Ghost Times Two (24 page)

He looked at me. “Walmart only.” Now he was intrigued. “The killer,” he said, thinking out loud, “didn't know until the gun was found in the office that anyone had any idea who put it there. When the murderer realized Murray knew, Murray had to die. But how?” He flexed his big hands. “What to use for a weapon? The gun was in police custody. We ran a check. It was stolen a couple of years
ago, probably picked up at a garage sale or flea market. Anyway, here's the killer on Friday afternoon, determined to silence Murray. How? What could be bought and handled so that no fingerprints would ever show? A blunt instrument? How about dirt in a sock?” His voice oozed satisfaction. Then he frowned. “Why not go to a drawer and pick out a sock?” He was thinking out loud. “A man's dress sock. None of the women in the office have husbands. Anita Davis was widowed six years ago. Sharon King never married. Geraldine Davis is a three-time loser. Lou Raymond was widowed two years ago. Now, Brewster Layton—”

I was gentle. “There are socks and then there are socks. I doubt if Brewster Layton has ever walked into Walmart.”

Sam's smile was grim. “Not unless it was yesterday afternoon. But he wouldn't use one of his own socks. For all I know they're imported from Italy. So, the killer needs a new sock. That means”—and now he was excited—“between the time everyone left the office yesterday and the murderer showed up at Murray's door, the murderer went to Walmart.” He turned back to his monitor, clicked.

I slid off the desk, came up behind him to look over his shoulder. E-mail to Detectives Don Smith and Judy Weitz:
Get mug shots Brewster Layton, Anita Davis, Sharon King, Lou Raymond, Geraldine Jackson. Show photos to all cashiers, stockers, salesclerks, and greeters on duty at Walmart yesterday between noon and eight p.m. Proving any one of them was there will be a leg up. Any connection to the menswear department and men's socks would be gravy on the potatoes.

I touched his shoulder. “Sam, that's brilliant.”

He looked up, made an attempt at modesty. “Well, you got me to thinking about socks.”

“Oh, but you figured out what must have happened.”

He pumped his right fist. “This may make all the difference. Neva will have to listen to me. I may break the case all by myself. I can't wait to tell her.”

Mama was right again. I smiled at him admiringly. “I can't wait to find out what you discover.” I felt much like a cat seated by a bowl of cream. “I'll meet you here at three tomorrow afternoon.”

I
disappeared.

D
oes anything smell better in the early morning than bacon cooking and coffee brewing? I waited in a booth with a large cup of coffee cradled in my hands. Lulu's bustles on Saturday mornings. Jimmy's designation of my favorite cafe as Geezer City had a basis in truth. Many breakfast customers were middle-aged to older men who clearly knew each other well. Hearty bursts of laughter punctuated the rumble of male voices resonant as stampeding elephants.

I was also pleased by the richness of my print jacket in lightweight linen, circlets of gold and silver against a creamy background. My slacks, I gazed down in approval, were a matching gold. My gold strap sandals were out of sight but quite perfect, thank you.

Jimmy slid into the booth and sat opposite me. He was Tahiti cool in a palm tree–splashed shirt and white trousers. “Pretty
exciting at the
Gazette
last night. They'll be talking about the Phantom of the Newsroom for decades. I never thought I'd see Joan Crandall, my favorite jaded broad, with eyes like saucers and her hair practically standing on end.”

My tone was reproving. “Jimmy.”

He turned his slender hands palm up. “I had no choice. See”—and now he was earnest—“I got the stuff you wanted, chapter and verse.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Kind of an interesting chronology. But I thought the place was deserted. Joan's computer was still on but sometimes she likes to leave it running. The city editor would snarl about security, and Joan would clap her hands on her hips and ask who did he think was going to get into her files overnight—pixies or unicorns?—and if she had her choice she'd go with unicorns. Anyway, I got to work at her computer and I kind of like being there, you know what I mean?”

I did. Yes, indeed.

He smoothed his silk shirt. “I always wanted to go to the South Seas. So I was in the newsroom, just like I used to be. I even turned on the ceiling fans. Always kept me cool. I got what I needed and clicked Print and pushed back Joan's chair. I went over to the big printer in the corner, and I'm just scooping up the sheets when Joan yells out, she's got that raspy voice like a file against metal, ‘Hey, who are you?'

