Ghost Times Two Page 10

  An exasperated sigh. “You are too clever for me, Bailey Ruth. Words, words, words, and when you are done, I find myself bewildered and confused.”

  “You are always attentive to creatures in need, and believe me”—this was utterly genuine—“Megan is a creature in need. I will save her, dispatch Jim—James to Heaven, and do so with élan and”—great emphasis—“circumspection.”

  Whoo-whoo.

  “You have a plan?”

  I heard an edge of desperation. The poor dear man obviously needed a boost, one of my specialties.

  “Do I have a plan?” I shouted. “Wiggins, I have a great big supersized extravaganza of a plan.”

  “Put your plan into action. Immediately.”

  The clatter of wheels receded. The wail of the whistle fainter. The scent of coal smoke was a memory.

  Immediately? Of course. As soon as I reassured Megan.

  Her expression somber, she sat on the plaid sofa, feet tucked beneath her, a legal pad on her lap, a pen gripped tightly in her hand, the calico cat pressed against her thigh. Megan wrote, paused, wrote, paused.

  I peered over the back of the sofa to look at the legal pad.

  Did Doug Graham text me? Or was he already dead? Most likely he was dead and the murderer used his cell to text me.

  How did the murderer know Doug threatened to fire Anita if I left?

  A. Doug told the murderer about his conversation with me.

  B. Doug told someone else who told the murderer.

  C. Anita shot him.

  Why did the murderer send the text to bring me to the house, then call 911 to report a crime? N.B. No proof as yet that the text and 911 call made by same person, but it is likely and also likely that person is the murderer.

  Otherwise have to assume yet a third person found him dead, placed the text, made the call, left before I arrived.

  If Anita shot Doug, would she deliberately involve me by sending the text? Wouldn’t she be afraid I would tell the police what Doug threatened, thereby revealing that she had a powerful motive to want him dead?

  A. If she shot him, she did so to protect Bridget. She would be sorry to make me a suspect but she would do whatever she had to do to remain free.

  B. Find out if the police have Doug’s phone and whether there are other texts near the time—

  “Excellent idea.”

  She jumped, looked behind her.

  I didn’t appear. I hoped Wiggins appreciated my restraint. “It’s a good idea to write everything down while it is fresh—”

  “I don’t think,” she said, cutting in sharply, “that I am in any danger of forgetting what happened this evening. Speaking of, where have you been?”

  “A conference with my supervisor.” I was airy. “And now—”

  “Did you find out who shot Doug?”

  By this time, I was in front of her. I reached out, tapped her arm.

  She jerked around. “Why can’t you stay in one place?”

  My, she was touchy. “That’s not my job.”

  “What is your— Never mind. Who killed Doug?”

  “The answer is rather complex.” I didn’t think it fruitful to discuss the Precepts. “I’m not authorized to visit Heaven, discover the murderer’s identity, and return to share that information. You started to inquire about my job. I actually have two jobs, persuade Ja—Jimmy to climb the golden stairs, and solve the murder of Doug Graham.”

  She stared a trifle balefully toward the sound of my voice. “So far, it’s two outs and no score.”

  A baseball fan! “My favorite team’s the Cubs. But the Astros are wonderful. I love Jose Altuve.”

  “You seem to be able to go anywhere you wish. Why not the ballpark?”

  I was tempted. “Duty requires my presence here.”

  She massaged one temple. “I hope you do not literally mean here. Can’t you go somewhere else? Solve Doug’s murder.”

  I almost murmured O ye of little faith but I knew she’d had a traumatic day. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  Without warning, she leaned across the coffee table, poked in my general direction. “Okay. You’re here. When you aren’t, I hope you’ll find some answers.”

  I was ready to leave, but not without a parting shot. “It’s late, but he’s young. Don’t you think you better call Blaine Smith, find out what he knows?”

  Her eyes widened. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “You were much too smooth about the car that pulled away from the Graham house.”

  “I have no comment about that car. I saw taillights. I’d like to talk to Blaine but not when I’m a murder suspect. It will be much wiser if I make no calls tonight. To anyone. If”—a quick breath—“if I’m arrested, the police could access all my calls.”

