by Carolyn Hart
He stared down at the wrapped weapon cradled in his large hands.
She was authoritative. ‘Get rid of it.’
‘An accessory after the fact.’ His voice wobbled.
‘How did you pass criminal law? Didn’t you ever watch the Perry Mason reruns? That charge requires cooperation in covering up the commission of a crime. I did not commit a crime. You, I assume, did not commit a crime. If you refer to removing evidence from the scene of a crime, no harm will occur. Removing my fingerprints will not impede a future investigation. Only an idiot grips a murder weapon and leaves behind crisp fingerprints for the police to pursue.’ Another pause and her expressive Hepburn face was shadowed by uncertainty and sadness. ‘In fact, we are assisting justice because my fingerprints would simply sow confusion. Toss the sock in the shrubs outside. The police will find it. Stuff the handkerchief under some trash in the men’s washroom. I need to get upstairs. I’m due on the podium.’ As she turned, her gaze swept the area near the French doors. She stopped. ‘Do you always hover a few feet above ground?’
I was shocked. When I arrived, I’d remained in the air, absorbed in the tableau below. I looked down, didn’t see my aqua blue flats. I was still invisible. Besides, when I Appear I am subject to the same gravity as earthly creatures. ‘You can’t see me.’
‘Of course I can. How tiresome. Go back where you came from.’
I dropped to the floor, faced her, hands on my hips. ‘I’m here to help you and Robert.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. Robert and I are not in need of assistance. We are dealing with a situation and we are rather busy at the moment.’
‘It is your duty to call nine-one-one.’ I spoke in my English-teacher voice to the class clown.
‘That’s impressive. A spirit knowledgeable about emergency calls.’ Her gaze was appraising. ‘Chic sweater. I didn’t know spirits shopped.’
‘I love fashion and—’ This was not the moment to discuss how I chose my clothes. ‘The police must be informed.’
Robert’s head swiveled between her and the windows, following the sound of our voices. His expression bordered on panicked. ‘Iris, you aren’t well. Those voices. Yours is deep and crisp and the other one husky. Like a chanteuse.’
I smiled my approval. A cultivated young man. I sing rather well, a soprano that can handle everything from country ballads to jazz.
Iris was sardonic. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, redhead. The closest he’s been to Paris is some of my daughter’s perfume.’ A pause. ‘I’ve always loathed red hair. Unnatural.’
‘It isn’t unnatural.’ I was huffy. ‘My brothers and my sister have red hair, too.’
‘Spare me further—’
‘Iris, please don’t talk in different voices.’ He brightened. ‘I understand. You’re disoriented. Confused. The attack must have been an accident. That’s what we’ll tell the police.’
‘No police, Robert. And please absorb the fact that I did not attack Matt Lambert. I found him lying here, just as I found that homemade weapon. And there aren’t any men’s socks at my house.’ A slight pause. ‘Not any more,’ and there was sadness in her voice.
I moved to face Iris. ‘The police must be summoned. I’m here to help. I have a good relationship with Sam Cobb, the police chief. I have assisted him in past cases. He is a fine man.’
‘No police. Thanks for your offer. Not interested. For reasons I don’t have time to pursue, I can’t afford to be found next to Matt’s body.’ She started for the door, called over her shoulder to Robert. ‘After you get rid of the weapon, come back to the ballroom. The program is about to begin.’ She gave me a brusque wave. ‘Go back where you came from. Nice of you to drop by, but we will take care of everything.’ With that, she hurried across the room. At the door, she lifted the edge of her linen jacket and polished the brass knob before she turned it and stepped into the hall. The door closed. The knob turned again and I knew she was polishing the other side.
I glared at the closed door. ‘Who do you think you are, lady? Mussolini?’
‘Muss …’ Robert said faintly. ‘I couldn’t have heard that. There’s no one here but me. Just me. I don’t know anybody named Mussolini.’
‘World War Two,’ I said impatiently. ‘I can understand not knowing Nietzsche. But Mussolini?’
His eyes, huge and strained, stared in the direction of my voice. ‘If there’s a voice, I’m crazy, too. But crazy isn’t contagious. Maybe I’m drunk. I can’t be drunk on two glasses of champagne. Stupid skinny little glasses.’
