by Carolyn Hart
Detective Weitz completed her search of the last drapery, turned toward the bookcases.
On the second shelf, behind the fourth book—Adobe Angels: The Ghosts of Santa Fe and Taos—she would find a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver with six chambers, two of them empty. When test-fired, the cartridges would match the bullets that resulted in Ben Douglas’s death.
My feeling of satisfied expectation abruptly evaporated.
Eleanor’s fingerprints were not on the gun. Eleanor knew her fingerprints were not on the gun. She would have made certain the gun was shining clean before she placed it in the trunk of Michelle’s car. I had no doubt she would recognize the gun when Weitz found it. I could predict Eleanor’s response: shock, astonishment, anger that someone had placed a weapon in her office.
Weitz lifted books out, scanned the empty area, returned the titles.
Eleanor placed her fingers over her lips to smother a small yawn. She was a vision of boredom.
Weitz neared the end of the top shelf.
I slipped past the searching detective, careful not to brush against her. At the end of the bookcase, I looked up at the second shelf to the book about long-ago ghosts. I’d been pleased with myself when I’d tucked the gun there, enjoying the title, thinking—all right, pride goes before a smashing fall—how clever I was.
Weitz lifted out the last three books. In an instant, she would re-shelve them and move in her deliberate fashion, face expressionless, to the place where I now stood.
Eleanor smoothed back a strand of golden hair. She glanced at her wristwatch. Ah, yes, she had an important appointment in another ten minutes and likely would suggest that the search was a matter that the police would surely soon conclude, perhaps even rise and stroll toward the door, murmuring she had an appointment and she knew they didn’t need for her to be present any longer.
Chief Cobb’s stolid look didn’t quite hide his uneasiness. What was he going to do about Michelle, now in police custody? If he found nothing here to justify arresting Eleanor Sheridan, if he couldn’t pull together evidence to entrap the dean, Michelle would be placed in a cell and murder charges would be filed, his job would be in jeopardy, and a killer would be safe.
My eyes dropped to the third shelf, with its collection of expensive and beautiful millefiori paperweights. I remembered with a sharp stab of anger JoLee Jamison’s single varicolored marble, so tiny in comparison, not of value to anyone but her. The dean’s collection of heavy glass paperweights in contrast likely cost thousands of dollars, a luxury made possible by blackmail. No doubt the dean had held each one, turned them in bright light to enjoy the almost iridescent flashes of color, cupping each paperweight in long slender fingers.
My eyes lifted to the second shelf and the book about New Mexico ghosts. I had an empty feeling deep inside. Detective Weitz would find the gun where I’d so carefully placed it and the discovery would do no good. There were no fingerprints—
If Eleanor’s fingerprints were on the gun, she would never be able to explain away that fact. I looked again at the shelf with its gorgeous paperweights.
Weitz raised her hand to the first books on the second shelf. Her back was to me.
Eleanor once again used the index finger of one hand to flick, flick, flick a silver bracelet. She gazed at the shining circle of silver.
Sam Cobb folded his arms, watched Weitz intently.
Detective Smith aimed the video camera at the bookshelves. He was leaning back against the wall, likely thinking this was boring and would Weitz get a move on, he wanted some coffee.
The leather couch and Eleanor were not in range of his lens.
Careful again not to touch Weitz, I slipped past her, reached down to the lower shelf. My fingers closed around a gorgeous paperweight, with blue, green, pink, yellow, and white ribbons of glass curled in the ball to a millefiori design at the top. The paperweight was designed in the shape of a ball that tapered to a small two-inch base. I eased the paperweight over the edge of the shelf, moving down, down, down.
Weitz continued to pull out books, return them.
Keeping my hand below the top of the desk to hide the paperweight, I once again passed Weitz. I bent down and with a sidearm angle a couple of inches above the floor threw the crystal ball as hard as I could. The paperweight crashed with a resounding whack on the opposite wall.
Weitz whirled, hand on her holster. Her brown eyes scanned the far side of the room.
Detective Smith straightened up from the wall, the video camera loose in his hand. He stared at the paperweight as it wobbled to a stop near his feet.
Cobb turned toward the sound in a flash, gun in hand, a quick move for a big man.
Eleanor’s head jerked around and she stared at the floor.
I reached up, pulled out the book, grabbed the gun, and tossed it directly into her lap.
Caught by surprise, Eleanor gave a sharp cry. Her hands flailed, grappling with the gun. As her hands closed around it, she looked down. Her face changed. She recognized the gun, the weapon she had so carefully cleaned and placed to entrap Michelle and which she now held in her hands, and her fingerprints were all over the cold steel barrel and grip.
