Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  Still invisible, I arrived in Harry Hubbard’s office in the public relations department in the main office building. Why was I not surprised to find the overhead light off, the room unoccupied? I doubted Harry was punctilious in observing office hours. The decor was cheerful if bland, cream-colored walls, green curtains at the windows, a nicely polished parquet floor. The desk was unpretentious metal. There were several folders in an in-box, nothing in the out-box.

  I settled behind the desk in a very comfortable leather chair and turned to the computer. I used the mouse, tapped. Company policy might dictate closing down a computer every evening, but perhaps Harry thought that was another rule that didn’t apply to him. I checked the most recent Google searches. Long-term rentals in Aruba and Tahiti.

  The office door opened. Harry was as attractive as always, his sleek blond hair artfully brushed, model-perfect features relaxed. A yellow cashmere pullover, blue shirt, gray wool trousers, expensive Italian loafers with a flash of yellow socks.

  I was out of his chair by the time he strolled across the room.

  In the hall I made sure no one was near and appeared. I gave a quick knock, opened the door, and stepped inside with a confident smile. I held my leather ID case in my right hand. “Detective Sergeant G. Latham. I understand from Wilbur Fitch’s son, Ben”—I was walking across the room as I spoke—“that his father had great confidence in you, and I’m hoping you can give me some insights about Mr. Fitch’s business activities.”

  My intention was to reassure a possible murderer that he was not under suspicion by the police. That was the main reason I wanted Sam to discover the location of each man last night. A relaxed adversary doesn’t expect an attack. If—I had that sudden empty feeling that precedes a step into space—I ever learned enough to mount an attack. I pushed away the negative thought and a shocking feeling of helplessness. Probably that’s what it would be like to skydive. As an emissary, I enjoy swooping without fear through space, but on earth I’d had a careful regard for heights. I could see very well, thank you, standing back a good ten feet from the rim of the Grand Canyon. But the sensation of hollowness reminded me how little time I had to find a murderer.

  I saw an admiring glint in Harry’s eyes as he gestured for me to take the chair in front of his desk. I reminded myself that I wasn’t here to bask in his admiration for redheads and I would be on guard against his undeniable charm.

  “I’ll be glad to help.” His expressive face was suddenly grave. “I saw on TV that somebody shot Carl Ross. What the hell’s going on?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine. To be frank”—a phrase that almost always precedes a carefully worded hook for an opponent—“we have received information from a confidential informant that suggests Mr. Fitch and Mr. Ross were murdered by a Fitch Enterprises employee. To be specific, and I assure you anything you say will be held in total confidence as part of an investigation, we are interested in two employees.” I leaned forward, dropped my voice. “Alan Douglas and Todd Garrett.”

  Harry’s handsome face crinkled in thought. Abruptly he shook his head. “You got a bum steer. Alan’s this kind of nerdy nice guy who lives, eats, and breathes Fitch business plans. I don’t think he ever does anything but figure how to maximize profits or start something new that nobody else has thought about. And he’s”—an awkward pause—“he’s not a rugged guy. I mean, I don’t think he ever played a sport. He’s, well, he’s kind of girly. And Todd is a good old boy. He might shoot you if you ran over his dog or messed with his girlfriend, but he wouldn’t sneak up behind Wilbur and whack him on the back of his head.”

  • • •

  Not surprisingly, Alan Douglas’s office was up the stairs in the galvanized steel structure. When I knocked and opened the door, he looked blank for an instant, his mind clearly involved in the papers before him, then he saw me and rose.

  I didn’t think Harry’s estimation of Alan as girly was quite fair. He had excellent manners and hurried to pull out a chair for me in front of his desk. He was tall and thin and unpretentious in a blue work shirt and khakis and tan boots. His short-cut brown hair was neatly combed. He had a diffident way of speaking. “I want to help. It’s awful what’s happened. Wilbur and Carl. I can’t believe someone could kill Carl.” There was recognition in his eyes of a macho man, recognition and a flash of dislike.

  I used the same approach, but this time I named Harry Hubbard and Todd Garrett.

