Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  She thumped the desk with a fist. “I understand the killer is in the building.”

  “We will interrogate a person of interest—”

  “The secretary?”

  “Not for publication.” His voice was hard. “But,” he hurried to forestall an explosion, “you are right to have the news conference. Tell reporters Wilbur Fitch was found dead in his study this morning. He suffered blunt trauma to the head. He was attacked from behind. The weapon has not been found. The ME says he was killed with a blackjack or some similar weapon. There are no witnesses to the crime. Tell reporters a shoe box filled with cash and some rare coins that were missing from his safe have been recovered. There is uncertainty as yet about the identity of his killer, but police hope to announce an arrest—” He glanced up at his clock. It was a quarter to noon. “—within forty-eight hours.”

  The explosion came. “Forty-eight hours! You have the killer here at this very moment.”

  Sam came to his feet. She was six feet tall, but he was taller. “The best of all possible worlds, Neva. You can have another press conference at noon tomorrow, spill out some more facts. I’ll keep you up to date. Friday you can announce an arrest, wrap it all up with a big red bow.”

  Some enjoy visions of sugarplums. Neva Lumpkin’s eyes glistened. Three press conferences . . .

  • • •

  Neva Lumpkin waved grandly at wooden straight chairs in a small room on the third floor of City Hall. She nodded at Joan Crandall from the Gazette and Deke Carson, a slouchy stringer for several papers, but Neva beamed at a portly newsman in a rumpled sweater and gray slacks. “You’re Ted Burton, the AP bureau chief from Oklahoma City.” He nodded. “I saw you at the conference of mayors.”

  It wouldn’t have surprised me if Neva had dossiers on all Oklahoma reporters.

  The room seemed full with the addition of three highly lacquered blonde TV reporters and their accompanying cameramen.

  Neva gazed at each in turn. Her makeup was freshly applied, a fact apparent to any observer. She would certainly be visible on-screen, pink patches on her full cheeks and lips bright enough to rival a cherry Popsicle.

  “It is with great sadness that I announce the brutal murder of Wilbur Fitch, one of Adelaide’s finest citizens. Mr. Fitch was found . . .” She followed Sam’s lead, concluding, “. . . intense investigation is under way and we expect to announce an arrest as soon as possible. A press conference will be held at noon tomorrow.” She was too canny a politician to reveal Sam’s decision to hold off on an arrest until Friday. Let the reporters assume there might be big news tomorrow.

  Joan Crandall got the first question: How much money was in the shoe box?

  The mayor was ready, thanks to Detective Howie Harris, her mole in the department: Approximately one hundred thousand dollars.

  The AP bureau chief: How was the money recovered?

  Neva was bland: Outstanding detective work. The details will be revealed when the arrest is announced.

  The stringer, Deke Carson, was as unprepossessing as when I first observed him during the murders at Silver Lake Lodge: Is Fitch’s secretary in custody?

  Howie had apparently been sharing what he knew far and wide.

  Crandall and the bureau chief looked like pointers sighting a fox.

  Crandall: Who is his secretary?

  Bureau Chief: Is the secretary a “person of interest”?

  Neva’s eyes narrowed. I suspected Howie would be instructed that she and only she spoke with reporters. “The investigation has not formally designated a ‘person of interest.’ However, I can assure you appropriate steps are being taken. Mr. Fitch’s secretary is Susan Gilbert, and she is, along with others, being interrogated by detectives in accordance with standard investigative practices. I assure you that—”

  I rather doubted Neva would recognize an investigative practice if it joined her for morning coffee.

  “—I and the Adelaide Police Department focus on the safety of our community. Intense surveillance has been arranged, and the public need have no fear that any danger is abroad. Thank you very much. The next news conference will be tomorrow at noon.”

  • • •

  I was familiar with the interrogation room at the police station. Stark light from fluorescent bars in the ceiling illuminated the straight wooden chair where Susan Gilbert sat. Her face was drawn and pale. In her eyes I saw shock from the discovery of the small wooden chest and the red velvet bag hidden beneath a tub in her backyard. She had to feel surrounded by danger, enmeshed in a trap with no way to escape. And wondering what hellish surprise might occur next.

  Sam Cobb and Hal Price sat behind a wooden table. Sam’s heavy face was folded in a frown. He knew what I’d told him, but Susan’s guilt seemed apparent. Hal’s gaze at her was cold. He’d liked Wilbur Fitch, and he obviously thought Susan was guilty.

