Ghost Ups Her Game

by Carolyn Hart

  Sam took a big slug of coffee. ‘Disappointing, Officer Loy. I hoped you could point a finger.’

  Our food arrived. Sam stared at my big platter, then his eyes fell to his plate with the anemic egg-white omelet.

  I reached for his plate, briskly divided my order. I pushed the plate toward him. ‘When manna falls from Heaven, simply count your blessings.’

  Sam beamed.

  As my mama always told us kids, ‘When you make someone happy, you’ll be happy, too.’

  Sam speared a sausage patty. ‘The case is screwy. For starters,’ he licked ketchup from his thumb, ‘Lambert is a big man around Adelaide. Knows all the rich folks. Charms them. Gets cash for Goddard. He dealt in big sums but all he got out of the gifts was prestige. His office never handled a penny, all the money went to the Goddard Foundation. He was the Golden Boy. Who kills the Golden Boy? Somebody jealous of his success? Goddard has an acting president who’s hoping to get the nod from the Regents. But there’s a rumor one of the regents is pushing Lambert to be president. Maybe the interim president decided to increase his odds. Then we got dames calling each other names. Wife says there’s no love affair. Mistress claims divorce was on the calendar. Now you come up with a hidden message in the wallet. But maybe he absentmindedly folded that slip of paper and stuck it in there and forgot about it.’

  I tried to be tactful. ‘The paper is crisp and new, not creased or wrinkled. A wallet isn’t a place you absentmindedly tuck something. I figure the information was important to him and the message was written recently.’

  ‘Kind of intriguing, anyway.’ Sam was in a good humor as he doused the hash browns with ketchup.

  Sam might not be impressed with my reasoning, but he would try to figure out why Lambert carried that message. Sam would pursue all leads. As for me, I needed to know why Iris Gallagher came to the room where Lambert was killed and why she was holding the weapon, but I couldn’t ask Sam for help to find the answers.

  Sam looked at me sharply. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘I was thinking about the place where he was killed. Why was he there? The Malone Room is a long way from the ballroom.’

  Diverted, as I’d intended, Sam nodded agreement. ‘The setup’s weird. Why was he in that study? The staff at Rose Bower says the room’s almost never used, but it’s kept dusted and spruce in case a visiting dignitary wants a place to spread out some papers. The best guess is that he went there to meet someone. Lambert was fourth on the program and he told the president he’d have a big announcement. BIG. His wife said he was excited, pumped up, but he wouldn’t tell her what was coming. Maybe somebody in his office knows.’ Those canny brown eyes studied me.

  I took a bite of Texas toast and looked expectant. ‘Are you going to his office when you leave Lulu’s?’

  There was a glimmer of disappointment in his gaze. He gave a noncommittal humph.

  ‘Do you have any leads?’ My voice was eager.

  ‘A few.’ He watched me closely. ‘A waiter slipped out for a smoke and saw a guy near a clump of trees at the edge of the terrace. Something about his posture caught his attention and he moved that way. The guy – the waiter said he was young, tall, and thin – raised his arm and threw something that splashed in a pond. We judged where a throw from the terrace might land, used a rake, brought up a soggy sock stuffed with sand. Makes a dandy blackjack. The waiter got a good look at his face as he turned and hurried to a terrace door. Waiter said he looked guilty as hell. We’ve got him looking at pix of the dinner guests. We took a photo of each person as they exited the ballroom.’

  Robert raising his arm, throwing the sock, now documented. I tried to appear admiring. ‘How did you do that?’

  He looked smug. ‘Lapel cameras on the officers at the ballroom doors. Guest signed the register. Snap.’

  My heart sank. ‘How helpful.’

  I made a quick stop at the student newspaper office, which is housed in an old building on a hillside. The editor’s office at this early hour was empty. I knew a new student editor was in charge because the office was quite tidy and a vase on the desk held a spray of orchids. But some things remain the same. I found a faculty-student phone book in the top center drawer. I looked up Iris Gallagher.

  Iris stood at her kitchen counter and sprinkled brown sugar on a bowl of steaming oatmeal. She wore a pale lilac blouse and orchid slacks and sandals. The kitchen was modest but cheerful, yellow curtains at the window over the sink, matching curtains at a window that overlooked a back yard that was a testament to a resident gardener. One corner was thick with wildflowers. Corn, tomatoes, cabbage, and carrots flourished in the other corner.

