Ghost to the Rescue Page 23

  “Maybe keeping your mouth shut will do that.”

  She reached up, touched her necklace. “Something specific.” She gripped the stones, gave a decisive nod. “You won’t dare come after me if I hold your confession.”

  He gave a short, ugly laugh. “You have the damn photographs.”

  “That isn’t enough.”

  “What do you want? The truth? Jay pushed me too far. I told him I couldn’t sell those sorry manuscripts and he had to back off. He laughed at me. I didn’t have any choice. If he hadn’t been greedy, he’d be alive. I picked up that bottle and hit him. He didn’t make much noise when he fell.” His voice held mild surprise. “Look, Maureen, we can work this out. I can’t take the kind of books I was getting, but you can winnow them out, send me something that won’t make editors mad. That’s the deal I’ll make. I’ll even give you a cut of any earnings. That should be good enough for you.”

  Sam was still speaking. “. . . and again, let’s take a moment for each of you to recreate that moment in your mind. Someone walked to the trash receptacle. . . .”

  Maureen gazed at him warily. “It won’t surprise you if I say I don’t trust you. Your offer sounds okay. But I want something in writing.” She opened her purse, drew out a pen and pad, handed them to Cliff. “Write down: I, Cliff Granger, murdered Jay Knox and Harry Toomey. Sign it. Date it. Hand it to me.”

  He sat immobile, the pad in one hand, the pen in the other.

  Sam concluded, “And if you saw someone remove the beer bottle from the trash can, please go directly to conference room A. Thank you for your attention.” Sam turned away, strode across the terrace.

  Though screened by people streaming into the building, I glimpsed Hal Price. He was poised to move fast, cover the twenty feet across the flagstones in an instant.

  “Well.” Maureen shrugged. “You’ve had your chance. I’ll go to conference room A. I’d rather”—her tone was baiting—“plan a trip to Bermuda. But that’s up to you.” She rose.

  “Sit down.” Cliff spoke through clenched teeth.

  She remained standing. “You have one minute.”

  He looked down at the pad, wrote in a savage jerky motion, looked up, thrust the pad at her.

  Maureen read the words: I, Cliff Granger, murdered Jay Knox and Harry Toomey. His signature was a scrawl, the date overlarge.

  She turned away.

  He came to his feet, jammed his hands into his pockets, turned to head down into the gardens.

  Sam Cobb waited in the path, taller than Cliff, heavier, big face implacable.

  Cliff slowed, stopped, stared.

  Officers were closing in, hands on the butts of their holstered guns.

  Sam stepped forward. “Cliff Granger, you are under arrest for the murders . . .”

  Cliff—tall, lean, at bay—swung around, his face malignant, fists clenched.

  Hal Price—equally big, immovable, holding a pair of handcuffs—barred his way.

  I murmured a thank-you to Saint Jude as the handcuffs snapped shut.

  A sandy-haired, thirtyish police officer patiently dusted powder on the doorjambs in Jay Knox’s study. Sam Cobb obviously didn’t intend to overlook any possibility. If Cliff Granger had touched a surface on his surreptitious visit Thursday night, those fingerprints would be found, catalogued, offered in evidence.

  I admired the chief’s forethought and diligence. I mightily wished he’d not been so efficient. I needed a moment alone in Jay’s study. I looked at the handsome bronze clock on Jay’s desk. The news conference at City Hall would begin in twenty-three minutes.

  Grayish powder clung to the wood. The tech, careful and intent, bent nearer.

  How quiet could I be? I eased open the center drawer of Jay’s desk. I lifted the ornate fountain pen, rested the pen atop the desk. I reached for the checkbook, inadvertently moved a metal box of Altoids.

  In the utter quiet, the sound seemed loud as a cymbal.

  The tech straightened, turned to look across the office.

  Would he remember that the surface of the desk had been bare?

  He looked past the pen, the in/out box, the computer, the chair. Face crinkling in puzzlement, he swung around, stepped into the hall. “Yo, anybody here?” His footsteps thudded as he walked down the hall seeking the source of that sound.

  I snatched up the checkbook. I looked at the check register, imitated Jay’s handwriting, an almost indecipherable scrawl. I wrote fast, gently tugged to tear out the blank check. I returned the checkbook to the drawer, gently pushed the drawer shut.

