Giving Up the Ghost (8 page)

"What money?"

"The half million dollars arranged in neat piles, that filled the bottom drawer of the desk
you're sitting at. My traveling money, you might call it."

She stared at him. "My God, Cam! Did you usually keep sums that large in the
cottage?"

"Of course not. I'm a great believer in making your money work for you. This was cash
from a deal that suddenly came my way. When I--er came back, it was gone." He chuckled. "Not that
it matters. Like they say, you can't take it with you."

"Did you come back here immediately?"

"Time passed. About a week, I'd say."

"Then how do you know Darren didn't find the money and hand it over to your
brother?"

"I was completely disoriented the afternoon it happened, don't ask me why. I couldn't
have drunk that much, but I remember hearing someone--the murderer--rifling through the
drawerful of money. Next thing I knew he was finishing me off."

Gabbie stared at his fading figure. "Damn you, Cameron Leeds, you might have told me
this up front! Whoever killed you, did it for the money. It's as simple as that."

"Now that's precisely why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd jump to that erroneous
conclusion, right off the bat. Most likely, someone came after me for an entirely different
reason."

"No doubt for being the most infuriating, maddening creature that ever lived!"

She grabbed up her books and papers and flew out of the room. "I won't be back for
days," she shouted from the hall. "Maybe a week. And I'm beginning to think that whoever killed
you did the world a favor!"

Gabbie spread her schoolbooks and papers on the kitchen table. She was so
engrossed in what she was doing that the ring of the doorbell had her leaping from her seat.

"Who's there?" she demanded through the wooden door.

"It's Chief Rollins. Darren. May I come in?"

Her heart fluttered as her fingers fumbled with the lock. "Hi. Anything wrong?"

"Nope." He brought in the scent of cold night air and a trace of tangy aftershave. "I was
doing my nightly surveillance, and decided I needed a break. Was hoping for a friendly cup of coffee
and a pit stop."

"Sure. Go on." She gestured upstairs. "I'll put on the kettle."

He came thundering down five minutes later and joined her in the kitchen. He glanced at
her school books on the table. "Hope I'm not interrupting."

"You're not, since you're only staying till you finish your coffee."

"I see you're a woman who sets boundaries." His tone was admiring rather than
offended.

"I have to." She hoped he wouldn't ask why. She set the steaming mug in front of him.
"I've milk and sugar, but no cake."

"I take it black with three teaspoons of sugar."

"I'll remember that," she said, and sipped her tea.

She liked the way he drank, neatly, without slurping or making weird noises. He cupped
his hands around the mug, as though grateful for the warmth it gave off. She realized he was
studying her.

"The place feels cozy with you here," he said.

"It's the new appliances. I haven't done a thing but buy some supplies and move
in."

"I know this cottage as well as the house I grew up in. Cam and his little brother, Roland,
used to stay with their grandfather summers and holidays. He used to say it was like staying with
Santa Claus."

"Why? Were his parents poor?"

"One parent--his mother--if you can call her that. His father took off after Roland was
born. And she was poor, all right. Drank and gambled what little money she earned as a
waitress."

"No wonder," Gabbie mused.

"No wonder what?" He sent her a questioning glance.

Gabbie flushed. "I've heard a few stories about Cam, how he was always making
business deals. I suppose he wanted to make sure he never was poor again."

"That's a reason, not an excuse," Darren said.

Gabbie was pleased he didn't share Cam's easy morality.

"Anyway," Darren continued, "when Cam was about twelve, his grandfather died. He left
the cottage to the boys, to be turned over to them when Cam turned twenty-one. Cam's mother
moved them into the cottage full-time, along with her second husband.

"A few years later she wanted to sell it. The boys said no, so she fought them for
possession in court. Said her father must have been touched in the head to leave his cottage to kids
instead of his own daughter, but the judge held firm. She and her third husband moved to Arizona a
few years after that." Darren grimaced. "Not that it mattered. After their grandfather died, Cam and
Roland brought themselves up. Joyce Leeds wasn't meant to be a mother."

