Ghost in Trouble (23 page)

I raised an eyebrow. Alison didn't repeat Jack's words about his sister's anger:
My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she'd shoot me.

As always, the chief's heavy face reflected calmness, with no hint he was aware that Alison had omitted a significant piece of information.

He glanced at his notes. “I understand you recommended Leonard Walker to Jack Hume.”

“Leonard?” She repeated the name without interest. “That wasn't important. Except”—she gave a small shrug—“to Jack. He
was interested in having a portrait painted of his late wife. Chief Cobb.” She sounded embarrassed. “I have a confession to make.”

He waited, his brown eyes intent.

Alison tossed back her hair. “I didn't take it seriously about that vase falling the other night. When was it?” She looked as if she were figuring. “I guess it was yesterday that Evelyn called me. So Tuesday night. I'm not too clear on what happened, but I think that woman who knew Jack was in the garden when the vase came down. Evelyn pretty clearly wanted me to look over the pedestal and”—touches of pink flared in her cheeks—“conclude that the vase fell by accident.” She looked away from Cobb, as if studying a brilliantly colorful Baranov painting on a sidewall. “Okay.” She gripped the letter opener. “There's no graceful way to put it. I went up on the balcony and smudged away traces of a chisel. I figured some vandal had prized the vase loose. It never occurred to me somebody really tried to kill anybody. So”—now she looked at him directly—“I guess I'm guilty of destroying evidence. But with Laverne and Ronald dead, I had to tell you.” She looked diminished.

Cobb didn't change expression. “We'll ask you to come to the station and make a formal statement. For now, I want to hear about last night's séance.”

Alison spoke quickly. She was accurate and complete.

He read from his notes, his face stolid: “‘…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass…' Would you have any explanation for this passage?”

Alison's face folded in a puzzled frown. “I didn't take mention of the painting—I'm sure that was the Metcalf painting—to mean much of anything. I thought the séance was a bunch of nonsense until Laverne claimed somebody pushed Jack Hume. That pretty well drove everything out of my mind. Of course, everyone was upset and most of them were angry. I don't blame them. If it
was my family, I would have been mad, too. I suppose I was pretty harsh. I said it was all nonsense. I left as soon as I could. None of it had anything to do with me. As for the magnifying glass, I supposed it had something to do with Evelyn, but I can't imagine what.”

Chief Cobb's tone was avuncular. “You have been closely connected to the Hume family for many years. I would appreciate your insights as to who might have killed Jack Hume.”

Her face drew down in dismay. Slowly, she shook her head. “If I knew anything that I felt would be helpful, I would tell you. But we are talking about people's lives here. I'm not willing to play guess-the-murderer.”

Cobb was somber. “We are indeed talking about people's lives, Ms. Gregory.”

He waited.

She gave a slight shake of her head. “I'm sorry.”

“Very well.” He started to rise, then reached for the shiny black case. “We are requesting those who attended last night's séance to provide fingerprints.”

Although she looked startled, she managed a smile. “That's the easiest question you've asked. I'll be happy to do that.”

 

I picked up the
sack from Lulu's from the car floor. I hoped it hadn't left a grease spot on the plastic floor mat.

Chief Cobb cleared his throat. “I'll carry the sack.”

“I could appear.” I know I sounded wistful. Wistful usually has a lovely effect upon manly men such as the chief.

“Somebody would see us. Then I'd be asked about the good-looking redhead with me at the lake.”

“Oh.” Well, if I couldn't appear, a compliment was the next best thing. “How about sitting on the pier?” The forest preserve
next to St. Mildred's Church was one of Adelaide's loveliest and coolest places on a summer day.

We found a shady spot a few feet from shore and settled on the wooden flooring, our feet dangling over the edge. The only fishermen were on the other side of the lake in a boat.

Sam—I do think of him as Sam—swiped his face with his handkerchief.

I carefully split the sack, placed it on the dock for a makeshift place mat. I picked up a cheeseburger.

He summarized what he felt were the important points:

“One. Evelyn Hume was ostensibly cooperative, but her only revelation concerned a man who was dead. The photograph of Ryan Dunham was found hidden in a coffee-table book in the Phillipses' suite. Ronald's fingerprints were on the print.

“Two. Diane Hume was quick to accuse Margo, but she revealed that she herself was well aware where the gun was kept.

