by Carolyn Hart
It took me only a moment to figure out the system. To-go orders in sacks were placed on a tray near the cash register to await pickup.
When the boy put down his order pad to fix a chocolate soda at the fountain, I tipped over a menu to cover the pad and quickly scribbled a to-go order for Myrna: cheeseburger with onions, mustard, and pickles, and fries. When everyone seemed occupied, I pinned the order up for the cook.
I wafted through a door marked employees, found the fuse box.
When my sack was ready, I peered closely at the menu, and almost let out a yelp when I saw the prices. How could a hamburger and fries cost four dollars and fifty cents! However . . . I imagined a fivedollar bill, a shocking sum, and hovered over the tray with the to-go orders.
When no one was near the cash register and everyone behind the counter was fully occupied, I took the check from the sack, slid it and the five-dollar bill slowly toward the cash register, then wafted to the fuse box and flipped a series of switches. The power went off. The café went dark and voices called out.
I felt my way out into the dining area. There was enough light coming through the plateglass window from streetlamps to make it easy to reach the front counter. I grabbed my sack and hurried to the front door. Unfortunately, since I’d had no need to open the door upon my arrival, I hadn’t realized a bell sounded.
The bell tinkled. A flashlight beam swept toward the front, spotlighting my white sack as it moved briskly through the air.
“Wait a minute.” The waitress’s shout was angry and determined.
“Hey you, stop.” As the lights came back on, the waitress plunged out onto the sidewalk, heavy flashlight in hand. She started to yell, then froze as the sack, dangling from my unseen hand, sped up the sidewalk.
I looked back.
She backed toward the door to Lulu’s, her face slack with disbelief.
I reached the corner, swerved out of her sight. I was terribly aware that I had violated Precepts One and Six, but certainly it was inadvertent.
I clutched my sack tighter, felt warmth through the paper, and darted from shadow to shadow, not wishing to cause any further distress.
“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was as emphatic as the stamp of a jackboot.
I wobbled on the top step of Murdoch Investments. “Did you serve in the military, Wiggins?”
“The Rough Riders, San Juan Hill, July first, 1898.” His pride was evident.
“Wiggins, that’s wonderful. I can’t wait to hear—”
“Bailey Ruth.” Exasperation warred with an evident delight in recalling his days with Teddy. “This is not the moment.”
I sensed movement and curled my arm around that Heavenly scented sack. I had no intention of yielding my hamburger to Wiggins.
“I need sustenance, Wiggins. I have a big evening facing me.”
I determinedly kept my tone light. I wouldn’t be guilty of whining.
Nonetheless, facts are facts. “And there’s no getting around the fact that when I carry an actual physical object, I can’t pop from here to there in an unobtrusive fashion.”
“There is food at the rectory.” The reproof was clear.
“Wiggins, that was my first thought.” How many fibs was I piling up on my record? Would they even let me back in Heaven without a stint in Purgatory? “But even if I popped there and back again, there wasn’t enough time. I must take up my post inside”—I bent my head toward the building—“before darkness falls.” Twilight was settling around us.
“I see.” A pause. “Bailey Ruth, you always seem to have an answer. It’s quite confounding. And I do have other emissaries to oversee. Very well, carry on.”
Thus justified, my fingers tight on my sack, I oozed to the rear of the office building. I placed the sack on the top step and wafted inside. In only a moment I had opened the back door, retrieved my supper, and locked the door. A moment later I was inside Daryl Murdoch’s office. I drew the drapes, then turned on a lamp near one end of the red leather sofa.
In a small refrigerator behind a curving bar, I found a Dr Pepper.
That thrill could only have been topped by discovering a Grapette.
Not, of course, that I was particular.
I spread out my feast on a tiled table in one corner and offered a very thankful grace. I enjoyed every mouthful. The onions were sautéed in a tasty brown tangle and the fries fresh, crisp, and salty. The taste of Dr Pepper brought memories of lazy summer picnics and fishing trips with Bobby Mac. However, I didn’t linger and cleaned up quickly, depositing the sack in the kitchenette wastebasket.
