Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  From her vantage point, the newspaper had been rising as if in someone’s hand and now it rose as if the climber moved with alacrity. I reached the landing, started up the last section of steps, frankly as fast as I could manage, reached the second floor, made a smart left, and knew I was no longer observed.

  With a quick glance up and down the hall, I hurried to Will’s Room. I put the paper on the floor, moved through the door, opened the door, retrieved the newspaper. I settled in one of the expansive leather chairs—I could almost smell saddles and hay—and began to read. Six stories pertained to the investigation. I read every word. On one hand, I could take pride in the fact that I was aware of every reported fact. On the other hand, I didn’t find anything to help me choose among the five men.

  If I could at this moment contact Sam Cobb and tell him who committed the murders and how to capture him, I would have done so knowing, thanks to the Gazette, that Susan was not only saved, but her life was going to be wonderful. The stories in the Gazette pictured her as a stalwart aide to the authorities whose actions were praised by the Fitch family and her detainment a matter of her protection.

  At noon tomorrow that picture would be as smashed as a delicate Dresden figurine flung from the Rose Bower stairway to the marble floor below. At noon tomorrow Neva Lumpkin’s press conference would center on the arrest of Susan Mary Gilbert on two murder charges.

  I pushed to my feet, began to pace. Gone was my exuberance when I first walked into Will’s Room. The silence of Rose Bower was crushing, not soothing. I glanced at the wall clock framed in a wagon wheel. Eleven o’clock and all was not well. It was the time of night for reflection, perhaps a summing up of the day’s successes, a preview of tomorrow’s challenges. My gaze scanned the framed quotes in needlepoint, stopped: Chaotic action is preferable to orderly inaction.

  • • •

  I looked for Ben Fitch in his bedroom, went downstairs through the stately rooms and the dim family rooms. In the study, I noted for the first time a gun safe in one corner. That came as no surprise. I wondered if Ben knew how to open it. I wondered if there was one gun or two or perhaps a single gun and another that was missing. I was about to give up my search, thinking perhaps he might still be at the Gilbert house, when I saw light shining from an open door at the end of a back hallway. I found a stairway and smelled chlorine.

  Bright lights illuminated the basement swimming pool. Ben was midway down the center lane of the Olympic-sized pool. I admired his freestyle stroke. He reached the end, did a flip turn, started back this way.

  Another lap and another and another.

  I hovered near the end of the pool. His face as he turned for air was blank, unreadable, cheeks flushed with exertion. Perhaps he sought forgetfulness or perhaps he hoped to oust grief with sheer exhaustion.

  The huge damp chlorine-scented basement seemed filled with loneliness and sadness.

  • • •

  George Kelly sprawled comfortably in an oversize recliner, booted feet elevated. Like most dark-haired men, his face had a heavy shadow of beard by late evening. His broad face looked confident and bold. His blue eyes were focused and intent. He scrawled a line with a blue felt pen. In his other hand, he held a half-full whisky glass. He took a sip. A muted football game, I assumed a replay, loomed on a wall TV screen. I nodded approval when I recognized the starred helmets of the Dallas Cowboys.

  I hovered close enough to look at the legal pad. A listing of some properties in Latimer County, a notation to check whether the oil and gas leases were still current.

  I took a last long look at George, who appeared relaxed and in charge in the big comfortable masculine room. I noted a gun safe in one corner.

  • • •

  Harry Hubbard slept in a T-shirt and Black Watch plaid boxer shorts in a queen-sized bed, a red-striped comforter flung to one side. His handsome face was slack in sleep, but appealing as a napping puppy appeals. The room was surprisingly tidy and pleasant. In his living room I found no books except for a collection of crossword puzzles. I opened his desk drawer, lifted out a checkbook. His recent bank statement showed several charges for overdrawn checks and a current balance of seventy-five dollars. I checked the entire apartment. No gun safe.

  • • •

  The walls in Alan Douglas’s living room were cream, the wood trim Chinese red. The room could have served as a furniture store display, everything matched, nothing out of place. A wall of books included several on quantum physics. A gun safe sat in the corner near a gray metal desk. A pen and pad lay on the desktop, perfectly aligned.

