Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  Susannah did not have a close connection to the college. Why had she visited the Administration Building? Who did she see, if anyone?

  Pam Wilson spoke to Susannah the afternoon of the day she died. Susannah told Pam she’d missed their tennis game because something came up.

  Something led Susannah to visit the Administration Building on the day she was struck down in her garden.

  If her killer was Goddard staff or a faculty member, everything about the series of crimes made sense. A person familiar with the campus was likely to read the Goddard Bugle and learn about Susannah’s diaries in the library, be aware of the old legend about lovers and roses, and be adept at entering and leaving the library undetected.

  The fact that Michelle’s ID number was used the night the rare book was stolen indicated sophisticated knowledge of keypad locks on campus. The Bugle also likely reported on the sabbatical plans of Professor Wendell Hughes, whose home was used as a place to imprison Michelle.

  I looked at the broad, shallow front steps leading from the sidewalk to the closed doors of the Administration Building. Ann Curry said the weather was lovely that day. I imagined it was much like this afternoon, a sunny fall day. The leaves then would have been tipped with red and gold; now they blazed with autumn color beneath a cloudless sky. The building had towers at the corners. Ivy clung to the walls. An idyllic setting in academia, but Susannah came out of that building with her face grim. I felt certain that Susannah had confronted someone there.

  I didn’t know what an empty building could tell me, but I decided to look around. Inside, my eyes adjusted to dimness. It was an old building with well-worn wooden floors. The lobby had an aura of faded elegance with a French provincial sofa flanked by two large Elizabethan chairs. A tapestry on the back wall depicted an old-fashioned wooden oil derrick. The Goddard family had owned town lots, ranches, and banks, but much of their fortune came from the early oil field not far from Adelaide. To my left was a frosted door with the legend Office of the President. To my right were two doors with the legends Office of the Vice President and Office of the Treasurer.

  Hallways ran to the left and right of the central stairway, and I imagined support staff had offices there. At the base of the stairs was a directory. I studied the offices listed. On the second floor were the Bursar’s Office, the Dean of Students Office, and Student Affairs. On the third floor, the Hall of Regents and four named rooms which likely were used for social functions.

  Susannah Fairlee left the Administration Building obviously agitated. Which office did she visit?

  I arrived in the Bugle’s empty newsroom and heard Joe’s voice in the editor’s office. I reappeared in the paisley lily top, ash gray twill trousers, and gray leather flats I’d worn earlier. I hiked the paisley purse over my shoulder and moved to the office doorway. Joe sat on the edge of his desk, holding a legal pad. Michelle perched cross-legged on a ratty-looking beanbag chair

  Joe stopped in midsentence. “How’d you get in? The front door’s locked.”

  I am so accustomed to unhindered access I hadn’t thought to check the door. I gave a negligent wave of my hand. Mmm, perhaps the nails should be rosier to accent the moss green in my blouse.

  Michelle’s eyes were riveted on my fingers.

  As Mama always said, “When you put your foot in it, do a dance step.”

  I beamed at Michelle and spread my hand for a closer view. “You have a good eye. The hue depends upon where you stand. It’s the very latest thing in nail polish.” Did I get a whiff of coal smoke? I finished covering my tracks, hoping to avoid a departure on rising silver tracks. “Perhaps the door only seemed locked. These things happen.” Wiggins should give me some points for mental agility.

  “They do. When you’re around.” Joe’s voice was dour.

  Michelle continued to stare at my hand.

  It was time for a high kick. Or a Hail Mary throw, whichever simile you like best. “I only have a moment. What have you found out about 928 Montague Street?”

  Joe rubbed a bristly cheek. “Somebody’s clever as hell. I took one side of the street, Michelle the other.”

  Michelle’s dark curls appeared a bit windblown. She looked not only weary but hopeless. She turned both hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything. It makes sense. Shrubbery and woods hide the house from the street. Nobody saw my car. Nobody saw any other car turn in.”

