Ghost to the Rescue (15 page)

“She put the letters in her purse. They aren't there now. For the present, the letters are in a safe place.” My tone was bland.

Sam looked uncomfortable. “Screwing around with evidence gets cops in trouble.”

“Not to worry.” My tone was soothing. “If you need to discover the letters, they will be found.”

Sam rubbed knuckles against one cheek. “Yeah. I get it. I think. Untouched by human hand, so to speak.” He leaned back on the leather sofa.

“It might be more accurate to say untouched by corporeal hand.” I popped the last M&M in my mouth.

He held out the candy sack. “Want some more?”

“No, but thanks.”

Sam put the legal pad on one knee. “The crime scene looked straightforward, but there are two twists you need to know about.” Sam made a quick sketch on the pad of a prone stick figure. “Knox was lying on the floor. The champagne bottle was in the shadow of the TV. The living room light was on, the porch light off. We got pix, made notes, measurements. Got the prelim ME report, single blow to left temple, death by blunt trauma. No other apparent wounds. Hands showed no sign of injury. No bruises on his bare arms. He didn't put up a fight. Looks like he wasn't expecting trouble, that he was in the room with someone he knew. That means we didn't expect
to find forced entry, and we didn't. There were no traces of a break-in. Then it got interesting. We emptied his pockets. His billfold contained three credit cards, two hundred and thirty dollars in cash. A handful of change in left trouser pocket. But”—and now Sam's dark eyes gleamed—“we didn't find a cell phone. That's anomaly number one. We didn't find car keys. That's anomaly number two. We checked out the entire cabin. No cell phone. No car keys. His car, a 2004 Thunderbird, was parked in the lodge lot adjacent to the auditorium. Guess what we found in the car?” Sam's tone was silky.

I had a quick vision of a black panther gliding low to the ground, intent upon prey.

He didn't wait for a reply. “The keys were in the ignition. We checked the steering wheel for prints. Shiny and clean as off the showroom floor. And still no cell phone.”

I sat bolt upright. My words tumbled out. “That means someone else drove his car last night. Jay wouldn't leave the keys in his car. After he was killed, his murderer took the keys, drove Jay's car to his house. If anyone happened to notice lights, movement in the house, Jay's car was in the driveway. I may know why the murderer went there.”

Sam leaned forward, pen poised above his legal pad. “Yeah?”

“I went to his house this afternoon.” I described the swivel chair facing the computer. “I checked his desk. He'd been paying bills. The stamped envelopes are neatly stacked in the out-box tray. The natural thing would be to leave the chair facing the desk. I know that's slender evidence, but that chair didn't look right. The chair was facing the computer, pushed back a little as if someone sat there and, when finished, got up, shoved the chair back. I think someone checked out his computer, and that fits in with a missing cell phone.”

Sam absently drew a swivel chair. “The position of the chair wouldn't speak to me except for the fact that his cell phone was taken.” He muttered, as if to himself. “Sure. There was something in his cell phone and something in his computer that somebody wanted to hide. Likely, the murderer tossed that phone into the lake and we'll never find it.” He pushed up from the couch, walked to his desk, perched on one edge. He picked up the phone, punched an extension. “Colleen, check the schedule. Is Smith off today?”

Don Smith was a tall, darkly handsome detective who'd worked with Detective Weitz when I was last in Adelaide.

As he waited, Sam said in an aside to me, “Don's nuts about computers. Compares computer programs to works of art. Yeah, I told him, just like Picasso in his Blue Period. A barrel of fun.” He drummed impatient fingers on the desktop as he waited, then began to speak. “Good. Thanks.” He ended the call, punched a number, pressed Speaker.

“Hey, Don, you sitting poolside with a cool one?”

“Yo, Sam. My day off. Remember?”

“Sure. But you're the man with a happy hand when it comes to computers. Swill down some coffee, take a thermos with you.” He looked at some notes, rattled off Jay Knox's address. “We've got his house keys here at the station. Take a fingerprint kit. Dust the mouse, the chair at his desk, the area around the computer for prints. We got a tip somebody deleted something from Knox's computer last night sometime after eleven p.m. Check e-mails, files, photos. You're the computer genius. Find it.”

