Ghost in Trouble (15 page)

“The book.” She looked as wilted as a chrysanthemum corsage left out in the sun. “Please, don't put in what Jimmy said. He didn't mean a word of it.”

“Let me see what I have.” I delved into a shabby straw purse and pulled out a notebook. I flipped past a few pages, peering intently. “Of course, comments often get garbled when they are repeated. Jimmy said something to the effect that he intended to push Jack?” I ended on a questioning note.

“He didn't threaten to push him.” Diane's denial was vehement. “If Margo said that, she should be ashamed. It was Saturday afternoon and Jimmy was upset about Shannon and how she was chasing Jack. Jimmy said the next time he saw Jack, he was
going to knock him flat. But Jimmy came to dinner and he and Jack didn't say a word to each other, so that shows Jimmy was only blowing off steam. He would never hurt Jack. That's how boys talk. Boys make a lot of noise and don't mean anything serious. Everybody knows Jack fell. His death was a terrible accident.” There was terror in her eyes.

Kay was sure Jack had been murdered.

So was Diane.

 

I would have enjoyed
exploring the subtleties of the white bedroom. Wherever I looked, I saw unusual decorations: a photograph of a polar bear on an ice floe with brilliant blue sky the only note of color, an ivory miniature of the Taj Mahal at sunset, a framed Alençon lace bridal handkerchief with the intertwined initials
CKH,
an all-white spiral seashell in an alabaster box lined with red velvet, a lustrous white costume pearl necklace dangling from a red coral branch. Instead, as soon as the door closed after Diane, I became invisible and followed her.

In the hallway, I hovered near the frescoed ceiling, white clouds shot through with gold against a blue sky. Diane stood at the landing, her head turned to look up toward the third floor. She shuddered and whirled away. She hurried downstairs, her shoes thudding on the steps as if she could not go fast enough.

I dropped by the Phillipses' suite. Laverne lay back on a chaise longue, a magazine loose in her lap. Alone, all pretense of imperiousness was gone. Her heavily made-up face sagged, lines of uncertainty and foreboding pulling at her lips. She lifted a shaking hand to massage one temple.

I bypassed Diane's suite and the unoccupied guest rooms. Jimmy Hume wasn't in his room. At the other end of the hall, I entered Evelyn's suite. The impress of her personality was every
where, from Stickley furniture to art-glass windows to Mission-style lighting to a vibrantly warm still life by Helen Clark Oldfield. The oil painting in an understated white frame hung by itself in the center of a cream stucco wall. On a teak table rested a silver-handled magnifying glass. How much did Evelyn see when she held the oversize glass close to the canvas? Perhaps a dim mélange of Oldfield's rich colors. Was possession of beauty enough in itself to give her pleasure?

Downstairs, Margo worked in the kitchen. Her face was pinched in thought. She looked dour. Evelyn Hume sat at a piano in an alcove off the living room, her expression remote, her hands forceful as she played a polonaise. Ronald of the white shoes was not in any of the ground-floor areas, nor did I find Jimmy Hume or Shannon Taylor.

I stood in the central hallway. I almost materialized to go to the kitchen when I decided to look over the grounds. The sound of a steel guitar led me over a row of poplars. Below was a sparkling swimming pool in the shape of a
T
and a cabana.

Green-and-cream-striped awnings provided shade. Jimmy Hume lounged on a cushioned deck chair. He wore swim trunks, but they appeared dry, and a laptop was propped on his knees. The music thrummed from speakers mounted on the cabana. I floated behind him, read over his shoulder.

…
and the oil-bearing layers are reminiscent of a sponge, in that…

I moved to the other side of a hedge and swirled present as Francie the Frump. My soft-soled flip-flops made no sound as I strolled around the greenery and crossed the deck. “Hello.”

He looked up in surprise, but put aside the laptop and came to his feet.

I appreciate good manners. He was also a hunk, dark hair thick on his tanned chest, flat stomach, powerful legs, and the good looks of the Hume men.

