Ghost in Trouble (12 page)

I gave some thought to my visit, selecting clothes and accessories and personal items, then informed Kay. “My suitcase is in the trunk. You might see if I could be put in that lovely white room. That's where I stayed last night. It's very convenient to yours.”

“Oh, sure, I'll ask. Let me know if there's anything else you'd like.” Her tone was just this side of churlish.

“I don't want to be a bother.”

“No bother. Nothing I'd rather do than make you as comfy as possible.” The car picked up speed.

My feeling of bonhomie eroded. However, I resisted responding in kind. I hoped Wiggins was even now adding a star to my file. “Is Gregory Gallery near The Castle?” I knew this old part of town well and we were retracing our earlier route.

“Gregory Gallery?” She sounded abstracted.

“Alison Gregory. Surely that's where we're headed.”

“Bai—Francie, you may ostensibly be my assistant, but please leave the tactical planning to me.”

I don't like to be patronized. However, I made my tone quite reasonable. “Jack specifically sought information about Alison Gregory's financial status. There was a time noted on the back of her business card and a name. That suggests he made an appointment with her.”

Her head jerked toward me. “How do you know about the business card?”

I didn't bother to answer. If she was so smart…

Her face screwed up in dismay. “That gives me the willies. You've been creeping around—”

“I never creep.” Absolutely not. I float.

“You know what I mean. You were there, but I couldn't see you and you pawed around in the desk.”

“Please.” It was my turn to patronize. “Let's focus on what matters.”

The Corvette curved into the front drive. “Let's do that very thing,” she snapped. “Alison Gregory's a side issue. Jack didn't find out anything to derail Evelyn's plan to buy into the gallery. What matters is the background of Laverne and Ronald Phillips. I'm going up to my room and do some calling.”

Sometimes it's better to remain aloof from controversy.

I disappeared.

The Corvette squealed to a stop. Kay looked above, around, and behind. “Come back here. What are you going to do? Where are—”

Diane Hume stepped from the shadow of an elm. Eyes wide, she stared at Kay.

“Are you all right?”

Kay punched off the car. She managed a strained smile. “I'm fine. Sometimes”—she swallowed hard—“I practice questions before I talk to people. I asked myself, ‘What are you going to do?' That helps me organize my thoughts.” Kay slammed out of the car, headed for the front steps.

Diane hurried to catch up. “That's a wonderful idea. I'll try it. ‘What are you going to do?' Why, I already feel more empowered. That's what Laverne urges me to do. Open up and be empower—”

The front door shut behind them.

 

In my experience as
an emissary, I'd learned that clothes and accompanying articles such as a purse with customary contents could be imagined into existence. Perhaps…I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined the most fetching red Corvette convertible—not, of course, that I wished to imitate Kay, but the ride was exhilarating.

I opened my eyes.

No red Corvette gleamed in the drive of The Castle.

Oh, well. It never hurt to try. Instead, I thought Gregory Gallery and there I was.

Built of golden adobe in the style of Santa Fe, Gregory Gallery drowsed in the shade of cottonwoods. Water splashed from a fountain of brilliant red-and-blue-patterned Talavera tiles. A bell tinkled as I turned the oversize iron knob and pushed the hand-planed, sugar-pine door.

The entryway opened to a large, rectangular room. Cleverly spaced lights plus natural light from skylights illuminated paintings mounted on pale lemon walls.

Alison Gregory moved gracefully toward me. Her cool blue eyes swept me, likely tallying the price of my hairdo, makeup, and wardrobe. The sum must have been adequate for a customer. I was glad I'd chosen the silk georgette blouse. Perhaps she admired the pale pink of the hand-painted flowers against the lime background. Her smile was welcoming. “May I help you?”

I smiled in return. “I hope so. I'm Francie de Sales.”

A graceful hand was extended. An emerald glittered in an elegant gold filigree setting. “Alison Gregory. Welcome to Gregory
Gallery.” Her handshake was cool and firm. “Are you looking for a particular kind of painting?”

“I wish I were.” My voice was admiring. “That's a striking scene.” I gestured at a painting of Indians on horseback against the backdrop of granite buttes.

“Thomas Moran.” She spoke as if he were an old friend.

“Remarkable.” My gaze swept the displayed paintings. “Your gallery is very impressive. No wonder Evelyn Hume plans to become your partner.”