I turned off the lamp and opened the drapes. The glow from a streetlamp seeped inside, providing some light. I stretched out on Daryl’s exceedingly comfortable and luxurious leather couch and promptly began to worry about the notations in the chief ’s notebook concerning Father Bill and Kathleen. I wished I’d had a chance to read the rest of his comments before Anita arrived in his office. Perhaps I—
The door to Daryl’s office swung slowly in.
Even though I was expecting a visitor, my throat felt tight. I swung upright, pushed to my feet, willed myself present.
A dark form slipped across the room. The drapes were drawn. A click and light spilled over the end of the room from the lamp. Walter Carey never glanced toward me. He went straight to the filing cabinets, pulled out the G–I drawer.
“Are you looking for your confession?” My voice sounded over loud in the stillness of the night-shrouded office.
He froze, one hand gripping the steel side of the drawer. Slowly, still holding to the drawer as if for support, he turned and stared at me. His lips parted. His haggard face was pasty white.
“It isn’t in there.” I looked into eyes glazed with shock. “It’s in a safe place.”
He took a step toward me. “How did you know?”
“When Daryl’s study was the only room searched this morning and I was told that he changed the locks after you moved out of the offices, the answer seemed obvious. The intruder—you—wanted his keys. And here you are. There’s one thing that puzzles me.”
He stood with his chin sunk on his chest, shoulders slumped, hands thrust deep into his pockets.
“What happened to the money you stole from Georgia Hamilton? I understand you and your wife are having financial problems, have had for some time. She’s gone back to work.”
He lifted his head. “I wasn’t really stealing. I borrowed the money. Just for a while.”
“ ‘Borrowed.’ ” My tone was judicious.
He flushed. “I was paying everything back. I swear to God. Pretty soon I was going to make up a contract with Mrs. Hamilton buying back the mineral rights and then she would receive the royalty reports directly from Monarch. I was within twenty thousand of making up what I’d borrowed.” His voice shook with intensity. “I told Daryl. He didn’t care. Damn him to hell.”
“All right. Let’s not call it stealing. Certainly it was fraud.
Why?”
He stared down at the tips of his shoes, his face weary. “The stock market went to hell—” “The Beer Barrel Polka” interrupted. He yanked a cell phone from his pocket, frowned. His glance at me was apologetic. “It’s my wife. She’ll worry if I don’t answer.”
“Answer by all means.” I glanced down at the rug. He stood within a foot of where the confession was hidden.
“Yeah? . . . Catching up on some work . . . Father Bill’s wife?” He sounded puzzled.
I was suddenly attentive.
“No, she’s mistaken. I wasn’t near the church last night. It must have been somebody else’s car . . .”
Oh dear. Kathleen had ignored my warning and set out to investigate on her own. I was delighted at her initiative and concerned for her safety. If I had any idea where she was or what she was likely to do next, I’d go there. But for now, I must discover what I could from Walter.
“. . . I doubt it means anything. She’s probably just curious. Like everybody else in Adelaide
.” His tone was bitter. “Don’t worry, honey. No. I can’t come home yet.” His look at me was pensive. “I’ll call if . . .” A deep breath. “If anything delays me. Yeah. Love you.” He clicked off the phone, slid it in his pocket.
“The stock market,” I prompted. I understood stock-market drops. Apparently the twenty-first century was no different from the twentieth. What goes up must come down, which many investors learn to their sorrow. He assumed I was aware of some recent financial debacle.
“I’d put the money into too many tech stocks.” He didn’t explain, apparently assuming I would understand. “I fudged things, made them look better. I guess I didn’t want to admit I’d made some big mistakes. But I made good on everything. I was paying Mrs. Hamilton back and I’d even added money for interest.”
“So you stole for pride, not gain.” Men won’t ask for directions and they never want to admit to mistakes. “How did Daryl find out?”
