Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  “Joe’s helping Michelle?” Lorraine’s voice was soft. “You can always count on the roses.”

  I smiled. Roses or chemistry or propinquity. But then, a rose by any other name . . . “I’d say they are definitely interested in each other. Now if only I can figure out who killed Susannah, Michelle will be safe. I’m hoping Detectives Weitz and Smith have some leads.”

  Chief Cobb’s office was dusky, but I used only the desk lamp. Light shining from the windows might catch the attention of someone entering or leaving City Hall. I clicked to read the e-mail from Detectives Weitz and Smith.

  To: Acting Chief

  From: Detectives Weitz and Smith

  Neighbors were contacted on both sides of Arnold Street concerning anyone observed in the area between 6 and 7 p.m. Sept. 17. Next-door neighbor Judith Eastman, 327 Arnold Street, didn’t see anyone on Mrs. Fairlee’s driveway during that time. Mrs. Eastman said she last saw Mrs. Fairlee Wednesday morning. The Sandler family lives across the street. Teenagers Adam and Will Sandler played basketball in their driveway from six o’clock until dark. According to the boys, the only cars that came on the block were people who lived there returning home. They were paying attention because a new family with a teenage daughter had moved into the house east of the Fairlee address and they were hoping the girl—Linda—would come outside but she didn’t.

  The Fairlee house is midblock in a modest residential area of bungalows built in the 1930s. Unlike newer areas of town, alleys run behind the houses in this development. Officer Weitz explored the alley behind the Fairlee house. Most houses have fences separating the backyards from the alley, but the Fairlee house is unfenced. Across the alley and three houses west of the Fairlee yard is a home belonging to Brady Stanwell, a retired machinist. Stanwell recalled the night in question because police rigged lights in Fairlee’s backyard. He was smoking a cigar in the back garden after dinner. He said he came outside about a quarter after six. While he was smoking the cigar, a woman on a bicycle passed. He estimated the time at approximately twenty past six. He had only a glimpse of the figure. He said he was sure it was a woman and was aggravated when pressed, said he knew a woman when he saw a woman but it was getting dark and he didn’t know how big she was or what she looked like, only that she had on a bike helmet and a black top and slacks. He went inside a little later to watch baseball.

  No one else reports seeing the bike rider.

  Officer Johnny Cain contacted by phone everyone mentioned in Susannah Fairlee’s obituary. In his report, Cain . . .

  I nodded in approval, but I stared glumly at the printout. Not even another mouthful of M&M’S lifted my spirit. So far as both Johnny and I had been able to determine, Susannah Fairlee’s life had followed its usual course until Ann Curry saw her visibly upset on campus the day she died. I was impressed by the amount of information he’d gathered on a Saturday, but I didn’t find a link to the Dean of Students Office.

  Johnny spoke to Susannah’s daughter and son, next-door neighbor Judith Eastman, friends listed in her obituary, the rector of St. Mildred’s (I smiled as I thought of Father Bill and Kathleen and their red-haired daughter, Bayroo), the Altar Guild directress Emma Carson, Kate’s Corner manager Dwight Baker.

  I understood the plaintive conclusion that it was difficult to determine what may or may not have occurred the last week of Susannah’s life because she lived alone.

  As an addendum to Johnny’s report, Weitz observed tartly, “For all we know, she entertained Martians after midnight.” Detective Smith added, “Judith Eastman next door has a key to the Fairlee house. Apparently the son is retiring from the military next spring and plans to move back to Adelaide and live there. Eastman offered to take us over there to look around but we didn’t have a search warrant.”

  I tore a sheet from a fresh legal pad in the chief’s center desk drawer and made up a calendar of Susannah’s regular activities based on Johnny’s report:

  Mondays—Served lunch at Kate’s Corner

  Tuesdays—Weekly appointment with Stephen-care recipient

  Wednesdays—Tennis with Pamela Wilson

  Thursdays—Bible study at the church, taught by Father Bill

  Fridays—Bridge

  Saturdays—Errand day

  Sundays—Nine fifteen service. On Altar Guild duty Sunday before her death.

