Who Invited the Ghost to Dinner: A Ghost Writer Mystery (8 page)

“Maybe to throw her off her guard,” Mike suggested.

“How did she die?” I asked.

Mike didn’t answer.

Mac made a choking sign.

“Because you don’t want word to get out that she was choked to death, right?” I said.

Mike looked at me, then across the room at Mac. “Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t say anything,” I said, which was technically true. “Before you got here, I had a dream about Susan. She was on stage with Diane and Rachel, the lights went out, then there was a spotlight on her just before a pair of hands grabbed the pearls around her neck and choked her to death.”

Mike didn’t say anything; he just stared.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He shook his head. “There’s no way you could have known that unless he told you that.”

“I swear, he didn’t tell me! What difference does it make if he did? Who’s he going to tell? I’m the only one that can see or hear him. Wait…what? Are you saying she was choked to death with pearls?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny your information. And I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone.”

I leaned against the back of the couch. “Like I want to tell people I had a dream about the way someone died. They’ll call the paddy wagon for me, and lock me up in Big Spring with all the other nuts.”

“Most people would call it a gift,” Mac said.

“It’s not a gift!” I snapped. “Any more that it’s a ‘gift’ that I can talk to ghosts.”

“Better to talk to a ghost than to be one,” he said angrily before he disappeared in a shimmer of blue.

Chapter 11

Saturday

M
ike left right after Mac did, clearly unhappy with the turn of events. I spent a restless night, tossing and turning, with images of pearls, red shoes, and ghosts haunting my dreams. I finally gave up just before seven.

Thirty minutes later, I was sitting in a booth in the back of the coffeehouse, my laptop open, a Dr Pepper on one side, two apple cinnamon muffins on the other. I put my earbuds in so I could listen to some music, hoping that people would leave me alone. And for a while, it worked. I answered some emails from friends and former clients and read over a book proposal from an old Hollywood star who wanted to write a very salacious tell-all book. From the few details she provided me, I was pretty sure my keyboard would melt from all the heat.

A Styrofoam cup appeared across from me, and I looked up to find Mike standing next to my booth. He smiled at me, and my heart melted. I turned off the music and pulled out my earbuds.

“Good morning,” he said. “May I sit here?”

“Be my guest,” I said, gesturing at the other side of the booth. “I didn’t think you were talking to me right now.”

“Thank you,” he said as he sat down. “About that, I want to apologize. I didn’t mean to get upset with you…or your ghost. You told me he was going to hang around last night, and I should have realized he would have told you everything.”

“I’m not sure if he told me everything,” I said. “He was only there a few minutes before you showed up last night.”

“What did he say?”

“Are you sure you want to know? You said you couldn’t use anything that I find out from Mac.”

“I’ll call him a confidential source for now.”

“He mentioned Stephen Showalter.”

“The director? I didn’t get to interview him last night. He managed to slip out without anyone seeing him”

“Mac was there. His impression was that Showalter was more upset about Susan’s death than he let on.”

“Really?” Mike said, pulling out his notepad from his back pocket. He flipped it open. “Anything else?”

“Like I told you, we didn’t get to talk very much. The only other thing he mentioned was that he saw someone who looked familiar to him, but he wasn’t sure why.”

“Anyone he would have known fifty years ago would be in their seventies, wouldn’t they?”

“Roughly, yeah.”

“Certainly not out of the realm of possibility, but he died in Vegas. Who would he know here?”

“He was born in Dallas, and lived here with his parents and siblings until he enlisted after Pearl Harbor. Ended up in Las Vegas after the war was over, working at the casinos.”

“Sounds like he had an interesting life,” Mike said.

“I just thought of something,” I said, changing the subject. “The other day, when I mentioned the female ghost at the theatre, you said it sounded like a cold case you had read about. Have you had a chance to look at the file again?”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“Do you think we could take a look at it right now?” I said. I didn’t wait for him to say yes; I started shoving things into my messenger bag.

