Who Invited the Ghost to Dinner: A Ghost Writer Mystery

by Teresa Watson

  “It was Saturday morning,” he said. “I went by the office to get some surveying equipment. As I was putting it in the bed of my truck, someone hit me from behind and knocked me out. I’ve spent the last four days tied up and blindfolded in some smelly cabin.”

  “So you never saw the person who was holding you hostage?” I said.

  “Never saw them, never heard them say a word. Only thing I heard was some damn yipping.”

  “Yipping?” Reynolds said.

  “A dog,” Junior said. “Little buggar peed on my leg a couple of times.”

  I looked at Mike, and then over my shoulder at the house. He dug the key out of his pocket. “Go look,” he said, handing it to me. “Reynolds, go with her.”

  “What are we looking for, Chief?”

  “Cam knows.”

  We let ourselves into the house. “Let’s check the garage first,” I said, turning to my left.

  “What are you looking for, Cam?”

  “Dog food.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I was here the day Pamela went missing,” I said, opening the garage door, “I noticed two small bowls sitting outside by the back door. When I was looking at the crime scene pictures a little while ago, I didn’t see the bowls. Why would a thief steal surveillance equipment, kill an officer, and take two dog bowls?”

  Reynolds shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing out here,” I said, going back into the house. When I walked in from the garage, I noticed the washer and dryer to my right. Over in the corner was an empty space. I went over to take a closer look, and spotted something on the floor. Bending over, I picked up a few pieces. “Well, will you look at that?”

  “What is it?”

  I stood up and held out my hand so he could see. “Dry dog food. Obviously, this is where Pamela stored it.”

  Going back outside, we rejoined Mike and Junior. “Any luck?” Mike asked me.

  I showed him what I was holding.

  Junior leaned over and looked, too. “Dog food. So what? What does that have to do with my kidnapping?”

  “Everything,” I told him.

  Chapter 41

  The four of us drove back to the station; Junior rode with Reynolds. “So, what do you think?” Mike asked me.

  “I think it was Pamela Dimwitty.”

  “Not by herself.”

  “Probably not, although I’m not sure who would have helped her. Certainly not VanMeter; he had nothing to gain.”

  “Joey?” Mike said.

  “I don’t think so. Remember what Prufrock told us. Clinton named Pamela as president of the company.”

  “That’s right,” Mike said. “If something happens to her, then Joey would take over. So he would benefit more from her disappearing than from Junior.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, we know that it was Pamela that was keeping Junior in that cabin. And she faked her own kidnapping, too.”

  “But did she kill Reagan?”

  “That I don’t know,” Mike said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “There are still too many unanswered questions, and I’m running out of people to ask.”

  We pulled into the station and parked. When the four of us went inside, there was an older gentleman standing at the counter, yelling at Goodwin. “Where is my son? I demand you bring him out here right now! You have no right to hold him.”

  “Calm down, old man, I’m right here,” Junior said.

  The man at the counter turned around. “Son! Oh, thank God you’re all right,” he said, coming over and giving his son a hug. “We’ve been so worried about you.”

  “So worried that you couldn’t bother to file a police report?”

  “We were told not to.”

  “By who?” Mike asked.

  “Chief Penhall, this is my father, Desmond Long Sr.”

  “Thank you for bringing my son home safely, Chief Penhall,” Long Sr. said, shaking Mike’s hand.

  “You’re welcome, sir. But how did you know we had found him?”

  “A woman called, said she was calling on your behalf. She wanted to inform me that my son had been found, and was being detained at the police station.”

  Mike walked over to the front desk. “Goodwin, did anyone make a call to this gentleman this evening? One of our female officers?”

  “None of them are on duty tonight, sir.”

  I noticed Mac walk through the front door (literally). He stopped in his tracks when he saw the Longs, and his mouth fell open. No pun intended, but he looked like he had just seen a ghost. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in any position to ask him about it.

  Mike came back over. “Why don’t you gentlemen go home for the night?” he suggested.

  “Don’t you want my son to give you a description of his kidnapper?” Long Sr. said.

  “We’ve already talked to your son, but he is unable to provide much information. He was blindfolded the entire time,” Mike told him. “Do you still have the note that was sent to you, Mr. Long?”

  “I’m not sure,” Long Sr. said. “It might be on my desk. I’ll have to check when I go home.”

  “If you do find it, would you mind putting it in a Ziploc bag? Pick it up from the corners only.”

  “My prints are all over it already, Chief.”

  “We might still be able to find other prints, sir. We’ll take your fingerprints for elimination purposes, of course. I would appreciate it if you would both come back in the morning, and file statements about what happened.”

  “We’ll be happy to cooperate, won’t we, Pops?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, not a problem. Come on, son. Let’s go home.”

  I watched them leave. “I’d say Pamela is definitely involved,” I said.

  “But she definitely had help,” Mike said.

  Mac was waving at me, motioning for me to go outside.

