Ghost Ups Her Game

by Carolyn Hart

  In the main lobby, a hastily scrawled poster on an easel announced that all offices were closed for the day but skeleton staffs were available for consultation in various rooms at Rose Bower. I noted two locations, the President’s Office in the Marlow Suite and the Office of Outreach in the Gusher Room.

  At Rose Bower, I wasn’t surprised to see two police cars and a van parked in the front drive. The final scouring of the crime scene for evidence was likely nearing conclusion. Officers and technicians would be on the ground floor in the left wing. My goal was the second floor.

  In the Marlow Suite, a secretary worked at a laptop on a card table. Sitting on Lorraine Marlow’s upholstered love seat was the small man who’d spoken to Iris last night in the ballroom. He was possibly four inches over five feet, built like a dumpling. Light reflected both from rimless glasses perched atop his forehead and his shiny bald head. There was no police presence in the room.

  I found an unoccupied guest room and Appeared as Officer Loy. A black stripe down each trouser leg added style to the French blue uniform. I stared at the mirror, chose a dim pink lip gloss and fluffed my curls.

  At the Marlow Suite, I knocked briskly. A harried-looking woman opened the door. I flashed a smile. ‘If President Morgan has a moment, there are a few points that need clarification.’ I doubted either the president or his assistant were familiar enough with police protocol to question the appearance of a single officer rather than a duo.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Morgan boomed. His voice was much bigger than he. He bustled toward me, plump hand outstretched.

  I shook a soft, moist hand.

  ‘Shocking. Just shocking.’ He nodded toward a straight chair near an armchair with embroidered cushions. I sat primly on the edge of the seat.

  He was avuncular. ‘Tremendous loss to the college. Able man. Very able. I told the police this was an affront to all of us and a huge shock to have such a dreadful crime occur at Rose Bower. I’ve constituted a committee. We must determine if our security was lacking, though I have to believe this was an anomaly. Perhaps a hold-up. Someone followed a car to Rose Bower, attempted to enter through a terrace room and Matt confronted him. It must be something of the sort. I told the police they should be looking for a vagrant.’ He nodded several times.

  I wondered if he felt murder should be relegated to bars, but I gave him a pleasant look, noting the flush on his round cheeks, a trace of sweat on his shiny forehead. The temperature in the room was perhaps on the chilly side. After all, the suite was never used to house guests, but was a memorial to the late owners of Rose Bower.

  I pulled a small notebook and a pen from a pocket. ‘I understand Mr Lambert was superbly successful as a fundraiser for Goddard.’

  His face remained cherubic, but there was a cold glint in his blue eyes. ‘We have very generous patrons, both here in Adelaide and throughout Oklahoma. You might say Matt was more in a custodial role. The great bulk of the university’s endowment was gathered in by his predecessor.’ The unmistakable diminishment was delivered in such a civilized tone.

  I lifted my eyebrows in questioning surprise. ‘Oh, I see. But wasn’t Mr Lambert to make a big announcement last night? What donor would that be?’

  A pudgy hand waved a dismissal. ‘Matt delighted in raising expectations. But I looked over the guest list. The major donors in attendance have a long history with Goddard. There was nothing new.’

  Sam Cobb once told me he always looked for a trigger. Why did a murder occur when it did? The question seemed deceptively simple. Why was Matt Lambert’s neck broken the night of the Midsummer Merriment banquet? Why that particular night? A wife who would rather see him dead than agree to a divorce? A staff member who was either a lover or deluded? Someone as yet unknown with a secret or a grudge? Or to prevent him from making his appearance on the dais? Lambert himself made a mystery of an announcement he intended to make. Was it possible a gift to the college was linked to his murder?

  But as Mama told us kids, ‘It’s better to ask too many questions than not enough.’

  ‘Mr Lambert said he intended to make a big announcement. That must mean a major gift. Who were the big donors attending the dinner?’

  ‘The kind of people who give to Goddard aren’t accustomed to inquisitions by the police.’ He looked worried, obviously opposed to the prodding of any golden calves.

