Ghost on the Case

by Carolyn Hart

  My gaze stopped on the third row. Sylvie Gilbert’s orange sweater and vivid green pants seemed even brighter in contrast to Ben Fitch’s subdued gray cashmere pullover and navy slacks. Sylvie would always attract attention. Several of the TV cameramen glanced her way as men do when women, young or old, have a special magic. Even in a room filled with attractive blondes she was noticeable, her curls shining, fresh, obviously untouched by chemicals. Her blue eyes appraised Neva and Sam, and there was cool judgment in her gaze: Lady, you’re fake, mister, I don’t like you but you look strong. Ben Fitch seemed an unlikely companion with the air of a man more at home at the country club grill.

  I glanced at the lectern. The mayor was checking off the attendees. Her gaze stopped for an instant at Sylvie and Ben, moved on. She would have no reason to know Susan Gilbert’s sister, and Ben had not been in town long enough to be recognized as the owner of Fitch Enterprises. She likely assumed they were reporters from around the state. But Sam knew who they were, and his stare was speculative.

  Neva cleared her throat, stepped forward. In the small venue she had no need for a microphone. “I am Neva Lumpkin, mayor of Adelaide. I am joined today by Sam Cobb, our chief of police. Chief Cobb is directing the investigation into the murder Tuesday night of revered Adelaide business leader Wilbur Fitch and the murder last night of Carl Ross, Mr. Fitch’s butler.” She picked up several sheets of paper, read aloud, “The body of Wilbur Fitch was discovered Wednesday morning by his butler, Mr. Ross. Mr. Fitch died of massive head trauma in the study of his home. No weapon was found at the scene. No weapon has been recovered. The medical examiner estimates that death occurred after midnight Tuesday and before three a.m. Wednesday. The motive for his murder isn’t known, but a safe normally hidden behind a painting was found open and the painting swung back against the wall. The door to the garden was open. Coins taken from the safe were found in the yard of Mr. Fitch’s secretary, Susan Gilbert. Ms. Gilbert disclaims any knowledge of the coins and insists they were placed there by another party.”

  “What’s with the dead butler?” Deke Carson sounded supremely bored. He lounged back on the straight chair, feet poked out straight in front of him.

  Neva ignored him, turned a page. “Ms. Gilbert, though not named as a ‘person of interest,’ was under police surveillance yesterday.” The tone of her voice indicated she certainly saw Susan as a “person of interest.”

  There was a sudden intensity in the reporters’ posture. Pens scratched. Fingers flew over keyboards. Microphones were held up to capture her voice. “At shortly before ten p.m. last night Ms. Gilbert received a phone call and departed her house. Two officers followed her. She arrived at a cabin on the Fitch property at a few minutes after ten. She entered the cabin. Officers approaching the cabin heard a gunshot at seven past ten. Officers Warren and Porter proceeded to the cabin and found Ms. Gilbert in the act of washing blood from her hands—”

  Chair legs scraped. Sylvie jumped to her feet. She was a picture of youthful fury, blonde curls quivering, heart-shaped face flushed. “I’m Sylvia Gilbert. I’ve got something to say. Those people”—she pointed at Neva and Sam—“aren’t telling you everything. Susan went inside the cabin just after ten p.m., pay attention to that time, that’s when Susan got there. I was with her all evening until she left the house because she got a phone call from a man who said he was Carl Ross but now we know it was the man who killed Mr. Fitch and decided to kill Carl Ross probably because Carl asked for money to keep quiet about what happened Tuesday night when Mr. Fitch was killed—”

  The reporters were all standing and turned toward her. The cameramen were jockeying for good shots. The blonde TV reporters were worming nearer, thrusting their microphones at Sylvie.

