Ghost Ups Her Game

by Carolyn Hart

  Iris gave her a loving look. ‘Just being Gage is all you need to do. I’ll take care of the rest. I have some special assistance,’ she glanced at me in the rearview mirror, ‘that will see me through. So, no more worries.’ She made a gentle shooing gesture with one hand.

  Gage slowly nodded. She opened the door, swung out, poked her head back inside. ‘Mom, call me if you need … anything.’

  ‘Of course.’ Iris watched as Gage walked quickly up the sidewalk, pushed open the door to enter. When the door closed, Iris pressed the accelerator, started up the drive. ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘If you weren’t in danger of arrest on a murder charge, we could talk about e. e. cummings or what it’s like to see a cheetah run or your lasagna recipe. We don’t have that luxury.’

  She turned the car into the street, drove a couple of blocks in silence, pulled into a parking space at a park. ‘Arrest?’

  ‘If Sam Cobb knew you stood over Lambert’s body last night with a homemade blackjack in your hand, you’d already be in a cell.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell him?’ She arched a questioning eyebrow, fully aware I could easily expose her secret.

  ‘I hope,’ I said slowly, ‘you will tell him. Something – or someone – drew you into that room. I don’t think you wanted to talk to Matt Lambert. The police need to know what you saw, what happened.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She spoke with finality.

  ‘Why not? You didn’t kill Lambert.’

  A wry smile. ‘Thank you. Even Robert wondered. But you know as well as I do that if I tell the police I picked up the weapon, I’ll be in jail.’

  ‘Why did you?’

  She brushed back a strand of dark hair. ‘I opened the door and stepped inside. I walked toward the French doors. I saw one was ajar. I wasn’t looking down. My shoe hit something. That’s when I saw a sock with one end tied and that fat bottom portion. I thought that was odd. I picked it up, thinking it was some kind of weird trash and I’d put it in a bin. Maybe the result of being a military wife for so many years. Everything is tidy on a post. I stopped for a minute, still holding it. I almost turned to go out but there was something about the room, I didn’t like the way I felt …’

  That empathy again. Could a place hold a sense of evil?

  ‘… so I kept walking. I saw Matt.’ The sentence reflected shock and dismay. She didn’t like Matt Lambert. She abhorred the ending of life.

  In the park, a woman walked a Dalmatian that looked alert and ready to bolt if unleashed. Two shirtless young men in gym shorts stood thirty yards apart on a soccer field. One lifted his arm and spiraled a football to his friend. It was an ordinary summer day except for Iris’s bleak face. Iris’s cheekbones jutted, her firm chin was elevated. This was likely the posture that elicited Sam’s comment about supercilious women.

  I reached out, gently touched a rigid arm. ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

  ‘Equal parts foolishness and fear.’ There was a touch of defiance. ‘I remembered the door to Matt’s office was ajar yesterday afternoon when I told him cruelty to the defenseless was indefensible. And much more along those lines. Loudly and clearly. I looked down at his body and thought the police might well disbelieve the reason I picked up the sock. The very heavy sock. I knew that’s what killed him.’ A breath. ‘We’re supposed to speak up and shame the devil. Now the shame’s on me. I argued with him that very day. I thought – and maybe it was stupid – that I didn’t know anything about who killed him. I’d just been unlucky enough to walk in on the murder of a man I despised. I thought I didn’t have anything useful to tell the police. And I didn’t want to explain why I opened that door.’

  I was surprised. ‘You planned to see him?’

  ‘Lord, no.’ The disclaimer was quick and firm.

  I persisted. ‘Why did you open the door?’ There had to be a reason why she came to the first floor and went to that particular room.

  She was silent, her chin tilted at that stubborn angle.

  I knew the reason. ‘You saw someone follow Matt Lambert from the ballroom. You hurried, but a conversation delayed you. You went downstairs and saw that person leave the room. Perhaps the person looked upset or frightened. You went inside the room.’ I took a deep breath. ‘By this evening, you must go to the police and tell them what you know.’ Before she could object, I rushed on, ‘You told me you aren’t protecting a murderer. Your silence may be doing just that. The person you saw might know something that will lead the police to the murderer.’

