Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  Sam’s grizzled black hair looked unruly, as if he’d received an early call and scarcely paused to use a comb. Sam is a big, solid, muscular man. His face is blunt with bold features. His brown suit was wrinkled, perhaps from several days’ wear. I thought the white shirt was fresh. His red tie was already loosened and yanked to one side. Sam wasn’t looking at the pulled-back painting or the interior of the safe or the open door. He stared at the floor next to the desk.

  Susan would not have the chance to tell Wilbur Fitch about the ransom call or promise somehow to return the stolen money. Wilbur Fitch lay stretched on the floor, the back of his head a mass of dried blood and lacerated tissue. He appeared smaller in death, the body slumped heavily face forward. He wore a white tuxedo shirt, the collar and back now stained with blood, tuxedo trousers, black socks, and navy blue house shoes.

  Brisk steps sounded. Tall, blond Detective Sergeant Hal Price strode into the study. I am very fond of Hal and take no small credit for his recent marriage. He stopped next to the chief, gazed at the still body. “Damn.”

  Sam gave him an inquiring look.

  Hal jammed his hands into his slacks pockets. “Deirdre and I were here last night. Wilbur loved to throw big parties. This was to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the founding of Fitch Enterprises. He started in a ten-by-twelve-foot decrepit old shed down by the railroad tracks. That was his first warehouse. He described the rats that fought him for possession, and I mean real rats with six-inch tails. He had a hell of a good time. Like he said, From rat house to this house. He was a complicated guy. Down-home, liked his grits, no pretense, but he filled a room. You knew he was there, and you knew he could buy and sell anybody anytime he chose. He worked like a demon. He liked to brag about never getting more than three or four hours’ sleep, yet he had more energy than anyone around him.” A pause. “Last night he didn’t look like a man who was going to be murdered. Danced every dance, mostly with Minerva Lloyd. They’ve been an item for five, six years. Ever since his last divorce. He also danced with a really good-looking gal. Deirdre knows her out at the college. Juliet Rodriguez, a psychology prof.” Hal’s gaze flickered to the safe, then the body. “I’d say he opened the safe and somebody took him out with a blackjack.”

  The slap of sneakers. A wiry bundle of energy in a ratty sweatshirt, faded jeans, and sneakers hurtled through the door. Jacob Brandt was the local medical examiner. He stopped just inside the door, gave a low whistle. “I got the call. Didn’t know it was the master of the manse. Somehow you don’t expect Croesus to get offed.” He was across the room, dropping to one knee and pushing up the sleeve of the baggy gray sweatshirt. He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from a back pocket, picked up a flaccid arm, held the wrist. “Yeah. Dead. Probably”—he moved the limp arm—“about five to seven hours ago. At the earliest around one a.m. Back of his skull crushed. Likely never knew what hit him.”

  “A blackjack?” Hal asked.

  “Could be. Or wet sand knotted in a sock. Great weapon. Whack, empty out the sand, throw the sock in the wash. Good to go. Nobody will ever prove a connection to murder.” He came to his feet. “I’ll get you a report. But pretty obvious. Blunt trauma. Now I got to get out to the high school. A body found in the football stands. No sign of foul play. But opiates are about as foul as it comes.” His young face was bleak as he headed into the hall.

  As Brandt left, death officially established, the uniformed phalanx from the hall entered, free now to begin slow careful measurements, take pictures, lift fingerprints, collect evidence.

  Sam gave the open safe another look, then lumbered toward the hall door, skirting Wilbur Fitch’s outflung hand. Hal walked beside him. When they stepped into the hall, Weitz and Smith both stood a little taller and straighter.

  I was at Sam’s elbow when he said to Hal, “I want to know what was in that safe.”

  Hal nodded, checked his phone. “Wilbur’s secretary arrived about ten minutes ago. She may be able to help. She’s in with the people who were on the premises when we arrived.”

  “Who was in the house when the body was discovered?”

