Ghost Wanted (12 page)

Chief Cobb's office was dim. I turned on all the lights. I like light, though earth's lights, even at their brightest, can't compare to the glow of Heaven. The light in Heaven . . . Oh yes, Precept Seven: “Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, ‘Time will tell.'”

I looked at the blackboard and pressed my lips together. The erasure of my comments had been sloppily done, and now the board was a smear of chalk with occasional letters remaining. There was no point in re-creating the text or adding to it, since Chief Cobb was gone.

My eyes flicked around the silent office, empty except for me. The chief's bumptious substitute was taking the weekend off. I smiled as I strolled to the chief's desk, settled in his chair, and turned to the computer. It took a little while, but I found a file for Susannah Fairlee. I remembered the brash ME Jacob Brandt. He had submitted the autopsy report to Chief Cobb, since all unexplained deaths are investigated.

Brandt's e-mail was brisk:

Autopsy file attached. No need to worry your pretty head. Short version: cause of death drowning. Takes bad luck to drown in a goldfish pond. Maybe she felt dizzy, in her seventies. Anyway, she apparently fell forward, cracked her head against one of the decorative boulders, slid into the water facedown, and that's all she wrote. Time of death estimated (you know the parameters, 30 to 45 minutes either way) at six thirty p.m.

I started to tap into the chief's e-mail directory, then noticed an old-fashioned Rolodex on the desk. In an instant, I had Jacob Brandt's cell number. I picked up the chief's phone, dialed.

“Yo, Sam. Thought you and your lady were lapping up piña coladas on the beach in the moonlight.” There was more than a hint of envy in his tone. “Or does the Galvez run more to tea and cookies at bedtime? Went there once with my grandmother. Old and stately—the hotel, not Gram; she's a pistol—but maybe you can see the Gulf from your windows.”

I made my voice chummy. “We can almost hear the surf from here. But the chief's always in touch. I'm Officer Luhsoo”—I mumbled—“and he's got me working on a file that may turn out to be a cold case. You did the autopsy on Susannah Fairlee in mid-September. We got a squeal”—I hoped my lingo was not too 1940s, but people, bless them, are very uncritical, especially young men when addressed by a woman's husky voice—“that somebody bashed Fairlee, put her in the water. The chief said you are bright, very bright, and if anybody could figure out how it was done, it would be you.”

I remembered the brash, tousle-haired, wiry ME clearly: young, irreverent, but very bright eyes and a quick mind.

“Never knew Sam thought so highly of me.” The tone was flip, but there was an undercurrent of pleasure in his voice. “Okay. Let me think back to the scene. No preconceptions. Floodlights rigged when I came. Body of white female lying next to a goldfish pond. Livid bruise right temporal lobe, evident drowning victim, confirmed by autopsy. Cops on-site figured she either tripped and took a header into a decorative boulder or felt faint, ditto. Could it have happened another way? Sure. Her garden trowel was right there by this clump of orange flowers. Say she was kneeling, doing whatever the hell gardeners do, and her attacker comes up behind her with a brick—tippy-toe very likely, though it was soft grass, no reason to make noise if he tried to be quiet. Yeah, I can see it in my mind: brick in a gloved hand, bend forward, full-force swing, catch the right temple. Sure as hell she'd be stunned. A shove against the decorative boulder leaving an artistic blood smear, then face in the water, knee on the back, over pretty quick. Take the brick and toss it in a lake somewhere. Better tell Sam it will be hell to prove.”

“Many thanks. We'll let you know what happens.”

I hung up, turned back to the computer. In an instant I had the website for the Hotel Galvez. I studied the telephone number long enough to commit it to memory, then I clicked and pulled up the
Gazette
story about Susannah Fairlee's “accident.”

Civic Leader Dies in Pond

Susannah Fairlee, 73, longtime Adelaide civic leader, was found dead in her garden yesterday evening by next-door neighbor Judith Eastman, 327 Arnold Street. Police Detective Sergeant Hal Price said the death appears to be accidental, pending an autopsy.

Officers arriving at the scene found Mrs. Fairlee unresponsive, partially submerged in a goldfish pond. Police said Mrs. Eastman discovered Mrs. Fairlee facedown in the water at a quarter to eight and pulled her to the bank, then called 911.