  I heard the tech returning. Quickly, I yanked open a lower drawer, grabbed an envelope and a sheet of stationery imprinted with Jay’s name and address.

  As the tech reentered, I kept my hands below the desk, folded the sheet, inserted the check, slipped the sheet and check into the envelope.

  The clock read nineteen minutes to eleven.

  I didn’t have time to be subtle. I shoved Jay’s desk chair backward and it careened toward a bookcase.

  The tech swung around, watched the chair crash against the wall. His eyes wildly searched the room. A tentative step backward, another, a turn, and a lunge into the hall.

  I pushed up the nearest window, unlatched the screen, raised it high enough to flow under and out into the air, the envelope in one hand.

  I congratulated myself when I reached the entrance of Silver Lake Lodge. So far I’d moved the envelope high enough to escape notice. Now if I could find a spot to appear, all would be well. My undoing came in the lobby. I moved the envelope near the ceiling. Most people do not survey ceilings.

  A little girl, possibly five or six, sat cross-legged on a sofa. She looked up from her iPad. Her eyes widened behind thick lenses in sturdy blue plastic frames. “Hey Mom, look up. There’s a woman carrying a letter up there,” she said, and she pointed at the ceiling.

  She saw me. A child’s heart is open to more than adults ever know.

  A distracted woman at the desk fumbled in her purse. “I know I’ve got that coupon somewhere.”

  “Mom.” The girl now stood on the sofa, staring up with a fascinated gaze.

  Without a pause, her mother called out, “That’s lovely, darling. You can show me after I finish here.”

  “Mom!”

  I dropped down, looked into magnified, intensely excited brown eyes. “Honey, do me a favor. When you talk to your mom, tell her you looked up at the ceiling and for a minute it was just like a movie, this woman was carrying a letter, and then she disappeared. And you and I will always know you really did see me, but if you don’t tell anyone, do you know what will happen?”

  She gazed at me with huge eyes. “What?” she whispered.

  “I can take this letter where it needs to go and it will mean that someday not too long from now a wonderful young mommy and daddy will have a beautiful baby girl just like you. Will you help me?”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “I need to get this letter into the ladies’ room. Will you carry it there for me?”

  Her mother turned. “What’s wrong, Abby?”

  “Mom, I need to go to the ladies’ room.”

  Her mother made a shooing motion toward the ladies’ room.

  The little girl took the letter, clasped it against her chest, and rushed across the lobby. Inside the ladies’ room, she held up the letter. “That’s a pretty dress.”

  “Thank you, Abby.”

  The lounge area was empty except for us. An instant was all I needed. I will admit to a touch of pleasure as I watched the lovely white crocheted V-neck tunic appear. I did a little jog to see the fringe sway. The light in the lounge didn’t adequately reflect the verve of the aquamarine slacks, but I knew they looked like the shimmering sea at St. Croix. The white leather stiletto heels gave me a lift, emotionally and physically. I sat on the
yellow-cushioned stool, fished out the enclosed sheet. I quickly printed a note: Dear Liz—As requested, here is your refund for the book consultation. Good luck with the book. Best Regards—Jay Knox. I filled out the check, signed it in a very nice imitation of Jay’s signature, wrapped the check in the sheet, placed it in the envelope.

  I turned to Abby. “Thanks a bunch. You’re a hero.”

  Abby ducked her head, smiled. Then she looked at me, blinked, her eyes owlish behind the thick lenses. “How were you up in the air?”

  “Sometimes, when I need to go somewhere in a hurry, I just think what I might do and there I am.”

  “How were you not here, and then you were a bunch of colors, and there you are?”

  “Oh, it’s just a way of arriving. Let’s keep that our secret, Abby.”

  She gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Sure.”

  I patted her cheek, then turned away.

  Abby’s thoughtful voice followed me. “Mama says I have enough imagination for six kids. I wonder what I can imagine next?”

  I flashed her a smile. “Imagine you’re a princess and nobody knows, but that’s why good things happen all around you.”

  I hurried through the door. There was very little time left.