  I gave him a reassuring nod. ‘Benefactors are always substantial members of the community. I’m sure they will be eager to assist the investigation. Of course they will be treated with great respect.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Three major donors were in attendance. The Kirk family, the Prichards, and the Mayers. As is customary, each donor hosted a table.’ He looked across the room. ‘Rachel, provide the officer with information about the donors.’

  I looked at his assistant. ‘Contact information will be very helpful.’ I was pleased that a Prichard was a donor. That was a distinguished Adelaide family. I was familiar with the family mausoleum in the cemetery. I turned to Morgan. ‘Were all three to be recognized last night?’

  Morgan tapped the fingers of his right hand on the armrest. ‘Matt was making such a production of his presentation. We always send invitations to those families because they are loyal to the college. I don’t know who he intended to honor.’ Morgan frowned. ‘Such a fuss. Matt often failed to be collegial. And as president of Goddard—’

  I glanced at my notes, interrupted in the tone of a junior officer focused on accuracy. ‘Let me see, acting president, I believe.’

  He pursed little pig lips. ‘I am called President Morgan during this interim period.’

  As if diverted, I looked eager. ‘Will you become the real president soon?’

  Stiffly, ‘The regents will consider personnel matters in an upcoming meeting.’

  Again I glanced at my notes. ‘Let’s see,’ an innocent recollection of information received, ‘I understand there was some thought that the regents were going to consider Mr Lambert for the presidency because of his success in fundraising.’

  Morgan’s blue eyes were guileless. ‘Oh, that was highly unlikely. He had no academic achievements. But that question is now moot.’

  I nodded. A dead man is scarcely ever elevated to high office.

  I tapped my notebook. ‘Are you aware of anyone with reason to want Mr Lambert dead?’

  He turned those plump hands palms up. ‘I am baffled.’

  A wrought-iron sculpture was mounted on the door of the guest room at Rose Bower. Oil cascaded in perpetuity from an old-fashioned rig. The letters beneath the artwork – The Gusher – were wrought iron also.

  I lifted my hand to knock, then decided to take a peek. I disappeared.

  Inside the room, the early oil days motif continued with black-and-white photographs of wooden derricks in the Fitz Field. The sole occupant was an attractive young woman stretched comfortably on a blue denim-covered sofa, legs crossed. She held a cell phone in one hand, toyed with a long strand of bright blonde hair with the other. Her face held a mixture of boredom and complacency. ‘… Glad I caught you. I don’t have a thing to do and I didn’t bring my books with me and I am sooo bored. I have to stay another twenty minutes. Listen, will you find out the name of that cute guy on your floor, the one with that itty-bitty mustache?’ Her tone was wheedling. ‘Now you promised—’

  In the hall, after a quick check to be sure no one was near, I Appeared and knocked three sharp raps.

  The blonde opened the door. She saw the uniform and her blue eyes widened. ‘There’s nobody here but me. I mean, Mrs Caldwell talked to the two detectives and after they left she told us to take turns because we can’t do any work because we can’t access our computers and I can give you her number and—’

  I nodded and moved forward. ‘Appreciate your cooperation.’

  She backed into the room, looked at me rather helplessly.

  I pulled out my ID. ‘Officer Loy. I have a few questions.’ I gestured toward an armchair and
the sofa.

  She returned to the sofa, sat up straight, said uneasily. ‘I’m not official. I mean, I’m just a student. You need to talk to Mrs Caldwell.’

  I gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I know you can help me. I’m double-checking to be sure we have correct titles for staff members. Please list them again for me.’

  She wasn’t bothered that this information had already been obtained. Hers not to question why, hers to do whatever the moment required. She counted on her fingers. ‘Amy Caldwell, chief assistant. Clarisse Bennett, executive secretary. Edith Martinez, financial officer. Gage Gallagher, summer intern. Ms Bennett didn’t come in today. She called, said she wasn’t feeling well.’ Knowledge flickered in her eyes. ‘Everyone else came in. Except Mr Lambert, of course. Gee, I still can’t believe what happened. Why, I saw him yesterday.’ She took a breath. ‘Oh, and I’m Deanne Davis. I’m a junior majoring in advertising. I work at the Office of Outreach all day on Fridays. But not all day today because Gage is coming back in a while to be here for an hour.’

