Ghost to the Rescue (19 page)

“Sam?” I kept my voice soft.

When there was no answer, I turned on his desk lamp, aimed the light at the blackboard. I worked diligently for several minutes, then stepped back to check what I'd written:

Deirdre Davenport told the following people she saw a figure near cabin 5 in order to observe their reactions:

Maureen Matthews hesitated an instant too long before she answered. She may have gone to see Jay.

Liz and Tom Baker refused to talk to Deirdre. Liz may think her husband killed Jay.

Ashton Lewis warned Deirdre Davenport to be careful.

Cliff Granger claimed he saw the door to cabin 5 open, a woman's hand on the jamb. (Deirdre didn't hold the jamb when she left.) Cliff Granger claimed the party at Jay Knox's house a year ago didn't matter. However, Detective Smith found that explicit photos of Granger and a college girl were deleted Thursday night from Jay's computer.

Staring at the blackboard, I stood with the chalk in my hand. I couldn't decide what to write about Harry Toomey. His threat as he left Deirdre held a ring of truth. He could know something about Deirdre, something she might not want the police to know. He could know that Deirdre found Jay dead, that she lied to the police. I tried to figure out the implications. If Harry knew Jay was dead before Deirdre came, either Harry killed him or found him dead. If he killed Jay, then he'd been leaving as Deirdre arrived
and ducked into the shadows to avoid being seen. Or he could have found Jay dead and hurried to get away, just as Deirdre had done, but Deirdre arrived before he could escape. Finally, I wrote:

Harry Toomey lied about going to the pier. Find out what he was doing during the period between his talk with Jay and his return to his room in the hotel.

I returned to Silver Lake Lodge. Instead of a comfortable sense of satisfaction at what I'd learned today, I felt unsettled, uneasy. I didn't know what accounted for my discomfort. Had I half noticed an expression that puzzled me? Had someone said something that lodged in my subconscious? But people could be evasive, have something to hide, without being guilty of murder. Deirdre was a prime example. Also, there was Maureen and her missing packet of love letters. The danger those letters posed to her could account for her wary behavior.

I hovered above the lodge. A fat-bodied moon spilled creamy light over the building and onto the now almost-deserted terrace. The moon had climbed high enough that I judged it was likely near eleven. The pool was closed and only a few guests lingered on the terrace, which held no traces of the evening's barbecue.

Most guests were probably settling in for the night.

I decided to survey the grounds. No lights shone from cabin 5. The shadows were deep on either side of the cabin near the stand of bamboo and the crape myrtle, just as they would have been on Thursday night. Certainly anyone wishing to remain unobserved could have stood near the bamboo or crape myrtle and not been noticed.

Although I could have gone from here to the end of the pier in
one quick thought, I dropped to the path and walked. I paused for an instant outside cabin 6. Light shone around the edges of the drawn blinds. I moved inside. The lights were on, but Cliff Granger was not in the living room. I checked the bedroom. It, too, was empty.

Back on the path, I followed winding curves to a final straight stretch. A lamppost stood at the edge of the pier. A walkway and steps led up to the pier, which jutted out over the water. Trestles supported the wooden deck. I walked up the steps and out onto the pier. The only other light was at the far end. Of course, I made no sound as I walked on the boards. The pier was about twelve feet wide, thirty feet long, and rose approximately twenty feet above the dark water.

Although the temperature had reached the high nineties during the day, the breeze off the dark water was cool and refreshing. It would be pleasant to linger, smell the richness of an Oklahoma night, listen to cicadas and crickets and rustling tree leaves.

Was Deirdre all right?

Burgeoning unease crystallized.

In an instant, I was in her room. I took in everything in a hurried glance.

Deirdre, as on the evening we met, sat cross-legged on the lumpy sofa, her pink sateen shirt tunic hiked up over her legs. She gazed down intently at her laptop, began to type.

I was thrilled to see that not only was she obviously in no peril but possibly had broken through her writer's block. I peered over Deirdre's shoulder.

