Ghost to the Rescue Page 16

  I bent toward Harry. “May we join you? I want to get your take on the crime. I can quote you: Harry Toomey, suspense author.”

  He fumbled to pick up the beer and dessert.

  When the space was clear, I nodded at Deirdre. “You go ahead and sit down. I’ll get us some food. You two can visit while I’m gone.” I turned and slipped into the fluid mix of those now finished with their meals and standing on the terrace talking. I started in the direction of the buffet, put a half dozen people between the wall and me, then slipped into the shadows of a willow. It took only a moment to reach the honeysuckle arbor, disappear, and return to Deirdre and Harry.

  Deirdre gave Harry an apologetic look. “I’m sorry it couldn’t have worked out for both of us. I was desperately hoping I’d get the job, so I understand how disappointed you are.”

  “Nice of you to say so.” He didn’t look at her. His round face was defensive.

  “I really am sorry, Harry.” There was genuine distress in her voice.

  There’s a special glow in Heaven when kind hearts offer solace.

  “Yeah.” He tried to sound upbeat.

  “Well, I hope it all turns out for the best. I know you’ll write a lot more books, Harry.”

  Some of the unhappiness seeped from his face. “I’ve got a new one started. It’s set in a coal mine.” Obviously ready to stand up, escape into the crowd, he shifted a little on the wall.

  She said quickly, “I’ll bet you’ve made some great contacts this weekend.”

  There was a return of his old bluster. “You better believe I have.” His watery brown eyes gleamed. “Cliff Granger’s going to take on my book.” He spoke with pride. “He’s a big-time agent. He’ll land a deal for me. Maybe sell Grabbed to TV, too.”

  Deirdre hid a quick flicker of surprise behind wide-eyed admiration. “That’s wonderful. So you’re going to be all right.”

  “I’m going to be fine.” He was suddenly puffed with self-satisfaction. “He said my book should’ve been snapped up by somebody and he can take it all the way to the top.”

  “Jay would have been pleased for you.” Deirdre’s face changed, as if recalling the grim reality of murder. “Speaking of Jay”—she looked both anxious and hesitant—“there’s something I need to ask you. Before I talk to the police again.”

  His moon face was suddenly intent, and there was nothing soft or agreeable in his expression. “Again?”

  “Yes. I told them about seeing Jay. But I didn’t tell them what I saw when I left the cabin. I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  He waited. The silence held a sense of menace. Harry’s brown eyes never wavered as he stared at her.

  I was glad Deirdre was at the edge of a terrace filled with people, with noise, movement, chatter, not in the deep shadows beneath the white oak.

  Perhaps Deirdre sensed danger. She drew back a fraction. “Last night when I left cabin five, I was in a hurry. I had a headache and wanted to get back to my room, but I kind of half noticed someone was standing near a shrub, that big one about ten feet from the cabin steps. I just caught a glimpse. I don’t know why, but I had the idea it was you. Were you there?”

  “You saw someone?” His voice was soft.

  “I wasn’t sure.” She squeezed her eyes shut for an instant, opened them. “When I concentrate, that’s what I feel. Someone was there.”

  His gaze was hard and hostile. “Why did you think it was me?”

  “I don’t know. There was something about the shape of a shadow. I think that was it. I just had this little idea—Why, Harry’s waiting to see Jay—and hoping Jay would explain why he picked me. He said he selected me because Dr. Randall preferred I be the one. I don’t know why, Harry. It may be Dr. Randall wanted another woman faculty member. You never know what makes a difference in these kinds of decisions. Anyway, I was sure you were waiting there for a word with Jay, and I walked even faster because I thought it would be better if I was gone. I knew you’d be upset that Jay hadn’t picked you.”

  “And you thought maybe I was the one who killed Jay?” His voice was cold.

  She met his stare directly. “Somebody killed Jay.”

