Ghost to the Rescue (22 page)

The killer was audacious. “The murderer thinks fast, moves fast. Using that particular bottle as a weapon tells us a lot.” I held
up my hand, paused to change the polish from pink to gold, a good match for the heels, and raised five fingers one at a time, “One, the killer was watching Deirdre and Harry. Two, Harry must have seen one or more of the following people at or near cabin five: Maureen Matthews, Ashton Lewis, Cliff Granger. He mentioned each of them to Deirdre, as well as Liz and Tom Baker. Three, Harry didn't know Liz's name until I described her Friday morning. Four, Harry knew who killed Jay. Five, Harry contacted the killer.”

“Blackmail.” Sam made it a statement, not a question.

“I think so.” I remembered my surprise on Friday morning when I spoke to Harry and there was no evidence of despair at losing out on the job to Deirdre. Instead, he was in a good humor. He might have missed out on the job, but he was looking ahead to exacting some kind of boost from his knowledge. Either that or money. I ran over the names in my mind: two faculty members, an agent, a young writer and her husband. I made a quick decision. “Maureen Matthews, Ashton Lewis, or Cliff Granger might have been useful to Harry. Liz and Tom Baker, not so much.”

Sam was judicious. “I'm not ready to count them out. Maybe Harry kept quiet, thinking he could use his knowledge one way or another. Maybe he wanted money, but the Bakers couldn't pay up. Maybe Tom Baker would do whatever he had to do to avoid being fingered as a murderer. What matters is that Harry obviously saw something Thursday night that linked one of them to Jay's murder.”

I rushed ahead. “And then Harry contacted Jay's murderer. Perhaps he slipped a note under a door, perhaps he used a house phone. One way or another, he was in touch with either Maureen, Liz or Tom, Ashton, or Cliff. We don't know what Harry threatened, but
he didn't come to the police, so he must have felt that he'd reached an understanding with the murderer—Harry would keep quiet in exchange for whatever Harry demanded.” Harry was riding high Friday morning.

“Stupid kills,” Sam said briefly.

I understood Sam's dark judgment. Cocky Harry saw knowledge of guilt as an advantage. He neglected to face the reality that anyone who kills will kill again.

Sam thought out loud. “Deirdre accused Harry of being near cabin five. I think he was in the shadows, watching. He saw the murderer and he may have seen Liz or Tom—”

I broke in. “He saw them both. When I talked to Harry Friday morning, he didn't know Liz Baker's name. But when I described her, he recognized her immediately and then he described her husband. That means Harry saw both of them Thursday night.”

Sam looked discouraged. “A lot of people were apparently coming and going. Maureen Matthews may have asked Jay for her letters. Since Harry included Ashton Lewis and Cliff Granger, I think they were at the cabin at some point as well. That's why he looked at those five. Let's concentrate for now on the terrace last night. Deirdre and Harry talked. Harry left. Deirdre dumped his trash.” He frowned. “What happened then?”

“The killer saw Deirdre pick up Harry's stuff, including the beer bottle. Maybe it was an association of ideas—how nice it was that the champagne bottle had Deirdre's prints, which made her a prime suspect, and wouldn't it be clever to use a bottle with her fingerprints on it to hit Harry.”

I thought of each in turn: Maureen facing embarrassment, possibly
even the loss of her job if the letters became public; Liz desperate to get the money back; Tom furious over Jay's treatment of Liz; easily angered Ashton outraged by Jay's sexual proclivities; Cliff lying about the tawdriness of last year's party at Jay's house. “When Deirdre left the terrace, the killer strolled to the trash barrel—”

Sam spoke fast, a picture clear in his mind. “The killer probably had a folded napkin in one hand. Drop the hand, fish out the bottle, take a couple of steps and be off the terrace and in the shadows. The rest seems pretty clear. The killer gets in touch with Harry, maybe asks what Deirdre had to say, realizes this can be used to trap Harry. The murderer persuades Harry to call Deirdre, set up a meeting.” He frowned. “But what difference did it make that Harry saw Deirdre? She'd already told the police that she talked to him.”

Lies have a tendency to come home to roost. I cleared my throat. “Under the category of information received and held confidential”—I definitely had Sam's attention—“here's the truth: Deirdre found the cabin door open. She stepped inside and found Jay dead. She panicked and ran. Very likely Harry knew this. The killer told Harry to call Deirdre, say he knew who was in the shadows, and this would entice Deirdre to come because she was scared she was going to be arrested. The killer convinced Harry it was a way for Harry to get Deirdre fired. When Deirdre came, all Harry had to do was tell her he saw her find Jay's body and ask her why she didn't call the police. The killer promised to hide nearby and tape the conversation and Harry could use the tape to get her in trouble at the college.”

Sam's gaze was somber. “Clever. Harry was a fool.”

