Ghost Times Two (20 page)

“I just went by on the chance she'd be there.” Lou made her voice careless, as if it didn't matter that Rhoda was unaccounted for during the period when someone shot her ex-husband and forever changed the financial prospects for her children. “I'll take the pie over in a little while and have a chance to visit with her before I pick up Jason.” I made my good-byes and didn't ask if she intended
to relate our conversation to Rhoda. If she did, Rhoda might be very worried, and that might all be to the good.

The next home was quite different from the others I'd visited. The circa-1980s creamy stucco mansion stood on the crest of a hill. A wing extended on either side of the central block, embracing a terrace with a spectacular view of the lush valley that fell away below. A rectangular pool looked inviting, the water a sparkling blue. The house was three stories with a shining expanse of windows. Everything about the house and grounds was quite perfect from the immaculate front lawn to the curving drive paved with yellow bricks to imported Italian cypresses that bordered each side of the terrace.

When I'd learned that Keith Porter enjoyed an income of ten thousand dollars a month from the trust, I'd been puzzled that he'd pressed for a substantial advance for his entrepreneurial ambitions. No longer. Maintaining this home would require substantial monthly expenditures. There was no assurance a new trustee would make a different decision, but there was the possibility. If Keith Porter committed murder, it would likely have been prompted equally by thinking a different trustee might advance the money and fury at being thwarted in getting what he wanted.

The lower floor was very quiet. Water splashed softly in a small pool in the huge entryway. A potted palm sat to one side. The golden marble floor featured an intricate design of palms on the borders. I went through richly furnished spacious rooms, found no one. I reached a stainless steel kitchen with all the warmth of an operating room. In a small adjacent office, a housekeeper sat at a
desk making out a list. She was fiftyish and plump with a pleasant round face.

I looked over her shoulder at the list. The sight of homely items, ketchup, bread-and-butter pickles, mixed nuts, flour, offered the only evidence that real people inhabited the huge formal house.

A buzz.

She looked at an intercom. A light flashed red above silver letters:
POOL
. She pushed a button. “Yes, Master Keith?” Her voice was rather high and sweet and her tone very kind. I felt sure she'd worked here for many years, known Keith Porter since he was a small boy, was fond of him.

“Mag, I won't be in for dinner. Think I'll run up to the city, eat at Mantel's.”

Her face crinkled. “I hope you stay over. I worry about you driving on the dark roads after you get off the interstate. There might be a deer crossing the highway.”

“And what you're really saying is you know I'll have a few drinks so please don't drive.” There was no irritation in his voice, instead good humor. “Oh, all right. I'll stay at that new boutique hotel. I've heard it's cool. Why not?” He clicked off.

She bent back to her list, smiling, content.

I found Keith sprawled comfortably on a cushioned hammock shaded by an elm tree. His South Sea Island swim trunks were dry. He rested with one knee raised, a pad propped on the bent knee, a felt pen in his right hand. He was actually quite nice-looking, dark brown hair, thickly lashed brown eyes, a narrow, sensitive face. He wrote rapidly, paused, wrote again, nodded approval.

Before I could read his notes, he flipped a page, scrawled:
Check
out business plan with Dave
. He underlined the sentence three times. He rolled to one side, dropped the pad on a glass-topped table. He levered up on an elbow, picked up a Bud Light, drank.

At the far side of the Italian cypresses, out of his view, I appeared. I walked past the end of the row of trees to the flagstone terrace.

He heard my steps, looked across the pool in surprise.

I moved fast, pulling out my leather ID folder. “Glad to catch you, Mr. Porter. I'm Detective M. Loy.” I came around the end of the pool.

He was standing by the hammock, looking puzzled. He looked very young, an unlined face, a slender build. “A detective?”

I stood a few feet from him, smelled a mixture of suntan lotion and beer. “We need an accounting of your movements last night.”

“Me?” He sounded truly astonished.

I wondered if he was as guileless as he appeared. “Describe your actions from a quarter to nine last night until”—I made a guess, the cleaning people departed the law office around midnight, the theft and planting of the murder weapon likely occurred around one or two in the morning—“three a.m.”

