Ghost Ups Her Game

by Carolyn Hart

  Abruptly, I was uneasy. Something was awry. Perhaps a primeval instinct was triggered. My eyes swept the area. The dark expanse of the kitchen. The partially open back door. The bowl of fruit on a kitchen table.

  I looked toward the door to the hall. I drew a quick breath. There was a faint line of light between the edge of the door and its frame. The door was ajar, a scant quarter-inch, but that door was closed when we entered the kitchen.

  Gage hunched near the phone, her voice shaky. ‘You have to dig her up—’

  I eased back a foot or so and disappeared.

  In the hallway outside the kitchen, Camille Dubois gripped the knob to the kitchen door. She had taken time to dress before she came downstairs, a blue T, black yoga pants, moccasins. Likely she wakened, wanted something to drink, perhaps a snack, dressed because shorty pjs would be much too revealing if she met anyone else abroad in the night. Anyone such as George Kirk. The globe in the hall ceiling glowed. Behind her a door was open to the area with the stairwell. Light gleamed there, too. She had turned on lights as she came downstairs, and now she stood fully visible, leaning close to the narrow aperture, listening.

  Gage’s young, clear voice grew louder and shakier as she grasped what she was saying. ‘… and do those kinds of tests, find out what caused her heart attack. The doctor …’

  I left Camille, stood behind Gage. I Appeared long enough to grip her arm. ‘Leave. Now. Get to the car. Don’t wait for me.’

  Startled, she whirled around. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I took the receiver from her hand, gave her a push. I hung up the receiver. ‘Go.’ My voice was low and urgent.

  Gage dashed across the kitchen, opened the door, plunged outside, leaving the door ajar.

  I disappeared as Camille eased open the hall door. She looked at the phone, the receiver firmly in its cradle. The kitchen was empty. She stiffened when she saw the door open to the terrace. She cautiously crossed the kitchen, grabbed the knob, slammed the door shut, locked it.

  Camille stood with her back against the door, staring now at the counter below the wall phone and the sheet from the legal pad lying there. Camille took three quick steps. She snatched up the sheet, read the printed message. She stared helplessly around the empty kitchen. She gave one last searching glance as she moved toward the hall. She turned off the hall light and started up the stairs. She slowed as she climbed, looking behind her.

  At the top, she gazed up and down the hallway. Her head was slightly bent as she listened, seeking any sound of movement. The quiet remained unbroken. Slowly, she turned toward her room, the crumpled sheet held tightly in her right hand. In her bedroom, the hall door firmly shut and locked, she walked to the chintz-covered chair, sank down. Her eyes were wide, fearful, despairing.

  Was she afraid for herself? Or for someone else?

  Camille opened her right hand. She spread out the crumpled sheet, smoothed it. Pushing up from the chair, she walked to a wall, removed a frame, a bright painting of a plains sunset. Turning the frame over, she unclipped the backing, slid the sheet inside, replaced the backing. She hung the painting on the wall and returned to the chair, sank down, buried her face in her hands.

  Gage poked her head out the open window of the moving car as Robert drove slowly along Comanche, passing the Kirk house. ‘There’s somebody over there.’

  ‘Looks like a big guy with a big dog. A real big dog.’ Robert clearly had no interest in speaking to a man walking a dog at half past two in the morning.

  ‘Slow down.’ Gage was insistent. ‘I’ll ask him.’

  ‘He’ll think we’re nuts. What are you going to say? We’re missing a redhead, have you seen her? Look, Gage, she can take care of herself. And what were you and the redhead doing in somebody’s kitchen? Did you two break and enter one of those houses?’ He swept a worried glance at the expensive homes on Comanche.

  My mouth opened. Robert needed elucidation. The door was unlocked, a trespass perhaps, but not breaking and entering. Just in time I recalled I was an unseen passenger in the back seat.

  Robert jammed the accelerator. ‘If we keep going up and down this street, you hanging out the window and wagging that flashlight, the cops are going to come for us. I don’t want to talk to another cop. Ever.’

  Gage thumped back in the seat. ‘I guess she’s all right. None of the houses have lights turned on and there would be lights blazing if anyone caught her in that kitchen.’

  Robert gripped the wheel with both hands. ‘Nobody caught her.’ His voice had an odd tone.

  Gage turned toward him. ‘You know something I don’t know. Who is she?’

