Ghost Wanted (8 page)

I was struck by the reality of Lorraine's loneliness, years and years and years of loneliness. She took vicarious pleasure from watching young men and women find each other because of her roses. Nightly chats with Ben Douglas offered companionship. I wanted to tell her that Heaven waited, brightness beyond any imagining, warmth and caring and loving hearts. I wanted—

“And we haven't found out a thing about Michelle. Joe's still in his office at the
Bugle
, calling people. And”—she sounded a bit prim—“I'm afraid he swears at them. But he's losing hope.” A slight breath. “I am, too.” Her voice was small.

I, too, felt worn and weary. All day I'd gone from here to there and everywhere, and I knew Lorraine had done the same. At the police station the search was on for Michelle, an APB with her description, car make, and license number. Joe Cooper utilized every reporter on the
Bugle
and soon everyone who knew her well or only slightly had been contacted. The result was always the same. Michelle drove away from the apartment house at five p.m. Wednesday and had not been seen again.

Darkness clothed Adelaide, and no one had any idea where Michelle could be, including me and Lorraine.

“I went back and forth from her apartment to Joe's office all day and I'm terribly afraid something dreadful has happened to Michelle, since we can't find her.” Lorraine was despondent.

“She must be somewhere. We have to keep looking.” I was emphatic. “Michelle is alive.” If she had left the earth, a victim of violence, Wiggins would know. The Rescue Express would have arrived and I would be gone. An elusive thought flitted in my mind, something to grasp, something . . .

The fruitless day, the pall of gloom emanating from all who knew and cared for Michelle, had dragged me down, made me weary. I needed energy. I needed a boost. I pictured myself in a pale purple blouse and white slacks with a semi-sheer silk jacket in a rainbow of colors. I pirouetted in front of the mirror. I was a new woman. “Lorraine, think of an airy cotton voile blouse in tangerine, a midnight blue, ankle-length pleated skirt, and tangerine sandals.” I wondered if she would follow my lead, and then I smiled as she appeared. “You're lovely.”

Even with her old-fashioned pageboy, she was striking in the flattering combination.

I smiled at her. “I'll bet you feel better.”

She eyed her reflection uncertainly. “I shouldn't be thinking of myself. Not with Michelle missing and the police with that book.”

The police with that book . . .

My eyes widened. I took a deep breath. “You've done it.”

Now she was alarmed. “I didn't mean—”

“The police have the book. Don't you see what that means?”

Her gentian eyes were wide and apprehensive. “No.”

“The police are looking for Michelle, an APB on a charge of theft.” I spaced out the words. “She was last seen driving away from her apartment at five p.m. Wednesday. Her entry code was used at 1:04 a.m. Thursday. What's the police theory? She entered the library, used a glass cutter to get into the display case, took the journal. Then what? Did she come back home? If so, she left before Ms. Rogers went out to jog at six a.m.”

Lorraine watched me anxiously.

“Michelle didn't show up at the library at eight Friday morning when she was expected. It was going to be her first day to do research on the diaries of . . . somebody's diaries—”

“Susannah Fairlee. Such a wonderful woman.” Lorraine spoke as if she knew her.

I suppose I looked puzzled.

“I keep up with everything in Adelaide.”

Again I had a sense of loneliness assuaged by other peoples' lives.

“Right. Susannah Fairlee. Somebody called the cops and tipped them that the stolen book was in her apartment. The caller made a mistake.”

Lorraine's bewilderment was obvious. “The police found the book there.”

“Only because someone knew the book was there and called the police. Don't you see? If Michelle took the book and hasn't been seen since, the conclusion would be that she's eluding capture. Why would she steal the book, run away, and leave the book behind? That makes no sense.” Thoughts tumbled like dust devils in a spring wind. “Here's what we know: Michelle set out on an errand at five p.m. Wednesday and hasn't been seen again. Her code was used to enter the library early Thursday morning. The journal was stolen. The police, alerted by a phone call, find the journal in Michelle's apartment Friday morning. Plus a glass cutter.”

Lorraine nodded in agreement with every point.

I spread my hands, noted that my polish was really a trifle drab and changed to a sunrise pink. I was on a roll. “At this point, the theft is a failure because the police recovered the book. The only thing the theft accomplished”—and now I spoke slowly, emphatically—“was to land Michelle in huge trouble. She's still missing. I believe she will be found unhurt but unable to account for her disappearance. I believe she will be charged with theft. But here's the critical point. The objective wasn't to steal the book. If that were the point, the book wouldn't have been found in her apartment. But it was. There would have been plenty of evidence to saddle her with the crime, and the book could have been kept and sold if that had been the main idea. Instead, the book was the coup de grâce, nicely placed in her lingerie drawer. The objective was to damage Michelle.”