“May I help you?” His voice was youthful, but confident. Millions in the bank have a way of instilling confidence.

“I'm Francie de Sales, Kay Clark's assistant. I wondered if I might visit with you for a moment.” I pushed up the granny glasses and endeavored to appear innocuous. Of course, that is always a challenge with red hair, despite a lack of makeup.

He closed the laptop and gestured toward a white wrought-iron table and chairs. When we were seated, he looked at me inquiringly, but said nothing. He reminded me of a long-ago movie actor, Montgomery Clift.

I explained in a diffused and rambling fashion that I was gathering material for the book about Jack's life. I leaned forward, pen poised above an open notebook, my expression earnest and slightly dim-witted. “I hope you will describe your uncle's last few days. I understand you had a difficult exchange with him the day he died.” I made my tone confidential and sympathetic.

His face twisted in a frown. “So who's mouthing off about me?”

“My sources are confidential.” I sounded regretful. “Of course, that's why I am asking you. Everyone deserves to defend themselves.”

“There's nothing to defend.” He was clearly angry. “I tried to talk to Jack and he blew me off.” There was depth of pain in Jimmy's anguished eyes. “He treated me like I was a stranger.”

I felt an instant of connection with Jack Hume. That final day a powerful force had driven him. Something mattered terribly to him, mattered so much he couldn't take the time to understand his nephew's distress.

I was also touched by Jimmy's misery. There was grief in his eyes as well as anger. “Did you want to talk to him about Shannon?”

“Jack blew her off, too. I'd never seen her so upset.” Jimmy was gruff. “I didn't want her hurt, not like that. She had a big-
time crush on him and he made her feel like a silly fool. I knew all along that Jack wasn't serious about her, but he shouldn't have dumped her like that. I was going to tell him he was a jerk.”

“Is that why you threatened to knock him flat the next time you saw him?”

Jimmy's jaw jutted. “Yeah. I would have. After dinner, I was going to make him pay. I went up to the balcony.”

I looked at him in a confused fashion, but there was no confusion in my mind. “Let me see. I thought he fell down the balcony steps. If you went that way—”

Jimmy shook his head. “I was inside. I came up the interior stairs.”

I observed his handsome face. I liked him. I wasn't sure I believed him.

“I went through the ballroom and out to the balcony. He wasn't there.” Jimmy looked half sick. “If I'd gone down the steps, I guess I would have found him. Instead, I went back into the house.”

 

Shannon Taylor wasn't in
the house nor was she attending Evelyn. Outside, I floated above The Castle. In addition to the workshop, I saw a long building with five bays that obviously served as the garage. I caught a glimpse of white beyond a row of willows. In an instant, I stood in front of a modest frame house with a screened-in porch.

Inside, Shannon sat on a cheerful yellow chintz sofa. She looked young and lovely in a rosebud-embroidered mauve tank top and blue chambray shorts. She held a book in her lap. The immaculate, simply furnished room was cool and quiet.

I came nearer. The page was opened to “Nocturnal Reverie” by Anne Finch. Shannon pressed a finger against a line.

I bent to see.

But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something, too high for syllables to seek.
Tears glistened in her eyes.

I reappeared on the front porch and knocked.

She was unsmiling when she opened the door. She glanced at my dowdy clothes. “No soliciting permitted.”

Before the door closed, I said quickly, “I'm not soliciting. I'm Francie de Sales, Kay Clark's assistant.”

“Kay Clark.” A scowl marred her young face.

“You can be very important in a book about Jack Hume. I understand he felt a real rapport with you.”

Her eyes widened.

“I hope you will share what you know about his last days.”

“His last days…” Her voice was shaky.

“In his e-mails, he said you were very kind to him and he admired you.” I didn't feel that was too much of a stretch. Certainly he'd told Kay how flattering he had found Shannon's attention.

“He did?” Her eyes lighted. “He said that?”

How little it takes when someone hungers for even a crumb from a beloved figure.

“He said you were gorgeous and sweet.”

