Ghost to the Rescue Read online

  But not right this minute.

  Wiggins spoke too softly to be overheard. “No one will be at the pool. The diving board. Posthaste.”

  The roar of the engine was louder, the cloud of coal smoke heavier.

  I dropped onto the platform, hoped Wiggins might take pleasure in the view—the sparkling blue water beneath, the bright towels casually draped on gay deck chairs, the umbrellas affording shade, the cabanas with closed curtains. “Wiggins, I’m so happy to bring you up to date—”

  “Precept Five.” Wiggins’s tone was distinctly frosty.

  “Mea culpa.” Perhaps a humble admission of guilt would pacify him. Then I rushed ahead. “But honestly, Howie Harris is causing Chief Cobb all kinds of trouble and I thought it served him right.”

  “Draping scant hair over his ears was—”

  Did I hear a faint rumble of laughter?

  “—creative but reprehensible.” Perhaps he found Howie unappealing as well, because he continued rather hurriedly, “And Precept Four: ‘Become visible only when absolutely essential.’ Bailey Ruth”—now Wiggins was clearly disturbed—“was it really necessary to be present when you spoke with Chief Cobb?”

  “Wiggins, I wish I could always remain unseen.” Heaven knows when we fib. I said hurriedly, “Let me rephrase. I truly felt Chief Cobb would feel more comfortable if we faced each other and shared information.” Sometimes that inner voice of conscience can’t be ignored. “And”—my voice was small—“I was wearing the most adorable white tunic and blue pants that really looked just like a Caribbean sea. And I had to convince Maureen Matthews she could trust me, and that’s why Officer Loy appeared, and I had to appear just now in Deirdre’s room. She finds it stressful to hear a voice and see no one. In fact”—I wasn’t sure this was a plus, but I was desperate—“I thought it would cheer her to see this gorgeous linen jacket—” I broke off, clapped my hand to my lips. Bobby Mac always said if he let me talk long enough, the truth would out. Wiggins had no fashion sense, no appreciation of what it does for a woman to feel that she is splendidly attired.

  “Now, now.” Wiggins hastened to reassure me, his voice kind. “Lorraine finds your love of fashion to be very endearing.”

  I sent a Heavenly thank-you to Lorraine Marlow, the elegant, fastidious, and delightful ghost at the Goddard College Library who had turned out to be Wiggins’s cherished sweetheart.

  “We are,” Wiggins said, I thought rather obscurely, “who we are. However”—a note of sternness returned—“I would have thought it incumbent upon you to summon the Rescue Express when you realized you are no longer needed on earth to protect the good name of that fine young mother.”

  I saw my predicament at once. I’d insisted I must remain to prove Deirdre’s innocence. Now that I had convinced the chief of police that Deirdre had no connection to the crimes, Wiggins was satisfied that my objective had been realized and my mission successfully completed.

  The deep-throated mournful cry of the whistle, the rumble of the engine, the clack of the wheels, the scent of coal smoke signaled the imminent arrival of the Rescue Express.

  I lifted my voice above the clamor. “Wiggins, there are extenuating circumstances. If I leave now”—I placed a hand over my heart, though I supposed I remained unseen; nonetheless I felt compelled—“many innocents will suffer. Our gallant police chief will be replaced by the odious two-strand Howie, who is a puppet of the mayor. Intrepid Detective Sergeant Hal Price will be relieved in disgrace. Innocent Deirdre Davenport will be arrested and charged by Sam’s replacement, which will defame her good name, distress her helpless children, and thwart a tender and growing attraction between Deirdre and the detective sergeant.” I paused for a breath and delivered the coup de grâce. “Picture Deirdre alone in a cell, defenseless, facing charges although she is innocent.” I endeavored to create the pathos of an overwrought Victorian novel.

  “It was such a simple assignment.” Wiggins sounded perplexed. “You would draw on your background as an English teacher and help a writer find inspiration.” A harumph. “Now you are caught up in what appears to be an almost impossible situation—a beleaguered police chief, a compromised detective, a young mother in peril. Bailey Ruth, only you—” A sigh. “Yes, only you. But as dear Lorraine says, your heart is big, your goals are noble, though your means . . . Ah well, we must meet challenges as we can. Do your best.”

