Ghost Wanted (13 page)

I hummed as I settled into Chief Cobb's chair and turned to the computer. I nodded in satisfaction as I read the report from Detectives Weitz and Smith:

To: Acting Chief
From: Detectives Weitz and Smith

Search of basement at 928 Montague Street indicated recent use. Sheets on cot wrinkled. Damp towels in half bath. Taken into evidence. Emptied frozen food containers stacked on counter by sink. All containers show fingerprints matching those of Michelle Hoyt. No other prints found on containers. This may be seen as evidence corroborating her claim of abduction, since there should have been smudged fingerprints on the boxes from handling by store employees. Also taken into evidence.

Hoyt's prints were found in the bath, on several chairs, some pool table balls, on a pool cue, on the doorknobs on either side of the basement door, and on the kitchen door. Her prints were not found otherwise in the kitchen area.

The house is the residence of Professor Wendell Hughes and his wife, Abigail. Hughes teaches romance languages. According to next-door neighbor Edith Mallory, Hughes is currently in Andalusia, Spain, on a year's sabbatical with his wife, and the house is not occupied. Mrs. Mallory has a key to the house and checks every week or so. She last visited the house about ten days ago and found everything in order. Mrs. Mallory said the drive is not visible to her through the hedges between the houses. She had no occasion to look at the drive in the past few days and therefore cannot say if a car was parked there from 5 p.m. Wednesday afternoon until Saturday morning.

Further examination revealed a hole in a back window pane that had been made by a glass cutter. The hole was large enough to make it possible for an intruder to reach inside, unlock the window, and gain access to the house. There was no damage apparent inside the house.

I replied:

To: Detectives Weitz and Smith
From: Acting Chief

Excellent work.

Inform Goddard Library Director Kathleen Garza that Ms. Hoyt is not a suspect in the theft of the rare book, that she was held captive from Wednesday night to this morning, that the book was stolen Wednesday night and placed at her residence to incriminate her and prevent her from reading the diaries of Susannah Fairlee, and that this plot was exposed by the shooting of Security Officer Ben Douglas Friday night in the room where the Fairlee material was housed. The connection to Hoyt's abduction is reinforced by the discovery of a window pane at the house on Montague Street with a hole made by a glass cutter, which was the instrument used to effect the theft of the rare book.

The investigation now centers on the murder of Susannah Fairlee Sept. 17. Pursuant to a crime tip, the ME confirms that the trauma Fairlee suffered supports the theory that Fairlee was struck on the head and, while stunned from the blow, was held down in the water by her assailant until she drowned. The library intruder who shot Douglas removed Fairlee's most recent diary from the collection.

Inform Dr. Gordon of the History Department that Ms. Hoyt has been exonerated and released.

Canvass Fairlee's neighborhood for information about anyone seen in the vicinity at dusk Sept. 17. Jog neighbors' memories by reminding them Sept. 17 was the evening when police and emergency vehicles arrived at the Fairlee residence after her body was discovered by next-door neighbor Mrs. Eastman. If no one, familiar or unknown, was observed near the Fairlee residence, create a map to determine how an assailant could approach without being seen.

Like a politician spinning a story, I was making progress in placing Michelle in a favorable light publicly. For the moment. My glow of self approval vanished quickly. Michelle was home free this weekend, but she would be yanked back to jail Monday faster than a flea hops unless I figured out who killed Susannah Fairlee and connected her murder to the events at Goddard Library.

Essential to determine Susannah Fairlee's contacts the last week of her life. Use additional officers if required. Submit e-mail report by six p.m.

Acting Chief

Detectives Weitz and Smith would do their best and maybe their efforts would give me a lead. I looked at the round-faced clock on the wall. It was shortly after ten a.m. on Saturday. In less than forty-eight hours, Howie Warren would amble back into the chief's office, ready to hold a news conference laying out the case against Michelle. So far he apparently was too lazy and absorbed in his free time to check on the progress of the case. Of course, when he left to play golf, he knew Michelle was in custody and the case was a fait accompli, so he assumed the focus would continue to be on Michelle.

Before that news conference occurred, I needed to discover the truth about Susannah Fairlee and why she had to die.

