Ghost Wanted (18 page)

Lorraine cleared her throat. “I fail to see how this material is helpful.”

“Susannah spoke to someone in that office.” I rushed ahead, this time reading out loud, because Lorraine looked restive. “Two secretaries. Jill Bruner is twenty-four, married, and went on maternity leave at the end of September.”

Lorraine was firm. “We can exclude her. Young women having babies do not creep across a lawn and murder anyone.”

I agreed that anyone nine months pregnant was unlikely to be an assailant. “The second secretary is Laura Salazar, fifty-three. Worked in the office for twenty-three years. Married to Robert Salazar, director of the physical plant, mother of six—”

Lorraine tapped the sheet. “Exclude her.”

“I'm glad you hold motherhood in esteem, but fecundity does not correlate with character.”

She smiled. “I never thought it did. However, position within an office does correlate with power. If you are correct that an angry and upset Susannah went to the office to confront someone, it suggests she intended to speak with someone in authority, not a work-study student or receptionist or secretary. Authority resides in the dean or assistant dean.”

Lorraine was likely right. Tomorrow I would find out everything possible about Dean Sheridan and Assistant Dean Bracewell.

I loved the pealing of the bells as the early service ended. Lorraine had been reluctant for us to be visible, but I persuaded her. My Kelly green (admittedly flattering for redheads) belted sheath with matching faux alligator sling-back heels immediately lifted my spirit. We sat toward the back of the church, so we were among the first to walk out. Father Bill, of course, immediately recognized us as visitors. I noted that he gave me a quick, puzzled glance, as if perhaps we'd met before, but now I appear much younger than my Altar Guild portrait that hangs in the hallway outside the parish hall. “Welcome. We're so glad you came to St. Mildred's.” I thanked him and murmured something vague about visiting in town.

As we came outside, I squinted a little at the bright sunshine and looked back longingly. “It would be fun to go to coffee hour.”

Lorraine's smile was kind, but she shook her head. “Too many people have seen my portrait in the library.”

She had a point. Moreover, my portrait was included among those of past directresses of the Altar Guild, which hung in the hall outside the parish hall. Wiggins likely was pleased that we'd attended Communion, but he would draw a line across the entrance to the parish hall.

We reached a small garden established in memory of Susan Flynn. I still thrilled to remember when Susan Flynn first greeted the grandson she didn't know she had. We stood near a trellis, out of sight of the church. Parishioners by now were either at the coffee hour or in their cars. I almost started to tell Lorraine about my visit to Adelaide and a little boy left on the front porch of Susan's home on a snowy night before Christmas. But one look at Lorraine's face and I knew she was struggling with her grief at Ben's death. I said quickly, “‘Neither sorrow, nor crying.'”

She managed a smile though her eyes were shiny. “Ben is fine, but I will miss him.”

“Remember the roses you gave to Ben and Chloe. Trust me”—I didn't see this as a violation of Precept Seven—“he and Chloe now walk among the loveliest roses imaginable. And you made an excellent choice to give roses to Joe and Michelle.” Joe and Michelle . . .

Lorraine was undoubtedly empathetic. A graceful hand touched my arm. “You're worried about them?”

“Michelle likely will be patient, wait for me to get back in touch.”

Lorraine smiled as I described my activity as Theresa Lisieux. “You are never at a loss, are you?”

“I wish that were true.” The day ahead loomed over me like towering, unscalable granite crags, and I was no mountain goat. But as Mama always told me, “If anyone can do it, so can you, Bailey Ruth.” Still, I felt as if time were squirting through my fingers like little greased pigs, and I had places to go and people to see, yet I was worried about Joe and Michelle. More specifically, I was worried about Joe. “I'm afraid Joe will get restive today and try to talk to people in the Dean of Students Office, and that could be very dangerous for both of them.”

“I'll see to Joe and Michelle.” Lorraine's face was transformed by a kind and loving smile. “Perhaps fresh roses . . .” She was gone.

Now it was time for me to prove Mama was right. I had only hours left to find the truth about Susannah Fairlee's death. I glanced toward the wall that marked the boundary of the cemetery next to St. Mildred's. I needed for luck to be a lady. I gave a last appreciative pat to my gorgeous sheath dress before I disappeared. In my era, wearing your best on Sundays was expected. I understand today's wish to emphasize inner glory rather than outer, but I still take pleasure in presenting my best finery, both outer and, hopefully, inner.

In an instant, I was in the cemetery at the Pritchard mausoleum, which houses Hannah and Maurice, great benefactors of Adelaide. I think highly of both, but the objective of my visit was the marble greyhound on Maurice's tomb and the Abyssinian feline on Hannah's. As every Adelaidian knows, a gentle caress to each and lucky days follow. The stone was cool to my touch. I hummed “I Feel Lucky.”

I was still humming when I reached the Goddard College Administration Building. Built in 1912, the Gothic Revival structure was marked by arches, dormer windows, buttresses, and a crenelated wall along the roof. I stood in the entryway to the second-floor office of the dean of students. The room had a feeling of age: high ceiling, paneled walls, a wooden floor. No-nonsense straight chairs sat against the hallway wall facing a wooden counter perhaps four feet in height. Beyond the counter were three metal desks in a row facing a bank of filing cabinets. Heavy red velvet drapes framed tall windows.

