Sketch a Falling Star Read Online Free PDF Page B

leave.
    “Sure, no problem,” he mumbled, his eyes still glued to the TV. If he was curious about why she was leaving in the middle of the night, he hid it well.
    She drove into the small town of Page as the eastern sky was pinking up with first light. She found the hotel where the troupe was staying by the news vans camped along the curb outside its parking lot. Page might be a speck on a map, but the story of Preston’s drowning had quickly made headlines all over Arizona and across the country. Although Preston had not sought fame when he was alive, it had come calling upon his death.
    Rory was glad to see that none of the reporters were up and about yet. From what Helene had told her, the Navajo police had asked for the hotel’s cooperation in keeping the media outside and away from the survivors for forty-eight hours. The hotel management had balked. Since the hotel was not on Navajo land, it was under no obligation to comply with the request. In the end, a compromise had been reached. In an effort to be sensitive to the needs of the survivors at such a difficult time, the hotel agreed to keep the media off its grounds for at least twenty-four hours. And in the spirit of cooperation, the Arizona state police had stationed a man at the entrance to the parking lot to keep out anyone who didn’t belong there.
    The moment Rory turned into the parking lot, she was stopped by a state trooper, who called to find out if she was expected. Once she was given clearance, she parked her car and headed inside, trailing her suitcase.
    Although she’d expected the lobby to be empty at such an early hour, she spotted Dr. Richard Ames, Adam Caspian and Dorothy Johnson—all members of the Players—clustered together in armchairs on the far side of the room. When they saw Rory enter, they briefly raised their hands in greeting. Rory waved back, managing a little smile meant to convey her sympathies along with how glad she was that they’d survived their ordeal.
    On the other side of the lobby, a waiter was setting out complimentary coffee and fixings on a table near the entrance to the coffee shop, which hadn’t yet opened for business. The lobby itself was unremarkable. It had been decorated in blues and browns a decade earlier when that palette had first come into style. The carpeting and upholstery were clean, although worn. Vases with silk flower arrangements had been placed around the room in an apparent effort to perk it up. But having faded over time, they now lent the room an air of benign neglect. A lingering odor of ammonia and other cleaning solutions poked through a veil of floral air freshener. It could have been the lobby in any moderate hotel chain anywhere in the nation.
    Rory headed for the reception desk. At first glance, there didn’t seem to be anyone on duty, but as she drew closer, she could see a man in his seventies dozing in a chair behind the counter, his chin resting against his chest. A dozen snow-white strands of hair had been artfully arranged across his pink scalp in a last stand against baldness. His wire-rimmed glasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose, where one good snore could send them tumbling off.
    Rory was about to clear her throat in an effort to wake him gently when a sudden shriek of joy startled her and sent the elderly clerk scrambling to his feet. She spun around right into the outstretched arms of her aunt Helene.
    “Rory, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said hugging her niece tightly to her. “Listen to me quoting my grandmother. You never even met her, did you? No, I think she died before you were born. And now I’m babbling as if I’m demented. Tragedy and insomnia will do that to you,” she rattled on before releasing her niece.
    Rory stood back and took stock of her aunt. The only visible evidence of her brush with death were a few scrapes on one side of her face and a nasty-looking bruise on the fleshy part of her upper arm that would probably turn every shade