Ghost at Work (10 page)

Kathleen's eyes blazed. “He said a good start would be for me to
try on my new gown. He put the phone in his pocket. There was no way I could get it from him. I told him”—her voice was harsh—“exactly what kind of a louse he was and then I jumped up and threw the gown and the box and the papers in the fireplace and ran out of the cabin. He came after me, but I got in my car and locked it and got away.” She jabbed at the phone and the picture disappeared.

Another click, a new picture. A man in his forties with thinning blond hair and sharp features hunched at a desk, writing on a piece of stationery. The sag of his head and the bleak emptiness of his expression spelled defeat, despair, hopelessness.

“Who is it?” But the picture was already gone and Kathleen shot me a mutinous glance. If she knew, she didn't intend to tell me.

Another click. An untidy middle-aged woman looked warily over her shoulder. She wore the blue smock of the Altar Guild. She held a collection plate. Behind her was the counter with the vested chalice for Sunday. A crucifix hung on the white wall above the counter. Walnut cabinets jutted into the room.

I knew at once that she was in the sacristy after a service, probably a weekday Communion since she was apparently doing the service alone. “She's counting the collection.” Collection isn't formally taken at a weekday service, but the plate is left out for any donations.

Kathleen's brows drew down in a worried frown. “Maybe something startled her.”

The woman in the photo's expression was oddly craven and wary.

I didn't doubt that Kathleen and I were considering the same unpalatable possibility. Was a member of the Altar Guild getting ready to filch from the offering plate?

Kathleen deleted that picture, retrieved another. “Oh dear.”

A furtive hand tucked a handful of bills into the pocket of the blue smock.

“Oh.” Kathleen's soft cry was a lament. “I can't believe it. I
don't know what to do. But—” Swift clicks and that image, too, disappeared.

“Who was she?” I was sure Kathleen knew.

Kathleen pressed her lips tightly together.

“Kathleen”—an awful possibility struck me—“are those pictures gone forever?”

Her expression defiant, Kathleen looked toward the sound of my voice. “You bet they are.”

I was horrified. “You've destroyed evidence that might help the police.”

She lifted her chin. “I don't care. Let the police find out who killed him. I'm not going to get people in trouble, maybe ruin their lives, just because Daryl was nasty enough to take pictures of them when they were down. I know that's what he was doing. Sure, he may have been right to go after some of them, but let them get found out some other way.” Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “I wonder if the rest of the pictures are like this.”

She clicked twice. In one image, an elderly black man was placing cans of food in a brown grocery bag. In another, the police officer, Anita, her face impervious, was framed in an open car window.

Kathleen relaxed as the screen went blank. “Those last two don't amount to anything. That's Isaac Franklin, our sexton, and he's probably filling a sack from the food pantry for a needy family. The policewoman”—Kathleen's smile was satisfied—“was Daryl's bête noire. He saw himself as macho man and drove like he thought he was Dale Earnhardt.”

I was never a NASCAR enthusiast, but I remember Bobby Mac's excitement when Dale Earnhardt had arrived.

“She put a stop to that. Everywhere Daryl went, she seemed to be behind him. He got tickets faster than confetti spills. It was great to see him drive through town at thirty miles an hour. I loved it. I didn't even mind when she gave me a ticket a couple of weeks ago.”

“You got rid of all the photos? For good?” I had to be sure.

“Every single one.” Her stare, a trifle to the left of my face, was unabashed.

I understood Kathleen's reluctance to involve innocent persons in a murder investigation, but what if one of them was the murderer? I felt a civic responsibility. I had already complicated the police efforts by helping Kathleen move Daryl's body, though I still believed I'd made the right decision. Kathleen was innocent. Otherwise I wouldn't have been sent to her aid.

The cell phone was another matter. I had removed it from Daryl's body. The information it contained might make a difference in the search for his murderer. Somehow I had to aid that earnest police chief, though I wasn't sure what I could do. “Kathleen, we can't ignore what we've discovered.”

She wasn't listening. She did something else with the phone, muttered, “Three saved messages. I called him back. I'd better check.”
Click.

“Thursday. Four-fifteen
P.M
., ‘I can't believe what you did.'” The voice was young, male, and anguished. “‘I just found out from Lily.'” There was a silence, then a quick, choked, “‘You'll pay for this. I swear you will.'”

