Ghost Times Two (25 page)

“Oh.” A woman with cornflower blue eyes blinked several times. She lifted a thin hand and pointed. “I was on register one. It was about two thirty and I was going on break next.”

A stocky woman with brassy hair in tight ringlets strode to the whiteboard. “It was so weird.” She tapped a photograph. “That one was in menswear and used the corner of a Kleenex to pick up a package of socks.”

Jimmy's choice of the picnic area at White Deer Park was inspired. I sat on a table and squinted at the pier, starkly white and blazing hot in the afternoon sun. “Jimmy?”

The table was wooden and old. It creaked as he settled beside me. “Beautiful evening in Florence.” He sounded mellow.

“Did you talk to Ginny Morse?” Sam had an identification from two Walmart employees, but I hoped Ginny Morse could add flesh to the bones.

“It took me a while to find her. She was shopping in Florence. The housekeeper told me she was visiting the linen shops. I found her in a boutique trying to decide between linen and damask. She asked my opinion. I guess stuffed shirt was on the golf course or maybe drinking wine. I pointed at one and she said, ‘Of course. The damask is truly elegant.' I carried her parcel for her and we stopped at a trattoria for some vino. That lady likes—”

“Jimmy, did she
know
anything?”

“She wasn't going to admit anything, black or white or up or down. She said it was her policy to live and let live. I told her I wasn't the bed police, but she better understand that Megan Wynn was going to jail unless the Adelaide police discovered whether Graham was involved with somebody in the office. When she realized I was serious”—his voice was grim—“she got serious, too.”

“Jimmy”—if he had been near enough I would have grabbed his shoulders and shaken him—“what did she say?”

“Chapter and verse. She jogs . . .”

I listened and then I smiled. If there is ever a true truism in a small town, it is this little phrase:
Someone will see you.

I knew Jimmy was lounging comfortably on a corner of Sam's desk. He had agreed to remain unseen. He'd grinned, said,
Think two of us would spook him?
I doubted Sam would be bothered. After the excitement at the
Gazette
last night, he likely was quite certain of my unseen friend. My aim was to stave off the arrival of the Rescue Express until Megan was in the clear. Wiggins tolerated my appearing because he understood Sam preferred a presence with
a voice, but Jimmy in his South Seas sport shirt and white slacks would distress Wiggins.

Sam hunched at his desk. A photo rested next to the two sheets of paper Sam had studied at Lulu's this morning. Sam drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desktop, flicked an impatient glance at the wall clock. It read ten minutes after three.

“I'm only a few minutes late, Sam.” I appeared again in my turquoise blouse and skirt, brushed back a red curl stirred by the hot breeze off the lake, settled in the straight wooden chair facing him.

He tapped the photo. “I was going to give you five more minutes before I put out a pickup call.”

As Mama always said, “When a man isn't headed in the right direction, help him change his mind of his own accord.”

“That would be excellent. Or, as I've heard you say in the past”—this was creative license but I was sure Sam was a hunter and it is something he might well have said—“
Sometimes it's best to flush a bird without warning.
The murderer is unaware of what you know. There are more facts that will come as a terrible shock.” I told Sam what Rhoda Grant revealed. He made quick notes. “And the very nice young man from the consulate in Florence spoke again with Ginny Morse.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “The very nice young man from the consulate in Florence?”

“Such a help,” I murmured.

“You think Morse will give us a statement?”

“She understands Megan Wynn is in danger of arrest.”

He nodded, clicked a button on his intercom. “Alma, get the cell number for Ginny Morse. ASAP.”

“If the murderer is confronted without warning”—my tone was diffident—“the effect might be remarkable.”

His eyes gleamed. He slammed a broad hand down on the desktop. “Yeah. No warning. Better not put out a pickup call. Get 'em all together.” He was muttering to himself. “That's what I'll do. We'll contact them, inform them of Nancy Murray's murder, ask them to come to the law office at four o'clock.”

He was now a man with a plan. His plan. Mama was right again.

The conference room at Layton, Graham, Morse and Morse also served as a law library. Large law books filled three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Four comfortable leather chairs sat on either side of a long oak table. Matching chairs were at either end. No doubt the room had often been witness to human drama, divorces, quarrelsome depositions, intense settlement conferences, the reading of wills. But perhaps Death had never before felt so near.

Sam Cobb, his large face impassive, stood behind an end chair. His navy blue suit jacket sagged but his heft and bulk were impressive. A somber Brewster Layton cupped his goatee in his right hand and stared at Sam. Lou Raymond's generous mouth puckered in uncertainty. Anita Jackson's plump face looked stricken and she held tight to the arms of her chair. Sharon King was pale and drawn, her lips pressed together, but her light brown hair was neatly brushed, her white blouse crisp, and her lime green linen slacks wrinkle free. Geraldine Jackson watched Sam, her gaze speculative. Her golden curls were loose and flowing today, which emphasized a face that held a road map of her past, late nights, men, bars, loneliness, and yearning. In contrast, Megan Wynn's
face was young and open, but tight lines of anxiety reflected her uncertainty. She had to wonder whether she was truly free of suspicion or whether Sam Cobb had given that impression while continuing to pursue her. Blaine Smith sat next to Megan. He might have been a guard dog, watching out for his person. He was alert, ready to spring to her defense.

