Ghost to the Rescue Page 13

  “I didn’t know or care.” Now he was clearly impatient. “Like I said, the party was a year ago. Everybody was on a first-name basis. The lights were dim. I wasn’t taking an inventory of the guests.”

  “Do you remember the name of the girl you were with?”

  “I wasn’t with a particular girl. Some trouble I’m smart enough to avoid. I stayed at the bar until a couple of the guys were ready to go back to the lodge. I hitched a ride. So, I don’t know much that would interest anybody.”

  Except, perhaps, Dr. Randall.

  I thanked him for his time. I had a feeling he was delighted to see me go.

  Sam Cobb’s office was familiar, a long, wide room with an old brown leather sofa facing the windows. He sat with his back to the sofa at a battered oak desk littered with files. His wrinkled suit coat hung from a wooden coat tree near the door. Two framed Matisse prints added a spot of color to one dingy beige wall. Between the prints were a bulletin board and an old-fashioned blackboard. A stub of white chalk lay in the tray. A street map of Adelaide hung to the left of the hall door, a map of Pontotoc County to the right.

  Sam’s right arm moved as he wrote on a legal pad. His left arm dropped as if without volition, pulled out a side drawer, fished out a sack of M&M’S, his sustenance when thinking. He put down his pen and a stream of gaily colored candies flowed onto a broad palm. He swiveled around to face the windows.

  At the blackboard, I eased the chalk into my hand, checked to be sure Sam still faced the windows, squeezed my eyes in remembrance, and began to print:

  1. Four authors attending the conference paid Jay Knox to place manuscripts with an agent or editor: Liz Baker, Joseph Burns, Wanda Hamilton, Ellen Ben—

  “Want some M&M’S?” Sam’s deep voice was amused.

  I swung around.

  Sam had turned and was gazing at the blackboard. “You’re still holding the chalk. Looks funny hanging there in the air. Lots of trouble to write everything on the chalkboard. How about we sit on the sofa.” He waggled the M&M sack as he heaved himself to his feet.

  I replaced the chalk and walked toward the couch.

  “Kind of wonder who’s visiting me today.” He was deadpan except for a slight twitch of his lips. “Officer Judy Hope spoke to Liz Baker and Cliff Granger. She’s a redhead. Cute, they said. Then there’s Officer M. Loy. Redheaded, too. It’s pretty clear Professor Lewis thought she was a knockout. Like the old joke about a younger man’s surprise at an elderly gentleman leaning on a cane as he eyes a good-looking woman. The old codger says he may be old but he isn’t dead yet. Then there’s Detective M. Loy in a blonde wig and a baggy gray dress. She checked out Tom Baker and Harry Toomey.”

  He didn’t know about my interesting encounter with Maureen Matthews.

  “An officer does what an officer has to do.” My tone was demure.

  Sam laughed, turned a thumbs-up. “Your cover is still good. I figured I’d be getting some celestial pointers and I wouldn’t interfere.”

  A faraway clack sounded, wheels rolling on rails. A faint scent of coal smoke alerted me, a warning that the Rescue Express was en route for me. “Sam”—my words were rushed—“there’s a hitch.” Wiggins knew more than I. Perhaps my work was done. “Before I talk to you, I need to know something ASAP.”

  Sam was a big, heavy man but he thought fast. He heard the change in my tone from ease to tension. His reply was immediate. “Sure.”

  “Is Deirdre Davenport still a suspect?”

  Sam raised a grizzled dark brow. “Is she your charge? You’ve got a tough job. Davenport’s at the top of the list. The mayor wants to know why I haven’t picked her up already. The mayor wants to have a press conference and tag her as a person of interest. I said no way, not yet. But Davenport doesn’t have any clout in town. No money. No connections. She came here fresh out of a Texas college to work on the Gazette. She married a guy who taught for a couple of years at Goddard, then went to work at the Chamber of Commerce in public relations. The mayor doesn’t like reporters. Not even ex-reporters, and that includes Davenport.”

  Mayor Neva Lumpkin was living proof of the adage that there’s a fly in every ointment. In her case, more like a big black splotch of selfishness, greed, ambition, and backstabbing. Sam loved his job, was well respected round town, but the mayor would happily replace him with a political supporter.