  I leaned closer to Mike. “Mac wants me to go outside. He took one look at the Longs, and became very upset. I better see what’s wrong.”

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  I walked outside, down the steps and turned to the right. Mac was leaning against the driver’s side of Mike’s patrol car. “What’s wrong, Mac?”

  “Who were those men in the lobby with you?” he asked me.

  “Desmond Long Sr. and his son, Desmond Jr. Junior is the one we’ve been looking for the last few days. Mike wanted to question him about Clinton’s death.”

  Mac shook his head. “That older man’s name is not Long.”

  “What? Who is he?”

  “Do you remember I told you about a man the mob sent out here to keep a close eye on Clinton? And I told you that I was hanging around to keep an eye on that guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s him, Cam. His name isn’t Long. It’s Brennan. And did you notice something else?”

  ******

  Mac vanished after his pronouncement, which was very frustrating. Mike came out a few minutes later. “Ready to go home?” he asked me.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said as we got in the car.

  “What did Mac have to say?” he asked me as he started the car.

  I put my arm on his hand. “I think we better go back inside.”

  “Why?”

  I took my seatbelt off. “I’ll explain inside.”

  We grabbed a couple of drinks before we went into his office. “What’s going on?” Mike said as he closed his office door.

  “Is there any way you can call Vegas and ask them to check someone out?”

  “Well, yeah, I can. But why would I want to?”

  “When Clinton first borrowed the money for the company, the mob sent someone to keep an eye on him. At first, he just came out here once in awhile. But eventually, they decided the best way to keep an eye on their investment was to put someone on the inside of the company.”

  “That sounds like good business s
ense,” Mike said.

  “Do you remember what Mac told us about them making him vice-president of the company?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was in name only. I don’t think he had enough power in the organization to force Clinton to do anything, which is why they put someone else in the company.”

  “But we don’t know who that someone is, or was, Cam.”

  “Did you get a good look at Long Sr.’s shoes?”

  “His shoes?” Mike said. “Why in the world would I be looking at his shoes?”

  “They were black and white wingtips.”

  “So the guy likes to wear old fashioned shoes.”

  I just looked at him.

  “What? I’m sorry, what’s so important about black and white shoes?”

  “Whoever hit me the other day behind the theatre, and whoever killed Clinton was wearing black and white shoes.”

  Mike almost choked on his water. “Oh, come on, Cam! You don’t really think Desmond Long Sr., one of the most respected men in the community, killed Clinton Ingram?”

  “His name isn’t Long.”

  “Oh, this ought to be good. If his name isn’t Long, then what is it?”

  “Brennan.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Mac told me.”

  “You want me to take the word of a ghost about this man’s identity?”

  “Did you ever hear back from your friend in Vegas?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Mike said. “He sent me a whole bunch of information in an overnight package. I haven’t had a chance to go through it yet, though.”

  “Would you mind if I took it home and looked at it?”

  “Sure, knock yourself out. I really don’t need it anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious that Pamela Dimwitty is behind everything,” Mike said. “She’s got an accomplice, though. I’m just not sure who yet. It’s a big coincidence that VanMeter is also out of town.”

  “But you confirmed he’s at a conference.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t help her snatch Long Jr. before he left.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Mike.”

  “I do,” he replied. “Everything is pointing at Pamela. I’ve put out an APB on her. We’ll find her. She’s going to be charged with capital murder for Reagan’s death. She’ll get the needle for that.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  “I think you are.”

  “Look, I appreciate all the help you and Mac have given to me during this case. But I’ve got it from here.”

  I stood up. “We need to go to the Ingram house.”

  “Why?”

  “When we found Stanley Ashton’s murderer, you were able to see Stanley, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “If you are so sure that Pamela Dimwitty is your killer, then let’s find out. If you tell me that you can see Clinton, I’ll back off.”

  “And if I can’t?” Mike said, standing up and grabbing his car keys.

  “Then we find Brennan.”

  “Fair enough,” Mike said, with the confidence of a man who knew he was right.

  I hoped he was wrong.

  Chapter 42

  Thursday night/Friday morning

  Mac opened the door for us when we arrived at the Ingram house twenty minutes later. “What’s up?” he asked me as he closed the door behind us.

  “We came to see you and Clinton,” I said.

  “About Brennan?”

  “Yes, about Brennan,” I said, glancing sideways at Mike, who shook his head.

  “Is he mad about something?” Mac said.

  “No, just sure he is right about who the killer is.”

  “He thinks it’s Brennan?”

  “No, he thinks it’s Pamela Dimwitty. So where is everyone?”

  “In the living room.”

  “Come on,” I told Mike. “They’re in the living room.”

  The three of us walked into the living room. Clinton and Lillian were sitting on the couch, their heads pressed close together. I heard her giggle at something he said.

  “Well?” I said to Mike. “Do you see Clinton?”

  “Of course I do,” he said.

  “Really? Where is he?”