He folded slender arms. “I don't get this. Why are you asking me where I was last night?”

I gave him a stolid stare. “Doug Graham was shot last night at approximately nine p.m.”

His eyes widened. He lifted a thin hand to rub the knuckles against his chin. “You got to be kidding.” His voice almost cracked.

“You quarreled with Mr. Graham yesterday morning. You threatened him before you left the law office.”

“Hey”—the words tumbled out—“sure he was a louse and he
was screwing everything up for me, but it's crazy to say I would shoot him. Or anybody.”

“What telephone calls have you made this morning?”

“I called some people on business.”

I pulled out a notepad and pen. “Names. Numbers.”

“What I did this morning isn't any of your business.”

“The calls were about business, right?”

“So what?”

“You want to start a new company. You need money. Graham wouldn't let you have the money. Now he's dead. He can't stand in your way. You called some investors to start putting together a deal.”

He watched me as if I were a magician pulling out snakes instead of rabbits.

“How did you know he was dead?”

He massaged one cheek. “I saw the news on TV this morning.”

“Does your housekeeper live in?”

“Yeah,” he answered cautiously.

“Her name?”

“Margaret Baker.”

“Where were you last night?”

“I was”—he paused and perhaps realized the housekeeper would be asked to confirm his presence in the house if he claimed he had been home—“hanging out some places.”

I waited.

“Drove around. It was a nice night. I had the top down. I wasn't paying attention to the time. I dropped in at the Red Rooster, had a couple of beers. I probably got home about ten.”

“Did you leave the house again last night or early this morning?”

This answer came more quickly, confidently. “I watched a movie, ate a sandwich. I didn't go anywhere.”

Sam's office was empty. I went directly down the hall past the central area with desks and monitors, several of them occupied though it was late afternoon. I didn't see any familiar faces. The doors in the hallway were closed. I checked out two interrogation rooms, tan walls, a single table with several chairs on one side. Two straight wooden chairs on the other. A gooseneck lamp stood next to the table. The beam could be directed at the wooden chairs.

I'd once observed an interrogation, brusque questions, one after another, the same thing asked different ways, always seeking a stumble, a contradiction, a revelation. Both interrogation rooms were empty.

I wasn't yet relieved. I moved to the cell block behind a steel door. Three cells. All were empty.

I pumped my fist. Megan was still free.

I landed in Megan's living room. The calico cat lifted her head and stared at me. I heard a murmur of voices from the kitchen. I hurried to the doorway, hugely relieved. However the afternoon had gone, the inquisition at the police station was over, she was home, she was not in a cell.

Megan poured tea into two tall tumblers filled with ice. Blaine sat at the kitchen table, watching her.

There is such a thing as love light. His brown eyes were soft. They said,
You're wonderful. You're the best. You have courage and grace and character and I'll fight for you.

Megan carried the glasses to the table, sat opposite him. She still wore the navy linen blouse, white skirt, and navy pumps in which she'd started the day. I admired her pearl earrings and short pearl necklace, which nicely accented the white skirt. Very stylish.

Blaine lifted the tumbler. “Good job today, Counselor.” His big hand made the glass look small.

For an instant her composure wavered. “I never thought I'd be a suspect in a murder case.” Her voice was thin. “Now if I have a client who looks like he—or she—is dripping with guilt, I'll stop and think for a minute about circumstantial evidence. You remember in law school? Of course crimes can be proven with circumstantial evidence. Not to worry. The evidence must be convincing, compelling, irrefutable. Hey, that's swell unless you're the one trying to explain facts that almost everybody—and especially the police—consider utterly damning.”

“You did a great job.” He reached out, one big hand gripping a small one. “You were absolutely consistent.”

“Oh yes.” She sighed. “I was consistent. I was telling the truth. It's not hard to be consistent when it's true. That small point appears to have escaped everybody else's notice.” She pulled her hand free, lifted the glass, drank and drank. “Anyway, that”—her tone was determinedly cheerful—“is enough about me. We've worried this bone to splinters. There's nothing to say we haven't said. You came galloping to my rescue this morning. You've spent the day fending off the cops.” She smiled at him, a gentle, grateful smile. “You're the one who did great, Counselor. I'm not in jail. Now, how many unfinished tasks did you leave on your desk this morning?”