  ‘A friend of your mom’s.’ There was a distinct lack of cheer in his tone. At the end of the block, he veered on to the winding road that led down the hill. The car picked up speed. Robert wanted to get as far away from Comanche as he could as quickly as possible.

  ‘She must be somebody special. Robert, she knows things you can’t imagine.’ Gage described the call to Crime Stoppers, words tumbling over each other. ‘When I heard Matt talking to somebody and wanting money to keep quiet, he meant Evelyn Kirk. Evelyn Kirk was murdered.’ Gage’s tone was hushed. ‘Matt should have gone to the police, but he didn’t. Instead of going to the police, he planned to get big bucks for Goddard so he’d be an even bigger shot than he was. I don’t know how she knew but she did and now the police know.’

  Robert’s literal mind was working its way forward. ‘I get it. This can be your mom’s ticket out of jail. But unless the redhead just likes to sneak around in the middle of the night, what’s the point of you getting into somebody’s kitchen and calling Crime Stoppers?’ He pulled into the parking lot by his apartment house.

  Gage turned her hands palms up. ‘I don’t know.’

  I did. The call wasn’t made in any old kitchen. The call was made on a landline in the kitchen of the Kirk house. The number would show up on Crime Stoppers. What mattered hugely was that the tip, the claim of murder, the call for exhumation came from the Kirk house and the speaker was an unidentified woman.

  Sam knew my voice. He heard Gage speak when she described the call she overheard on the Union terrace, but her voice tonight was jerky, shocked, higher than usual. Sam would not associate tonight’s call with Gage. He would not associate the call with me. He would accept the reality of a tip from someone who lived in Evelyn Kirk’s house. Evelyn Kirk had been a prominent, respected, admired citizen of Adelaide. Even though Sam believed he knew the reason for Matt Lambert’s murder, he would investigate this call. Sam would consider again the folded square of paper in Matt Lambert’s billfold.

  I gave myself a thumbs up for tonight’s work. If only I could do as well tomorrow.

  FOURTEEN

  I luxuriated in the shower, absorbing the hot splash, taking deep steamy breaths. This morning I was combating the effects of too little sleep, a lethargic brain, grainy eyes, flaccid muscles. I steeled myself, switched the handle. Cold needles of water spat against me. I shuddered, but I was awake. This was my Mount Everest Day. It was up to me to scale the heights, rescue Iris. I didn’t have a Sherpa guide at my side. Sam would investigate the Crime Stoppers tip, but the machinery of the law was still grinding against Iris. I was on my own. As Mama told us kids, ‘When nobody backs you up, you have to stand tall.’

  It was still early, just past seven, when I Appeared in a recessed entryway a few doors down from Lulu’s. I was casual in a dolman sleeve pale blue pullover and ankle-length denim pants and sandals. I patted one pocket, felt a change purse.

  Inside Lulu’s I took a counter seat at one end, my back to the door. I ordered and nodded yes for coffee. Lulu’s coffee is the perfect antidote for a late night, especially with two heaping teaspoons of sugar and a splash of thick fresh cream.

  The stool next to me creaked. ‘Thought you might be here.’ The deep voice was polite, but lacked any sense of camaraderie.

  Obviously the officer who listened to the Crime Stoppers recording this morning had
contacted Sam. I was courteous though somewhat formal, given the stiffness when we last parted. ‘Good morning.’ Pleasant but distant.

  He looked up at the waitress, ordered a double short stack with sausage and coffee. Side of whipped cream. As she turned away, he swung toward me. ‘Late night for you.’ A statement, not a question.

  I preferred to think in terms of retiring as the birds were stirring. Thanks to my cold shower and my choice always to appear as I was at twenty-seven – I glanced in the mirror opposite the counter – I looked quite rested. Almost indecently so. I gave him an innocent wide-eyed stare. ‘Actually rather early.’ As I say, early or late depends upon interpretation. ‘The beds are wonderfully comfortable at Rose Bower. I slept like a baby.’ Since most babies don’t slumber longer than three hours max, I was being quite truthful.

  The waitress brought our plates, syrup, and fresh pats of butter.

  I put two pats of butter on my French toast.

  Sam poured syrup over the short stacks, cut into one, forked a big piece, poked it in the mound of whipped cream. ‘You were in the Kirk house yesterday.’

