Ghost Wanted (16 page)

I hadn't noticed him because of the big shaggy dog. I heard a heavy sigh. I knew its origin. My head turned back and forth. It is hard to be convincing when you may be staring five feet to the left of your audience. “Wiggins, it's essential I speak with JoLee Jamison. You know that means I have to
be
here.”

No answer. I supposed he was loath to add to my observer's unusual experience.

The little boy pointed up. “Don't you see him? He's floating up there. I want to float.” Of course the little boy saw Wiggins. I wasn't surprised. Children see and know more than adults ever realize. I'd reappeared as an adult, so I lacked that special sense.

“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins's tone was commanding. If I didn't manage a satisfactory resolution to this encounter, I would soon hear the clack of the Rescue Express's wheels. It was time to draw on real-life skills honed in city politics. I moved close to the tailgate, murmured conspiratorially to the stocky little guy, “I'll bet you know how to keep a secret.”

He stood a little straighter, puffed out his chest. “Yes, ma'am.”

“What's your name?”

“Bucky. What's yours?”

“Officer Loy. Let me give you the lowdown, Bucky.” I drew on my most recent adventure in Adelaide. “I'm on the trail of a guy who's wanted for making up fake treasure maps. Man to man, I need for you to keep your lip buttoned. Can't have people knowing police can come and go, can we? Can I count on you? Not a word to anyone until next summer.” Summer was an eon away to a child.

“Cool.” His gaze flicked to my right. “I want to float.”

“Only very special people float. Maybe next time. Now I want you to close your eyes—”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and for good measure placed grubby small hands over them. All I could see was a mop of curly blond hair, a freckled face, and a rounded chin.

I jerked my thumb toward the one-story building for Wiggins. “—and count to ten.”

Bucky's treble voice started slowly, “One and two and . . .”

I walked swiftly away and turned toward the front walk and was soon out of his sight. Weeping willows lined the walk, shading several wooden benches. I sank into one and prepared to plead my case.

I sniffed. No coal smoke. Yet.

Wiggins thumped heavily onto the seat beside me.

For a moment there was profound silence. Oh, dear.

Wiggins sighed. “If only I could tell her . . .”

He wasn't thinking about me or the Precepts or a little boy who likely would always remember a sunny October evening in the bed of a red pickup.

I felt the warmth of his hand through my uniform sleeve. “I know you are doing your best for Michelle. You've come to this place hoping to learn more . . .” His voice trailed off. “I'm afraid I haven't focused on the mission. It seems clear Michelle's plight arose from her connection to Susannah Fairlee's diaries. I understand that. But all this going hither and yon . . . Possibly you will connect everything. I can't let my personal feelings interfere, so continue your quest, but please see to Lorraine when you can. Ben Douglas came home to Heaven tonight.”

Wiggins spoke kindly, knowing Ben Douglas's earthly duties were done, but this would likely not offer solace to Lorraine. She would be caught up in the sadness of Ben's plans to welcome his granddaughter and anger at the black-clad figure who shot him down.

“Lorraine needs . . . Oh, she needs love, and your heart overflows.”

The warmth of his touch was gone. I was alone on the bench. Lorraine . . . Yes, I would do what I could to comfort Lorraine, but first I'd take a moment to see JoLee Jamison. I might learn if Susannah Fairlee, on that last Tuesday visit, had been upset or distressed, though, of course, it would be Susannah's aim to offer support to a dying woman, not add to her burden.

In a spic-and-span tiled lobby with several chairs and potted ferns, a white-haired volunteer in a blue smock sat at a desk. She looked up, her eyes widening a little at the sight of a uniform.

I gave her a reassuring smile. “I'm Officer Loy of the Adelaide Police Department. If possible, I would like to speak with your director.”

“It's after hours. Our resident manager, Betty Cook, is in. Could she help you?”

“Yes. Of course.” I doubted I could simply ask to talk to JoLee Jamison.

“If you'll wait a moment . . .” She rose, gave me another curious glance, then walked swiftly to a closed door. She knocked once, opened the door. “Betty, there's a policewoman here to see you.” An indistinguishable murmur. The volunteer turned to me and nodded.

I walked across the tiled floor and entered a bright square office with yellow walls. A plaid upholstered sofa faced a maple desk. A cut glass vase held a mass of bronze chrysanthemums. Family pictures in assorted frames—wooden, porcelain, and metal—ranged on either side of the desk.

The resident manager came around her desk. “Betty Cook.” Her voice was firm, a match for a square face beneath tight, iron gray curls. She wore a no-nonsense white blouse, dark blue slacks, and sturdy running shoes. Dark brown eyes appraised me carefully. “You wanted to see me?” There was no warm fuzzy feeling in the room.

This woman would not easily part with information. I tried to appear genial, agreeable, and nonthreatening. “I'm Officer M. Loy. I'm seeking information about Susannah Fairlee, a Stephen Minister who visited here September sixteenth to see JoLee Jamison.”

She shook her head. “You are misinformed.”

We were still standing.

I said, perhaps more sharply than I should have, “My informant was sure that Mrs. Fairlee came here every Tuesday.”

“Mrs. Fairlee came on Tuesdays.” The gruff voice was somber. “Not Tuesday, September sixteenth. JoLee passed away the previous Friday.” Betty Cook glanced toward a small figurine on her desk and for a moment her blunt face softened. She turned a hand. “We have some crafts. JoLee painted a Madonna for me. She made one for Mrs. Fairlee, too.”

