Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  The flat voice continued. “Two pairs of earrings, three necklaces. A poster of Daniel Radcliffe. A ticket stub to a June first, 2012, Flaming Lips concert in Dallas. A Kodak print of a woman standing on a front porch with inscription and date on the back: Mama 2007. A New Testament. An unstamped, sealed letter addressed to Susannah Fairlee.” Betty folded the sheet, returned it to the drawer, pushed the drawer shut. She looked at me and there was a combative edge to her jaw. “Maybe some would say the box should have gone to her aunt out in California, but JoLee never talked about her and the aunt never came or called. JoLee’s former roommate was here every weekend. She and Mrs. Fairlee were the only visitors except for Father Bill from St. Mildred’s. I decided to give the things to her roommate.”

  “What about the letter?”

  “It was in the box. I figured her roommate would mail it if she thought she should.” Her brows drew down in a frown. “I didn’t think later that maybe it would hurt her feelings that JoLee hadn’t written her. But kids don’t usually write. I know they kept up on Facebook. Anyway, I called and she came and got the box. Looked like she’d cried her eyes out.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Of course. Jessica Fitzhugh.”

  I was in the parking lot and almost ready to disappear when I stopped. Was it possible? . . . I opened my purse, rummaged about. Ah, a cell phone. Heaven provides. I returned to the bench I had shared with Wiggins. Thanks to the resident manager, I had Jessica Fitzhugh’s cell phone number. I left a message, asking her to call me, identifying myself as a friend of JoLee’s. But on a weekend, catching a college student might be tough. I dropped the cell into my purse.

  Now to try and offer comfort to Lorraine. When I reached the parking lot, I was relieved that the red pickup was gone. I stepped into the shadows of a weeping willow and disappeared.

  No lights shone in Lorraine’s suite at Rose Bower. “Lorraine?” I called softly, then turned on the Tiffany lamp. I had hoped she would be here. As she had once said to me, “Where else would I be?” But not tonight.

  I thought of her portrait on the landing at Goddard Library. When I stood on the landing, I listened to the bell tolling eight o’clock. The library had just closed. One by one, lights went dark in the great rotunda and soon there were only the lights at the top and bottom of the stairs as there had been the night I arrived.

  “Lorraine?”

  I had no sense of her presence.

  I decided to linger and take time to review what I had learned from Detectives Smith and Weitz, aided by Johnny Cain. I paced on the landing. Smith and Weitz had checked with the neighbors and no one saw anyone approach the Fairlee house. That didn’t mean that someone hadn’t come, simply that if the killer approached from the front, no one had noticed. The back-alley neighbor saw a woman on a bicycle. In my brief glance when Ben was shot, I’d thought his attacker was a woman. I had an impression of athleticism and—perhaps—a slender figure. Not someone large or powerful.

  I felt stymied. The police had interviewed every possible source. I still didn’t know why Susannah was upset when she went to the campus that Wednesday morning.

  Wednesday morning . . .

  I pressed my fingertips to my temples. Detectives Smith and Weitz had spoken with Susannah’s neighbors, including her next-door neighbor. Judith Eastman told them she last saw Susannah Wednesday morning. When did Mrs. Eastman see Susannah Wednesday morning? Before or after Susannah’s visit to the campus? That mattered.

  Tomorrow I would talk with Mrs. Eastman.

  For now . . . again I spoke softly. “Lorraine?”

  I wasn’t surprised that no one answered. Lorraine wasn’t here. I hadn’t found her at Rose Bower or here.

  There was another possibility.

  Chapter 11

  A single light in a tall lamp gave some illumination to a small square living room with an old-fashioned wooden rocker, a shabby brown sofa, and an easy chair. Two gaily wrapped packages rested next to an open photo album on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I expected the gifts were intended for Ben Douglas’s granddaughter. On a card table in one corner was a partially completed puzzle of a New Mexico landscape. The small pieces in irregular shapes and barely differentiated shades of gold, tan, cream, rose, and sienna would require infinite patience. An accordion with yellowed keys was propped against a bookcase. I wondered if Ben had played the accordion with one hand? Perhaps it was a family heirloom. A gas stove sat in the fireplace. Brown drapes were closed.

