Ghost Ups Her Game

by Carolyn Hart

  ‘Robert will be fine.’ I showed her the canister of pepper spray. ‘From your mom. For Robert.’

  She almost managed a laugh. ‘Mom and pepper spray. I was never out at night without it. At least it’s not night.’

  ‘That’s another reason Robert will be fine.’ I moved away, stepped beyond the evergreens. Out of sight, I disappeared. The canister in my hand, I barely skimmed above the ground, an odd sensation, quite close to ladybugs and discarded plastic cups and patches of clover. I reached the steps to the pier. I tucked the canister in the shadows beneath the first step.

  I stood by the steps. George Kirk sat on a bench, those dark lenses turned toward the pond. Then his head moved and the opaque lens were turned toward the pier. There was no sign yet of Robert.

  Inside the shed, a Maglite illuminated bags of fertilizer, two mowers, and assorted tools. A folding chair sat near the door, but Sam was on his feet, peering through the crack. He hummed softly, a sound that wouldn’t reach beyond the shed, a rousing version of ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’.

  ‘I hope St Jude is listening.’

  He was startled for an instant, then relaxed. ‘I thought you’d be on the pier.’

  ‘I will in a moment. Robert’s not there yet.’ Perhaps the fear that quivered within Iris and Gage was contagious. I thought suddenly of how much we should have told Robert: stay several feet away from George, watch what he does with his hands, be ready to duck.

  ‘Five to nine.’ A pause. ‘St Jude?’

  ‘The saint for desperate causes.’ I spoke soberly and realized indeed that I was tight and tense, worried, uncertain. I liked Robert, every literal inch of him. Gage loved him. Iris loved him because he loved Gage Oh, Robert, be careful.

  Sam looked energetic, positive, and not the least concerned. ‘Kirk’s the one who needs intervention, not Robert. The last I heard, saints don’t rescue bad guys.’

  My tight muscles relaxed. I smiled at Sam and noticed he wore his usual office suit, brown, baggy and wrinkled. I was puzzled. ‘Did you go to the early service?’

  He turned and looked toward the sound of my voice. He patted the right-hand pocket which appeared to sag. ‘Concealed carry. I have a blue suit for church.’ He turned back to the slight opening and was suddenly a dog on the hunt, every sense alert. ‘Here comes Robert.’

  I was on the pier as Robert walked confidently toward the steps.

  The pier stretched empty – I don’t count when I’m not visible – out into the water. The wooden boards were painted gray. The railings were natural wood with a middle and top rails. A pair of white swans moved majestically in the middle of the pond.

  Robert wore a blue polo loose over jeans. His Tony Llama boots looked well worn, boots that were at home in a corral. The breeze stirred his sandy hair. He held a green file folder in his left hand.

  I presumed the Velcro equipped recorder was safely attached to the equivalent of an undershirt.

  The city clock tolled the hour. Church bells caroled not far away.

  Robert looked down at his watch, frowned, moved up the steps on to the pier, once again checked his watch.

  George Kirk watched Robert. He rose unhurriedly, walked the fifteen feet to the steps, gravel crunching under his steps.

  Robert waited, his angular face composed, his dark eyes intent.

  Kirk climbed the steps, stopped a foot or so away from Robert. ‘Gillespie?’

  Robert nodded, took a step back. ‘Stay where you are.’ He moved again, increasing the space between them. ‘I prefer not to be in arm’s reach. You have a nasty habit of cracking people’s necks.’

  Once again I’d underestimated Robert. In his meticulous way, he’d considered how George attacked and he intended to maintain a good distance between himself and danger.

  ‘You don’t have any proof.’ The voice was cold, harsh.

  ‘I don’t need proof. That’s what police do. They’ll find proof if they start looking. They’ll get a witness who spotted you downstairs at Rose Bower. They’ll pick up some fingerprints. Are you sure you didn’t touch something in the room? Maybe on the way out to the terrace. A good solid print of your hand on the side of the door. You sat down on the swan bench on the carousel. That will have prints. Trust me, the police will find evidence if they look. Whether they look is your call.’ Robert held up the folder. ‘I have a statement ready for your signature. Then we can discuss your payments to Shayne and Gillespie.’

