Ghost Times Two

by Carolyn Hart

  Whatever. I needed to get Sam’s attention before the police left Nancy Murray’s apartment. The blackboard was behind Megan and Blaine but the chalk might make a scratchy sound. I scanned Sam’s desktop, saw a legal pad and pen, but a pen moving independently would scarcely escape their notice.

  I dropped to the floor, tugged on Sam’s trouser cuff.

  He never took his gaze away from Megan and Blaine, simply wriggled his foot.

  Blaine leaned forward, big hands splayed on his knees. His long bony face was confident, his deep voice emphatic. “We finished our pizza about seven. Megan was exhausted. I told her to relax, said good night. When I got down to my car, I was thinking about Thursday night. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get her out to Graham’s house. Somebody planted the gun in her desk drawer. Somebody wants her to go to jail. I don’t know what—”

  This time I tapped on Sam’s knee.

  His gaze fell. One big hand reached out, gripped my wrist. He gave my arm a little shake. I took it to mean, Wait a minute, let me finish here.

  “—I expected, but I decided not to take any chances. I wasn’t going anywhere. If anybody came, I’d see them. I parked where I could see her car. I could see her windows on the second floor. I even had a good view of the back of the apartment house. The front and back are well lit. Some people went out the front, a couple came in the front, nobody went out the back. It was about nine thirty when Megan came bursting out of the front door. I got to her car when she was opening the door. I can tell you her car never left the lot between the time I came about seven and the time she came downstairs. She told me about the call. I said I’d take her to see Nancy but she had to call you, anything else was nuts. I drove and she called you. We got to Nancy’s. I knocked—”

  Their arrival had unfolded as I imagined.

  “—on the door. No answer, but the door swung in. We saw her. I called you. That’s all we know.”

  Sam’s big face was thoughtful. “You are prepared to swear to these facts in a courtroom.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I am.”

  Sam heaved himself to his feet. “You’re free to go.”

  For an instant, two faces stared at him. Blaine’s sandy brows lifted in surprise, then his bony face held triumph. Megan’s tense posture eased. She was the little girl at the vet and the doctor is saying her cat will live.

  They rose, Blaine’s hand firm on Megan’s elbow. Blaine’s voice was a little uneven. “You won’t regret tonight.”

  Sam was matter-of-fact. “Just doing my job.”

  By the time the hall door closed, I was visible on the sofa in a cheerful cotton top, a bamboo print with graceful pale blue blossoms and matching pale blue cropped trousers. I admired my light beige sandals with faux sapphire trim. “I’m over here.”

  The bottom drawer in his desk squeaked. He plucked out the bag of M&M’S, crossed to the sofa.

  I held out my hand. As Mama always said, “When a man offers his favorite food accept with an appreciative smile.”

  Sam settled heavily at one end of the sofa, poured a mound in a big palm. “You can say I told you so. Megan Wynn’s in the clear.” He didn’t sound happy.

  “What happened on the ride to the station?”

  He munched, spoke a little unclearly. “Nothing she said changed anything. It was what I expected. What I didn’t know until I talked to both of them was that Blaine was watching her apartment and her car. That puts her in the clear, because she answered a call from the Murray apartment. Doesn’t matter who made the call. What matters is the time. She answered and a couple of minutes later she flies out of her apartment house. Blaine stops her at her car. The Murray woman is dead when they find her about eight minutes later. Wynn’s out of it.” Crunch. Crunch. “I was a scoutmaster for a long time. Blaine was in my troop. Eagle Scout. If he says he was there, he was there.”

  There are advantages to living in a small town. People know each other.

  A weary sigh. “Glad for him. He’s head over heels. But now I have to start over. The facts had seemed pretty clear.” He rubbed his knuckles on his bristly chin. “Tomorrow they’ll still seem pretty clear to Neva. She doesn’t know Blaine. She’ll say, Don’t be a sap, that’s the story they cooked up, they’re in it together. So the pressure will be on and Neva will go off like a geyser when she knows I didn’t arrest Wynn. You got anything?”

  “I know why Nancy Murray was killed.”