A tearful Mrs. Eastman told authorities she felt dreadful that she hadn't checked on her neighbor sooner. “I knew something was wrong when her kitchen light didn't come on around seven, because her car was in the drive and that meant she was home and should have been fixing her supper. I called before I went over, but finally it got real dark and still there wasn't any light, so I got my flashlight and walked over. I saw her legs on the bank and I knew something was awfully wrong. I ran to the pond and pulled and pulled until I got her out of the water, but she was cold as ice. I was too late, and her head was all bruised so bad.”

Mrs. Fairlee was known for her . . .

I was familiar with Susannah's background, thanks to Joe Cooper's story on Michelle, with Susannah's public service on the city council and the many other organizations with which she served. According to the
Bugle
story, Michelle intended to scan the last two diaries, covering the period of time after Susannah's retirement, and return those to her daughter, then begin an exhaustive study of the diaries pertaining to Susannah's years when she was on the city council.

I believed that particular piece of information was the trip wire that resulted in the theft at the library, Ben Douglas's injury, and Michelle Hoyt's peril. Did I know enough to call Chief Cobb? Slowly I shook my head. Not yet.

Michelle's peril . . .

J
oe Cooper leaned against the pale blue kitchen wall. “That's the damndest story I ever heard.” Absently he reached out to stroke the long-legged black cat standing on the counter.

Michelle whirled from the stove top, a spatula in hand. Scrambled eggs began to thicken. “I didn't make it up.” Her voice wobbled.

Joe looked surprised. “I got that. I'm just saying it's nutty. Somebody”—his face squeezed in concentration—“went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make you a fall guy. There has to be a reason. So, who hates you?”

She finished swirling the eggs, scooped them onto a platter with bacon. She carried the platter to a small wooden table.

Joe followed, slid into a chair opposite her, looked at her inquiringly. His bony face was attractive with a stubble of beard. He'd obviously been caught by surprise when Michelle called him from the police station and had taken only enough time to pull on a threadbare sweatshirt, faded jeans, and sneakers.

She pushed the platter toward him, retrieved toast as it popped up in the toaster on one side of the table.

Joe served himself generously, handed the platter to her.

She took several pieces of bacon, a small portion of eggs, then said quietly, “Nobody hates me. That makes everything even scarier.” Her young face was exhausted, vulnerable. She buttered a slice of toast.

He took a moment to eat, then said, oh so casually, “You're not in love with some guy and there's another girl?” He watched her closely.

His query brought a wry smile to her face. “The last guy I dated dumped me for an oilman's daughter, but nobody ever said Bobby didn't have his eye on a cushy future.” She piled bacon and eggs on a piece of toast and began to eat.

Joe held a piece of bacon in one big hand. “Tough, huh?”

She finished half the toast, looked as amused as an exhausted, scared woman could. “I always knew he was short-term but he was fun. I wasn't interested in him really. Now Bobby and Susie Lots-of-Bucks are a twosome, I'm on my own, and we are all fine with that.” The smile slipped away. “Neither of them have any reason to want to get me in trouble, and frankly Bobby doesn't have the brains to figure out the kind of mess I'm in. Long on looks, short on thought.”

“There has to be a reason.” Joe was emphatic. “Either somebody hates you or you have something somebody wants or you pose some kind of big-time problem.”

Michelle looked bewildered. “There's no Heathcliff in my past.”

Joe picked up his last piece of bacon, ate it in two bites. “Okay. Let's say it's not personal. Somehow, someway you are a threat to someone.”

She shook her head. “I don't have a ruby hidden in my sock. Nobody handed me a letter at midnight with a key to a bank vault. I don't have the goods on anybody. In short”—she finished the toast and wiped a smear of butter from her chin—“no one has any reason to frame me for anything. Joe”—her voice was shaky—“what am I going to do?”

It was time for me to approach them.

In the hall outside Michelle's door, I was halfway visible in a French blue uniform when I stopped. The colors faded. Not so fast. I couldn't appear as Officer Loy. The light might not have been strong in the
Bugle
office, but Joe Cooper had studied me carefully, and I'd told him I was Theresa Lisieux. Moreover, attempting to reassure Michelle, I'd briefly appeared in her cell and later spoken to her.

I wanted Joe's help and I had to warn Michelle. Was I stymied? Then I grinned. As Mama often told me, “Bailey Ruth, honey, when all else fails, try the truth.” Possibly said with a slight edge, though Mama was kind and patient even when sorely tried by one of her redheaded brood.