  I slowly reread the report, wrote down important signposts:

  1. Susannah’s last Monday—Dwight Baker at Kate’s Corner said Susannah was in good spirits. “Talking about going to Alaska for Thanksgiving. She was fine. Just as always. Cheerful, outgoing, kind.”

  2. Susannah’s last Wednesday—Ann Curry saw Susannah leave the Administration Building obviously upset.

  Monday at noon Susannah Fairlee served food at Kate’s Corner and in no way appeared troubled. Shortly before noon on Wednesday she was in a place she was not known to visit, and Ann Curry thought she was too upset to welcome a greeting. What happened between Monday and Wednesday? I glanced again at Susannah’s usual schedule. On Tuesdays she regularly visited a care recipient as a Stephen Minister. What was her demeanor that day?

  I turned back to the computer.

  To: Detectives Weitz and Smith

  From: Acting Chief

  Excellent report. Check e-mail tomorrow in case further developments arise.

  Acting Chief

  I was well aware that further developments must arise or feathers would hit the fan Monday morning when Acting Chief Howie Warren returned to find Michelle freed and an investigation begun into a death that had been officially termed an accident.

  On Main Street, I lurked behind the trunk of an oak tree and appeared, then I strolled to Lulu’s and stepped inside, welcoming the familiar, comfortable surroundings. I sat at the counter. I chose meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. As I took a last bite, I made up my mind. Susannah’s care recipient was first on my list.

  Outside, I walked across the street into the park and disappeared. At St. Mildred’s, I took a moment to hover above the backyard of the rectory. Outdoor lighting illuminated the sandy volleyball court in the early dusk. Squeals and shouts sounded as young teenagers jumped. A gangly, big-handed teen slammed the ball, driving it over the net and into the sand. Bayroo clapped her hands to her red head. “I missed it!” Bayroo’s glorious red-gold curls were in disarray, but her eager freckled face was as dear as I remembered. It seemed like only yesterday when I helped her mom avoid the difficulty of a body on the back porch of the rectory. I felt a little twist deep inside as I remembered how near we’d come to mortal peril for Bayroo, but all was well that ended well.

  “Not your fault,” her earnest friend Lucinda called out. “I got in your way.”

  I wished I could spend more time watching the middle school group enjoying a picnic and game on a beautiful fall night. Cars filled the church parking lot.

  But it was time for business. In the church secretary’s office, I closed the window blinds and turned on the light. It took a little while in the files to find the folders for the Stephen Ministry. I was pleased that Susannah’s folder had not been removed, though a dark pencil on the outside had marked: Deceased.

  I took the folder and sat down. The folder contained more information about Susannah, most of which I knew, than about her care recipient, who was identified only as JoLee Jamison, resident, Adelaide Hospice House. I puzzled for a moment. Had I seen that name somewhere recently? I squeezed my eyes in concentration. Possibly. But I could not dredge up where.

  In a parking lot shaded by sycamores, I landed between a delivery van and a pickup truck. No one was visible in the swath of parking lot open to me. A massive German shepherd watched me from the back of the pickup. I appeared. I straightened my name badge reading Officer M. Loy and admired the crispness of my uniform trousers. The black shoes had a high gloss. There was nothing shabby about Heavenly garb, whether ther
e or here.

  I strode briskly around the side of the truck.

  “Cool.” The high voice was admiring. “Are you some special kind of cop?”

  I looked past the truck’s tailgate into the interested gaze of a little boy about five years old.

  “You were up high and now you’re on the ground.” He sounded delighted.

  I hadn’t noticed him because of the big shaggy dog. I heard a heavy sigh. I knew its origin. My head turned back and forth. It is hard to be convincing when you may be staring five feet to the left of your audience. “Wiggins, it’s essential I speak with JoLee Jamison. You know that means I have to be here.”

  No answer. I supposed he was loath to add to my observer’s unusual experience.

  The little boy pointed up. “Don’t you see him? He’s floating up there. I want to float.” Of course the little boy saw Wiggins. I wasn’t surprised. Children see and know more than adults ever realize. I’d reappeared as an adult, so I lacked that special sense.

