Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  Two more blocks and the Administration Building was directly ahead. Two police cars and an unmarked cruiser were parked in front. She glanced at her watch. A few minutes before nine. But the early arrival of the police caused her no alarm.

  She parked in the slot marked Dean of Students. As she turned off the motor, a blue Lincoln slid into the next slot, marked Provost. Eleanor was unhurried, gathering up her purse, strolling to the sidewalk, then turning to wait for the other driver.

  Tall, thin, and lanky with short white hair and a thin white mustache, he joined her on the sidewalk. “Good morning, Eleanor. How are you?”

  She touched the scarf at her throat. “Couldn’t be better. And you, Reggie?” Her voice was clear, relaxed, good humored.

  “Excellent, excellent.” He clapped well-manicured hands together. “Looks hopeful about our rank in the next college ratings. I don’t mind saying I put in a good effort there. The regents should be well pleased.” The clear implication was that his good offices had made a substantial difference. Then his narrow chiseled face drooped. “But”—he leaned forward, his voice confidential—“I may have to put out some fires if what I hear is true.”

  They were at the steep steps to the back entrance. Eleanor looked at him inquiringly. “What have you heard?”

  “That dreadful crime.”

  “Crime?”

  “The night watchman at the library. Campus Security called me. Well, awful to have a crime on campus, and I understand the fellow was a good chap. Hard for the family, but”—he spread slender fingers in dismay—“ghastly if it involves anyone on campus. They said in the next breath there was a search on for a student. Hoyt, I think that was the name. Can’t imagine the circumstances. Why would a student shoot a night watchman? Have to wonder if it was—”

  They were at the top of the stairs now and he held the door for Eleanor.

  “—a drug deal gone wrong.”

  “Such a shame,” she murmured.

  His face drew down in a petulant frown. “If all my good work goes for nothing . . .” He gave a vexed sigh.

  I thought about Ben Douglas and priorities.

  He continued his complaint as they curved around the back of the stairs, started up old worn treads. At the top of the stairs, Reggie smoothed his mustache. “No point in borrowing trouble, but it does seem hard to have some scandal drag us down when we’re set to go up five spots.”

  “I’m sure everything will work out.” Her tone was soothing. As he turned to his left, Eleanor strolled toward the end of the hall and into the Dean of Students Office.

  Her stride didn’t check as she walked into the space fronting the counter even though Detectives Smith and Weitz stood waiting. Smith was long and lean in a blue blazer and gray slacks. Weitz—if only I could take her under my fashion wing—looked dumpy in a tight red jacket and tan slacks. Her poofy brownish blond hair would have looked inviting to starlings seeking a nest.

  It was rather like seeing a still shot from an action scene. At one desk, a woman with an intense expression clutched a cell phone in a heavily veined hand and watched the officers with unblinking intensity. At the other, a white-haired woman with a high forehead, strong jaw, and blunt chin held a coffee mug halfway to her mouth. The twenty-something receptionist moved from foot to foot, obviously excited at the prospect of a police procedural show unfolding in real time. A skinny student in a pink top and red leggings pretended to sort incoming mail but her eyes jerked toward the police every few seconds. The other student worker stroked a barely discernible mustache, uneasy and tense.

  Detective Weitz, her face bland and unrevealing, stepped forward. “Dean Sheridan? I have a warrant here for a search of your office.”

  Smith stood to one side, his expression pleasant. He softly jangled coins in one pocket. He held a video camera under the other arm.

  Sam Cobb was a foot behind Weitz. He was as big and burly as always. He’d found time to go home, change into his familiar brown suit. As usual it was wrinkled and a little tight across his chest.

  Eleanor took the sheet of paper, glanced down. “It seems in order.” She lifted her eyes, her face pleasant. “The college always hopes to be helpful to the authorities, though I’m puzzled at the cause for this. However, please feel free to look wherever you wish.” Her tone was utterly relaxed.

