Ghost to the Rescue Page 14

  I hurried across the room to stand behind Deirdre, made a pirouette. “I think we both look marvelous.”

  Deirdre faced me, reached out to touch the poncho. “That’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Preparatory to an announcement, I cleared my throat. As I clapped my hands together for emphasis, I just happened to glance at the mirror again and saw how gracefully the silky material swished. Certainly this was no time to take pride in appearance, but I was buoyed. “My dear, I have conferred with Police Chief Sam Cobb.”

  Deirdre drew in a deep gulp of breath. The hand holding the brush dropped onto the vanity table.

  I patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

  She tensed but didn’t flinch. An improvement.

  It took me several minutes, but I ended on a triumphant note. “The police now have suspects in addition to you.” I ticked them off. “Liz Baker. Tom Baker. Harry Toomey. Ashton Lewis. Maureen Matthews. Cliff Granger. By tomorrow”—I had confidence in Detective Smith—“they’ll know what was deleted from Jay’s computer.” I awaited applause and appreciation.

  “The mayor wants me arrested?” Her fingers clutched at the chain around her neck.

  “Sam knows you’re innocent. I told him so.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut for an instant, blinked open. “That’s good. Vouched for by a ghost. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you and I’m glad the police chief believes you, but it sounds to me like I’m still in deep trouble.”

  I hurried to the bath, found a plastic glass sheathed in a wrapper, tore it free, filled the glass with cold water, and returned to the bedroom.

  Deirdre was standing at the window and looking down at the terrace and wooded area. “All the suspects will be at the barbecue. They don’t have any choice. It’s a command performance for staff. We exude charm and wisdom for the benefit of the fragile egos of a hundred-plus writers. It would be more fun to swim with piranhas.”

  I handed her a glass and she downed the contents in three gulps. Water wasn’t whiskey, but it gave her a boost.

  “Act just the way you did at lunch and—”

  The phone rang.

  Deirdre tossed the cup into a wastebasket and walked to the desk, picked up the receiver. “Deirdre Davenport.” Her face changed. “Hi.” Her voice was soft. She dropped into the desk chair.

  I perched on the edge of the desk.

  She cupped her hand over the receiver. “Go away.” Then she said quickly, “Not you, Hal. She’s here. . . . Oh. Okay.” She looked at me. “Hal says hi.”

  I beamed. “Tell him I’m on the case.”

  Deirdre spoke to Hal. “She says she’s on the case. . . . Oh. I’ll try that.” She again cupped her hand over the receiver. “Hal says to tell you he considers you a good-luck omen and that all assistance is welcome.”

  I nodded my thanks.

  Then she turned away, listening. “Oh, Hal, I wish I could. But I have to be here tonight. Staff attends a barbecue to mix and mingle.” Her voice held all the thrill of a woman looking at a plate of dead worms. “But if this horrible weekend ever ends, if—” She stopped, thought for a moment, frowned. “Hal, tell me something.”

  I reached over to punch Speaker Phone.

  Hal’s voice filled the room. “. . . answer any question. How about asking me about my favorite things? I have a list of new favorite things: The way you look quizzical and amused and skeptical all at the same time. The way you laugh. The way your voice reminds me of Kate Smith singing during the seventh inning. I get shivers deep inside. What are your favorite things?”

  Deirdre’s face softened. “A man who says what he thinks, and what he thinks is honest and real. A man”—there was a slight catch in her voice—“who puts his job in jeopardy to ask a woman out to dinner. I saw the way your boss and the other detective looked at me, but you didn’t care. If you took me out to dinner, wouldn’t that be”—she paused, struggled for the right word—“seen as a conflict of interest? Isn’t there some kind of police policy along those lines?”

  There was silence.

  Deirdre gave a small sigh. “Thank you for not lying to me. Somehow I know you won’t ever do that, will you?”

  “I won’t ever lie. But I don’t give—”

  “I do. Next week we’ll go out to dinner.” Her voice was shaky. “If they haven’t put me in jail. But thank you, Hal, thank you for calling. Thank you for being . . . Hal.”

