Ghost to the Rescue Page 18

  I was shaken as well. It hadn’t occurred to me when Deirdre received the call from Harry that the contact was anything more than an effort by him either to honestly enlist Deirdre’s help or a lure to take her into danger. Instead, the pier was a trap for Harry. Someone was with him when he made the call, told him to set the meeting for twenty minutes later. As soon as the call was made, Harry and his companion came down to the pier. That’s why Harry didn’t answer when Deirdre immediately called his room. Harry and Jay Knox’s killer came to the pier, but only the killer walked away, leaving Harry’s body for Deirdre to find. The killer didn’t care whether she ran away or called the police. There would always be the record of Harry’s call to Deirdre’s room.

  The medical examiner pushed up from the ground. Jacob Brandt had obviously dressed hastily into a ratty T-shirt with cut off sleeves, paint-stained khaki shorts, and flip-flops, but his eyes were bright and intent as he faced Chief Cobb. “Classic case of drowning, aided and abetted by a couple of whacks to the back of the head. I can be definitive after the autopsy, but I can tell you that somebody knocked him out, lugged him to the water, plopped him in face-first. It wouldn’t take long for him to drown. And, now”—he made a casual gesture—“you can set your bloodhounds loose.” Police could not search or move a body until the ME determined death had occurred.

  As he spoke, a uniformed officer took a series of photographs, another sketched the scene, a third began a careful search of the ground.

  Sam pointed at the body. “Any idea of the weapon?”

  Jacob Brandt looked judicious. “Something rounded. A depression similar to the one on Knox’s temple.” He gazed at the bank and the reeds. In the brilliance of the searchlights, each bent and crushed reed was distinct, and the dampness of the ground around Harry’s body evident. “Rounded,” he muttered. His gaze stopped on a beer bottle lying perhaps a foot from the water. He jerked a thumb. “Something like a pop bottle or a beer bottle. The depression had that kind of curve.”

  Sam nodded at a balding, stocky officer. “Photos. Measurements. Take the bottle into evidence, just in case. Check for hair, blood, prints. Pick up everything lying on the ground along the bank and between here and the terrace. Get somebody in waders. I want any piece of debris found in the water, bottles, rocks, anything with a rounded surface. Check anything that could make a rounded head wound.”

  A careful search of the lakefront began.

  Sam turned and walked toward Hal and Deirdre. In the glare of the searchlights, Sam looked disheveled, his grizzled hair hastily combed, a growth of beard on his heavy face, dress shirt rolled to the elbows, brown suit pants wrinkled, but he was focused, intent. “You’re here.” This was directed at Hal. There was a faint undertone of disapproval. “She”—he jerked his head toward Deirdre—“finds a body.” Sam knew I was Deirdre’s champion, but her presence at a murder scene was too suspicious to ignore.

  Detective Weitz stood a few feet away. She was looking at a clipboard, but I didn’t doubt she listened to every word. She lifted her eyes to give Hal and Deirdre a brief, searching glance, then once again gazed at the clipboard.

  Detective Howie Harris was watching, too. His eyes were bright and curious as he stared at Hal and Deirdre.

  I didn’t like the expression on Howie’s pudgy face, a mixture of pleasure and suspicion. Howie had been in charge of the department when I was last in Adelaide, subbing for Sam while he and Claire honeymooned. Howie was a favorite of the mayor’s and he liked to cause trouble for Sam.

  Sam folded his arms. “Let’s have it. You first, Hal.” He listened with a frown. When Hal finished, the chief’s gaze turned to Deirdre. “Ms. Davenport.”

  Deirdre, her voice shaky, kept her gaze determinedly away from Harry’s body. “Harry called me. He said he knew who killed Jay and he wanted my help to prove it. He asked me to meet him at the pier in twenty minutes. I was afraid to go by myself. I called Hal—Detective Sergeant Price. He came to my room and we went together.”

  Sam was brisk. “Anybody hear your conversation with Toomey?”

  Deirdre’s voice quivered. “Only me and my imagination.” She gave a brief glance about, knowing I was likely near. “Who else would be there?” There was the slightest edge of hysteria in her tone. “It was late when the phone rang. I don’t have any witnesses to prove anything. I talked to Harry just like I told you. I started to tell him no way but he’d already hung up. I called his room. No answer. I almost ignored the whole thing, but I decided I should do something. I thought I did the right thing to call Hal.”

