Ghost Times Two (16 page)

I had a moment of self-doubt. Was I seeking a reason to expand my activities to Italy? I remembered a trip there with Bobby Mac and, of course, each of us tossing a coin into Trevi Fountain.

I always wanted to be an emissary in a romantic locale. Not that Adelaide isn't romantic, but you know what I mean. Adelaide is home. Had I considered Carl and Ginny simply because they were far away in
bella
Italia?

Bella Italia. I remembered Jimmy's idyllic spring in Tuscany with Megan. I had plenty to do in Adelaide. And Wiggins, if he
ever had an inkling that I'd been tempted, oh so tempted, to enjoy a summer evening in Florence, would be pleased I remained on duty in Adelaide. Besides, there was no telling how Jimmy might react or what he might do if he felt Megan was being unfairly treated by the police. It would be better to direct his energies.

However, there was a small problem.

If I went to Florence, I could appear. Not that Wiggins was ever pleased at that choice, but I had the option. Even Wiggins would admit Carl and Ginny Morse would not react well to a disembodied voice.

I had to make up my mind. Fast.

Sam and Hal were in the conference room, seeing each person in the office in alphabetical order with Detective Weitz recording the questions and answers. Likely it was Weitz who would take each person's fingerprints. As soon as each session ended, that person would be free to leave. Sam and Hal would be efficient, knowing that Blaine and Megan were coming to the police station at one. Moreover, though they would always pursue every possibility, right now Megan was their prime suspect. I wouldn't go so far as to think the inquiries would be pro forma. In fact, the questions might even focus on Megan's relationship with Doug Graham, with emphasis on the question of “termination.”

The witnesses would enter one by one. I saw them in my mind: Anita Davis, who had dressed so carefully for today; Geraldine Jackson, sensual, ready to play, now pondering mortality; Sharon King, who'd been shocked to learn of murder on her car radio; Brewster Layton, who came to the office earlier than usual; Nancy Murray, shaken by her close proximity to sudden death; matronly Louise Raymond, whose gaze suddenly shifted when she was linked to Rhoda Graham.

I bid farewell to an image of a golden evening in Florence. “Jimmy, you know some Italian.”

“I know the Italian that counts.” His tone was light.

“I mean, you're comfortable in Italy. I want you to go to Florence. Carl and Ginny Morse have rented a villa. Go to the
Gazette
, find a phone in an out-of-the-way place, call Lou Raymond, and ask for the address of the villa where the Morses are staying. There's no reason why she wouldn't give you the information. Then—”

“Like, think Italy and there I am?” He was seriously amused. “Sure. Maybe I could swing by Mount Everest on the way.”

I was diverted. “Do you mountain climb, too?”

“That was on my bucket list, but I ran out of time.” He was wistful. “I did some rock climbing in the Dolomites. Went up the north face of Cima Grande.”

I didn't know Cima Grande from a grand cinema, but the casual tone of his voice told me he'd managed an admirable feat.

“Obviously, no challenge is too great for you.” I was sincere. “That's why you can handle Italy and the Morses. As soon as you get the address, go there—”

“Like I get the address, think the address, and I'm at a villa in Florence? Like I thought about Graham's pool and there I was?” He was skeptical, but there was a considering tone in his voice. That maneuver worked with the pool. . . .

“Precisely.”

“What do I do then? I can see it now. I knock on the door and somebody opens it and nobody's there and the door slams shut.”

I envisioned a huge red
X
scratched across my file at the Department of Good Intentions. No more telegrams. No more adventures. If only Wiggins were truly perplexed in Tumbulgum and perhaps
remained unaware. However, Wiggins had an uncanny ability to arrive when I transgressed. But an emissary must do what an emissary must do.

“Jimmy, cross your heart, will you follow my directions?”

“Like, take a hike to the stairs?” He sounded morose.

“Not yet. I want you to appear—”

“Appear?” A bitter laugh. “Oh sure. Anything you—”

“Concentrate. Think:
Here.
”

“Think
here
?”

“Yes. I will think
here
also
.
” Colors swirled as I appeared. “I'm choosing my costume. I'll be talking to several people as a police detective.” I chose an amethyst blue silk top with silver checks, a white summer blazer, and a navy skirt. Low heels, of course. Serviceable. But flattering to a redhead.