  He leaned forward, his face slack with amazement. “Why the hell?”

  “She broke into Doug Graham’s office late Thursday night. Probably well past midnight. She climbed in from the alley, got the ring. I imagine she used a little LED flashlight. Narrow beam, piercing—”

  Sam was turning, grabbing his phone. He held up a hand for me to wait, barked into the receiver. “Officer”—and I knew he spoke to an investigator at Nancy Murray’s apartment—“information received. Stolen ring”—he pulled a folder close, flipped it open—“may be hidden on the premises. Fourteen-karat-gold band studded with rubies. Five-point-seven-carat multifaceted diamond. The ring will be well hidden. Check the usual places, flour and sugar canisters, bars of soap, box of detergent, toes of shoes, maybe even at the bottom of a jewel box with costume jewelry, or tucked in a lingerie drawer, poked down in the mayo in the fridge. Find the ring.”

  He clicked off, swung to face me, eyes gleaming.

  “Nancy tried to set the stage for the robbery to look like a break-in. But she probably decided to leave by the door, not crawl back through the window. Even if she had the flash on when she opened the door, if she saw light from Wynn’s office, she’d click off her flashlight.” I pictured Nancy Murray standing just inside Graham’s office, her hand clutching the doorknob, too panicked to move, not daring to make a noise.

  Again Sam held up his hand, turned to the phone, punched. “Officer, make sure prints are taken from the interior doorknob of Graham’s office.” He clicked off, swung around to face me.

  I nodded approval. “Nancy must have been bewildered. Why was someone in Megan’s office that late at night? Of course, she had no idea that Doug Graham was dead. So she watched and then someone came out of Megan’s office and it wasn’t Megan, which must have been even more bewildering.”

  Sam’s big head nodded. “Whoever came out of Megan’s office had to walk right past Graham’s office to get to the back door. That person had to have a flashlight, so Murray saw a face. The back door opened, closed. Murray probably waited at least five minutes. She crept into the hall and to the back door and opened it. That brings us to tonight. Did she try blackmail?”

  “I don’t think so. Instead, when the gun was found in Megan’s desk, Nancy’s reaction alerted the murderer.”

  The two had looked at each other. Jimmy and I both saw that exchange of glances.

  Sam pounced. “That cuts the possibilities to someone present in the office Friday morning.” He ticked them off, one by one: “Brewster Layton, Lou Raymond, Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King. It eliminates Rhoda Graham and Keith Porter.”

  “Exactly.” Slowly but surely I was aiming Sam in the right direction.

  He got his stubborn look. “You said Murray was scared when you talked to her this morning. If she knew who killed Graham, why did she let the killer in her apartment?”

  “This morning Nancy knew the killer planted the gun, but the killer realized Nancy took the ring. Of course, Nancy was scared. But when the killer knocked on her door and said something like Do you want the police to get a tip about the ring? If you claim you saw me, I’ll say that’s crazy, obviously an effort to pretend you didn’t also leave the gun. Let me in and we’ll work everything out. Nancy felt she had no choice. They talked for a few minutes. The killer reassured Nancy. Nothing to fear from me. Let’s both forget last night ever happened. The killer gets up to leave. Nancy’s relieved. She w
alks toward the door, a little ahead of the killer. The killer strikes. After Nancy falls, the killer calls Megan, whispers, hangs up, then is out the door.”

  Sam again rubbed his knuckles against his chin. “Why didn’t the killer hunt for the ring?”

  “How long would it take—will it take—to find the ring? You can bet it isn’t resting in that red plush case on top of the bedroom dresser. Sure, that would have been one choice. Find the ring, then no one would have had any idea why Murray was killed. The murderer is likely counting on the fact that no one is looking for the ring in Nancy’s apartment. Besides, the murderer knows the text on Graham’s cell phone set up Megan as suspect-in-chief. It was more important to tie Megan to the new murder than to worry about the ring.”

  Sam’s phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. “Cobb.” He listened, laughed. “Worth a wet hand. Thanks.” He hung up, turned to me. “Smart kid. New officer. Found the ring taped to the bottom of the plunger in the toilet tank.” He gave me a respectful nod. “What made you think Murray had the ring?”

