Ghost in Trouble (22 page)

Chief Cobb looked skeptical. “How can you be certain?”

“I sleep with my bedroom door open. I would have heard her door. I slept very poorly last night.” Fear glimmered in her eyes. “I heard Walter barking. I looked at the time. It was almost two o'clock. I was surprised. Usually he doesn't bark unless he wants to play with someone. Then the barking stopped.”

“You didn't get up to see?”

“No. You see”—and her voice was barely audible—“I thought someone from the house couldn't sleep either and had gone out for a walk and Walter wanted to play.”

The instant of silence between them held a vision of a dog bounding up to someone he knew, someone who moved purposefully through the night to The Castle after placing Walter in the workshop.

The chief once again glanced at his notes. “You've worked here for a good many years.”

Margo waited, her face still and wary.

“Were you aware of the forty-five kept in the upstairs office?”

“I knew there was a gun there at one time.”

“When did you last see it?”

She turned her hands over. “I don't know exactly. Several years ago Evelyn decided that the floor in the study needed to be replaced. There had been a water leak. Alison advised her on how to obtain flooring from that era. Evelyn instructed me to empty the desk drawers and pack the contents. After the floor was repaired and the desk back in place, I returned the proper items to the drawers. That would have been the last time I saw the gun.”

“How many people knew there was a gun in the drawer?”

“I have no idea. Actually, a lot of people may have known. Evelyn was very proud of her father. Several times, in order to raise money for charity, small groups have been taken on a tour of the family rooms. That included the study. Evelyn led the tours and she always showed her father's gun. It was a World War Two relic.”

I studied Margo with interest. She had managed to imply that all of the outsiders at last night's séance could easily have known about the gun.

The chief's gaze was stern. “Was the gun loaded?”

Something flickered in her eyes. Was she trying to decide which answer best served her? She paused for a fraction too long, then said smoothly, “I don't know.”

Cobb straightened his notebook. “Who had reason to murder Jack Hume?”

She looked at him with a blank face. “I have no idea.”

“Was there dissension between Mr. Hume and those living in the house?”

“He didn't approve of Laverne and Ronald.” Her voice was carefully neutral.

Chief Cobb was sharp. “Clearly Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were not involved in Hume's death. I want to know his relations with his sister, his sister-in-law, his nephew, and your daughter.”

She was equally sharp in her response. “Ask them.”

He asked brusquely, “You have no opinion?”

“No.” She sat quite still, her face carefully expressionless.

The chief leafed through his notepad, paused as if reading notes. He tapped the pad. “Your daughter was furious with Hume because he dropped her.”

Margo's eyes glinted with anger. “Possibly he hurt her feelings. She's very young. Her interest in him was a passing thing, an infatuation. That is scarcely a reason for murder.”

He looked sardonic. “So you do have an opinion.”

She made no response.

Cobb spoke without emphasis. “Years ago, Jack Hume dropped you for another woman.”

Margo's smile was cold, her tone disdainful. “Are you suggesting that I waited until he came back to Adelaide twenty years later and revenged myself by pushing him down the balcony steps? That's absurd. If you're quite finished, I have work to do.”

 

Shannon Taylor burst into
the library. She hurried to the table, skidded to a stop. She looked very young and very pretty, blue eyes blazing, heart-shaped face cupped by thick brown hair. “You are seeing everybody else first. It's like I don't count, like I'm some kind of kid. But you need to listen to me. Last night I was upset. People have told you about last night, haven't they?” Shannon didn't pause for an answer. “Laverne antagonized everybody. That's why she was killed, and him, too. Laverne knew that somebody pushed Jack. I know who killed him. You have to talk to Gwen Dunham. She lives next door. I heard her quarrel with Jack in the gazebo and she told him she wished he was dead and then he died.”

“Sit down, Miss Taylor.” The chief's tone was calm. “Your accusations against Mrs. Dunham are interesting. Last night you accused Jimmy Hume of his uncle's murder. To be precise”—he glanced at his notes—“you said to Jimmy, ‘I heard you say you were going to hurt him. Did you?' In fact, Miss Taylor, isn't that what you said?”

Shannon looked stricken. “I didn't mean it.”

Cobb was stern. “That was your first thought, wasn't it? You accused Jimmy Hume, not Mrs. Dunham.” He pointed at the chair. “Sit down.”