  A legal pad and pen were at each place. The table was far enough from the chair to be out of the bright fluorescent light. Sam clicked on a gooseneck lamp, twisted it to send another bright beam at Susan.

  She blinked, turned a little to avoid the direct flare in her eyes.

  Sam cleared his throat, repeated the Miranda warning. “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

  I bent close to Susan, whispered, “Ask him if the police have checked with neighbors about anyone seen near your house last night between one and two a.m.”

  She jerked to one side, slid her gaze in my direction.

  Sam broke off, picked up again. “. . . the right to an attorney . . .”

  I tried again. “Tell him you didn’t put the coins there but obviously someone did.” Susan gave a very good imitation of a rabbit mesmerized by a snake, but she did as instructed.

  I said forcefully, or as forcefully as one can whisper, “The murderer was there!”

  “You need to—” Susan’s voice was thin.

  I wished she’d stop flicking her eyes from one side to the other.

  “—find out who was in my backyard after midnight. The murderer put those coins there. Not me.”

  “Check the neighbors.” Perhaps my whisper was a little too sibilant.

  Sam’s face had a curious expression, a mixture of uneasiness, irritation, and resignation. Hal leaned forward and peered as if he might, if he looked hard enough, see something—or someone—who wasn’t there.

  “Check the neighbors,” she blurted.

  I scarcely heard her voice over the deep whoo of the Rescue Express. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I was being summoned. Another tap and my hand was lifted to point at the ceiling.

  • • •

  “What a pleasant surprise.” I flavored my tone with the slightest emphasis on surprise. I knew Wiggins had joined me on the roof. I smelled coal smoke as I sat on the two-foot coping. If I turned a bit I would have a wonderful view of downtown Adelaide and the park across from City Hall. Though the sun was high, it cast the thin warmth of November. I felt much warmer with the addition of a beautifully textured red wool jacket with a scalloped lapel. “How is everything?” Perhaps we could visit about some of his other emissaries. Perhaps I’d ask if any problems had arisen lately in Tumbulgum. There had been an occasion when he was distracted by activities in that lovely remote community in Australia.

  Wiggins’s deep voice was right beside me. “Quite satisfactory since Sylvie was simply the victim of a practical joke. I’m afraid I sent you on a wild-goose chase. There was no kidnapping. And Susan showed her good character when she immediately handed over the shoe box. I was a bit uncomfortable about the shoe box. Your task is done—”

  The rumble of wheels was near, the whoo of the whistle deafening.

  “Wiggins”—I gave up my effort at casual repartee—“my task has only begun. The ‘kidnapping’ was a hoax with a sinister intent.” Did I sound enough like an Edwardian novel? “Susan Gilbert is
the main suspect in Wilbur Fitch’s murder. She returned the money but she admits to being in his study last night. The discovery of his coin collections in her backyard will be seen as proof Susan decoyed her sister and used her disappearance as a pretext for robbing the safe, was discovered in the act by Wilbur, that she killed him and this morning tried to establish her innocence by returning the shoe box, but she kept the coin collections.”

  Wiggins wasn’t worried. “You accompanied her on her mission to the study. You saw her take only the shoe box.”

  My nose wrinkled as a cloud of coal smoke enveloped me. “I know she’s innocent. You know she’s innocent. If it were possible for us to appear and vouch for her, all would be well.”

  “Oh. Harrumph.”

  I let Wiggins digest the problem. Then I played my ace. “Chief Cobb will arrest her forty-eight hours from now unless I find the murderer. When the clock strikes twelve noon on Friday, Susan will be led to a cell.”

  The Rescue Express thrummed on the rails.

  “Forty-eight hours.” Another harrumph. “You’d better get busy.”

  The whoo faded in the distance. The sound of clacking wheels grew faint and was gone.

  Forty-eight hours.

  • • •

  Sam Cobb was a busy man, surrounded by officers or techs, reporting, discussing, analyzing. I didn’t like the tenor of the talk. It was all Susan and nobody else. It occurred to me that I had important information. At the moment, two techs stood in front of his desk, describing the results of the investigation in Wilbur Fitch’s study. They stood with their backs to an old-fashioned green blackboard with white chalk resting in the tray.

