by Carolyn Hart
I would find out who now controlled her fortune. Surely a good portion went to her daughter. But George was in the home, George and his sister, Melissa, and Camille Dubois and Evelyn’s cousin/secretary Alice Harrison. All four attended the banquet. All four left the table during the critical time. Any one of them could have been the person Matt Lambert saw in the mirror. George likely could arrange a substantial gift to the college. The others? One of them could have suggested a memorial to Evelyn and George might have easily been persuaded to provide a gift in her honor.
Which of those four was in the house on the cool March day – I looked at the dateline, Tuesday 20 March – when Evelyn died?
I looked up addresses for Bess Hampton and Betty Wilson. The high school yearbook offered a lovely photo of Evelyn’s daughter, Madeleine. Unlike her mother, she was dark-haired and petite. Her wedding last year at St Mildred’s received almost a full page of coverage in the Gazette. Madeleine was also an SMU graduate in fine arts. Her husband received his master’s degree in business. There was a cute picture of them standing in a mock cockpit door with a banner reading, Lisbon Bound.
A single chime indicated the library would close in fifteen minutes. I searched for mentions of George Kirk. There were five, the announcement four years before Evelyn’s death that George Kirk had been named head tennis pro at the country club, expansive coverage on the society page of Evelyn’s wedding to George in an outdoor ceremony in the amphitheater at White Deer Park. I added the name of the matron of honor, Virginia Barrett, to the scratch paper. George was mentioned in the story about his successor at the country club and George was listed as the surviving spouse in the news story and also in the formal obituary.
I tried Alice Harrison, found nothing.
Camille Dubois:
FRENCH ARTIST ACCEPTS POST AT GODDARD
The library lights flickered, last alert before closing. I read fast. In January, the head of Goddard’s fine arts department announced the arrival of Camille Dubois, artist in residence for the spring–fall semesters. ‘This is an extraordinary opportunity for our students to learn from an accomplished French artist thanks to Goddard patron Evelyn Kirk.’
There was a list of Camille’s academic accomplishments, awards won by her paintings, and a brief biography, a native of Nancy, a graduate of a prestigious art academy in Paris. The article was accompanied by photographs of several of her paintings. I recognized one quite similar to the hawk against a morning sky. There was a quote from Camille, ‘I am very grateful to Mrs Kirk for making my visit to the United States possible and for providing a connection to this delightful college in such a lovely community. I look forward to working with students and sharing our joy in creating art.’
Evelyn Kirk not only sponsored a young artist at the college, she provided her with a place to live. I remembered George’s hot gaze from ankle to hemline. Camille arrived in January. Evelyn died in March.
Melissa found her brother’s pursuit of his guest amusing. Did George become enamored of Camille soon after her arrival? What was his attitude in March? What was Camille’s response? There was an undercurrent between George and Camille that puzzled me. She still lived in Evelyn Kirk’s house. No, now the house belonged to George Kirk. Of course the understanding when Camille arrived in Adelaide was that housing was provided. Camille was the guest of Evelyn Kirk. But Camille remained in the house after Evelyn’s death.
Evelyn’s bedroom was absolutely still. The hall door was closed. Someone brought a tray to Evelyn with a full glass which she drank without adding anything. I understood Matt Lambert’s notation now. Matt Lambert looked in a mirror and saw Murder. There could be no other explanation for the note he wrote and secreted in his billfold.
Matt watched a reflection in the mirror in Evelyn’s bedroom in March. This was July. The folded square of paper I found in his billfold was fresh. A square of paper tucked in with the bills for several months would be creased, perhaps smudged. Matt made the notation recently and Wednesday he walked near the trellis on the terrace and spoke to someone, demanding a gift to the college.
I was confident he called on a burner phone since there was no record of a call at that time on his cell phone. He was well aware that he was committing extortion, even if for a worthy cause, and wanted no link to his own phone. He called on a burner phone and insisted the listener come to the banquet with the promise of a big donation.
How did he make a connection between the glass he glimpsed in the mirror and Evelyn’s death?
