by Carolyn Hart
“Daryl was shot?” Her voice was faint. “Who shot him?”
“We have not found any witnesses. We have secured the crime scene—”
I felt another qualm. Certainly the cemetery was not the actual crime scene.
“—and the investigation is proceeding. I know this is a hard time for you to answer questions, but I would appreciate a few minutes with you. I won’t stay long. If you’ll tell me someone to call . . .”
She held the door, moved like a sleepwalker to her right. She touched wall switches and bright lights revealed a rather stiff-looking living room with brocaded furniture, heavy red drapes, a red-andblue Oriental rug, and a grand piano. She walked to a sofa, sank onto it. She gestured to an opposite chair with an overstuffed cushion and curly walnut legs.
Chief Cobb sat squarely, shoulders braced, hands on his knees. “To your knowledge, did Mr. Murdoch appear to be in fear for his life?”
“Daryl afraid? He was never afraid of anything.” There was an odd tone in her voice.
The chief nodded. “Did Mr. Murdoch have any enemies?”
I stood by the piano, looking at family photographs. There was a long-ago wedding portrait of Daryl and Judith. She looked prim, but her shy smile had charm, her blue eyes were eager. Dark hair gleaming, he stood with his chest out, proud and confident. So many photos, documenting passing seasons, a little boy with a mop of dark hair on a tricycle, the same boy marching in a school band with a clarinet, diving from a platform, throwing a Frisbee high in the air.
I glanced at Judith. Her face was now flaccid with shock, but I doubted she’d had that eager look for many years.
“Enemies?” She made an odd, helpless gesture. “Sometimes Daryl made people mad. He always wanted things done his way.”
The chief persisted. “Had he quarreled with anyone recently?”
“Not exactly quarrels.” She took a deep breath. “Daryl didn’t think a day was worth living if he didn’t butt heads with someone. He wanted things done right. If they weren’t, he let people know about it.”
The chief’s face was bland. “I understand. Some people are natural leaders.”
“Daryl was always in charge.” There was more sadness than admiration in her voice, and her eyes were empty. She drew her breath in sharply. “I have to find Kirby, tell him what’s happened.” She pushed to her feet.
Chief Cobb rose, too, looked around the living room. “Do you expect him home soon?”
Her hands came together, locked in a tight grip. “He’s staying at a friend’s house.”
The chief ’s eyes glinted. “Where?”
She struggled for breath. “I don’t know exactly. I’ll be able to find him.”
“You don’t know where he’s staying?” He raised an eyebrow.
Judith made no answer, looked away.
Chief Cobb rocked back on his heels, his face thoughtful. “When did he move out?”
Tears welled, spilled down her cheeks. Judith wrapped her arms tight across her chest. “Two weeks ago. He’s nineteen and—” She broke off, looked worn and hopeless and bereft.
Chief Cobb’s eyes were sympathetic, but the question was firm.
“Were your son and his father estranged?”
She flung out her hands, looked at him earnestly. “It wasn’t serious. Things would have worked out.” Her tone was hollow. “It was about a girl. Daryl didn’t like her. But Kirby wouldn’t hurt anyone. Ever. He’ll be very upset when I tell him. He and his daddy had so much fun when he was little, camping and fishing and hunting.”
. . . when he was little . . .
I wondered if Judith realized the implication of her words. Father and son were close when Kirby was a little boy, ready to do what his father wished. Now Kirby was big and wanted to make his own choices . . . hunting . . . Kirby would know about guns. But that was not unusual. A great many Adelaide boys grow up hunting.
Cobb’s eyes were intent. “What’s the girl’s name?”
“Lily Mendoza. She’s a waitress at the Green Door.”
Chief Cobb nodded. “Is Kirby in school?”
“He’s a senior. Daryl wants—wanted him—to apply to OU, but Kirby wanted to stay here, go to Goddard.”
Goddard is a wonderful regional college and the pride of Adelaide.
I wondered if Daryl wanted his son to attend OU to get him away from what he saw as an undesirable romance.
“Well”—the chief’s tone was genial—“don’t worry, we’ll find him for you. Who are some of your son’s friends?” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket.
