Ghost Wanted
Page 18
Redbrick columns adorned the porch to Old Ethel. I paused behind a pillar long enough to appear in a dark gray pinstripe blouse, black slacks, black huaraches with the most attractive cutout at the toes. I opened a shoulder bag in matching gray and pulled out a change purse. I hurried down the steps. A pudgy balding man in his early twenties schlepped up the sidewalk with a pizza box.
“Thank you. I’ll take it for Joe.” I stood squarely in his way, reached out for the box. “How much do I owe you?”
He looked startled. “Like I told Joe. Fourteen bucks. That’s the double crust with everything.”
I found a ten, a five, and two ones—Wiggins always provided what I needed—and took the box.
“Yeah. Right. Hey, thanks.” He looked toward Old Ethel. “Yeah, I was going to ask Joe if he heard the news—”
The car radio blared: “Police are asking anyone with knowledge of Michelle Hoyt’s whereabouts to contact them immediately. Police said the suspect may be armed and dangerous. . . .”
I gave a casual wave, rested the pizza box on one hip. “He’s on it. Don’t know if he’s alerted the cops yet, but the word is that she went to Lake Texoma with friends this weekend.”
The deliveryman’s eyes glistened. “Wow. The campus is swarming with cops. I got stopped four times between Moki’s and the bottom of the hill, cops asking if I’d seen her around.”
I looked down the hill. A black-and-white cruiser came around the corner. “Good luck getting back to Moki’s.” I turned and moved fast, not quite at a run, up the walk. I pushed the door. Locked. I glanced over my shoulder. The Beetle was making a U-turn. I disappeared, moved through the door, pulled it open from the inside, and grabbed the pizza box. The Beetle was running up over the curb, the driver hanging out the driver’s window, staring at the door and the box that appeared elevated by itself in the air. I reappeared, gave him a jaunty wave, slammed the door.
A siren wailed.
I ran toward the newsroom, skidded around desks, reached Joe’s office, yanked the door open.
Joe Cooper held his cell. “. . . take a look at that JPEG. Did you see—” He broke off, stared at me.
Michelle’s head jerked up. “You’re back.”
Joe looked irritated. “Hey, I may have a lead—”
I reached over the desk, grabbed the cell, swiped, handed it back. “You can call them back. Cops are coming to arrest Michelle. Is there any place she can hide?” The police would surround Old Ethel, might be approaching as we talked. I felt frantic. Even if we hid her in a closet with a lock, she would be found.
“Downstairs. Quick. I know a way.” Lorraine’s high, well-modulated voice clearly came from near the ceiling. “A hidden tunnel leads into the woods. It was an escape route for men when the police raided the boarding house in the twenties. A portion of the wood paneling behind the press opens. You pull on a knothole in the center. Charles was with the police—he was mayor of Adelaide then—the night they raided Old Ethel and closed it down as a bordello.”
I shook my head. “That was a long time ago.”
Lorraine spoke in a quick staccato. “Tunnels don’t go away. No one today is likely aware it exists. That doesn’t mean it’s disappeared.”
Joe was half out of his chair, frozen in a posture of shock as his eyes sought the speaker but, of course, Lorraine wasn’t visible. Michelle’s dark eyes stared upward.
Another siren.
It might not work, but anything was better than standing here waiting for the police. I jerked a thumb toward the newsroom. “Joe, show us how to find the press. We can try.”
Another siren rose and fell very near now.
Joe took a breath, came fully upright, and charged around his desk. “Never heard of a tunnel. The press is in the basement.” He pulled Michelle to her feet, yanked open the door. Hustling her ahead of him, he hurried us through the newsroom and out into the hallway. Running now, we pounded down the hallway to a door at the end of the hall. He reached for the knob.
I grabbed his arm. “We’ll take it from here. Get back to your office. Distract the police for as long as possible. Tell them it’s been a while since you’ve seen Michelle, ask why they’re looking for her, delay them with questions.” By this time I had the door open. I flipped on the lights. “Come on, Michelle.”
