Ghost to the Rescue Page 22

  Maureen spoke quietly, her violet eyes filed with sadness. “I came to Adelaide eight years ago after my husband’s death. In Afghanistan. Kenneth was career military. He was a major when he died. I miss him every day. You have to live, but the pain never leaves. I’ll see a baby in the park and remember when we were young, stationed at Fort Sill, how Kenneth would get up at night to feed Billy. Billy’s at West Point.” She brushed back a tangle of soft dark hair. “Billy is so like his father. And now, the way the world is . . .” She pressed her lips together, knowing that life is fragile, that youth and strength and leadership can end in blood and pain. She took a breath, continued, her voice almost inaudible. “I try not to think. I try to work as hard as I can and make every minute count. Now I teach.” A faint smile. “A lifetime ago, I was going to be an actress. I met Kenneth at a dance when I was just out of college. After we married, I was an Army wife. I turned to writing, taught courses on various posts. When he was stationed in Korea, I finished my master’s. An old friend from our Fort Sill days is retired and lives here in Adelaide and let me know when a faculty job opened up. I applied, and when the job was offered, I was glad. Adelaide was a nice place for Billy to finish junior and senior high. I enjoy teaching, and Adelaide doesn’t hold memories that would make every day harder. So”—her lips trembled—“that was my situation when Jay joined the faculty. I was lonely. I hadn’t been with a man since Kenneth died. Jay was the quintessential bad boy. I’m not a fool. I knew he was careless and selfish. But he was huge fun. He could make anyone laugh. And when he looked at me—but I don’t need to explain.”

  She didn’t. I know the spark that ignites passion, sometimes despite inner warnings of danger ahead.

  Again she brushed back a silky strand of midnight-dark hair. Her haggard beauty was as striking as Hedy Lamarr’s in Algiers. Many believe Hedy Lamarr to be the most beautiful woman ever to star in Hollywood—beautiful, brilliant, and shadowed by scandal.

  “You understand”—I spoke quietly—“both love and passion.”

  “With Kenneth, I had both. With Jay . . .” A shrug. “I know now that he thought only of himself. I wasn’t surprised when he threatened to publish my letters. He didn’t care how destructive that would be for me, but he wasn’t being cruel. He was being Jay. He wasn’t thinking about me. He was thinking about himself. He had to stop me from telling Dr. Randall about that party. In a way”—her tone was forgiving—“that makes his threat easier to bear. He didn’t want to hurt me; he wanted to save himself. He saw the world only in relation to himself. He didn’t care that Liz Baker betrayed her husband. He didn’t care if he seduced a student. He didn’t care if he used the pictures from his party to force Cliff Granger to offer unsaleable books.”

  I spoke soberly. “Jay died because he was selfish, but his selfishness now affects others. Deirdre Davenport faces arrest if the police do not solve the murders. Detective Sergeant Hal Price has been accused of conspiring with her in the death of Harry Toomey. That suspicion was fostered by their obvious immediate attraction to each other. The police chief may lose his job and be replaced by an incompetent. Perhaps saddest of all, if Deirdre is arrested, there can be no future for her and Hal. Right now there is enough evidence to convict her. She is innocent, but the only way to save her is to trap a murderer who has left no traces.”

  Maureen looked at me in distress. “I told the police chief. Can’t he . . . what do they say . . . announce a ‘person of interest’?”

  “There’s no proof. We need evidence in black and white. I know a way.” I looked deep into her hauntingly lovely eyes. “It all depends on you.”

  Chapter 14

  Perhaps fifteen people milled about in the hall outside conference room A. Another ten or so occupied chairs along the wall. Sam Cobb definitely had a response to his invitation. I wondered if one of these people saw the killer climb into Jay’s Mazda convertible or if one of them saw the killer stroll casually across the terrace, stop for a moment at the far trash can, ease out a greasy beer bottle.

  I hoped so. Every additional piece of evidence would bolster the district attorney’s case. But that information could wait. I had to contact Sam now. In fifteen minutes, staff and guests would gather on the terrace. I had no choice but to adopt desperate measures.

