Ghost Times Two

by Carolyn Hart

  “Sometimes”—my smile was bright—“we don’t see what we don’t see.”

  “May I join you?” He was already sliding in. “Young fellow,” he said pleasantly. “He looked a lot like a reporter on the Gazette. He drowned last summer.”

  “May he rest in peace,” I murmured.

  Sam shot me a wry look. “I don’t know that resting would suit him.”

  The waitress scarcely gave him a glance as she slapped down plates and coffee mugs, asked generally, “Anything else you need?”

  Sam looked at the mound of whipped cream, studded with cherries and extra chocolate chips. “This should take care of me.”

  She was gone, hurrying to pick up the next order.

  Sam studied the plate. “Claire put me on a diet. Says I need to lose twenty pounds. But it would’ve been bad manners to send the plate back, right? Kind of like not picking up pennies from Heaven.” He spooned a scoop of the topping. “The whipped cream was made fresh this morning. Can’t beat Lulu’s.”

  I was well into my grits. “Heavenly,” I agreed.

  He added Lulu’s homemade unsalted butter to a corner of his waffle. “I needed Lulu’s this morning. Had a pretty late night. I was just about home when I got a call from the Gazette. I went straight there. Joan Crandall looked like she’d been to a séance, and it turned out not to be a joke. What really spooked her”—his gaze was questioning—“was finding a file open on her computer, a file she hadn’t created. That and watching a sheet of paper propel itself along the ceiling and out the door. She said when she first came into the newsroom she thought she saw someone standing by the printer. She knew she was alone in the building except for the watchman, and he’s almost seventy. She said she would have sworn she was seeing Jimmy Taylor, the young fellow I told you about. She called out and he was gone. Then this paper skimmed along up near the ceiling and out the newsroom door. She said she raced downstairs and the alarm was going off. When the dust settled, no one was found, and she said she wasn’t about to tell the night watchman what she’d seen. By this time she’s pretty frazzled but she goes up to her computer and finds the file. The minute she read it, she knew there was a connection to the murders, so she printed out a copy for me.” He slipped his hand inside his suit jacket, pulled out a folded sheet, opened it, then reached out. His big hand closed over the sheet lying in front of my plate. He held the sheets side by side, read aloud:

  October 17, 2013—Death notice for Marie Denise Layton, 58, wife of Brewster Layton

  May 14, 2014—Lisbeth Carew assumes leadership of Black Gold Oil Company because of the illness of her husband, Edward Carew

  September 18, 2014—Divorce granted between Rhoda Jones Graham and Douglas Warren Graham

  October 17, 2014—Goddard senior Alison Terry killed in hit-and-run accident on Country Club Drive

  October 20, 2014—Collision between Brewster Layton and Doug Graham on Country Club Drive

  November 6, 2014—Death notice for Edward Chambers Carew, 62

  April 22, 2015—Death notice for Julie Marie Layton, 12, daughter of Brewster Layton and the late Marie Denise Layton

  July 23, 2015—Doug Graham shot to death

  Sam looked at me quizzically. “I could wonder about the rumpus at the Gazette. Or mention that your sheet and mine are identical. But let’s cut to the chase.”

  The old familiar dictum from famed silent film director Hal Roach, Sr., was still good advice.

  I was equally crisp. “I needed the dates to be sure I was on the right track. Now I know what questions to ask. Detective Loy will report this afternoon at three. Oh, Sam, look behind you. I think I see—”

  Lulu’s was at the height of the morning crush, voices, laughter, every chair taken, people absorbed in breakfast and conversation. As Sam’s head turned, I disappeared. I didn’t think he’d mind picking up the check.

  The partially knitted raspberry afghan was still draped on the small sofa. Beyond the closed door, there was the sound of women’s voices, the ringing of a phone, footsteps in the hall.

  The knob turned. Rhoda Graham stepped inside, closed the door, looked at me with no warmth. She looked shrunken this morning, her long face drawn with fatigue, her slender shoulders bowed. Her dark hair with its distinctive silver streak was pulled back into a knot, emphasizing the thinness of her face.

