Ghost Times Two

by Carolyn Hart

  Sam slowly nodded, glanced at Johnny. “At ease, Officer.” He and Hal Price and Judy Weitz moved forward, making the office seem small and crowded.

  Johnny sheathed his gun, but remained standing over the .22 lying on the floor.

  Brewster Layton spoke from the doorway. “Is everyone all right?”

  Sam continued to stare at Megan, but his booming voice could clearly be heard by those crowded behind Brewster. “A gun went off accidentally. There is no danger.”

  Sam gestured at Weitz. “Get the techs.” He walked across the room, studied the gouge on the hardwood floor, looked up at the shattered window. “Ms. Wynn—”

  Blaine had his arm around her shoulders. “Wait a minute. Can’t you see she’s upset?”

  Megan spoke quickly, her voice firm. “It’s all right, Blaine.” She looked up, knowing he was there, knowing he was her champion, knowing she needed a champion. She gazed directly at Sam. “I found the gun.” Her voice was stronger, clearer. Her stare was level, unflinching. “I pulled out my lower right-hand desk drawer to put my purse in. I saw that gun. I did not put the gun there. I know nothing about that gun. That is not my gun. I have never seen the gun before and—”

  Sam held up a hand. “We will speak to you in the conference room. Come this way.”

  Layton and the staff, Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King, Nancy Murray, Lou Raymond, heard every word.

  Megan stood straight and as tall as her five feet one inch permitted. “I have a right to tell you what happened.”

  Weitz pulled a pad and pen from her pocket, began to write.

  Megan’s words came in short bursts. “I was startled. Without thinking I picked up the gun. I don’t know much about guns. I was going to bring it to you and it went off. I have never seen that gun before. It was not in my desk last night. I did not put the gun in my desk.”

  I would like to think she was persuasive, but I knew Sam didn’t believe a word. That was devastating because every word was true except for the disposition of the gun after she opened the drawer.

  Sam folded his arms. “You knew that no weapon was found at the Graham house.”

  “Yes.” She spoke evenly, but she looked small, vulnerable, beleaguered.

  “You knew Officer Cain was going to search all of the offices.”

  She took a quick breath. “Yes.”

  It hung unspoken between them, the fact that a search was coming. If she knew about the gun in her desk drawer, she had to do something about it. If she was indeed surprised when she opened the drawer, why had she picked up the weapon?

  Sam was brusque. “We’ll take your statement now in the conference room.”

  Blaine stepped forward. “Ms. Wynn is my client. I will be conferring with her. We will be at the police station at one o’clock.”

  There was a taut silence while Blaine and Sam looked at each other. Finally, his face grim, Sam nodded. “One o’clock.”

  Blaine nodded at Megan. She picked up her purse and they walked together into the hall as the watching staff moved back. No one spoke.

  The door to the hall closed. Megan’s office was empty now.

  “I screwed up.” Jimmy’s lugubrious voice came from the corner of Megan’s desk near the window.

  I moved near, reached out, patted his shoulder. “These things happen.”

  “If you hadn’t grabbed my arm—”

  “I know.” I was well aware I bore some responsibility. “But what is, is. Blaine will protect her.”

  A heavy sigh. “I guess he’s not such a dweeb.”

  I could hear a dream dying.

  Another heavy sigh. “Megan probably never wants to hear from me again.”

  “She knows you mean well.”

  “Yeah.” The reply was bleak.

  Maybe I’m a sucker for love. Okay. I admit it. I am a sucker for love, especially a love that endured past living.

  The shining steps in the corner of the room became brighter, the golden glow deeper.

  “I guess I’ll—”

  I reached out, gripped a muscular forearm. “Not yet, Jimmy. Megan needs you.” When he climbed the stairs to Heaven, I wanted him to know he’d made a difference for Megan, and she would always remember him with a smile. I hunched my shoulders, expecting at any instant to hear the thrum of wheels on rails, the whoo of the Rescue Express. I talked fast, justifying myself to Wiggins, appealing to Jimmy. “The gun in her office puts her at risk of arrest.” Sam Cobb had been suspicious before. The discovery of the gun in Megan’s office might be the critical fact he needed. At the very least, she would have vaulted to suspect number one even if she’d immediately rushed out and alerted the police to the gun. Likely, the gun had been polished shiny clean without any identifying or identifiable prints. Now, of course, the grip was liberally plastered with Megan’s prints. Sam could also reasonably infer she had been afraid there might be some scrap of a print still on the gun and decided to handle the gun to excuse those prints.

