CHAPTER TWO
2279 Words
CHAPTER TWO
Stella Fall stopped the rental car and then hastily jammed it into Park as her shaking foot slid right off the brake. The slam of the car door sounded loud in the silence. It was quiet up here in the mountains. The silence felt vast, impenetrable.
She was riding on a wave of adrenaline. All her senses were heightened as she stood, gazing at the small, wooden house. It was set in a ramshackle, but cared for, garden, and dwarfed by the pine forest behind. On either side, the mountains soared. The small town of Ouray was cradled in a scenic valley between the craggy peaks of the San Juan range.
Finally, she had arrived at her father’s last known address.
One day, when Stella was ten, her father had gone to work, traveling from the dilapidated farmhouse where they lived, into the Kansas police precinct where he worked as a detective.
He’d never come home again.
The agonizing, lonely days of ‘missing’ had passed, and hope had faded as ‘presumed dead’ became the most likely outcome and, eventually, the official verdict. But Stella had always felt, with an irrational certainty, that her father was still alive.
She had sat in his workshop in the afternoons, looking at the well-worn but well-kept woodworking tools he’d used, wishing for his quiet, strong companionship and support, because without his tempering influence, the storms of her mother’s rage were even more destructive.
Then her mother had cleaned out the workshop, sold the tools, and locked up the room that had been her refuge. As time had gone by, her fading memories had been all she’d had, until her surprise discovery.
Just a few weeks ago, unpacking old boxes, she’d found a postcard, sent from Colorado after his disappearance. Stella had gone straight to Kansas to confront her mother. That trip had been a conflict-filled waste of time, but since then, surprisingly, Rhonda Fall had relented and Stella had received a message back with this address – 5 Wilderness Avenue, Ouray, Colorado.
Now, she was here to search for George Caleb Fall, and unlock the mysteries surrounding his disappearance.
In her wallet, she’d stashed one of the rare photographs she had of herself with her dad.
Stella had inherited her ice-blue eyes and dark hair from her mother. Those strong, intense genes had overpowered her father’s brown hair and hazel eyes and kind, softer features. But she hoped beyond words that she’d inherited his calmness and balance, his quiet, humble approach, rather than the blazing storms of her mother’s personality.
This seemed like a humble house. A place where he would have been happy to live.
Her heart accelerated as she saw the car parked in the drive. The elderly Buick signaled someone was home. She’d never allowed herself to go as far as visualizing the car her father might drive if he was still alive, but if she had, it would have been something like this.
Stella swallowed down her nerves. There was no more time to think or delay. The reckoning had arrived.
She strode up to the house and tapped on the front door.
She waited, her mouth dry, her ears straining as soft footsteps approached. Emotions clashed within her, hope warring with fear.
The door opened and she stared into the surprised eyes of a gray-haired woman, short and plump. She had flour on her hands and was wearing an apron.
From inside the house, Stella smelled the warm, rich fragrance of baking bread.
“Morning. Can I help you?” she asked curiously.
“I – I’m Stella Fall.” To her dismay, she found she hadn’t rehearsed what to say or how to handle this moment. Now that it had arrived, and her father hadn’t opened the door, she felt adrift.
“I’m looking for a man called George Fall. He’s my father, in fact,” she admitted. “I believe this was his last known address.”
The woman’s face pinched in incredulity, but to Stella’s relief, she didn’t seem put off by this weird sounding introduction.
“Your father? He lived here? How long ago was that?”
“Sixteen years,” Stella admitted.
The woman frowned. “We’ve only been here five years. My husband bought this place when we retired. Before that, I know it was a deceased estate for a while.”
Stella’s heart clenched. Deceased estate? Surely this couldn’t be?
“Do you know who the previous owner was?”
The woman shook her head. “My husband dealt with that side. All I know was that it complicated things and slowed down the sale. And my husband is away now. He’s in Silverton for the day.”
Stella stared at her pleadingly as her hopes and dreams crashed around her. Eventually, the woman spoke again.
“I know who’d know. Jeff next door. They’re long-term residents, been here for twenty years or more. And I don’t think they’ve left for the church social yet.” She pointed to the small home, fifty yards down the road. “If you hurry, they’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” Stella said.
She rushed down the road, skidding on the patch of ice on the sidewalk. It was bitterly cold, although until she felt the ice under her shoes, she hadn’t noticed it.
She knocked on the door of house number 4, and a moment later, a lean, tanned man with an unruly mop of white hair opened it.
He was dressed in a smart jacket and black pants, at odds with his ramshackle appearance, and was carrying a plate of sandwiches. Clearly, he was heading out.
“Good morning,” Stella said in a rush. “I’m sorry to interrupt your Sunday. The neighbors said you might know about a previous resident of their home. I’m trying to trace him. His name’s George Fall, and he lived here about fifteen years ago.”
Not daring to breathe, she waited for the dreaded news that her father was dead.
“Good morning,” the man said slowly, looking Stella up and down in a rather critical way, as if her haste had bypassed important social niceties. “Well, this is a surprise.”
He paused. He glanced at her, and then at his sandwiches, as if reminding himself that the trip to church took priority.
“There’s never been a George living in that house,” he explained firmly.
