Ghost to the Rescue Page 15

  I perched on a low limb of the oak for an excellent view.

  Deirdre looked imposing, a tall figure waiting with arms folded. Her face, clearly visible in light from a lantern in the tree, was composed with an underlying gravity.

  Tom came first, Liz a step behind. Tom’s face was young and vulnerable. A too-small polo shirt and tight jeans accentuated his slight build. He edged slowly nearer, stared at Deirdre, stopped, said uncertainly, “You want to see us?”

  “Yes. I thought that was only fair. When I talked to the police, I didn’t tell them everything I saw last night. I wanted to speak with you before I see them again. I know”—there was a ragged edge to Deirdre’s voice—“how awful it is to have the police suspect you. It’s like being in a dark dungeon and you don’t see any way out and you know something horrible is waiting in the shadows.”

  Liz lifted a hand to her throat. She slid a terrified glance at Tom.

  Deirdre noted that glance. She looked at Liz. “You ran down the steps of the cabin.” Deirdre remembered what I had told her: Liz begging Jay for money, Liz leaving the cabin in tears, Tom claiming he’d gone down to the pier. Now Deirdre turned toward Tom. “You were furious. You stormed up the steps, pushed your way inside.”

  Tom’s shoulders tightened. His hands balled into fists. He took a step toward Deirdre. “He shouldn’t have made Liz cry.”

  I was ready to drop down, find a rock or a branch.

  Liz thrust herself between Tom and Deirdre. “Leave him alone. Tom wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Tears coursed down her face. “He wouldn’t. Leave us alone.” She turned, grabbed her husband’s arm. “Don’t say anything. She’s trying to save herself. That’s all anyone was talking about this afternoon. Everybody thinks she killed him. Her fingerprints are on the champagne bottle. Don’t say anything, Tom.”

  Tom’s face was flat and hard, perhaps the look of an innocent man desperate to explain his presence in the cabin, perhaps the look of a man fearing testimony that might put him in prison.

  “Tom.” Liz was frantic, tugging at his arm. “We don’t have to talk to her.” She pulled again.

  Tom gulped down breath, took a step backward. “Yeah. Liz’s right. You can’t make us say anything. Come on, Liz.” He turned and they walked away, moving faster and faster.

  Deirdre gave a forlorn sigh. “As they say in the kind of novels I don’t write, not an auspicious beginning.”

  “You’re doing splendidly. There’s no reason to be discouraged. Chin up.”

  I’m sorry to say Deirdre didn’t appear to find my response cheering.

  Deirdre managed a wan smile. “Discouraged? Why should I be discouraged? Two kids blew me off like an annoying chaperone, but that’s okay. My chin, what’s left of it after a haymaker from little Liz, is definitely up. Go for it, Bailey Ruth/Judy Hope, bring them on. I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter 9

  Ashton Lewis’s cheeks were slightly pink, possibly from several glasses of wine.

  An older woman with upswept gray hair and an intelligent face smiled up at him. “I appreciate your advice. Thank you very much.” She turned and walked away.

  I approached in my blonde wig and baggy gray dress since he had seen me as redheaded Officer Loy. I would not present myself as a detective. I was simply an attendee at the conference.

  There was not a hint of recognition in his kindly gaze.

  I spoke in an eager, chatty tone. “I just talked to Deirdre Davenport, and she’s hoping you will take a minute to visit with her.”

  He was professorially sporty tonight in a blue and white striped seersucker suit. He made a courtly bow. “That would be my pleasure.” He looked about, seeking Deirdre.

  “It’s rather frantic here on the terrace and you know how the writers like to monopolize the speakers. She’s playing hooky from the crowd for a few minutes. If you go down the path, she’s relaxing in the shade of a big tree.” I pointed at the path, described the oak tree. “Oh, there’s my husband, waving at me.” Actually, Bobby Mac had been known at rowdier parties to let rip a vigorous yee-hah! when needing my attention. If you’ve never heard a yee-hah, you’ve never spent down-home time in the South or the West. I felt warm inside, thinking of Bobby Mac. “Glad I was able to pass along the message.” And I turned and plunged into the thick of the crowd. On the other side of the terrace, I slipped into the shadows and disappeared

  “Ashton Lewis is on his way. He knows you want to talk to him. He has no idea why, but he’s a gentleman of the old school responding to a lady’s request. It’s very endearing.”