  The tendons in Kirk’s neck bulged. ‘You think you’ve got me. You and that redhead. Partners, right? She sics you on me, but she’s the kind that has to run things. She’s here in the park, isn’t she?’ His right hand unsnapped the top pocket in his cargo pants. His hand slid down and the pocket bulged outward.

  There was no doubt that a gun barrel poked against the fabric.

  Kirk’s smile was ugly. ‘See the bulge? That’s the barrel aimed at you. I can’t miss at five feet. The bullet will rip your guts out. If you don’t want to die, get on your cell, call Shayne, tell her you need for her to come, you’re at the pier, then click off. She’ll come if she wants her sidekick to live a while longer. She knows I’ll kill you, just like I killed them.’ His rage was mounting. ‘Everything worked. The digitalis knocked Evelyn out easy as you please. It was rotten luck Lambert saw me bring the lemonade, but he learned blackmail doesn’t pay off. It didn’t pay off for that kid who called me, asked for five thousand. It isn’t going to pay off for you. Give me that folder.’

  I was at the steps, easing out the canister of pepper spray, holding it carefully so the key ring didn’t jangle against metal.

  The door to the shed opened. The recorder Velcroed to Robert’s T-shirt transmitted to Sam in the shed. Sam ran across the grass, intent on reaching the pier, a gun in hand, holding his fire to protect Robert. He knew Robert still had a moment of safety. Kirk wanted Robert to summon Michaela Shayne.

  Robert held out the folder. Robert looked poised to jump forward, balancing on the balls of his feet. He wasn’t nearly as big and solid as Kirk. Robert was tall and thin with long arms. No match for the tennis player.

  Kirk grabbed the folder with his free hand. His right hand was deep into the top pocket of the cargo pants, holding the gun. If he pulled the trigger, a bullet would slam into Robert’s chest. ‘Make that call, Gillespie. Or you’re a dead man.’

  Where did Kirk intend for this to end? Did he want Michaela Shayne here at the pier? Did he plan to take them hostage, maneuver them into the woods, leave them dead, hope to escape before police responded to shots? He was angry, desperate, determined.

  I stood behind Kirk, held the pepper spray in my hand. I lifted the spray, my finger poised to flip up the cap. If I pushed the tab, spray would envelop Kirk’s head, but in the instant before he choked, Kirk would start shooting.

  Start shooting …

  I flipped the lid up, shifted the canister, and pressed the nozzle hard against the top of his spine. ‘Move and you’re a dead man.’

  For an instant, Kirk tensed. Then he yanked his right hand from the pocket, pulling out a black gun.

  Robert took two steps, kicked with his right leg. Robert kicked hard, hard enough to crack bone. The blunt toe of the cowboy boot struck Kirk’s wrist.

  Kirk doubled in pain, cradling a shattered wrist, and the revolver spun out of his grip to clatter on to the wooden pier. Another crack, this one as the gun struck the plank, and a bullet splintered a portion of the railing not far from Robert.

  Robert’s gaze jerked from the railing back toward Kirk and then his eyes widened. The pepper spray canister was clearly visible, hanging in the air some feet above the ground.

  Slowly, easily, like a feather drifting down, I lowered the canister to the planked pier.

  Robert’s eyes followed the canister, down, down, down.

  Sam thudded up the steps, gun leveled at Kirk. Sam’s broad face was stern, implacable. ‘George Kirk, you are under arrest for the murders of Evelyn Kirk, Matthew Lambe
rt, and Nicole Potter.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The gun in Sam’s hand never wavered. Big, stocky, and muscular, Sam looked immovable as a mountain. Face twisting in pain, Kirk clutched at his forearm. The big straw hat tilted back as he jerked his head, seeking a way out.

  Sirens shrilling, two police cars, followed by a fire truck and an ambulance, drove across grass, slammed to a stop only feet away. Perhaps the crack of a bullet in the park brought them. More likely, Sam used a mouthpiece radio the instant Kirk’s gun went off. More uniformed officers came from across the street, swarming the area, joining the officers, several with drawn weapons, encircling the chief and Kirk.

