Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  Michelle’s peril . . .

  Chapter 8

  Joe Cooper leaned against the pale blue kitchen wall. “That’s the damndest story I ever heard.” Absently he reached out to stroke the long-legged black cat standing on the counter.

  Michelle whirled from the stove top, a spatula in hand. Scrambled eggs began to thicken. “I didn’t make it up.” Her voice wobbled.

  Joe looked surprised. “I got that. I’m just saying it’s nutty. Somebody”—his face squeezed in concentration—“went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make you a fall guy. There has to be a reason. So, who hates you?”

  She finished swirling the eggs, scooped them onto a platter with bacon. She carried the platter to a small wooden table.

  Joe followed, slid into a chair opposite her, looked at her inquiringly. His bony face was attractive with a stubble of beard. He’d obviously been caught by surprise when Michelle called him from the police station and had taken only enough time to pull on a threadbare sweatshirt, faded jeans, and sneakers.

  She pushed the platter toward him, retrieved toast as it popped up in the toaster on one side of the table.

  Joe served himself generously, handed the platter to her.

  She took several pieces of bacon, a small portion of eggs, then said quietly, “Nobody hates me. That makes everything even scarier.” Her young face was exhausted, vulnerable. She buttered a slice of toast.

  He took a moment to eat, then said, oh so casually, “You’re not in love with some guy and there’s another girl?” He watched her closely.

  His query brought a wry smile to her face. “The last guy I dated dumped me for an oilman’s daughter, but nobody ever said Bobby didn’t have his eye on a cushy future.” She piled bacon and eggs on a piece of toast and began to eat.

  Joe held a piece of bacon in one big hand. “Tough, huh?”

  She finished half the toast, looked as amused as an exhausted, scared woman could. “I always knew he was short-term but he was fun. I wasn’t interested in him really. Now Bobby and Susie Lots-of-Bucks are a twosome, I’m on my own, and we are all fine with that.” The smile slipped away. “Neither of them have any reason to want to get me in trouble, and frankly Bobby doesn’t have the brains to figure out the kind of mess I’m in. Long on looks, short on thought.”

  “There has to be a reason.” Joe was emphatic. “Either somebody hates you or you have something somebody wants or you pose some kind of big-time problem.”

  Michelle looked bewildered. “There’s no Heathcliff in my past.”

  Joe picked up his last piece of bacon, ate it in two bites. “Okay. Let’s say it’s not personal. Somehow, someway you are a threat to someone.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have a ruby hidden in my sock. Nobody handed me a letter at midnight with a key to a bank vault. I don’t have the goods on anybody. In short”—she finished the toast and wiped a smear of butter from her chin—“no one has any reason to frame me for anything. Joe”—her voice was shaky—“what am I going to do?”

  It was time for me to approach them.

  In the hall outside Michelle’s door, I was halfway visible in a French blue uniform when I stopped. The colors faded. Not so fast. I couldn’t appear as Officer Loy. The light might not have been strong in the Bugle office, but Joe Cooper had studied me carefully, and I’d told him I was Theresa Lisieux. Moreover, attempting to reassure Michelle, I’d briefly appeared in her cell and later spoken to her.

  I wanted Joe’s help and I had to warn Michelle. Was I stymied? Then I grinned. As Mama often told me, “Bailey Ruth, honey, when all else fails, try the truth.” Possibly said with a slight edge, though Mama was kind and patient even when sorely tried by one of her redheaded brood.

  I gave a decided nod. Colors curved and curled. I didn’t have a mirror, but knew I was elegant in a paisley lily top with thin solid bands at the modest V-neck and flared three-quarter-length sleeves, ash gray twill trousers, and sleek gray leather flats with a silver buckle. A paisley purse completed my ensemble. I smoothed my hair and knocked.

  The door opened. Joe Cooper looked big and immovable. Instant recognition flared in his startled gaze.

  I’d been wise not to appear as Officer Loy. I hurried to speak, because recognition had been followed by cold, questioning appraisal. Maybe the first law for reporters was: Coincidences stink like boiled cabbage. “We met in your office.” My bland tone oozed sincerity. “I’m here because Michelle is being falsely accused and I can help her.”

