Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  I now understood why Susan spoke so carefully when I’d first asked her about Ben Fitch. No doubt she heard this quarrel, but was convinced—or wanted to believe—that this was simply Wilbur being Wilbur.

  “—and I slammed out of his room and yelled I’d get back to the islands and maybe next year I’d see him again.” He looked at me and the shine was clearly tears. “Now my stepbrother and I are arranging his funeral. Got Mom and Hayley, that’s Harry’s mom, on their way. Next Monday. The First Baptist Church. I closed down the offices and the sorting sheds today. Dad would say get on with it. But not today. I couldn’t have everything going on like it always was. We’ll close Monday. Any more than that and he’d probably be yelling from the hereafter. Yelling . . . I told Dad next year. I yelled next year at him. Now I won’t ever see him again.” He hunched forward. “Look, are you getting anywhere? I can’t figure out how it happened. They told me the door to the garden was open. And that the painting was pulled back and the safe was wide open. Why would Dad open the safe? It must have been the middle of the night. The party didn’t end until around midnight. I didn’t spend much time in the ballroom. I was up here”—he gestured with his hand—“getting my stuff packed.” There was a backpack leaning against one wall and a chock-full duffel bag. “I was going to drive down to Dallas and get a flight out. And now—”

  “Will you stay in Adelaide?”

  He squinted at me as if I spoke Portuguese. “I can’t leave. That would break Dad’s heart. Todd couldn’t run a bake sale. They were old buddies. Dad let Todd run around town, act like a COO, be a big deal, but Dad ran everything. If I left, Fitch Enterprises would crack up. I don’t have a choice. I’ll stay and I’ll make Dad proud of me.” His voice broke a little. “I’ll run it like a son of a bitch.”

  “Will you get rid of Todd Garrett?”

  An impatient wave of his hand. “I’ll keep him on, let him pretend to be a big deal. Just like Dad did. He was Dad’s oldest friend. Maybe sometimes we can talk about Dad.”

  “How about Alan Douglas and the SIMPLE Car?”

  He leaned back in the leather chair, his expression thoughtful. “Dad had good instincts. He saw the appeal. A lot of people want the world to be open again, not tethered to a device twenty-four/seven. That’s the kind who end up in Hawaii and they want to see orchids and ride boogie boards and throw rocks in a volcano. But he agreed after we talked about it. SIMPLE isn’t the way of the future. Look what Amazon’s done with Alexa. That’s the future. Everything connected everywhere all the time. I’d already—”

  The prospect sounded hideous to me, but happily in Heaven everything is personal. You think of someone and you are with them. There’s no need for cogs and wheels or chips. Joy and love satisfy hearts and souls. Who needs anything else? If you have a question in your mind, the answer comes. No need for Alexa or Siri.

  “—told Dad going back isn’t going forward. He was still tempted. I think he just wanted an old-fashioned car for the fun of it. But the concept wasn’t right for Fitch Enterprises. He talked to Alan yesterday.”

  Ben spoke as if this was no big deal. A business decision. I wondered how big a deal it was to Alan Douglas.

  “Did you see your father after the party?”

  “I didn’t see him.” Sharp. Definitive. Sorrowful.

  “Were you in the study last night?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have gone to the study with your father?”

  “Gone to the study with him?” He looked puzzled. “I thought the idea was that Dad surprised someone there. I got kind of a garbled story, something about Susan Gilbert getting a threatening call and rushing over here and taking the cash box out of the safe and for some reason coming back later to get the coins. But I understand she explained what happened and returned the cash box and she says she didn’t take the coins. She’s not a crook. She wouldn’t hurt Dad.” He spoke emphatically.

  I looked at him in surprise.

  There was an odd expression on his face. “Dad thought the world of Susan. I can tell I will, too. I’ve got a knack for people. Just like Dad did.”

  Ben Fitch was not lacking in confidence.

  He gave me a long stare. “Just like I can look at you and know you wouldn’t hurt anyone. Neither would Susan.”