He almost managed a sardonic smile. “Mrs. Hamilton may be in her nineties, but she’s a sharp old dame. A couple of weeks ago, Daryl dropped by to see her and she told him how pleased she was about the oil development on the ranch and how smart he’d been to set it up and how much she’d enjoyed having a chat with me when I brought her the papers to sign. He didn’t ante to her, but he knew damn well he hadn’t handled any leases. He found the recorded deed to Horizon Development at the courthouse and figured out what had happened. That’s when he kicked me out of the office, all high-and-mighty even though I know he’s cut corners. He was holier than a prayer book when he called me into his office, but not too holy to stop from blackmailing me.”
“Blackmail?”
“He had me over a barrel. He kept my share of the partnership. As long as he had that confession, I had to agree to anything he wanted.”
He shoved the file drawer shut, faced me. There was no fight in him.
His shoulders slumped, his hands hung loosely at his side.
“You had to make sure he didn’t turn you in.” The confession resting beneath the Oriental rug was surely reason enough for murder.
“How did you lure him—” I broke off. I’d almost said to the rectory.
Walter’s head jerked up. “Wait a minute. I didn’t take him to the cemetery. You think I shot him? That’s crazy. I hated him, that’s for sure, but I knew he wouldn’t use the confession. He wouldn’t want Georgia Hamilton to know she’d been cheated.”
I folded my arms, looked at him skeptically. “If you knew he wouldn’t use it, why did you let him have money that belonged to you?”
“I couldn’t take the chance.” He looked at me earnestly. “But I swear I didn’t shoot him. You’ve got to believe me.”
I didn’t have to believe him. But I did. I saw a man who had gambled and lost, but there wasn’t an iota of threat in him. And he’d said “take him to the cemetery.” Or was that simply a clever murderer taking advantage of the mysterious transfer of Daryl’s body?
How could I know? But whatever the truth in regard to Daryl’s murder, surely I wasn’t going to gloss over Walter’s chicanery. The thought didn’t catch up with my swift impulse to reassure him. “If you didn’t shoot him, there’s no reason for the financial problems to be aired.”
His stare was incredulous. “You mean nobody will ever know?”
“If you didn’t shoot him,” I spoke firmly, “the matter is closed. When Chief Cobb contacts you, say that you and Daryl disagreed over the future of the business. As for what you’ve lost, you might consider it a penalty for dishonesty.”
“What about the confession? As long as it exists, I can never feel safe.” He still looked hopeless.
“I’ll take care of that.” One way or another.
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” He was suddenly suspicious.
I was about to ignore another Precept, but circumstances alter cases. “You might consider me your conscience.”
I disappeared.
Walter’s face went slack. His head swiveled slowly around the room. He breathed in short, tight gasps.
I had his attention. I made my voice crisp. “Swear you will never again mishandle any financial matter.”
Once again, he looked around the room, seeking the source of the voice. But there was no place where a slender red-haired policewoman could be hidden. He stared at the closed door.
He knew the door hadn’t opened. He knew there was no other exit.
Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand. “I swear.”
CHAPTER 12
Ipopped to the rectory. A lamp shone in the kitchen and another in the front hall, but no one was home. Where was Kathleen?
Why couldn’t she follow instructions? Perhaps I now had some inkling of Wiggins’s distress when I improvised. How could I blame Kathleen? She was trying to save the man she loved, but I wished I were at her side.
I popped back to the parking lot outside Daryl’s office. The starry night was crisp and cold. I looked Heavenward. If there were a cosmic scoreboard, it might read HOME TEAM 14, VISITORS 0. So far I’d yielded all the points to Daryl’s mistress and his ex-partner. I’d set out to discover whether Cynthia Brown or Walter Carey had motives for murder. The obvious answer was yes.
My original plan had been to provide Chief Cobb with any information he might find relevant. I didn’t doubt the chief would find Walter and Cynthia legitimate suspects—if he knew.
Whether he ever knew was up to me.
Had I been too impulsive? Was Wiggins even now scratching through my name as a future emissary from the Department of Good Intentions? I welcomed the cool fresh breeze and waited.