Judith rattled off names. “Bob Harris, Al Schuster, Ted Minter. I’ll call them, try to find Kirby.”
Chief Cobb said easily, “We’ll get in touch with Kirby. Now, it will be helpful to know something about Mr. Murdoch’s daily routine.”
She answered quickly, eager to leave behind discussion of her son.
“Daryl jogs . . .” A quick breath. “. . . jogged around six. After he showered and shaved, he went downtown for breakfast at Lulu’s. He opened the office at nine.” She looked inquiringly at Chief Cobb.
He nodded. “Murdoch Investments. Used to be Murdoch and Carey.”
“He was here and there during the day, in and out of his office.”
She talked fast. “Daryl was on the vestry at St. Mildred’s. That took a lot of his time. He often dropped by the church on his way home.”
Chief Cobb made notes. “Was there any change in your husband’s behavior in recent days? Was he worried about anything? Did he mention any concerns? Or fears?”
Judith frowned. “He was mad about something at the church.”
“The church.” The chief’s voice had a curious tone. “That’s where we found his car. If you don’t mind, we’d like to take a closer look at it in daylight, though there didn’t seem to be anything helpful when we checked it tonight. We’ll return the keys in the morning. Why did he go to the church this evening?” He held the pen poised over the pad.
I felt uneasy. Another link to St. Mildred’s.
She stared down at the rug. “I don’t know.”
“He didn’t tell you?” His voice was faintly surprised.
Judith’s face tightened. “No.” She spoke without expression.
Judith Murdoch’s every word revealed more than she probably realized. She might as well have worn a placard announcing failed marriage.
The chief tapped the pen on the pad. “What was his schedule this afternoon?”
Judith turned up her hands, work-roughened hands. “I never knew.” There was a world of emptiness in her voice. “I mean . . .”
She struggled for composure. “Daryl didn’t like to be pinned down.”
She stared at the floor.
“Where were you from four o’clock on?” His tone was matter-offact, but his gaze was sharp.
Something moved in her widened blue eyes. Was it in response to the time? A ripple of uneasiness? “Four o’clock?”
“Four o’clock to seven.” The chief’s voice was pleasant but determined.
She lifted a hand, smoothed back a tendril of faded hair that had escaped the coronet braids. “I’m a visiting nurse.” She spoke slowly.
“I see patients out in the country. I’d have to look at my book. I was at the Hillman place in late afternoon. From there, I went to the Carsons’ and the Wetherbys’.”
“Are you usually out this late on Thursday?” He nodded toward the porcelain clock on the mantel.
“Sometimes. I didn’t hurry. I stopped and had dinner at the Pizza Hut on Gusher, then I decided to go to the show. When I got out, I stopped at the grocery.”
I ached for her. A movie by herself. Maybe that was her answer to Thursday night with no reason to come home. Bobby Mac and I always hurried home to each other. We never lost our laughter or our love.
The doorbell buzzed, then the door was flung open. Judith took a deep breath, looked toward the hall, fear evident in her strained posture.
Footsteps clattered on the tile. A little woman with flyaway dark hair framing sharp features burst into the living room. She was pencil thin and teetered on absurdly high heels. She looked at the police chief. “Oh God, Sam, is Daryl dead?”
“Yes. He was found in the cemetery. I’m glad you’ve come, Meg. I was going to call someone to help Mrs. Murdoch.” He nodded toward Judith.
Meg moved rapidly toward Judith. “I was afraid it was true when I saw the police car. I had a bunch of calls about Daryl and I tried to get you but your cell didn’t answer. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
Judith took one step, stopped. Her face crumpled. “Someone killed him.”
Meg was pale. “As soon as I heard, I called Father Abbott. He’s on his way over.” The little woman swung toward the chief. “You go on now, Sam. I’ll take care of Judith.”
The chief pushed up from the chair, dropping the notepad in his pocket. “I’ll be back in touch tomorrow. We may know more by then.”
I watched him go, torn by uncertainty. If I went with the chief, there might be more to learn, but I wanted to meet—so to speak—
Father Abbott.
