Ghost Ups Her Game Read online

  A silence as he thought. ‘It seems definitive that she is innocent of the student’s murder.’

  ‘She is being held for the homicide of Matt Lambert. Iris won’t be safe unless I succeed in showing that he was murdered to hide the truth about Evelyn Kirk’s death.’

  Another silence. ‘Very complicated. I’m afraid you are correct.’ His tone indicated surrender.

  ‘Oh, Wiggins, you are the best.’

  As Mama always told us kids, ‘Always give praise when praise is due.’

  There’s a reason we talk about comfort food. Chicken fried steak. Mashed potatoes. Cream gravy. Green beans with ham hock. Ice cream. Chocolate. When we need a pick-me-up, we turn to the food we remember from childhood when we sat at a table buoyed by succulent tastes and love.

  Once again I sat at the counter in Lulu’s. Saturday morning at eleven wasn’t packed. The work week saw every seat taken, the booths jammed, a line near the register. I spread creamy butter on a biscuit, added a drizzle of honey. Brave words when I spoke to Wiggins. I asked for time, and implicit was the premise that time was all I needed, that I had a plan and would execute.

  I had a plan, all right. I intended to zoom like a Hoover through the lives of the Four – George, Melissa, Camille, Alice – and suck out who was crossways with Evelyn and why. I’d worked hard all morning trying to dig up information that would lead to a murderer. At this point the tally read: Murderer, ace of Spades, Bailey Ruth, deuce of Diamonds.

  I started out with confidence. I had names. I had addresses. I had my spiel. What could go wrong? I ticked names off my checklist. Matron of Honor Virginia Barrett moved to Toronto before Melissa and Camille arrived in Adelaide. She Facebooked with Evelyn but had only spoken to her twice since moving. ‘She put up the cutest video of Doobie, that’s the Siamese, watching a cardinal through a window, and you should have seen that cat’s tail flick.’

  When I called Holton Cramer’s office, it’s possible the receptionist misunderstood and thought the call was from Madeleine. In any event, I succeeded in getting the director on the line.

  ‘Oh, a friend of Madeleine’s?’

  ‘So many happy times.’ If he took this to mean Madeleine and I were BFFs, that was fine. ‘Madeleine loved what you said about her mom, that she was a fierce friend. I’m putting together a memory book for Madeleine. I thought it would be wonderful to include that quote from her daddy and the inspiration for it.’

  Cramer spoke softly but there was underlying authority in his voice, a glimpse of a man who could draw forth depths of emotion from actors, a man who had insight and understanding of the human psyche. ‘Tigers are beautiful. But dangerous. That was Evelyn. Beautiful, but fierce. She was one thousand percent for you. Or,’ a wistful note, ‘against you. She had a good friend, great actress, who had a roulette problem, had to watch that little ball and she always thought it would stop on the red for her. Got in debt big time. Stole some money. Went to jail. Husband dumped her. Kids turned away. Evelyn visited her, was there the day she got out, drove her to an apartment Evelyn had rented in Santa Monica, told her everything’s better if you look at the water. Monica got her life back together, always said Evelyn made it happen. You can take it to the bank. If Evelyn was your friend, she would stand by you all the way.’

  I took a last bite of chicken fried steak smothered in the best cream gravy this side of my mama’s table. Betty Wilson, the old elementary school friend, apparently never met a committee meeting she could ignore. I glanced at my watch. She was due out of the Friends of the Library meeting in fifteen minutes. She was my last hope of finding chinks in the armor of the Four.

  Betty Wilson beamed at me. Short brown curls framed a sweet face. Kind eyes. Few wrinkles suggested a nature impervious to worry. Her rosebud mouth slipped up in a kind smile. ‘It’s so good to meet you, sugar. Dear little Madeleine. Sometimes I think Evelyn was amazed that she had such a carefree daughter. Evelyn was always serious.’ Betty spoke as if this were a failing but one that must be excused for a good friend. ‘Evelyn was always a little stiff. Gorgeous, of course,’ Betty added hurriedly. ‘She was already gorgeous with that golden hair and blue eyes when we were in elementary school. She was sophisticated even then, so no wonder she grew up to go to Paris to buy her clothes. Not just Dallas, Paris. I told her Pappy, that’s my husband Joe, thinks Target is plenty good enough for clothes and I agree, it’s all in how you look at things—’

  I began to feel slightly dazed.

