Ghost to the Rescue (8 page)

I pictured eyes hot with tears and a quick departure, Harry clutching at dignity.

“That's what you claim.” My tone was skeptical. “But you wanted that job. Maybe you saw red. Maybe you walked to the coffee table, picked up the champagne bottle, and struck him down.”

“Not me.” A touch of malice glinted in his eyes. “Hitting a guy
with a bottle sounds like a woman on a tear. You might check with Deirdre. Jay liked women. She has a good body. I'll bet he was hoping to score. Maybe she didn't want the job that bad.”

The police would soon pick up on Jay's arrival at Deirdre's door last night and his angry departure. Harry's scenario would add to their suspicion.

“Do you know of anyone else who might have been upset or angry with him?”

“I heard he and Maureen Matthews had a thing going but he dumped her.” Harry clearly enjoyed airing gossip. “That was about the time we were interviewed. Deirdre probably had something to do with that. Maybe she was playing up to Jay.”

“Was Jay involved with Liz Baker?” The girl's thin face was clear in my memory—young, miserable, distraught.

Harry looked blank. “Not anybody I know. If she's a looker, I wouldn't be surprised.”

I described Liz. “Young. Early twenties. Delicate features. Slender. Dark brown hair. Last night she was wearing a sleeveless white cotton shirtdress.”

Harry's face changed. It was as if he drew a line from one dot to another. He gave a tiny nod.

I was certain he recognized the description. “You know who she is?”

Harry was suddenly bland. “Maybe I've seen her around.” He was casual. “Does she have a guy with her, sandy-haired, maybe mid-twenties?”

“Yes.” I waited and watched.

“Yeah,” Harry was expansive. “I guess I've seen them around. I think she may be one of the writers Jay worked with. You'd have to ask her. I've never met the lady.”

“Do you know anyone with reason to want Jay dead?”

His moon face was suddenly malicious. “I'd heard his editor wasn't happy with his latest book. You could ask her. Jessica Forbes.”

I rather doubted editors resorted to murder to rid themselves of lousy books. A simple rejection would suffice. “Did Jay say whether he was expecting anybody?”

Harry's lips pursed into a knowing smile. “I guess he was. He said he'd give me five minutes. Why else the champagne? Sounds like a woman to me.”

“Did you see anyone when you left?”

He looked down at the floor. “I left real quick. I went down to the lake and walked out on the pier.”

I could see him stumbling blindly down the steps, seeking a place to deal with his despair.

“You stayed there how long?”

“A while. Then I went up to my room.” He looked up at me.

Any high school teacher knows that look.
I don't know what happened. I wasn't there. Had to be somebody else.

I studied that round, smooth face. Some fact was hidden behind that bland gaze, that fatuously earnest expression. There was something more to his actions than withdrawal to the lake. “You passed cabin five on the way to your room. Did you talk to Jay again?”

“No.” A quick, firm reply. The earnest look redoubled.

I gave him a hard stare. “If you know anything about the circumstances of the crime, it is your duty to inform the police.”

“If I can help the police in any way, I want to do so. It's dreadful, what happened.” But the words were glib.

I still found that earnest expression suspicious. There was
something there, knowledge or a guess or a glimpse. “Who did you see when you passed cabin five on the way to the lodge?”

His eyes widened. “I just hurried past. I couldn't say if anyone was there.”

Couldn't say or wouldn't say?

I nodded. “We'll be in touch to take your statement.”

I walked to the door, turned at the last instant. “Did you stop near the cabin?”

He looked shocked, then blinked as if puzzled. “Excuse me. I don't know what you're talking about.”

His bland expression—
The dog ate my homework. The hard drive was destroyed
—told me he knew exactly what I was talking about. When he walked back from the pier, he had stopped outside the cabin. He either went into the cabin again or perhaps he saw someone go in or come out of the cabin.

“The person who killed Jay”—my voice was grave—“won't hesitate to kill again. Don't be a fool. Tell what you know.” Was he a killer laughing inside at my suggestion?

He shook his head again. “I don't have anything for the police.”

I stepped into the hall. As the door closed, I had a sense I had missed something more. I absolutely didn't believe his claim that he went straight to his room. So that wasn't making me uneasy. Something else . . .

