Ghost Wanted (14 page)

“You learn a lot about someone when you play tennis with them.” I made it a statement, not a question. Some of my happiest memories were of hot summer days on the local courts and icy orange sodas when we cooled down in the clubhouse. “What did the game tell you about Susannah?”

“She played the game right. She was like a terrier. She never gave up.” Her face softened. “A little foolhardy sometimes in rushing the net. Fearless. But she'd give a big whoop of laughter when someone got a shot past her. Always pleasant. Not something you can say about everybody you play with. The only time she turned crusty was when somebody consistently called good balls out.”

“How did Susannah feel about an opponent who made questionable line calls?”

A short bark of laughter. “Next time she was at the net, Susannah'd slam the ball right on the line and give the woman a hard stare. The calls got better after that.” Another bark of laughter.

I finished my cup of black tea and resisted taking another lace cookie. My, they were good. I closed my notebook, then asked, seemingly as an afterthought, “Pam”—we were comfortably on a first-name basis now—“Janet had a feeling something was troubling her mother not long before she died. Did Susannah say anything to you?”

Pam looked suddenly sad. “I keep going over and over the last time I talked to her.” She pressed her lips together for an instant before she continued. “We played singles every Wednesday morning. Played every week for years unless one of us was sick or out of town. She didn't show up.” Remembered astonishment lifted her voice. “I mean, thank God, it was just us. Singles. Not doubles. But she didn't come or call. I kept calling but her cell was turned off. Finally I caught her that afternoon.” Tears glistened in Pam's eyes. “I reamed her out. She said was she was sorry, something had come up that she had to deal with, but she sounded like she wasn't really hearing me. I could tell her mind was a million miles away. God, isn't it awful how every little molehill can be a mountain? I built a mountain out of her not showing up. I got mad and hung up on her.” Tears rolled down her thin cheeks. “Hell of a way to say good-bye.”

“Do you recall—”

“I'll never forget.” The words came in short bursts. “The day she died.” Pam used the back of one hand to brush tears from her cheeks. “I should have known something was terribly wrong. She was always thoughtful. But I can't imagine what upset her to the point she'd forget our game. She wasn't sick. Hale and hearty, that was Susannah. She got along with her neighbors. I won't say everybody loved Susannah. She could be sharp. She had no patience with phonies. She spoke up when something didn't sit right with her. But the last time I saw her, our usual game, I'd swear she was on top of the world. She was proud as can be of Janet and her family and talking about going to Anchorage for Thanksgiving. Nothing wrong there. I was the one Father Bill called that night after he'd contacted Janet with the bad news. I immediately called Janet and told her I'd see to everything until she and the family could come—”

If Pam talked to Janet in Anchorage the night her mother was murdered, I need not include Janet in my suspect list. Not that I had a suspect list yet.

“—and I got in touch with the funeral home and started calling friends.”

I left Pam looking somber, remembering the night her friend died.

I sat unseen on a stone bench at one side of the Administration Building and tried to picture an older woman hurrying down the steps on what was to be the last day of her life. Angry. Upset.

Harriet Beal recalled an untroubled Susannah except for a sad afternoon when she visited her Stephen-care recipient. But Harriet knew of nothing that might have made Susannah angry.

Yet Ann Curry saw a furious Susannah leave the Goddard Administration Building the day Susannah died. The expression on Susannah's face was such that Ann made no attempt to speak with her.

Susannah did not have a close connection to the college. Why had she visited the Administration Building? Who did she see, if anyone?

Pam Wilson spoke to Susannah the afternoon of the day she died. Susannah told Pam she'd missed their tennis game because something came up.

Something led Susannah to visit the Administration Building on the day she was struck down in her garden.

If her killer was Goddard staff or a faculty member, everything about the series of crimes made sense. A person familiar with the campus was likely to read the Goddard
Bugle
and learn about Susannah's diaries in the library, be aware of the old legend about lovers and roses, and be adept at entering and leaving the library undetected.

The fact that Michelle's ID number was used the night the rare book was stolen indicated sophisticated knowledge of keypad locks on campus. The
Bugle
also likely reported on the sabbatical plans of Professor Wendell Hughes, whose home was used as a place to imprison Michelle.

I looked at the broad, shallow front steps leading from the sidewalk to the closed doors of the Administration Building. Ann Curry said the weather was lovely that day. I imagined it was much like this afternoon, a sunny fall day. The leaves then would have been tipped with red and gold; now they blazed with autumn color beneath a cloudless sky. The building had towers at the corners. Ivy clung to the walls. An idyllic setting in academia, but Susannah came out of that building with her face grim. I felt certain that Susannah had confronted someone there.

