by Carolyn Hart
The chief leaned back in his chair, suddenly amused, and I imagined he was picturing his secretary looking around to be certain no one was in earshot.
Colleen’s voice was barely audible. “Cougar.”
I perched on the edge of his desk, looked at the screen. There was a line for a password, followed by asterisks. Curious.
“Cougar.” He made no effort to be quiet. “Thanks, Colleen.” He lifted his hands to the keyboard, typed.
I’d been a first-rate typist. I followed his fingers. He typed cougar into the box with asterisks. A few more clicks and he was looking at a list of messages. He clicked the first one.
To: Chief Cobb
From: Jacob Brandt, M.D.
Subject: Autopsy Report Daryl Murdoch
Autopsy file attached. Cutting to the chase: Death resulted from gunshot to the left temple. .22 slug recovered, sent to OSBI laboratory. Probable time of death between 4 and 6:30 P.M. Preliminary survey shows no evidence drug use. Definitive toxicology tests under way. Victim right-handed. No trace of gunpowder residue on hand(s) of deceased. Suicide improbable.
The chief clicked. Information appeared on the screen superimposed on the message, instructions on how to print. Another click. Paper edged from a small square machine on the floor. The chief clicked again. The message disappeared. I studied the legend to the left of the screen. Apparently, the messages came into an in-box. One click and they appeared. Another click, a message was printed. Another click, the message disappeared. The chief reached down for the sheet, placed it in a folder.
Who would have thought such marvels were possible? I remembered how excited I’d been to have an electric typewriter. To think Wiggins still depended upon a Teletype. I would have to bring him up-to-date.
Chief Cobb pressed a key and the message from the medical examiner disappeared. He swung a meaty hand toward his telephone, punched a couple of buttons, and leaned back in his chair.
I bent nearer the luminous screen. One ping. A line announced: One message in your mailbox.
Suddenly a dour voice sounded. “Lab.” As I turned toward the sound, I accidentally touched the chief’s shoulder.
Chief Cobb’s head jerked. Looking puzzled, he lifted a hand and brushed his shoulder. He peered behind him.
I eased away.
The chief shrugged and spoke in the general direction of his telephone. “Sam here. What you got on the Murdoch slug?”
“Slammed into bone.” A gloomy voice, turgid as a silt-laden river, emanated from the squat rectangular plastic box beneath the telephone.
Conversing over a telephone without picking up the receiver. Another wonder.
The chief wrinkled his nose. “Too damaged to make an ID?”
“Yeah.”
“Twenty-two?”
“Yeah.”
Cobb’s eyes slitted. “You got anything helpful, Felix?”
“Some dust balls on the back of his suit coat. No dust balls in cemeteries.” A hoarse chuckle. “At least, not aboveground.”
“Dust balls?” Cobb glanced toward a register near the ceiling. Little clumps of dirt wavered between vents.
“Yeah. Like when you clean up an attic or closet. House dirt.”
“Anything special about it?”
“Nope. Ordinary, everyday dirt fluff. Got some cat fur in it. He either wallowed around on a floor somewhere just before he got wasted or the body was moved to the cemetery. Look for a dusty floor and a black cat.”
I pictured the rectory back porch. Certainly there could have been dust on the tarp. Perhaps it was a favorite spot for Spoofer to nap.
“Yeah.” Chief Cobb grasped a pencil and drew a woolly blob. “Thanks, Felix.” He reached forward, poked a button. His face was thoughtful as he turned to his desk. He pulled a notebook near.
I looked over his shoulder.
He wrote, Dust???
A brisk tattoo sounded on the hall door.
The chief called out, “Come in.”
A ruggedly handsome man in a baggy red sweater and gray slacks moved toward the chief’s desk like a fresh-launched torpedo. A cotton-top blond with slate-blue eyes, he was a shade under six feet tall and loose-jointed, with large hands and feet. His craggy face looked intense and intelligent. I liked him instinctively.
Cobb gestured toward a chair. “What you got, Hal?”