She slipped into the chair, stared at him with anxious eyes. “Jimmy might have had a fight with Jack, but he would never shoot people. Never in a million years. The minute I heard about Ronald and Laverne, I knew Jimmy didn't have anything to do with it.”

“Did you hear the dog bark last night?”

The sudden change of subject caught her by surprise.

Shannon's hands were beneath the top of the table, out of the chief's view, but I could see them open and close, open and close. She was frightened.

“The dog?”

He didn't repeat the question. He waited, his gaze steady and demanding.

“I don't think so.” Her hands opened and closed. “I was asleep.”

I dropped down, whispered in the chief's ear. “Ask if she heard her mother go outside.”

He went rigid for an instant, then cleared his throat to hide the tiny hiss of my words. “What time did your mother go outside?”

Her eyes flared wide. She waited an instant too long to reply, then said quickly, “Mom didn't go outside.” There was stark fear in her eyes. “If anybody said so, that's a lie.” She pushed up, struggling for breath. “Mrs. Dunham wanted Jack to die. Talk to her.”

 

Jimmy Hume looked tired
and somber, his drawn face giving a preview of his appearance at forty if life turned out to be unkind, purplish smudges beneath his eyes, a hard, mournful stare, jaws clenched in worry.

Chief Cobb leaned back in his chair. “You were angry with your uncle. You threatened him.”

“For the record”—Jimmy's voice was dull—“I didn't push Jack—”

The door opened. Detective Sergeant Price strode around the table. He carried a gallon-size plastic bag, holding it by the zipped top. He placed the bag on the table.

Chief Cobb looked down at a picture of a handsome young man in a cap and gown. The picture was not framed.

Price pointed. “Found this photograph in the murder suite, slipped into a coffee-table book about Yellowstone. Good work by Officer Woolley. She flipped through the books one by one and noticed that a page seemed too thick. She looked closer and saw
tape at the top and bottom, keeping two pages together. When she used a razor to slit the tape, it opened and the photograph fell out. Pretty clever.”

I agreed. A clever hiding place devised by Ronald Phillips, a clever officer to find it.

Jimmy craned to see. He frowned.

Chief Cobb glanced from the photograph to Jimmy. “Do you know him?”

“Sure. That's Ryan Dunham.” Jimmy appeared puzzled. “I don't see why his picture was in the Phillipses' room. Ryan's a great guy. That's strange.”

Cobb made no reply to Jimmy. He looked toward the detective. “Has the photograph been checked for prints?”

Price nodded.

“Then I'll keep it for now. Thanks, Hal.”

At the door, Price looked back. “We have everybody's prints here in the house. We'll see if there's a match on the gun. We still need prints from Alison Gregory and the Dunhams.”

“I want to talk to them first.”

Price nodded.

As the door closed, Cobb turned back to Jimmy. “You were angry with your uncle?”

Jimmy looked bleak. “Yeah. But like I said, I didn't kill Jack. Maybe I would have punched him. I wouldn't kill him. Ditto for Laverne and Ronald.” He took a deep breath. “I suppose I have to tell you. I was outside last night. I couldn't sleep.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I took a long walk. There was plenty of moonlight. Maybe I walked a couple of miles, maybe more. I came back by the gazebo. Somebody was walking away from the house, across the grass. I didn't think much about it. Maybe somebody else couldn't sleep. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I was trying to figure out what was going on with the nutty Phillipses. I didn't re
ally think anybody pushed Jack. I mean, that was crazy. I thought that snake—yeah, well, he's dead now—anyway, I thought Ronald was trying it on, thinking he could squeeze more money out of Mom. See, Mom heard me yell at Jack and she's easy to scare. I was trying to decide what to do. But what can you do when somebody says something and you can't prove it's a lie? Anyway, I was mad and tired and I didn't want to talk to anybody. I almost ducked back the way I'd come, but then I saw him stop and look back, almost turn, then head toward me again. I knew it was a man. Maybe that's why I stopped. If it was Ronald, I was going to…Well, that doesn't matter now. Anyway, I waited. When he got about halfway to the opening to the Dunhams', I saw it was Mr. Dunham. He stopped again and looked back. I couldn't see his face clearly in the moonlight. He stood there for a minute and then he jerked around and hurried toward the gate.” Jimmy's face furrowed in misery. “Clint Dunham was my scoutmaster. Ryan”—he nodded toward the photograph—“is one of my best friends. Maybe Mr. Dunham couldn't sleep, too. Maybe he was outside and heard Walter and wondered about the noise.”

