Ghost in Trouble (24 page)

“O ye of little faith,” I murmured.

“But”—his brown eyes gleamed—“if the prints are there”—he glanced down at my plan—“your idea is swell. I'll request everyone to be at The Castle at eight o'clock tonight, ostensibly to re-create the séance.” He tapped the sheet of paper with his forefinger. “None of them will dare refuse.”

 

Kay handed me her
cell phone. “Moment of truth,” she announced.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost four o'clock. While Kay and I had awaited the chief's call, we'd talked and paced and worried. And now we would know if we had succeeded. “Chief?” I held the phone tightly.

“Everything went just as you planned.” He sounded amazed. “The expert confirmed your guess. The prints were exactly where you said they would be. That was my ace in the hole. When I showed up and gave the Miranda warning and started talking about a triple murder charge, there was absolute shock and a pretty credible explanation. Actually”—the chief's voice was
thoughtful—“I don't think there was a murder conspiracy. So, the canary sang and is fully on board for tonight. See you at eight.” A rumble of laughter. “I guess I won't see you. But I'm sure you'll be there.” The connection ended.

 

Kay looked depressed. “I
don't see why I can't come.”

I have a fondness for silk sweaters. I tried a seashell pink with pale blue silk crepe trousers. Matching pink leather thongs were lovely. I pirouetted in front of the mirror. The light slanting through the window added a glow to my hair. But…I shook my head. Not dressy enough. I changed to a light blue Irish-linen shirt with openwork embroidery and a long A-line skirt with matching embroidery that started six inches above the hem. A different shade for my shoes—sky blue—and I was ready. I added a medallion necklace of ivory. “Perfect.” I was admiring the artistry of the clothing, not myself, of course.

Kay stood with her arms folded, glaring. “What is with you? Nobody's going to see you. Why bother?”

Sometimes waspishness disguises disappointment. “I'm sorry you can't be in at the finale.”

Kay paced, her narrow face in a tight frown. “Maybe I can slip into the library and hide behind the drapes.”

I straightened a curl over one ear. “The library isn't the place to be. That's simply a ruse to get everyone here. After everyone gathers, slip up to the ballroom. Open a door just a sliver.” I felt a pang of uncertainty. Our adversary was smart, tough, and strong-willed. “Oh, Kay, if ever you hoped for luck, hope tonight.”

 

In the library, I
hovered near a chandelier with a clear view of everyone present.

Chief Cobb stood with folded arms at one end of the oak table, only a few feet from the chaise longue where Laverne Phillips had spun the web that robbed her of life. Although his brown suit was wrinkled and his tie loose at his collar, the chief looked powerful and impressive. The drapes were drawn, but tonight the chandeliers glittered, banishing all the shadows. In the bright, harsh light, wary faces looked toward him.

Evelyn Hume held her glasses in one hand. Her milky eyes made her look vulnerable, but she sat with regal dignity, her soft mauve chiffon dress appropriate for a grande dame. Diane's face was blotched from crying. Every so often, she pressed a tissue to her lips. Jimmy studiously avoided looking toward Clint Dunham. He stared at the tabletop, his face sad and drawn. Clint's shoulders hulked forward, a man in a tense, defensive posture. Gwen Dunham appeared remote and fragile despite her Grace Kelly beauty. Alison Gregory toyed with the emerald ring on her right hand, her gaze shifting from face to face. She was as perfectly turned out as always, blond hair smoothly brushed, makeup understated but effective, yet her cheekbones looked sharp above lips pressed tightly together. Margo Taylor's auburn hair was pulled back in a tight bun, emphasizing deep lines at her eyes and lips. Shannon Taylor darted occasional worried glances toward Jimmy.

Chief Cobb's deep voice was smooth and pleasant. “I am grateful to all of you for your willingness to return this evening to assist us in our investigation. We have made a great deal of progress today. However”—he glanced down at my suggested queries—“in some instances, information has been withheld.” He looked at Margo. “Where did you put the tools used to leverage the vase loose from the balcony?”

Margo was by far the likeliest person to have found the tools. I'd left them poking out of the chest in the main entrance hall
Tuesday night. They were gone when I checked early Wednesday morning.