Hal pulled the chair back, dropped into it. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it, talked fast as if he had much to say and too little time. “Daryl Murdoch’s son, Kirby, moved out two weeks ago. Senior at Adelaide High. Swim team. Math whiz. Waits tables at Garcia’s. He’s been camping out and going to friends’ houses to shower. His girlfriend is Lily Mendoza. His dad didn’t want him to date Lily. Next-door neighbor Wilbur Schmidt said all hell broke loose a couple of weeks ago, Kirby and Daryl yelling at each other. Kirby slammed out of the house and took his stuff.
“I talked to a friend of Kirby’s, Hack Thurston. Kept it low-key, asked the usual, how long he’d known him, school, hobbies, et cetera. Turns out Kirby likes to target-practice with a twenty-two revolver out on the river bottom near Schooner Creek on his day off. Gets Thursdays off. Murder occurred Thursday afternoon. Checked Murdoch house this morning. No one home. Officer Leland is hunting for him.”
Cobb nodded. “Good work. Find the kid’s twenty-two.”
Hal nodded. “I surveyed the crime scene again, including the Pritchard mausoleum. Somebody tried to prize loose that marble greyhound. I checked the crowbar we found under a bush. It had traces of marble dust. We could figure some kids—the first tip call came from a kid, right?—were in the mausoleum and maybe Murdoch saw some lights there and went to investigate and it ended up him getting shot.”
The chief drummed the fingers of one hand on his desktop. “So some kids out to heist a marble dog from the cemetery just happened to have a twenty-two with them, and when Murdoch showed up, they shot him instead of running like hell? I don’t think so. No, I got a gut feeling it’s a lot closer to the church. Look at the lab report.” He shoved it across the desk to the detective. “I don’t think Murdoch went to the cemetery and got shot. I think he was shot somewhere else and dumped there.”
Hal swiftly read the report. He immediately understood the significance of the dust balls. “Murdoch’s car is in the parking lot of the church. Probably means he got that far alive. So where does that leave us? From the dust, I’d say he was shot inside. Maybe the church?”
The chief looked thoughtful. “Maybe. I’ll need more before I can get a search warrant. And”—he rubbed his nose—“do they keep a cat in the church?”
The young detective shrugged. “I wouldn’t think so. How about the preacher’s house?”
Chief Cobb’s eyes glinted. “We got a tip the gun was on the back porch of the rectory.” He frowned. “I can hear the judge right now. ‘What’s this? Warrant to search the rectory at St. Mildred’s? Because of a dust ball?’”
The younger detective’s mouth turned down in a grimace. “You got that right. You better have evidence on a silver platter before you take that one before the judge.”
Cobb looked determined. “Get the crime van and check out Murdoch’s car from top to bottom. We better be sure there’s no cat fur in it before I try for a warrant. Also check the Murdoch house for a black cat. When that’s out of the way, maybe it will be time to try for a search warrant.”
Hal bounded to his feet. “On my way.”
I toyed with the idea of getting to Daryl’s car and placing some dust balls and cat fur inside. But perhaps creating fake evidence wasn’t exactly what Wiggins had in mind. However, I was truly worried. It was beginning to look as though our removal of the body from the rectory hadn’t solved Kathleen’s problem.
The chief swung back to his machine and clicked on a message with a red exclamation point in the margin.
To: Chief Cobb
From: Dispatcher
Subject: Crime Stoppers Call re Daryl Murdoch
Call received from pay phone outside Wal-Mart, 1023 Snodgrass, at 9:07 A.M. Text follows:
“Crime Stoppers. Ask Kathleen Abbott about the red nightgown and her visit to Daryl Murdoch’s cabin on Pontotoc Road Wednesday night.”
Anonymous caller spoke in a husky whisper. Unable to determine sex of speaker. Tape has been turned over to laboratory for analysis.
As a ghost, thankfully I wasn’t subject to physical manifestations of distress such as palpitations or difficulty breathing. Nonetheless, I was shaken by the realization that Kathleen’s involvement in Daryl’s murder must have been the calculated objective of his murderer. Of that, there could now be no doubt. Daryl’s demise on the back porch obviously had been planned from the start. Last night, a call brought the police to the rectory back porch in search of the gun. Now an anonymous call threatened to embroil her further. How had anyone known about the red nightgown?
