by Carolyn Hart
Chief Cobb blocked her way. “I’d like a moment of your time, Mrs. Clark.” He was polite, but commanding.
Kay sank back onto the stool and the chief slid into my place. “The usual, Imogene.” He turned toward Kay.
Her dark eyes looked apprehensive, but her face was molded in pleasant inquiry. “What can I do for you, Chief Cobb?”
He studied her. “I’ve looked into your background. You are exactly who you claim to be, a successful nonfiction author and a longtime friend of Jack Hume’s.” There the slightest emphasis on friend.
Her expression didn’t change. She said nothing.
His bulldog face was intent. His dark eyes were not so much combative as stern. “You claim to be writing a book about him. I did a little checking. Your publisher never heard of that book. Apparently, the usual procedure would be for you to submit a proposal. You haven’t. According to your editor, you’re writing a book about Meg Whitman.”
The waitress brought iced tea and shot another puzzled look toward the door.
Kay folded her arms. “Jack’s death prompted me to honor his request that I write a book about him. I have every intention of completing the other manuscript. However, I didn’t believe I’d have another opportunity to interview those who spent time with Jack here in Adelaide.”
Imogene slid a plate in front of the chief.
He cut a cheeseburger in half, then gave Kay a level, searching look. “You may be interested to know I wasn’t the first person to ask about the book. Apparently a reporter for the Adelaide Gazette called your publisher yesterday afternoon. I contacted the Gazette. You might be interested to know that no Gazette reporter made that inquiry.”
“A man or a woman?” She stared at him, tense and eager.
“Summer colds are nasty, aren’t they? The caller apologized for hoarseness. Could have been either a man or woman.” He ate part of his hamburger, dipped a french fry in ketchup. “Now, you’re a lot better at asking than answering. I won’t waste your time and mine with questions. Instead, I’ll tell you the way I see it.” His deep voice was matter-of-fact, but he exuded the tough competence of a cop who looked hard and missed little. “You are contacting the people who were at The Castle the night Jack Hume died. Last night you arranged to meet someone in the garden. That cul-de-sac is a nice secluded spot for a quiet chat. I imagine someone left you a note.” His eyes never left her face.
Kay’s gaze dropped to the counter.
“You were a sitting duck when somebody pushed that vase. We got a 911 call, but not from you. If you hadn’t insisted that the vase toppled in an accident, we could have investigated last night. Now we’re blocked. Evelyn Hume won’t file a complaint. Moreover, I’d bet my season tickets to the Sooners that somebody’s been busy on that pedestal, smoothing away any evidence a chisel was used to loosen the vase.” His brown eyes were hard. “My take is that you believe Jack Hume was murdered and you’re stirring up people you suspect. You’ve started down a path and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. However, you can do me a favor. Fill me in on what you’ve learned.”
“Why?” Her question was short and crisp.
“When somebody finds your body, I’ll know what you know.” His dispassionate tone made the words even more chilling.
Kay drew in a quick breath. Slowly, she faced him. “Am I correct that you won’t actively investigate right now?”
He nodded. “I’m blocked. But if something happens to you…”
The unspoken proposition was grim: if someone killed Kay, he would have a head start if he knew what she now knew.
“All right. I get your point.” Her voice was steady, though thin. “I found a note in my room after dinner. She quoted, ‘Be on the terrace at midnight in the cul-de-sac. I know what happened to Jack.’”
He gave a short, hard shake of his head. “What did you think the murderer wanted to do? Confess?”
“I intended to be careful.” She didn’t mention the gun.
“You are”—he bit off the words—“a damn fool, Mrs. Clark. Murder is my job, not yours.”
“Chief Cobb, if I could prove Jack was murdered, I would have come to you first. I don’t have proof. I came to Adelaide because he was angry and upset with several people. If you started an investigation, I would never have a chance to get information from any of those people.”
“I’ve been talking to suspects for a long time. I’ll share a little fact with you.” His tone was sardonic. “People lie.”