  When I spoke, Deirdre stiffened only slightly, a marked improvement. “So you’re back. Do you find it tiring to appear, disappear, appear?”

  “That’s an interesting question.” At an appropriate time, I would consider my feelings. Did I have a sense of electricity as colors formed? Hmm.

  Leaves crackled.

  “Here he comes,” I whispered. I regained my perch on the branch.

  Ashton Lewis exuded dignity with every step, his spare face and perfectly shaped goatee aristocratic, his tall, stooped figure in the crisp seersucker suit evocative of long-ago town squares and gazebos and bands playing “In the Good Old Summertime.”

  He approached with a slightly questioning look, but his deep voice was cordial. “My dear, how nice of you to want to see me.”

  Deirdre was clearly not at ease. “I . . .” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to say this.”

  He was close now. He gave her a sudden impish smile. “I usually follow Aristophanes’s advice: ‘If you strike upon a thought that baffles you, break off from that entanglement and try another. So shall your wits be fresh to start again.’”

  Her face softened. Wariness eased from her face.

  I found him incredibly charming. But the most ruthless intellect can affect disarming qualities. I tensed.

  Deirdre met his curious gaze, gave him a quick smile. “That’s good advice. I’ll be blunt. I want to ask you about last night.”

  Lewis made no move, but his face was suddenly alert.

  I leaned forward, watched him carefully. Ashton Lewis was highly intelligent, intuitive, empathetic. He was also a big man, tall and thin with long arms and large hands, and he stood between Deirdre and the path.

  An owl whooed in the distance. The rasp of the cicadas pulsed. Leaves rustled in the evening breeze.

  Deirdre looked at him gravely. “Last night when I left Jay’s cabin, I thought there might have been someone standing in the shadows. Was it you?”

  Lewis’s eyes flickered around the shadowy area, darker now than when he’d arrived.

  I dropped to the ground behind Lewis, moved fast, picked up a rough stick, two inches in diameter, a foot long.

  Lewis’s gaze slowly returned to Deirdre. “It’s rather remote here, my dear. I suppose you chose this sequestered spot as an effective background for the heroine to confront suspects. Are you talking to several people in turn? If I put my mind to it, I, too, could assemble a credible list of suspects. But”—he took a step nearer—“I don’t look for trouble.” He reached out, touched her gently on one cheek. “Don’t be foolish, Deirdre. Come back to the terrace with me. Let the police conduct the investigation.”

  Deirdre’s voice was shaky. “They suspect me.”

  Slowly, he nodded. “So you are seeking an alternative. Be careful. Be very careful.” He turned and strode away.

  I breathed deeply, moved nearer. “Maybe it’s too remote here.”

  Deirdre stared after Lewis. “For a moment, I was afraid.”

  “Perhaps you should be frightened. I think you need to be very careful.”

  She looked at the stick hanging in the air. “Thanks for being ready to defend me.” She spoke in a strong, firm voice. “I run three miles every day. If you trip anybody up, I can get out of here. So, let’
s finish up.”

  I admired her. She was gallant, determined, and smart. She was smart enough, in fact, to be scared, very scared, despite her bravado.

  “. . . she’s waiting down the path in the shade of that big white oak tree.”

  Cliff Granger gave me a hard stare. He looked muscular and fit in a blue polo, khaki slacks, and brown loafers.

  I hoped the blonde wig was on straight, but I resisted the impulse to straighten it.

  “Who are you?” He wasn’t wasting any charm on a woman in a baggy gray dress.

  When in need, think big. I drew myself up, looked haughty. I can do haughty, even in a blonde wig and baggy dress. “I’m Evelyn Burlingame, the provost.” I exuded the attitude that any fool at a college function would know the name of Evelyn Burlingame. “I am facilitating the effort Ms. Davenport is making to assist the authorities in their investigation of Jay Knox’s death.”