  Michelle stood at his elbow. “You . . .” Her eyes were wide and staring.

  Joe turned toward her, jerked a thumb at me. “You know her?”

  “Not exactly . . .”

  I glanced at the breakfast table. The plates had been cleared. They’d finished their breakfast while I’d considered my entrance. I took a step forward.

  Joe hesitated, moved aside.

  I beamed at them and swept into the small living room. As though invited, I sank into one of the rattan chairs. “I know you are trying to make sense out of what’s happened. Let me help.” I gestured toward the blue sofa. “Do sit down.”

  Joe stood his ground. “Lady—”

  “Theresa Lisieux.”

  Michelle drew in a quick, sharp breath. She was trembling slightly.

  I smiled modestly. “Not that I deserve her name, but she was always willing to serve, and that’s what I hope to do.”

  Joe glanced at me, then at Michelle. “Okay, so I’m the big dumb guy who’s out of the loop. Michelle looks like she’s seen a ghost, and I get a vibe that Theresa Lisieux isn’t exactly your name. Spell it out for me.” His tone was slightly belligerent.

  Michelle sank down on the sofa, clasped her hands tightly together. “Saint Theresa, the Little Flower. My mom’s favorite saint. ‘Perfection consists in doing His will, in being that which He wants us to be.’” She looked at me intently. “Did Mom send you? She’s in Nepal right now, tracking down falcons.”

  Joe stood beside the sofa. His glare was intense and his stance pugnacious with his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans.

  I almost heard a Heavenly chorus. When we listen, we hear what we need to know. “Your mom wants you to be safe. I’m delighted to be of service.” If Michelle now assumed I was there on behalf of her mother, the conclusion was hers. And, as I well knew, mothers offer daily prayers for children’s well-being, so perhaps I was here on her mother’s behalf. “Now,” I spoke crisply, “here’s the situation.” I marshaled the important points. “Joe wrote a story that appeared in last Monday’s Bugle about your project to study the diaries of Susannah Fairlee. That story triggered everything that happened the rest of the week: the roses in the library, the vandalism of the gargoyle, your kidnapping, the theft of the rare book, and, finally, last night, the shooting of Ben Douglas. Everything except the shooting was carefully planned to hide the fact that the true objective was to take Susannah Fairlee’s last diary.”

  “Why?” Joe looked skeptical.

  “Susannah Fairlee was murdered.” I repeated the ME’s scenario.

  Joe Cooper raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You think somebody came creeping up on an old woman in her garden, slammed her with a blunt instrument, pushed her into a boulder, then held her down in water? Why the hell? Was she rich? Did she know stuff she shouldn’t know? Why?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  Joe folded his arms. “Her death was certified an accident, right?”

  I wasn’t quailed. “She was murdered. I not only have that on good authority, I know that Susannah Fairlee’s last diary was stolen from the library, and when the night watchman tried to stop the thief, he was shot. Only Susannah’s death by murder explains the necessity of obtaining that diary.”

  Michelle’s eyes were wide and staring. “You think someone went to the effort of kidnapping me and bla
ming me for a theft to keep me from reading that diary?”

  “Exactly.” I looked at Joe. “Process it. Susannah was murdered. Susannah kept diaries. Susannah’s diaries were to be used for a history project. The murderer knows there could be something incriminating in a diary. If you murdered her, what would you do?”

  Joe frowned. “I’d figure out a way to get that diary. I’d make it a certainty the researcher wouldn’t get into those boxes anytime soon. If ever. Yeah. I can see it.”

  Michelle shivered, wrapped her arms tightly across her front. “Murder.” Michelle’s voice was faint. “It has to be something like that. Why else would anyone go to such immense effort to smear me? And”—there was remembered fear in her eyes—“I was scared at that house on Montague. I didn’t feel right when I stepped into the kitchen. I thought I’d move fast, get the folder, get out of there. I ran across the kitchen and started down the stairs, and then the door slammed shut and I was trapped.”

