Ghost Times Two

by Carolyn Hart

  “Oh well, thank you, Bailey Ruth.” Still a bit gruff, but much softer.

  I think he was touched. As I’ve often said, Wiggins is a dear man. I hurried on while I had the advantage. “The only drawback,” I said, speaking in a tsk-tsk tone, “was the utter necessity”—great emphasis—“of Jimmy appearing. But he will be appearing far, far away. We must hope he succeeds in his quest, because Megan is in danger of imminent arrest. I have very little time to solve both Graham’s murder and the theft of the diamond ring from his office, and I need all the help I can get. I know you understand I am pressed on all fronts.” If my voice quivered a bit, reflecting intense stress, let that conclusion be in the ear of the listener. “I have made difficult decisions based on necessity.” If I sounded a bit stuffy, so be it. I know language that appeals to Wiggins. I don’t feel the change in syntax is duplicitous. I would never wish to be accused of manipulating as fine a man as Wiggins. But as Mama often said, “Men admire the soldier who storms the rampart.”

  I tried to judge his silence. On a positive note, the scent of coal smoke was dissipating and I no longer heard the urgent thrum of wheels on rails. On a less positive note, Wiggins was likely out of patience with my evasions of his dictums.

  “Bailey Ruth,” he spoke with an edge of despair, “you are as squirmy as an eel in putting a good face on your transgressions of the Precepts.”

  “God loves eels, too.” My voice was small.

  A rumble of deep-throated laughter. “Yes, He does.”

  The clack of wheels on rails faded. I no longer smelled coal smoke. I was alone. Wiggins hadn’t offered me carte blanche, but I was still here. I didn’t need for Wiggins to give me marching orders. I well knew that he expected me to keep an eye on Jimmy and save Megan.

  Chapter 10

  It seemed ages ago at the Gazette when I dispatched Jimmy to find addresses. True to my reassurance to him, I remembered them without aid of notes. I went first to a small brick house on Elm. Several cars filled the old-fashioned single drive, a Chevy, two Toyotas, and a Ford. As I arrived, a Mazda pulled up at the curb. The driver’s door slammed and a tall, thin woman wearing an ivory blouse and tan slacks and carrying a casserole dish moved purposefully toward the porch.

  In a hallway, I glanced at an array of framed photographs hanging on the wall, photographs sketching a history of a family, a young, proud Doug with one large hand guiding his bride’s as they cut the wedding cake, babies, toddlers, skinny little kids, attractive teenagers. Mom and Dad rolling out bicycles one Christmas. Dad carving a turkey. Rhoda as a bride was tall and willowy with sleek dark hair, a rather long face. In the later photographs, her eyes had lost the glow of happiness. The dark hair was touched by a streak of white. Lines of laughter and likely sorrow flared from her eyes and mouth.

  I looked in a living room crowded with women, soft voices rising and falling. The room had no touches of the elegance in her late husband’s office. The furniture looked comfortable, worn, two sofas, several easy chairs, a coffee table. I wondered if the office had been redone after their divorce. One wall of bookcases was full to overflowing. Books were stacked next to a couple of the chairs. Another bookcase held more framed photos and art pieces likely created by the children, a lopsided vase, a tooled leather box, a pottery horse that lacked one leg. There was a stain near the bottom of one drape. A venetian blind in one window was slightly bent. Everywhere there was evidence of much use and little money for upkeep.

  A large Persian cat rubbed against my invisible leg. I reached down, stroked silky fur, was rewarded with a throaty purr.

  Rhoda Graham sat stiffly in a straight-back chair near a small desk. She had obviously dressed for a day at work, a simple cream blouse, a tan belted skirt, brown heels. One hand clung to a long necklace of metal medallions studded with turquoise. The emptiness of her face indicated shock, a struggle for understanding. She spoke haltingly to a plump redhead, who held a pad and pen. “Doug’s brother is coming. He will arrange for the funeral. I’m so thankful. That way the—” Three women occupied a nearby sofa, their heads close together as they talked.

  I moved outside the house and stepped into the shadow of a cedar. There was no one near, and a tall wooden fence behind me. I appeared and walked briskly to the walk and onto the porch. I knocked three times.

  A tiny woman with terrier hair and sharp brown eyes opened the door, saw a stranger. “We’ve had—”

  “Detective M. Loy.” I held up the small leather case. “We have just a few more questions for Mrs. Graham. She said she would like to help in the investigation.”

  “Oh. Well, just a moment.” She started to close the door.

  I had the screen open, moved forward. “Just a clarification. Perhaps there’s a room where we can speak privately for a moment?”

  The woman dithered uncertainly, taking a half step one way, then back. “Oh well, there’s no one in the sewing room. I’ll show you.”

  She led the way down the hall, opened the door to a small room, stepped aside for me to enter. A sewing machine sat on its stand in one corner. A partially finished lacy eyelet afghan lay on a small love seat. I loved the soft raspberry color of the yarn

  I stepped inside. “Thank you. I’ll wait.”

  She scurried away.

