Ghost Times Two (12 page)

Early morning sunlight slanted into Sam Cobb's office through the wide windows that overlooked Main Street. My night at Rose Bower had been quite comfortable, and breakfast at Lulu's, as always, delicious. I expected Sam to arrive any minute. I was sure he was already well aware of last night's homicide and familiar with the circumstances.

I stood in front of his old-fashioned blackboard that required chalk. No whiteboards for Sam despite pressure from the mayor. Sam had gruffly told her he used chalk when he taught high school algebra and he would use chalk until they pried a stub out of his cold, dead fingers. The Honorable Neva Lumpkin wanted to jettison Sam right along with the blackboard. Lurking in the background, eager to be chief, was her favorite detective, Howie Harris.

I wrote swiftly:

October 17, 2014—Anniversary of the death of Marie Layton

October 17, 2014—Hit-and-run accident with fatality

October 20, 2014—Car accident at Country Club Drive and Rev—

“You're back.” A click as the door closed.

I turned, chalk still in one hand.

“Funny thing.” His tone was conversational. “Hanging chalk makes me feel like a kid and it's midnight and my folks are out and the cellar stairs creaked.”

As I would point out to Wiggins, it was he who set forth the Precepts, and Precept Six was clear: “Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.”

I immediately swirled present. I was feeling festive and chose an embroidered blue tunic, an elegant flower pattern with matching designs on the lower sleeves, white slacks, and blue strapless heels. Very high. I settled on a straight chair in front of Sam's desk, crossed one leg over the other, beamed at him.

Sam is a sturdy bear of a man, big head with grizzled black hair, large strong face with bold features, burly shoulders. He wouldn't know fashion if he met it on a runway, but I saw a flicker of admiration in his brown eyes as he settled in his large desk chair. “Bailey Ruth.” He gave me a welcoming nod, but I saw concern in his dark eyes. “Everything gets—” He paused.

I assumed he was recasting his sentence. Had he started to say,
Everything gets screwed up . . .
or
Everything gets a little strange . . .
or
Everything gets turned upside down . . .

Sam cleared his throat, started over. “I thought we had a simple case. Boss threatens to fire young lawyer. Young lawyer shoots him.”

I started to speak, but he held up a large hand. “The evidence is compelling. Text on Doug Graham's phone orders Megan Wynn to show up or he will pursue termination. If there's a handy explanation, she couldn't seem to find it. She declined to explain. Plus, a neighbor across the street puttered out onto his porch a little before nine. He was sitting in the dark on a screened-in porch, sipping a rum and Coke, enjoying the cicadas—”

I remembered wondrous moonlit nights, swinging slowly in a big hammock with Bobby Mac, listening to cicadas sing the song of summer, smelling the scent of fresh-mown grass, Adelaide at its happiest.

“—with a clear view of the Graham house. A car stopped at the front curb, an old yellow Thunderbird. A tall, lanky guy walked up to the front porch, jabbed the bell, waited, rang again, waited, rang, finally gave up. As that car pulled away, another car arrived, turned into the driveway, parked behind Graham's Porsche.”

“The murderer came from the golf course.”

Sam's gaze was hopeful. “Who was it?”

I waved a hand in airy dismissal of any suggestion I'd been on the scene. “I didn't
see
the murderer. I know this is what happened because Megan Wynn found Doug Graham dead.”

“Were you there when she found him?”

I regretted that I'd been restless and left Megan's apartment, seeking Jimmy. “I can't vouch for the actual moment.”

“Spell it out.”

He listened, gave me a probing look. “You landed at the
Graham house while she was scrubbing blood from her hands. And you think she's innocent?”

“There was no weapon in the room.”

Sam shrugged. “She'd already run outside and hidden it.”

I couldn't prove she hadn't, though Megan was much too fastidious to ignore blood on her hands. “Why did she have blood on her hands?”

“You tell me.”

“She was trying to see if he was alive and her touch caused his body to fall sideways and when she tried to prevent that fall, blood got on her hands and blouse. If she shot him, why would she want to see if she could help him?”

Sam wasn't impressed. “Maybe she wanted to make sure he was dead.”

“The timing isn't right. Do you think she shot him, ran outside and hid the gun, came back and approached the body? Why come back?”

Sam's voice was cool. “Maybe she wanted to get at his cell phone and that's how she got in a mess with the body.”

It was quite likely Jimmy accompanied Megan to the house. But if Sam was uneasy with floating chalk, I didn't think introducing a dead reporter as a witness would be pleasing to him. Or convincing. Especially if he learned Jimmy adored Megan.

I tried another tack. “Someone crept into the den and blew off the back of Doug's head. You will agree that makes the murder premeditated. Would a smart person drive up to his house in a distinctive old Dodge and park it like a tour bus in the driveway?”

His thick black brows beetled.

I took this as a sign he was open to persuasion. “It's obvious from the facts that the murderer used a stealthy approach, which wouldn't include parking on the driveway to slip into the den where a man was sitting in a leather chair watching a ball game. I'm positive Graham never heard anyone approach, had no idea he was in danger, knew nothing until a bullet slammed into his skull. Further, the text to Megan and the nine-one-one call were designed to have her in the house when the police arrived.”

Sam's stare was intent. “You think he was already dead when the text was sent to Wynn from his cell?”

I was patient. “Obviously.”

His eyes narrowed. “If that's right, he was dead a few minutes before nine, then the killer used his cell to text Megan Wynn and the house line to dial nine-one-one, report a murder.”

I gave him an approving smile. “Exactly. The murderer then exited through the back, crossed the terrace to the golf course, and followed a cart path to a street where a car was parked.”

