Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  Before that news conference occurred, I needed to discover the truth about Susannah Fairlee and why she had to die.

  Who was Susannah Fairlee?

  I don’t know about big cities, but obituaries are personal in a small town. I remembered how touched I was to read what our daughter, Dil, wrote about her father and me: Mama and Daddy were always the first to the party and the last to leave. Mama never met a person she didn’t find fascinating, and Daddy was willing to mortgage the house when he drilled a wildcat well. Mama’s temper was as red as her hair. You didn’t tell her you couldn’t. She knew you could. Daddy’s laugh was as robust as his favorite Benny Goodman, “Stompin’ at the Savoy.”

  I called up Susannah’s obituary in the Gazette. I studied her photo. Susannah was likely in her sixties when the picture was taken. Her broad face was sunny and cheerful, her gaze direct, her smile genuine. She looked competent, interesting, lively, a woman who had been places and done things.

  Susannah Martin Fairlee

  June 25, 1941–September 17, 2014

  Susannah Martin Fairlee passed away unexpectedly at her home September 17. She was the daughter of the late Captain Edmond Jones Martin and the late Regina Evans Martin. Susannah was born in Honolulu. She was the youngest of four daughters. Her father, an Army pilot, was killed during the bombing of Hickam Field on December 7, 1941. Her mother brought the family to Adelaide and was a teacher here for thirty-two years.

  Susannah played tennis at Adelaide High School and at the University of Oklahoma. She received a degree in business in 1963. She returned to Adelaide where she worked in the family floral business. In 1964, she married Jonathan Fairlee, who owned Fairlee Furniture Mart. She and Jonathan were the parents of a daughter, Janet, and son, Michael. In 1972, Susannah ran for a seat on the city council and won. On the council, she twice supported a bond issue for new schools. She was the leading force in the transformation of the old railroad station into a city theater venue. She was a founder of Kate’s Corner, a nonprofit that serves meals to the poor. She worked tirelessly to encourage creation of parks throughout Adelaide. She opposed tax relief to attract corporations, believing that corporations should choose Adelaide because of its stellar workforce and locale. She retired two years ago from the city council.

  A lifelong tennis player, she was Missouri Valley Champion in every age group in which she played. She was a lifelong communicant at St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church and twice served as directress of the Altar Guild. She was a Stephen Minister for five years up to the time of her death. Susannah’s favorite Bible verse was Philippians 4:8: “Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is pure, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of your praise, let your mind dwell on these things.”

  Susannah was preceded in death by her parents and her husband, Jonathan. She is survived by her daughter, Janet Hastings, son-in-law Richard, and beloved grandchildren Mark, Brittany, and Catherine, of Anchorage, Alaska, and son, Lieutenant Colonel Michael Fairlee, daughter-in-law Marie, and beloved grandson, James, of Fort Bliss, Texas.

  In addition to tennis Susannah loved barbecue, antiques stores, summer twilight, Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poetry, faded photographs, cold beer, Jay Leno, train whistles in the night, the sound of laughter, and her good friends, former business partner Harriet Beal, bridge partner Ann Curry, and tennis partner Pamela Wilson.

  Mom, we love you.

  In lieu of flowers, please consider a memorial gift to St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church, the Salvation Army, Habitat for Humanity, or your favorite charity.

  A woman well loved. But somewhere in a life marked by humor and caring, Susannah Fairlee had encountered the person who caused her death, put Michelle in jeopardy of prison, and coolly shot Ben Douglas.

  Chapter 9

  Ben Douglas moved restively. Fever flushed his face. A damp cloth gently wiped his forehead and cheeks, apparently moving under its own volition. “They’re doing everything they can.” Lorraine sounded weary. “Antibiotics in the IV and two shots. But his pulse is weak. I’m very afraid.”

  I knew where Lorraine stood because of the cloth. I reached out and gently patted a thin shoulder. “If God opens the gates of larger life, Ben will find joy.”