  If Megan was to be saved, I had to work fast. “You know how to dig out information on people.”

  “Yeah.” He was still bleak.

  I thought out loud. “Was Graham killed because somebody wanted to steal the ring or—”

  “Somebody did steal the ring.” He used a comforting tone appropriate for a doddering elderly relative.

  “I know that. Why shoot him?”

  “The thief figured Graham would know who took the ring.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “That’s a stretch. Graham was killed around nine o’clock. I know the ring case was in his desk drawer around midnight. If the murderer is the thief, he or she waited a couple of hours or more before coming here, breaking in, and taking the ring.”

  Jimmy was patronizing. “If you were going to steal something from an office, wouldn’t you wait until midnight or later to sneak into an alley and break a window? The later at night, the less likely anyone would be around to notice anything.”

  Jimmy had a point. I still didn’t see why theft required murder. “Why kill him?”

  “Like I said, maybe Graham would have had a pretty good idea who took the ring. Maybe the thief was betting on murder making a missing ring look unimportant. Maybe he was killed for another reason and the ring stolen to make it look like theft was the motive. Maybe the ring made somebody mad.”

  I instantly wondered about Graham’s ex-wife. How would she feel about a hundred-thousand-dollar ring for a wealthy woman? If she had no feelings left for him, did she resent his affluence, begrudge his spending that kind of money?

  A thought wriggled in my mind, sinuous as a water moccasin in a dark pond. I didn’t know the disposition of his estate, but very likely his children inherited everything. Jimmy was blunt. “Coincidence sucks.”

  His pronouncement was short on charm, but unerring in judgment.

  He continued forcefully, “Graham’s oil buddy flashes that rock around the office and that night Graham’s shot. Why else would he be shot? That ring caused the whole thing.”

  Cause and effect: The ring unveiled to watching eyes. A shot in the back of the head. Whether the ring set off the events that followed, it was certain that Graham’s murderer broke into the office and put the murder weapon in Megan’s desk. Did the murderer then take the ring, and was the ring the reason for murder? Or did the murderer take the ring to obscure the real motive for Graham’s death?

  Perhaps the reason the ring was taken didn’t matter. But the theft was a huge pointer to the killer’s identity. The ring case and its contents had been prominently displayed yesterday morning to an avid audience. I remembered the crowded hallway, Brewster Layton and his client Winifred Kellogg, angry young Keith Porter, Megan and the staff, stressed-out Anita Davis, roguish Geraldine Jackson, surprised Sharon King, fascinated Nancy Murray, dazzled Lou Raymond.

  If the
ring set off the events that followed, the list of those aware of the ring’s location was short. But there were other possibilities. Doug Graham wrote several messages, obviously intended for someone angry with him. He apparently had a whirlwind romance with Lisbeth Carew, but he didn’t seem the kind of man to be celibate, and I wondered if he’d found a lover after his divorce.

  I would ask, but the people I intended to see were tense and anxious. I needed to find someone who knew Graham well, someone who had nothing to fear by speaking openly with an investigator. It was like pieces of a puzzle slotting together. “Carl and Ginny Morse!”

  “I don’t think you’ve heard a word I said.” Jimmy was aggrieved. “I asked you why can’t you do some kind of stuff—like the way you go places and hear things—and find that damn ring?”

  “I’m not a ring dowser.”

  “A what?”

  I didn’t have time to explain the old-fashioned concept of people gifted with an ability to divine water or oil or gold or whatever they sought by fashioning a V-shaped rod from hazelwood or willow, holding the ends, and traversing the search area until the rod dipped to indicate the location of the sought-after object. “We don’t need the ring. We need information.”

  Carl and Ginny Morse were relaxing in Italy, far distant from the tension and fear that burdened those now speaking one by one with the police. Did they know anything that mattered? Perhaps not. But they were partners in the firm and knew everyone involved. They might be able to help.