Who was Susannah Fairlee?

I don't know about big cities, but obituaries are personal in a small town. I remembered how touched I was to read what our daughter, Dil, wrote about her father and me: Mama and Daddy were always the first to the party and the last to leave. Mama never met a person she didn't find fascinating, and Daddy was willing to mortgage the house when he drilled a wildcat well. Mama's temper was as red as her hair. You didn't tell her you couldn't. She knew you could. Daddy's laugh was as robust as his favorite Benny Goodman, “Stompin' at the Savoy.”

I called up Susannah's obituary in the
Gazette
. I studied her photo. Susannah was likely in her sixties when the picture was taken. Her broad face was sunny and cheerful, her gaze direct, her smile genuine. She looked competent, interesting, lively, a woman who had been places and done things.

Susannah Martin Fairlee

June 25, 1941–September 17, 2014

Susannah Martin Fairlee passed away unexpectedly at her home September 17. She was the daughter of the late Captain Edmond Jones Martin and the late Regina Evans Martin. Susannah was born in Honolulu. She was the youngest of four daughters. Her father, an Army pilot, was killed during the bombing of Hickam Field on December 7, 1941. Her mother brought the family to Adelaide and was a teacher here for thirty-two years.

Susannah played tennis at Adelaide High School and at the University of Oklahoma. She received a degree in business in 1963. She returned to Adelaide where she worked in the family floral business. In 1964, she married Jonathan Fairlee, who owned Fairlee Furniture Mart. She and Jonathan were the parents of a daughter, Janet, and son, Michael. In 1972, Susannah ran for a seat on the city council and won. On the council, she twice supported a bond issue for new schools. She was the leading force in the transformation of the old railroad station into a city theater venue. She was a founder of Kate's Corner, a nonprofit that serves meals to the poor. She worked tirelessly to encourage creation of parks throughout Adelaide. She opposed tax relief to attract corporations, believing that corporations should choose Adelaide because of its stellar workforce and locale. She retired two years ago from the city council.

A lifelong tennis player, she was Missouri Valley Champion in every age group in which she played. She was a lifelong communicant at St. Mildred's Episcopal Church and twice served as directress of the Altar Guild. She was a Stephen Minister for five years up to the time of her death. Susannah's favorite Bible verse was Philippians 4:8: “Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is pure, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of your praise, let your mind dwell on these things.”

Susannah was preceded in death by her parents and her husband, Jonathan. She is survived by her daughter, Janet Hastings, son-in-law Richard, and beloved grandchildren Mark, Brittany, and Catherine, of Anchorage, Alaska, and son, Lieutenant Colonel Michael Fairlee, daughter-in-law Marie, and beloved grandson, James, of Fort Bliss, Texas.

In addition to tennis Susannah loved barbecue, antiques stores, summer twilight, Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry, faded photographs, cold beer, Jay Leno, train whistles in the night, the sound of laughter, and her good friends, former business partner Harriet Beal, bridge partner Ann Curry, and tennis partner Pamela Wilson.

Mom, we love you.

In lieu of flowers, please consider a memorial gift to St. Mildred's Episcopal Church, the Salvation Army, Habitat for Humanity, or your favorite charity.

A woman well loved. But somewhere in a life marked by humor and caring, Susannah Fairlee had encountered the person who caused her death, put Michelle in jeopardy of prison, and coolly shot Ben Douglas.

B
en Douglas moved restively. Fever flushed his face. A damp cloth gently wiped his forehead and cheeks, apparently moving under its own volition. “They're doing everything they can.” Lorraine sounded weary. “Antibiotics in the IV and two shots. But his pulse is weak. I'm very afraid.”

I knew where Lorraine stood because of the cloth. I reached out and gently patted a thin shoulder. “If God opens the gates of larger life, Ben will find joy.”

Her reply was whiplash fast, her tone fierce. “Next week is his granddaughter's birthday. He's very proud of her. She's coming all the way from El Paso to see him. He has presents waiting for her in his living room. Several times he's been awake for a bit, and he keeps saying her name.”

The pull of this world against the welcome of the next.