“. . . know you'll be excited, too. I called Joey and told him and he said, ‘Hey, Mom, when Katie and I are home we'll celebrate!' I told him we'd do fireworks and have chocolate sundaes. I would have called you but I looked at the schedule and you're supposed to start out
tomorrow on a big hike so I wanted you to get a good night's sleep. Then you spend tomorrow afternoon at the pool. That sounds wonderful. Anyway, now that I have the job, you don't have to worry at all about money and how much camp costs. It means a lot to me that you are able to be at the camp and now you can relax and have a wonderful time. Remember to be careful and use sunscreen. Be sure and take your vitamins every morning. . . .”

I sighed. “When I saw you concentrating—”

Her head jerked up. She twisted to look behind the sofa, gave the old familiar
I wish you would go away
expression.

I am not thin-skinned. I continued pleasantly, “—so deeply, I hoped you were beginning a chapter.”

Deirdre sighed. “Not yet. Just a sec, let me send this to Katie.” She finished with three happy faces, clicked send. She leaned back on the sofa. “Yeah. Everything's perfect—if I don't go to jail.”

“You won't go to jail.”

She pushed up from the sofa. “I want to get out and do something. But the only thing I can think of is seriously stupid.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“It crossed my mind that I could go down to the lobby and use a house phone, call everybody in turn.” She pretended to hold a phone to her face. “Hello, X, how
are
you tonight? I hope you're having a jolly conference. Oh, by the way, we have to talk. I saw
you
in the shadows.” She dropped her voice to a husky whisper, “Meet me by—”

The phone rang.

I looked at the clock. A quarter past eleven.

Deirdre froze.

Every mother knows the feeling. Both kids off somewhere. A call late at night . . .

She flew across the room, snatched up the receiver. “Hello.” Her voice was breathless, strained. She listened, her expressive face changing from fear to disbelief. “Are you—” She stopped. “Hello? Hello?” She shook her head, put down the receiver, snatched it up, touched 0 for operator. “Connect me with Harry Toomey.”

I was right beside her. I reached around her, touched Speaker.

We listened as the rings sounded, one, two, three . . . Finally: “The party you are seeking does not answer. You may leave a message after—”

Deirdre slammed down the phone, looked at me. “I don't like it. Harry called me. He was talking fast, almost in a whisper, said I need to come to the pier, he knows who was in the shadows but he needs help to prove it. He wants me to be a witness. He'll tell me everything if I'll meet him there in twenty minutes. Well, I may think seriously stupid thoughts, but I'm not crazy.” She clapped her hands on her hips. “I can tell him what to do. Call nine-one-one. Call Dr. Randall. Call the Marines. Call anybody. Don't call me.”

“Twenty minutes.” I was puzzled. “Why twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes, twenty hours, twenty days, makes no difference to me.” Deirdre's lips closed in a determined line.

“It does sound like a trap.”

“Duh.” Deirdre shot me a scathing glance.

I had no idea what prompted Harry's call. I didn't trust him. But we had to find out what was happening. “We can't ignore his call.”

Deirdre snapped, “Maybe you can't. Be my guest. Whiff off to the pier. You come and go like lightning. You can go see what Harry's up to, give me a report. As for me, I've written this scene. The heroine finds a note pinned to her pillow:
Meet me in the cemetery at midnight.
The idiot grabs her parasol and dashes off. Readers are
chanting:
Don't go, don't go.
But, of course, this was before cell phones. Now she gets there, the ax murderer pops out from behind a headstone, she screams, runs like hell, gets out her cell, calls nine-one-one. But I'm no midnight heroine. You'd better remember, if I stir out of this room and something goes wrong, I'm the only one anybody sees.” She gave me a meaningful glare.

“Agreed.” I was crisp. “Do you have Hal Price's cell phone number?”

She slowly nodded.

“Call
him.”

D
eirdre held the cell, looked at it as if seeking a portent. She wanted to call. She didn't want to call. Her head jerked up. “What if he comes and we go to the pier and nobody's there? He'll think I'm a hysterical idiot.”