  I had a moment of self-doubt. Was I seeking a reason to expand my activities to Italy? I remembered a trip there with Bobby Mac and, of course, each of us tossing a coin into Trevi Fountain.

  I always wanted to be an emissary in a romantic locale. Not that Adelaide isn’t romantic, but you know what I mean. Adelaide is home. Had I considered Carl and Ginny simply because they were far away in bella Italia?

  Bella Italia. I remembered Jimmy’s idyllic spring in Tuscany with Megan. I had plenty to do in Adelaide. And Wiggins, if he ever had an inkling that I’d been tempted, oh so tempted, to enjoy a summer evening in Florence, would be pleased I remained on duty in Adelaide. Besides, there was no telling how Jimmy might react or what he might do if he felt Megan was being unfairly treated by the police. It would be better to direct his energies.

  However, there was a small problem.

  If I went to Florence, I could appear. Not that Wiggins was ever pleased at that choice, but I had the option. Even Wiggins would admit Carl and Ginny Morse would not react well to a disembodied voice.

  I had to make up my mind. Fast.

  Sam and Hal were in the conference room, seeing each person in the office in alphabetical order with Detective Weitz recording the questions and answers. Likely it was Weitz who would take each person’s fingerprints. As soon as each session ended, that person would be free to leave. Sam and Hal would be efficient, knowing that Blaine and Megan were coming to the police station at one. Moreover, though they would always pursue every possibility, right now Megan was their prime suspect. I wouldn’t go so far as to think the inquiries would be pro forma. In fact, the questions might even focus on Megan’s relationship with Doug Graham, with emphasis on the question of “termination.”

  The witnesses would enter one by one. I saw them in my mind: Anita Davis, who had dressed so carefully for today; Geraldine Jackson, sensual, ready to play, now pondering mortality; Sharon King, who’d been shocked to learn of murder on her car radio; Brewster Layton, who came to the office earlier than usual; Nancy Murray, shaken by her close proximity to sudden death; matronly Louise Raymond, whose gaze suddenly shifted when she was linked to Rhoda Graham.

  I bid farewell to an image of a golden evening in Florence. “Jimmy, you know some Italian.”

  “I know the Italian that counts.” His tone was light.

  “I mean, you’re comfortable in Italy. I want you to go to Florence. Carl and Ginny Morse have rented a villa. Go to the Gazette, find a phone in an out-of-the-way place, call Lou Raymond, and ask for the address of the villa where the Morses are staying. There’s no reason why she wouldn’t give you the information. Then—”

  “Like, think Italy and there I am?” He was seriously amused. “Sure. Maybe I could swing by Mount Everest on the way.”

  I was diverted. “Do you mountain climb, too?”

  “That was on my bucket list, but I ran out of time.” He was wistful. “I did some rock climbing in the Dolomites. Went up the north face of Cima Grande.”

  I didn’t know Cima Grande from a grand cinema, but the casual tone of his voice told me he’d managed an admirable feat.

  “Obviously, no challenge is too great for you.” I was sincere. “That’s why you can handle Italy and the Morses. As soon as you get the address, go there—”

  “Like I get the address, think the address, and I’m at a villa in Florence? Like I thought about Graham’s pool and there I was?” He was skeptical, but there was a considering tone in his voice. That maneuver worked with the pool. . . .

  “Precisely.”

  “What do I do then? I can see it now. I knock on the door and somebody opens it and nobody’s there and the door slams shut.”

  I envisioned a huge red X scratched across my file at the Department of Good Intentions. No more telegrams. No more adventures. If only Wiggins were truly perplexed in Tumbulgum and perhaps remained unaware. However, Wiggins had an uncanny ability to arrive when I transgressed. But an emissary must do what an emissary must do.

  “Jimmy, cross your heart, will you follow my directions?”

  “Like, take a hike to the stairs?” He sounded morose.

  “Not yet. I want you to appear—”

  “Appear?” A bitter laugh. “Oh sure. Anything you—”

  “Concentrate. Think: Here.”

  “Think here?”

  “Yes. I will think here also.” Colors swirled as I appeared. “I’m choosing my costume. I’ll be talking to several people as a police detective.” I chose an amethyst blue silk top with silver checks, a white summer blazer, and a navy skirt. Low heels, of course. Serviceable. But flattering to a redhead.