  Jeanne Bracewell came through her office door, a tight frown on her face. “Eleanor, glad you’re here. I told them there has to be a mistake. They said they’re looking for evidence of blackmail. And a murder weapon.”

  Eleanor’s cool blue eyes sharpened. She looked toward Weitz, who was plunging the fingers of one hand into a plastic glove, drawing it tight, then doing the same with the other hand. For an instant, uneasiness glimmered in Eleanor’s gaze. Her lips parted. Was she going to ask about a murder weapon? The call yesterday had said nothing about a weapon. She apparently decided not to speak, but her face looked sharper, more intent.

  Sam Cobb took a step forward. “We appreciate your cooperation, Dean. I’m Sam Cobb, chief of Adelaide police.” His face was genial. He gestured toward the nameplate to his right. “We’ll start in your office.”

  Eleanor frowned. “Why my office?”

  His heavy face was stolid, almost bovine. “Information received.”

  Eleanor flicked a glance toward her door, and it was almost as if she reminded herself that she had no reason to worry. The flash drive was far from here. She gave a dismissive shrug, “Of course. Search where you please.”

  He moved his big head toward the door, but his eyes never left her face. “You’ll come with us.” It was a statement, not a request.

  Her thin lips quirked in a cool smile. “You want me to be present?” Her tone was amused.

  “Protocol.”

  Eleanor again shrugged. She walked to her office door, used her key. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Sam was right behind her, almost a little too close. Smith and Weitz followed. Smith held the video camera in his hands.

  Eleanor walked past her massive desk and dropped onto a brown leather sofa, glanced at her watch. “Perhaps you can expedite this. I have an important meeting at nine thirty.”

  Sam nodded. “We’ll do our best. Detective Weitz will conduct the search. Detective Smith will film the investigation.” Sam gestured at Smith and Weitz.

  The office was perhaps twenty feet deep and thirty feet in length. Above paneled wainscoting behind the desk, two upper bookshelves held an assortment of history books, primarily of the Old West, and a collection of what might be original publications of Louis L’Amour titles. The lower bookshelf was filled with an assortment of antique American millefiori paperweights, each an object of beauty.

  Eleanor leaned back against the cushion, watched with a half smile. Heavy purplish red drapes framed the two windows in the wall behind the couch.

  Smith stationed himself in the center of the room opposite the desk. He lifted the video camera, filmed Weitz as she stepped behind the desk, her face intent. She moved the chair aside and pulled out the top left drawer. She took her time, lifting out files, checking them. There was an air of certainty in her movements, as if she had a clear idea of what she sought.

  Sam stood to the right of the door with his back to the wall. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of Eleanor on the leather couch, Smith facing the desk, and Weitz methodically thumbing through the contents of each drawer. She finished the top drawer, began on the lower left.

  Eleanor ignored Chief Cobb and the detectives. She appeared comfortable on the couch, hands loose in her lap, legs crossed, purse on the cushion beside her.

  Officer Weitz reached for the center drawer.

  Eleanor looked amused. “I keep a very tidy desk. You said you were looking for blackmail material. I’d be interested to know what blackmail material consists of. I believe I have a s
tudent directory and—oh, yes—some throat lozenges. I had a little trouble with allergies—”

  Weitz stood stiff and still, looking down into the drawer. “Chief.” Weitz’s tone was steely. “Looks like the tip was right.”

  Eleanor broke off. Her face was abruptly empty, her eyes alert.

  Sam walked toward the desk, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floor. The lens of the video camera followed him.

  Using the tips of her gloved fingers, Weitz lifted out a small wrinkled manila envelope, held it out for him to see.

  Cobb craned his head. “The envelope was once sealed with packaging tape. It has been torn open, then crumpled.”

  Eleanor must have felt as if she were caught in a nightmare. She recognized that envelope. She herself had ripped it open last night, dumped out the flash drive. Then she had crumpled the envelope into a ball and thrown it into a wastebasket in the secretarial area. How could it be in her desk? Who had found it? Who knew? How much did they know?