She lifted her chin. “They are more likely to tell the truth if they don’t know they are suspects.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Sometimes they squeal like pigs on their way to slaughter to show they are innocent and fall all over themselves to pitch dirt about other people. But one of them may make sure you don’t find out too much.”
Kay slid from the stool.
He looked after her. “Of course, you may be lucky. You said your assistant was with you last night. Your redheaded assistant, Francie de Sales.” Cobb took a bite of cheeseburger, wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “According to your editor, you’ve never had an assistant, always worked alone. We ran some checks in the Dallas area. No luck with Francie de Sales.”
Kay managed a smile. “I don’t know too much about Francie. She seems capable enough.”
It wasn’t what I would call a sterling endorsement.
“Anyway, she was with you last night. I’m betting she pushed you out of the way of the vase. Am I right?”
Now it was Kay who stared with wide eyes. “Yes.”
“You could even say”—his tone was ruminative—“that your being saved was miraculous.”
His gaze held hers and between them passed an understanding.
Kay swallowed. “You’ve seen—”
I pinched Kay, once, hard.
She jumped.
A kind of smile tugged at Chief Cobb’s broad lips. He looked speculatively about. Certainly he couldn’t see me, hovering above and slightly behind Kay. I had no doubt he knew I was near.
“Yeah. Sometimes we can’t explain everything.” He stirred sugar into his coffee, gave her a sober look. “You can’t always count on miracles, Mrs. Clark.”
CHAPTER TEN
I waited until the convertible was well out of sight from downtown before I swirled into the passenger seat. “I’ve been thinking.”
“What an accomplishment.” Kay’s tone didn’t invite me to share. She shot a searching glance at me. “I gather you and Chief Cobb have a history.”
I tried to look modest. “I’ve been honored to assist the department on previous visits.”
Slowly, her lips curved into a smile. “I’ll bet there are some stories behind that sweet modicum of words. Maybe someday the chief and I can let our hair down and trade ghost stories.”
I cleared my throat. “Just in case Wiggins is about, perhaps you might refrain from comments guaranteed to distress him.”
“Oh, boy. Wow. I sure wouldn’t want to distress the head spook—”
The rumble from the backseat sounded like a cross between a water buffalo’s bellow and the strangled gurgle of a suddenly unplugged drain.
Kay hunched over the wheel. “Just kidding. One sp—One helper is all I need.”
“Spook!” Wiggins’s deep voice quivered. “Bailey Ruth, this is the fruit of your transgressions. Constant appearances and open interaction with your recalcitrant subject have now”—and his anguish was obvious—“caused me to breach Precept Three.”
Kay glanced in the rearview mirror at the empty backseat. “Precept Three?”
“‘Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.’” Wiggins was chagrined. “My lapse clearly reflects that I have succumbed to the temptation against which I warn all emissaries. I have become too much of the world instead of pursuing my duties unseen, unnoticed, and unsung in the world. I succumbed to the worldly sin of anger.” His voice fell lower than I had ever heard him speak, a man in de
spair.
“Wiggins, your instinct trumped the rules.” My voice was fervent in admiration. “You have come to the rescue. Who would have thought you would be this clever! Of course, you are always on top of your job. But your appearance now, at this moment”—I gave Kay a sub rosa pinch—“has made all the difference. Look at Kay.” Was I adroit enough to pluck Wiggins from his abyss of contrition?
I pointed at Kay.
Kay appeared startled and a shade (sometimes I succumb to pun fun) apprehensive. Kay also looked youthful and very attractive as the wind whipped her dark hair. Her gaze continued to flicker toward the backseat.
“I’m looking.” Wiggins sounded resigned, but I thought I sensed the faintest hint of hope that I could restore his equilibrium.
Kay’s peek in the rearview mirror reconfirmed the emptiness of the backseat. Her shoulders tightened.
“Kay regrets her failure to fully cooperate.” I was counting on Kay’s obvious desire to see—uh—hear the last of Wiggins. “Since I appeared solely to prevent the reckless firing of her gun in the garden last night and thereby was glimpsed by a resident of the house, remaining invisible at all times was no longer possible for me and I put aside my personal wish to honor each and every Precept.”