  Even if she hadn’t called Hal, she would have been caught up in an investigation, which must have been the plan—that, when his body was found, calls from Harry’s room would be checked and there would be a record of his call to Deirdre’s room and a record of the call from her room to his. I could hear a DA now: “And the defendant offers a fanciful explanation of the victim’s call. But, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, she called Mr. Toomey’s room. Now why would she do that? To confirm an appointment to meet at the pier? That seems obvious.”

  Sam studied her, and I knew he thought Deirdre was well aware calls between rooms would be traced. If she met Harry and killed him, she had to scramble to find a way to explain those calls. A possible solution—call Hal Price, give him a fictional version of Harry’s call, go with him to the pier. Sam clearly realized Deirdre might have called Hal to create an aura of innocence. “You could have called nine-one-one.”

  Deirdre was grim. “I wish I had.”

  It was as though Sam and Deirdre and Hal formed a triangle of intensity apart from the activity around them, the sound of voices, footsteps, flashes from cameras. Sam bulked large and demanding, Deirdre stood stiff and defensive, Hal struggled to remain silent.

  Sam pressed her. “Why didn’t you?”

  Deirdre turned over her hands—long, thin, expressive hands—in a gesture of hopelessness. “I knew”—she hesitated, spoke formally—“Detective Sergeant Price was involved in the investigation. I called him. I wish I hadn’t. Oh, how I wish I hadn’t.” Her look at Hal was sad and worried, regretful; she knew he was compromised by her call.

  Sam’s brows drew down. “How’d you have his cell number?”

  Hal spoke quickly, defiantly. “I gave it to her.”

  Sam studied Hal for a long moment, gave an almost imperceptible head shake. “You and Davenport wait over there.” He pointed at a bench near the steps to the pier.

  Hal looked at the chief’s face, almost spoke, then nodded. “Yes, sir.” The words were clipped and formal.

  Sam swung around, moved closer to the lake, watched as the stocky officer, hands in plastic gloves, carefully used pincers to pick up the beer bottle.

  Deirdre put her hand on Hal’s arm. “He doesn’t believe me.” She pulled her hand back. “He thinks”—her eyes were huge with despair—“I called you to—”

  Hal cut in, his voice brusque. “I don’t give a damn what he thinks.” His face was serious, intent, determined. “I know better.”

  Deirdre lifted her chin. She spoke steadily, even though her lips quivered. “Until all of this is over, you need to stay away from me.”

  Hal shook his head. “That I won’t do.” His face quirked in a half smile. “The chief said for us to wait on the bench. You won’t be getting away from me.” His hand closed over her arm.

  Detectives Weitz and Harris watched them walk away, Weitz with a considering look, Harris with malicious pleasure.

  As they walked, Deirdre pulled away from his touch, kept a distance between them. They settled on the bench.

  Hal moved closer, put a hand on her arm, bent near to speak.

  Sam walked to the edge of the bank, asked an officer kneeling on the ground. “What’s in his pockets?”

  The officer pointed at a collection lying on a plastic sheet—a billfold, coins, several soggy pieces of
paper, car keys, a room key.

  Sam nodded at Judy Weitz. “Go to his room, see if there’s a cell phone there.”

  As the careful survey of the area continued, I hoped to find a moment when I could drop near and whisper to Sam, but he was occupied every instant—directing, inquiring, conferring. I hovered near. I considered appearing but knew I wouldn’t get past the young policeman charged with barring entry to the crime scene.

  Detective Weitz returned in a few minutes. “No cell phone. No sign of disarray in his room.”

  Sam glanced toward the lake. He likely felt sure that both Jay’s cell phone and Harry’s had been flung out into the water to plummet to the bottom. Harry’s killer had made sure police never saw any incriminating phone messages or texts.

  After the gurney with Harry’s body rolled away, Sam turned to Weitz. “Bring Price and Davenport to that conference room and get us some coffee.”