‘Flutes,’ I supplied.
He took one step back, two, holding the handkerchief-wrapped sock as if it were radioactive. ‘I don’t know anything about flutes. Drums, yes. Not flutes.’
I began to understand Iris’s exasperation. ‘Don’t babble.’
‘Babble? Why should I babble? Nothing to babble about, is there? Only a voice from nowhere and a dead body and a homemade blackjack. The blackjack. I’ve got to get out of here before anyone comes.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Oh God.’ Robert stared across the room, eyes wide with panic.
I was at the door in an instant. I flipped off the light switch.
The door opened. ‘Oh.’ A disappointed voice. The door shut.
I flipped the switch on.
Robert was backing toward the French doors. ‘Light on. Light off. Light on. Hallucinations, too?’ He rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his left hand. I wondered if it was a gesture used when he was under stress.
I said soothingly. ‘Everything’s all right.’
‘Yeah,’ he muttered, ‘just dandy.’ He fumbled with the wrapped blackjack, tucked it under one arm, grabbed the handle to the partially open French door.
‘Robert, wait. I can explain—’
‘Voices. I do not hear voices. I do not!’ With that defiant yell, he pulled the door wide and plunged into darkness.
I was torn. Should I follow him? Likely he was now hidden in shadows dumping the heavy sock. Iris was smart to wipe the sock just in case. Since my recalcitrant charges hadn’t summoned the police, I needed to keep them as safe as I could. Thinking of fingerprints, I hurried to the French door, Appeared long enough to use the hem of my tunic to polish the handle. I gave a final swipe, disappeared. Iris of the violet eyes that saw too much instructed Robert to return to the ballroom after discarding the weapon. I would find them there in a moment.
I hurried to the body. Likely the dead man had a cell phone in a pocket. I would alert the police. So far, my mission was unfortunately not proceeding in an orderly fashion. Oh, face it. So far, so bad. Wiggins would not be pleased.
I knelt beside him, gently reached inside the Madras sport coat. I felt leather in a pocket and in an instant held an expensive wallet. I pulled apart the leather sides. A driver’s license tucked in a plastic holder read: Matthew J. Lambert. He was forty-six and lived at 601 Robin Ridge Road. I found a business card: Matthew J. Lambert, Vice President of Outreach, Goddard College, Administration Building, 101. Civic membership cards. Medical insurance. Three credit cards, likely one was issued by the college. All the cards were in the name of Matthew J. Lambert. Another card proclaimed him a member of the Association of College Fundraisers. I opened the bill side of the wallet and lifted out several banknotes. I have a tidy instinct. I don’t cram things willy-nilly so I pulled the sides apart to return the bills and saw a folded square of paper. I plucked out the square. I unfolded it, read: The door opened and I saw—
The hall door opened.
Startled, I dropped the billfold. Credit and ID cards skittered on the parquet floor.
‘Matt, where are you?’ A youngish woman with curly brown hair stepped inside, closed the door behind her. ‘Come give me a kiss.’ Her tone was inviting. She came around the back of an oversize red leather sofa and jolted to a stop. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh.’ She rushed across the room, dropped to her knees beside the still figure.
TWO
Just as in
Heaven, there is instant mobility to a desired location. I thought ballroom and there I was. Almost as quickly, I recognized the surroundings. I was on the third floor of Rose Bower, the elegant estate willed to Goddard College by Charles Marlow. I’d visited Rose Bower as an emissary several times. That accounted for the impersonal elegance of the room where Matt Lambert died. The room wasn’t in daily use. Likely it was used as a reading room by visiting scholars. The ground floor of Rose Bower also contained offices and a huge kitchen where banquets were prepared. On the second floor, distinguished guests visiting the college were housed in elegant bedrooms.
Goddard College celebrates big events in the ballroom. As I flowed up near a chandelier for a better view, I realized I still clutched that folded square of paper. Fortunately the glow from the chandeliers wasn’t bright enough for anyone below to notice a square of paper in the air above them.