  Kirk’s head swung back and forth. The straw hat slid from his head, fell on the pier. The aviator sunglasses glittered in the sunlight. His mouth twisted in fury.

  ‘Don’t move.’ Sam walked nearer, held the gun in two hands leveled at Kirk’s chest. ‘Do not move.’

  ‘Chief, we have him covered.’ Detective Weitz stood at the foot of the steps. She looked formidable with a gun rock steady in her hands, an odd contrast to a very stylish knee-length white dress with rows of pineapples, the green stems a lovely contrast to the golden fruit. And high white strap heels. Likely she’d stopped by the department on her way to church.

  Sam nodded. ‘Handcuff him. Get him to the emergency room. Full security.’

  A uniformed officer took Weitz’s gun, supplied handcuffs. Weitz was wary as she snapped handcuffs on Kirk, clicking the right handcuff above the limp wrist. A few feet away an officer stood guard over the gun kicked from Kirk’s. Crime techs would film the pier, the gun in situ, make sketches, measure, then finally slip the gun into an evidence bag.

  Sam pushed the safety catch, returned his gun to the saggy pocket of his suit. ‘After he’s fixed up at the emergency room, book him. Assault with intent to kill. More charges to follow. One phone call.’

  A tall, rangy officer gripped Kirk’s left arm. A petite blonde officer gripped the other. They turned him, headed to the path that led across the park to the street and City Hall.

  George Kirk’s cheekbones jutted. He looked what he was, a feral creature who would attack if he could.

  The line of officers parted for the captors with their prisoner, but a ring of blue uniforms still protected the pier and the arrest scene.

  ‘I have to get through. Oh Robert, Robert.’ Gage’s voice shook.

  Sam nodded at an officer. ‘Let her through and the woman in the floppy hat.’

  Gage flew up the steps and across the short space and into Robert’s embrace. ‘The gun … when it went off …’ She trembled.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK. I kicked him good, honey.’

  Iris reached them, clutched at both her daughter and Robert. Iris’s low voice was breathless. ‘I knew there was danger.’ She turned a bit, her gaze seeking, and then she saw me. She whispered, ‘Thank you.’

  I reached her, gave her a big hug. Had anyone been looking they might have been puzzled at her posture for a moment, arms encircling, head bent for an instant to press against mine.

  ‘Robert and Gage. Think of the good years to come,’ I murmured.

  ‘Thanks to you.’ She spoke softly.

  Yet I think both Iris and I were aware as we looked at George Kirk that a good ending for her and Robert and Gage brought sorrow and pain to those who loved Evelyn Kirk. And George.

  Sam turned and moved toward Robert. He stopped in front of Robert and Gage and Iris. ‘You play a little football, Robert?’

  Robert nodded. ‘Cougars.’

  ‘Kicked the winning point at the high school state championship, as I recall. Knew you were a kicker when you kicked that gun out of Kirk’s hand. Good work.’

  Robert got an odd look on his face. ‘Yeah. I kicked. But behind him …’ He broke off.

  After Kirk doubled over to clutch at his hurt arm, Robert saw the pepper-spray canister hovering in the air without visible means of support. He wanted to speak up, but he knew he couldn’t tell anyone about an airborne pepper-spray canister.

  ‘Right. Something behind him startled him.’ Sam wasn’t going to talk about a pepper-spray canister either. ‘Who knows what it might have been. But you thought fast, kicked hard. You know how things happen.’ His gaze at Robert was commanding. ‘Probably a hummingbird darted down, maybe clipped the back of his neck. Something like that.’

  I hoped no one noticed the slow but steady progress of the small metal canister across the gray boards. I got to the edge of the pier, pushed, heard a tiny splash.

  ‘Something like that.’ Robert determinedly didn’t look toward the spot where he’d seen the canister.

  Sam nodded agreement. ‘That’s probably what happened. Anyway, you got a chance, took advantage of it, saved your life. Now you folks,’ his nod included Gage and Iris, ‘go over to the station. Probably you can use some coffee. Detective Weitz will take charge of that recorder. There will be lots of paperwork to see to. And I’ll start work on an official commendation for the three of you for assisting the police in a murder investigation.’