  “What’s that got to do with Deirdre Davenport? Or me?”

  “There is a rumor you were seen at cabin five last night. The English Department has no desire to validate rumors. That’s why it seemed more appropriate for Ms. Davenport to speak with you. Likely that will settle the matter and we need not bring any of this to the attention of the police. I’m sure that is your preference as well. We are doing our best to cooperate with the investigation and I know you will help us.” I gave him a commanding nod, turned away.

  Deirdre paced back and forth beneath the low hanging limbs.

  “Deirdre—”

  She tensed, turned in my general direction. “Do you have any idea how weird it is to hear a voice and no one’s there? Especially when it’s darker than the shades of you-know-what, except for the lights in the tree. I keep picturing this dark figure swinging that champagne bottle. I’d like to run to my room and bolt the door and shove the dresser against it.” She looked around. “It’s so dark out there I can’t tell if anyone’s around.” Her voice was shaky.

  “You needn’t worry. I’m right here.”

  “Somehow that assurance doesn’t make me feel like the Marines have arrived. Anyway, don’t talk to me when I can’t see you.”

  I hoped to put Deirdre at ease. “There’s no need for me to appear every time I return. After all, you know my voice.”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “I know your voice.” She spoke with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  I, of course, didn’t take umbrage, but kept on point. “I don’t know if Cliff Granger will come.” I wasn’t optimistic. The agent might ignore a directive from a Goddard administrator. “I told him I was the provost, Evelyn Burlingame, and we at Goddard were making every effort to dispel the rumor that he’d been seen at cabin five.”

  Deirdre’s lips twitched. “Burlingame. How’d you come up—”

  Leaves crackled.

  She broke off, turned toward the path.

  Cliff Granger strolled forward. He stopped a few feet away. “Hi, Deirdre. I’m not sure what’s going on”—his tone was relaxed and casual—“but this rather forceful woman ordered me out here to talk to you. Is it true the English Department has you nosing around the conference, running down rumors about Jay’s death?”

  “True enough.” Deirdre sounded embarrassed.

  He looked amused. “Anything to hold a job, right?”

  “Right. You’re swell to come. Look, here’s what’s being said. Apparently someone”—Deirdre sounded vague—“saw you going in Jay’s cabin last night.”

  Cliff shook his head. “Somebody’s mistaken. I was in the vicinity. I’m staying in cabin six. I wandered around a bit, almost went down to the lake, but I changed my mind, came back to my place. I definitely did not—repeat not—go into Jay’s cabin last night. Probably somebody saw me going into my cabin and got confused.”

  Deirdre took a step nearer, her face crinkling in inquiry. “Since you are staying nearby, did you happen to see anyone at Jay’s cabin?”

  He was silent for a moment. His long face folded in a frown.

  Deirdre was suddenly sharp. “Please, Cliff, if you know anything, saw anyone, tell me.”

  He gazed at her soberly. “You sound desperate.”

  She hesitated, then said unsteadily, “Look, we can put a good face on my situation, pretend I’m talking to people to help the department. But I have to find out what happened to Jay, who killed him, for my own sake. The police are this close”—she held up her right hand with thumb and forefinger scarcely apart—“to arresting me. I went to the cabin. My fingerprints are on the champagne bottle someone used to kill him.”

  Cliff looked surprised. “Your fingerprints are on the bottle?” He looked at her searchingly. “That’s not good.”

  “You’re telling me. It’s a long story. He came to my room earlier with the bottle and some glasses and we talked, but I had to look at this writer’s manuscript and I handed the bottle and glasses back to him. He took them to his cabin. Somebody came there to see him and used the bottle to bash him over the head.” She was grim. “Plus, I’m sure everyone’s rushing to tell the police how Jay hassled women for sex. They’ll assume that was true for me—”

  “Was it?” Cliff looked shocked.

  Deirdre shrugged. “What else is new? It happens all the time. Once I had a city editor— Oh well, you learn to handle it. I would’ve handled Jay. But you can see why I’m scraping around trying to find out something that points away from me. When I asked you if you saw anyone, you didn’t say anything. Cliff, if you know anything at all, it might make a difference.”