I felt an urgency to do what I could while I could. I was sure the woman who knelt beside the body had hurried for help or called nine-one-one on her cell. Likely she was now gasping out her discovery to a calm-voiced responder. ‘Speak slowly, ma’am. Take a deep breath. Give me your location. Rose Bower? Yes, ma’am. A body? Can you …’
Very likely wailing sirens would soon announce the arrival of the police. I scanned the ballroom. Iris stood at the foot of the steps to the dais. She looked slightly harried as she spoke with a rotund man who scarcely reached her shoulder. He was balding, wore a rumpled blue suit. He gestured emphatically with a pudgy hand. Her smile was reassuring.
I moved outside the ballroom to a broad hallway. I made a careful survey. I was alone. As I Appeared, I checked in a mirror, tidied my curls. I felt justified in Appearing since the Precept allows Appearances when absolutely necessary. ‘Absolutely necessary,’ I murmured aloud. I tucked the small strip of paper in a pocket. I opened a door and stepped into the ballroom. I’d attended many college functions here. This was a big event, the ballroom filled with circular tables seating eight. Most chairs were occupied. Voices rose in excited chatter. The guests were a mixture of Town and Gown.
For those who have not lived in a college town as residents, the terms might need explanation. Town included upright earnest citizens concerned about finance, business, banking, and commerce. Gown embraced all faculty members and most administrators. I can tell them apart in a heartbeat. Town appears stolid, perhaps a bit paunchy, and has an aura of Friday Night Lights. Town’s eyes are alert, a trifle wary. Town’s smiles are broad and inclusive. Bonhomie greases the wheels of commerce. Gown tends toward overlong hair, dreamy eyes, and auras of self-satisfaction. There is nothing like tenure to create a state of contented arrogance. Speech is over-erudite and – for Town – a shade patronizing.
A steady rumble of conversation almost drowned out a string quartet playing Mozart. A huge banner on the wall behind the dais proclaimed: Midsummer Merriment.
Every summer the college presented awards in appreciation of gifts or support from people, groups, faculty, and staff. It was the custom for the college mascot to stand next to the table holding the awards. The mascot back in the day was an ill-tempered goat who tried to devour any hand held out with a treat. I recalled the night my husband Bobby Mac received an adorable bronze trophy of a catfish in thanks for restocking Rose Bower Lake with channel, blue, and flathead, along with a standing invitation to use one of the college motorboats to fish there whenever we wished. The goat wore a red ribbon around her neck and a malevolent expression. I was relieved to see a new mascot was on display, a golden retriever who looked like she was smiling. A definite upgrade.
I walked swiftly toward the dais, alert for sirens. Iris stood with her back to me, thankfully. At a front table I headed for a pleasant-faced woman in her sixties. Perfectly coiffed white hair framed a plump face at ease with herself and the world. Pearl earrings and a string of pearls – both genuine – gleamed against a navy silk blouse. By the time I reached her, I held a pad in one hand, a pencil in the other. Heaven does provide. No doubt the Department could supply an up-to-date laptop but they knew who they were dealing with. I can manage this and that on computers, but I don’t claim expertise.
My quarry was speaking in a light, high, cultured voice. ‘… important to be persuasive to achieve our goals.’
Before her seatmate responded, I bent forward. ‘Pardon me, ma’am. I’m late arriving from The City.’ To Oklahomans, a reference to The City is immediately understood to mean Oklahoma City, the state’s largest metropolitan area. ‘I’m a reporter for Associated Press. Can you give me the name of the woman standing by the dais?’
Her gaze swung to the platform. ‘That’s Professor Iris Gallagher. She’s presenting faculty awards.’ A manicured hand with pink-tipped nails picked up a program. ‘Here, this will be helpful.’
‘Thank you very much.’ As I turned away, sirens caterwauled, louder, louder, nearer and nearer.
Iris Gallagher gave a final nod to the portly man, squared her slim shoulders and started up the steps. As she climbed, she looked out at the audience. She saw me.
Looks can indeed speak volumes. Her gaze was steely, challenging. If she’d flung a dagger at my feet, the shaft would quiver from the force of the impact.
I gave her a pleasant smile, fluttered the program at her. I felt sanguine. I would have no difficulty finding her and finding out about her.