  An officer—tall, gawky, thin, in his early twenties—stood next to the door.

  I took the scene in at a glance. The officer was there to prevent interruptions to the police interviews. A few feet away, Deke Carson slouched against the wall, languidly fingered the keyboard on his laptop. His video camera rested next to his feet. Lean Joan Crandall, the Gazette reporter, tapped a stubby pencil impatiently on a notepad. Joan reported the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper and pointed questions. She ignored Carson.

  I drew myself up to my full height, strode to the young officer, looked up into excited brown eyes though he kept his face solemn. I guessed he was a rookie, thrilled to be on the periphery of a double murder investigation and wanting to acquit himself well.

  I spoke emphatically, though too low to be overheard. “Officer, notify Chief Cobb that Detective Loy must talk to him immediately on the terrace.” I turned and strode away, head high.

  Would effrontery carry the day?

  The honeysuckle arbor was warm, untenanted. I disappeared.

  On the terrace, I hovered near the wall. What if the young officer hewed to his original orders? I was certain he’d been told to admit no one and to prevent any interruption. I was acutely aware of every passing second. People were arriving on the terrace, glances avid, conversations excited. How much time before the gathering began? Perhaps twelve minutes.

  Sam strode out the door, shaded his eyes, scanned the surroundings.

  At once I was at his shoulder.

  I whispered, “Walk down the path toward cabin five. Appear to be deep in thought.”

  I waited until he was on the path, then, hovering at his shoulder, I talked as fast as I could. Even before I finished, he unclipped his cell, held it to his face, barked orders.

  Sam, his blue suit even more wrinkled, stood in the middle of the terrace, flanked by Hal Price and Judy Weitz. The sun turned Hal’s blonde hair cotton white. His handsome face was alert and intent. He held a brown paper sack in one hand. Judy’s outfit today was much more flattering, a georgette shirtdress with white polka dots on navy and low-heeled white pumps. Made her look fifteen years younger. Now, if I could do something about her hair . . .

  Perhaps forty-five people stood uncertainly on the terrace. Many looked uneasily at crime-scene tape that marked off about three feet of the terrace wall not far from a large gray plastic trash can. No one sat there.

  Deirdre waited near a potted palm. She kept glancing toward the far trash container. In the bright sunlight, her russet hair shone. She was slim and lovely in her yellow top and beige slacks.

  I stood just behind her, whispered, “Do not look toward the barrel.”

  She stiffened, hunched her shoulders.

  “And don’t look over your shoulder. I’m not here.”

  Maureen, as she’d been instructed, sat on the wall near the steps into the garden. She now wore sunglasses. She was dramatic in her black-and-white jacket, black blouse and slacks. One hand toyed with the chunky necklace of oblong white ceramic pieces. She seemed apart from the flurries of movement, the soft-voiced conversations, the shifting glances on the terrace.

  Cliff Granger rested one hip against a pool table. He, too, wore sunglasses. His smooth face was expressionless.

  Liz and Tom Baker sat as they had the previous evening, at a table a few feet from the wall. Liz was pale, her small features set, hands tightly clasped. Tom’s eyes flicked nervously around the terrace, moving toward the officials conferring in the center, away, then back.

  Ashton Lewis stood tall and straight near the cash bar. No bottles and glasses sat on the counter in the
hot morning light. A portly bartender rested a hairy hand on the wood, fingers drumming impatiently. Had he been called back from his day off? That was the look he had. He was here and he wanted the cops to do what they were going to do and let him get back to his life. Lewis’s expression was inscrutable, but every so often he gazed at Maureen.