  ‘—and Joe pronounces it TarJay and says what’s the difference between a label from France and one from China and of course I could tell him—’

  I broke in. ‘Madeleine was a little concerned. She thought perhaps her mom and George were disagreeing and she wants to know what happened so she can tell George he really mustn’t feel bad.’ It was graceless but I didn’t think anything less than a body slam would get Betty’s attention.

  Blue eyes widened. ‘That’s just not at all the thing that dear child should be thinking about. George was always sweet to Evelyn. Pappy stopped opening doors for me the year we got married.’ Light laugh. ‘He said he was all for this women’s lib thing’ – she rolled her eyes – ‘and women should be free to handle everything, and I could get my own door. Not that Pappy isn’t sweet, he’s just a big blustery guy with a heart of gold and—’

  I resisted the urge to slap my hand across her mouth. ‘George.’

  She batted her lashes. ‘George?’

  ‘George and Camille.’

  There was a flicker in those sweet-as-pie eyes. Betty pretended all was fine and good in her world, but she was nobody’s fool. She knew George was attracted to Camille. ‘Camille is just the nicest girl.’

  I suppose I was like a dowser on a sun-parched plot, determined the stick should wobble toward water, even if only a drop. ‘Madeleine didn’t think George was right for her mother.’

  ‘Now you tell Madeleine that Evelyn and George were always on the best of terms. The best.’

  I gave it one last shot. ‘Madeleine was surprised at what her mom said about Alice.’

  Another pretty laugh. ‘I don’t know anything about that. I know Evelyn was so generous. You know, a big bonus at Christmas.’

  ‘Madeleine said her mom talked to you almost every day.’ I would have bet the ranch that Betty placed the daily call. Evelyn didn’t strike me as the kind of woman to seek out spun sugar on a daily basis. ‘What did she say the last time you spoke?’

  Her smile was unwavering. ‘We had the loveliest lunch at a sweet little teashop.’ The smile slipped away and her voice was mournful. ‘I can’t believe that was the day she died. She looked wonderful and she was her usual self. The last thing she said was she was going on a big trip and she’d send me a card from Tahiti. She said, “How about Tahiti to kick off a new chapter in my life.” I asked what she meant and she just laughed.’

  There were a few more cheery comments as I thanked her. I promised to give her love to Madeleine. She shepherded me to the door, smiling sweetly.

  At the door, I paused, crinkled my face in a worried frown. ‘Oh yes. I promised Madeleine. There’s that friend of her mom’s – I can’t remember her name – you know, the one who’s wild and crazy and you never know what she’s going to say.’ Almost everyone has one friend like that.

  It was refreshing to see a genuine spark from Betty. Her cheekbones jutted for an instant. ‘Oh. Sybil.’ Her voice was cold.

  I clapped my hands together. ‘That’s the name. Where does she live?’

  ‘Oh you young people. So proper. So correct. So boring.’ The dark-haired woman with a pixie cut and wicked brown eyes pointed at my glass of iced tea. Evelyn’s wild-woman friend Sybil flung herself into a cushioned wicker chair opposite me. Shaded by a thatched roof pergola, we were cooled by mist from water tumbling over boulders into the pool.

  Sybil’s mobile mouth stretched in a grimace. ‘Perhaps I should create a primer for Millennials. First rule: Never turn down a drin
k. Second rule: Especially not a gin and tonic from Sybil. Third rule: A midmorning gin and tonic will give your day a kick.’ She picked up a big tumbler, drank. ‘My gin and tonics are famous.’ A dark eyebrow quirked. She gave a husky laugh. ‘Infamous?’

  A gin and tonic sounded appealing, but I needed every wit I ever possessed to see me through this day. ‘I’m heading for the highway as soon as I leave here or I’d follow the house rules.’

  That evoked a pleased laugh. ‘House Rules. I like that. So you’re the right sort. I’ll send you off with a thermos guaranteed to keep drinks cold for four hours. That will see you to Dallas and then you can hoist a glass to me.’

  ‘With pleasure.’ I grinned at her. I could imagine sardonic Sybil and elegant Evelyn tossing acerbic observations back and forth with ease. And perhaps a malicious delight.

  Sybil drank a bit more. Quite a bit more. Looking like a cat with a feather in her whiskers, she leaned forward. ‘So Madeleine sent you to see me. I love Madeleine.’ Those dark eyes were intelligent, thoughtful. ‘Why?’