  It was a testament to her control, to her iron will, that, though she was silent for too long, she finally raised one black eyebrow, inquired, “I can’t quite see what you have there. But”—now her voice was stronger—“I can tell you that envelope wasn’t in my desk when I left on Friday.” She took a deep breath. “If someone put the envelope in my desk, perhaps taking an envelope I’d used at some time, certainly its presence there now has nothing to do with me.”

  Sam’s brown eyes studied her as if she were a beetle discovered in his soup.

  He jerked his head at Weitz.

  The detective lifted the flap, held the envelope at an angle. A flash drive slid into Weitz’s gloved palm. “A flash drive, Chief.”

  Eleanor’s face revealed nothing. She’d put the incriminating flash drive in her desk at home. How could it possibly have reached her office? But she couldn’t claim the flash drive shouldn’t be here. She could only, her mind darting and twisting, brazen her way out of what she now realized was a prearranged trap. Her fingerprints were on the flash drive, but she could claim someone had taken a drive she’d previously used, deleted files, added files of which she knew nothing. Was she flipping through images in her mind? She had to know the police would contact the people in the pictures. Would any of the students dare expose her? As for the victims, were they unaware of the identity of their blackmailer? Perhaps she was nothing more than a voice on a telephone, describing in detail compromising photos. She was a clever woman. Had she arranged for money to be dropped at certain sites and always been sure she was unobserved when she arrived to retrieve the payments? The police would make every effort to try and unearth undisclosed sums not accounted for by her income. But the chicanery possible with figures is truly remarkable.

  Eleanor managed to affect a puzzled, but pleasant expression. Her blonde hair shone in the light from the window behind her. Her posture was that of a woman at ease on a sumptuously comfortable leather sofa. The only indication of stress was the finger that flicked against a silver bracelet on her left wrist, turning it, turning it.

  Cobb flicked a glance at Weitz.

  The detective cleared her throat, held up the flash drive between two gloved fingers. She turned to face Detective Smith and the video camera. “Officer Weitz, taking into custody a flash drive found in a brown manila envelope in the desk of Eleanor Sheridan, dean of students at—”

  A sudden timid knock sounded on a panel of the open door. The student in the pink blouse and red tights stepped inside. “Excuse me. Please. I want to help. I didn’t know I could help, but I got this phone call from this guy at the Bugle and he said”—she looked toward Sam Cobb—“that I needed to tell the police chief what I knew.”

  Detective Smith turned the video camera toward the doorway.

  The girl stopped, a pulse fluttering in her throat. She barely managed the words. “Are you Chief Cobb?”

  Sam didn’t frown at the interruption. His brown eyes saw the uncertainty and shyness in the little figure who faced him with fingers laced tightly together. “Right. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Daisy Butler. I’m a work-study student.” She looked across the room at Eleanor Sheridan, her gaze timid but eager. “I’m glad to help out, Dean Sheridan. I was here that day, September seventeenth. I was working on name tags for the tea for the student activities fair and I was down on the floor behind the counter. Most everybody had already gone out of the office for lunch. People like to go at eleven thirty but they come back at twelve thirty so it isn’t like they take more time than they should. Anyway, I was down on the floor sitting cross-legged. I learned it in my yoga class. I don’t think anybody knew I was here, but I heard the door open and real fast footsteps. I popped up, thinking I could be, like, the receptionist, but I saw the lady and she looked scary. I mean she was actually a nice-looking older woman, her hair was brown with some silver streaks, and she had blue eyes and the kind of face like my aunt Margaret, sort of round, but I could tell she was really upset. I thought maybe somebody was in big trouble and she’d come to see about it. She came in from the hall, and she didn’t even look toward the counter. She knew right where she was going. I mean, she came right to this door”—Daisy gestured—“and she didn’t knock. She turned the knob and went right in, and before she slammed the door she said, ‘I’m Susannah Fairlee. I told you—’ Then the door closed. The Bugle guy said somebody was saying that this woman—Susannah Fairlee; he sent me a picture on my cell and I knew it was her—wasn’t here that day, but I can swear she was.” She stopped and looked pleased.

