Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  She leaned over the railing of the loft. She carried the gun she’d previously left on the entry hall table. That she was obviously at ease with guns didn’t surprise me. That night at the library, when she jerked around from the desk, she had fired without hesitation and struck her target.

  She surveyed the empty room, wary, intent, suspicious.

  I reached a sofa near the desk and dropped the hand with the flash drive behind the sofa back.

  Eleanor was slender in a blue shorty nightgown. She eased down the steps, eyes flicking right and left. On the ground floor, she turned toward the front door.

  With her back to me, I felt it was safe to move to her desk. I waited until I heard the door open and Eleanor step out onto the porch, then quietly eased out the center drawer, placed my flash drive in the third compartment, closed the drawer.

  Immediately I arrived upstairs in the loft. I didn’t know if she had gone around the house to be sure everything was secure, but I didn’t have any time to waste. Quickly I looked around the room. There was something alien to me in the immaculate neatness. She hadn’t tossed the black pants and top she’d worn that night carelessly on a chair. I sped into a small tiled bath. A straw hamper sat against the wall beneath a towel rack. I lifted the lid. A neat woman. Tidy. Not likely to wear clothing more than once. Huddled on the bottom of the hamper was a mound of dark clothing. I reached inside, grabbed the long-sleeve black cotton turtleneck and black spandex pants.

  I heard the creak of the front door. I reached the railing of the loft, carrying my booty, and judged distances. I jammed the clothing into a tight bunch, was over the railing and downstairs crouched behind the sofa by the time the door slammed shut.

  The chain jangled. Footsteps. The stairs creaked.

  I watched her climb, the pistol still firmly in her grasp. I rose near the ceiling and eased through the air to the now dark entry hall. Her weight on the stairs masked the creak as I opened the front door and placed the wad of clothes outside. In another instant I plucked the stocking cap, remaining glove, and pencil flashlight from the table, added them to my pile. More creaks upstairs as she crossed the floor.

  I closed the door and secured the chain, making sure there was no betraying clink. Once outside, my heartbeat slowed to normal as I gathered up my booty, especially the glove I’d left in darkness at the edge of the steps, the precious glove with the incriminating flash drive. Should Eleanor rouse again and come downstairs, she likely would see that the items she’d earlier dropped on the entry table were gone. But I intended to be quick.

  First I went to the dean’s office. I placed the bundle of clothes, the glove with the flash drive, and Eleanor’s pencil flashlight on a window ledge and moved inside. I unlocked and opened the window, retrieved the flash drive. In a moment more, the flash drive, nestled inside the crumpled envelope Eleanor had tossed in a wastebasket, was safely resting in the desk of Dean of Students Eleanor Sheridan. I returned to the window, locked it, moved outside, and picked up the pencil flashlight and Eleanor’s clothes.

  My next stop was the unlocked basement door of the library. I was glad to have Eleanor’s pencil flash to find my way. I still carried the clothing. I waited until I was inside the connecting room to 211 to appear. It wasn’t pleasant, but I pulled on the turtleneck, stepped into the trousers. They weren’t a bad fit, though Eleanor might be a bit taller than I. I wasn’t wearing her black sneakers, but that was an easy addition to the wardrobe. I tucked my hair beneath the stocking cap, drew on the leather gloves.

  I opened the connecting door quietly. “Joe, I’m back.” I stepped inside, the pencil flashlight beam pointed at the floor.

  He blinked his light on, off, illuminating me for an instant. “Hey, you look just like the woman in the dean’s office. Where’d you get the costume?”

  “The look should be the same.” That was all I said.

  “I don’t see how—”

  “The point now is to get a new video.” The less he knew, the better. I don’t know if my actions constituted breaking and entering, but the result was the same. “Friday night the woman in black came through the hall door. She held a pencil flash.” I waggled the flash in my hand. “She crossed to the table.” I aimed the light at the table. “In the dean’s office, you got shots of her in the area between the hall wall and the counter. I want you to get pictures of me walking toward the table in here and doctor the video to make it look like it’s a video of her in here.”

  “You want me to Photoshop the video of her and make it look like it was taken in here?”