  The coal smoke, almost overpowering, whooshed past me. The thunder of the wheels faded.

  I would have hallooed my relief to the treetops, but there was no time for premature celebration.

  Flanked by Dr. Randall and Detective Sergeant Price, Sam Cobb stood at the podium on the stage. Sam, his blue suit already wrinkled, bulked above both men even though Randall and Price topped six feet in height. Sam looked confident, self-possessed, and reassuring. Dr. Randall nervously fingered the collar of his sport shirt. A clean-shaven Hal, crisp in an oxford cloth shirt, open at the neck, and khaki slacks, also appeared confident.

  “. . . wish to reassure all the guests and staff”—Sam’s deep voice was calm—“that there is no danger to anyone here at the lodge. Our investigation reveals that last night’s victim, Harry Toomey, sought a meeting with the person responsible for the death of Professor Jay Knox Thursday night.”

  I hovered slightly above Sam. Today’s attendance was smaller than yesterday’s. Possibly some conference-goers found proximity to murder unnerving and had checked out and left. There were perhaps seventy-five people, mostly women, scattered among the seats. Deirdre was seated at the end of the third row.

  Gladys Samson was on the same row a few seats away. “Blackmail?” Her voice was strident, her sharp features quivering with excitement. Her jagged black hair made her look witchlike. She turned and stared pointedly at Deirdre.

  It was Gladys who had eagerly described Deirdre as tense and upset on her way to see Jay Knox.

  Deirdre returned Gladys’s stare with a calm, measured look.

  Sam was imperturbable. He gazed at Gladys. “Harry Toomey blackmailed the murderer. That’s why Harry died. His murderer is in this room right now.”

  Gladys gasped, pressed fingers against her lips, shrank away from Deirdre.

  Deirdre turned toward her, looking concerned. “If you know anything about the murders, I suggest you hurry to the police right this minute. I know”—she lifted her voice a trifle—“I’ve tried to help them. They’ve been very appreciative. I’ll be glad to go with you.”

  I quickly scanned the audience. Ashton Lewis, lean and intent, stared at the stage with a level, cold gaze. Liz Baker’s eyes flared in alarm. She turned and gave her husband a searching glance. Tom Baker nervously brushed back a lock of hair, hunched his shoulders. Smooth-faced Cliff Granger smothered a yawn. He glanced at his watch. Was he counting the hours until tomorrow and his flight home? As always, he was meticulously dressed. Bobby Mac would look terrific in Cliff’s checked poplin dress shirt with a lavender background. Maureen Matthews was grave, her lovely face furrowed in a frown.

  Gladys half rose. “Your statement is upsetting. If the murderer is in this room, why haven’t you arrested that person?”

  “We are putting together our case and we are hoping other concerned citizens like Ms. Davenport will come forth with more information. That’s why I have called everyone here. This is what we know as a certainty. Toomey saw Knox’s murderer arrive and depart from cabin five Thursday night. The next day, Toomey contacted the murderer.”

  A flash and click came from the side of the stage. Deke Carson lowered a Leica. “Is that why Deirdre Davenport was at the scene of the crime?” He was more presentable today—flyaway lank brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a blue polo shirt, and jeans.

  Sam’s face hardened. “Press conference at City Hall, eleven a.m. No questions here.”

  “But, Chief”—Deke’s tone was coy—“you just answered a que
stion.” He smirked and looked over his shoulder at the audience.

  Sam pointed at a front row seat. “If you want to listen, it’s a public meeting. There will be no more questions until the news conference.” He nodded silent thanks to the Adelaide Gazette crime reporter who was writing furiously but keeping her mouth shut. “I’m here to communicate facts concerning a double murder. The first fact is that Harry Toomey was a blackmailer. The second fact is that Harry Toomey at sometime yesterday spoke to Jay Knox’s murderer. The third fact is that Harry Toomey contacted Deirdre Davenport at approximately twenty minutes to eleven last night. Harry Toomey hinted that he knew the identity of the murderer and wanted her help to set up a trap. He asked her to meet him at the pier. Instead, Ms. Davenport wisely contacted the police. That is why she and Detective Sergeant Hal Price discovered Toomey’s body. However, the important fact for everyone in this room to understand—”

  Sam was skating past the contents of Harry’s call to Deirdre.

