Merry, Merry Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  Cobb managed a good-humored chuckle. “You need a girlfriend, Hal. No point in holding out for somebody who clearly doesn’t live in Adelaide.”

  “Yeah.” Hal’s tone was regretful. “Besides, even if she”—he didn’t identify me, but that wasn’t necessary—“showed up, I remember for sure she wore a wedding ring when I saw her on the back porch of the rectory. The good ones are always taken.”

  After the door closed, Cobb’s genial expression faded. He walked toward the blackboard. There were no marks on it. Someone had wiped away the comments I’d added yesterday.

  Cobb picked up a broken piece of chalk. He muttered aloud. “Who wrote on the blackboard and every word nailed Neva. Another coincidence?” He stared down at the chalk fragment in his big fingers. “Then the chalk fell on the floor. I saw it. I think. Okay, things fall. Another coincidence? And how about my notes? That pencil sure seemed to be moving, and when I got to Pritchard House and looked at the legal pad, I found stuff I don’t remember writing down. I guess I could have. And now I’m talking to myself. Out loud. Maybe it’s all Neva’s fault. It’s hard to think straight when Neva’s around.” He lifted his hand to the blackboard.

  I waited, wondering.

  He printed in distinctive large block letters: Officer M. Loy? He looked hopefully around the office, then abruptly dropped the chalk in the tray, turned on his heel. “I’m sure desperate for help when I try to call on somebody who isn’t here.”

  He folded his hands behind his back, walked to his desk with his heavy shoulders slumped. He might as well have shouted his frustration to the world. The evidence suggesting murder could be explained away, leaving the cause of Susan’s death open: murder, suicide, or accident.

  I’d thought I’d be off on the Rescue Express after the meeting at the lawyer’s office established Keith as Susan’s heir. However, that left unfinished the matter of Susan’s murder. I’d believed my duty done once I’d set the stage for an investigation. Clearly the matter was not so simply resolved.

  Would Wiggins let me assist Chief Cobb in catching Susan’s murderer?

  Wiggins had been outraged at her untimely demise. Wiggins had encouraged me to bring Susan’s murderer to justice. Obviously I’d not finished my task. I had to do what I had to do.

  I moved to the blackboard, picked up the chalk, wrote in a stylish hand:

  Officer M. Loy reporting for duty.

  Chief Cobb stood at the window, staring out. He would find my message.

  Wade Farrell’s conference room was shabby but reassuring, an old oak table that had seen years of use, sturdy straight chairs, faded red velvet drapes, and over the fireplace an oil portrait of a man in a judge’s robe, his face both stern and thoughtful. Though Wade’s face was more rounded and his hairline receding, there was a marked resemblance to the man in the portrait.

  Wade waited until everyone was seated, then took his place in a chair at one end.

  A dark gray folder rested at each occupied place.

  Wade’s face was somber. “I regret the circumstances of our gathering.” He frowned and avoided looking directly at any of the heirs. He cleared his throat. “I will briefly acquaint you—”

  Obviously Wade Farrell wanted to avoid any discussion of the cause of Susan’s death.

  “—with the provisions of the will.”

  Jake touched a handkerchief to reddened eyes. Tears trickled down Peg’s cheeks. Tucker leaned back in the leather chair, his expression intent. Once again he was clean-shaven. Gina fingered a jade necklace that was startling in its beauty against her white silk blouse. Charlotte Hammond gazed unseeingly at the portrait of the judge. Harrison took an impatient breath.

  “In the folder in front of you, you will find a copy of Susan’s last will and testament. The provisions are simple. The estate is to be divided equally among Jacqueline Flynn, Peg Flynn, Tucker Satterlee, Gina Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond.”

  If a bucket of ice water had been upended over me, I could not have been more stunned. I leaned over Harrison’s shoulder. He flipped through the pages. I recognized the document I’d found when I had explored Wade’s files.

  “…would like to point out that Susan specifically indicated that Pritchard House was to be included in Mrs. Jacqueline Flynn’s share and Burnt Creek in the share allotted Tucker Satterlee. Of course…”

  I zoomed back and forth above the table, feeling frantic and helpless. Where was Susan’s new will?