  My answer was sober. “She’s dead. Why did she have to die? It could only be because she knew who the murderer was, and that’s when I knew she’d been at the office last night. If she was at the office, she could have seen the person putting the gun in Megan’s desk.”

  He tilted back a little in his chair. “A pretty nice scenario. But the mayor’s going to push to arrest Wynn, especially since she showed up at the second murder.”

  “We’ll arrest the killer before the mayor erupts.” I was confident.

  One grizzled black brow rose. “That’s about as likely as me bowling a perfect strike tomorrow night. Saturday night’s my bowling night. I’ll cancel. It’s going to take twenty-four/seven police legwork and even then we may not be any closer to a solution.”

  “Don’t cancel. If all goes well, we’ll have the answers by tomorrow afternoon.” I could tell Sam I knew the identity of the murderer, but it would work out much better if he received confirmation the old-fashioned way, a rock-hard identification that couldn’t be explained away. Moreover, I needed time between now and then to line up my ducks, as Bobby Mac used to say when he was courting investors for a well.

  Sam was willing to follow my lead. Now, to give him the final push in the right direction. As Mama always said, “If a man thinks it’s his idea, he’ll fight to the death for it.” “Tell me about the sock.”

  “The homemade blackjack?”

  I nodded.

  He was dismissive. “Like they say in the TV shows, Move along, nothing to see here. It was a man’s black dress sock.”

  “I wonder if the sock was new?” It was as if the idea had just occurred to me.

  “New?” His eyes narrowed. “I suppose a pretty savvy killer might worry about a residue of detergent. People wash socks, fold them up, toss them in a drawer. There might even be traces of DNA if the sock was handled after washing. I’ll have the lab check. They can probably determine whether it had ever been washed.”

  My voice was diffident. “I don’t suppose there was a brand name.”

  “Same brand I buy at Walmart.”

  “I wonder if they carry that brand at Target?”

  Without answering, he heaved to his feet, walked to his desk, sat in his swivel chair. He swung to his computer, clicked, clicked, clicked.

  I followed, perched on the edge of his desk.

  He looked at me. “Walmart only.” Now he was intrigued. “The killer,” he said, thinking out loud, “didn’t know until the gun was found in the office that anyone had any idea who put it there. When the murderer realized Murray knew, Murray had to die. But how?” He flexed his big hands. “What to use for a weapon? The gun was in police custody. We ran a check. It was stolen a couple of years ago, probably picked up at a garage sale or flea market. Anyway, here’s the killer on Friday afternoon, determined to silence Murray. How? What could be bought and handled so that no fingerprints would ever show? A blunt instrument? How about dirt in a sock?” His voice oozed satisfaction. Then he frowned. “Why not go to a drawer and pick out a sock?” He was thinking out loud. “A man’s dress sock. None of the women in the office have husbands. Anita Davis was widowed six years ago. Sharon King never married. Geraldine Davis is a three-time loser. Lou Raymond was widowed two years ago. Now, Brewster Layton—”

  I was gentle. “There are socks and then there are socks. I doubt if Brewster Layton has ever walked into Walmart.”

  Sam’s smile was grim. “Not unless it was yesterday afternoon. But he wouldn’t use one of his own socks. For all I know they’re imported from Italy. So, the killer needs a new sock. That means”—and now he was excited—“between the time everyone left the office yesterday and the murderer showed up at Murray’s door, the murderer went to Walmart.” He turned back to his monitor, clicked.

  I slid off the desk, came up behind him to look over his shoulder. E-mail to Detectives Don Smith and Judy Weitz: Get mug shots Brewster Layton, Anita Davis, Sharon King, Lou Raymond, Geraldine Jackson. Show photos to all cashiers, stockers, salesclerks, and greeters on duty at Walmart yesterday between noon and eight p.m. Proving any one of them was there will be a leg up. Any connection to the menswear department and men’s socks would be gravy on the potatoes.

  I touched his shoulder. “Sam, that’s brilliant.”

  He looked up, made an attempt at modesty. “Well, you got me to thinking about socks.”