“Someone threw this at me.” Her voice rose in a shout. She gripped the stock in one hand, came to her feet. She looked from Smith to Weitz to Cobb.
Face cool and determined, Weitz held her service revolver with both hands, feet planted, aim steady. “Drop the weapon. Drop the weapon now.”
Cobb was moving. The video camera crashed to the floor as Smith yanked his gun free.
Eleanor’s face convulsed in rage.
Weitz was across the intervening space and her hand closed on Eleanor’s wrist. “Drop it.”
The gun clattered to the floor.
Eleanor had maintained her insouciant attitude each time the unexpected occurred: The recovery of the flash drive from her desk in an envelope she knew she had discarded. The work-study student’s artless revelation about Susannah, which was utterly shocking because Eleanor had no inkling anyone knew of a link between her and Susannah. After each blow, she must have struggled with flickers of panic. Who put the envelope and flash drive in her office desk? Who alerted the Adelaide police? And now the gun that killed Ben Douglas, lying on the floor with her fingerprints.
Eleanor Sheridan no longer looked confident. “The gun—” But she knew what the gun would reveal. She stared at Cobb with an expression of horror. Red stained both cheeks. Her mouth twisted.
“Eleanor Sheridan, we are also serving on you a search warrant for your home—”
She drew in a deep ragged breath.
I saw terror in her eyes, terror and a sickened realization of doom. I was puzzled for an instant and then I knew. The police would find more than the clothes she’d worn to kill. The police would find Susannah Fairlee’s diary. I felt certain of that discovery, read that knowledge in her desperate gaze. Why had she kept the diary? A trophy? Defiance? A macabre toast to her own cleverness?
“—and I am taking you into custody on suspicion of the murder of Ben Douglas. Anything you say may be used . . .”
I had no doubt she would remain silent and insist the evidence found in her office had been planted there. But with time, the police would painstakingly discover more and more. Perhaps the neighbor who saw the bicyclist the night Susannah was murdered would describe the clothing. Perhaps a tire track of her bicycle would be found in Susannah’s yard. Perhaps a blackmail victim, if reassured a compromising photo was revealed to be fake, would speak out. Perhaps a careful financial analysis would show Eleanor had large sums that could not be accounted for. Most important of all, if Susannah’s diary was in her house, Eleanor was finished.
Chapter 16
Chief Cobb stood on the front steps of the Administration Building, squinting a little in the bright morning sunlight. The light breeze stirred his
grizzled hair. His craggy face gave no hint that he’d grabbed only a few hours’ sleep on his office couch.
TV cameras whirred. Cameras flashed. Reporters, both TV and print, jostled for a place on the steps. I recognized Joan Crandall, the straggly, brown-haired fiftyish crime reporter from the Adelaide Gazette. She had a face that had seen everything, but her huge eyes glittered with excitement. Her voice had the staying power of a baying hound, rising above the other shouted questions. “Chief, we got a shot, officers escorting Eleanor Sheridan to a patrol car. What’s the charge?”
Cobb was patient. “Joan, we are investigating the death of Ben—”
“Yeah. yeah, yeah,” she rasped. “Cut to the chase. What about Dean Sheridan?”
“Dean Sheridan is a person of interest in the murder of Ben Douglas. The investigation is in its early stages—”
“What about the APB for Michelle Hoyt?” Joan obviously hadn’t missed the alert.
“Ms. Hoyt is no longer of interest to the Adelaide police except insofar as she can help us determine who held her captive for several days in a scheme to implicate her in the theft of the rare book from Goddard Library. Hoyt has been cleared—”
“Captive! Where? When? What happened? What does this have to do with the murder at the library?” Joan quivered with eagerness.
Chief Cobb gestured to the base of the steps, where Michelle stood with Joe’s arm tight around her shoulders. I was sure Lorraine was there, too. Smiling.
The chief sounded almost ebullient. “I suggest you speak with Ms. Hoyt. She and Joe Cooper, the Bugle editor, can explain the odd incidents at Goddard Library and how they have been working with law enforcement to solve the murder of Ben Douglas. I’ll hold a news conference tomorrow morning—”
I reached the foot of the steps and Michelle and Joe before the pack of newshounds. I was behind Joe. I appeared, celebrating success with a tropical-design blouse, swirling blue skirt, and matching heels.
Michelle was looking up at Joe, her heart in her eyes. “You never gave up trying to help me.”
He lifted a hand to touch a strand of shining dark hair. His grin was lopsided. “A man has to do what a man has to do when a girl stands him up at the Brown Owl. I’m counting on that date—and lots more of them.” He pulled her close, bent his face toward hers.