  “…until there is a final accounting, the amount of each bequest can only be estimated, but I feel safe in saying that the estate’s current value is approximately twelve million dollars.”

  Jake took a quick little breath. Harrison looked like a man with a last-minute reprieve from the guillotine. He lifted a shaking hand to pull at his collar. Tucker slouched back in the leather chair. Gina clasped her hands tightly together.

  Peg closed the folder with a slap, looked at Wade in dismay. “Susan wanted her estate to go to Keith. She told you to draw up a new will.”

  It was as if a cold wind swept the room.

  Jake pressed both hands against her cheeks. Harrison folded his arms and stared down at the table. Tucker gave a slight head shake. Gina clutched at the jade beads, her face stiff. Charlotte shook her head.

  Peg looked at each in turn. “You know that’s true. So what are we going to do?”

  Wade looked troubled. “You are correct, Peg. That was Susan’s intent. The fact remains that she didn’t live long enough to execute a new will. The will that exists controls disposition of her estate.”

  Peg’s look at her fellow heirs was imploring. “We can assign our portions to Keith. All of us. That’s what we should do.”

  Wade held up a cautioning hand. “Each of you may give your inheritance to whomever you wish. However, there will be gift taxes to consider. Or, in the event an heir elects not to receive an inheritance, that portion of the estate would then be divided among the remaining heirs, and”—he tapped the gray folder—“those heirs are Mrs. Flynn, Tucker Satterlee, Gina Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond.”

  “Keith is Susan’s grandson.” Peg’s cry was impassioned.

  Her mother looked away, crushing a wisp of sodden handkerchief in one hand.

  Tucker shrugged. “Peg, honey, you can do what you want with what you get. Susan promised the ranch to me a long time ago. I didn’t stay here to work for somebody else.” His face was abruptly hard and determined. “Burnt Creek is mine.”

  Jake turned toward her daughter. Her eyes begged for understanding. “We’ll make a wonderful home for Keith and see him through school and everything, but I don’t see why Mitch’s son should be dropped on us after Mitch ran away and broke his parents’ hearts. Susan didn’t even know about Keith until this weekend and I’ve spent years taking care of her and the house. Susan wanted me to have the house.”

  Gina said nothing, but she avoided looking toward Peg.

  Harrison spoke loudly. “I agree with Jake. The boy is a latecomer and I still have doubts as to his legitimacy. Even if he is legitimate, Mitch was nothing but trouble for his parents and he killed his sister—”

  Peg stood so quickly the chair tipped and crashed to the floor behind her. “That’s mean, Harrison. Mitch made a terrible mistake. No one suffered more than he did. He loved Ellen. That’s why he ran away. He couldn’t bear what he had done.”

  Harrison was gruff. “Mitch disappeared and never contacted Tom or Susan. He wasn’t even here for his father’s funeral. You do what you wish about your share, but my share is mine.”

  Peg spoke to Farrell, her voice shaky. “Keith should be Susan’s heir. I want my portion to be used for him. If you say there will be less if I give it to him, then I’ll take the money and put it in the bank and I’ll spend every penny for Keith.” She whirled and hurried to the hall door. She ignored her mother’s call. The door slammed behind her.

  Harrison picked up the folder. “It will be helpful to have a breakdown on the estate’s asset
s as soon as possible. Perhaps next week?”

  Farrell was impassive. “My intention is to provide each of you with a definitive description of the holdings when our office reopens after the holidays.”

  Harrison, now a man of substance, was magnanimous. “I don’t want to impinge upon your holiday. However, I’m in the midst of some financial negotiations and the figures will be useful to me.”

  Tucker leaned forward. “The accounts are all…”

  As Peg predicted, the vultures had gathered, eager to tear away their succulent piece of flesh.

  They had no right.

  Where was Susan’s holographic will?

