Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  I would have been scared, too. I made my voice warm and relaxed. “Everything will be fine.”

  I hoped Saint Jude was listening. I was beginning to feel like it would definitely take a miracle to free Susan.

  Chapter 10

  I would not want to be seen as a complainer. I simply state that arduous activity, both physical and mental, is as wearing on an earthly visitor as for anyone else. In other words, a ghost—excuse me, Wiggins prefers emissary—knows when it is three o’clock in the morning and the next day is a final chance to accomplish a mission that looks doomed to failure. I needed energy, but I had one more task before I could snatch a bit of rest.

  Sam’s office, of course, was dim and quiet. The password was unchanged. I skimmed the reports labeled re: Fitch/Ross homicides, made several notes. As I read, I felt as cheerless as an OU booster leaving the stone-quiet stadium after the Irish trounced the Sooners 7–0 on November 16, 1957, ending OU’s forty-seven-game winning streak. In essence, the reports could be summed up: Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert. I was pleased by one sentence in Sam’s cogent conclusions: If Ross dead at nine forty-five, Gilbert innocent and shot heard by Porter/Warren an anomaly. Unfortunately, the very next sentence was a sobering qualification: ETD (estimated time of death) is notoriously unreliable, so it’s possible Gilbert shot Ross immediately upon arrival at the cabin.

  I went to the blackboard, printed the initial sentence. I underlined innocent three times, then squeezed my tired face in thought, forced myself to concentrate. I needed Sam’s help. As Mama always told us kids, “If you want someone to join your parade, play the trombone like you’re Tommy Dorsey.”

  SUSAN GILBERT NOT GUILTY

  Check for Susan Gilbert’s prints in the cabin.

  Confirm Susan Gilbert not a gun owner, has never shot a gun.

  Gunshot at seven past ten occurred outside cabin, near lake. Ask Officers Porter and Warren to describe shot. If the gun went off inside cabin, the sound should have been muffled, less distinct.

  Person who called Susan Gilbert to arrange meeting at the cabin was male.

  Wilbur Fitch’s murderer attended luncheon where Wilbur called Susan and asked her to open the safe and bring the Roman coins and Juliet Rodriguez talked about Susan’s ditzy sister, Sylvie. Five men attended the luncheon in addition to the host. Those men are Ben Fitch, George Kelly, Alan Douglas, Harry Hubbard, and Todd Garrett. One of them killed Wilbur Fitch and Carl Ross. It is important to determine their whereabouts last night between nine and ten thirty p.m. Do not approach them directly. Ascertain their activities from other sources.

  • • •

  I was at Lulu’s at six a.m. Thursday when the lights flashed on and the door was unlocked. As I stepped inside, I glanced at the mirror behind the counter. I take special care in choosing my ensemble for a challenging day. I admired my choices, a pale blue blouse with dark blue cotton dots, white wool slacks, and blue moccasin flats with silver metallic beads. But when I slid onto a red leather stool, my gaze went straight from the image to the round clock. One minute past six. At noon, if the schedule still held, there would be a press conference at the mayor’s office starring Neva Lumpkin. The mayor would likely be eager to announce that Susan Gilbert was being held as a material witness, that she had been found at the scene of yet another murder. This would be a stellar press day for Neva Lumpkin. Would she be content to settle for Susan as a material witness or would she press for an arrest today?

  The stool beside me creaked. Sam Cobb looked weary in the mirror, face somber, brown suit wrinkled, likely the same one he’d worn yesterday. “Claire stayed up ’til I got home. I told her to sleep in, I’d pick up a bite at Lulu’s. Thought you’d be here.” He looked up at the waitress. “The lady and I are together.” He ordered for both of us and included all my favorites: sausage, grits, fried eggs, waffles, and Texas toast.

  The waitress gave him a bright smile. “Coming right up, hon.”

  Sam waited until she moved away before he gave me a level stare. “I went by the office first. The DA will ask me if I believe in unicorns if I try to convince him Gilbert’s not the perp because of some leeway on the ETD.”

  As Mama always said, “When you disagree with a man, say it like you think he’s wonderful.”

