Merry, Merry Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  As the bells tolled, I knew the murderer must feel confident.

  There might be a way to shake that confidence.

  I walked to the end of the pier. The lake was a dismal gunmetal gray. Thanks to the warmth of the mink coat and a black cashmere sweater and black wool slacks and boots, I was comfortable despite the chill breeze off the lake. I turned when quick steps sounded on the wooden pier.

  Leon Butler stopped in front of me, nodded gravely. “I found your note.” His face was perhaps a shade thoughtful. “Guess I must have left my truck unlocked.”

  “That was such a bit of luck.” My tone was innocent. “I hope you didn’t mind my using a receipt from your dash compartment for paper. I left my purse in the trunk of my car. I didn’t have anything to write on.” I patted my pocket, implying a set of car keys within. “Thank you for meeting me. I don’t know whether the police told you that Susan’s new will is missing.”

  His mouth drew down in a dark frown. “No, ma’am. Sam Cobb wanted to know about me signing the will and seeing Mrs. Flynn and you, but he didn’t say a word about not having the will.”

  Sheer fury glittered in his eyes when I told him Susan was murdered.

  “Someone went upstairs and got her digitalis and placed it in the pot for her cocoa. They were all in and out of the living room at Pritchard House Saturday night: Jake, Peg, Peg’s boyfriend Dave, Tucker, Gina, Harrison, and his wife Charlotte. Last night Kim Weaver went to the old brick plant and someone shot out a tire and her car went into the pit. Again, any one of them could have been at the plant.”

  Leon’s eyes narrowed. “Tire shot out?”

  I described that instant as the Cruiser swung below the pole with the red security light.

  “All of the family are real good shots. Real good.” Leon was emphatic. “Tom loved skeet shooting and there’s a course out at Burnt Creek. Everybody competed, Tom, Susan, Jake, all the kids. Harrison’s a duck hunter. Any one of them could nip a tire, even at a hundred yards. I don’t know about Dave Lewis.”

  I was discouraged. “You’ve known most of them for many years. Who would poison Susan? Who would conspire with Kim Weaver to hide the will?”

  “Different things matter to different folks. Pritchard House means more to Jake Flynn than any pile of bricks should. That house puffs her up. I don’t know what she might do if she thought she was going to lose that house. Peg?” His face softened. “She’s a sweet girl, good as they come. But”—and his eyes narrowed—“she’s nobody’s pushover. If she cares about something, she’ll fight like a wildcat. One time we had a hired hand and Peg came around the corner and saw him beating up on a horse. She had her skeet gun in her hands and she whipped it up quick as lightning and shot around his feet and aimed the gun at him and told him to get his hide off of Burnt Creek and if she ever saw him again she wouldn’t shoot at his feet. She’s like the other kids, not a dime in her pocket except what Susan gave them. I heard tell that Dave Lewis wanted money for a clinic from Susan. Tucker? He and Mitch spent a lot of time together, but he didn’t grieve a minute when Mitch ran away. Without Mitch around, Tucker was in line for Burnt Creek.” He looked dour. “As soon as Tucker took over at Burnt Creek, he called me in, said I’d sure done a good job but he would handle everything himself now. As for Gina”—Leon hunched his shoulders against the cold breeze that tugged at his suit coat—“she’s got too many fancy clothes for a gal who can’t hold a job. Gina grew up without folks. It didn’t seem to hurt Tucker. He loves the land. It fills him up. But Gina’s empty inside. I suspect she’s in a bad fix over money.”

  Maybe he saw my look of surprise.

  He gave a little whuff of laughter. “Don’t know how an old bachelor knows about buying baubles and such? I got a pretty niece, Lou Ann, a buyer for Neiman Marcus. Lou Ann comes to see me and I find out all about people who don’t think the world is right unless they got the newest and the fanciest and the most expensive. That’s Gina.” The geniality left his face. “Maybe she felt like she had to have money. As for Harrison, everybody in town knows he’s come a cropper with his latest fancy housing addition. The houses are so big the people have to go to Oklahoma City and buy outsize furniture to fill up the rooms. As for Kim Weaver, when she was in high school, she hung around the kids and spent a lot of time at the ranch. A bold piece with a gambler’s eye. I’d wager she figured out which one needed money the most, made her pitch about hiding the will, and thought she was on easy street when the meeting at the brick plant was set up. I guess Kim never thought somebody would put the ace of spades on her king.”