  I pulled out a chair from a white wooden breakfast table.

  She turned at the sound. Her fine brows drew down in a frown.

  I smiled cheerily. ‘I’d enjoy a cup of coffee.’

  She ignored me, scooped up the bowl and a pitcher of cream, walked to the table, sat down.

  ‘You may not feel in need of help, but Robert – because of you – will soon be the subject of a police inquiry. Where does he live?’

  She put the spoon down. ‘Robert?’

  ‘I want to talk to him before the police do. I may be able to save him from arrest.’

  Alarm flared in those intelligent violet eyes. ‘Why are they suspicious of Robert?’

  ‘A waiter taking a break saw him throw the sock in the pond, described him accurately. The police are scanning photos they made as the banquet guests departed. The police have retrieved the sock. I imagine its contours will match that purple bruise on Lambert’s throat.’

  Iris pressed two fingers briefly to each temple. ‘Robert Blair. Nineteen Fulton Street. Primrose Apartments. Number Twenty-Two.’

  I shared the sky above Rose Bower with a wheeling Mississippi kite. The hawk and I could clearly see, if she cared, the swath of woods between the back of the mansion and the campus. The pond near the base of the terrace glittered in bright July sunshine. I traced Robert’s path after he exited last night through the French door. He’d likely darted straight ahead to a clump of bois d’arc, the small hardy tree prized by early settlers for its amazing hard wood. When he reached the thicket, his way was barred because not even a bull is strong enough to crash through bois d’arc (pronounced bodark in Oklahoma). I imagined his panic, fearing discovery with the handkerchief-wrapped murder weapon in his hand, and all the while trying to avoid thinking of a dead man, and two women’s voices but only one woman in the room, then my Appearance. Iris instructed him to throw the sock in the bushes. Perhaps the glimmer of the pond in the moonlight caught his eye. In any event, at some point he lifted his arm and threw.

  I looked down at the grove of bois d’arc and smiled.

  Robert’s wrinkled T-shirt was stained near his right shoulder. A brownish stain, likely mustard. A hem was unraveling on his faded navy-blue boxer shorts. Barefoot, he poured a mug of coffee and slapped to a kitchen table. Bleary eyed, hair sprigging in all directions, unshaven, he plucked two packets of sugar from a disorderly pile, ripped them open, dumped sugar in the steaming coffee. He sat down, picked up a spoon with one hand, a folded copy of the Gazette with the other.

  ‘Time is of the essence.’ I spoke with some urgency.

  At the sound of my voice, Robert’s shoulders hunched, his body went rigid, the Gazette fell to the floor. The spoon remained at an odd angle in the air.

  I took a deep breath and Appeared. ‘No choice.’ I spoke firmly in case Wiggins was near. I was honoring Precept Four (Become visible only when absolutely essential). I’m sure Wiggins understood as well that it wasn’t my intent to distress Robert (Precept Six: Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.)

  Robert bolted to his feet, the chair crashing to the floor behind him. He backed away from the table, still clutching the spoon, watching me with huge, staring eyes.

  ‘Stay where you are.’ I again used my teacher voice, edged with steel. ‘We don’t have much time. The police will be here
shortly.’

  His lips moved, but no sound came. His eyes darted wildly around the room, then back to me. He saw me. He knew he did. He saw me but I couldn’t be there.

  I started toward him. ‘Don’t move. Listen to me. You don’t need to worry. I really am here. But if I choose, I’m not.’ I disappeared.

  The spoon bounced on the uncarpeted floor. He covered his eyes with both hands, stood stock still.

  I reached him, gently patted his shoulder.

  He shuddered, spread his fingers wide enough to be sure no one stood near.

  I gave him an encouraging pat. ‘We have very little time. Here is what we need to do.’

  At the end of my recital, he was leaning against the wall. His face sagged. ‘I don’t get this hereafter stuff but you kind of have to be on the level or how do you know so much? And sometimes you’re here and sometimes you aren’t. I don’t want to think about that. But I guess I have to play your game. Whatever it is. And now you tell me I’m fingered for tossing the murder weapon. They’ll know it’s the murder weapon by now. Iris was on to something when she told you to take a hike. Iris sees you?’ His tone was pleading.

