Ghost Times Two (19 page)

I interrupted. “There's another area where we need help. Why was Keith Porter angry with Graham?”

“Money.” She answered without hesitation. “Keith wanted money, big money. Mr. Graham told him no. Mr. Graham was the guardian of a trust set up by Keith's parents, Betty and Mark Porter. They died in a plane crash a couple of years ago, and Mr. Graham administered the estate. It's in trust until Keith turns thirty. He's twenty-five. The terms of the trust are generous, ten thousand dollars a month. Keith spends every penny. This time he's got an idea for some kind of app. He wants a couple hundred thousand to set up a company, thinks he'll end up big rich. Mr. Graham turned him down.”

“What happens now?”

“It may be”—again that considering tone—“that Keith's luck has turned. Judge Mosley has an Apple Watch. He loves electronic gadgets. He may appoint a new trustee who will think Keith's idea is terrific.”

Was it a matter of luck? Was Keith Porter so angry at Doug's refusal to advance the money Keith wanted that he slipped across a golf course with a gun and murdered the man he saw as a roadblock? How could Keith know about Megan's confrontation with Doug? If
Keith contacted Doug later in the day, again pled for money, had Doug laughed and described Megan's intent to quit and his threat to fire Anita as proof that no one defied him without paying a price?

Clearly, Doug Graham told his killer about the confrontation with Megan, making the spurious text possible. Likely, the murderer considered the text exceedingly clever. Not only did the text bring Megan to the house, the contents put her in a very difficult position. Had Doug shared the facts of his threat to Megan out of malicious pride at his bullying success? Or had he intended to warn someone not to push him,
Here's what happens if you do?

Someone was angry enough with Doug Graham to kill him. I knew Keith Porter was angry. Later that morning, Doug struggled to compose a note. He wanted to smooth things over with someone. Had the note reached the intended person? I didn't think the note on legal paper was intended for Keith. Graham had no intention of seeking reconciliation with him. Reconciliation . . . “Ms. King, yesterday Graham threw away several drafts of a personal message. Those drafts were found in his wastebasket. He wrote:
I never promised anything. If you make claims, I'll deny everything. Let me explain. Scandal won't help anybo—
We have reason to believe he gave a note to someone with this message:
Let's talk again. We can work this out.
He'd tucked that final bland version in his shirt pocket. That note hadn't been found by the police.”

“I don't know anything about that.”

“You have no idea who might be angry with him?”

“Do you mean yesterday or generally?”

“Old quarrels don't usually result in violence. I want to know about current disagreements.”

“Other than Keith Porter, I'm not aware of any quarrels.”

“Do you know if he spoke to his ex-wife yesterday?”

“No.”

“How do you think she'd feel about the hundred-thousand-dollar ring?”

“I suggest you ask her.”

“Was Anita Davis in trouble for slipping out of the office at times to go home and see about her daughter?”

Her response was sharp. “I don't know what anyone's said but Anita does her work.”

“Graham was unhappy with her.”

“Anita would never hurt anyone.”

“What do you think about the gun in Megan Wynn's desk?”

“I can't imagine.” The words came slowly. “Megan is a very nice girl. I don't believe for a minute she had anything to do with the murder.”

“She was at the house.”

“She must have had a good reason.” Now her voice wasn't quite so certain.

I thanked her, urged her to contact police immediately if she thought of anything useful. I took one more scoop of M&M'S, relished the bursts of sweetness, reviewed the conversation. Sharon King was a very careful woman. She saw, heard, and spoke no evil. Could a boss carry on a clandestine affair without a secretary having any inkling?

Perhaps. Or perhaps in fact there was no affair. If Graham carried on an affair, he managed to do so without knowledge of it becoming public. Geraldine dismissed the possibility of involvement with anyone in the office because Brewster Layton frowned on liaisons at work. It might be that Graham had no intention of a
long-term commitment and was careful to give a lover no legal basis to claim, especially after he became single, that there was a common-law marriage. That suggested he was always focused on himself, looked long term. One of the note drafts read:
I never promised anything. If you make claims, I'll deny everything.
Of course those words applied equally well to a wager, a promise, an
agreement.

A
delaide's prosperity, due in part to the successes of the Chickasaw Nation, has resulted in the construction of several new and fancy apartment complexes. Glenwood Apartments was a two-story stacked stone structure with several fountains and a statue of a bronze deer. Deck chairs surrounded a sparkling pool in the interior grounds.

Unit 22 was on the ground floor in the north wing. I concentrated on geography and placed the apartment complex on one side of White Deer Park. Perhaps that accounted for the deer statue. At the back of the parking lot, a neatly graveled path into the woods would lead to the park. I imagined proximity to White Deer Park was a selling point. Residents could easily walk to the park and enjoy the public tennis courts as well as the lake.

I walked briskly through the parking lot. I didn't have to worry about the lack of a police car, because the entrances to the apartments
were in the interior. Three wings were built around a central courtyard and pool.

The fragrance of wisteria mingled with a strong smell of chlorine as I passed the pool. I watched the numbers, veered to my right. My footsteps clicked on the cement walk. I stopped at number 22, knocked. There was no answer. I waited a moment, knocked again, spoke firmly. “Police.”