Wiggins didn’t come. Perhaps once again he was willing to accept a good result or, at the least, wait and see the outcome. Perhaps another emissary, hopefully one far distant, was embroiled in difficulties.
Impulsive or not, I needed to keep going, as fast as I could. The night was young. There were others to seek out. I’d never wallowed in introspection when I was of the earth. This was no time to start.
I stood in the parking lot outside Daryl’s office. I found a stall with his name painted in red: RESERVED FOR DARYL MURDOCH. He’d brushed aside a desperate girl, driven to the exit onto Main Street, and been stopped in an illegal turn by Officer Leland. About this time his son arrived.
I remembered the high young voice, cracking in anger, that had been recorded on Daryl’s cell phone: I can’t believe what you did . . . I just found out from Lily . . . You’ll pay for this. I swear you will.
What had Daryl done?
———
The small sign in the front yard was tasteful: THE GREEN DOOR. I recognized the old Victorian house. In my day, it had belonged to Ed and Corrine Baldwin. Now it housed a dinner restaurant. I stood on the porch and looked through sparkling glass panes. Old-fashioned teardrop crystal bulbs in a chandelier shed a soft light over a halfdozen circular tables with damask cloths and rose china. Small tapdancing skeletons flanked centerpieces of orange mums.
A slender young woman was serving orange sorbet in tall crystal glasses at a near table. A scarecrow hung in the doorway to the entry hall.
It might be awkward for Lily Mendoza if a police officer arrived demanding to see her. I didn’t want to jeopardize her job. I thought for a moment, nodded. I glanced around the floor of the living room, noted styles of purses. When I wished myself present, I held a small blue leather bag.
I opened the front door and stepped into the nineteenth century.
Panels of gleaming mahogany covered the lower walls. Heavily patterned wallpaper in a rich shade of burgundy rose above the wainscoting.
Geometric tiles glimmered in the pale light from hanging stained-glass lanterns. Ferns trailed from a huge wicker basket. A gimlet-eyed parrot peered from a brass birdcage. As I entered, it gave a piercing squawk and spoke in a rough throaty voice, “Ahoy, matey. Avast. Begone.”
A waitress, who looked trim and athletic despite being dressed in a hoop dress with a daisy pattern, pushed
through a door at the end of the hallway, carrying a tray with two entrées. She paused when she reached me, glanced at my uniform, but asked politely, “Do you have a reservation?”
I shook my head, held up the purse. “I’m here with a lost purse. May I speak to Lily Mendoza?”
“Lily doesn’t work here anymore. Mrs. Talley”—a pause—“let her go.”
Let her go? Why? “When?”
The girl’s gamin face squeezed into a frown. “Yesterday. Anyway, if you want to take the purse to her, she has an apartment in the old Blue Sky motel near the railroad tracks.” She moved toward the living room.
I kept pace. “Where’s Mrs. Talley?”
The girl gestured down the hallway. “In her office.” She moved swiftly into the dining room.
I walked past a whatnot with a bust of Homer and a collection of Dresden shepherdesses. I gave a quick knock on the door, stepped inside a library that now served as an office, though the mahogany bookcases still held leather-bound volumes. Austen, Trollope, and Thackeray, no doubt. To my left was a blue Chinese vase as tall as I was. The red-and-blue Oriental rug was worn and frayed.
An angular woman with frizzy gray hair piled atop her head sat behind a massive walnut desk, staring at a glowing screen. The computer looked out of place in the carefully done Victorian room.
She heard my step, turned to see. Prominent collarbones detracted from her décolleté blue silk gown with puffy sleeves. She frowned, making her porcelain-white face querulous. ”Yes?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Talley. I’m here about Lily Mendoza and Daryl Murdoch.” I closed the door behind me.
She drew in a sharp breath, stood. “You don’t think Lily had anything to do with what happened to him?” She lifted a hand, clutched at the thick rope of amber beads.
“We have to check it out.” I looked stern.
She held tight to the necklace. “She was upset, but she wouldn’t do anything like that. She’s a sweet, sweet girl.”
I frowned at her. “What did she say?”