Ghost Wanted (15 page)

I glanced at the clock. I had an hour before I could expect a report from Detectives Weitz and Smith.

I wondered if Joe and Michelle would notice if I appeared in a different outfit. Possibly I should restrain my delight in fashion. I mean, the paisley was lovely, but I was feeling more in silk georgette mood. I appeared in the now-even-dimmer newsroom as shadows lengthened outside. I took a step and loved the swirl of a multicolor ankle-length silk georgette dress, regretfully shook my head. Joe's gaze was too sharp. By the time I reached the doorway, I was wearing paisley again. Tomorrow would be another day. That added a feeling of urgency to my thoughts. Tomorrow would be one day away from Howie's return to the chief's office.

And I was stumped.

I stepped into the office. Joe had somehow found time to shave, and his polo and chinos looked fresh. His angular face was too bony to be conventionally handsome, but he had a masculine appeal I was quite sure Michelle appreciated.

Each, in fact, was keenly aware of the other's every move.

Joe thumped his fist on his desk. Papers slid every which way. “The kid saw Fairlee's pic and ID'd her immediately. She has no reason to make it up.”

Michelle, whose glossy dark hair was obviously fresh from a shampoo, looked exasperated. “I'm not saying she made it up, but I don't see how it helps.”

I was ready to grasp at any straw.

“Tell me.”

They both stiffened and jerked toward the doorway.

I smiled.

Michelle almost managed a smile in return.

Joe lowered his head like a buffalo irritated by gnats. “The front door's locked.” He said it flatly.

I can't help teasing men. They are so serious. “Doors,” I murmured, “are made to be opened.” I ignored his glare. “Who saw Susannah?”

Michelle was trying not to laugh at Joe's response.

I admired how she had bounced back from an ordeal that would leave anyone shaken. She didn't know her reprieve was temporary. My challenge now was to keep her from being arrested on Monday.

Joe looked triumphant. “Ellen Kelly. Nineteen. Junior from Adelaide. Lives at home. Works in the Bursar's Office. She was running an errand that Wednesday. She remembers because she saw the story in the
Gazette
the next day about Susannah Fairlee's death and she recognized her picture as a woman she'd seen coming out of the Dean of Students office.” His gaze at Michelle was combative. “Why'd she notice Fairlee?”

Michelle was crisp. “That's what makes me wonder how reliable her observation was. She claimed Fairlee looked upset, and she wondered if she was there because a kid was in trouble. That sounds like after-the-fact embellishment to me.”

Joe leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, glowered. “The only way to get results is to get people's attention. Like a slap to the side of the head.”

“Telling her you're investigating a murder and did she see this woman in the Ad Building on September seventeenth pretty well invites exaggeration.”

They were going to be one of those couples—think Hepburn and Tracy—that spark like flint striking steel.

“Peace, children.”

Joe yanked a thumb at Michelle. “She wants to ask questions like a historian, which is fine, but right now we have to get results. I know how to get people talking.”

Michelle turned a graceful hand. “Joe's probably right, and”—she gave a small sigh—“Ellen's the only person we found who remembers seeing Susannah.”

“Let me get it straight. You two spent the afternoon contacting people who work in the Ad Building?”

Joe's eyes narrowed. “We haven't talked to that many, actually. I figure whoever put together the snare for Michelle has to be pretty important, somebody with a lot to lose and somebody who knows the ins and outs of Goddard. Not a kid. So we spent the afternoon finding out about work-study students and student employees in the Ad Building. I figured none of them can be the perp. We hit the jackpot with Ellen Kelly.”

Michelle flashed a smile at him. “He got a JPEG of Susannah. We were able to send the photo as we talked to people.”

Joe looked satisfied. “The JPEG clinched the deal with Ellen.”

Michelle nodded. “Sending the photo was smart. I'm not saying Ellen didn't see her. I'm saying”—and now she sounded discouraged—“we don't know why Susannah went to the Dean of Students Office. For all we know, she was lost and stepped inside to ask directions.”

“Oh, come on, Michelle.” Joe snorted in exasperation

She was contrite. “I'm sorry. You've done a great job. But I feel like we've looked awfully hard and this doesn't help much.”

