by Carolyn Hart
I was about fifteen feet from the gazebo. The white structure was elegant and old-fashioned with steps to the south and north. A wooden railing with columns supported a peaked roof.
I started up the steps. At the crack of a gun I would disappear. Eight steps in all. I took them slowly. I reached the elevated wooden floor, moved around the interior, gazed to the south and the fountain with one workman jamming a shovel near a bricked rim. A woman pushed a baby carriage on the central path. I walked around the perimeter again, looked to the north at winter-bare trees and the occasional shiny green magnolia and clumps of shrubbery.
He came from the shadow of a huge wisteria shrub, moving swiftly to the north steps. He was almost unrecognizable, head down, shoulders hunched, making it hard for an observer, if there were an observer, to estimate height and weight. A wool cap covered his head. A muffler wrapped around his neck obscured the lower portion of his face. A dark jacket. A black sweater. Dark trousers. Sneakers. His right hand thrust into the jacket pocket, a pocket that bulged. He came closer, stared at me. “You called me?”
“Carl told me. You killed Mr. Fitch. I know what happened and you’re gonna pay me. You got the money?”
“You’re as stupid as Carl. He thought he could blackmail me. At the cabin, he was sprawled in a chair like he owned the place. I let him talk, told him sure, I’d pay him five thousand a month. I said maybe we should have a drink to seal the deal. I got up and walked toward him and shot him and his shirt was bloody, a big splotch of blood, and I watched him slide to the floor and die. Now it’s your turn.” His hand jerked free from his pocket. The blue black of an automatic gleamed in a shaft of sunlight.
A shout blared from a megaphone. “Drop that gun. Police. Hands up. Police. We have you covered.”
I flung myself to the side, disappearing as I moved.
A shot exploded, loud enough to startle grazing geese into lumbering flight.
Two more shots.
• • •
Sam’s office bustled with activity. Detective Sergeant Hal Price swiped off his cell phone, spoke rapidly. “He’s expected to survive. Harley’s a good shot. Got the gun hand, knocked the .45 to the floor. It went off. A tech prized out a perfect slug plus we got two cartridges. They’re in the lab now.”
Sam reached for his phone, tapped an extension. “Any match between the cartridge at the Fitch cabin and the slug the ME dug out of Ross with the slug and cartridges from the gazebo?” His face was intent.
His office door burst open. Neva Lumpkin charged across the room. Today’s pants suit was better cut, more flattering, but if I were asked for fashion advice I would murmur that black or gray are more flattering than cerise to a woman who weighs in at a good two hundred pounds. She jolted to a stop in front of Sam’s desk. Her chest heaved. “I am preparing for the press conference—you do remember that a press conference is scheduled”—she looked at a gold watch in a sapphire-studded band—“to begin in four minutes to announce the arrest of that thief, Wilbur Fitch’s secretary, and I am told that sirens shrilled right here by City Hall and there was a live-shooter incident across from my office and no one told me. And Howie says an important citizen was arrested and—”
Sam stood, all grizzled muscular six foot two inches of him, but his expression was genial. “You have arrived just at the right moment, Neva. I’ll walk upstairs to the press conference with you.” He came around his desk, politely took her arm. “We have just this moment received important ballistics information. I will explain to you as we go upstairs.” He gave a quick glance at Hal. “Miss Gilbert, of course, is to be released promptly and thanked for her cooperation in the investigations into the murders of Wilbur Fitch and Carl Ross. And give Claire a call, tell her everything’s fine, I’ll be home for dinner on time.” By now the word would be on radio and TV about shots fired in City Park across from the police station.
Neva frowned. “Susan Gilbert was at the scene of two crimes.”
Sam knew his listener. “She was never a serious suspect. And, when you think about it, Neva, it would be pretty boring for the newshounds if we arrested a secretary. Now we have an arrest that will rock the town—” The door closed behind them.
• • •
The small room was jammed, seven cameras with handlers and on-air blondes, almost fourteen print reporters. I was sure I spotted a college student clutching a notebook and another with a microphone and recorder, so the college newspaper and radio station were here as well. Joan Crandall was in the center of the first row as became the Gazette’s star reporter. The AP bureau chief sat next to her. Deke Carson looked as scruffy as usual in a white T-shirt and dungarees with one ragged knee.
Neva and Sam stood just inside the door, Sam murmuring into her ear. She listened with widening eyes.
The downtown carillon chimed the noon hour.