  Alan sat very precisely behind his desk, hands folded on the wooden top. Suddenly his lips spread in a swift smile. “Harry bashing Wilbur and shooting Carl would be like a lazy house cat suddenly turning ferocious. Harry’s too much into being comfortable and safe and indulged. He never stirs if it’s raining. He’s fastidious about his clothes. Sure he likes money. But Wilbur gave him a job and all Harry had to do was play golf a couple of times a week. Harry”—his pale blue eyes narrowed—“doesn’t take chances. And I think he was scared of Carl. Of course, he’ll be even more comfortable with what he inherits from Wilbur, but he’s not a risk-taker.”

  I looked at him curiously. “Are you a risk-taker?”

  He was abruptly thoughtful. “I guess I’ll find out soon. There was a business deal—”

  I knew he referred to SIMPLE Cars.

  “—I hoped Wilbur might finance, but he decided against it. He told me I was free to take my idea and build my own company. I may just try it unless Ben is interested.”

  “Did Wilbur sign a waiver that the company agreed to forego its proprietary interest in your plan since you developed it as a Fitch Enterprises employee?”

  For an instant his sensitive face was utterly blank. He stared at me. “Wilbur told me it was all right. Ben will honor his father’s promise.”

  But there was nothing in writing.

  He gave a negligent wave with one hand. “But that’s not why you came to see me. You said two employees are under suspicion because of a confidential informant.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understood Susan Gilbert was, how do you put it, a ‘person of interest.’”

  “Investigations often take a different turn.”

  “That’s good news for Susan and I think very sensible. She’s not that kind of person. I don’t know who’s feeding you information, but I don’t think much of the claims. Todd and Wilbur yelled at each other a lot. It didn’t mean a thing. Todd thought Wilbur was a great man.”

  “Does Todd know how to shoot a gun?”

  Alan laughed out loud. “Proves you’ve never met Todd. He’s a good old boy. By definition in Adelaide, a good old boy played football, drinks Bud, wears boots, goes hunting. But”—he leaned forward—“a good old boy will give you the shirt off his back and carry a woman across a puddle and eat ribs with his fingers and not worry about the sauce. Todd never hurt Wilbur.” Alan’s blue eyes were cold and intent. “If you people are looking for somebody who had it in for Wilbur, check out his lawyer. I was in Wilbur’s office last week and I heard him tell George Kelly he was out the door.”

  • • •

  Todd Garrett’s office in the brick one-story building was similar to Harry’s though larger, the same cream walls and parquet flooring, but there was a Persian throw rug in front of a more imposing desk. Folders were stacked on the desk, on the floor next to the desk, and tucked in a bookcase. A leather sofa faced the desk. Two easy chairs sat opposite each other on either side of the sofa.

  Todd stood at a window with the venetian blinds raised. He looked out at a field with dun-colored grass cut short. A massive bull appeared to be the only occupant of the pasture. The bull had his back to the building. His tail twitched, but otherwise he stood motionless.

  Todd’s posture was forlorn, slumped shoulders, hands jammed in his trouser pockets. Scraggly brown hair curled a bit on the back of his neck. He would have benefitted from a trim.

  I left the office, re
ady to appear as Detective Sergeant Latham. In the hallway, a coffee cart was stopped two doors up. The attendant, curly dark hair, a cheerful round face, knocked, called out, “Coffee. Tea. Donuts. Pastries.” As she poked her head inside the office, I appeared, twisted the knob of Todd’s door, and stepped inside.

  He turned as I walked toward him, hand outstretched with my leather ID folder. “Detective Sergeant G. Latham.”

  Todd was somber, his stare morose. “Hell of a deal. Wilbur. Now Carl.” He waved toward one of the easy chairs.

  I found the chair very comfortable but noted a worn spot on one arm.