No wonder I was still here.
Chief Cobb leaned back in his chair, lips pursed in a soundless whistle. He reached toward the phone. His hand dropped. He snagged a stenographer’s-size notebook, flipped to a fresh page. At the top, he wrote Kath—
A sudden knock sounded, and the door to a connecting office swung open.
Colleen’s voice rose. “Excuse me, Mayor Lumpkin, Chief Cobb is in conference.”
“Come now, my dear. We all know these little fictions.” A heavyset blonde appeared in the doorway. Pudgy, crimson-nailed fingers laden with rings clutched the doorframe. Red, green, and gold stones glittered. “I have a little bone to pick with Sam.” She swept inside.
Unseen by the visitor, a plump brunette with a pleasant face looked at the chief and turned her hands up in mute apology.
The intruder closed the door, strode majestically across the room. She was flamboyant in a vivid purple blouse and ankle-length purple skirt with orange geometric forms. The scarf at her throat was in matching orange. The skirt rippled as she walked. Orange boots tapped on the tiled floor.
Chief Cobb came to his feet, face stolid, eyes glinting with irritation. “Good morning, Neva.”
She ignored the lack of an invitation to sit down and pulled the straight chair around to the side of his desk. With a brilliant smile, she gestured to him as she gracefully settled into the chair. “You are such a gentleman, Sam. Take your seat.” It was a command.
The chief backed to his chair, sat. He placed his hands on his knees as if ready to spring up in an instant. “I’m on my way out.”
She gave him another smile, but her eyes were cold. “I am well aware that you”—she placed a special emphasis on the pronoun—“are devoted to protecting our liberties. I’m sure you agree that a foremost duty of your law enforcement personnel is to share that commitment.”
The chief made no move in his chair, but I realized he was suddenly alert and wary.
The mayor toyed with the end of her scarf. “Your department should be committed to impartial law enforcement. Justice must be blindfolded or”—she looked as though she awaited applause—“there is no justice at all. I am here this morning to discuss this essential component of our liberties.” Her voice dropped, a public servant confronting a momentous truth. “Personal liberties are at the heart of our nation. That is why I had no choice but to break through the defense of your secretary. I know you must have quiet time to execute your duties, but you should instruct Colleen that treating other city officials—”
The mayor reminded me strongly of the high school principal who’d booted me from the faculty. I might not have been tempted to do what I did had it not been for her ill-natured expression and pursed lips. How like a pig’s snout.
A box of paper clips sat near the in-box on the chief’s desk. I palmed a handful of clips and skimmed just above the floor, coming up behind the mayor.
“—as interlopers is hardly appropriate.”
I delicately pulled back the rim of her blouse and dribbled several clips on her dowager’s hump.
She shuddered with the grace of an ice floe cracking.
Chief Cobb looked at her sharply. “Neva?”
A meaty hand yanked at the back of her blouse. Her head jerked around.
I expected the pointy little clips were now lodged near her waist.
The mayor wriggled in her seat, took a deep breath. After another wary glance behind her, she waggled a chiding finger, zircon flashing. “You will recall”—her gaze was stern though her eyes slid uneasily from one side to the other—“that I spoke to you last week about Officer Leland and her unfortunate compulsion to persecute an outstanding citizen.”
Chief Cobb looked ever more stolid. “Yes.”
The mayor glowed with righteous indignation. “I know for a fact that Officer Leland ignored your instructions. You did instruct her?” The last was a sharp, flat demand.
I flung the rest of the paper clips high in the air. As they floated down, many landing in her beehive hairdo, I untied her scarf and tugged.
She came to her feet, holding on and gazing desperately about. “What’s going on here? Where did those paper clips come from?” She gave the chief a suspicious glare.
I flapped the scarf.
The chief stood. To him, she appeared to be shaking the scarf in the air and lunging forward and back.
I let go.
She lost her balance and crashed down on her chair. Shakily, breathing fast, she pulled the scarf around her neck and tied it, all the while looking sharply in every direction.
“Neva.” He eyed her with concern. “Could I have Colleen get you a cup of tea?”