A big hand flapped, dismissing what he'd left behind, but Megan placed her elbows on the tabletop. “You know you're in a big hole.
You will make me feel much better about myself if you charge to your office and catch up on your work.”

“I thought we'd—”

“No more.
No más.
Sufficiendo.
I don't want to think about last night. I want to do a Double-Crostic and pretend I'm planning a trip to Padre Island or The Galleria in Houston or the Alamo. Somewhere. Anywhere. Far from Adelaide and sudden death.” Her voice quivered. “I can't think about it anymore.”

His long face squeezed in apology. “You're right. You need a break. I'll get over to the office, take care of some things. I'll bring pizza about seven. You like anchovies, right?” He stood. “Promise me you won't worry. Everything will be all right.”

She rose, too, forced a bright smile. “Sure. We'll shake on it.” She held out a small hand.

He took her hand in his big hand, then pulled her close. She stood on tiptoe. He bent toward her.

Some moments are not meant for others. As I departed, I heard her murmur, “Oh, Blaine . . .”

T
he sun was a hot red ball hanging low in the sky. Jimmy and I had agreed to meet around four. At the cemetery, I took a slight detour to the Prichard mausoleum. I'd dropped in when I first arrived, but I now felt I needed all the luck I could get. Though the air was hot and still in the mausoleum, it was lovely to be out of the direct sunlight. I gave the greyhound two soft strokes, stepped to my right and patted the top of the cat's head. I was definitely grateful, I nodded at the dog and cat, that Megan wasn't in a cell, but from the conversation between Megan and Blaine it was clear the police still thought she was guilty. I'd found out some interesting facts, but nothing to persuade Sam to consider other suspects.

I hoped Jimmy had learned something of value. I moved to his grave site and squinted against the sunlight glittering on his granite stone. “Jimmy?”

No answer.

I sought the shade of the sycamore, leaned against the trunk.
I knew Jimmy wanted to do his best for Megan, but he'd been so eager to return to Italy and was so excited he could appear, I feared he'd be tempted to extend his stay. “Jimmy?”

No answer.

I began to pace, counted to a hundred, was at ninety-three—

“Hey, Bailey Ruth.” His call was loud enough to be heard near the grave, too soft to carry far.

I blurted, “Jimmy,” in obvious relief.

“Did you think I wasn't coming?”

“Well, Italy—”

“I went to some of our favorite places.” His voice held yearning layered with melancholy, the understanding that what had once been could never be again, that caring and regret and passion can't change reality, that the past is forever beyond reach.

“I'm sorry.” I was. I understood. The present, however precious, is ephemeral. Take a breath, the moment is gone.

“It took me a while with Ginny Morse. That's why I was late. What's happened? Where's Megan?”

“The police didn't hold her.”

I heard a soft whuff of relief. “Where is she?”

“At her apartment.”

“I guess The Suit's with her.” He sounded midway between forlorn and disdainful.

“Blaine stayed with her all day, first at the law firm, then at the police station.”

“I guess he did a pretty good job.” Midway between relieved and jealous.

“She isn't in jail.”

“I guess she thinks he's pretty swell.” Definitely forlorn.

I didn't want to make him unhappier than he was so I didn't say anything.

“Okay.” A man accepting an unpalatable truth. “That's good. She needs somebody to help her. If I could be there, I would. But I can't. I'll pin a medal on him if he gets her out of this.” An effort at a laugh. “Never thought you'd hear me say that, right? But she's in a hell of a mess. All because she tried to help somebody, do the right thing. She won't explain that to the cops. They see that text on Graham's phone and they think they've got her on a platter. You'd think anybody could look at Megan and know it's nuts to imagine she'd sneak into a house and shoot somebody in the back of the head. Maybe they'll wise up.”

I had to be honest. “They aren't looking at anyone else. I don't know why she hasn't been arrested yet.”

“Sam Cobb's careful.” Jimmy spoke with the authority of a reporter who knew his city officials. “He gathers all the evidence before he huddles with the DA. You can bet he's trying to find out more about Megan. He'll see what he's got Monday, then talk to the DA.”