  Harry said shortly, “Yeah. Somebody did. But why pick me?” His gaze shifted slowly around the terrace. “I see a lot of people Jay pissed off.” He looked at Maureen Matthews. “There’s the prof he was sleeping with.” He glanced at Liz and Tom Baker. “And how about that kid writer and her husband?” Then he gave an abrupt laugh, nodded toward Ashton Lewis. “Somebody told me that old guy was livid with Jay.” He flicked a glance at Cliff Granger. “Or maybe Cliff was mad because Jay’s last book stunk. But I guess all he had to do was tell Jay to take a hike. Anyway, I don’t care who you pick on, but I hope it’s not him. He really likes my book. Anyway, if there was somebody in the shadows, I can tell you it wasn’t me.”

  As if aware of Harry’s scrutiny, Maureen’s head turned and she gave him a thoughtful look. Ashton Lewis faced our way. He stood alone, his face somber, arms folded; imposing and dignified in his seersucker suit. Liz and Tom were a few feet away, and there was no joy in either face. Once again they appeared tense, worried, fearful. Cliff Granger held a drink, appeared to be watching Deirdre.

  I wondered if each of them noticed Harry’s passing gaze? Possibly.

  Harry turned back to Deirdre. “Maybe you saw one of them.” The suggestion seemed to amuse him. He came to his feet. He wasn’t physically impressive, but he was taller than Deirdre, heavier. He looked down. “Maybe you better worry about what someone saw you do.” He put his plate, dessert bowl, and beer bottle on the wall, where he’d been seated. “I heard your fingerprints are on the champagne bottle. So smearing other people probably isn’t going to get you anywhere. But you can take it to the bank: You didn’t see me near that cabin.” He had his old cocky look as he turned away.

  I waited until he was out of earshot. “He was ready to unload on a lot of people.”

  Deirdre’s face had a hollow, strained look. “I don’t blame him. I know how it is to have people look at you and wonder. It’s horrible. Now I’m looking at all of them and wondering.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I said softly. It took a moment to reach the arbor and appear. When I returned to the terrace, Deirdre, nose wrinkling in distaste, was gathering up Harry’s plate. She picked up the beer bottle, carried the refuse to a nearby receptacle, nudged the flap, wedged the trash into the nearly full barrel.

  She looked up as I approached. “I’m actually glad to see you. I never thought I’d say that. But”—she gave a sign of relief—“I never thought I’d be half-scared of Harry Toomey.” Her voice held surprise.

  “There might be good reason to be afraid of him.” I spoke softly. “Harry claimed he talked to Jay, then walked down to the pier. But Tom Baker also said he went to the pier. One of them is lying. My money’s on Harry. Maybe Harry saw something at the cabin. Or maybe he killed Jay and came out the door and heard footsteps and hurried into the shadows.”

  She gave me a quick, anxious look. “You’ve forgotten. I made it up about seeing someone in the shadows.”

  “That doesn’t mean,” I said gently, “someone wasn’t in the shadows.”

  Deirdre shivered. “That’s scary.” She looked across the terrace, but she wasn’t seeing lights and people and hearing loud voices and louder laughter. She was remembering that moment of cold horror when she opened the door, stepped into Jay’s cabin, and saw him lying there, a purplish bruise on his temple, his body slumped in death. She shivered. “I’ve had all I can handle. I’m going to go wash my hands, then grab some food from the buffet and take it up to my room.”

  I watched her go. I understood her stress. She’d been scared and now she probably couldn’t help feeling that her efforts wouldn’t lead anywhere. We needed something specific, something concrete. I remembered the chair turned to
ward the computer in Jay’s office . . .

  Detective Don Smith’s handsome face was impassive. He sat at Jay’s computer, brows drawn in concentration. His index finger clicked, clicked, clicked. Abruptly, he leaned closer to the screen. “Got it. Got it. Sam’s right.” His tone was smug. “I can find deleted files better than anybody. No wonder somebody tried to get rid of these.”

  I liked his satisfied tone. I looked over his shoulder, and my eyes widened.

  The photos were explicit, revealing, damning. Cliff Granger had been casual in his dismissal of a year-ago party as irrelevant, casual and dishonest. I didn’t doubt the date corresponded with the night at Jay’s house before last year’s conference. I also felt sure Cliff had been unaware a camera had filmed his sexual encounter with a girl. Both were— But I don’t need to describe them. The pictures revealed everything.