  “I’ll make sure you aren’t arrested.” I spoke with confidence. “Leave everything to me. Tomorrow follow your normal schedule. Of course, you’ll want to start the day by informing Mr. Layton.”

  “And wait for the police to arrive. But I feel better even if I keep hearing voices and touching— I don’t think I want to pursue that thought. But having you around helps in a weird way. Today was so awful I lost perspective. I need to remember I didn’t have any motive to murder him. You don’t murder someone because you want to quit a job. Surely the police will see that.”

  “Of course they will.” I didn’t add that police want facts. I hoped to offer them a few pointers. I’d promised Wiggins a plan. If I didn’t exactly have a plan, I had a campaign. When outnumbered (in this instance in a deep evidentiary hole), I look for inspiration to Hannibal, who defeated the much larger Roman army with a series of clever tactical moves. I intended to make my first move at the law offices of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse.

  The offices blazed with lights. A vacuum cleaner hummed. A washroom door was open. A mop and bucket sat in the hallway. Office cleaning crews work at night. It was still short of midnight. This crew likely attended to several buildings in the downtown area. Two women, one built like an NFL lineman and the other thin as a whippet, worked in the reception area to a nasal serenade about mama in jail and the dog’s real sad blasting from a portable boom box. A broom-shaped emblem above the left shirt pocket on their gray uniforms read: CLEAN SWEEP.

  The skinny blonde mopped the parquet flooring in the waiting room, chattering nonstop. “. . . and I told him he better put his shoes under my bed every night . . .”

  The big woman nodded approval as she raked a duster up and down the waiting room window shutters.

  The blonde stopped midstream, yelled, “Bucky, you missed the wastebaskets in here.”

  A cattle prod couldn’t have moved me any faster. I was in Doug Graham’s office just as the door swung in and a beefy hand flicked the switch. Bucky turned and bellowed, “In a minute. Starting at this end.”

  Earlier today an obviously angry Doug Graham started messages, stopped, tossed unsatisfactory versions into his wastebasket. I wanted those discarded notes.

  Bucky ambled across the floor, a thirty-gallon plastic green trash bag in one hand. He hummed a tuneless accompaniment to the now faintly heard country music song.

  I knelt by the wastebasket. I didn’t have time for subtlety. Gray trousers and scuffed sneakers were in my peripheral vision. I tipped over the wastebasket. Papers spilled onto the floor. I glanced up at a face slack with stupefaction.

  “Yeah?” His voice was uncertain.

  I’d be uncertain as well if I thought I was talking to a self-tipping wastebasket. I ignored him and pawed through the mound of discarded envelopes, printed sheets, torn scraps from a legal pad. An unfortunate—for Bucky—by-product of my search was the unmistakable movement of the papers strewn on the floor. I easily picked out the material I wanted. I plucked five wadded balls from the heap of papers.

  �
�Hey.”

  I glanced up.

  Bucky’s watery brown eyes were huge pools of disbelief. He stared at the crushed wads hovering in the air a few inches above the floor. He blinked, looked again. The paper balls remained in the air. He dropped the plastic bag, lurched around, and hurtled—as much as a five-eight man weighing about two forty can hurtle—to the doorway and into the hall, yelling, “Betty, Mag, something screwy’s going . . .”

  I stood up, opened a wadded ball, read. I kept the wrinkled sheet in my left hand, opened another. Variations on a theme. No salutation on any sheet. Things don’t have to change— Do you expect me to pass up— I spread open the third crumpled wad, recognized the missive he’d begun as I read over his shoulder. I never promised anything. If you make claims, I’ll deny everything— Let me explain— Scandal won’t help anybo—

  He’d tucked a final version in his shirt pocket. I remembered that it was bland. Let’s talk again. We can work this out.

  Had that talk occurred shortly before nine o’clock at his home?