Lorraine fingered a filigree silver necklace that shone brightly against the tangerine blouse. “Why?”

I felt as jolted as if I'd bumped into a wall. Why, indeed? What could motivate anyone to go to such elaborate means to cause trouble for a bright college senior? “Jealousy? We don't know much about Michelle. Perhaps another student had hoped to do the research on the diaries.” I didn't sound confident because I didn't feel confident.

“No.”

I looked at her in surprise.

Lorraine's smile was engaging. “I keep up with everyone at the library. Kathleen—that's the director—does such a good job. I enjoy attending staff meetings. She has an excellent manner with people. She was very particular about approving Michelle to do the project on Susannah. Dr. Gordon assured her that Michelle was absolutely qualified, and he was emphatic that he hadn't considered any other students and . . .”

I was listening, but once again I was teased by a feeling that I was close, so close to understanding . . . Michelle and the project . . . Michelle missing . . . I gave a whoop. “Michelle didn't show up at the library this morning.”

Lorraine spoke gently. “Perhaps it's time that we rested. You may be hungry.” Obviously she considered Michelle's nonappearance at the library to be rather minor in comparison to stolen goods in her lingerie drawer. “Possibly we could take a moment and find sustenance. I haven't been hungry in so long. I think being here”—she patted her pleated skirt—“gives me an appetite.”

I understood. Being
on
the earth definitely required sustenance. I was terribly hungry, hungry enough for an eight-ounce filet, baked potato with sour cream and chives, and steamed asparagus, but food could wait. I was convinced I understood the reason for Michelle's predicament. “Monday afternoon's
Bugle
announced Michelle would start her research Friday morning. Monday night, the library is strewn with roses. Tuesday night, the gargoyle is pushed from its parapet. Wednesday, Michelle sets out on ‘an errand' and isn't seen again. Early Thursday morning, the journal is stolen. Friday morning, the journal is found in her apartment, and”—I clapped my hands together for emphasis—“Michelle did not come to the library to read Susannah Fairlee's diaries.” I whirled and gripped Lorraine's arm as I began to disappear. “Quick. To the library.”

T
he great rotunda was dark. The only illumination came from wall sconces at the tops and bottoms of the stairways. Lorraine's portrait was invisible in the dusky shadows of the central landing. In the distance, the tower bell tolled midnight.

“Ben starts his rounds at eleven.” Lorraine's whisper was the tiniest of sounds. “He stops to say hello to me as the tower bell finishes.”

How well she knew his schedule. But tonight there was no heavy clump of work boots, no shaft from a flashlight spearing through the darkness.

“I wonder where he is.” Lorraine was puzzled.

“He told you he was going to do some things differently. I'll bet he changed his schedule. But I don't expect anyone to come for a while.”

Lorraine said hesitantly, “Now let me be sure I understand. You are assuming someone will come to the library to take Susannah Fairlee's diaries?”

“Yes. I think Michelle was framed in the theft of the book to prevent her from working on the diaries. That means something incriminating or dangerous to someone is contained in one of the diaries.” If my guess was right, a silent figure would slip into the library tonight, but this time Michelle's code wouldn't be used. I felt a chill, not simply from the somber darkness around us. How had a thief obtained Michelle's code? Where was Michelle? But she must be safe, or Wiggins would have been in touch. I pushed away fear and concentrated on tonight and the diaries. How would the intruder enter without a code? The same way someone got into the library to strew roses and topple the gargoyle, either dropping by during the day and making sure a handy window was unlocked or lurking in the stacks after hours. Tonight I believed our unknown adversary intended to leave no trace that the library had been entered. With Michelle in disgrace, the Fairlee materials might remain unexamined for a long time, and an eventual discovery that a diary was missing would be seen as simply an error in the summary of the boxes' contents.

I expected tonight's foray would occur at a late hour, just as it had the night the rare book was stolen. I felt hopeful. We should be in plenty of time.

“Stay here, Lorraine. I'm going upstairs. If you hear anyone coming other than Ben, come and tell me.”

Once inside room 211, I turned on the light. I felt confident I had figured out the timing. The thief wouldn't come when Ben Douglas was likely to be about. Everything appeared to be as it had been when the director and I were here earlier. Three boxes remained on the oak table.