“We definitely have her pegged going into the Dean of Students Office. It's a place to start.” He burrowed among the papers on the desk, pulled out a sheet. “I did a story about the honor code a couple of weeks ago. I talked to Marian Pierce, who works in the Bursar's Office. I called her, said sorry to bother her at home but I was setting up some stories for next week, we were doing a feature on work-study students, we'd picked the Dean of Students Office, could she give me their names and the names of all the staff and I'd be getting in touch with people.” He looked cocky. “I got the roster for that office: Eleanor Sheridan, dean of students; Jeanne Bracewell, assistant dean; Jill Bruner and Laura Salazar, secretaries; Sabina Diaz; receptionist; Daisy Butler and George Graham, work-study students.” Joe glanced toward the clock. It was almost five thirty. “We'll order in a couple of pizzas and call the list.”

“Not yet.” I wasn't there the day Susannah Fairlee stalked down the steps of the Administration Building, but I felt sure I knew the outcome of that visit: a stealthy approach across her yard, a stunning blow, life lost in inches of water. I held up my hand. Really, a very attractive shade of rose on the nails. “No calls to anyone in the dean's office.”

“Why not?” Joe hunched his big shoulders and looked combative.

I gave him a steely stare. “If Susannah went there and threatened someone, the last thing we want to do is alert that person. Instead, we'll find out everything we can about Susannah and that office.” I was counting on Detectives Weitz and Smith. “You've done a great job finding out who works there. I want you and Michelle to get some background on each one and we'll talk to them Monday. When you finish the bios, print them out, leave them on your desk.” I ignored Joe's cold stare. To allay his suspicion that I entered and left Old Ethel too easily, I said, “I'll look at them when we get together again. When you're done, take the rest of the weekend off. Have a beer at the Brown Owl. Thrash out the plot lines of
True Blood
.” I wanted the bios. I didn't want them poking into what might turn out to be the equivalent of a rattlesnake's lair. The less Joe and Michelle knew, the safer they'd be. “In any event, give me your cell numbers”—I jotted them on a card—“and stick together.” That final order improved Joe's mood.

I started to disappear, realized I wasn't quite on that basis with them. Fortunately Joe was frowning at his list. However, Michelle was watching me with huge, questioning eyes.

I patted her shoulder and ignored the rigidity of her muscles. “Lights at night make things waver, don't they? Blink and you'll be fine.” I opened the door, beamed at them. “Have a good evening.” And closed the door gently behind me as I left.

I
was careful to remain visible until I was around the corner from Old Ethel. The bells in the library tower tolled the half hour. This time last night, Ben Douglas likely heard the deep peals as he planned his stakeout in the library. Today Ben was fighting for his life.

The ICU unit was familiar now: nurses in thick-soled sneakers moving quietly, checking monitors, administering medicine, fighting to save those at risk. I was relieved to find Ben still in his cubicle behind the drawn green curtain. A monitor glowed green. Lines snaked out from the IV pole. If a nurse glanced within, he would appear to be alone, though I guessed that one slightly elevated hand was held by another, smaller hand.

I kept my voice to a whisper. “How is he?”

“Guarded prognosis.” Lorraine's soft voice was even.

I knew her modulated tone had taken great effort. Nurses must maintain their composure even when their hearts are breaking.

“There's danger of clots. They had to inject a blood thinner in the abdominal artery.” A sigh. “Occasionally his eyes open and he tries to move. He's still caught in that moment before he was shot. I tell him I'm here and he's safe and we're going to make him well. Once, I think he said, ‘. . . stay with me?' I promised I wouldn't leave.”

“Are they doing everything they can?”

“Yes. The nurse comes every few minutes to check on him. He could go either way.”

“I wish I could help.”

“Find out who hurt Ben.” Her tone was fierce.

“I'm trying.”

Beyond the green curtain there were muted sounds, wheels of a gurney, low voices, beeps, tings.

Lorraine sighed. “I sat by so many men.”

I had a vision of a crowded ward in that long-ago military hospital, scarcely room to squeeze a straight wooden chair between them, young men in every kind of condition: bandaged eyes, missing limbs, some moving restively, some not moving at all.

“I'd promise I wouldn't leave. I was always tired. When ambulances came with the wounded, we all helped, and then I'd have a night shift. So often”—and now her voice was forlorn as she recalled a young woman near a battlefield—“I'd fall asleep holding a hand. When I'd wake, there was no life left, only a hand limp in mine. Such young hands.”