  Her reply was whiplash fast, her tone fierce. “Next week is his granddaughter’s birthday. He’s very proud of her. She’s coming all the way from El Paso to see him. He has presents waiting for her in his living room. Several times he’s been awake for a bit, and he keeps saying her name.”

  The pull of this world against the welcome of the next.

  “Would it help if I told you that Wig—that Paul loves his train station, that he finds happiness in sending the Rescue Express to help people on their journeys here, just as he did in life, would that make it easier—”

  “You want me to let go? But Ben shouldn’t have been hurt.” Her voice was uneven. “Ben misses his wife so much. Oh, I wish I knew what was best.”

  “Paul”—it still seemed odd to speak of Wiggins by his first name, and I hoped he understood I intended no disrespect—“said when the shell burst, he didn’t want to leave the earth. He tried to stay because he loved you, but his time here was done. He had a new purpose.” I took a quick breath. “He said he was glad you married Charles.”

  “Charles.” Lorraine’s voice was soft. “We were happy. He never knew about Paul. I couldn’t tell him. He might have blamed himself.”

  “Blame?”

  A gurgling sound and Ben Douglas’s body jerked.

  Sudden strident beeps filled the small space.

  The curtain was pulled aside and a nurse hurried in. She rushed to the bedside. Suddenly a voice over the intercom announced, “Code Blue ICU 5, Code Blue ICU 5.”

  The bed was soon surrounded by figures in scrubs intent upon the still figure of Ben Douglas.

  I couldn’t help Ben. That was in the hands of those working fast to save him. But I could do my best to discover who had put him in peril.

  I have fond memories of St. Mildred’s. My life was entwined with the church: regular attendance, weddings, christenings, funerals, the Altar Guild, and, of course, my first arrival as an emissary was on a dark evening in the backyard of the rectory to find the rector’s wife standing over the body of a murder victim.

  I took a moment to drop by the chapel and light a candle for Ben. I added Lorraine to my prayer. She had spoken about blame. Who would be blamed for what? I tucked that puzzle at the back of my mind to consider when we again met. I went from the chapel to the office of the church secretary, blessedly empty on a Saturday. It took only a moment to find the name of the current directress of the Altar Guild and to dial her number.

  I was relieved when a cheerful voice answered. In a world of answering machines and cell phones, ringing a landline often leads to a recorded message. If Emma Carson had caller ID, she had already identified the call as coming from St. Mildred’s. I introduced myself as Margaret Scott (in honor of Margaret of Scotland, who was among the first to organize women to care for altar vestments), a friend of Susannah’s daughter. I must remember that I was Margaret Scott to Susannah’s friends and Theresa Lisieux with Joe and Michelle. And then there was Officer Loy. . . . “I’m in town quite briefly. I’m creating a memory book about Susannah to give to Janet on Mother’s Day as a surprise. I’m hoping you can give me the phone numbers and addresses of Susannah’s dear friends Harriet Beal, Ann Curry, and Pamela Wilson.”

  A bell sang as I pushed open the door of Now and Again. Cheerful ’40s band music—Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood”—was a fitting backdrop for an eclectic collection of movie posters from the last century, World War II memorabilia, stacks of Saturday Evening Posts, vinyl records, vintage paperbacks, garden statuary—including spaniels, deer, and a squirrel in a top hat—and a shelf of kachina dolls. The counter was a couple of boards balanced o
n top of a cardboard Stutz Bearcat.

  I stepped inside and sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of robust coffee and—I didn’t think my senses deceived me—burnt-sugar cake. Mama made the best burnt-sugar cake I ever tasted. I remembered perching on a stool with a big wooden spoon and stirring melting sugar in a heavy iron skillet as it turned brown. Mmmmm.

  A hearty laugh sounded. A heavyset henna-haired woman with a kerchief around her head and a cake plate in one hand was standing in a doorway behind the cardboard car. “You know how to get yourself a serving, young lady. Make yourself at home over there.” She gestured casually toward a couple of wooden tables with bright red wooden chairs.

  I still thrill to being twenty-seven again. “Thank you. I’d love a piece of cake.”