“If I turned around, she'd know it was me. I disappeared. I still had the sheets in my hand. I wasn't going to leave those behind. There wasn't anything I could do about the file on the computer. I intended to delete it. Anyway, I'll bet Joanie's been up half the night
trying to figure out what's what. I went up to the ceiling. Joan was standing in the middle of the newsroom watching the papers go overhead. She turned the color of my aunt's Siamese. I made it out to the hall. I was downstairs in a jiffy. It set off the alarm when I unlocked the front door. But”—and he was proud—“here's what you asked for.”

The dark-haired waitress, thin, harried, and efficient, stopped at our booth. Jimmy ordered chocolate chip waffles with whipped cream and cherries, link sausage, and coffee. I opted for sausage, scrambled eggs verde, and grits. Coffee, of course.

He pointed at the sheets in front of me. “How can you use that?”

“This afternoon I'll give the dates to Sam Cobb. By then we may really be on the killer's trail.” I brought him up to date on Walmart and mug shots. “There's one more thing that could make a huge difference. Do you think you can get Ginny Morse to talk?”

“I never met a woman I couldn't persuade.” He spoke as a reporter noting an undisputed fact.

His confidence boosted mine. He could provide the last piece of real evidence. I sketched out what I hoped he could discover. “See what you can do. I'll meet you at the end of the pier at two thirty.”

“Sounds hot and hotter. How about meeting at the picnic area under the big sycamore?”

“Excellent choice.”

“Here come my waffl— Uh-oh.” He was gone.

I turned to see Sam Cobb, in a rumpled blue suit. He wended his way around a clump of men and two tables, came up to the booth. “I could have sworn I saw somebody sitting with you.”

“Sometimes”—my smile was bright—“we don't see what we don't see.”

“May I join you?” He was already sliding in. “Young fellow,” he said pleasantly. “He looked a lot like a reporter on the
Gazette
. He drowned last summer.”

“May he rest in peace,” I murmured.

Sam shot me a wry look. “I don't know that resting would suit him.”

The waitress scarcely gave him a glance as she slapped down plates and coffee mugs, asked generally, “Anything else you need?”

Sam looked at the mound of whipped cream, studded with cherries and extra chocolate chips. “This should take care of me.”

She was gone, hurrying to pick up the next order.

Sam studied the plate. “Claire put me on a diet. Says I need to lose twenty pounds. But it would've been bad manners to send the plate back, right? Kind of like not picking up pennies from Heaven.” He spooned a scoop of the topping. “The whipped cream was made fresh this morning. Can't beat Lulu's.”

I was well into my grits. “Heavenly,” I agreed.

He added Lulu's homemade unsalted butter to a corner of his waffle. “I needed Lulu's this morning. Had a pretty late night. I was just about home when I got a call from the
Gazette
. I went straight there. Joan Crandall looked like she'd been to a séance, and it turned out not to be a joke. What really spooked her”—his gaze was questioning—“was finding a file open on her computer, a file she hadn't created. That and watching a sheet of paper propel itself along the ceiling and out the door. She said when she first came into the newsroom she thought she saw someone standing by the
printer. She knew she was alone in the building except for the watchman, and he's almost seventy. She said she would have sworn she was seeing Jimmy Taylor, the young fellow I told you about. She called out and he was gone. Then this paper skimmed along up near the ceiling and out the newsroom door. She said she raced downstairs and the alarm was going off. When the dust settled, no one was found, and she said she wasn't about to tell the night watchman what she'd seen. By this time she's pretty frazzled but she goes up to her computer and finds the file. The minute she read it, she knew there was a connection to the murders, so she printed out a copy for me.” He slipped his hand inside his suit jacket, pulled out a folded sheet, opened it, then reached out. His big hand closed over the sheet lying in front of my plate. He held the sheets side by side, read aloud:

October 17, 2013—Death notice for Marie Denise Layton, 58, wife of Brewster Layton

May 14, 2014—Lisbeth Carew assumes leadership of Black Gold Oil Company because of the illness of her husband, Edward Carew

September 18, 2014—Divorce granted between Rhoda Jones Graham and Douglas Warren Graham

October 17, 2014—Goddard senior Alison Terry killed in hit-and-run accident on Country Club Drive

October 20, 2014—Collision between Brewster Layton and Doug Graham on Country Club Drive

November 6, 2014—Death notice for Edward Chambers Carew, 62

April 22, 2015—Death notice for Julie Marie Layton, 12, daughter of Brewster Layton and the late Marie Denise Layton

July 23, 2015—Doug Graham shot to death

Sam looked at me quizzically. “I could wonder about the rumpus at the
Gazette
. Or mention that your sheet and mine are identical. But let's cut to the chase.”

