Ghost Times Two

by Carolyn Hart

  Sam reached Blaine and Megan. “In twenty minutes, we’ll go down to the station. I’ll ask you to accompany me, Ms. Wynn. Smith, you can follow in your car. We can do it on that basis or I’ll take Ms. Wynn into custody.”

  “I’m her attorney.” Blaine had moved nearer Sam, was a bulwark between Sam and Megan.

  “I got that. You can be present when I question her. I will also question you. You can also decide if you want counsel. Lawyer up if you want to.”

  Megan reached out, touched Blaine’s arm. “I’ll go with Chief Cobb. I have nothing to hide. I have never been to this apartment complex or to Nancy’s apartment until you and I came here together tonight.”

  The chief’s face was in shadow, but I thought I saw a slight nod of admiration.

  A sudden light blazed. “Great shot, Chief. You and the Black Widow Lawyer, who shows up at every murder in Adelaide. I’ll sell this for a bundle.”

  Sam’s face turned dull red. His big hands clenched. “This is a crime scene, Carson. No press releases—”

  I remembered an encounter with Deke Carson during Sam’s investigation into the murder of a man whose greed cost him his life. The weedy freelancer was Adelaide’s equivalent to celebrity-haunting paparazzi, the bottom-feeders in the news business. Carson sneered. “So last century, Sam the Man. Who needs press releases? I got a scanner. Murder. Glenwood Apartments. Number 22. Occupied by Nancy Murray, paralegal at firm of Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse. Inside skinny says Black Widow Lawyer Megan Wynn was on the scene of the murder of partner Doug Graham. Now she’s on the scene”—Carson lifted his Leica, another burst of brightness—“of murder two. Looks like they’re dropping like flies at that firm. Black Widows eat flies, don’t they?”

  Sam took two quick steps, stared down into Deke Carson’s weaselly face. “Get behind the police lines or go to jail.”

  Carson backed away, one arm wrapped around his camera. “Sure, sure, sure. And you have a fun ride to the cop shop with the Black Widow. Hope you make it.” With that he turned and loped across the courtyard. The pool was in his way. He started to veer left. Suddenly he took a header. Just as if someone stood in his way and thrust out a leg.

  Carson catapulted forward, stumbling, flailing, his momentum carrying him to the edge of the pool and over. He struck the water. The camera was pulled loose from his hands just as he toppled. The camera hovered for an instant before it plummeted straight down and disappeared beneath the surface.

  I understood immediately. I was thrilled to see sleaze justly rewarded and even more thrilled to know Jimmy’s location. I was there in an instant. I called out, my voice low and urgent. “I need to talk to you.”

  The hoarse reply was belligerent. “He deserv—”

  “Of course he did. Good job. I need your help. The end of the pier at White Deer.”

  Chapter 14

  I perched at the end of the pier. The moon hung high and luminous. Its radiance painted a swath across the lake. A refreshing breeze stirred my hair. Water lapped against the pilings. Frogs croaked in a nearby inlet. Their deep throaty bellows dominated the night, drowning out even the rasping cicadas. As Bobby Mac delighted in explaining, male frogs serenade ladies to get a little action going. Why was I not surprised?

  “I got to get down to the station.” Jimmy was frantic. “Ham Face is taking her in his car. Like she’s some kind of felon.”

  “It’s okay, Jimmy. The photo creep had all his facts wrong, except for one. Megan’s a lawyer. She can handle Sam. She’ll be fine—”

  “Fine?” He was explosive. “What planet do you live on? He’s going to third degree her.”

  “You read too much Mickey Spillane.”

  “Who’s that? Look, Cobb’s—”

  I refrained from asking what planet he lived on. I knew the answer. Earth, twenty-first century. His cultural icons and mine were decades apart. Life goes on, never the same, but always similar, the age-old quests for happiness and success, whether the seeker wears a doublet, breeches, and high leather boots or a Tommy Bahama breezer shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, and leather loafers without socks.