“Would it help if I told you that Wig—that Paul loves his train station, that he finds happiness in sending the Rescue Express to help people on their journeys here, just as he did in life, would that make it easier—”

“You want me to let go? But Ben shouldn't have been hurt.” Her voice was uneven. “Ben misses his wife so much. Oh, I wish I knew what was best.”

“Paul”—it still seemed odd to speak of Wiggins by his first name, and I hoped he understood I intended no disrespect—“said when the shell burst, he didn't want to leave the earth. He tried to stay because he loved you, but his time here was done. He had a new purpose.” I took a quick breath. “He said he was glad you married Charles.”

“Charles.” Lorraine's voice was soft. “We were happy. He never knew about Paul. I couldn't tell him. He might have blamed himself.”

“Blame?”

A gurgling sound and Ben Douglas's body jerked.

Sudden strident beeps filled the small space.

The curtain was pulled aside and a nurse hurried in. She rushed to the bedside. Suddenly a voice over the intercom announced, “
Code Blue ICU 5, Code Blue ICU 5
.”

The bed was soon surrounded by figures in scrubs intent upon the still figure of Ben Douglas.

I couldn't help Ben. That was in the hands of those working fast to save him. But I could do my best to discover who had put him in peril.

I have fond memories of St. Mildred's. My life was entwined with the church: regular attendance, weddings, christenings, funerals, the Altar Guild, and, of course, my first arrival as an emissary was on a dark evening in the backyard of the rectory to find the rector's wife standing over the body of a murder victim.

I took a moment to drop by the chapel and light a candle for Ben. I added Lorraine to my prayer. She had spoken about blame. Who would be blamed for what? I tucked that puzzle at the back of my mind to consider when we again met. I went from the chapel to the office of the church secretary, blessedly empty on a Saturday. It took only a moment to find the name of the current directress of the Altar Guild and to dial her number.

I was relieved when a cheerful voice answered. In a world of answering machines and cell phones, ringing a landline often leads to a recorded message. If Emma Carson had caller ID, she had already identified the call as coming from St. Mildred's. I introduced myself as Margaret Scott (in honor of Margaret of Scotland, who was among the first to organize women to care for altar vestments), a friend of Susannah's daughter. I must remember that I was Margaret Scott to Susannah's friends and Theresa Lisieux with Joe and Michelle. And then there was Officer Loy. . . . “I'm in town quite briefly. I'm creating a memory book about Susannah to give to Janet on Mother's Day as a surprise. I'm hoping you can give me the phone numbers and addresses of Susannah's dear friends Harriet Beal, Ann Curry, and Pamela Wilson.”

A bell sang as I pushed open the door of Now and Again. Cheerful '40s band music—Glenn Miller's “In the Mood”—was a fitting backdrop for an eclectic collection of movie posters from the last century, World War II memorabilia, stacks of
Saturday Evening Post
s, vinyl records, vintage paperbacks, garden statuary—including spaniels, deer, and a squirrel in a top hat—and a shelf of kachina dolls. The counter was a couple of boards balanced on top of a cardboard Stutz Bearcat.

I stepped inside and sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of robust coffee and—I didn't think my senses deceived me—burnt-sugar cake. Mama made the best burnt-sugar cake I ever tasted. I remembered perching on a stool with a big wooden spoon and stirring melting sugar in a heavy iron skillet as it turned brown.
Mmmmm.

A hearty laugh sounded. A heavyset henna-haired woman with a kerchief around her head and a cake plate in one hand was standing in a doorway behind the cardboard car. “You know how to get yourself a serving, young lady. Make yourself at home over there.” She gestured casually toward a couple of wooden tables with bright red wooden chairs.

I still thrill to being twenty-seven again. “Thank you. I'd love a piece of cake.”

She served us each a mug of steaming black coffee and a generous slice of cake. I knew the recipe was authentic when I tasted the burnt-sugar frosting. I introduced myself as Margaret Scott, an old friend of Janet Fairlee Hastings.

Harriet Beal was eager to share memories of her years in business with Susannah. “She was a rock. Like we say in Oklahoma, a straight arrow. Even insisted”—Harriet gave me a wicked smile—“on labeling stuff that wasn't old as ‘in the tradition of . . .' She got herself a rep. If she said a piece was authentic, everybody took her at her word.” Her smile slid away. “Miss her.” Her voice was gruff.