  I doubted Sybil Warwick was discreet. At this point I didn’t care. ‘Madeleine says her mom wanted to live.’

  Sybil’s face quivered for an instant. ‘Evelyn called me the day before she died. She wanted to go to Tahiti with a side trip to Portugal. No matter the directions didn’t gibe. She said airplanes flew in all directions. That was Evelyn. She did what she wanted when she wanted and she decided Tahiti and Portugal were her next stops and she wanted me along. She said, “You make me laugh. I want to do a road trip like we did right before college.” We went to SMU together. I got kicked out second semester but had fun until then. I’d already looked up bookings. Then I got the call Tuesday evening.’

  I no longer needed the persona of a flighty, charming friend of Madeleine’s. I held her gaze, spoke crisply. ‘I know who was in Evelyn’s house that day.’

  There was no fuzziness, despite the gin, in those dark bright eyes. ‘Why does it matter?’

  ‘I want you to help me find out which one killed her.’

  She took a moment before she spoke, those dark eyes studying me. ‘Killed?’ The single word bristled with anger and heartbreak.

  ‘Poison in the lemonade she drank that afternoon.’

  Her drink forgotten, fingers laced tightly together, Sybil never moved until I finished. ‘Oh yes, I’ll help you.’ Her voice was cold and hard, unforgiving, determined. ‘When Evelyn felt that sharp ugly twist, when her heart began to fail, she would know it was something in the drink. She was fine when I talked to her. She knew the heart problem was easily solved. I want one of them to pay for her last few terrible minutes.’ She twisted a cocktail napkin in a tanned hand with bright red fingernails then grabbed the tumbler, took a deep swallow.

  ‘One of four.’ Her tone was appraising. ‘Was it George, the stud who strayed? Or maybe Melissa, his pissy sister. Then we come to Camille, the much too pretty artist. And there’s Alice, the cousin who’s always a downer.’ Sybil rolled the crumpled napkin into a tight ball. ‘George landed in clover. George probably never had an extra thou in his bank account until he put his arm around Evelyn to help with her forehand. Evelyn and I didn’t mince words. I told her he was good for an affair, not a husband. She wasn’t dewy eyed. She decided to marry him because Madeleine wasn’t programmed to have her mother sleeping around. There was a pre-nup, of course. At her death he inherited the house and a couple of million. But if she divorced him for any reason, it was Bye Bye Boy with a hundred thousand in his pocket.’ Sybil took another drink. Those dark eyes locked with mine. ‘Anybody in the same room with George and Camille got the picture. The Saturday before she died, Evelyn gave him a week to move out. Ditto Camille. When she called me on Monday, she said Tahiti and Portugal would be her freedom fling.’

  Sam Cobb once told me crimes happen when they do for a reason. Evelyn ordered the lovers to leave on Saturday, died on Tuesday. Matt Lambert learned about digitalis in the lemonade on Wednesday, died on Thursday. Nicole Potter made a threat on Friday and died that day.

  Sybil replaced her tumbler on the glass surface with a bang. ‘George doesn’t fit my bill for murder. He smiles too much and loves to stretch out on a couch like a house cat. But maybe he was willing to do what he had to do to keep his soft life. I don’t know about Camille. Beautiful manners. Hard to read.’ Her gamine face, intelligent, malicious, perhaps a trifle cruel, was intent, remorseless. ‘Alice is a different matter. I wouldn’t put anything past Alice. Alice is a pain. Always has been. Always will be. A pain and a craven crook. Not a good combo. Alice cooked the books at a local church, came to Evelyn, begged for money to make the accounts good. She had some fancy story about why she took the money. Evelyn gave her the money to repay the church. Evelyn said she wanted to keep the family name unsullied. It was about the time Evelyn’s longtime secretary moved away so she hired Alice. But Evelyn was keen about money. Maybe Alice was a good girl for a time. Maybe she can’t resist dipping her fingers into pools of money. Whatever, Evelyn figured out Alice was skimming some accounts. Evelyn said Alice had played her last trick.’

  ‘It’s interesting that Alice still works there.’

  ‘George probably didn’t know. He and Evelyn weren’t sharing pillow talk at that point. But he knew about Evelyn’s ultimatum to his obnoxious sister Melissa.’

  I leaned forward to hear.

