Ghost to the Rescue (9 page)

As Hal walked up the far aisle, I felt that I heard a faraway sweep of violins—haunting, lovely, delicate.

Deirdre took a quick breath when she saw him. She paused,
repeated slowly, “A romantic interest?” Her eyes were soft. Pink touched her cheeks.

Hal gazed up at the stage, blue eyes wide and admiring.

Deirdre watched Hal as he came nearer, spoke haltingly, “Love . . . Everyone needs love. . . . Sometimes two people look at each other and somehow they know . . . It's like walking in a garden just after dawn. . . . Everything is fresh and good. . . .”

Hal was at the side of the stage now.

A bell rang.

Neither of them heard the clang.

The audience was up and moving, voices rising, feet shuffling as the exodus began.

Hal strode up the steps. He walked to her, looked down. “I'm Hal Price.”

“I saw you.” She gazed up at him as if they were alone in a wooded glen, a private, perfect place.

Deirdre said breathlessly to Hal, “I was talking about characters—”

Hal's eyes never left her face. “I heard what you said. About love.”

“Of course”—her voice was almost a whisper—“that's in a book.”

“I like books.” Three words but the tone spoke volumes, said,
You're beautiful. . . . I want to know you. . . . Take my hand. . . .

I felt that I was part of their enchanted moment. Love can't be explained in a diagram or illustrated by a formula. Love isn't dependent on logic. Love turns a day golden, dispels the night. Love shares glory, nurtures broken spirits. Love is there, day in and day out, in good times or bad, up or down, touched by sun or tossed by storm.

Finally, reluctantly, Hal spoke. “I'm afraid they have more questions.” He didn't have to explain.

The light died out of her face.

Sam Cobb didn't rise when Deirdre and Hal walked in. Sam gestured to the same chair where she had sat earlier.

Deirdre, still clasping her notes and a purse and book bag, took her seat. She shot a quick glance at Hal, who remained standing near the wall. He gave her a reassuring nod.

Detective Weitz flicked on the recorder. There was nothing warm or reassuring in her gaze. Sam looked cool, measuring, intent. Detective Sergeant Hal Price looked like a man listening to faraway violins.

I bent close to Deirdre. She couldn't see me, but she could hear my murmur. “Try not to look scared.”

The result was an immediate stiffening and the taut facial tension of a patient awaiting a root canal.

I whispered urgently. “Witness saw you in hall on your way to Jay's cabin, said you looked harried. Tell them you had a headache.”

Deirdre jerked toward the sound of my voice.

Sam Cobb frowned. “You uncomfortable, Ms. Davenport?”

She took a breath and stared at him with huge eyes.

With a glazed expression and wan complexion, she truly didn't look well. Her voice was thin and shaky. “I've been struggling with a headache ever since last night. I'd had it all evening, but when Jay called and was so pleased about my appointment, I felt I had to go. But I told him I couldn't drink champagne—”

Sam cut in. “There is no record of a call from cabin five to your room.”

For an instant, her face was blank.

I bent low, said in the faintest of whispers. “Cell.”

“No record . . . Oh, no. He called me on my cell.”

“May I see your phone?” Sam held out his hand.

Deirdre picked up her purse, started to pull out her cell. Then with an exaggerated shake of her head—she was no competition for Meryl Streep—she stopped, exclaimed, “What am I thinking? I guess so much has happened, I can't keep everything straight. My kids called me on my cell. Now I remember.” Her tone did not ring true. “He called me on the hotel phone.”

Sam simply looked at her. There was a long, uncomfortable pause. He knew there would have been a record of the call on her cell phone if it hadn't been erased, and in any event the phone company records would list all calls. He knew she'd thought fast, realized she was boxed in, and changed her story.

She knew he knew she was lying. She stared back.

“There's no record of a call from cabin five to this room,” he repeated stolidly.

“Then,” she managed in a bright tone, “he must have used a house phone. Maybe he was in the lobby and on his way to the cabin.”

“Maybe.” The word dropped like a stone sinking into a deep, deep pond.

“Anyway,” she forged ahead, “I had a terrible headache last night and it came back this morning.”

Sam glanced at Judy Weitz. She gave a small shrug.

Score one for Deirdre. Her apparently unprompted revelation about a headache lessened the impact of Gladys Samson's statement.

I gave her an approving pat on the shoulder.

She jerked again.

Sam looked concerned. “Can we get you some water or coffee?”

Deirdre sagged back in the chair. “Yes. Please.” But her gaze flicked from side to side.

My whisper was feather soft. “Relax.”

“Relax!” She bleated the word. “How can I—” She broke off, looked from face to face. “Sorry. My head.”

Sam stared at her, puzzled. Weitz raised an eyebrow.

Hal gave her a worried stare, then scrambled toward the door. “I'll get some water.”