“You're
here
.” His voice was young and stunned.

“Think
here
,” I ordered. “Appear in something a young member of the staff at the U.S. Consulate might wear.”

“Here.”
His tone was tentative.

His form took shape, dark hair, a sensitive, intelligent, appealing face. He wore a blue blazer, white shirt, blue knit tie, gray slacks, navy loafers with tassels. He looked down at his hands, flexed them. “Here!”

“Very good.” It was my turn to be impressed. “You
are
handsome.” I'm not au courant with Hollywood stars. I remember Gregory Peck and James Stewart and Van Johnson. Now I knew Ansel Elgort must indeed be extraordinarily handsome.

Jimmy smoothed the jacket of a blue blazer. He was definitely presentable. I thought he was most likely irresistible to most women.

He gave me a dazzling smile. “I wish I'd known I could do this. I wonder what Megan—”

I hurried to rein him in. I hoped. “You are appearing solely to help clear Megan. You will have a specific task. In Florence, not Adelaide. Imagine how unnerving it would be if someone who knew you saw you walking down a street in Adelaide.”

He had a wicked gleam in his eyes. “That might be fun.”

“Jimmy.” I suppose my voice reflected a shade of panic.

“Just saying.” His tone was airy. “Okay. I go to Florence and look up the Morses.”

I smiled in relief. “Use your charm”—I looked at him critically; charm he had in abundance—“to find out why Brewster Layton and Doug Graham didn't like each other and when that dislike became obvious. Get a time frame if possible. Also, maybe you should try to talk to Ginny Morse without her husband.” I never doubted Jimmy could attract any woman from seven to seventy. “Women pick up on things. See if she knows if Graham was involved with anyone when he was married to Rhoda. Or after his divorce. Also”—I looked at him and had no doubt in my mind that he would succeed—“see if you can persuade Ginny to tell you how the money's divvied up in the firm. That may be a challenge.”

“Got it. I'll check it all out.”

“And Jimmy”—I looked at him steadily—“I want your promise that when I say,
Jimmy, go
, you will disappear on the instant.”

“Disappear. Like, in
disappear
?” Colors whirled and there was only space where he had stood. “I can come back.” His voice was triumphant.
“Here.”
And there he was.

His triple crown grin touched my heart.

“Your promise?” I sniffed, expecting coal smoke.

Slowly his face reformed. The smile was gone. He looked at me with serious brown eyes, brown eyes that held a memory of the girl he loved. “I promise.”

I reached out. We solemnly shook hands. His hand was warm and firm and young.

He looked at me expectantly. “I'm ready.”

I showed him my small black leather folder that identified me as Detective M. Loy. A very flattering resemblance. In an instant, he held a leather folder with a diplomatic ID for James Taylor. “Remember to be cautious that no one is nearby when appearing or disappearing. Let's meet this afternoon at the cemetery, say around four o'clock. Good luck, Jimmy.”

“Arrivederci. Sto andando.”
His voice was young, eager, fading.

I felt noble, withstanding the lure of bella It—

Coal smoke swirled around me. The thunder of wheels on rails.

I quickly disappeared.

Wiggins was gruff. “Bailey Ruth, climb aboard.” No ifs, ands, or buts.

As Mama always told me, “When a man comes home grumpy, make him comfortable, a smile, a steak, an easy chair.” “Wiggins, I know you are pleased Jimmy will be in a place where he is totally unknown and can cause no harm. It is your thoughtful approach to problems that inspired me! Where, I wondered, could I send Jimmy to seek information? It was as if I heard mandolins. And I knew what to do.” No need to tell Wiggins mandolins came to mind because Jimmy learned phrases of love in his pursuit of Megan. I feared Wiggins might consider my thought processes frivolous. “Jimmy was an investigative reporter. He is charming. No one is better suited
to discover if Carl and Ginny Morse possess information that will help find Graham's murderer. I do not feel that I”—great emphasis on the pronoun—“can take credit.” Or, if we were going to get serious, blame. “You inspired me, your leadership a beacon, when I made the very difficult decision to instruct Jimmy in how to appear. Definitely, you were first and foremost in my thoughts.” I'd envisioned Wiggins's censure from the get-go. “You are always my inspiration.” My tone was reverential.

