Ghost in Trouble (11 page)

“Go, girl. I like a woman who will slug it out. As for psychics, et al, I agree with you, even if you sound like you have vinegar in your mouth.”

Had I sounded acidulous? Possibly. But that wasn't the point. “We should discourage Diane from engaging in the occult.”

“Lots of luck on that one.” Kay's expression was abruptly compassionate. “Threatening to cut her lifeline to James turns her into a shrew.”

I remembered the gazebo and Diane's passionate defense of Laverne.

Kay glanced behind her, backed up, then wheeled the car toward the street. “I've got places to go and people to see.” The Corvette burned out of the drive. “But”—and her tone was almost admiring—“your coming and going may turn out to be helpful. What did Alison want?”

My hair streamed behind me. I liked speed. I recalled the exhilarating plunge down one of Adelaide's biggest hills when I was here for a spot of Christmas intrigue. As then, I couldn't resist a whooping, “Yee-hah!” If you've never given a Rebel yell, you don't know how to have fun.

Kay gasped and the Corvette swerved. “What's up with you?” Her voice was both shaky and exasperated.

“Riding shotgun, sweetie, and having a blast. As for Alison, it's a shame I didn't have a camcorder. The Adelaide police carry them as part of their equipment.”

Just for fun I appeared in full police regalia, black-billed blue cap, long-sleeved French blue blouse, French blue trousers with a darker blue stripe, a nameplate for Officer M. Loy—my tribute to Mryna Loy—holster, gun, belt with flashlight, and a camcorder.

After one swift glance, Kay stared straight ahead. “Has anyone ever told you showing off is poor form?” The Corvette slowed to the speed limit.

I didn't think it was showing off to swirl into a more summery outfit. Besides, Adelaide is a small town and a police officer riding in the passenger seat of a yellow Corvette would definitely be noticed. This time I chose a hand-painted silk georgette blouse and pale pink slacks.

Kay glanced again. “Nice blouse.”

“Thank you.”

“Why did you wish you had a camcorder?”

We were almost downtown. “I wish I had a recording of Eve
lyn and Alison's conversation.” I described Evelyn's not terribly subtle offer of profit for a verdict of erosion at the base of the vase and concluded, “As soon as Evelyn dangled the bait of replacing the vases, Alison did the Texas two-step quicker than a firefly flickers. Tell me about Alison.”

Kay turned into a parking lot behind a small redbrick building with black shutters. “Clever, smart, on the make. Jack called Laverne and Ronald Diane's leeches. I'd describe Alison as Evelyn's leech, albeit a suave, sophisticated, savvy leech.” She eased the Corvette beneath the shade of a sycamore.

“It doesn't surprise you that Alison would be willing to adjust her opinion to suit Evelyn?”

Kay was sardonic. “Does the sun rise in the east? The surprise is Evelyn. Either she's protecting herself or someone else.”

“Who would she protect?”

Kay looked thoughtful. “Possibly Jimmy. She's fond of her nephew. I'd say no one else in the house matters to her at all. Maybe it's all much simpler. Maybe she's trying to deflect scandal from the family.”

“The Humes”—my voice was dry—“have always had a talent for scandal.”

“Not Evelyn.” Kay slipped out of the car.

I disappeared.

Her dark brows drew down in a tight frown. “Will you either be here or not?”

“The two of us together would intimidate any man. Use your charm with Paul Fisher. I'm sure you have some.”

She shot a hostile look where I had been. “As Charlie Chan said, ‘Assistants should be seen, not heard.'” She strode toward the entrance.

I called after her, “So last century.” As she opened the door, I
added sweetly, “Charlie also said, ‘Charming company turn lowly sandwich into rich banquet.'”

She looked back. “Touché.”

 

My intent was to
pop directly to Paul Fisher's office. I wanted to see him when he considered himself safe from observation. Private faces revealed character. Are the brows drawn in a frown? Is there sadness in the eyes? Does the expression show meanness or generosity?

I felt no need to hurry. Kay must first speak with the receptionist. I paused to enjoy once again the rasp of cicadas. When I was growing up in Oklahoma, we called them locusts. A biology teacher explained they were not locusts, but insects of another order. Whenever I heard cicadas, I felt even younger than my chosen age of twenty-seven. I was ten again and running barefoot through freshly cut grass with its distinctive scent, sunlight hot on my skin, living gloriously and heedlessly in what seemed to be the never-ending sun of summer.