I promised Sam I would not disturb the residents of the Kirk house, but I had no compunction about Appearing on Joyce Lambert’s front porch as Officer Loy. I rang the bell.
A kindly faced woman in her fifties with a fluff of white hair opened the door.
‘Ma’am, Mrs Lambert has been very helpful to the investigation into her husband’s death. We are hopeful she can give us some information about his activities in the week before his death. I promise not to keep her very long.’
My obvious deference was effective and in a moment I was in the small office to one side of the foyer. Joyce Lambert looked smaller in her clothes and her shoulders slumped. She settled on a sofa, gestured toward an easy chair for me. There was a flicker of fear in her eyes.
I saw no reason not to reassure her. I was brisk. ‘We very much appreciate your helpfulness. Before I ask a few questions, as a matter of form, I want to inform you that you and your son are both accounted for during the time the crime was committed and have been eliminated from the investigation.’
She managed to keep her face quiescent, but her eyes closed briefly. When they opened, she exhaled a tightly held breath. ‘I appreciate everything the police are doing. I wish I could help, but I told the other officers, I don’t know anyone who was angry with Matt.’
‘This is a matter of information, ma’am. Did your husband discuss with you the name of the donor he intended to honor at the banquet?’
She shook her head. ‘He wanted the presentation to be a surprise. He was excited Thursday night.’ Her voice was shaky as she remembered a man full of vigor, full of success, full of life. ‘He told me if everything worked out, there would be a tremendous gift to the college and, of course, that was a triumph for him. He loved bringing in big donations.’ She frowned. ‘He said he was going down to check on some things. I thought it was about the gift, but I suppose not.’
‘One day this past week, did your husband appear to have an air,’ I tried to pick the right words, ‘of a man who has discovered something amazing, something unexpected?’
Her pale blue eyes widened. ‘How did you know?’
‘We have reason to believe he obtained information that put him in danger.’ Seeing Murder in a mirror put him on a path to doom. ‘What day did you become aware of this?’
‘Wednesday.’ She spoke as if the word were strange, the gulf between that ordinary day and a Saturday consumed with funeral plans.
‘Do you know what Mr Lambert did on Wednesday?’
Where did he find a link between a glass on a tray and Evelyn’s death?
‘He went to the office that morning as usual. I don’t think anything happened there because he came home for lunch and he was his usual self. He told me he really enjoyed the slice of upside-down cake.’ Her voice quivered.
‘That afternoon?’
Joyce Lambert’s cheeks had a faint flush, the first color I’d seen. She leaned forward, drawn into the search for answers, sensing perhaps that she might hold a key to her husband’s death. ‘Matt played golf on Wednesdays. It was the usual Wednesday when he left, but when he came home he was excited, looking like his thoughts were racing at a mile a minute.’ She stared at me with rounded eyes.
‘Who did he play golf with?’
‘Ken Thomas.’
I made the connection. ‘Dr Thomas?’ Evelyn Kirk’s physician. The man who pronounced her dead.
Sam’s office was dim. It was about half past seven. Midsummer sunlight still spil
led through his windows, affording enough light for me to see. I’d never before felt like an interloper. Was Officer Loy permanently retired from the Adelaide police? I couldn’t leave a chalk message on the blackboard. Sam would dismiss any offering as another attempt to protect Iris Gallagher.
I looked at Sam’s neat desktop and felt another sweep of despair. He was old-fashioned. He worked on legal pads, used pen and paper to make notes on cases. Later he created electronic files, but he started with a legal pad. There were no legal pads stacked to one side of the desktop. I sighed. He’d likely put them in a drawer, confident his work was done on the Lambert case.
I opened the top right drawer. Three legal pads lay on top of some folders. I picked up the first pad, found an hour-by-hour account of the investigation since receiving a nine-one-one call at twelve minutes after seven Thursday evening. I flipped pages. Surely somewhere in here – ah, a notation that Lambert Folder 2 contained the register of guests at the banquet, their location during the critical time period, photos and addresses.
I was working as fast as I could, aware that minutes slipped into hours and hours into days. Monday morning at ten a.m. the mayor would greet the press on the steps of City Hall and revel in announcing the arrest of Iris Gallagher either as a material witness or on charges of first-degree murder in the homicides of Matthew Lambert and Nicole Potter.
