Merry, Merry Ghost (26 page)

I’d dropped Susan’s stamped and sealed square envelope in the main post office slot late Saturday night. It should have been delivered today.

I smiled at my
reflection in the plate-glass door of the post office. When I’d cheerfully written
Officer M. Loy
reporting for duty
on Chief Cobb’s office blackboard, I’d had no idea how quickly she would appear on the scene. The Adelaide police uniform was quite fetching, French blue cap with a black bill, long-sleeved French blue shirt, French blue trousers with a navy stripe down each leg. French blue was a very nice color for redheads. The Adelaide police patches looked fresh and new (as surely they should) on each shoulder.

The metal name tag and badge over the left breast pocket read
Officer M. Loy
. The black leather shoes were shined to a glossy sheen. I shivered and immediately welcomed the warmth of a wool-lined nylon black raid jacket inscribed
Police
.

I skirted the long line of patrons, clutching boxes from tiny to immense. I walked to the door with a bell and punched it. In a moment, a plump, cheerful woman opened the door. “You got a—oh, hello, Officer. What can I do for you?”

In less than three minutes I had the name and current location of the postman who had delivered mail to Wade Farrell’s office this morning.

The slender mailman shifted
the heavy leather pouch from his shoulder to the floor of the office building. He squinted in thought, faded blue eyes vaguely resentful. “You got to remember I deliver several thousand pieces of mail every day, especially”—he sighed heavily—“during Christmas. You got any idea how much mail we handle in December?”

I beamed my most admiring smile. “Mr. Crandall, I know it’s a chance in a thousand, but you look like a man who notices details. In fact, I imagine you have an unerring instinct for noting anything unusual. Our hope is that you might remember a delivery you made this morning to the law office of Wade Farrell. The particular item, Mr. Crandall, was unusual in its size, a square envelope from an expensive creamy thick stock, unlike most Christmas card envelopes. Moreover, the address was written in a distinctive script.” I had a clear memory of Susan Flynn’s handwriting, looping capitals and leftward slanted lowercase letters. “The
W
in Wade was quite large and the rest of his name leaned to the left, the letters very thin, almost skeletal. The engraved return address was Susan Pritchard Flynn, 19 Chickasaw Ridge.”

“Oh, that envelope. Sure.” His recognition was obvious and immediate. “If you’d told me right off that you meant a letter from Mrs. Flynn, I could have told you. I noticed the envelope especially. Pretty handwriting she has.”

Of course, he would have no way of knowing of Susan’s death. The announcement would be in tomorrow’s paper. “Susan passed away last night.”

“I knew she was real sick, but I’m sorry to hear that. She was a mighty fine woman. I used to deliver in her neighborhood, and every Christmas she gave me a ham.” He frowned darkly. “You think any of these fancy businesses I deliver to now give me anything? They don’t care if I get their mail to ’em when it’s a hundred and eight degrees or when the ice is so slick the sidewalk’s worse than a skating rink.”

“You delivered an envelope from Mrs. Flynn to Mr. Farrell this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. Not a doubt.”

“Thank you, sir. This is a huge help to our investigation. We may be back in touch to take your formal statement.”

“Be glad to oblige.” His eyes gleamed. “Think I might get to testify in a court case?”

“That is always a possibility. Thank you, sir, for your cooperation.”

As I turned to leave, he called after me. “If you ask me questions on direct examination on the witness stand, better not ask leading questions. You can ask me to describe the materials I delivered”—he sounded suddenly prosecutorial—“to the office of Attorney Wade Farrell on this day. I’ll describe that envelope and there won’t be any doubt about it.”

I must have looked startled.

He nodded sagely. “I never miss
Law & Order
. That Connie Rubirosa’s the gal to have in a courtroom.”

As he stepped into the elevator to deliver on the next floor, I disappeared.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
he sidewalks were crowded outside Wade Farrell’s office building on the corner of Calhoun and Main.

Not all shoppers were at the strip shopping centers anchored by Wal-Mart and Target. Downtown boasted several dress shops, a bookstore, drugstore, and hardware store. I heard the bells of a Salvation Army kettle.

The sun was slipping westward, streaking the cloudy sky with rose and gold. The shadows from the buildings deepened and darkened. A skipping wind skittered late-fallen leaves.