  A page was lifted and turned in the photo album on the coffee table.

  I hovered near and looked down at old-fashioned black-and-white photos taped to creamy paper. As a young man, Ben Douglas had thick springy black hair, a genial face, a firm nose, and a blunt chin. In this photo there was a bitter twist to his mouth and he stood a little sideways, as if to hide the emptiness of a shirt sleeve.

  I didn’t want to startle Lorraine. I spoke softly. “I thought you might be here.”

  Another page was turned. “Ben slipped away about seven.”

  “I’m sorry.” I settled beside her on the sofa.

  “I knew Ben a long time. Oh, he didn’t know me, not for a while. He came back from Vietnam without his arm. He’d been quite an athlete in high school. He got a job with Campus Security and kept to himself, didn’t talk much with anyone. He started talking to me—to the portrait—at night, how he wasn’t good for much, didn’t have two hands to work with. He’d planned on being a mechanic. He was lost and lonely. He talked about things I didn’t understand, pistons and carburetors and brake rotors and upper ball joints. One night he was talking about how maybe he’d take his rifle out, go hunting, not come back. Even with only one arm, he could shoot himself and then he would be done with it all. That’s when I spoke up. I told him to stop that nonsense, that he was an upstanding fellow and he could make of his life what he wanted it to be. He stood on the landing and stared up at the painting and then he turned and ran down the stairs. I didn’t think he’d come back.” She sounded amused. “But the next night he walked up the stairs real slow and looked up. ‘What good’s a man with one arm?’ I said anyone who could be a mechanic was smart enough to be anything he wanted to be and I’d bet he was smart with figures and I wanted him to march right into the college admissions office and enroll in the business school. The next night he came and he told me he was starting school in the fall. He kept his night job, but I still worried. He didn’t have anything to do with other students. They were younger. They hadn’t been to war. I often visited his classes. One day I noticed a girl who looked at him, and there was something in her eyes. It was close to Valentine’s Day Ben’s senior year. I knew it was time for roses. I was”—there was quiet pride in her voice—“rather clever about it.”

  It was good to hear remembered happiness in her tone. “What did you do?”

  “The night before that class, I taped a rose beneath her desk and his. The next day I waited until just before the ending bell, then carefully pulled away the tape. I lifted one rose and dropped it on Ben’s notebook, did the same with Chloe’s rose. Of course they were both startled. Each one picked up the rose and held it up and everyone in the class saw and looked from one to the other, and one of the girls called out, ‘Why, Ben, how did you manage? Look, everyone, Ben’s given a rose to Chloe!’

  “Chloe’s face turned pink and she looked at Ben so eagerly. Anyone could tell she was thrilled. I was proud of Ben. He would never have embarrassed her in front of the class. He took a deep breath and said, ‘I hope I can always give roses to Chloe.’” Lorraine’s warm laughter added gaiety to the small empty room.

  “And they lived happily ever after?”

  “They had a wonderful life together. Chloe died six years ago.” Several album pages turned.

  I looked at a wedding photograph of Ben and Chloe, Ben facing forward and standing proudly, Chloe wi
th one arm slipped through his, the other holding a bouquet of roses.

  The page lay open for a moment, then slowly the album was closed.

  I spoke gently. “He’s with Chloe now.”

  The bow on the larger gift box was moved a bit straighter. “I wish he could have seen his granddaughter one more time. But finality is finality.” A pause. “As I know perhaps better than most.” Once again her tone was brittle. “I accept what I must, but I will not rest until Ben’s murderer is brought to justice. Tell me what you’ve discovered.”

  She listened without comment until I finished.

  She said quietly, “You can be sure that Susannah was struck down since Paul told you, but I see no way to prove that fact to the authorities.”

  “I told the police that her most recent diary was stolen and the thief shot Ben to prevent capture.”

  “True. Nonetheless, you offer deductions, not proof.”

  I wasn’t offended. As Lorraine indicated, reality was reality.