  “—is the reality of Toomey’s murder. Toomey blackmailed a killer.” Sam let the words stand in a long silence. “Now he’s dead. If anyone here has knowledge concerning the murders of Jay Knox or Harry Toomey, immediately contact police. And here”—Sam leaned forward, planted big hands on the podium—“is how each of you can help us. Think about each instance yesterday when you saw or spoke to Harry Toomey. We want to know about all contacts between Harry and any person at the conference. Obviously, most of those contacts were innocent. One or more were not. We need citizens to come forward.”

  He waited while a buzz of speculation rose and fell.

  “Some of you may be able to offer other important assistance. We want to talk to anyone who was in the Silver Lake Lodge parking lot on Thursday night between eleven p.m. and midnight. We know”—a pause for emphasis—“that the murderer of Jay Knox took Knox’s car out of the parking lot, drove to Knox’s home, deleted material from his computer, returned to the parking lot, wiped the steering wheel to remove all fingerprints, left the keys in the car. Knox drove a black Mazda MX-5 Miata convertible. It may well be that someone in this room was entering or leaving the lot during this time period. If you were at the lot during that period, if you saw Knox’s car depart or return, please contact us immediately.”

  Now there was an undertone of excited whispers.

  “In conclusion, we are exploring several avenues and believe the murderer will soon be apprehended. We are grateful for the cooperation of the Goddard English Department, especially Dr. Randall and Professors Matthews and Davenport. Again we are seeking help from the following possible witnesses: anyone in the parking lot Thursday night and anyone with knowledge of personal contacts made by Harry Toomey at any time on Friday. Please come directly to conference room A immediately after we close. Finally, we are requesting that every person, both guests and staff, who was present on the terrace last night between seven thirty and eight to report there at ten a.m. Thank you very much for your attention.”

  Deirdre once again stood at the window of her room looking down on the terrace. The sunlight emphasized the buttercup yellow of her blouse. “Who knew being in Mom mode would be my undoing?”

  I looked at her. “Mom mode?”

  “Like a happy robot,” she said bitterly, “I automatically pick up book bags, carry dishes to the sink, clean up the back of the car, all the candy wrappers, squashed cans, discarded gum packages. I never thought the tidy instinct would put me in a cell. Why, oh why, did I pick up Harry’s trash?”

  “That’s what mothers do.” I had swift, happy memories of beach towels and scattered clothing and errant schoolwork.

  “Speaking of, my cell vibrated downstairs. It doesn’t take ESP to know one of the kids is probably calling. Joey will lobby for me to come and get him tonight. Katie is having full-bore angst over how much the camp is costing.” She pulled the cell phone from the pocket of her slacks, glanced down. “Katie. Voice mail.” Deirdre swiped.

  In a soft shaky voice, interspersed with sniffs, Katie said in anguish, “Mom, did you know you’re on TV? This morning everybody was looking at me funny. I didn’t know what was wrong until Gabby told me. Then I looked. Mom, what’s going on? Are you going to jail? Will Dad come and get me, bring me home? If you’re in jail . . .” She broke off, sobbing. The connection ended.

  Her face tight with anger, Deirdre swiped.

  Apparently the call was answered immediately.

  “Hush now, honey. I’m all right. . . . No, of course not. . . . Breathe deep, honey. You have to get it together. Here I am and I’m talking to you and everything’s all right and—”

  I took the phone from her hand, backed away as Deirdre tried to snatch it from me. Recognizing a mother-defending-her-cub look, I disappeared and rose in the air far out of reach and talked fast. “Katie? You don’t know me. I’m Officer Loy. I want to assure you that your mother’s fine. She’s been a huge help to the police department. She’s working with us and with Detective Sergeant Hal Price. That’s why her picture was taken with him. She agreed to be announced as a suspect so that we can close in on the actual criminal. She will be recognized publicly for her assistance, and it’s fine for you to tell your friends that your mom is working with the police. She is in no danger, as one of us is with her at all times. A second murder has occurred, but the reasons for both crimes have nothing to do with your mother. The results of the investigation will be announced to news media later today. For right now, you get back to your friends and tell them you are really proud of your mom and so is everyone in the police department.” I dropped down, handed the cell to Deirdre, and reappeared.