  Since I was a counterfeit police detective, I could speak honestly. “I agree, Mr. Fitch.”

  But his quick mind had already moved on. He frowned again. “If you think Dad went to the study with someone, that changes everything. There wasn’t any reason for Dad to be in the study that late.”

  I said quietly, “It seems possible that someone came to your father’s door and knocked and persuaded him to go down.”

  Ben’s face squeezed in thought. “That person must have known him well enough to go to his bedroom and been confident Dad wouldn’t be shocked at his appearance. That clears Susan Gilbert right there. He would have been astounded if she knocked on his door. Someone who knew Dad well . . . That explains why Susan was tricked into coming here last night.” He thumped a fist into his opposite palm. “I got it. The murderer set the study up to look like a robbery, maybe turned on the light, opened the garden door, pulled back the painting, then knocked on Dad’s door, told him it looks like something’s up in the study. Dad came downstairs, opened the safe, and the murderer hit him. But how did anyone get into the house that late at night?”

  “Perhaps a key. Perhaps someone who attended the party slipped into the study and opened the garden door.”

  He came to his feet. “I’m going to go see Susan Gilbert.”

  I rose, too. “I appreciate your time.” When we were out in the hall, I murmured, “I have a few more rooms to check.” He nodded but he was no longer focused on me. He walked swiftly to the stairs. I waited until he was out of sight. As the clatter of his steps receded, I disappeared.

  I wasn’t finished with Detective Sergeant G. Latham’s interviews. Charming stepson Harry Hubbard, bumbling executive Todd Garrett, and hopeful inventor Alan Douglas were still on my list. But I wanted to talk to them at work. The offices would be open tomorrow. For now I was finished with my police inquiries.

  I had an important stop to make before treating myself to a chicken-fried steak, cream gravy, and mashed potatoes at Lulu’s. As my mama always told us, “Don’t let the sun set on a man’s misperceptions or they’ll harden like concrete.”

  • • •

  Sam Cobb’s office was fully lighted, but he wasn’t in his desk chair. Perhaps he would return soon. I felt a little stab of disappointment. I thought Sam would still be at work. The murder of a leading citizen demanded all-out effort.

  Unless the case was considered solved.

  I glanced at the round clock on the wall. A quarter to six. For an instant, my stomach squeezed. You know the feeling. You wake up at eight fifteen and the final started at eight. You had a good tight hold on someone’s hand as floodwaters swirled and suddenly your hand is empty. You are alone in the house at midnight and there’s a heavy step in the upper hall. I fought down a crest of panic, spoke firmly to myself. “Steady, Bailey Ruth. You’ll save Susan.” I took five deep breaths and moved to the chalkboard. I picked up a piece of chalk.

  “A voice with no visible source, deep breaths, and airborne chalk are unnerving. How about spinning yourself here.”

  I whirled to see Sam Cobb lumbering up from the sofa, staring this way.

  “Sam. You’re here!”

  “Where do you think I’d be? This is Claire’s bridge night. I was thinking.” He pointed at the sofa. “I think better staring at the ceiling.”

  I like being present. After all, as I once explained to Wiggins when he complained that I was overeager to appear, it is always my sincere wish to make everyone comfortable. I didn’t add that I was including myself. What was the joy in a fashionable ensemble if I c
ouldn’t see it? I appeared and smoothed the sleeve of the lavender cardigan, loving the texture of the cable design. I felt my spirits lift as I settled on the couch beside Sam.

  Sam’s big face was a mixture of amusement and, I am glad to say, affection. He smiled at me. “Besides, I was hanging around because I had a feeling Officer Loy might drop by.”

  “Actually, Detective Sergeant G. Latham.” I pulled out my leather police ID holder.

  Sam took the holder in a huge hand. “Kind of spooky. Right down to the last detail.” He returned the ID. “Wonder if that thing holds fingerprints.” Sam obviously didn’t want any connection to a fake police ID.

  “Not to worry. It disappears right along with me. But speaking of fingerprints.” I looked at him urgently. “Did you have prints lifted from Wilbur’s suite door?”

