Ghost Ups Her Game

by Carolyn Hart

  Sam Cobb, big and bulky, and Detective-Sergeant Hal Price, lean and muscular, waited at the door to Apartment 22. They watched Robert approach with stolid faces, intent and thoughtful and observant. They had the aura of men with authority, men who brooked no nonsense, men who were alert for danger.

  Robert, his expression a mixture of curiosity and puzzlement, reached them. ‘You waiting for me?’

  FIVE

  Sam was brusque, his deep voice businesslike. ‘Police Chief Sam Cobb.’ He and Hal pulled out IDs. ‘Detective-Sergeant Hal Price. Like to have a word with you, if we may.’

  ‘With me?’ Robert clutched his sack, appeared bewildered.

  I silently applauded. Robert looked puzzled but not in the least uneasy.

  Sam’s dark eyes were appraising. ‘Robert Blair.’ He spoke with certainty. ‘You were at the Goddard event at Rose Bower last night.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yeah.’ Robert looked mildly surprised. ‘Me and a couple hundred other folks.’

  ‘We have some questions.’

  ‘About what?’

  Sam jerked his head toward the apartment door. ‘This may be a lengthy interview, Mr Blair. I suggest we step inside.’

  Robert shrugged. ‘OK. If you say so.’ He turned up one hand in a whatever gesture. He was clearly in a whatever frame of mind. Robert unlocked the door, held it wide. ‘Come on in.’ He waggled the sack. ‘Just been out to get some donuts. You guys like some coffee and donuts?’

  Sam and Hal declined, but Sam was genial. ‘We don’t want to interfere with your breakfast.’

  Robert waved them to a ratty-looking green sofa. Sitting side by side, they looked big and formidable. The other furnishings included a lopsided bean-bag chair patched with black duct tape, a beach chair, and an easy chair covered with an army blanket.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right with you.’ Robert took the sack to the kitchen counter, pulled out two donuts, put them on a paper plate, popped the plate in the microwave, tapped 60. At the ping, he removed the plate, grabbed the coffee mug from the table, put it in the microwave, tapped.

  I never underestimate Sam. He watched Robert and I saw realization in his eyes that a mug filled with coffee that was now presumably cold was being heated.

  Robert looked utterly unconcerned when he joined Sam and Hal in the small living room, mug in one hand, plate in the other. He settled in the blanket-covered easy chair. ‘How can I help you?’

  Sam’s deep voice was casual. ‘You poured the coffee before you left?’

  Robert’s eyes widened. ‘Did I – oh yeah. I poured my coffee and then realized I didn’t have anything good to go with it. That’s when I dashed out.’

  I gave an approving though unseen thumbs up.

  Robert took a big bite of donut. Powdered sugar smeared his chin. ‘Glad I did. Real good.’

  Hal leaned forward, his blue eyes cold. ‘What were you doing on the terrace at Rose Bower last night?’

  Robert stopped in mid-chew. ‘Gosh, is that where the murder happened?’

  Hal ignored the question. ‘You were observed on the terrace. What …’

  Robert was nodding agreement.

  Hal has a good poker face, but I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Someone observed discarding a murder weapon is unlikely to cheerfully admit to the same.

  ‘… did you throw in the pond?’

  Robert ducked his head, looked young and slightly embarrassed. Driblets of sugar on his chin added to a vision of an untroubled witness. ‘I know there’s a bunch of rules at that place. Fancy and everything. But I didn’t know it was against the law to toss a seed pod.’ He devoured half a donut, took a gulp of coffee. ‘Some kind of endangered something or other?’ He sounded genuinely interested. ‘Like the snail darter? Oh lord, did I whack some priceless fish in the pond?’

  Sam was crisp. ‘You claim you were throwing a seed pod?’

  ‘I did throw a seed pod.’ Nothing sounds more truthful than the truth.

  Robert used the back of his hand to smooth away crumbs, added to the sprinkles of sugar on his unshaven chin. ‘Am I in big trouble? Are seed pods on some kind of don’t-touch list?’

  ‘No rules against seed pods. Mr Blair, when did you—’ Sam broke off, started again. ‘Why did you throw a seed pod?’