  I stood by the sofa. I was sure my turquoise wrap blouse, turquoise skirt with a shell print, and white leather slides with turquoise beaded straps spoke of summer and cheer. Though brisk, I made my voice warm. “I appreciate your willingness to speak with me.”

  Her dark eyes were cold. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Absolutely. I am pleased to inform you that we have made great progress in solving the crimes—”

  “Crimes?”

  “Were you aware that the firm’s paralegal, Nancy Murray, was murdered last night?”

  Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. “Nancy killed?”

  “The news was on TV this morning.” I hadn’t seen TV but I was quite sure this was true. “I can report to you that the search for her murderer and your former husband’s murderer is now confined to firm members and staff.”

  “What happened to Nancy?” Her tone was hollow.

  “She was bludgeoned to death in her apartment last night.”

  “Nancy . . .” She took a deep breath. “Someone in the office?” Her face creased in a puzzled frown. “Then why are you here?”

  “You can provide information we need to know about your husband.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Doug.” Her tone was stiff.

  “Unless you help us, Megan Wynn will be arrested for his murder and for the murder of Nancy Murray.”

  “That’s absurd.” Her retort was quick, definite, outraged. “I’ve known Nancy since she was a little girl. Her parents died in an accident and she came here and lived with her uncle. He passed away last year. Megan would have had no reason, no reason at all—”

  “Right now all the evidence points to her. But we think your husband may have been having an affair with someone at the law—”

  “Not Megan.”

  “Definitely not. But only you can tell us what happened with your husband before your divorce.”

  Silence hung between us.

  I spoke slowly, emphatically. “Unless you help me, Megan Wynn will be arrested.”

  She walked to the small sofa, sank down, clutched the half-finished afghan. Her face remote, she looked at me with somber eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  Shoppers thronged Walmart. I hovered above the aisles. The smell of fresh popcorn mingled with the scent of cologne. Customers clogged the checkout lines. A stressed clerk at checkout 5 tapped a speaker. “All checkers report to the front.”

  The heavyset woman at the register behind her gave a huff. “Lots of luck, honey. Something’s going on. Chuck has half the checkers back in the break room and Agnes told me they’d called in everybody who worked yesterday from noon to eight, checkers, clerks, stockers, greeters, but I sure don’t see them up here helping us.”

  I raced to the rear of the store, dairy cases to my right, camping equipment to the left. I passed a counter in a center hallway. It took only a moment to find the break room behind a door marked Staff Only. All the chairs around a long table were taken. Another dozen people clustered at the end of the room.

  Sam stood next to a portable whiteboard. Photographs were taped in alphabetical order: Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King, Brewster Layton, Lou Raymond, Blaine Smith, Megan Wynn.

  Blaine’s photo on the whiteboard surprised me. But, of course, he had been present yesterday morning in the office. Also, Sam would avoid having the photograph of only one man.

  Sam held a pointer in one beefy hand. “. . . carefully study these pictures. We believe one of these persons was present i
n your store yesterday between noon and eight p.m. If anyone recognizes—”

  “Oh.” A woman with cornflower blue eyes blinked several times. She lifted a thin hand and pointed. “I was on register one. It was about two thirty and I was going on break next.”

  A stocky woman with brassy hair in tight ringlets strode to the whiteboard. “It was so weird.” She tapped a photograph. “That one was in menswear and used the corner of a Kleenex to pick up a package of socks.”

  Jimmy’s choice of the picnic area at White Deer Park was inspired. I sat on a table and squinted at the pier, starkly white and blazing hot in the afternoon sun. “Jimmy?”

  The table was wooden and old. It creaked as he settled beside me. “Beautiful evening in Florence.” He sounded mellow.

  “Did you talk to Ginny Morse?” Sam had an identification from two Walmart employees, but I hoped Ginny Morse could add flesh to the bones.

  “It took me a while to find her. She was shopping in Florence. The housekeeper told me she was visiting the linen shops. I found her in a boutique trying to decide between linen and damask. She asked my opinion. I guess stuffed shirt was on the golf course or maybe drinking wine. I pointed at one and she said, ‘Of course. The damask is truly elegant.’ I carried her parcel for her and we stopped at a trattoria for some vino. That lady likes—”

  “Jimmy, did she know anything?”