I landed in the entry hall. Postman Crandall was emphatic that he had delivered Susan’s letter this morning.

Kim Weaver had already sorted and opened mail before the heirs arrived. The will should have been deposited in Wade Farrell’s in-box. If he received the will, he had chosen to secrete or destroy it. What might have prompted such an action would have to be discovered later. If he had not received the will, he had in good faith presented the earlier instrument as valid.

A woman shrugging into a car coat while talking on a cell phone hurried toward the door. I waited until the hallway was empty, then reappeared in the golden mink coat. This time I chose a cashmere sweater and wool slacks. It was time for Susan Flynn’s old friend to make inquiries.

Kim Weaver looked up from her desk as I stepped inside. There was a flicker of envy in her dark eyes as they widened in appreciation of the mink. She noted as well my white sweater, blue costume pearls, and navy slacks.

“May I help you?” Her voice was almost deferential. Not quite. Implicit in her expression was the unstated suggestion that supplicants would do well to remember that the office was hers to rule.

I nodded regally. “I’m here on behalf of Susan Flynn.” My manner was somber but confident. “Her death has made it imperative that I speak with Mr. Farrell about Susan’s new will.” I watched her face with the attention a cat accords a mouse.

For an instant, Kim’s face was devoid of response. Then she raised a sculpted eyebrow. “A new will? I’m afraid there’s some confusion.” She was polite but firm. “Mrs. Flynn’s will has been in existence for several years.”

A resonant bong tolled the half hour. An elegant early twentieth-century grandfather clock with an ornate bronze face read four-thirty.

She glanced at the clock. “I’ll check with Mr. Farrell, but I believe he is on his way out. Possibly I can make an appointment for you for tomorrow afternoon.”

I was imperious. “Susan drafted a new will Saturday night. I must speak with him now.”

She gave me a bright smile. “I’ll see what I can do. You are?”

“Jerrie Emiliani.” I hoped St. Jerome Emiliani, that great benefactor of orphans, didn’t mind my continued use of his name. I was trying to do my best for one particular orphan.

She pushed the intercom. “Mr. Farrell, a Ms. Jerrie—” She hesitated.

“Emiliani,” I said distinctly.

“—would like to speak with you about Mrs. Flynn’s estate.”

There was no response.

“Mr. Farrell?”

Silence.

She flicked off the intercom. “Mr. Farrell has left the office.” She turned to her computer. “Tomorrow morning is blocked out for Mrs. Flynn’s funeral. I can offer you an appointment at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

I paused to listen
in the entrance hall of Wade Farrell’s house. The tile floor matched the vivid blue rim of a terra-cotta vase decorated with a charging buffalo. An eight-sided Art Deco beveled-glass mirror reflected red and white pom-pom chrysanthemums in a cut-glass vase on a pine side table. To my left a living room with comfortable sofas and chairs, not too big and not too small, looked welcoming. There was an air of come-sit-down-and-let’s-share-good-times warmth. To my right in the dining room, a table looked festive with holiday decorations, a snowman centerpiece and red candles, and fine china and crystal. The stairway at the end of the hall was decorated with candy canes.

A woman’s voice was cheerful but firm. “You’ll ruin your dinner.”

Wade’s words were indistinct. “I need a pick-me-up. Mmmm. Lots of butter.”

I wafted to the kitchen. Spacious and homey with savory scents rising from several pans on the range, the kitchen was obviously geared for a dinner party.

A willowy brunette in a frilly gingham apron inscribed
Cindy’s
Kitchen
folded dough into Parker House rolls. Her fond expression slipped into a frown. “I heard Susan may have taken an overdose of something.”

Wade put down a golden brown cranberry bar. His frown was dark and angry. “Who’s saying that?”

Cindy looked uncertain. “You know how rumors are. Someone heard it from somebody else and pretty soon the buzz is all over town. Liz Latham said she’d heard from her hairdresser who had it straight from somebody in the mayor’s office.”

“That woman’s a menace.”

“Liz?”

“Neva Lumpkin. How’d she ever get elected? You’d think a tarantula could beat her.” He broke off another piece of the cranberry bar.

“Most tarantulas don’t have husbands with enough leases in the Barnett Shale to bring in forty thousand dollars a month. Who’s got the money to run against her? Anyway, you didn’t come home out of sorts because of Neva Lumpkin. What’s wrong, Wade?” She pushed the baking sheet with the rolls to the back of the counter. At the sink, she turned on the water, began to rinse utensils.