  “Deirdre, listen—”

  She replaced the receiver.

  I clicked off Speaker Phone.

  The phone rang. One peal, two . . .

  Deirdre paced back to the window, stood with her back to me, shoulders bowed.

  I came up beside her. “Deirdre, you’re more important to Hal than what anyone thinks of him.”

  Deirdre swung around. Her smile was misty. “I want to believe that’s true. But he’s too important to me to let him do anything that will hurt him. In any way. I want to have dinner with him so much I could cry. I want to touch his hair. I want . . . But the only way that can happen is for me to figure out who killed Jay. There are things I can do. I’m here. I know these people. Or if I don’t know them, I can find them, talk to them. Look, I write fiction. I know all about body language. I can write it in my sleep. ‘The heroine saw Roderick out of the corner of her eye. Now his face was smooth, but for an instant he’d stared with cold eyes. She’d glimpsed a depth of anger that chilled her. The scrape of leather on the cement. Roderick was walking toward her. . . .’ So I’m going to talk to a select list. You told me the ones the police are going to investigate. Maureen Matthews. Ashton Lewis. Liz Baker. Tom Baker. Harry Toomey. Cliff Granger. But the cops have to ask questions, like ‘Where were you at eleven o’clock?’ and ‘When did you see Jay Knox?’ But I can do a lot more than that.”

  “What are you going to do?” I admired the combative jut of her chin, but I was worried. One of the six had snuffed out Jay Knox’s life. Poking and prodding a murderer could put her in danger.

  Deirdre gave me an almost whimsical smile. “For starters, I’m shedding you. As much as I enjoy your company and appreciate your efforts, I’m handling this by myself. Tonight I’m on my own.” She gave me a level glance. “Or if you do hang around, stay at least ten feet away from me whether you’re there or not. Don’t mess things up for me.”

  I understood her desperation, but I didn’t like this plan. “What are you going to say to these people?”

  She was at the door. She looked over her shoulder. “That’s for me to know and for you to wonder about. Cheerio.” The door slammed.

  I took one last regretful glance in the mirror. Such a lovely outfit and perfect for a party, but duty called. I disappeared.

  Lanterns strung in the trees added to the party ambience. The barbecue was informal. Dress ranged from casual tops and jeans to an occasional T-shirt and shorts to a few dressier outfits. Revelers jammed the terrace, the crowd spilling out into the garden. Although it was only quarter past seven, the noise level was intense, fueled by women’s voices rising higher and higher. Men, greatly outnumbered, gathered in small clumps on the fringe of the terrace.

  Deirdre, contrary to her plan, was at the center of a jostling group. A tall, thin man with a goatee, resplendent in a yellow cowboy shirt that no cowboy would ever have worn, corduroy trousers, and red cowboy boots leaned over her. “. . . imagine the tension. His prize bull stolen, a ransom note tucked into the visor of his pickup truck . . .” A white-haired woman in a silky top and patchwork skirt bobbed in between Yellow Shirt and Deirdre, stared rapturously up at Deirdre. “You touched my soul.” A plump hand pressed against a generously endowed chest. “Your understanding of the human psyche, simply profound.” She scrabbled in a huge pocket, pulled out a small tablet. “I know you will want to see how I begin the scene between Camille and Armand. Of course, you realize the significance
”—a significant stare—“of their names? It sets the stage. The despair of a love affair ending in heartbreak.” She thrust the tablet at Deirdre. “The working title is The Despair of a Love Affair.”

  I whispered to Deirdre. “Perhaps you can slip away.”

  “Slip away?” Deirdre looked harried. “What am I supposed to do? Disappear?”

  The white-haired woman was startled. “Do you think she should disappear? Or perhaps Armand . . .”

  Yellow Shirt leaned nearer, said firmly, “You have to understand about the bull. . . .”

  It was up to me to provide a diversion. I returned to the secluded spot in the honeysuckle arbor and appeared. Enjoying the ripple of the feathery poncho-style top—a nice outfit always makes me feel like high stepping—I hurried up the path and crossed the terrace.

  White Hair, animated and waving the tablet, remained between Deirdre and Yellow Shirt, who glowered at the interloper.