  “—and so the man who murdered Mr. Fitch killed Carl Ross and then he called Susan and said he was Carl Ross and talked really nice to her and persuaded her to come to the cabin, but what you need to know—”

  Neva Lumpkin slammed her hand on the lectern. “Hush. Get that person out of here. It’s against the law to interrupt an official public proceeding—”

  Sylvie simply raised her voice. “—is that the medical examiner states Carl Ross was dead probably by nine thirty and not later than nine forty-five, and at nine thirty Susan and I were getting into her car at that new restaurant out by the lake. So a shot heard by the police after ten o’clock was the killer trying to make it look like Susan killed Mr. Ross. Write it down. Carl Ross was dead at the latest by nine forty-five. A shot at seven past ten was fake because—”

  Ben Fitch was a little apart from Sylvie now, reporters squeezing between him and Sylvie. He already had an air of command about him, the confident expression of a man who mattered. He looked like the young scion of a wealthy family, dark hair nicely brushed, handsome features, expensive sweater and slacks. He watched Sylvie with an expression of amazement tinged with delight. Once he clapped.

  “—Susan didn’t leave our house until almost ten and the police were watching her so she’s proved innocent. And more than that, we hired a private investigator—”

  Uh-oh. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask Sylvie not to mention G. Latham.

  “—and she knows who murdered Mr. Fitch and Mr. Ross and—”

  Joan Crandall, shaggy brown hair swooping low on her cheeks, used a sharp elbow to butt her way in front of Deke Carson. “Who’s the murderer?” Her thin face had the intensity of a fox on the prowl.

  Questions zinged at Sylvie. “Who’d you hire? Where can we contact her? Phone number? Have you informed the police?”

  Sylvie realized she was the center of attention. She spoke even more loudly. “That’s what I’m doing right now. The murderer is a man. And he was at a lunch last week at the Fitch house when Susan was asked to open the safe and bring some coins to the dining room, and that’s how it all started because she had to open the safe Tuesday night to borrow some money because she got a call from a man who said he’d kidnapped me and Susan didn’t know it was all a plan to get her to go to the house the night the man planned to kill Mr. Fitch.”

  “Your sister took money from the safe Tuesday night, the night Fitch was killed?” The AP reporter looked like a man trying to sort out what mattered in a welter of information.

  “She was going to tell Mr. Fitch the next morning, but he was dead and—”

  Ben interrupted. “I’m Ben Fitch, Wilbur’s son. Susan Gilbert returned the money when she realized the kidnapping was set up to put her in an incriminating position.”

  Deke Carson gave a hoot. “She sneaks in the house, opens the safe, takes a hundred grand, and now claims it was all a mistake?”

  Ben Fitch was firm. “My father would definitely have understood that Susan had no intention of profiting personally, that she was in an impossible position and took the cash only to secure her sister’s safety. In fact, and the police can confirm this, Susan Gilbert returned the cash of her own volition Wednesday morning. My father had the utmost confidence in Ms. Gilbert, and I do, too. I am here with her sister to try and prevent a grave miscarriage of justice.”

  Joan Crandall hadn’t moved an inch away from Sylvie. She was like iron to a magnet. “Who killed Mr. Fitch?”

  Deke Carson yelled, “What ransom call? When?”

  A TV blonde implored, “Look this way, Sylvie. Tell us about you and your sister.”

  Neva Lumpkin’s face was mottled with rage and frustration. She banged again and again on the lectern, then abruptly turned and stomped from the room.

  • • •

  The noon timing of the press conference had precluded lunch. Thankfully, I was aware of Sam’s store of M&M’S in the lower left drawer of his desk. I was pouring another handful when his office door opened.

  He stepped inside, closed the door, stared. “Mobile M&M’S. That might be a great TV ad. When the spirit moves you, M&M’S are at the ready. How about I ask Colleen to order from
Lulu’s?”

  “A perfect solution.”

  “Same order as yesterday?” He didn’t meet my gaze.

  “Of course.” As Mama wisely instructed: “Don’t embarrass a man if you want him to cooperate.”