  Joe was truculent. “Anybody who reads the Bugle knows Hughes is on sabbatical. We had a story in mid-September and another one a couple of weeks ago. We did an e-mail interview with him about his classes there and what he hopes to bring back to campus next fall.”

  Michelle’s face brightened. “Faculty or staff, that’s what it has to be. Who else would know about the keypad codes at the library?” Her face drooped. “There’s a lot of faculty and staff.”

  I glanced around Joe’s office, noted a whiteboard with possible story ideas listed, the printing precise and easily read. I moved swiftly to the whiteboard, picked up a purple marker. I wrote Susannah Fairlee on one side, Administration Building on the other, and below them, I wrote Library. I drew a line from Susannah Fairlee to Administration Building to Library.

  They listened intently as I described Susannah’s departure from the Administration Building on the day she died.

  Joe didn’t need prompting. “Now we have a place to start.”

  I left them peering at the college website. They would round up every scrap of information about those who worked in the Administration Building.

  I had to find the person or event that brought Susannah there the day she died.

  By late afternoon, I understood Chief Cobb’s reliance on M&M’S. I munched on a handful filched from the half-filled sack nestling in his lower-left desk drawer. But I needed more than a sugary punch. I needed inspiration. I’d made so many calls from the chief’s phone, my fingers ached from holding the receiver. I had a quick memory of the lines I’d drawn on the whiteboard in Joe Cooper’s office from Susannah Fairlee to Administration Building to Library. I understood the connection between Susannah and the Library. That’s where her diaries were placed. But Susannah and the Administration Building? I pushed back from the chief’s desk, stood, and began to pace. She wasn’t a Goddard student, so she had no reason to visit the Bursar’s Office. She wasn’t a faculty member. I’d used the chief’s computer to access all stories that included Susannah, and none connected her to anyone on the campus.

  For once I wouldn’t have minded a whiff of coal smoke. Perhaps it was time for me to scuttle Heavenward, a failure.

  It was almost as if I heard Mama’s voice. “Bailey Ruth, honey, if the front door slams in your face, go around back.”

  I glanced at the clock. I had an hour before I could expect a report from Detectives Weitz and Smith.

  I wondered if Joe and Michelle would notice if I appeared in a different outfit. Possibly I should restrain my delight in fashion. I mean, the paisley was lovely, but I was feeling more in silk georgette mood. I appeared in the now-even-dimmer newsroom as shadows lengthened outside. I took a step and loved the swirl of a multicolor ankle-length silk georgette dress, regretfully shook my head. Joe’s gaze was too sharp. By the time I reached the doorway, I was wearing paisley again. Tomorrow would be another day. That added a feeling of urgency to my thoughts. Tomorrow would be one day away from Howie’s return to the chief’s office.

  And I was stumped.

  I stepped into the office. Joe had somehow found time to shave, and his polo and chinos looked fresh. His angular face was too bony to be conventionally handsome, but he had a masculine appeal I was quite sure Michelle appreciated.

  Each, in fact, was keenly aware of the other’s every move.

  Joe thumped his fist on his desk. Papers slid every which way. “The kid saw Fairlee’s pic and ID’d her immediately. She has no reaso
n to make it up.”

  Michelle, whose glossy dark hair was obviously fresh from a shampoo, looked exasperated. “I’m not saying she made it up, but I don’t see how it helps.”

  I was ready to grasp at any straw.

  “Tell me.”

  They both stiffened and jerked toward the doorway.

  I smiled.

  Michelle almost managed a smile in return.

  Joe lowered his head like a buffalo irritated by gnats. “The front door’s locked.” He said it flatly.

  I can’t help teasing men. They are so serious. “Doors,” I murmured, “are made to be opened.” I ignored his glare. “Who saw Susannah?”

  Michelle was trying not to laugh at Joe’s response.

  I admired how she had bounced back from an ordeal that would leave anyone shaken. She didn’t know her reprieve was temporary. My challenge now was to keep her from being arrested on Monday.