“I imagine Harry was excited, pleased.” Harry was sure he had everything under control. “He called Deirdre, said he knew who
was in the shadows, and he wanted her help to prove it. He set the meeting for twenty minutes later. He went down to the pier with the killer. Maybe they talked for a minute, maybe the killer pointed under the pier, said that's a good place for me to hide. Harry looked. The killer struck. Harry went down. The killer shoved him into the water, maybe leaned over to keep his face under.”

Sam slowly nodded. “I buy it. But proving it will—”

A heavy knock and Sam's door swung in. Mayor Lumpkin hurtled forward, as well as a woman nearing six feet in height and well over two hundred pounds can hurtle. Her blonde coronet braids were a trifle askew, her green eye shadow too liberally applied, but the color rising in her square face was all natural—the bright pulsing red of sheer rage.

I disappeared.

Sam came to his feet. “Your Honor, what can I do for you this morning?”

She stood a few feet away, cheeks splotched, buxom chest heaving beneath a garish paisley blouse. “You told Colleen not to let anybody in.” She stared at the couch. “I thought I saw a woman sitting there.” Her tone was accusing.

Sam folded his arms. “I guess you've got double vision this morning. I know that must be disturbing. Have you had some coffee?” He looked up at the round-faced clock. “You're out early. Not quite eight thirty. I'll ask Colleen to bring—”

“I don't need coffee.” Her flush deepened. “I see quite well.”

Sam nodded quickly, as if agreeing with a disturbed person in hopes of encouraging restraint. “I'm sure you do.” His tone was soothing, appropriate for anyone dealing with unreason. “Twenty-twenty
vision.” He gave the couch a passing glance. “But I'm here by myself. As anyone should be able to see.” Emphasis on the noun. “I came in early. We have a double murder—”

“And scandal erupting. The honor of the Adelaide Police Department is in question. The news is all over the state that a police detective is closely associated with a criminal. I came at once. This shall be rectified immediately. A corrupt department will not be tolerated and this scandal shall not occur under my stewardship.” Her voice took on the stentorian resoluteness of a politician at full bore. “I promised the voters of Adelaide that I would never countenance corruption at any level in this city. You must immediately dismiss that degenerate detective.” She drew herself to her full height, quoted: “‘Chief suspect in prof's murder has detective on speed dial.' I am disgusted. I am outraged. I am appalled. This is the result of incompetent leadership. That's obvious. I have long felt you have too free rein in the department. New blood is needed. Dismiss that detective immediately, arrest that woman. I will hold a news conference at eleven a.m. to announce that the department is ridding—”

“Hold on, Neva. You better listen and listen hard.” Sam's heavy face was commanding. “Detective Sergeant Price has been assigned to protect an innocent woman—”

“It said she's the chief suspect!” Her voice was shrill.

“‘It said' . . .” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Was that an official announcement from police headquarters? Think again. The accusation is the creation of a sleazy third-rate stringer. It's a fantasy. The story is a fake. So, I've got a lot to do this morning, if you'll excuse me.”

She had the look of a maddened bull pricked by the lunges of a picador. “I have it on good authority that the suspect and the detective were seated on a bench, obviously in disgrace.”

“Good authority?” He shook his head. “I wonder who in the department wanted to cause trouble for me? Somebody who didn't bother to ask, yanked out a cell, called a stringer. Maybe you and I will have a talk about that another time. But right now, I'm telling you Ms. Davenport is innocent and Detective Sergeant Hal Price is discharging his duties in the finest tradition of the Adelaide Police Department.”

The mayor's gaze was steely. Her deep voice was implacable. “At eleven a.m. I will hold a press conference. You will attend. You will announce that the woman pictured on TV has been arrested and the detective with whom she consorted has been put on leave or you will announce that you have solved the double murder and reveal the identity of the murderer.” With that she turned and stalked to the door.

The door slammed behind her.

His face grim, Sam heaved to his feet. “What've I got? A little over two hours, then I'm toast. I better get out there and find a miracle.”

I hoped St. Jude was
listening.

I
n the hallway outside Maureen's room, I quickly appeared. I smoothed the fabric of the French blue trousers. Uniforms provide an assurance of legitimacy. I needed to persuade Maureen this time that I was indeed Officer M. Loy. I touched the nameplate, then knocked.

The peephole opened.

“Officer M. Loy requesting a moment of your time.” I spoke pleasantly though firmly.

Slowly the door swung in. Her stare was uncertain. “Who are you?” One hand touched the white chunky stone necklace that gleamed like alabaster against a black blouse. A black jacket with a white floral design of huge hydrangea blooms was striking. Slim black trousers and black slingback pumps completed her wardrobe.
Her haggard beauty was apparent, but there was both sadness and suspicion in her eyes.