The two women stood frozen as the chief moved heavily across the room. When the front door closed behind him, Judith whirled and ran from the room. Her face was unguarded, eyes staring, mouth working, a woman consumed by fear.
Meg was shocked. “Judith, wait. Let me help.” But her call was unanswered.
Judith ran into a long room with a fireplace and easy chairs and two sofas and a pool table. She stumbled to the desk, grabbed up a telephone, punched numbers with a shaking hand. She leaned against a tall wingback chair as if her body had no strength.
Meg bustled up to her. “I’ll make any calls—”
Judith slashed her hand for quiet, a harsh imperative gesture that brought Meg to a standstill. Finally, her words hurried and uneven, she said, “Lily, please, this is Kirby’s mother. I have dreadful news. His father is dead. He was shot. When you get this message, tell Kirby to come home. I know he was with you this afternoon from four to seven. That’s important. The police want to talk to him. Make sure he remembers to tell them that he was with you from four to seven.”
She clicked off the phone.
Meg slipped her arm around Judith’s shoulders. “Do you want me to go over there, find him?”
“Oh yes, Meg. What if she doesn’t get the message in time? You’ll tell him—”
“I’ll tell him. From four to seven.”
They exchanged a look of perfect understanding.
“It’s just to protect him. Kirby would never hurt anyone, but the police don’t know him. When they find out Thursday is his day off, they’ll want to know where he was.” Judith’s voice was metallic.
“Someone might think the wrong things if they knew about everything.”
Meg gave Judith a hug. “It might look bad. Bud and I used to bowl with Sam and Jewell. But after Jewell died, he stopped coming. Sam’s a swell guy, but pretty black-and-white.”
Their words were oblique, hinting at much I didn’t understand.
It was like seeing an old film with subtitles that left out most of the story, but I was a mother and I understood. Kirby and his dad obviously had quarreled ferociously, possibly in a public place, and Judith knew Chief Cobb would discover that fact.
The front doorbell rang. Meg whirled and hurried into the hallway.
Her voice rang out: “Come in, Father Abbott. Judith’s in the den.”
Judith held tight to the back of the chair, trying hard to stand taller, smooth out her face, hide her fear.
Brisk steps sounded. Father Abbott stopped in the doorway, his face creased in concern. His sandy hair looked mussed, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. His priestly collar was slightly askew as if he’d tugged at it, his black suit wrinkled. His angular face sagged with weariness, but his dark blue eyes were kind and empathetic. “I came as soon as I heard.” He walked to her, hands outstretched.
Judith sagged against the chair, her face crumpling, scalded by tears.
This was not a moment for me to observe. I looked away from Judith toward Father Abbott.
As I left, I carried with me an indelible memory of the man most important to Kathleen. Faces reflect character. Even in a quick glance, I saw grace and intelligence, purpose and commitment, sensitivity and determination.
I also saw deep fatigue, perhaps mental as well as physical. A slight tic fluttered one eyelid. His shoulders slumped with weariness. The immensity of life and death and the gulf between was mirrored in his eyes. He was there to offer solace and hope, peace and acceptance.
What a gift that was and what a burden to bear.
CHAPTER 7
Idrifted deliciously between sleeping and waking, luxuriating in the comfort of the downy feather bed. I stretched and wiggled my toes. Heaven, of course, is always comfortable. Everything is in perfect harmony, so there is never a sense of mental or physical unease. On earth, minds fret, hearts grieve, muscles tire, bodies ache.
Achieving the right balance is a never-ending quest.
My eyes popped open. Was I perhaps being too much of the earth?
I flung back the covers and came to my feet. Quickly I imagined a rather formal blue flannel robe and slipped into it. Just in case. Gradually my tension eased. Wiggins wasn’t here. After all, even Wiggins wouldn’t frown on enjoying the moment. Joy is surely Heaven-sent.
I gazed happily around the charming bedroom. I was sure—
almost sure—that Kathleen would have been delighted to invite me to stay in the guest bedroom upon my return last night. I hadn’t wanted to bother her and certainly morning was time enough to bring my presence to her attention.