I was almost to the stairs when I understood what puzzled me. Last night Harry had been in despair, seen his dreams destroyed. This morning he appeared cheerful when he opened the door to me. He'd looked out at me with no aura of depression or sadness. He was in a good humor, almost buoyant, until I introduced myself. Perhaps he
was simply mercurial, an optimist who always recast circumstances to see a win instead of a loss. Maybe hope sprang eternal and he was sure that right around the corner the unicorn of success awaited him. If so, good for him. But I didn't have time to ponder Harry's publishing future.

I knocked on the door to room 311. I was interested to see if anyone answered. I didn't know Liz Baker's relationship with Jay Knox, but she was a recent graduate of the college and had been involved in the writing program. Maureen Matthews indicated Liz spent quite a bit of time with Jay. I assumed she was attending the conference because she had a book to sell. If so, she might now be at one of the sessions. If she was in her room, it might indicate distress over Jay's death or—

The door swung open.

The young man who'd sat next to Liz at the small table near the bar looked out. He was not tall, perhaps five foot eight, slender, with sandy hair that swept back in a wave from his face. His features were clear-cut. There was an air of sensitivity about him. He would, I thought, be a good son—kind to animals, easy to like.

If you don't think faces reveal that much, look harder next time when you encounter a stranger. Or a friend. Or a lover.

I introduced myself, flipped open the black leather folder. “I'm looking for Liz Baker.”

He shook his head. “She isn't here.” He started to close the door.

I moved forward, blocked the door with my elbow. “I'll start with you. Let me see your ID.”

“Why?” His young jaw jutted.

“To establish your identity.” Was I dealing with a boyfriend or a husband?

“You knock on my door, want my ID. You got no right.” The door slammed in my face.

I wondered if he had firsthand experience with police or if he was savvy from years of watching
Law & Order
. But his response wasn't the norm for the average citizen.

I glanced up and down the hall, disappeared.

Inside the small hotel room, he stood a few feet from the unmade bed, cell phone in hand. “A cop's been here.” There was an edge of panic in his voice. “We got to talk. I'll meet you at the end of the pier.
Now.”

F
rom a distance, the couple at the end of the pier made an attractive picture, she quite slender and young in the blue knit dress that the breeze molded against her, he in a tight-fitting yellow polo, khaki shorts, and sneakers. The breeze stirred her short brown hair, tugged at his polo. An observer could be forgiven a pang of envy, for remembering when all things were possible, when bodies were lithe and spirits carefree, remembering youth.

Perched on a piling, I saw young faces ravaged by fear, despair, guilt, and anger.

“What happened, Tom?” She laced her fingers tightly together.

“This detective came.” He slid a glance back toward the shore, but they were alone with the slap of water and the caw of ebullient crows. Three empty rowboats provided by the lodge were pulled up on shore. There was no one near to hear them.

She hooked thin fingers on the neck of her dress. “What did you tell him?”

“Her. Frumpy old gal. Flipped open her black folder, showed me her ID.”

I would have taken offense, but decided instead to be pleased at the effect of my costume.

“She wanted to see my ID. I told her no way, shut the door. She was hunting for you. Liz, you set out looking for him last night. Does anyone else know that?”

She hunched thin shoulders, stared out at the water and the ripple of little whitecaps from the ever-present Oklahoma wind.

“Liz.” There was desperation in his high voice.

She spoke in jerks. “I went out on the terrace. His agent was standing by the fountain, looking out at the gardens. I asked him if he knew where Jay was. He said he was probably in his cabin. I guess he could tell I was upset. He's a nice man. His name's Cliff Granger. He asked me if anything was wrong and I thought maybe he could help. I told him I'd given money to Jay, and Jay promised Mr. Granger would look at my book. I told him I had to get the money back and would he please not look at my book and tell Jay he wasn't interested and ask Jay to give me the money back. He said he'd be glad to do that and he'd tell Jay, but he didn't think it would help.”

Tom reached out, pulled her to face him. “Did you tell him why you wanted the money back? Did you tell him how mad I was? Did you tell him Jay took money that belonged to me, money I'd worked two years to save—” His voice shook.

Those who have a comfortable bank account can't ever really understand scrimping and saving, the welling of panic when a tire
blows out, the scramble when any unexpected expense arises and there's not enough money in the bank to buy the tire, unplug a toilet, pay the vet.