Hal would bring water. I didn't need to be present to know that, when he returned, their hands would touch and some of his strength would go out to her. Deirdre would handle the rest of the interrogation as well as could be expected, though protesting innocence wouldn't get her very far. Right now, Sam was focused on Deirdre. I could inform him about Liz and Tom Baker, but I needed to know more. I wanted to find out where Liz and Tom were last night. I only knew they weren't together after they left the bar.

Making certain I was unobserved in the shadow of the honeysuckle arbor, I appeared in a French blue uniform. Since Tom Baker had met Detective M. Loy in a far different guise, I would now be Officer Judy Hope. I blinked several times. I must be sure who I was at any given moment. Juggling aliases was a challenge.

Liz sat alone at a small table for two on the terrace. She'd opened a box lunch but simply sat there with one hand on the container. She never looked up as I approached her. There was a sea of movement, the rising hum of voices as the lunch crowd gathered, filling the tables.

I spoke quietly. “Mrs. Baker.”

Her head jerked up. She saw the uniform. Her face went slack. She had the air of a small creature as an owl swoops down.

I placed a hand on the chair. “I have a few questions.” I pulled out the chair, sat, opened the leather folder with my identification.

She scarcely glanced at the ID, remained frozen in place.

“What time did you arrive at cabin five last night?”

A pulse flickered in her thin throat.

“There's no point in denying that you spoke with Mr. Knox last night.” I kept my voice pleasant. “We know that from information received.” It was one way to characterize my eavesdropping on the pier and the conclusion I reached. I pulled out my small notebook, flipped it open, sat with pen poised. “The time?”

“I don't know exactly.” The words were a faint whisper.

“You spoke to Cliff Granger on the terrace.”

She lifted a shaky hand to smooth back a strand of dark hair. “Oh, he told you. I saw him and we talked—”

“About the money you'd given to Jay Knox.”

That crumbled any defense that might have remained. She gazed at me with stricken eyes. “He told you?”

“All communications to police are confidential. We simply work on information received.”

“You know what I told him.” She sounded stricken.

I presented a blank, by-the-book expression. “I want to hear your version.”

She stared down at the table. “I thought if my book got to an agent, then it would sell and we'd have money. I paid Professor Knox five thousand dollars—”

If Jay managed to get that much money from ten writers, that
was fifty thousand dollars. Surely there was some record of Jay's clients. It would be interesting to know how many of them were attending the conference.

“—and he sent my book to Mr. Granger. But you see, that money was in our savings account and my husband needed it. So I asked Mr. Granger to give my book back to Mr. Knox and tell him I'd changed my mind and would he please give me my money back.”

“After you spoke to Mr. Granger, what did you do?”

“I knew Jay was in cabin five. Mr. Granger was nice but I could tell he didn't think Jay would agree. But I had to try. Tom . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, opened them.

I knew her vision shimmered from unshed tears.

Her voice was high, strained. “I walked real fast before I lost my nerve. I got there and knocked.” She lifted her gaze, but she wasn't looking at me. She was remembering. “When he opened the door, I told him I was in big trouble with my husband, that I had to get the money back and wouldn't he please give it to me. He said he'd set me up with the agent and if I didn't take advantage of it, that was up to me, but he'd done his part, earned his fee, and he didn't owe me anything. He shut the door in my face.”

“Did you see anyone near the cabin when you came down the steps?”

Now there was more than worry in her eyes, there was fear. “It was too dark to see anyone.” But she didn't look at me.

“Did you hear anything?”

“Some shouts from the pool.” Her thin hands clenched.

I was sure she saw something in the shadows and heard more than faraway revelry. She glimpsed a movement or perhaps sensed a presence. She heard something that now terrified her.

I nodded as if accepting her reply. “You went up the path. And then?”

Her tension didn't ease. Her stricken look was stark and revealing. “I went up to the room.”

“Was your husband there?”

She huddled in the chair, didn't look at me. “He came in a little later. I'd already gone to bed.”

Had she lain still and quiet, pretending sleep? I thought so. I was only sure of one fact. She didn't know where Tom had been. Or what he had done.

I was ravenous. A box lunch would be wonderful. But first I wanted to check on conference room A, then talk to Cliff Granger before he started seeing writers at one o'clock. I stepped into the midst of the willow fronds, disappeared.

In conference room A, Sam and Detective Weitz huddled over a list of attendees.

I surreptitiously used a marker to neatly print on the dry-erase board:

Knox charged authors big dollars to connect them with agents and editors. Check to see if any of his clients are attending conference.

Any authors bitter over payoff?

I could imagine authors filled with resentment if they paid for contacts that didn't result in publication. I put the marker in the tray. The sound was slight, only a click, but Detective Weitz's head turned.

Detective Weitz blinked. No doubt she'd noticed the board was unmarked when they'd set to work. “Chief”—her voice was studiously calm—“it appears someone's trying to be helpful.”