I looked at the soft hues and pictured a weak hand using a brush to add color to a cheap ceramic figurine. “I see.” Now I remembered the death notice in the folder included in Susannah's papers, the announcement of graveside services for J. Jamison. I suppose my shock was obvious. I'd counted on talking to JoLee Jamison. I knew of no one else who could offer insight into Susannah's mood on the day before she died.

“You didn't know?” The manager mistook my response. “Sorry to upset you. Got to all of us. JoLee was so young.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Please sit down.”

When I settled on the sofa, she sank into a brown leather chair behind the desk. I hadn't until this moment thought about the age of Susannah's care recipient. I had assumed, wrongly, that Susannah visited an elderly person. “I didn't know.” A young woman. How young? I took a chance. “Was she a student at Goddard?”

The manager hesitated, then shrugged. “We don't discuss residents. Privacy laws. But JoLee's gone and she didn't have any family. I can't tell you much, but I know she was at Goddard until she got sick last winter. Dr. Forbes, our director, got a call in July from the rector at St. Mildred's looking for a place for JoLee. Her roommate tried to take care of JoLee as long as she could, but she was in school and had to work, and JoLee needed care. Terminal leukemia. No family to speak of. Her mom died a few years ago and her dad apparently dumped them when JoLee was little. There was an aunt in California but she couldn't help. Anyway, JoLee came here. There was no one her age, of course. She was only twenty. I don't know who asked the church, but Susannah Fairlee started visiting JoLee a few weeks after she moved in. JoLee often spent her days in a chair looking out the window.” She squinted at me. “Nobody sitting around waiting to die is singing a happy song. But most of the people here are old. Some are scared, some worry about leaving their families, some are resigned. Some are easy with it. Like they're on a ship and they see the shore coming up and they're ready to land. JoLee was different. It was like she carried a big weight. She sat and stared out the window and looked miserable. It was only after Susannah started coming that I sensed a kind of relief in JoLee's manner. Perhaps Susannah reminded her of someone she'd known and trusted. I don't know. But Susannah was a great comfort to JoLee. When I called Susannah to tell her JoLee was gone, Susannah said, ‘Now she's at peace.' Then Susannah said, and her voice was sad, ‘It seems wrong to be healthy, looking ahead to good days, when someone so much younger is dying. I wish I could have helped her more.' She thanked me for calling. You can imagine our shock when Susannah died the next week. I don't suppose she ever saw JoLee's letter.”

“Letter?”

Betty Cook picked up the small figurine of Mary. “Maybe JoLee knew she was almost done. I don't know why else she'd write a letter. Maybe she just wanted to say thank you to Mrs. Fairlee. JoLee was a nice girl. Very polite and always thanked everyone. Anyway, one of the aides boxed up her things on Saturday. Usually there's family, someone to take the personal effects. Not for JoLee. I thought I should look through, make a decision about what to do with the contents.” She pulled open the center drawer, rummaged, found a sheet. “The contents.” Her voice was determinedly flat. “Inexpensive laptop. Cell phone. Four blouses. Three pairs of slacks. Lingerie. Two pairs of ballerina flats. A book of poetry by Billy Collins, one page dog-eared at the poem ‘I Ask You.'
An agate marble, orange with a sea blue swirl shaped like a crescent moon.”

The resident manager had studied the box's contents and seen a lifetime in those meager possessions.

The flat voice continued. “Two pairs of earrings, three necklaces. A poster of Daniel Radcliffe. A ticket stub to a June first, 2012, Flaming Lips concert in Dallas. A Kodak print of a woman standing on a front porch with inscription and date on the back:
Mama 2007
. A New Testament. An unstamped, sealed letter addressed to Susannah Fairlee.” Betty folded the sheet, returned it to the drawer, pushed the drawer shut. She looked at me and there was a combative edge to her jaw. “Maybe some would say the box should have gone to her aunt out in California, but JoLee never talked about her and the aunt never came or called. JoLee's former roommate was here every weekend. She and Mrs. Fairlee were the only visitors except for Father Bill from St. Mildred's. I decided to give the things to her roommate.”

“What about the letter?”

“It was in the box. I figured her roommate would mail it if she thought she should.” Her brows drew down in a frown. “I didn't think later that maybe it would hurt her feelings that JoLee hadn't written her. But kids don't usually write. I know they kept up on Facebook. Anyway, I called and she came and got the box. Looked like she'd cried her eyes out.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Of course. Jessica Fitzhugh.”

I was in the parking lot and almost ready to disappear when I stopped. Was it possible? . . . I opened my purse, rummaged about. Ah, a cell phone. Heaven provides. I returned to the bench I had shared with Wiggins. Thanks to the resident manager, I had Jessica Fitzhugh's cell phone number. I left a message, asking her to call me, identifying myself as a friend of JoLee's. But on a weekend, catching a college student might be tough. I dropped the cell into my purse.

Now to try and offer comfort to Lorraine. When I reached the parking lot, I was relieved that the red pickup was gone. I stepped into the shadows of a weeping willow and disappeared.

No lights shone in Lorraine's suite at Rose Bower. “Lorraine?” I called softly, then turned on the Tiffany lamp. I had hoped she would be here. As she had once said to me, “Where else would I be?” But not tonight.

I thought of her portrait on the landing at Goddard Library. When I stood on the landing, I listened to the bell tolling eight o'clock. The library had just closed. One by one, lights went dark in the great rotunda and soon there were only the lights at the top and bottom of the stairs as there had been the night I arrived.