  I was matter of fact. ‘We’ve gathered quite a bit of information about office relationships. It’s necessary to confirm the information. Please give me your observations.’

  She looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, they talked to each of us separately. I was last so I don’t know what anyone else said. And this real handsome detective was real nice to me and we got to talking and I didn’t want to tell them but they just kept after me and now I feel terrible. Mrs Gallagher’s just the nicest person. I had her for English Lit and I don’t know how they knew about yesterday but somebody must have told them and they asked me if I heard anything Mrs Gallagher said when she slammed out of Mr Lambert’s office earlier that day. I didn’t want to say anything but somehow they made me talk and I had to admit I heard her tell him he was a sorry excuse for a human being and he ought to stick his head in a pigsty because that’s where he belonged. I feel terrible about quoting her because they didn’t give me a chance to say how nice she is. I’ll just die if I got Gage’s mom in trouble.’

  Iris put down a printed page. Her hand, holding a red pencil, hovered above the sheet. She sighed, put the pencil down. Sunlight slanting through the window behind the desk cast a golden glow over her, almost like a nimbus. Not in this lifetime, I thought tartly. But I sympathized. ‘It might be easier to teach cats how to play croquet.’

  She looked up and saw me. The fact that she saw me even though I wasn’t visible always came as a shock. What gave her that ability? I pushed away the thought that she might be incredibly empathetic. If so, she didn’t waste a second imagining how I felt. She definitely had a Katharine Hepburn look, the same high cheekbones, the same confident, dismissive gaze. In person, Kate has an enchanting smile and everyone adores her. Oh, that’s not for me to share. Precept Seven.

  ‘Much easier.’ Her tone was wry. ‘Someone has an ear for language. Or not.’

  I settled in a director’s chair a little to the left of her desk. It looked much more comfortable than the plain wooden chair recently occupied by the earnest student. I met her gaze and said conversationally. ‘The police know about your shouting match with Matt Lambert yesterday.’

  A shrug of those slender shoulders. Utter dismissal.

  ‘You know,’ I kept my tone conversational, ‘the Department of Good Intentions sends help to someone in trouble, but that person is always innocent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were guilty as h— as can be.’

  ‘The Department of Good Intentions.’ Her tone was almost wistful, then she said firmly, ‘Neither that department’s policy nor your thoughts are of any interest to me.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Emphasis on second syllable. Great emphasis on pronoun. ‘Are you rude for personal pleasure? Are you making some kind of political statement: laws don’t apply to you and it’s fine to help a killer escape, you didn’t like the guy anyway?’

  That struck home. Her wide violet eyes were suddenly stricken. ‘That’s not—’

  Her office door opened. No knock. Sam Cobb loomed in the doorway, big, sturdy, impressive. His brown eyes gazed around the room, no doubt seeking the audience for her words. Hal Price was looking, too.

  There was an instant of silence.

  ‘Mrs Gallagher.’ Sam’s voice was gruff. Again, he didn’t ask. He knew her identity.

  ‘Yes.’ Her tone was formal. She looked with a remote gaze at the two men, who exuded the threat of authority.

  ‘Sam Cobb, chief of police. Detective-Sergeant Hal Price. May we have a word with you?’ He was already moving forward.

  She gave me a quick glance as she gestured at the chairs.

  I eased out of the director’s chair, floated up to sit on the top of a medium-sized bookcase.

  Sam pulled out a notebook, but he didn’t consult it. ‘You are Iris Gallagher, assistant professor of English.’

  ‘Yes.’ Iris appeared completely at ease.

  ‘Please describe your actions at Rose Bower last evening. Start with your arrival.’