  “Sitting in that tall chair by the fireplace.”

  “What’s he wearing?”

  “Don’t you believe me?” he said.

  “No, actually, I don’t. I think you want to be right so much that you’d lie about it. Now, what’s he wearing?”

  “A suit and tie.”

  I glanced at Clinton, who was giving me a funny look. He was wearing a smoking jacket, pants, shirt, and no tie. “Can you do something to let him know where you’re at?” I asked him.

  “I’ll try,” Clinton replied. He put his foot on the edge of the coffee table and pushed it. The table slid a couple of feet, and I saw Mike jump and then frown.

  I took his hand in mine. “Mike, this isn’t like you. You’re not the type of cop who would go after a particular person without solid proof. I think you feel guilty about what happened to Reagan, and it’s making you want to find a killer, no matter what. You can’t just grab onto the smallest connection and be satisfied that you have the right person. That dishonors your badge and Reagan.”

  “You’re right,” he said after a couple of minutes. “Okay, I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

  I had brought in the file that Mike had given me, and I dropped it on top of the coffee table and slid it back into place. “Clinton, we have some questions about Desmond Long Sr.”

  Clinton frowned. “What about him?”

  “How did you come to hire him?” I said, opening the file.

  He thought about it a minute. “I was at a job site one day when he came over and started asking questions. He seemed like a nice guy, knew what he was talking about, which was refreshing. A lot of the men on the job site only knew about specific things, like the drywall, or framing, things like that. But this guy seemed to know it all.”

  I looked at Mac, who shrugged. “And then what?”

  “There was an accident. The bricklayers were working on the second floor of a house when the scaffolding collapsed. Long was there that day, talking to me as usual. He ran over with me, helped take care of the men. We loaded the injured guys into the back end of a truck and one of the other guys drove them to the hospital. When I turned around, Long was helping the other bricklayers reconstruct the scaffolding. And then he climbed up there next to them and started laying bricks! I couldn’t believe it. I hired him after that.”

  I found a picture in the file and slid it across the coffee table toward Clinton. “Is this Long?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, that’s him. That’s what he looked like when I first hired him.”

  I told Mike everything Clinton had said as I picked up the picture and looked at the back of it. “Well, would you look at that?” I said. I handed the picture to Mike, who flipped it over and looked at the back of it. “What do you have to say now?”

  Mike handed the picture back to me and pulled out his phone. “Reynolds, I want you to go pick up Desmond Long Sr. right now. No, I’m not kidding. What? Tell him that I have an urgent matter to discuss with him, and he’s the only one with the inside information to help me.”

  “What’s going on?” Clinton asked me.

  “He wants to know what’s going on, Mike.”

  “Tell him.”

  I looked over at Mac. “Up to you.”

  “He needs to know.”

  “The man you know as Desmond Long Sr. is really a man named Brennan. He was an inside man for the mob. They might have forced you to name Mac vice president, but it was Brennan who did all the dirty work.”

  Mike gasped. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can see her.”

  “Who?”

  “Lillian. She’s sitting on the couch.�
�� He stared at them for a minute. “Is she wearing pearls?”

  “Yes, she is,” I said. “Can you see Mac?”

  “No, just her.”

  Mac looked disappointed. “It’s okay,” I told him. “That just means we haven’t found your killer yet. Don’t give up.”

  “We better go,” Mike said. “I’ve got some work to do.”

  “Chief, we appreciate what you’re doing for us,” Lillian said.

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Ingram.”

  I put everything back in the folder. “Thank you for your help,” I told them.

  “You’ll keep us posted?” Clinton asked.

  I nodded. “When I know something, I’ll do my best to let you know.”

  Mike’s phone rang as we walked out. “Penhall. Yeah, Reynolds, what’s up?” He stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Are you kidding me?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “All right, meet me back at the station. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Long Sr., aka Brennan, has done a runner. They went back to the family house, so his mother could see that Junior was all right. Apparently, as soon as his son got out of the car and closed the door, Brennan left and he hasn’t come back. His phone goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Can’t you track him through his GPS?”

  “I’m going to try that as soon as I get back to the station, which is why I need to take you home.”

  “I understand.”

  When he dropped me off, he said, “Make sure you turn on the alarm as soon as you get inside.”

  “I will.”

  “And do me a favor. Go through the rest of that file and see what you can find out. Maybe he has a hideout or a specific place he likes to go to get away from it all, so to speak.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  I started to close the car door, but he stopped me. “One last thing. Don’t go anywhere by yourself. Call me, Randy or your folks if you need to go out.”

  “Why? You don’t think he’ll come after me, do you?”

  “I don’t plan on taking any chances.”

  “You watch your own back. I’ll take care of mine.”

  Mike grinned. “I could make a comment, but I don’t have time to follow up on it right now. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

  I laughed and closed the car door. He waited until I was inside before he left. Despite my bravado, the first thing I did was turn on the alarm. Hey, I’m brave, not stupid.