The sirens shrilled to a peak, abruptly quit. Guests looked about, possibly concerned that someone had been taken ill, searching the room for signs of distress.
I moved fast now, eager to leave the ballroom. Iris was at the microphone. ‘Good evening. Welcome to Goddard College’s Midsummer Merriment—’
I opened the door, stepped into the expansive landing. Twin stairways descended on either side. A balustrade between the stairs provided, as I recalled, a view of the ground floor.
A couple stood at the top of one stairway. They weren’t facing me so I disappeared.
The tiny woman spoke emphatically. ‘… go down right now and find out what’s happening.’
A distinguished-looking man with silver hair and a beaked nose made no move. ‘Francie, it isn’t our concern.’
A young woman peered over the edge of the balustrade. ‘I see flashing lights outside.’
Sounds rose of clattering footsteps and terse commands.
‘Cops and paramedics just rushed across the lobby and went down a hall.’ She gestured to right. ‘Probably an accident of some sort. We’d better stay up here.’ She sounded regretful.
I still held the program and the folded square from the dead man’s wallet. When I disappeared, so did the notepad and pen supplied to the reporter from Oklahoma City. However, the program and paper from Lambert’s wallet were visible. I put my hand down behind a potted palm. As long as I held physical items, I couldn’t move instantly from one spot to another. I put the folded strip inside the program, folded it. That made the expanse of paper smaller, less noticeable. People rarely look up so I began to rise.
The folded program was yanked from my hand.
‘Floating programs not permitted. Not proper. Not academic.’ A scrawny man with bushy brown hair brandished the folded program and its enclosure. He tried to focus his gaze on the program. ‘What have we here? Flying paper is worthy of note. And note it I shall.’ He paused between words, almost managing to speak clearly. ‘Some might attribute elevated papers to consumption of gin. But,’ his hand rose and he waggled the program, ‘I see what I see. Gin be damned.’ He stared at the program. ‘We have a conum …’ He cleared his throat, dropped syllables with care ‘… a conundrum. A floating program. Floating olives in martinis, yes. Floating programs in the air, no. Can’t say I know what to do with a floating program.’
I no longer needed the program, but I had to have that square of paper from the dead man’s wallet. I grabbed at the program.
He held on tight, his face folding into mulish resistance. ‘Not going to be flummoxed by a piece of paper. I yield to my wife
, She Who Must Be Obeyed. Rumpole and I are brothers in arms.’ He gave an uneven laugh. ‘Sometimes arms are warm, sometimes not. I suspect Rumpole’s experience is the same. But that’s another tale. I defer to the IRS, though offshore tax havens shouldn’t be just for the rich. I gracefully agree with the department chair. Some day it will be my turn. But I will not be thwarted by a flying program.’ He ripped the program apart, flung the pieces high.
The couple and the young woman reached him. The man’s voice was pleasant, ‘Always rip up annoyances, Reggie. Now,’ a deft arm under one elbow, ‘let’s go back to the table.’
Reggie looked up at the distinguished man. ‘Ashton, deal forcefully with flying paper. I shall add that dictum to the syllabus. Perhaps I should go to my office tonight.’ He tried to turn, but was steered straight toward the ballroom.
Ashton was admiring. ‘Good show, Reggie. We can discuss at length …’ They reached the ballroom door, opened it, moved inside. The door closed.
I dropped to my hands and knees, scrabbling for the scraps. The lighting was poor. I gathered up bits and pieces until a door squeaked open behind me. I swept my hand in a final frantic effort, curled the pieces in a sweaty palm, and scooted to the ceiling. A security guard, cell phone to one ear, thudded toward the stairs.
I needed a safe place for the remnants. I zoomed down the steps to the second floor to seek sanctuary. Each bedroom is named. I’d last stayed (unbeknownst to the college) in Will’s Room (Rogers, not Shakespeare). I reached Will’s Room. The hallway was empty. I put my bits of paper on the floor, moved through the panel. In a quick glance, I saw no evidence of occupancy. I unlocked the door, picked up my rescued scraps, shut the door. Moving to a bedside table, I dropped the pieces into an old-fashioned porcelain pitcher which had surely been a prized possession in a long-ago frontier cabin.