“Three. Margo insisted neither she nor Shannon left the house last night. I think she was lying.

“Four. Shannon Taylor knows something she isn't telling.

“Five. Jimmy Hume implicated Clint Dunham, but he also implicated himself. He could have been outside to place the cocker in the tool room.

“Six. I think Gwen Dunham lied when she said her husband knew nothing about Jack Hume's claim that Ryan was his son.

“Seven. Clint Dunham stonewalled me. He knows something he isn't telling. But he didn't show shock when I asked him whether he knew Ryan was Jack's son.

“Eight. Alison Gregory did not repeat Jack Hume's comment about his sister's anger toward him. Alison admitted she destroyed evidence about the vase's fall.”

I added more salt to the French fries.

The chief chided me: “Salt's not good for high blood pressure.”
He stopped, a French fry midway to his lips. “Oh. Yeah. You don't have to worry. You know, it would be kind of interesting if—”

I felt a tap on the back of my hand.

For an instant I was startled. How had Wiggins known where I was? Oh. Of course. He saw the French fry in the air. I waggled my French fry in reply. Surely Wiggins was pleased that I wasn't, so to speak, here. However, I understood his instructions. To head off any discussion of the Hereafter, I broke in quickly, “That's an excellent summing-up. Cogent, clear, concise.” Praise is always a good diversion. “Compelling,” I concluded with vigor.

Chief Cobb wiped his hand on a paper napkin. “Thanks. But I don't see a direct link to Ronald Phillips and the murderer.” He sounded discouraged. “We have plenty of people with motive and opportunity and not a single fact to tie one of them to the crime.”

A growly whisper in one ear caught my attention.

“If I had time, I would remonstrate. Conversing with your charge is one thing: discourse with Chief Cobb is definitely another. But, alas, I am needed.” As suddenly as he had come, I knew Wiggins had departed.

Hopefully, the diffident emissary in Patagonia required Wiggins's attention posthaste. Certainly no one could accuse me of indecisiveness. Not, of course, that I am being prideful. Heaven forfend.

Chief Cobb made a disgruntled sound in his throat.

Physical evidence…I finished a final fry. “How about the rawhide bone?”

He looked toward where I sat. Slowly, his broad mouth curved into a smile. “Probably no prints,” he murmured. “Whoever killed the Phillipses was too smart for that. Besides, the bone would have been greasy and chewed up. We can check the dog's collar.” His eyes narrowed in thought. “The murderer decided on kill
ing them after the séance broke up around nine
P.M
. That left very little time for planning. We know the murderer was aware of the gun in the upstairs study. I imagine the murderer carried another weapon, just in case. The murderer also knew the dog might be either outside or inside. Whichever, the dog had to be placed somewhere to keep him quiet. A rawhide bone was a good lure. There's just a chance…”

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, punched a number. “Hey, Hal. Find out if Alison Gregory or the Dunhams have a dog.”

I was puzzled for an instant. Oh, of course. If they had dogs, they might have rawhide bones at home.

“…check all the convenience stores and late-night groceries. It's a long shot, but maybe someone might remember selling a bag of rawhide bones last night.”

 

Kay ran her hands
through her dark curls. She looked even more tousled than usual. Her intelligent features squeezed in a moue of frustration. “So we have to pin our hopes on a cop finding a clerk who remembers a bag of dog bones. All this work and effort and what have we got—a dog bone.” She pointed at papers strewn across the desktop. “It could be anybody. The murderer must be giddy with delight.”

I pushed a cushion behind my back on the wicker settee. I was comfortable in a white piqué blouse and turquoise shorts. I held up one foot in a white sandal and looked critically at the blue polish on my toenails. Every detail counts.

“Bailey Ruth, if you can focus on something other than your appearance for all of a minute and a half, I want you to take a look at this.” She held out a sheet of paper.

I refrained from a searing retort about those who are obviously jealous of redheads and took the sheet.

Kay was crisp. “I've tagged most of Laverne's comments to a particular person.”

Diane Hume:…hear me and do as I wish…

Evelyn Hume:…jealousy and resentment growing over the years…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass…

The Dunhams:…family secrets…the father…handsome boy…desperate mother…

Margo Taylor:…stolen photograph…

Shannon Taylor:…Jack upset…young love spurned…

Jimmy Hume:…oh, Jimmy…

Kay's eyes narrowed. “Everybody except Alison.”