I looked more closely at Liz and Tom. They had the fine flush of youth and health but their clothes were from a strip-mall store. The wedding ring on her left hand held a very small stone, likely a zircon instead of a diamond.

“—that you took the money out of the bank and gave it to him.” His drawn face reflected the anguish of loss, the loss of money he couldn't replace, the loss of trust in Liz.

“I did it for us. If my book sold it would be more money—”

“Not for us. For you. You took what was ours and threw it away for a bunch of stupid words.” He dropped her arm.

“Stupid words?” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“I'm sorry.” His mouth wobbled. “But you took the money. I got to buy a new transmission for the car. I got to get to work. I can't pay for it.” He turned, head down, walked away, and didn't slow when she called his name.

Liz stared after him, tears streaming down her face.

In conference room A, Sam listened impassively to a petite woman with unnaturally black hair in a jagged, uneven cut. She was all sharp edges, her birdlike features animated, her thin hands fluttering. “I just happened to open the door to my room. And coming out of her room right that minute was Deirdre Davenport.” A tone of astonishment at the wondrous workings of fate. “Well, it seemed like such a fortunate coincidence.” Bright unabashed look. She trilled, “And, you know, carpe diem.” She looked at Sam doubtfully. “That means—”

Sam's nodded his big head. “I know what that means.”

Detective Weitz stared stolidly ahead.

Detective Sergeant Hal Price's lips flickered and he gave the chief a quick glance.

Sam cleared his throat. “You came out of your room. What time was that?”

“Four minutes to eleven.” Her eyes were bright, her tone precise.

I saw trouble ahead. This woman might act giddy and prattle, but she was nobody's fool.

Sam made a note. “You saw Ms. Davenport.”

A wriggle of eagerness. “There I was and there she was, so, as I said, I thought,
Carpe diem
, and rushed over to her and introduced myself, ‘Ms. Davenport, I'm Gladys Samson and if you can give me just a minute, I want to show you my book. I have it in my room. Six hundred and seventy-nine pages. The title is
Galactic Glory
. I love to share my first paragraph. It sets the tone.'” She took a deep breath, dropped her voice an octave. “‘Colors whirled like a merry-go-round in the sky, that moment between waking and sleeping when all the world for an instant seems bright and clear and you see everything as if from a star looking down, down—'”

Sam broke in. “Yes, ma'am. That's very good. Did Ms. Davenport go in your room?”

The eagerness faded. “She said Professor Knox was expecting her and so she didn't have time.” There was an edge of resentment. She'd offered to share her book and been turned away.

“Can you describe Ms. Davenport's demeanor?”

Hal stood by the window and the sun turned his hair as golden as wheat. For an unguarded instant, Hal's handsome face, set in tight lines, revealed tension. He was not a police detective
dispassionately listening to a witness. He was a man who cared on an intensely personal level about Deirdre Davenport.

Sam didn't look toward Hal, but I'm sure he was aware that Hal abruptly leaned forward, muscles taut.

Drawn out of her self-absorption, there was a gleam of intelligence in Gladys's dark, beady eyes, a realization that the police would not be inquiring about Deirdre Davenport unless they considered her a person of interest to their investigation. “Her demeanor.” She spoke slowly, as if considering what she had seen and what it might have meant. “Now that's interesting. Very interesting.” She preened. “I pride myself on my power of observation—so necessary for a novelist, you know. Now that I think about last night, I realize that her aura was dark. Very dark. An aura,” she explained, “is the emotional cloud that envelops each of us. Why, you”—she pointed a bony finger at Sam—“have a Viking aura, Nordic blue, stalwart, commanding.”

I pictured Sam in a Viking helmet.

Gladys pointed at Detective Weitz. “Your aura is softer—mauve with streaks of saffron.” Her gaze swung to Hal. “Golden. Gold as the morning sun.” Another preen. “Such incredible good looks. I imagine women flock to you.” She waited a beat to let everyone conjure a picture of women streaming toward Hal. “If you don't mind my saying so. But I am always frank.”

And, I felt sure, a pain in the ass to everyone around her.

Sam cleared his throat. “Did Ms. Davenport appear happy?”