  Sam cleared his throat, held up a large hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. I am Police Chief Sam Cobb. With me are Detective Sergeant Hal Price and Detective Judy Weitz. In a moment, I will explain exactly what we hope to learn. But first, I want to take you back to last night—”

  I realized with bitter hopelessness that my plan was doomed. I am no expert on recording devices, but I saw nothing in place that could serve to record the conversation I hoped would ensue between Maureen Matthews and our quarry. The necklace she wore was the one I’d seen in her room earlier today. Obviously, the jewelry belonged to her and was not fitted with a tiny recorder. Perhaps her purse . . . ? My gaze dropped to a braided raffia clutch bag resting by her feet. That had to be the only hope. I knew the chance was slim. That purse wasn’t large enough to secrete the bulky recorder used by Detective Weitz. Moreover, a listening device might be able to pick up a whisper at ten feet, but I doubted one existed that could hear through cloth. Not even a doltish murderer would miss the retrieval of a recorder from a purse, and this murderer was clever and quick.

  “—here on the terrace between seven thirty and eight o’clock.”

  Maureen cupped her chin in one hand, appeared to listen attentively.

  “The murderer of Jay Knox and Harry Toomey was present. I will ask Professor Deirdre Davenport to come forward.”

  There was not a breath of sound except for the slap of Deirdre’s sandals as she walked across the terrace, then stood facing the chief.

  Sam half turned toward Hal. “Also assisting will be Detective Sergeant Price. He will stand in for Harry Toomey.”

  There was a rumble, and a large metal cart trundled through the main door onto the terrace, pushed by a tall man in an ill-fitting work shirt, faded jeans, and work boots. He was halfway across the terrace when Sam turned. “This area is closed until further notice.”

  “Look, buddy, I don’t work for you. I got my orders.” The tone was tough and abrasive.

  I smiled and turned my right thumb up in a salute to Sam Cobb.

  The workman, aka Detective Don Smith, was adamant. “I’m setting up for a deejay tonight, right over there.” He pointed to a spot beyond the wall perhaps a foot or so behind Maureen. “I won’t bother you any. All I need is to get over there and get my stuff arranged. I’ll keep it quiet.” He didn’t wait for an answer, pushed the cart forward.

  Sam looked combative for an instant, then, frowning, nodded approval. Sam waited until the cart was eased down the steps and in place behind Maureen, then gestured to Hal.

  Hal opened his sack, pulled out a paper plate, cardboard bowl, and beer bottle, handed the empty sack to Judy Weitz. He crossed the terrace to the small area marked off by crime tape. He removed the tape, dropped it to the ground. He stepped to the terrace wall, sat down. He placed the paper plate, cardboard bowl, and beer bottle on the ground by his feet.

  “Now,” Sam spoke with emphasis, “please watch Professor Davenport.”

  Deirdre looked tall and thin in her yellow blouse and beige slacks and quite alone as she crossed the terrace, sat down beside Hal. They pantomimed conversation. Hal came to his feet, looked down at her, again made a pantomime of speech, turned, walked quickly away.

  Deirdre remained sitting on the wall. She gazed after Hal’s retreating figure, then shrugged.

  I wondered how she felt, every eye on her, some suspicious and inimical, some puzzled and curious.

  Finally, she stood. She turned and reached down, picked up the paper plate, cardboard bowl, and beer bottle. She walked swiftly to the trash receptacle, then paused with a hand outstretched.

  The receptacle was overfull, the flap tilted up, jammed-in paper plates, cups, and napkins visible.

  Deirdre’s face wrinkled in distaste as she shoved the plate, bowl, and bottle into the overflowing trash can. The barrel of the beer bottle poked outward. She turned away, walked toward the exit. She stopped at the door, swung around to watch.

  Avid glances darted toward her, then away.

  Sam pointed at the receptacle. “You will notice”—his voice was calm, almost clinical—“how trash is wedged into the container. The flap is propped open. Professor Davenport picked up the refuse left behind by Harry Toomey, carried a paper plate, cardboard bowl, and beer bottle to that receptacle. There was very little room, but she shoved the items into the opening. Now, this is the important point.” He spoke slowly, spacing the words. “Jay Knox’s murderer observed the conversation between Harry Toomey and Professor Davenport, then watched as she picked up the trash and carried it to the trash bin.” Sam gazed solemnly around the terrace. “At this moment, the murderer walked across the terrace to the trash can. The murderer, probably holding a napkin, stopped at the can, reached down, slid out the beer bottle. That beer bottle contained Harry Toomey’s fingerprints and, of course, those of Professor Davenport. That bottle was used as a weapon later last night to stun Harry Toomey. The murderer struck Toomey, then pushed him into the lake, where he drowned. I want each person here to remember where you sat or stood last night at a few minutes before eight.” He paused, waited for absolute silence. His voice was stern when he spoke. “Go there now.”

