Ghost to the Rescue (17 page)

Deirdre reached out, touched his arm. “You saw a hand. A man's hand or a woman's?”

His uncertainty was apparent—uncertainty and a reluctance to speak. “It was just a glimpse. I can't swear to anything.”

“Please think back. Try to remember.” Deirdre was imploring. “You saw a hand on the jamb. Your mind has a memory of that moment. You must have some impression of the size, the shape.”

“It was too quick. I can't be sure.” He started to swing away, stopped, looked back with an expression of regret, commiseration. “If I thought anything at all, I thought a woman was standing there, that a woman was coming out on the porch.”

As soon as he was gone, I said softly, “Perhaps he saw you.”

Deirdre shook her head. “I didn't stop and hold the door. I got out of there as fast as I could. I came flying down the steps and bolted
into the darkest shadow I could find and stood there and tried to breathe.”

I cautioned, “He didn't sound certain. But if he thought it might have been you, that would suggest the hand belonged to a woman.”

Deirdre was thoughtful. “If he saw a woman's hand, it was either Maureen Matthews or Liz Baker at the door.”

I wasn't so sure. “Ashton Lewis is a big man with big hands. Cliff couldn't mistake his hand for that of a woman. But Tom Baker is slender with thin hands. In a quick glimpse, his hand could possibly appear to be a woman's. And then there's Harry Toomey.” As I recalled, his hands were small and plump.

“Speaking of Harry,” Deirdre looked discouraged, “I see no way even
you
can persuade Harry to come here”—she waved a hand at the increasing gloom beneath the oak—“and talk to me. If there's anyone at the conference he wants to avoid, it's me.”

I was sure she was right in that judgment. Moreover, I'd talked with Harry as Judy Hope, that scintillating reporter from the new online magazine, and as Detective M. Loy in a blonde wig and gray dress.

I appeared in the softly swirling polyester poncho and white trousers. I looked down and admired the silvery heels.

Deirdre was plaintive. “There you go again. Colors whirling, swirling. Whistle next time.”

“I'll try to remember. But I need to be here now. Let's go to the terrace together. If you're talking to me, writers won't interrupt. When we reach Harry, here's what we'll do. . . .”

Harry Toomey sat on the low wall between the terrace and the garden. Next to him was a bottle of beer and a cardboard bowl with
strawberry shortcake topped with a mound of whipped cream. He licked a smear of barbecue sauce from one finger. He was almost finished with a rack of baby back ribs. His plate still held coleslaw and baked beans. His moon face was amiable.

He looked up as we approached. Of course he recognized me as Judy Hope, the reporter from the soon-to-be-launched online magazine. Thursday night he'd been eager to cultivate me. Tonight there was a slight flicker of unease in his eyes.

I beamed at him. “Harry, I'm glad I found you. You're just the man I need to see.”

He dropped a stripped baby back rib onto his paper plate and scrambled to his feet. “You were looking for me?” Eagerness lifted his voice.

If I hadn't been hunting for a murderer, I would have felt a pang of guilt. He hoped, dared, prayed I was looking for Harry Toomey, author of that gripping novel
Grabbed
.

I gestured toward Deirdre. “You know Deirdre Davenport.” I didn't wait for an answer. “She's given me some insights and I know you can do the same.”

He looked at Deirdre, forced a smile. “I know Deirdre.”

“Hello, Harry.” Deirdre spoke diffidently.

I bent toward Harry. “May we join you? I want to get your take on the crime. I can quote you: Harry Toomey, suspense author.”

He fumbled to pick up the beer and dessert.

When the space was clear, I nodded at Deirdre. “You go ahead and sit down. I'll get us some food. You two can visit while I'm gone.” I turned and slipped into the fluid mix of those now finished with their meals and standing on the terrace talking. I started in the direction of the buffet, put a half dozen people between the
wall and me, then slipped into the shadows of a willow. It took only a moment to reach the honeysuckle arbor, disappear, and return to Deirdre and Harry.

Deirdre gave Harry an apologetic look. “I'm sorry it couldn't have worked out for both of us. I was desperately hoping I'd get the job, so I understand how disappointed you are.”

“Nice of you to say so.” He didn't look at her. His round face was defensive.

“I really am sorry, Harry.” There was genuine distress in her voice.

There's a special glow in Heaven when kind hearts offer solace.

“Yeah.” He tried to sound upbeat.

“Well, I hope it all turns out for the best. I know you'll write a lot more books, Harry.”

Some of the unhappiness seeped from his face. “I've got a new one started. It's set in a coal mine.” Obviously ready to stand up, escape into the crowd, he shifted a little on the wall.

She said quickly, “I'll bet you've made some great contacts this weekend.”

There was a return of his old bluster. “You better believe I have.” His watery brown eyes gleamed. “Cliff Granger's going to take on my book.” He spoke with pride. “He's a big-time agent. He'll land a deal for me. Maybe sell
Grabbed
to TV, too.”

Deirdre hid a quick flicker of surprise behind wide-eyed admiration. “That's wonderful. So you're going to be all right.”

“I'm going to be fine.” He was suddenly puffed with self-satisfaction. “He said my book should've been snapped up by somebody and he can take it all the way to the top.”

“Jay would have been pleased for you.” Deirdre's face changed,
as if recalling the grim reality of murder. “Speaking of Jay”—she looked both anxious and hesitant—“there's something I need to ask you. Before I talk to the police again.”