  “—about to pull into the back of the cop shop. I got to get down there—”

  I reached out, gripped his arm. “Steady, Jimmy. I’ll find out about Megan’s status. ASAP. But I have an idea—”

  “I told her not to go out.”

  His frustrated complaint caught my attention. “Were you there when she got the phone call from Nancy?”

  “Oh yeah. The evening was great for a little while.” His voice softened. “She’d had a bath and she came out of the bathroom and her face was kind of pink and her hair was wrapped in a towel and she had on this cute short terry cloth robe and she was barefoot. If I hadn’t cracked up in those rapids, I think she would have married me, and that’s how it could have been, me and Megan at home.” The cry for what could have been, could never be. “I kept quiet. I didn’t bother her or say anything. She didn’t know I was there, but that was okay. It was great just to be there with her. Sometimes she’d bend over and give Sweetie a kiss. I don’t mind when she kisses Sweetie. Anyway, we were there without him. When the phone rang, I thought maybe it was him. But I should have known. He’d call her cell. This was the landline. I went over and looked at caller ID, Nancy Murray. Megan picked up the phone and she looked surprised, then she frowned. I knew this wasn’t good. In fact, I had a feeling it was real bad and was I ever right. Anyway, Megan started to speak, then broke off. She held the phone and stared at it. She’d been cut off. She ended the call, punched to call back. She held on and on, I guess until the recorder picked up, then shook her head and slammed down the phone. She whirled around and ran to her bedroom, dropping the robe. In a minute she’d pulled on some clothes and was stepping into her shoes and brushing her hair at the same time. I asked her what was going on, where did she think she was going? She was shocked to hear my voice. She said Nancy was upset and she had to go see what was wrong. I was chasing after her as she ran down the stairs. I told her not to hurry off like she did when she got the text from Graham’s cell. I grabbed her arm when she got to the foyer, told her only dumb broads fell for the same line twice—”

  I agreed with Jimmy. The call was a setup, just like the text. The caller may or may not have been Nancy. A whispering voice . . .

  “—and she better not hare off to somebody’s apartment and maybe it was time to ring up The Suit. I hated to ask her to call him. She said she couldn’t bother Blaine anymore, that he’d missed a whole day’s work because of her, and he was probably at his office catching up. She said she’d put him to too much trouble already and there was no reason why she couldn’t talk to Nancy. By that time we were almost to her car and all of a sudden he loomed up in a dark shirt and jeans, kind of melted out of the shadows. He asked where she was going. She told him and he said they’d take his car.” Pause. “Cool car. I rode with them and he told her to call Ham Face.”

  “That’s wonderful!” If I’d been visible, I would have done a high kick. Nobody cancans with more verve than I. You should have seen me play Claudine in a summer theater production at White Deer Park. I wondered if the local theater group still thrived. We’d had a great group for a number of years. I began to hum “If You Loved Me Truly.”

  “Oh yeah, let’s high-five. Good move, make sure the cops arrive to find you at the scene of the crime.”

  “That’s the point.” I was hugely relieved. “Blaine was at her apartment house. He saw Megan come out. It’s clear he was on guard. He can swear her car never left the parking lot.”

  “What are the odds Ham Face will listen?” Jimmy was hostile.

  “He will.” Sam would listen. So far everything had looked black against Megan, but now there was a witness to give her an alibi. “Thank God for Blaine. If he watched her car from the time he left her apartment until she came out, she’ll be in the clear.”
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  “I get it. They can time when the call came to her apartment. That will prove when she was there, and he can testify when she came outside, and she was with him all the way to Nancy’s.”

  “Right. It doesn’t matter whether the call came from Nancy or her killer, the call had to have been made by one or the other, and Megan is alibied before and after the call.”

  “Maybe the killer wasn’t so damn smart.” Jimmy was pumped. “But”—there was a thoughtful pause—“Megan would be up a creek if Blaine hadn’t hung around. I guess he was letting her rest. Not getting in her face. But he stayed around to make sure nothing happened to her. Now he can swear she couldn’t have been at Nancy’s. I guess he was going to hang out there all night. I guess”—a longer pause—“he’s a pretty good man.”

