Ghost Times Two (6 page)

I reached up, placed my fingers across his lips.

Megan stared toward the doorway. “Yes?” she called out, as if Jimmy's voice came from that direction.

Sharon was rigid in the middle of the room, her gaze focused a few feet to her right.

I wondered what she would think if she could see Jimmy standing there. I imagined he was tousle haired, incredibly handsome, likely in a well-fitting (yes, I keep up with the style for young men) polo shirt, shorts, and espadrilles. Probably, as was also the fashion for his age, slightly unshaven. A stubble of beard is alluring to women. Another time, I would ponder that fact. Was the attraction the unmistakable masculinity of bristly cheeks? The hint of a bad-boy aura? Or the suggestion of careless comfort? I recalled— But I must focus on the moment.

Megan rose, moved past the secretary, poked her head out into the hall, then returned, shrugging. “I don't see anyone in the hall. Thank you, Sharon. I'll be talking to Mr. Graham in a few minutes.”

Sharon nodded, her face still puzzled as she walked toward the door.

Megan closed the door after Sharon, stared coldly toward the desk. “Jimmy, don't say anything else unless we're alone.”

“It's that woman's fault.”

“Woman?” Megan's gaze flickered around the small office.

“You know, the one who wants me to go up the stairs.”

Megan's shoulders sagged. “Here I go again. One imaginary person apparently isn't sufficient. No. I have two imaginary—” She broke off, stared in the direction of Jimmy's voice. “Stairs?”

“You don't see them? Over there by the window. Wherever I go, there they are, these gleaming white steps in a kind of golden haze going up and up.”

Megan's eyes widened. She spoke barely above a whisper. “Stairs to . . .”

“Up.” He was abrupt. “Megan, you can do better than this Blaine guy.”

I spoke out. “Jimmy, you always looked for adventure. I'll help you help Megan to make the right choice, then you can take the stairs to the greatest adventure of all.” It always worked for me when I could persuade an adversary that really we were on the same side.

I felt an approving pat on my shoulder. Dear Heaven, Wiggins was here. But apparently he understood and approved my approach with Jimmy. I felt a breath on my cheek. “Off again to Tumbulgum. Make every effort to resolve his presence as soon as possible.” His murmur was too low for Jimmy and Megan to hear.

Megan was staring at the window. “If I see stairs, I'll know my mind's out of control.”

As clearly as if a tattoo sounded, I knew Wiggins had departed. The dear man would surely be hurt if he knew I hoped his visit to Tumbulgum was prolonged. Tumbulgum, Australia, in July was certainly a good twenty degrees cooler than Adelaide. Dislodging Jimmy was not going to be a lark and would likely require time.

The buzzer on the desk sounded, several quick short burrs.

Megan said forcefully, “Jimmy, do not say another word. I don't care what happens. Do not speak.” She grabbed a file folder, walked to the door. She stepped into the hall. She was just outside Doug Graham's office when the door was yanked open. Megan drew back.

Keith Porter stood in the doorway, his face flushed. He blinked rapidly, and I had a feeling he was trying not to cry. He half turned to look toward Graham. “Why won't you listen to me? Mom and Dad didn't want you to treat me like this. You don't have any right to—”

Heavy steps sounded. The lawyer was in the doorway. “The matter is closed. I told you a year and I meant a year. It won't do any good to throw a tantrum. If you keep it up, I'll make it a year and a half.”

The back of Keith's neck reddened. “Someday somebody's going to—”

Graham ignored him, turned away, slammed the door shut.

A deep, boisterous, king-of-the-mountain shout boomed from the reception area. “Where's that lucky son of a gun?” A big man burst through the doorway, strode forward, making the wide hallway seem small. He was well over six foot five, a Stetson pushed back on a shock of iron gray hair, a seamed face, broad shoulders, slim waist. His blue Tommy Bahama polo pulled out over a slight paunch. His Levi's were well worn, but his Tony Lama red leather boots gleamed with
polish. “Yo, Doug. Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He planted himself solidly in the middle of the hallway, boomed, “Listen up, ladies. Have you heard—”

White-haired Lou, her round placid face anxious, hovered nervously in the doorway to the waiting room. She turned over her plump well-cared-for hands as if to say,
I couldn't stop him, he barged right in
.