  Hal used a thumb to slide the screen. “Carl Ross, Fitch’s butler. Marta Jones, cook. She arrived at the house shortly after six, never left the kitchen. The housekeeper, Rosalind Millbrook. Three employees of a local maid service, Emma Edwards, JoAnn Harmon, and Ellen Garcia. The housekeeper oversees their work. They come daily. One houseguest, Ben Fitch, his son.”

  Weitz spoke up. “Dispatcher was notified at a quarter to eight.” She pulled a slim notebook from a pocket. “Fitch’s butler reported a homicide, identified victim as Wilbur Fitch. Ross told dispatch he was looking for Mr. Fitch, that his bed had not been slept in. He came downstairs, saw a light shining out into the hall from the study. When he walked into the study, he found Mr. Fitch lying on the floor with the back of his head caved in. Ross said he was unable to find any sign of life. First officers on the scene were Holliday and Cain. Three cruisers followed and an ambulance. Officer Holliday directed the occupants of the house to gather in the living room and remain silent until called for an interview. Officer Holliday remains on duty there. Officer Cain directed a search of the house and found no one in any of the rooms. The officers in Cars Three and Four searched the grounds. No one found.”

  Sam looked up and down the hall. “Where can we talk to these people?”

  Detective Smith gestured down the long hallway. “The dining room.”

  Sam nodded. “Get the secretary.”

  • • •

  The banners hung still and straight. Sunlight slanted through huge east windows, making the crimson letters FITCH vivid against white silk, the blue Dodgers pennant bright as the day it was made, the Oklahoma flag glorious with seven red-tipped eagle feathers dangling from an Osage buffalo hide shield on a blue field.

  Sam wasn’t diminished by the length of the long table. He sat at the head of the table, solid, stalwart, and commanding. The chair to his right was empty. Hal Price sat next to the unoccupied seat. Judy Weitz lifted out a recorder, checked to be sure it was in working order, placed it on the table, took her place across from Hal.

  Officer Holliday held the massive dining room door open as Susan stepped inside. She paused, eyes wide, glanced around as if seeking someone. She stood in a shaft of sunlight, young and appealing in her blue sweater and gray slacks.

  Sam rose. “We appreciate speaking to you, Miss Gilbert. I’m Sam Cobb, chief of police.” He nodded at Hal, who also rose. “Detective Sergeant Hal Price. Detective Judy Weitz.” He gestured at the empty chair to his right. “Please sit here.”

  Judy Weitz turned on the recorder, spoke in a low clear voice: “Interview with Susan Gilbert, 9:28 a.m., Wednesday, November 16.”

  It seemed to take a long time for Susan to walk the length of the table. The clip of her shoes on the flagstone floor sounded loud in the utter quiet. She knew every eye watched her. She managed to appear composed though concerned. Obviously anyone would be concerned to come to work and be greeted by a police presence. Her gaze moved from face to unrevealing face.

  Hal pulled out the chair for her. She nodded her thanks as she sat down. The oblong pin holding her scarf glittered in the sunlight. I hoped the flash of red and blue and green stones didn’t emphasize the paleness of her face.

  The massive grandfather clock at the far end of the room tolled the half hour. Nine thirty.

  Susan gripped her hands together. She spoke in a rush. “I have an appointment at noon. I need to leave here at a quarter to twelve.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem, Miss Gilbert. Now for a few particulars.” Sam quickly obtained name, age, address, education, marital status, work history.

  Susan replied as quickly, then leaned forward, her face anxious. “Where is Wilbur? Did he call you here?” Her voice was shaky.

  Sam watched her with interest. He was always quick to sen
se unease, the telltale tension that betrays knowledge or fear or, sometimes, guilt.

  “Why would Mr. Fitch call us?” His tone was guileless, as if he were merely inquiring, but his brown eyes were intent.

  Susan burst out, “Something’s wrong. Why are you here? What’s going on? Why were we kept in the living room and told not to talk? Where’s Wilbur? He’s always in charge. What’s happened?”