“I understand why you are confused. I used a pen name at the bar Thursday night. I would love to be able to launch an online entertainment site, but in real life”—one hand behind my back and two fingers crossed—“I'm a police officer. I can't use any of the material I picked up for a story since this has turned into an official investigation.” I sounded regretful, career hopes dashed. “And, of course”—my shrug was casual—“the wig and dress were simply my undercover persona. But now”—I beamed at her—“I am who I am. And I'm here”—I was suddenly and truly grave—“seeking information about the party at Jay Knox's house last year and any other information you may have acquired, especially if you saw either Ashton Lewis or Liz or Tom Baker near cabin five Thursday night. You see”—I spoke with utter conviction—“we have very little time. Deirdre Davenport will be arrested at eleven o'clock unless the murderer is found.”

Maureen brushed back of a lock of midnight black hair, held the door wide. “I will tell you what I know.”

I looked at Deirdre, and said glumly, “I don't see any way to prove what happened.” After my interview with Maureen, I was almost certain I knew the murderer's identity.

Proof? Nothing, nada, zilch.

Deirdre again stood at the windows of her room. She was lovely in a yellow shawl-collar tee and beige linen slacks and delightfully feminine beige strappy sandals. Despite bluish marks of fatigue
beneath her eyes, her face reflected hope, her wiry russet hair was brushed and shiny, her makeup fresh. “Hal called and said everything would be all right. I saw him a few minutes ago”—she pointed out the window—“walking really fast across the terrace.” She craned to look. “I think he went to the auditorium.”

I wondered if she'd heard a word that I'd said.

“There has to be some way to prove guilt.” I paced back and forth, glanced down at beautifully cut tumbled leather loafers that matched my lime linen jacket, but the restful colors gave me no peace. I might have been confident I knew the identity of the murderer. I could tell Sam. Sam could make an accusation, but this killer would never admit anything and there was no physical evidence.

I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes past nine. So little time. I didn't look at Deirdre. She was unaware of her peril, unaware of the mayor's determination to have her arrested. I knew and I was wild to do something, anything. “The only chance would be to ask Maureen to call, make a threat—”

Deirdre was untroubled. “Hal said everything's going to be all right. I trust him.”

I gazed at her sadly. So little time . . .

A metallic scrape, rattles, a thump. “Attention, please.”

We looked at the grill over the bed.

“All hotel guests and staff are requested to come immediately to the auditorium. Adelaide Police Chief Sam Cobb will make an important announcement. Attention, please. All hotel guests and staff are requested to come immediately to the auditorium. Adelaide Police Chief . . .”

The sudden rush of wind and clack of wheels shocked me. Casually dressed hotel guests, some casting uneasy glances about them, others excitedly chattering, streamed across the terrace. Hotel employees in their various uniforms looked concerned. All were oblivious to the thunder of wheels on rails, the scent of coal smoke, the deep-throated whoo of the whistle. I'd always loved the clarion cry of a train, that harbinger of journeys to take, adventures to enjoy.

But not right this minute.

Wiggins spoke too softly to be overheard. “No one will be at the pool. The diving board. Posthaste.”

The roar of the engine was louder, the cloud of coal smoke heavier.

I dropped onto the platform, hoped Wiggins might take pleasure in the view—the sparkling blue water beneath, the bright towels casually draped on gay deck chairs, the umbrellas affording shade, the cabanas with closed curtains. “Wiggins, I'm so happy to bring you up to date—”

“Precept Five.” Wiggins's tone was distinctly frosty.

“Mea culpa.” Perhaps a humble admission of guilt would pacify him. Then I rushed ahead. “But honestly, Howie Harris is causing Chief Cobb all kinds of trouble and I thought it served him right.”

“Draping scant hair over his ears was—”

Did I hear a faint rumble of laughter?

“—creative but reprehensible.” Perhaps he found Howie unappealing as well, because he continued rather hurriedly, “And Precept Four: ‘Become visible only when absolutely essential.' Bailey Ruth”—now Wiggins was clearly disturbed—“was it really necessary to be present when you spoke with Chief Cobb?”

“Wiggins, I wish I could always remain unseen.” Heaven knows when we fib. I said hurriedly, “Let me rephrase. I truly felt Chief Cobb would feel more comfortable if we faced each other and shared information.” Sometimes that inner voice of conscience can't be ignored. “And”—my voice was small—“I was wearing the most adorable white tunic and blue pants that really looked just like a Caribbean sea. And I had to convince Maureen Matthews she could trust me, and that's why Officer Loy appeared, and I had to appear just now in Deirdre's room. She finds it stressful to hear a voice and see no one. In fact”—I wasn't sure this was a plus, but I was desperate—“I thought it would cheer her to see this gorgeous linen jacket—” I broke off, clapped my hand to my lips. Bobby Mac always said if he let me talk long enough, the truth would out. Wiggins had no fashion sense, no appreciation of what it does for a woman to feel that she is splendidly attired.