Don was grumpy. “Thermos? Am I getting a vibe that I don't leave until I come up with something?”

I hadn't thought about what might be missing. But cell phones
have become ubiquitous recorders of fleeting images, and those photos could be shared with the computer.

Sam was still talking. “The sooner you find what's missing, the sooner you get to go home. Check with Weitz for full names, descriptions of Liz and Tom Baker, Harry Toomey, Ashton Lewis, Maureen Matthews, Cliff Granger. Pull their photos from Facebook pages, yearbooks, wherever. One of them was busy last night. You figure out which one.”

D
eirdre sat at a small bench in front of a mirror, a makeup brush in one hand. She was a stylish mixture of dressy and casual, with an elegant creamy beige lace blazer over a lacy tank and beige cotton crops with a wide cuff. As she turned her head, shining gold hoop earrings glittered. More subdued was a double-strand necklace of small hoops.

“Are we going to a party?” I love parties, and there was reason to celebrate.

Her response was familiar by now: instant rigidity, seeking glance.

I took a moment to appear, considering my own wardrobe. I felt festive and chose a silvery polyester poncho, delicate as a wisp of smoke. A cloud design on either side was enhanced by a front panel with alternate rows of gold beads and tiny black crows. A necklace
of gold and onyx beads repeated the colors of the central panel. Slim white trousers and silver high heels added a finishing touch.

I hurried across the room to stand behind Deirdre, made a pirouette. “I think we both look marvelous.”

Deirdre faced me, reached out to touch the poncho. “That's beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Preparatory to an announcement, I cleared my throat. As I clapped my hands together for emphasis, I just happened to glance at the mirror again and saw how gracefully the silky material swished. Certainly this was no time to take pride in appearance, but I was buoyed. “My dear, I have conferred with Police Chief Sam Cobb.”

Deirdre drew in a deep gulp of breath. The hand holding the brush dropped onto the vanity table.

I patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

She tensed but didn't flinch. An improvement.

It took me several minutes, but I ended on a triumphant note. “The police now have suspects in addition to you.” I ticked them off. “Liz Baker. Tom Baker. Harry Toomey. Ashton Lewis. Maureen Matthews. Cliff Granger. By tomorrow”—I had confidence in Detective Smith—“they'll know what was deleted from Jay's computer.” I awaited applause and appreciation.

“The mayor wants me arrested?” Her fingers clutched at the chain around her neck.

“Sam knows you're innocent. I told him so.”

Her eyes squeezed shut for an instant, blinked open. “That's good. Vouched for by a ghost. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate you and I'm glad the police chief believes you, but it sounds to me like I'm still in deep trouble.”

I hurried to the bath, found a plastic glass sheathed in a wrapper, tore it free, filled the glass with cold water, and returned to the bedroom.

Deirdre was standing at the window and looking down at the terrace and wooded area. “All the suspects will be at the barbecue. They don't have any choice. It's a command performance for staff. We exude charm and wisdom for the benefit of the fragile egos of a hundred-plus writers. It would be more fun to swim with piranhas.”

I handed her a glass and she downed the contents in three gulps. Water wasn't whiskey, but it gave her a boost.

“Act just the way you did at lunch and—”

The phone rang.

Deirdre tossed the cup into a wastebasket and walked to the desk, picked up the receiver. “Deirdre Davenport.” Her face changed. “Hi.” Her voice was soft. She dropped into the desk chair.

I perched on the edge of the desk.

She cupped her hand over the receiver. “Go away.” Then she said quickly, “Not you, Hal. She's here. . . . Oh. Okay.” She looked at me. “Hal says hi.”

I beamed. “Tell him I'm on the case.”

Deirdre spoke to Hal. “She says she's on the case. . . . Oh. I'll try that.” She again cupped her hand over the receiver. “Hal says to tell you he considers you a good-luck omen and that all assistance is welcome.”

I nodded my thanks.

