Ghost Wanted (19 page)

I moved into the shade of a sycamore, looked carefully in all directions, mindful of windows and cars, including pickup trucks. Certain that no one was observing this spot, I appeared in a swirl of French blue. In a moment I was on the front porch of Judith Eastman's shingle-style, one-story bungalow at 327 Arnold Street. A Chinese red door was a vivid counterpoint to the soft gray of the bungalow's granite facade. A blue pottery vase to the right of a doormat held red salvia and its blooms rivaled the door.

I pushed the bell.

A tall, willowy woman with frizzy gray hair and sharp features opened the door. She wore a pink apron over her Sunday dress, a voluminous purple silk. Her expression changed from inquiry to concern.

I spoke quickly. “Mrs. Eastman, I'm sorry to bother you on Sunday.” I smelled chicken frying, the Adelaide dinner of choice on Sundays after church. “I won't take up much of your time. Officers Smith and Weitz appreciated your help. I have one more question if you can give me a moment.” I doubted that she knew officers usually worked in pairs.

Belying her somewhat severe appearance, she responded pleasantly. “Come right in. The family won't be here for a little while. The chicken's frying.” She led the way to a small living room with potted ferns, comfortable furniture, and an oak cabinet with art glass. The door was ajar, revealing various pieces of china. I felt a wave of nostalgia. Very likely she'd opened it to select a china bowl for the mashed potatoes and a platter for the chicken. Sunday dinner always brought out the best.

She sat in an easy chair and gestured me to the sofa. For an instant, her face was somber. “I feel kind of shaky when I think about Susannah. The idea that someone hit her seems crazy and makes me wonder about the neighborhood. I've lived here thirty years and never had a bit of trouble except for that boy two doors down who was always trying to hit squirrels with his BB gun, but he's all grown up now and a lawyer in Houston.”

“Please don't worry, Mrs. Eastman.” I spoke with confidence. “The neighborhood is safe. Mrs. Fairlee posed a danger to someone who carefully planned her murder and has no connection to the neighborhood. We are making progress”—I hoped—“in solving the crime. In the report from Detectives Smith and Weitz, you told them you saw Mrs. Fairlee that Wednesday morning. Can you describe that moment?”

Mrs. Eastman's pale blue eyes held sadness. “She waved at me. It was just after eleven. Susannah always had a bright smile. She looked happy. I wondered if she was expecting a package from her daughter. About once a month Janet sends”—a pause—“sent some little delicacy from Alaska. Susannah would have me over and we'd have spiced tea and a treat.”

“Package?” I wasn't connecting the dots.

Mrs. Eastman nodded. “In the mail. We almost always saw each other if we were both home. I love to get letters and Susannah did, too.” Mrs. Eastman described walking down their front walks to the postboxes.

It was a slap-to-the-side-of-the-head moment. A happy Susannah walked to the mailbox. Not long after she picked up her letters, a distraught, unapproachable Susannah left the Administration Building.

A ringer sounded. Mrs. Eastman's head turned.

I stood. “That's all I needed to know. Thank you for your time.”

Her mind was clearly in her kitchen as she closed the front door after me. I walked sedately to the weeping willow, moved into its shadow, disappeared.

The air was musty in Susannah Fairlee's front hall. The house had the air of emptiness that comes when a home is no longer inhabited even though everything was in order. In the wood-paneled front hallway, a silver tray sat on a tiled side table. Just past was a painted umbrella stand, white pottery with an orchid bouquet. The knobs of several umbrellas—red, green, and black silk—poked out.

I hurried to the tray. There were two stacks of envelopes along with several magazines. I expected most were sympathy cards to the family and perhaps Janet had left them on the tray planning to reread them. I checked the dates, put aside all mail that came after September 17. There were only a handful of earlier letters. I skimmed the contents, returned them to the tray.

If I was right, Susannah received a letter the morning of September 17 that had led her to the campus. I tried to imagine Susannah carrying her mail, walking into the main hall. Did she read her mail in the living room?