  In a moment, steps sounded. Rhoda Graham paused on the threshold, took a breath, looked at me uncertainly.

  I introduced myself. “Detective Smith sent me. We hope to clarify some information just received.”

  She walked in, closed the door behind her, remained standing. “What is it? I have so much to do. The children are flying home. I have to drive up to the city and pick them up.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to leave in a few minutes.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Graham. I’m sorry to take up your time.”

  She brushed a hand against one cheek. “Of course I want to help.” Her tone was wooden. “I still can’t believe Doug’s . . . gone.”

  “You know Mrs. Louise Raymond.”

  Her face was suddenly still. “Yes.”

  I continued without inflection, but my eyes held her gaze. “Mrs. Raymond was present yesterday morning when an unexpected incident occurred at the law office.”

  I saw knowledge in her eyes, knowledge and a quick scrambling to decide what to say.

  “Please describe your conversation with Mrs. Raymond. We want to make sure our facts are accurate.”

  She tried to be brisk. “Lou is an old friend. I know she meant well when she called me, but I wasn’t interested in hearing about Doug’s—”

  “Please tell me what she said and your responses.”

  She brushed back a loop of dark hair with its silvery edge. “I don’t know that I can remember word for word. I put it all out of my mind. I was very busy yesterday.”

  “As nearly as you can remember.”

  She pressed her lips together for an instant, then spoke in a rapid, clipped voice. “I can’t be sure this is exactly right. Lou told me that Jack Sherman, he’s an old client of Doug’s, had caused quite a scene. Lou said that Jack demanded to see a ring that Doug bought for Lisbeth Carew.”

  “Did she say how much the ring cost?”

  Rhoda Graham’s gaze slid away. She looked down at the floor. She obviously saw trouble ahead if she admitted knowing yesterday morning that her former husband had spent a huge sum for a ring. But she had to assume I was there because Lou Raymond had revealed the contents of the phone conversation between Rhoda and Lou. Realizing she’d been silent too long, she looked at me, spoke hurriedly, “Jack claimed Maisie told him the ring cost a hundred thousand dollars.” Rhoda tried to keep her voice level, but there was an edge. Anger? Resentment? Jealousy?

  “What then?”

  “Jack went into Doug’s office and came out with the ring and held it up for everyone to see. Apparently he made it quite a show. Then he tossed the ring c
ase back to Doug and left.” Full stop.

  “What did you say about the ring?”

  “I don’t remember.” Her voice was stiff. “I suppose I said something.”

  She remembered, but she hoped Lou Raymond hadn’t reported their conversation verbatim.

  “How much support did your children receive from their father?” This would be a matter of public record in the divorce decree.

  “They are both over eighteen.”

  “Did he pay for their college expenses?”

  “No.”

  “Did he refuse to help them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Her face tightened. “He had a new life. He didn’t include them.”

  “Did they want to be included?”

  “I can’t speak for them.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  She made no answer, but her stare was hot with anger, anger with me, anger at the father who’d sloughed off his children. I well knew that even grown children are often bitter over divorce and sometimes blame one parent, cleave to the other.

  “Did you resent his refusal to help them?”

  “He knew how I felt about that.”

  “What was the reason for your divorce?”

  “What usually causes divorce? People decide to go their separate ways. At this point, it doesn’t matter, and I have no intention of discussing the circumstances.”

  “Was he involved with another woman?”

  She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. She had every right at this point to decline to talk about Doug Graham. Unless and until there was evidence linking her to his murder, she was justified in her reticence.

  I was brisk. “To return to today, you told Lou Raymond you were furious”—this was a guess on my part—“that he spent a hundred thousand dollars on a ring but provided no support to his children.”

  “I suppose that’s how she took my comment.”

  She was trying to gloss over what she’d said to Lou.

  “Obviously”—she chose her words carefully—“I felt Doug was unreasonable to act as he had.”

  So my guess was correct. When Lou Raymond called with news of the extravagant ring, Rhoda Graham was angry. “Do your children have student loans?”

  “What does that have to do with Doug’s murder?”

  “Do you know the terms of his will?”

  Her face smoothed out, was expressionless. Then she laughed, a ragged bitter laugh with a touch of triumph. “Doug never made a will. His father made a will and a week later he died. Doug thought making a will was bad luck. What kind of lawyer is that?”

  I didn’t know what kind of lawyer that made Doug Graham, but I knew one fact, his children would not have to go into debt now to go to college. I saw that knowledge in her eyes and saw fear as well. With her husband dead and his estate divided by heirs, his children wouldn’t have to worry about money.

  “What did your husband say when you spoke to him?”

  “My former husband.” The words again were clipped.

  “What did your former husband say when you spoke to him?”

  A pulse flickered in her slender throat, but now her response was rapid, definite. “I had no occasion to speak to him.” Her gaze was direct, open.

  “Were you at home last night at nine o’clock?”

  There was a slight hesitation, then she said quickly, “I was home all evening.”

