Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  Lorraine was likely right. Tomorrow I would find out everything possible about Dean Sheridan and Assistant Dean Bracewell.

  I loved the pealing of the bells as the early service ended. Lorraine had been reluctant for us to be visible, but I persuaded her. My Kelly green (admittedly flattering for redheads) belted sheath with matching faux alligator sling-back heels immediately lifted my spirit. We sat toward the back of the church, so we were among the first to walk out. Father Bill, of course, immediately recognized us as visitors. I noted that he gave me a quick, puzzled glance, as if perhaps we’d met before, but now I appear much younger than my Altar Guild portrait that hangs in the hallway outside the parish hall. “Welcome. We’re so glad you came to St. Mildred’s.” I thanked him and murmured something vague about visiting in town.

  As we came outside, I squinted a little at the bright sunshine and looked back longingly. “It would be fun to go to coffee hour.”

  Lorraine’s smile was kind, but she shook her head. “Too many people have seen my portrait in the library.”

  She had a point. Moreover, my portrait was included among those of past directresses of the Altar Guild, which hung in the hall outside the parish hall. Wiggins likely was pleased that we’d attended Communion, but he would draw a line across the entrance to the parish hall.

  We reached a small garden established in memory of Susan Flynn. I still thrilled to remember when Susan Flynn first greeted the grandson she didn’t know she had. We stood near a trellis, out of sight of the church. Parishioners by now were either at the coffee hour or in their cars. I almost started to tell Lorraine about my visit to Adelaide and a little boy left on the front porch of Susan’s home on a snowy night before Christmas. But one look at Lorraine’s face and I knew she was struggling with her grief at Ben’s death. I said quickly, “‘Neither sorrow, nor crying.’”

  She managed a smile though her eyes were shiny. “Ben is fine, but I will miss him.”

  “Remember the roses you gave to Ben and Chloe. Trust me”—I didn’t see this as a violation of Precept Seven—“he and Chloe now walk among the loveliest roses imaginable. And you made an excellent choice to give roses to Joe and Michelle.” Joe and Michelle . . .

  Lorraine was undoubtedly empathetic. A graceful hand touched my arm. “You’re worried about them?”

  “Michelle likely will be patient, wait for me to get back in touch.”

  Lorraine smiled as I described my activity as Theresa Lisieux. “You are never at a loss, are you?”

  “I wish that were true.” The day ahead loomed over me like towering, unscalable granite crags, and I was no mountain goat. But as Mama always told me, “If anyone can do it, so can you, Bailey Ruth.” Still, I felt as if time were squirting through my fingers like little greased pigs, and I had places to go and people to see, yet I was worried about Joe and Michelle. More specifically, I was worried about Joe. “I’m afraid Joe will get restive today and try to talk to people in the Dean of Students Office, and that could be very dangerous for both of them.”

  “I’ll see to Joe and Michelle.” Lorraine’s face was transformed by a kind and loving smile. “Perhaps fresh roses . . .” She was gone.

  Now it was time for me to prove Mama was right. I had only hours left to find the truth about Susannah Fairlee’s death. I glanced toward the wall that marked the boundary of the cemetery next to St. Mildred’s. I needed for luck to be a lady. I gave a last appreciative pat to my gorgeous sheath dress before I disappeared. In my era, wearing your best on Sundays was expected. I understand today’s wish to emphasize inner glory rather than outer, but I still take pleasure in presenting my best finery, both outer and, hopefully, inner.

  In an instant, I was in the cemetery at the Pritchard mausoleum, which houses Hannah and Maurice, great benefactors of Adelaide. I think highly of both, but the objective of my visit was the marble greyhound on Maurice’s tomb and the Abyssinian feline on Hannah’s. As every Adelaidian knows, a gentle caress to each and lucky days follow. The stone was cool to my touch. I hummed “I Feel Lucky.”

  I was still humming when I reached the Goddard College Administration Building. Built in 1912, the Gothic Revival structure was marked by arches, dormer windows, buttresses, and a crenelated wall along the roof. I stood in the entryway to the second-floor office of the dean of students. The room had a feeling of age: high ceiling, paneled walls, a wooden floor. No-nonsense straight chairs sat against the hallway wall facing a wooden counter perhaps four feet in height. Beyond the counter were three metal desks in a row facing a bank of filing cabinets. Heavy red velvet drapes framed tall windows.