  ‘I visited there late in the afternoon. Quite a lovely home.’

  ‘How about two o’clock this morning?’ The fork didn’t move and he watched me like a cougar stalking a fawn.

  I sang a verse of ‘Two O’Clock in the Morning’. ‘That’s a good time to sleep. If anything exciting occurred there at two a.m., it wasn’t my doing.’ It was Gage who spoke to Crime Stoppers. ‘What happened?’ My voice was eager.

  ‘A phone call.’ He still watched me with intensity.

  I gave a disappointed poof. ‘That’s not exciting.’ I leaned toward him. ‘You wouldn’t mention the call if it didn’t matter. Who called whom? And why at two a.m.? Sam, do you have a break in the case?’

  He asked quickly, ‘What case?’

  ‘Matt Lambert. He tried to force someone in that house to make a big gift. Do you know now who it was?’

  Sam demolished the remainder of the first stack, ignored my question. ‘Who did you talk to in the Kirk house?’

  My gaze was steady and open. ‘I have not spoken to anyone who lives or works in that house. Not yet. That’s on my agenda today.’

  He put down his fork, stared. ‘You haven’t talked to anyone there?’

  I was firm. ‘I have not talked to anyone in that house.’

  He continued to frown, ate absentmindedly, likely not even tasting the sweet syrup.

  I suspected his thoughts raced as he concluded that I wasn’t responsible for the call, I hadn’t maneuvered someone who lived there to call, and I hadn’t given a resident of the house information based on the note in Lambert’s wallet.

  He stared at the mirror, eyes narrowed. He wasn’t seeing his gray-flecked dark hair or remote expression. He was facing the reality that the informant was unknown to him and that Evelyn Kirk might be a murder victim.

  ‘OK.’ His tone was abstracted. He pulled out his billfold, slapped down a twenty and a five, plenty for two breakfasts, and a big tip. He turned on the stool, gave me a considering look. ‘I thought I’d tag you with a clever ploy last night. Looks like I got that wrong. So I’ll be checking out some information that I can’t share. But I’ll toss you a bone. An interesting fact turned up. Lambert’s office was a mess, soggy ashes, charred rug, floor, desk. Detective Smith went through everything. He said the only time he got dirtier was on a case where somebody hid a stolen Stradivarius in a compost heap. Violin was wrapped up real good. Smith wasn’t when he started tossing compost. Anyway, in the rubble of Lambert’s desk, he found a burner phone. The fire damaged the phone to the point we couldn’t get any information from it, but your idea that Lambert used a burner phone to make the call overheard by Gage is certainly possible.’ Sam slid off the stool. ‘Right now Iris Gallagher will be charged Monday morning. But I got some loose ends to see to.’

  He turned and lumbered toward the door, didn’t look back.

  A burner phone wouldn’t free Iris. But Sam was thinking and Sam would investigate the information left on Crime Stoppers. Would he force the exhumation of Evelyn Kirk’s body?

  Doctors don’t hold office hours on Saturdays. Matt Lambert played golf with Ken Thomas on Wednesday, came home excited, likely picturing a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. What did Dr Thomas say to Matt Lambert? Possibly they were close friends and Lambert was a man he trusted. The information the doctor shared indicated that the doctor was certain the lemonade caused Evelyn Kirk’s death.

  Lambert knew Evelyn added nothing to the lemonade, so when the drink arrived it contained a deadly dose. A deadly dose of what? Why did Evelyn’s doctor conceal the reason for her death? He would not hide murder. No one accidentally adds poison to drink. There was only one possible reason. Dr Thomas decided Evelyn took her own life. He concluded that Evelyn put a substance in her lemonade. Matt Lambert knew that wasn’t true.

  I thought: Dr Kenneth Thomas’s home. The rambling old wooden house had the charm of the last century, a verandah with a wooden swing, several cane chairs. A tall plastic pink flamingo graced the top step. Likely there was a cheerful family story behind the flamingo’s presence. A half-dozen bikes were parked near the front walk. Shouts and calls came from beyond the house and splashes. A teenage pool-party.

  I’d given a good deal of thought to my appearance, to my persona. A sleeveless lime-green maxi dress, notched neckline, tucked in slim waist, flaring skirt with a scalloped lace hem. I Appeared, confident the dress made a lovely contrast to red curls. Persona? Eager. Well meaning. But at this particular moment, sad and solemn. Committed to carrying out a quest for a friend but perhaps reluctant to bring up a difficult memory. Was I up to the task?