  Robert leaned back, at ease, drank coffee, shrugged, looked embarrassed. ‘Yeah, well, I was down on the terrace, just standing there. I saw one and grabbed it.’ He wriggled uncomfortably. ‘See, I was thinking about a friend, and anyway I got the seed pod and I got out my jackknife and I carved some stuff on it and then I reared back and threw it.’ A pause. ‘I played right field for the Cougars.’ The cougar is the Goddard mascot. The tawny wildcat is smart, fast, and elusive. Robert’s face crinkled in puzzlement. ‘Why do you care about the seed pod?’

  Sam studied him for a moment, pulled out his cell, tapped. ‘Weitz, get a net and go to the pond at Rose Bower. You’re looking for a bois d’arc seed pod.’ He clicked off.

  Cops pride themselves on never being surprised, but I guessed Judy Weitz’s expression at the moment was strange. However, I’m sure she said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A lot of odd questions are asked during an investigation,’ Sam said smoothly. ‘Now back to the terrace. What time did you come out on the terrace?’

  Robert’s sandy brows drew down. ‘Around seven.’

  ‘Why did you come out on the terrace?’ Sam might have been a large cat crouched at a mouse hole. An unwinking gaze looking for the slightest hint of confusion or fear. Or knowledge.

  I tensed.

  Robert finished his coffee. ‘No good reason. His tone was casual, good-humored. ‘I get tired of banquets. The waiters were bringing desserts. The program was going to start around seven and I thought I had time to go downstairs and walk around for a few minutes.’ He shrugged again. ‘No big reason to be out on the terrace. I just turned that way when I came down the stairs. So I walked outside and there I was. I strolled over to the trees and reached up and grabbed a seed pod.’

  There was silence as Sam and Hal stared at him.

  Robert was the picture of youthful ease slouched in the big easy chair. He looked back at them with a pleasant expression.

  Hal snapped, ‘What time did you see Matthew Lambert?’

  Robert blinked. ‘Matt … You mean the guy who got killed?’

  Hal’s gaze never left Robert’s face. ‘The guy who got killed.’

  ‘I only kind of knew who he was. I think I saw him near one of the ballroom doors, but I’m not positive. Then I looked in another direction.’

  ‘When?’

  Robert looked vague. ‘A little before seven, I guess.’

  Sam placed his big hands fingertip to fingertip. ‘Someone told us you were seen following him from the ballroom.’

  ‘Somebody told you wrong.’ Robert didn’t sound worried. ‘I didn’t see him at the dinner so I for sure couldn’t have followed him. Where did he go?’ Robert jerked a thumb toward the table. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at the Gazette. All I know is what was announced at the ballroom.’

  Hal leaned forward. ‘What were your relations with Mr Lambert?’

  Robert was unruffled. ‘Like zip. Zero. I never had any personal contact with him. I’m not rich so he never knocked on my door. I’ve never spoken to him. Sure, I’ve heard about him, but that’s all. Yeah, I was on the terrace last night, getting a breath of fresh air. And yeah I tossed a seed pod. If that’s a crime, you got me. But I don’t know anything about what happened to him.’

  Sam slowly nodded. ‘That seems clear enough, Mr Blair. We’ll be back in touch if we have any more questions.’ He stood. Hal rose, too.

  Robert came to his feet, opened the door for them. As the door closed behind them, Robert shoved a hand through his hair. ‘I wonder if I left any fingerprints in that damn room.’

  I didn’t have to ask him what room. ‘Did you touch anything beside the handle to the French
door?’

  ‘The French door …’ His expression was sickly.

  ‘Don’t worry. I polished the handle after you left.’

  He stumbled to the easy chair, flung himself down, buried his face in his hands. A mumble. ‘I am not suited for a life of crime.’

  ‘Did you touch anything else?’

  His hands dropped. His face squeezed in thought. Slowly he shook his head. ‘Nope, only the handle to the French door.’ He stared in my direction, or where he thought I’d be from the sound of my voice. Instead I was at the coffee carafe. I opened a cabinet, found a mug emblazoned with a cougar – oh happy Goddard days – and poured myself a cup. I needed a boost. For good measure, I reached for the donut sack.

  ‘Yeah. You get mixed up in murder and pretty soon you hear voices and things move through the air. I think I’ll call my mother and ask her if I can come home and get my teddy bear. She insisted on saving Woolly Boy. I didn’t think I’d ever need him. I was wrong.’