  Kim had slipped a small pistol into her purse. She’d been confident she had all the cards, but the joker was out.

  Leon smacked a fist into a palm. “I got to do something. I don’t know what, but I got to do something.” His face was burdened by grief.

  I looked at him gravely. “There might be a way you could help trap Susan’s killer. It would be dangerous.”

  He stepped toward me. “You name it.” There was no mistaking his determination. “I’ll do it.”

  The table was laden with food. The good women of the church never fail in times of trouble. As I’d expected, Wade and Cindy Farrell were among those at the house. Cindy Farrell sat on a sofa, helping Keith pull apart and put together a Russian matryoshka doll fashioned after a penguin. The outer doll with a black head, huge eyes, yellow beak, blue bow tie, and white bottom held four smaller replicas. Cindy murmured, “One penguin, two, three penguins, four…”

  I popped into the hallway, waited until it was empty, and swirled into being. I chose a black jacquard jacket with white floral trim and a black A-line silk skirt and black heels. In the living room, I walked to the table laden with fried chicken, casseroles, and salads. However, this was no time to overindulge. I needed to be alert. I chose chicken salad, fruit, and a croissant. I edged nearer Wade Farrell. I enjoyed my repast and waited patiently until he was free.

  He nodded as a woman turned away, then looked around the room, likely seeking his wife.

  I stepped up to him. “Mr. Farrell, may I speak privately with you for a moment? I was with Susan Flynn Saturday night when she signed her new will. I’m sure Chief Cobb explained the circumstances to you. If you’ll come this way, we can use Susan’s study.”

  He studied me, his eyes narrowed, his broad face wary. “The police are looking for you.”

  “The police station is my next stop.” Telling the truth usually convinces a listener. “I fully intend to consult with Chief Cobb, but I need to speak with you first.”

  “In that event, I don’t see any harm in talking to you.” He turned and walked toward the hall.

  When we stepped into Susan’s study, I turned on the light and closed the door. I had a plan, but I needed help from Wade Farrell. “Mr. Farrell, Leon Butler signed Susan’s new will. If he swears that he saw Susan Saturday night and she gave him her new will and he read and signed it, can the judge say the old will is invalid?”

  “Absolutely not.” Farrell folded his arms. “Only the production of the signed document will suffice.”

  I was rocked by that knowledge. I suppose my face revealed the depth of my despair.

  “She signed the will.” I was forceful. “I saw her sign it. Leon saw Susan sign it.”

  Farrell looked unhappy. “I wish it were that easy. But the judge won’t set aside an existing document on the unsupported word of a witness. Don’t you see? There’s no proof.”

  I began to pace. The trap I’d hoped to set wouldn’t work.

  “I’m sorry.” He was clearly regretful. “I can see why you thought that might be the case. I suppose it must seem simple to a nonlawyer, but I can assure you that Judge Blackburn is a stickler for procedure. If I went into his court and offered Leon Butler as a witness to a new will that can’t be produced, the judge would chew on me like an old cigar.”

  “I don’t know why people’s word can’t be taken. Leon Butler has an excellent reputation.” I knew I sound
ed snappish. Wade Farrell hadn’t created the laws. I couldn’t blame him. I flung out my hands. “Don’t you see? Susan’s murderer always reacts immediately to a threat. Kim Weaver offered the new will in exchange for a reward. The murderer responded with a rifle shot. I believe the murderer will try to kill Leon Butler if you call together the heirs and tell them Leon signed the new will and his sworn testimony would be enough to declare the old will invalid. I have no doubt Leon will be attacked.”

  Farrell looked thoughtful. “You want to set a trap using Leon as bait. That puts Leon—”

  I cut in sharply. “—in grave danger. Leon is eager to help and the police will keep him safe.” And I would be there as well. “You can make this possible, Mr. Farrell, none of the prospective heirs are lawyers. They will believe what you tell them.” I clapped my hands together, looked at him expectantly.