I heard tears in her voice.

Now it was my turn to be fierce. “Sometimes they lived. Thanks to you and the others who made them well.”

“I wasn't able to make Paul well.”

What could I say? That he was happy? That he loved her still? I didn't know the right words, so I remained silent.

“Tell me”—clearly she made an effort to be brisk—“what you've learned.”

I realized that Lorraine knew only that Michelle Hoyt was missing, a stolen book had been found in her apartment, and Ben had been shot in the room where Susannah Fairlee's diaries were stored. I had much to tell her.

“Susannah Fairlee was murdered. Michelle was decoyed to an empty house and held captive until this morning to prevent her from reading Susannah's diaries. A gun, likely the one used to shoot Ben, was planted in Michelle's car. I found the gun in her trunk and I've hidden it. Michelle was taken into custody for the rare-book theft.” I described my efforts at Chief Cobb's office. “I sent down word that she was cleared. She's safe until Monday. I discovered Susannah Fairlee went to the Dean of Students Office the day she was murdered. I haven't found any connection between Susannah and the dean's office. Why did she go to that office? Why did she look grim as she came out of the building? Michelle and Joe are gathering information on everyone in the dean's office.”

“Joe's helping Michelle?” Lorraine's voice was soft. “You can always count on the roses.”

I smiled. Roses or chemistry or propinquity. But then, a rose by any other name . . . “I'd say they are definitely interested in each other. Now if only I can figure out who killed Susannah, Michelle will be safe. I'm hoping Detectives Weitz and Smith have some leads.”

Chief Cobb's office was dusky, but I used only the desk lamp. Light shining from the windows might catch the attention of someone entering or leaving City Hall. I clicked to read the e-mail from Detectives Weitz and Smith.

To: Acting Chief
From: Detectives Weitz and Smith

Neighbors were contacted on both sides of Arnold Street concerning anyone observed in the area between 6 and 7 p.m. Sept. 17. Next-door neighbor Judith Eastman, 327 Arnold Street, didn't see anyone on Mrs. Fairlee's driveway during that time. Mrs. Eastman said she last saw Mrs. Fairlee Wednesday morning. The Sandler family lives across the street. Teenagers Adam and Will Sandler played basketball in their driveway from six o'clock until dark. According to the boys, the only cars that came on the block were people who lived there returning home. They were paying attention because a new family with a teenage daughter had moved into the house east of the Fairlee address and they were hoping the girl—Linda—would come outside but she didn't.

The Fairlee house is midblock in a modest residential area of bungalows built in the 1930s. Unlike newer areas of town, alleys run behind the houses in this development. Officer Weitz explored the alley behind the Fairlee house. Most houses have fences separating the backyards from the alley, but the Fairlee house is unfenced. Across the alley and three houses west of the Fairlee yard is a home belonging to Brady Stanwell, a retired machinist. Stanwell recalled the night in question because police rigged lights in Fairlee's backyard. He was smoking a cigar in the back garden after dinner. He said he came outside about a quarter after six. While he was smoking the cigar, a woman on a bicycle passed. He estimated the time at approximately twenty past six. He had only a glimpse of the figure. He said he was sure it was a woman and was aggravated when pressed, said he knew a woman when he saw a woman but it was getting dark and he didn't know how big she was or what she looked like, only that she had on a bike helmet and a black top and slacks. He went inside a little later to watch baseball.

No one else reports seeing the bike rider.

Officer Johnny Cain contacted by phone everyone mentioned in Susannah Fairlee's obituary. In his report, Cain . . .

I nodded in approval, but I stared glumly at the printout. Not even another mouthful of M&M'S lifted my spirit. So far as both Johnny and I had been able to determine, Susannah Fairlee's life had followed its usual course until Ann Curry saw her visibly upset on campus the day she died. I was impressed by the amount of information he'd gathered on a Saturday, but I didn't find a link to the Dean of Students Office.

Johnny spoke to Susannah's daughter and son, next-door neighbor Judith Eastman, friends listed in her obituary, the rector of St. Mildred's (I smiled as I thought of Father Bill and Kathleen and their red-haired daughter, Bayroo), the Altar Guild directress Emma Carson, Kate's Corner manager Dwight Baker.

I understood the plaintive conclusion that it was difficult to determine what may or may not have occurred the last week of Susannah's life because she lived alone.