  Tonight someone stood in Nancy’s apartment, called Megan’s number. The reason was obvious. Megan was clearly a suspect in Doug Graham’s murder. Put Megan on the scene of Nancy Murray’s murder, tie it up with a pretty bow for the police. “The fact that Nancy let the murderer inside her apartment doesn’t make sense.”

  “Somebody knocked on the door. She opened the door.”

  I was impatient. “When I talked to her, she was frightened. She claimed she was upset because of the fact of murder, knowing someone who’d been killed. Obviously it was more than that. She suspected someone of committing the crime. But how did the murderer know Nancy was suspicious? And if Nancy was so scared, why did she let the murderer in?”

  “Maybe she called the killer, said I can talk to the cops unless you slip me a cool ten thou and I’ll have amnesia.”

  “She was too frightened to call the killer.” I remembered the pall of fear around her.

  Jimmy was exasperated. “She let the killer in her apartment.”

  If I was right that knowledge of the killer accounted for her fear, how had she known who killed Doug Graham? There had never been any suggestion Nancy Murray had a motive for killing Doug Graham. There was no reason she would be at his house to see someone approach or had been present when the murder occurred. How then did Nancy learn the murderer’s identity? And, if Nancy hadn’t attempted blackmail, how did the murderer know she posed a threat? If Nancy hadn’t contacted the killer, then the killer came to her apartment unannounced.

  Why did Nancy open the door?

  Did the killer reassure Nancy? Or did the killer threaten Nancy? What could the killer possibly know that made Nancy feel she had no choice but to open the door?

  It was like watching slots click click click.

  “Oh. Oh!”

  “Spit it out.” Jimmy must have heard the sudden understanding in my voice.

  I reached out, grabbed Jimmy’s arm. “Meet me in Megan’s office.”

  I turned on the light. Megan’s desk was just as she’d left it, a folder open on the desktop, the bottom-right drawer pulled out. There were traces of fingerprint powder on the desk. I didn’t doubt there were fingerprints. Megan’s fingerprints. The killer most assuredly wore vinyl gloves Thursday night. There would be no telltale fingerprints of the murderer.

  “Jimmy, where were you when the door burst open after the gun went off?”

  “I was right in front of that cop, ready to kick his gun out of his hand.”

  “You were facing the door?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sam and Hal and Weitz were right behind Johnny. Then came Layton and the staff. Everybody was there, watching. You heard Megan tell Sam that she’d found the gun in her desk?”

  “Yeah. She had to cover for me shooting the gun off, and her explanation fell flat.”

  “That’s the critical moment.”

  “The gun going off?”

  “Megan saying she found the gun in her desk drawer. Were you looking toward the door?”

  “I was right beside Megan. She was looking at the door, talking to Cobb. I saw Cobb. I saw all of them. It was like I was a 60x zoom Nikon. I got it in a freeze-frame. Some things you never forget. I was the butt who got smart with the gun and set the posse after Megan. The whole sorry thing runs over and over in my mind. The guy cop’s blue eyes looked like ice. The woman cop had her arm out and the muscle in her forearm bunched like a fist. Ham Face already had stubble on his chin. Reminded me of hunting with my uncle, a big man, too. When Unc lined up Bambi in his sights, he had the same tough got-you-now look like Ham Face. The Blond God cop had his hand an inch from his gun. Brewster Layton stared at the gun on the floor like it was a snake and might come after him. Anita Davis’s mouth kept opening and closing, and she was making little oh-oh-oh noises. Geraldine Jackson stood on her toes for a better view. Sharon King looked into the room, then she glanced away. Lou Raymond clapped her hand over her mouth. Nancy Murray—”

  He broke off. “Oh wow.”

  He and I held the same memory.

  Jimmy talked fast. “Nancy was at the door. She was holding on to the jamb. She wasn’t looking at Megan or the gun. She was looking at someone near her. That person looked toward her. They stared at each other for an instant, then Nancy jerked her gaze away. It must have been obvious in Nancy’s face. I saw you put the gun in Megan’s office. But how did Nancy know the moment the gun was found?”