“Oh well, thank you, Bailey Ruth.” Still a bit gruff, but much softer.

I think he was touched. As I've often said, Wiggins is a dear man. I hurried on while I had the advantage. “The only drawback,” I said, speaking in a tsk-tsk tone, “was the utter necessity”—great emphasis—“of Jimmy appearing. But he will be appearing far, far away. We must hope he succeeds in his quest, because Megan is in danger of imminent arrest. I have very little time to solve both Graham's murder and the theft of the diamond ring from his office, and I need all the help I can get. I know you understand I am pressed on all fronts.” If my voice quivered a bit, reflecting intense stress, let that conclusion be in the ear of the listener. “I have made difficult decisions based on necessity.” If I sounded a bit stuffy, so be it. I know language that appeals to Wiggins. I don't feel the change in syntax is duplicitous. I would never wish to be accused of manipulating as fine a man as Wiggins. But as Mama often said, “Men admire the soldier who storms the rampart.”

I tried to judge his silence. On a positive note, the scent of coal smoke was dissipating and I no longer heard the urgent thrum of wheels on rails. On a less positive note, Wiggins was likely out of patience with my evasions of his dictums.

“Bailey Ruth,” he spoke with an edge of despair, “you are as squirmy as an eel in putting a good face on your transgressions of the Precepts.”

“God loves eels, too.” My voice was small.

A rumble of deep-throated laughter. “Yes, He does.”

The clack of wheels on rails faded. I no longer smelled coal smoke. I was alone. Wiggins hadn't offered me carte blanche, but I was still here. I didn't need for Wiggins to give me marching orders. I well knew that he expected me to keep an eye on Jimmy and save Megan.

I
t seemed ages ago at the
Gazette
when I dispatched Jimmy to find addresses. True to my reassurance to him, I remembered them without aid of notes. I went first to a small brick house on Elm. Several cars filled the old-fashioned single drive, a Chevy, two Toyotas, and a Ford. As I arrived, a Mazda pulled up at the curb. The driver's door slammed and a tall, thin woman wearing an ivory blouse and tan slacks and carrying a casserole dish moved purposefully toward the porch.

In a hallway, I glanced at an array of framed photographs hanging on the wall, photographs sketching a history of a family, a young, proud Doug with one large hand guiding his bride's as they cut the wedding cake, babies, toddlers, skinny little kids, attractive teenagers. Mom and Dad rolling out bicycles one Christmas. Dad carving a turkey. Rhoda as a bride was tall and willowy with sleek dark hair, a rather long face. In the later photographs, her eyes had lost the glow of happiness. The dark hair was touched by a streak
of white. Lines of laughter and likely sorrow flared from her eyes and mouth.

I looked in a living room crowded with women, soft voices rising and falling. The room had no touches of the elegance in her late husband's office. The furniture looked comfortable, worn, two sofas, several easy chairs, a coffee table. I wondered if the office had been redone after their divorce. One wall of bookcases was full to overflowing. Books were stacked next to a couple of the chairs. Another bookcase held more framed photos and art pieces likely created by the children, a lopsided vase, a tooled leather box, a pottery horse that lacked one leg. There was a stain near the bottom of one drape. A venetian blind in one window was slightly bent. Everywhere there was evidence of much use and little money for upkeep.

A large Persian cat rubbed against my invisible leg. I reached down, stroked silky fur, was rewarded with a throaty purr.

Rhoda Graham sat stiffly in a straight-back chair near a small desk. She had obviously dressed for a day at work, a simple cream blouse, a tan belted skirt, brown heels. One hand clung to a long necklace of metal medallions studded with turquoise. The emptiness of her face indicated shock, a struggle for understanding. She spoke haltingly to a plump redhead, who held a pad and pen. “Doug's brother is coming. He will arrange for the funeral. I'm so thankful. That way the—” Three women occupied a nearby sofa, their heads close together as they talked.

I moved outside the house and stepped into the shadow of a cedar. There was no one near, and a tall wooden fence behind me. I appeared and walked briskly to the walk and onto the porch. I knocked three times.

A tiny woman with terrier hair and sharp brown eyes opened the door, saw a stranger. “We've had—”

“Detective M. Loy.” I held up the small leather case. “We have just a few more questions for Mrs. Graham. She said she would like to help in the investigation.”