Utter surprise widened her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh?” I showed confusion. “That was my understanding. Jack Hume told a friend that Evelyn hoped to become a partner in the gallery. Wasn't that what he discussed with you?”

Her face was suddenly unreadable, smooth and controlled. “What do you have to do with the Humes?”

“I'm Kay Clark's assistant. She asked me to visit with you for her book about him. He had an appointment with you. I doubt there's much that would matter for the book, but she didn't want to overlook you since he'd made a special note about seeing you. I hope you can spare a few minutes to tell me about your meeting.”

“I'll be happy to do that, though I doubt my conversation with him will be of interest to you.” She gestured toward an alcove. Well-worn leather furniture looked comfortable. “Come sit down.”

We faced each other across a rough-hewn pinewood coffee table. Several art magazines rested on the table.

She relaxed against the soft leather, crossed her legs, and locked her hands around one knee. Even in the fairly dim light of the alcove, the emerald glowed grass green. “However, I first want to make it clear that you have received false information about my gallery. Evelyn Hume and I have never discussed going into partnership.” She spoke briskly, but pleasantly. “Evelyn is a dear friend
and a valued customer, but she isn't interested in being my partner, nor have I ever suggested a partnership to her. I own Gregory Gallery. I run Gregory Gallery. That's the way it is and that's the way it's going to be.”

It was my turn for surprise. “I see.” Though, of course, I didn't. “Definitely there is a mix-up. Jack told a friend he was interested in the gallery's business performance because Evelyn was considering a partnership.”

“How odd.” She stared toward the stuccoed wall, her eyes narrowed in thought. “I don't see why he wanted to know about the gallery…” It was as if she were speaking to herself. “…unless he was taking that route to see if I was trustworthy.” She gave a decided nod. “I suppose that had to be his reason. The Humes”—and she was both admiring and critical—“always look at the bottom line. I suppose he was vetting me to decide if he could trust me. He did come to see me for a specific reason.” She gave me a searching look. “I don't suppose there's any harm now in revealing our conversation.”

I felt close to discovering something important. The mixture of hesitancy and reluctance suggested she knew something of a matter that had been important to Jack Hume.

“He wanted to talk about Evelyn. On a personal level. Evelyn”—the gallery owner's smile was quick and unaffected—“comes across as a curmudgeon. In reality, she's kind and sensitive. She is passionate about art. And”—she looked grave—“about family. That was the problem. Jack approached me because I am one of Evelyn's closest friends. In fact, when he came to the gallery, I wasn't surprised. He'd made a special effort to be friendly to me. One evening at The Castle, he asked me to tell him about some of the artworks. He wanted to be able to talk to Evelyn about the art and, as he put it, he'd spent most of his life in a rough-and-ready place and he wasn't an art connoisseur. I realized when he came
to the gallery”—she waved her hand at the magnificent arrays of paintings—“that he'd used art as an excuse. What he really wanted to talk about was Evelyn.”

She brushed back a strand of blond hair, sighed. “Their situation was sad. Evelyn was angry with him. She felt that he'd neglected the family, that he'd hurt their father deeply. She especially resented the fact that her brother didn't come home when his father was dying. Oh, he came for the funeral. But Evelyn told him, I'm afraid not very kindly, that he'd come too late. He didn't come home to Adelaide to see his father one last time.” She pointed at me. “He sat in that chair and asked if I thought there was any way he could reach her. He said, ‘My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she'd shoot me. I don't want to go home with that on my conscience.'”

My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she'd shoot me.

The words, spoken in Alison's soft, quiet voice, seemed to hang between us.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing new. Maybe there's nothing new in the world when it comes to love. And hate.” She looked pensive. “We've all made mistakes with people. I never had a sister or brother, but I know when I've hurt someone, the best words are ‘I'm sorry.' That's what I suggested he say to Evelyn: ‘I'm sorry.' He came to see me the afternoon of the day he died. He didn't know he had so little time left. He wanted to make things right with his sister. I hope he had a chance to tell her. But I won't ask Evelyn. If he didn't, it will only grieve her.”

I shook my head. “I'd consider telling Evelyn. If she doesn't know, you might bring her great comfort. And certainly, this is material that will add depth to the book.”

“You may be right.” She sat straighter on the couch. She looked poised to rise, making it clear that the interview was at an end,
that she was a businesswoman, that she had matters to deal with.