  “He was killed in his study.” Sam’s gravelly voice was patient.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “You sound like my first grade teacher. Okay, okay. Forensic evidence was taken only from the scene of the crime.”

  “Sam, please send the techs out first thing in the morning. Take prints from the suite door. The killer knocked. There might be DNA traces, too.”

  “DNA’s expensive.”

  I ignored the comment. “Here’s what the killer did last night. Attended the party. At some point slipped downstairs and into the study. Probably had gloves in a purse or pocket. Put them on. Unlocked the garden door so Susan could get in. Maybe went back upstairs, maybe not. Probably called Susan from the study, then went into the hall and looked out a window, watched her arrive. Susan leaves. The watcher returns to the study. After the guests depart and the house is quiet, it was time to turn on the light in the study, open the door to the garden, pull the painting back from the safe, then slip upstairs to knock on Wilbur’s door. No gloves there. Wilbur might not have sensed danger from someone he knew well, but gloves would look very odd.”

  Sam leaned back against the leather cushion. “According to you, the visitor was a guest from the party who claimed he/she had returned for something, saw a light in the study, found the door open, yada yada.”

  “Do you have a better idea why Wilbur went downstairs?” I spoke pleasantly.

  His brown eyes awarded me a point. “Maybe he wanted to check something in his office.”

  “Weak.”

  Sam shrugged. “There could be a reason.”

  “Let’s say you’re right. Wilbur decides to go down to his study and it happens to be just at the moment when Susan returns to get the coins? It’s always been a stretch that she came back a second time.”

  He was still skeptical. “Instead of a party guest gone rogue, how about Susan Gilbert unlocked the garden door of the study before she quit work yesterday.”

  I countered. “She didn’t know she was going to get a fake ransom call.”

  A slight nod as my score increased. “Maybe she’d already decided to burgle the safe.”

  “And she got a call demanding one hundred thousand in cash and Wilbur’s safe is mentioned? Lame, Sam. Besides the door was locked at nine p.m.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Who says?”

  “The butler. Carl Ross checked the ground-floor doors. That door was shut and locked when he made his rounds at nine.”

  Sam’s heavy face folded in a frown. Then he shrugged. “She had a key.”

  There I was on safe ground. “She did not have a key to the house, neither to the front door nor to the study door. She told the caller she couldn’t get into the study, but the caller assured her the door to the study would be unlocked. I was with her and she went as instructed to the garden door of the study and it definitely wasn’t locked.”

  There was silence. Sam rubbed the knuckles of one hand along the side of his five-o’clock shadow. I could hear the faint tick of the wall clock. I avoided looking triumphant. As Mama always told us, “A man won’t change his mind if you embarrass him.”

  “Garden door locked at nine p.m.” His voice held a considering tone. “And Gilbert wasn’t at the party.”

  “Do you have the guest list?”

  He nodded, pushed up from the couch. In a moment he was back with a folder. He handed it to me as he sat down, shook his head. “A hundred and five guests. Catering crew of nine.”

  “Only seven names matter.” I opened the folder, found a pen in my cardigan jacket. Heaven provides. It took me only a moment to scan and check seven names. I returned the sheets.

  He took a quick look. “You’re still singing the same song.”

  “Who knew Susan could open the safe? These seven.”

  “I’ve looked at them.”

  I was surprised.

  “Gilbert is heavy odds guilty, but I do my job. Per your intelligence, I checked out all seven. The disgruntled mistress. The pretty young thing who charmed herself into his will. The son who will now be Adelaide’s richest citizen. The laid-back stepson who can buy a lot of fancy golf clubs and maybe never show up at the office. The vice president who has a great idea but Wilbur said no. In that regard, we have to wonder if the idea for a SIMPLE Car might be considered a Fitch work product and not belong to Alan Douglas. The old football hero who might be on the outs with his boss. The lawyer who will rack up huge fees as he settles one of the biggest estates in Adelaide’s history.”

  “Sam, you’re wonderful.” I meant the compliment sincerely.