  Chattering groups eddied back and forth in the lobby, some on their way to the main auditorium for a session, others headed to the meeting rooms in the wing. Perhaps it was my turn for luck. Or perhaps the fortuitous is divinely orchestrated. Your pick.

  Liz Baker no longer looked haunted, but she still moved with dragging steps, all joy leached away. She clutched a notebook, was thumbing the conference schedule as she neared the exit to the terrace.

  I caught up with Liz outside. “Mrs. Baker.” I held out the envelope. “I have something for you.”

  Startled, she took the thin envelope in hand. She looked down and drew a quick breath at the address logo.

  Before she could speak, I hurried on. “If anyone ever inquires, you received this in the mail and you threw the envelope away. I suggest you immediately deposit the check in your and Tom’s account. The check will be honored, since it is dated before the death of the signatory. I doubt if there will ever be any questions asked.”

  She looked down, unsealed the flap. With shaking fingers, she lifted out the check, stared. “How—”

  “Checks Jay Knox signed before his death are being sent to the proper recipients. As I said, if anyone ever asks”—I spoke slowly, forcefully—“you received this envelope in the mail, you didn’t keep the envelope because you had no reason to keep it, and you are appreciative that Professor Jay Knox honored your request that he return the sum of five thousand dollars, which you paid for a manuscript submission that you later recalled. That’s all”—I paused for emphasis—“you have to say. And now”—my smile was gentle—“you might want to share the good news with your husband. Bless you.” I turned away.

  She took several steps, caught my arm. “Who are you?”

  I shook my head. “A friend. But as we both know, this moment never happened. You received a check in the mail.”

  Her eyes shone, her voice was tremulous. “How can I thank you?”

  I hesitated, then said lightly, “Abby is a lovely name for a daughter.” Then I moved fast, weaving my way across the terrace, plunging into the lobby. The little girl and her mother were gone, likely finally checked into a room. It was almost eleven. I had only minutes to spare. Most of the attendees were now settled in the auditorium or meeting rooms. I found the anteroom to the ladies’ restroom empty, and I disappeared.

  The mayor’s color choice was unfortunate. The bright red, tight-fitting suit added extra heft to her two-hundred-plus pounds. Her thick coronet braids were quite perfect and her makeup recently applied. Her expression oozed satisfaction. She stood with one hand on the dais in City Hall’s largest conference room. Detective Howie Harris was at her elbow, carrying a stack of printed sheets. Today he sported a pink-and-yellow bow tie, white shirt, and tan trousers. Very dressy for Howie.

  Newspaper photographers and TV video crews jockeyed for space near the platform. Print reporters sat on the front row with laptops open. Shaggy-haired Joan Crandall leaned against a near wall, a jaundiced gaze on the mayor. She clutched a sheaf of copy paper and a thick-leaded pencil.

  The bell in the tower tolled eleven o’clock, Mayor Lumpkin took a deep breath, surveyed the room. “True to my vows to the voters of Ade—”

  The hall door swung in. Sam Cobb stepped inside, held the door for Maureen Matthews, who still wore dark glasses, and Deirdre Davenport, who looked years younger than the night I arrived at Silver Lake Lodge. Deirdre gazed about with interest.

  Sam boomed, “Sorry to be late, Your Honor. I have some good citizens here who helped solve the murders at Silver Lake Lodge. Goddard Professors Matthews and Davenport assisted the Adelaide police in our investigation. We are also grateful for the outstanding work of Detective Sergeant Hal Price—”

  Crisp and fresh, smiling, Hal came through the door.

  “—and Detective Judy Weitz.” Judy followed, looking pleased. “We’ve been at the station, our good citizens helping us flesh out the case against the accused.”

  As if marionettes on a string, the reporters, both TV and print, came to their feet, surged toward the door. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Video cameras were held high.

  “Chief, who’s the accused?”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Can you lay out some evidence?”

  Sam was shepherding his charges toward the dais.

  Mayor Lumpkin, her makeup now splotchy, watched grimly.