Kathleen punched a button.

I sighed. One more piece of information, forever gone.

“Thursday, five-oh-seven
P.M
.: ‘Mr. Murdoch—'” It was Kathleen's voice. “‘There's been—'”

She punched.

“Thursday, eight-twenty
P.M
.: ‘You got to call me.'” It was a woman's voice, young but hoarse. Bravado mingled with desperation. “‘Listen, Daryl, I got to talk to you. You promised…Please. Call me.'”

Kathleen punched. “All gone. But”—she stared at the phone—“even though I erased the photos, there might be images somewhere inside.” Abruptly, she raised her arm and flung the telephone far out into the lake.

I
knelt by the chimney on the rectory roof and picked up the head cover holding the gun. Kathleen's disposal of the cell phone was an unexpected complication. I had intended to convey both the phone and gun to Chief Cobb. Now the phone was gone.

I'd done my best to assist Kathleen. In fact, my mission appeared to be successful. Likely I would soon be recalled to Heaven, but I was uneasy. I had interfered with the proper investigation of a crime.

I looked Heavenward. Thick dark clouds obscured the horizon. Wind pushed at me. I was definitely still here. I took that as a clear indication that I should proceed. But proceed to do what?

Arrange for Chief Cobb to find the gun.

The thought was direct and breathtaking in its simplicity. Thank you, Wiggins. I pulled the gun out of the head cover. My new coat, the gray lamb's wool I'd selected from the catalog to go with my elegant pantsuit, had capacious pockets. I tucked the gun in my pocket. I was ready to depart for the police station, but fortunately I glanced down. I was invisible. My coat was invisible.

The gun was not invisible.

Even though the sky was overcast, someone might look up and
note the flight of a gun through the sky if I swooped to the police station, especially since I didn't know where it was.

I pulled the gun out of the pocket, returned it to the head cover, and placed the bulging head cover beside the chimney.

I shivered. Despite the lamb's-wool coat, I was getting cold. It was time for a respite. In a flash, I returned to the rectory kitchen. I hung my coat on a coat tree, retrieved the flamingo mug from the dishwasher, and filled it with coffee. I found a notepad and a pen near the telephone. I settled at the table, positioning my chair where I would see anyone approaching the back porch.

I drew a gun on the notepad. I had to figure out a way to get it to Chief Cobb. Moreover, the information I'd gleaned from observing Kathleen with the cell phone might be essential in solving the crime. Quickly, I jotted notes:

PICTURES

1. Signature of Georgia Hamilton, apparently on a legal document of some sort.
   
2. A man in the depths of despair.
   
3. A member of the Altar Guild apparently stealing from the collection plate.
   
4. Isaac Franklin, the sexton.
   
5. The policewoman who showered tickets on Daryl Murdoch.
   

CALLS

1. He spoke of Lily. A young male voice. The caller had to be Daryl's angry son, Kirby.
   
2. A desperate woman begged Daryl to call her. However, the call was recorded after his death, which might indicate innocence. Or might not.
   

I sipped coffee, drew the face of a bloodhound with drooping ears
and a worried expression. The cell phone was gone, but I knew what I had seen and heard. I was uncertain whether any of that information could—or should—be provided to the police. For now, I had recorded everything.

I looked around the kitchen, seeking a safe spot to keep my notebook. It was unfortunate that worldly objects, unlike my imagined clothing and coats, couldn't simply disappear for me. But they couldn't and didn't. I zoomed up to the ceiling and checked above the bottle-green oak china cabinet. I put the notebook behind the top molding.

I wondered if Chief Cobb was making progress. Last night, when I'd wished to be in the cemetery, there I was.

What if I wished to be at the police station?

 

The two-story cream-colored stucco
building covered the northwest corner at the intersection of Lee and Tishomingo, one block south of Main Street. Old Glory and the Oklahoma flag with its sky-blue field fluttered in a stiff breeze from a slender white flagpole. Shallow steps led to a central doorway. On one end of the second floor, barred windows looked as gloomy as the overcast day. I studied the inscription on the cornerstone:

 

A
DELAIDE
C
ITY
H
ALL

1994

D
EDICATED BY
M
AYOR
H
ARVEY
K
AMP

 

I remembered Harvey as a long-haired, sneaky friend of my son. Ah, the wonders of maturity.