She shook her head, sputtered, “When did you speak with Officer Leland?” She lifted a hand to brush at the paper clips in her hair.
“Last week.” His tone was irritated. “We straightened everything out. As Officer Leland made clear, Daryl Murdoch never contested the tickets. They were based on infractions of the speed limit and driving regulations. She admitted his attitude irritated her, and that’s why she paid special attention to his driving. I told her she had to avoid the appearance of particularized enforcement and she agreed.” Cobb moved impatiently. “Neva, it hardly matters—”
“Hardly matters?” The mayor’s voice was shrill. She darted puzzled looks at the paper clips in her fingers. “Daryl Murdoch is a leading citizen, a strong supporter of good government, and a personal friend of mine.”
In politics, as Bobby Mac often said, friendship is just another word for money. I wondered how much Daryl Murdoch had contributed to the mayor’s last campaign.
Cobb frowned. “In view of what’s happened—”
“Let me finish, please.” A flush turned the mayor’s sallow cheeks apple red. “I promised Daryl that your officer’s witless pursuit of him would end. Yet”—she leaned forward, one hand chopping as fast as a sous chef’s knife—“I personally saw her stop his car yesterday afternoon, lights flashing, everything but a siren.”
The chief’s dark brows bunched in a frown. “Yesterday? What time?”
The mayor looked triumphant. “Right after five o’clock. I was leaving our lot. I stopped and watched. She came up to his window and leaned down in a most menacing fashion.”
I nodded. That explained the picture in Daryl’s cell. Had he taken it intending to show his friend the mayor? It was too bad I didn’t have the cell with me. I would poke it into the thickest portion of her beehive hairdo. I looked about for something that might work.
“Five o’clock.” Chief Cobb’s spoke in a considering tone. “Probably not close enough in time to be helpful.”
“Helpful?” The mayor glared, all pretense of civility gone. “How can it be helpful when a police officer disregards her superior’s instructions?” And, of course, made the mayor look ineffectual.
“Too bad she didn’t follow him this time. It might have saved his life. But I’ll talk to her, see if she picked up anything useful. Now…” He stood.
“Saved…” The mayor’s mouth gaped, revealing two gold crowns.
&nbs
p; “You miss the morning news?” His tone was bland.
Bobby Mac and I always started the morning with Channel 4 news and The Oklahoman, the Oklahoma City paper that was distributed statewide. The Clarion, Adelaide’s only newspaper, was published in the afternoon.
The mayor lifted her rounded chin. “I avoid television in the mornings. I focus on the positive. The world pummels us with negative images, turning our citizens fearful and defensive. As a concerned citizen and a devoted public servant”—she raised a clenched fist—“I demand to know why—”
“Yeah. Like you said in your last campaign, Neva. How did you put it? Embrace the positive, shed the draining chains of negativity. I’d sure agree that skipping the morning news gives you a head start. But you missed out today. Somebody shot Daryl Murdoch last night. His body was found in St. Mildred’s cemetery.”
“His body?” The mayor’s mouth gaped like a hungry fish.
I edged an adorable thumb-size porcelain dog toward the edge of the chief’s desk, my eyes fastened on that tempting mound of bleached hair.
A massive hand clamped on my wrist.
I shrieked.
“Shhh.” A warning growl.
The mayor’s chair tumbled backward. She stood and stared at the small porcelain figure that was still cupped in my palm, clearly hovering an inch above the chief’s desk.
The chief bounded to his feet, but he was looking at the mayor, not at his desk.
I opened my fingers and the little dog slid to the desktop.
Trembling, Mayor Lumpkin swung about and bolted heavily from the room.
Chief Cobb leaned forward, punched the intercom. “Colleen, you’d better let the mayor’s husband know that she”—he paused—“isn’t feeling well. Have the technicians check out the heating system. It made a strange noise. Kind of shrill. Then a whooshing sound.”
He grabbed a notebook and pen. As he walked toward the door, he righted the chair and swept the room with a final, puzzled glance.
The minute the door closed, I heard a deep-throated rumble, not so distant this time and definitely not thunder. “Bailey Ruth.”
If Wiggins had been visible, I feared his face might have that high red flush that used to be called apoplectic.
