Ghost at Work (21 page)

Irene slammed out of the car and hurried in stumbling eager steps up the broad cement walk with images of green shamrocks and diamond rings. She pushed through the door, turned immediately to her right. She stood in a short line, pushed over the money for a bag full of change.

The huge crowded room was dimly lit except for the flash of neon. Music blared loud enough to hurt my ears. An electric guitar echoed, drums thumped, and a hoarse-voiced man shouted lyrics. Clouds of cigarette smoke turned the dim air dusky.

Irene dashed to a line of slot machines, began to feed quarters. She yanked the lever, watched, stuffed in another coin. One quarter after another. Squeals of excitement sounded from a buxom blonde at a nearby slot machine. A croupier's call rose above the mutter of voices.

I'd obviously returned to an Oklahoma quite different from the one I'd departed. If anyone had told me, a lifetime ago, that there would be a gambling casino right outside Adelaide, I would have said, “When little green men arrive from Mars.”

Perhaps that had happened, too.

Now I understood why Irene Chatham was a thief. All I needed to know was whether she was a murderer, too.

 

Jack gave an eager
snuffle. I rubbed behind a black-and-tan ear. “Told you I'd come back, boy.” I untied the rope from the railing, gave a tug. He obediently trotted alongside. We were almost to the
street when a woman's voice cried out, “Shelly, look at that dog. Look at his rope. It's up in the air as if someone's holding it.”

Behind a well-kept white picket fence, a woman bent toward the ground. A silver-haired woman with bright eyes pointed toward Jack. “That dog's rope is straight out like a comet's tail.”

I dropped the rope.

A young woman, balancing a baby on one hip, rose from picking up a pacifier. The baby wailed. “Every time he spits it out, he wants it back. That rope's on the ground, Mama.”

“It was in the air.” Her voice was insistent.

I darted behind an oak, appeared, then strolled out. I picked up the rope and smiled at the neighbors. “Good morning.”

The older woman continued to look puzzled.

The young mother spoke over the baby's cry. “Are you taking that dog? Thank Heaven.”

The young mother's response was more appropriate than she would ever realize.

She patted the baby's back. “I've called the city a bunch of times to complain about how the Dickersons treat him. He's a stray and they kept him, but half the time they don't put any food out. I've been giving him kibble and water. You can't talk to the Dickersons.” Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled rotten fish. “Mostly they're drunk, both of them, and yelling so much in the middle of the night it wakes Tommy up.” She gave the baby a swift kiss. Then she looked distressed. “Are you taking the dog to the pound? They put them to sleep after three days.”

Jack gave a little yip.

“Absolutely not. He's on his way to a new home.” I hoped Kathleen was up to a new family member. “Though”—I was realizing I had some challenges facing me—“I wonder if you could help out. We have volunteers who take care of dogs while we find a new home. It's a new program. But I don't have time to get any dog food. I'm on
duty.” Much as I wanted to help Jack, I had no time to shop. “Could you possibly give me enough kibble to take care of him for a couple of days?”

The older woman nodded. “Of course. I'll dash in and get some.”

The young mother jounced the wailing baby on her hip. “Did you leave them a notice?”

My rescue mission was getting ever more complicated. I tried to appear chagrined, which wasn't difficult. “I didn't have a notice with me. If you would have some paper, perhaps…”

She called after her mother. “Bring out a pen and paper, Mama.”

In only a moment, I was jotting in capital letters on an 8-by-10 white notecard:

NOTICE OF ANIMAL RESCUE

I glanced toward the house.

I wrote
Officer M. Loy
with a flourish.

I doubted the Dickersons would rush to call the police. I used the tape provided by my new friends to attach the message to the front door of Jack's former residence. As I passed by the picket fence, I paused. “We had a call out here on Thursday. A car ran the stop sign”—I pointed toward the corner—“and almost hit a bicyclist. By
the time we got here, there was no trace of the car and the rider was too upset to give us a good description. I don't suppose either of you”—I looked inquiring—“happened to be outside around five o'clock Thursday evening? It was cold and windy.”

