Merry, Merry Ghost (18 page)

Gina came to her feet, began to pace. “This is hideous.” She looked at Jake. “We have to call Tucker. He should come.”

Jake’s tone was hollow. “What can he do? What can any of us do?”

“I’m going to call him. I’ll get my cell.” Gina swung toward the hall.

Johnny stepped forward. “Please, Gi—Miss Satterlee. No calls are permitted.”

Gina stood very still. “No calls?” Her tone was thin.

The young policeman squared his shoulders. “It’s customary procedure when police investigate a homicide.

Someone will be down when they finish upstairs. You can explain there are calls you’d like to make.”

I popped upstairs.

The bedroom was crowded, Susan’s body, the M.E., several crime lab techs, and a man I knew at once from my last sojourn in Adelaide. I felt a tiny leap of my heart. Detective Sergeant Hal Price was tall, lean, and well-built—very well-built—with white blond hair and a quizzical expression. This early morning hour, he was unshaven, but the blond stubble was scarcely visible. When the late call came, he’d obviously swiped unruly hair with a quick brush and dressed hurriedly, an orange and black Oklahoma State sweatshirt, Levi’s, and well-worn cowboy boots. I remembered him with pleasure. And some regret. If I’d been of the earth and not the Bailey Ruth who never seriously considered another man after she met black-haired Bobby Mac in high school, this lean blond man would have interested me. I still recalled with pleasure a moment during my previous efforts in Adelaide when Detective Sergeant Price had looked at me in admiration. I regretted that later his look had been suspicious and wary.

Now his slate blue eyes watched the doctor. “Suffocation?”

The M.E. gazed at Susan’s body, his face furrowed. “You got a funny one here. Body on the floor, pillow mashed on her face, traces of makeup on the pillow, hands apparently in defensive posture. But I don’t see any facial bruising and I didn’t see any hemorrhages and tears of the mucosa. I’ll take a close look during the autopsy.” He glanced at the chair and table near the fireplace. A small china pot sat next to a cup and saucer and dessert plate. “Have the crime lab check to see if there are drugs in the residue. It’s easier to suffocate people if they’re drugged.” He moved quickly toward a bedside table and containers of pills. He crouched to see the labels without touching the vials. “Susan Flynn.” He jerked his head at the body. “You got ID?”

“Susan Pritchard Flynn.” Price’s voice was weary.

The young doctor raised an eyebrow. “Even I know that name and I’ve only been in Adelaide a few years.

The rich one?”

“Maybe the richest woman in town. Give or take a few million.” Price’s face was carefully expressionless.

“One of the nicest. Big giver. Helped people a lot of folks forget about.”

The medical examiner stood and pulled plastic gloves from a pocket, slipped them on, picked up the containers, checked the contents. “Digitalis, Lasix, potassium, Prinivil, Coreg.” He nodded. “Heart patient.

Wouldn’t take much to suffocate her if she had CHF.”

Price looked attentive. “CHF?”

“Congestive heart failure. I’ll do a thorough autopsy, including tox testing.”

The detective glanced at his watch. “On time of death, she was last seen alive about nine o’clock. That’s a help, isn’t it?”

The M.E. nodded. “I’ll make a note.” He replaced the pill bottles, returned to the body, and picked up his bag. “I’ll do the autopsy Monday.”

Price folded his arms. “How about Sunday?”

The doctor glanced at his watch. “In case you can’t tell time, we are now in the wee hours of Sunday morning.”

“You preaching somewhere?” Price’s tone was bland.

“I got tickets to Gallagher Arena tonight, the Cowboys versus Texas at Arlington. Tickets as in two and my date’s a babe. We’re going over to Stillwater early, drop by her sorority house.”

Price shrugged. “The chief said to ask you special. We’re coming up on Christmas. Susan Flynn was a fine lady, and if we get the report Monday morning, the family can plan a service for Tuesday, not drag things out over the holiday.”

“How come the chief’s got a soft spot for the family? Odds are one of them killed her, right? All that money.” The M.E. tucked his bag under his arm. “Looking at her medicines, I’d say the murderer must have been in a hurry. I doubt she had more than six months to live. Her doctor can probably give you an estimate.”

Price’s eyes gleamed. “Maybe somebody was in a hurry. We’ll check that out. Can we count on the report Monday morning?”