I stood and smiled. “Thank you so much for your time.”

She walked with me to the door.

As I pulled the door open, sunlight flooded the entryway. She stood with the grace of a model. I admired her indigo trousers and zebra-print blouse, the zigzag blue stripe evocative of a shimmering Caribbean lagoon. Large crystals glittered in a summery golden bib necklace. She might have been any well-to-do woman on a lovely summer day except for a hint of weariness in her smooth face.

I paused. I'd forgotten one point. “Jack had made a note about Leonard Walker.”

Something moved in her blue eyes. Wariness? Fear? Or was she simply surprised? Her reply came slowly. “Leonard Walker? I can't imagine—oh.” She shook her head. “I'd forgotten. When Jack and I talked about paintings one evening at The Castle, he asked about local artists. He said he had a photograph of his late wife and he wondered if he could commission someone to paint a portrait for him. I must have suggested Leonard. He's in the art department at Goddard.”

I
didn't bother going to the campus. It had never been my experience that academics spent much time in their offices and certainly not during the summer. I disappeared and zoomed to a nearby dress shop. An empty office provided a phone book. I found Leonard Walker's address.

I felt no need to hurry, so I wafted through the shop to see the clothes. Oh, yes. Very nice. I changed into a salmon rose-print blouse and cool gray trousers, then arrived on a shady street near downtown with well-kept bungalows from the 1930s. The modest homes were unpretentious, charming, and livable. I immediately applauded Walker's taste.

I waited until the mailman walked away to become visible. I admired the crisp white of the heavily timbered front-porch gable, then climbed the shallow front steps. The shingled wood exterior was painted a soft sea green. The gleaming mahogany front door
featured an opaque oval glass inset with a daylily incised in the center.

I rang the bell and faintly heard a distant chime.

Cicadas rose to a crescendo, dropped away, began again. In the moments between their songs, I heard the poignant cry of mourning doves and the rustle of magnolia leaves. But the house lay silent.

I rang again.

Possibly Leonard Walker was out of town. The mention of his name had apparently surprised Alison Gregory. I had only her word for Jack's question to her. Had he really sought an artist to create a painting of his late wife? Or had Jack been interested in Walker for another reason?

I only knew for a fact that Leonard Walker's name had been written on the back of Alison's business card, his name and a time.

I pressed the bell again.

Suddenly the door swung in. A tall, stocky bear of man with a mane of golden hair filled the doorway. He gave me an admiring glance from dark brown eyes. He was handsome in a bohemian way, a blue work shirt loose over cotton shorts, a single earring, a gold-link necklace. “Yeah?”

I introduced myself. “I'm hoping for a moment of your time. I'm gathering information on Jack Hume for a book and apparently he was in touch with you before he died.”

He looked blank. “Hume?” He sounded puzzled.

“I understand he wanted to commission you to paint a portrait of his deceased wife from a photograph.”

“Oh. Yeah. Dude in his sixties.” He lifted his heavy shoulders, let them fall. “He never got back to me.”

“He died in a fall.”

Again he shrugged, though this time he added a commiserating shake of his head and the thick blond hair rippled. “Sorry
about that. Anyway, he came to see me a couple of weeks ago, I never heard back. That happens. People change their minds. So, I can't help you.”

The door closed in my face.

I walked swiftly down the sidewalk. I waited until I was screened by trees to disappear. In an instant, I was inside the house. The living room enchanted me: a copper flying pig hung from a thin wire, a tulip vase adorned a cherry-and-ebony cabinet, and every where there was distinctive Stickley furniture, cabinets, chairs, and end tables, as well as Queen Anne and Chippendale armchairs.

Walker was in the kitchen. He picked out a can of Coke from the refrigerator, flipped the top. He looked relaxed. It didn't appear my visit was lingering in his mind.

I floated about the house and found his studio. A large easel sat in the middle of the room. Paint splotches marked the old wooden floor. Canvases leaned against the walls, some finished, some not. The strong scent of turpentine and linseed oil cloyed the air. Mussed paint rags overflowed from a wastebasket, littering the nearby floor. A studio easel held a half-finished oil painting of a golden retriever. A photograph of a dog was clipped to the top right of the easel. In the clear north light, there was an uncanny resemblance between the photograph and the painting of the large blond dog holding a pheasant firmly in his jaws. The oval palette on the nearby table was splotched with varying shades of oil paint.