  Joe looked triumphant. “Ellen Kelly. Nineteen. Junior from Adelaide. Lives at home. Works in the Bursar’s Office. She was running an errand that Wednesday. She remembers because she saw the story in the Gazette the next day about Susannah Fairlee’s death and she recognized her picture as a woman she’d seen coming out of the Dean of Students office.” His gaze at Michelle was combative. “Why’d she notice Fairlee?”

  Michelle was crisp. “That’s what makes me wonder how reliable her observation was. She claimed Fairlee looked upset, and she wondered if she was there because a kid was in trouble. That sounds like after-the-fact embellishment to me.”

  Joe leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, glowered. “The only way to get results is to get people’s attention. Like a slap to the side of the head.”

  “Telling her you’re investigating a murder and did she see this woman in the Ad Building on September seventeenth pretty well invites exaggeration.”

  They were going to be one of those couples—think Hepburn and Tracy—that spark like flint striking steel.

  “Peace, children.”

  Joe yanked a thumb at Michelle. “She wants to ask questions like a historian, which is fine, but right now we have to get results. I know how to get people talking.”

  Michelle turned a graceful hand. “Joe’s probably right, and”—she gave a small sigh—“Ellen’s the only person we found who remembers seeing Susannah.”

  “Let me get it straight. You two spent the afternoon contacting people who work in the Ad Building?”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed. “We haven’t talked to that many, actually. I figure whoever put together the snare for Michelle has to be pretty important, somebody with a lot to lose and somebody who knows the ins and outs of Goddard. Not a kid. So we spent the afternoon finding out about work-study students and student employees in the Ad Building. I figured none of them can be the perp. We hit the jackpot with Ellen Kelly.”

  Michelle flashed a smile at him. “He got a JPEG of Susannah. We were able to send the photo as we talked to people.”

  Joe looked satisfied. “The JPEG clinched the deal with Ellen.”

  Michelle nodded. “Sending the photo was smart. I’m not saying Ellen didn’t see her. I’m saying”—and now she sounded discouraged—“we don’t know why Susannah went to the Dean of Students Office. For all we know, she was lost and stepped inside to ask directions.”

  “Oh, come on, Michelle.” Joe snorted in exasperation

  She was contrite. “I’m sorry. You’ve done a great job. But I feel like we’ve looked awfully hard and this doesn’t help much.”

  “We definitely have her pegged going into the Dean of Students Office. It’s a place to start.” He burrowed among the papers on the desk, pulled out a sheet. “I did a story about the honor code a couple of weeks ago. I talked to Marian Pierce, who works in the Bursar’s Office. I called her, said sorry to bother her at home but I was setting up some stories for next week, we were doing a feature on work-study students, we’d picked the Dean of Students Office, could she give me their names and the names of all the staff and I’d be getting in touch with people.” He looked cocky. “I got the roster for that office: Eleanor Sheridan, dean of students; Jeanne Bracewell, assistant dean; Jill Bruner and Laura Salazar, secretaries; Sabina Diaz; receptionist; Daisy Butler and George Graham, work-study students.” Joe glanced toward the clock. It was almost five thirty. “We’ll order in a couple of pizzas and call the list.”

  “Not yet.” I wasn’t there the day Susannah Fairlee stalked down the steps of the Administration Building, but I felt sure I knew the outcome of that visit: a stealthy approach across her yard, a stunning blow, life lost in inches of water. I held up my hand. Really, a very attractive shade of rose on the nails. “No calls to anyone in the dean’s office.”

  “Why not?” Joe hunched his big shoulders and looked combative.

  I gave him a steely stare. “If Susannah went there and threatened someone, the last thing we want to do is alert that person. Instead, we’ll find out everything we can about Susannah and that office.” I was counting on Detectives Weitz and Smith. “You’ve done a great job finding out who works there. I want you and Michelle to get some background on each one and we’ll talk to them Monday. When you finish the bios, print them out, leave them on your desk.” I ignored Joe’s cold stare. To allay his suspicion that I entered and left Old Ethel too easily, I said, “I’ll look at them when we get together again. When you’re done, take the rest of the weekend off. Have a beer at the Brown Owl. Thrash out the plot lines of True Blood.” I wanted the bios. I didn’t want them poking into what might turn out to be the equivalent of a rattlesnake’s lair. The less Joe and Michelle knew, the safer they’d be. “In any event, give me your cell numbers”—I jotted them on a card—“and stick together.” That final order improved Joe’s mood.