  It was one possibility, but not the only possibility. Doug Graham in his last day had exhibited the kind of controlling self-absorption that might have earned him not only dislike, but deadly hatred. Anita Davis came to mind. And the young man who slammed out of his office, stormed angrily up the hall, Keith Porter. I’d like to know the whereabouts of Anita Davis and Keith Porter at nine o’clock tonight. And Graham’s ex-wife, Rhoda. I had a quick memory as well of somber-faced Brewster Layton. Layton had the aura of a man keeping anger tightly leashed. And was there more than bumptious male exuberance behind the loud oilman’s visit?

  Bucky’s distant yell increased in volume. “I swear there was balls of paper up in the air. You got to come see.”

  A woman’s reply wasn’t audible, but the tone was dismissive.

  “I ain’t going down there by myself.”

  I pictured him glaring defiantly.

  A labored sigh, slow heavy steps. “Gonna take up my time.” The woman’s deep voice held equal parts resentment and irritation.

  Quickly I moved behind the desk, pulled open the center drawer. I pushed the red velvet ring case to one side, dropped in the wadded-up balls of legal paper, shoved the drawer shut.

  Bucky reached the doorway, warily edged inside. He stopped, stared. “Where’d they go?” He took another step forward, gazing at the tipped-over trash can and the welter of papers. “They was right there. Right there.” He jabbed a finger. “About five inches off the floor.”

  The big woman folded her arms, glared at him. She reminded me of Marjorie Main as Ma Kettle but there wasn’t a smile. “You been drinking again? I thought I smelled vodka. People who think you can’t smell vodka don’t have a nose that works. But I got eyes that see and I don’t see any balls of paper dancing around. You must have stumbled and knocked over the wastebasket and your eyes played tricks. Get yourself busy now. We got to do three more offices tonight.” She turned and clumped into the hall.

  As the sound of her heavy steps faded, he reached down to pick up the plastic bag, never taking his eyes away from the trash can and the papers. He cautiously moved forward until he stood over the tipped wastebasket and the strewn papers.

  The papers lay there. Unmoving.

  He hunched his shoulders defensively.

  I had some idea of his internal monologue. Those balls of paper was up in the air. . . . Narrowed eyes. I don’t see no balls of paper. . . . His head jerked convulsively back and forth as he surveyed the office. “Sometimes there’s rats. Offices can have rats.” His voice was shaky. “A big rat could tip over a wastebasket.” His voice gained assurance. “That’s what it had to be. I’ll tell her it was a rat.” His head jerked about again. “I don’t like rats.” With a frenzied breath, Bucky bent down, scooped up the trash, righted the wastebasket, and was out in the hall, the door closing behind him.

  I took a deep breath. I was certain Bucky would not return to the office. The papers would be safe in Doug Graham’s desk until tomorrow. All was well—

  A harrumph.

  When caught in flagrante delicto, it is important to remain calm and upbeat. “Wiggins, I know you are pleased.” My voice rose in a trill of delight. “So perspicacious of you to instruct me to follow a plan. That’s why I hastened here and I was in time to save important evidence from destruction.”

  “That poor man may have some difficulty in recovering from the appearance of floating paper balls.”

  “By the time he tells this tale, he’ll have seen a glimpse of gray fur, heard claws on the wood floor.”

  “A rat?”

  “Possibly as good an explanation as any?”

  A rumble of laughter.

  I sighed in relief. Fortunately, Wiggins, despite his focus on crossing i’s and dotting t’s, possesses a robust sense of humor.

  “Ah, Bailey Ruth, always an inventive answer. But delivered with such charm and grace.”

  I soaked in approval.

  “Obviously the product of much experience.”

  Ouch.

  “Nonetheless, tonight you have aided the police investigation by preserving evidence. If a rat is blamed for the antics of the wastebasket, no harm done. I am pleased you are making progress toward the solution of the crime. That’s also true of James.”

  James? Of course, Jimmy.

  “James has attached himself”—Wiggins’s tone was approving—“to Gazette reporter Joan Crandall. I know he has been elusive tonight, but it came to me that James, first and foremost, reveled in being a reporter. Therefore, I sought him at the Gazette. And there I found him.” Wiggins was obviously pleased at the success of his search. “It’s unfortunate that Precept Seven precludes informing him of the great newsroom in the sky. When he climbs the golden stairs, he can rub elbows with Webb Miller and Edward R. Murrow and Ernie Pyle and Dickey Chapelle and Maggie Higgins. At the moment, he has the newsroom to himself. He’s excited about some material he’s found. Every so often he looks around and yells, ‘Hey, Bailey Ruth.’ He’s looked for you at Megan’s apartment and Graham’s house and even the cemetery. He seems quite anxious to confer with you. Ms. Crandall has completed her work for the night, but James remains at the Gazette.”