  “. . . happy to help the police. So, you go have fun. I’ll text you this afternoon. . . . Sure. . . . Love you, too.” Deirdre clicked off the cell, immediately swiped a call. “Hey, Joey. . . . Sorry I woke you up. . . . No, honey, I can’t come until Monday, but there’s a story on TV that’s all wrong. It says I’m a suspect in a murder case here. They got the facts wrong. I’m helping the police in their investigation. . . . It’s way cool. . . . And maybe I’ll get to introduce you to some of the officers. . . . We’ll stop at the Dairy Queen on the way home. . . . See you soon. . . . Love you, too.”

  She clicked off the cell, put it in her pocket. “How to start your morning with a buzz—tell your kids you aren’t going to jail.”

  I wanted to give her a reassuring hug. I could have used a reassuring hug myself. If we didn’t catch a murderer by eleven o’clock, Deirdre would be on her way to jail, but there was no point in upsetting her by revealing the mayor’s ultimatum.

  I kept my voice cheerful. “It’s obvious where Sam’s headed. He’d like to have a miracle—someone saw the murderer drive away or return in Jay’s convertible. His next best hope is either a waiter or hotel guest who noticed someone at the trash.”

  Deirdre gave me a searching look. “So, what if someone says they saw Ashton Lewis or Liz or Tom Baker or Cliff Granger? You know what I’d do if I were one of them? I’d look surprised, maybe a little offended, and say, ‘There’s a mistake here. Certainly I put my trash in that can, but I didn’t remove anything.’”

  I understood her concern. What if a witness pointed at one of them? Where was the proof? We needed irrefutable, unmistakable, rock-solid proof. We needed the truth in black and white, signed, sealed, and delivered.

  Black and white. Computer files. Photos. Love letters. Black and white . . .

  I looked at the clock. Twenty-five minutes to ten o’clock. I’d have to move fast. “I know what to do.” I disappeared.

  Maureen Matthews sat on the terrace wall staring down into the trees and, I knew, a glimpse of cabin 5.

  In the protective embrace of the long weeping willow strands, I appeared. No uniform this time. A deep purple blouse and a silky purple scarf were a nice contrast to white trousers. I chose a simple silver necklace, quite classy. Surely I wasn’t very noticeable, thou
gh there is nothing a redhead can do about flaming curls. I wasn’t focused on appearance, but there was one critically necessary item. . . . Eagerly, I opened the pale lavender purse, found a pad and pen. I drew them out, concentrated on my note.

  To: Maureen Matthews

  From: Officer M. Loy

  It is essential that we talk unobserved. Please go immediately to your room.

  I strolled up to the terrace, paused next to Maureen, bent down, then rose. I held out the note. “I believe you dropped this.” My eyes warned her to pretend we were strangers.

  After the tiniest of pauses, she nodded. “Thank you.”

  I turned and walked away.

  I heard footsteps behind me. In the hallway of the second floor, we walked together to her room. She used the entry card.

  As she closed the door, she turned and studied me. “Where’s your uniform?”

  I met her suspicion head-on. “Did you speak with Chief Cobb, report our conversation? Tell him Officer Loy sent you?”

  “I did.” One hand again lifted to hold tight to the large stones in her necklace. “He was appreciative. But I wasn’t able to give him any proof.”

  “That’s why I’ve come.”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  I gazed at her lovely face. I saw sensitivity, a knowledge of loss and betrayal, a remembrance of good days. “Despite all that happened, despite the way everything between you and Jay ended, will you help me catch his murderer?”

  She gazed down at her hands loose in her lap, gently twisted a golden band on her left hand. Her voice was low, almost inaudible. “You don’t know much about me.”

  She was right. I didn’t know her history, what happiness she’d known, what despair she’d faced, what mountains she’d climbed. I felt I knew that she was kind and caring, that she was generous. She’d welcomed Deirdre to the faculty even though she may have known that Jay Knox found Deirdre attractive.