I hoped the facts I'd gathered today would be enough to interest Sam. I quickly sketched my day for Jimmy.

He was silent for a moment, considering what I'd told him. Finally he said, “Kind of feminine intuition on your conclusions. Not that I don't think women have a sort of inner Ouija board—”

I didn't disagree.

“—but I got something Cobb can get his teeth into. I got to the villa in late afternoon and the Morses were there. I introduced myself. They couldn't have been nicer to the young guy from the consulate. I played it great. But Carl Morse is about as big a stuffed
shirt as I've ever met. He chooses his words like he's stacking toothpicks.
Doug was a fine fellow. Never heard anyone say anything bad about Doug.
When I asked what caused the deep freeze between Graham and Layton, he looked shocked.
Why, his partners were gentlemen, never a cross word between them.
I was watching her. She's a babe, a stacked honey blonde. There isn't a man on the planet who wouldn't make a move on her if he had the chance. She looks at her husband and she's got this little smile, like,
Honey, you are so much baloney
. He turned to her every so often to say,
Don't you agree, Ginny?
She'd murmur
Mmmmm
. Here's where I'm a genius. I got finished and she's walking me down the hall and I said
I left my car at the bottom of the hill, do you think you could give me a lift down there?
She did, and she wasn't quite so lovey-dovey about their wonderful partners. I invited her to have a glass of Chianti at this neat trattoria, kind of like the one where Megan and I used to go. I laid it on, how she looked like a woman who picked up on nuances. First I tried to get her to open up about the law firm staff. Did anyone have it in for Graham? How about Anita Davis? Ginny got this bland look, sometimes husbands and wives look like each other and she was pure stuffed shirt . . .
a wonderful staff
,
everybody on the best of terms, especially some of them . . .
I picked up on that, pressed her but she backed off. I don't know exactly what she meant but she had something in mind. I told her we knew there'd been a change in how Layton and Graham treated each other. That set her off. No more collegiality. She has these deep green eyes. It was like watching a cartoon and the good-looking dame has dollar signs instead of pupils as she adds up what the penniless widow owes her. Scratch all that comity puff from hubby. The bottom line is”—Jimmy's tone was wry—“what it
always is, the bottom line. She and Carl are ostensibly ‘partners' in the law firm. In reality, they were assured a certain amount of what they billed and collected. If the aggregate firm income was up, they were assured of a bonus in line with their contribution to the firm's net income for a year. Last December they had the annual money confab. Their billings were up by about three hundred thousand over the previous year and the Morses were thinking maybe they'd buy a vacation place at Grand Lake. Instead, Graham got a big boost and they each got an extra ten thou. Layton took the biggest hit, but you'd have thought somebody cut out her heart. She looked at me out of those big green eyes, those dollar signs flashing like a candle on a slot, and said it didn't make sense Layton would channel extra profit to Graham, especially since he didn't like the son of a bitch.”

The leaves in the cottonwood rustled, reminding me of the slap of bills on a wooden counter when we cashed out after a nice winning spree at a casino in Vegas. We always bought a hundred dollars' worth of chips and quit when we lost our stake. That time we won. Eighty-six dollars. That was a lot of money in our day. Maybe Ginny Morse could hear the slap of bills and imagine them rising in front of Doug Graham.

“Why didn't she and her husband form their own firm?”

“Third glass of the dark red, she talked about the payments on her BMW and how they were probably making more even when they were getting screwed than if they started over on their own. They'd had a small firm and joined up with Layton and Graham about five years ago.”

I honed in on the red meat. “Jimmy, you found out what matters. Layton ponied up big-time the year there was the hit-and-run.
A clever form of blackmail. Layton's an angry man.” I thought about the look of despair in his civilized face as he spoke to his dead wife. The hundred-thousand-dollar ring for the rich widow might have been enough to push him to murder. Not to protect himself at this point, but for revenge against a man who took advantage when Layton hid the truth to be able to stay with his daughter. Julie was gone now. Perhaps Brewster Layton no longer cared what happened to him.