  At either end of the corridor fronting the counter were two closed doors. To my right an ornate mahogany nameplate proclaimed:

  Dean of Students Dr. Eleanor Sheridan

  The nameplate to my left was much less ornate: navy letters on a white metal background:

  Assistant Dean Dr. Jeanne Bracewell

  I turned to my right, entered Sheridan’s office. The office was large, with room for a magnificent desk in a Southwestern style with rope edges. The caramel-colored alder wood evoked a dusty sun-drenched landscape. A rearing horse was carved on the front. Shelves filled the wall behind the desk. Several shelves held books. Two shelves held carved wooden horses. The desktop was bare of papers. A tooled leather box sat next to a framed lithograph of a ghost town. I opened the box to find a sterling silver Montblanc pen coated with a translucent blue-gray lacquer and note cards with a Goddard crest and the legend Office of the Dean of Students.

  I opened the center drawer of the desk. A tray with separate compartments held paper clips, rubber bands, an eraser, rubber stamps and a pad, keys on a ring, and fruit throat lozenges. The interior of the drawer contained a campus directory, a student manual, a list of campus department phone numbers, and an academic calendar. I opened all the drawers, saw files and folders.

  I had a swift memory of my own desk when I was a secretary at the Chamber. There were always personal bits and pieces in my drawer, phone numbers scrawled on the backs of envelopes, ticket stubs, photos of the kids in addition to the ones on my desktop, plus I always had a Kodak shot of our current cat, grocery coupons I intended to use but never did, a half-eaten Baby Ruth, a partially filled book of Green Stamps, and the latest Time magazine.

  The paucity of personal items in Dr. Sheridan’s desk intrigued me. Was she über-organized, or did her purse serve as her personal catchall?

  Two Mexican-style chairs with armrests, textile backs, and leather seats faced the desk. There was room for a sand-colored leather sofa and a mahogany coffee table near windows that looked out on the campus.

  Filing cabinets lined the wall just to the right of the door. I looked through each drawer except a bottom drawer that was locked. At the end of an hour, I was overwhelmed. The dean’s office oversaw student activities, Greek life, residential services, intramural recreation, student leadership, campus security, the student health center and student counseling center, food services, major events coordination, student judicial affairs, a diversity program, student conduct, and served as liaison with Adelaide community leaders.

  I found no reference to Susannah Fairlee.

  I paid particular attention to files about student disciplinary matters, but there was no file for JoLee Jamison. I riffled through several folders. My eyes widened at some of the amazing messes in which hapless students found themselves, everything from the awful—date rape—to the absurd—wasn’t a Peeping Tom; was trying to see if his girlfriend was in the apartment next door—to the pitiful—ran out of money and stole a banana from the grocery.

  By comparison, Jeanne Bracewell’s office decor was utilitarian—plain gray metal desk, metal filing cabinets, wooden straight chairs. There were more personal touches: a photograph of an elderly woman sitting on sofa holding a mass of fleecy knitting and photos of Bracewell and another woman in a canoe. Papers wer
e stacked neatly atop the desk. The in-box was empty, the out-box full. Her center desk drawer was a welter of pens, pencils, a roll of Tums, two packages of Juicy Fruit gum, an old-fashioned appointment book. I wondered if she also kept a calendar on her iPhone.

  I grabbed the book, thumbed back to September 17, and found neat notations: 9 a.m. Interview student floor manager Hesketh House. 10 a.m. Review cafeteria pricing policies re complaint from Student Council. The rest of the hour slots were empty so she had no other appointments that day.

  I replaced the appointment book, continued to poke about. An empty glasses case. A prescription for a muscle relaxant. Several menus from local restaurants. A list of local social services. A folded head scarf. A pocket flashlight. A screwdriver. An Oklahoma road map. I closed the drawer. The side drawers held files. The bottom right drawer was locked. I supposed both she and the dean kept personal material in respective locked drawers, the dean’s in a filing cabinet, Bracewell’s in a desk drawer.