  ‘Yes.’ My tone was short. ‘It’s unfortunate but she does.’

  ‘I hear you. I saw you a minute ago. You can come and go?’

  I swirled present. I thought a dressier appearance might reassure him. The basket weave grassy green cotton cardigan certainly cheered me, with the neckline, hem, and pockets trimmed in ivory and pink, pink ankle-length linen slacks, and pink ballet flats.

  He gave me a sickly smile. ‘Damned if you can’t.’

  ‘Not damned. Actually …’ But this was no time to discuss what he described as hereafter stuff. ‘I’m here for now and we need to hurry. Get dressed. No time for coffee. No time for anything.’

  ‘OK. Whatever you say.’ He backed away, hand behind him for the knob of the bedroom door. He opened the door, started to close it behind him.

  ‘Don’t bother. I won’t look. Fast, Robert, fast.’

  He did as I asked, even picked up speed as he led me downstairs and out to the parking lot beside the apartment house. Robert’s sleek black Toyota sedan smelled new and I wondered if he’d bought it on the prospect of a lawyer’s income. Interesting that he chose a sedan and not a sports car. Was he thinking of Gage and the future and perhaps toddlers in car seats in the back? Or did he think a sports car too flashy for a new young lawyer? He didn’t look lawyerly this morning, uncombed and unshaven, a tie-dye T-shirt, jeans with a hole at one knee, sloppy tennis shoes. No socks. But sartorial splendor wasn’t important. Speed was.

  He was certainly a slow driver. ‘Go faster.’

  ‘A motorcycle cop lurks at the bottom of the next hill. But I guess a speeding ticket won’t matter if I’m in jail for murder.’ He pressed on the accelerator.

  His apartment house was on one side of the college. Our goal was the opposite side. We zoomed down a hill, zoomed up again, then turned into a wide boulevard bordered by woods. A half-mile later, he pulled into a parking lot, pointed. ‘Rose Bower on the far side of the woods. Your party. You lead the way.’

  When we were out of the car, I charged toward the path, looked back. ‘Hurry.’ A hundred yards later we curved around towering oaks on a path shaded by overhanging branches. I disappeared.

  ‘I wish you’d stop doing that.’ His tone was querulous.

  ‘Two people are more noticeable than one. Go faster.’ When the trees thinned and I glimpsed Rose Bower through the branches, I reached out and clutched his arm.

  He jerked. ‘Tell me when you’re going to grab me. It scares the hell out of me when I feel a hand that isn’t there. I mean, I can’t see it there. I can feel it.’ Another shudder.

  ‘Go to the edge of the woods. Make sure no one is near. Run to the bois d’arc—’

  He stared. ‘The what?’

  I was shocked. ‘Aren’t you from Oklahoma?’

  ‘What difference does it make? Look, I haven’t had my coffee and you’re here and not here and I feel kind of sick to my stomach and you ask me if I’m from Oklahoma.’

  ‘Osage orange?’ Another name for bois d’arc, though not commonly used in Adelaide.

  He was irritable. ‘Will you please start making sense. What’s osage orange?’

  ‘Another name for bois d’arc. I thought surely you were familiar with one or the other.’

  ‘Sounds like some nutsy crossword puzzle. I want coffee.’

  I gripped his arm tightly. My nails are sharp.

  ‘Ouch. OK. Whatever.’

  ‘Anyone from Oklahoma …’ I broke off. ‘Never mind. Remember the name. Bois d’arc.’ I pronounced bodark with vigor. ‘It’s going to be important to you.’ Bois d’arc is loved by some, loathed by many. The small sturdy trees spread fast and are hard to remove. I pointed at the clump of trees. ‘Those trees. That’s bois d’arc. AKA osage orange.’ I gave careful instructions.

  He slid a glare toward where he thought I was.

  I rose in the air above Rose Bower. A lawn service was busy – thankfully there are no leaf blowers in Heaven – in the extensive grounds in front, but the gardens by the terrace area were free of traffic. I perched unseen on the low wall that marked the base of the terrace and gave my best imitation of an owl. I know owls are nocturnal but this morning an owl – me – was singing near the bois d’arc.

  Robert heard the signal, sprinted from the woods, running in a half-crouch. He reached the bois d’arc. He stood up. One long arm grabbed a green seed pod. The hard-pebbled green seed pod is baseball sized. He yanked a pocketknife from his pocket.