  It was a moment of déjà vu as I watched Bess Hampton prepare a tray. Today she added chunks of pineapple to two tea glasses, removed the cap from a frosty bottle of Heineken’s. A small bowl brimmed with cashews. Party toothpicks poked from a silver container. Assorted crackers shared a serving plate with chunks of Brie, Cheddar, and Muenster.

  The same trio was beneath the umbrella by the pool. Melissa glanced at her watch, had a tethered look, as if straining to be up and gone. Camille looked oddly formal in a crisp white blouse and navy skirt and flats. George, his hair damp from a plunge, once again lounged in swim trunks.

  They were silent as Bess approached. Only Camille spoke as Bess deposited the tray. ‘Merci.’

  Melissa ignored the housekeeper, her restless gaze skating from Camille to George to sunlit water splashing over boulders at one end of the pool.

  George grabbed the bottle, upended it. He looked at his sister. ‘If you have an appointment, don’t let us keep you.’

  Her mouth curled in a satisfied smile. ‘Thanks, bro. I’m counting the minutes. Who knew I’d have such fun in Adelaide.’ She stood, gave him a derisive glance. ‘You could try meditation. Helps some people. Not everybody,’ a flicker toward Camille, ‘knows how to have fun.’

  Camille took a swift breath, then her lashes fell as she stared down at the mint atop the tea glass.

  George glared at Melissa’s retreating back.

  A screech of metal on the cement. Camille was on her feet. She didn’t look toward him, murmured in a hurried voice, ‘I need to sort some prints in the studio.’

  George stood, too. ‘Don’t go. I want to talk to you.’ He was a travel poster model for a mid-thirties male, broad face, muscular chest, stalwart legs, a very attractive man wearing only swim trunks. His voice was low, urgent. His eyes held hot desire.

  Camille’s slender hand touched the crimson scarf at her throat. Her young face was vulnerable, forlorn. Despairing. ‘Not now. I must think. Not now,’ and she whirled away. Her steps clattered across the terrace to the path to the studio with its bank of tall windows.

  He lifted a hand, took a single step. Then, face twisting in misery, he turned and walked heavily across the terrace.

  I was a little surprised to find Alice Harrison in her office at the house on Saturday afternoon. She wasn’t at the desk. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, not flattering at her age. She was comfortably stretched on a sofa, two pillows behind her back. She held a travel magazine.

  I looked over her shoulder, admired the rugged cliffs near Dubrovnik, dark blue waves crashing into boulders. A hiker with a bri
ght kerchief toiled up a narrow path. Alice plucked a piece of toffee from a candy dish, popped it in her mouth.

  The computer monitor glowed. The screen held an airline reservation page. I checked out the white notepad on her lap. Sums were scribbled. I glanced at a sidebar. All-inclusive travel packages ranged in price from four to nine thousand dollars.

  I stood unseen on the front porch of the Kirk house. The street was quiet, the house screened from visibility by sycamores and elms. I would have one shot at the Four. The time for charm was past. I intended to be the equivalent of an avalanche pounding down without warning, engulfing everyone in my path.

  Demeanor is destiny. That wasn’t one of Mama’s dictums, it was my own, learned by living, daughter, wife, mother, friend, employee. A warm glance, warmth in return. Sneer, dislike forever. Everything depends upon demeanor. Madeleine’s good friend Ellie Fitzgerald was a redhead with curls and lightheartedness and the ever-dancing movements of a hummingbird. I will always be a redhead, but there are redheads and redheads. Contrast Lucille Ball and Agnes Moorehead.

  I jabbed the bell.

  When the door opened, I looked sternly at Bess Hampton, spoke in a brusque tone slightly deeper than my own. ‘Michaela Shayne here to see Mr Kirk.’ Not a curl was apparent, my hair drawn back into a sleek bun. No makeup. Black two button jacket with a Chinese collar. White blouse. Short black skirt. Tall black heels. Small embroidered purse. Sleek gray leather attaché case. Michaela Shayne was not Ellie Fitzgerald.

  Bess accepted me as presented. ‘Yes, ma’am. Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Tell him Mrs Timmons sent me.’

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am. Please come in.’ She led me to the living room and offered a sofa. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  I nodded, unsmiling. I remained standing.

  George walked into the living room, hair freshly combed, neatly dressed in a Madras shirt and chino pants and loafers. No socks. Maybe bare feet in shoes made him feel young, a guy about town.