I could not have given her a greater gift. Her face bloomed. She opened the screen and I followed her into the living room.

When we sat on the sofa, I leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “The hope”—I carefully avoided saying this was Kay's hope—“is to know what he was thinking and feeling those last few days.”

Shannon talked fast. “He was so much fun. We first spent time together at the pool. If Evelyn doesn't need me, I can do whatever I want. I help Mom a lot, but I have a bunch of free time. We swam together and twice we went canoeing. One night I ran into him at Mama Pat's.” She glanced at me and added, “That's a club near the campus. I love old jazz. I go there a lot. He was there
by himself, listening to the piano, having a drink. We danced to ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.'” Her eyes shone with the memory of a night and the touch of his arms and a smiling face looking down at her. Slowly, the softness faded, replaced by a dumb misery compounded of hurt feelings and puzzlement. “We had fun. I know we did. He liked me. I don't know what went wrong. I thought maybe I'd said something, done something. It was that last weekend and I found him in the study. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered him. He looked upset, and when I asked him if we weren't friends, it was like he didn't even know me. He kind of shook his head and told me to go away, he was busy. I couldn't believe he'd act like that after the way he'd held me. It wasn't right.” There was aching humiliation in her eyes and passionate denial in her voice. “I found out he was seeing that woman next door. She's old. I don't know what he saw in her. But they had something going on. I heard the last thing she said to him. ‘I wish you were dead.' I hope she feels bad now.”

 

Margo Taylor cracked another
egg into the blue mixing bowl. A splash of sunlight through the kitchen window emphasized lines of discontent that flared from her eyes and her mouth. “I don't want to talk about Jack Hume.”

“I understand you were in love with him at one time.” She pressed her lips together and clipped another egg on the side of the bowl. “He dropped you for another woman.”

A flash of satisfaction gleamed in her green eyes.

Her unexpected response caught my attention. I doubted that she harbored kind feelings toward the woman who had supplanted her. She could only feel pleased if in some way she had caused difficulty for her long-ago rival. I remembered Kay's description of the photograph which she had assumed pictured Jack
Hume on his graduation. Photographs of a darkly handsome boy covered a wall in the Dunham home. A photograph was missing from the Dunham wall.

“You slipped the photograph of Ryan Dunham under Jack's door.” I had no doubt in my mind.

For an instant, Margo stood rigid, one hand gripping an egg. She didn't drop her eyes to the bowl quite quickly enough to hide a quiver of shock. Then she cracked the egg with a snap.

“Why did you want Jack Hume to see that picture?”

She picked up a whisk, gently whipped the eggs. Her face was set and hard and utterly determined.

My tone was sharp. “Did you guess that Ryan was his son and want to cause trouble for him and Gwen Dunham?”

She placed the beater beside the bowl, turned to one side to pour flour into a sifter.

I moved to stay within her vision whether she acknowledged me or not. “Apparently your daughter made a spectacle of herself, chasing after Jack.”

Margo combined dry ingredients with the flour in a smaller bowl.

“Were you angry because he charmed your daughter, then dropped her? Did it remind you of what happened to you?”

She added the dry ingredients to the larger mixing bowl.

“If you decline to offer information, the book may contain material from others that you won't find pleasing.”

She paused and looked at me, her gaze level and challenging. “Have you ever heard of invasion of privacy? Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do.”

H
idden from view behind crape myrtles with lavender blooms, I swirled into the elegant blouse and slacks I'd worn when I spoke with Gwen Dunham. Although I expected she'd be too upset to notice, the contrast between Francie the Frump and Bailey Ruth, aka Francie with a shopper's paradise at her disposal, might be disconcerting. I decided Francie's future wardrobe would be subdued, not dowdy. Subdued can be stylish. Besides, nice clothes made me feel like doing a cartwheel. The lush green grass around the gazebo looked thick and inviting.

Cartwheels could wait. As I climbed the gazebo steps, I remembered long-ago summers and a skinny redheaded girl in the twilight, listening to the cicadas and crickets, whirling from one end of a dusty brown lawn to the other with no thought beyond that moment. It was as if those magical days would last forever.

