Ghost Wanted (21 page)

By this time we were edging behind the huge press that towered almost to the ceiling. There wasn't much room behind the press. As I slid my palms across the wall, I bumped into Lorraine. “Sorry, didn't mean to step on you.”

Michelle gave a ragged laugh. “Who did you step on? Or should I ask?”

The texture of the wall changed from plaster to wood. Was it possible that I was feeling a wooden panel that was almost a hundred years old? “Oh, good Heaven,” I exclaimed.

“You stepped on Heaven?” Michelle's tone was plaintive. “Do you know, I can believe almost anything at this point, but that's a stretch.”

“This has to be the panel.” Lorraine's voice was exultant.

Michelle said frantically, “Two different voices again. Stop that, please.”

“I'm talking to Lorraine.” It was time to give up pretense.

Lorraine said firmly, “Michelle, don't worry. We'll take care of you.”

“We? There's only one of you.” Michelle's voice wobbled.

“We'll explain later.” I hope I sounded patient. “Lorraine, the wood is smooth so far.”

“Take your time. I doubt the knothole is very large.”

“Do I want to know who Lorraine is?” Michelle was clearly disturbed.

I spread my fingers wide, moved a few inches at a time. I heard distant shouts. The police had opened the door and found the lighted stairway to the basement.

I poked a finger into nothingness. “I found the hole.” I hooked my index finger inside the opening and pulled. Nothing happened. I thought about a mechanism that would move a panel.

Men shouted. Heavy footsteps thumped. Soon they would be down the stairs and searching the basement, but we were screened from view by the huge press.

I moved my finger inside the hole and felt a spring. I pressed and heard a click. Putting my shoulder against the wooden panel, I pushed. Slowly, creaking, a portion of the wall swung forward into impenetrable darkness. A dank odor swept over us.

Michelle stood stock-still. “That smells awful. What's in there?”

“It may be a bit”—I hesitated—“challenging.” I could disappear in an instant if the floor was rotted or the walls caved in, but Michelle didn't have that option.

“Don't be frightened.” Lorraine sounded confident. “I'll get a light.”

“Don't leave me.” Michelle grabbed my arm.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

Michelle's fingers dug into my arm. “I don't know that I want to know, but you've got to tell me. Why are you talking in two voices, and how can you go somewhere and still be here?”

“Lorraine went for a light.”

“Who's Lorraine and when did she join us? Why didn't I see her?”

A muffled shout sounded on the other side of the press. “Hey, who took my Maglite? Hey, what's it doing up there by the ceiling? Hey—”

I looked up. A bright beam rose toward the ceiling, abruptly disappeared. Good for Lorraine. Once she turned the flashlight off, no one could follow its path. I whispered, since the police were now on the other side of the press. “Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. Lorraine got us a light and now we can go into the tunnel.”

Michelle whispered, too, a ragged thin wisp of a whisper. “How peachy. Just like that, presto chango, Lorraine, who I never saw, went somewhere and got a light and she's coming back—”

“Now we can see.” Lorraine spoke softly. A bright beam illuminated a narrow bricked tunnel. The floor of the tunnel was also bricked. Cobwebs hung in shimmery swaths.

Michelle was rigid beside me. “Nobody's holding the flashlight.”

The Maglite, just inside the tunnel now, appeared to hang without support.

It was time to be frank. Surely Wiggins would understand. The girl needed reassurance. “Don't be distressed—”

“Distressed?” Now her whisper was frantic. “I'm not distressed, I'm hysterical. The police are after me. I'm down in a basement with a woman who comes and goes through locked doors—and don't think I don't know the front door to Old Ethel was locked, because Joe tried it three times, and here you came with pizza—and you keep talking in two voices and I don't know who Lorraine is and now that flashlight's hanging there by itself.”

“Lorraine, join us.”

Although not clearly visible in the dark, colors swirled and Lorraine held the Maglite. She looked crisp and elegant in a white blouse, a long blue skirt, and matching blue slippers.

Michelle let go of my arm and sagged against me. “I'm not hysterical. I'm crazy.”

The shouts were louder, the sound of feet pounding on the far side of the press. Soon the police would fan around the press, find this narrow space.