  Vintage movie posters decorated two walls, Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant embracing in An Affair to Remember, sultry Elizabeth Taylor in a white slip in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, somber Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman cheek to cheek in Casablanca.

  The assistant dean’s files were in standard-issue gray metal cabinets similar to those in the main office area behind the counter. I checked through these files swiftly and found nothing remarkable.

  I looked around the room. My gaze stopped at the Casablanca poster. Years fell away and I was a teenager hearing Rick’s tough voice: “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. . . .” Ilsa came to Casablanca. Call it fate. Call it destiny. But she came and the world was different because of her. Susannah came through the door into the main office of the dean of students and the course of lives changed for her, for Joe, for Michelle, for Ben.

  I hadn’t found the reason yet for Susannah’s visit. I had to keep looking.

  I like bungalows—modest homes, some with stucco exteriors, often with wooden siding. I looked around the Sunday-peaceful neighborhood. Small, well-kept yards, several with white picket fences. Older model cars were parked in single driveways. Bikes were propped against wooden garages. I stood near Susannah Fairlee’s bungalow at 325 Arnold. Stuccoed columns supported the roof’s canoe brackets. Shallow wooden steps, painted red, led up to an entry porch. An elevated porch to the left was protected by an overhang. The house had been there a long time, likely built in the 1920s. Even though the bungalow now had an uninhabited air, the yard evidenced years of love and care lavished by a devoted gardener. Pansies bloomed in the front bed. A wisteria-laden fence screened the side yard. Sycamores loomed on either side of the drive.

  I moved into the shade of a sycamore, looked carefully in all directions, mindful of windows and cars, including pickup trucks. Certain that no one was observing this spot, I appeared in a swirl of French blue. In a moment I was on the front porch of Judith Eastman’s shingle-style, one-story bungalow at 327 Arnold Street. A Chinese red door was a vivid counterpoint to the soft gray of the bungalow’s granite facade. A blue pottery vase to the right of a doormat held red salvia and its blooms rivaled the door.

  I pushed the bell.

  A tall, willowy woman with frizzy gray hair and sharp features opened the door. She wore a pink apron over her Sunday dress, a voluminous purple silk. Her expression changed from inquiry to concern.

  I spoke quickly. “Mrs. Eastman, I’m sorry to bother you on Sunday.” I smelled chicken frying, the Adelaide dinner of choice on Sundays after church. “I won’t take up much of your time. Officers Smith and Weitz appreciated your help. I have one more question if you can give me a moment.” I doubted that she knew officers usually worked in pairs.

  Belying her somewhat severe appearance, she responded pleasantly. “Come right in. The family won’t be here for a little while. The chicken’s frying.” She led the way to a small living room with potted ferns, comfortable furniture, and an oak cabinet with art glass. The door was ajar, revealing various pieces of china. I felt a wave of nostalgia. Very likely she’d opened it to select a china bowl for the mashed potatoes and a platter for the chicken. Sunday dinner always brought out the best.

  She sat in an easy chair and gestured me to the sofa. For an instant, her face was somber. “I feel kind of shaky when I think about Susannah. The idea that someone hit her seems crazy and makes me wonder about the neighborhood. I’ve lived here thirty years and never had a bit of trouble except for that boy two doors down who was always trying to hit squirrels with his BB gun, but he’s all grown up now and a lawyer in Houston.”

  “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Eastman.” I spoke with confidence. “The neighborhood is safe. Mrs. Fairlee posed a danger to someone who carefully planned her murder and has no connection to the neighborhood. We are making progress”—I hoped—“in solving the crime. In the report from Detectives Smith and Weitz, you told them you saw Mrs. Fairlee that Wednesday morning. Can you describe that moment?”

  Mrs. Eastman’s pale blue eyes held sadness. “She waved at me. It was just after eleven. Susannah always had a bright smile. She looked happy. I wondered if she was expecting a package from her daughter. About once a month Janet sends”—a pause—“sent some little delicacy from Alaska. Susannah would have me over and we’d have spiced tea and a treat.”

  “Package?” I wasn’t connecting the dots.