  “She wasn’t going to admit anything, black or white or up or down. She said it was her policy to live and let live. I told her I wasn’t the bed police, but she better understand that Megan Wynn was going to jail unless the Adelaide police discovered whether Graham was involved with somebody in the office. When she realized I was serious”—his voice was grim—“she got serious, too.”

  “Jimmy”—if he had been near enough I would have grabbed his shoulders and shaken him—“what did she say?”

  “Chapter and verse. She jogs . . .”

  I listened and then I smiled. If there is ever a true truism in a small town, it is this little phrase: Someone will see you.

  I knew Jimmy was lounging comfortably on a corner of Sam’s desk. He had agreed to remain unseen. He’d grinned, said, Think two of us would spook him? I doubted Sam would be bothered. After the excitement at the Gazette last night, he likely was quite certain of my unseen friend. My aim was to stave off the arrival of the Rescue Express until Megan was in the clear. Wiggins tolerated my appearing because he understood Sam preferred a presence with a voice, but Jimmy in his South Seas sport shirt and white slacks would distress Wiggins.

  Sam hunched at his desk. A photo rested next to the two sheets of paper Sam had studied at Lulu’s this morning. Sam drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desktop, flicked an impatient glance at the wall clock. It read ten minutes after three.

  “I’m only a few minutes late, Sam.” I appeared again in my turquoise blouse and skirt, brushed back a red curl stirred by the hot breeze off the lake, settled in the straight wooden chair facing him.

  He tapped the photo. “I was going to give you five more minutes before I put out a pickup call.”

  As Mama always said, “When a man isn’t headed in the right direction, help him change his mind of his own accord.”

  “That would be excellent. Or, as I’ve heard you say in the past”—this was creative license but I was sure Sam was a hunter and it is something he might well have said—“Sometimes it’s best to flush a bird without warning. The murderer is unaware of what you know. There are more facts that will come as a terrible shock.” I told Sam what Rhoda Grant revealed. He made quick notes. “And the very nice young man from the consulate in Florence spoke again with Ginny Morse.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “The very nice young man from the consulate in Florence?”

  “Such a help,” I murmured.

  “You think Morse will give us a statement?”

  “She understands Megan Wynn is in danger of arrest.”

  He nodded, clicked a button on his intercom. “Alma, get the cell number for Ginny Morse. ASAP.”

  “If the murderer is confronted without warning”—my tone was diffident—“the effect might be remarkable.”

  His eyes gleamed. He slammed a broad hand down on the desktop. “Yeah. No warning. Better not put out a pickup call. Get ’em all together.” He was muttering to himself. “That’s what I’ll do. We’ll contact them, inform them of Nancy Murray’s murder, ask them to come to the law office at four o’clock.”

  He was now a man with a plan. His plan. Mama was right again.

  The conference room at Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse also served as a law library. Large law books filled three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Four comfortable leather chairs sat on either side of a long oak table. Matching chairs were at either end. No doubt the room had often been witness to human drama, divorces, quarrelsome depositions, intense settlement conferences, the reading of wills. But perhaps Death had never before felt so near.

  Sam Cobb, his large face impassive, stood behind an end chair. His navy blue suit jacket sagged but his heft and bulk were impressive. A somber Brewster Layton cupped his goatee in his right hand and stared at Sam. Lou Raymond’s generous mouth puckered in uncertainty. Anita Jackson’s plump face looked stricken and she held tight to the arms of her chair. Sharon King was pale and drawn, her lips pressed together, but her light brown hair was neatly brushed, her white blouse crisp, and her lime green linen slacks wrinkle free. Geraldine Jackson watched Sam, her gaze speculative. Her golden curls were loose and flowing today, which emphasized a face that held a road map of her past, late nights, men, bars, loneliness, and yearning. In contrast, Megan Wynn’s face was young and open, but tight lines of anxiety reflected her uncertainty. She had to wonder whether she was truly free of suspicion or whether Sam Cobb had given that impression while continuing to pursue her. Blaine Smith sat next to Megan. He might have been a guard dog, watching out for his person. He was alert, ready to spring to her defense.