Sam looked dour. “Glad you know what happened. Where's the proof?”

“Megan is innocent.”

“You say.”

“I do.” I was firm. “You need to look elsewhere.” I was pleased to know I was making his path forward much clearer.

I would like to say Sam was energized by my pronouncement. Instead, he shook his head, muttered to himself. I might have caught the word
screwy
and heard a weary
looked so simple
.

“Okay.” Deep breath. “You claim—”

“I don't claim.” I was sweetly reasonable. “I'm certain.”

“You may be certain, but I can't ignore a black-and-white case. And the mayor's already after Wynn.”

“The mayor?”

“You got it. She called me this morning.
Sam, I'll hold a news conference—
”

His imitation of Neva Lumpkin's supercilious tone was perfection.

“
—
and announce that the city of Adelaide once again exhibits its excellence in protecting its citizens with the prompt arrest of a murderess—”

The door squeaked open.

Sam stopped in midsentence.

As I disappeared, the mayor burst inside. She hurtled toward Sam's desk, much too excited to notice dissipating colors.

Sam heaved himself to his feet, his face smooth and unreadable.

Neva Lumpkin was a sturdy (to be kind) middle-aged woman with too much blonde hair, vivid makeup, and an imposing bust unfortunately emphasized by a tight-fitting orange jersey blouse. This morning she exuded good humor, not an attitude I associated with her.

“Sam”—a sudden transformation of her plastic politician face into momentary respect for the dead—“a dreadful blow to our community. Doug Graham was a fine man, always committed to civic duty. But”—her expression was sunny again—“once again Adelaide swiftly deals with adversity, our finest”—a nod at Sam to make clear the accolade to the police department—“capturing the dastardly assassin within moments. Of course, I want you to be present at the press—”

“Uh, Neva. Please sit down.” He gestured at the chair where I sat.

I quickly moved but not quite fast enough to avoid contact with her equally imposing girdled rear.

She remained midway down to the chair, an impressive feat given her heft. She swept a hand behind her.

I quivered.

Neva jerked upright, whirled, stared at the empty chair. “I felt something . . . odd.”

Sam was courteous. “The air comes out of that register kind of funny.” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling.

“Oh. Well, talk to maintenance about it.” She plumped into the chair. “I've called all the stations. Looks like we'll have the city channels here, too. The coverage should be great. I'll run home and change. I think my blue polka dot silk dress and navy pumps. Dignity, you know.” She squinted at Sam. “Your suit's—”

“Wrinkled. Claire's out of town. About that press conference, Neva, here's our situation. We have some unexpected leads, so it would be premature to say the lawyer's a person of interest.”

I would have hugged Sam for giving my claim merit, but didn't want to startle him.

Neva's lower lip protruded in obvious petulance. “That's not what Howie Harris told me.”

Sam's face remained bland, but I saw the slight tightening of his jaw. Detective Howie Harris was Neva's pick to be police chief, if and when she got rid of Sam. Moreover, Howie was her mole into department doings, which had to gall Sam.

He didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he nodded sagely. “Howie will be brought up to date this morning. Everything has changed since last night.”

She looked like a dirigible with a leak, heavy shoulders slumping. “What am I going to do about the press conference?”

“Neva, this is a great opportunity for you. I'll supply you with a layout of the crime scene. Reporters love that kind of inside information. Detective Sergeant Price will be in your office twenty minutes before the press conference. He'll brief you from top to bott—” He paused, rephrased. “Detective Sergeant Price will provide details, and here's the best part. You can say you are on top of the action and you expect a breakthrough in the case over the weekend. That way you'll be on the news tonight and Monday night both.”

Neva's pale blue eyes gleamed with the happy light of a shark scenting blood, TV twice on good ratings nights. But she was wary. “Reporters won't come more than twice. I'll tell them today the police have questions for many close to Doug Graham, including Megan Wynn, an associate at the dead man's law firm who was found at the scene of the crime, and that the murder suspect will be named at eleven o'clock Monday morning.” She rose. “Since word has already been leaked to the press”—she had the grace to look uncomfortable—“about Ms. Wynn, this keeps her onstage but widens the field.”

She was at the door. She looked back. “Eleven o'clock Monday, Sam.”

The door shut behind her.

I thankfully returned to the chair. I swirled present, took an instant to admire the intricate embroidery on the sleeves of my tunic.

Sam glowered. “If somebody finds Howie Harris strangled with his bow tie one of these days, I better have an alibi. He not only whispered in Neva's ear, he's already sicced the press on Wynn. When
they get the details—lawyer shot, associate found at scene, the text—they'll write stories where any kindergartner could figure she's suspect-in-chief.” He tugged on his shirt collar as if it were too tight. “I'm at the poker table without even a pair in my hand and I'm supposed to present a perp on a platter Monday morning. Moreover, if you weren't scre—messing things up, I could charge the obvious suspect.”

I was gentle. “You don't want to arrest the wrong person. Megan Wynn isn't the only person with a motive. Yesterday—”

Sam took notes as I described Megan's chance at a new job. “But Doug Graham knew a softy when he saw one. He threatened to fire Anita Davis, a secretary, if Megan left. Anita needs the firm health insurance because her daughter is very ill. A different insurer might not include their doctor or hospital.”

I didn't tell Sam that Anita overheard the threat, knew her job was in peril. After all, Megan had immediately reassured Anita that she was remaining at the firm and Anita's job was secure. Moreover, Megan declined to explain to the police the text that brought her to Doug's house to find him dead. Megan hadn't told Blaine the background, either, and I doubted she intended to do so.