  I was in the chair facing his desk when he flicked off the intercom. He leaned back in his chair and began to laugh. “Did you see Neva’s face? And then Joan Crandall got the girl off in a corner and put on her best sob sister routine. I can see this afternoon’s Gazette. ‘A Sister’s Passionate Defense. Questions Raised about Police Investigation. What Happens When a Medical Examiner Won’t Play Ball?’ Neva’s already sent out a memo demanding to know who leaked the ME timing to the kid. I like the kid, by the way. That’s the kind of family to have. Maybe the unkindest cut of all was when Ben Fitch introduced himself and said that his father had the highest confidence in Susan Gilbert and would certainly have understood about the ransom money and then”—Sam’s gaze was amazed and admiring—“he complimented authorities for their decision to protect Susan Gilbert by holding her as a material witness since she had the unfortunate experience of walking into a trap set by his father’s murderer and that it was despicable of the murderer to use the closeness of a family to direct suspicion at an innocent woman.” He started to reach for the M&M’S drawer.

  “Lunch will be here soon. Perhaps you don’t want to ruin your appetite.” Unsaid was the prospect of responding honestly when Claire inquired about his lunch. As for lunch, he could honestly report that he’d ordered the diet plate for himself and a cheeseburger for a visitor. It wouldn’t be necessary to say who ate what. We gazed at each other in mutual understanding, and he picked up a pen, did a drum tap on the desktop. “Ben Fitch is smart. Did you notice how he interrupted Sylvie to prevent her naming the men who were at the luncheon? She could have ended up with a defamation suit if she’d named the five.”

  A knock on the door. I disappeared as Colleen brought in two sacks from Lulu’s. Sam took the sacks, put them on opposite sides of his desk. “Expecting a visitor ASAP. No calls for half an hour.” As the door closed behind her, he switched the sacks without comment, ripped his down one side. He wolfed a good third of the cheeseburger in a first bite.

  I reappeared, lifted out my salad, splashed the greens and grilled chicken with ranch dressing.

  “I told Colleen to switch all calls for me to Hal and alerted him to explain the investigations into the murders of Fitch and Ross are active and therefore the department has no comment about a report that five men are considered suspects and that an announcement would be made at a press conference at noon tomorrow. Got a text from Hal asking what did I know about a private detective named Latham. I told him”—Sam’s face radiated innocence—“that the department was unaware of the activities of any private detective.”

  They say confession is good for the soul. I reached over, took one of Sam’s french fries, poked it in the ranch dressing, mumbled, “Those five men were interviewed by Adelaide Police Department Detective Sergeant G. Latham.”

  “It’s a pretty serious offense for a private eye to pretend to be a cop. Looks like that’s what happened here.” Sam didn’t sound disturbed. “The department will, of course, make it clear that there is no detective of that name employed by the Adelaide police. I suppose Joan Crandall will write a story about the elusive G. Latham when she discovers there is no private eye of that name and no police detective of that name. Being a good reporter, she’ll get a description, red hair, narrow face, green eyes, freckles, five foot five inches, weight approximately one hundred and twenty—”

  “One sixteen.”

  “Well dressed. I like that top. It’d look good on Claire. Nifty with white slacks.”

  He wiped a smear of chili from his fingers. “So Detective Sergeant Latham talked to the five. What did she get?”

  I put down my fork. “There wasn’t a gotcha moment.” I remembered them, George Kelly seeing dollar signs, Todd Garrett looking forward to a future at the lake, Harry Hubbard too charming for his own good, Alan Douglas diffident and disarming, Ben Fitch at home in a mansion. “Do you know where they were last night between nine and ten thirty?” I leaned forward, hoping that routine careful police work could point me in the right direction.

  Sam used two napkins to wipe his hands, turned to his computer screen, clicked a couple of times. “Judy Weitz handled this. She went to the public library, slipped upstairs, found an unlocked office, and used the phone. She claimed to be Monica Holman and said her car was swiped by a car in the grocery parking lot last night. Another shopper got the license plate and she wanted to know where he, whichever of the five she had on the phone, was around nine twenty. Lots of back and forth. At the end she read off a license plate number. She had the numbers for their cars including one of the Fitch cars, and in each instance her number was one digit off the correct number, so apologies and thank-yous all around. By that time she had the information she wanted. Ben Fitch said he was home reading. No way to confirm. No staff in the house at night so he wouldn’t have any trouble slipping out. George Kelly says he was in his office, had a lot of work to do, death of a major client. Checked the area around his office. Woman in a little house next to the parking lot said she’d complained before about his office light shining into her bedroom and he’d forgotten again to draw his curtains. Todd Garrett was actually in the parking lot at the grocery, insisted he never sideswiped anybody’s car and if he had sideswiped a car he sure would have left a note. Alan Douglas was in his garage, making some changes to his model for a SIMPLE Car. Neither of his next-door neighbors was home last night. Alan could have been in his garage or he could have been at the Fitch cabin.”