“Oh. Well, just a moment.” She started to close the door.

I had the screen open, moved forward. “Just a clarification. Perhaps there's a room where we can speak privately for a moment?”

The woman dithered uncertainly, taking a half step one way, then back. “Oh well, there's no one in the sewing room. I'll show you.”

She led the way down the hall, opened the door to a small room, stepped aside for me to enter. A sewing machine sat on its stand in one corner. A partially finished lacy eyelet afghan lay on a small love seat. I loved the soft raspberry color of the yarn

I stepped inside. “Thank you. I'll wait.”

She scurried away.

In a moment, steps sounded. Rhoda Graham paused on the threshold, took a breath, looked at me uncertainly.

I introduced myself. “Detective Smith sent me. We hope to clarify some information just received.”

She walked in, closed the door behind her, remained standing. “What is it? I have so much to do. The children are flying home. I have to drive up to the city and pick them up.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to leave in a few minutes.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Graham. I'm sorry to take up your time.”

She brushed a hand against one cheek. “Of course I want to help.” Her tone was wooden. “I still can't believe Doug's . . . gone.”

“You know Mrs. Louise Raymond.”

Her face was suddenly still. “Yes.”

I continued without inflection, but my eyes held her gaze. “Mrs. Raymond was present yesterday morning when an unexpected incident occurred at the law office.”

I saw knowledge in her eyes, knowledge and a quick scrambling to decide what to say.

“Please describe your conversation with Mrs. Raymond. We want to make sure our facts are accurate.”

She tried to be brisk. “Lou is an old friend. I know she meant well when she called me, but I wasn't interested in hearing about Doug's—”

“Please tell me what she said and your responses.”

She brushed back a loop of dark hair with its silvery edge. “I don't know that I can remember word for word. I put it all out of my mind. I was very busy yesterday.”

“As nearly as you can remember.”

She pressed her lips together for an instant, then spoke in a rapid, clipped voice. “I can't be sure this is exactly right. Lou told me that Jack Sherman, he's an old client of Doug's, had caused quite a scene. Lou said that Jack demanded to see a ring that Doug bought for Lisbeth Carew.”

“Did she say how much the ring cost?”

Rhoda Graham's gaze slid away. She looked down at the floor. She obviously saw trouble ahead if she admitted knowing yesterday morning that her former husband had spent a huge sum for a ring. But she had to assume I was there because Lou Raymond had revealed the contents of the phone conversation between Rhoda and Lou. Realizing she'd been silent too long, she looked at me, spoke hurriedly, “Jack claimed Maisie told him the ring cost a
hundred thousand dollars.” Rhoda tried to keep her voice level, but there was an edge. Anger? Resentment? Jealousy?

“What then?”

“Jack went into Doug's office and came out with the ring and held it up for everyone to see. Apparently he made it quite a show. Then he tossed the ring case back to Doug and left.” Full stop.

“What did you say about the ring?”

“I don't remember.” Her voice was stiff. “I suppose I said something.”

She remembered, but she hoped Lou Raymond hadn't reported their conversation verbatim.

“How much support did your children receive from their father?” This would be a matter of public record in the divorce decree.

“They are both over eighteen.”

“Did he pay for their college expenses?”

“No.”

“Did he refuse to help them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Her face tightened. “He had a new life. He didn't include them.”

“Did they want to be included?”

“I can't speak for them.”

“Can't? Or won't?”

She made no answer, but her stare was hot with anger, anger with me, anger at the father who'd sloughed off his children. I well knew that even grown children are often bitter over divorce and sometimes blame one parent, cleave to the other.

“Did you resent his refusal to help them?”

“He knew how I felt about that.”

“What was the reason for your divorce?”

“What usually causes divorce? People decide to go their separate ways. At this point, it doesn't matter, and I have no intention of discussing the circumstances.”

“Was he involved with another woman?”

She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. She had every right at this point to decline to talk about Doug Graham. Unless and until there was evidence linking her to his murder, she was justified in her reticence.

I was brisk. “To return to today, you told Lou Raymond you were furious”—this was a guess on my part—“that he spent a hundred thousand dollars on a ring but provided no support to his children.”

“I suppose that's how she took my comment.”

