Ghost to the Rescue (7 page)

Deirdre took a deep breath. “But I saw Jay again. He called and asked me to come to the cabin to celebrate—”

This was the tricky part, Deirdre's visit to cabin 5. I hoped she was convincing.

“—and I agreed. I suppose it took me five minutes or so to walk there. I knocked. Jay offered me some champagne but I refused. We spoke for a few minutes and I was really happy to know I was going to be named to the faculty. I thanked him, said good night, and came back to my room.”

The chief slowly nodded.

My heart sank. I don't think he believed her.

“Did you see anyone near cabin five?”

Deirdre was abruptly much more convincing. “Not a soul. It was really quiet. I didn't see anyone. Or”—she gave a small shrug—“if I did, I didn't notice. I was thinking about the good news.”

“Right.” Sam nodded. “Thank you for coming to see us, Ms. Davenport.”

When Deirdre reached the door, he spoke again, his voice heavy. “If you remember anything else, come and see us.”

In the hallway, Deirdre walked fast toward the lobby.

I didn't need to look at her face to know she was scared. I was terribly afraid she had good reason to be scared.

I studied the day's schedule on a placard placed on an easel in the lobby.

10:00 a.m. Opening session—Director Jay Knox, main auditorium

11:00 a.m. “Knock 'em Dead with a Killer Beginning”—Featured speaker Deirdre Davenport, main auditorium

11:00 a.m. “Be Authentic”—Maureen Matthews, conference rooms B and C

Noon. Break for lunch

1:00 p.m. “An Editor's Heads-up”—Featured speaker Jessica Forbes, main auditorium

1:00 p.m. “Truth, Not Spin”—Professor Ashton Lewis, conference rooms B and C

2:00 to 4:00 p.m. Prescheduled appointments:

Conference room A. “E-book Magic”—John Kelly

Conference room B. “Pitch Your Novel to an Agent”—Cliff Granger

Conference room C. “Marketing Your Book”—Pam Fisher

6:00 p.m. Cocktails on the terrace

7:00 p.m. Barbecue buffet on the terrace

The placard was low-tech. Modern hotels run more to electronic boards with a continuous feed of information on activities. Conference room A had been scratched out and D substituted.

Attendees once again streamed toward the terrace. The ten o'clock session would begin soon with, I assumed, Maureen Matthews taking over for Jay. Hal Price was on the auditorium steps, scanning those entering. If he was looking for a redhead, he was going to be disappointed.

I went inside, hovered above those settling into seats. I looked for Liz Baker and her companion and Harry Toomey. I spotted Liz talking to a genial-looking older woman. Liz was now unaccompanied but she still looked stressed. I was thorough in my search. Harry Toomey was not in the auditorium.

I waited long enough to hear Maureen Matthews announce Deirdre as the new faculty member. “We are excited to welcome Deirdre Davenport, a wonderful writer who will join our faculty this fall. She will be a great asset to the department. It would be my pleasure to introduce her to you now, but she is assisting the police in their
investigation. She is speaking at eleven, and I know you will offer her your congratulations. . . .”

Now, Harry's absence truly interested me. Last night he had set out to talk to Jay Knox, hoping that Jay hadn't selected Deirdre. Had Harry spoken to Jay? Had Jay told him Deirdre would be the new faculty member? Had Harry stayed away from this morning's session because he knew he had been passed over? That seemed very likely.

I found an empty conference room and appeared in a prim, high-necked, slightly shapeless gray knit dress. I tried a black wig. Ghastly. I considered various colors—brown, silver, gray—finally settled on a blonde pageboy. I added dark glasses with purple frames. As an added touch, I eschewed makeup. The purse was a boring shoulder bag in black leather. I squeezed my eyes in concentration, then opened the bag. I smiled when I drew out a black leather folder, opened it, and saw an ID card for Detective M. Loy. My smile wavered as I studied the image. I consoled myself that the harlequin frame sunglasses would draw a viewer's eyes, not ghostly pale skin.

I doubted anyone who had glimpsed Judy Hope in the bar last night would recognize her in this guise. I was ready to work.

I waited patiently in a line at the front desk. Two clerks on duty were answering questions, checking people in, dealing with disputed charges, registering complaints.

When I faced a frazzled brunette, I flipped open the ID. “Detective Loy. Homicide. I need some room numbers.”

Excited by her proximity to a murder investigation, she quickly provided them: Harry Toomey in room 217, Liz Baker in 311, Ashton Lewis in 302, Maureen Matthews in 326. Cliff Granger was in cabin 6 and Jessica Forbes in cabin 7—finer quarters for the New York visitors.

I carefully wrote down the numbers in a small notebook from the purse—Heaven does provide—thanked her, moved away. I took the stairs to the second floor. At room 217, I knocked firmly.

The door jerked open. Harry Toomey had the air of a man freshly shaved and showered, a man looking forward to his day.