I wasn't sure where Sam was heading. But I never underestimate him.

“Happy? Certainly not.” Gladys's tone was waspish. “She looked upset. I would definitely say she was preoccupied and uneasy.”

I was aware of utterly different reactions.

Sam's heavy face was as intent as a bloodhound with a scent.

Detective Weitz looked satisfied, as if this statement confirmed her thoughts.

Hal's eyes shone.

Oh, of course Hal wouldn't want this woman who'd captured his imagination to eagerly rush off to a late night tête-à-tête with a man. Much better that she seemed distracted and unenthusiastic.

Sam pressed her. “Would you say Ms. Davenport looked like a woman on her way to a pleasant meeting?”

“Definitely not.” An emphatic nod and the uneven strands of dark hair quivered. “Quite the contrary. She left behind her a definite sense of strife, perhaps even anger, certainly despondency. She was not a happy woman. I wouldn't think any man would have been pleased to see her in that state.”

Hal glared at her. If looks could transport speakers to an unpleasant destination, Gladys Samson would have been in the far reaches of a desert wasteland.

“In any event,” Sam said quietly, “Ms. Davenport indicated she had an appointment with Professor Knox and walked down the hall. Did you see her again that evening?”

“No. I don't know when”—a suggestive pause—“she came back to her room.”

Sam nodded. “Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Samson.”

She chirped, “I'm delighted to help. Call on me anytime.”

Hal gazed at her with obvious distaste as she crossed the room with a flounce.

The moment the door closed, Sam leaned back in his chair. “Not the same tone we got from Davenport. According to her, all was sweetness and light when she talked to Knox.”

“Davenport was spinning a tale”—Judy Weitz was decisive—“when she claimed he invited her for a drink to celebrate her selection. I thought that sounded fishy. Pretty late at night for a champagne toast, unless he expected it to lead to something better.”

Hal was brusque. “That's a poisonous witness. She was mad because Deirdre wouldn't look at her book. Deir—Ms. Davenport probably looked unhappy because she didn't want to be trapped by a writer, especially not one who quotes the opening paragraph.”

I wondered if Sam and Detective Weitz noticed Hal's initial use of Deirdre's first name.

Judy Weitz was blunt. “Davenport's fingerprints are on the murder weapon.”

So that fact had been established. I saw the box score now: 2 to 1, Sam and Weitz over Hal.

Hal leaned forward, spoke quickly. “Deirdre explained how that happened. Knox brought the champagne—”

Sam held up a broad hand. “I heard her. But it adds up: Davenport's fingerprints on the murder weapon, and she was on the scene around the time of death. Now we know she appeared upset on her way to see him.” He gazed at Hal. “Davenport's session ends in ten minutes.”

I wasn't surprised that Sam had a handle on the day's schedule.

Sam tapped a pen on his legal pad, looked at Hal. “Bring her here. Tell her we have a few more questions.”

Hal gave an abrupt nod, kept his face wooden as he moved toward the door.

Sam turned to Weitz. “I want more about Davenport, about Knox, about last night. Get some officers going cabin to cabin.”

The net was closing around Deirdre.

“. . . and the best way to start is always with action. Readers are smart. They don't need explanations. If your character—call him Paul—if Paul's moving in the shadows down an alley, the reader will come with him, knowing something big's going to happen and perfectly content to find out the reason for Paul's presence there through his actions. Don't tell. Show.” Deirdre's enthusiasm made her voice warm. “Remember Ken Follett's beginning to
The Key to Rebecca
: ‘The last camel died at noon.' The reader is plunged into a desperate moment. Put your reader in a desperate moment.”

The applause was enthusiastic. Deirdre gave a shy smile. “Thank you. And now, we have a few minutes left. Does anyone have any questions?”

At the back of the auditorium, a conference staffer held up a card with a large numeral five, indicating five minutes left in the session.

Hands poked skyward. “The lady in the purple hat.” Deirdre bent forward to listen, nodded, then spoke into the mic. “Her question is: Is it important to have a romantic interest in a mystery?”

Was it simply coincidence that a door opened as she spoke, her resonant voice carrying to the far reaches of the auditorium, and Hal Price walked into the room? Is it coincidence to look across a room and see someone you have to know? I rather believed serendipity was at work.