Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  I added Wilbur Fitch’s name to the list. Google showed enough results to warrant a week of reading. I was more interested in a full-length portrait recently hung in the library at the college. Short curly reddish hair flecked with silver, big face, broad forehead, bold nose, blunt chin. Instead of a formal blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, he wore a baggy gray sweater, khaki slacks, and Adidas sans socks. The artist captured the eagle sharpness of dark brown eyes, the steel strong determination of firmly closed lips. He stood near a table littered with old computer parts, balancing a mouse on one big palm. The image radiated energy. I could picture him striding up and down the aisles in a warehouse or negotiating deals. I would be very interested to learn what Wilbur Fitch, intense, engaged, observant, noted about his guests when he called for his secretary to bring the coins from the safe to the dining room.

  • • •

  I woke up, grateful for the warmth of a cotton nightgown. Susan kept her house chilly at night, too. I was deliberately up very early. I neatly folded the sheets and blanket, placed them atop a pillow at one end of the couch. To start a day that would likely demand quick wits and a steady hand, I needed a hot shower, fresh clothes, and a first-class breakfast. I made sure Susan’s alarm was on and disappeared.

  I arrived at Rose Bower, a forty-room limestone mansion with extensive formal gardens on fifty acres of woodlands. The grand estate is used for honored visitors and special events. I’d spent time there—mostly unseen—when in Adelaide to tidy up concerns about vandalism at the library. I appeared in a stately upstairs bedroom that was flamboyantly red, a Victorian sofa in red damask, a four-poster bed with red bolsters, velvet hangings in red. The fire engine brightness was surely a supercharged way to start the day. After a luxurious hot shower, I appreciated the oversize fluffy towel. I appeared and chose a costume for a good day. I’m afraid Wiggins considers my interest in fashion frivolous, but appropriate dress supports successful action. This was a day to settle down to business: Bring Sylvie safely home. Arrange the arrest of a kidnapper. Return the box of cash to Wilbur’s safe.

  I pirouetted in front a charming full-length Victorian mirror in an oak frame and nodded approvingly at a bright red cowl-neck sweater, a plaid bouclé skirt, blue and red squares against a fawn background, and red suede wedgies. My red curls were shiny, my green eyes eager. Confident I was well-dressed, I disappeared.

  Lulu’s Cafe on Main Street was the best place in town for breakfast, lunch, and dinner in my day. Happily for me, Lulu’s continues to thrive. Outside Lulu’s, I ducked into a dark doorway and became visible. I pushed through the front door. It’s nice that some things don’t change. The plate glass mirror reflected the counter with a row of red leather stools, a few tables in the center, and four booths against the opposite wall. The smell of bacon and sausage and coffee tantalized. There was only one space at the counter, the tables were filled with Adelaide’s movers and shakers. I looked at the booths.

  Wiggins lifted a hand in a summoning gesture.

  Uh-oh. How did he know I was coming here? But I knew the answer. Wiggins keeps close track of his emissaries. Usually, he isn’t in touch unless he is displeased or uneasy. I sped to the back of the room and slid onto the smooth leather opposite him. Instead of his stiff blue cap and heavy white shirt and flannel trousers, he was appropriately attired in a plaid flannel shirt open at the neck and brown trousers. His big face was a bit chiding. But only a bit.

  I believe in setting the tone. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Precept Four.”

  “Become visible only when absolutely necessary.” I spoke rapidly and put heartfelt emphasis on the final word.

  He raised a thick reddish eyebrow. “Necessary?”

  “Susan’s only twenty-four.” My tone evoked the image of a pitiful waif in a dungeon. “She’s terrified for her little sister. She needed reassurance. I was compelled to comfort her.”

  “Umph.”

  His response was noncommittal but not a resounding negative. I pressed my case. “Alone. Late at night. No call from the kidnappers. She felt hopeless.”

  As he slowly nodded, a tall, thin waitress arrived with a pot of coffee. She filled our cups. Her long face was a road map of lost illusions softened by the willingness to smile and be kind. “You folks good today?” Her voice was raspy.

  “We’re fine.” Wiggins smiled.

  “Heavenly,” I added.