I went inside and checked the directory. On the first floor were the mayor's office, city planning, water, public works, planning commission, and treasurer. Now the mayor was a woman, Neva Lumpkin.
Chief Cobb, the police department, jail, city attorney, and municipal court were on the second floor.

Chief Cobb sat at his desk, studying papers. He emptied a packet of sugar into a steaming mug of coffee. Stark fluorescent light emphasized the deep lines that grooved his face. Moisture rings and scrapes marred the battered oak desk, but Matisse prints added color to one dingy beige wall. Large bulletin boards, a detailed street map of Adelaide, and a map of the county hung on the wall opposite his desk.

I was intrigued by a machine similar to a skinny television set that sat on a leaf jutting from the desk. A luminous green screen glowed. A flat keyboard sat in front of it. Chief Cobb swiveled in his chair to face the screen. He lifted his hands, frowned, shook his head. He punched the intercom button on his desk.

“Chief?”

“Yeah, Colleen. What's the password this week?”

A sibilant hiss sounded from the intercom.

He looked irritated. “Don't whisper. James Bond isn't crouched under your desk, waiting to hear the password so he can crack security for the Adelaide Police Department. Changing the password every week wastes everybody's time. Doesn't the mayor have enough to do without figuring out a silly rule like that? Who can remember a new password every week? I, for one, can't. And I forgot to write down the new one.”

Colleen's voice was low. “Uh, Chief, the mayor suggests city employees write down a password and keep it in a desk drawer.”

“That's secure?” He was sardonic. “Okay, okay. I'll write it down. What is it this week?”

There was a long pause.

The chief leaned back in his chair, suddenly amused, and I imagined he was picturing his secretary looking around to be certain no one was in earshot.

Colleen's voice was barely audible. “Cougar.”

I perched on the edge of his desk, looked at the screen. There was a line for a password, followed by asterisks. Curious.

“Cougar.” He made no effort to be quiet. “Thanks, Colleen.” He lifted his hands to the keyboard, typed.

I'd been a first-rate typist. I followed his fingers. He typed
cougar
into the box with asterisks. A few more clicks and he was looking at a list of messages. He clicked the first one.

The chief clicked. Information appeared on the screen superimposed on the message, instructions on how to print. Another click. Paper edged from a small square machine on the floor. The chief clicked again. The message disappeared. I studied the legend to the left of the screen. Apparently, the messages came into an in-box. One click and they appeared. Another click, a message was printed. Another click, the message disappeared. The chief reached down for the sheet, placed it in a folder.

Who would have thought such marvels were possible? I remembered how excited I'd been to have an electric typewriter. To think Wiggins still depended upon a Teletype. I would have to bring him up-to-date.

Chief Cobb pressed a key and the message from the medical examiner disappeared. He swung a meaty hand toward his telephone, punched a couple of buttons, and leaned back in his chair.

I bent nearer the luminous screen. One
ping
. A line announced:
One message in your mailbox.

Suddenly a dour voice sounded. “Lab.” As I turned toward the sound, I accidentally touched the chief's shoulder.

Chief Cobb's head jerked. Looking puzzled, he lifted a hand and brushed his shoulder. He peered behind him.

I eased away.

The chief shrugged and spoke in the general direction of his telephone. “Sam here. What you got on the Murdoch slug?”

“Slammed into bone.” A gloomy voice, turgid as a silt-laden river, emanated from the squat rectangular plastic box beneath the telephone.

Conversing over a telephone without picking up the receiver. Another wonder.

The chief wrinkled his nose. “Too damaged to make an ID?”

“Yeah.”

“Twenty-two?”

“Yeah.”

Cobb's eyes slitted. “You got anything helpful, Felix?”

“Some dust balls on the back of his suit coat. No dust balls in cemeteries.” A hoarse chuckle. “At least, not aboveground.”

“Dust balls?” Cobb glanced toward a register near the ceiling. Little clumps of dirt wavered between vents.

“Yeah. Like when you clean up an attic or closet. House dirt.”

“Anything special about it?”