His moon face was suddenly intent, and there was nothing soft or agreeable in his expression. “Again?”

“Yes. I told them about seeing Jay. But I didn't tell them what I saw when I left the cabin. I don't want to make a mistake.”

He waited. The silence held a sense of menace. Harry's brown eyes never wavered as he stared at her.

I was glad Deirdre was at the edge of a terrace filled with people, with noise, movement, chatter, not in the deep shadows beneath the white oak.

Perhaps Deirdre sensed danger. She drew back a fraction. “Last night when I left cabin five, I was in a hurry. I had a headache and wanted to get back to my room, but I kind of half noticed someone was standing near a shrub, that big one about ten feet from the cabin steps. I just caught a glimpse. I don't know why, but I had the idea it was you. Were you there?”

“You saw someone?” His voice was soft.

“I wasn't sure.” She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, opened them. “When I concentrate, that's what I feel. Someone was there.”

His gaze was hard and hostile. “Why did you think it was me?”

“I don't know. There was something about the shape of a shadow. I think that was it. I just had this little idea—
Why, Harry's waiting to see Jay
—and hoping Jay would explain why he picked me. He said he selected me because Dr. Randall preferred I be the one. I don't know why, Harry. It may be Dr. Randall wanted another woman faculty member. You never know what makes a difference in these kinds of decisions. Anyway, I was sure you were waiting
there for a word with Jay, and I walked even faster because I thought it would be better if I was gone. I knew you'd be upset that Jay hadn't picked you.”

“And you thought maybe I was the one who killed Jay?” His voice was cold.

She met his stare directly. “Somebody killed Jay.”

Harry said shortly, “Yeah. Somebody did. But why pick me?” His gaze shifted slowly around the terrace. “I see a lot of people Jay pissed off.” He looked at Maureen Matthews. “There's the prof he was sleeping with.” He glanced at Liz and Tom Baker. “And how about that kid writer and her husband?” Then he gave an abrupt laugh, nodded toward Ashton Lewis. “Somebody told me that old guy was livid with Jay.” He flicked a glance at Cliff Granger. “Or maybe Cliff was mad because Jay's last book stunk. But I guess all he had to do was tell Jay to take a hike. Anyway, I don't care who you pick on, but I hope it's not him. He really likes my book. Anyway, if there was somebody in the shadows, I can tell you it wasn't me.”

As if aware of Harry's scrutiny, Maureen's head turned and she gave him a thoughtful look. Ashton Lewis faced our way. He stood alone, his face somber, arms folded; imposing and dignified in his seersucker suit. Liz and Tom were a few feet away, and there was no joy in either face. Once again they appeared tense, worried, fearful. Cliff Granger held a drink, appeared to be watching Deirdre.

I wondered if each of them noticed Harry's passing gaze? Possibly.

Harry turned back to Deirdre. “Maybe you saw one of them.” The suggestion seemed to amuse him. He came to his feet. He wasn't physically impressive, but he was taller than Deirdre, heavier. He looked down. “Maybe you better worry about what someone saw you do.” He put his plate, dessert bowl, and beer bottle on the wall, where
he'd been seated. “I heard your fingerprints are on the champagne bottle. So smearing other people probably isn't going to get you anywhere. But you can take it to the bank: You didn't see me near that cabin.” He had his old cocky look as he turned away.

I waited until he was out of earshot. “He was ready to unload on a lot of people.”

Deirdre's face had a hollow, strained look. “I don't blame him. I know how it is to have people look at you and wonder. It's horrible. Now I'm looking at all of them and wondering.”

“Stay here. I'll be back in a jiffy,” I said softly. It took a moment to reach the arbor and appear. When I returned to the terrace, Deirdre, nose wrinkling in distaste, was gathering up Harry's plate. She picked up the beer bottle, carried the refuse to a nearby receptacle, nudged the flap, wedged the trash into the nearly full barrel.

She looked up as I approached. “I'm actually glad to see you. I never thought I'd say that. But”—she gave a sign of relief—“I never thought I'd be half-scared of Harry Toomey.” Her voice held surprise.

“There might be good reason to be afraid of him.” I spoke softly. “Harry claimed he talked to Jay, then walked down to the pier. But Tom Baker also said he went to the pier. One of them is lying. My money's on Harry. Maybe Harry saw something at the cabin. Or maybe he killed Jay and came out the door and heard footsteps and hurried into the shadows.”

She gave me a quick, anxious look. “You've forgotten. I made it up about seeing someone in the shadows.”

“That doesn't mean,” I said gently, “someone wasn't in the shadows.”

Deirdre shivered. “That's scary.” She looked across the terrace, but she wasn't seeing lights and people and hearing loud voices and louder laughter. She was remembering that moment of cold horror
when she opened the door, stepped into Jay's cabin, and saw him lying there, a purplish bruise on his temple, his body slumped in death. She shivered. “I've had all I can handle. I'm going to go wash my hands, then grab some food from the buffet and take it up to my room.”

I watched her go. I understood her stress. She'd been scared and now she probably couldn't help feeling that her efforts wouldn't lead anywhere. We needed something specific, something concrete. I remembered the chair turned toward the computer in Jay's office . . .

Detective Don Smith's handsome face was impassive. He sat at Jay's computer, brows drawn in concentration. His index finger clicked, clicked, clicked. Abruptly, he leaned closer to the screen. “Got it. Got it. Sam's right.” His tone was smug. “I can find deleted files better than anybody. No wonder somebody tried to get rid of these.”