I gave a decided nod. Colors curved and curled. I didn't have a mirror, but knew I was elegant in a paisley lily top with thin solid bands at the modest V-neck and flared three-quarter-length sleeves, ash gray twill trousers, and sleek gray leather flats with a silver buckle. A paisley purse completed my ensemble. I smoothed my hair and knocked.

The door opened. Joe Cooper looked big and immovable. Instant recognition flared in his startled gaze.

I'd been wise not to appear as Officer Loy. I hurried to speak, because recognition had been followed by cold, questioning appraisal. Maybe the first law for reporters was:
Coincidences stink like boiled cabbage.
“We met in your office.” My bland tone oozed sincerity. “I'm here because Michelle is being falsely accused and I can help her.”

Michelle stood at his elbow. “You . . .” Her eyes were wide and staring.

Joe turned toward her, jerked a thumb at me. “You know her?”

“Not exactly . . .”

I glanced at the breakfast table. The plates had been cleared. They'd finished their breakfast while I'd considered my entrance. I took a step forward.

Joe hesitated, moved aside.

I beamed at them and swept into the small living room. As though invited, I sank into one of the rattan chairs. “I know you are trying to make sense out of what's happened. Let me help.” I gestured toward the blue sofa. “Do sit down.”

Joe stood his ground. “Lady—”

“Theresa Lisieux.”

Michelle drew in a quick, sharp breath. She was trembling slightly.

I smiled modestly. “Not that I deserve her name, but she was always willing to serve, and that's what I hope to do.”

Joe glanced at me, then at Michelle. “Okay, so I'm the big dumb guy who's out of the loop. Michelle looks like she's seen a ghost, and I get a vibe that Theresa Lisieux isn't exactly your name. Spell it out for me.” His tone was slightly belligerent.

Michelle sank down on the sofa, clasped her hands tightly together. “Saint Theresa, the Little Flower. My mom's favorite saint. ‘Perfection consists in doing His will, in being that which He wants us to be.'” She looked at me intently. “Did Mom send you? She's in Nepal right now, tracking down falcons.”

Joe stood beside the sofa. His glare was intense and his stance pugnacious with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans.

I almost heard a Heavenly chorus. When we listen, we hear what we need to know. “Your mom wants you to be safe. I'm delighted to be of service.” If Michelle now assumed I was there on behalf of her mother, the conclusion was hers. And, as I well knew, mothers offer daily prayers for children's well-being, so perhaps I
was
here on her mother's behalf. “Now,” I spoke crisply, “here's the situation.” I marshaled the important points. “Joe wrote a story that appeared in last Monday's
Bugle
about your project to study the diaries of Susannah Fairlee. That story triggered everything that happened the rest of the week: the roses in the library, the vandalism of the gargoyle, your kidnapping, the theft of the rare book, and, finally, last night, the shooting of Ben Douglas. Everything except the shooting was carefully planned to hide the fact that the true objective was to take Susannah Fairlee's last diary.”

“Why?” Joe looked skeptical.

“Susannah Fairlee was murdered.” I repeated the ME's scenario.

Joe Cooper raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You think somebody came creeping up on an old woman in her garden, slammed her with a blunt instrument, pushed her into a boulder, then held her down in water? Why the hell? Was she rich? Did she know stuff she shouldn't know? Why?”

“That's what I intend to find out.”

Joe folded his arms. “Her death was certified an accident, right?”

I wasn't quailed. “She was murdered. I not only have that on good authority, I know that Susannah Fairlee's last diary was stolen from the library, and when the night watchman tried to stop the thief, he was shot. Only Susannah's death by murder explains the necessity of obtaining that diary.”

Michelle's eyes were wide and staring. “You think someone went to the effort of kidnapping me and blaming me for a theft to keep me from reading that diary?”

“Exactly.” I looked at Joe. “Process it. Susannah was murdered. Susannah kept diaries. Susannah's diaries were to be used for a history project. The murderer knows there could be something incriminating in a diary. If you murdered her, what would you do?”

Joe frowned. “I'd figure out a way to get that diary. I'd make it a certainty the researcher wouldn't get into those boxes anytime soon. If ever. Yeah. I can see it.”