I opened the box marked
Susannah Fairlee Diaries
and saw slim volumes bound in dark red leather. I picked up the most recent, flipped to the opening page. January first of the current year. I felt pleased when I found a printout of the box's contents, forty-three diaries with this year's date the most recent. Apparently Susannah began her diaries the year she turned thirty. The diaries were packed into the box spine-up in two layers. Working as fast as I could, I emptied the box, checked each diary against its listing. When finished, I was satisfied that every diary was present. I packed them in the proper order. The second box, marked
Susannah Fairlee City Council
, appeared to contain minutes of meetings. I noted that the most recent minutes were dated two years earlier. A list of contents confirmed that twenty-two years of minutes were enclosed. The third box, marked
Susannah Fairlee News Clippings
,
was filled to the brim with folders. I opened the one on top and found clippings pasted on white sheets. The most recent was a death notice from the September 14 issue. I read a brief notice: “Adelaide, Jamison, J., died Friday. Graveside services Saturday.” I riffled through several sheets. Susannah Fairlee clipped news stories about city council meetings, obituaries, and features on local residents. I assumed she'd either been interested in the people involved or in the topics. I closed the folder, replaced it, shut the lid.

If all went well tonight, I would discover who had implicated Michelle in the theft of the Lewis and Clark journal and I would watch as the intruder took something from the material donated by Susannah Fairlee's family. Once the thief was apprehended—I was a bit fuzzy about how this might be arranged, but I believe in serendipity—it would be an easy matter to skim through the stolen material and find information the intruder was willing to go to any length to keep hidden. Moreover, the intruder must be responsible for Michelle's disappearance, and capture would lead us to Michelle.

I turned off the light and settled in a chair next to the table. No sound broke the silence. Wiggins would be pleased. This entire matter would soon be wrapped up quietly, and neither Lorraine nor I would have appeared tonight, quite a plus from his perspective, although I knew Wiggins would love to see her.

As time slipped away, I enjoyed a little fantasy. If there was time before the Rescue Express appeared, I would invite Lorraine to join me at Lulu's, Adelaide's old café on Main Street, for a delicious breakfast. Lulu's was as wonderful now as when I'd lived here. Lorraine and I would have a chance for a real talk, and she would tell me about Wiggins and I would tactfully urge her to join me on the Express—

Click.

The door swung in. The beam from a slender pencil flashlight flicked around the room, settled on the table and the boxes. The figure behind the beam was scarcely visible, nothing more than a dark shape. The door was softly closed.

I hovered above the table.

The intruder moved quickly to the table, held the light above the boxes. Swiftly a gloved hand lifted the lid of the box with Susannah's diaries. The flashlight was now at the edge of that box. The other hand, also gloved, picked up the sheet that listed the box's contents, tucked the sheet in a pocket. Then the hand reached again, plucking out a diary.

The door burst open. The overhead light blazed.

I squinted, momentarily blinded by the brightness.

The intruder whipped around, an elbow snagging against the box.

I had a quick back view of a thin form dressed in black with a stocking cap.

Burly Ben Douglas plunged heavily toward his quarry, boots thudding. “Got you now!” he shouted. “Hands up. You're trespassing. The police—”

The crack of a gun cut off Ben's words, the harsh explosion stunning in the small room.

Ben took one more staggering step. His gun clattered to the floor as he clutched at his chest. His big face creased in pain. He moaned, toppled forward to crumple facedown on the wooden floor.

The shooter sprinted toward the door.

I rushed across the room and dropped to my knees beside Ben.

The door banged against the wall and running feet sounded in the hall.

A swift-running rivulet of blood snaked across the floor by Ben's outstretched hand.

The sound of running steps faded. I couldn't follow Ben's assailant. Ben needed help quickly. Blood continued to well, dark red and thick. Panic flooded me. Using all my strength, I managed to half turn him onto one side. His head lolled back. I grabbed the left pinned-back sleeve and pressed the cloth against his chest.

“I'll see to Ben.” Lorraine spoke swiftly. “He's hemorrhaging. I was a nurse. Get help.” Lorraine abruptly appeared.

I saw her clearly, a young Lorraine with her hair neat beneath a white cap. She wore a long gray cotton crepe dress with a white piqué collar. A Red Cross emblem marked the bib of a white pullover apron.

“Hurry.” She was calm, the calm of experience. “Summon help. I must apply pressure.” She pulled the apron over her head, swiftly folded the material into a bulky pad, knelt beside him. “Despite the heavy bleeding, I think the bullet missed the subclavian vein. Hurry. He's lost a considerable amount of blood.”