Sam glanced at Detective Judy Weitz, who sat at his left.

Judy reached out a firm hand and flicked on the recorder in front of her.

Sam cleared his throat. “Nancy Murray knew the identity of Doug Graham's killer. She knew because she broke into Graham's office Thursday night to steal the diamond ring.”

There were sudden indrawn breaths, a murmur from the onlookers.

Sam spoke as if he had been there in the late-night hours. “As Nancy was leaving, she saw someone walk out of Megan Wynn's office. Murray remained quiet. The departing figure didn't see her. The next morning Murray understood that she had seen Doug Graham's murderer leave Megan Wynn's office after placing the murder weapon in Megan's desk. Unfortunately for Nancy Murray, the murderer realized Nancy knew and posed a danger. That's why Murray was struck down. But the motive that matters is the motive that led to Doug Graham's murder.”

He folded his arms. “For that, we have to understand Doug Graham, who he was, how he treated others, what he valued. He grew up in Adelaide as a rich man's son until his father's dairy went bankrupt. One day he had everything, the next he was working at McDonald's. He took out student loans to get his undergraduate degree, more loans for law school. He married while he was in law
school. Two children came. He worked long hours, always determined to get money, have money, spend money. Marriages succeed or fail for many different reasons. Sometimes a woman or man realizes a partner isn't someone they admire or respect. To Doug Graham, money and position were all that mattered. There wasn't time to go to sporting events or school programs, always work. There was the hunger for a big house, fine clothes, fancy office. The Graham marriage was in cold storage for the last few years. Rhoda Graham suspected her husband was having an affair, but she kept the marriage going to keep the family together. Doug Graham had seemed content with that status. Rhoda assumed Doug wasn't interested in marrying the other woman.”

I watched a particular face. There was no change in expression.

Sam picked up the tempo. “Everything changed in May of 2014. On May 14, 2014, Lisbeth Carew announced the illness of her husband, Edward. Doug Graham had handled several matters for the Black Gold Oil Company and for Edward Carew. In late May, Doug asked Rhoda for a divorce. She agreed. The divorce was granted in September 2014. It's interesting to note that Doug made no move to marry his lover.” Sam looked at Brewster Layton. “Your law firm has a well-known ironclad rule: No sexual dalliance between partners and employees.”

Abruptly the room was utterly still. Lou Raymond looked toward Geraldine Jackson, jerked her gaze away.

Geraldine didn't miss the glance. Her face flushed. “That's a crock. I knew his kind. Silver tongue and a lying heart. I may have married a bunch of losers but they meant what they said.” A bark of laughter. “At the time. They just never had staying power.”

There were other covert glances at Geraldine. Brewster Layton's gaze narrowed. Anita Davis's lips parted in shock. Sharon King's lips tightened in distaste. Megan shook her head in disbelief. Blaine looked curious.

Geraldine heaved to her feet. “You can all go straight to hell. Like I said, I always knew Doug was a jerk. I never gave him the time of day—and don't think he didn't try.”

“Sit down.” Sam's deep voice was commanding.

Geraldine was breathing fast, but she slowly sank into the chair, her face flushed.

Sam held up a big hand. “Let me finish. When he was divorced, Graham persuaded the woman to keep quiet. Perhaps he said,
You can look for another job and then we'll wait a year. Everything will work out.
That wasn't the true reason. He got a divorce because Edward Carew was terminally ill and Lisbeth Carew was turning to him, finding support. He knew what he wanted. The Carew millions. That brings us to Thursday morning. Jack Sherman grabbed the velvet case from Graham's desk, held up the ring for everyone to see. Now everyone knew, including the woman who thought she was loved, but discovered she'd been betrayed. At some point in the morning, she accused him. He couldn't deny the ring, but he thought he could persuade her. Perhaps he thought she might share his greed. The Carew millions. They could meet as they always had. Think of the clothes and trips. She didn't answer, turned away. He knew he had to persuade her. He tried several different drafts of a note, finally composed one. She received the note. Perhaps she told him she'd talk to him tomorrow. But she had already made up her—”

“Who?” Brewster Layton's voice was steely with anger.

Sam nodded at Judy Weitz. “Play the recording from Virginia Morse.”

The quality was scratchy, a cell phone connection in Italy. Ginny Morse spoke somberly. “This is Virginia Morse. I'm a long-distance runner. I train in early morning on the roads around Adelaide. I often run through White Deer Park, make a four-mile circle and end up coming back through the park on Archer Street. About three years ago I saw a garage door lift and recognized Doug Graham's car. I slowed down to be sure. He never noticed me. It happened four or five more times—”