I agreed. “She complained that she'd been left out.”

“So why was she there?”

“She was a dinner guest the night Jack died. Laverne insisted Diane bring everyone back for the séance.”

Kay leaned back in her chair. “I thought maybe I'd found an anomaly. All the others appear to be linked to a specific comment.”

I read the list again, then returned to the entry for Evelyn. “You're right. Laverne's comments seem innocuous unless you know why she made them. Then it's obvious she's hinting at devastating knowledge. Except for these two phrases.” I tapped the references to the painting and the magnifying glass. “I don't see anything threatening. Yet there had to be a reason for Laverne to include this as part of the séance.”

Kay read aloud: “‘…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass…'”

E
velyn Hume smiled as she pointed toward the painting which I imagined she saw as a diffuse impression of colors. “…Metcalf was one of the first American artists to visit Giverny…He enjoyed his years in France and even spent two months in North Africa in 1886…his greatest success as an artist came during his years in Connecticut…”

Kay stepped nearer the canvas as Evelyn's deep voice recounted facts and descriptions.

I, too, studied the magnificent painting. The colors of the poppies were as red as my hair. Gorgeous. When Evelyn paused for a breath, I asked diffidently, “Have you looked at the painting recently with your magnifying glass?”

She paused in mid-oration, looking surprised. “I haven't done so. I believe I will this afternoon. Often I prefer to enjoy my memories of the paintings before my eyes grew so dim. This paint
ing was a special favorite of my brother James.” Suddenly her face softened. “Jack and I looked at it only a few days before he died.” She shook her head, was abruptly remote. “Please enjoy looking at the collection. I believe I'll go rest now.”

 

Kay paced back and
forth in front of the bedroom's stone fireplace. “If Evelyn has a guilty conscience, I'll jump from the balcony with wax wings.” She slapped a fist in the opposite palm. “Why did Laverne stick in the stuff about the Metcalf painting? Ronald must have seen Evelyn looking at the painting with her magnifying glass. Why was that important? The painting belongs to her. She can look at it every day if she wants to.”

I wasn't listening. I was seeing Ronald as he slipped quietly around The Castle, watching, looking, noting. Suddenly a different picture filled in my mind. Not Evelyn. Of course, Ronald didn't see Evelyn. He wouldn't have given a thought to Evelyn peering closely at one of the famous paintings. I could scarcely breathe I was so excited. “Kay, listen, what if—” I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked around inquiringly.

Kay broke off. Her eyes widened. “Is
he
back?”

I felt a wisp of whisker as Wiggins leaned close to whisper in my ear: “I
must
talk to you.” I obligingly bent nearer.

Kay pushed to her feet. “Do you have any idea how spooky it is to see you listening to someone who isn't here? Look, I've gotten used to you. I mean, you're here and it's all kind of crazy, but familiarity breeds a certain relaxed feeling. So that's okay. More than one of you makes me feel like I'm a certifiable nut.” She darted a haunted look around the room. “For all I know, there are a bunch of you. Maybe that grade school teacher who always made me stand out in the hall. Maybe that married city editor who thought he was God's gift to single girl reporters. Maybe—”

“Kay, we're here to help. There are only the two of us.”

She folded her arms, stood as if braced against a high wind. “Let's go back to one of you. One.
Uno. Wahid. Eins.
Please.”

It wasn't my place to instruct Wiggins, but Kay was truly distressed. “Wiggins, possibly this is a moment to remember Precept Six.”

“I wouldn't have to alarm earthly denizens if I could ever find you by yourself.” Wiggins sounded plaintive as he swirled into being. “You're here and there and everywhere and always with someone.” He turned toward Kay, his expression earnest. “I beg your forgiveness for my intrusion. Outstanding emissaries”—he shot me a disapproving glance—“neither appear nor”—great emphasis—“converse unseen with earthly creatures. Bailey Ruth means well.” There was a singular lack of conviction in his voice. “But she's communicated with you and with the police chief, though at least she hasn't appeared in his presence.” His brows beetled as he shot me a demanding glance.

I beamed at Wiggins. “Only as Francie de Sales and, of course, that doesn't count.”

Wiggins heaved a despondent sigh and looked morose. “That is a sore point which will require further consideration on my part at the appropriate time.”

Uh-oh.