Gabbie found it interesting to learn about Cam's childhood, but she needed to focus on
more recent events. "You must miss him a lot."

"Miss him?" Darren snorted. "Not a day goes by when I don't curse him roundly for
depriving me of his company. We were soul brothers, Gabbie. I'll never have a friend like that
again."

Gabbie propped her elbows on the old wooden table. "Did you ever consider the
possibility that his death wasn't an accident?"

"You mean, do I think someone pushed him over?" His eyes narrowed, but he smiled.
"You never saw Cam. He stood six foot four, and was strong as the proverbial ox." His smile
disappeared. "There were no signs of a fight or a struggle anywhere on the body."

She was treading dangerous territory, challenging his professional expertise, but she
owed it to Cam to find out everything she could. "What did the medical examiner find?"

"Old Doc Bradley, our coroner, examined the body. He determined all wounds and
contusions resulted from the fall."

"Old Doc Bradley? What is he, a veterinarian?"

"A GP who cares about people. The kind of doctor you'd want taking care of you,
whether you caught pneumonia or were hit by a car." Darren got to his feet and stood, legs apart,
glaring at her.

Shooting stance
, she thought, shivering.
If he had a gun in his hand,
which of course he doesn't.

"Doc Bradley was a medic in the Korean War. He's seen more bodies, dead and alive,
than any two MEs anywhere."

Gabbie pretended to accept Darren's defense of the old doctor. But Darren was wrong.
Someone had killed Cam, and the doctor had overlooked the cause of his injuries. Now the question
was: did Darren truly believe Cam had fallen drunk to his death?

Or--the horrible possibility sprang up like a jack-in-the-box--did Darren deserve an
Oscar for his performance of outraged innocence because he'd murdered Cam?

She closed her eyes, intent on making the preposterous thought disappear. Darren was
a cop. An honest cop. How do you know? a small voice threw back at her. Because he made you
think so? When she opened her eyes, he was setting his mug in the sink.

"It's time I got going." He headed for the door.

She hurried after him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push your buttons. It's just--"

"I know." He touched her shoulder, sending tingles through her body. "When civilians
find out about accidents like this, they often assume it was murder. At any rate, I shouldn't have
gotten so uptight about your questions."

"He was your best friend," she murmured.

"That he was."

She drew in breath, relieved he was no longer angry at her. When he lowered his head,
for one crazy moment she thought he was going to kiss her.

Instead, he winked. "Good-night, Gabbie. Thanks for the coffee."

* * * *

The next morning, Gabbie leaped out of bed, eager to leave the cottage. She didn't mind
the icy wind that stung her face as she cleared the windshield or the slippery drive to school. It was
a relief to get away from a nagging ghost and prurient thoughts of a sexy cop who just might have
murdered his best friend.

A few of her students waved as she passed them in the hallway. She returned greetings
from the staff. She stopped at the guidance office, but Barrett's counselor wasn't there. I'll try
later.

Her first two classes went smoothly. She had students read their homework
assignments aloud, and used them as springboards for a lively discussion about how the various
characters had influenced the story's plot so far. Then she read to them from Chapter Four until the
bell rang.

"Finish reading the chapter for homework and write a summary two to four pages long,"
she told them. "Keep it in the present tense. Check it over twice. I might count it as a grade."

There were groans, but quite a few students said, "Bye, Ms. Meyerson" or "See you
tomorrow."

She was disappointed that neither Theo nor Charlie were among those warming up to
her. When she left the room, they were waiting for her in the hall.

"Is the Photography Club meeting Friday afternoon?" Theo said. "There wasn't a notice
in this week's announcements."

Gabbie swallowed. She'd agreed to be the advisor of the Photography Club as part of her
job. It had all but slipped her mind. "Well, I hadn't planned on holding a meeting yet."

"But we always meet the second Friday of the month." For once Theo sounded upset
rather than angry.

"Sometimes the last Friday, too," Charlie added. He was bouncing up and down on the
balls of his feet, clearly a nervous tic.