  I gave him an admiring look. “Of course we all know”—I put us in the same lifeboat—“ETDs can be questionable. Lots of variability. But when the ME arrives on the scene so soon after death, isn’t the estimate more likely to be accurate?”

  “Hmmm.”

  Our orders arrived. Sam put honey on his toast, I plopped butter in the grits. We spoke between bites.

  “Cell phones register when calls occur, so the fact that Susan received the call a little before ten won’t be in dispute. Moreover, her sister can testify the call was received in their living room.” I indulged myself and pooled a little honey on my plate. Sausage and honey are scrumptious.

  Sam ate stolidly. “Hmmm.”

  “Of course”—I beamed at him—“Jacob Brandt was cautious, he always is, but he clearly thought Carl Ross had been dead for at least an hour, probably longer. In fact,” and now, as per Mama, I spoke with pleasant certainty, “it’s likely Ross was shot at nine thirty. That gave the killer time to use the phone in the cabin and call Susan’s cell.” I looked at him inquiringly. “Did the tech find fingerprints on the telephone?”

  Sam was halfway through his waffle. I decided it would not be tactful to inquire if waffles were included in his diet. He looked like he was enjoying his breakfast, if not the conversation. “Indeterminate.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “No clear prints.”

  I felt a surge of satisfaction. “As if perhaps the last person to hold the cradle did so with a gloved hand.”

  “Could be put that way.”

  “And where were Susan’s prints found?”

  “At the sink. On the cold-water handle.”

  “Anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  “Back to the telephone with smudged prints. A call from the cabin would show Wilbur Fitch on caller ID. Sylvie told Susan the call was from the Fitch house. Susan said the caller spoke very softly. If the killer made that call, Ross was already dead, so Brandt likely was right that he died around nine thirty.”

  “Yeah.” Sam wasn’t too concerned. “A defense attorney can spin the time, get Brandt on the stand, but Brandt will be the first to hem and haw, say ETDs are variable, yes he could have been shot a few minutes after ten, and then the DA points out with great drama that two officers arriving on the scene heard a shot at seven past ten and found Carl Ross dead upon entering the cabin and the defendant there with Ross’s blood on her shoe.”

  “Just for a moment let’s say I’m right and that shot was intended to convict Susan.”

  Sam’s broad face was suddenly pleased. “Bingo. The logical fallacy. Why do we know there was a shot at seven past ten?”

  “It was heard by Susan and by your officers.”

  “If Porter and Warren weren’t following Gilbert, they would not have heard the shot, and it’s their testimony that will convict her. How did this mythical murderer know there would be anyone to hear a shot purportedly fired to incriminate Gilbert?”

  I relaxed. For a moment I’d feared we were engaged in the if-a-tree-falls-in-the-woods-and-no-one-is-present-is-there-a-sound debate, and I’ve never done well with that. As far as I’m concerned of course there is a sound. It’s only that no one heard it. “You need to read yesterday afternoon’s Gazette. Joan Crandall covered the mayor’s press conference and informed Gazette readers that surveillance was in place, and the story makes it clear that surveillance was linked to Susan.”

  Sam’s good humor evaporated. “Neva strikes again.”

  “Now, as I was saying, let’s assume Susan did not shoot a gun at seven past ten.”

&nbs
p; He balanced some scrambled eggs on a bite of waffle.

  I spoke a little louder. “If the killer was out in the woods and shot the gun after Susan arrived, that means the call to Susan was not made by Carl Ross. Wilbur’s murderer called her after killing Ross. Susan was called by a man, just as it was a man who made the fake ransom call. There are five men who had the knowledge to set up the web that entangled Susan. Do you agree?”

  “If I accept your premise.”

  I reached across the table, put my hand atop his broad strong hand. “You’ll find out where the five men were last night when Ross was shot.”

  Sam was resistant. “Ah, the famous five. You put them on a list because they are men and the caller was male. The odds are like ninety-nine percent that the male caller was Carl Ross and he said she’d better hike over to see him or he’d go to the police because he saw something that would send her to prison. Maybe he saw her sneaking out of the study with a blackjack in her hand. Maybe he followed her and knows where the weapon is.” His voice had a touch of bluster.