I'd been happy as a bobbing red balloon and now it was as though my energy were seeping away, along with my self-esteem. I couldn't help noticing in the mirror the transformation of my bright, vivid, eager face with glowing green eyes and spatter of freckles and lips poised to smile into a drooping, wan, forlorn visage.

“Oh.” Wiggins tugged in dismay at his thick walrus mustache. “Now, Bailey Ruth, that isn't to say you haven't done good work.” His reddish face brightened. “Excellent work, in many respects.
In fact, that is what brings me here. You have completed your task. Kay Clark”—he nodded at her respectfully—“is safe from harm. The proper authorities are investigating the murder of Jack Hume. Sadly, Ronald Phillips followed the wrong path, but”—and he gazed at me with approval—“you made every effort to keep him from harm. And you did so”—and here I'm afraid his voice reflected surprise—“without violating most of the Precepts.”

I wished he didn't sound as if he found that almost incomprehensible.

“Therefore, I am relieved I am finally able to inform you that the Rescue Express is en route.”

In the distance, I heard the throaty, I'm-on-my-way, almost-there cry of an approaching train.

“Oh, no.” My cry was heartfelt. “I can't leave now.”

Wiggins looked startled. He pulled a watch on a chain from the pocket of a vest. “The train is almost here. When an emissary's task is successfully completed, the pickup time is set. I've been trying”—he sounded aggrieved—“to alert you for quite some time now.”

Another mournful whistle sounded, louder, nearer. Soon I would hear the clack of iron wheels on silver rails stretching into the sky.

“Wiggins, just as you arrived, everything became clear to me. I know what happened and only I can bring the murderer of Jack Hume and Ronald and Laverne Phillips to justice.” I spoke rapidly, laying out my reasons. “There isn't a shred of proof. The only solution is for me to obtain fingerprints and see if there is a match. It is imperative that the fingerprints be secretly retrieved. The police can't do that. But”—and I tried to keep pride from my voice—“I know
I
can succeed.” I appealed to his sense of honor. “Surely the Department of Good Intentions won't walk away and leave a calculating murderer free.”

Kay watched with her eyes wide, lips parted.

The train whistle shrieked.

Kay clearly heard nothing.

Did I smell coal smoke?

Wiggins tipped his stationmaster cap to the back of his head. “A conundrum, to be sure.” He gazed at me in perplexity. “I fail to understand why nothing proceeds in an orderly fashion when you are involved.”

I do believe it was the first time I was ever described as a conundrum. Possibly the word was intended to be flattering?

He looked almost overcome. “Your methods, Bailey Ruth, your methods! At the very least, you plan upon breaking and entering.”

I disappeared, reappeared.

“Oh, I know. You won't need to break inside. But still, I am uneasy.”

The thunderous roar of the express rattled the room.

“Wiggins!”

He threw up his hands. “…against my better judgment…and yet good must be served…” He began to swirl away. “The Rescue Express will be here at ten
P.M
. No sooner. And,” he announced, “no later.”

 

I picked up a
half-empty Coke can from a side table in the den. I didn't worry about leaving fingerprints. That wasn't a problem when I was invisible.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

My heart lurched. The can hung in the air. Swiftly, I flowed behind a sofa. The footsteps continued past the doorway and I heard the distant slam of a door. Still, I was careful. I slithered along the floor to the hall and on to the kitchen. As I poured the soda into the sink, the soft gurgle sounded in my ears as loud as Niagara.

I now faced the difficult challenge of transporting the can safely without blemish to the police station. I would likely have to appear at one point or another since a can of Coke wafting through the air, brilliantly visible against a bright blue sky, might provoke unfortunate attention.

I needed a plastic bag. When I appeared, I wanted to be sure I didn't add my fingerprints or muss those on the can. I opened a cabinet and the hinges squeaked. The kitchen door opened.

Just in time, I placed the Coke behind a trash can.

The footsteps didn't pause, though I scarcely heard them over the thud of my heart. When the room was empty, I opened other cabinets and on the fourth try found a container of gallon-size plastic bags. I unzipped a bag and dropped in the can. I opened the back door and stepped outside. I swooped as fast as possible to take cover within the dangling fronds of a willow.