Last night I’d prepared for sleep by envisioning pink satin pajamas.
Comfortably attired, I’d slept the sleep of the just. I looked at the mirror. Oh, of course. I wasn’t here.
I was uncertain how to dress for the day. Nothing too formal, but should I need to appear, should my actual presence be unavoidable and essential (Wiggins, are you listening?), it was important to be appropriately dressed. It wouldn’t do to be garbed in the styles of my day, attractive though they were.
When I observed the church ladies last night, I was enchanted by the new fashions, although a little puzzled that most wore slacks.
Their outfits were quite charming. Except for the shoes. The shoes appalled me, especially those with long upturned toes like an elf or blocky heels that brought Wiggins’s sturdy black shoes to mind. I prefer jaunty shoes with shiny buckles or bright bows.
I wafted to the sewing room. It was rather cold. I rose and pushed up a register, welcoming a draft of warm air and the enticing scent of bacon. I was eager to reach the kitchen, but first I must dress.
I found a stack of clothing catalogs on a worktable. I would have enjoyed looking at everything, but I hastily made a selection, a doublebreasted jacket and slacks in gray wool with a herringbone pattern and a Florentine-gold silk blouse. Matching gray leather pumps (with a reasonable heel) and small gold hoop earrings completed a tasteful ensemble.
I’d no more than made my choice when the door burst open and a slender form catapulted inside. Bayroo skidded to a stop halfway across the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.” Her quick smile was warm. “Your pantsuit is beautiful.”
The child had excellent taste. “Good morning, Bayroo. Thank you.” I smiled though I was disconcerted. Once again, even though I wasn’t here, Bayroo saw me.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I need to get my costume out of the closet.” She gestured across the room. “We’re having our class Halloween parties today.”
Bayroo would very likely mention seeing me when she went downstairs for breakfast. “Bayroo, can you keep a secret?”
She folded her arms in an X across her chest. “Sure. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Your great-grandmother and I were very close”—I was counting on Bayroo
having a very fuzzy idea of how long ago that might have been—“and I’m visiting here to lend your mom a hand, but it’s a secret from everyone because it might be complicated to explain.”
She stared at me, her gaze startled, then thoughtful, finally eager.
She clapped her hands. “I know exactly who you are. There’s a painting of you in the hall outside the parish hall. All the past directresses of the Altar Guild are there.” She looked puzzled. “You were a lot older then. You have red hair just like mine. Mom told me you were my great-grandmother’s sister. I’m named after you.” She smiled, a curious smile that radiated mischief, excitement, and certainty. “You’re a ghost and I guess you’re young and pretty now because that’s how you are.”
Trust a child to understand. However, I had a conviction that Kathleen would not be pleased. I didn’t even want to think about Wiggins.
She gave an excited hop. “This is so cool. How did you do it?”
“Do what?” I hoped for inspiration.
“Come back.” She looked at me eagerly.
“On a wing and a prayer.” Of course the reference meant nothing to her.
Bayroo nodded solemnly as if everything were explained. “Way cool. So”—she looked thoughtful—“you’re here to help Mom? That’s swell. She’s been pretty blue lately. Dad’s too busy to notice. You know my dad, don’t you? He’s the rector and he works all the time. He left before seven this morning. Men’s early-morning Bible study. He has to do most everything and he only has a retired military chaplain to help out on Sundays and with some of the hospital visits and everybody on the vestry has plenty of ideas of more for Dad to do but there’s never enough money and he’s worried about the roof on the church and the winter heating bills. The heating bills are unbelievable—”
I heard the echo of parental discussion.
“—but the price of oil is great for Adelaide. Anyway, maybe you can help Dad, too.”
“Bayroo?” Kathleen’s call was faint.
“Mom’s calling.” My namesake flashed an apologetic smile. “I have to hurry downstairs for breakfast and finish my homework.” She darted to the closet, banged inside, and came out carrying a plastic sword, a crimson smock, tall silver boots, and an eye patch. “I’m going to be a pirate. Do you think I should be Captain Hook or Blackbeard?”