  Finally she gave me a quirky half-smile. ‘You have almost everything right, but not quite. I didn’t see anyone leave the room. I did see someone I know start up the stairs and there was an odd look … I thought maybe Matt had been mean again … I guess I don’t have to tell you I’m impulsive.’

  I didn’t fault her. I’d been known to speak first and think second more than a few times.

  ‘Anyway, I got mad all over again. I charged up the hall, tried all the doors. That room was the only one with the light on. So I went in. That’s why I was standing there, that sock in my hand, when Robert arrived. I thought Gage would be furious with me if I involved him in a mess. So lots of reasons jumbled in my mind to get us out of there. I was due to make a presentation in the ballroom, so that’s why I asked Robert to get rid of the sock. I was due upstairs in only a few minutes. Like I said, I can’t be proud of that performance. I thought about everything that happened last night and knew I couldn’t leave it that way. I was afraid the person I saw might have been near the room, might actually be able to help the police. If that turns out to be true, I will go to the police, tell them everything. I’ll know soon. If there’s anything the police should know, I’ll make sure they find out. But I can’t go to the police and put someone in jeopardy just because they were downstairs.’ Her chin still had that decided jut. She was determined to do what she felt she needed to do.

  ‘Is the person you’re seeking someone you know well?’

  She looked a little surprised, slowly shook her head. ‘Not in a personal sense. I know there’s a fine mind. I know there’s no family and a background of poverty, a student working two jobs to pay tuition, able to take only a few hours a semester. That came up once during an office visit. That’s why I suggested the Outreach Office when I heard there was an opening. It would pay better and look better on a résumé someday. When I found out how that interview went, really demeaning, making poverty a barrier, I was furious.’

  A student then. A student whose work she admired. A student without the means to dress up for an interview. It would be very like Iris to focus on intelligence and eagerness to learn and want to help.

  She met my gaze directly. ‘Now I know exactly how difficult it is to defend against suspicion. I can’t put anyone in that situation simply on the basis of a facial expression.’

  I understood. I reached out, again clasped her arm, this time an encouraging squeeze.

  She smiled her thanks. ‘I’ll let you out here. Don’t follow me.’ A quick smile. ‘I’ll see you. I promise to let you know what I find out. But,’ that uplifted chin, ‘I will not tell you or the police about this person if I’m positive there’s no useful information to be had.’

  On the sidewalk, I watched the red Malibu drive away. Iris made it clear I wasn’t welcome when she spoke to her quarry. But perhaps I could find my way by myself.

  I scarcely recognized the woman slumped in an easy chair in the living room of a small apartment. Likely it was a furnished apartment. The furniture was shabby, undistinguished, tired, used by transients, not cherished and cared for.

  Yesterday evening, when she had opened the door to the Malone Room, Clarisse Bennett was buoyant in a bright pink dress, her curly brown hair glistening, her makeup carefully applied. She was eager and happy until she walked around the sofa and saw the body of the man she loved.

  I didn’t doubt as I observed the shrunken figure in the overstuffed chair, hair uncombed, no
makeup, still in a nightgown, dressing gown, and house slippers, that she grieved. Lambert’s widow dismissed Clarisse’s claim of a love affair as wishful thinking, a recent divorcée’s infatuation. Whatever, whichever, the passion had been real on Clarisse’s part.

  Did that assure her innocence? She might have killed out of jealousy or despair and yet be heartbroken, her grief intensified by guilt. Of course if she were a murderer, she would already have been playing a part when she opened that door, known a body lay there, arriving to find Lambert and emphasize her innocence by her shock and sorrow.

  In the apartment house hallway, making sure no one was near, I Appeared as Officer Loy. I knocked firmly on the thin wooden door.

  It seemed to take a long time before the door slowly opened. She stared at me dully.

  ‘Officer, M. Loy. Clarisse Bennett?’

  She nodded, gazing with a numb, hopeless stare.

  ‘Ms Bennett, it’s urgent that I speak with you regarding an episode in the Outreach Office yesterday that may relate to the murder of Mr Lambert.’