“This will be meaningful to Janet. She was really busy with the kids' sporting stuff this fall, and she felt like she neglected her mom and that something was worrying Susannah.”

Harriet's thickly mascaraed eyes widened. “Janet can rest easy. Susannah was talking about Janet just the week before she died. Susannah said Janet always tried hard to do everything right and Michael had excelled at everything he did. He's retiring from the military and coming home to Adelaide. That would have been special for Susannah. Susannah didn't have any problems.”

“You can't think of anything recently when Susannah seemed worried or upset?”

Harriet took a last bite of cake. “Nothing that concerned her personally.”

I was grasping at any straw. “Anything at all. Any indication of stress or concern about anybody?”

“As I said, nothing to do with her personally. We were out to dinner the week before Susannah died. She was awfully quiet. I thought I knew why.” Her expression was earnest. “Some people go out of their way to help others. Susannah was like that. She was a Stephen Minister. The only reason I knew was because once I wanted her to be here at the store for me on a Tuesday afternoon, and she said she couldn't help out on a Tuesday. She had a Stephen-care recipient. Of course, she didn't say a word about who it was or anything like that. But Tuesday night at dinner, she wasn't her usual self. I said, ‘Hard afternoon?' She knew I meant her Stephen visit. She said, ‘I wish I could give her peace.' Then she shook her head, started talking about going to Anchorage for Thanksgiving.”

Ann Curry was one of those women who were as beautiful at sixty as they were at sixteen. Short-cut silver hair framed classic features with camellia-fresh skin and blue eyes as guileless as a child's. I knew her sort. Utterly charming and as cutthroat at the bridge table as any riverboat gambler. She shared insights about her friend—“honorable . . . kind . . . beneath that kindly exterior quite immovable on important matters”—and listened attentively as I concluded. “Susannah distressed?” Something flickered in her eyes. “We played bridge the week before she died. Top of her game that day. Doubled and won.”

She had not directly answered my question. I shot her a quick look, knew I was dealing with a reticent woman who was careful in what she said and to whom. My demeanor changed. “I hadn't intended to reveal this, but there is suspicion that Susannah's death was not accidental. I'm an investigator. The family, of course, wants the truth known, and that's why I approached you as an old friend putting together a memory book.” I spoke crisply, shedding the attitude of a charming young woman. I was sure Susannah's family would indeed be on board if they knew the circumstances. “If anything struck you as unusual or different in Susannah's behavior, please tell me.”

Ann smoothed back a strand of silver hair. She studied me, finally nodded. “I saw Susannah on campus the day she died. I teach violin. I'd finished my eleven o'clock class and was on my way to lunch. Gorgeous day. Mid-September. Not a cloud in the sky. I looked across the oval and saw her coming out of the Administration Building. I was surprised. It wasn't a matter of town versus gown, but when Susannah was on the city council, she jealously protected Adelaide's independence from undue influence by the college. She had friends on the faculty, but it wouldn't be commonplace to see her on campus. I was pleased. I thought I'd catch her and see if she wanted to go to a tea shop with me. I hurried. She didn't see me as she came down the steps. I saw her face as she turned away. I didn't call out.” She stopped.

I waited.

“She had a look I'd only seen once before. A woman we both knew had an abusive husband. I saw Susannah the day she went to his office to tell him that Gail was moving out and coming to Susannah's home, and if he threatened her or refused a divorce, Susannah would see him in jail.” Ann sighed. “I almost followed Susannah. I felt something must be seriously awry. But the way she was moving—head down, shoulders tight—made me think this wasn't a good time to talk to her. That night I kept thinking about it and I was worried. I wondered if there was something wrong at the college, something I should know about. I decided I'd call her the next day. I was getting ready to go to bed when the call came that Susannah had died.”

Pamela Wilson's narrow, tanned face was pleasantly ugly, her nose a little too long, her chin a little too sharp, but there was bright intelligence in her dark eyes and a no-nonsense jut to her jaw. “. . . excellent forehand. A little weak on her backhand.”