Then she turned away, listening. “Oh, Hal, I wish I could. But I have to be here tonight. Staff attends a barbecue to mix and mingle.” Her voice held all the thrill of a woman looking at a plate of
dead worms. “But if this horrible weekend ever ends, if—” She stopped, thought for a moment, frowned. “Hal, tell me something.”

I reached over to punch Speaker Phone.

Hal's voice filled the room. “. . . answer any question. How about asking me about my favorite things? I have a list of new favorite things: The way you look quizzical and amused and skeptical all at the same time. The way you laugh. The way your voice reminds me of Kate Smith singing during the seventh inning. I get shivers deep inside. What are your favorite things?”

Deirdre's face softened. “A man who says what he thinks, and what he thinks is honest and real. A man”—there was a slight catch in her voice—“who puts his job in jeopardy to ask a woman out to dinner. I saw the way your boss and the other detective looked at me, but you didn't care. If you took me out to dinner, wouldn't that be”—she paused, struggled for the right word—“seen as a conflict of interest? Isn't there some kind of police policy along those lines?”

There was silence.

Deirdre gave a small sigh. “Thank you for not lying to me. Somehow I know you won't ever do that, will you?”

“I won't ever lie. But I don't give—”

“I do. Next week we'll go out to dinner.” Her voice was shaky. “If they haven't put me in jail. But thank you, Hal, thank you for calling. Thank you for being . . . Hal.”

“Deirdre, listen—”

She replaced the receiver.

I clicked off Speaker Phone.

The phone rang. One peal, two . . .

Deirdre paced back to the window, stood with her back to me, shoulders bowed.

I came up beside her. “Deirdre, you're more important to Hal than what anyone thinks of him.”

Deirdre swung around. Her smile was misty. “I want to believe that's true. But he's too important to me to let him do anything that will hurt him. In any way. I want to have dinner with him so much I could cry. I want to touch his hair. I want . . . But the only way that can happen is for me to figure out who killed Jay. There are things I can do. I'm here. I know these people. Or if I don't know them, I can find them, talk to them. Look, I write fiction. I know all about body language. I can write it in my sleep. ‘The heroine saw Roderick out of the corner of her eye. Now his face was smooth, but for an instant he'd stared with cold eyes. She'd glimpsed a depth of anger that chilled her. The scrape of leather on the cement. Roderick was walking toward her. . . .' So I'm going to talk to a select list. You told me the ones the police are going to investigate. Maureen Matthews. Ashton Lewis. Liz Baker. Tom Baker. Harry Toomey. Cliff Granger. But the cops have to ask questions, like ‘Where were you at eleven o'clock?' and ‘When did you see Jay Knox?' But I can do a lot more than that.”

“What are you going to do?” I admired the combative jut of her chin, but I was worried. One of the six had snuffed out Jay Knox's life. Poking and prodding a murderer could put her in danger.

Deirdre gave me an almost whimsical smile. “For starters, I'm shedding you. As much as I enjoy your company and appreciate your efforts, I'm handling this by myself. Tonight I'm on my own.” She gave me a level glance. “Or if you do hang around, stay at least ten feet away from me whether you're there or not. Don't mess things up for me.”

I understood her desperation, but I didn't like this plan. “What are you going to say to these people?”

She was at the door. She looked over her shoulder. “That's for me to know and for you to wonder about. Cheerio.” The door slammed.

I took one last regretful glance in the mirror. Such a lovely outfit and perfect for a party, but duty called. I disappeared.

Lanterns strung in the trees added to the party ambience. The barbecue was informal. Dress ranged from casual tops and jeans to an occasional T-shirt and shorts to a few dressier outfits. Revelers jammed the terrace, the crowd spilling out into the garden. Although it was only quarter past seven, the noise level was intense, fueled by women's voices rising higher and higher. Men, greatly outnumbered, gathered in small clumps on the fringe of the terrace.