Shannon burst out, “I took them. Not Mom.”

Margo turned toward her. “Hush.” Her voice was frantic.

Shannon shook her head. “I didn't push that dumb old vase. I was scared. I thought somebody was trying to cause trouble for somebody else.” She so obviously kept her gaze from Jimmy that she might as well have marked a huge black
X
in front of him. “I tossed them in the pond.” Her gaze was both scared and defiant.

Jimmy looked startled, then touched. “Yeah. My fingerprints would be on the crowbar. I changed a tire on my Jeep last week.” His eyes softened as he looked at Shannon.

She looked back and her heart was in her eyes. “You might have socked Jack. You wouldn't sneak up from behind and push him.”

“It is helpful to know the whereabouts of the tools. However”—now Cobb's look was dour—“you lied about not leaving your house last night, Miss Taylor.”

Shannon drew a deep, shaky breath.

Chief Cobb was brusque. “You went outside. You saw Jimmy Hume. Why didn't you tell us?”

“Jimmy wouldn't hurt anybody.” Her voice was shaky, but her tone fierce.

“You might be interested to know that Mr. Hume had already told us he was outside.”

It was as if a chill pervaded the room.

The chief glanced at Margo. “You claimed Shannon never left the house. Did you hear her leave? Or return?”

“I was outside, too.” Margo talked fast. “I heard the front door. I followed Shannon. She wandered down to the pool and then she came back. That's all she did. She didn't go near The Castle. I saw her go inside our house and in a few minutes I came in.”

“Where was Jimmy Hume?” The chief's tone was conversational.

Margo's eyes flickered. “I don't know. I didn't see him.”

Shannon reached out, took her mother's arm. “Mom, it's all right. I walked toward the gazebo. That's when I saw Jimmy. But he was walking away from me. I almost called out, but I didn't.” She looked toward him and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I was afraid you wouldn't ever want to talk to me again. Jack was amazing, but you're the only one who matters to me. Last night I wanted to talk to you so much, but I was afraid you would be mad at me.”

Jimmy's face softened. “It's okay, Shannon. Everything's okay.”

I hoped that would be true for them now.

The chief turned toward Clint Dunham. “You were on The Castle grounds as well.”

Again, as in the afternoon, Clint Dunham said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together. His heavy face held a look of dumb misery and furious anger.

Cobb massaged his cheek with the knuckles of his right hand. “Mr. Dunham, you saw a woman near The Castle.” The chief's voice was flat. It was not a question. It was a statement.

Silence settled in the room, a silence heavy with fear.

Cobb looked grim. “Who did you see?”

Dunham made no response.

A quick peal sounded.

Chief Cobb pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He glanced, tapped, apparently read a text. He lifted his head. Power emanated from him. “We'll go upstairs now. A great deal of new evidence has been uncovered today. In fact, we will be making an arrest shortly. In conjunction with that and before we proceed further here, I will ask you to accompany me to the third floor. We expect the arrival of a witness, who has interesting information.” He walked to the hall door, held it wide.

“What kind of nonsense is this?” Clint Dunham slammed a hand on the table.

Gwen reached over and gripped his arm. Her violet eyes were wide and frightened. She didn't speak.

Clint took a breath of aggravation. “None of this has anything to do with us.”

“Please, Clint.” She clutched his arm, tugged. Perhaps she hoped their cooperation would indicate innocence. Perhaps she was willing to do whatever they were asked to shift attention away from them.

No one else spoke. Chairs squeaked against the floor. Footsteps sounded.

Evelyn Hume led the way, moving with unerring accuracy through the door, walking to the stairs. She rested her hand lightly on the banister and started up.

At the base of the stairs, Diane clung to Jimmy's arm. “I don't like this. Jimmy, why we are going up there? If they ask us to go out on the balcony, I won't go. I can't bear thinking about Jack and those steps.”

“It's okay, Mom. Let's get up there and get this over with.”

I flowed above them.

Evelyn was the first to reach the third floor. She peered myopically down the hallway at the officers lining the hallway, four on each side. For an instant, her pace slowed, then she lifted her head and moved forward.

Diane clung to Jimmy's arm, whispered, “Why are they here? Jimmy, what's going to happen?”