The M.E.’s frown was ferocious, then he grinned. “All right already. I’ll move fast. I’m not going to miss the game.” He headed for the door. “The only reason I’m doing this is because I’m curious now. A dying woman. A lipstick-smeared pillow. No obvious traces of smothering. I’ll arrange for the body to be picked up.” He paused in the door, looked back. “I don’t know if you’re a married man, but I was once. Good-looking, high-class women don’t go to bed—to sleep—with makeup on.”

In the living room
, no one moved or spoke. Officer Cain stood in front of the fireplace, his face thoughtful.

Jake moved restively in the easy chair as if she couldn’t find a comfortable posture. Peg lifted a hand to wipe away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. Gina huddled against the sofa arm. She stared at the cold fireplace, her dark hair screening her face.

The women appeared shocked, troubled, grieved. But did one of them wonder wildly with a touch of gnawing panic what had happened to derail a perfect murder? Did one of them know that Susan died this night from some other means? Her death should have been accepted as natural. Now, for reasons unknown, a murder investigation had begun. Did one of them wonder who had moved the body and who had arranged the pillow?

Footsteps sounded heavily on the stairway. “Careful. Steady. Ease around that post.”

Jake’s fingers plucked at the edge of a beige-and-blue shawl. Peg pressed a hand against her lips. Gina stared at the floor, her hands opening and closing over and over again.

Peg sank against the sofa as she watched the sheet-shrouded gurney pushed out into the cold night.

As the front door closed, Detective Sergeant Price walked quietly into the living room. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a billfold, flipped it open to reveal a badge. “Detective Sergeant Harold Price. Mrs.

Flynn’s room has been sealed. It is officially a crime scene and not to be disturbed. I realize it is very late so I won’t keep you long.”

The clock read sixteen minutes after two.

Jake struggled forward in the chair, her robe gaping. “What happened to Susan?”

“The medical examiner will perform an autopsy. At the moment, her death is listed as suspected homicide.

Tomorrow Police Chief Sam Cobb will interview everyone who was in the house when she died. I’d like to get some information for him.”

Gina’s eyes flashed. “Are you saying we are suspects?”

Price flicked her an appraising glance, but his voice was pleasant. “Anyone who was in contact with Mrs.

Flynn this evening may be able to provide information that will be helpful to Chief Cobb.” He looked at Jake.

“May I have the names of all staying in the house tonight?” He glanced at each of them as he wrote their names.

Peg crumpled a Kleenex in her hand. “And Keith. Keith Flynn, Susan’s grandson.”

“Is he visiting by himself?”

Peg glanced at her mother, then said carefully, “He isn’t visiting. He lives here.”

Price looked puzzled. “Where are his parents?”

“His father was killed in Iraq. His mother died recently from pneumonia.” Peg spoke rapidly.

Even an imperceptive man would have picked up on the tension in the room. Hal Price wasn’t unimaginative.

“How long has he been here?”

Jake bridled. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with Susan.”

“If you’ll be patient with me, Mrs. Flynn, I’m new to your household. I need to provide Chief Cobb with information about everyone here at the time of the suspected homicide.”

Peg hurried to speak before Jake. “Keith arrived Thursday evening. There were four of us in the house tonight: my mother”—she nodded toward Jake—“Gina, Keith, and I.”

“What relationship are each of you to the deceased?” He listened carefully. “Let’s see if I’ve got it right. The little boy is her grandson. Mrs. Jake Flynn was married to Susan Flynn’s late husband’s brother. Miss Flynn is Mrs. Jake Flynn’s daughter. Miss Satterlee is Mrs. Jake Flynn’s niece. So”—his eyes ran over his notes

—“the only blood relative is Keith Flynn.”

“What difference does any of that make?” Jake was querulous. “Why aren’t you searching for whoever came in the house and killed Susan?” Her eyes popped wide. “Someone came in and killed Susan and got my car keys and stole my car. Where is my car now?”

“The Ford is in police custody and is being searched and fingerprinted.”

Jake looked excited. “If you get fingerprints, can you find out who was driving it?”

“We are making every effort to discover the identity of the driver.”

Jake frowned. “How did the police find my car?”

Price spoke without emphasis. “Mrs. Flynn was driving the car when it was stopped for speeding at approximately twelve-fifteen A.M. on State Highway 3 West on the outskirts of Adelaide.”

If the detective had announced that a spaceship was ready to board on the front lawn, the effect on his listeners would not have been more pronounced.