  Sam’s deep voice was pleasant. “We are conducting an investigation. We received a nine-one-one call at seven forty-five this morning. Carl Ross entered the study—”

  Susan’s face was suddenly sunken.

  Sam watched her reaction, as focused as a hawk circling above a rabbit.

  “—and he found Mr. Fitch’s body near his desk.”

  Susan stared at him in horror. She leaned forward, held to the edge of the table. “In the study?” The words were scarcely audible. “That can’t be true.” She repeated, “That can’t be true.” But Sam Cobb’s face told her she had not been the only visitor to the study last night, that she had come and gone, and that Wilbur entered the study later and never left.

  Sam was now on full alert. Susan’s response wasn’t quite right. Instead of shock at murder, she was shocked at the site of the discovery. “Are you surprised Mr. Fitch was in the study late at night?”

  Susan shifted in the chair. “Sometimes when I come—came—to work I’d find notes on my desk. I have a desk in a little alcove on one side of the room. He didn’t sleep much. Everyone knew that. It would be like him to come to the study to work without thinking about the time. And you said he was found there?”

  “Or perhaps”—Sam’s gaze was riveted on her pale face—“he found someone in his study.” When she made no reply, he pressed her. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t believe this has happened.” Her face crumpled. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I never knew anyone more alive. When he walked into the room, it was as if the lights were suddenly brighter and the music louder. Everything was better. He shouted a lot”—tears slipped down her cheeks—“but he was kind and generous.”

  “Apparently he was struck down after he opened the safe.”

  “The safe?” She scarcely managed to speak. “The safe was open?”

  “Yes.” Sam’s stare was hard. “You know about the painting that conceals the safe?”

  “The painting moves.” Her voice was thin and shaky.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what caused the look of devastation that followed his mention of the safe. “Do you know why he would open the safe?”

  She shook her head.

  “Please answer yes or no.”

  “No.”

  “Are you familiar with the contents of the safe?”

  “Yes.” The reply was barely audible.

  Sam leaned forward. “How do you know the contents of the safe?”

  “Sometimes Wilbur asked me to bring things from the safe.”

  “Such as?”

  “He has two valuable coin collections. American Gold Eagles and Roman coins from the time of Julius Caesar. When he worked”—she edged her tongue over dry lips—“he’d ask for one of the collections. He kept the American Eagles in a small lacquered wooden chest and the Roman coins in a velvet bag, and he’d put the chest or bag on the desk and open it. He picked out special coins that he liked and arranged them, sometimes in rows, sometimes in stacks. He said touching coins that had survived through the centuries relaxed him. Sometimes he’d talk about a particular coin, tell me its age and what it was worth. He knew the value of each coin.”

  “Was there anything else in the safe that would attract a thief?”

  “The shoe box.” At Sam’s frown, she continued jerkily, “Wilbur wanted cash available at any time of the day or night. He kept stacks of fifty-dollar bills in the box.”

  “Was the box full?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much money was in the box?”

  “I don’t know. I think perhaps a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Sam gave a soft whistle. His eyes slid toward Hal. Hal pushed back his chair.

  Susan’s head swiveled to watch him cross to the huge door, push through.

  A trill from a xylophone brought Susan to her feet, the chair crashing behind her on the stone floor. She scrabbled to tug her cell phone from her pocket, could scarcely stand she trembled so hard. Eyes wide and panicked, she held the phone, swiped. “Sylvie?” Her voice was half cry, half sob. “Oh, it’s you, it’s you— Wrong? I’ve been terrified. Where did they take you? Who was it? How did you get away?”

  Sam heaved to his feet and Judy Weitz rose. To them, Susan’s sudden distress must look like hysteria.

  Susan rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her face. “Did they hurt you?” Her face suddenly changed. “Wait. Start over. . . .”