  Sam was thoughtful. “The mayor has a point. Davenport’s the only person linked to the crime scene physically. Plus she had motive. Plus a witness describes her as looking angry and vengeful when she set out to see Knox.”

  The smell of coal smoke was acrid now and the rumble of the wheels loud as thunder. Sam continued to placidly munch M&M’S, obviously unaware of the imminent arrival of the Rescue Express. I had only a moment. “Officer Loy’s report can definitely expand the field.” I enunciated clearly for Wiggins’s benefit. “I will return shortly”—I hoped—“but I’ve been summoned to consult for a moment with a higher authority.”

  Sam spoke quickly. “I sure hope you can help us. Right now we’re stuck.” His eyes skittered around the room, perhaps wondering if the higher authority was lurking near. “It looks bad for Davenport.”

  I could have given him a hug. He sensed that I needed all the help I could get for my upcoming interview. “Back in a flash.” If Wiggins could be persuaded to let me remain.

  I’d conferred at other times with Wiggins atop City Hall. I was sure he remembered with clarity. Those encounters were on fall days, a brisk wind scudding leaves across the roof. This evening the blacktop roof radiated heat. The smell of coal smoke burned my nose. The only shade was a patch on the east side of the small shedlike structure that gave access to the roof.

  If Wiggins was wearing his long-sleeved, heavy white cotton shirt and black flannel trousers and black shoes, he must be melting.

  I popped into the shade. “Wiggins.” My voice lifted as if this were the very nicest surprise the day could offer.

  “Precepts One, Three, and Four. Especially Four.” Wiggins’s tone was doleful. “My patience is at an end. I’ve lost track”—now his tone was stentorian—“of just how many times and ways you’ve appeared. As yourself, as Judy Hope, as—”

  I was facing the shed that provided access to the roof.

  The door eased open a crack.

  I was delighted. Sam had guessed where I would be. I was flattered that he came up to see if I succeeded in continuing my mission, but I kept an expression of remorse on my face. I’ve never been sure whether Wiggins sees his emissaries when we aren’t visible, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  “—Officer Loy, as Detective Loy. Perhaps next time you’ll be Inspector Loy?”

  I wouldn’t have expected irony from Wiggins. I couldn’t resist an exclamation. “Heavens, no, Wiggins. I would never be so presumptuous.”

  “You wouldn’t be . . .” A pause and then a rumble of laughter.

  I grinned.

  “Did anyone”—his deep voice was both chiding and admiring—“ever tell you that you’re a minx?”

  A pert, saucy girl—how sweet! Perhaps while Wiggins was bemused by my charm—and, of course, my excellent intentions—I would plead my case. “Wiggins, I am thrilled to bring you up to date, but”—a pause for dramatic emphasis—“the situation is perilous.” If he envisioned a heroine tied to tracks and an oncoming locomotive looming, that would be all to the good. “Mayor Lumpkin wants Deirdre Davenport arrested. ASAP. Deirdre is innocent. I am trying hard to be an exemplary emissary. I appeared only out of dire necessity in order to find out information that will help save poor innocent Deirdre.” I was earnest. “You know I would never appear unless I had no other choice. However, I have collected information that will help Chief Cobb. You don’t want him to arrest Deirdre, a young mother whose reputation would always be besmirched.” If I sounded like a Victorian novel, I knew my audienc
e. “A young mother struggling to put food on the table, provide for her children, abandoned by her former husband.”

  “Poor child.” He harumphed. “Very well. One more day. Not a moment more. And see if there is some way to make your report to Chief Cobb without blatantly revealing your presence.”

  He didn’t have to mention Precept Four again.

  The door to the structure eased shut.

  I was suddenly alone, the clack of wheels on rails fading in the distance, the scent of coal smoke dissipating.

  I reached the chief’s office before he returned from the roof. He closed the door, walked to his desk, clicked on his intercom. “No calls or visitors for half an hour.” He clicked it off. “Sometimes when I think, I hear voices.” His expression was musing. “I kind of have a picture in my mind of an ideal police officer. Redhead. About five five. Green eyes. One of those interesting faces. Lots of freckles.” His tone was cheerful. “This officer speaks out and it’s like having a voice tell me stuff. She’s got a good voice, kind of husky. I find that’s a good way to think.” He picked up the sack of M&M’S, strolled to the couch, sat down. He held up the sack, ready to pour. “I can see her now. Though, of course, I know it is purely my imagination at work.”