Jimmy spoke quickly. “I don't know, Mom.” His voice was even, but his face was strained.

Shannon drew in a sharp, harsh breath. “Jack came this way.” Her face crumpled.

Margo slid an arm around her daughter's shoulders, glared angrily at the chief. “What is this macabre exercise supposed to prove?”

“Guilt.” His answer was quick, sharp, and hard.

Gwen Dunham looked at her husband with despair.

Clint blustered, “This has nothing to do with us.”

Alison Gregory's eyes glittered, possibly from anger, possibly from excitement.

Chief Cobb led the solemn group midway down the broad, marble-floored hall. He gestured at the paintings hanging on either side. “These are some of the finest paintings in the Hume collection.” He stopped in front of the Metcalf painting with its brilliant red poppies. On close inspection, the red of the poppies drew the eye instead of the pale blue water of the river. The intermingling of white poppies added a dramatic accent.

“At the séance”—the chief sounded matter-of-fact—“Laverne Phillips said: ‘…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass…' We know now that Laverne was following a script created by her husband. There was a reason for each and every comment she made. We wondered at the significance of the description of this specific painting. Of course, we know that Miss Hume”—he nodded toward Evelyn—“requires aid to view paintings.”

Evelyn Hume stiffened. Her strong-boned face appeared wary.

“However”—the chief's voice was smooth—“there would be nothing remarkable about Miss Hume observing this work with a magnifying glass. Yet Laverne's comments suggest that Ronald Phillips saw someone with a magnifying glass and light at this painting. What if the person at the painting was not Miss Hume, but her brother Jack? Why would Jack Hume investigate this painting?”

Footsteps sounded on the staircase. “Oh, perhaps the man is here who can answer all of our questions.”

Everyone looked toward the stairway.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Professor Leonard Walker, who teaches art at Goddard College and is a local artist.”

Walker looked uneasily up and down the hallway. “I'm always willing to be helpful to the authorities. I'll be happy to tell you what I know about the painting in question. I understand that you found my fingerprints on the back of the canvas. Let me take a look.” He strode confidently to the painting, studied it. “Of course, I recognize it now.” His tone was hearty. “This is a copy I made of the Willard Metcalf original. I understood the family wished to raise money with a private sale of the original. Certainly, when I paint copies, it is always with the understanding that the recipients have ordered a copy.”

Evelyn Hume bristled. “There are no copies in the Hume collection.”

“Ma'am.” The artist's tone was shocked. “I assure you this is a copy I produced on the understanding you had ordered it.”

Alison Gregory took a step forward. Her face was a hard mask of emptiness with burning eyes.

A police officer moved to stand on either side of her. Johnny Cain rested a hand on his holstered gun. The older officer watched Alison intently, rocking a little on the balls of his feet.

Alison darted swift looks at them.

Walker turned away from Alison. “I'm glad I was able to be of service. If that's all you need—”

Chief Cobb took a step toward him. “Who directed you to paint the copy?”

The artist never looked at Alison. He spoke quickly, the words tumbling. “Alison Gregory ordered the copy for Miss Hume.”

Evelyn Hume's face was cold. “I did not order a copy.” She slowly turned toward Alison. “Where is the original?”

A pulse flickered in Alison's slender white throat.

Evelyn looked both angry and bereft. “You were my friend. You have betrayed me and stolen from me. How many paintings”—she gestured at the paintings on the walls—“are copies made by him? How much money did you make selling the originals?”

Alison whirled toward Walker. “You fool. You complete fool.”

Walker took a step back. “I know nothing about what happened to the original of the Metcalf painting, or”—his eyes flickered—“any of the other paintings. I thought I was creating copies for Miss Hume.”

“You knew better than—” Alison broke off. She turned, tried to run.

Officers surrounded her.

Chief Cobb took two quick strides, faced the woman who no longer appeared suave and cool and confident. “Alison Gregory, you are under arrest for the murder of Jack Hume, pushed to his death on the night of June sixth, and Ronald and Laverne Phillips, shot and killed the early morning of June seventeenth, and the attempted murder of Kay Clark, the night of June fifteenth.”