  Eleanor sat immobile. Her right hand gripped the silver bracelets on the opposite wrist.

  I could imagine the questions pummeling her mind. Why does the Bugle editor think it matters that Susannah Fairlee came to my office that day? No one else knows what happened to Susannah. Her death was officially deemed accidental. Why did that idiot girl come in and talk about Susannah? Do they know? How could they know? Eleanor took a quick breath, said coolly, “Thank you, Daisy. That will be all for now.”

  Daisy blinked, aware that her willingness to help was somehow unwelcome. She looked deflated. She shot a questioning glance at Eleanor then at Chief Cobb.

  “Close the door behind you, Daisy.” Eleanor’s tone was sharp.

  Daisy shrank a little, hunched her thin shoulders. She nodded and stumbled a little as she turned.

  Eleanor again seemed to draw on an inner reservoir of command.

  I wondered how much effort it took as she managed to look exasperated. “I’m sorry for the interruption. I hope this exercise is soon coming to an end.”

  When the door clicked shut, Chief Cobb said brusquely, “We’ll take her statement.”

  Eleanor’s expression was one of puzzlement. “That is your prerogative. But I can’t imagine why. As for that day, people come here all the time. I don’t remember that particular incident. I can look at my daybook.” Her lips curved in a mocking half smile.

  “Perhaps that will refresh my memory.”

  Cobb spoke heavily, coldly. “The investigation into Susannah Fairlee’s death has been reopened and she is now considered to be the victim of a homicide.”

  Eleanor’s features hardened. She looked predatory and dangerous and very, very wary.

  The chief jerked a thumb at Weitz. “Resume your search.” He glanced at Smith.

  The video camera followed Weitz to the windows. She pulled a wine-colored plush red velvet drape forward, checked behind it, carefully scanned the lining. She stepped to the next drape.

  A short beep. Sam unsheathed his cell phone, held it up, listened. His face tightened. “Taken into custody?”

  I tensed, moved near enough to hear an excited voice. “. . . found her by the fountain in front of the building. Listen, Chief, this big guy’s raising hell, saying she’s innocent, insisting we don’t take her in, that he’ll get a lawyer and—”

  �
��Ask Ms. Hoyt and her friend to remain where they are. Tell them I will soon have information for them.” The chief’s deep voice carried well.

  I was watching Eleanor. Her patrician features exhibited boredom in addition to long-suffering forbearance with idiotic officialdom. I had no doubt she’d heard and knew Michelle Hoyt was in custody, even if not under formal arrest.

  Behind that facade pulsed a quick brain. She would bend her intelligence to discovering who and what lay behind the arrival of the police, but for the moment she was triumphant. No matter what was found, no matter if Susannah Fairlee was seen entering her office, she would insist the materials had been placed in her office by someone else and that she simply didn’t recall Fairlee’s visit, had no reason to recall it. Even if a search of her house yielded the clothes she’d worn the night she shot Ben Douglas, she wasn’t in a corner. If the forensic team found a thread from her sweater on the fringe of the box containing diaries belonging to Susannah Fairlee, Eleanor could blandly shrug, insist she had no possible idea how that could have happened. But, of course, the box had been in the room for some time, hadn’t it? And there was no way of knowing when a thread might have caught there, and perhaps she’d visited the library and inexplicably somehow a thread was snagged from her sweater. Certainly that was no proof she’d been in room 211 the night Ben Douglas was shot. She would be horrified at the suggestion. All the while a smug, catlike smile would mock her questioners.

  Trials often were decided on circumstantial evidence, but a defendant had to be definitively linked to a crime by a witness, physical evidence, or a weapon.

  That was my ace in the hole: The revolver that killed Ben Douglas would soon be found.

  Cobb’s craggy features furrowed in a deepening frown. He knew full well what she was thinking and knew further that so long as she maintained her bland dismissive attitude, they could not prove anything against her.