I gazed about the small room with rosy cherry paneling, formal overstuffed furniture, and marble-topped tables crowded with family photos. There were no current touches of occupancy, a sweater dropped across a settee, an open magazine on a table, a coffee cup and saucer. Obviously the room had been tidied to welcome friends after Susannah's service and left in order, awaiting the arrival of Susannah's son after his retirement.

The pigeonhole front desk in one corner was similarly neat. I opened several drawers, found a collection of correspondence, all the postmarks earlier than what I sought. Most were family letters. I smiled. I had always saved letters from family, too.

I grew less and less hopeful as I went from room to room, opening drawers, checking boxes. If Susannah was upset by a letter that morning, it wouldn't have been relegated to a box of mementos. . . .

I stood in the middle of the cheerful kitchen: yellow walls, ruffled white curtains at the windows, a maple breakfast table and chairs. I tried to imagine Susannah Fairlee opening her mailbox, drawing out advertising circulars and perhaps a magazine or two and a letter. She carried the mail inside, opened the letter. Soon she would rush from the house and drive to the campus. Susannah was in good spirits before she retrieved her mail. I believed she received a letter that upset her.

What would I do after I read an upsetting letter, one that galvanized me into action?

I began a second search. In Susannah's bedroom I crossed to the chest. On top sat a navy leather purse. I carried the purse to the bed, opened the clasp, and let the contents spill onto the white Martha Washington's Choice bedspread. I noticed there was no billfold. Susannah's daughter likely retrieved the billfold. There were credit card accounts to close. Tumbling out with lipstick, powder, mirror, comb, and Kleenex was a small red address book and a lavender envelope addressed to Susannah Fairlee, postmarked September 13.

I
sat on the edge of the bed and held two sheets filled front and back with uneven, wobbly handwriting. No paragraphs, just words, some running into the next words.