  “Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s tone was commanding. If I didn’t manage a satisfactory resolution to this encounter, I would soon hear the clack of the Rescue Express’s wheels. It was time to draw on real-life skills honed in city politics. I moved close to the tailgate, murmured conspiratorially to the stocky little guy, “I’ll bet you know how to keep a secret.”

  He stood a little straighter, puffed out his chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bucky. What’s yours?”

  “Officer Loy. Let me give you the lowdown, Bucky.” I drew on my most recent adventure in Adelaide. “I’m on the trail of a guy who’s wanted for making up fake treasure maps. Man to man, I need for you to keep your lip buttoned. Can’t have people knowing police can come and go, can we? Can I count on you? Not a word to anyone until next summer.” Summer was an eon away to a child.

  “Cool.” His gaze flicked to my right. “I want to float.”

  “Only very special people float. Maybe next time. Now I want you to close your eyes—”

  Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and for good measure placed grubby small hands over them. All I could see was a mop of curly blond hair, a freckled face, and a rounded chin.

  I jerked my thumb toward the one-story building for Wiggins. “—and count to ten.”

  Bucky’s treble voice started slowly, “One and two and . . .”

  I walked swiftly away and turned toward the front walk and was soon out of his sight. Weeping willows lined the walk, shading several wooden benches. I sank into one and prepared to plead my case.

  I sniffed. No coal smoke. Yet.

  Wiggins thumped heavily onto the seat beside me.

  For a moment there was profound silence. Oh, dear.

  Wiggins sighed. “If only I could tell her . . .”

  He wasn’t thinking about me or the Precepts or a little boy who likely would always remember a sunny October evening in the bed of a red pickup.

  I felt the warmth of his hand through my uniform sleeve. “I know you are doing your best for Michelle. You’ve come to this place hoping to learn more . . .” His voice trailed off. “I’m afraid I haven’t focused on the mission. It seems clear Michelle’s plight arose from her connection to Susannah Fairlee’s diaries. I understand that. But all this going hither and yon . . . Possibly you will connect everything. I can’t let my personal feelings interfere, so continue your quest, but please see to Lorraine when you can. Ben Douglas came home to Heaven tonight.”

  Wiggins spoke kindly, knowing Ben Douglas’s earthly duties were done, but this would likely not offer solace to Lorraine. She would be caught up in the sadness of Ben’s plans to welcome his granddaughter and anger at the black-clad figure who shot him down.

  “Lorraine needs . . . Oh, she needs love, and your heart overflows.”

  The warmth of his touch was gone. I was alone on the bench. Lorraine . . . Yes, I would do what I could to comfort Lorraine, but first I’d take a moment to see JoLee Jamison. I might learn if Susannah Fairlee, on that last Tuesday visit, had been upset or distressed, though, of course, it would be Susannah’s aim to offer support to a dying woman, not add to her burden.

  In a spic-and-span tiled lobby with several chairs and potted ferns, a white-haired volunteer in a blue smock sat at a desk. She looked up, her eyes widening a little at the sight of a uniform.

  I gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m Officer Loy of the Adelaide Police Department. If possible, I would like to speak with your director.”

  “It’s after hours. Our resident manager, Betty Cook, is in. Could she help you?”

  “Yes. Of course.” I doubted I could simply ask to talk to JoLee Jamison.

  “If you’ll wait a moment . . .” She rose, gave me another curious glance, then walked swiftly to a closed door. She knocked once, opened the door. “Betty, there’s a policewoman here to see you.” An indistinguishable murmur. The volunteer turned to me and nodded.

  I walked across the tiled floor and entered a bright square office with yellow walls. A plaid upholstered sofa faced a maple desk. A cut glass vase held a mass of bronze chrysanthemums. Family pictures in assorted frames—wooden, porcelain, and metal—ranged on either side of the desk.

  The resident manager came around her desk. “Betty Cook.” Her voice was firm, a match for a square face beneath tight, iron gray curls. She wore a no-nonsense white blouse, dark blue slacks, and sturdy running shoes. Dark brown eyes appraised me carefully. “You wanted to see me?” There was no warm fuzzy feeling in the room.