  Mrs. Eastman nodded. “In the mail. We almost always saw each other if we were both home. I love to get letters and Susannah did, too.” Mrs. Eastman described walking down their front walks to the postboxes.

  It was a slap-to-the-side-of-the-head moment. A happy Susannah walked to the mailbox. Not long after she picked up her letters, a distraught, unapproachable Susannah left the Administration Building.

  A ringer sounded. Mrs. Eastman’s head turned.

  I stood. “That’s all I needed to know. Thank you for your time.”

  Her mind was clearly in her kitchen as she closed the front door after me. I walked sedately to the weeping willow, moved into its shadow, disappeared.

  The air was musty in Susannah Fairlee’s front hall. The house had the air of emptiness that comes when a home is no longer inhabited even though everything was in order. In the wood-paneled front hallway, a silver tray sat on a tiled side table. Just past was a painted umbrella stand, white pottery with an orchid bouquet. The knobs of several umbrellas—red, green, and black silk—poked out.

  I hurried to the tray. There were two stacks of envelopes along with several magazines. I expected most were sympathy cards to the family and perhaps Janet had left them on the tray planning to reread them. I checked the dates, put aside all mail that came after September 17. There were only a handful of earlier letters. I skimmed the contents, returned them to the tray.

  If I was right, Susannah received a letter the morning of September 17 that had led her to the campus. I tried to imagine Susannah carrying her mail, walking into the main hall. Did she read her mail in the living room?

  I gazed about the small room with rosy cherry paneling, formal overstuffed furniture, and marble-topped tables crowded with family photos. There were no current touches of occupancy, a sweater dropped across a settee, an open magazine on a table, a coffee cup and saucer. Obviously the room had been tidied to welcome friends after Susannah’s service and left in order, awaiting the arrival of Susannah’s son after his retirement.

  The pigeonhole front desk in one corner was similarly neat. I opened several drawers, found a collection of correspondence, all the postmarks earlier than what I sought. Most were family letters. I smiled. I had always saved letters from family, too.

  I grew less and less hopeful as I went from room to room, opening drawers, checking boxes. If Susannah was upset by a letter that morning, it wouldn’t have been relegated to a box of mementos. . . .

  I stood in the middle of the cheerful kit
chen: yellow walls, ruffled white curtains at the windows, a maple breakfast table and chairs. I tried to imagine Susannah Fairlee opening her mailbox, drawing out advertising circulars and perhaps a magazine or two and a letter. She carried the mail inside, opened the letter. Soon she would rush from the house and drive to the campus. Susannah was in good spirits before she retrieved her mail. I believed she received a letter that upset her.

  What would I do after I read an upsetting letter, one that galvanized me into action?

  I began a second search. In Susannah’s bedroom I crossed to the chest. On top sat a navy leather purse. I carried the purse to the bed, opened the clasp, and let the contents spill onto the white Martha Washington’s Choice bedspread. I noticed there was no billfold. Susannah’s daughter likely retrieved the billfold. There were credit card accounts to close. Tumbling out with lipstick, powder, mirror, comb, and Kleenex was a small red address book and a lavender envelope addressed to Susannah Fairlee, postmarked September 13.

  Chapter 12

  I sat on the edge of the bed and held two sheets filled front and back with uneven, wobbly handwriting. No paragraphs, just words, some running into the next words.

