” he’d assured her. “I’ll be stealthy as a coyote with a hankerin’ for rabbit.”

  Somehow the image had brought her no comfort at all.

  Rory was so lost in her thoughts that the voice of the GPS startled her with a reminder that the exit for Tucson was coming up. It was a good thing she’d insisted on having a car with a navigation system; Zeke was already messing with her mind.

  The Arizona Historical Society Library and Archives was situated just outside the campus of the University of Arizona. Rory parked in a nearby garage and walked the two short blocks to the building, carrying a pad of paper, a pen and a bushel of determined optimism. She wound her way through the exhibits, enjoying the overview of Tucson’s past, but it was in the small library that she found her first lead.

  When she walked in, the librarian rose from her chair behind the front desk. She was somewhere in her middle years, dressed in a long, gauzy skirt of coral that was topped off with a blouse of similar style and fabric. The name tag she wore introduced her as Wanda Shaw.

  She welcomed Rory in a hushed voice, although no one else occupied the library at that moment. Even the smile Wanda produced was low-key, as if more gregarious facial expressions were also discouraged there.

  Taking her cue from the librarian, Rory whispered that she was doing research on crime in late-nineteenth-century southern Arizona and that she was hoping they might have newspapers from that era.

  “Yes, of course,” Wanda replied, “but they’re much too fragile to be handled. Luckily, they’ve all been copied onto microfilm. You’re welcome to view them that way if you’d like.”

  Rory assured her that the microfilm would be fine and that she was primarily interested in newspapers from January through October of 1878.

  Wanda excused herself, disappearing through a door in the back where a sign read “Library Personnel Only.” When she returned a few minutes later, she was holding several small boxes.

  She came out from behind the desk, her skirt swishing softly around her as if it too respected library etiquette. Motioning for Rory to follow, she led the way to a room so tiny that it had probably started life as a supply closet. There was barely enough space to accommodate the desk that held the bulky microfilm reader, a low-tech dinosaur from the days before microprocessors gave birth to sleek computers. Rory couldn’t help thinking that if the reader seemed anachronistic to her, then Zeke must be shell-shocked from watching the world’s innovations hurtle by him over the years.

  Given the room’s modest dimensions, Rory watched from the doorway while Wanda threaded the film into the machine.

  “I’ve started you off with the Arizona Citizen,” the librarian whispered as she and Rory did a little do-si-do to switch places. “It’s probably your best bet. It was a weekly newspaper published Saturdays here in Tucson.” She pointed out the control for scrolling through the film, then left Rory to her work with a reminder that she was nearby if she was needed.

  Rory started scanning through the pages searching for articles about John Trask, the man wanted for abducting and murdering a series of young girls, the man Zeke had been tracking when he was killed. Given the circumstances, Rory figured Trask was responsible for the marshal’s death as well. But according to Zeke that wasn’t possible, since the bullet had slammed into his back while he’d had the outlaw in his gun sights.

  As Rory worked her way through the microfilm, she kept thinking how much simpler it would have been to do a word search on a computer. That thought was quickly followed by another about how beggars can’t be choosers, and that she ought to be grateful to have even this kind of access to the old papers.

  Two hours later, she pushed her chair back from the desk with little to show for her time and effort. Although she’d gone through every reel of microfilm Wanda had given her, the few articles about Trask were short and grim. Back in the nineteenth century, with no modern forensic tools, the marshal had had little to help him as he’d hunted for the killer. According to the articles, he’d probably only known Trask’s name and that he was a loner, a predator who roamed the Arizona and New Mexico Territories, where too few lawmen patrolled far too vast an area. The one valuable clue he’d had was a composite sketch of the killer. Rory stared at Trask’s image for several minutes, glad to finally have a face to go with the name. Not much to show for the eyestrain and pounding headache she’d developed from reading the small print, which had already started to fade by the time it was transferred onto microfilm.

  Instead of answering her questions, the research had actually added a new question to her list. What had become of John Trask? Although the Arizona Citizen had reported the marshal’s death, it never mentioned Trask again. Back home when she’d searched the Huntington newspaper archives she’d come across an article that said he’d been wounded in the gunfight that killed Zeke but had escaped. If there was an answer to be found, it might literally be buried somewhere on Long Island.

  The only information Rory bothered jotting down was the list of Trask’s victims. Three of the girls had come from New Mexico, the other two from Arizona, including Betsy Jensen, who’d lived right there in Tucson, where her family had owned a general store. Although Rory wasn’t at all sure how this information was going to help her figure out who had murdered Zeke more than a century ago and some two thousand miles away, on Long Island, an idea was beginning to take shape in her mind.

  She rewound the microfilm and brought it back to the librarian at the front desk.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Wanda inquired so softly that Rory found herself leaning forward to catch the words.