  I laughed and Appeared. The green sofa was comfortable, reminding me that looks aren’t as important as function. I took a bite of donut and a swallow of coffee. Excellent brew. I held up the mug. ‘French roast?’

  He managed a strained smile. ‘Chin up and all that. Just saw a war movie. Keep calm and carry on. I don’t know what kind of roast. It was on sale. You remind me of a hummingbird. Dart here. Dart there. Please hover for a minute.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I really don’t get this heaven stuff, but you saved my as— saved me from going to jail. Do you think he bought it?’

  I knew Robert meant Sam. ‘I think he’s neutralized for a while because Detective Weitz will find a seed pod. But,’ I finished the donut, ‘it’s time to talk turkey.’ Now my gaze was direct and demanding. ‘Start with why you were at the banquet.’

  ‘A girl. Most of the trouble I’ve ever gotten into started with a girl. But this girl,’ his tone said it all, ‘she’s worth anything. Everything.’

  ‘Gage Gallagher?’

  ‘Yeah. Gage, well, she’ll probably turn into her mom when she’s fifty, but I want to be there.’ He rumpled his tousled hair, tried to look casual, but his eyes held tenderness and longing and a hope for a joint future.

  I slid pieces of the puzzle together. He said he’d never spoken to Matt Lambert. ‘What’s the connection between Matt Lambert and Gage?’

  He sat up straight. ‘Look, Gage is all hiss and no bite. I mean, she’s like one of those wild kittens, dancing this way and that, ready to pounce, maybe making a run at a big dog because she never backs down, but she wouldn’t ever hurt anyone.’

  ‘The connection?’ Should I tell Robert she’d been in Lambert’s office last night? No. There was no telling what he might do if he thought Gage was threatened.

  Reluctantly, ‘She’s interning this summer in the Outreach office.’

  He was careful to use the formal name, not speak in terms of Matthew Lambert’s office.

  ‘What happened?’ There was no doubt in my mind something had happened.

  He clawed at his uncombed hair. ‘Nothing big.’ He wanted to believe what he said, wanted me to believe him. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t anything big. Just an idea she got.’

  I was patient. ‘What kind of idea?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know. Something she thought wasn’t right about some donation. But I don’t see that it matters now.’ His face was bland, but his eyes were uneasy.

  ‘So why were you in the first-floor room with Iris holding a weighted man’s sock and Lambert dead on the floor?’

  ‘Well, it was kind of funny. I mean, kind of accidental. We were at our table, me, Gage, and Iris. Just talking, waiting for the program to start. I was thinking maybe Gage and I could slip out pretty soon. Then, all of sudden, Iris looked across the room. She saw somebody and made a comment—’

  ‘Robert.’ My teacher voice.

  ‘She looked across the ballroom and said, “He’s a snake.”’

  ‘She saw Matt Lambert?’

  Reluctantly, he nodded. ‘Yeah. Then Gage said, “He sure is.” Iris had her thoroughbred-horse look, you know, nervy and quick. She was still watching the exit, though Lambert was out of sight. Suddenly Iris stood up. She didn’t say a word, just headed across the ballroom. Gage sat there for a few minutes, I don’t know, maybe five. All of a sudden she tossed her head. She does that. A real quick motion and her hair ripples and …’ He brought himself to heel. ‘Anyway, Gage got up, said something about checking and she headed for an exit. She didn’t ask me to go with her. So I kind of sat. You know how things feel sometimes?’ He looked at me earnestly. ‘Like when there’s thunder and the air’s heavy? Anyway I didn’t like the way I felt. I thought I better go see so I headed downstairs. I got to the first floor and Gage was standing by the stairs. She said she hadn’t found her mom and would I take a look down the hall while she went out on the terrace. She said she’d meet me in the ballroom. If I found Iris I was to tell her she better hurry back upstairs, it was almost time for the program. I went to that hall and I got a glimpse of Iris going in that door. I kind of stood there for a minute. I mean, I didn’t know how she’d feel if I came barging in on something, but Gage told me to find her so finally I went there and that’s how I walked in on Iris holding the weapon.’

  Iris Gallagher’s austere office was sparely decorated. No drapes. A plain metal desk, likely garden variety issue from the college. The surface was bare except for several sheets of paper. An old, massive dictionary stood on a stand a few feet from the desk. A single print, Nighthawks by Edward Hopper, hung on a beige plastered wall. The emptiness of the other walls made even starker the sense of loneliness evoked by the print, a grill late at night, one couple at the counter but no sense of intimacy, a man alone a few stools away oblivious to them, the counterman, each immersed in solitary thought.