“‘Mind, like parachute, only function when open.'” Wiggins's voice was gruff. I might even describe his tone as anguished. “Bailey Ruth, when will you stop and think?”

Without taking time to reflect, I blurted, “Too much thinking is deleterious to mental health.”

His riposte bristled. “That's not Charlie Chan.”

“Of course not.” Had I made that claim? “That's Bailey Ruth Raeburn.” Possibly I had a future in some great salon of intellectual conversationalists.

“Umph. Not bad. But you're distracting me from my point. If you hadn't appeared in the gazebo, you wouldn't have been seen by Diane Hume and now the fat's in the fire.”

“It's much too hot to picture a lump of fat sizzling in flames.”

“Bailey Ruth, focus on the matter at hand. You. Visible you. Contravening Precepts One, Three, and Four.” His voice rose and a splatting sound suggested fist hitting palm.

A girl walking a golden retriever stopped and looked around, seeking the source of the scolding voice. No one was visible in the parking lot. The teenage dogwalker's gaze swept up, down, back, forth.

Wiggins and I hovered unseen about fifteen feet above the hot, still parking lot.

“Precept Six.” The exclamation seemed torn from Wiggins's heart.

At the shout above her, the girl's head jerked up. She gazed at sycamore limbs quivering in the breeze. With a squeal, the girl turned. Pigtails flying, she bolted up the sidewalk with the dog.

When the girl and dog were out of sight, and, of course, ear-shot, I tried for a light touch. “Don't worry. She'll probably decide she heard a car radio.” The street was empty of traffic.

“From an imaginary car? From an invisible car?” Wiggins's volume increased with each word.

“These things happen.” I hoped he was in an accepting mood. “Dear Wiggins, don't you always feel there's a purpose? Perhaps that sweet girl will be led to a life of creative imagining. Why, this moment might mark the beginning of a career as a novelist. She may—”

“Bailey Ruth.”

“Apoplexy doesn't become you, Wiggins.” I hoped I sounded more chiding than critical. Men are very sensitive. “Besides, quivering with distress isn't good for you. Now, let's talk about outcomes. Everything is happening as it should.” Sounding positive can have the most amazing effect in a combative situation. “If I hadn't appeared in the gazebo, Kay would not have been forced to introduce me to Diane and I wouldn't have been invited to stay at
The Castle. I attributed the fortunate moment to you. You are always one step ahead of your emissaries, smoothing the path, foreseeing obstacles, creatively amending protocol when necessary. Even though becoming visible is anathema”—I was fervent and clearly in agreement—“to emissaries, sometimes we must appear
in
the world in order to discharge our duties. Since Kay's safety is paramount, my visible presence at her side in The Castle will afford her great protection. Wiggins, you were brilliant to think of it!”

“Greater protection?”

“Absolutely.” I was almost there.

“I don't recall thinking that at all.”

“Your mind is full of important duties! You can't be expected to remember everything, certainly not a minor deviation from business as usual. I thank you for your trust.” My voice held a hug. “Kay thanks you. And now, to work.”

“Bailey Ruth!”

I chose to ignore his call. After all, Wiggins must surely applaud emissaries who hewed to duty despite impediments.

 

Paul Fisher's office reflected
a man comfortable with himself, an old oak desk, a couple of easy chairs with somewhat worn plaid upholstery. A black Lab rested on a window seat. I wondered how many clients felt less threatened by their legal troubles the minute they saw the silver-muzzled old dog, his adoring dark eyes fixed on his master. Fisher was lean and lanky. His angular face had a faintly quizzical expression. He was likely in his early sixties, tall, fit, and tanned with sun-bleached hair. “…expect to see you at the deposition next week.” He reached for a legal pad, made quick notes. “If that's a firm offer, I'll see what my client thinks. I'll be back in touch.” He drew a box around a figure. “Sure, Rob. Maybe
something can be worked out.” He hung up and punched his intercom. “I'm free, Martha. I'll see Mrs. Clark now.” He reached up, smoothed his untidy hair, and stood. There was a youthful eagerness in his gaze.