  She continued, her tone thoughtful. “Moreover, Detectives Weitz and Smith will report Monday morning to Acting Chief Warren, who didn’t authorize Michelle Hoyt’s release. Warren will be shocked to find that she was not only released, but Ben Douglas is dead and no one is in jail either for his murder, the incidents at the library, or the theft of the rare book. Warren will denounce your e-mails from the ‘acting chief’ as fake. He will probably claim Michelle or Joe somehow got into the chief’s computer. He will immediately order Michelle’s arrest. As for Susannah Fairlee, he will dismiss the possibility of murder, pointing out that her death was deemed an accident and the assertion of murder is based on uncorroborated information from an unknown informant. Further, it is an imaginative leap—”

  How nice for Lorraine to consider me imaginative.

  “—to link Susannah’s death to a visit to the office of the dean of students.”

  Here I felt on firmer ground. “Ann Curry knew Susannah well. Ann insisted that Susannah was deeply disturbed, too upset to be approached. That very night Susannah was murdered. The incidents at the library suggest intimate knowledge of the college. The only link between Susannah and Goddard appears to be that visit to the dean’s office.”

  Lorraine looked thoughtful. “Is it a coincidence that the young woman in hospice was a former student?”

  “I don’t know yet. Tomorrow I will try to find out more about JoLee.”

  Lorraine shook her head. “The connections seem vague.”

  “There is one definite connection to the campus—Susannah’s visit to the Administration Building. There is a possible connection through JoLee Jamison, who was a student last year.”

  Lorraine wasn’t convinced. “I’m afraid your theories are as gossamer as a spiderweb and as easily destroyed.”

  “Well put.” If not very encouraging. “I understand the difficulty. Between now”—I looked at an old-fashioned clock on the mantel above the gas stove. It was a quarter to nine on Saturday night—“and nine o’clock Monday morning, I must discover who killed Susannah Fairlee and why, and arrange for the capture of the murderer.”

  There was a slight ripple of laughter. “And possibly, on the side, you can arrange for world peace?”

  I tried not to sound defensive. “I know it sounds impossible, but as Mama always said, ‘When the yarn is all balled up, keep picking ’til you find the right thread, and then tug.’”

  “All right, Bailey Ruth. Keep picking. Can I help?”

  “Certainement.” I hoped Wiggins was admiring my French. I still harbor hope he might send me to Paris on a mission. “It’s time to go to Old Ethel.”

  “What an interesting office.” Lorraine’s cultivated voice sounded sincere.

  Joe Cooper’s office could as well be described as eclectic, frowsy, challenging, and a nose-thumber. The desk was still inches deep in papers. Hanging on one wall was a poster of US Marshal and famed gunfighter Bill Tilghman wearing a top hat and staring out with a “don’t give me any guff” gaze, a Georgia O’Keeffe print, and a map of the proposed route for the Keystone Pipeline with YES stamped in red. A quote from William Saroyan, The writer who is a real writer is a rebel who never stops, was scrawled in blue chalk on a dingy wall between two windows.

  As Lorraine read the quote aloud, I grabbed a green folder perched on top of Joe’s in-box. A sticky note on the outside read in a masculine scrawl: For Theresa Lisieux. I suspected he asked Michelle how to spell the name. I flipped the folder open. “Here are the bios I asked Joe and Michelle to put together. Let’s take the folder to Rose Bower and get to work.”

  It was easy to transport the folder as we zipped high into the night sky. I waited, the folder hovering above the porch floor while Lorraine entered. She opened the front door, carefully locked it behind me as I came inside. Once in her suite, I high-fived her, then realized she couldn’t see me. I appeared. Since the night was rather cool, I chose an orchid velour top, black leggings, and black huaraches.

  Lorraine was silent and unseen. Did she think the leggings too formfitting? Possibly she wasn’t familiar with leggings. Would it be rude to offer fashion advice? “Make yourself comfortable, Lorraine.” I had a brilliant thought. I walked across the bedroom to a closet. I opened the door. It didn’t surprise me to find that Charles had kept her dresses. I stepped inside, picked out a blouse and skirt.

  In an instant, Lorraine stood in the middle of the room in a white blouse and white-and-green pleated skirt that touched just below the knee. A black belt and flats completed the ensemble. She looked like she’d stepped out of a Vogue issue circa 1948, but definitely Vogue. She smoothed the skirt, smiled. “I remember shopping in Neiman Marcus. We had tea that afternoon before we drove home. Charles”—her voice was gentle—“told me I reminded him of a field of shamrocks.”