She started down the steps.
“Try to go a little faster.” Lorraine’s soft voice was encouraging.
Michelle stopped, grabbed my arm. “Why do you talk in two different voices?”
“Don’t worry about that right now.” My tone was soothing. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”
The pressroom was full of shadows. We moved in half darkness. I followed Lorraine’s quick calls. “Down this corridor . . . past the newsprint rolls . . . keep to your left.”
I was holding Michelle’s arm. She flinched every time Lorraine spoke.
Finally we came to the far reaches of the basement. There was almost no light here. Lorraine was murmuring, “I wish I’d paid more attention. Charles said the tunnel was in the center of the far wall. After the war, when it was a residence hall, Charles joked that he would be a popular man if he told the vets of a secret way in and out. I shivered and told him I wouldn’t want to go into an old tunnel no one had used for years—who knew what might be in there—but he said vets wouldn’t be afraid of bats.”
By this time we were edging behind the huge press that towered almost to the ceiling. There wasn’t much room behind the press. As I slid my palms across the wall, I bumped into Lorraine. “Sorry, didn’t mean to step on you.”
Michelle gave a ragged laugh. “Who did you step on? Or should I ask?”
The texture of the wall changed from plaster to wood. Was it possible that I was feeling a wooden panel that was almost a hundred years old? “Oh, good Heaven,” I exclaimed.
“You stepped on Heaven?” Michelle’s tone was plaintive. “Do you know, I can believe almost anything at this point, but that’s a stretch.”
“This has to be the panel.” Lorraine’s voice was exultant.
Michelle said frantically, “Two different voices again. Stop that, please.”
“I’m talking to Lorraine.” It was time to give up pretense.
Lorraine said firmly, “Michelle, don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.”
“We? There’s only one of you.” Michelle’s voice wobbled.
“We’ll explain later.” I hope I sounded patient. “Lorraine, the wood is smooth so far.”
“Take your time. I doubt the knothole is very large.”
“Do I want to know who Lorraine is?” Michelle was clearly disturbed.
I spread my fingers wide, moved a few inches at a time. I heard distant shouts. The police had opened the door and found the lighted stairway to the basement.
I poked a finger into nothingness. “I found the hole.” I hooked my index finger inside the opening and pulled. Nothing happened. I thought about a mechanism that would move a panel.
Men shouted. Heavy footsteps thumped. Soon they would be down the stairs and searching the basement, but we were screened from view by the huge press.
I moved my finger inside the hole and felt a spring. I pressed and heard a click. Putting my shoulder against the wooden panel, I pushed. Slowly, creaking, a portion of the wall swung forward into impenetrable darkness. A dank odor swept over us.
Michelle stood stock-still. “That smells awful. What’s in there?”
“It may be a bit”—I hesitated—“challenging.” I could disappear in an instant if the floor was rotted or the walls caved in, but Michelle didn’t have that option.
“Don’t be frightened.” Lorraine sounded confident. “I’ll get a light.”
“Don’t leave me.” Michelle grabbed my arm.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Michelle’
s fingers dug into my arm. “I don’t know that I want to know, but you’ve got to tell me. Why are you talking in two voices, and how can you go somewhere and still be here?”
“Lorraine went for a light.”
“Who’s Lorraine and when did she join us? Why didn’t I see her?”
A muffled shout sounded on the other side of the press. “Hey, who took my Maglite? Hey, what’s it doing up there by the ceiling? Hey—”
I looked up. A bright beam rose toward the ceiling, abruptly disappeared. Good for Lorraine. Once she turned the flashlight off, no one could follow its path. I whispered, since the police were now on the other side of the press. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. Lorraine got us a light and now we can go into the tunnel.”
Michelle whispered, too, a ragged thin wisp of a whisper. “How peachy. Just like that, presto chango, Lorraine, who I never saw, went somewhere and got a light and she’s coming back—”
“Now we can see.” Lorraine spoke softly. A bright beam illuminated a narrow bricked tunnel. The floor of the tunnel was also bricked. Cobwebs hung in shimmery swaths.