He pulled off his suit coat, hung it from the back of a kitchen chair, loosed his tie. “You know that trip you’ve been wanting to make to Tahiti? I looked at my calendar. I can get away the last two weeks of February.”

She turned off the water. Her eyebrows rose. “You said we couldn’t afford it.”

I scarcely breathed.

His lips curved in a lopsided grin. “If I look at the books like an accountant, we can’t. Right now, I don’t give a hoot. Book the tickets. If there’s something we want to do, something that matters to us, we need to do it now. Susan Flynn thought she had one more day. I spent Saturday at the office. I missed Billy’s birthday party, but I got her new will drafted. One more day, that’s all Susan needed. The will would have been signed and her grandson would have inherited her estate. Instead, she died Saturday night. I can tell you for sure she never committed suicide. Die and leave that little boy penniless? Not on your life. But maybe that’s what cost Susan her life.”

“Could she have accidentally taken too much medicine?” Cindy placed spoons in a draining rack.

“She would have had to be drunk or blind to have dumped that much digitalis in her hot chocolate. Sam Cobb asked me what I thought. Off the record.” Wade’s eyes narrowed. “I told him I think one of the heirs murdered her before she could sign the new will. Not Peg Flynn. Peg Flynn’s all right. I hope our kids would be as honorable. She wants the grandson to have her share. None of the others volunteered a penny. After Peg made her announcement and walked out, the rest of them hemmed and hawed and hung around, each one waiting for the others to leave. Finally, I asked if each one would like to speak with me privately. Will it surprise you”—his tone was sarcastic—“to learn each one wanted money? Jake Flynn wants to modernize the kitchen, said Susan kept putting it off, but Jake knew that fixing everything up would be exactly what Susan would have wanted. Tucker wants to buy the Nickerson spread. That will squeeze the McKinley ranch between the Nickerson ranch and Burnt Creek. Susan was good friends with the McKinleys and knew they would be worried about access roads if Tucker bought out the Nickersons. Tucker Satterlee eats, sleeps, and breathes Burnt Creek. He wants the biggest spread in the county. Gina Satterlee’s maxed out on five credit cards and she lost her job about three weeks ago and one creditor got a judgment against her. Harrison Hammond looked like a man reprieved from the gallows. He’s in big trouble with the housing crisis. He hasn’t been able to sell most of the homes in his new development and he’s up to his ears in debt to the suppliers. Now they’re all on easy street. Except Peg.” His tone was admiring. “If Susan had lived one more day, they would each have had to settle for two hundred thousand.”

Cindy stacked the rinsed cooking ware and utensils in a plastic dish rack. “Won’t the judge make some provision for Susan’s grandson?”

“She didn’t sign the will.” Wade looked morose.

I crossed Wade Farrell off my list. His sorrowful expression told me where I needed to go.

“So”—he came around the table and drew his wife into his arms—“make those reservations. Maybe all we’ve got is today, but if we make it to February, you and I are going to enjoy sea, sand, and sun. Merry Christmas, Cindy.”

“Oh, Wade, that will be wonderful.” Her laughter was a sweet cascade. “If you look at the books again and change your mind, that’s all right, too. I’m glad you want to go, whether we can or not.” She smiled and lifted her lips to his.

Christmas lights blinked on
a small frosted tree. The apartment was clean and tidy, but the cheap furniture looked as if it had been there for years. Travel posters on the bland beige walls of the small living room offered brightness and a sense of dreams not bound by the confines of a rented furnished apartment. The Parthenon in its weathered glory, the Cathedral at Chartres, and Castle Hill in Nice spoke of a hunger for faraway places.

Kim Weaver sat in a maple chair with dingy green cushions. Her feathered haircut had been teased into a tousled look, as if she stood on a ship deck and the wind rushed against her. Her face was interesting, high forehead, high-bridged nose, high cheekbones. Her cold brown eyes were too calculating for beauty. The firmness of her jaw suggested a woman with a strong will.

With a dreamy smile, she leafed through an issue of
Elle
, pausing to look at fashions by Balenciaga and Prada. Her purple scoop-neck cashmere tunic fell in graceful folds onto narrow black wool trousers. Twice she glanced at her jeweled watch.