  He walked briskly up the path and across the terrace. Guests had gathered in clumps. Voices called out. “What’s happened?” “Who was on the stretcher?” “Is there a killer loose here?”

  Sam paused, held up a big hand. “We are investigating a drowning that occurred near the pier this evening. Everything is under control. Please return to your rooms.” Ignoring shouted queries, he walked briskly toward the lobby.

  Chapter 11

  I waited inside conference room A. The dry-erase board had been wiped clean.

  The door opened and Sam stepped inside.

  “Officer Loy reporting.”

  Sam froze for an instant, then closed the door, stood with his back against it. Despite the stubble on his face and evident weariness, his gaze was alert. “Weitz is bringing Davenport and Hal here. What have you got?”

  “Deirdre’s telling the truth about the call from Harry Toomey. She never left her room tonight until she went to the pier with Hal.”

  “You’re—” He broke off. He didn’t ask if I was sure. He knew I was sure. “That changes everything.”

  The door opened and Weitz stood aside for Hal and Deirdre to enter. Weitz carried a tray with a coffee server and cups in one hand, held the door with the other while managing an attaché case wedged between her arm and side.

  Once again Deirdre sat in a hard, straight chair facing a table. This time Hal Price occupied a straight chair beside her. Deirdre sagged in fatigue, her long face pale and worn. Perhaps more accustomed to late-night, stress-filled encounters, Hal didn’t appear tired, but his expression was somber.

  Detective Weitz put the tray on a stand near the door, then moved to the table to unpack a recorder from the attaché case. She placed the recorder in front of the chair she’d occupied earlier in the day. She returned to the stand, poured coffee into four cups. She deposited a cup at her place and Sam’s, carried a cup in each hand around the table, offered them to Deirdre and Hal.

  Deirdre softly said, “Thank you.” Hal managed a slight smile as he took the cup.

  Weitz nodded, turned away. She took her seat next to Sam. Responding to the late-night call, she’d obviously also dressed hurriedly, in a magenta blouse and tan slacks, definitely unfortunate. She kept her gaze studiously away from Hal, her friend and coworker but now a witness to be interviewed.

  Steam rose in wreaths above the cups in front of her and Sam.

  Deirdre took a cautious sip.

  I yearned for a cup of coffee. I eyed the stand with the tray. Several extra cups were stacked by the server.

  Sam cleared his throat. He was brisk. “It’s late. I won’t keep you long.”

  Judy Weitz’s eyes widened a little. The chief’s businesslike tone surprised her. She slid a swift glance at him.

  Sam gazed at Deirdre. “Ms. Davenport”—Weitz turned on the recorder—“as I understand how the evening unfolded, you were in your room preparing for bed. Were you in pajamas?”

  Deirdre was clearly surprised at the question. She nodded. “Yes.”

  “You did not expect a call from Mr. Toomey?”

  “I did not.” Deirdre was emphatic. “I didn’t expect the call and my first instinct was to ignore it. I wish that’s what I’d done.”

  Sam nodded. “That’s understandable, but bear with me”—Judy Weitz’s eyes rounded—“while I establish the background. Why do you think he called you instead of someone else who knew Mr. Knox?”

  I reached the side table, turned the top of the server, held the cup on the far side, tipped just enough to pour.

  Hal watched Deirdre, whose attention was focused on the chief. Sam and Judy had their backs to me. So far, so good. I eased the cup—my, that was really hot coffee—below the level of the table, moved until I was behind Sam and Judy. I crouched behind Sam and took a generous swallow, felt the instant magic of caffeine. It may come as a surprise, but a ghost—excuse me, Wiggins: an emissary—is subject to earthly fatigue when engaged on a mission. I savored several more sips.

  Deirdre brushed back a tangle of frizzy curls. “I was stupid. Tonight I was all over the barbecue looking for information about Thursday night. I talked to Harry and others I thought might be upset with Jay.” She held up a finger for each. “Maureen Matthews. The kids, Liz and Tom Baker. Ashton Lewis. Cliff Granger. Harry Toomey. I thought maybe I could find out something to help figure out who killed him. I was afraid you’d arrest me since my fingerprints were on the champagne bottle. That’s why Harry knew I was looking for the killer. Now it doesn’t seem like it was such a good idea.”