  When she said nothing, I took a step forward. ‘I have a few questions.’

  She held the door for me, gestured at a sofa in a frayed orange slipcover. By the time I was seated, she seemed to come to life. She stood over me, her arms folded, the voluminous sleeves of the dressing gown bunched against her. ‘When are you going to arrest Joyce?’ Her voice held venom.

  I spoke firmly, definitively. ‘Mrs Lambert is not a suspect.’

  ‘She killed him. I know she did.’ Tears rolled down her sunken cheeks. ‘Don’t be fooled by her lies. She was furious with him. They’d been arguing and arguing.’

  I spoke with emphasis. ‘Mrs Lambert never left the ballroom. Those at her table have given statements. She did not leave the ballroom after her arrival with Mr Lambert at shortly after six p.m.’

  ‘She must have. Someone’s lying.’

  I was gentle. ‘I understand your feelings, but there’s no question of her involvement. Mr Lambert was observed leaving the ballroom a little before seven. You discovered his body shortly after seven p.m. We have six witnesses who will testify that Mrs Lambert arrived at the table at approximately six minutes after six p.m. and remained seated until an officer asked her to come downstairs at twelve minutes after seven p.m.’

  Her face slack, Clarisse walked unsteadily to the chair, sank into it. ‘Not Joyce.’

  ‘The identity of the murderer is unknown. That’s why I am here. You knew Mr Lambert well. You were also an integral member of his office staff. You may have information that can assist in the investigation. Can you tell me why he was in the Malone Room last night?’

  Her face folded in thought. ‘Probably to meet someone.’

  Was this to disarm a police officer, suggest Lambert had an appointment? Or did she have an appointment with him? Was she angry with him, had he told her that Florida was a fantasy? I watched her carefully. ‘How did you know he was there?’

  ‘I went out in the foyer after he left his table. I ran into a friend and visited a minute. Matt went downstairs. When he didn’t come back up, I checked my cell and he was on the first floor.’

  I felt claustrophobic for an instant, glad I’d lived and loved in a day without electronic tethers enveloping me.

  Clarisse’s voice trembled. ‘I went down. I thought we could visit for a minute. He was going to Austin next weekend to visit a donor and I could meet him there.’ Again tears flooded down her face. ‘I tried the door earlier but the room was dark. Then I was sure he had to be there and I came back. This time the light was on and I went inside.’ She dissolved again in tears.

  She was telling the truth. I knew because I was there when someone knocked at the door and I just managed to switch off the light to protect Robert. I heard the disappointment in that soft ‘oh’ when she looked inside.

  Knowledge of her innocence softened my approach. ‘I know this is very difficult for you, but you truly may be able to help us in the investigation. We’ve been told that Mr Lambert quarreled with Iris Gallagher Thursday afternoon. Is that correct?’

  She sat straighter, shook her head. ‘That’s all wrong. Matt didn’t quarrel. He was perfectly pleasant the whole time. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Iris Gallagher was acting like an idiot. He laughed about it later.’

  See, he always laughed when he gigged somebody …

  Her face flattened in dislike. ‘She thinks she’s better than everybody. She’s academic, not staff. But who’s she to tell everyone how to act? She’s just an assistant professor living in a little frame house. She was lucky the college took her on after her husband was killed in Afghanistan. A major. She thinks she’s special because she was an officer’s wife and is a professor. Matt knew all the people in the big houses, people who matter. It was just like Iris to make a fuss about a girl like that, a nobody.’

  I remembered Gage’s unanswered question to her mother. ‘Nicole?’

  Clarisse sniffed in disdain. ‘Iris sent this girl over to see about a job. I suppose Gage told her mother we have an opening for a clerk. Matt was absolutely right to send her away. If she felt insulted, why maybe she learned something. You can’t come to an important office to apply for a job dressed like wait staff. She looked real tacky in that white shirt and black pants and clunky black shoes. She should have gone home and put on a nice dress if she wanted to work in our office.’ Clarisse tossed her head and the uncombed curls quivered. ‘Matt told Iris that rich people expect things to be nice. He said when he took them to dinner, he ordered the finest wine, lobster and filets, crème brûlée. He wouldn’t dream of showing up in a shirt with a stain of something or other and shoes that were run down at the heel. He didn’t want anyone in his office who didn’t know how to dress. He said it didn’t matter if she knew Chaucer, she had to know what mattered.’