I appeared and with one hurried glance over my shoulder walked fast. As soon as I was out of sight of the house, I waited until a pickup truck rattled past. I disappeared and joined a large German shepherd intelligently riding on a folded moving pad on the hot aluminum flatbed. I scratched behind his ears and rode until we reached downtown. A block from the police station, I zoomed up thirty feet. I hoped no eagle-eyed passersby would note the traveling can in the plastic bag. I reached the station without any startled cries from below.

I knew from past experience—I had a fleeting memory of a chilly October night and a rope ladder—that Chief Cobb's office windows opened and closed, unlike some in more modern buildings. I pressed against the window shaded by a cottonwood.

Chief Cobb sat at his battered oak desk, his back to the windows. He was in his shirtsleeves, his suit jacket hanging from a coat tree.

Detective Sergeant Price perched on a corner of the desk.
Price's rugged features creased in concentration. He tapped a folder, then thrust it toward the chief.

Cobb flipped the folder open and looked down at the contents. His left hand pulled out a side drawer, fumbled in it, and emerged with a handful of M&M's.

I looked at my watch. It had taken me twenty-four minutes to achieve my first objective and arrive here with my trophy. I placed the plastic bag with its precious contents on the window ledge. The minutes were ticking past.

I flowed into the chief's office.

“…no fingerprints on the gun. Nothing on the dog bone.” Price grinned. “Didn't make me popular in the lab. Slimier than algae.”

“Any luck on dog-bone sales?”

Price shook his head. “I'm supposed to get a buzz if they find anything.”

Time, time, time, I had so little time. I moved to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. I came up behind Hal Price and held the chalk above his head.

The chief looked up. He stiffened.

I pointed the chalk at Hal, then at the door.

The chief gobbled a half-dozen M&M's. “Hey, Hal, print out the Phillipses' autopsies. And make some calls and find out who takes care of Evelyn Hume's eyes. I'd like a report on how well she sees.”

As the door closed behind Detective Sergeant Price, I was at the window and pulling up the sash. I grabbed the plastic bag.

Chief Cobb watched the plastic bag approach his desk and land squarely in front of him.

“I don't like sodas.”

“You'll like this one. Here's what you need to do…”

In midstream I paused. “You don't look well.”

He pointed at the plastic bag. “How did you get that can?”

“I took it. I needed it. You need it.”

“I'll be fired. You can't steal somebody's fingerprints.”

I felt impatient. Men are so literal. “Don't worry about it. Once you get these prints, then it will be easy to see if they are also at The Castle. I am absolutely sure they are. Then”—I spoke slowly—“you'll know. Once you know, you can go about getting evidence the way you usually do.”

“Good.” His voice had a strangled sound. “I'd be all in favor of getting evidence the old-fashioned—” He stopped, his heavy face suddenly excited. “Yeah. If we know, I can either make an arrest or use the knowledge to get big-time cooperation. Threat of arrest on first-degree murder may get me a little canary song.”

“Exactly. You'll also need an art expert. That won't be hard.” I pulled his legal pad to one side of the desk, began to write. “I have a plan.”

Chief Cobb punched his intercom. “I need prints made from a Coke can. ASAP.” He frowned in thought, then affixed a piece of tape to the plastic bag, identifying the contents and assigning the case number.

His door opened in less than three minutes. A slender woman in a beige smock and blue slacks took the plastic bag. “Fifteen minutes, Chief.”

“Thanks.” He reached for his phone.

When Detective Sergeant Price returned, Chief Cobb waved away the autopsy reports. “I got a tip. Here's what we're going to do.” He dispatched Price to pick up the expert.

True to her word, the technician returned with a sheet of fingerprints in fifteen minutes.

Chief Cobb smiled. “Thanks, Esther. I want a crime van at The Castle in an hour. Bring these prints. We'll be looking for a match.”

As she left, Chief Cobb picked up the phone, punched a num
ber. “Miss Hume? This is Chief Cobb. Our crime technicians will return to The Castle for further testing this afternoon. Some fingerprints may also be checked on the third floor in connection with your brother's death. This is all a matter of routine.” His tone was bland. He listened, nodded. “Thank you.”

Once again he punched his phone. “Hal, get the expert to The Castle in an hour. I'll meet you there.” He clicked off the phone, settled back in his chair, and looked around.

“Good work, Chief.” I spoke with warmth and admiration. “Everything's going perfectly.”

His expression was wry. “That's assuming there's a match between the Coke prints and the prints you think we will find at The Castle.”