But the morning after the murder he came to the office early, destroyed something he'd taken from Graham's office. The substance of the slick strips in the shredder suggested photos to me. It would have been just like Doug Graham to use his cell, take pictures of the crumpled fender on Layton's car, print them out. Those pictures would be quite at variance with the damage recorded by the insurance adjuster after the cars collided that Monday morning.

“Hello.” The tone was aggrieved. “Have you left?”

I realized Jimmy had been talking. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“Yeah.” His voice rose with hope. “You have a plan?”

I didn't want to admit my thoughts were scattered. I was anxious—very anxious—about Megan's prospects. I'd followed every lead I had. Would anything I'd learned interest Sam Cobb? All I could do was try. But the morale of the troops depends upon the leader. It was no time to display lack of confidence. “I'll make a report to Chief Cobb.”

“Does that big ham-faced guy listen to voices out of nowhere?”

“I have a method for communicating with the chief.” Words can obfuscate as well as enlighten. “You know how anyone can call up and leave information anonymously?” I wasn't claiming that was my method.

“I did a feature on it. The Tip Line, guaranteed anonymous. The headline read: ‘A Tip a Day Keeps the Bad Guys Away.' Yeah, I wrote a good one.”

“Exactly.”

“So you call the cops. What do I do?”

“You've helped a lot. Why don't you relax for the evening?”

“Relax? I can hear the handcuffs snapping shut. That's what they'll do.” His voice was suddenly wobbly. “They'll take these damn big metal handcuffs and clamp her wrists. And I can't do anything about it.”

“There's something you can do tonight. If you were sitting on a sofa, maybe eating pizza and drinking a beer, and Megan came in the room behind you, you'd know she was there. You wouldn't have to turn around and look. That's how it is with someone you love. You don't have to see someone to know they're there. Just go. Be there. She won't know why, but she'll feel better.”

We only know we've been brushed by an angel's wing when for no apparent reason we feel warmth, reassurance. Jimmy was no angel, but he loved Megan very much.

“I'd give anything—” He broke off.

He wanted to stand at her door, knock, be there in person, reach out, take her hands, hold her small hands warm in his.

“But I can't be where she sees me. I can't do that to her.” There was a maturity in his voice that I'd never heard. “She really cared about me, but I'm done. We would have had a good life.” He was silent again.

I spoke gently. “She will have a good life with Blaine.”

“He's an okay guy. He's doing everything he can to take care of her. And pretty soon—”

I glimpsed the shining curve of golden stairs, brighter than blazing sunlight, and knew Jimmy saw the stairway, too.

“—I'll be on my way. But until then, even if
he's
there, I can be with Megan.”

I was alone.

Sam's office was dim. I was careful to close the venetian blinds before I turned on the gooseneck lamp on his desk and twisted the shade to illuminate the blackboard. I picked up a piece of chalk. Should I relate what I'd learned in chronological order or list conclusions in the order of importance? Sam would not be interested in a play-by-play description of Detective Loy's activities. Very well. I wrote in block letters:

Doug Graham was blackmailing—

“Like Yogi Berra said, ‘Déjà vu all over again.' I'm pretty sure that's how my day started. Chalk hanging in the air.” His deep voice held a mixture of exasperation and fatigue. There was no
Glad you're here, Bailey Ruth
.

I swung around.

He closed the hall door behind him. “Have you been hanging out here all day?” He moved toward the table that sat between his desk and the brown leather sofa. The sofa faced the two windows that overlooked Main Street. His steps were slower than this morning, his suit more wrinkled, his heavy face shadowed by the stubble that requires some men to shave twice daily, especially if planning a night out. He was carrying a sack and a plastic cup. He plopped the sack on the table, pulled out a chair, sank into it with a thud, a big man running out of steam. He flipped the lid off the cup,
drank thirstily. “Claire keeps after me to drink more water. Tells me iced tea is dehydrating. Lulu's has the best damn iced tea I've ever tasted, just like my mother used to make.”

I knew the kind of tea he remembered, a rich amber chilled by clear ice cubes, brewed from boiling water poured over Lipton tea bags.

He reached for the sack as I pulled out the chair opposite him. His hand stayed midway to the sack. “It's been a long day. Chalk in the air. Chairs pulling out unaided.”