  “Oh, but you figured out what must have happened.”

  He pumped his right fist. “This may make all the difference. Neva will have to listen to me. I may break the case all by myself. I can’t wait to tell her.”

  Mama was right again. I smiled at him admiringly. “I can’t wait to find out what you discover.” I felt much like a cat seated by a bowl of cream. “I’ll meet you here at three tomorrow afternoon.”

  I disappeared.

  Chapter 15

  Does anything smell better in the early morning than bacon cooking and coffee brewing? I waited in a booth with a large cup of coffee cradled in my hands. Lulu’s bustles on Saturday mornings. Jimmy’s designation of my favorite cafe as Geezer City had a basis in truth. Many breakfast customers were middle-aged to older men who clearly knew each other well. Hearty bursts of laughter punctuated the rumble of male voices resonant as stampeding elephants.

  I was also pleased by the richness of my print jacket in lightweight linen, circlets of gold and silver against a creamy background. My slacks, I gazed down in approval, were a matching gold. My gold strap sandals were out of sight but quite perfect, thank you.

  Jimmy slid into the booth and sat opposite me. He was Tahiti cool in a palm tree–splashed shirt and white trousers. “Pretty exciting at the Gazette last night. They’ll be talking about the Phantom of the Newsroom for decades. I never thought I’d see Joan Crandall, my favorite jaded broad, with eyes like saucers and her hair practically standing on end.”

  My tone was reproving. “Jimmy.”

  He turned his slender hands palm up. “I had no choice. See”—and now he was earnest—“I got the stuff you wanted, chapter and verse.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Kind of an interesting chronology. But I thought the place was deserted. Joan’s computer was still on but sometimes she likes to leave it running. The city editor would snarl about security, and Joan would clap her hands on her hips and ask who did he think was going to get into her files overnight—pixies or unicorns?—and if she had her choice she’d go with unicorns. Anyway, I got to work at her computer and I kind of like being there, you know what I mean?”

  I did. Yes, indeed.

  He smoothed his silk shirt. “I always wanted to go to the South Seas. So I was in the newsroom, just like I used to be. I even turned on the ceiling fans. Always kept me cool. I got what I needed and clicked Print and pushed back Joan’s chair. I went over to the
big printer in the corner, and I’m just scooping up the sheets when Joan yells out, she’s got that raspy voice like a file against metal, ‘Hey, who are you?’

  “If I turned around, she’d know it was me. I disappeared. I still had the sheets in my hand. I wasn’t going to leave those behind. There wasn’t anything I could do about the file on the computer. I intended to delete it. Anyway, I’ll bet Joanie’s been up half the night trying to figure out what’s what. I went up to the ceiling. Joan was standing in the middle of the newsroom watching the papers go overhead. She turned the color of my aunt’s Siamese. I made it out to the hall. I was downstairs in a jiffy. It set off the alarm when I unlocked the front door. But”—and he was proud—“here’s what you asked for.”

  The dark-haired waitress, thin, harried, and efficient, stopped at our booth. Jimmy ordered chocolate chip waffles with whipped cream and cherries, link sausage, and coffee. I opted for sausage, scrambled eggs verde, and grits. Coffee, of course.

  He pointed at the sheets in front of me. “How can you use that?”

  “This afternoon I’ll give the dates to Sam Cobb. By then we may really be on the killer’s trail.” I brought him up to date on Walmart and mug shots. “There’s one more thing that could make a huge difference. Do you think you can get Ginny Morse to talk?”

  “I never met a woman I couldn’t persuade.” He spoke as a reporter noting an undisputed fact.

  His confidence boosted mine. He could provide the last piece of real evidence. I sketched out what I hoped he could discover. “See what you can do. I’ll meet you at the end of the pier at two thirty.”

  “Sounds hot and hotter. How about meeting at the picnic area under the big sycamore?”

  “Excellent choice.”

  “Here come my waffl— Uh-oh.” He was gone.

  I turned to see Sam Cobb, in a rumpled blue suit. He wended his way around a clump of men and two tables, came up to the booth. “I could have sworn I saw somebody sitting with you.”