  Iris was perhaps a little sardonic, meticulously describing where she parked, her arrival in the ballroom at shortly before six, her purchase of a glass of Chardonnay and subsequent encounters with various faculty members, her arrival at Table Nine around six p.m. to join her daughter, Gage, with her escort, Robert Blair. They were seated with a Spanish professor, the chair of the business department and her husband, and Acting President Everett Morgan and his wife. She concluded, ‘It was the usual banquet evening. Chicken with an orange sauce. Asparagus. Rice. Faculty gossip, a great play last night by Jose Altuve, and a devout hope the dessert would be edible. I remained at the table until a few minutes before seven when I left to visit the ladies’ room.’

  ‘You saw Matthew Lambert.’ A statement, not a question.

  ‘A glimpse.’ Her tone was agreeable.

  A glance at his notes. ‘Professor Mullins recalls you and your daughter speaking critically of Mr Lambert.’

  I tensed. Sam and Hal had done their homework. I gave Iris a warning look.

  She looked amused. ‘That would be correct.’

  ‘Please explain why you and your daughter disliked Mr Lambert.’

  ‘No.’ She spoke with finality.

  Sam’s face looked heavier. ‘How long have you known Matthew Lambert?’

  ‘I knew him as I know other administration officials. It’s a small college. I’m familiar with almost everyone here. I rarely saw him.’

  ‘You saw him at his office yesterday.’ Hal’s voice was deceptively pleasant. ‘You were observed entering his office. A quarrel ensued. You were overheard describing him in pejorative terms.’

  She made no reply. Her expression gave no indication of stress. In fact, she appeared uninterested.

  ‘You said he was a sorry excuse for a human being.’ Sam’s stare was combative.

  She remained silent, continued to look as though she were listening to a boring presentation that had no interest for her.

  Sam planted his big hands on his knees, leaned forward. ‘Mrs Gallagher, what was the cause of your argument with Mr Lambert?’

  Silence. She was quite lovely, her elegant features aristocratic, her violet eyes reminiscent of the flower that bore her name, quite lovely and quite unaffected by the tense atmosphere in the small office.

  Hal was forceful. ‘Had he made improper advances toward your daughter?’

  Surprise lifted her eyebrows. Iris shook her head. ‘My dispute with Matt had nothing to do with my daughter. Believe me, she knows how to handle that kind of trouble. And, to be fair to Matt, there’s no suggestion that he ever crossed that particular line.’

  Sam said smoothly, ‘What line did he cross, Mrs Gallagher?’

  She pressed her lips together, said nothing. She met Sam’s stare with equanimity, displaying neither concern nor uneasiness.

  Sam folded his arms. His dark brown eyes were somber. ‘You were observed downstairs last night.’

  Iris smiled and shook her h
ead. ‘I visited the ladies’ room on the third floor. Your informant apparently mistook someone else for me.’

  ‘Do you deny going down to the first floor?’ Hal’s tone implied she was going to be caught out in a lie.

  ‘I had no reason to be on the first floor. I can assure you that I absolutely did not speak to or with Matt Lambert last night. I had no interaction with him.’ She pushed back her chair, rose. ‘I do not know who killed Matt Lambert. Should I obtain any information that would be helpful to your investigation, I will contact you immediately. And now, I have an appointment I have to keep.’

  The men stood. Sam gave her a searching look. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mrs Gallagher. I will request that you not leave town.’

  When the door shut behind them, she breathed out a sigh and sagged into her chair. She clasped her hands tightly together and gazed blankly at the wall.

  I doubted her thoughts were reassuring. Iris Gallagher was in deep trouble and she knew it.

  I returned to the director’s chair. ‘To continue our conversation—’

  ‘Go away.’ Her voice was abstracted.

  ‘I am here. Here I stay. I understand now that you will need assistance from the department. Sam Cobb has you in his sights. I’ve seen that stare before. A lion looking at a gazelle. Hands down the lion prevails. The next interview will be at the police station.’

  ‘I won’t answer questions.’ Her violet eyes were determined.

  ‘Sam can hold you as a material witness. Look, Iris, you can’t win this battle.’ I studied her, spoke without rancor. ‘You understand a man was murdered. It is the duty of all citizens to assist in a homicide investigation. Why are you resisting? It’s obvious you are shielding the person behind your quarrel with Matt Lambert. Who is it?’

  ‘Not a murderer. But …’ She broke off, shook her head.