I didn't know what an empty building could tell me, but I decided to look around. Inside, my eyes adjusted to dimness. It was an old building with well-worn wooden floors. The lobby had an aura of faded elegance with a French provincial sofa flanked by two large Elizabethan chairs. A tapestry on the back wall depicted an old-fashioned wooden oil derrick. The Goddard family had owned town lots, ranches, and banks, but much of their fortune came from the early oil field not far from Adelaide. To my left was a frosted door with the legend
Office of the President.
To my right were two doors with the legends
Office of the Vice President
and
Office of the Treasurer.

Hallways ran to the left and right of the central stairway, and I imagined support staff had offices there. At the base of the stairs was a directory. I studied the offices listed. On the second floor were the Bursar's Office, the Dean of Students Office, and Student Affairs. On the third floor, the Hall of Regents and four named rooms which likely were used for social functions.

Susannah Fairlee left the Administration Building obviously agitated. Which office did she visit?

I arrived in the
Bugle
's empty newsroom and heard Joe's voice in the editor's office. I reappeared in the paisley lily top, ash gray twill trousers, and gray leather flats I'd worn earlier. I hiked the paisley purse over my shoulder and moved to the office doorway. Joe sat on the edge of his desk, holding a legal pad. Michelle perched cross-legged on a ratty-looking beanbag chair

Joe stopped in midsentence. “How'd you get in? The front door's locked.”

I am so accustomed to unhindered access I hadn't thought to check the door. I gave a negligent wave of my hand.
Mmm, perhaps the nails should be rosier to accent the moss green in my blouse.

Michelle's eyes were riveted on my fingers.

As Mama always said, “When you put your foot in it, do a dance step.”

I beamed at Michelle and spread my hand for a closer view. “You have a good eye. The hue depends upon where you stand. It's the very latest thing in nail polish.” Did I get a whiff of coal smoke? I finished covering my tracks, hoping to avoid a departure on rising silver tracks. “Perhaps the door only seemed locked. These things happen.” Wiggins should give me some points for mental agility.

“They do. When you're around.” Joe's voice was dour.

Michelle continued to stare at my hand.

It was time for a high kick. Or a Hail Mary throw, whichever simile you like best. “I only have a moment. What have you found out about 928 Montague Street?”

Joe rubbed a bristly cheek. “Somebody's clever as hell. I took one side of the street, Michelle the other.”

Michelle's dark curls appeared a bit windblown. She looked not only weary but hopeless. She turned both hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything. It makes sense. Shrubbery and woods hide the house from the street. Nobody saw my car. Nobody saw any other car turn in.”

Joe was truculent. “Anybody who reads the
Bugle
knows Hughes is on sabbatical. We had a story in mid-September and another one a couple of weeks ago. We did an e-mail interview with him about his classes there and what he hopes to bring back to campus next fall.”

Michelle's face brightened. “Faculty or staff, that's what it has to be. Who else would know about the keypad codes at the library?” Her face drooped. “There's a lot of faculty and staff.”

I glanced around Joe's office, noted a whiteboard with possible story ideas listed, the printing precise and easily read. I moved swiftly to the whiteboard, picked up a purple marker. I wrote
Susannah Fairlee
on one side,
Administration Building
on the other, and below them, I wrote
Library
. I drew a line from
Susannah
Fairlee
to
Administration Building
to
Library
.

They listened intently as I described Susannah's departure from the Administration Building on the day she died.

Joe didn't need prompting. “Now we have a place to start.”

I left them peering at the college website. They would round up every scrap of information about those who worked in the Administration Building.

I had to find the person or event that brought Susannah there the day she died.

By late afternoon, I understood Chief Cobb's reliance on M&M'S. I munched on a handful filched from the half-filled sack nestling in his lower-left desk drawer. But I needed more than a sugary punch. I needed inspiration. I'd made so many calls from the chief's phone, my fingers ached from holding the receiver. I had a quick memory of the lines I'd drawn on the whiteboard in Joe Cooper's office from
Susannah Fairlee
to
Administration Building
to
Library.
I understood the connection between Susannah and the Library. That's where her diaries were placed. But Susannah and the Administration Building? I pushed back from the chief's desk, stood, and began to pace. She wasn't a Goddard student, so she had no reason to visit the Bursar's Office. She wasn't a faculty member. I'd used the chief's computer to access all stories that included Susannah, and none connected her to anyone on the campus.

For once I wouldn't have minded a whiff of coal smoke. Perhaps it was time for me to scuttle Heavenward, a failure.

It was almost as if I heard Mama's voice. “Bailey Ruth, honey, if the front door slams in your face, go around back.”