At either end of the corridor fronting the counter were two closed doors. To my right an ornate mahogany nameplate proclaimed:

Dean of Students Dr. Eleanor Sheridan

The nameplate to my left was much less ornate: navy letters on a white metal background:

Assistant Dean Dr. Jeanne Bracewell

I turned to my right, entered Sheridan's office. The office was large, with room for a magnificent desk in a Southwestern style with rope edges. The caramel-colored alder wood evoked a dusty sun-drenched landscape. A rearing horse was carved on the front. Shelves filled the wall behind the desk. Several shelves held books. Two shelves held carved wooden horses. The desktop was bare of papers. A tooled leather box sat next to a framed lithograph of a ghost town. I opened the box to find a sterling silver Montblanc pen coated with a translucent blue-gray lacquer and note cards with a Goddard crest and the legend
Office of the Dean of Students
.

I opened the center drawer of the desk. A tray with separate compartments held paper clips, rubber bands, an eraser, rubber stamps and a pad, keys on a ring, and fruit throat lozenges. The interior of the drawer contained a campus directory, a student manual, a list of campus department phone numbers, and an academic calendar. I opened all the drawers, saw files and folders.

I had a swift memory of my own desk when I was a secretary at the Chamber. There were always personal bits and pieces in my drawer, phone numbers scrawled on the backs of envelopes, ticket stubs, photos of the kids in addition to the ones on my desktop, plus I always had a Kodak shot of our current cat, grocery coupons I intended to use but never did, a half-eaten Baby Ruth, a partially filled book of Green Stamps, and the latest
Time
magazine.

The paucity of personal items in Dr. Sheridan's desk intrigued me. Was she über-organized, or did her purse serve as her personal catchall?

Two Mexican-style chairs with armrests, textile backs, and leather seats faced the desk. There was room for a sand-colored leather sofa and a mahogany coffee table near windows that looked out on the campus.

Filing cabinets lined the wall just to the right of the door. I looked through each drawer except a bottom drawer that was locked. At the end of an hour, I was overwhelmed. The dean's office oversaw student activities, Greek life, residential services, intramural recreation, student leadership, campus security, the student health center and student counseling center, food services, major events coordination, student judicial affairs, a diversity program, student conduct, and served as liaison with Adelaide community leaders.

I found no reference to Susannah Fairlee.

I paid particular attention to files about student disciplinary matters, but there was no file for JoLee Jamison. I riffled through several folders. My eyes widened at some of the amazing messes in which hapless students found themselves, everything from the awful—date rape—to the absurd—wasn't a Peeping Tom; was trying to see if his girlfriend was in the apartment next door—to the pitiful—ran out of money and stole a banana from the grocery.

By comparison, Jeanne Bracewell's office decor was utilitarian—plain gray metal desk, metal filing cabinets, wooden straight chairs. There were more personal touches: a photograph of an elderly woman sitting on sofa holding a mass of fleecy knitting and photos of Bracewell and another woman in a canoe. Papers were stacked neatly atop the desk. The in-box was empty, the out-box full. Her center desk drawer was a welter of pens, pencils, a roll of Tums, two packages of Juicy Fruit gum, an old-fashioned appointment book. I wondered if she also kept a calendar on her iPhone.

I grabbed the book, thumbed back to September 17, and found neat notations:
9 a.m. Interview student floor manager Hesketh House. 10 a.m. Review cafeteria pricing policies re complaint from Student Council.
The rest of the hour slots were empty so she had no other appointments that day.

I replaced the appointment book, continued to poke about. An empty glasses case. A prescription for a muscle relaxant. Several menus from local restaurants. A list of local social services. A folded head scarf. A pocket flashlight. A screwdriver. An Oklahoma road map. I closed the drawer. The side drawers held files. The bottom right drawer was locked. I supposed both she and the dean kept personal material in respective locked drawers, the dean's in a filing cabinet, Bracewell's in a desk drawer.

Vintage movie posters decorated two walls, Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant embracing in
An Affair to Remember
, sultry Elizabeth Taylor in a white slip in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
, somber Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman cheek to cheek in
Casablanca
.

The assistant dean's files were in standard-issue gray metal cabinets similar to those in the main office area behind the counter. I checked through these files swiftly and found nothing remarkable.

I looked around the room. My gaze stopped at the
Casablanca
poster. Years fell away and I was a teenager hearing Rick's tough voice: “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. . . .” Ilsa came to Casablanca. Call it fate. Call it destiny. But she came and the world was different because of her. Susannah came through the door into the main office of the dean of students and the course of lives changed for her, for Joe, for Michelle, for Ben.

I hadn't found the reason yet for Susannah's visit. I had to keep looking.

I like bungalows—modest homes, some with stucco exteriors, often with wooden siding. I looked around the Sunday-peaceful neighborhood. Small, well-kept yards, several with white picket fences. Older model cars were parked in single driveways. Bikes were propped against wooden garages. I stood near Susannah Fairlee's bungalow at 325 Arnold. Stuccoed columns supported the roof's canoe brackets. Shallow wooden steps, painted red, led up to an entry porch. An elevated porch to the left was protected by an overhang. The house had been there a long time, likely built in the 1920s. Even though the bungalow now had an uninhabited air, the yard evidenced years of love and care lavished by a devoted gardener. Pansies bloomed in the front bed. A wisteria-laden fence screened the side yard. Sycamores loomed on either side of the drive.