I spoke quickly, but still softly. “Actually you are quite sane. You heard two voices. One is mine and one is Lorraine's. We will introduce ourselves at greater length another time. Come.” I took her elbow.

Michelle stiffened. “If you think I'm going in there, you're the one who's crazy.”

Lorraine handed me the Maglite. “I'll see to the cobwebs.” She disappeared and in the bright yellow beam cobwebs fell away to each side. “Come now,” she called softly.

I took a firmer grip on Michelle and propelled her ahead of me. “Here, hold this.” I handed the Maglite to her and turned to swing the panel shut behind us. As it clicked into place, Michelle shuddered.

I took the light. “The faster we move, the sooner we will be out of here.”

Without a sound, Michelle turned and gingerly picked her way forward.

I tried to keep the beam steady, but occasional twists and turns illuminated portions of the tunnel walls. I had no doubt Michelle was well aware that they were slimy. She made a clear effort to stay free of entangling shreds of cobwebs.

The tunnel angled to our right then abruptly ended. The Maglite clearly revealed a brick wall with no apparent exit.

Michelle stumbled to a stop. “It's a dead end.”

Lorraine's voice floated to us. “I'll find a way.”

Michelle stood with her arms tight across her front. “Nightmares are kind of funny, aren't they?” Her tone was conversational. “I mean, obviously I must be asleep. When I wake up, George will be curled at the end of the bed and everything will be back like it was: I'm going to school and I have a paper to write and I don't know this guy named Joe and I'm not really trapped in a tunnel . . .”

We waited and it seemed an interminable time. I knew Lorraine wouldn't desert us, but the exit might be well hidden. Michelle looked back the way we'd come. “Do you think you can open that thing from the inside?” Her voice was shaky. I hoped she wasn't beginning to feel claustrophobic.

“Certainly. But we'll get out at this end.” I maintained a confident tone. I needed to give Michelle a boost. I decided it was a nice moment to recite “If.” “‘If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, / If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, / But make allowance—'”

A sudden shower of dirt and dust, with pieces of wood and clods of dirt, enveloped us.

Michelle sounded scared. “The ceiling's falling.”

I swung the Maglite beam up.

More dirt fell. Dust swirled.

Lorraine's voice was excited, pleased. “I knew there had to be a way out. It's cleverly camouflaged. You know those stone ruins in the woods on the other side of the hill from the campus? There's a wooden cover in the ground that looks like a top to an abandoned well. It's rather splintery and worn and may not have been moved for years. It didn't want to budge, but I found a broken branch—green wood and quite strong—and I managed to prize up the lid.”

A
s the dust cleared, light streamed through a round opening about five feet above us.

“Disappear, Bailey Ruth. Between us, we can lift Michelle.”

Michelle clamped her eyes shut as I took one arm. With Lorraine on the other side, we rose and lifted Michelle through the opening and onto a patch of ground in the midst of tumbled stone. Late afternoon shadows made the ruins dim and dusky.

Michelle took a deep breath, opened her eyes. “All right. I give up. There are two of you and you come and go. I don't know which is worse: when you're here, when you're not here, or when you're in between.”

We reappeared on either side of her. Lorraine gave her an encouraging pat on one arm, then knelt to push the weathered trapdoor cover back into place.

Michelle's gaze flickered from Lorraine to me. “You”—her tone was faintly accusatory—“called yourself Theresa Lisieux. She”—her head nodded toward Lorraine—“called you Bailey Ruth. Who are you?”

Lorraine beamed at Michelle. “Bailey Ruth's very special. She's an agent for the Department of Good Intentions. She's here from Heaven to help you. And me.”

Michelle tried to breathe evenly. “Heaven?” But her voice squeaked.

I patted her other shoulder. “We don't have time to explain everything.”

“Ghosts. You're ghosts.” Michelle whirled toward Lorraine. “You're Lorraine Marlow. You've been dead for years. I've seen your portrait in the library. You throw roses around.” She began to tremble.

Lorraine raised a delicately arched brow. “I would scarcely call delivering a rose to a young man or woman
throwing
them.”