The older woman clapped her hands. “I'll bet it was Irene Chatham. She's a hazard behind the wheel. I get off work at four-thirty and I get home about a quarter to five. She almost hit me coming out of her drive.” She pointed at Irene's house. “I'll bet she ran right through that stop sign.”

I got the particulars, the make and year and color of her car, then tucked the bag of food under one arm, took Jack's rope, and off we went. I hoped it didn't occur to the bungalow's residents to wonder why Officer Loy was afoot. I didn't look back.

We'd gone only a few steps when I heard that familiar rumble.

“Precepts—”

I finished for Wiggins, “Three and Four.”

Jack gave an eager snuffle, came up on his back legs, his front paws in the air.

“Good fellow.” Wiggins spoke with delight.

Jack's chin went up and I knew Wiggins was stroking his throat.

Jack dropped down.

A genial harrumph. “Although becoming visible is best avoided, you handled this chap's rescue very nicely. The official notice was well done. There will be no cause for the observers to suspect that anything unusual has occurred. However”—a heavy sigh—“the episode last night at the police station was highly irregular. Awkward. A blot upon the bright shield of the department.”

I was puzzled. “The police department? I thought the policeman did as well as could be expected.”

“Not a blot on the police department.” Now Wiggins was roused. “A blot on the fine reputation of the Department of Good Intentions.”

“Wiggins.” I handed him the leash. “If I've failed, I'll resign at once.”

The leash was back in my hand immediately. Just as I expected, Wiggins would never desert Jack and I was taking him to a new and good home. I had a sudden picture of Wiggins as a little boy, minus the walrus mustache, a hound eagerly licking his face as he laughed in delight.

“Don't be hasty, Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins's voice was a bit farther away. “In the face of adversity, you protected Kathleen last night. Moreover, Kathleen is growing in courage. Keep up the good work.”

Jack's head turned, and I knew he was watching Wiggins depart.

I tugged on the leash. “Jack, old buddy, let's go faster.”

He answered with a little woof.

When we reached the church, Jack and I moved from tree to tree because there were a half-dozen cars parked behind the rectory and more cars and pickups in the church parking lot. Teenage boys were hefting bales of hay and monster pumpkins. Girls giggled and held the door to the parish hall. I was glad Kathleen was occupied with setting up for the Spook Bash.

As soon as Jack and I were safely on the porch, I disappeared. In the kitchen, I found some plastic bowls, filled one with water, the other with a small portion of kibble, brought them to the porch. Jack noisily drank, then devoured the food. He looked up expectantly.

I smoothed the top of his head. “I know you're still hungry. But we'd better start off slow.”

Jack stared for a moment more, then wagged his tail, as if to say,
Sure thing,
and began to explore the porch. I stepped back into the kitchen and printed on the message blackboard:

I was sure of the latter. If it weren't for Jack, I wouldn't know one important fact: Irene Chatham had lied when she claimed to be home from 5 to 7
P.M
. Thursday evening. In fact, she'd screeched from her driveway in a tearing hurry at about a quarter to five. I was almost sure I knew where she was going, but I needed proof. I suspected that Murdoch had called Irene from his office, intending to force a showdown with her and the rector, and Murdoch's secretary was aware of that call. She was the kind of secretary who always knew what the boss was doing.

I found the telephone directory. In only a moment I had the address for Daryl Murdoch's secretary. I checked the parish directory. Patricia Haskins was also a communicant of St. Mildred's. I found that very interesting, but not, given my speculations, surprising.

 

The stucco apartment building
was built around a patio with a pool and benches. I checked the mailboxes near the office. A neatly printed card in 307 read:
Patricia Haskins
.

I reappeared when I stood outside her door. The wooden shutters were closed in the front window. I knocked. No answer. I looked around, saw no one, disappeared, and wafted inside.