  I maintained a pleasant expression, but I understood Iris’s fury. She’d heard of a job opening, one that was a step up from waiting tables, and she’d told a student.

  ‘You are very helpful and we need to interview the student.’

  Clarisse was happy to provide a name, address, and phone number.

  NINE

  I peered around the corner of a crepe myrtle shrub at a shabby three-story wooden apartment building that needed a coat of paint and repair to sagging gutters. A mother pushed a baby in a stroller not five feet from me. Of course, she didn’t see me. But I knew to my chagrin that I was visible to Iris. My caution was repaid as I watched her departing Malibu sedan turn right at the end of the street.

  A dog-eared ‘Kitchenettes for Rent’ sign was propped against a tricycle minus one wheel. A broken Coke bottle lay near the front step. Dandelions flourished in a yard that badly needed mowing. I suspected Kitchenette meant a microwave and a small fridge in a combo living/sleeping area. If Matt Lambert had seen where Nicole Potter lived, he certainly wouldn’t have hired her.

  A moment later, I was in a dingy second-floor hallway. My nose wrinkled at the smell of popcorn. It seemed incongruous in the dim and dusty corridor. I Appeared as Officer Loy and knocked. The flimsy door rattled in its frame.

  The door swung in. The girl who stood in the doorway was so thin that the white shirt and black pants hung on her. Today the shirt, though wrinkled, was stain free. I was struck by the intensity of her gaze, brilliantly dark eyes in a skinny face bare of makeup, eyes that glittered with intelligence and with barely held-in-check anger.

  ‘Nicole Potter.’ I spoke as though confident of her identity.

  She nodded, watched me with cool reserve.

  ‘Officer M. Loy. I understand you were on the wait staff at Rose Bower last night.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her thin face was devoid of expression.

  ‘May I come in? I have some questions about the evening.’

  She gave a slight shrug, held the door. The room contained a sofa, two metal folding chairs on either side of a card table, a bunk bed with a ladder missing a rung, a sink, small refrigerat
or, and microwave. No oven.

  She waved at the sofa, walked to a folding chair, turned it to face me, sat down. ‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ There was an edge to her voice, a surprisingly deep voice for such a slightly built person, an edge of wariness, a hint of hostility.

  ‘You interviewed for a job in the Outreach Office.’

  She nodded. Her young face with its bitter cast remained impassive.

  ‘Describe the interview.’

  She flicked thin hands over as if waving away mosquitos. ‘A flop. Wasted my time. I wasn’t fancy enough to work for him.’ The deep voice was even, but there was a hotness in her eyes. ‘Win some. Lose some.’

  ‘Why did you follow him downstairs last night?’

  ‘Him? I could care less about him. Where he went. What he did. What happened to him, if you want to know the truth. I guess maybe he pissed off somebody important.’ She put the word in italics. ‘I didn’t follow him.’ The deep voice was assured. ‘I went downstairs because I wanted to use the bathroom. Nobody much would be down there and I wouldn’t have to wait in line. So,’ she spoke with finality, ‘I went down, went to the bathroom, came back up.’ She stood.

  So much for my uniform. Or me, for that matter. Nicole Potter wasn’t impressed and, as far as she was concerned, we were done.

  I tried to sound sharp. ‘Did you see Lambert downstairs?’

  The door swung in and a plump blonde stepped inside. She saw me and her eyes were huge. ‘Oh. Hey Nicole, I came home for lunch.’ She looked from Nicole to me and back again. ‘Everything all right?’

  Nicole’s mouth might have curled in the smallest of smiles. ‘Fine, Jolene. Just doing my civic duty. The police are talking to people who were at Rose Bower last night. You know,’ she pointed at a laptop on an end table by the sofa, ‘there was a murder.’

  ‘Yeah. I heard about it at the Union. Scary.’ She looked at me with big blue eyes. ‘Do you know who did it?’