“I guess so. Any particular reason why you want to look at it now?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. Let’s just call it curiosity at the moment,” I said, getting up and depositing my plate and glass in the dish tub near the counter. Mike picked up my bag and followed me outside. He put the bag in the front seat of my car after I unlocked it.

“I’ll meet you at the station,” he said.

I nodded and got behind the wheel. As I drove behind his truck, I tried to figure out what was bothering me. It was one little thing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was hoping I would find the answer in that file.

I parking in a visitor’s spot, while Mike went to the spot reserved for the chief. I met him at the bottom of the steps and we went inside together.

Joanne Reagan was on front desk duty, and she looked up as we came in. “Good morning, Chief Penhall.”

“Good morning, Reagan. This is Cam Shaw.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Shaw.”

“Cam, please. Nice to meet you,” I replied, shaking hands with her. “How do you like it here so far?”

“For a small town, there’s a lot of excitement,” she said. “I never imagined to be involved in a murder investigation my first week here.”

“We don’t know that it’s murder yet, Reagan,” Mike reminded her.

Joanne handed him a note. “Dr. Quincy, the medical examiner, called a little while ago. It’s definitely murder.”

“I see,” he said, reading the message. “I’ll give him a call in a little while.”

“Also, there’s another protest down at Ingram Properties. Goodwin is down there by himself right now. He says there aren’t a lot of people there, and the secretary told him that she has no idea where Joey Ingram is this morning.”

“Call County and ask them if they can send a man down there to back up Goodwin. I’ll be in my office, but don’t put any calls through. I’ve got some business to attend to right now with Cam.”

“Of course, Chief,” she said, a gleam in her eye as we walked away.

“She probably thinks we’re going to fool around in your office,” I whispered to Mike as we walked down the hallway.

“Not today; I have a murder to solve. Maybe next week,” he said with a laugh.

Once inside, I sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk, while Mike went around to the other side and started looking for the file. There were dozens of folders everywhere. “How do you find anything in this mess?” I asked him.

“There is a method to the madness. This pile is new cases, the middle one is for prosecution pending, and the third is need to be filed.”

“And the fourth one?”

“That would be miscellaneous things,” Mike said as he thumbed through the fourth stack. “Here we go: Lillian Ingram.” He handed me a thin, faded folder.

“That’s it?” I said, opening the file. “A general report. No witness statements?”

Mike sat down in his chair. “That’s all there is, I’m afraid.”

“How is this supposed to help us?”

He shrugged.

“Who was the incompetent nincompoop back then?”

“I’m not sure,” Mike said. “My grandfather might know.”

“We’re not looking at another cover up, like we had in the Ashton case, are we?”

“Lord, I hope not,” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, there has to be some explanation.”

“Let’s look over the file, maybe there’s something in there we can use.”

Joanne stuck her head in the doorway. “Chief Penhall, we’ve got a problem up here. Gary Gordon was picked up for DUI, and he’s causing some problems in the holding cell.”

“DUI?” I said. “At eight-thirty in the morning?”

“Hard to believe I know,” she said, shaking her head. “According to his wife, they just found out they’re having a baby boy, and he went out to celebrate. The celebration ended when he ran his truck into a telephone pole on Highway 77. Power is out on the south side of town.”

Mike stood up. “I’ll be right there, thanks.”

Joanne nodded and left. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Mike said. “Gary’s a good guy. I’m sure once he sobers up, he is going to be extremely embarrassed by this.”

“I’ll read over the report while you’re gone.”

Mike left, I opened the folder and started reading. At eight-thirty p.m. on September 25, 1967, a call came in from the community theatre about a dead body. When officers arrived, they discovered Lillian Ingram, age 44, deceased. Oh my god, no…

When Mike came back, I was staring at the wall behind his desk. “Cam? You okay?” he asked, touching my shoulder.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring into space with your mouth hanging open. Are you all right?”

I shook my head. “No, actually, I’m not.”

“What’s wrong? Something in the file?”

“How closely did you read this when you looked at the first time?”

He took the file from me. “I didn’t get to finish it. Something came up, and I forgot about it, until you mentioned your two ghosts the other day. Did you find something?”