Deirdre, contrary to her plan, was at the center of a jostling group. A tall, thin man with a goatee, resplendent in a yellow cowboy shirt that no cowboy would ever have worn, corduroy trousers, and red cowboy boots leaned over her. “. . . imagine the tension. His prize bull stolen, a ransom note tucked into the visor of his pickup truck . . .” A white-haired woman in a silky top and patchwork skirt bobbed in between Yellow Shirt and Deirdre, stared rapturously up at Deirdre. “You touched my soul.” A plump hand pressed against a generously endowed chest. “Your understanding of the human psyche, simply profound.” She scrabbled in a huge pocket, pulled out a small tablet. “I know you will want to see how I begin the scene between Camille and Armand. Of course, you realize the significance”—a significant stare—“of their names? It sets the stage. The despair of a love affair ending in heartbreak.” She thrust the tablet at Deirdre. “The working title is
The Despair of a Love Affair
.”

I whispered to Deirdre. “Perhaps you can slip away.”

“Slip away?” Deirdre looked harried. “What am I supposed to do? Disappear?”

The white-haired woman was startled. “Do you think she should disappear? Or perhaps Armand . . .”

Yellow Shirt leaned nearer, said firmly, “You have to understand about the bull. . . .”

It was up to me to provide a diversion. I returned to the secluded spot in the honeysuckle arbor and appeared. Enjoying the ripple of the feathery poncho-style top—a nice outfit always makes me feel like high stepping—I hurried up the path and crossed the terrace.

White Hair, animated and waving the tablet, remained between Deirdre and Yellow Shirt, who glowered at the interloper.

I took Deirdre's elbow. “I'm sorry to pull you away from these lovely people, but staff is assembling for final instructions.” I smiled at White Hair and Yellow Shirt and propelled Deirdre toward the gardens. We didn't stop until we were at the end of the pier.

I looked over my shoulder. “I'm surprised that woman isn't right behind us. With that kind of persistence, she'll probably cow an editor.”

Deirdre managed a smile. “I read the first couple of paragraphs. How could I not with that tablet shoved under my nose? Each paragraph was followed by a frowny face. Trust me, her book won't sell.” She gave me an appreciative nod. “Thanks for getting me out of there. Piranhas. I've got to figure out a way to avoid the piranhas if I'm going to talk to anyone about Jay.”

I had an idea. By this time I understood the staying power of aspiring writers. “I'll spot them one by one and tell you where they
are. You can walk toward the terrace and pretend to talk on your cell. You know: intent face, very focused, obviously an important call. That should get you past any writers.”

She looked at me suspiciously. “I want to talk to the people on my list one-on-one. Not you.”

“I understand. I won't interfere.” I would be present though unseen.

“Why are you suddenly cooperative?” She was wary. “You don't want me to do this.”

She was right. I was afraid she was putting herself in danger. But I knew determination when I saw it. “What can happen in the middle of a party? Wait here. I'll be back in a moment.”

As I disappeared, soft colors whirling and fading, Deirdre's eyes flared and her hands clenched. I regretted distressing her. I would have thought a writer might readily embrace new dimensions. Apparently not.

I skimmed above the path, slowed halfway to the terrace.

Maureen Matthews held a drink but she, too, was alone. She stood in deep shadow below the spreading branches of a white oak, remote, contained, aloof from the crowd surging on the terrace as lines formed for the buffet. Maureen's fashion choice was an excellent foil for her ebony dark hair and fair skin, a lime green cotton shirt with a stylish bow at the waist. Ankle-length white linen slacks and white sandals emphasized the brightness of the blouse. A multistranded necklace with brilliant stones was matched by a three-stranded bracelet. She was dressed for a party, but her face, in the privacy beneath the tree, drooped with worry and indecision. Likely she had discovered the packet of love letters was no longer in her purse. I imagined that discovery resulted in a thorough search of the car and a despairing realization she had no idea where
the packet might be. Or who might have the letters. Or whether the letters would be revealed to the world at large.

I returned to the end of the pier. Deirdre stood with arms folded staring out at the water. I dropped down beside her. “Maureen Matthews is well off the path. She's standing near an old white oak, a huge tree.”

Deirdre tensed on hearing words without an apparent source, then guardedly looked in the direction of my voice. She managed a faint “Thanks” and started for the shore.

I called after her. “Cell phone.”