  “Exactly. I’ll walk across the room, and when I get to the table, I’ll hold the flash to look in the box that holds Susannah Fairlee’s papers.”

  “Yeah. That’ll work.” He did several takes.

  When he was done, I studied the table. The wood was smooth. I needed a protrusion, a splinter, something sharp.

  “Oh, hey, Joe. Film me again at the box.” I lifted the lid. The night Ben was shot, Eleanor’s arm had caught for an instant on the edge of the lifted lid. I leaned near the box, then swung around to face the door as Eleanor had when Ben turned on the light. The right sleeve of the turtleneck snagged on the corrugated edge of the box lid, leaving behind a long black thread.

  The truck stop on the outskirts of Adelaide was the sort of place where strangers occasioned no notice. I wore a denim jacket, gray trousers, and black ankle boots. I felt I’d earned a late evening cheeseburger and fries after taking my time getting in and out of Eleanor’s house without arousing her. It had taken patience, but I had been determined that no vagrant noise would alert her. I put the clothing in the hamper and left the stocking cap, gloves, and pencil flash on the side table in the entryway. In the morning, there would be no evidence her home had been entered.

  I enjoyed each bite of the cheeseburger. I took a last swallow of good black coffee. I imagined lights burned at Old Ethel as Joe finished his assignment.

  I walked outside as if going to a car, made sure I was unobserved, disappeared. Back inside the building, I found a small office that likely was used by the manager. I used the telephone to call Crime Stoppers. Bobby Mac always described my voice as Lauren Bacall with a touch of June Allyson. Eleanor Sheridan shot Ben Douglas. She’s hidden the murder weapon behind books in the second shelf of the bookcase in her office. Look for a flash drive in a small manila envelope in her center desk drawer. Blackmail material is contained in the flash drive. I hung up. I had yet to install the murder weapon, but as soon as it was daylight, I would retrieve the gun and deposit it in her office. Until then, I was off duty. Had I forgotten anything? I hoped not.

  I found an empty room in a nearby motel rather than returning to Rose Bower. I settled in for a quick nap after setting the radio alarm for five. I appeared long enough to wash my face and put on fresh makeup. I returned to the truck stop for breakfast. I was ready for a full day when pink tinged the eastern horizon.

  It was the half light between dawn and daylight when I reached the abandoned train trestle near the cement plant. Dark columns of smoke rose from two massive chimneys. Rusted steel girders were still shadowy. I moved to the middle of the bridge. I felt behind a girder, continued to search until my fingers touched the ridged butt of the gun Eleanor Sheridan carried when she shot Ben Douglas.

  I truly felt buoyant when I stood in Eleanor’s office, pulled some books out of the shelf behind her desk, and carefully nestled the weapon there.

  I turned on the lights in Chief Cobb’s office, settled behind his desk, checked his Outlook Express in-box. I found, as I’d expected, an e-mail from the Bugle with an attachment.

  To: Chief Cobb

  From: Joe Cooper, Editor of the Bugle

  Subject: Anonymous video

  Chief Cobb, an anonymous source left a flash drive on my desk in an envelope marked: Urgent—Send to Adelaide Police Chief Sam Cobb re murder of Goddard Library night wa
tchman Ben Douglas. I have not looked at the video—

  I understood this was an artful statement. Joe could quite honestly say he hadn’t looked at the video since he finished editing it and therefore his claim was accurate as far as it went.

  —and cannot vouch for its contents.

  I grinned. Joe was uncomfortable with Photoshopping.

  A note inside the envelope contained this message: Video depicts intruder in room 211 at Goddard Library immediately prior to arrival of night watchman Ben Douglas. There was no signature. The video is attached to this e-mail. The envelope and the flash drive are here in my office. I will be happy to bring the envelope and the flash drive to the police station if you wish. The Bugle stands ready to assist the police in any way in its investigation to discover the murderer of Ben Douglas.

