Ghost at Work (8 page)

I looked toward the kitchen, but the house offered no sanctuary. Once within, I would again face the conundrum posed by the physics of a nonmaterial being transporting a material object. Besides, it would be even more damaging to Kathleen if the gun were found in the house.

Chief Cobb banged onto the porch, his face creased in a forced smile. “Nothing untoward outside, ladies. Now I'll finish my search. Please feel free to return to your—uh—meeting.”

Not a woman moved.

He looked from one to another, gave a short nod. I assumed he had a long acquaintance with women. He accepted inevitability with grace. He moved fast, perhaps regretting his visit and certainly not giving any indication he felt the search was going to be productive. He upended the rubber boots, gave each a shake. “This won't take much longer.”

His audience observed him closely.

I studied this area of the porch. It was about six feet to the screen door. I had to put myself and the gun out into the night without anyone noticing. There had to be a way. I looked at the golf bag and at the trash bags filled with cans. I snaked my free hand back into the golf bag, yanked a head cover from a wood. It was a tight fit, but I managed to squeeze the gun into the head cover. Cautiously, I unzipped a side pocket and retrieved two golf balls. With the golf balls in my left hand and the lumpy head cover in my right, I slid above the floor close to the east wall.

I was almost to the screened door when Elise cried out, “Those golf balls. Where are those golf balls going? How are they going?”

It was no time to hesitate. I placed the head cover next to the door and stood. As I did, the golf balls rose.

Elise gave a sharp squeak.

With a mighty heave, I launched the golf balls at the sacks filled with discarded cans. One bag broke. Cans bounced onto the floor. Someone screamed. Chief Cobb thundered across the porch.

I reached down, grabbed the head cover, eased open the screened door, and slipped outside. I rose almost to the roof, the head cover well out of sight near the guttering.

“Who moved those cans?” Chief Cobb roared.

“A rat,” Elise shouted. “I saw a rat. I know it was a rat.”

“How did it open the back door?” the imperious woman with silver hair asked politely, her tone reasonable, puzzled, and verging on nervous.

“That door opens in the wind.” Kathleen was studiously casual. I didn't think she had a future in acting, but she was doing her best. “It does it all the time. Don't give it a thought.”

“The wind is out of the north,” the reasonable voice observed. “How can it bounce open a door on the east? Chief, are you sure no one was out there?”

“Absolutely.” His voice lacked certainty. He made a grunting sound. “Almost done. Let me see about that golf bag.”

He stuck his hand into the bag and rattled the clubs. He checked the zippered side pockets. He stepped back, glanced up and down the porch, gave an irritated shake of his head. “There's no weapon here. Looks like we got a crank call.” He nodded toward Kathleen. “I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott. Please ask the reverend to call me tomorrow. I understand Daryl Murdoch spent a lot of time at the church. Maybe the reverend might have some idea why he was in the graveyard. I'll make another check of the backyard and be on my way.”

As the screen door opened, I was up and over the guttering. I nestled the swaddled gun next to the telephone. Objects were accruing. I must deal with them. And with Kathleen. As soon as possible. But perhaps I'd better keep tabs on the investigation in case the murderer had other surprises in store…

I
lightly touched the meshed grille as the police cruiser turned east on Main Street. Riding in a police car was a new experience. I would have preferred to be in the front passenger seat, but it was occupied by a grease-stained sack from Braum's, a sixteen-ounce plastic malted-milk container, several file folders, a wrinkled windbreaker, and a can of mixed nuts. Chief Cobb lifted the yellow plastic lid of the latter, fished out a handful of nuts.

A sudden crackle and a voice spoke from the dashboard. “Chief, Anita.” Her voice was low and hushed, her words quick. “Mrs. Murdoch just came home. I'd say she hasn't heard. Saw her face when the garage door opened. She looked tired, but no sign of emotion. She had on her uniform. She's a nurse. I'd guess she just got off duty. You'd think somebody would have called her on her cell, but maybe she has it turned off.”