  The only photograph was the night sky with faraway pinpoints of stars, cold and remote. Three paintings hung on one wall, large splashes of red and black, a tan maze, and a fiery eruption of molten lava brimming from a volcano.

  Alan’s short-sleeved polo shirt exposed bony arms. His jeans were well-worn, washed so often the cloth was more white than blue. He sat in a wicker chair, one long leg crossed over the other. He held a book very precisely, using both hands. He looked scholarly with his short-cut brown hair and ascetic face and brown horn rims.

  The life of the mind can engage and delight, but the room lacked warmth and cheer.

  • • •

  Todd Garrett hunched at a workbench in one corner of the bedroom of his condo. His stubby fingers showed surprising skill as he delicately arranged a bass fishing skirt on a jig. To one side lay a half dozen crankbaits. He softly hummed “Delta Dawn.” Instead of the defeated posture at his office, he was relaxed, looked like a somewhat heavy former football player with happy days on his horizon. Bass fishing can be all-consuming. There’s no time for regrets or heartaches when you are trying to outwit a clever and elusive fish. The assorted crankbaits meant Todd was drawn to the brushy shallows of the lake.

  I found his gun safe next to a desk in the living room.

  Chapter 13

  I stood at the end of the pier in White Deer Park. I’d chosen to appear in a soft blue cashmere cowl sweater and white wool slacks and blue heels. But the style and verve of my outfit gave me no comfort. I watched streaks of pink and vermilion and royal blue herald sunrise. This was Adelaide’s oldest park. I’d stood here in 1942 when Bobby Mac was off in basic training at Fort Sill and I wrote him every day and none of us knew what would happen, what could happen. The big black headlines reported battles, the bombardment of Corregidor, the fall of the Philippines. There were Gold Stars in so many windows for the men who would not come home again. I’d stood here in anguish and fear and then hope.

  I’d never stood here in defeat.

  I’d done my best for Susan Gilbert. I began my quest cocky and confident. I was the late Bailey Ruth Raeburn, forever twenty-seven, red hair bright and shining, green eyes eager and curious, and I was an emissary from the Department of Good Intentions, here to protect the innocent.

  The whoo of the Rescue Express blew through me. The engine rumbled. Wheels clacked on the rails. Coal smoke as acrid as a long-ago Pittsburgh steel mill swirled around me. Cinders sparked from the funnel.

  I felt forlorn. I could not climb aboard with a smile on my face or cheer in my heart.

  “Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins spoke in a kind and gentle tone.

  Whoo, whoo.

  I felt a rush of tears. “I fai—”

  “Bailey Ruth, you have six hours yet.” Wiggins was brisk.

  I turned toward the sound of his voice.

  Colors swirled and there he was, stiff blue cap atop reddish hair, high-collared stiffly starched white shirt with elastic armbands above the elbows, heavy gray flannel trousers supported by wide suspenders, highly polished sturdy black shoes.

  “There’s no way forward.” My voice was bleak. Then my usual combativeness coursed through me. “It’s maddening because I know one of them, one of five men, created this terrible trap for Susan and—”

  He patted my shoulder
. “You’re almost there. I believe in you, Bailey Ruth.” With that calm pronouncement, the Rescue Express whooed, coal smoke swirled, wheels clacked.

  I stood alone in silence except for the chatter of a squirrel, a crow’s raucous caw, the faraway hut-two at an early morning football practice. Bobby Mac was the quarterback of the Cougars. He was a good passer, and I remembered one game when he fell back and sent the football spiraling downfield. That’s what I needed, a good play. The warmth of the memory faded. I needed more than a good play, I needed a miracle. I stood very still. A miracle . . . Roger Staubach at the playoff game between the Cowboys and the Vikings on a cold December day in 1975, a wind chill of seventeen degrees. Twenty-four seconds left in the fourth quarter, his team down 10–14, Staubach looked at the wide receivers running downfield, raised his arm, threw the ball, and said a Hail Mary. Drew Pearson locked the ball in his arms at the five and carried it into the end zone. Cowboys won 17–14.

  Against all odds, Staubach took action.

  Action . . .