The air pulsed with heat, and I welcomed the shade of the ga
zebo. I sat in a comfortable wicker chair and watched the opening in a tall green hedge of Nellie Stevens holly trees that marked the boundary between The Castle and the Dunham property.

Gwen Dunham came slowly along the flagstone path, walking as if she carried a heavy burden. At the gazebo steps, she stopped for a deep breath, then slowly climbed. Her face was shaded by a wide-brimmed crocheted raffia hat with a blue camo-ribbon trim that matched her blouse. Dark glasses masked her eyes. Her patrician features might have been chipped from granite.

She walked across the plank flooring and stood a few feet away from me, her arms folded. “How did you find out about Ryan?” Her tone was anguished. “What do you want?”

I came to my feet and said gently, “I don't intend to cause trouble.” Unless, and this was the qualification in my mind and heart, she had ended a man's life to protect herself and her family.

“I don't believe you.” Her voice shook. “Why else did you call and say you knew about Ryan and you'd be back in touch and hang up?”

I looked at her gravely. “I didn't call you. Nor did Kay. Was the caller a woman?”

“The voice was just a whisper. It could have been a man. The call came from The Castle. Just a few minutes ago.” If she'd looked desperate before, now she was frantic. “Who else knows?”

“The person who took Ryan's photograph knows.” But Margo wasn't the only possibility.

Gwen's hands gripped each other, twisting and turning. “Where's the picture now? Where's Ryan's brush?”

“I don't know who has the picture. The hairbrush is in a safe place, where it will stay until it is discarded.”

“Why are you doing this? Do you want money? I'll buy the hairbrush from you.” She talked fast, the words running over each
other. “How much do you want? I'll pay you. I'll get the money today.”

“I don't want money. Moreover, I don't have the hairbrush. Unless circumstances change”—if I didn't have to tell Kay and Kay didn't give the information to the police—“we won't reveal anything to anyone.” Paul Fisher had apparently decided against pursuing the truth about the young man who was a mirror image of Jack Hume when he was Paul's quarterback. Perhaps Paul felt that Jack's quest was understandable when he was alive, but revelations after his death would cause heartbreak for no good purpose.

“If you don't want money, what do you want?” Gwen's voice was harsh.

“Kay and I want to understand what happened in the last few days of Jack Hume's life. Kay has no intention of including everything she learns about Jack's last days in her book, but she is a careful investigator. If she felt there was good reason to exclude some information, I'm certain she will.”

“Good reason?” Her voice shook. “Is my son's trust in me and his dad a good reason? Is leaving a happy family alone a good reason?” She flung out a hand. “Don't you see, it was so long ago and only one night and it shouldn't matter now. Jack came home for James's wedding. I was Diane's maid of honor. There were parties and dances and one wonderful night on the balcony of The Castle.” She lifted a hand to clutch at a rose-quartz necklace. “He was handsome and we talked and he held me in his arms. I've never felt that way about anyone else. It was a kind of madness. That night we went to the Hume cabin on the lake. My parents thought I'd stayed at The Castle. The next morning he asked me to come to Africa with him. Just fly away and leave Adelaide behind. I wanted to go with him.” Her voice wobbled. “I couldn't do that to Clint. He had a summer job in Houston. He was coming
home in three weeks for our wedding. I couldn't treat Clint that way. I love Clint. He's good and kind and he adores me. He came home and we married. I didn't know I was pregnant. When I found out, I thought everything would be all right. I thought the baby was Clint's.” Her tone was defiant. “When Ryan was little, I suppose I knew then, but I pushed away the thought. That night didn't matter. Clint is Ryan's dad. Don't you see? Clint is his dad.”

“Weren't you afraid someone would notice Ryan's resemblance to Jack?”

She threw out shaking hands. “Why would anyone think of Jack when they saw Ryan? There was no reason to make that connection. When Jack came back from Africa with an eye patch and a scar on his cheek and white hair, he didn't look anything like he did when he was young.”