Oh, of course. They'd met at dinner at The Castle.

The office door opened.

Paul came around the side of his desk to greet Kay.

She walked toward him, slim hand outstretched. She was strikingly attractive, layered short dark hair, deep-set, intelligent brown eyes, slim straight nose, generous mouth, firm chin. Her close-fitting black sheath dress with a white bamboo pattern emphasized her excellent figure.

As their eyes met, I became aware of that ages-old, ever-new, always-indefinable magic connection between a man and a woman.

Oh, my.

S
orry to have kept you waiting.” His voice was pleasantly deep. His eyes told her he was acutely aware of her presence.

“You are very kind to see me without an appointment.” The words were mundane, but her gaze responded to his.

He still held her hand. “What can I do for you?”

She gave him a quick smile. “I'm hoping you can help me with some research.” She pulled her hand free. “I'll try not to take too much of your time.”

He pointed at the chair nearest his desk. “The springs are better in that one. Martha's been after me to redecorate.”

I popped out to the waiting room. Martha was a plump seventy with a mound of white hair and bright blue eyes in a face wrinkled with good humor. I returned to his office.

Kay sat lightly in the chair. She drew a small notebook from
her purse. “Jack had your card among his papers. Had he consulted you?”

Paul settled in the other easy chair, the one with presumably inadequate springs. In my day, lawyers wore dark gray or blue suits, white shirts, and tastefully striped ties. He looked athletic, muscular, and very attractive in a light blue polo and tan slacks and black loafers. “I was not”—he spoke precisely—“representing him in a legal matter.”

“I'm eager to know whatever you and he discussed. Everything Jack did while he was in Adelaide is important to me.”

His quizzical look was pronounced. “How does that information fit into a book about his life?”

“Some of the information will be important. Some won't. His life ended here. Readers may gain a particular insight if they know what mattered to him in his final days. Why did Jack come to you, if not for legal counsel?” Her gaze was intent. His careful answer had caught her attention.

Paul looked thoughtful. “I was his oldest friend. He trusted me.”

“He trusted me as well. I hope you will, too.”

Paul looked toward a wall filled with framed certificates and photographs. One pictured a football team in a formal pose. “He was my quarterback.”

That simple sentence told Kay everything she needed to know about Jack and Paul. When Jack turned to Paul, Paul helped him, not as a lawyer, but as a long-ago teammate.

The lawyer reached over to pick up a green folder from his desk.

I hovered behind his shoulder.

Paul opened the folder. “Jack came to see me a few days before he died. He didn't want to go back to Africa until he was sure everything was right at The Castle. He felt responsible for the well-being of his sister and his brother's widow.” Paul glanced at
an index card. “He asked me to obtain information for him about Alison Gregory and Laverne and Ronald Phillips.”

I was abruptly alert. There were two more names on that card that he hadn't mentioned.

“Alison Gregory.” Kay repeated the name, made a note on her pad.

Paul's tone was warm. “That was easy duty. As I told Jack, I've known Alison for years. She played tennis with my wife. Alison was a huge help when Mindy was sick. Alison took her for some of her chemo treatments. She was there for Mindy right up to the end.” He glanced away.

“I'm sorry.” There was sincerity and understanding in Kay's voice. “My husband died two years ago.”

They exchanged glances, understanding that each had experienced loss and that memories mattered.

She brought them back to the comfortable office. “Why was Jack interested in Alison?”