  I took Deirdre’s elbow. “I’m sorry to pull you away from these lovely people, but staff is assembling for final instructions.” I smiled at White Hair and Yellow Shirt and propelled Deirdre toward the gardens. We didn’t stop until we were at the end of the pier.

  I looked over my shoulder. “I’m surprised that woman isn’t right behind us. With that kind of persistence, she’ll probably cow an editor.”

  Deirdre managed a smile. “I read the first couple of paragraphs. How could I not with that tablet shoved under my nose? Each paragraph was followed by a frowny face. Trust me, her book won’t sell.” She gave me an appreciative nod. “Thanks for getting me out of there. Piranhas. I’ve got to figure out a way to avoid the piranhas if I’m going to talk to anyone about Jay.”

  I had an idea. By this time I understood the staying power of aspiring writers. “I’ll spot them one by one and tell you where they are. You can walk toward the terrace and pretend to talk on your cell. You know: intent face, very focused, obviously an important call. That should get you past any writers.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “I want to talk to the people on my list one-on-one. Not you.”

  “I understand. I won’t interfere.” I would be present though unseen.

  “Why are you suddenly cooperative?” She was wary. “You don’t want me to do this.”

  She was right. I was afraid she was putting herself in danger. But I knew determination when I saw it. “What can happen in the middle of a party? Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  As I disappeared, soft colors whirling and fading, Deirdre’s eyes flared and her hands clenched. I regretted distressing her. I would have thought a writer might readily embrace new dimensions. Apparently not.

  I skimmed above the path, slowed halfway to the terrace.

  Maureen Matthews held a drink but she, too, was alone. She stood in deep shadow below the spreading branches of a white oak, remote, contained, aloof from the crowd surging on the terrace as lines formed for the buffet. Maureen’s fashion choice was an excellent foil for her ebony dark hair and fair skin, a lime green cotton shirt with a stylish bow at the waist. Ankle-length white linen slacks and white sandals emphasized the brightness of the blouse. A multistranded necklace with brilliant stones was matched by a three-stranded bracelet. She was dressed for a party, but her face, in the privacy beneath the tree, drooped with worry and indecision. Likely she had discovered the packet of love letters was no longer in her purse. I imagined that discovery resulted in a thorough search of the car and a despairing realization she had no idea where the packet might be. Or who might have the letters. Or whether the letters would be revealed to the world at large.

  I returned to the end of the pier. Deirdre stood with arms folded staring out at the water. I dropped down beside her. “Maureen Matthews is well off the path. She’s standing near an old white oak, a huge tree.”

  Deirdre tensed on hearing words without an apparent source, then guardedly looked in the direction of my voice. She managed a faint “Thanks” and started for the shore.

  I called after her. “Cell phone.”

  Deirdre glanced over her shoulder. “No kibitzing. Okay?” But she pulled the cell from her summery cotton bag, held it to one ear.

  I followed her up the curving path. Just short of the white oak, a plump woman in a cerise tank top and pumpkin-colored shorts gave an excited squeal. “Mrs. Davenport, your session—”

  Deirdre covered the mouthpiece, looked apologetic. “Sorry. I have to take this call. We’ll visit later.” She picked up speed.

  It wouldn’t be Heavenly to whisper I told you so, so I didn’t.

  The white oak loomed to the left. Deirdre veered from the path, slipped the phone into her bag. Leaves crackled under her shoes as she plunged deeper into the shadows.

  Maureen Matthews’s eyes flared for an instant as she watched Deirdre approach. She brushed back a strand of silky hair, looked weary, her lovely face drawn and pale.

  “Maureen, I’ve been looking for you.” There was a tiny sound of uncertainty in Deirdre’s voice. She stopped perhaps a foot from Maureen, clasped her hands together.

  Lights strung in the tree offered enough illumination for me to see them clearly, like spots on a stage illuminating the actors.

  Maureen waited. Was there wariness, possibly fear, in her stillness?

  I wondered if Deirdre had been an actress at some point in her life. Everything in her expression and posture hinted at a momentous encounter, something known, something she was hesitant to share, something she felt compelled to pursue.