Michelle was rigid beside me. “Nobody’s holding the flashlight.”
The Maglite, just inside the tunnel now, appeared to hang without support.
It was time to be frank. Surely Wiggins would understand. The girl needed reassurance. “Don’t be distressed—”
“Distressed?” Now her whisper was frantic. “I’m not distressed, I’m hysterical. The police are after me. I’m down in a basement with a woman who comes and goes through locked doors—and don’t think I don’t know the front door to Old Ethel was locked, because Joe tried it three times, and here you came with pizza—and you keep talking in two voices and I don’t know who Lorraine is and now that flashlight’s hanging there by itself.”
“Lorraine, join us.”
Although not clearly visible in the dark, colors swirled and Lorraine held the Maglite. She looked crisp and elegant in a white blouse, a long blue skirt, and matching blue slippers.
Michelle let go of my arm and sagged against me. “I’m not hysterical. I’m crazy.”
The shouts were louder, the sound of feet pounding on the far side of the press. Soon the police would fan around the press, find this narrow space.
I spoke quickly, but still softly. “Actually you are quite sane. You heard two voices. One is mine and one is Lorraine’s. We will introduce ourselves at greater length another time. Come.” I took her elbow.
Michelle stiffened. “If you think I’m going in there, you’re the one who’s crazy.”
Lorraine handed me the Maglite. “I’ll see to the cobwebs.” She disappeared and in the bright yellow beam cobwebs fell away to each side. “Come now,” she called softly.
I took a firmer grip on Michelle and propelled her ahead of me. “Here, hold this.” I handed the Maglite to her and turned to swing the panel shut behind us. As it clicked into place, Michelle shuddered.
I took the light. “The faster we move, the sooner we will be out of here.”
Without a sound, Michelle turned and gingerly picked her way forward.
I tried to keep the beam steady, but occasional twists and turns illuminated portions of the tunnel walls. I had no doubt Michelle was well aware that they were slimy. She made a clear effort to stay free of entangling shreds of cobwebs.
The tunnel angled to our right then abruptly ended. The Maglite clearly revealed a brick wall with no apparent exit.
Michelle stumbled to a stop. “It’s a dead end.”
Lorraine’s voice floated to us. “I’ll find a way.”
Michelle stood with her arms tight across her front. “Nightmares are kind of funny, aren’t they?” Her tone was conversational. “I mean, obviously I must be asleep. When I wake up, George will be curled at the end of the bed and everything will be back like it was: I’m going to school and I have a paper to write and I don’t know this guy named Joe and I’m not really trapped in a tunnel . . .”
We waited and it seemed an interminable time. I knew Lorraine wouldn’t desert us, but the exit might be well hidden. Michelle looked back the way we’d come. “Do you think you can open that thing from the inside?” Her voice was shaky. I hoped she wasn’t beginning to feel claustrophobic.
“Certainly. But we’ll get out at this end.” I maintained a confident tone. I needed to give Michelle a boost. I decided it was a nice moment to recite “If.” “‘If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, / If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, / But make allowance—’”
A sudden shower of dirt and dust, with pieces of wood and clods of dirt, enveloped us.
Michelle sounded scared. “The ceiling’s falling.”
I swung the Maglite beam up.
More dirt fell. Dust swirled.
Lorraine’s voice was excited, pleased. “I knew there had to be a way out. It’s cleverly camouflaged. You know those stone ruins in the woods on the other side of the hill from the campus? There’s a wooden cover in the ground that looks like a top to an abandoned well. It’s rather splintery and worn and may not have been moved for years. It didn’t want to budge, but I found a broken branch—green wood and quite strong—and I managed to prize up the lid.”
Chapter 13
As the dust cleared, light streamed through a round opening about five feet above us.
“Disappear, Bailey Ruth. Between us, we can lift Michelle.”
Michelle clamped her eyes shut as I took one arm. With Lorraine on the other side, we rose and lifted Michelle through the opening and onto a patch of ground in the midst of tumbled stone. Late afternoon shadows made the ruins dim and dusky.