  She served us each a mug of steaming black coffee and a generous slice of cake. I knew the recipe was authentic when I tasted the burnt-sugar frosting. I introduced myself as Margaret Scott, an old friend of Janet Fairlee Hastings.

  Harriet Beal was eager to share memories of her years in business with Susannah. “She was a rock. Like we say in Oklahoma, a straight arrow. Even insisted”—Harriet gave me a wicked smile—“on labeling stuff that wasn’t old as ‘in the tradition of . . .’ She got herself a rep. If she said a piece was authentic, everybody took her at her word.” Her smile slid away. “Miss her.” Her voice was gruff.

  “This will be meaningful to Janet. She was really busy with the kids’ sporting stuff this fall, and she felt like she neglected her mom and that something was worrying Susannah.”

  Harriet’s thickly mascaraed eyes widened. “Janet can rest easy. Susannah was talking about Janet just the week before she died. Susannah said Janet always tried hard to do everything right and Michael had excelled at everything he did. He’s retiring from the military and coming home to Adelaide. That would have been special for Susannah. Susannah didn’t have any problems.”

  “You can’t think of anything recently when Susannah seemed worried or upset?”

  Harriet took a last bite of cake. “Nothing that concerned her personally.”

  I was grasping at any straw. “Anything at all. Any indication of stress or concern about anybody?”

  “As I said, nothing to do with her personally. We were out to dinner the week before Susannah died. She was awfully quiet. I thought I knew why.” Her expression was earnest. “Some people go out of their way to help others. Susannah was like that. She was a Stephen Minister. The only reason I knew was because once I wanted her to be here at the store for me on a Tuesday afternoon, and she said she couldn’t help out on a Tuesday. She had a Stephen-care recipient. Of course, she didn’t say a word about who it was or anything like that. But Tuesday night at dinner, she wasn’t her usual self. I said, ‘Hard afternoon?’ She knew I meant her Stephen visit. She said, ‘I wish I could give her peace.’ Then she shook her head, started talking about going to Anchorage for Thanksgiving.”

  Ann Curry was one of those women who were as beautiful at sixty as they were at sixteen. Short-cut silver hair framed classic features with camellia-fresh skin and blue eyes as guileless as a child’s. I knew her sort. Utterly charming and as cutthroat at the bridge table as any riverboat gambler. She shared insights about her friend—“honorable . . . kind . . . beneath that kindly exterior quite immovable on important matters”—and listened attentively as I concluded. “Susannah distressed?” Something flickered in her eyes. “We played bridge the week before she died. Top of her game that day. Doubled and won.”

  She had not directly answered my question. I shot her a quick look, knew I was dealing with a reticent woman who was careful in what she said and to whom. My demeanor changed. “I hadn’t intended to reveal this, but there is suspicion that Susannah’s death was not accidental. I’m an investigator. The family, of course, wants the truth known, and that’s why I approached you as an old friend putting together a memory book.” I spoke crisply, shedding the attitude of a charming young woman. I was sure Susannah’s family would indeed be on board if they knew the circumstances. “If anything struck you as unusual or different in Susannah’s behavior, please tell me.”

  Ann smoothed back a strand of silver hair. She studied me, finally nodded. “I saw Susannah on campus the day she died. I teach violin. I’d finished my eleven o’clock class and was on my way to lunch. Gorgeous day. Mid-September. Not a cloud in the sky. I looked across the oval and saw her coming out of the Administration Building. I was surprised. It wasn’t a matter of town versus gown, but when Susannah was on the city council, she jealously protected Adelaide’s independence from undue influence by the college. She had friends on the faculty, but it wouldn’t be commonplace to see her on campus. I was pleased. I thought I’d catch her and see if she wanted to go to a tea shop with me. I hurried. She didn’t see me as she came down the steps. I saw her face as she turned away. I didn’t call out.” She stopped.

  I waited.