I felt momentarily at a loss. I'd hurried up here to see him because he skipped the session where the new faculty member was announced. I assumed he'd followed through on his plan to see Jay last night and had learned that Deirdre was the choice. I thought he would be skulking in despair. Obviously, he wasn't. Yet I knew he'd left the bar to go see Jay. From his demeanor, I wondered if he had heard about Jay's murder. Perhaps he'd ignored the summons to the auditorium. He looked at me politely.

“Police.” I spoke in a crisp, commanding tone, though I kept my voice in a slightly higher register than normal. I held out my black leather folder.

He scarcely glanced at it, but I definitely had his attention. The watery brown eyes looked at me warily. “You want to talk to me?”

“Yes, sir. About Jay Knox.”

His face creased. “Man, that's a shocker.” His tone was perfunctory. No sad songs for Jay here.

“From information received, we know that you talked to Jay Knox last night.” I estimated the time of his departure from the bar. “Between ten thirty and ten forty-five.”

His light brown eyes narrowed in thought. “That sounds about right. I'd been in the bar, talked to this lady about publishing. She'd heard that Jay was going to announce Deirdre Davenport as the new faculty member. I guess I was surprised. I thought he'd picked me. I decided to go see him, but I only stayed a few minutes.”

I was firm. “We know quite a bit about your contacts with Jay Knox. If you are cooperative, we can talk here and it won't be necessary to go downstairs.” My tone suggested it would be much easier for all concerned if we spoke here. I smiled and stepped forward.

He backed away from me. “Sure. We can talk here.” He was eager to be agreeable.

I closed the door behind me. “You can sit in the chair.”

He sank onto the oversize office chair, designed for a man six foot four inches tall and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds. Harry's worn running shoes didn't quite touch the floor.

I slid the leather folder into a pocket, pulled the notebook out of my purse. I stopped a foot or so away, remained standing, looked down over the rim of the sunglasses. “We'll be taking your fingerprints this afternoon to confirm the fact that you visited cabin five. Please describe your actions.”

He talked fast. “I don't know anything that will help the police. I talked to Jay for a few minutes—”

“The subject?”

“Well, I'd been in the bar and there was a woman who'd heard that Deirdre Davenport was going to get the new faculty job. I thought I'd go ask Jay. See”—and suddenly there was pathos in his eyes—“I'm self-published.” He looked at me doubtfully, wondering if I understood.

I nodded. “The new big wave in publishing.”

He was suddenly animated. “Exactly. Any writer can have a book now.” He looked down at the top of his scuffed Adidases. “But only a few self-published books ever really succeed.” He sounded discouraged. “Writers need a real publisher, somebody pushing the book, getting orders from wholesalers and stores and libraries. I thought if I got the faculty job, I'd have a chance to talk to editors and agents. I know my book can sell, get the backing it needs, if I have the right contacts.” His eyes were bright. “That's all I need, somebody to place my book.”

I wasn't interested in Harry's analysis of publishing. “You went to see Jay.” I held the pencil above the pad. “You took the path from the terrace. Did you see anyone on your way to the cabin?”

“I wasn't paying much attention.” He was vague. “Some people were sitting by the pool. The path twists and turns. I didn't run into anybody. There are some side paths with benches. I heard somebody laughing. It's around the third turn that you can see cabin five. The lights were on so I went up and knocked. Jay came to the door. I don't think he was pleased to see me. I told him I had to talk to him and he said okay, he had five minutes. He let me in. He sat on the sofa and I sat in a brown leather chair. I told him I'd heard he'd picked Deirdre. He looked kind of surprised—”

I had a feeling that Harry Toomey was accurately describing his exchange with Jay. Now it was my turn to be surprised. I'd arrived prepared for denials, lies, evasions. Was I naïve? Certainly a murderer would be well prepared to spin a clever tale.

“—and I thought maybe what I'd heard was wrong, but he turned his hands over, said he'd had a visit with Randall, and Randall made it clear that he wanted Deirdre.”

So Jay had planned all along to announce Deirdre's selection.
If she'd succumbed to his wishes, she would always have thought she'd been chosen because of a tawdry quid pro quo. I wondered if Jay had any inkling how degrading that would have been for her. Had he been oblivious to how his acts affected others or had he simply not cared? How much emotional damage had he willfully or carelessly inflicted on those around him?

Harry's face was forlorn. “Jay said he sure wished he could have picked me but Dr. Randall wanted Deirdre. Jay said, ‘The old boy was sanctimonious about never interfering with faculty discretion, then he gave me this meaningful stare and said he was looking forward to the announcement that he hoped would be a pleasant surprise, an announcement that underscored the professional accomplishments of the faculty. Randall's big on faculty publications. I didn't need a fortuneteller to understand what he was telling me.' Jay said he hoped I understood that he had to go with the flow.” The memory of what he'd learned last night was clear in his drooping face. His book was all that mattered to him. He wanted his book to be read and admired, loved.

I stepped closer, made my voice stern. “How angry were you?”

Harry's head jerked up. It was as if last night's misery had never been. He looked shocked and uneasy, but there was no trace of defeat or despair. “I was upset but I knew it wasn't really Jay's fault. She”—his tone was resentful—“was published by a New York house. I just got up and said I was sorry it hadn't worked out and left.”