  He rubbed knuckles against one cheek, finally said, “I see what you’re saying. Well, I don’t know when Jay was killed. But when I was walking on the way to my cabin—”

  Deirdre scarcely breathed.

  Cliff’s face was partially in shadow, partially illuminated by a lantern on a limb far above.

  I tried to decipher what I could see of his expression. Uncertainty? Reluctance? Indecision?

  “—I kind of noticed out of the corner of my eye that the door to cabin five was opening. The door stopped as if someone stood on the other side, one hand gripping the jamb. It was a tiny instant in time. That’s all I saw, then I was past the cabin.”

  Deirdre reached out, touched his arm. “You saw a hand. A man’s hand or a woman’s?”

  His uncertainty was apparent—uncertainty and a reluctance to speak. “It was just a glimpse. I can’t swear to anything.”

  “Please think back. Try to remember.” Deirdre was imploring. “You saw a hand on the jamb. Your mind has a memory of that moment. You must have some impression of the size, the shape.”

  “It was too quick. I can’t be sure.” He started to swing away, stopped, looked back with an expression of regret, commiseration. “If I thought anything at all, I thought a woman was standing there, that a woman was coming out on the porch.”

  As soon as he was gone, I said softly, “Perhaps he saw you.”

  Deirdre shook her head. “I didn’t stop and hold the door. I got out of there as fast as I could. I came flying down the steps and bolted into the darkest shadow I could find and stood there and tried to breathe.”

  I cautioned, “He didn’t sound certain. But if he thought it might have been you, that would suggest the hand belonged to a woman.”

  Deirdre was thoughtful. “If he saw a woman’s hand, it was either Maureen Matthews or Liz Baker at the door.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “Ashton Lewis is a big man with big hands. Cliff couldn’t mistake his hand for that of a woman. But Tom Baker is slender with thin hands. In a quick glimpse, his hand could possibly appear to be a woman’s. And then there’s Harry Toomey.” As I recalled, his hands were small and plump.

  “Speaking of Harry,” Deirdre looked discouraged, “I see no way even you can persuade Harry to come here”—she waved a hand at the increasing gloom beneath the oak—“and
talk to me. If there’s anyone at the conference he wants to avoid, it’s me.”

  I was sure she was right in that judgment. Moreover, I’d talked with Harry as Judy Hope, that scintillating reporter from the new online magazine, and as Detective M. Loy in a blonde wig and gray dress.

  I appeared in the softly swirling polyester poncho and white trousers. I looked down and admired the silvery heels.

  Deirdre was plaintive. “There you go again. Colors whirling, swirling. Whistle next time.”

  “I’ll try to remember. But I need to be here now. Let’s go to the terrace together. If you’re talking to me, writers won’t interrupt. When we reach Harry, here’s what we’ll do. . . .”

  Harry Toomey sat on the low wall between the terrace and the garden. Next to him was a bottle of beer and a cardboard bowl with strawberry shortcake topped with a mound of whipped cream. He licked a smear of barbecue sauce from one finger. He was almost finished with a rack of baby back ribs. His plate still held coleslaw and baked beans. His moon face was amiable.

  He looked up as we approached. Of course he recognized me as Judy Hope, the reporter from the soon-to-be-launched online magazine. Thursday night he’d been eager to cultivate me. Tonight there was a slight flicker of unease in his eyes.

  I beamed at him. “Harry, I’m glad I found you. You’re just the man I need to see.”

  He dropped a stripped baby back rib onto his paper plate and scrambled to his feet. “You were looking for me?” Eagerness lifted his voice.

  If I hadn’t been hunting for a murderer, I would have felt a pang of guilt. He hoped, dared, prayed I was looking for Harry Toomey, author of that gripping novel Grabbed.

  I gestured toward Deirdre. “You know Deirdre Davenport.” I didn’t wait for an answer. “She’s given me some insights and I know you can do the same.”

  He looked at Deirdre, forced a smile. “I know Deirdre.”

  “Hello, Harry.” Deirdre spoke diffidently.