  I picked up a piece of chalk.

  Sam happened to be looking toward the blackboard. His gaze fastened on the slowly rising chalk.

  I wrote: Privacy, please and drew a halo above the words. Not that I imbue my presence with any aspect of holiness, but I knew he’d understand.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Good work. I have to go into a conference in a moment so you can send me the reports.”

  As soon as the techs departed, Sam leaned forward, clicked his intercom: “Colleen, I’m unavailable for half an hour. Call Lulu’s and order salad with grilled chicken, ranch on—”

  I lifted the chalk, wrote rapidly: Cheeseburger with chili, fries, double malted.

  “—the side, iced tea. And add a chili cheeseburger, fries, and double malted.”

  I erased the blackboard.

  His secretary’s voice was amused. “Same old diet order but a little extra today?”

  Sam was brisk. “I’m not straying. I may have a visitor in a while.”

  Colleen was bland. “Of course. Order will be placed as requested.” The system clicked off.

  Sam gave a morose stare in the direction of the blackboard. “Claire keeps close tabs. I’ve lost twelve pounds. Got eight to go. She likes to visit with Colleen. Colleen won’t deliberately snitch, but she always tells the truth when asked.” He was lugubrious. “A fine quality for a police chief’s secretary.” He sounded resigned. Then he brightened. “You probably don’t want all the fries.”

  Lulu’s single order of fries was enough for me and a grizzly. I laughed. “Happy to share.”

  Sam gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Join me. I’d like to see you. Laughter issuing from the blackboard unnerves me, even though I know it’s you.”

  Sam’s office was a little chilly. A fringed lime and black plaid poncho over a lime cowl-neck sweater, black knit leggings, and black quilted boots were quite warm. I settled in the chair and crossed one leg over my knee.

  Sam’s face was bemused. “Sometimes I still wonder if I’m nuts. But you make my life interesting. You look like you’re headed for a football game. Say”—he leaned forward—“did you ever see Roger Staubach play?”

  “Bobby Mac loved the Sooners and the Cowboys.” For college ball, the Oklahoma Sooners thrilled in our day, and no one was better as a pro quarterback than Roger Staubach for Dallas. “Bobby Mac and I”—I paused for emphasis—“were in the stands in Minneapolis when Roger threw The Pass.”

  Sam was awed. “You were there?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it—” The cold December day in Minneapolis (seventeen degrees with wind chill), the desperate situation, only seconds remaining in the game. “—but first”—I edged the chair nearer his desk—“I have very important information.”

  Sam cleared his throat. “I hate to disappoint you—”

  I was suddenly apprehensive. These words rarely presage good news for a listener.

  “—but you backed the wrong horse this time.”

  I was shocked. “Susan?” It felt like riding in an elevator that dropped without warning.

  “Sorry.” His gaze was kind.

  “Sam, I was there. I heard her respond to the ransom call.”

  “Right.” He pulled a legal pad close, flipped several pages. “I got it right here. She got a ransom call, thinks her sister is kidnapped, hustles off to the Fitch house, burgles the safe—”

  “She took only the shoe box. Not the coins.”

  He was unimpressed. “Right. She took the shoe box, goes home. She waits for instructions about where to deliver the ransom. They don’t come. You convince her the call is set for twelve noon tomorrow, not midnight. You pick it up from there.”

  I gave him a sunny smile. “True confession. I came here. I didn’t think you would mind if I used your computer.”

  He expressed no surprise. “I turned it on after I got back from the Fitch house. I figured you’d been busy. Interesting searches.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “I checked out seven people. One of them”—I was emphatic—“killed Wilbur Fitch.”

  My grand pronouncement evoked a dismissive shrug. “Names given to you by Susan Gilbert?”

  A drop in temperature, a sudden gust of wind, thin streaks of gray clouds are portents of a coming storm. Sam regretted that he was going to disappoint me, and he dismissed my offer of suspects. Two unmistakable portents. I was not only apprehensive, I was chilled, but I soldiered on. “You admit there was a ransom call?”

  Sam folded his arms. “A hoax.”

  I was impatient. “A hoax, but that call revealed an important fact. The caller knew Susan could open the safe. How did the caller have that knowledge? At a luncheon the week before, Wilbur used his cell, called Susan, asked her to get the Roman coin collection out of the safe and bring it to the dining room.”