“You could say that. Lillian Ingram was killed at the theatre, on stage…strangled with her own pearls. Sound familiar?”

“Too familiar,” Mike replied.

“How did this file end up on your desk anyway?”

“Well, it’s an unsolved murder. Every once in awhile, we review the files, make a few calls, and see if anything new comes up.”

“So, if this is a cold case, then there’s an evidence box somewhere, right?”

“Well, yeah, I think so. I’ll have someone search for it. Maybe some of the things that are missing from the file are in the box.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“They weren’t big on organization back then,” Mike said, “not like we are now. Come on. I’ll tell Reagan what we need on our way out.”

“Where are we going?” I said.

“To talk to my grandfather.”

***

Mike rode with me to the nursing home. Instead of parking in the front, we drove over to the right side of the complex, where the small houses were located. The newlyweds were living in a house in the middle. The exterior was painted pale yellow, with two small flower beds on either side of the front door. I parked in front of the house.

“That tree could use a good trim,” he said as we got out of the car. “Flower beds need weeding, too.”

“Gutters probably need to be cleaned out, too,” I replied. “Maybe we could get a small work crew to come out and take care of a few things for them. A belated wedding gift.”

Mike wrapped his arm around me and kissed the side of my head. “Great idea.”

Before we could knock on the door, it opened. “Are you two going to continue to embarrass me in front of the neighbors, or are you coming in?”

We laughed and followed Grandma Alma into the house. “How are things going?” I asked her. “Are you two lovebirds getting settled into your new nest?”

“At least you didn’t ask if we had enough feathers,” she retorted as she entered the kitchen. “Look who I found making out in front of our house.”

“What a surprise! What brings you two over here on a Saturday morning?”

“We have some questions for you about a cold case that has come across my desk in the past week,” Mike said, holding out the file.

“Sure, I’ll be glad to help if I can,” Walt said, taking the folder from his grandson. “Sit down, take a load off. Want anything to drink?”

“I’m good,” I said. Mike asked for some ice water.

“Lillian Ingram,” Walt said. “I remember this. Where’s the rest of the file?”

“That’s all there is,” I told him.

“Impossible. I took several witness statements during the initial investigation. They were still there about twenty years ago,” he said as Grandma Alma placed a glass in front of Mike.

“According to the file, they didn’t have a solid suspect,” Mike said. “Do you remember if they were looking at one particular person?”

“You mean like Clinton Ingram?”

“Was he considered a suspect?”

“You always look at the spouse first, you know that. Clinton had an airtight alibi. He was talking to  a couple of people about an upcoming conference in Washington D.C.”

“Did you look at anyone else?”

“Sure we did, but none of them panned out. They all had pretty solid alibis. That’s not true. There was one person…”

“Who?” I said.

“Phillip Ingram.”

“Clinton’s father?” Mike said, sounding surprised. “Why him?”

Walt rubbed his chin. “Phillip made it pretty clear from the start of Clinton and Lillian’s relationship how he felt about her. He thought she was a gold digger. As he put it, she came from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“Did she?” I said.

“No,” Walt said, shaking his head. “I always thought she was too good to be part of the Ingram family. She was a good kid. Her parents, the Chauncers, were middle class; her mother was a high school teacher, and her father was a doctor at the hospital. He also ran a free clinic for low-income families in the county on the weekends.”

“A doctor’s daughter wasn’t good enough for him?” I said. “Good grief, it sounds like the only person eligible to marry into the family would have been a president’s daughter, or anyone who was a bigger snob than he was.”

“Pretty much,” Grandma Alma said. “Phillip was a bully, plain and simple. He was always complaining about something in front of the town council. Usually got what he wanted in the end. He didn’t care how many people he had to run over, as long as the end result was in his best interests. He got his comeuppance, though. A lot of people were happy when that happened.”

“What happened?” Mike asked her.

“He made some bad investments, in business and the stock market,” she replied. “Lost most of his father’s fortune. He was hoping that Clinton would marry a rich girl, so he could use the money to build his family coffers up again.”