Megan Wynn would defend Iris, stand with her, try to arrange bail, but Megan was not a detective.
Well, you aren’t a detective either.
Exhaustion and pressure made me vulnerable. I tried to push away the terrible feeling that I couldn’t manage the task ahead. Always before I’d been part of a team. I could count on Chief Cobb and Detective Sergeant Price to investigate when I pointed the way.
Not now.
Who wanted Evelyn Kirk dead?
Who was in the house the day she died?
What was Evelyn’s relationship with her husband, her sister-in-law, her cousin, and the French artist?
How could a demand for an autopsy receive attention?
Most pressing of all, immediate action was necessary if there were to be any hope of casting doubt on the official conclusion that Iris Gallagher met Nicole, spoke with her, killed her.
I’d swung aboard the Rescue Express, certain I was one Heavenly answer to any challenge. Now I was alone in Sam Cobb’s office, alone and close to panic at the task ahead of me. There was so much to find out, so little time.
Coal smoke swirled. Iron wheels clacked on steel rails. Whooo. Whooo. I tried to stand straight, head up, shoulders back. I’m not quite certain if Wiggins sees me even though I’m not visible, or if he is simply so closely attuned to his emissaries that he finds us wherever we are. Just in case, I was determined to go out in style. I chose a floral paisley georgette blouse with bodice pleats that flared below the waist and bell-bottom white linen trousers and tall, very tall, red heels that matched the background of the top.
I felt the warmth of his hand on my shoulder. ‘Now, now.’ I heard the helpless tone of a man dealing with an emotionally distraught woman.
Tears spilled down my cheeks. ‘She’s awfully nice really. Iris, I mean. And she’s going to be charged with murder Monday; and even if someday things are worked out, it’s awful to be in jail and she’s all alone in that cell and I thought I was up to anything, that I was a super emissary, the best ever, and here I am and I’m a mess. That’s what happens when you think you’re important. Mama always told us kids, “A nose stuck in the air makes it hard to see ahead and that’s when you stub your toe and fall flat on your face.” And that’s what’s happened to me. I thought I was special. I’m not.’
A handkerchief was thrust into my hand. I swiped at my cheeks.
‘Of course you thought you were special.’ Wiggins’s deep voice was reassuring. ‘Everyone is special. You are special and you will find a way.’
I thought of all the tasks that needed to be done. ‘I need help.’
‘That’s the crux.’ He sounded positive.
For a moment, I was impatient. Of course not having help was the crux. ‘I can’t save Iris by myself.’
A waiting silence. Waiting, but not cold, a silence of warmth, as though a soft afghan wrapped me in its folds.
I didn’t understand what Wiggins expected of me. Didn’t he understand the situation? On previous missions I could count on Sam Cobb to help me.
Help …
As Mama told us kids, ‘If you don’t ask, no one can say yes.’
Ask? Suddenly I was buoyed. It was like eating a Baby Ruth and bursting with energy. It was like finding a four-leaf clover and feeling the sun on my back. It was like turning a corner and seeing an old friend whose smile touched my heart.
‘Oh, Wiggins, thank you.’ Of course I could find help. All I had to do was ask. But getting help was only a beginning. There was another daunting task ahead. First and foremost Sam Cobb must be informed that Evelyn Kirk was murdered. Sam must be forced to act. He would dismiss a chalkboard message from Officer Loy. A telephone call? Sam knew my voice. Not even a whisper would likely fool him. How could Sam be persuaded that Evelyn was murdered?
‘Good to see you thinking, Bailey Ruth. You will find a way to do what needs to be done.’ Wiggins’s deep voice was warm, encouraging.
Phone call … whisper … not a whisper … voice … It was as if a marquee blossomed with a thousand lights. Oh, yes, there might be a way, oh yes indeed.
It took me a moment to realize there was no more coal smoke and the sounds of wheels rolling on steel was fading, fading, gone.