  Maureen’s haggard face was alert. Was she wondering if Deirdre had somehow come into possession of those revealing letters? “What can I do for you?”

  Deirdre glanced about, as if making certain no one was near to overhear. She stepped closer, dropped her voice. “I don’t know what to do. I haven’t spoken to the police yet. You see, last night I caught a glimpse of someone hurrying through the trees near Jay’s cabin. I thought it was you.” Deirdre watched Maureen.

  Now I understood Deirdre’s objective: a provocative statement and the hope that a look, a breath, a physical tic would betray the listener.

  Maureen’s fine features remained immobile for an instant too long before she arched one dark brow, gave a husky laugh. “I’m flattered you can imagine me skulking in the shadows. Quite the romantic heroine.” She lifted her wineglass, took a sip. “I’m afraid”—now her gaze was challenging—“your eyes were playing tricks.” There was the slightest emphasis on the final word. With that and a cool stare, she stepped around Deirdre and walked swiftly away.

  I was crisp. “That was an interesting response.”

  Deirdre looked toward the sound of my voice. “Why am I not surprised you’re here? But you’re right. A very interesting response. I think she went to the cabin.”

  “She never answered your question. I think you may be right.” I appeared.

  Deirdre stiffened, but she managed a tight smile. “Next time give me a little warning. There’s something about wavy-colors-and-there-you-are that makes me just a teeny bit uncomfortable. In addition to having you around at all.”

  I gave Deirdre a reassuring pat, ignoring her quick intake of breath. “I’m here for a reason.” I spoke firmly just in case Wiggins was checking on me. Certainly it wasn’t the elegance of the swirly poncho that prompted me to appear, although one should never waste a beautiful outfit. “This is a good spot to talk to people. You stay here. I’ll go out and lasso them one by one.”

  Deirdre homed in on the logical flaw. “You’re going to tell each one to come and talk to me? Why would they pay any attention to you?”

  “Not to worry. I always find a way.” I turned toward the path.

  The roar of loud voices and throb of amplified music increased as I neared the terrace. I surveyed the crowd. Two lines snaked toward the buffet table. Many tables were already filled. Guests carry
ing paper plates and drinks walked into the garden, some sitting on a low wall, others choosing chairs around the pool.

  Liz and Tom Baker sat at a poolside table in a poorly lit area. There were no plates of food before them. He held a drink in one hand and slumped in his chair, his face morose. Liz stared down at the small glass-topped table.

  I moved confidently toward them. Tom had seen me as blonde Detective Loy. I had spoken to Liz as redheaded Officer Loy. Now I was a dimly seen figure in the dusk, and I knew what I told them would rivet their attention, not my appearance. I reached their table, stopped. I spoke quickly, forcefully. “I believe you’re Liz and Tom Baker. A woman wants to see you about last night at cabin five.” I pointed at the path. “She’s waiting under a big oak tree just around the first curve.” I turned and walked swiftly away.

  A chair scraped. Quick footsteps sounded. Tom Baker caught up with me. “How’d you know who we are? Who are you? What’s—”

  “Just passing on a message.” I looked past him, lifted a hand to wave excitedly. “Maisie, I see you. I’m coming.” I darted away, plunged into a milling crowd, slipped into deep shadow behind the lifeguard stand, disappeared.

  Tom stood uncertainly near the edge of the pool. He nervously brushed back a strand of sandy hair and stared at the crowd. Of course, he didn’t see me. His sensitive face looked stricken with an edge of panic. He swung around, hurried toward Liz.

  I reached Deirdre. “Liz and Tom Baker are coming. All they know is that a woman is waiting here who wants to see them about cabin five last night.” I knew Liz and Tom would soon arrive. Fear is a powerful motivator.

  Deirdre gazed in the direction of my voice. “Thanks. I guess you always deliver.”

  “I try. They’re coming because neither one is sure about the other.” I felt sad for them, so young and so frightened.

  Leaves crackled above the rasp of cicadas, the chitter of a startled squirrel. Two figures came nearer and nearer.