  “I’d be lying.” His lips pressed together. He gave a quick head shake and turned toward the door.

  “Susan was your client.”

  He stopped, one hand on the door.

  “You can do Susan one last great service.”

  Chief Cobb and Detective Sergeant Price were finishing a late lunch from Lulu’s, the chief with a chili burger and onion rings, Price with a hickory sauce cheeseburger and French fries. I hoped they occasionally managed some grilled fish, vegetables, and fruit. They sat at the worktable near the blackboard.

  Cobb dipped an onion ring in a side of horseradish sauce. He looked morose. “Like a needle to true north, I keep swinging to Tucker Satterlee. He had opportunity and motive for both murders and he’s a guy used to moving fast and making quick decisions. Nobody runs a big ranch unless they’ve got that kind of savvy. Then maybe there’s a magnetic pulse because I swing right back to Peg Flynn or Dave Lewis. It’s kind of convenient the way they’ve presumably split. I wish I had a crystal ball and could see them a year from now. Will they be Mr. and Mrs. Newlywed with a fancy clinic under construction?”

  Price finished the last of his burger. “The other heirs had equal opportunity. Jake Flynn, Gina Satterlee, or one of the Hammonds could have popped the digitalis. Johnny Cain’s interview with Peg Flynn shows Kim Weaver knew all of them pretty well, so her effort to peddle the will makes sense.”

  Cobb rolled up greasy papers, stuffed them in a sack. “Harrison Hammond might have been the most desperate. Kim Weaver probably had a nose for desperation.”

  Price licked salt from his fingertips. “She’d have been around town enough to hear rumors. It wasn’t any secret that Hammond’s development was in big trouble. And he’s a hunter. I don’t see Jake Flynn shooting out a tire, but Peg and Gina grew up skeet shooting. I checked it out. Hammond’s wife isn’t a hunter. Opportunity and motive aren’t enough, Sam. We need evidence linking one of them to one of the crimes. Fingerprints. Or someone seen in the wrong place. As for the brick plant, no shell showed up in the area where Tucker rode this morning. Sam, we don’t have any cards.”

  The chief wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “I’m afraid”—his voice was heavy—“we never will. My gut tells me somebody’s committed two murders and left no trace.”

  I looked at the clock. It was half past two. To put my plan into operation required immediate action. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. Wade Farrell’s office would be closed. I had to make a move now and make it fast if a trap was to be put in place today. I’d hoped to follow Precept Three: Work behind the scenes without making your presence known. But I didn’t have time to make an indirect approach to the chief.

  Cobb’s desk was behind him and Price. I perched in his chair, found a pen and a legal pad. I wrote quickly, then tore off the sheet very slowly to avoid any sound.

  Price pushed back his chair, began to clear the table. “More coffee?”

  When Price walked across the room to the trash basket and the coffee table, I put my note in front of Chief Cobb:

  I can help you trap the murderer. Tell Price to bring Wade Farrell here as soon as possible.

  Submitted in urgency—Officer M. Loy

  “Coffee, Sam?” Price looked over his shoulder.

  “Coffee.” Cobb repeated the word numbly.

  Price looked concerned. “Sam?”

  The chief picked up my note, folded it very deliberately, put it in his pocket. “Guess I ate too fast.”

  Price looked relieved. “You need some bicarb.”

  Cobb took a moment to answer, then said gruffly, “I’ll be all right.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, I’ve got an idea.” His eyes slid around the room. He shook his head, turned to Price. “Find Wade Farrell. Ask him to come here. Tell him we’re up against a wall, but he can help solve two murders.”

  Price put down his coffee mug. “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  As soon as the door closed, Cobb strode to his desk, punched the intercom. “I’m in conference to everybody but Price.”

  “No visitors.” His secretary’s voice was matter-of-fact.

  “Right.”

  “Calls?”

  “I’ll take calls.” He switched off the intercom, looked around the room. He paced back and forth, started to speak, stopped, then blurted out, “If you’ve got something to say, say it. No more blackboards. No more notes.”