  Why had Jay Knox filmed what Cliff must have assumed at the time was private? The filming could easily have been done, a camera cleverly concealed in a clock, lamp, or book, set to turn on and film whatever occurred for a period of several hours. Certainly the host—Jay—directed which bedrooms were available to those at a licentious party.

  Don Smith was thorough. He not only sent e-files to Chief Cobb, he took advantage of Jay Knox’s color printer and printed out a copy of every photograph that contained Cliff Granger and the young woman, including those in the bedroom and others taken at earlier points during the evening.

  I waited until he was almost done, then popped to the front porch and rang the bell. As I expected, Don walked down the hall and to the door. Back in the office, I selected a print of a photo of Cliff’s companion that had been taken earlier in the evening. Shoulder-length blonde hair shimmered. I admired her sleeveless sundress with huge peonies splashed against a white background. She stood with an out-flung hand as if gesturing in excitement. I rose to the ceiling with the photo. Don never looked up. His face creased in irritation, he strode back into Jay’s office.

  The photo I’d filched could be shown to anyone. That wasn’t true of many of the others. What had Jay done with those photos? He’d made them and kept them for a purpose.

  I remembered Jessica Forbes’s unconcealed contempt at the bar Thursday night. More dreck? she’d asked. Had Jay used the photos to blackmail Cliff into accepting manuscripts from Jay’s clients? Did the pictures matter that much? Did Cliff have a jealous wife? Or was there a more dangerous outcome from a public revelation?

  Cliff claimed last year’s party didn’t matter. Perhaps the party and what happened that night mattered immensely. Had Cliff seen a woman’s hand at the door of cabin 5? Or was that an invention to suggest a woman killed Jay?

  As soon as I settled into the shadows of the honeysuckle arbor near the terrace, I appeared as Judy Hope, my red-haired, freckled self. I was evening casual in a pale yellow pullover cotton shirt; paisley print pants with a yellow, green, and light blue pattern; and calfskin thongs in lime leather with bamboo trim. I strolled through the garden to the terrace and around to a side entrance. In the dimness, no one paid any attention to the photograph I now held down to one side. I hurried up the stairs. At Maureen’s door, I knocked firmly. If she wasn’t there, I’d have to look for her. But the peephole opened.

  I spoke quickly, holding up the photograph. “You will want to help.”

  The peephole closed. The door opened. She stared at me, her quite remarkably lovely face tight with anger, her violet eyes scornful. “You took my letters.”

  “They are quite safe. Please let me explain.”

  She remained in the doorway, blocking my entrance. “I don’t know who you are or what you want.” Her voice was low and angry. “Maybe you’re a blackmailer. Maybe worse. A person is dead. Why should I let you in my room?” Her gaze slid up the hall as a couple came off the elevator. She was ready to push past me, ready to cry out.

  “I need your help to find out who killed Jay.” I thrust out the photo. “Take this. Find out who she is. She was at the party last year. I want every fact you can scrape up. I’ll contact you in the morning.” I started to turn away, paused. I remembered her wariness, her looking to see if help might be near, fearful I might be Jay’s killer. Was that an excellent actress at work or the caution of an innocent woman? I rather thought the latter. I made a quick decision. “I believe you are innocent. Your letters will be returned to you.”

  In the honeysuckle arbor, I changed from my evening casual clothes to the French blue uniform, walked swiftly up the path. I knocked and the porch light came on in cabin 7. Jessica Forbes opened the door. “It’s rather late—” She broke off and gazed at the uniform. “Yes?” There was polite inquiry and, as might be expected from a guest staying not far from the site of a murder, a flash of alarm. She was her usual commanding figure, silver hair drawn back, strong features, and wearing a long-sleeved green silk blouse and cream trousers.

  “Officer Judy Hope, ma’am.” I held out the black leather folder. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions about last night.” I flashed what I hoped was an ingratiating smile. “I know it’s late, but I’ll be very appreciative if you can spare a moment.”

  “Of course.” Her agreement was quick. “I want to help if I can.” She held the door for me.