She was trying to gloss over what she'd said to Lou.

“Obviously”—she chose her words carefully—“I felt Doug was unreasonable to act as he had.”

So my guess was correct. When Lou Raymond called with news of the extravagant ring, Rhoda Graham was angry. “Do your children have student loans?”

“What does that have to do with Doug's murder?”

“Do you know the terms of his will?”

Her face smoothed out, was expressionless. Then she laughed, a ragged bitter laugh with a touch of triumph. “Doug never made a will. His father made a will and a week later he died. Doug thought making a will was bad luck. What kind of lawyer is that?”

I didn't know what kind of lawyer that made Doug Graham, but I knew one fact, his children would not have to go into debt
now to go to college. I saw that knowledge in her eyes and saw fear as well. With her husband dead and his estate divided by heirs, his children wouldn't have to worry about money.

“What did your husband say when you spoke to him?”

“My former husband.” The words again were clipped.

“What did your former husband say when you spoke to him?”

A pulse flickered in her slender throat, but now her response was rapid, definite. “I had no occasion to speak to him.” Her gaze was direct, open.

“Were you at home last night at nine o'clock?”

There was a slight hesitation, then she said quickly, “I was home all evening.”

I rather thought not. She'd insisted she'd not spoken to him. Her statement suggested there would be no calls to trace to her cell phone or landline. If she had spoken to him—or attempted to speak to him—she must have gone to see him. She claimed she never left the house. She must have felt confident there was no one to contradict her. No one alive.

The blazing summer sun was not quite midway in the sky. From a celestial perspective it is interesting that earth's inhabitants think of the sun rising and setting, yet the sun is immovable, the earth instead orbiting and rotating. But I was here and thinking in a human way. Perhaps only twenty minutes had passed since I left the law firm, though it seemed longer. Assuming the police interviews averaged fifteen or twenty minutes in length, I should be able to be present when each person arrived home.

I told Jimmy I wasn't a dowser when he suggested I use ethereal magic to find the missing ring, but I intended to make a circuit to observe Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King, Brewster Layton, Nancy Murray, and Lou Raymond after they were interviewed. I didn't hope to divine a murderer, but whatever the tenor of the interviews, if one of them was the killer, surely maintaining an innocent facade exacted a toll.

I was pleased when I arrived at Anita Davis's small frame house to find the only occupants were Bridget, lying small and thin on a sofa in the living room holding a book in her lap, and in the kitchen a matronly woman humming “The Little Brown Church in the Vale” as she whipped egg whites on a long blue willow pattern platter. I knew at once she was making an angel food cake, an intense labor of love attempted only by very good cooks. I felt at home. I had a sudden picture of Mama, though her hair was red and usually in braids, not a graying straggly bun.

I returned to the living room, noted approvingly that it was immaculate, freshly starched white curtains at the windows, the oval braided rug worn but vacuumed. A small table next to the sofa held several books and a small vase with freshly cut roses. Bridget was propped against cushions. Her face was thin and pale, a fine bone structure, high forehead, slender nose, softly rounded chin. Pale brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore thicklens glasses but the frames were a cheerful daffodil yellow. Now the book lay open in her lap and her face held a too-adult look of pain. She gazed unseeingly across the room.

On the porch, I hesitated. But I couldn't shirk this moment. I'd not told Sam that Anita was aware of Doug's threat to fire her. I had to find out whether Anita should be included in the list of
suspects. After a quick look about to be sure I was unobserved, I appeared. I knocked gently.

In a moment, the woman, wiping her hands on a capacious apron, opened the door.

“Hello, ma'am.” I opened the leather folder. “Detective M. Loy. I understand Mrs. Davis is on her way home.” At her look of alarm, I said quickly, “The law office is closed today. Mrs. Davis and others at the office are assisting police in an investigation and, if you don't mind, I'll come in and wait for her.”

The woman looked troubled. “You say she's coming home?”

I gave her a reassuring smile. “The office has been closed for the day. Officers are interviewing staff about a crime that occurred last night. Someone broke into the office and committed a theft. The interviews at the office were necessarily short, so I'm here to ask a few more questions. May I come inside and wait for her?”

She reached out, took the leather folder, studied it. “Well, I suppose that's all right. But we have a sick child and she's in the front room.”