Dear Susannah,

I didn't mean to tell you about her. That day you found me crying, you said if I wanted to share the burden, it might help me feel better. I don't know if I can ever feel better. You told me you wanted to help and it might make me happier if I let go of what troubled me. So I told you how much I hated her. I didn't tell you why, just that she had ruined my life. You said hating hurt me, not her. You said if I wanted to tell you what happened, you were there for me. I knew if I told you what made me feel this way, it would be better. But I didn't want to tell you what I had done. I knew you wouldn't ever tell anyone but I didn't want you to despise me. That's why I turned away and stared at the wall and finally you patted my shoulder and left. I woke up in the night—I wake up in the night a lot now—and knew I had to do something. I can't do anything now, I don't have that much time, but maybe if I tell you, you can make her stop. I know she's still hurting people, taking money. She's good at finding kids who can't fight back and she figures out a way to force them to help her. I held down two jobs so I could go to school. I was a waitress at the cafeteria and then I got a work-study job in the Dean of Students Office. I thought that was a real honor. I never had any extra money and sometimes I was hungry but I thought if I worked hard, I would get my degree. Now I won't have my degree. It doesn't matter, does it? Maybe nothing matters. When I die, I hope I don't care anymore. I guess I hate myself, too. I should have done something when it happened, told somebody. But who would believe me? She had a picture of Jill's billfold in my drawer. We each had a drawer to keep our things in when we were there to work. I won't ever forget that day. She called me into her office. I never liked her. I always had a bad feeling about her but I needed work study. It was fall a year ago, an ugly, cold, dreary day with leaves coming down and pretty soon it would be winter. My last winter. I got sick in January. But that day in November, I went into her office and she told me to shut the door and my stomach kind of squeezed because of the way she was looking at me. I thought I'd made some big mistake and I was going to get fired. I was scared because I didn't have enough money to pay my share of the rent unless I got my check. I sat down. She stared at me and I thought how cold her eyes were, like little slivers of ice. She smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was kind of pitying, like she was looking at some sort of scum. She didn't say anything. It was awful, the silence went on and on. Finally I asked what was wrong. She shook her head real slow like. “JoLee, I wouldn't have thought it of you.” I asked what was she talking about. She said, “When things disappeared, I thought someone must be slipping in the office and taking them.” I knew what she was talking about. Mike's lunch was gone one day, Emily's cell phone a week later. She shook her head again. “When someone told me what they'd seen, I didn't believe it. But when I opened your drawer, there was Jill's billfold.” I jumped up and said it was all a lie and nobody saw me take anything because I never did, never would. She just listened with that awful smile, then, it was like she'd had this sudden idea. She looked at me. “But there is a way out. I've thought of something you can do for me and if you do what I ask and never say a word, why, it will be like this never happened.” I knew then that it was all a lie and she was behind it. I couldn't believe it when she told me what she wanted me to do. I can still hear her voice: “Since you are a drama major, it won't be hard and it's all a harmless joke that will just be between us, but if you agree to help me, why, I will help you and I'm sure nothing will ever be taken again.” She laughed, a real satisfied laugh. Susannah, you are real strong. I knew that after you'd come to see me only a few times. But she would have known that, too, and she would never have tried it on you. I guess she figured me out. I don't have any family to help me. I didn't even have many friends because I worked all the time and I didn't have money to go to the city or to concerts or anything. Once a guy took me to Dallas for a concert but that was the only one I ever went to. I wonder what would have happened if I told everyone about her? But I know. No one would have believed me. She knew I wouldn't fight back. That's why she gets away with it. She finds out things or—and this is worse, this is what makes me feel awful when I remember—she waits until she finds a kid she can bully, or maybe with some of them she pretends it's a joke and promises cash. I figure she's been doing it for years. Each time it would be different. For me, well, she had me wear this real sexy red teddy. It was cold that night so I wore a raincoat over it. Anyway this guy's wife was out of town and she got a key to the house someway. She had me go inside and wait in their bedroom. When he came back from dinner, I called out to him. He came running into the bedroom and I was there in this teddy and I grabbed him and kissed him and he was trying to push me away. She was waiting just outside the house but I had opened the window so she got pictures. She was all in black and you couldn't even see her face. She had on a mask. She yelled something like, “Hot pictures.” He turned toward the window and I ran and got outside the house. I don't know what happened after that. But I think I hate her the most because of Mike. He was such a nervous, gentle guy, really thin and he always looked scared. I was already sick and out of school when I heard what happened to him. I don't know what she made him do or maybe she was leaning on him to do something awful. Mike was a sweet, sweet guy. I think about him going out to the lake and walking into the water and it must have been cold and he was scared and I feel so sick I want to die. But I am going to die. But if I had told somebody about her, maybe Mike would be okay. But I didn't. I don't know if you can do anything. But you know people. You're important. I'm sorry. Sorry for everything.

JoLee's signature was smudged. Perhaps by her tears. Perhaps by Susannah's. Perhaps by mine.

JoLee was right. Susannah was a fighter. Did she know the identity of JoLee's tormentor when she went to the office that September day? I rather thought she did. JoLee had told Susannah on one of her visits how much she hated . . . someone. She never told Susannah why. On the day she died, Susannah received JoLee's letter and learned the reason for JoLee's anger. A distraught Susannah tucked the letter in her purse and went directly to the Dean of Students Office. Susannah saw the woman JoLee hated. Was there anyone in the office who could testify that Susannah came that day and saw the dean or assistant dean? It would be useful confirmation, but it was not proof of the contents of the letter. I was sure Susannah saw either Eleanor Sheridan or Jeanne Bracewell because JoLee wrote that “she” called JoLee into her “office.” There were two offices, one for the dean, one for the assistant dean. One or the other, Sheridan or Bracewell.

I slipped the sheets back into the lavender envelope. A woman with power and authority forced JoLee to act as an accomplice in creating a compromising situation for an unnamed man. I suspected this was a pattern of behavior, the woman pinpointing possible blackmail victims, using students to frame the victims. Was Mike forced to set up a romantic encounter with a male professor? There could be other scenarios, drugs perhaps, or gambling or underage sexual encounters. I had no doubt the brains behind the scheme found it easy to ensnare victims. The subjects of blackmail weren't the only victims. The students used were also victims. Perhaps the woman usually chose students who faced drug, alcohol, honor code, or sexual accusations, promising the records would be destroyed if they cooperated. In the case of JoLee, she'd taken advantage of a student who had to have a job and had no defense against a false accusation.