The silence in the backseat seemed somewhat receptive.
So far, so good. “Your well-timed arrival emphasizes the importance the department places upon Kay’s safety. I’m sure before you depart, Kay will pledge her willingness to follow my directives so that I may remain unseen, unnoticed, and unsung, except, of course”—my tone suggested this to be a trifling matter—“for those household moments now required by my initial appearance.” This not only gave me latitude, but reemphasized the point that my actual presence on the scene had become essential. “Before you leave—is there anywhere you are needed at the moment, Wiggins?”
“Well…”
I pictured Wiggins tugging at his walrus mustache.
“There is one small matter, a too-diffident emissary at Ulaa Lodge in Patagonia. From one extreme to another.” He sounded exasperated.
I chose not to respond to the latter comment. “Please, don’t let us delay you. Quickly, now, Kay, so that Wiggins may depart in good conscience, repeat after me: I, Kay Clark—”
She shot me a look of unadulterated fury.
My left hand wasn’t visible to Wiggins. I poked Kay’s arm and jerked a thumb toward the backseat.
Kay took a deep breath. “I, Kay Clark—”
“—do hereby solemnly promise on my word of honor—”
“—do hereby solemnly promise on my word of honor—”
“—to cooperate fully with Department of Good Intentions Emissary Raeburn.”
“—to cooperate”—she sounded morose—“with Department of Good Intentions Emissary Raeburn.”
I firmly believe formality encourages decorum. Ask any former high school English teacher. Ah, Department of Good Intentions Emissary Raeburn! If that didn’t have a ring! Possibly I might design a card. DGIE Bailey Ruth Raeburn would look impressive in bright red script. I have a fondness for red.
I gave Kay a magnanimous smile, then looked over the seat. “Thanks to you, Wiggins, our ship is now on course. Have a great trip to Ulaa Lodge.”
“You are very kind. Bailey Ruth, I know you do your best.” If he took comfort in that conclusion, it wasn’t evident from voice. “But, please, try harder.”
“You can count on me.”
Possibly I heard a sigh that faded away on the wind.
As the convertible started up the hill to The Castle, Kay still clutched the wheel in a tight grip.
Halfway up, I reassured her. “He’s gone.”
Her sideways glance was cold. “Is blackmail included in your Precepts?”
“Now, now.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“The psychological profiles—”
“Spare me.” Her words were clipped. “If you want to send me off to twiddle my thumbs, say so.”
“That is an unworthy accusation.” I didn’t dispute its accuracy. “Actually, you can accomplish a great deal by finding out what makes these people tick. Paul Fisher can tell you everything about them.”
“Paul Fisher?” She spoke his name with a mixture of hesitancy and eagerness.
“He’s the obvious choice. He knows these people intimately and he was Jack’s best friend.” Moreover, I felt confident Kay would be absolutely safe in his company. On the day of the murder, the lawyer had dined in Oklahoma City with golf friends and not returned to Adelaide until late. He could not have slipped through shadows to push his old friend down steep steps. Nor had we discovered any hint of a rift between the two men. It was true that Paul hadn’t told Kay about Jack’s interest in Gwen and Clint Dunham, but the lawyer didn’t know that Kay’s questions had to do with murder, not a biography. “See what you can find out from him this afternoon. Then we’ll have a better idea on where to concentrate our efforts.”
“‘Our’ efforts? What will you be doing while I round up insights?”
“Popping here and there.”
“Mine but to do, mine not to question why?” The Corvette turned into The Castle drive. “Okay. I’ll play your game after I talk to Diane, Jimmy, and Margo.”
I held up my hand. “Leave them to me. They know you were close to Jack. How forthcoming do you think they will be? But me, I’m the help. I didn’t know Jack Hume. They are much more likely to drop their guard with me.”
She looked thoughtful as she braked. “Much as it galls me to admit it, you’ve got a point.”
I glanced at my watch. I had a little over an hour before my meeting at the gazebo with Gwen Dunham. There was much to do. “I appreciate your cooperation. Let’s go inside and I can meet my hostess.” And possibly others. “Then you can be on your way to Paul Fisher’s office.”