  I shook my head. “The caller didn’t threaten her. The content was clever. The caller acted reluctant to be involved, and you know a lot of people don’t want to get involved with the police. The caller enticed her by saying he knew something that could help clear her.”

  Sam raised a grizzled eyebrow. “So that’s what Gilbert claims. Of course that’s what she’d say.” He balled his napkin in a wad, finally, grudgingly, said, “There’s a couple of points in her favor. The test for gunshot residue showed her right hand clean. Of course she’d just washed it. She claims because of blood.”

  “Would Susan even know about gunshot residue?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe she just thought her hand felt greasy. Whatever. No residue. Another maybe positive point is a next-door neighbor thought she saw a flashlight in the Gilbert backyard around one fifteen a.m., but by the time she got out on her back porch, everything was quiet so she decided she’d made a mistake. Of course, Gilbert would have used a flashlight, too. But there’s a boost for your five-men theory. Minerva Lloyd showed up at the station yesterday, asked to see Detective Sergeant G. Latham. They called me from downstairs. I told them to send her up. One good-looking broad. I told her Detective Sergeant Latham wasn’t available but I would be glad to help her. The upshot was she’d seen the story in the Gazette and thought we ought to know that Wilbur told her, it was the Saturday night before the anniversary dance, that he was going to make some big changes at Fitch Enterprises, starting the day after the party. She said, Wilbur had on his buccaneer face, said he wanted the best for the company. He looked at me and said he always surrounded himself with the best, like me. Then she started to cry.”

  “Big changes.” I was emphatic. “Like firing someone. He wouldn’t be talking about his secretary.”

  A heavy sigh. Sam speared the last scrap of waffle, ate. “I’ll check out where the five were last night.”

  “Don’t alert them. Talk to neighbors, secretaries, people around them.”

  He frowned. “That requires a lot more man power. Why the heavy emphasis on no direct approach?”

  I avoided his gaze, poured both of us fresh coffee, lifted my cup.

  He lifted his cup, took a deep swallow. “Maybe I don’t want to know?”

  I gave him another approving smile. It would be awkward, possibly result in irate calls to the station, even to the mayor, if upright citizens were besieged by multiple police detectives and Detective Sergeant G. Latham had her own agenda.

  His large mouth spread in a lopsided grin. “What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?”

  • • •

  The porch light flashed on and the peephole opened. Sylvie flung open the front door. She was dressed in a fuzzy orange angora sweater, shamrock green tights, and feathery blue mukluks. Even so, she was appealing and quite pretty. She burst out, “Where have you been? They put Susan in jail—”

  “I’ve spoken to Susan. She’s fine.” As fine as a terrified woman confined behind bars could be, but Susan desperately wanted Sylvie reassured.

  Sylvie led the way across the living room, stood by the sofa. Her intense, defiant face broke. For an instant, there was heartbreak and a small child’s terror at abandonment. “She—” Her voice quivered. Sylvie gulped for air, then her chin jutted. “They can’t do this to Susan. Ben Fitch agrees with me. He’s really nice and he thinks Susan’s not being treated right.” Sylvie dropped onto the sofa, patted the seat next to her.

  I gave her a positive smile. “Megan Wynn, a very good lawyer, is representing Susan. The firm of Smith and Wynn.” I spoke as if the young firm was Adelaide’s finest, which I was sure someday it would be. “Moreover, I have narrowed the list of suspects.”

  Sylvie’s eyes bored into mine. “Narrowed the list? How?”

  “A man called Susan last night. I’m sure the caller was the murderer.”

  “Why?”

  She had a future as a reporter or lawyer. It would do no harm to offer information that would reassure her. “The medical examiner firmly believes Carl was dead by nine forty-five at the latest. Susan didn’t get there until right after ten.”

  “Then why are they holding Susan in jail?”

  “Because the police following her heard a shot and found Susan standing by the body.”

  “If there was a shot,” Sylvie thought out loud, “it must have been the murderer trying to get Susan in trouble. The murderer . . . He has to be one of the men at the luncheon, right?”