The living room was exquisitely clean, the walls pale blue, the overstuffed furniture in soft white faux leather. A tiger-striped cat on a cushion near the kitchen lifted his head, studied me with enigmatic golden eyes. I had no doubt he saw me.

I knelt, smoothed silky fur. “Nobody home?”

The cat yawned, revealing two sharp incisors and a pink tongue.

I popped up, made a circuit of the living room. No dust. No muss. No casual disarray. One wall of bookshelves held biographies, books on bridge, and Book-Of-The-Month club titles. On another wall were three framed Edward Hopper prints.

A small walnut desk sat in one corner. I found her checkbook
in the right-hand drawer and a box of checks as well as stubs neatly bound with rubber bands. I hunted for an engagement calendar, found an address book. There was an entry for Irene Chatham. It was a link, but this was a small town. I needed more.

The bedroom yielded nothing of interest but a collection of family pictures in neat rows atop a bookcase and on a dresser. It was cheerful to see that the rather formal Mrs. Haskins was also a mother and grandmother. In a Christmas scene, her eyes soft, her smile beatific, she was reaching out to touch the dark curls of a chubby little girl.

The kitchen was immaculate. A neat white cardboard bakery box was open. It held three dozen sugar cookies shaped like pumpkins with big chocolate eyes and curlicues of orange frosting. I edged one out, ate it neatly. I was turning to go when I saw the large wall calendar with notations in several squares. And yes, she'd marked this Saturday:

8
A.M
., PICK UP TWILA, OKC
4–8
P.M
. MADAME RUBY-ANN/SPOOK BASH

I understood the first entry only too well. Patricia had picked up a friend and gone up to Oklahoma City, probably for a couple of hours of shopping and lunch. The second entry gave me hope that she planned to return in time to attend St. Mildred's Spook Bash this afternoon. But who was Madame Ruby-Ann?

I planned to attend the Spook Bash. I wanted to see Bayroo's new friend. Now I had another excellent reason to be present. I was counting on Patricia Haskins telling me the name of someone who'd called Daryl or whom Daryl had called to set up a meeting at St. Mildred's.

I wondered if Chief Cobb had picked up on Patricia's careful reply when he'd asked whether anyone else might have known Daryl's destination…

T
he chief sat at a circular table near his desk. He frowned, wrote swiftly on a legal pad. Folders surrounded him. A cordless telephone was within reach.

The chief's desk was pushed out from the wall and a bulky figure squatted behind the computer that had suffered unfortunate trauma last night. I was disappointed to see that the screen was still black. The oblong box next to the screen had been opened. The interior looked like so much honeycomb to me. I moved around the desk. Cords lay in a limp row on the floor.

The man staring at the computer shook his head. His orange ponytail swung back and forth. White stitching on the back of his blue work shirt read
COMPUTER WHIZ
. “Chief, you gotta know this had to be deliberate.”

My heart sank.

A chair scraped. The chief came behind the desk. “Last night Sergeant Lewis found the light on. He saw an intruder.”

“You don't say,” Computer Whiz marveled. “How'd some joe break into the cop shop?”

Chief Cobb hunched his shoulders. “There wasn't a break-in. No alarms sounded. The electric keypad on my office door didn't record an entry.”

Computer Whiz rocked back on his heels. “So nobody came in but somebody came in. Did the cop get a good look?”

Chief Cobb folded his arms. “Sergeant Lewis thinks it was a woman.”

A snicker. “He doesn't know one when he sees one?”

Chief Cobb was short in his answer. “All he saw was a witch's costume. When he came after her, she went out the window.”

The repairman glanced toward the windows. “Second story, Chief. Was she was flying on a broomstick?”

“Whoever it was got away. Somehow.” The chief, too, glanced at the windows. “Lewis is a good man, but he claims he was running toward her when a chair tripped him and he dropped his gun and the window slammed down. His gun's gone. We haven't found any trace of it. That's when he saw a flash and heard popping sounds and the computer went black.”