Neva strode to the lectern. “I am Mayor Neva Lumpkin. Adelaide prides itself upon its safety and concern for citizens. Adelaide seeks justice without fear or favor, treating all citizens equally. Today the police arrested George Kelly, a leading citizen, and charged him with two counts of murder in the deaths of Wilbur Fitch and Carl Ross. The arrest was accomplished at shortly after eleven a.m. this morning at the gazebo in City Park. Acting on information received, police were in waiting when Mr. Kelly arrived and met with an unknown woman at the gazebo. Mr. Kelly drew a gun and attempted to shoot the woman. At this time the identity of the woman and her connection to Mr. Kelly have not been established. As police closed in on the gazebo and shots were fired, the woman apparently fled. Mr. Kelly was ordered by police officers to drop the gun. He refused and was shot in the right hand. His gun was recovered. Mr. Kelly has been transported to Adelaide General Hospital, where he is receiving care. He is expected to survive the wound. Mr. Kelly will be kept under guard at the hospital, and citizens can be assured there is no danger to the community. Outstanding police work”—she half turned and gave a gracious nod to Sam Cobb—“has already confirmed that the gun involved in the shooting at the gazebo is the weapon used to shoot Mr. Ross. I will take your questions now.”
Sylvie Gilbert stood up, blonde curls wind tousled. She was young and cute in a pink sweater and rose slacks. “Where’s my sister?” Ben Fitch rose, too. He looked eager.
Sam walked forward. “Ms. Susan Gilbert, who was instrumental in helping authorities with background information about Mr. Fitch, has been released from protective custody, as the arrest of Mr. Kelly concludes the investigation into the murders of Mr. Fitch and Mr. Ross.”
Chapter 14
I was surprised to find both Susan’s and Sylvie’s cars parked in the driveway at their house and no one home. Oh, of course. I found them with Ben in the large living area behind the huge double staircase at the Fitch mansion. “I put champagne on to chill before I picked Sylvie up.” He was buoyed by Susan’s vindication, but his face also held anger. He filled three flutes, put down the bottle of Dom Pérignon.
He carried a glass to Susan. She stood next to a crystal sculpture of a dolphin. Sunlight streamed through a skylight, turning Susan’s hair as glossy black as a raven’s wing, giving the sculpture a sheen as if the dolphin had just emerged from the sea. Susan was slender and lovely in the richly red sweater and gray slacks. She looked up at Ben and her eyes held wonder. He handed her the glass and their fingers touched. She said with a catch in her voice, “You believed in me.”
His blue eyes softened. “There was never a question. The first time I saw you, I knew you were good and fine. Dad thought the world of you. Dad was always right about people.” Now there was a catch in his voice. “Except George. And in a way he was right about George. He never trusted George. He always told me you need a lawyer who’s a junkyard dog. But the good thing is he was right about you and Todd and Alan and Harry.”
“Hey, speaking of, I just got a text.” Sylvie was excited, her voice light and bubbly. “Pour an
other glass. Harry’s coming—”
A French door to the terrace opened. Harry Hubbard stepped inside, gave a fist pump. “I heard the news.” He was preppy in an oatmeal cashmere sweater over a blue shirt and navy dress slacks. “I streamed the press conference. Glad they got the bastard. Glad they stopped being stupid about Susan. Anyway, Sylvie says there’s champagne.”
Sylvie looked at him with admiring eyes.
Susan, a tiny frown plucking at her striking dark brows, glanced from the champagne flute in her sister’s hand to Harry, now standing quite close to Sylvie.
“On the way over here, I got to thinking.” Harry grinned at Ben. “I know that will come as a surprise to you, esteemed stepbro. But Wilbur always wanted us to look ahead, make the company better. I’ve got an idea for a new look for Fitch Enterprises, like somebody splashed pink paint on a green billboard and flung a handful of glitter and turned on a huge spotlight. And here”—he pointed at Sylvie—“is the artist who can make everything bright.”
• • •
The Rescue Express streaked into a sky as richly blue as a Caribbean sea. Cinders sparked. Coal smoke swirled. The wheels rumbled like the Adelaide Cougar drummers at a championship football game. Going home. Susan and Sylvie safe. Going home. . . . The wind stirred Wiggins’s russet hair. He spoke above the rumble. “I knew you would succeed, Bailey Ruth. You were as clever as C. Auguste Dupin.” His tone was filled with awe.
But I knew the truth. Detective G. Latham was no Mike Shayne. “Wiggins”—this was a time for honesty—“I was at Roger Staubach’s great game in 1975. Twenty-four seconds left. Fourth down. He launched the ball and said a Hail Mary. That’s what I did, too.”
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the New York Times bestselling author of sixty novels of mystery and suspense including the Bailey Ruth Ghost Novels and the Death on Demand Mysteries. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. She has also been honored with the Amelia Award for significant contributions to the traditional mystery from Malice Domestic and was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City, where she enjoys mysteries, walking in the park, and cats. She and her husband, Phil, serve as staff—cat owners will understand—to brother and sister brown tabbies. Visit her website at carolynhart.com.
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