  Hal gave her an encouraging look. “It’s understandable that you wanted to try to help the police.” He faced Sam. “Rumors are all over the conference that Deirdre’s the chief suspect.”

  Judy Weitz gave him a quick, sympathetic, almost pitying glance. She thought Hal had lost all objectivity, that he was enchanted, that he was being played for a fool by Deirdre.

  Sam repeated the names. “Maureen Matthews, Liz and Tom Baker, Ashton Lewis, Cliff Granger. Harry Toomey. You set out to talk to them. Why did you expect one of them to admit to anything incriminating?”

  Deirdre leaned forward, her face both eager and anxious. “I hope I can make you understand. I didn’t expect any of them to tell me anything.” There was emphasis on the verb. “Writers use body language to reveal how characters feel or think. Their reactions tell you a lot. I was counting on watching each person’s reaction when I claimed I saw someone in the shadows last night near cabin five.”

  Sam cleared his throat, said mildly, “Policemen look at body language, too. Would you like to know what your body language tells me?”

  Judy Weitz quickly hid an expression of shock at Sam’s genial tone.

  Hal’s face brightened. He was surprised, but encouraged.

  Deirdre met Sam’s gaze directly. “Yes. I’d like to know what you see.” Her voice was tremulous, but hope shone in her eyes.

  Sam leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “I see a woman under great stress who’s doing her best to be helpful. You do not exhibit either the shifting glances or the steady, straight stare of a liar. The fact that you contacted a police detective after you received the call from Harry Toomey indicates either great guile or good common sense. At this point, common sense seems more likely to me.”

  Judy Weitz stared at Deirdre, then slowly nodded in agreement. Hal was scarcely able to contain his delight.

  Sam continued to look at Deirdre. “I may be wrong, but right now I see you as a willing witness, and I’m interested to know if you feel that you learned anything that can help us.”

  Deirdre laced her fingers together. “I felt”—her tone was reluctant—“that Maureen Matthews knows something she isn’t telling. I think she may have gone to Jay’s cabin. Liz and Tom Baker were panicked. They didn’t admit anything but they ran away from me. Ashton Lewis warned me I was putting myself in danger. Cliff Granger said he saw a woman’s hand on the doorjamb at the cabin.
As for Harry—”

  The door burst open, slammed back against the wall.

  Startled, I dropped my coffee cup.

  Turning toward the door, Judy Weitz and Sam saw the cup, which to them had no place of origin, plummet onto the floor.

  A weedy twentysomething in a grubby singlet and ragged jeans thudded through the doorway, stopped, watched the paper cup’s downward arc. He watched as coffee splashed on the floor. “You guys tossing coffee cups? A new kind of game? A little bit of fun at taxpayers’ expense? Too bad I didn’t get a shot. But right now, I got bigger fish to play. This is great.” He held the camera, panned from Judy and Sam to Deirdre and Hal. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good stuff. Cops interrogate suspects in lake kill. Renegade cop and chief suspect. Perfect for the early morning news shows, courtesy of Special Correspondent Deke Carson.”

  Sam stood so quickly that he knocked over his chair. He started toward the cameraman, held out his hand. “Give that to me.” He stepped around the spilled coffee, slid a sideways warning glance where he thought I might be standing.

  Backing up, Carson wrapped an arm protectively around the video camera. His thin face was excited. “Public place. Freedom of the press. I got sources. Dead man’s Harry Toomey. Signs of trauma, suspected homicide. Body found by”—a quick look at Hal and Deirdre—“Detective Sergeant Hal Price and conference speaker Deirdre Davenport. I have the facts on deep background. Davenport’s fingerprints were on the weapon that killed Jay Knox. Any word yet about the beer bottle found down at the lake by Toomey’s body?”

  “Get out of here, Carson. Or you’ll go to jail.”

  One arm still hugging the video camera, Carson scrabbled in a pocket, pulled out a stub of pencil and a scrap of paper. “Got your name, Chief. And Price. And Davenport.” He peered across the room. “Yeah, yeah. Detective Judy Weitz. Your comment on the investigation, Chief?”

  “No comment.” Sam jerked a thumb toward the hall.