  She gave me a quick look. “Now that’s a new one. I like that. Heavenly. Next time my smart-mouth boyfriend texts me he ain’t coming, I’ll text back: Having a Heavenly day. That’ll bring him running. He’ll think I got a slab of ribs or a hot blackjack hand. Now, what can I get you folks?”

  I ordered sausage, grits, fried eggs, and Texas toast. Wiggins chose bacon, scrambled eggs, corned beef hash, and biscuits with cream gravy. She saw my envious look. “You want some gravy, hon?” I nodded.

  As she moved away, I avoided his gaze and hurried to speak. “Of course I was desolate to contravene Precept Four”—if my language was somewhat stilted, it was deliberately chosen for my listener—“because—”

  A rumble of laugher interrupted me.

  I looked up at him.

  Wiggins’s spaniel brown eyes were kind. “I remind myself that you mean well. And”—he brightened—“Susan clings to the thought that she is imagining you. Certainly that perception is better than for her to truly recognize your status. And”—now his tone warmed—“that’s the only time you have appeared. One transgression does not destroy a mission. We all”—magnanimity here—“must be granted some understanding.”

  The implication is that we both knew I was a wobbly emissary but one strike didn’t send me to the bench.

  Our plates arrived and we tucked into our magnificent Lulu breakfast. I was delighting in the excellence of cream gravy on Texas toast when Wiggins gave an avuncular nod. “Your appearance to reassure Susan is understandable. In the main, you have done excellent work.”

  I felt like Donald Lam when Bertha Cool admired his efforts.

  “However.”

  The Texas toast remained poised in the air.

  “I have a grave concern.” His face creased in a troubled frown.

  I replaced the toast on my plate, waited apprehensively.

  “The box.” His glance was conspiratorial, and his voice dropped. “You know the box to which I refer?”

  I nodded and pictured the red, white, and blue box on the card table in Susan’s living room.

  “We cannot”—his voice was firm—“be complicit in the execution of grand theft. I have a solution.”

  I began to breathe again. “Solution?”

  “Find a store that sells that kind of shoe. Surely some boxes are discarded. Taking such a box isn’t theft. If the disappearance is noticed, it will simply be one of those puzzles that occur in everyday life.” His look was hopeful. “A box is missing. They will find a solution.” He gave a casual wave of the hand holding a strip of bacon.

  Shoe stores display their wares. There would be discarded boxes. I would procure one. I said quickly, “That’s easy to arrange.”

  He beamed approval. “Fill the box with folded sheets of newspaper or anything that makes the weight similar to the box filled with bills. If you hurry you can take care of this before Susan arises. She will leave the box with paper wherever the kidnapper directs, and you can return the original box to its owner.”

  And in my spare time I could solve the problems of globalism and climate change. However, as my mama always told us kids: “To change a man’s plan, start with praise.”

  “Wiggins”—I gazed with wide-eyed admiration—“that is simply a splendid solution.” I paused as if struck by a thought. “But Susan is quite a good secretary, and good secretaries double-check. I can’t make the substitution until she looks to be sure the money is in the box. Then I’m sure there
will be a moment when I can make the switch.” Another pause. Did I appear to have a thought balloon above my head? “Oh. I just realized what will happen. The kidnapper will tell Susan to leave the box in a particular place and then depart. The kidnapper will come and get the box and open it. If the money isn’t in there, Sylvie won’t be released, and—it’s frightening to imagine—the kidnapper might follow through on the threat to harm her.” I pressed fingertips against my cheeks. “I know!” Triumph lifted my voice. “I will remain with the box, follow the kidnapper to be sure Sylvie is released, and then I will take the box.”

  Wiggins nodded judiciously. “A good plan, Bailey Ruth, a very good plan.”

  I didn’t tell him it was my original plan. I simply looked modestly pleased.

  • • •

  Susan was attractive in a turquoise cashmere sweater and gray slacks. But the fingers holding a pin to fasten a matching cashmere scarf shook, and her face was drawn and forlorn. She managed to fasten the scarf then whirled and walked to the card table. She started to pick up the box, her hand inches away from the cardboard side, froze. Instead she grabbed the black leather gloves lying there, pulled them on. True to my warning to Wiggins, she lifted the lid, slapped it back in place. She stood beside the card table, her shoulders hunched, and held the box tightly in her gloved hands. Her dark eyes scanned the room.