  I rather thought not. She’d insisted she’d not spoken to him. Her statement suggested there would be no calls to trace to her cell phone or landline. If she had spoken to him—or attempted to speak to him—she must have gone to see him. She claimed she never left the house. She must have felt confident there was no one to contradict her. No one alive.

  The blazing summer sun was not quite midway in the sky. From a celestial perspective it is interesting that earth’s inhabitants think of the sun rising and setting, yet the sun is immovable, the earth instead orbiting and rotating. But I was here and thinking in a human way. Perhaps only twenty minutes had passed since I left the law firm, though it seemed longer. Assuming the police interviews averaged fifteen or twenty minutes in length, I should be able to be present when each person arrived home.

  I told Jimmy I wasn’t a dowser when he suggested I use ethereal magic to find the missing ring, but I intended to make a circuit to observe Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King, Brewster Layton, Nancy Murray, and Lou Raymond after they were interviewed. I didn’t hope to divine a murderer, but whatever the tenor of the interviews, if one of them was the killer, surely maintaining an innocent facade exacted a toll.

  I was pleased when I arrived at Anita Davis’s small frame house to find the only occupants were Bridget, lying small and thin on a sofa in the living room holding a book in her lap, and in the kitchen a matronly woman humming “The Little Brown Church in the Vale” as she whipped egg whites on a long blue willow pattern platter. I knew at once she was making an angel food cake, an intense labor of love attempted only by very good cooks. I felt at home. I had a sudden picture of Mama, though her hair was red and usually in braids, not a graying straggly bun.

  I returned to the living room, noted approvingly that it was immaculate, freshly starched white curtains at the windows, the oval braided rug worn but vacuumed. A small table next to the sofa held several books and a small vase with freshly cut roses. Bridget was propped against cushions. Her face was thin and pale, a fine bone structure, high forehead, slender nose, softly rounded chin. Pale brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore thicklens glasses but the frames were a cheerful daffodil yellow. Now the book lay open in her lap and her face held a too-adult look of pain. She gazed unseeingly across the room.

  On the porch, I hesitated. But I couldn’t shirk this moment. I’d not told Sam that Anita was aware of Doug’s threat to fire her. I had to find out whether Anita should be included in the list of suspects. After a quick look about to be sure I was unobserved, I appeared. I knocked gently.

  In a moment, the woman, wiping her hands on a capacious apron, opened the door.

  “Hello, ma’am.” I opened the leather folder. “Detective M. Loy. I understand Mrs. Davis is on her way home.” At her look of alarm, I said quickly, “The law office is closed today. Mrs. Davis and others at the office are assisting police in an investigation and, if you don’t mind, I’ll come in and wait for her.”

  The woman looked troubled. “You say she’s coming home?”

  I gave her a reassuring smile. “The office has been closed for the day. Officers are interviewing staff about a crime that occurred last night. Someone broke into the office and committed a theft. The interviews at the office were necessarily short, so I’m here to ask a few more questions. May I come inside and wait for her?”

  She reached out, took the leather folder, studied it. “Well, I suppose that’s all right. But we have a sick child and she’s in the front room.”

  “I’d love to visit with her until her mother gets home. I like children. I have two.”

  That seemed to reassure her. She held the door and I stepped into the living room.

  She nodded toward a plaid easy chair. “You can sit there if you like. I’ll bring you some iced tea while you wait. Sweet or unsweet?”

  “Sweet, please.” I never knew anyone drank tea cold turkey, so to speak, until I was a grown woman.

  Bridget put down her book, looked up with a shy smile. “Are you a friend of Mama’s?”

  I settled in the chair, smiled in return. “I’m looking forward to meeting your mother.”

  “What do you do?” She was guileless. She wanted to know. She asked.

  “I ask people questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  I wished I were far away, preferably aboard the Serendipity, not trifling wit
h people’s lives. This little girl needed her mother. But my questions would do no harm if Anita was innocent of murder. I felt further comforted because Megan continued to protect Anita. Megan was not a fool. She was well aware Anita had a staggeringly strong motive and yet she kept silent both about Doug Graham’s threat and, even more damaging to Anita, the fact that Anita overheard the exchange between Doug and Megan.

  “Sometimes I ask people what they do in the evening. What did you do last night?”

  Bridget tipped her head, considering the question. “I played checkers with Mom.”

  “Was that fun?”

  “Kind of. Mom wasn’t paying much attention. Mom works for some lawyers. Sometimes she has hard days. I think yesterday was one of those hard days. So I told her she needed to rest up a little. She likes to run errands. There’s a nice man who works at Walmart in the evenings and Mom talks to him. His name’s Brian. I asked Mom to go get me some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups at Walmart.”

  “Did she go?”

  Bridget beamed and nodded.

  “I suppose the nice lady who answered the door was here with you while your mom was gone.”

  “Mrs. Ellis goes home at five every day.”

  “You were by yourself?” I suppose surprise showed in my voice.

  Bridget was scornful. “I’m not a little kid. If I needed anything, I could call Mom. I have my cell phone.” She spoke with pride.