“Somebody”—Computer Whiz pointed with an accusatory finger—“jammed this cord here and that cord there. Nobody ought to take out plugs and put them back in the PS2 ports when the monitor's up and running. It blew the fuses on the motherboard and the whole system crashed.”

Cobb frowned. “Sergeant Lewis claims no one was near it.”

Computer Whiz looked skeptical. “Maybe Sergeant Lewis imagined pops and crackles and somebody'd already done the deed. Or maybe it's like he said, he walks in and the system blows. In that case, invisible fairies must have been playing pin the tail on the poor damn computer. Take your pick, but somebody did it.”

The chief looked morose. “Can you fix it?”

“Yeah.” The repairman sounded cheerful. “It'll take a while.”

Cobb's face wrinkled. “How long? I'm in the middle of a murder investigation.” He pointed at the legal pad. “I'm having to write stuff out by hand.”

Computer Whiz shrugged. “I've done all I can do today. Got to order some parts from Oklahoma City. When I get them, it'll be two days minimum. If all goes well.”

Chief Cobb grunted, returned to his table. When the door closed behind Computer Whiz, Cobb blew out a spurt of air, scrawled on his pad:

 

Screwy stuff re Murdoch case

I'd left rather a trail across Adelaide. Hopefully Officer Loy need not need appear again.

More screwy stuff possibly related to Murdoch case

I remembered looking into slate-blue eyes…I shook myself back to the present.

I felt rather breathless. It didn't take a badge to see the direction of Chief Cobb's thoughts. Who was the unknown Mrs. Troy? Why was she cleaning the back porch of the rectory? I was afraid I'd erected a signpost reading
CRIME SCENE.

Chief Cobb scrawled:

Cobb shook his head, flipped to a fresh page.

PERSONS OF INTEREST

• 1 The Rev. William Abbott, rector St. Mildred's. Quarreled with Murdoch Thursday morning. Refused to reveal reason for disagreement. Claimed privileged matter. Murdoch had called vestry meeting for Sunday afternoon to consider fiduciary irregularity. Motive: Possible financial wrongdoing. Opportunity: In church when crime likely occurred.
  
• 2 Kathleen Abbott, rector's wife. Lied about reason for visit to Murdoch cabin Wednesday
  

I drew in a sharp breath.

Cobb started. He looked around, stared at his closed door, frowned.

I edged away from his shoulder. The man had hearing like a lynx.

He resumed writing.

I returned, breathing delicately.

He reached for a file, flipped it open. He picked up his telephone, punched numbers. “Mrs. Abbott?” He listened. “Do you have a cell number for her?” He wrote quickly on the outside of the folder. “Thank you.”

No doubt Bayroo had answered. I hoped the delivery of the cake had gone well.

Cobb clicked another number. “Mrs. Abbott? Chief Cobb. Where were you from five to seven Thursday evening?” He scrawled a thumb-size question mark on his pad. “Oh, at the rectory. Did you see anyone near the shed at the back of the property?”

I hoped Kathleen was keeping her cool.

“A witness observed you returning a wheelbarrow to the shed.” He looked as predatory as a cat toying with a mouse.

I gasped. Aloud.

His head jerked every which way.

I didn't regret worrying him. Wasn't it against the law for a policeman to lie? Why, his very own notes made it clear he didn't know where Kathleen was when Daryl was shot.

He gripped the phone tighter. “You didn't mention that earlier.”