I disappeared, but not before I felt a light touch on my arm.
Lorraine burbled in my ear. “A match made in Heaven, wouldn’t you say?”
Reporters formed a tight circle around Michelle and Joe. Video cameras filmed. Cameras flashed. “What about those roses? . . . Who smashed the gargoyle? . . . What’s behind the theft of the rare book? . . . How does the book tie up with the murder of Ben Douglas? . . . Who held you captive? . . . What’s the deal with the dean? . . .”
I eased close to Michelle, spoke softly in her ear. “You and Joe take all the credit. Those who helped you wish to remain”—I paused for emphasis—“invisible.”
I believe Michelle has changed her view about me and Lorraine. At least, that’s how I would interpret the brief thumbs-up she made with the hand that rested lightly on Joe’s arm. The gesture was quite subtle, and neither Joe nor the reporters noticed.
Again I felt a touch on my arm. I heard a quick whisper in my ear.
The central landing on the main library steps was deserted. Lorraine’s portrait was lovely in the soft white beam from an antique brass light above the painting. When I’d first seen the portrait in the light from Ben Douglas’s torch, the library was quiet and dark with the silence of late night. The old building was silent and deserted now because of the excitement outside.
I didn’t bother to whisper. There was no one to hear us. “Joe will have quite a story to write.”
“The important story is their story.” Lorraine’s voice was soft.
I offered her a tribute. “Their love began with the roses.”
Lorraine was once again Goddard Library’s kindly ghost in residence. How many hearts would she bring together? But now there was no one with whom she could share moments. Ben Douglas would never again stump up the stairs, big light in hand, and stop to talk to Miz Lorraine. Although I knew I’d often disturbed her, wouldn’t the suite at Rose Bower seem too solitary now?
I felt a sweep of sadness. There was no time in Heaven, but on earth days roll on and on, month after month, year after year, decade after decade. How long for Lorraine?
I scarcely knew what I intended to say, but words came fluttering out, like rose petals thrown at a wedding. “Paul loved the letter you sent him.”
I heard a catch of breath. “I told him I was going to marry Charles.”
“Paul thought you were the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful girl in the world because you knew Charles needed that promise to keep him safe. Paul was sure you loved him, and after the war he intended to compete man-to-man. Paul never doubted he was the man you’d marry. It wasn’t to be. He went out, brave as always, responding to his duty to get a badly wounded man, and Heaven called him home. He loves you still.”
A racket and a rumble, wheels clacking on steel, the smell of coal smoke. I could feel the trembling of the landing as the Rescue Express came near.
“Lorraine, come with me. Come now. Come home to Heaven.”
The rush of the Express overwhelmed me and I whirled away, touched with sadness at the silence I left behind.
When we went somewhere special, Mama always made sure we wore our best. She’d say, “Bailey Ruth, honey, put on a smiling face and the nicest dress you have. That’s how we show how happy we are to be asked.”
As I came aboard, I was thinking about Bobby Mac and the sea and a stroll hand in hand on a beach next to crystalline waters. I appeared and snatched a peek in the shining metal of the caboose. The wind stirred my red curls, fluttered against my graceful cotton smock dress, an enchanting Mediterranean blue splashed with bright hibiscus. I wiggled my toes in sandals.
I hoped Wiggins would understand I truly wasn’t being vain. Well, maybe a little bit. But mostly I wanted to look my best. I turned to see—
Wiggins stood at the back rail, reaching out. He wasn’t dressed in his usual white shirt, the upper sleeves puffed by black garters, and heavy flannel trousers with wide suspenders and a wide black belt with a silver buckle and black shoes. Absent too was his stiff dark hat. This was an eager Wiggins with shining reddish brown hair and muttonchop whiskers and a smaller mustache. He was handsome in a dun-colored belted wool tunic buttoned at the throat and flared over matching uniform trousers and knee-high leather boots. On the left arm was a white armband with a Red Cross.
The wind stirred Lorraine’s golden hair, too, lifting tendrils away from a face made even more beautiful by the love in her dark blue eyes. He had last seen her behind a hospital tent and now she was on the steps to the Rescue Express’s caboose in a long gray cotton crepe dress with a white piqué collar, white cap, and white pullover apron with a Red Cross emblem.
“Paul.” Her voice was tremulous, eager, uncertain.
Wiggins reached out, took her small hands in his huge ones, and pulled her aboard with a flourish. They stood together at the rail, wheels clacking on silver tracks, the woo of the whistle a triumphant cry. He looked down at her with the love of a lifetime shining in his face. “Welcome home, sweet Lorraine.”