The door eased open. Nancy Murray was summer bright in a vivid pink blouse, set off by a magenta and pink scarf knotted at the throat, a white pleated skirt, and adorable flower slides in a matching pink. But her face was starkly white, her dark eyes wary. She said nothing, stared at me.

I flipped open the leather shield. “Detective M. Loy. Some further questions for you.” I stepped forward as if there was no uncertainty about my admittance.

Nancy backed away. She watched me approach as if I were a cobra gliding, head erect, hood flared, tongue flickering.

The living room was airy and spacious. There were only a few pieces of furniture but those were quite nice, a sofa with fine linen, a restored early American rocking chair, a simple Danish easy chair. The Persian rug was vivid in blues and golds and only a close inspection would reveal some threadbare spots. Either the rug was a family heirloom or a trophy from an estate sale.

Again, I felt my perceptions shift just as they had with Sharon King when I saw her as an individual in her own world, not as a secretary in an office. Now I saw more than Nancy Murray, paralegal. I saw the taste and thought she'd put into her surroundings, and I saw a stiffly uneasy woman. Was she afraid of the police?

I gestured toward the sofa. “If we might sit down?”

“I told the police everything I know.” Clearly she did not want to talk to me.

“We are expanding our investigation. The interview this morning established what occurred yesterday at the office. Now we need more personal information.” I walked to the sofa, sat.

Nancy moved slowly to the easy chair, perched on the edge, all the while her gaze locked on me.

Uneasiness was not an unusual response to a police inquiry. But possibly there was something more here. When she entered the office this morning, she'd been shocked to find the police, but it was the fact of Doug Graham's murder that seemed to terrorize her. I was almost sure her fear stemmed from the actual fact of homicide, not from the investigation. Of course, murder is terrifying.

I returned her stare. “Who do you think killed him?”

The stark question hung between us.

“I can't imagine anyone doing a thing like that.” Her voice shook. “It's terrible. To come to work and find out someone shot him.” Her face held a look of incredulity. “I keep thinking it's a bad dream and I'll wake up. I've never been around anything like this.” She took a shaking breath. “I never read about bad things. Never. I don't watch the news, people blowing people up, so many terrible things. I can't stand movies where people get hurt. Mr. Graham shot.” She wrapped her arms across her front as if trying to ward off evil.

My expression softened. She was very young. Mid-twenties. I spoke gently. “Murder is awful. Someone is alive. A moment later life ends. That's why we are trying to find the person who shot Mr. Graham.”

She pressed her lips together as if trying not to cry, then spoke raggedly. “I don't mean not to be helpful.” Her voice was wobbly. “But I can't get over how awful it is.”

“We've been told that Mr. Graham and Mr. Layton didn't like each other.”

“Mr. Layton wouldn't shoot anybody.” Her reply was hot, her defense definite.

“But there was coolness between them?”

Reluctantly she nodded.

“Did anyone else in the office have any quarrel with Mr. Graham?”

There was a flicker in her eyes, but her head shake was immediate. “Oh no.”

“Anita Davis?”

Again her reply was firm. “Anita is an excellent secretary.” But she obviously knew Anita had been reprimanded for leaving the office on personal matters.

“We've heard Mr. Graham may have been having an affair before his divorce.”

She almost managed a weak smile. “You'll have to ask people who knew him. I just worked there. I don't know anything about his personal life.”

There didn't seem to be much more ground to cover, but I persisted. “Do you know anyone who had quarreled with him?”

She looked uncertain. “I don't know if you'd call it a quarrel. He was the trustee for an estate and the heir, Keith Porter, was upset.” She wasn't sympathetic. “Keith's a mess.”

“Do you know him?”

“I was in high school with him. He always acted like he was
special. He's really rich. But Mr. Graham wouldn't let him have the money he wanted.” There was a touch of malice in her tone.

“Where were you last night?”

“When Mr. Graham was killed?” Again she looked upset. “I was here.”

“Alone?”

She nodded. “Right here.” Her voice was louder.

I rose. “If you remember anything, think of anything that could help in the investigation, please contact us immediately.” I gave her Sam's number.

I stepped out the front door.

As the door closed, I heard the safety latch click into place. Nancy Murray might not have watched the nightly news with its emphasis on murder, robbery, cruelty, and death, but the nightly news had come to her.

Lou Raymond's house was in a quiet neighborhood near the old high school. The small, mostly brick homes were well maintained, fresh paint on shutters, several with new roofs, likely the result of spring storms, neatly mowed grass, plenty of petunias, zinnias, black-eyed Susans, peonies, and daylilies, old trees, elms, oaks, sycamores, and magnolias.

A brown Ford sedan was in the drive. Since Lou had been the last person scheduled to be interviewed at the law firm, finding her at home meant Megan Wynn was now answering question after question at the police station. I paused in the deep shade of a huge magnolia and appeared.

I was careful to avoid a miniature toy car on the second step
and skirted a mound of alphabet blocks on the porch. I rang the bell, admired a Whitmani fern in a huge pot next to the door, noted two stained Popsicle sticks resting on a frond.

