Ghost to the Rescue (5 page)

Her husband lowered his newspaper, looked puzzled.

Dil flashed a quick smile. “Just my imagination. I thought I smelled a fragrance that Mother loved, a light gardenia.”

I found my son, Rob, in his workshop, even though now it was near midnight. He'd always loved working with wood. His pale reddish
hair was also flecked with silver. He looked intent, content. There was a plaque on the wall, which I was sure he'd made, a quote from Lao Tzu.

If you are depressed, you are living in the past.

If you are anxious, you are living in the future.

If you are at peace, you are living in the present.

I touched my fingers to my lips, blew a light kiss.

Rob lifted his head and a sudden sweet smile touched his face. He bent back to work, humming “Rock and Roll Music
,
” which I always sang with gusto when stirring up brownies.

I made a last survey of Silver Lake Lodge. I was visited by a sudden inspiration. In the powder room, empty at this late hour, I appeared. I hurried into the lobby, found a house telephone. “Cabin five, please.”

The phone rang several times. I was a little surprised Jay didn't answer. He had been emphatic that he intended to remain in the cabin and await Deirdre's arrival. Perhaps he'd given up, wandered into the gardens, taken a stroll down to the pier. I decided to leave a message. “The buzz is out that you selected Deirdre Davenport. You'll be pleased that Dr. Randall is absolutely delighted. Your choice reflects the mature judgment”—if Jay assumed this sentiment came from Dr. Randall, why, it simply illustrated how easy it is for anyone to jump to conclusions. It was my own observation—“expected from a candidate for tenure. It would be a shame”—this was a warning to Jay—“if you disappoint him.” I hung up.

This corner of the lobby was empty. I disappeared.

Windows in the two wings of Silver Lake Lodge were mostly dark. I made a circuit of the cabins. Though the curtains were tightly drawn, a thin streak of light seeped from the edges in cabin 5.

I wondered if Jay Knox had listened to my message.

Perhaps I'd find out tomorrow.

I arranged the bolster on the bed just so. The room gave no hint that I had occupied it last night. I took a final glance in the mirror. Perhaps my ensemble would inspire some of the women attired in black—a hip-length, bateau-necked Italian silk blouse brilliant with red, orange, and indigo blocks. Picture a macaw. Add indigo slim-legged cropped pants and orange sandals. Bright, bright, bright.

Breakfast was served on the patio. Many tables were filled. Women in black engaged in intense conversations over bacon and eggs. “
. . . 
only a thousand-dollar advance . . . but I've already had six hundred and eleven hits. . . . They promise to send e-mails to ten thousand book clubs. . . . was one of those unsigned reviews . . . Men always get more money. . . . told me no dead monkeys . . .”

Deirdre sat alone at a table for four near a goldfish pond. She appeared pale and worn, her angular face drawn in a tight frown. She looked as doomed as a poker player holding nothing higher than a ten.

I slipped into the chair next to her, gave her a bright smile. “I always told my kids, long faces make dreary places.”

Without warning, she reached out, poked me. “You again.”

“I'll be gone soon. Everything's working out.” I beamed at her.

Deirdre looked like a castaway on an atoll with no ships on the horizon. She stared down at her plate, jabbed a fork into scrambled eggs, but made no effort to eat.

I didn't understand the gloom. “My dear, I have everything under control.” I felt puffed by understandable pride. “You will be announced as the new faculty member by Jay this morning.”

“Jay's going to announce me? But he can't.” She stared at me, her face incredulous.

I was startled by her response. “I'm sure—” I looked across the patio at two men whom I knew and broke off in midsentence, tried to catch my breath.

Adelaide Police Chief Sam Cobb was just as I remembered him, a large powerfully built man with a thatch of graying dark hair, a strong face. He wore his usual baggy brown suit. At his elbow was Detective Sergeant Hal Price, white-blond hair, brilliant blue eyes, crisp blue shirt, khaki trousers, tall, lean, ruggedly handsome.

Sam listened to a small man who scurried along beside them talking fast, gesturing wildly. Hal's gaze automatically ranged around the terrace, a police officer attuned always to his surroundings. Abruptly, he stopped short and stared across the terrace.

At me.

We'd had several encounters. My heart belongs to Bobby Mac, but that doesn't mean I am oblivious to an attractive male. In a purely academic fashion, of course. Just as I wouldn't expect Bobby Mac to pass Ava Gardner on a beach and not notice. In a purely academic fashion, of course. If Ava was before your time—trust me, no man ever averted his gaze.

It wasn't my aim to entrance Hal, although his admiration was sweet. In fact, I hoped that Hal would find a winsome young woman who would win his heart. I would be the first to raise a toast.

Hal still stood and stared.

Sam Cobb stopped and looked over his shoulder, frowning.

A waiter with a tray walked between me and Hal.

I disappeared.

“Will you please stop doing that?” Deirdre unsteadily returned her coffee cup to the table. “Here, not here, here, not here. Make up your mind.”

“I'll explain later.”

In an instant, I stood at Sam's shoulder, caught a scent of woody cologne.

“You spot something, Hal?” Sam looked inquiring and slightly impatient.

Hal stared for a long moment at the table now apparently occupied only by Deirdre, then started forward. “I thought I saw”—he paused, dropped his voice—“that redhead. The one who comes and goes.”

Sam gave him a sharp look. “Officer Loy?” Sam sounded both incredulous and eager.