I was firm. “He'll think you're doing the right thing to ask for help when you get a call from a man who may have committed murder.”

Her expressive face was suddenly relieved. “I'll call nine-one-one.”

I looked at the clock. “We have eighteen minutes before Harry will be looking for you. As much as I admire the Adelaide Police Department, it's late and a nine-one-one call will likely be answered by someone who wouldn't know anything about Jay Knox's murder and Silver Lake Lodge and the pier. By the time you explained everything and police cars came roaring up—”

“Okay, okay. I got it.” She tapped. “Hal, this is Deirdre. I didn't want to call but she insisted. . . . The redhead. . . . Here's what happened. . . .” She listened. “You'll come here? Thank you.” Her face was soft as she ended the call, then she whirled, moving fast. She changed into a white tee and light blue slacks, stepped into white sandals, added a dash of makeup, hurriedly brushed her hair. She glanced in the mirror. Her face was appealing, hopeful, hesitant, eager. Hal was coming.

Deirdre fastened her wristwatch. She walked to the door, opened it, moved the metal latch to serve as a wedge, propping the door ajar. She settled on the sofa.

I joined her, pointed at her laptop. “You might consider making some notes. Recreate as exactly as possible your conversation with Harry.”

She shrugged but set to work.

I stretched a bit to read as she typed.

Phone Call from Harry Toomey

Deirdre: Hello.

Harry (breathless, whispery): This is Harry. I need to talk to you. I'll meet you at the pier. I've figured out who was in the shadows but I don't think the cops'll believe me. I need a witness. I'll explain everything and you can help me. Twenty minutes. At the pier.

A light tap sounded and the door swung in.

I disappeared.

Deirdre came to her feet, turned. She held the laptop in one hand.

Hal stepped inside. He was blond and muscular in a blue polo,
faded jeans, and sneakers. He carried a flashlight tucked under one arm. I needn't have worried that he might catch a glimpse of swirling colors. He saw only Deirdre.

There was a tiny moment of magic when Hal and Deirdre looked at each other, her angular, too-long face lovely and vulnerable, Hal's blue eyes soft and admiring.

Deirdre held out the laptop. “I wrote down everything Harry said.”

Hal came across the room. They stood close together, shoulders touching. Hal's hand closed over hers on the side of the laptop. He glanced down. “Right.” Then he was intent, crisp. “When did Harry call?”

Deirdre took the laptop, closed it, dropped it on the sofa. “Almost precisely twenty minutes ago.”

Hal's eyes narrowed. “If we had more time, I'd call for backup. But we'll take a look. He had something in mind or he wouldn't have called you. I don't get his wanting you to come to the pier. Why not meet downstairs in the bar? He claims he knows who killed Knox but needs your help to prove it. That sounds fishy. If he's there, I'll have a little talk with him.” His tone was grim.

Pinpoints of light from lanterns strung in the trees offered little illumination. The path curved through dark shadows, an occasional lamppost along the way offering brief patches of light. Hal used his Maglite. As they came to the sweep of open ground in front of the pier, he turned off the beam, said softly, “Let's stop here, see if we spot anyone.”

Straining to see, they stood at the edge of the woods. Across a clearing of perhaps twenty feet, the pier was in darkness except for small lights at the top of the steps and at the end. In the moonlight,
the trestle beams that supported the pier looked like black bars. No figure was visible near the steps or on the wooden platform or on the ground in the shadows on either side.

Deirdre gently touched his arm. “I'm sorry I dragged you out. Maybe he was playing a joke.”

Hal spoke equally softly. “He may come. We'll wait awhile. Or he may be waiting in the darkness underneath the pier.”

Deirdre's voice was thin, but firm. “I'll walk out there. He's probably watching for me.”

Hal instantly stiffened, gripped her arm. “You'd be exposed on the pier.”