The old familiar dictum from famed silent film director Hal Roach, Sr., was still good advice.

I was equally crisp. “I needed the dates to be sure I was on the right track. Now I know what questions to ask. Detective Loy will report this afternoon at three. Oh, Sam, look behind you. I think I see—”

Lulu's was at the height of the morning crush, voices, laughter, every chair taken, people absorbed in breakfast and conversation. As Sam's head turned, I disappeared. I didn't think he'd mind picking up the check.

The partially knitted raspberry afghan was still draped on the small sofa. Beyond the closed door, there was the sound of women's voices, the ringing of a phone, footsteps in the hall.

The knob turned. Rhoda Graham stepped inside, closed the door, looked at me with no warmth. She looked shrunken this morning, her long face drawn with fatigue, her slender shoulders
bowed. Her dark hair with its distinctive silver streak was pulled back into a knot, emphasizing the thinness of her face.

I stood by the sofa. I was sure my turquoise wrap blouse, turquoise skirt with a shell print, and white leather slides with turquoise beaded straps spoke of summer and cheer. Though brisk, I made my voice warm. “I appreciate your willingness to speak with me.”

Her dark eyes were cold. “Do I have a choice?”

“Absolutely. I am pleased to inform you that we have made great progress in solving the crimes—”

“Crimes?”

“Were you aware that the firm's paralegal, Nancy Murray, was murdered last night?”

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. “Nancy killed?”

“The news was on TV this morning.” I hadn't seen TV but I was quite sure this was true. “I can report to you that the search for her murderer and your former husband's murderer is now confined to firm members and staff.”

“What happened to Nancy?” Her tone was hollow.

“She was bludgeoned to death in her apartment last night.”

“Nancy . . .” She took a deep breath. “Someone in the office?” Her face creased in a puzzled frown. “Then why are you here?”

“You can provide information we need to know about your husband.”

“I don't want to talk about Doug.” Her tone was stiff.

“Unless you help us, Megan Wynn will be arrested for his murder and for the murder of Nancy Murray.”

“That's absurd.” Her retort was quick, definite, outraged. “I've known Nancy since she was a little girl. Her parents died in an accident and she came here and lived with her uncle. He
passed away last year. Megan would have had no reason, no reason at all—”

“Right now all the evidence points to her. But we think your husband may have been having an affair with someone at the law—”

“Not Megan.”

“Definitely not. But only you can tell us what happened with your husband before your divorce.”

Silence hung between us.

I spoke slowly, emphatically. “Unless you help me, Megan Wynn will be arrested.”

She walked to the small sofa, sank down, clutched the half-finished afghan. Her face remote, she looked at me with somber eyes. “What do you want to know?”

Shoppers thronged Walmart. I hovered above the aisles. The smell of fresh popcorn mingled with the scent of cologne. Customers clogged the checkout lines. A stressed clerk at checkout 5 tapped a speaker. “All checkers report to the front.”

The heavyset woman at the register behind her gave a huff. “Lots of luck, honey. Something's going on. Chuck has half the checkers back in the break room and Agnes told me they'd called in everybody who worked yesterday from noon to eight, checkers, clerks, stockers, greeters, but I sure don't see them up here helping us.”

I raced to the rear of the store, dairy cases to my right, camping equipment to the left. I passed a counter in a center hallway. It took only a moment to find the break room behind a door marked
Staff
Only
. All the chairs around a long table were taken. Another dozen people clustered at the end of the room.

Sam stood next to a portable whiteboard. Photographs were taped in alphabetical order: Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King, Brewster Layton, Lou Raymond, Blaine Smith, Megan Wynn.

Blaine's photo on the whiteboard surprised me. But, of course, he had been present yesterday morning in the office. Also, Sam would avoid having the photograph of only one man.

Sam held a pointer in one beefy hand. “. . . carefully study these pictures. We believe one of these persons was present in your store yesterday between noon and eight p.m. If anyone recognizes—”