Someone had remembered the youthful Jack with painful clarity. I was sure that Margo Taylor, bitter over his long-ago dismissal of her, fearful of her daughter's pursuit of him, had entered the Dunham house and taken Ryan's graduation picture. She had pushed the photograph beneath Jack's door. Whatever her motive—revenge, jealousy of Gwen, or a wish to distract him from Shannon—she had unleashed violent emotions, Jack's fury at the son denied to him, Gwen's fear at a revelation she believed might destroy her family, and Shannon's youthful heartbreak at Jack's abrupt lack of interest.

Gwen began to pace. “I wasn't concerned when he came back. There was no reason to do more than say hello to him. Ryan is a counselor at a camp in Missouri this summer. I made it a point to have Diane to my house, rather than dropping in to see her at The Castle. That last week, Diane came over several times. She was terribly upset because Jack accused Laverne and Ronald of fraud. Poor little Diane.” Gwen's face softened. “She's kind and good and generous, but she's credulous. She's sure she is actually hear
ing from James and that makes her happy. Jack should have left her alone. It may be a fool's paradise, but what harm was there?”

“Possibly he didn't want Laverne and Ronald to fleece Diane. Possibly he felt delving into the occult was irreligious.”

“The Humes have more money than they can ever use. As for the occult”—she made a dismissive gesture—“actually it wasn't, because it was all fake.”

Gwen's reasoning was faulty, but this wasn't a moment to pursue theology.

“Anyway”—she was sympathetic—“hearing from James makes Diane happy. Destroying her connection to James would be cruel. Of course, Jack knew they were taking advantage of her. He'd made up his mind to get rid of them. When he told Diane, she cried until she was sick. I don't know what would have happened if he'd lived. He was”—her voice was ragged—“frightening when he was angry. He came to my house Friday morning. He forced his way inside. He had Ryan's picture. He said someone pushed it under his door. He showed me a note with Ryan's name and birth date. Thank God Clint was at his office. Jack found the wall of our pictures. He looked at them and saw the empty place and then he turned on me. He asked me how I could I have done this to him, how I could have cheated him of his son. But when I knew, what was I supposed to do? I'd heard Jack was getting married. Clint was my husband. Jack yelled at me. He stormed up the stairs and found Ryan's room—”

She was suffering, but Jack had suffered, too. Long ago his little daughter died, and at that moment in the Dunham house, he saw a room filled with mementos of a child's life he hadn't shared.

“—and took Ryan's hairbrush. I tried to get the brush away from him and he pushed me away, said he'd have the brush, no matter what.” She slumped against a pillar, her fingers once again clasping the hard stones of her necklace. “I begged him. He said
he had to know Ryan. He said he would give me a week to tell Clint and Ryan. If I didn't, he would find Ryan himself and by that time he would have proof that he was his father.”

The DNA from Ryan's hairbrush would have provided all the proof Jack would ever have needed.

“What did you tell Clint?”

She pushed away from the pillar, stood stiff and still. “I didn't tell him. He doesn't know anything.” But her eyes glittered with fear.

“You met Jack at the gazebo Friday night.”

If possible, she looked even more terrified. She scarcely managed to speak. “How did you know?”

“You were seen.”

She hunched her shoulders.

“Does your husband know you quarreled with Jack at the gazebo?” I watched her carefully.

“Of course not. I waited until Clint was asleep. I slipped downstairs and called Jack, told him I had to talk to him. I hoped he might remember how we'd felt and be kind. He came to the gazebo, but he started in again about telling Ryan. I begged him to leave us alone. He wouldn't listen. Then Diane's dog barked. I was afraid—” She broke off.

“Afraid?”

“I thought I'd heard someone near, a rustle in the bushes. I didn't want anyone to see me there.”

Had she feared her husband had awakened and followed her?

“Anyway, there was no use. Jack had made up his mind. I ran home. I wish I could run away now.” She looked despairing. “But it's no use, is it? You know about Ryan. Someone saw Jack and me in the gazebo. How many people know?”