  It was as neat as x + y. “What happened Thursday night?”

  Jimmy was impatient. “That’s when the killer put the gun in Megan’s office.”

  “What else happened that night?”

  His retort was quick. “The ring was stolen. But”—he worked it out in his mind—“the killer didn’t care about the ring. The killer wanted to see Megan arrested. So the killer didn’t take the ring. Someone else took the ring. Oh sure. It was Nancy. She stole the ring. She broke through the window. She wanted the theft to look like an outside job. She came down the alley and broke the window and climbed in. She got the ring. And then when she was getting ready to leave, maybe she decided to take the easy way out, use the back door, and she started to open Doug’s office door and somebody else was there, somebody who had a key, somebody who came in and walked to Megan’s office and went in and then came out. Nancy was probably scared to death she was going to be caught. She stood there and watched someone she knew leave by the back door. Friday, when the gun was found, she knew who put it there.” Jimmy heaved a huge sigh of relief. “You can tell Ham Face, and everything will be all right.”

  It wasn’t going to be that easy. “I’ll point Sam in the right direction. He has to find proof. I won’t tell him who Nancy saw.”

  “Why not?” He was irritated. “Why toss out bread crumbs for him to follow? Why not tell him what we saw? I swear dames have to make everything complicated. Tell the man.”

  “Let me see,” I said in a musing tone, “I can say, ‘Sam, you know I was watching when Megan explained how she found the murder weapon in her desk drawer. Everyone in the office heard what she said. By the way, there was another ghost present who can confirm what I saw. He and I both observed Nancy Murray and her killer looking at each other. Straightforward as can be.”

  The desk chair tilted back. “You mean Ham Face likes facts. Okay. Do what you have to do. Get busy with your bread crumbs.”

  Now I was crisp. “I’ll talk to Sam. I need for you to go to the Gazette, check out some dates.”

  He listened as I explained. “Easy.”

  “We’ll meet at seven in the morning.” I wanted to start Saturday in the best possible fashion. “When you were here—”

  “Like here?” Colors swirled. Jimmy, in a blue polo and madras shorts, lounged in Megan’s chair, one leg draped over an arm.

  I was struck again with the extraordinary sensitivity of his face beneath a mop of brown hair, a smooth high forehead, deep-set brown eyes, straight nose, a tiny mole just below and to the right of his lips, rounded chin. His expression reflected delight. He was here.

  “Where did you eat breakfa
st?”

  He raised those brown brows. “A new game? What’s your favorite ball club? Do you drink Bud Light or Coors? Have you ever picked up a tarantula? Rangers. Bud Light. Hell, no. Breakfast? Usually a granola bar and coffee at my desk. Starbucks Red Eye. Sometimes I’d meet Megan at Panera. Anything else on your mind?”

  “So no one would be likely to recognize you at Lulu’s?”

  “Geezer City, lady.”

  “See you there.”

  The interrogation rooms were dark and empty. I found Megan and Blaine in Sam’s office. I was a little surprised Detective Weitz wasn’t there. Sam was settled in his swivel chair.

  Megan and Blaine sat in the straight chairs facing the desk. Megan’s gaze was steady, her expression serious but unintimidated. Blaine kept a protective hand on the back of her chair.

  Sam was in his shirtsleeves, his rumpled brown suit jacket hanging from the coat tree by the door. The stubble on his jaws was darker, but his dark eyes were alert and intent. I noted a recorder on Sam’s desk, saw the lighted panel. Sam was speaking. “I’ll have the statements you make transcribed.”

  I was surprised at the geniality of his tone.

  “I know it’s late but I’d like to hear what happened one more time.”

  There had been a change between his hard-faced appraisal of Megan and Blaine at Nancy’s apartment to this almost informal—except for the whirring recorder—conference in his office. Was this a variation on the good cop, bad cop routine?