  I was startled. This wasn’t in our plan. I moved close enough to hover at his shoulder.

  He flipped out the knife, held the pod in one hand, scratched an R, drew a heart, scratched a G.

  I would have clapped in admiration, but this was not the moment to applaud. Robert might be unnerved and he was doing splendidly.

  He turned, judged the distance to the pond, heaved. The seed pod splashed on the surface and sank. Robert turned and ran toward the woods, again in a crouch. The entire exercise took no more than fifteen seconds.

  I joined him in the shadow of a huge magnolia. ‘Good job. Love the R and G and the heart.’ He scarcely gave me a nod. He was breathing fast, but his pace picked up and he plunged into the woods on to the path to the parking lot. Feet pounding, he reached the lot in record time. He yanked open the driver’s door, threw himself behind the wheel. His face was flushed and his chest heaved.

  I’d scarcely settled in the passenger seat when the car haroomed out of the lot. ‘Do you need gas?’

  His head swung toward the apparently empty passenger seat. ‘I thought maybe you’d stay there. Look, it’s been fun, but why don’t you go wherever you need to go. I want my coffee.’

  ‘You need to stop somewhere and buy something.’

  ‘I don’t need gas. I want my coffee.’ He lifted a hand, scratched at one cheek. ‘And a shave.’

  I was emphatic ‘Stop somewhere and buy something.’

  ‘Will you please go away.’ He shot another glance at the seemingly empty passenger seat. ‘Or,’ his voice was resigned, ‘be here. It’s better to see you. It spooks me to know you are somewhere around and I can’t see you.’

  ‘The police know me.’ I was calm. ‘It’s better if I remain unseen. But don’t worry, I’ll be with you all the way.’

  ‘Yeah. Dandy. You hanging somewhere and the cops wanting to talk about murder. I never intended to have anything to do with criminal law. Life is too short for that.’

  I was a little impatient. ‘The seed pod will make all the difference. Trust me.’ I looked up the street. ‘Oh, good, I see a convenience store. Stop there.’ I pointed, remembered he couldn’t see me. ‘The one on the corner. Buy something.’

  He was equally emphatic. ‘I don’t need anything.’

  I reached over, yanked at the steering wheel.

  The car swerved. He avoided
a curb and managed to steer into the lot.

  ‘Go. Buy. Now. Or I will Appear sitting on your hood.’ I wondered if Wiggins might eventually add a Precept prohibiting emissaries from making threats. Did I smell coal smoke?

  Robert’s vicious glare would have done justice to Richard Widmark in Kiss of Death, but he braked, slammed the door, stalked inside. He returned in a few minutes with a white sack with grease spots beginning to appear on its sides.

  I smelled cake donuts. I deserved one.

  Robert thumped into the driver’s seat, drove the car into the street, and ignored me for the next few blocks.

  I didn’t ask. I picked up the sack, opened it, pulled out a sugar-crusted donut, took a bite.

  He tried to sound conversational. ‘Elevated half-eaten donuts are damn strange.’

  I continued my feast.

  ‘Weird.’ His voice was a little high. A piece of donut hangs over there and then it disappears. Pouf. There and then it’s gone.’

  ‘Watch the street.’ I licked my fingers. refolded the top of the sack, placed it on the floor. ‘That brown sedan parked in front of the apartment house belongs to the police chief.’

  The sedan slowed. ‘Uh-oh.’

  As Mama always told us kids, ‘Be gracious when you prove someone wrong. No one likes to feel foolish.’

  I tapped the sack of donuts. ‘Be sure to offer to share them with the policemen.’

  He pulled into his parking slot, grabbed the donut sack.

  ‘And Robert,’ I kept my voice cheerful, ‘it’s a beautiful morning.’ And it was, cardinals trilling, the bright blue sky promising heat but no clouds. ‘You strike me as being a jolly fellow. Take the stairs two at a time and whistle. Try to look as though you don’t have a care in the world. Your only plan is to enjoy a donut and coffee.’

  At the foot of the stairs, he took a deep breath, rearranged his face. The two steps at a time turned out to be problematic as he stumbled near the top, but he caught the railing, righted himself. He whistled offkey, not a melody I recognized, that sounded vaguely martial.

  He was halfway down the hall, when his steps slowed.