  This woman would not easily part with information. I tried to appear genial, agreeable, and nonthreatening. “I’m Officer M. Loy. I’m seeking information about Susannah Fairlee, a Stephen Minister who visited here September sixteenth to see JoLee Jamison.”

  She shook her head. “You are misinformed.”

  We were still standing.

  I said, perhaps more sharply than I should have, “My informant was sure that Mrs. Fairlee came here every Tuesday.”

  “Mrs. Fairlee came on Tuesdays.” The gruff voice was somber. “Not Tuesday, September sixteenth. JoLee passed away the previous Friday.” Betty Cook glanced toward a small figurine on her desk and for a moment her blunt face softened. She turned a hand. “We have some crafts. JoLee painted a Madonna for me. She made one for Mrs. Fairlee, too.”

  I looked at the soft hues and pictured a weak hand using a brush to add color to a cheap ceramic figurine. “I see.” Now I remembered the death notice in the folder included in Susannah’s papers, the announcement of graveside services for J. Jamison. I suppose my shock was obvious. I’d counted on talking to JoLee Jamison. I knew of no one else who could offer insight into Susannah’s mood on the day before she died.

  “You didn’t know?” The manager mistook my response. “Sorry to upset you. Got to all of us. JoLee was so young.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Please sit down.”

  When I settled on the sofa, she sank into a brown leather chair behind the desk. I hadn’t until this moment thought about the age of Susannah’s care recipient. I had assumed, wrongly, that Susannah visited an elderly person. “I didn’t know.” A young woman. How young? I took a chance. “Was she a student at Goddard?”

  The manager hesitated, then shrugged. “We don’t discuss residents. Privacy laws. But JoLee’s gone and she didn’t have any family. I can’t tell you much, but I know she was at Goddard until she got sick last winter. Dr. Forbes, our director, got a call in July from the rector at St. Mildred’s looking for a place for JoLee. Her roommate tried to take care of JoLee as long as she could, but she was in school and had to work, and JoLee needed care. Terminal leukemia. No family to speak of. Her mom died a few years ago and her dad apparently dumped them when JoLee was little. There was an aunt in California but she couldn’t help. Anyway, JoLee came here. There was no one her age, of course. She was only
twenty. I don’t know who asked the church, but Susannah Fairlee started visiting JoLee a few weeks after she moved in. JoLee often spent her days in a chair looking out the window.” She squinted at me. “Nobody sitting around waiting to die is singing a happy song. But most of the people here are old. Some are scared, some worry about leaving their families, some are resigned. Some are easy with it. Like they’re on a ship and they see the shore coming up and they’re ready to land. JoLee was different. It was like she carried a big weight. She sat and stared out the window and looked miserable. It was only after Susannah started coming that I sensed a kind of relief in JoLee’s manner. Perhaps Susannah reminded her of someone she’d known and trusted. I don’t know. But Susannah was a great comfort to JoLee. When I called Susannah to tell her JoLee was gone, Susannah said, ‘Now she’s at peace.’ Then Susannah said, and her voice was sad, ‘It seems wrong to be healthy, looking ahead to good days, when someone so much younger is dying. I wish I could have helped her more.’ She thanked me for calling. You can imagine our shock when Susannah died the next week. I don’t suppose she ever saw JoLee’s letter.”

  “Letter?”

  Betty Cook picked up the small figurine of Mary. “Maybe JoLee knew she was almost done. I don’t know why else she’d write a letter. Maybe she just wanted to say thank you to Mrs. Fairlee. JoLee was a nice girl. Very polite and always thanked everyone. Anyway, one of the aides boxed up her things on Saturday. Usually there’s family, someone to take the personal effects. Not for JoLee. I thought I should look through, make a decision about what to do with the contents.” She pulled open the center drawer, rummaged, found a sheet. “The contents.” Her voice was determinedly flat. “Inexpensive laptop. Cell phone. Four blouses. Three pairs of slacks. Lingerie. Two pairs of ballerina flats. A book of poetry by Billy Collins, one page dog-eared at the poem ‘I Ask You.’ An agate marble, orange with a sea blue swirl shaped like a crescent moon.”

  The resident manager had studied the box’s contents and seen a lifetime in those meager possessions.