  There was a flurry of movement as people, shifting to other places, milled about the terrace.

  I was close to Maureen when she rose. She placed her purse at her spot on the low wall, walked swiftly across the patio, stopped, looked up. “You’d better come with me.” She gestured toward the wall and the raffia bag.

  Cliff Granger looked down, his eyes invisible behind the dark glasses. “I wasn’t sitting with you.”

  Her smile was cool. “I know. But I think you’d be well advised to join me now. If you don’t want to be arrested for murder.” She turned away, walked to the wall. When she was seated, her purse in her lap, she looked across the terrace, beckoned.

  Cliff Granger slowly walked toward her. His face was hard, his lips pressed together.

  Maureen made room for him beside her.

  He sat down, turned toward her, his eyes hidden by the sunglasses. He managed a sardonic smile. “I don’t think it matters where I sit, but I want to clear things up. You’re confused about last night.”

  “Good try, Cliff. But I have you where I want you.” Her tone was silky, taunting. “I know about the party at Jay’s house last year, you and the girl. You forgot that I spent a great deal of time at Jay’s house. He showed me the video of you and the girl, said you were safe as long as you played ball with him. Having a conduit for manuscripts made him a lot of money. Almost fifty thousand dollars a year. We took a holiday to Bermuda. I can’t afford to go there on my salary.” Her lovely face reflected cupidity, greed, cruelty. “But if I do consulting work like Jay did, why, I can go wherever I want, buy whatever I want. It’s simple. I’ll take his place. No problems for you, no problems for me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words were pushed out, cold and hard.

  She opened her purse, pulled out a color photo of a young girl looking up at Cliff with a slightly glazed expression. “You’ll recognize her. And there are all the other photos. I’m sure you remember them.”

  Sam’s voice was loud and clear. “Now that everyone is in place, look at the trash can near the end of the terrace where Deirdre Davenport placed Harry Toomey’s trash.”

  Obediently everyone gazed at the plastic receptacle.

  Everyone looked except Maureen and Cliff. She was gazing at him with a slight smile. His face was turned toward her, the muscles taut.

  Sam continued ponderously, “Remem
ber last night. Think back. If you saw anyone walk to that receptacle after Professor Davenport turned and left, come to conference room A. Do not share your information with others. It is important that you speak to the police first.”

  Cliff forced his body to relax. He managed a dismissive smile. “I’m not worried about any photographs.” His tone was contemptuous.

  Maureen’s quite lovely face was suddenly implacable. “You should be worried. Very worried. The photos are backed up on my laptop. Jay had you in a box. You didn’t know she was only seventeen. But that doesn’t matter. Nor does it matter that she’s a year older now. She was seventeen that night. You can still go to prison for statutory rape. The law is quite clear in Oklahoma: No adult can legally have sex with anyone under age eighteen. Jay kept silent as long as you agreed to hawk those sorry books. But I didn’t realize you’d killed him until just now. You see, I saw you get that beer bottle. Now, do you want me to talk to the police? Tell them about the beer bottle—and the party and statutory rape?”

  Cliff’s face turned an unhealthy red. His shoulders bunched.

  She started to rise.

  He reached out, grabbed her arm, pulled her down.

  She stiffened, wrenched away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Maureen, we can talk about this.” Now his face was smooth, unreadable, the flush of red fading away.

  Her lips curved in a derisive smile. “I don’t think so. I have no intention of engaging in tête-à-têtes with you, now or in the future. You have a couple of minutes to decide your future. I will keep what I know to myself”—she spaced the words—“on one condition.”

  “What is that?” He waited, muscles tensed—big, strong, dangerous.

  Her face furrowed. “I need something to protect me.”