  He sat down on the leather sofa. He looked older than forty-eight, as if he carried each year on his back. His voice was dull, weary. “I go back a long way with Wilbur. When I came in this morning, the whole place felt like it was empty. He filled everything up. But I think you people have it wrong.” He leaned forward. “The story in the Gazette made it sound like Susan Gilbert’s under suspicion. I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  “Ms. Gilbert is being very helpful to the authorities.” I was glad the Gazette was an afternoon newspaper. Wait until he saw Joan Crandall’s lead story today when Susan was reported to be in custody as a material witness. “I will definitely notify my superiors of your support of her. You have a unique perspective as COO of the company. In fact, I am here because we received confidential information about two Fitch employees that requires investigation. We understand Mr. Fitch recently had harsh words with”—I drew a small notebook from my purse and turned a page as if checking my information—“a Mr. Harry Hubbard and a Mr. Alan Douglas.”

  Todd’s somber look was replaced with a flash of genuine amusement. “Somebody told you Wilbur yelled at them, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  His pudgy face re-formed in a smile that held a trace of sadness and nostalgia. “You got to understand”—he was earnest—“Wilbur yelled at everybody. Wilbur could hardly talk without yelling. He reamed out Harry about a bill he ran up at a ritzy hotel in Dallas, told him he was like a leech and if somebody stepped on a leech it squished blood but Harry would squish money, Wilbur’s money. Wilbur liked to hassle Harry. Harry always gave him a day or two to cool off then he’d call and say, Pops, how about I eat at your place tonight. I’m hungry for sautéed leeches, and Wilbur would boom out a laugh and everything would be okay.”

  I studied the man sitting on the sofa. His blue eyes didn’t look very intelligent, but they looked open and honest. Those guileless eyes were suddenly narrowed and spiteful. “I didn’t hear Wilbur yell at Alan Douglas. Maybe if he’d yelled, Alan wouldn’t have looked like a whipped dog on Tuesday. See”—he hunched forward—“Alan had this stupid idea about making a car that nobody but a geezer would buy. Tuesday I was in the hall at the house and I started to open the door to the study—”

  I looked at him blandly, pictured a jealous, insecure man turning the knob, hearing the voices, listening, then slipping away after the conversation ended.

  “—and I heard Alan and Wilbur. Alan was saying something like maybe Wilbur could give it some more thought. Wilbur was nice enough but he told Alan no deal, nothing more to talk about. I’d told Wilbur last week it was a dumb idea. I told everybody it was stupid and it came up at the Kiwanis luncheon and I knocked the idea flat and that made Wilbur mad because he hadn’t made up his mind. He yelled at me. But Wilbur always thought things over. I hadn’t seen him since he’d unloaded about Kiwanis. I stood there and realized he’d followed my advice.” There was definite satisfaction in Todd’s voice. “But he always liked to think everything was his own idea, so I left and didn’t try to talk to him. And that night at the party, Wilbur was having a great time. I’m glad I had a chance to tell him what a great party it was. He gave me a thumbs-up.”

  Wilbur berated Todd for disloyalty, but now Todd insisted Wilbur’s displeasure was always fleeting. Perhaps this time Wilbur’s anger wasn’t appeased.

  I closed my notebook. “Will you be staying with Fitch Enterprises, Mr. Garrett?”

  He blinked those uncertain blue eyes. “I’ll stay long enough to help Ben sort everything out. I keep good records.” He was proud. “Wilbur always figured out what to do, but I kept everything in order. I’m not”—he was suddenly humble—“the brightest guy about business. But I’m careful. Wilbur appreciated me. I’ll do what I can to help Ben but then—” There was a flash of eagerness, of youthfulness. I had a sense of what he looked like when he was young and the crowd roared as he fell back and cocked his arm to send a football spiraling though the air on a crisp fall day. “—I’ve got a little cabin down on Lake Texoma and a boat. See, Wilbur left me a lot of money—”

  I recalled George Kelly’s dry recitation: Todd Garrett, five hundred thousand.

  “—and it’s enough for me to live there. I’ve met a few people in Madill. There’s a gal at the catfish cafe. She’s real nice. I can live in my cabin and fish and do a little hunting.”

  And no one would yell at him again.

  Chapter 11

  George Kelly looked like a man quite pleased with himself and his world. A cigar smoldered in an oversize bronze ashtray. He hummed a toneless little tune as his fingers raced over a calculator. He looked at the sum, nodded, picked up the receiver, punched numbers. “Calling Les Timmons. . . . Hey, Les, that car I talked to you about, the Lexus sports car. I want it in red. . . . Houston? Yeah. Tell you what, I’ll fly down there next week, pick it up. Since it’s going to be my work car”—a small laugh—“I can deduct the trip expense if I drive it up here. Right. Sure thing.”