Chief Cobb's face was somber. “I'm on my way. Keep watch until I get there.”

I sank back against the slick, plastic-sheathed seat. I'd not thought beyond saving Kathleen from her perilous predicament, but tonight marked trouble for others as well.

The cruiser picked up speed. We headed out Broadway. Everything seemed different. Littleton's Lumber Yard was gone. There were a series of big buildings with fancy signs—Home Depot, Wal-Mart, Circuit City. Parking lots teemed with cars. Many of them seemed to be an odd hybrid between old-fashioned pickups and sedans. About the spot where I remembered the turnoff to a drive-in movie, there was a cluster of houses. We passed more and more houses, many with amazingly peaked roofs. High ceilings were obviously in vogue, but heating and cooling costs must be huge.

The cruiser turned in between two stone pillars. A discreet sign on one pillar read
KENSINGTON HILLS
. The street wound in a rambling fashion with offshoots every block or so. A half mile into the hilly development, the cruiser turned onto Laurel. We drove a half block, then slowed as the chief pulled up beside another cruiser almost hidden in deep shadow beneath a cottonwood. He pushed a button and his window came down.

Officer Leland—aka Anita—who was in the second cruiser, opened her door, stepped out. She bent to look inside his car.

The chief grabbed at the stuff lying on the seat, pushed it onto the floor. “Get in, Anita. I haven't had a chance to ask about your trip. When did you get back?”

She came around the cruiser to the passenger door, opened it. In the brief flash of the interior light, I had a better glimpse of her face, somber blue-gray eyes, thin high-bridged nose, pointed chin with the hint of a cleft. If she smiled, she would be pretty in an old-fashioned, understated way. She was a little older than I had realized, possibly her late twenties or early thirties. She looked tired.

“Yesterday afternoon. Murray took my shifts while I was gone. It's good to be back at work.” She sounded distant and I wondered if it was fatigue or if she was keeping some emotion under tight control.

The chief reached out, awkwardly patted one hand. “Guess the news wasn't what you'd feared.”

She shivered. “Every time they turn up an ID that sounds like Vee, I think maybe this time I'll find her, know what happened to her. But it's always some other dead girl and I wonder where her family is, if anyone's looking. So”—she drew a deep breath—“Vee's still lost.”

“You're worn out.” His smile was kind. “You shouldn't have tried to come straight back to work.”

“It's better to be busy.” Her tone was strained. She clasped her hands, tight and hard.

“Well, I can sure use you. There's going to be plenty to do.” He cleared his throat, was once again brisk. “Get word out to everybody to come in tomorrow morning, then knock off for tonight.”

“You're sure you don't need me here?” She gestured toward a Tudor-style house. The light from living-room windows suddenly lessened as the drapes were drawn.

He shook his head. “It doesn't take two to bring bad news.”

She nodded. “Good night, Chief.”

He waited until she was in her cruiser, then eased his car down the street. He pulled into the driveway and parked.

I was right beside him when he reached the top of the bricked steps. He pushed the doorbell.

The porch light came on, brilliant as a stage spot, throwing the chief's face into hard relief, emphasizing the deep lines that grooved from lips pressed tightly together. He looked like a man bringing bad news.

The door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman looked out, her face inquiring. The RN badge on her wrinkled white uniform read
JUDITH MURDOCH
. Blond hair braided coronet-style made her plain face look severe. She had an air of weary competence.

I was surprised. Even dead, there had been a sporty attitude about Daryl Murdoch. There was nothing sporty about the woman staring out with a puzzled face. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Murdoch? Mrs. Daryl Murdoch?”

She looked anxious. “Yes.”

He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to show his shield. “I'm Chief Cobb of the Adelaide Police. I regret having to inform you—”

“Has something happened to Kirby?” Her voice trembled. “Is my son hurt?”