“Michelle, be calm. Breathe in. Breathe out.” I smiled at her. “Everything is fine. Lorraine is most particular about the recipients of roses. That's why she felt you and Joe definitely were due roses. As Lorraine said, we're here to help you, so please don't worry.”

“Am I dead?” Michelle's voice shook.

“Not for a long, long time.” Of course, this was simply a guess on my part. I certainly didn't know when Michelle would be summoned, but the dear girl needed a boost and I am always willing to be positive. “Now, enough of this. Lorraine and I aren't at liberty to say more. And you and Lorraine can have a long talk about roses at Rose Bower.”

“Rose Bower?” Michelle stared at me.

“What a splendid idea.” Lorraine clapped her hands together. “Why, it's only perhaps a half mile from here through the woods.” She turned to Michelle. “Did you know Rose Bower adjoins the campus? That's one reason Charles left the estate to the college. It's hardly any distance at all.”

As I expected, Chief Cobb's office was still crowded, though Detectives Smith and Weitz were absent. Several plainclothes detectives and uniformed officers stood stiffly near the door, faces blank. Howie Warren looked small in the chief's chair—small, beleaguered, and pressed.

Neva Lumpkin, Adelaide's mayor, arms folded, glared down at the acting chief. Her blonde hair was an impressive beehive over a plump face congealed with distaste. She looked like a Wagnerian soprano upstaged by the tenor. “Traffic was a nightmare. Those leaving the concert were harassed, intimidated, obstructed. I was stopped four times.” Her voice quivered with outrage. “Despite the fact that my Lincoln clearly has plates front and back that read
Mayor
.” She swung toward the line of expressionless officers. “I called you in here because you are sorely lacking in tact and responsiveness to the public.” She turned back to Howie. “I told them who I was.” A ringed hand plunged into the capacious pocket of a blue pantsuit, pulled out a note card. “Officers Kerry, Bitterman, Sweet, Laswell, McKay, French, Jarvis, and Kramer. To add to my outrage, I learn the stop-and-search nonsense was apparently in error, that the student has escaped to Lake Texoma. Now”—her voice dripped sarcasm—“I'm sure you can explain how it happened that this criminal was in custody on Saturday and then released?”

Howie made feeble gestures at the computer. “Somebody used my computer, told the officers she was cleared.”

The mayor's tone was icy. “Of course, I'm sure an investigation has revealed how that happened?”

Howie stared at the keyboard. Obviously, no vagrant prints had been found. “We're trying to find out.”

Neva drew herself up, an unfortunate maneuver that emphasized her over-endowed bust. “Adelaide looks like a laughingstock. What if the papers get hold of this? I am replacing you with Detective Weitz. You are on leave for the foreseeable future.”

“Woo hoo.” I clapped a hand over my lips.

Howie glared at the officers near the door.

The mayor swung toward the door. “Excuse me?”

A bald-headed officer standing with his arms behind his back looked puzzled. “Ma'am, we didn't say anything.”

Mayor Lumpkin's nostrils flared. She flapped a hand. “Out. Attend to your duties—if that can be done without imposing on the public.”

I wouldn't say Adelaide's finest scuttled, but they were out the door in an instant.

Mayor Lumpkin turned back to Howie. She jabbed an index finger at the computer. “Summon Detective Weitz.”

I didn't stay to witness the transition of power or observe Howie Warren's departure. The mayor would direct Weitz to redouble efforts to apprehend that master criminal, Michelle Hoyt.

In an instant, I was alone in Detective Sergeant Hal Price's office. The desk was bare, though his in-box was stacked high with papers. It was late afternoon now. I felt a quiver. Saving Michelle from arrest had delayed executing my plan to flush out the identity of the woman who used students in blackmail schemes. I pulled out a city directory, scrawled down two numbers, and reached for the phone. It was important that both calls be made from a police department telephone.

“Eleanor Sheridan.”

Perhaps she always answered with her name. Perhaps she noted the Adelaide Police Department on caller ID.

“Ms. Sheridan,” I used my most homespun Adelaide drawl, “Officer M. Loy calling.”

“Yes, Officer.” Her tone was pleasant, slightly patronizing.

“Ma'am, are you the dean of students out at the college?”