  Joe’s gaze was distant. He was obviously thinking hard. “We’ve got two ways to go after the murderer. Maybe Michelle knows something, anything that can give us a lead. The other way is to figure out who wanted Susannah Fairlee dead.”

  “Exactly. There is a great deal we can do.” I turned toward Michelle. “Let’s go back to the phone call that decoyed you to Montague Street. Can you find the number on your cell?”

  Michelle popped up to retrieve her leather purse from a small table by the front door. She returned to the sofa. She checked the cell, spoke the number aloud.

  Joe pulled out a small pad and wrote down the number. “University number. I’ll call. . . . Hello. Joe Cooper at the Bugle. I’m speaking to? . . . Henry Roberts. Henry, were you at this number around five o’clock Wednesday? . . . I spoke to a woman calling from this number. Could you suggest who might have used this phone? . . . This phone is in which office? . . . Right. Would the office be locked after you left? . . . Thanks.” He tapped End. “History Department. Henry’s a work-study student, was there Wednesday afternoon correcting multiple-choice exams for a professor. This desk is one of several near Dr. Gordon’s office that’s used by work-study students. He left around four. The office wasn’t locked.”

  Michelle waved a hand in dismissal. “Anybody could call from there. I know where it is. There are some big ferns in pots that screen the room with the work-study desks.”

  I looked at Michelle. “I want you to remember Wednesday afternoon.” I didn’t miss the quick flicker of her eyes toward Joe. She remembered Wednesday afternoon and her eagerness to be done with her errands and her excitement that she was going to meet Joe at the Brown Owl. “Your cell rings. You answer.”

  Michelle twined a strand of dark hair around one finger, hunched in thought.

  “A voice said, ‘Michelle.’ There was a cough, and a kind of husky voice said, ‘Sorry about my cold. Calling for Dr. Gordon.’ Then I thought she—I guess it could have been a man—said, ‘Dr. Gordon’s speaking at the student center at six and he wants you to pick up a folder for him. Go to the back door at 928 Montague Street. The door’s unlocked. The folder is inside. A tab on it reads: The Origin of the Phoenician Alphabet. Take the folder to Dr. Gordon. He’ll be waiting in the foyer at the student center.’ She—or he—hung up. I was irritated. I mean, I didn’t sign on to be somebody’s errand boy, but you do what the boss tells you to do. I jumped in my car and drove over there. It’s an old-fashioned two-story brick house, kind of rambling. You can’t see it very well through the trees. Lots of sycamores and weeping willows. A long driveway is screened on one side by evergreens. There was no car in the driveway. I didn’t think about that. I went up to the back door and started to knock and saw a note taped to the doorjamb. The note—it was printed, thick block letters on a piece of lined paper—said to go inside and go down to the basement, the door was open, and get the folder from the desk. I stepped inside, called out, ‘Hello.’”

  For an instant her face was shadowed by remembered fear.

  “It was awfully quiet. I had an uncomfortable feeling.” She touched her cheek with shaky fingers. “That’s not right. I was more than uncomfortable. I was scared. I didn’t like the way the air felt. I didn’t like the way it was deathly quiet in there. I saw light shining from the doorway to the basement. I didn’t want to go into the basement, but I felt like I had to. I decided to hurry and get the folder and get out of there. I started down the stairs. The door slammed shut.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “The kitchen was empty. I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t hear anything until the door slammed.”

  “What did the house smell like?”

  She looked surprised, then thoughtful. “That’s odd when I think about it. I was in the kitchen and it didn’t have any smell at all. It was stuffy. No air moving. No scent of anything cooking.” She brushed back a tangle of hair, looked forlorn. “I don’t know anything that will help.”

  Joe leaned toward her. “You’ve already helped. We know the call came from the History Department. That gives us a place to start. The caller also had to be at the house when you came. Maybe somebody saw a car, maybe somebody saw a pedestrian, maybe somebody saw something. The caller was in those two places at those specific times. But we’ve got more than that. How did the murderer know you could be held there and nobody would find you? There has to be a link between the murderer and that house.”

  I looked at him with respect. “Exactly. Here’s what we’ll do.” I gave them their instructions.