  Praying that Wiggins was utterly immersed in Tumbulgum, I swirled into being. I chose an amethyst silk shirt jacket over a black silk top and black silk trousers and classic leather pumps in matching amethyst. Amethyst is such a good color for redheads. I hoped Wiggins, if he wasn’t utterly immersed in Tumbulgum, understood that a woman needs to look her best when dealing with a fractious male. To check my appearance, I imagined a black alligator handbag, plentifully filled. I retrieved the compact, flipped it open. I decided I was presentable.

  Cobb sat down in his chair, rather heavily. “Officer Loy?”

  In an instant, I swirled into uniform.

  Cobb ground knuckles into one cheek. “I’m nuts. Totally nuts.”

  I swirled back into my pretty outfit, not that a woman can’t look outstanding in a uniform. Still, I felt Chief Cobb might feel more comfortable with me in civilian dress. “Or,” I said brightly, “sometimes I’m Susan Flynn’s visiting friend, Jerrie Emiliani.”

  “The redhead in the car.” His voice sounded rusty. “The redhead who disappeared.”

  “Sometimes I’m here. Sometimes I’m not.” I hoped my smile was reassuring. “I’ll be brief. You know everything I know.” This wasn’t quite accurate. “Almost everything. I spoke earlier today with Leon Butler. He cared a lot about Susan Flynn. Leon’s brave. He’s willing to take a big chance to help us catch her murderer.”

  “Help us?” The chief’s eyes were wide.

  “I’m doing my best to be of assistance.” I was demure. I certainly didn’t want to toot my own horn, but facts were facts. “You wouldn’t know nearly as much if I hadn’t been on the scene with Kim Weaver.”

  “I guess that’s right.” Without looking down, he fumbled with his desk drawer, fished out the bag of M&M’s, poured some in his hand, and popped them in his mouth. His eyes never left my face. “All right. What have you got?”

  I strolled nearer the desk, perched upon one edge. “Sam,” I paused, “I hope you don’t mind my calling you Sam. I feel that I know you very well. You’re honest, hardworking, smart, a cop who wants to catch a murderer. Now”—I leaned forward—

  He pressed against the back of his chair.

  “—here’s what you can do.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Yellow flames danced among the logs in the living room fireplace at Pritchard House. The house was quiet now, friends departed, the table cleared of casseroles. The unmistakable reminder of death was the overpowering scent of flowers from the florists’ spectacular arrangements in vases scattered atop tables, the piano, in the entry hall, curving on either side of the fireplace.

  The small sofa near the rosewood piano was comfortable, but I was as tense as the mayor had been on lo
ng-ago election nights even though he’d spent plenty of walk-around money to bring friendly voters to the polls. I didn’t have any walk-around money. I’d cast my one vote, and the minute hand on the big grandfather clock continued to tick, tick, tick with no sign of victory.

  On the floor in front of the fire, Keith and Peg played Chutes and Ladders. Keith’s face folded into an intense frown when he landed on a square that sent him sliding down.

  Peg teased him. “That’s what happens when someone eats too much of anything, a tummy ache and a drop back to a lower square. Don’t be discouraged. You’ll land on a good square and scoot right up a ladder next time.”

  The phone rang.

  I scarcely breathed.

  Peg retrieved the handset from the hall. “Hi, Johnny…”

  I sank back in disappointment.

  “It was a beautiful service. I’m glad you came.” A tiny frown pulled at her face. “Oh, everything’s okay. Except”—her voice was tight with misery—“sometimes I don’t think anything will ever be right again. Johnny, have they found that will?”

  Keith moved restively.

  I dropped down beside him, pointed at the dice and Peg’s hand. It was her turn.

  He picked them up, tried to tuck them in her hand.

  “Just a second, Johnny. I have to roll the dice.” She smiled at Keith. Two and three came up. She counted five squares and ended up on a chute down to the first row. “Keith and I are playing a game. He’s about to beat me…Yes, that would be fun. I’d love to see you. Maybe we can go to the park on Christmas afternoon and…”