“Yes.”

This was not a woman to say more than was necessary—no excited demands to know if there was a problem, nothing more than a level pleasant voice that exuded authority.

“Yes'm, we had a message left on Crime Stoppers. That's a number citizens can call to anonymously report—”

“I'm aware of Crime Stoppers.” She sounded amused.

“Oh, yes'm. Good to know the community is generally aware. Anyway, this message was a little garbled. I just got a printout of the call.”

“Officer, I doubt I can be of help. Perhaps you should contact the campus police.”

“You're the person named in the search warrant. It's your office.”

“Search warrant?”

“Yes'm. The chief wanted to make sure you'd be there at nine o'clock in the morning so the warrant can be served.”

“Search for what?” She was impatient.

I gave an apologetic chuckle. “Like the chief said, anonymous tips usually don't amount to much but they have to be checked out. We'll be in and out real quick tomorrow.”

“What are you looking for?”

“The chief didn't say exactly. Something about blackmail. I guess it will be spelled out in the warrant. The chief will probably come along and explain everything, seeing as how it's an office at the college. Anyway, appreciate your cooperation. See you tomorrow. Nine a.m.” I hung up, made my second call.

Jeanne Bracewell answered with a gruff “Hello.”

“Officer M. Loy here. Are you the Bracewell who's the assistant dean of students out at the college?”

“Yes. How can I help you, Officer?” The assistant dean sounded prepared for some kind of bad news.

“Will you be at your office at nine tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. Is there a problem with a student?”

“Not sure, ma'am. A search warrant's been issued for your office. Just want to be sure you'd be there—”

“Search warrant? Why?”

“Suspicion of blackmail, ma'am.”

“That's absurd.” Bracewell was crisp, definitive. “Clearly there's been a mistake. However, we will certainly cooperate with any investigation.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” But she had already hung up.

I made my third call. “Please connect me with Sam Cobb's room.”

The phone rang a half dozen times, switched to voice mail inviting me to leave a message. Late on a Sunday afternoon, a honeymooning couple might well be out and about, enjoying a walk along the seawall. I thought fast and spoke rather formally, “Chief Cobb, this is Officer M. Loy. Officer Weitz is now acting chief and has been instructed by Mayor Lumpkin to apprehend Goddard student Michelle Hoyt on a charge of theft and murder at the library. The evidence against Hoyt has been fabricated. Hoyt is currently with a reliable friend of mine. By this evening, I will provide you with the identity of the woman behind a series of crimes, beginning with the murder September seventeenth of Susannah Fairlee.” I always opt for the positive in making a statement. I paused, then said warmly, “Congratulations on your marriage, and I hope you and Claire are having a grand holiday.”

I made quick trips between Eleanor's A-frame and Jeanne's house.

Eleanor sat in a cushioned swing on her deck. Her face was thoughtful. She looked into the trees, a faint line between her brows. Once she looked at her watch. But she appeared settled on the porch. She was not en route to the Administration Building. Finally she reached over to a wicker table, picked up a book with a bright jacket. She opened to a bookmarked page, began to read.

Jeanne stood at a counter in a narrow 1950s-era kitchen. She looked into a cupboard, lifted a hand to pluck a box of melba toast from the shelf. She opened the package, drew out the dried brown toast, looked down at it with a shudder of distaste. After a moment, she sighed, turned to the refrigerator. She spread a thin layer of marmalade on the toast, placed the piece on a small bright pink plate. A tea whistle blew. She hurried to the stove, poured water into a teapot. In a moment, she had a tray fixed. It was only as she left the kitchen that she paused, gave a hard stare at the wall phone, then pushed through a swinging door into the hall.

There would be another hour of daylight. However, I didn't intend to wait much longer before I went to the Administration Building to see if either Eleanor or Jeanne stepped into my trap. First I decided to check on Lorraine and Michelle. They should have arrived without incident at Rose Bower. I felt confident Lorraine had been able to admit Michelle and slip into the upstairs suite without being noticed. However, Michelle likely was still high strung and nervous, worried about the police search and frantic to know if she had any hope of escaping prosecution. I wanted to reassure her that progress was being made.