  I started to disappear, realized I wasn’t quite on that basis with them. Fortunately Joe was frowning at his list. However, Michelle was watching me with huge, questioning eyes.

  I patted her shoulder and ignored the rigidity of her muscles. “Lights at night make things waver, don’t they? Blink and you’ll be fine.” I opened the door, beamed at them. “Have a good evening.” And closed the door gently behind me as I left.

  Chapter 10

  I was careful to remain visible until I was around the corner from Old Ethel. The bells in the library tower tolled the half hour. This time last night, Ben Douglas likely heard the deep peals as he planned his stakeout in the library. Today Ben was fighting for his life.

  The ICU unit was familiar now: nurses in thick-soled sneakers moving quietly, checking monitors, administering medicine, fighting to save those at risk. I was relieved to find Ben still in his cubicle behind the drawn green curtain. A monitor glowed green. Lines snaked out from the IV pole. If a nurse glanced within, he would appear to be alone, though I guessed that one slightly elevated hand was held by another, smaller hand.

  I kept my voice to a whisper. “How is he?”

  “Guarded prognosis.” Lorraine’s soft voice was even.

  I knew her modulated tone had taken great effort. Nurses must maintain their composure even when their hearts are breaking.

  “There’s danger of clots. They had to inject a blood thinner in the abdominal artery.” A sigh. “Occasionally his eyes open and he tries to move. He’s still caught in that moment before he was shot. I tell him I’m here and he’s safe and we’re going to make him well. Once, I think he said, ‘. . . stay with me?’ I promised I wouldn’t leave.”

  “Are they doing everything they can?”

  “Yes. The nurse comes every few minutes to check on him. He could go either way.”

  “I wish I could help.”

  “Find out who hurt Ben.” Her tone was fierce.

  “I’m trying.”

  Beyond the green curtain there were muted sounds, wheels of a gurney, low voices, beeps, tings.

 
Lorraine sighed. “I sat by so many men.”

  I had a vision of a crowded ward in that long-ago military hospital, scarcely room to squeeze a straight wooden chair between them, young men in every kind of condition: bandaged eyes, missing limbs, some moving restively, some not moving at all.

  “I’d promise I wouldn’t leave. I was always tired. When ambulances came with the wounded, we all helped, and then I’d have a night shift. So often”—and now her voice was forlorn as she recalled a young woman near a battlefield—“I’d fall asleep holding a hand. When I’d wake, there was no life left, only a hand limp in mine. Such young hands.”

  I heard tears in her voice.

  Now it was my turn to be fierce. “Sometimes they lived. Thanks to you and the others who made them well.”

  “I wasn’t able to make Paul well.”

  What could I say? That he was happy? That he loved her still? I didn’t know the right words, so I remained silent.

  “Tell me”—clearly she made an effort to be brisk—“what you’ve learned.”

  I realized that Lorraine knew only that Michelle Hoyt was missing, a stolen book had been found in her apartment, and Ben had been shot in the room where Susannah Fairlee’s diaries were stored. I had much to tell her.

  “Susannah Fairlee was murdered. Michelle was decoyed to an empty house and held captive until this morning to prevent her from reading Susannah’s diaries. A gun, likely the one used to shoot Ben, was planted in Michelle’s car. I found the gun in her trunk and I’ve hidden it. Michelle was taken into custody for the rare-book theft.” I described my efforts at Chief Cobb’s office. “I sent down word that she was cleared. She’s safe until Monday. I discovered Susannah Fairlee went to the Dean of Students Office the day she was murdered. I haven’t found any connection between Susannah and the dean’s office. Why did she go to that office? Why did she look grim as she came out of the building? Michelle and Joe are gathering information on everyone in the dean’s office.”