  It would be daunting to have in your possession more than a hundred thousand dollars in a modest house with ordinary door locks and windows that likely could easily be pushed up. Was she thinking what might happen if a thief chose this morning to break in? She tucked the box under her arm and walked across the room to a hall closet. She opened the closet door, pulled out a canvas book bag, slid the box in. She glanced at the clock, put an arm through the bag’s cotton straps, grabbed her purse, and hurried outside. When she reached the car, she struggled again with indecision, finally opened the trunk, put the book bag inside. She removed the gloves and dropped them beside the carryall.

  In the car she gripped the wheel tightly, backed out, drove fast, the same route we’d taken the night before. She stared straight ahead, her shoulders rigid.

  “Think of Waikiki and ukuleles.”

  Her head jerked toward the apparently empty passenger seat. “The sheets and blanket were folded on top of the pillow this morning on the couch. I thought maybe I’d dreamed you and put the bed things out.”

  “I’m here.” I made my voice deliberately cheery. “It’s a beautiful day.” The air was November thin, but sunlight spilled through the trees and onto the street. “Soon Sylvie will be home and we’ll put the money back in the safe and—”

  One gloved hand swept from the wheel, fumbled, found my arm, gripped. “Are you sure?” Her voice was heartbreakingly husky.

  “Of course.” I prayed my hope was true, that a bright young life was safe, would be safe. “You’ll get a call—”

  Her grip on my arm tightened. “That’s what I thought.” The words came in jerks. “That’s why I put the money in the trunk. Sometimes I go home for lunch, but I thought if the call came at noon and I already had the money in the car, I could take it wherever. It’s almost eight now. Four more hours and Sylvie will come home.” Her hand let go of my arm, returned to the wheel. “Then I’ll tell Wilbur what happened and promise to pay him back. If he calls the police, I don’t care, not if Sylvie is safe.”

  “Everything will go according to plan.” I felt relaxed as Susan turned onto Hillside, the wide street that curved through trees to the ridge where Wilbur Fitch’s mansion stood. The car came around the willows.

  Susan drew in a sharp breath and braked. The mansion spread in three-story grandeur atop the hill, golden walls gilded by the early morning sun. Cars filled the circular drive: a half dozen police cars, a silver Lexus, a brown sedan that looked familiar to me. A police cruiser was parked sideways at either end of the drive, blocking access or departure. Red beacons flashed.

  “Continue toward the house.” I was firm. “You can’t drive away. The policeman saw you.”

  “Do you think”—she scarcely managed the words—“Wilbur knows the money’s gone?”

  “You are coming to work. You have to act as though you don’t know anything about a robbery. Go on up to the foot of the drive.”

  I knew it took every ounce of Susan’s will to drive forward, to pull up beside the police car. She rolled down her window.

  The officer, young with short-cut brown hair, a thin face, and brown eyes alive with excitement, stepped up to the window. “Access to this residence is closed, ma’am.”

  “What’s happened?” She looked at the cars in the drive, the many official cars.

  “No visitors are allowed. An investigation is in progress.”

  That could mean anything from a hunt for a rabid dog to a domestic incident to a homicide. But I found it hard to believe the police presence had nothing to do with a missing shoe box crammed with fifties. I poked Susan.

  She managed to speak. “I’m Susan Gilbert, Mr. Fitch’s secretary. I’m due at work at eight thirty.”

  I hoped he didn’t notice that her voice was wobbly.

  “Wait here.” He walked away, pulled a cell phone from his belt.

  Susan stared up the drive. “What am I going to do?”

  “You are a secretary. You are here to work. Get that terrified look off your face.”

  “What if—”

  I placed a cautionary finger on her lips as the young policeman strode back to the car. “You can go up. I’ll move the cruiser.”

  Susan turned the car into the drive. She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the cruiser once again move into position to block the drive. “I’m trapped.” Her voice was toneless.