  I zoomed into Wade’s private office. A memo pad on his desk listed several appointments. A stack of opened mail rested in his in-box. It took only a moment to flip through letters from other law firms and from businesses. There was no stiff square envelope addressed in Susan’s distinctive handwriting and with her return address. I burrowed through the wastebasket and found no trace.

  I whirled to the fireplace. Flames danced and the warmth eddied out. If the will had been burned, it was lost forever in the feathery ashes. I reached out, touched the shiny, clean poker. There was no indication the poker had been used this morning.

  Why would Wade Farrell care who inherited? Was there some evidence of malfeasance that could better be hidden in an estate divided among five beneficiaries? To the contrary, wouldn’t it be easier to hide theft or misuse of funds in an estate left to a child with him as the lawyer in charge?

  In any event, I found nothing to indicate the will had ever reached him.

  In the outer office, Wade’s secretary faced her computer, her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. She was a woman who attracted notice, deep-set eyes, long nose, full lips, firm chin. There was a toughness in her expression that suggested a focus on self. I admired the dangling silver earrings that highlighted the embroidered flower pattern on her silk jacket. Especially artful were the occasional small birds in faint pastel shades palely visible among the flowers. She gazed toward the window, her oval face confident and pleased, her lips curved in a slight smile.

  I scanned her desk. Her nameplate read Kim Weaver. Several folders were stacked on one side. The center portion of the desk was clear. I zoomed close to the in-and out-box. A half dozen letters and several manila envelopes, ready for mailing, were in the out-box. The in-box was empty. In Farrell’s office, letters and envelopes, neatly slit and ready for his attention, awaited him. Obviously the Monday mail had been received and dealt with.

  I’d dropped Susan’s stamped and sealed square envelope in the main post office slot late Saturday night. It should have been delivered today.

  I smiled at my reflection in the plate-glass door of the post office. When I’d cheerfully written Officer M. Loy reporting for duty on Chief Cobb’s office blackboard, I’d had no idea how quickly she would appear on the scene. The Adelaide police uniform was quite fetching, French blue cap with a black bill, long-sleeved French blue shirt, French blue trousers with a navy stripe down each leg. French blue was a very nice color for redheads. The Adelaide police patches looked fresh and new (as surely they should) on each shoulder. The metal name tag and badge over the left breast pocket read Officer M. Loy. The black leather shoes were shined to a glossy sheen. I shivered and immediately welcomed the warmth of a wool-lined nylon black raid jacket inscribed Police.

  I skirted the long line of patrons, clutching boxes from tiny to immense. I walked to the door with a bell and punched it. In a moment, a plump, cheerful woman opened the door. “You got a—oh, hello, Officer. What can I do for you?”

  In less than three minutes I had the name and current location of the postman who had delivered mail to Wade Farrell’s office this morning.

  The slender mailman shifted the heavy leather pouch from his shoulder to the floor of the office building. He squinted in thought, faded blue eyes vaguely resentful. “You got to remember I deliver several thousand pieces of mail every day, especially”—he sighed heavily—“during Christmas. You got any idea how much mail we handle in December?”

  I beamed my most admiring smile. “Mr. Crandall, I know it’s a chance in a thousand, but you look like a man who notices details. In fact, I imagine you have an unerring instinct for noting anything unusual. Our hope is that you might remember a delivery you made this morning to the law office of Wade Farrell. The particular item, Mr. Crandall, was unusual in its size, a square envelope from an expensive creamy thick stock, unlike most Christmas card envelopes. Moreover, the address was written in a distinctive script.” I had a clear memory of Susan Flynn’s handwriting, looping capitals and leftward slanted lowercase letters. “The W in Wade was quite large and the rest of his name leaned to the left, the letters very thin, almost skeletal. The engraved return address was Susan Pritchard Flynn, 19 Chickasaw Ridge.”

  “Oh, that envelope. Sure.” His recognition was obvious and immediate. “If you’d told me right off that you meant a letter from Mrs. Flynn, I could have told you. I noticed the envelope especially. Pretty handwriting she has.”

  Of course, he would have no way of knowing of Susan’s death. The announcement would be in tomorrow’s paper. “Susan passed away last night.”