I glanced around to be certain no one was observing the car, then transformed my appearance. Gone was the jade green cotton top with a square neck and cap sleeves, short white skirt with green-stemmed daisies, and white sandals. Instead, I wore a drab, too-large taupe smock, black slacks, green tennis shoes, and Ben Franklin granny glasses. Most painful was the lack of makeup. Even red hair and appearing twenty-seven didn’t save me from looking like a street waif.
Kay’s eyes widened. “Have you had a nervous breakdown?”
I pushed the granny glasses higher on my nose. “Would you worry about talking to me?”
Diane Hume had changed from her gardening clothes to an Irish linen blouse in a robin’s-egg blue, perfect for her faded blond prettiness, and navy slacks. I was glad the light was fairly dim in the main hallway, though she apparently hadn’t noticed my transformation from stylish assistant in the gazebo to Francie Frump in the hallway.
Diane’s smile was shy and welcoming. “Just leave your suitcase here.” She gestured at the base of the broad stone stairway. “Margo will bring it to your room. Margo’s our wonderful housekeeper. If you need anything, Margo will see that you get it.” Diane looked at Kay. “Francie will be in the white room, just down the hall from you.”
I felt warmly toward Diane. Perhaps she’d noticed my hair, which flamed while the rest of me drooped, and decided the white room offered the proper background.
“That’s excellent.” Kay’s enthusiasm seemed to be well contained.
Diane said diffidently, “If you’d like, I’ll show Francie the main rooms on the lower floor before we go up, and then she’ll know her way around.”
Kay looked like someone marooned on an island who sights a cruise ship. “That would be such a help. I’ll slip away. I have an appointment at the historical society.” Her glance flicked toward a shadowy alcove.
Diane looked impressed. “I know you have so much you need to learn. I’ll take good care of Francie.”
My gaze swung to the alcove. Ronald Phillips stood very still, his figure almost invisible, except for the telltale gleam of white buck shoes.<
br />
White buck shoes might be passé, but I suspected they added a buoyancy to Ronald’s steps. He no doubt saw himself as quite the dandy fellow, and he continued to be a man who never hesitated to eavesdrop. Was he observing Diane? Or did he have suspicions about Kay?
I didn’t envy his shoes, but I loathed my current pair. Appearance does matter. A beautifully patterned, swinging silk makes a woman feel butterfly free and just as lovely. I wasn’t enjoying being Francie the Frump. Perhaps better shoes would lift my spirits. The green tennis shoes gave way to adorable ruffled orange leather flip-flops.
Kay drew in a sharp breath and shook her head warningly.
I gave her a reassuring pat on her elbow.
If Ronald hadn’t been watching, I suspect she would have chastised me. My smile was blithe as she walked away.
Diane had turned toward an archway. “The living area is this way.” I followed Diane through the main living and dining rooms. The heavy Victorian furniture was massive, lightened by occasional Chinese chairs and couches, many of them either red or gold, an odd but intriguing combination of styles. She flicked on lights to illuminate paintings and statuary. She paused in the dining room to look up at an enormous painting of an angel garbed in denim blue holding a small drum. Two lines of blue feathers accented huge golden wings. “This is one of my favorites. James says the drumbeat is so soft it seems as though you are listening to God’s heart. He knows.” She turned limpid, trusting blue eyes on me. “You see, my friend Laverne—you haven’t met her yet, but you will—is able to reach out to James. That’s my husband. He died five years ago.” Tears made her eyes brilliant.
“Hearing from him must bring you great comfort.” Hopefully Wiggins was deeply engaged at Ulaa Lodge. I well knew the stricture in Leviticus 19:31. I intended to unmask Laverne as a fraud before Kay and I left Adelaide. You might well ask how it was that I, admittedly a spirit, abhorred spiritualism. Ah, the difference is that I had been dispatched from Heaven to help. Mediums claiming to contact those who have passed over were initiating contact from earth. Legitimate contact came solely from Heaven.