“Jack said Evelyn was considering becoming Alison's partner. That surprised me. Alison's very independent. I asked Jack if he was sure and he said maybe he'd misunderstood, but he wanted to know the financial status of her gallery, just in case. That would reassure him, even if nothing ever came of the proposal. He wanted a dossier on Alison. That was easy to put together. Alison grew up here, but she's quite a bit younger. She was Alison Frazier. She has a degree in fine arts from SMU. Her folks owned an upscale clothing store. They did fine until her father died. Her mother ran the store well enough, but she let the insurance lapse. A fire wiped out the store. Her mother wasn't able to rebuild. When she died, the money was all gone. Alison was an only child and she'd grown up having everything she wanted. Her degree was useless for a job that would make money. She ended up in Dallas, working for an art dealer. That's where she made
her contacts in the art world. She married a trust-fund cowboy, E. J. Gregory the Fourth. The marriage didn't last. She took the settlement and came back to Adelaide and opened a gallery. She has contacts in Dallas and Mexico City. I got the names of some of the private collectors she deals with. She often brokers private sales of big-deal art. I nosed around, got financials on her. She's made a bundle, no outstanding debts, good reputation in art circles. Evelyn Hume is her best client. Evelyn collects Mexican and American art. Evelyn's awfully proud of a Frida Kahlo self-portrait. I thought it looked pretty dingy and lifeless, but I'm no art critic. Anyway, Jack didn't see why Alison wanted a partner if she was solvent. I was able to reassure him. Gregory Gallery has lots of cash in the bank. She's a great supporter of the art department at Goddard, often exhibiting student work. She's thick with one of the full-time faculty, Leonard Walker. Some people think they are very close.”

“How did Jack react to your report?”

“He thanked me, said that seemed like good news.”

“And Laverne and Ronald Phillips?”

Paul looked amused. “A different breed of cat altogether. I confirmed Jack's suspicions. Laverne Phillips had a shabby little office in a strip shopping mall in Gainesville. You know the sort of thing: ‘Psychic Readings, Private Consultations.' When I see that kind of setup, I wonder how anyone can be sucked in. If the ‘psychic'”—his tone put the noun in quote marks—“knows so much, why isn't the office upscale? You'd think applying a little of that savvy to the futures market would make a hacienda in Acapulco small change. Of course, any rational person knows the answer. It's bogus. Certainly, Laverne Phillips is bogus, but Diane is convinced that Laverne is her personal portal to the afterlife. Not long after James died, Diane was on her way to Dallas and she saw the sign and stopped.” Paul looked sardonic. “I can imagine
the scene, Laverne delicately probing, ‘You are clearly suffering. Perhaps the spirits can bring you comfort,' and Diane prattling about James and The Castle and how lonely she was. Diane wasn't Laverne's first victim. A Gainesville woman's daughter filed a lawsuit, claiming her mother had been swindled. Laverne paid back some money and the suit was dropped. Who knows how many others she's fleeced.”

Kay's hand was poised above her notepad. “Do you have the Gainesville victim's name?”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you were trying to round up information on Jack's last days.”

Kay was bland. “I want to see if he contacted the Gainesville woman. If he did, that conversation will give readers a wonderful example of his determination to protect the family.”

Paul slowly nodded. He thumbed through some papers. “Helen Cramer.” He added the address and phone.

Kay wrote rapidly. “Anything else?”

“I gave Jack plenty of ammunition to use against the Phillipses. Basically, Diane rescued Laverne and Ronald. He's a ne'er-do-well with a checkered work career—car salesman, insurance agent, radio DJ. He'd lost his latest job selling vacuum cleaners and was on his last week of unemployment. They were behind in their house and car payments. Now they're on easy street with more than a hundred thousand in the bank.” He grinned. “You can take that as an educated guess.”

Later I could explain that enigmatic statement to Kay. It's a good-old-boy world in Adelaide. I was confident that Paul, as a high school football hero, had faced no difficulty in getting an unofficial report on Laverne and Ronald's bank account.

“Did Jack confront the Phillipses?”

“I don't know.”

Kay was brisk. “I'll find out.”

He looked skeptical. “I doubt you'll get much out of them.”

Kay was confident. “People like to offer their side of a disagreement. That will be my approach. Inclusion in a book may be tempting. What I discover may or may not be useful. I never know where I may find an important fact or impression that will give life to a piece. That's why I explore every possible source.” Kay glanced at her notebook. “When did you last talk to Jack?”

“The day he died. He wanted to see me, but I was on my way to the City for a golf foursome. I stayed for dinner. Jack and I planned to get together the next day. I found out about his accident when I got home. The dinner ran late, and I didn't get in until almost eleven. There was a message on my phone from Evelyn.”

“How would you describe Jack's mood when he talked to you Saturday morning?”

“Not good.” Paul sounded regretful. “He told me he had some unpleasant tasks facing him and he intended to deal with them as soon as possible.” The lawyer kneaded a cheek with knuckles. “Maybe that's why I wasn't surprised that he'd died. I thought maybe he was furious with someone and saw that person in the garden and started down the steps too fast.”