What was Kathleen saying? It was time I went to the parish hall. If only I were in time…

 

The parish hall looked
like a combination rummage sale and carnival. Huge posters announced:

 

A
NNUAL
S
POOK
B
ASH

4–8
P.M.
S
ATURDAY
O
CTOBER
29

S
T
. M
ILDRED'S
P
ARISH
P
UMPKIN
P
ARTY

A
LL GOODS, SERVICES, AND ENTERTAINMENTS DONATED

P
ROCEEDS
D
ESIGNATED FOR
A
DELAIDE
F
OOD
B
ANK

 

Big fans in the corners of the room were tilted toward the ceiling, rippling orange and black streamers that dangled from oak beams. The wail of a winter wind moaned from the sound system. Black trash bags were taped to the windows, making the room dim. Cardboard skeletons with arms akimbo and one leg in a high kick were pinned on either side of each window. Decorated gourds, Thanksgiving centerpieces, pumpkin ceramics, assorted collectibles, homemade cakes, candies, breads, and jams filled trestle tables around the perimeter. Apples bobbed in large zinc pails. Cardboard signposts advertised
FACE PAINTING, MADAME RUBY-ANN'S FANTASTIC FORTUNES, MYSTERIOUS MAZE, GHOST BUSTERS TENT, PUMPKIN PALETTE,
and
DINAH'S DEE-LICIOUS DINER.

Orange T-shirts with
SPOOK BASH
in topsy-turvy black letters identified volunteers. Teenagers arranged pumpkins and struggled with bales of hay. Voices, high and low, young and old, reverberated. “…over here, Pete, over here…be careful or it'll fall…put all the chocolate on one table…can't stand that noise…Suzie, those angel cards are precious!”

Kathleen stood near the maze made from stacked hay bales,
clutching her cell phone. She looked as wary as a kayaker in a swamp teeming with alligators, but she sounded untroubled. “Oh, that. I never thought about mentioning it. I saw the wheelbarrow out in the yard and thought I'd better—”

I yanked the cell phone from her hand—“bring it in the house.”

“In the house? You mean the shed.” The chief sounded puzzled.

“Did you say Fred?” My voice was an excellent imitation of Kathleen, but that was easy, she sounded so much like my sister, Kitty. “It's awfully noisy here. I think I'm misunderstanding you.” I held the phone up in the air as the wind noise reached a high pitch and a teenage girl shrieked, “Eeeek, there's a snake in the hay. Tommy said so.”

“What's going on?” Cobb snapped.

I spoke loudly. “We're getting ready for the Spook Bash. It starts at four o'clock here in the parish hall. We have baked goods and hot dogs and chili and collectibles and games and a contest to paint faces on the pumpkins and—”

A little girl's piercing voice demanded, “Mama, Mama, look at the cell phone up in the air.”

I glanced down. Curious brown eyes stared at the cell in my hand. Of course there was no hand visible. Drat.

Kathleen moved fast, placing her hand over mine.

I struggled to hear.

Chief Cobb interrupted. “Okay, Mrs. Abbott. I saw the posters when I was at the church this morning. But I want you to explain why you put the wheelbarrow in the shed Thursday evening.”

I grabbed Kathleen's shoulder, pivoted her so that she was between me and the little girl who was tugging on her mother's T-shirt. “Wheelbarrow?” My voice rose in surprise. “What wheelbarrow?”

Kathleen tilted to one side, valiantly held up her hand, but there was a gap between it and the cell phone.

Chief Cobb was impatient. “The wheelbarrow that is kept in the rectory toolshed. You were observed returning it to the toolshed.”

The little girl's voice rose. “Mama, that cell phone's up there by itself.”

Her plump mother, chattering to an animated volunteer, reached down, swooped her up onto one hip. “Don't interrupt, Mindy.”

I dropped down behind a bale of hay. “I don't know anything about a wheelbarrow.” I combined innocence, amusement, and a hint of impatience. Myrna Loy was such a good influence. “The sexton takes care of all the lawn equipment and tools and he does a wonderful job. Someone's made a mistake. Certainly I had nothing to do with a wheelbarrow at any time. I only went out into the yard for a minute Thursday to get the teal arrow. I know people get rushed, but even a volunteer should be responsible. There it was, simply propped up by the back steps, and you know how uncertain the weather's been and I was right in the middle of dinner and scarcely had time but I dashed out to bring it inside—”