  “You’re here.” His voice was young and stunned.

  “Think here,” I ordered. “Appear in something a young member of the staff at the U.S. Consulate might wear.”

  “Here.” His tone was tentative.

  His form took shape, dark hair, a sensitive, intelligent, appealing face. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, blue knit tie, gray slacks, navy loafers with tassels. He looked down at his hands, flexed them. “Here!”

  “Very good.” It was my turn to be impressed. “You are handsome.” I’m not au courant with Hollywood stars. I remember Gregory Peck and James Stewart and Van Johnson. Now I knew Ansel Elgort must indeed be extraordinarily handsome.

  Jimmy smoothed the jacket of a blue blazer. He was definitely presentable. I thought he was most likely irresistible to most women.

  He gave me a dazzling smile. “I wish I’d known I could do this. I wonder what Megan—”

  I hurried to rein him in. I hoped. “You are appearing solely to help clear Megan. You will have a specific task. In Florence, not Adelaide. Imagine how unnerving it would be if someone who knew you saw you walking down a street in Adelaide.”

  He had a wicked gleam in his eyes. “That might be fun.”

  “Jimmy.” I suppose my voice reflected a shade of panic.

  “Just saying.” His tone was airy. “Okay. I go to Florence and look up the Morses.”

  I smiled in relief. “Use your charm”—I looked at him critically; charm he had in abundance—“to find out why Brewster Layton and Doug Graham didn’t like each other and when that dislike became obvious. Get a time frame if possible. Also, maybe you should try to talk to Ginny Morse without her husband.” I never doubted Jimmy could attract any woman from seven to seventy
. “Women pick up on things. See if she knows if Graham was involved with anyone when he was married to Rhoda. Or after his divorce. Also”—I looked at him and had no doubt in my mind that he would succeed—“see if you can persuade Ginny to tell you how the money’s divvied up in the firm. That may be a challenge.”

  “Got it. I’ll check it all out.”

  “And Jimmy”—I looked at him steadily—“I want your promise that when I say, Jimmy, go, you will disappear on the instant.”

  “Disappear. Like, in disappear?” Colors whirled and there was only space where he had stood. “I can come back.” His voice was triumphant. “Here.” And there he was.

  His triple crown grin touched my heart.

  “Your promise?” I sniffed, expecting coal smoke.

  Slowly his face reformed. The smile was gone. He looked at me with serious brown eyes, brown eyes that held a memory of the girl he loved. “I promise.”

  I reached out. We solemnly shook hands. His hand was warm and firm and young.

  He looked at me expectantly. “I’m ready.”

  I showed him my small black leather folder that identified me as Detective M. Loy. A very flattering resemblance. In an instant, he held a leather folder with a diplomatic ID for James Taylor. “Remember to be cautious that no one is nearby when appearing or disappearing. Let’s meet this afternoon at the cemetery, say around four o’clock. Good luck, Jimmy.”

  “Arrivederci. Sto andando.” His voice was young, eager, fading.

  I felt noble, withstanding the lure of bella It—

  Coal smoke swirled around me. The thunder of wheels on rails.

  I quickly disappeared.

  Wiggins was gruff. “Bailey Ruth, climb aboard.” No ifs, ands, or buts.

  As Mama always told me, “When a man comes home grumpy, make him comfortable, a smile, a steak, an easy chair.” “Wiggins, I know you are pleased Jimmy will be in a place where he is totally unknown and can cause no harm. It is your thoughtful approach to problems that inspired me! Where, I wondered, could I send Jimmy to seek information? It was as if I heard mandolins. And I knew what to do.” No need to tell Wiggins mandolins came to mind because Jimmy learned phrases of love in his pursuit of Megan. I feared Wiggins might consider my thought processes frivolous. “Jimmy was an investigative reporter. He is charming. No one is better suited to discover if Carl and Ginny Morse possess information that will help find Graham’s murderer. I do not feel that I”—great emphasis on the pronoun—“can take credit.” Or, if we were going to get serious, blame. “You inspired me, your leadership a beacon, when I made the very difficult decision to instruct Jimmy in how to appear. Definitely, you were first and foremost in my thoughts.” I’d envisioned Wiggins’s censure from the get-go. “You are always my inspiration.” My tone was reverential.