His words evoked a picture of a man caught up in powerful emotion.

“When he came to your office, did he say anything about a serious disagreement with someone?”

“He was disgusted by Laverne and Ronald's free rein at The Castle and upset when I told him I didn't think there was any legal approach that could be taken. Otherwise, he confined our discussion to obtaining information.”

If I had been a cartoonist, I would have drawn a balloon above the lawyer's head with this message:
There are many different ways to tell the truth.

Kay wrote swiftly in her notebook, then looked up. “I don't want to overlook anyone who might have spoken with Jack those last few days. I understand the Dunhams, next-door neighbors, were at dinner the night Jack died. What can you tell me about them?”

Paul's expression didn't change. He placed his fingertips together in a careful, precise tepee. “Native Adeladians. Clint has an insurance agency. Gwen is active in AAUW and League of Women Voters. She and my wife worked on a bunch of committees together. You might ask Diane. Gwen is her good friend. I believe they go back a long way. I don't know if Clint and Jack had ever met. Diane would know.”

“I'll do that.” Kay closed her notebook. “Did Jack mention anything else to you?”

I watched the lawyer carefully.

He didn't hesitate. He'd been practicing law for a long time and he knew how to play a hand. “I wish I knew something more that I thought would be helpful.” He sounded sincere. He placed the closed folder on his desk.

I studied him with great attention. The card in the folder had also contained the names of Gwen and Clint Dunham. Surely that indicated they also had been the subject of an inquiry by Jack. If so, the lawyer had not shared that information with Kay.

She stood, held out her hand. “I appreciate the information you've given me.”

He rose and came nearer.

She didn't move away.

He looked down into her face as if seeking an answer to an unasked question.

She looked up, her dark eyes intent.

He took her hand.

Again, their handclasp marked an instant of connection far beyond polite leave-taking.

“I'll see you again.” He spoke decisively.

She gave him swift, appealing smile. “I hope so.”

He walked to the door, held it for her. He closed the door behind her, moved to his desk chair, and sank into it. He reached for the folder and placed it in the lower right drawer of his desk, his face drawn in a troubled frown.

 

As the Corvette roared
from the parking lot, I debated whether to tell Kay about the Dunhams. I decided to wait. I had every intention of looking at that file. A fragile connection had been made between Kay and Paul. I wouldn't destroy it heedlessly. There might be a good reason for Paul's reticence.

I hoped Wiggins was pleased by my thoughtfulness. Did I feel an ethereal pat on my shoulder?

“Wiggins—” I clapped my fingers to my lips.

The car swerved. Kay's hands tightened on the wheel. She shot a glance toward the passenger seat. “I thought maybe you weren't here. You usually aren't quiet.”

“The less said the better,” Wiggins boomed. “Oh, bother. Remember, Bailey Ruth, silence is golden!”

Kay turned a startled glance toward the passenger seat. “Where did that come from?”

“Watch the road.” I reached over to push the wheel to the left. The Corvette barely missed a parked FedEx truck.

She looked straight ahead, her shoulders hunched. The Corvette turned on a back road. “I heard a man's voice. He spoke to you.” Her tone was accusing. “Where was he? Where
is
he?”

“Not to worry. You should be honored. That was Wiggins, my supervisor.” Wiggins no doubt was embarrassed that he had spoken aloud in Kay's hearing. I was sure he'd departed. I would encourage him when next we spoke. One mistake does not a disaster
make. I was living proof. Ghostly proof? Whatever. “Wiggins doesn't take a direct part in most missions.” It wasn't necessary to explain that perhaps the oversight was for me, not for her. Everyone likes to feel special. I decided it might make Kay feel more comfortable if she could see me. I appeared.

She shivered. “One ghost I can take. Two is more than my mangled sensibility can tolerate.”

“You have such a nice way with words.”

She shot me a look of pure loathing. “Look, Bai—”

“Francie. You don't want to make a mistake at The Castle.”

“You're still coming to stay?”

I decided to overlook her clear lack of enthusiasm. “With a song in my heart.” I paused, grinned. “I know. Soooo last century.” I thought I detected a quiver of amusement on her face. Possibly we might forge a better relationship.