  Best Regards,

  Joe Cooper

  Editor

  “Pretty interesting video.” The deep voice was behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  Sam Cobb stood next to the old leather couch near the front windows. He was much as I remembered: six feet tall, burly build, broad face beneath grizzled black hair. He was unshaven and his hair was untidily sprigged, but his dark eyes were alert. A slight smile pulled at his lips. “Figured you were here when I heard my chair squeak.” He stood in his stocking feet, arms akimbo. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Not the first night I’ve sacked out on the couch. Got here about three a.m. I told Claire we had to get back—a big case—and she got us packed in twenty minutes. We picked up some fish tacos and Dr Peppers on the way out of town. Takes about eight hours to drive up from Galveston. Dropped Claire off at home. Figured I better get over here. Picked up an interesting call to Crime Stoppers. Anonymous tip called in from the truck stop out on Highway Nineteen. Enough substance to get some search warrants. Been looking at all the e-mails to and from the acting chief. Unusual. And the files. Smith and Weitz have done a good job. APB for Michelle Hoyt so far unsuccessful. Haven’t canceled it yet. The mayor has a scanner. Better not to rile her up. I figure the girl will keep out of the way.”

  His voice was dry. “Almost spooky how she’s nowhere to be found.” His broad mouth quirked in a grin. He lifted his arms above his head in a waking bear stretch. “Couple hours of sleep. Ready to line things up. Got a bunch of pictures out of the file from the crime scene when Douglas was shot. The box on the table in the Bugle video looks like the box in room 211. The lab can verify that. No proof the figure in black shot Douglas, but it puts her on the scene of the crime late at night.”

  “Chief, I am so glad to see you.”

  “Wish I could say the same.” His mouth again quirked.

  I was shocked for an instant, then understood. I laughed. “I would appear, but—”

  “You’re on good ghostly behavior?”

  “The best I can manage.”

  That brought forth a deep chuckle. Then he was serious. “Fill me in. I gather there’s lots for me to do.”

  “There is.” I, too, was serious now. I talked fast, describing Susannah Fairlee and the terminally ill girl she visited.

  Sam’s big face creased in sympathy. “Always thought it’d be damn hard to die all alone. That poor kid. So you found a letter from her at the Fairlee house?”

  “The letter from JoLee Jamison arrived the day Susannah was murdered. The letter was in Susannah’s purse. It’s still there.”

  “I’ll see that it’s taken into custody.” He frowned. “Too bad the girl didn’t use Sheridan’s name. A defense attorney will say the girl was dying, probably confused. The letter offers no proof that Sheridan was involved.”

  “JoLee didn’t need to tell Susannah. Susannah already knew from their visits.”

  Sam jammed his hands in the pockets of his baggy shorts. “You figure Susannah got the letter and went straight to Sheridan?”

  “Exactly. A friend of Susannah’s saw her leave the Administration Building that day. She will testify that Susannah was obviously upset and angry. I think Susannah confronted Sheridan. Maybe she demanded that Sheridan resign. Susannah probably didn’t want to hurt the people who’d been set up by Sheridan, even if she’d had a way to find them. Maybe she saw her best hope was to threaten to take the letter to the college president, tell him. JoLee had made it clear to Susannah that she hated Sheridan. Susannah didn’t know why until she received the letter that told about the blackmail scheme. Susannah may have said she’d remain quiet if Sheridan agreed to write out a confession, give it to Susannah, and quit her job. Sheridan likely decided then that Susannah had to die. Maybe Sheridan asked for twenty-four hours to think about it. Maybe she said she’d write the confession, mail it to Susannah, and offer her resignation the next day. Something—anything—to keep Susannah quiet until that night.”

  Sam nodded. “I saw in the reports that a back-alley neighbor saw someone on a bicycle. We’ll talk to him again. Maybe he’ll remember something else about the rider.”

  “Sam, have you had much rain the last few weeks?”

  Sam looked bewildered. As well he might. “You know Oklahoma. Rained off and on all summer. Only a couple of days of rain since then.”

  I rushed on. “Sheridan has a bike. I saw her on it last night. It isn’t quite a month ago that Susannah was killed. Check for tire tracks in the alley and in the Fairlee backyard. Maybe there will be some trace.”