  As Mama often told me, ‘Missy, when you think you can’t take another step, remember the pioneers. If the wagon gets stuck in the mud, push it out. If a rattler rears its head, chop it off. If there’s a fire, pick up a bucket. Do what you have to do.’

  I pushed the doorbell. Instead of chimes, a crow cawed, loud and raucous. I was startled then I smiled. Someone had a sense of humor at the Thomas house. And possibly respect for a highly intelligent bird capable of making and using tools

  The door opened. A fortyish woman with an impatient air stood there, then called over her shoulder. ‘Ice cream at this hour is decadent. But hey, it’s July.’ She turned back to me. Bright dark eyes scanned me, possibly making sure I wasn’t a demanding patient. ‘Yes?’ Pleasant but coolly impersonal.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you at this early hour.’ An apologetic smile. ‘I’m Ellie Fitzgerald, a friend of Madeleine Timmons. Madeleine asked me to gather up memories of her mother’s last day. I talked to Mr Lambert …’

  Her expressive face was abruptly still and watchful.

  ‘… and he was very honest. He told me everything. It’s all dreadfully sad, but Madeleine wants me to tell Dr Thomas personally how much she appreciates his thoughtfulness to her mother.’

  Her stillness revealed the woman at the door knew what I meant by everything. She was well aware of the circumstances of Evelyn’s death.

  ‘He just left. He plays golf on Saturday.’

  ‘Oh, that will work out beautifully. I’ll catch him before he starts his round. It’s so important to Madeleine to understand what happened that day. Thank you.’ I turned and walked toward the steps. When the front door shut, I disappeared and stood in the hallway beside her as she held a cell phone.

  Her voice was low, the words rushed. ‘A girl came to the house just now looking for you. A friend of Evelyn Kirk’s daughter … She wants to know about Evelyn’s last day. She’s on her way to the country club. She said she talked to Matt Lambert. I’ve always been afraid someone would find out, but this girl seems all right. She says Madeleine appreciates what you did.’

  Context determines outcomes. I didn’t want the doctor to see me or my questions as a threat to his reputation or professional standing. I wanted him to respond to a plea from Evelyn
Kirk’s daughter. Now he would meet me as Madeleine’s friend, coming to thank him.

  I thought, Dr Thomas’s car.

  The silver BMW convertible, top down, occupied a shady slot beneath an oak tree in the country club parking lot. A dark-haired middle-aged man in a pale blue polo and navy Bermuda shorts that ended just above knobby knees slowly slid a cell phone into a back pocket. A leather golf bag leaned against the bumper. The bag held perhaps a half-dozen expensive-looking clubs. I remembered Bobby Mac’s old canvas golf bag, chock full of assorted clubs collected over the years, most of them bought second-hand. Thomas lifted his head and gazed around the parking lot. Was he looking for Madeleine’s friend?

  Flaming red crape myrtles bordered the driving range. Perhaps a half-dozen golfers worked on particular shots. A stocky blond teenager hit balls two hundred yards seemingly without effort. A tall lean woman practiced chip shots.

  An evergreen screened a parking area for golf carts. No one was near. I Appeared and walked around the evergreen toward the dark-haired doctor.

  His face was thin and sensitive. A serious man. When he entered an examining room, he would bring with him a gravity, an intensity. A patient would receive his full focus. A man who would listen.

  ‘Dr Thomas.’ I approached with a diffident smile. ‘I just visited with your wife. I’m Ellie Fitzgerald, a friend of Madeleine Timmons. As I told your wife, Madeleine wants me to thank you for your kindness to the family. I was in Dallas visiting another college friend and Madeleine called Thursday morning and asked me to come here.’ I was young and guileless, definitely not threatening. I clasped my hands together and now my voice was low and sad. ‘It broke Madeleine’s heart that she was so far away when her mom died. When she came back for the funeral, everything was such a blur and she wasn’t able to spend time talking to people to find out more. She asked me to find out about her mom’s last day.’ Now I was grave. ‘Of course I was shocked by what I learned from Mr Lambert. It’s odd,’ I sounded shivery, ‘that he was killed that night. I talked to him in late afternoon and he was very honest. He said she died because of something in the lemonade. How did you know?’