The door opened. Lou Raymond's white hair was pulled back under a red kerchief. She wore a flour sack apron decorated with a plump gray tabby perched on a yellow stool, lower legs crossed, strumming a guitar. A verse extolling delight in bites of mice floated above the cat's head. There was a smudge of flour on one cheek.

“Yes?” She was polite, but clearly impatient to return to her kitchen.

“Mrs. Raymond,” I said, holding up my leather folder, “Detective M. Loy. May I speak to you for a few minutes?”

She looked flustered. “I'm right in the middle of making a pie.”

I gave her my most charming smile. “I just have a few questions. Can we visit while you are cooking?”

“Oh, if that's all right.” She opened the screen, glanced at the fern. “Oh, that Jason.” She stepped onto the porch, picked up the Popsicle sticks, held the screen for me. “My grandson. I pick him up—”

I followed her down a sparkling hallway to a wide kitchen with white tile counters, white refrigerator and gas stove, white cabinets with chrome handles, a white kitchen table. Daisy-patterned chintz curtains were fresh and crisp above the kitchen sink window. A blue wooden high chair sat at one end of the table. There was a scent of melted butter, freshly cut apples, and nutmeg.

“—after day care every evening. My daughter works 'til nine. Oh, watch out for his gears.”

I stepped over a haphazard mix of yellow, red, and green plastic rings, cranks, and pillars.

She reached a pulled-out pastry board. A rolling pin rested by
a mound of pie dough. She began to work the dough, looked over her shoulder. “I suppose it's about Doug Graham.”

I moved until I was in her vision. “Yes. I've spoken with Mrs. Graham.”

Lou stopped rolling, stared at me.

“You called and told her about the diamond ring for Lisbeth Carew.” My tone was matter-of-fact.

There was a flash of relief in her blue eyes. The police knew what she'd done. She was free to admit the call. “I thought she ought to know.” Her tone was a little defensive.

“Of course. That's understandable since you and she are old friends. I suppose it's been a struggle for her financially since the divorce.”

She thought about the question, said cautiously, “Women always have a hard time after a divorce. But”—resentment was evident—“it doesn't seem right that Doug started making a lot more money right after the divorce. He built that fancy house. Just for him!”

“He didn't help his children with college.”

“He knew how they felt about him. They sided with their mom. As they should have.” She was emphatic.

“There seems to be some question whether he actually was involved in an affair when he was married.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Rhoda told me she found a note once in the pocket of his jacket. It was, well, she said she couldn't believe what she was reading, describing . . . well, she didn't finish. She asked him. And”—now her outrage flamed—“he twisted her arm and took the note and threw it in the fire.”

“If he had an affair”—there was doubt in my voice—“he apparently was extremely careful never to be seen in public with anyone. Why take those kinds of precautions?”

The pink faded in Lou's face. “It would be just like him. He always had to run everything. He was probably involved with someone who wasn't his social equal and he wanted the people at the country club to think he was cool. Or maybe he was just being careful and didn't want to get hooked. Whoever she was, I think she was either too nuts about him to care or maybe she had some reason to sneak around. Or maybe he always had his eye on the big picture.”

“Big picture?”

“Lisbeth Carew. He'd done legal work for the Carews for years. She's only been a widow for a year. Maybe he had an idea he could charm her. It wouldn't look good if he had a messy divorce and there was stuff in the paper about an extramarital affair. I don't know Lisbeth Carew but she's big at church and her husband was very devoted to her. Never any hint of scandal.”

“Very interesting. I certainly appreciate—” I paused as if struck by a late thought. “Oh, one more point. Can you please repeat what you said to Mrs. Graham in your phone call and her replies? Just for the record.”

She carefully smoothed out a thin strip of dough, didn't look at me. “I don't know that I recall exactly. Let's see, I told her how everyone gathered in the hallway and Jack Sherman made such a spectacle of himself. I think the whole episode made Doug mad. I guess he didn't want word to get out about the ring. A hundred thousand dollars.” She spoke with disgust. “Jack kept on and on and got the ring and everybody saw it. Anyway, I told Rhoda because I thought she'd want to know and not have someone tell her in public, though people like Rhoda and maybe no one would have.”

“What did she say?”

Lou stared down at the pie dough, spoke very carefully. “She was upset. For the kids. A hundred thousand could make such a huge difference for them. They're both piling up student debt. It isn't that she cared anymore what Doug did or about Lisbeth Carew. That was all over for her with Doug.”

She was burying me in words but not directly quoting Rhoda.

“What were her exact words?”

Lou made a fluttery gesture with one hand. “Oh, I don't know. That she couldn't believe he'd spend money like that, but why should she be surprised since he built that house.”

“Did you leave the house last night?”

She eased a sheet of crust in the pie plate. “I took Jason home, then I came home.”

“What time was that?”

“A little before nine.”

“How long did you stay at Rhoda's?”

She caught her breath, turned to stare. “How did you know?”

“Neighbors keep an eye out for each other.” She was being careful with her words and so was I. It was certainly not dishonest to make a general observation. “I suppose you were disappointed she wasn't home?”