  “We’ll look. Be better to have the neighbor in to take a look after we get her in custody. He said the rider was a woman. Maybe he saw enough to be able to identify her.” He strode to his desk, then stopped and cautiously reached down to make sure the chair was empty, though of course no one was visible in the seat. I had already moved. Reassured, he dropped heavily into the swivel chair. Face puckered in thought, he sent off a series of short e-mails, then picked up the phone, punched a number. He moved the chair until he could stretch his legs out comfortably. “Yo, Teddy.” He glanced toward the clock on his desk. It read a few minutes after six. “Hope I didn’t get you up.” He reached out, punched Speaker.

  “—already run five miles. Got to get you out for some PT, Sam. Hey, how come you’re calling from your office? Thought you were out of town this week.”

  “Got a murder to solve. That night watchman shot out at Goddard didn’t make it. A slug in his chest Friday night. I need a couple of search warrants. Can I meet you at the courthouse in an hour?”

  “Sure. Sallie Mae’ll already be there. She takes off at three to pick her grandkids up. You got probable cause?”

  “Anonymous tip but credible, a video that shows there may be some fibers at the crime scene, and if we match them up with clothes from the suspect’s home, we’ll have something. At the home we’re on the lookout for a black stocking cap, black top and slacks, black gloves. At the office, we’re looking for a flash drive that contains blackmail material and the Douglas murder weapon. Need warrants for the home of Eleanor Sheridan, Goddard dean of students, and her office.”

  “The dean of students?” Teddy’s voice had lost its easy air of camaraderie.

  “That’s the tip.”

  A deep breath. “Mayor Lumpkin will have my ass if you’re wrong.”

  The answer was quick and firm. “I’m not wrong.”

  Bless Sam. He was coming on strong because he trusted me. It wouldn’t only be the judge’s ass if the evidence didn’t jibe. Mayor Lumpkin would trash Sam quicker than a skunk can stink.

  There was silence on the line. Saving Michelle now depended upon an elected judge who was likely a political animal, quick to avoid danger. The search warrants would make all the difference.

  Finally: “This will be a pretty big deal, Sam. Meet me in my chambers. Twenty minutes. I want to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”

  The line clicked off.

  His Honor Teddy Cooley was even bigger than Sam, probably six four, a big fa
ce with a hooked nose and full lips. He was slick bald, ruddy, made a good-sized office appear small as he paced up and down next to a conference table. He was still in his warm-up from his run. His Adidas shoes looked expensive.

  Sam stood at parade rest, equally imposing in his own way, broad face resolute, brown eyes steady, jaw firm, even though his aloha shirt was crumpled—there might have been a couple of taco stains down the front—and his cotton knee-high shorts revealed sun-reddened knees. He had the solid, tough look of an old fullback, still in shape and ready to rumble. Sam continued in his deep voice, “. . . won’t know how far back the blackmailing scheme goes until we get the flash drive. Think of it like a ’gator swimming in muddy water: All you see for starters is the ripple he leaves behind as his tail moves back and forth. We kind of came in on the back of what had been happening. It started with Susannah Fairlee’s murder.”

  The judge stopped, stared at Sam. “Susannah drowned. It was an accident.”

  Sam held up a broad, callused hand. “That’s what we were supposed to think. Let me tell you what we know. Some of it we can prove, a lot of it we can’t. Susannah Fairlee was friends with JoLee Jamison, a student who had worked in Sheridan’s office. Susannah visited her as a Stephen Minister. That meant she was there to listen and be kind. After the girl died, Susannah got a letter.”

  Teddy Cooley’s back was to his desk. I hovered over the desk. His secretary obviously knew how to keep a happy boss. In the center of the bare desktop lay a fresh legal pad with a pen beside it. Keeping a careful eye on the judge, I picked up the pen, wrote swiftly: Tell him Susannah went to dean’s office after she read the letter.

  Sam broke off. His face stiffened as he watched the airborne pen point at the legal pad before it returned to the desk. He took two quick steps, reached past the judge to pick up the legal pad. “Think of it like this.” He ripped the sheet off, his eyes scanning the script, then folded the sheet like a letter. “Susannah receives a letter.” He waggled the folded sheet.