  • • •

  I went straight to Susan Gilbert’s desk in the alcove of Wilbur’s study. I was glad she used an old-fashioned Rolodex. I took a sheet of copy paper from a bottom drawer, folded it in half. It took only a moment to write down five telephone numbers.

  The living room of Carl Ross’s garage apartment was as lifeless as Wilbur’s study, two rooms not currently in use. In the kitchen I found a telephone mounted on the wall next to a counter. I put the sheet of paper on the counter.

  I steadied my thoughts. I had one chance. I took a deep breath, tried out a few words. “Carl shouldn’t’uv trusted you.” I used a voice harder and flatter than my own, slightly nasal, with no resemblance to my husky deeper tone. Bobby Mac once compared my voice to Lauren Bacall’s. Is he a smart man or what?

  Which number first?

  Only one number mattered.

  I glanced at a kitchen clock. Seven minutes after seven. I closed my eyes, whirled my index finger in a circle, came down to the sheet, opened my eyes. I dialed. Caller ID would show the caller as Carl Ross. I didn’t doubt the call would be answered.

  “Hello.” The voice was muzzy with sleep.

  “You should’uv paid Carl. He would’uv kept quiet. You’re gonna pay me—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “He saw you that night and he told me all about it and I wrote it down in my diary—”

  The connection ended.

  I drew a line though Harry Hubbard.

  I closed my eyes, made a circle with my finger, tapped the sheet, looked.

  I dialed.

  “Hello.” The faintest inflection of surprise.

  “You shouldn’t’uv shot Carl. He would’uv kept quiet. But you’re gonna pay—”

  “Lady, you got the wrong number. I don’t know anybody named Carl and I never shot anyone.” The call ended.

  I drew a line through Alan Douglas.

  I tried again.

  “Hello.” A cautious voice.

  “You shouldn’t’uv shot Carl. You should’uv paid him. You got the money and more where that comes from. But you’re gonna pay me or I’ll tell the police what happened.”

  “Who is this?” The voice was wary, careful.

  “Carl’s friend. Me and Carl been together off and on. We were back on. He told me all about you. What he saw. He told me he was going to meet you at the cabin and you was going to bring money. But you killed him. I want that money. You’re gonna bring it to me. But I waited to call you ’til morning. I’m at his place now, but I’ll be gone before you can get over here. Anyway, I waited ’til morning ’cause I’m not gonna meet you at night away from people. No way. You bring the money to the gazebo in the downtown park. There’s always people there and the police right across the street. I can yell loud enough to get the cops over there pronto. You bring the money at eleven sharp or I’ll tell the cops. In the gazebo.”

  This time I ended the connection.

  • • •

  After they married, Sam Cobb moved in with Claire in her huge old house. Now the gardens were neat, the trees clipped, the grass cut, the pond clear of algae. Claire was in the kitchen, humming to herself. I smiled as I recognized “The Church in the Wildwood.” Bacon sizzled in an iron skillet, the old-fashioned kind of skillet my mama used. The kitchen smelled like bacon and cinnamon and happiness. As Mama always said, “Start the day happy and you march in seven-league boots.”

  I glanced around the breakfast room. Petunias were a spot of beauty in the middle of the white kitchen table. Two places were set. Sam wasn’t downstairs yet. I found him shaving at the lavatory in the bathroom, attired in navy boxers.

  “Sam.”

  His hand jerked. A spot of blood welled from a nick on his right cheek. He looked wildly around.

  Heavens, I assumed he would recognize my voice, but, of course, he expected to hear Claire’s voice here, and she spoke in a much higher register than I.

  I darted to a rack, grabbed a washcloth, held it under the water. “Ouch.” Of course the water was hot. I turned the hot water off, the cold water on, doused the cloth, held it up to his cheek.

  He exhaled as he took the cloth, pressed it against the welt. “Couldn’t it wait until I get to the office?”

  For Sam that was grumpy.

  “Sam, there’s no time to waste. . . .”

  • • •

  Sam Cobb rose through the ranks to become chief of police because he listened, evaluated, and dealt intelligently with whatever situation arose. This morning he skipped his shower, was dressed and on his way down the stairs in less than ten minutes. He poked his head into the kitchen. “Got a call. Have to go. I’ll catch a bite.”