  “Actually I do have a question,” she whispered back. “I read that there was a family by the name of Jensen who ran a general store around here in the 1870s. Would you know if anyone from that family still lives in Tucson?”

  “It’s possible, but Jensen’s a popular name around here. There’s probably a couple hundred Jensens in the greater Tucson area. Without a first name, it wouldn’t pay to look in the telephone directory. In fact, the Jensen you want to find might not even have a listed number. There is something else we can try, though,” Wanda said sitting down at her computer. “We keep a file of all the families who’ve donated items of historical interest. If the Jensen family donated anything, it would be listed here along with the date of the donation and the name of the donor.”

  Wanda clicked away at her keyboard whil
e Rory waited, trying not to appear as impatient as she felt.

  “Yes, here it is!” the librarian said at full volume, momentarily forgetting herself. “Sorry,” she whispered, looking chagrined over her lapse.

  Rory smiled to let her know she wasn’t at all disturbed by the outburst.

  “We’ve apparently had quite a few donations over the years from one particular Jensen family, the first going as far back as 1921 and the most recent in 2007. That last donation was made by Abner Jensen. According to this, he still lives in the original Jensen home over in the historic district near the Presidio.” She jotted the address and phone number on a slip of paper and handed it across the counter to Rory, who tucked it into her purse. She might not learn anything of consequence by going to see Abner Jensen, but she was heartened by the simple fact that her investigation hadn’t come to a complete dead end once again.

  “Would you like to see the articles they’ve donated?” Wanda inquired, pushing back in her chair.

  Rory said she would appreciate the opportunity, after which Wanda once again disappeared into the back storage area. This time fifteen minutes elapsed before she reappeared carrying a large, plastic storage container. She set it down on top of the front desk and opened it. An envelope containing an inventory had been taped inside the lid. Each item in the container was listed there along with the date it had been given to the historical society.

  Together, Wanda and Rory spent the better part of an hour looking through the objects, which included antique clothing, books and catalogues, ledgers from the general store, toys and sundries of every sort. But as interesting as these items were, they didn’t provide Rory with any useful information.

  Wanda was about to place the inventory list back in its envelope when she noticed there was another sheet of paper still tucked inside. It turned out to be a handwritten letter dated 1998, signed by Abner Jensen and witnessed by Harold Winthrop, attorney-at-law. In the brief note, Abner stated simply that as he had no kin, upon his death all of his land and possessions were to become the property of the Arizona Historical Society.

  “I’ll bet that house has a treasure trove of items,” Wanda said, looking like she wanted to dance a jig, albeit a very quiet jig. “There could be letters, diaries, a family bible—things that would paint a real picture of how folks lived in the past, how they felt and what they thought.”

  Her enthusiasm was so contagious that Rory decided she couldn’t possibly leave Tucson until she’d had a chance to speak to Abner Jensen. She thanked Wanda for all of her help and walked back to the parking garage with a hopeful spring to her step. She refused to dwell on how slim the odds were that a great-great-grand-relative of one of Trask’s victims would know, much less recall, anything about the murder of a long-dead family member or the marshal who’d been involved in the case. As Zeke liked to say, “You don’t know where a lead will take you till you get there.” Great. Now she was beginning to think in Zeke-isms.

  An angry little grumble from the pit of her stomach made her consult her watch. She was surprised to see that the afternoon had slipped away while she was busy squinting at microfilm. No wonder she was hungry; she hadn’t eaten anything since the free continental breakfast that morning in Phoenix. She decided to stop for some fast food on her way over to the hotel she’d booked for the night. Once she was checked in, she’d give Abner Jensen a call. With any luck, he’d agree to see her in the morning.

  A half hour later, Rory was sliding back into the rental car, her stomach quietly working away at a quarter pound of beef and greasy fries, when her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number that came up. Probably a solicitor or wrong number. She let it go to voice mail. Seconds later it rang again. By the third time, she decided it would be simpler to just answer it and set the caller straight.

  Helene was on the other end as close to hysterical as Rory had ever heard her.

  “Aunt Helene, calm down. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  There was a pause, during which Rory heard her aunt draw a deep, wobbly breath, like a child who’s been sobbing.

  “We were at Gray Wolf Canyon,” Helene said more slowly, her voice high-pitched with emotion. “And suddenly there was water—there was water everywhere, and it was rising so fast, and everyone was screaming and trying to keep their heads above it, and I thought…I thought I was…” The rest of her words were choked off completely.

  “But you’re okay?” Rory demanded, anxiety expanding like a balloon in her chest. “Aunt Helene—are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m okay…I’m okay,” Helene replied, “but Preston Wright is dead.”

  Chapter 2

  “Where are you right now?” Rory asked.

  “We’re back at our hotel in Page,” Helene said, her voice cracking like ice that was too thin to bear weight. “Except for Preston and the three who were taken to the hospital. Stuart had chest pains so they’re keeping him overnight for observation. Dorothy has a fractured foot, and Jessica broke her arm, but I think they’re due back here soon.”