The chief's eyes narrowed. “Was the dog following him?”

“No.”

“Did you hear the dog?”

“When I was over by the lake, I thought I heard him yipping. But I didn't pay any attention. Sometimes he stays in, sometimes he goes out. If he sees anybody, he barks his head off. Same thing if he finds a rabbit. The thing is”—Jimmy looked burdened—“this morning in the toolshed, Walter had a rawhide bone. It was chewed slick. He loves that stuff. Anytime you want to make Walter happy, give him a rawhide bone.”

C
hief Cobb hooked a finger to loosen his tie. “Hotter than blazes.” Beneath one arm, he held the plastic bag containing the photograph of Ryan Dunham.

Hal Price wiped sweat from his face. “Supposed to hit a hundred and one.” He carried a black case approximately a foot wide and five inches deep.

No trees shaded the path from the side door of The Castle to the gate in the shrubbery between the Hume and Dunham properties. Both men squinted against the hot, sharp brightness of blistering sunlight.

Much as I enjoyed being in the vicinity of Hal Price, I wished the chief was alone. I had much I wanted to communicate.

As Hal closed the gate behind them, they looked toward an English manor house, not a mansion like The Castle, but a nice, solid home that gleamed with care, the product of years of love. Ferns flourished in blue ceramic vases on the front porch. Red-
and-blue cushions made wicker chairs inviting. Stained-glass insets gleamed in the front door.

At the base of the steps, the chief looked back toward the gate. “Maybe two hundred yards from here to The Castle.”

As they climbed to the porch, Price looked around the Dunhams' spacious yard. “If all he wanted was a walk, he had plenty of room here.”

“I don't think he was looking for exercise.” Chief Cobb pushed the front bell.

When the door opened, Gwen Dunham's patrician face looked pleasant. Spun-gold hair emphasized deep violet eyes. She was lovely in a rose Shaker-stitched silk sweater and cream-colored silk trousers. The elegant, immaculate hallway behind her was a perfect setting for her cool beauty. She looked up at the chief and her face was suddenly strained. Adelaide was a small town. She might not know Chief Cobb socially, but she would recognize him as chief of police.

In the instant before Chief Cobb pulled out his wallet, opening it to provide identification, I gazed at the lawmen as if I were Gwen.

Despite his wrinkled brown suit and slightly askew tie, Chief Cobb looked formidable, tall and powerfully built. Hal Price was a man most women would sharply note, white-blond hair, rugged features, athletic build. Price's slate blue eyes, cool and impersonal, never moved from her face.

The wallet lay open in the chief's large strong hand. “Police. Chief Sam Cobb, Detective Sergeant Hal Price.” The plastic bag was still tucked beneath his left arm, the photograph not visible to Gwen.

Price, too, held open his billfold.

Chief Cobb spoke quietly, with no hint of threat. “There has been a crime—”

Gwen's eyes widened. One hand sought support from the doorjamb. The arrival of police with unreadable faces at a front door evoked the terror of bad news, someone dead, someone hurt. “Ryan…” Her son's name was a desperate whisper.

“—at The Castle. Detective Sergeant Price and I have some questions about the gathering there last night.”

Her relief was followed immediately by dismay. “Last night?”

“May we come inside, Mrs. Dunham?” His voice was polite.

“I suppose so.” She sounded uncertain and frightened. She held the door and led the way to a small living room with a white stone fireplace and comfortable chintz-covered chairs and sofas. Densely patterned wallpaper pictured a Chinese vase with stylized flowers. She gestured toward the chairs on one side of a coffee table. She sank onto a small sofa opposite the police officers.

Price placed the polymer case on the floor by his feet. The chief held the plastic bag facedown.

Gwen sat straight and rigid.

Cobb was soft-spoken. “Last night you and your husband attended a séance—”

“Is that the crime? Is it against the law to have something like that, even in a private home?” Her voice was sharp.

“The crime”—his voice was stolid—“is murder. Ronald and Laverne Phillips were shot to death late last night.” He watched her, his gaze measuring.

Gwen struggled to breathe, her violet eyes wide with horror. And fear. “Shot?” She appeared to grapple with the enormity of violent crime. “Where?” The word was a faint whisper.