“Now, now.” Wiggins hastened to reassure me, his voice kind. “Lorraine finds your love of fashion to be very endearing.”

I sent a Heavenly thank-you to Lorraine Marlow, the elegant, fastidious, and delightful ghost at the Goddard College Library who had turned out to be Wiggins's cherished sweetheart.

“We are,” Wiggins said, I thought rather obscurely, “who we are. However”—a note of sternness returned—“I would have thought it incumbent upon you to summon the Rescue Express when you realized you are no longer needed on earth to protect the good name of that fine young mother.”

I saw my predicament at once. I'd insisted I must remain to prove Deirdre's innocence. Now that I had convinced the chief of police that Deirdre had no connection to the crimes, Wiggins was satisfied that my objective had been realized and my mission successfully completed.

The deep-throated mournful cry of the whistle, the rumble of the engine, the clack of the wheels, the scent of coal smoke signaled the imminent arrival of the Rescue Express.

I lifted my voice above the clamor. “Wiggins, there are extenuating circumstances. If I leave now”—I placed a hand over my heart, though I supposed I remained unseen; nonetheless I felt compelled—“many innocents will suffer. Our gallant police chief will be replaced by the odious two-strand Howie, who is a puppet of the mayor. Intrepid Detective Sergeant Hal Price will be relieved in disgrace. Innocent Deirdre Davenport will be arrested and charged by Sam's replacement, which will defame her good name, distress her helpless children, and thwart a tender and growing attraction between Deirdre and the detective sergeant.” I paused for a breath and delivered the coup de grâce. “Picture Deirdre alone in a cell, defenseless, facing charges although she is innocent.” I endeavored to create the pathos of an overwrought Victorian novel.

“It was such a simple assignment.” Wiggins sounded perplexed. “You would draw on your background as an English teacher and help a writer find inspiration.” A harumph. “Now you are caught up in what appears to be an almost impossible situation—a beleaguered police chief, a compromised detective, a young mother in peril. Bailey Ruth, only you—” A sigh. “Yes, only you. But as dear Lorraine says, your heart is big, your goals are noble, though your means . . . Ah well, we must meet challenges as we can. Do your best.”

The coal smoke, almost overpowering, whooshed past me. The thunder of the wheels faded.

I would have hallooed my relief to the treetops, but there was no time for premature celebration.

Flanked by Dr. Randall and Detective Sergeant Price, Sam Cobb stood at the podium on the stage. Sam, his blue suit already wrinkled, bulked above both men even though Randall and Price topped six feet in height. Sam looked confident, self-possessed, and reassuring. Dr. Randall nervously fingered the collar of his sport shirt. A clean-shaven Hal, crisp in an oxford cloth shirt, open at the neck, and khaki slacks, also appeared confident.

“. . . wish to reassure all the guests and staff”—Sam's deep voice was calm—“that there is no danger to anyone here at the lodge. Our investigation reveals that last night's victim, Harry Toomey, sought a meeting with the person responsible for the death of Professor Jay Knox Thursday night.”

I hovered slightly above Sam. Today's attendance was smaller than yesterday's. Possibly some conference-goers found proximity to murder unnerving and had checked out and left. There were perhaps seventy-five people, mostly women, scattered among the seats. Deirdre was seated at the end of the third row.

Gladys Samson was on the same row a few seats away. “Blackmail?” Her voice was strident, her sharp features quivering with excitement. Her jagged black hair made her look witchlike. She turned and stared pointedly at Deirdre.

It was Gladys who had eagerly described Deirdre as tense and upset on her way to see Jay Knox.

Deirdre returned Gladys's stare with a calm, measured look.

Sam was imperturbable. He gazed at Gladys. “Harry Toomey blackmailed the murderer. That's why Harry died. His murderer is in this room right now.”

Gladys gasped, pressed fingers against her lips, shrank away from Deirdre.

Deirdre turned toward her, looking concerned. “If you know anything about the murders, I suggest you hurry to the police right this minute. I know”—she lifted her voice a trifle—“I've tried to help them. They've been very appreciative. I'll be glad to go with you.”

I quickly scanned the audience. Ashton Lewis, lean and intent, stared at the stage with a level, cold gaze. Liz Baker's eyes flared in alarm. She turned and gave her husband a searching glance. Tom Baker nervously brushed back a lock of hair, hunched his shoulders. Smooth-faced Cliff Granger smothered a yawn. He glanced at his watch. Was he counting the hours until tomorrow and his flight home? As always, he was meticulously dressed. Bobby Mac would look terrific in Cliff's checked poplin dress shirt with a lavender background. Maureen Matthews was grave, her lovely face furrowed in a frown.