  Chapter 7

  The Gazette newsroom was dim except for the glow of computer monitors. A wedge of light spilled out from the break room. Several sheets of computer paper were spread on the top of a long narrow table. A can of Pepsi suspended in the air tilted.

  I won’t say Jimmy guzzled, but he drank the soda with a loud gurgle. He gave a satisfied sigh and the can rested on the tabletop.

  I pulled out the chair on the other side of the table, gratefully sank into it. I would never admit that jousting with Wiggins stresses me, but whenever he appears I’m always afraid my departure on the Rescue Express is imminent.

  “Where’ve you been?” Jimmy’s tone was accusatory. “Seems like you’re never around when you can be helpful.”

  “Here and there. I understand you want to see me.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to see you. Talking to a voice is kind of nuts. But you have a nice voice, husky, kind of sexy. Anyway”—he lifted the Pepsi, took another deep drink—“glad you showed up.”

  I glanced at the pop machine and was suddenly parched. If Jimmy weren’t here, I’d appear with a purse and, presto, I’d have a Dr Pepper. Perhaps he’d figured out how to finagle a can out of the machine. “How’d you get that soda?”

  “It wasn’t easy. I always kept a stash of quarters in my desk. These cheapskates dump pennies in their center drawers. I had to go downstairs and filch some quarters out of a canister for pet rescue.” He sounded sheepish. “I used to always put in a dollar when I walked past, so I figured it was okay.”

  I wanted that Dr Pepper. If I appeared, purse in hand, I didn’t doubt Jimmy would get the point and demand to know how he
could appear. Perhaps that will excuse my guile. “Jimmy, do me a favor and get these addresses for me.” I took a sheet of his paper, retrieved the pencil from his hand, wrote down: Rhoda Graham, Brewster Layton, Anita Davis, Sharon King, Geraldine Jackson, Nancy Murray, Louise Raymond, Keith Porter, Jack Sherman.

  He glanced at the list. “You can scratch Sherman. I was nosing around the newsroom. Bunch of photos of the Graham house but some great shots of a rig fire. Sherman’s out there, dirty, sweaty, right on top of the action. The caption read: ‘Adelaide oilman Jack Sherman predicts fire will be contained by Friday morning. An explosion rocked the Singing Jenny well at shortly after 5 p.m.’ So Sherman wasn’t creeping across Graham’s patio at nine.” Jimmy gurgled another sip. “Yeah. Tastes pretty good. They turn off the air at night to save money, so no wonder you’re thirsty. I’ll make a deal. I think I’m onto something big. First, I thought I’d write everything down”—he pointed at the paper on the table—“and put it on Joan’s desk. But Joan won’t run with a story until she’s checked out the facts up and down and back and forth. I want the cops to get this pronto. If I call Crime Stoppers, that would go up through channels. I want this to get to somebody with clout. I’ll get the addresses if you agree to pass on what I’ve found out.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  As soon as he stepped out of the break room, I materialized with a purse, strode to the pop machine, dropped in three quarters. I disappeared, punched, and waited for the can to plunk. I was back at the table, sipping the Dr Pepper when Jimmy came in, a sheet of paper in hand.

  “Here’s—” He stopped, stared. “How’d you get the pop?”

  I started to reply that I had rapport with machines, but he might have wanted another soda. “I gave it a thump and one came out.” That was almost true. “I suppose it’s malfunctioning.”

  He walked to the machine, punched for a Pepsi, kicked the side.

  Rattle, bump, thump.

  He reached down, retrieved the can. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Either Heaven has a sense of humor or understood the importance of keeping Jimmy unseen. I had no doubt that if he became visible, Megan’s emotions would experience even more turmoil.