“In their second-floor suite at The Castle. They were not seen again after the séance. Their bodies were found this morning around eight
A.M
. They had been dead for several hours. We are fully aware of everything that was said at the séance.” He placed the bag with Ryan's photograph faceup on a coffee table.

Gwen looked old and stricken, as if every bit of life and hope had drained away.

Sam nodded at the photograph. “Your son.”

She reached out a shaking hand. “Please. Don't do this to us. I know what you are thinking. None of it's true.”

“Is Ryan the son of Jack Hume?” His tone was quiet.

She trembled. “Oh, he may be.” Her face crumpled. “I suppose he is.”

“Did you tell your husband about Jack Hume's threat to contact your son unless you informed Ryan?”

“I didn't tell Clint.” There was truth in her voice, but terror in her eyes. The cocker had barked the night she met Jack in the gazebo. Did she fear her husband had followed her, overheard her quarrel with Jack?

“Have you discussed Jack Hume and your son with your husband?”

“No.” There was heartbreak in her face and in her voice.

I thought of the two of them in their lovely home, marred by strained silence and averted eyes.

She leaned forward, her voice urgent. “What Jack said doesn't matter now. I don't know anything about Jack's death. He fell. That's all I know. Last night, that awful woman”—Gwen's face was hard and angry—“in her silly black dress and beads and thick makeup, pretending to commune with the dead. No wonder someone killed her. But their deaths have nothing to do with me or with Clint. We were here.”

“Did you leave the house after returning from The Castle?”

“No.” She was vehement.

“Did your husband leave the house?”

“No.” Her voice was ragged, her stare hard and bright.

“I see.” Nothing in the chief's demeanor revealed the fact that
I'd told him about Clint Dunham making up a bed downstairs in the den or that Jimmy Hume claimed to have seen Clint coming from The Castle toward his house. “Very well. Then I presume you have no objection to Detective Sergeant Price taking your fingerprints to see if there is a match on the murder weapon?”

Price picked up the shiny black case.

“I don't care. Take them.” Her voice shook. “I didn't shoot those people. Clint didn't shoot them. Clint doesn't know anything about any of this. Last night at the séance, he didn't have any idea that awful woman was talking about Ryan.”

Cobb tilted his head, peered down at her, his expression skeptical.

“Clint doesn't know anything.” Her voice was husky with despair. “Don't tell him. Please don't tell him.”

Cobb slowly shook his head. “I'm investigating three murders, Mrs. Dunham.”

She swallowed, said thickly, “You said they were shot? Well, then, neither of us could have done it. We don't have a gun. We've never had a gun. Ask anybody.”

Cobb looked phlegmatic. “I understand you and Mrs. James Hume have been close friends for many years. During that time, you have visited The Castle many times.” His gaze was intent. “Were you and your husband familiar with the history of J. J. Hume's office?”

A flash of knowledge moved and shifted in her eyes. “Diane's always talking about The Castle. I never listened closely.”

The chief nodded. He glanced toward Hal. “Mrs. Dunham might prefer to have her fingerprints taken in the kitchen. I'll be on my way to my office.”

She came to her feet, her face distraught. “I want Ryan's picture. You have no right to keep it.”

“The photograph is included in evidence taken from the crime scene. If your son's picture turns out not to be germane to the investigation, you may make a claim for its return.”

 

The chief retraced his
steps, walking fast. At The Castle's front drive, he headed for a police cruiser parked in the shade of a cottonwood. He unlocked the door, slid into the driver's seat, placing the bagged photograph in a side pocket. Immediately the air-conditioning hummed.

The passenger seat was not, to put it kindly, tidy. I removed two empty Frito bags, a McDonald's sack, three Styrofoam coffee cups, and a crumpled Baby Ruth wrapper.

As the cruiser pulled out of The Castle drive, he said conversationally, “Nice of you to come along. Make yourself comfortable.”

I brushed out the seat and settled back. “I'd be glad to appear.” I always enjoyed wearing an Adelaide police uniform. The French blue was a lovely color. I started to swirl into—

“No need to do that.” It was as near a yelp as I'd ever heard from Chief Cobb.

Obediently, I retreated. Another time.

As the car curved right at the base of the hill, I observed brightly, “If we're on the way to your office, you could pick up some hamburgers from Lulu's.”