  He waved them away, took out his cell. He walked a few feet from the pier to a quieter area, tapped a number. ‘Mayor, good morning. A very good morning to you. And for you. I want to give you a heads up. I’ll be in your office in about twenty minutes. I know you’ll have on that big purple hat you wear to church. That will make a great shot for the Gazette, look good on TV tonight, probably give a big boost to the campaign. And you know we all want the campaign to succeed. We’ll have lots of good details for the reporters. Like you at work in your office even on a Sunday morning when duty calls. Reporters? Oh they’ll be on their way to City Hall right now. I’ll have Detective Weitz send them up to your office. Reporters pick up everything on the police radio frequency. You remember how you chopped the budget item to arrange to block access? Oh well, probably a good thing. This will be a great opportunity for you to explain how you always have the public interest at the forefront of your mind, you spend many hours scouring expenditures to save money for citizens, but how you never hesitate to provide what is needed to protect Adelaide from criminals and you approved every penny necessary to make it possible for the police department to arrest the murderer of Evelyn Kirk, one of Adelaide’s leading citizens.’

  Coal smoke swirled. Wheels clacked on silver rails. I swung aboard the caboose of the Rescue Express, grateful for the strength of Wiggins’s firm grip. We stood at the railing as the Express soared away from Adelaide.

  Wiggins peered at me with a hint of awe. ‘My, oh my.’ His stiff blue cap with rounded black bill rode high on curly auburn hair. Appropriate to the moment, he wore a navy coat over his stiff white shirt. The breeze tugged at his baggy gray flannel trousers. His large spaniel eyes were wide. He appeared overcome.

  I was anxious. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘To be truthful,’ he sounded dazed, ‘I’ve not been this overwhelmed since the Fourth of July – I believe it was in 1910 – that a youth with a strong arm threw a large firecracker that landed atop my station and set the shingles ablaze. Everything turned out well in the end, the youth was eager to help the volunteer fire department and you called on volunteers as well, but, Bailey Ruth, my, oh my is exactly my state of mind as you progressed through Adelaide on this mission. My, oh my. However, I almost intervened when you flouted Precepts Three, Four and Six.’ His tone was morose.

  ‘Wiggins, I always honor the Precepts in my heart.’ I spoke rapidly, ‘Precept Three: Work behind the scenes without making your presence known. You will certainly agree that I had no choice. What if Madeleine’s friend hadn’t spoken with the doctor or Michaela Shayne used that knowledge to unmask a killer? As for Precept Four: Become visible only when absolutely necessary. The doctor and others certainly wouldn’t have responded to an unseen questioner. As for Precept Six: Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures. Oh Wiggins, these things happen.’

  ‘Things did happen. I heartily agree. Things did hap
pen. In fact, I have never seen so many things happen.’

  ‘There were moments when I doubted our outcome, Wiggins.’ It is well to speak in the plural and especially appropriate now. ‘When Officer Loy was dismissed from the force, when Kirk house seemed such a haven of innocence, when Iris Gallagher was found at the scene of violence, I feared all was lost.’ Talking to Wiggins elicits speech suitable for any 1910 parlor. ‘When Chief Cobb was put on leave, the future was dark.’ I looked up into his brown eyes, saw understanding.

  ‘Future was dark,’ Wiggins repeated.

  ‘Yet we never flagged or failed.’ This assessment would surely meet with Wiggins’s approval. ‘Working together, we triumphed.’

  He clapped an approving hand on my shoulder. ‘A triumph!’

  I was modest. ‘A ghost must do what a ghost must do.’ But he was, in fact, too generous in his praise. ‘I didn’t manage alone, Wiggins. Saving Iris took all of us, Iris and Gage and Robert and Sam and me.’

  Wiggins boomed, ‘Huzzah to the Save Iris Volunteer Force.’

  Huzzah. The exclamation might be an echo from Wiggins’s 1910 train station, but I thought his shout had rather a nice ring, and the wind sweeping over us as the Rescue Express roared Heavenward was fresh and fine and good.

  Huzzah!