  “Gilbert’s not home free,” he said firmly, “but maybe she’s halfway between second and third. I had another visitor just before you came. Judy Weitz has a linear mind, and she says it doesn’t add up for Gilbert to be the perp. Too many holes. A fake kidnapping unconnected to a murder is just a bridge too far. Judy believes the hoax was set up to put Gilbert on the spot. Judy says it’s nuts to think Gilbert was at the house twice. She also says if Gilbert hid the coins, intending to keep them, she would also have kept the box of cash. Plus she says her brother went to school with Gilbert and she was valedictorian of her class and only a terminally stupid thief would have hidden the coins beneath that tub in the garden knowing, if she killed Fitch, that she would be a suspect and her house and yard would be searched when the items from the safe were missed. Finally, Judy says it’s obvious the coins were planted and the only person who could have planted them was Fitch’s murderer.”

  The stress from the day melted away. An honest police chief and a good detective weren’t closing the book yet.

  “And,” his deep voice continued, “to put a little whipping cream on your sundae—”

  Sam had good ideas. I added a sundae to my soon-to-be order at Lulu’s.

  “—Ben Fitch called a few minutes ago, said he talked to Susan and she explained everything about the ransom call and he’s sure she was set up by someone to take the fall. He wanted me to know he’d get a private detective on the case ASAP if the police didn’t do a complete investigation. He said Susan has a private eye from Dallas looking around.” His gaze was steady. “A redhead. Name of G. Latham.”

  I smiled serenely.

  “Private eyes who use fake cop IDs can get in a heap of trouble.”

  “Fancy that,” I observed.

  “Shameless,” he growled. “Back to Fitch, he wanted to know if we’d canvassed the neighbors about anyone skulking in her yard around one thirty in the morning to hide the coins.”

  “So tomorrow you’ll get the prints and maybe DNA from the Fitch house and talk to Susan’s neighbors.”

  “And try to get Neva to back off an immediate arrest.”

  I beamed at him.

  He shook his head. “The odds are still good Gilbert’s guilty. But I’ll keep looking.”

  • • •

  I enjoyed every bit of my celebratory dinner at Lulu’s, and the cherry atop the sundae was a tart delight. I felt nostalgic. I love Adelaide. It is diff
erent now than it was in my day but still the same kind of people, a waitress who called me hon and moved with skill and energy, fellow diners relaxing after a busy day of work. Soon I would climb aboard the Rescue Express, my mission done. But I wasn’t through quite yet.

  I was tempted to drop by Susan’s house, but decided to wait and give her a complete report tomorrow after Detective Sergeant G. Latham spoke to Harry Hubbard, Todd Garrett, and Alan Douglas. I would again visit Sam and discover the results of the tech check of Wilbur’s suite door and inquiries with neighbors about late Tuesday night.

  After I paid my bill, I strolled out into the chilly night and disappeared. In a moment, I was at Rose Bower and in the room I’d used this morning for a luxurious shower. It was almost eight.

  I found a collection of Browning’s poems and settled on a chaise longue. I always feel very Marie Antoinette-ish on a chaise longue, as if I should have curls piled high above my head, wear a low-cut satin gown, and hold a delicate fan to flutter coquettishly. I savored the elegance and grace of his poetry. Time passed slowly. My eyes wandered to the clock. Almost ten.

  It was very silent in the huge old mansion. Perhaps the total absence of sound, no doors opening and closing, no voices, no one about, or the size of the high-ceilinged room or a memory of Mayor Lumpkin’s choleric face plucked at my sense of well-being.

  I put the book on my lap, frowned. Perhaps I should be out and about, checking on the activities of the seven. No one, of course, would wear a placard announcing MURDERER. I felt restless, uneasy. Was I taking too much for granted? Sam intended to look beyond Susan tomorrow, but—

  The deep whoo of the Rescue Express thrummed against my ears. I jumped to my feet, the book sliding to the floor. Coal smoke swirled around me. The thunder of the wheels clacking on the rails seemed to echo from the walls.