by Sharon Pape
“He’s in his glory now that he’s got himself an audience,” Adam went on, “and even though I’ve never met the man before, it’s obvious that he’s enjoying the hell out of the power trip.”
“Come on, Dad,” Sophia rebuked him. “That’s not fair. The guy’s trying to do his job. And it can’t be easy with all the media scrutiny.”
Adam looked at Rory and sighed a father’s sigh of love and bemusement. “My daughter adores the underdog even if he’s biting off her hand.”
“You don’t need to be patronizing,” Sophia said, her dark eyes flashing with indignation. “I know you’re probably glad that Preston’s dead, but that doesn’t mean the police can just shirk their responsibility. If I’d been the one who drowned, you’d be all over Joe to search through every needle in every haystack before they labeled my death accidental.”
Rory’s ears had perked up at Sophia’s accusation. Why would her father be glad Preston was dead? And how could she find out what Sophia meant by that remark without coming across as impossibly nosy and rude?
“I’d be a bit more careful with comments of that nature,” Richard said, lowering his powerful tenor to a whisper. “No need to give Detective Joe more grist for his mill, if you take my meaning.”
Sophia’s olive complexion paled a shade or two. “I didn’t actually mean my father would ever, could ever… I just…”
“Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Adam said patting her hand. “I know you weren’t implying anything. But Richard does have a point there. I don’t think any of us wants to stay cooped up in this hotel longer than necessary.”
The questions were still alive in Rory’s mouth; words like tiny battering rams seemed determined to push their way through her lips. She’d nearly convinced herself she could live with being a little rude when Richard’s warning stripped away that option. She doubted Detective Joe had had the hotel bugged since it wasn’t on Navajo land and he was only there at the pleasure of the management, but that didn’t give her the right to take a chance with someone else’s reputation. Her curiosity would have to wait for a more discreet time to demand satisfaction. In any case, there was another matter campaigning for her attention.
“Does anyone know the name of the blonde who left with the police?” she asked.
“Clarissa Carpenter,” Adam said. “Preston’s mother.” The others murmured their agreement.
“Carpenter,” Rory repeated. “I guess she remarried somewhere along the way. What’s she like?”
He shrugged. “I only met her once, after a performance of Guys and Dolls. She seemed standoffish, but to be fair she didn’t know me.”
“I had much the same impression that day,” Richard said. “And I think it’s noteworthy that she didn’t give her son so much as a peck on the check. Not one ‘bravo’ or ‘well done,’ either.”
“Not all families are huggy-kissy,” Sophia pointed out, “especially in public.” She seemed calmer to Rory now that Clarissa was the center of the discussion.
“I’m proud to say that my family most certainly is,” Helene chimed in as she came up behind Rory. She bent to kiss the top of her niece’s head.
“Ah, if it isn’t Rip van Winkle,” Richard said. “The rest seems to have done you good.”
Rory was thinking the same thing, minus the literary reference. Her aunt was quickly returning to herself.
“Am I the only one who’s famished?” Helene asked. “Or is it inappropriate to talk about eating at a time like this?”
“I could eat,” Adam said, and the rest of them quickly seconded the idea.
“I must say I’ve had quite enough of the hotel’s cuisine,” Richard added. “Dare we venture out and risk capture by the media hordes?”
“I say we gird our loins and have at them,” Adam said, getting into the spirit of things.
“‘One for all and all for one.’” Rory checked her watch. “Detective Joe’s twenty-four hours is nearly up anyway.”
The intrepid little group returned from lunch in an upbeat frame of mind, quite proud of how well they’d run the media gauntlet. They’d answered every question that was thrown at them with a smile and nothing more, except for Helene, who’d ground her high heel into one reporter’s foot when he tried to grab her arm. They’d escaped into a small luncheonette around the corner, where the owner not only barred the press, but gave the survivors free desserts with their meals.
“I think I could get used to this celebrity treatment,” Helene announced as she slid the last piece of cinnamon-rich apple pie into her mouth. Rory led the others in a round of good-natured booing that quickly turned to laughter, her aunt laughing so heartily that she almost choked on the pie. Rory knew that the emotional issues Helene and company were struggling with in the aftermath of the flood weren’t likely to resolve themselves in a week or even a month, but the laughter was a fine indication they were headed in the right direction.
As they made their way back into the hotel, they were again assaulted by a barrage of questions. This time, the reporters played it safe and kept their distance from Helene’s lethal footwear.
Inside, a hand-lettered sign had been posted atop the reception desk announcing that the Navajo Police Department would hold a press conference at two fifteen in the conference room. Well-timed, Rory thought. The police injunction would run out at two anyway, marking the start of open season on the survivors. The media was sure to be in attendance, cameras and microphones at the ready.
Rory and her lunch group headed to the conference room, which turned out to be a relatively small space with a grandiose title. The rest of the troupe was already in attendance, along with the hotel manager, who was supervising the removal of the twenty or so chairs that were usually in there. In order to accommodate more people, the briefing would be standing room only. He left one chair off to the side for Dorothy Johnson, who wasn’t supposed to stand for too long on her injured foot.
At exactly two o’clock the media laid siege to the hotel. One minute the lobby was peaceful; the next it was swarming with reporters and cameramen, cursing and shoving each other out of the way in a mad dash to reach the survivors and get on air with their story before their colleagues did. When they reached the conference room, they were pleasantly surprised to find all the survivors waiting there as if they’d been corralled expressly for their purposes. In less than two minutes, every member of the troupe had a microphone thrust in his or her face. Rory lost count of how many eager reporters she disappointed with the fact that she hadn’t been in or even near the canyon at the time of the flood. She finally slipped away from the chaos and went back to the lobby to wait for Detective Joe’s arrival.
He and Begay arrived a few minutes late without Preston’s mother in tow. Presumably she’d already identified her son’s remains and been given the official police report, including the cause of death. Rory would have liked to believe that Detective Joe talked Clarissa into skipping the press conference because he had a kind, well-intentioned heart and wanted to protect her from the feeding frenzy going on at that moment in the shark tank otherwise known as the conference room. But with one look at the hard set of his face as he hurried past her, Rory let that particular fantasy expire.
She followed the two policemen back to the room, which came to order as soon as the detective appeared on the raised platform. The reporters stepped back from their subjects; all eyes turned to Daniel Joe.
“I’m going to read a brief statement,” he said, “after which I’ll take some questions.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and started reading slowly and without inflection. “The investigation into the death of Preston Wright at Gray Wolf Canyon on April 14th has been completed. It is the opinion of the medical examiner that Mr. Wright died of drowning. The various contusions and abrasions he sustained are consistent with a body being thrown against the walls of the canyon by the force of the water. Particles of canyon rock were found inside the largest gash, at the base of his h
ead. It is most likely that that injury knocked him unconscious and led directly to his drowning.”
Joe looked up from his paper. “As many of you are aware, there is a system in place meant to prevent this type of tragedy from happening. The tour company that takes people into the canyons shuts down whenever the weather bureau predicts rain north of here. From what we have uncovered, it appears that the warning did go out to the other slot canyons in the area yesterday but not to Gray Wolf Canyon. The person who was ultimately responsible for making that call claims to have become distracted by another matter, and by the time he remembered to issue the warning for Gray Wolf, it was too late. That person’s employment with the weather bureau has been terminated. If you have any questions, I’ll take them now.”
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
Rory 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.”
Trading 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 t
wisted 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.