  I hummed as I settled into Chief Cobb’s chair and turned to the computer. I nodded in satisfaction as I read the report from Detectives Weitz and Smith:

  To: Acting Chief

  From: Detectives Weitz and Smith

  Search of basement at 928 Montague Street indicated recent use. Sheets on cot wrinkled. Damp towels in half bath. Taken into evidence. Emptied frozen food containers stacked on counter by sink. All containers show fingerprints matching those of Michelle Hoyt. No other prints found on containers. This may be seen as evidence corroborating her claim of abduction, since there should have been smudged fingerprints on the boxes from handling by store employees. Also taken into evidence.

  Hoyt’s prints were found in the bath, on several chairs, some pool table balls, on a pool cue, on the doorknobs on either side of the basement door, and on the kitchen door. Her prints were not found otherwise in the kitchen area.

  The house is the residence of Professor Wendell Hughes and his wife, Abigail. Hughes teaches romance languages. According to next-door neighbor Edith Mallory, Hughes is currently in Andalusia, Spain, on a year’s sabbatical with his wife, and the house is not occupied. Mrs. Mallory has a key to the house and checks every week or so. She last visited the house about ten days ago and found everything in order. Mrs. Mallory said the drive is not visible to her through the hedges between the houses. She had no occasion to look at the drive in the past few days and therefore cannot say if a car was parked there from 5 p.m. Wednesday afternoon until Saturday morning.

  Further examination revealed a hole in a back window pane that had been made by a glass cutter. The hole was large enough to make it possible for an intruder to reach inside, unlock the window, and gain access to the house. There was no damage apparent inside the house.

  I replied:

  To: Detectives Weitz and Smith

  From: Acting Chief

  Excellent work.

  Inform Goddard Library Director Kathleen Garza that Ms. Hoyt is not a suspect in the theft of the rare book, that she was held captive from Wednesday night to this morning, that the book was stolen Wednesday night and placed at her residence to incriminate her and prevent her from reading the diaries of Susannah Fairlee, and that this plot was exposed by the shooting of Security Officer Ben Douglas Friday night in the room where the Fairlee material was housed. The connection to Hoyt’s abduction is reinforced by the discovery of a window pane a
t the house on Montague Street with a hole made by a glass cutter, which was the instrument used to effect the theft of the rare book.

  The investigation now centers on the murder of Susannah Fairlee Sept. 17. Pursuant to a crime tip, the ME confirms that the trauma Fairlee suffered supports the theory that Fairlee was struck on the head and, while stunned from the blow, was held down in the water by her assailant until she drowned. The library intruder who shot Douglas removed Fairlee’s most recent diary from the collection.

  Inform Dr. Gordon of the History Department that Ms. Hoyt has been exonerated and released.

  Canvass Fairlee’s neighborhood for information about anyone seen in the vicinity at dusk Sept. 17. Jog neighbors’ memories by reminding them Sept. 17 was the evening when police and emergency vehicles arrived at the Fairlee residence after her body was discovered by next-door neighbor Mrs. Eastman. If no one, familiar or unknown, was observed near the Fairlee residence, create a map to determine how an assailant could approach without being seen.

  Like a politician spinning a story, I was making progress in placing Michelle in a favorable light publicly. For the moment. My glow of self approval vanished quickly. Michelle was home free this weekend, but she would be yanked back to jail Monday faster than a flea hops unless I figured out who killed Susannah Fairlee and connected her murder to the events at Goddard Library.

  Essential to determine Susannah Fairlee’s contacts the last week of her life. Use additional officers if required. Submit e-mail report by six p.m.

  Acting Chief

  Detectives Weitz and Smith would do their best and maybe their efforts would give me a lead. I looked at the round-faced clock on the wall. It was shortly after ten a.m. on Saturday. In less than forty-eight hours, Howie Warren would amble back into the chief’s office, ready to hold a news conference laying out the case against Michelle. So far he apparently was too lazy and absorbed in his free time to check on the progress of the case. Of course, when he left to play golf, he knew Michelle was in custody and the case was a fait accompli, so he assumed the focus would continue to be on Michelle.