Ghost Wanted (28 page)

“—and I am taking you into custody on suspicion of the murder of Ben Douglas. Anything you say may be used . . .”

I had no doubt she would remain silent and insist the evidence found in her office had been planted there. But with time, the police would painstakingly discover more and more. Perhaps the neighbor who saw the bicyclist the night Susannah was murdered would describe the clothing. Perhaps a tire track of her bicycle would be found in Susannah's yard. Perhaps a blackmail victim, if reassured a compromising photo was revealed to be fake, would speak out. Perhaps a careful financial analysis would show Eleanor had large sums that could not be accounted for. Most important of all, if Susannah's diary was in her house, Eleanor was finished.

C
hief Cobb stood on the front steps of the Administration Building, squinting a little in the bright morning sunlight. The light breeze stirred his grizzled hair. His craggy face gave no hint that he'd grabbed only a few hours' sleep on his office couch.

TV cameras whirred. Cameras flashed. Reporters, both TV and print, jostled for a place on the steps. I recognized Joan Crandall, the straggly, brown-haired fiftyish crime reporter from the
Adelaide Gazette
. She had a face that had seen everything, but her huge eyes glittered with excitement. Her voice had the staying power of a baying hound, rising above the other shouted questions. “Chief, we got a shot, officers escorting Eleanor Sheridan to a patrol car. What's the charge?”

Cobb was patient. “Joan, we are investigating the death of Ben—”

“Yeah. yeah, yeah,” she rasped. “Cut to the chase. What about Dean Sheridan?”

“Dean Sheridan is a person of interest in the murder of Ben Douglas. The investigation is in its early stages—”

“What about the APB for Michelle Hoyt?” Joan obviously hadn't missed the alert.

“Ms. Hoyt is no longer of interest to the Adelaide police except insofar as she can help us determine who held her captive for several days in a scheme to implicate her in the theft of the rare book from Goddard Library. Hoyt has been cleared—”

“Captive! Where? When? What happened? What does this have to do with the murder at the library?” Joan quivered with eagerness.

Chief Cobb gestured to the base of the steps, where Michelle stood with Joe's arm tight around her shoulders. I was sure Lorraine was there, too. Smiling.

The chief sounded almost ebullient. “I suggest you speak with Ms. Hoyt. She and Joe Cooper, the
Bugle
editor, can explain the odd incidents at Goddard Library and how they have been working with law enforcement to solve the murder of Ben Douglas. I'll hold a news conference tomorrow morning—”

I reached the foot of the steps and Michelle and Joe before the pack of newshounds. I was behind Joe. I appeared, celebrating success with a tropical-design blouse, swirling blue skirt, and matching heels.

Michelle was looking up at Joe, her heart in her eyes. “You never gave up trying to help me.”

He lifted a hand to touch a strand of shining dark hair. His grin was lopsided. “A man has to do what a man has to do when a girl stands him up at the Brown Owl. I'm counting on that date—and lots more of them.” He pulled her close, bent his face toward hers.

I disappeared, but not before I felt a light touch on my arm.

Lorraine burbled in my ear. “A match made in Heaven, wouldn't you say?”

Reporters formed a tight circle around Michelle and Joe. Video cameras filmed. Cameras flashed. “What about those roses? . . . Who smashed the gargoyle? . . . What's behind the theft of the rare book? . . . How does the book tie up with the murder of Ben Douglas? . . . Who held you captive? . . . What's the deal with the dean? . . .”

I eased close to Michelle, spoke softly in her ear. “You and Joe take all the credit. Those who helped you wish to remain”—I paused for emphasis—“invisible.”

I believe Michelle has changed her view about me and Lorraine. At least, that's how I would interpret the brief thumbs-up she made with the hand that rested lightly on Joe's arm. The gesture was quite subtle, and neither Joe nor the reporters noticed.

Again I felt a touch on my arm. I heard a quick whisper in my ear.

The central landing on the main library steps was deserted. Lorraine's portrait was lovely in the soft white beam from an antique brass light above the painting. When I'd first seen the portrait in the light from Ben Douglas's torch, the library was quiet and dark with the silence of late night. The old building was silent and deserted now because of the excitement outside.

I didn't bother to whisper. There was no one to hear us. “Joe will have quite a story to write.”

“The important story is their story.” Lorraine's voice was soft.

I offered her a tribute. “Their love began with the roses.”

Lorraine was once again Goddard Library's kindly ghost in residence. How many hearts would she bring together? But now there was no one with whom she could share moments. Ben Douglas would never again stump up the stairs, big light in hand, and stop to talk to Miz Lorraine. Although I knew I'd often disturbed her, wouldn't the suite at Rose Bower seem too solitary now?

I felt a sweep of sadness. There was no time in Heaven, but on earth days roll on and on, month after month, year after year, decade after decade. How long for Lorraine?

I scarcely knew what I intended to say, but words came fluttering out, like rose petals thrown at a wedding. “Paul loved the letter you sent him.”

I heard a catch of breath. “I told him I was going to marry Charles.”

“Paul thought you were the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful girl in the world because you knew Charles needed that promise to keep him safe. Paul was sure you loved him, and after the war he intended to compete man-to-man. Paul never doubted he was the man you'd marry. It wasn't to be. He went out, brave as always, responding to his duty to get a badly wounded man, and Heaven called him home. He loves you still.”

A racket and a rumble, wheels clacking on steel, the smell of coal smoke. I could feel the trembling of the landing as the Rescue Express came near.

“Lorraine, come with me. Come now. Come home to Heaven.”

The rush of the Express overwhelmed me and I whirled away, touched with sadness at the silence I left behind.

When we went somewhere special, Mama always made sure we wore our best. She'd say, “Bailey Ruth, honey, put on a smiling face and the nicest dress you have. That's how we show how happy we are to be asked.”

As I came aboard, I was thinking about Bobby Mac and the sea and a stroll hand in hand on a beach next to crystalline waters. I appeared and snatched a peek in the shining metal of the caboose. The wind stirred my red curls, fluttered against my graceful cotton smock dress, an enchanting Mediterranean blue splashed with bright hibiscus. I wiggled my toes in sandals.

I hoped Wiggins would understand I truly wasn't being vain. Well, maybe a little bit. But mostly I wanted to look my best. I turned to see—

Wiggins stood at the back rail, reaching out. He wasn't dressed in his usual white shirt, the upper sleeves puffed by black garters, and heavy flannel trousers with wide suspenders and a wide black belt with a silver buckle and black shoes. Absent too was his stiff dark hat. This was an eager Wiggins with shining reddish brown hair and muttonchop whiskers and a smaller mustache. He was handsome in a dun-colored belted wool tunic buttoned at the throat and flared over matching uniform trousers and knee-high leather boots. On the left arm was a white armband with a Red Cross.

The wind stirred Lorraine's golden hair, too, lifting tendrils away from a face made even more beautiful by the love in her dark blue eyes. He had last seen her behind a hospital tent and now she was on the steps to the Rescue Express's caboose in a long gray cotton crepe dress with a white piqué collar, white cap, and white pullover apron with a Red Cross emblem.

“Paul.” Her voice was tremulous, eager, uncertain.

Wiggins reached out, took her small hands in his huge ones, and pulled her aboard with a flourish. They stood together at the rail, wheels clacking on silver tracks, the woo of the whistle a triumphant cry. He looked down at her with the love of a lifetime shining in his face. “Welcome home, sweet Lorraine.”