  Sam was as expressionless as a curio store stuffed alligator.

  I spoke with great clarity. “Seven people heard Wilbur tell Susan to get the coins from the safe.” I flicked off the names. “George Kelly, Wilbur’s lawyer. Todd Garrett, chief operating officer of Fitch Enterprises. Harry Hubbard, Wilbur’s stepson. Alan Douglas, a Fitch vice president. Minerva Lloyd, Wilbur’s mistress. Juliet Rodriguez, a very good-looking professor who’s been organizing his library. Ben Fitch, Wilbur’s son. He lives in Hawaii, looks like he spends a lot of time on the beach.”

  Sam didn’t write down a single name. That was the third portent.

  A knock sounded at the door. Sam gave me a glance and I disappeared.

  “Come in.” He turned his swivel chair to look toward the door.

  Colleen was in her fifties with a freckled open face and a kind smile. She bustled across the room. “I brought some plates from the break room. Since you expect a guest.”

  He was bland. “Arriving any minute.” He moved aside folders for his plate, gestured to the other side of the desk for the second plate.

  Colleen put two sacks between the plates. “Includes salt, pepper, ketchup. Got a couple of cups of orange sherbet as an extra. Very healthy.”

  As the door closed behind her, I reappeared, reached for my sack. I put the cheeseburger, chili oozing from its sides, o
n one side of the plate, spilled out the fries on the other. Across the desk, Sam emptied the salad with the chicken strips, looked at my serving.

  I reached over, switched the plates. “What happens in your office, stays in your office.” Probably the poor man’s hunger pangs were distorting his judgment.

  Sam hesitated perhaps a fourth of an instant, grabbed the cheeseburger, took a huge bite.

  I poked a strip of chicken in the ranch dressing. I am always willing to sacrifice to seek justice. I waited until he looked as contented as a lion with an antelope carcass.

  “Don’t you agree that the murderer was at the luncheon?”

  He used a paper napkin to wipe a smear of chili from his chin. “You have a big heart, Bailey Ruth. And I know you are sent to help someone in trouble. But maybe this isn’t the first time someone in trouble makes a bad call. I understand how you got caught up in her panic about her sister. It was a pretty lousy trick, all right, to fake a kidnapping. Somebody doesn’t like Susan Gilbert, and the call did result in Wilbur’s murder. As for the hoax, the cell phone’s a dead end. The number doesn’t lead anywhere. A burner phone—somebody bought a cash card phone and they’ve tossed it by now. Anyway, what matters is what Susan Gilbert did. I’m getting the case ready for the DA: Somebody sets up Sylvie’s disappearance, calls Susan, demands the money. Susan goes to the house, gets the box of cash, returns home. She doesn’t get another call because there was never going to be another call. The joke’s over. She doesn’t know it’s a joke so she thinks she’ll get a call the next day. The caller knows she’s stuck with the cash, and when her sister turns up, she’ll sweat to get the box back into the safe without Wilbur knowing, and her tormentor’s getting a big time kick out of her problems. Instead, here’s what happened. You leave the house and come to my office. Susan’s lying there, worrying about her sister, and she gets to thinking, once she turns over the ransom money she’ll end up being a suspect when Wilbur looks in the safe. I don’t buy this idea she was going to tell him all about it. Or maybe she thought about telling him but she got a better idea. She’s already in the hole for the cash, why not grab the coin collections? She can eventually sell the coins, one way or another. There’s a market for stolen artwork, including rare coins. So she gets up and hurries back to the Fitch house. By this time the party’s over. She’s opening the safe and there’s a noise in the hall. She darts to her little side office, hunkers behind the door. Wilbur comes in. Maybe he had a hankering for his coins. Maybe he liked to count cash in the middle of the night, found it soothing. But the painting is pulled back, the safe is open. He strides over there. She knows she’s off to jail if he turns around and sees her. She still thinks she has to wait for a ransom call, rescue little sister. I checked out her office. There’s a crystal paperweight. She grabs the paperweight, maybe knots it up in a scarf, comes up behind him, slam. He’s down, dying. It only takes another minute to return the paperweight to her desk. She gets the coin collections, leaves by the garden door. She decides to leave the safe open and the door ajar to point to a thief from outside. She makes a detour on her way home, gets rid of the bloody scarf.” He took another gobble of his cheeseburger, had only a third left.