Footsteps sounded. Walker came in and picked up his palette, looked at the painting, lifted his brush. He added several dots of orange to one paw, then stroked the bristles against the canvas. The fur looked amazingly lifelike, shining in sunlight. His face folded in a frown of concentration.

I left him at work. Outside, I moved out of sight of the house, stepped into the shadow of a willow, and, after a careful look
about, appeared long enough to look at my watch. Of course I have one. Heaven doesn't stint on details. I changed from a silver case and black leather strap suitable for Kay Clark's research assistant to a stylish Swatch, the bull watch. This had nothing to do with Pamplona. This had to do with Black Angus bulls in Pontotoc County, Oklahoma. It was a quarter after twelve. Paul Fisher's office should be empty. I disappeared.

 

I turned on the
light in Paul Fisher's office. My stop would be brief. As a widower, I doubted he went home for lunch. I felt a pang. Was he even now settling into one of the four booths at Lulu's? I was starving. However, I resisted the impulse to pop to Lulu's for a heavenly hamburger. Lulu's is an Adelaide institution. More important, Lulu's serves delectable, sizzling hamburgers with freshly chopped onions, crisp lettuce, and real tomatoes, not those bright red but tasteless greenhouse products. I could picture my hamburger, the bun fresh and hot and seasoned from a slap-down on the grill. In a minute, perhaps…

I dropped into Paul's chair, opened the lower right drawer, and picked out the green folder. I looked at the square white card:

There was a space and in a different ink, black, not blue, was written:

The folder contained several sheets of paper. I found information on Alison Gregory and Laverne and Ronald Phillips. The lawyer had accurately reported his findings to Kay. The last sheet had the names of Gwen and Clint Dunham at the top. Instead of a summary of information, this sheet listed three questions.

I turned the sheet over. The other side was blank. I looked again at the questions. There were no answers given. I went carefully through the folder. There was no further mention of the Dunhams. All of the other material pertained either to Alison Gregory or the Phillipses.

Three questions asked on June 5; no answers given. Or, at least, no answers had been recorded in this file. Jack died the night of June 6. Quite likely Paul had not had time to make any inquiries.

In addition, Paul had deflected questions about the Dunhams to Diane, saying that Diane and Gwen were close friends. Was that intended to be helpful or was it a subtle attempt to maneuver attention away from Jack and the Dunhams?

I replaced the folder in the drawer. Just in case, I flipped through the other files. This apparently was Paul's personal drawer. Folders contained income-tax statements, home-, car-, medical-, and life-insurance policies, the Paul Forbes Fisher REV. Trust, deeds, and Ameritrade quarterly reports.

I had difficulty replacing the files. I reached inside and felt an obstruction at the back of the drawer. My fingers touched a slick material. Something covered with plastic wrap had apparently slid forward when I picked up the files.

My fingers closed around the oval lump. I pulled it out, intending to replace the files, then drop the object behind them as Paul must have done. I stared through clear plastic wrap at a man's silver-backed hairbrush with the initials
RPD
ornately engraved.

I didn't disturb the wrapping. I placed the hairbrush on the desk as I returned the folders. I started to shut the drawer, then stopped. If I took the hairbrush with me and Paul discovered its loss, he might sharply question his elderly secretary. I could not put her character in jeopardy. If I didn't take the brush, there was always the possibility that the lawyer might dispose of it. Or return the brush to its owner. However, he had no reason to believe anyone would ever become aware of the brush. Perhaps he had decided the brush, whatever secret it held, might be safest tucked behind his folders.

Reluctantly, I reached to the back of the drawer and slid the brush sideways behind the folders. It was now as he had left it. I hoped the brush remained where it was. Whatever happened, I knew Jack Hume very likely had brought the brush to Paul and I could describe, very accurately, the bright silver back and intricately engraved initials:
RPD
.

RPD…

 

On the second floor
of the public library, I wafted through the staff offices until I found one momentarily unoccupied but with the computer on. It was the work of only a moment to find what I needed. Gwendolyn Marie Parker and Clint William Dunham were married at the First Baptist Church on August 11, 1990. Ryan Parker Dunham was born April 23, 1991.
RPD…

 

The Dunhams' stone, clinker-brick,
and oak-beam house was a small version of an English manor house. Slate shingles glittered on the steep roof and terra-cotta pots adorned the chimney. The dark green of thick ivy emphasized the brilliance of red shutters. The lawn was a green pelt. A maroon Lexus was parked in the shade of spectacular pink, white, and red flowering crape myrtles.