“Nope. Ordinary, everyday dirt fluff. Got some cat fur in it. He either wallowed around on a floor somewhere just before he got wasted or the body was moved to the cemetery. Look for a dusty floor and a black cat.”

I pictured the rectory back porch. Certainly there could have been dust on the tarp. Perhaps it was a favorite spot for Spoofer to nap.

“Yeah.” Chief Cobb grasped a pencil and drew a woolly blob. “Thanks, Felix.” He reached forward, poked a button. His face was thoughtful as he turned to his desk. He pulled a notebook near.

I looked over his shoulder.

He wrote,
Dust???

A brisk tattoo sounded on the hall door.

The chief called out, “Come in.”

A ruggedly handsome man in a baggy red sweater and gray slacks moved toward the chief's desk like a fresh-launched torpedo. A cotton-top blond with slate-blue eyes, he was a shade under six feet tall and loose-jointed, with large hands and feet. His craggy face looked intense and intelligent. I liked him instinctively.

Cobb gestured toward a chair. “What you got, Hal?”

Hal pulled the chair back, dropped into it. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it, talked fast as if he had much to say and too little time. “Daryl Murdoch's son, Kirby, moved out two weeks ago. Senior at Adelaide High. Swim team. Math whiz. Waits tables at Garcia's. He's been camping out and going to friends' houses to shower. His girlfriend is Lily Mendoza. His dad didn't want him to date Lily. Next-door neighbor Wilbur Schmidt said all hell broke loose a couple of weeks ago, Kirby and Daryl yelling at each other. Kirby slammed out of the house and took his stuff.

“I talked to a friend of Kirby's, Hack Thurston. Kept it low-key, asked the usual, how long he'd known him, school, hobbies, et cetera. Turns out Kirby likes to target-practice with a twenty-two revolver out on the river bottom near Schooner Creek on his day off. Gets Thursdays off. Murder occurred Thursday afternoon. Checked Murdoch house this morning. No one home. Officer Leland is hunting for him.”

Cobb nodded. “Good work. Find the kid's twenty-two.”

Hal nodded. “I surveyed the crime scene again, including the Pritchard mausoleum. Somebody tried to prize loose that marble greyhound. I checked the crowbar we found under a bush. It had traces of marble dust. We could figure some kids—the first tip call came from a kid, right?—were in the mausoleum and maybe Murdoch saw some lights there and went to investigate and it ended up him getting shot.”

The chief drummed the fingers of one hand on his desktop. “So some kids out to heist a marble dog from the cemetery just happened to have a twenty-two with them, and when Murdoch showed up, they shot him instead of running like hell? I don't think so. No, I got a gut feeling it's a lot closer to the church. Look at the lab report.” He shoved it across the desk to the detective. “I don't think Murdoch went to the cemetery and got shot. I think he was shot somewhere else and dumped there.”

Hal swiftly read the report. He immediately understood the significance of the dust balls. “Murdoch's car is in the parking lot of the church. Probably means he got that far alive. So where does that leave us? From the dust, I'd say he was shot inside. Maybe the church?”

The chief looked thoughtful. “Maybe. I'll need more before I can get a search warrant. And”—he rubbed his nose—“do they keep a cat in the church?”

The young detective shrugged. “I wouldn't think so. How about the preacher's house?”

Chief Cobb's eyes glinted. “We got a tip the gun was on the back porch of the rectory.” He frowned. “I can hear the judge right now. ‘What's this? Warrant to search the rectory at St. Mildred's? Because of a dust ball?'”

The younger detective's mouth turned down in a grimace. “You got that right. You better have evidence on a silver platter before you take that one before the judge.”

Cobb looked determined. “Get the crime van and check out Mur
doch's car from top to bottom. We better be sure there's no cat fur in it before I try for a warrant. Also check the Murdoch house for a black cat. When that's out of the way, maybe it will be time to try for a search warrant.”

Hal bounded to his feet. “On my way.”

I toyed with the idea of getting to Daryl's car and placing some dust balls and cat fur inside. But perhaps creating fake evidence wasn't exactly what Wiggins had in mind. However, I was truly worried. It was beginning to look as though our removal of the body from the rectory hadn't solved Kathleen's problem.

The chief swung back to his machine and clicked on a message with a red exclamation point in the margin.