Deirdre shook her head at Hal. “I can't see Harry Toomey with a gun, and I know, not from personal experience but from research, it is notoriously hard to hit a target with a handgun unless you're a superb shot and even then you'd better be close. I won't get near enough to him that he could hit me with a weapon.”

“I don't like it. He looks like a puffball, but if he's the killer, he's dangerous as hell.”

“You're here.” Her voice was lighter. “I'm not worried. We came to see if we could find out what Harry's up to and I'm the one to go out there.”

“Yeah.” He wouldn't disagree. He knew she was right. That didn't mean he wanted Deirdre to march out on the pier, a clear target. He stared out into the night, head jutting forward. He was gauging distance. If Deirdre needed help, how soon could he reach her side?

She gently unclasped his hand from her arm, stood on tiptoe, brushed his cheek with her lips. “That's for luck. I'll be fine.” She walked toward the pier. In the moonlight, she looked insubstantial.

Hal moved nearer the edge of darkness, poised to run, ready to shout, prepared to protect her.

I imagine every step away from him was painful to Hal.

I walked beside Deirdre, alert for any movement. If I sensed a threat, I could push her down to safety or interrupt an attack. But I didn't have any sense of danger. The moon looked fat and placid midway up the sky. The water was dark. There were no lights from boats, no solitary figure standing near the steps to the pier. The only sounds were the rasp of cicadas and the chirp of crickets. Far overhead a jet plane moved among the stars, the roar faraway.

Deirdre reached the base of the stairs, started up, one hand on the railing. Midway, she jerked to a stop, gazed over the side. She leaned perilously far out, looking down. “Hal, Hal!” She turned and started down the steps.

I was already on the bank, staring down.

Hal ran, feet pounding on the grass, Maglite beam blazing through the darkness.

Deirdre clattered down the steps. “Somebody's down there in the water.”

Hal's bright white light swung out, illuminated a half-submerged body facedown in crumpled reeds a foot or so from the bank.

Hal thrust the Maglite into her hands. “Call nine-one-one.” He took three long strides, splashed into the water, fighting his way through the reeds. As he pulled and tugged, Deirdre's words ran together, her voice uneven. “. . . Silver Lake . . . behind the lodge. A man's in the water near the pier. . . . think he's dead . . .”

Grunting with effort, water spraying around them, Hal tugged the limp body of Harry Toomey, head lolling, to the bank, pulled
him out of the water. Hal turned Harry over, straddled him, began CPR, trying, trying . . .

Deirdre was still on her cell phone. “. . . here with Hal Price, Detective Sergeant Price.”

I said urgently, “Ask for a resuscitator, EMSA. Tell the officer to alert Chief Cobb that there's trouble at Silver Lake Lodge.”

Hal worked and worked. Deirdre remained on the phone.

I stared at Harry's body. Obviously, he had not come to the pier alone. But why had he called Deirdre?

Within minutes, sirens squalled. EMSA techs arrived first, a burly middle-aged man and a whip-thin young woman. The man took over from Hal. Lights flashed on, illuminating the terrace and grounds. More lights dotted the lodge facade as guests woke to sirens and noise. Guests in various stages of dress poked out of cabins. By the time uniformed officers set up police tape at the edge of the woods, the techs were standing to one side. Harry was past saving.

A muscular officer boomed through a megaphone. “Everything's under control. There has been an accident at the lake. Only emergency personnel and police are permitted beyond this point. Everything's under control. There has been an accident. . . .”

Two searchlights mounted on tripods illuminated the body, the trampled area around it, crushed reeds and dark water.

Hal and a trembling Deirdre waited at the base of the steps to the pier. Hal's arm was tight around her shoulders. She kept her face averted from the sight of Harry's wet, bedraggled, unmoving body.