Inside, I heard the distant sound of a piano. I flowed through the house, admiring the living room with a white marble chimney piece, hand-beaten copper vases, a rosewood whatnot with a collection of porcelain birds. In the dining room, stained-glass windows with a heraldic motif of a metal visor in the center of a blue-and-gold design overlooked a rectangular mahogany table. Balloon-backed chairs repeated the design in blue-and-gold tapestry.

At the end of the hall, I entered a long room. Chintz-covered easy chairs, a large-screen television, and a wet bar provided a homey atmosphere. A bricked wall suggested this room was a later addition.

A slender woman sat at a grand piano. Her hands moved lightly as she played “Clair de lune.” The mood and movement were mournful. She looked cool and summery in a light blue cotton blouse and a leaf-print-pattern blue-and-silver sarong skirt. Softly curling blond hair framed a face with the beauty of classic features: smoothly rounded forehead, wide-spaced blue eyes, narrow nose, perfect lips curved in a hint of a smile. She had the kind of beauty made famous long ago by Grace Kelly.

My gaze swept past a wall with an English hunting scene and stopped at a knotty-pine wall covered with family photographs that followed a little boy from toddler days to college. I saw the boy and the woman seated at the piano as they had changed over time. The woman who held him when he was little smiled down
at him adoringly, a mother's look of passionate love. The little boy's father had an open, blunt face that had improved with age from a rather vacuous expression when he was young to a tolerant, genial middle age. Family pictures, the three of them smiling and happy, included sitting on the top rail of a wooden fence, skiing, playing tennis, boating, birthdays, dances. I studied the photos with a prickling of shock.

I stepped back, scanned the wall. Across the top of the wall was a series of studio photographs. The pictures were evenly spaced except near the end of the row, where three of the frames hung several inches farther apart.

I glanced behind me. The pensive pianist was focused on the keys, the slow music continuing.

I moved nearer the wall and quietly lifted several frames in turn. There were nicks from previous nails a few inches from the current hooks. The photographs at the end of the line had been moved to hide a missing frame. At one time, another picture had hung there.

I gently straightened the last frame and gazed at the woman. Her lovely face appeared troubled. She half turned toward the wall of pictures, perhaps sensing my movement, perhaps seeking solace. For an instant, sheer misery made her face forlorn. Her hands came down, crashing into a discordant chord.

Now was the time to confront Gwen Dunham.

On the front porch, I glanced around. No one was about. I swirled into place. I took no pleasure in what I was about to do, but someone had pushed Jack Hume to his death and I might be near to knowing why. I pushed the bell.

In a moment, the door opened. The smooth social veneer that keeps misery hidden molded her face into polite inquiry. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Dunham, I'm assisting Kay Clark with her book about Jack Hume. I would like to speak with you—”

“I can't help you.” Her voice was thin. “I hardly knew him.” The door began to close.

“Jack Hume took your son's hairbrush.”

“Oh God.” She clung to the doorjamb as if all her strength were gone.

“Hey, Gwen?” The robust call came from down the hall. A burly man with thinning sandy hair and a sun-reddened face strode up the hallway. “Ready to go?”

Violet eyes huge in a blanched face, she held out a beseeching hand to me. “It's my husband. I can't talk to you now. I can't.”

“Three o'clock in the gazebo at The Castle.”

She nodded jerkily and the door swung shut.

I disappeared. Inside the house, I watched her turn to meet him.

The smile slid from his face. “Gwen, what's wrong?” He darted an angry look at the door. “Who was that woman? What's happened?”

She reached out and spread her fingers on the tiled top of the side table in the foyer. She tried to smile, but her face was paper white, her eyes staring. “The woman?” Her voice was uneven, breathless. “I don't know.” There was a ring of truth to her voice, truth and puzzlement. “I shouldn't have opened the door. I have a terrible headache. I'm going upstairs. I'll lie down for a while. Go on to lunch without me. Tell Ted and Tracy I have a headache.” She turned and moved blindly toward the stairs.