  Dear Susannah,

  I didn’t mean to tell you about her. That day you found me crying, you said if I wanted to share the burden, it might help me feel better. I don’t know if I can ever feel better. You told me you wanted to help and it might make me happier if I let go of what troubled me. So I told you how much I hated her. I didn’t tell you why, just that she had ruined my life. You said hating hurt me, not her. You said if I wanted to tell you what happened, you were there for me. I knew if I told you what made me feel this way, it would be better. But I didn’t want to tell you what I had done. I knew you wouldn’t ever tell anyone but I didn’t want you to despise me. That’s why I turned away and stared at the wall and finally you patted my shoulder and left. I woke up in the night—I wake up in the night a lot now—and knew I had to do something. I can’t do anything now, I don’t have that much time, but maybe if I tell you, you can make her stop. I know she’s still hurting people, taking money. She’s good at finding kids who can’t fight back and she figures out a way to force them to help her. I held down two jobs so I could go to school. I was a waitress at the cafeteria and then I got a work-study job in the Dean of Students Office. I thought that was a real honor. I never had any extra money and sometimes I was hungry but I thought if I worked hard, I would get my degree. Now I won’t have my degree. It doesn’t matter, does it? Maybe nothing matters. When I die, I hope I don’t care anymore. I guess I hate myself, too. I should have done something when it happened, told somebody. But who would believe me? She had a picture of Jill’s billfold in my drawer. We each had a drawer to keep our things in when we were there to work. I won’t ever forget that day. She called me into her office. I never liked her. I always had a bad feeling about her but I needed work study. It was fall a year ago, an ugly, cold, dreary day with leaves coming down and pretty soon it would be winter. My last winter. I got sick in January. But that day in November, I went into her office and she told me to shut the door and my stomach kind of squeezed because of the way she was looking at me. I thought I’d made some big mistake and I was going to get fired. I was scared because I didn’t have enough money to pay my share of the rent unless I got my check. I sat down. She stared at me and I thought how cold her eyes were, like little slivers of ice. She smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was kind of pitying, like she was looking at some sort of scum. She didn’t say anything. It was awful, the silence went on and on. Finally I asked what was wrong. She shook her head real slow like. “JoLee, I wouldn’t have thought it of you.” I asked what was she talking about. She said, “When things disappeared, I thought someone must be slipping in the office and taking them.” I knew what she was talking about. Mike’s lunch was gone one day, Emily’s cell phone a week later. She shook her head again. “When someone told me what they’d seen, I didn’t believe it. But when I opened your drawer, there was Jill’s billfold.” I jumped up and said it was all a lie and nobody saw me take anything because I never did, never would. She just listened with that awful smile, then, it was like she’d had this sudden idea. She looked at me. “But there is a way out. I’ve thought of something you can do for me and if you do what I ask and never say a word, why, it will be like this never happened.” I knew then that it was all a lie and she was behind it. I couldn’t believe it when she told me what she wanted me to do. I can still hear her voice: “Since you are a drama major, it won’t be hard and it’s all a harmless joke that will just be between us, but if you agree to help me, why, I will help you and I’m sure nothing will ever be taken again.” She laughed, a real satisfied laugh. Susannah, you are real strong. I knew that after you’d come to see me only a few times. But she would have known that, too, and she would never have tried it on you. I guess she figured me out. I don’t have any family to help me. I didn’t even have many friends because I worked all the time and I didn’t have money to go to the city or to concerts or anything. Once a guy took me to Dallas for a concert but that was the only one I ever went to. I wonder what would have happened if I told everyone about her? But I know. No one would have believed me. She knew I wouldn’t fight back. That’s why she gets away with it. She finds out things or—and this is worse, this is what makes me feel awful when I remember—she waits until she finds a kid she can bully, or maybe with some of them she pretends it’s a joke and promises cash. I figure she’s been doing it for years. Each time it would be different. For me, well, she had me wear this real sexy red teddy. It was cold that night so I wore a raincoat over it. Anyway this guy’s wife was out of town and she got a key to the house someway. She had me go inside and wait in their bedroom. When he came back from dinner, I called out to him. He came running into the bedroom and I was there in this teddy and I grabbed him and kissed him and he was trying to push me away. She was waiting just outside the house but I had opened the window so she got pictures. She was all in black and you couldn’t even see her face. She had on a mask. She yelled something like, “Hot pictures.” He turned toward the window and I ran and got outside the house. I don’t know what happened after that. But I think I hate her the most because of Mike. He was such a nervous, gentle guy, really thin and he always looked scared. I was already sick and out of school when I heard what happened to him. I don’t know what she made him do or maybe she was leaning on him to do something awful. Mike was a sweet, sweet guy. I think about him going out to the lake and walking into the water and it must have been cold and he was scared and I feel so sick I want to die. But I am going to die. But if I had told somebody about her, maybe Mike would be okay. But I didn’t. I don’t know if you can do anything. But you know people. You’re important. I’m sorry. Sorry for everything.