  Sam glanced at Detective Judy Weitz, who sat at his left.

  Judy reached out a firm hand and flicked on the recorder in front of her.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Nancy Murray knew the identity of Doug Graham’s killer. She knew because she broke into Graham’s office Thursday night to steal the diamond ring.”

  There were sudden indrawn breaths, a murmur from the onlookers.

  Sam spoke as if he had been there in the late-night hours. “As Nancy was leaving, she saw someone walk out of Megan Wynn’s office. Murray remained quiet. The departing figure didn’t see her. The next morning Murray understood that she had seen Doug Graham’s murderer leave Megan Wynn’s office after placing the murder weapon in Megan’s desk. Unfortunately for Nancy Murray, the murderer realized Nancy knew and posed a danger. That’s why Murray was struck down. But the motive that matters is the motive that led to Doug Graham’s murder.”

  He folded his arms. “For that, we have to understand Doug Graham, who he was, how he treated others, what he valued. He grew up in Adelaide as a rich man’s son until his father’s dairy went bankrupt. One day he had everything, the next he was working at McDonald’s. He took out student loans to get his undergraduate degree, more loans for law school. He married while he was in law school. Two children came. He worked long hours, always determined to get money, have money, spend money. Marriages succeed or fail for many different reasons. Sometimes a woman or man realizes a partner isn’t someone they admire or respect. To Doug Graham, money and position were all that mattered. There wasn’t time to go to sporting events or school programs, always work. There was the hunger for a big house, fine clothes, fancy office. The Graham marriage was in cold storage for the last few years. Rhoda Graham suspected her husband was having an affair, but she kept the marriage going to keep the family together. Doug Graham had seemed content with that status. Rhoda assumed Doug wasn’t interested in marrying the other wom
an.”

  I watched a particular face. There was no change in expression.

  Sam picked up the tempo. “Everything changed in May of 2014. On May 14, 2014, Lisbeth Carew announced the illness of her husband, Edward. Doug Graham had handled several matters for the Black Gold Oil Company and for Edward Carew. In late May, Doug asked Rhoda for a divorce. She agreed. The divorce was granted in September 2014. It’s interesting to note that Doug made no move to marry his lover.” Sam looked at Brewster Layton. “Your law firm has a well-known ironclad rule: No sexual dalliance between partners and employees.”

  Abruptly the room was utterly still. Lou Raymond looked toward Geraldine Jackson, jerked her gaze away.

  Geraldine didn’t miss the glance. Her face flushed. “That’s a crock. I knew his kind. Silver tongue and a lying heart. I may have married a bunch of losers but they meant what they said.” A bark of laughter. “At the time. They just never had staying power.”

  There were other covert glances at Geraldine. Brewster Layton’s gaze narrowed. Anita Davis’s lips parted in shock. Sharon King’s lips tightened in distaste. Megan shook her head in disbelief. Blaine looked curious.

  Geraldine heaved to her feet. “You can all go straight to hell. Like I said, I always knew Doug was a jerk. I never gave him the time of day—and don’t think he didn’t try.”

  “Sit down.” Sam’s deep voice was commanding.

  Geraldine was breathing fast, but she slowly sank into the chair, her face flushed.

  Sam held up a big hand. “Let me finish. When he was divorced, Graham persuaded the woman to keep quiet. Perhaps he said, You can look for another job and then we’ll wait a year. Everything will work out. That wasn’t the true reason. He got a divorce because Edward Carew was terminally ill and Lisbeth Carew was turning to him, finding support. He knew what he wanted. The Carew millions. That brings us to Thursday morning. Jack Sherman grabbed the velvet case from Graham’s desk, held up the ring for everyone to see. Now everyone knew, including the woman who thought she was loved, but discovered she’d been betrayed. At some point in the morning, she accused him. He couldn’t deny the ring, but he thought he could persuade her. Perhaps he thought she might share his greed. The Carew millions. They could meet as they always had. Think of the clothes and trips. She didn’t answer, turned away. He knew he had to persuade her. He tried several different drafts of a note, finally composed one. She received the note. Perhaps she told him she’d talk to him tomorrow. But she had already made up her—”