  Claire moved fast, popped warm cinnamon muffins into a brown paper sack, and filled a coffee thermos. She was at the front door as he pulled it open. She looked up and in her eyes was the fear police spouses know. “Be careful.”

  He took the bag with a smile, bent to kiss her cheek. “I’ll come home. I promise.”

  He used the siren and cars swerved to the curb. In his office, he pulled a legal pad near, made several notations, began to issue orders.

  I watched as a coverall-clothed workman climbed a ladder in the gazebo. Another worker held the ladder steady. A can of paint and a brush were set on the ladder’s pail rest. There were several swipes with the brush, then a minute videocam was secreted in a rafter. The videocam was set to rotate to cover the entire interior once every two minutes. The recorder was scheduled to begin recording at ten forty-five.

  I was in the park at nine a.m. when officers in street clothes began to arrive, one by one. A workman rolling a wheelbarrow. A young woman pushing a carriage containing a rifle instead of a baby beneath the closed top. Two joggers with guns in their backpacks. An artist who set up an easel with a good view of the gazebo. Four shovel-equipped workmen who turned over earth a few feet from a fountain. A sharpshooter in camouflage who climbed midway up a huge magnolia and wormed onto a broad limb that overlooked the gazebo. Magnolias, as all Southerners know, keep their glossy leaves year round, providing cover.

  The park was perhaps three city blocks in size. The white-frame gazebo sat in the center. Elms, sycamores, redbuds, and magnolias filled the area north of the gazebo. To the south was a broad open grassy expanse, the grass now the dull brown of winter. The killer wouldn’t come from the south. Wisteria, holly, yew, and red chokeberry shrubs dotted the winding walkways.

  I had one more stop before I kept my appointment in the park.

  Sylvie sat at the small kitchen table. A notebook lay open before her. Crumpled sheets littered the floor. I looked over her shoulder. Lists. Lists of what to do, who to call, what to ask Susan’s lawyer.

  I went to the front porch, pressed the bell.

  I had only an instant. In the now
-empty kitchen, I picked up the pen, wrote on a blank sheet in all caps: NOON PRESS CONFERENCE. SUSAN’S RELEASE ANNOUNCED. CASE SOLVED. BE THERE. I signed it quickly, Detective G. Latham. I’d no more than put down the pen when Sylvie returned.

  She grabbed a half-filled mug from the table, emptied it in the sink, replenished the mug with fresh coffee, sat down again. She picked up the pen, went suddenly rigid as she read the note. She looked wildly, got up so quickly her chair crashed to the floor, and ran to the back door. She flung the door open, hurried down the steps, gazed around, then shook her head. She yanked her cell phone from her pocket, swiped. “Ben . . .”

  I was pleased she already had his number on speed dial.

  I made a last survey of City Park. All appeared perfectly normal. People walking. Workmen working. There was no indication the park was secured by undercover police.

  At a quarter to eleven, I appeared in the ladies’ room of Lulu’s. I chose a black wig in a bouffant style, oversize aviator sunglasses, and a wide-leg pink pants suit beneath a shiny sequin-speckled leather jacket. I suppressed a shudder as I gazed at the image. No one would confuse this apparition with Detective Sergeant G. Latham or Private Investigator G. Latham.

  It was five to eleven when I approached the park from the grassy southern expanse. I was too far from the wooded area to provide a good vantage point for a gunman. Shooting Carl Ross at a distance of perhaps ten feet didn’t equate with a moving target at thirty yards. Moreover, I would be safe until I stood in the gazebo because my adversary had no idea of my appearance. He knew only that a woman knew too much, a woman was a threat, a woman had to be dealt with.

  I didn’t believe he would arrive to cajole or temporize or offer cash. He would be armed.

  At two minutes to eleven I paused in the shadow of a red chokeberry shrub not far from a fountain where four city workers in baggy coveralls, with pockets capable of holding guns and ammo, stood in a semicircle gazing at the waterless spout. Were they awaiting an oracle? Was there an endangered grub worm in the vicinity? Oh, perhaps they were contemplating activity. One of them placed both hands on a shovel, wedged the steel into hard dry ground.