Stella felt as if the rug had been ripped from her. Her first, immediate, unwanted assumption was that her mother had lied.
Was it possible?
With Rhonda, nothing was impossible. It was well within the bounds of possibility that Rhonda could have sent her on a fruitless search, providing a random wrong address, just to taunt her daughter.
But for Rhonda, that would be out of character, Stella revised. Her mother had always gotten immediate results with her hurtful words, her mood swings and insults and screams. She liked to be there to watch the pain they caused. Not for Stella to be hundreds of miles away.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
Luckily, he didn’t take offense, but simply interpreted it as a request for further detail.
“The couple next door has been there a few years. Before that, Hamish Brand owned it. Hamish died in his nineties and the place stood empty for a while after that while his estate was wrapped up.”
Stella felt a rush of relief so vast that it was dizzying. It hadn’t been her father who had died.
“And before that?”
“Well, Hamish owned the home for many years. He let it out to folks before he moved in himself,” the man said, sounding perplexed.
“Who was the tenant before Hamish moved in?” Stella asked.
“We’re talking more than ten years ago?” the man confirmed. “At that time, Frank lived here a few years.”
Frank?
“Frank Newman,” the man added.
At first the name meant nothing to Stella. But then, the last name started to prickle her instincts.
Newman. New man?
A new name. New life. Was it possible her father had assumed a false name? This was a truly weird and unexpected twist, but then, so much of what her father had done had been out of character for the man she knew.
“What do you remember about Frank?” she asked, hoping for more detail.
“Quiet guy. Kept to himself. He was in his late forties, I guess. He did some odd jobs for people in town while he was here. Very good with his hands. He actually made our post box, and the board fence in our front yard,” he pointed. “Well made. Thirteen years old, and it looks like new. All we do is oil it every couple of years.”
Stella’s conviction solidified. This had to be her father. Had to be.
“Where did he go?”
Jeff shrugged. “He moved out one day and wasn’t here anymore. I don’t even think anyone wondered where he’d gone. This is a vacation town. People come and go.”
“His phone number. Did you ever call him?” Stella asked.
“Now, that’s interesting. After he left, I did try calling his number a few times. I wanted to know if he’d help with a few more woodworking projects in the spring. But it was out of service and has stayed that way. I’ll give it to you if you like, but I can tell you now, it won’t be answered.”
“Please give it to me anyway,” Stella said. Thinking of other avenues, she tried, “Did he have any friends in town? Did he attend any clubs, or church, or bars?”
Jeff smiled wryly. “Frank and I would share a beer at the bar from time to time, but I never saw him sitting with friends. He didn’t attend any of the socials in town. He wasn’t a talkative person. I think we were the people who knew him best, and my wife and I barely knew him at all.”
Stella felt confused all over again by this information. Her father hadn’t kept to himself. He’d been well liked at work, and on friendly terms with the neighbors. The George Fall she remembered would have ended up helping organize the town’s socials, not avoiding them.
He’d changed, Stella realized, and wondered if she would ever know the reasons why.
Jeff looked at Stella more closely, and she saw sympathy in his eyes.
“You really want to find him. This is important to you, right?”
“It is,” she said miserably.
This trip was proving to be a dead end. Her father had lived here. He’d come and gone. Nobody knew him and nobody had gotten close.
What had been going on, she wondered, feeling a sense of helplessness that her efforts were too little, too late.
“Write down your number for me,” Jeff said. “I have to get to church now, but I’ll send you the last number I had for him as soon as I’ve gotten home and found it in the old address book. And I’ll do some talking and asking on your behalf. I know a couple of the folks he did jobs for. I can find out if they still hear from him. If there’s any information, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” Stella said. She wrote her number down for him, feeling once again that it was better to stay under the radar, and that this was definitely not the time to hand over her FBI card.
“Have a good day,” he said cheerily.
As she left, Stella turned to look at the split-pole fence. The boards were fitted together neatly and carefully. The fence was well constructed. The post box – large enough for newspapers and small parcels – was beautifully made with a quaint little handle on the door. Her father’s work. Precise and tidy. As opposed to her father’s life, which Stella feared was a mess that would never be resolved.
Climbing into her rental car, she felt depressed that she’d gotten nowhere and that her journey here had been a waste of time.
But Stella then comforted herself with the thought that it hadn’t. She’d found out he was here for some years. His presence in the town, though fleeting, had touched some people’s lives. Someone might still have a tenuous contact with him.
Before she headed off, her phone beeped.
Glancing down at the screen, Stella felt her new life, her real life, take center stage over her exploration into the past.
Special Agent Roth, the boss at the New Haven FBI office, had messaged her.
“Fall, a new murder case has just come in. You and Maxwell will be handling it. We need to meet ASAP so I can brief you. Thanks, R.”
Stella reread the message in amazement. She and her investigation partner Maxwell were being handed full responsibility for a brand-new case. A murder investigation, no less.
Going solo was a big and important step for both of them. And a murder was likely to be a difficult and complex case. They were both relatively new agents. She’d been with the Bureau only a couple of months, and Maxwell had just a year’s experience. Why had Roth decided to hand them this responsibility?
Stella felt eager to know what their first solo case involved.
- Writer