  If Wiggins were still about, he surely wouldn’t fault the chief for being so imaginative. I settled beside him.

  Sam noted that the cushion gave a little.

  I positioned my unseen hand at the lip of the sack. “M&M’S always give me a boost.”

  Red and yellow and brown candies poured into my outstretched hand until there was a generous mound.

  Sam moved the sack, filled his left hand, popped several in his mouth.

  After a scrumptious M&M moment, I talked.

  Sam listened.

  At one point, his face intent, he retrieved a legal pad from his desk, dropped heavily onto the couch, made notes.

  When I finished, Sam tapped his pen on the pad. “Anytime you want to join the force, you’re on. This gives us a lot to work on. Harry Toomey and Tom Baker were on the scene. One of them went to the end of the pier, one of them didn’t. Toomey could have quarreled with Knox about the job, lost control, knocked him down. Maybe Baker slammed in, threatened Knox, maybe Knox came for him. Baker’s not big. He might have grabbed the bottle, swung. Or Liz Baker might have killed Knox and Tom’s covering for her. Maybe she’s the one who grabbed the champagne bottle. As for the bottle, there are fragments of Davenport’s prints on the neck, but they’re smudged. DA could claim she tried to wipe them off but was too stressed to do a good job. Or somebody else grabbed the bottle and then wiped it or maybe held it with a handkerchief or a washcloth from the bath. That’s always a possibility. Say X is there, spots the bottle, decides to whack Knox, steps into the bathroom. Takes only a second to grab a cloth from a rack, walk out with a hand down to one side. Knox had no reason to suspect danger. X strolls over to the coffee table, comments on the champagne, picks up the bottle—holding it out of Knox’s view—swings around, moves fast, strikes, and Knox is on the floor. It didn’t take a paramedic for the killer to know he was dead. We’ll take a look at Liz and Tom Baker and Harry Toomey. Professor Lewis might have lost his temper if he confronted Jay about the coed and Jay laughed it off, said he’d insist Lewis was a liar. Lewis sounds like he’d blow up if Knox smirked and said he’d claim Lewis was making up the accusation to cause trouble. Definitely Maureen Matthews is in the running. Women don’t like to be dumped, especially if they figure out they’ve been used. She wants revenge, so she plans to tell the department chair about Knox’s party with coeds and sex and whiskey. I’ll have Weitz ask around, see what she can find out about that party. Maybe Granger was more involved than he let on. Anyway, Knox’s threat to publish those letters might have been the last straw for Matthews.” He frowned. “You said she came for the letters. What are the odds she’s gotten rid of them by now?”

  “She put the letters in her purse. They aren’t there now. For the present, the letters are in a safe place.” My tone was bland.

  Sam looked uncomfortable. “Screwing around with evidence gets cops in trouble.”

  “Not to worry.” My tone was soothing. “If you need to discover the letters, they will be found.”

  Sam rubbed knuckles against one cheek. “Yeah. I get it. I think. Untouched by human hand, so to speak.” He leaned back on the leather sofa.

  “It might be more accurate to say untouched by corporeal hand.” I popped the last M&M in my mouth.

  He held out the candy sack. “Want some more?”

  “No, but thanks.”

  Sam put the legal pad on one knee. “The crime scene looked straightforward, but there are two twists you need to know about.” Sam made a quick sketch on the pad of a prone stick figure. “Knox was lying on the floor. The champagne bottle was in the shadow of the TV. The living room light was on, the porch light off. We got pix, made notes, measurements. Got the prelim ME report, single blow to left temple, death by blunt trauma. No other apparent wounds. Hands showed no sign of injury. No bruises on his bare arms. He didn’t put up a fight. Looks like he wasn’t expecting trouble, that he was in the room with someone he knew. That means we didn’t expect to find forced entry, and we didn’t. There were no traces of a break-in. Then it got interesting. We emptied his pockets. His billfold contained three credit cards, two hundred and thirty dollars in cash. A handful of change in left trouser pocket. But”—and now Sam’s dark eyes gleamed—“we didn’t find a cell phone. That’s anomaly number one. We didn’t find car keys. That’s anomaly number two. We checked out the entire cabin. No cell phone. No car keys. His car, a 2004 Thunderbird, was parked in the lodge lot adjacent to the auditorium. Guess what we found in the car?” Sam’s tone was silky.