  I had a pretty good idea what my husband would say of my outfit tonight. “Great legs.” Bobby Mac always went straight to the point.

  I settled on the loveseat, patted the space next to me. “Let’s see what Joe and Michelle found.” I opened the folder. In today’s digital world, information is easily accessed, but Joe and Michelle had not only rounded up facts, they’d supplied color photos.

  Dean of Students Eleanor Sheridan

  Dr. Eleanor Jane Sheridan, 33. Named dean November 2012. Assistant dean, 2009–12. Student counselor, 2006–09. Graduate assistant in psychology, 2002–05, University of Oklahoma. Native of Cushing. BA in psychology, University of Central Oklahoma, 2001; MA, UCO, 2002; PhD, OU, 2005. College activities: student government, intramural softball, river rafting club. M. 2001 to Hamlin Woody, divorced 2003. No children.

  Trash talk re Sheridan: Meg Ryan lookalike. Cool digs, an A-frame cabin in the woods near the country club, 110 Laramie Lane. Dates R. R. Colbert, 44, assistant professor of history. Sheridan big on PR (personal responsibility) talks to students with drug, alcohol, or honor code violations. Beat out Assistant Dean Bracewell for the top spot with lots of gracious jockeying and murmurs about youth speaking to youth. Translation: Bracewell is an old hag (ten years older than Sheridan).

  I studied a montage of photos of a delicate-featured woman with a pixie haircut and a confident smile, Sheridan clapping at a student musical, Sheridan seated behind her desk, a gowned Sheridan in an academic procession, Sheridan on a tennis court.

  “Do you know anything about her?”

  Lorraine shook her head. “I never had occasion to visit that office.”

  I picked up the next sheet.

  Assistant Dean of Students Jeanne Bracewell

  Dr. Jeanne Bracewell, 42. Native of Bartlesville. Assistant dean, 2002–13. Assistant professor, Rose State College, 1997–2001. Graduate assistant in psychology, University of Oklahoma, 1991–96. BA in psychology with a minor in Spanish, University of Tulsa, 1992; MA, OU, 1993; PhD, OU, 1996.

  College activities: president, Anthropology
Club; member, Student Council. Part-time jobs: Sonic, Braum’s, and student health club. Collects china thimbles. Single. Volunteers as a mentor at a local grade school. Two-bedroom frame house in an older neighborhood, 703 Choctaw Road.

  Trash talk: Students call her Old Ironsides. If she ever laughed, it isn’t recorded. Insists on dotting every i, crossing every t. Leads aerobics workouts at Goddard fitness center.

  Lorraine picked up a sheet of photos. “Rather stern looking.”

  Jeanne Bracewell was blunt-faced and stocky. In a formal business portrait, her dark hair was streaked with gray and she stared straight ahead. She wore old-fashioned wire-rim glasses, a modicum of makeup, and a tailored gray suit with a black blouse. One shot showed her in a white tee and gray leotards, another sitting at a child-size table holding out a Dr. Seuss book to a thin-faced little boy about seven.

  Lorraine cleared her throat. “I fail to see how this material is helpful.”

  “Susannah spoke to someone in that office.” I rushed ahead, this time reading out loud, because Lorraine looked restive. “Two secretaries. Jill Bruner is twenty-four, married, and went on maternity leave at the end of September.”

  Lorraine was firm. “We can exclude her. Young women having babies do not creep across a lawn and murder anyone.”

  I agreed that anyone nine months pregnant was unlikely to be an assailant. “The second secretary is Laura Salazar, fifty-three. Worked in the office for twenty-three years. Married to Robert Salazar, director of the physical plant, mother of six—”

  Lorraine tapped the sheet. “Exclude her.”

  “I’m glad you hold motherhood in esteem, but fecundity does not correlate with character.”

  She smiled. “I never thought it did. However, position within an office does correlate with power. If you are correct that an angry and upset Susannah went to the office to confront someone, it suggests she intended to speak with someone in authority, not a work-study student or receptionist or secretary. Authority resides in the dean or assistant dean.”