She felt surrounded by nameless, faceless enemies. I wished I could reassure her. There was perhaps one positive note I could
add. “I don't believe the person who saw you in the gazebo knows about Ryan.”

Some of the tension eased from her body. Her face was taut in thought. Then she gave a short, knowing murmur. “Shannon must have followed him.” Her smile was mirthless. “Dazed by his magic. I suppose she thought…well, it doesn't matter what she thought. You think she doesn't know about Ryan?”

“I'm sure.”

“So there's you and Kay and the person who called and whoever has Ryan's brush. Oh, I suppose Kay has the brush. It was probably in Jack's things. That's how you found out.” She held out her hands in a plea. “If it's you and Kay, then I beg you. Please don't be cruel. There's no reason to bring up all of this. It was long ago, one crazy night in all of Jack's nights. Don't let that one moment ruin my life and Ryan's and Clint's. Please.”

“Jack said he'd give you a week. What were you going to do?”

Her face once again was a hard, resentful mask. “What difference does it make now? Jack is dead. Ryan will never know. Don't destroy my life. You can write your book about Jack, but don't rake up something from the past that will do nothing but break our hearts.”

“I can promise that your family won't be included in the book.” Since the book would never be written, I felt comfortable reassuring Gwen.

For the first time since she'd reached the gazebo, there was a hint of hope in her strained face. “Ryan won't find out?”

I wondered if it had ever occurred to her that her son had a right to know the identity of his birth father. From the happiness and warmth obvious in the family photographs in their den, it seemed unlikely that Ryan would ever consider anyone other than Clint to be his dad.

“He won't be told anything by Kay or by me.”

Her voice was thin. “I hope you mean what you say.”

“Let us know if you get another call about Ryan. Don't pay blackmail. Let us help.”

“Ryan mustn't know. I'll do anything to keep Clint from finding out.” She could not have made her decision clearer. If she had to pay blackmail, she would. “If only Jack hadn't come home.” She whirled and ran down the steps and walked swiftly toward home.

 

I opened the door
and stepped into Kay's room.

She sat at the desk with a pen and pad. She put down the pen and looked up. “If I could swoop through the air unseen, it would be my choice of transport.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “That's old hat. I enjoy being.” I glimpsed my silk georgette blouse in the mirror. It was truly lovely. “And I'm parched.”

“Mine but to serve,” Kay murmured, but she popped up and moved to the wet bar.

“Club soda, please.” I settled in a comfortable easy chair by the coffee table.

The club soda fizzed as Kay poured it into a tall tumbler filled with ice. She selected a Coke from the refrigerator for herself. She turned from the wet bar and carried the glasses to a clear glass coffee table, then brought a bowl of cashews.

“Thank you.” I reached for the glass. Plain club soda was always my drink of choice, bright, fresh, and not a trace of sweet. I selected five cashews, ate them slowly, felt a pop of energy. I pushed a cushion behind my back and stretched to admire my sandals. Perhaps they'd be even prettier with a green trim. Oh, yes. I nodded approval.

Kay retrieved her notebook and pen and sat in a webbed leather chair on the other side of the table. A shaft of late-afternoon
sunlight through the west windows of Jack's sitting room revealed the fine lines that feathered from her eyes and lips, reflecting a life filled with humor and thought and adventure and empathy.

I spoke rapidly. “I talked to Diane, Jimmy, Shannon, Margo, and Gwen. Diane thinks Jack was murdered…” And I concluded, “…Someone is trying to blackmail Gwen.”

Kay looked up from her notebook as I finished. “How's this for a summary? Diane's terrified that Jimmy pushed Jack. Jimmy admitted he intended to confront Jack, but claimed he found the balcony empty. Shannon heard Gwen Dunham say she wished Jack was dead. Margo refused to answer any questions and you believe she pushed Ryan's picture beneath Jack's door.” Kay's expression softened. “And there's Gwen Dunham. Poor woman.”