  Sam genially waved Maureen, Deirdre, Hal, and Judy to the side of the platform, stumped up to join the mayor. He looked out at the press. “In case some of you have deadlines to meet, I’ll lay out the facts first. Cliff Granger, a speaker at the conference and the literary agent for Jay Knox, has been arrested on charges of first-degree murder in the deaths of Jay Knox and Harry Toomey. We have proof that Knox was blackmailing Granger, which led Granger to kill Knox. Granger was observed at the crime scene by Harry Toomey. Instead of contacting police, Toomey attempted to blackmail Granger. Granger devised a trap for Toomey and killed him last night. Granger’s attempt to implicate Professor Davenport failed because Professor Davenport’s innocence had been confirmed by independent sources. Professor Davenport agreed to be publicly known as a suspect in order to facilitate our investigation. Professor Matthews made it possible for us to tape Granger as he made incriminating statements. I know”—Sam turned to the mayor—“Mayor Lumpkin takes great pleasure in recognizing contributions to the safety of Adelaide and will join me in recommending that Professors Matthews and Davenport be awarded Adelaide’s highest honor, the Order of the Righteous Citizen.”

  Cameras flashed. Reporters surged forward.

  I carried with me an indelible memory of the mayor’s face, an interesting mélange of colors—red, pink, and purple. Howie Harris slunk toward the door. I wondered if he carried printouts of his bio, suitable for passing out if he had been named to replace Sam.

  I was alert for the clack of wheels on rails, the puff of coal smoke, the mournful summons of the whistle. But not quite yet.

  Chapter 15

  Deirdre burst into the hotel room. When I first saw her the night of my arrival, her frizzy brown hair was in need of a brush, her long face forlorn, sad, worried. Now her eyes were alight with joy, her face eager. She pulled her cell from her pocket, swiped. “Katie, everything’s great. The police arrested the murderer, a man named Cliff Granger. You can tell everyone there that the police did a great job. And I was glad to help them. Maureen Matthews—you know, she’s one of the professors in the English Department—she and I are being given awards for assisting the police. . . . Right. . . . And when you get home, I’ll introduce you to some of my new friends. . . . His name’s Hal an
d he’s a detective sergeant and I’ve told him all about you and he’s eager to meet you. . . . Two blue ribbons? Honey, that’s swell. . . . Okay. . . . Love you, too.”

  Smiling, I swirled into being beside her.

  Deirdre gave me a thumbs-up, swiped the cell again. “Hey, Joey, I helped catch the murderer. . . . Very exciting. . . . Nope, it was another professor who actually trapped him, but we are both getting awards. . . . I should get there by late afternoon, and I think a friend may come with me. . . . His name’s Hal. . . . You’ll like him. . . . See you then. . . . Love you, too.” Deirdre wrapped her arms, whirled around the room to the window. “Hal said he’d come as soon as everything’s all wrapped up. I’ll make my speech and then he’ll be here.”

  I beamed at her. “Everything ends as it should.”

  Deirdre’s smile was incandescent, then it slipped away. Her long face softened. She stretched out her arms, hands open. “How can I thank you?”

  “Why, I’ll bet that now, with everything good again, you’ll plunge into the new book.”

  Deirdre said uncertainly, “Do you think so? Maybe if I have her go up to the attic instead of to the window . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  I remembered long ago, my grandmother’s old frame house on Third Street, following her up narrow steps to a landing and a small door. She’d bustled directly to a leather-bound trunk, lifted the lid . . .

  Murmuring, I was at Deirdre’s side.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. I like that.” She rushed across the room to the sofa, picked up her laptop, plopped down, lifted the lid. In a moment, face tight with concentration, she began to keyboard (as they say these days, though it was typing in my day and typing should be good enough for anybody!).

  I came up behind her and looked over her shoulder.

  Jane almost didn’t go up into the attic, but Jane never ignored a duty. Jane might have been gorgeous—delicate features, dusky gray eyes, sleek black hair in a chignon—but her makeup was sparse, her gray cardigan slightly shapeless, her black slacks a little too large. Jane, in short, was kind, caring, honest, frumpy, tidy, serious, and seriously intense. She really wanted to go downstairs and fix a pot of tea and put the photos from the picnic in her scrapbook, not for the ephemeral album on her iPhone, but she’d promised Aunt Hortense she’d find her grandmother’s lace tablecloth for the table with the punch bowl. Punch bowl . . .