"I suppose we could meet this Friday. I've been so busy with schoolwork, I haven't given
it much thought. It's kind of late to put a notice in this week's announcements."

"Don't bother," Theo said. "Just a few kids besides us come anymore."

"Lots of other kids used to come," Charlie explained. "Until Barrett--"

"Charlie!" Theo elbowed him.

Gabbie felt a prickling between her shoulder blades. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Theo said. "Let's go, Charlie; we'll be late to class."

"Let the other kids know we're meeting this Friday," Gabbie called after them. "And
don't forget to bring your cameras."

Charlie spun around. "That's great, Ms. Meyerson. Will we meet in our English room like
always?"

"You got it."

"Thank you." Theo's words came out strangled. Sullen though she was, her mother's
lessons in manners were clearly something she couldn't ignore.

"See you tomorrow," Gabbie called after them, more cheerfully than she felt. She knew
zip about photography. It looked like she'd be spending another afternoon in the library, this time
learning the ABCs of photography.

Once in the teachers' lounge, Gabbie reached for the cup she'd brought in the day
before, and filled it with coffee from the half-full carafe.

"Coffee klatch is five dollars a month," said a tall, skinny Ichabod Crane-type.

"Do I pay you?" Gabbie reached into her pocketbook.

"If you like. Give me two dollars, seeing half the month is gone."

"I'm Gabbie Meyerson." She handed him two singles and watched him jot down her
contribution in a tiny note pad. When pad and pen were back in the breast pocket of his tweed
blazer, he stuck out his hand.

"Oscar Tweeney, Science. Welcome aboard."

Gabbie sat on one of the two worn couches and sipped her coffee. Two women teachers
came in and smiled at her, and resumed their conversation. Gabbie joined their discussion about
New Mexico, an area she'd visited with Paul a few years ago. Later, when she entered her classroom
for her next class, she realized she'd forgotten to speak to anyone about Barrett.

Her seniors straggled in after the bell, some with coffee, others with soda and snacks.
Entitlements of the graduating class. Well, she'd see about that! When they were seated, she told
them they could bring in food if they liked. They could even sit in a circle. But coming in after the
bell would count against them.

"How, Ms. Meyerson?" April said.

"I suppose a minute a point would be too harsh."

"How about you start counting five minutes after the bell?"

Gabbie met the dark liquid eyes of a tall, broad-shouldered black boy with riveting good
looks. Byron Stokes. Football quarterback, center forward, and quite the ladies' man with black and
white girls, or so she'd heard.

"All right, Byron. A five minute starter and not one second more or it counts against you.
But be warned, I start class when the period begins, so don't come whining to me if you've missed
the homework assignment or a test announcement because you decided to dawdle in the halls with
your friends or sweetie of the moment."

She busied herself with her grade book, pretending not to hear their reactions, until too
many curse words sullied her ears.

"One more thing," she said conversationally. "No curse words, and I mean none,
beginning with damn and hell."

"How will that count against us, Ms. Meyerson?" Heather said.

"You'll find yourself writing all sorts of papers."

"But curse words are part of our language, Ms. Meyerson," Barrett said.

Utter silence as all eyes turned to the doorway that framed him like a picture. Evil in
ebony, Gabbie decided, eying his black clothes and black hair.

She forced her lips to turn up in a smile. "Of course they are, Barrett. Everyone knows
that. Just as everyone knows it's not acceptable to use them in the classroom. Please sit down. Your
tardiness has been noted and will be reflected in your quarterly grade."

"Five minutes after the bell," Lynne pointed out.

"Lance," Gabbie said to the plump, unhappy boy in the second row. "We're ready to hear
your essay."

She deliberately turned her head away from Barrett. When she looked at him a minute
later, he sat sprawled in the last seat in the row beside the windows, his eyes glued to a distant spot
outside.

Lance mumbled his essay as though it were one long, strung-out sentence. The subject
was movies he considered to be classics and why he liked to watch them again and again. An
interesting subject, but his comments were so vague and repetitive, Gabbie had to cover her mouth
to hide a yawn.