Jake’s lips parted in soundless shock.

Peg’s round face was blank with astonishment.

Gina shook her head in derision. “That’s impossible.”

Jake lifted her hands in a flutter of rejection. “Susan hadn’t left the house for months. Today—I guess yesterday now—was the first time she’d gone outside since September. I thought at the time she was overdoing. I worried that it might be too much for her heart. The driver absolutely could not have been Susan.”

Price nodded at Johnny. “Officer.”

Johnny spoke emphatically, his expression determined. “I was on patrol in Car 5 at a quarter after midnight.

That’s the first time I stopped a blue Ford.” He rattled off the license number. “This was on the edge of town where the road curves into 3 West. Radar clocked the car going seventy-eight miles an hour in a sixty-mile-an-hour zone. When I approached the vehicle”—there was an odd look of discomfort on his face, perhaps reflecting a memory that the front seat had at first appeared to be unoccupied—“the driver rolled down the window. When I looked inside, I saw Mrs. Flynn.”

Peg’s voice was gentle. “Johnny, it simply can’t be. She’s been so ill and weak. It was a struggle for her to go up and down the stairs.”

Johnny’s face set in stubborn lines. “She knew me. She called me Johnny and she said she was glad I’d done well at the police academy. She knew my mom. She had on this black mink coat. And she didn’t look a bit sick. She looked the way she did when we were kids. Anyway, the lady who was with her will confirm that it was Mrs. Flynn. She and the lady had been to a sick friend’s house. The other lady was young and real pretty.”

I smiled at Johnny. What a sweetheart.

“The other lady had red hair, really bright red. Mrs. Flynn said she was visiting over Christmas.”

Detective Sergeant Price drew a small notebook from his back pocket, flipped it open. He looked at Jake.

“I’d appreciate the name of Mrs. Flynn’s friend. It will help sort out what happened this evening with the car.”

Jake fumbled with her shawl. “Susan didn’t have a friend with red hair.”

Peg’s eyes squinted in thought. “There’s Midge Baker.”

Jake sniffed. “Midge isn’t a real redhead. Auburn and plenty of gray.” She turned toward Johnny. “Was this a real redhead?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His reply was swift. “Curls red as fire and green eyes and she had a friendly smile.”

Honestly, what a sweetheart.

Peg turned her hands up. “I can’t imagine who it could be. No one has been to see Susan over the holidays.

Several people called and Susan said to tell them she wasn’t feeling up to visitors. Anyway, none of them are redheads.”

Price closed the notebook. “That’s interesting. We’ll have a sketch made, try to identify her.”

Gina twirled a long strand of dark hair between a thumb and forefinger. “Maybe I’m not quick, but I think there’s a disconnect here. Johnny”—she nodded toward Officer Cain—“told us what happened the first time he stopped Jake’s car. Does that mean he stopped her car a second time?”

“The first time Mrs. Flynn said she was sorry about going too fast and I gave her a warning ticket. The car went on.” Johnny’s face was strained. “About forty minutes later I was parked on the shoulder of Persimmon Hill with my lights off, the motor idling. You know how kids go flat out down the hill because it’s the steepest one in the county. A car came over the rise and took off hell-for-leather down the slope. I turned on my lights and gunned the cruiser. The car swerved big-time, like somebody had jerked the wheel. I thought there was going to be a crash. The car whipped back and forth across the road but somehow it didn’t go into a full spin—”

No thanks to Wiggins. I felt I’d managed a nice piece of driving.

“—and slid to a stop just past the bridge.”

Gina leaned forward, intent. “Now we’re getting somewhere. You stopped the car and it turned out to be Jake’s Ford. Who was driving?”

Johnny moved uncomfortably. “The redheaded woman was at the wheel. I caught a glimpse of her hair and her fur coat, kind of a light golden brown one. I didn’t see anybody else.” He licked his lips, swallowed. “By the time I got to the car window, she was gone. I looked everywhere. I didn’t find a trace of her. I searched the car and there wasn’t anybody in it, not in front or back or in the trunk.”

“That’s crazy,” Jake exclaimed. “You must have been awfully slow getting there.”

Johnny flushed. “I got there quick. I don’t know where she went or how she got out of the car. The door never opened.” He looked haunted.

As well he might, poor sweetie. But I didn’t see what other choice I could have made.

Peg looked troubled. “The redhead must have already brought Susan home.”