  After we settled on the sofa, Jessica crossed her ankles and looked at me inquiringly.

  I admired the saucy cream bow on the instep of her attractive heels.

  She waited for me to speak. I imagined she often used silence to her advantage and rarely offered impulsive comments.

  I took a small notebook from my pocket, opened it, held a pen poised to write. “Could you tell me your whereabouts last night between ten and eleven?”

  Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “Between ten and eleven . . . Let me think. I left the bar a few minutes after ten and walked directly here. I noticed Jay’s lights were on as I passed. I did not see him. I sat here”—she gestured at the couch—“and talked to one of my authors in Hawaii until shortly after eleven. Then I read a manuscript until almost midnight. I did not leave this cabin until I went to the terrace for breakfast at half past seven.”

  The call to Hawaii could easily be checked. If Jessica was on the telephone from ten thirty to eleven p.m., she could not have killed Jay.

  “That’s very helpful. May I have the name of the author with whom you spoke and the telephone number?”

  Her smile was cool. “Of course.” She turned on her cell, went to Contacts, provided the information. “Would you like to call her?”

  In only a moment, the call was placed and Jessica’s alibi confirmed. I’d not thought her a likely suspect, but certainty of her innocence added credibility to her responses.

  “What was your relationship with Jay Knox?”

  She was formal. “I was his editor. He had recently turned in a manuscript. Frankly, it was third rate. I sent it back, asked him to revise, but I told him there would have to be a huge improvement.” Full stop.

  This gave a different picture of Jay Knox as an author. Perhaps he wasn’t as successful as he tried to appear. “Was he upset?”

  “He knew”—another cool smile—“that histrionics wouldn’t matter to me. I offered to drop out of the conference. He insisted I come. Of course, that was for the prestige of the conference. Having a New York editor is a huge draw.” She shrugged. “We maintained a pleasant relationship. I suppose he intended to try to fix the book. I’m not sure that was possible. It would have required a huge rewrite, and I never thought Jay was unduly burdened with a work ethic. I didn’t expect it to work out. I thought he was one of those writers who manage two or three passable books, then fizzle.”

  “It wouldn’t bother you to drop an author?”

  Her eyes were unsmiling. “My job is to publish good books.” She spoke with finality.

  “Is that why you warned Cliff Granger to stop sending you lousy
manuscripts?”

  There was a flicker of surprise in her dark eyes. “On what do you base your question?”

  “You were overheard.”

  She slowly nodded. “I suppose you talked to someone who was at the bar.” Another shrug. “I don’t deny our conversation.”

  “Will you really decline to look at manuscripts he offers?”

  “I meant what I said. I always mean what I say.” Her tone was crisp. “I don’t have the luxury of spending time on unpublishable manuscripts. No editor does.”

  “Are you going to give Cliff Granger one more chance?”

  “One more chance.” Now her face was formidable.

  One light shone in the backyard of the house next to Jay’s. The doghouse was in deep shadows near the back fence. I reached past the cinder block, swept the ground with seeking fingers. Ah, there. I pulled out the small packet of letters.

  The dog poked out his head, growled. He was beautiful in the moonlight, the creamy glow turning his ruff silver.

  “Good boy.” I reached out and stroked his fur, felt taut muscles relax. “Just a quick visit. Thank you for you taking good care of these letters.”

  It was late now and easy to pass unseen high in the sky to Silver Lake Lodge.

  The hallway outside Maureen’s door was dim and empty. I made sure no one was about, then placed the letters on the floor. I passed inside the room, waited and listened. In a sliver of light from the cracked bathroom door, I could make out the bed and a sleeping form.

  Maureen’s breathing was light and relaxed.

  It took only a moment to carefully loosen the chain, ease open the door, bring the letters inside. With the door closed, I put the chain in place, let my eyes adjust to the dimness. I crossed to the suitcase sitting on a rack against the wall. She’d emptied out the contents. I slipped the packet of letters into a zippered compartment. She was unlikely to open that compartment until she was ready to check out. If tomorrow proved her to be among the innocent, the letters would be there for her to find. If not, Sam would easily discover them.