A sexy red teddy and a man photographed in an embrace likely spelled a man in the upper reaches of the college administration or a professor who could afford payoffs to avoid scandal. Blackmail can be very profitable. If the right victims were chosen, it would be possible to milk them for years.

The haunting strains of Ravel's
Boléro
combined with the sylvan setting to create a sense of exotic release on the wooden porch of Eleanor Sheridan's A-frame. A petite blonde stretched at ease in a hammock. Loose in her lap was a trade paperback. I skimmed close enough to see the title:
Collected Poems
by Louise Bogan. On this sunny October morning, shaded by oaks and sycamores that crowded close to the porch, she appeared comfortable and relaxed, lips curved in a slight smile. She appeared to be a woman without worries or cares.

Inside the A-frame, all was light and color: a brightly patterned Navajo rug hanging on one wall, a large canvas with brilliant splashes of orange and red on another. The furniture was Western in style, but there was a spartan simplicity to the decor. I didn't see many personal knickknacks. Tucked on either side of the front door were a bathroom and a large storage closet. An open loft contained a queen bed, dresser, closet, and bath.

The open area downstairs contained a sofa, easy chairs, a fireplace, a dining room table, a kitchen with an island and tall stools, and an office area. On a desk was a studio portrait of a man with a thatch of dark curly hair, Robert Taylor–handsome features, and a confident smile. Keeping an ear attuned for the sliding door to the porch, I checked the contents of the desk, a personal checkbook with a balance of $4,265. Folders for insurance, medical bills, car title, receipts, warranties, and investments.
Hmm.
Her stock account amounted to almost three hundred thousand. A tidy sum for someone her age. However, she was a well-paid administrator, single, and possibly savvy at investing.

I pulled open the central drawer. Pens, postage, a calculator, stationery, a campus telephone directory.

The sliding door from the porch moved in its metal frame. I eased the drawer shut.

Eleanor strolled inside. She placed the book in an empty space in a bookcase near the fireplace, walked toward the kitchen area.

I spotted a turquoise cloth handbag on an entryway table. As she stood at the refrigerator and ice plunked into a glass, I eased the handbag open. I found her cell phone, tapped the phone, found the number. I slid the phone into the bag.

Suddenly she turned. She stared at the bag, her face puzzled. She must have glimpsed a movement. There was a sharp, intent expression on her face.

It was time for me to leave.

Storms had spattered wind-driven mud against the peeling facade of the small-frame house. A portion of the picket fence leaned inward. Cracks marred the concrete sidewalk to the front porch. Large pottery vases on either side of the front door held humps of dead vegetation in dry brown dirt. The screen door sagged, one bracket loose at the top.

I found Jeanne Bracewell in an immaculate small living room. She slumped against the cushions of an overstuffed chair. Perhaps everyone is vulnerable when observed in solitude. I was saddened by what I saw, a middle-aged woman whose face offered no defense against the world, dark brown eyes staring emptily into the distance, muscles flaccid. She was neat and crisp: short iron gray hair neatly combed, a touch of pink lipstick, a fresh white polo and tan slacks, but it was as if a wax mannequin rested in the chair. Her expression and posture revealed sorrow and defeat.

“Jeanne.” The cry was faint, scarcely audible, but Jeanne was on her feet immediately. She moved quickly down the hall to the first bedroom. By the time she stepped inside, her face was transformed by care and kindness.

An emaciated figure lay beneath a single sheet. The woman, her head bald, looked up weakly. “. . . feel so sick again. Please, Jeanne, hold my hand.” Pain and suffering marked her face, but the thin hands on the coverlet were unwrinkled. She was likely in her forties.

The bedroom held the scent of illness yet it glistened with cleanliness, not a speck of dust. Buttercup yellow curtains framed windows with sparkling clear panes. An iPad lay on the bedside table, and music sounded softly: Johann Strauss's “Voices of Spring
.
”