  I had a quick vision of a black panther gliding low to the ground, intent upon prey.

  He didn’t wait for a reply. “The keys were in the ignition. We checked the steering wheel for prints. Shiny and clean as off the showroom floor. And still no cell phone.”

  I sat bolt upright. My words tumbled out. “That means someone else drove his car last night. Jay wouldn’t leave the keys in his car. After he was killed, his murderer took the keys, drove Jay’s car to his house. If anyone happened to notice lights, movement in the house, Jay’s car was in the driveway. I may know why the murderer went there.”

  Sam leaned forward, pen poised above his legal pad. “Yeah?”

  “I went to his house this afternoon.” I described the swivel chair facing the computer. “I checked his desk. He’d been paying bills. The stamped envelopes are neatly stacked in the out-box tray. The natural thing would be to leave the chair facing the desk. I know that’s slender evidence, but that chair didn’t look right. The chair was facing the computer, pushed back a little as if someone sat there and, when finished, got up, shoved the chair back. I think someone checked out his computer, and that fits in with a missing cell phone.”

  Sam absently drew a swivel chair. “The position of the chair wouldn’t speak to me except for the fact that his cell phone was taken.” He muttered, as if to himself. “Sure. There was something in his cell phone and something in his computer that somebody wanted to hide. Likely, the murderer tossed that phone into the lake and we’ll never find it.” He pushed up from the couch, walked to his desk, perched on one edge. He picked up the phone, punched an extension. “Colleen, check the schedule. Is Smith off today?”

  Don Smith was a tall, darkly handsome detective who’d worked with Detective Weitz when I was last in Adelaide.

  As he waited, Sam said in an aside to me, “Don’s nuts about computers. Compares computer programs to works of art. Yeah, I told him, just like Picasso in his Blue Period. A barrel of fun.” He drummed impatient fingers on the desktop as he waited, then began to speak. “Good. Thanks.” He ended the call, punched a number, pressed Speaker.

  “Hey, Don, you
sitting poolside with a cool one?”

  “Yo, Sam. My day off. Remember?”

  “Sure. But you’re the man with a happy hand when it comes to computers. Swill down some coffee, take a thermos with you.” He looked at some notes, rattled off Jay Knox’s address. “We’ve got his house keys here at the station. Take a fingerprint kit. Dust the mouse, the chair at his desk, the area around the computer for prints. We got a tip somebody deleted something from Knox’s computer last night sometime after eleven p.m. Check e-mails, files, photos. You’re the computer genius. Find it.”

  Don was grumpy. “Thermos? Am I getting a vibe that I don’t leave until I come up with something?”

  I hadn’t thought about what might be missing. But cell phones have become ubiquitous recorders of fleeting images, and those photos could be shared with the computer.

  Sam was still talking. “The sooner you find what’s missing, the sooner you get to go home. Check with Weitz for full names, descriptions of Liz and Tom Baker, Harry Toomey, Ashton Lewis, Maureen Matthews, Cliff Granger. Pull their photos from Facebook pages, yearbooks, wherever. One of them was busy last night. You figure out which one.”

  Chapter 8

  Deirdre sat at a small bench in front of a mirror, a makeup brush in one hand. She was a stylish mixture of dressy and casual, with an elegant creamy beige lace blazer over a lacy tank and beige cotton crops with a wide cuff. As she turned her head, shining gold hoop earrings glittered. More subdued was a double-strand necklace of small hoops.

  “Are we going to a party?” I love parties, and there was reason to celebrate.

  Her response was familiar by now: instant rigidity, seeking glance.

  I took a moment to appear, considering my own wardrobe. I felt festive and chose a silvery polyester poncho, delicate as a wisp of smoke. A cloud design on either side was enhanced by a front panel with alternate rows of gold beads and tiny black crows. A necklace of gold and onyx beads repeated the colors of the central panel. Slim white trousers and silver high heels added a finishing touch.