“I looked across the patio and there was a woman sitting with a redhead. The woman”—there was a change in his tone—“very attractive, now seems to be sitting by herself, but I could swear I saw a redhead.” His voice dropped lower. “The redhead looked like Loy.”

I had occasion in the past to appear as Officer M. Loy in one of those fetching French blue uniforms. The dark stripe down the side of each trouser leg adds flair. The name was a tribute to Myrna Loy, famed for her role as Nora Charles to William Powell's Nick. Dashiell Hammett's Nick and Nora were immortalized in
The Thin Man
.

Sam was on full alert. “Go find her.”

Hal slowly shook her head. “She was gone when I looked again. There wasn't time for her to have walked away.” Hal kept his voice even.

Sam gave a slight shake of his head. “I get you. If she's gone, she's gone. Let's get out to that cabin, see what we find.”

Their escort walked beside Sam, his words coming in short bursts. “I haven't been there yet. I called nine-one-one as soon as housekeeping told me. One of our sharper old gals saw the front door open to cabin five. She heard the air-conditioning running, so she went up on the porch to see if anyone was around. She looked inside and said there was a man lying on the floor. She said she thought he was dead and it looked like somebody clobbered him. The unit's occupied by Jay Knox, he's the guy running a conference here this week. The lodge belongs to his uncle, Walt.” The path wound among clumps of honeysuckle and weeping willows that fronted several cabins.

The men came around a bend. A middle-aged woman huddled in the shade of a willow, determinedly not looking toward the steps to cabin 5. A cleaning cart was parked in front of the cabin. The maid held a duster in one hand. The other plucked at feathers, and a little pile lay on the ground by her feet.

A young woman with pale blonde hair in tight ringlets strode to meet Sam and Hal. She was trim in the Adelaide police uniform. Her name tag read:
Officer S. Anderson
. “I've called for the ME. Nobody's been inside but the maid.” She yanked a thumb toward the open door. “She said—”

Sam held up a broad, callused hand. “We'll talk to her. I'll take a look.”

I was already inside. The overhead light blazed. The curtains were still drawn. I imagined the light had shone all night, but the only occupant of the room would never have noticed.

Jay Knox lay on his right side on the floor near the coffee table in
front of the sofa. A huge purplish blue patch discolored his left temple. That was the only sign of injury. No blood, just that uneven dark blotch.

Sam and Hal stood in the doorway. Sam's heavy face was somber. No matter what he had seen as a police officer, his expression made it clear that murder sickened him. Life was too fragile, too precious to be deliberately destroyed.

Hal understood that moment of quiet, waited to speak until Sam turned toward him. “I'd say he was caught by surprise.” Hal peered down at Jay. “No bruises on his hands. No signs of scratches.”

Sam studied the wound. “It would take a pretty heavy weapon to make that mark, something smooth, rounded.” Sam didn't step closer for a better view. He wouldn't approach the body until death was officially declared by the medical examiner. For now, his brown eyes moved carefully from left to right. The movement of his head stopped. In a quick motion, he pulled a small flashlight from his shirt pocket, one of those tiny ones with a laser beam. He turned on the bright light, pointed the beam toward a shadowy patch at the base of the television cabinet.

The beam illuminated a champagne bottle lying on the floor. “I thought I saw something.” Sam looked from the bottle to the body. “If somebody grabbed that bottle by the neck and swung, it's as good a weapon as a two-by-four.”

“Right.” Hal gazed around the living room. “Nothing appears to be out of order. Furniture's upright. No signs of disarray.” He walked to each window, returned. “No sign of a break-in.”

“I'd say he wasn't expecting trouble.” Sam's brown eyes studied the coffee table. “Maybe he had a visitor who said something like, ‘How about a drink before I go?' and picked up the bottle. The glasses are on the coffee table. Maybe he—or she—held the bottle by the neck. Pow.”

Hal's bright blue eyes gleamed. “It could have happened that way. The visitor walked up to him, holding the bottle by the neck, and made a quick pivot, full force behind the swing, the barrel of the bottle hitting the left temple.” He looked down at Jay. “A hard blow there ruptures the temporal artery. Quick. Deadly.”

“Think you can do my job?” The tenor voice behind Sam and Hal was cocky.

The two men moved aside for Jacob Brandt, the brash young medical examiner who was smart, quick, and flip. His Flaming Lips tee was too big, his age-whitened jeans had a hole in one knee, but his eyes were appraising as he looked at the body. The physical investigation of the scene couldn't begin until he certified death.

He pulled a pair of crumpled plastic gloves from a pocket, knelt by Jay. He slid on the gloves, touched a bare arm. “Rigor mortis well advanced. Dead eight to ten hours. From appearances, looks like blunt trauma. I'll tell you more after the autopsy.” He popped to his feet, yanked off the gloves, stuffed them in a pocket. “Have at it, guys. Got to get to the morgue.” For once his face looked bleak. “Happens every summer. Somebody loses track of a toddler. Pool in the backyard. God, you'd think they'd learn.” He turned and strode away, head down, face drawn tight.

A careful investigation began, officers measuring, photographing, searching. I recognized Judy Weitz, a self-effacing yet impressive detective. She knelt, took a close-up of the body with a video cam. Slowly she rose, took one step back, filmed, took another step, filmed. When she could move no farther, she would have the body in the context of the room, its position clear, every piece of furniture and all visible objects recorded in specific relationship to the body.

Sam stood in the doorway with the overwhelmed hotel employee. I guessed he was the manager.