  I was thoughtful. “Garrett says he was at the grocery?”

  Sam shrugged. “He could have been there, fudged on the time. Nobody charts customers at a supermarket. Maybe he had groceries stashed in his trunk before he went to the cabin to meet Ross. If he did meet him.”

  I suppose my disappointment was evident. I’d hoped at least one or more of them might be crossed off the list if a concrete alibi existed. There was no alibi for any one of my five.

  “But”—Sam’s voice was upbeat—“I have some good news for you. Don Smith has covered Susan Gilbert’s past like Madame Curie peering at radium. Gilbert does not have a license for a gun. Gilbert has never purchased a gun. Gilbert, according to friends, has never shot a gun. Neither of her parents ever owned a gun. Her father was not a hunter. In fact, she grew up in an anti-gun household, wants to see laws enacted that prohibit the sale of assault weapons. Moreover, her house and car were thoroughly searched Wednesday and no gun was found in the house, garage, yard, or car.” He looked to me for approval.

  “That’s great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. Susan’s lack of access to a weapon was great material for her defense attorney, but I knew she was innocent. “Is the lack of gun and fingerprints enough to keep her from being charged tomorrow?”

  “If I were calling the shots, I would keep the investigation open. Neva has the bit in her teeth.”

  Bit in her teeth is Oklahoma-speak for a runaway horse.

  “Bailey Ruth, I’ll continue to look for facts even after Susan’s charged. But”—he turned his big hands up in a gesture of resignation—“I have to tell you I don’t have anything yet that points at a different person.”

  • • •

  Susan was transformed in a sweater as vivid as holly berries and gray wool slacks. She was no longer barefoot, wore gray leather flats and ribbed gray socks with flecks of red. Nice. I’d observed her in moments of stress, her dark brown eyes filled with terror and despair and fear, her angular face pale with the cheekbones too prominent, the generous mouth kept from trembling by huge effort. Now she looked young and almost carefree and this despite the somber silence that pressed against her in the solitary cell. There were no other occupants in any of the cells. That was likely t
o the good. A jail cell can never be a place of joy.

  This small cell might be the exception.

  Susan was sitting as comfortably as possible, her back against one end of the bunk, one leg crossed over the other. Her eyes held a glow, the kind of radiance that shines from good memories, a kind word, a smile, and from anticipation that no matter how dark the sky there is a sliver of light on the horizon and faith that the light will grow and grow and soon there will be an explosion of brightness.

  “Susan.”

  Her face turned toward the bars and the corridor. I stood between the bunk and the bars, and had I been present she would have looked at me directly. Her gaze wasn’t startled or distressed. “I thought you might come. Thank you for telling Sylvie about my shoes. She brought fresh clothes, too. She and Ben told me how she made the police look silly today. Ben said everything will be much better in the newspapers tomorrow, that he and Sylvie were behind me a hundred percent.” Her voice was soft. “I can’t believe how nice Ben is. He knows I didn’t hurt his dad. But to come with Sylvie to see me.” Her voice held wonder. She looked toward me with those luminous eyes. “That’s special, isn’t it?”

  “Very special.” Special enough to fill this steel-barred concrete space with light and joy and hope.

  “Ben,” she said softly. And then she seemed to bring herself fully present. She moved to swing her legs over the edge of the bunk. She came to her feet, eager, excited. “Do you know yet?” Only four little words, but they meant life and freedom and a future for her. I’d told Susan and Sylvie I was sure the murderer was one of five men and I would bring to justice the man who had put her in such danger. I would find him and convince the police and the cell door would swing open and she would walk free. I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn (aka G. Latham), had promised.

  One of five, one of five, one of . . . I didn’t know which one.

  But I couldn’t bear to dim her radiance. “By noon tomorrow everything will be wonderful.”