Michelle shivered, wrapped her arms tightly across her front. “Murder.” Michelle's voice was faint. “It has to be something like that. Why else would anyone go to such immense effort to smear me? And”—there was remembered fear in her eyes—“I was scared at that house on Montague. I didn't feel right when I stepped into the kitchen. I thought I'd move fast, get the folder, get out of there. I ran across the kitchen and started down the stairs, and then the door slammed shut and I was trapped.”

Joe's gaze was distant. He was obviously thinking hard. “We've got two ways to go after the murderer. Maybe Michelle knows something, anything that can give us a lead. The other way is to figure out who wanted Susannah Fairlee dead.”

“Exactly. There is a great deal we can do.” I turned toward Michelle. “Let's go back to the phone call that decoyed you to Montague Street. Can you find the number on your cell?”

Michelle popped up to retrieve her leather purse from a small table by the front door. She returned to the sofa. She checked the cell, spoke the number aloud.

Joe pulled out a small pad and wrote down the number. “University number. I'll call. . . . Hello. Joe Cooper at the
Bugle
. I'm speaking to? . . . Henry Roberts. Henry, were you at this number around five o'clock Wednesday? . . . I spoke to a woman calling from this number. Could you suggest who might have used this phone? . . . This phone is in which office? . . . Right. Would the office be locked after you left? . . . Thanks.” He tapped End. “History Department. Henry's a work-study student, was there Wednesday afternoon correcting multiple-choice exams for a professor. This desk is one of several near Dr. Gordon's office that's used by work-study students. He left around four. The office wasn't locked.”

Michelle waved a hand in dismissal. “Anybody could call from there. I know where it is. There are some big ferns in pots that screen the room with the work-study desks.”

I looked at Michelle. “I want you to remember Wednesday afternoon.” I didn't miss the quick flicker of her eyes toward Joe. She remembered Wednesday afternoon and her eagerness to be done with her errands and her excitement that she was going to meet Joe at the Brown Owl. “Your cell rings. You answer.”

Michelle twined a strand of dark hair around one finger, hunched in thought.

“A voice said, ‘Michelle.' There was a cough, and a kind of husky voice said, ‘Sorry about my cold. Calling for Dr. Gordon.' Then I thought she—I guess it could have been a man—said, ‘Dr. Gordon's speaking at the student center at six and he wants you to pick up a folder for him. Go to the back door at 928 Montague Street. The door's unlocked. The folder is inside. A tab on it reads:
The Origin of the Phoenician Alphabet.
Take the folder to Dr. Gordon. He'll be waiting in the foyer at the student center.' She—or he—hung up. I was irritated. I mean, I didn't sign on to be somebody's errand boy, but you do what the boss tells you to do. I jumped in my car and drove over there. It's an old-fashioned two-story brick house, kind of rambling. You can't see it very well through the trees. Lots of sycamores and weeping willows. A long driveway is screened on one side by evergreens. There was no car in the driveway. I didn't think about that. I went up to the back door and started to knock and saw a note taped to the doorjamb. The note—it was printed, thick block letters on a piece of lined paper—said to go inside and go down to the basement, the door was open, and get the folder from the desk. I stepped inside, called out, ‘Hello.'”

For an instant her face was shadowed by remembered fear.

“It was awfully quiet. I had an uncomfortable feeling.” She touched her cheek with shaky fingers. “That's not right. I was more than uncomfortable. I was scared. I didn't like the way the air felt. I didn't like the way it was deathly quiet in there. I saw light shining from the doorway to the basement. I didn't want to go into the basement, but I felt like I had to. I decided to hurry and get the folder and get out of there. I started down the stairs. The door slammed shut.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“The kitchen was empty. I didn't see anyone. I didn't hear anything until the door slammed.”

“What did the house smell like?”

She looked surprised, then thoughtful. “That's odd when I think about it. I was in the kitchen and it didn't have any smell at all. It was stuffy. No air moving. No scent of anything cooking.” She brushed back a tangle of hair, looked forlorn. “I don't know anything that will help.”

Joe leaned toward her. “You've already helped. We know the call came from the History Department. That gives us a place to start. The caller also had to be at the house when you came. Maybe somebody saw a car, maybe somebody saw a pedestrian, maybe somebody saw something. The caller was in those two places at those specific times. But we've got more than that. How did the murderer know you could be held there and nobody would find you? There has to be a link between the murderer and that house.”

I looked at him with respect. “Exactly. Here's what we'll do.” I gave them their instructions.