  “You mean you weren’t all taken to the hospital and checked out?”

  “EMTs came, and they were really thorough. Most of us were lucky—just bumps and bruises. Besides, you know how I feel about hospitals.”

  Rory knew. When Helene was eight, her best friend went into the hospital with bone cancer and never came out again. From that time on, the word “hospital” was synonymous with “death” for Helene. As an adult she understood that the hospital hadn’t killed her friend, but somewhere deep inside she still carried the psyche of that eight-year-old, with all its attendant scars. Rory had no intentions of debating the issue with her. She’d just keep a close eye on her in case any disturbing symptoms should arise.

  “The police are coming here to interview us,” Helene said. “Navajo police, believe it or not. It seems the canyon’s on their land. They tried to talk to us back at the site, but everyone was in shock or hysterical. Oh and I lost my shoes and my purse—it had my cell, my wallet, my ID—I can’t even remember everything that was in it. But how can I even complain about such trivial stuff with poor Preston dead?”

  “You’re right—it is just ‘stuff,’ and we’ll take care of it. The important thing is that you’re okay,” Rory said, feeling as if she’d fallen through a worm hole into an alternate universe where she was her mother—the voice of calm and provider of comfort. “I’ll be up there as soon as I can.”

  They spent the next few minutes going back and forth about Rory’s decision to cut short her visit with her “friend” in Tucson so that she could drive up to Page. Helene insisted she’d only called to let Rory know what had happened and to tell her that she was okay. Sure, she was upset—who wouldn’t be?—but she was physically fine and didn’t need anyone to hold her hand. It wasn’t as if she was alone there.

  Rory stood her ground. She knew she could have ended the discussion sooner if she’d simply confessed that there wasn’t any “friend” in Tucson, but such a statement would have inevitably led to the fact that she was there doing research for her resident ghost. Given all her aunt had been through in the past few hours, this was probably not the best time for her to learn about Zeke.

  “How long was the bus ride up there from Phoenix?” she asked, hoping to short-circuit the debate that was already in its fourth go-round.

  “Let me see…let me see…. I’m sorry; my brain is still all muddled. That was just this morning, right? It feels like it was a month ago.” She paused again. “Close to six hours, I think, but we stopped for lunch and bathroom breaks.”

  Rory was a bit surprised that she’d actually managed to derail Helene, who was famous for holding on to her side of an argument like a shark with its first taste of human tartare. She was evidently more frazzled than she was letting on.

  “Try to rest and have something to eat,” Rory said, briefly reprising the role of her mother. “I’m heading up there now.”

  She called to cance
l the hotel reservation in Tucson, then reprogrammed the GPS to take her to Page. Although adrenaline had drop-kicked the fatigue out of her for the moment, it wouldn’t keep her going forever. She had a long haul ahead of her, and it would be turning dark in a few hours. She was going to need lots of strong coffee and loud music.

  She was making her way back to I-10, mulling over what Helene had told her about the deadly flood when an image of Eloise Bowman popped into her head. Eloise—slight and pale. “Something terrible is going to happen,” she’d said. At the time, the pronouncement had caused an odd little shiver to run the length of Rory’s spine, but she’d managed to dismiss the words as the ramblings of a stroke-damaged brain. Now she couldn’t help wondering if Eloise had been talking about the flood.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the logical side of her mind declared. “A predication that vague was bound to come true eventually.”

  “Yes, but Eloise also knew about Zeke,” the intuitive side countered. “How are you going to explain that away?”

  Although Rory found the voice of logic appealing, she couldn’t ignore the fact that it had failed her miserably when it came to the existence of ghosts. With no immediate way to resolve the issue, she left it to simmer on the back burner of her mind as she sped north.

  By the time she passed the turnoff to Sedona, night had clamped down so hard that it seemed determined to be more than a temporary resident. Hours earlier, the cacti and desert scrub had given way to mountains and deep stands of conifers. But with the coming of night, all the distinct shapes had melted into a uniform blackness. The traffic had thinned out to the point that Rory felt at times as if she traveled the dark highway alone. If not for the occasional pockets of light from distant houses and towns too small to rightly be called “towns,” she might have worried that she’d made a wrong turn and was cruising along a very different road, straight into the depths of The Twilight Zone.

  In spite of all the caffeine, fatigue was gaining the upper hand, and she was having trouble keeping her eyelids propped open. She wouldn’t be much use to her aunt if she missed a curve and slammed into a mountain or went flying off into a ravine. So when she saw signs promising food and lodging at the first exit to Flagstaff, she surrendered to common sense. Had Rory’s dear friend and mentor, Detective Leah Russell, been there, she would have applauded that decision and arranged for a ticker-tape parade. Detective Russell had only one quibble with her protégé—that her impulsiveness and general lack of caution would someday get her killed.