“The office was for Gwen Dunham's benefit.” As soon as the car was a block away from the Dunham house, he reached forward, punched a button. The siren squealed. The cruiser picked up speed, curved around a corner.

“Ooooh. Fun. You must be as hungry as I am.”

“I don't use a siren to go to lunch. Hal will keep Gwen Dunham occupied long enough for me to get to her husband's office before she can call him.”

 

Clint Dunham sat behind
an unpretentious, plain gray metal desk in an ebony leather swivel chair. To one side on a shelf was a computer monitor with a keyboard. The room was large enough for two upholstered chairs in a bright floral print, bookcases on one wall, filing cabinets against another. Plain blue drapes framed large casement windows.

He stared at Chief Cobb, his face dogged, determined, and resistant. “I have nothing to say.” In a soft blue, short-sleeved polo shirt and khaki slacks, he was an odd figure for high drama. He looked like a man ready for a round of golf, not a man possibly fighting for his life.

The chief sat with his hands spread on his thighs. A fingerprint kit and manila folder were on the floor next to him. “Did you leave your house last night?”

No response.

“Did your wife leave your house?”

No response.

“A witness saw you on the grounds of The Castle.”

Clint's eyes flickered, but his face was rigid.

Chief Cobb retrieved the folder, opened it, and placed on the desk the plastic bag with Ryan Dunham's photograph. “Were you aware that Jack Hume is Ryan's father?”

Clint's jaws ridged. For an instant, his hands closed into fists.

The chief looked stern. “Three people have been murdered, Mr. Dunham. If you are innocent, you may hold information which can help solve these crimes. Did you hear the Humes's cocker barking last night?”

No response.

Chief Cobb gestured at the shiny black fingerprint case. “Those who were at The Castle last evening are being asked for fingerprints.”

“No.”

“I can take you to the police station as a person of interest.”

Clint reached toward the telephone. “I'll call my lawyer.”

The chief studied him for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet. He picked up the fingerprint kit, slid the plastic bag beneath one arm. “Don't leave town, Mr. Dunham. I'll be back in touch.” He paused in the doorway. “You could make this easier. It's important to know whether you heard the cocker bark.”

Clint folded his arms.

Chief Cobb's voice was grave. “There's a killer out there, smart, quick-thinking, ruthless. When word gets out that you were on The Castle grounds, you may look into the muzzle of a gun and know in that last instant that you made a mistake.”

 

Chief Cobb turned the
a/c on high. He glanced toward the empty passenger seat.

I floated above the seat.

“Might wait a minute before you sit down.” He gave a small head shake. “I feel dumb talking to somebody who isn't here. But”—now the words were rushed—“please keep it that way.”

I hovered for a moment longer. A car with closed windows in Oklahoma on a hot June day resembles a kiln. The plastic seat was still uncomfortable when I dropped into my place.

The cruiser pulled away from the curb.

“You didn't get much information.” I wasn't being critical, simply stating a fact.

“He's scared.” The chief was matter-of-fact. “Maybe for himself. Maybe for his wife. Scared and smart. He was on The Castle grounds and he knew better than to lie. But maybe not smart enough to save his life—if he's innocent.”

I felt a quick stab of worry. “Is Jimmy in danger?”

Cobb shook his head. “He's told what he knows. If he saw anyone else, he would have spoken up. Or Jimmy may be the killer and he's taking advantage of Dunham being on the grounds. Or Dunham may be the one we're looking for. What I need is proof, a physical piece of evidence linking someone to the crime.”

 

Alison Gregory stared at
the chief in wide-eyed shock. “That's horrible.” She was as carefully and artfully groomed as always, blond hair gleaming, makeup understated but perfect, well dressed, sophisticated, and self-possessed. But now there was an element of uncertainty in her blue eyes. The hand she lifted to brush back a strand of hair shook slightly. “Shot? That's incredible.” Sudden worry flared in her eyes. “Is Evelyn all right?”

Cobb sat in a large leather chair, hands planted firmly on his knees. The fingerprint kit rested on a corner of the pine coffee table. “Miss Hume is shocked. She now believes her brother was murdered. I understand he came to see you.”

Alison picked up a bronze letter opener inlaid with turquoise and turned it around and around in her hand. “That's correct.” She recounted Jack's hope that he could become closer to his sister, but she spoke almost absently, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.