  “She had a look I’d only seen once before. A woman we both knew had an abusive husband. I saw Susannah the day she went to his office to tell him that Gail was moving out and coming to Susannah’s home, and if he threatened her or refused a divorce, Susannah would see him in jail.” Ann sighed. “I almost followed Susannah. I felt something must be seriously awry. But the way she was moving—head down, shoulders tight—made me think this wasn’t a good time to talk to her. That night I kept thinking about it and I was worried. I wondered if there was something wrong at the college, something I should know about. I decided I’d call her the next day. I was getting ready to go to bed when the call came that Susannah had died.”

  Pamela Wilson’s narrow, tanned face was pleasantly ugly, her nose a little too long, her chin a little too sharp, but there was bright intelligence in her dark eyes and a no-nonsense jut to her jaw. “. . . excellent forehand. A little weak on her backhand.”

  “You learn a lot about someone when you play tennis with them.” I made it a statement, not a question. Some of my happiest memories were of hot summer days on the local courts and icy orange sodas when we cooled down in the clubhouse. “What did the game tell you about Susannah?”

  “She played the game right. She was like a terrier. She never gave up.” Her face softened. “A little foolhardy sometimes in rushing the net. Fearless. But she’d give a big whoop of laughter when someone got a shot past her. Always pleasant. Not something you can say about everybody you play with. The only time she turned crusty was when somebody consistently called good balls out.”

  “How did Susannah feel about an opponent who made questionable line calls?”

  A short bark of laughter. “Next time she was at the net, Susannah’d slam the ball right on the line and give the woman a hard stare. The calls got better after that.” Another bark of laughter.

  I finished my cup of black tea and resisted taking another lace cookie. My, they were good. I closed my notebook, then asked, seemingly as an afterthought, “Pam”—we were comfortably on a first-name basis now—“Janet had a feeling something was troubling her mother not long before she died. Did Susannah say anything to you?”

  Pam looked suddenly sad. “I keep going over and over the last time I talked to her.” She pressed her lips together for an instant before she continued. “We played singles every Wednesday morning. Played every week for years unless one of us was sick or out of town. She didn’t show up.” Remembered astonishment lifted her voice. “I mean, thank God, it was just us. Singles. Not doubles. But she didn’t come or call. I kept calling but her cell was turned off. Finally I caught her that afternoon.” Tears glistened in Pam’s eyes. “I reamed her out. She said was she was sorry, something had come up that she had to deal with, but she sounded like she wasn’t really hearing me. I could tell her mind was a million miles away. God, isn’t it awful how every little molehill can be a mountain? I built a mountain out of her not showing up. I got mad and hung up on her.” Tears rolled down her thin cheeks
. “Hell of a way to say good-bye.”

  “Do you recall—”

  “I’ll never forget.” The words came in short bursts. “The day she died.” Pam used the back of one hand to brush tears from her cheeks. “I should have known something was terribly wrong. She was always thoughtful. But I can’t imagine what upset her to the point she’d forget our game. She wasn’t sick. Hale and hearty, that was Susannah. She got along with her neighbors. I won’t say everybody loved Susannah. She could be sharp. She had no patience with phonies. She spoke up when something didn’t sit right with her. But the last time I saw her, our usual game, I’d swear she was on top of the world. She was proud as can be of Janet and her family and talking about going to Anchorage for Thanksgiving. Nothing wrong there. I was the one Father Bill called that night after he’d contacted Janet with the bad news. I immediately called Janet and told her I’d see to everything until she and the family could come—”

  If Pam talked to Janet in Anchorage the night her mother was murdered, I need not include Janet in my suspect list. Not that I had a suspect list yet.

  “—and I got in touch with the funeral home and started calling friends.”

  I left Pam looking somber, remembering the night her friend died.

  I sat unseen on a stone bench at one side of the Administration Building and tried to picture an older woman hurrying down the steps on what was to be the last day of her life. Angry. Upset.

  Harriet Beal recalled an untroubled Susannah except for a sad afternoon when she visited her Stephen-care recipient. But Harriet knew of nothing that might have made Susannah angry.

  Yet Ann Curry saw a furious Susannah leave the Goddard Administration Building the day Susannah died. The expression on Susannah’s face was such that Ann made no attempt to speak with her.