  “I knew she was real sick, but I’m sorry to hear that. She was a mighty fine woman. I used to deliver in her neighborhood, and every Christmas she gave me a ham.” He frowned darkly. “You think any of these fancy businesses I deliver to now give me anything? They don’t care if I get their mail to ’em when it’s a hundred and eight degrees or when the ice is so slick the sidewalk’s worse than a skating rink.”

  “You delivered an envelope from Mrs. Flynn to Mr. Farrell this morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Not a doubt.”

  “Thank you, sir. This is a huge help to our investigation. We may be back in touch to take your formal statement.”

  “Be glad to oblige.” His eyes gleamed. “Think I might get to testify in a court case?”

  “That is always a possibility. Thank you, sir, for your cooperation.”

  As I turned to leave, he called after me. “If you ask me questions on direct examination on the witness stand, better not ask leading questions. You can ask me to describe the materials I delivered”—he sounded suddenly prosecutorial—“to the office of Attorney Wade Farrell on this day. I’ll describe that envelope and there won’t be any doubt about it.”

  I must have looked startled.

  He nodded sagely. “I never miss Law & Order. That Connie Rubirosa’s the gal to have in a courtroom.”

  As he stepped into the elevator to deliver on the next floor, I disappeared.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The sidewalks were crowded outside Wade Farrell’s office building on the corner of Calhoun and Main. Not all shoppers were at the strip shopping centers anchored by Wal-Mart and Target. Downtown boasted several dress shops, a bookstore, drugstore, and hardware store. I heard the bells of a Salvation Army kettle. The sun was slipping westward, streaking the cloudy sky with rose and gold. The shadows from the buildings deepened and darkened. A skipping wind skittered late-fallen leaves.

  I landed in the entry hall. Postman Crandall was emphatic that he had delivered Susan’s letter this morning. Kim Weaver had already sorted and opened mail before the heirs arrived. The will should have been deposited in Wade Farrell’s in-box. If he received the will, he had chosen to secrete or destroy it. What might have prompted such an action would have to be discovered later. If he had not received the will, he had in good faith presented the earlier instrument as valid.

  A woman shrugging into a car coat while talking on a cell phone hurried toward the door. I waited until the hallway was empty, then reappeared in the golden mink coat. This time I chose a cashmere sweater and wool slacks. It was time for Susan Flynn’s old friend to make inquiries.

  Kim Weaver looked up from her desk as I stepped inside. There was a flicker of envy in her dark eyes as they widened in apprecia
tion of the mink. She noted as well my white sweater, blue costume pearls, and navy slacks.

  “May I help you?” Her voice was almost deferential. Not quite. Implicit in her expression was the unstated suggestion that supplicants would do well to remember that the office was hers to rule.

  I nodded regally. “I’m here on behalf of Susan Flynn.” My manner was somber but confident. “Her death has made it imperative that I speak with Mr. Farrell about Susan’s new will.” I watched her face with the attention a cat accords a mouse.

  For an instant, Kim’s face was devoid of response. Then she raised a sculpted eyebrow. “A new will? I’m afraid there’s some confusion.” She was polite but firm. “Mrs. Flynn’s will has been in existence for several years.”

  A resonant bong tolled the half hour. An elegant early twentieth-century grandfather clock with an ornate bronze face read four-thirty.

  She glanced at the clock. “I’ll check with Mr. Farrell, but I believe he is on his way out. Possibly I can make an appointment for you for tomorrow afternoon.”

  I was imperious. “Susan drafted a new will Saturday night. I must speak with him now.”

  She gave me a bright smile. “I’ll see what I can do. You are?”

  “Jerrie Emiliani.” I hoped St. Jerome Emiliani, that great benefactor of orphans, didn’t mind my continued use of his name. I was trying to do my best for one particular orphan.

  She pushed the intercom. “Mr. Farrell, a Ms. Jerrie—” She hesitated.

  “Emiliani,” I said distinctly.

  “—would like to speak with you about Mrs. Flynn’s estate.”

  There was no response.

  “Mr. Farrell?”

  Silence.