  Sam frowned. “Ms. Gilbert—”

  Susan held up a hand. “I have to talk to my sister.” She spoke into the phone, the words rushing ahead, quick, urgent, frantic. “I thought you’d been kidnapped. I got a call last night—” She broke off, listened, her face a picture of incomprehension. “A prize?” Susan reached out, gripped the top slat in the chair, held on to it. “So it was a lie. Oh my God. But you’re all right. Please stay there. I’ll be home as soon as I can. Something dreadful has happened and the police are here. When I finish talking to them, I’ll come home. Stay there.”

  She still held tight to the chair as she slid the phone into her pocket.

  Sam came around the end of the long table, loomed over her, his face stern. “Who did you think was kidnapped?”

  Susan stood quite still and straight. Abruptly, she lifted her chin, met his demanding stare. “I have information for you. But first I need to get something out of my car.”

  The big door swung in. Hal hesitated for an instant when he saw Sam and Judy standing and staring at Susan.

  Sam’s tone was steely. “You are not free to go until you explain that call and whatever call you received last night.”

  Hal closed the door behind him, stood with his hands loose at his side, feet apart, ready to block her way.

  I truly revere the Precepts, including Precept Three: “Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.” But as I am often forced to remind Wiggins, there are exceptions to the rule. I dropped down next to Sam, stood on tiptoe—he is much taller than I—and whispered, “Let her go to the car, Sam.”

  As I’ve said before, it’s been my pleasure to assist Sam in several investigations. He has always been quite appreciative. Of course, he had no inkling I was currently in Adelaide, much less that I was present in the Fitch dining room. To say the whisper startled him put the situation quite mildly. He jerked toward the sound. “What—” he began, then broke off, clamped his lips together.

  I’m afraid he almost exclaimed What the hell! and I was glad he caught himself. He stood like a bull pricked by a banderilla. I knew it took every bit of his iron discipline not to stare wildly about. But he knew what he’d heard. “On second thought,” he said slowly, “you may go to your car. Detective Weitz will escort you, then you will return here.”

  I gave him an approving pat on the shoulder.

  His eyes slid sideways, though he knew he wouldn’t see me.

  Susan showed spunk that had not been evident last night when she’d labored under extreme fear. “I have every intention of returning here.” She whirled and hurried across the stone floor.

  Hal held the door for Judy Weitz and Susan, then crossed to stand by Sam. “No shoe box in the safe. No bag or chest full of coins, either.”

  I left as Sam and Hal returned to the table. Outside, I was next to Susan when she unlocked the trunk. I was torn. Obviously, she’d decided to tell the police what had happened. Certainly, that decision wa
s admirable. But I didn’t see how this was going to end well.

  Susan leaned into the trunk, grabbed the book bag. She pulled out the Reebok shoe box, dropped the bag on the floor of the trunk. She ignored the leather gloves lying on the floor of the trunk, but Judy saw them. “Gloves?” she inquired gently.

  “I don’t need them.” Susan’s tone was crisp.

  I was even more uneasy when we walked into the dining room.

  Sam and Hal stared at the shoe box. Sam’s face was suddenly harder, his brown eyes colder. Hal’s lips pursed in a silent whistle.

  Susan marched directly to the end of the table, plopped the box down in front of Sam. She stood and spoke fast, starting with the ransom call. “Last night . . .”

  Sam interrupted after she described the demand for a hundred thousand dollars. “You should have called the police.”

  Her dark brown eyes were defiant. “They said they’d kill Sylvie.”

  “You talk about they. One person? Two?”

  Susan shook her head. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a real voice. It was high and metallic, like something out of a machine. I don’t know if the caller was a man or a woman. All I know is they said they had Sylvie and I had to do exactly as ordered or she wouldn’t live. I thought they had her tied up and hidden somewhere. But that didn’t happen. Sylvie said—”

  Sam held up a broad hand. “We’ll talk to your sister. You’re telling us about last night.”

  “Last night.” She took a breath. “The voice said I had to pay a hundred thousand dollars. I said I didn’t have that kind of money, couldn’t get it, and the voice said, Oh yes, you can get it. Go to Wilbur’s safe and bring the box. So I—”

  Sam interrupted again. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may . . .”