Ben's face was white as goose down. He tried to lift his head. “Miz Lorraine . . .” I heard his weak voice as I carefully unclipped the cell phone from his belt buckle. “I figured somebody'd come tonight. I hid by the main stairs and waited, and I heard footsteps coming up from the end of the hall—” He broke off, coughed.

“No talking.” Lorraine's quiet voice was calming, encouraging. “We're getting help for you.”

It took only an instant to dial nine-one-one. “Night watchman shot. Goddard Library. Room 211. Losing blood. Needs help immediately. Front door will be open.” I placed the cell on the table and flashed downstairs to the door. Thankfully the lock permitted opening from the interior. I used a green trash bin to prop the door open.

On my return, I was startled to see Ben lying there unattended with a thick white pad atop his chest. His face was ashen now. Then I realized his right arm was slightly elevated. Lorraine was present but no longer visible.

“His pulse is very weak.”

“They'll come quickly. What can I do?”

“Nothing for the moment. I appeared because I needed the apron. I used the cloth to make a compress. The pressure has stopped the bleeding.”

“Miz Lorraine . . .” His eyelids fluttered and he tried again to move.

“Hold still, Ben. We'll get you to the hospital as fast as we can.”

Still his words came. “I thought I'd catch the thief.”

“Stay still.” She spoke softly.

He looked up. “Miz Lorraine . . . I tried . . .”

“Don't worry, Ben. You did your best. I hear the siren. Help is coming.”

I heard the siren, too. Doors slammed, heavy footsteps thudded, coming up the stairs and down the hall.

I rushed to the table and the open box. There was a gap at the end of the line of books. The last diary—this year's volume—was missing.

The ICU alcove was small, room enough for a bed and IV pole. No one was in attendance at the moment, except for us. Ben hadn't moved since they wheeled him in after surgery, but his breathing, though a little shallow, was regular and even.

“I'll stay here.” Lorraine spoke firmly. “I'm concerned about his heart rate. They'll come, of course, if the machine alerts them.”

“Do you think he can talk tomorrow? Give a description of his attacker?”

She was silent for a moment. “An officer rode with him in the ambulance. Ben said the person who shot him was dressed all in black: cap, sweater, slacks, shoes. He said maybe five foot seven or eight inches tall, thin. That's all he saw. After the surgery”—her voice was authoritative—“he may have very little recollection of the moment. Why?”

“The police will talk to him again. You don't think he will be able to tell anything else?”

“It's unlikely. You were there. Did you see the person who shot Ben?”

“I glimpsed someone all in black, but I was trying to help Ben. Now I feel dreadful. I was there and I don't know anything at all.”

Lorraine asked quickly, “Tall or short? Man or woman? Young or old?”

I closed my eyes, tried to re-create that short abrupt moment with the crack of the gun loud in my mind and Ben stumbling forward and a peripheral view of a dark figure in motion. “Not tall. Not short. Perhaps five foot seven. Trim. Moved fast, so not an old person. I think it was a woman. Though some men are slender. It could have been a man. And, even if Ben does remember, I doubt he saw well either when he turned on the light. Everything happened quickly—the door opened, someone came in with a small pocket flash, went directly to the table, and opened the box. Ben burst in and turned on the overhead light. I looked toward the door. Ben shouted, the intruder shot him. I feel terrible. I was there and Ben got hurt.”

Lorraine was quick to speak. “There was nothing you could have done to keep Ben safe.”

“Thank Heaven you were there.” Ben would not have survived except for Lorraine. “You saved his life by putting pressure on the wound. I didn't know you were a nurse.”

“So long ago.” Her gentle face was sad. “Ben's injury took me back. Some days we did twenty-five operations, working from dawn until dark and still they carried in the men, some with dreadful wounds, some we weren't able to help. The Marne Valley. I was at a field hospital. We worked with the most seriously wounded when the ambulances came. That's how I met Paul. He was fearless. Word got around about Paul, how he'd go into the trenches even during a bombardment and help carry out the soldiers, how he'd venture out into no-man's-land and bring them back. He was older. He was from Ohio. Cleveland. He used to talk about visiting his family there and how he wanted to take me to Wade Park after the war and we'd go out on the pond in a rowboat. He came to France as a volunteer because his younger brother was in the Army. Joseph was killed at Verdun. Paul and I . . . sometimes we'd eat together, carry our tin plates out to the edge of the camp. There was an old oak tree that had fallen. We'd sit there and have beans and dark bread and coffee in enamel mugs. I suppose it's funny to fall in love over beans and brown bread. Then December came . . . but I can't bear to remember.” She spoke with finality.