  Life apparently was good for Mr. Kelly at the moment.

  The hallway was unoccupied. I appeared and stepped into the outer office.

  The secretary greeted me as an old friend. “Do you want to see Mr. Kelly? He’s here.” She reached out to touch the intercom.

  I said quickly, “Don’t announce me. I’ll pop in.”

  At her look of concern, I said, “Since no one was here, perhaps you were gone to the ladies’ room, I showed myself in.” She was up and stepping into the hall before I reached Kelly’s office door.

  Kelly turned at the sound of the opening door. His pleased expression was replaced with a frown. “I’m expecting a conference call—”

  “The secretary must be on break. I only have a few minutes so I didn’t wait. I know you are eager to be helpful in the investigations. Some questions have arisen about two Fitch employees.”

  He didn’t want to deal with me, but he was the attorney for the executor of the estate, and whatever affected Fitch Enterprises was within his purview. He listened to what was by now my almost rote recitation. When I concluded, he made a dismissive gesture. “I suppose the police have to pay attention to anonymous tips, but this is nonsense. Todd Garrett and Alan Douglas were loyal to Wilbur. They knew a shout today would be a backslap tomorrow. Why”—and now he leaned back in his desk chair, was relaxed, expansive—“Wilbur fired me more times than I can count. We had a dustup last week. Of course nothing came of it. Wilbur being Wilbur. So, you can”—he smiled—“chalk this up to somebody with a gripe.”

  I was still standing. I asked politely, “Who do you think committed the murders?”

  He put his fingertips together, looked judicious, used the sonorous voice suitable for a jury. “I am confident the investigation will solve the crimes.” A head shake. “Shame about Carl Ross. If he had any information he should have taken it directly to the police. But perhaps he was uncertain, willing to give someone a chance to explain.”

  I looked inquiring.

  Kelly turned his hands over, palms up. “Wilbur always insisted that women be treated with utmost respect. Perhaps that influenced Carl.”

  “The only woman who has been mentioned publicly in regard to the investigation is Mr. Fitch’s secretary. Are you referring to her?”

  He was bland. “I mak
e no claims. I simply know what I read in the Gazette. It sounds as though an arrest is imminent. Is it?”

  It was my turn to make a disclaimer. “The investigation continues.”

  Kelly stood, looked at his watch. “If that’s all, I have an important call to make.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation.” At the door I turned and looked back as if struck by a thought. “One more thing. Did Mr. Fitch ever apologize about his remark?”

  “Remark?”

  “When he told you he thought he had a bull in the courtroom but you turned out to be a steer.”

  Kelly’s face for an instant was hard with antagonism. For me? Or at the memory of Fitch’s steer slur? Then he gave a wry laugh. “Wilbur at his worst. He could be a sore loser. I told him the suit was a long shot but he insisted we try it. He had to blame somebody when we lost.”

  • • •

  Neva Lumpkin’s azure blue pants suit would be attractive on a willowy model. Suffice to say the too-tight jacket and slacks emphasized an operatic bosom and matching hips.

  Almost every chair was taken in the third-floor meeting room. I had an equally good view of both the podium and the audience from my vantage point along one wall.

  Sam Cobb stood to one side of the lectern, a foot or so behind the mayor. His broad face beneath grizzled dark hair was impassive. A blue suit today but as wrinkled as usual. He held a yellow legal pad.

  The regulars were in the front row, Joan Crandall of the Gazette, lean as a greyhound and poised to run; Ted Burton, the AP bureau chief with a plump man’s cheerful countenance but slate blue eyes that didn’t like anybody very much; counterculture representative Deke Carson flaunting a necklace with dangling brass knuckles, a sweatshirt with an obscene expletive, and tattered Bermuda shorts. I suspected his knees were cold when he stepped outside, but a man will do what he must to be different from the norm. I counted six blonde TV reporters and their nearby cameramen.