“I'm here about your husband, Mrs. Murdoch. His body was found tonight in St. Mildred's cemetery.” The chief's voice was gentle, but his eyes never left her face.

She looked dazed, uncomprehending. “Daryl's dead?” The words were slow and painful.

“Yes, ma'am.” He spoke quietly. “His body was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum. He died as the result of a gunshot wound, an apparent homicide. His body has been taken to the hospital. The law requires an autopsy. Is there someone I can call to come and be with you?”

“Daryl was shot?” Her voice was faint. “Who shot him?”

“We have not found any witnesses. We have secured the crime scene—”

I felt another qualm. Certainly the cemetery was not the actual crime scene.

“—and the investigation is proceeding. I know this is a hard time for you to answer questions, but I would appreciate a few minutes with you. I won't stay long. If you'll tell me someone to call…”

She held the door, moved like a sleepwalker to her right. She touched wall switches and bright lights revealed a rather stiff-looking living room with brocaded furniture, heavy red drapes, a red-and-blue Oriental rug, and a grand piano. She walked to a sofa, sank onto it. She gestured to an opposite chair with an overstuffed cushion and curly walnut legs.

Chief Cobb sat squarely, shoulders braced, hands on his knees. “To your knowledge, did Mr. Murdoch appear to be in fear for his life?”

“Daryl afraid? He was never afraid of anything.” There was an odd tone in her voice.

The chief nodded. “Did Mr. Murdoch have any enemies?”

I stood by the piano, looking at family photographs. There was a long-ago wedding portrait of Daryl and Judith. She looked prim, but her shy smile had charm, her blue eyes were eager. Dark hair gleaming, he stood with his chest out, proud and confident. So many photos, documenting passing seasons, a little boy with a mop of dark hair on a tricycle, the same boy marching in a school band with a clarinet, diving from a platform, throwing a Frisbee high in the air.

I glanced at Judith. Her face was now flaccid with shock, but I doubted she'd had that eager look for many years.

“Enemies?” She made an odd, helpless gesture. “Sometimes Daryl made people mad. He always wanted things done his way.”

The chief persisted. “Had he quarreled with anyone recently?”

“Not exactly quarrels.” She took a deep breath. “Daryl didn't think a day was worth living if he didn't butt heads with someone. He wanted things done right. If they weren't, he let people know about it.”

The chief's face was bland. “I understand. Some people are natural leaders.”

“Daryl was always in charge.” There was more sadness than admiration in her voice, and her eyes were empty. She drew her breath in sharply. “I have to find Kirby, tell him what's happened.” She pushed to her feet.

Chief Cobb rose, too, looked around the living room. “Do you expect him home soon?”

Her hands came together, locked in a tight grip. “He's staying at a friend's house.”

The chief's eyes glinted. “Where?”

She struggled for breath. “I don't know exactly. I'll be able to find him.”

“You don't know where he's staying?” He raised an eyebrow.

Judith made no answer, looked away.

Chief Cobb rocked back on his heels, his face thoughtful. “When did he move out?”

Tears welled, spilled down her cheeks. Judith wrapped her arms tight across her chest. “Two weeks ago. He's nineteen and—” She broke off, looked worn and hopeless and bereft.

Chief Cobb's eyes were sympathetic, but the question was firm. “Were your son and his father estranged?”

She flung out her hands, looked at him earnestly. “It wasn't serious. Things would have worked out.” Her tone was hollow. “It was about a girl. Daryl didn't like her. But Kirby wouldn't hurt anyone. Ever. He'll be very upset when I tell him. He and his daddy had so much fun when he was little, camping and fishing and hunting.”

…
when he was little…

I wondered if Judith realized the implication of her words. Father and son were close when Kirby was a little boy, ready to do what his father wished. Now Kirby was big and wanted to make his own choices…
hunting…
Kirby would know about guns. But that was not unusual. A great many Adelaide boys grow up hunting.