I was shaken as well. It hadn't occurred to me when Deirdre received the call from Harry that the contact was anything more than an effort by him either to honestly enlist Deirdre's help or a lure to take her into danger. Instead, the pier was a trap for Harry.
Someone was with him when he made the call, told him to set the meeting for twenty minutes later. As soon as the call was made, Harry and his companion came down to the pier. That's why Harry didn't answer when Deirdre immediately called his room. Harry and Jay Knox's killer came to the pier, but only the killer walked away, leaving Harry's body for Deirdre to find. The killer didn't care whether she ran away or called the police. There would always be the record of Harry's call to Deirdre's room.

The medical examiner pushed up from the ground. Jacob Brandt had obviously dressed hastily into a ratty T-shirt with cut off sleeves, paint-stained khaki shorts, and flip-flops, but his eyes were bright and intent as he faced Chief Cobb. “Classic case of drowning, aided and abetted by a couple of whacks to the back of the head. I can be definitive after the autopsy, but I can tell you that somebody knocked him out, lugged him to the water, plopped him in face-first. It wouldn't take long for him to drown. And, now”—he made a casual gesture—“you can set your bloodhounds loose.” Police could not search or move a body until the ME determined death had occurred.

As he spoke, a uniformed officer took a series of photographs, another sketched the scene, a third began a careful search of the ground.

Sam pointed at the body. “Any idea of the weapon?”

Jacob Brandt looked judicious. “Something rounded. A depression similar to the one on Knox's temple.” He gazed at the bank and the reeds. In the brilliance of the searchlights, each bent and crushed reed was distinct, and the dampness of the ground around Harry's body evident. “Rounded,” he muttered. His gaze stopped on a beer bottle lying perhaps a foot from the water. He jerked a
thumb. “Something like a pop bottle or a beer bottle. The depression had that kind of curve.”

Sam nodded at a balding, stocky officer. “Photos. Measurements. Take the bottle into evidence, just in case. Check for hair, blood, prints. Pick up everything lying on the ground along the bank and between here and the terrace. Get somebody in waders. I want any piece of debris found in the water, bottles, rocks, anything with a rounded surface. Check anything that could make a rounded head wound.”

A careful search of the lakefront began.

Sam turned and walked toward Hal and Deirdre. In the glare of the searchlights, Sam looked disheveled, his grizzled hair hastily combed, a growth of beard on his heavy face, dress shirt rolled to the elbows, brown suit pants wrinkled, but he was focused, intent. “You're here.” This was directed at Hal. There was a faint undertone of disapproval. “She”—he jerked his head toward Deirdre—“finds a body.” Sam knew I was Deirdre's champion, but her presence at a murder scene was too suspicious to ignore.

Detective Weitz stood a few feet away. She was looking at a clipboard, but I didn't doubt she listened to every word. She lifted her eyes to give Hal and Deirdre a brief, searching glance, then once again gazed at the clipboard.

Detective Howie Harris was watching, too. His eyes were bright and curious as he stared at Hal and Deirdre.

I didn't like the expression on Howie's pudgy face, a mixture of pleasure and suspicion. Howie had been in charge of the department when I was last in Adelaide, subbing for Sam while he and Claire honeymooned. Howie was a favorite of the mayor's and he liked to cause trouble for Sam.

Sam folded his arms. “Let's have it. You first, Hal.” He listened
with a frown. When Hal finished, the chief's gaze turned to Deirdre. “Ms. Davenport.”

Deirdre, her voice shaky, kept her gaze determinedly away from Harry's body. “Harry called me. He said he knew who killed Jay and he wanted my help to prove it. He asked me to meet him at the pier in twenty minutes. I was afraid to go by myself. I called Hal—Detective Sergeant Price. He came to my room and we went together.”

Sam was brisk. “Anybody hear your conversation with Toomey?”

Deirdre's voice quivered. “Only me and my imagination.” She gave a brief glance about, knowing I was likely near. “Who else would be there?” There was the slightest edge of hysteria in her tone. “It was late when the phone rang. I don't have any witnesses to prove anything. I talked to Harry just like I told you. I started to tell him no way but he'd already hung up. I called his room. No answer. I almost ignored the whole thing, but I decided I should do something. I thought I did the right thing to call Hal.”