As an addendum to Johnny's report, Weitz observed tartly, “For all we know, she entertained Martians after midnight.” Detective Smith added, “Judith Eastman next door has a key to the Fairlee house. Apparently the son is retiring from the military next spring and plans to move back to Adelaide and live there. Eastman offered to take us over there to look around but we didn't have a search warrant.”

I tore a sheet from a fresh legal pad in the chief's center desk drawer and made up a calendar of Susannah's regular activities based on Johnny's report:

Mondays—Served lunch at Kate's Corner

Tuesdays—Weekly appointment with Stephen-care recipient

Wednesdays—Tennis with Pamela Wilson

Thursdays—Bible study at the church, taught by Father Bill

Fridays—Bridge

Saturdays—Errand day

Sundays—Nine fifteen service. On Altar Guild duty Sunday before her death.

I slowly reread the report, wrote down important signposts:

1.
Susannah's last Monday—Dwight Baker at Kate's Corner said Susannah was in good spirits. “Talking about going to Alaska for Thanksgiving. She was fine. Just as always. Cheerful, outgoing, kind.”

2.
Susannah's last Wednesday—Ann Curry saw Susannah leave the Administration Building obviously upset.

Monday at noon Susannah Fairlee served food at Kate's Corner and in no way appeared troubled. Shortly before noon on Wednesday she was in a place she was not known to visit, and Ann Curry thought she was too upset to welcome a greeting. What happened between Monday and Wednesday? I glanced again at Susannah's usual schedule. On Tuesdays she regularly visited a care recipient as a Stephen Minister. What was her demeanor that day?

I turned back to the computer.

To: Detectives Weitz and Smith
From: Acting Chief

Excellent report. Check e-mail tomorrow in case further developments arise.

Acting Chief

I was well aware that further developments must arise or feathers would hit the fan Monday morning when Acting Chief Howie Warren returned to find Michelle freed and an investigation begun into a death that had been officially termed an accident.

On Main Street, I lurked behind the trunk of an oak tree and appeared, then I strolled to Lulu's and stepped inside, welcoming the familiar, comfortable surroundings. I sat at the counter. I chose meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. As I took a last bite, I made up my mind. Susannah's care recipient was first on my list.

Outside, I walked across the street into the park and disappeared. At St. Mildred's, I took a moment to hover above the backyard of the rectory. Outdoor lighting illuminated the sandy volleyball court in the early dusk. Squeals and shouts sounded as young teenagers jumped. A gangly, big-handed teen slammed the ball, driving it over the net and into the sand. Bayroo clapped her hands to her red head. “I missed it!” Bayroo's glorious red-gold curls were in disarray, but her eager freckled face was as dear as I remembered. It seemed like only yesterday when I helped her mom avoid the difficulty of a body on the back porch of the rectory. I felt a little twist deep inside as I remembered how near we'd come to mortal peril for Bayroo, but all was well that ended well.

“Not your fault,” her earnest friend Lucinda called out. “I got in your way.”

I wished I could spend more time watching the middle school group enjoying a picnic and game on a beautiful fall night. Cars filled the church parking lot.

But it was time for business. In the church secretary's office, I closed the window blinds and turned on the light. It took a little while in the files to find the folders for the Stephen Ministry. I was pleased that Susannah's folder had not been removed, though a dark pencil on the outside had marked:
Deceased
.

I took the folder and sat down. The folder contained more information about Susannah, most of which I knew, than about her care recipient, who was identified only as JoLee Jamison, resident, Adelaide Hospice House. I puzzled for a moment. Had I seen that name somewhere recently? I squeezed my eyes in concentration. Possibly. But I could not dredge up where.

In a parking lot shaded by sycamores, I landed between a delivery van and a pickup truck. No one was visible in the swath of parking lot open to me. A massive German shepherd watched me from the back of the pickup. I appeared. I straightened my name badge reading
Officer M. Loy
and admired the crispness of my uniform trousers. The black shoes had a high gloss. There was nothing shabby about Heavenly garb, whether there or here.

I strode briskly around the side of the truck.

“Cool.” The high voice was admiring. “Are you some special kind of cop?”

I looked past the truck's tailgate into the interested gaze of a little boy about five years old.

“You were up high and now you're on the ground.” He sounded delighted.