Cobb's eyes were intent. “What's the girl's name?”

“Lily Mendoza. She's a waitress at the Green Door.”

Chief Cobb nodded. “Is Kirby in school?”

“He's a senior. Daryl wants—wanted him—to apply to OU, but Kirby wanted to stay here, go to Goddard.”

Goddard is a wonderful regional college and the pride of Adelaide. I wondered if Daryl wanted his son to attend OU to get him away from what he saw as an undesirable romance.

“Well”—the chief's tone was genial—“don't worry, we'll find him for you. Who are some of your son's friends?” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket.

Judith rattled off names. “Bob Harris, Al Schuster, Ted Minter. I'll call them, try to find Kirby.”

Chief Cobb said easily, “We'll get in touch with Kirby. Now, it will be helpful to know something about Mr. Murdoch's daily routine.”

She answered quickly, eager to leave behind discussion of her son. “Daryl jogs…” A quick breath. “…jogged around six. After he showered and shaved, he went downtown for breakfast at Lulu's. He opened the office at nine.” She looked inquiringly at Chief Cobb.

He nodded. “Murdoch Investments. Used to be Murdoch and Carey.”

“He was here and there during the day, in and out of his office.” She talked fast. “Daryl was on the vestry at St. Mildred's. That took a lot of his time. He often dropped by the church on his way home.”

Chief Cobb made notes. “Was there any change in your husband's behavior in recent days? Was he worried about anything? Did he mention any concerns? Or fears?”

Judith frowned. “He was mad about something at the church.”

“The church.” The chief's voice had a curious tone. “That's where we found his car. If you don't mind, we'd like to take a closer look at it in daylight, though there didn't seem to be anything helpful when we checked it tonight. We'll return the keys in the morning. Why did he go to the church this evening?” He held the pen poised over the pad.

I felt uneasy. Another link to St. Mildred's.

She stared down at the rug. “I don't know.”

“He didn't tell you?” His voice was faintly surprised.

Judith's face tightened. “No.” She spoke without expression.

Judith Murdoch's every word revealed more than she probably realized. She might as well have worn a placard announcing
FAILED MARRIAGE.

The chief tapped the pen on the pad. “What was his schedule this afternoon?”

Judith turned up her hands, work-roughened hands. “I never knew.” There was a world of emptiness in her voice. “I mean…” She struggled for composure. “Daryl didn't like to be pinned down.” She stared at the floor.

“Where were you from four o'clock on?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but his gaze was sharp.

Something moved in her widened blue eyes. Was it in response to the time? A ripple of uneasiness? “Four o'clock?”

“Four o'clock to seven.” The chief's voice was pleasant but determined.

She lifted a hand, smoothed back a tendril of faded hair that had escaped the coronet braids. “I'm a visiting nurse.” She spoke slowly. “I see patients out in the country. I'd have to look at my book. I was at the Hillman place in late afternoon. From there, I went to the Carsons' and the Wetherbys'.”

“Are you usually out this late on Thursday?” He nodded toward the porcelain clock on the mantel.

“Sometimes. I didn't hurry. I stopped and had dinner at the Pizza Hut on Gusher, then I decided to go to the show. When I got out, I stopped at the grocery.”

I ached for her. A movie by herself. Maybe that was her answer to Thursday night with no reason to come home. Bobby Mac and I always hurried home to each other. We never lost our laughter or our love.

The doorbell buzzed, then the door was flung open. Judith took a deep breath, looked toward the hall, fear evident in her strained posture.

Footsteps clattered on the tile. A little woman with flyaway dark hair framing sharp features burst into the living room. She was pencil thin and teetered on absurdly high heels. She looked at the police chief. “Oh God, Sam, is Daryl dead?”

“Yes. He was found in the cemetery. I'm glad you've come, Meg.
I was going to call someone to help Mrs. Murdoch.” He nodded toward Judith.