  “Don’t worry. Somehow everything will work out. If you have to stay here”—she shot me a panicked glance—“I’ll take your cell and keys and see that the money gets where it needs to go.” I wasn’t sure how I could manage that legerdemain, but my objective at the moment was to keep Susan from crumbling. She had to deal with whatever awaited us in the mansion basking in sunlight.

  A stone-faced officer with midnight black hair in a ponytail waved her to a parking spot behind the gleaming silver Lexus. She was crisp. “Go straight ahead, up the steps. Inside turn right.”

  As we walked, Susan murmured, “That’s the main living room. Maybe there’s a gas leak or something.” Her voice was hopeful. “They send out lots of cars for something like that.”

  But I was looking at the brown sedan, and its presence didn’t reassure me. However, Wilbur Fitch was an important citizen, and a crime at his home—theft from his safe?—might well bring out the Adelaide chief of police.

  Waiting near the broad front steps was Joan Crandall, the Gazette’s star reporter, obviously alerted by the police scanner in the newsroom. The breeze stirred her silver-streaked brown hair, tugged at a shapeless cardigan. As we started up the steps, she called out to Susan, “Name?”

  Susan ducked her head, ignored the question, hurried to the front door, which stood open. She stepped inside, and an officer with blond hair and a pleasant face gestured at an archway.

  The archway opened into a magnificent room with Louis XVI furniture and paintings that would look at home at the Louvre. Six chairs were filled. A balding man with alert brown eyes sat with his powerful arms folded, his broad face impassive. He was unshaven in a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants and sneakers. A woman in a red jumper and an apron flicked uneasy glances toward the hallway. A statuesque blonde, her coronet braids precise, fingered a pearl necklace at the throat of an attractive gray cashmere turtleneck. Her slender face was distressed. Occupying straight chairs were three women in neat gray uniforms with Acme Cleaning stitched on the left shirt pocket. Three very different faces but in common each stared with rounded eyes at the policewoman in the doorway. Standing near a fireplace was Wilbur’s son Ben
, his dark hair scarcely combed, barefoot in a T-shirt and jeans. He was clearly in a state of shock, his hands placed on the back of a straight chair in a viselike grip.

  There was not a vestige of sound.

  Susan stopped in the archway. One hand rose to her throat. “Ben, what’s happened?”

  He looked at her. His eyes held anguish and disbelief. “Susan, Dad’s—”

  A hefty officer in his late twenties was brusque. “No talking. Each person will be interviewed. Until then, no conversation.”

  Susan walked to a straight-backed chair beneath a tropical Gauguin. She sat down, clutching her purse, her face tight with anxiety.

  I knew terror tugged at her heart. Had Wilbur Fitch discovered the theft? She must feel like a desperate animal trapped in quicksand. Could she leave this room? Would she be stopped? If she was held here, how could she deliver the ransom and save Sylvie?

  Chapter 4

  I bent near, whispered, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be back.”

  Her response was a quick intake of breath. The rigidity of her body didn’t lessen. Perhaps my unseen presence was some comfort. Or perhaps she was concerned about what I might do. She was overwhelmed by her fear for Sylvie and a desperate need to be free when the ransom call came. Likely she was terrified that the theft of the box filled with cash accounted for the police presence and the sequestering of those present in a room heavy with forced silence.

  I needed to find out what I could as quickly as I could, perhaps devise some means of escape for Susan.

  Several police officers and forensic techs clustered in the hallway. Near the open door to Wilbur Fitch’s study I saw two detectives I recognized, tall lanky Don Smith and sturdy Judy Weitz. Don was a computer-savvy detective with a sardonic worldview. Judy, placid faced and cheerful, was always pleasant and even-tempered, but it would be a mistake to equate her stolidity with stupidity. Don’s strong-boned face squinted in thought. Judy gazed into the study, watched with bright observant eyes.

  Inside the study, Adelaide police chief Sam Cobb stood next to the massive mahogany desk. On the wall behind the desk, the painting was pulled to one side to reveal the open door to the safe. I felt a squeezing in my chest. Susan had definitely closed the safe last night. Now the safe was open. Also open was the door to the garden. A slight breeze stirred the long velvet drape nearest the door.