  I looked at her with respect. She’d listened and listened well when Susan and I discussed how the original crime was planned and that the planner had to know that Susan could open Wilbur’s safe.

  “Exactly. I am continuing my investigation.” Susan’s arrest for homicide would be announced tomorrow at noon. As I glanced at the grandfather clock, the minute hand moved. That black hand would move and move and move. I had so little time. I knew the murderer was one of five men, but which one was guilty?

  Sylvie clenched her fists. “I called the jail. The soonest I can see her is at one this afternoon. Ben will come with me.”

  I said quietly, “Susan doesn’t want you to see her at the jail.”

  Sylvie’s eyes were bright. “She loves me. She’s always tried to keep me from knowing about bad things. But I have to see her. I’ll tell her I know you’re working hard for her.”

  I didn’t try to discourage her. Seeing Sylvie would be a boost for Susan, and I rather thought Ben would be a welcome addition. “I don’t know about the jail rules, but it would be nice if you took her some clean clothes and a pair of shoes.” I remembered the single suede loafer on the cement floor below the bunk.

  “Shoes?”

  “When she tried to help Mr. Ross, one of her shoes became stained.”

  There was a flash of horror in Sylvie’s blue eyes. Violent death became terribly real when she pictured blood on her sister’s shoe. “That’s awful. I’ll take her everything fresh.” A pause and now her eyes glinted with anger. “I’m surprised there wasn’t a picture of that shoe in the newspaper. There was sure plenty of bad stuff about Susan in the paper yesterday. I talked to the reporter at the Gazette.”

  I must have looked surprised.

  Sylvie nodded eagerly. “I called the Gazette and talked to that woman who wrote the story that made it sound like Susan was involved. She was kind of gruff but nice. She said all she does is report the facts and those were the facts released at the mayor’s news conference and if the facts changed, she’d change her story and there was a news conference at noon today. And all I can say is, if they’re going to say things about Susan, they’re going to hear from me.”

  • • •

  Five men. I’d spoken to George Kelly, who would surely soak up big fees as he closed the estate, and Wilbur’s son, Ben, who shouted at his dad but now looked quite
ready to take over a multimillion-dollar business. That was a profiteering pair. Were the others a three of a kind? I’d find out. Detective Sergeant G. Latham had some questions for Alan Douglas, the vice president with big ideas; Todd Garrett, the ostensible COO who wasn’t a savvy businessman; and Harry Hubbard, the charming stepson with expensive tastes.

  Fitch Enterprises occupied several acres of land on Highway 3 near the city limits. Perhaps two hundred cars were parked in asphalt lots adjoining a one-story brick main office building and two warehouse-sized galvanized steel buildings. I checked out the nearest large structure. I’d never had any experience with a factory or assembly line. There was a subdued atmosphere that I attributed to the deaths of Wilbur Fitch and Carl Ross. I suspected on an ordinary day not marred by loss there would be cheerful conversations. The huge ground floor was open to sunlight through skylights in the ceiling. Today there was no brightness because of thick cloud cover. Stairs led up to a row of offices and a walkway that overlooked the floor. Bars of fluorescent light offered excellent illumination. The temperature was comfortable. Employees, either standing or seated, worked at long wooden tables. Some dismantled electronic devices, some sorted components, some worked with intricate wiring, some used magnifying glasses to pluck out computer chips. Workers wore everything from dressy casual attire to cowboy shirts with string ties, well-worn jeans, and cowboy boots.

  I took a last look from the second-floor walkway, impressed by Wilbur Fitch’s achievements. I hoped his son would do as well and that jobs, good jobs, would continue to be created. As Mama told us kids, “Work is the stuffing in the Raggedy Ann.” It didn’t take long for me to understand what she meant. Doing a good job and having a good job to do gives you pride, and we all need to be proud. Wilbur Fitch gave his workers a lot more than a paycheck. Wilbur gave his workers pride.

  Now it was time to find out whether a man he knew well—his son, his stepson, his lawyer, or a top employee—knocked on his bedroom door after the party.