Michelle took a deep breath, opened her eyes. “All right. I give up. There are two of you and you come and go. I don’t know which is worse: when you’re here, when you’re not here, or when you’re in between.”
We reappeared on either side of her. Lorraine gave her an encouraging pat on one arm, then knelt to push the weathered trapdoor cover back into place.
Michelle’s gaze flickered from Lorraine to me. “You”—her tone was faintly accusatory—“called yourself Theresa Lisieux. She”—her head nodded toward Lorraine—“called you Bailey Ruth. Who are you?”
Lorraine beamed at Michelle. “Bailey Ruth’s very special. She’s an agent for the Department of Good Intentions. She’s here from Heaven to help you. And me.”
Michelle tried to breathe evenly. “Heaven?” But her voice squeaked.
I patted her other shoulder. “We don’t have time to explain everything.”
“Ghosts. You’re ghosts.” Michelle whirled toward Lorraine. “You’re Lorraine Marlow. You’ve been dead for years. I’ve seen your portrait in the library. You throw roses around.” She began to tremble.
Lorraine raised a delicately arched brow. “I would scarcely call delivering a rose to a young man or woman throwing them.”
“Michelle, be calm. Breathe in. Breathe out.” I smiled at her. “Everything is fine. Lorraine is most particular about the recipients of roses. That’s why she felt you and Joe definitely were due roses. As Lorraine said, we’re here to help you, so please don’t worry.”
“Am I dead?” Michelle’s voice shook.
“Not for a long, long time.” Of course, this was simply a guess on my part. I certainly didn’t know when Michelle would be summoned, but the dear girl needed a boost and I am always willing to be positive. “Now, enough of this. Lorraine and I aren’t at liberty to say more. And you and Lorraine can have a long talk about roses at Rose Bower.”
“Rose Bower?” Michelle stared at me.
“What a splendid idea.” Lorraine clapped her hands together. “Why, it’s only perhaps a half mile from here through the woods.” She turned to Michelle. “Did you know Rose Bower adjoins the campus? Tha
t’s one reason Charles left the estate to the college. It’s hardly any distance at all.”
As I expected, Chief Cobb’s office was still crowded, though Detectives Smith and Weitz were absent. Several plainclothes detectives and uniformed officers stood stiffly near the door, faces blank. Howie Warren looked small in the chief’s chair—small, beleaguered, and pressed.
Neva Lumpkin, Adelaide’s mayor, arms folded, glared down at the acting chief. Her blonde hair was an impressive beehive over a plump face congealed with distaste. She looked like a Wagnerian soprano upstaged by the tenor. “Traffic was a nightmare. Those leaving the concert were harassed, intimidated, obstructed. I was stopped four times.” Her voice quivered with outrage. “Despite the fact that my Lincoln clearly has plates front and back that read Mayor.” She swung toward the line of expressionless officers. “I called you in here because you are sorely lacking in tact and responsiveness to the public.” She turned back to Howie. “I told them who I was.” A ringed hand plunged into the capacious pocket of a blue pantsuit, pulled out a note card. “Officers Kerry, Bitterman, Sweet, Laswell, McKay, French, Jarvis, and Kramer. To add to my outrage, I learn the stop-and-search nonsense was apparently in error, that the student has escaped to Lake Texoma. Now”—her voice dripped sarcasm—“I’m sure you can explain how it happened that this criminal was in custody on Saturday and then released?”
Howie made feeble gestures at the computer. “Somebody used my computer, told the officers she was cleared.”
The mayor’s tone was icy. “Of course, I’m sure an investigation has revealed how that happened?”
Howie stared at the keyboard. Obviously, no vagrant prints had been found. “We’re trying to find out.”
Neva drew herself up, an unfortunate maneuver that emphasized her over-endowed bust. “Adelaide looks like a laughingstock. What if the papers get hold of this? I am replacing you with Detective Weitz. You are on leave for the foreseeable future.”
“Woo hoo.” I clapped a hand over my lips.