  I looked at the slender woman seated at the desk. Summer sunlight flooding through an east window emphasized the glossiness of her raven-dark hair. Reading glasses perched at the end of her nose gave her a scholarly aura. I recalled my first view of her, an elegant and beautiful woman holding a weapon with a dead man at her feet.

  A dowdy middle-aged woman sat in the chair facing the desk, hands clasped tightly together. Straggling gray hair framed a tired face, but the blue eyes were hopeful.

  Iris looked up from a printed page. She was utterly still for an instant, her eyes meeting mine. She gave a slight headshake.

  I understood. Later. This moment doesn’t belong to me. I am working. I nodded in return.

  She focused on the waiting woman, waiting anxiously. ‘An excellent beginning, Gladys. I admire your effort to integrate Blake’s personal experiences—’

  I know teacher-speak. Beginning … admire … effort … Gladys had several drafts to go. I also recognized a kind and gentle approach where a student would never feel diminished.

  Later …

  The driveway at Matt Lambert’s home was filled with cars. Cars lined the street in front of the house. There was no police cruiser, nor did I spot Sam’s old sedan. Likely he and Hal had already spoken with the widow. She would be among the most important sources to interview. Did your husband have an enemy? Was your husband in debt? What were his relations with other family members? Did you have any sense he was in danger? What time did he leave the table at the banquet?

  Inside the house, I looked into the living room, glimpsed perhaps a half-dozen women and a weary and pale Joyce Lambert seated in a rose-colored chair. Soft voices rose and fell.

  The front door opened, making a distinctive creaking sound. A skinny six-foot teenager with curly shoulder-length brown hair, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets, let the door slam behind him. Head down, he hurried for the stairs, shoes thudding on the tiled floor.

  Joyce Lambert pushed up from her chair, came with quick steps to the archway. Her face was drawn, her eyes empty. Blonde hair loose on her shoulders, she looked older than the night before, much older. ‘Jack.’

  Th
e boy was at the stairs. He turned. ‘I don’t want to go in there.’

  She rushed to him, gripped his arm. ‘We have to talk.’ She tugged on his arm. He resisted for a moment, then, face rigid, walked stiffly across the foyer. She yanked open a door, held it for him.

  Breathing fast, he looked up the stairs. He wanted to run.

  She pulled again and they were in the small room, a den-cum-library, the door closed behind them.

  Her voice shook. ‘Where were you last night?’ Her face held fear and despair.

  He didn’t meet her gaze. He stared at the floor, shrugged. ‘I was around.’

  ‘You didn’t come home until two in the morning.’ The words were uneven, shaky.

  ‘Yeah. Well, I was driving around.’ He stared at the floor.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you open your door?’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘Mom. Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about him.’

  She scarcely managed to push out the words. ‘Where were you last night?’

  His face twisted. ‘I drove around. Any law against that?’

  ‘Were you near Rose Bower?’

  His eyes flared wide. His eyes were a curious yellow green with thick, drooping lids. ‘I was just driving. That’s all. Just driving.’ He turned and rushed across the room, was out the door into the entry hall. He pounded up the stairs.

  Joyce stood in the hallway, hands limp at her side.

  A kindly faced woman bustled from the living room. ‘The poor boy’s all upset. Better let him have a moment alone. You know how boys hate for anyone to see them cry.’ The woman reached out, took Joyce’s arm. ‘Honey, let me get you some tea.’

  If the shades of hell confronted Joyce, she would not have looked more desperate. It wasn’t her son’s tears that she feared.

  SIX

  The Administration building smelled heavily of smoke despite large fans in the lobby blowing at full capacity. Hot July air poured through open windows. Offices would be sweltering without air conditioning.

  In the President’s Office, heavy red velvet drapes were pulled back. All eight windows, four on each corner wall, were wide open. There was a hint of smoke, but nothing that wouldn’t air out soon. Mahogany bookshelves filled two walls. Leather furniture emphasized comfort. A room of power and might. Had this been Matt Lambert’s dream job? The mahogany desk was huge. An ornate bronze nameplate sat on one corner: President Everett Howard Morgan.