I was as exhilarated as if fireworks exploded in my mind, but the brightness was from ideas: what I could do and what I could accomplish with confederates. I did have some qualms. If things went wrong …
Well, I’d simply have to make sure nothing went wrong.
I strode to Sam’s desk. I reached for his Rolodex. I know the very term is meaningless in the digital world, but Sam, bless his heart, continues to keep information as he always has. I found the number I needed.
I was ready to execute my plan.
The corridor lights in the cellblock were dimmed, the bright glare of day diminished for sleep. Iris was not asleep. She lay on the bed, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t know what she saw. Perhaps I didn’t want to know.
‘Will Megan request bail?’
She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her gaze flicked toward me. ‘I suppose she will.’ She sounded weary. ‘I doubt I can afford it.’
There are bail bonds.’
‘I know. My young lawyer,’ her face moved in a slight smile, ‘treated me with great respect. I rather think because of you. She will do her best. There was the interrogation, that big man looking grim, the handsome detective sergeant acting like the good cop. None of it mattered. At Megan’s instruction, I declined to answer. Many times. Somehow she arranged for Gage to see me.’ A flicker of those violet eyes. Blinking back tears because she foresaw separation from her daughter for years and years? ‘Gage brought an afghan. In case the cell was cold.’ Iris gestured at a beige-and-blue afghan at the foot of the bed. ‘They let me keep it.’
I admired her coolness. I’m afraid if I were in her situation I would immediately demand to know what was being done, if there were progress, when I might be released. Instead she gazed at me with those intelligent, grave violet eyes and waited for me to speak.
‘Did you know Evelyn Kirk?’
To Iris the question must have seemed utterly unrelated to her, but she answered politely. ‘To speak to. Not beyond that. She seemed like a very fine person. Why?’
I told her everything. ‘… and so I have to have help. I’m going to ask Gage and Robert to—’
‘No.’ Now she was alive in every way, a mother sensing danger to her child. ‘Absolutely not. I don’t want her involved. Someone is very dangerous. You’re fine. You can disappear. Gage can’t.’
‘Let me finish. I need their h
elp tomorrow, but they’ll have no contact with anyone in Evelyn Kirk’s house or anyone who was at the Kirk table at the banquet.’
She regarded me steadily. ‘What do you want them to do?’
I explained. In detail.
Iris gave a little sigh of relief, of acquiescence. ‘That seems reasonable. Safe. They’ll be together?’
‘Yes.’
‘At all times?’ Her stare was intense.
‘Yes.’
‘All right.’ A pause. ‘I see no harm. Or danger.’ Another slight smile. ‘It’s a very long shot.’
‘A shot worth taking. I’ll go see them now, make the arrangements. But Gage strikes me as nobody’s fool. She might be suspicious of a stranger. Can you give me something to tell her that will assure her I’ve spoken with you?’
‘Tell her you know Aunt Winnie’s secret for a successful Kool-Aid stand.’
I listened, smiled. Now I had everything I needed. And, of course, I didn’t discuss with Iris what I planned for Gage to do tonight.
Gage’s face, a young version of her mother’s elegant features, looked haunted, hunted, and desperate. She sat stiffly on the decrepit green sofa in Robert’s apartment. ‘We have to do something.’
Robert would gladly have stormed a barricade for her, carried her away from raging flood waters, flung himself in the way of an attacking bear.
‘Yeah. I wish we could do something.’ He hunched his shoulders, cracked the knuckles of his tightly clasped hands, made miserable by his inability to ease her despair. ‘But Megan Wynn’s a good lawyer. She’ll take care of your mom. Maybe we can talk to the police chief tomorrow.’
‘Talk won’t do any good. We have to do something.’ Gage’s voice quivered.
I said a silent yee-hah. Gage wanted to do something. I was glad to help. Back in the hallway, I took an instant before I Appeared. It was important to present myself as appealing and reassuring. I chose a dark blue silk blouse with a boat neck, mist gray linen trousers, and navy flats. As I lifted my hand to knock, I added a double strand pearl necklace and pearl buckles to the shoes. Real pearls have a presence. They indicate wealth, good taste, and respectability.