Sharon's slender fingers rested on her keyboard. She half turned to look at the newcomer. Anita was slumped in her chair. She ignored the gathering in the hall, scrubbed at her splotchy face. Geraldine twirled a yellow curl on one finger. Her eyes held a look of appraisal, a woman sizing up a man and liking what she saw. Nancy Murray leaned forward to watch, dark eyes bright with interest.

Megan glanced from Keith Porter, glowering outside Graham's office, to the big man standing with his arms akimbo.

Brewster Layton's office door opened. His small gray-haired client peeked out, her eyes darting up and down the hallway. Layton came up behind her. He nodded toward the big man. “Morning, Jack.”

The visitor clapped his hands together. “Good to see you, Brewster. Did you know what your partner's up to?” He gave Brewster no chance to reply and bulled past Keith Porter to Graham's office, pounded, flung open the door. “Come on out, Doug.”

Graham moved into the open doorway. “Hey, Jack, tamp it down. You aren't on a rig. Look what you've done.” The lawyer gestured at the watching faces. “Nobody's working. I'll add a surcharge to your bill to make up for the loss.”

The big man shoved his cowboy hat farther back on his head. “Don't try to calf rope me, Doug. I want to see the ring.”

Graham's blond brows lifted in surprise.

A guffaw. “Did you think you could keep that rock a secret? Not in Adelaide. Don't try to pretend. I know all, just like a palm reader in a tent. Maisie's planning a big midsummer bash with a fortune-teller and some feng shui guy out of L.A. and a swami—I asked her if that was pickled or smoked—so everybody can get a heads-up on next year. But I'm one up on the local gossips. Maisie was at Jory's Jewelry store yesterday. That woman spends more money on little old trinkets there than I put into a new well.” He spoke with a rueful tone, but the message was clear:
My wife buys expensive jewelry, and I can afford any damn thing she wants.
“Maisie always gets the goods on who's bought what, and she tells me you slapped down a hundred grand yesterday for a diamond engagement ring. Just last week you shrugged off my questions, said Lisbeth Carew was a friend and a client and the fact you've spent time at her ranch in Wyoming was all business. I guess we know what kind of business now. I guess you got around to talking about something besides cattle sales and drilling rigs. It figures you'd shell out a bundle for a ring for the richest widow in Pontotoc County. Probably the richest and most gorgeous widow in all seventy-seven counties. And as everyone knows, Lisbeth Carew is the marrying kind. No sneak-around affairs for her. A fine woman despite all that money. So I'm here to celebrate with you, and the more the merrier, right?” His head swung. He nodded respectfully at Layton's client. “Morning, Winnie.” In a small town, well-to-do people know each other. He gazed at the watching women, ignored the combative young man
with a sullen face and hunched shoulders. “Hey, where's Ginny and Carl Morse? I want everybody in on the act.”

Doug's gaze was cold, but he kept his voice pleasant. “Carl and Ginny took a villa outside of Florence for a month.” He gestured toward his office. “Come on in.”

The oilman rocked back on the heels of his boots, looked as immovable as a recalcitrant bull. “I'll bet Ginny's bought out the jewelry shops in Florence. Bet she's a regular at Walter's Gold and Silver. That's where Maisie always shops. From what I hear about your ring, Ginny'd want one pronto. But we have a right nice audience without them. I know everybody wants to see that hunk of stone. Right?”

White-haired Lou's blue eyes were eager and excited. Megan's expression was studiously courteous. Anita hunched in her chair as if she scarcely heard the hullabaloo. Sharon's face was stiff, as if she found the entire scene distasteful. Geraldine gave a whoop, pushed back her chair, bounced to her feet. “This I got to see.” Nancy gave an excited giggle. Keith Porter, hands jammed in his jeans, glared at Doug Graham. Brewster Layton's brows drew down in a tight frown. Beside him, leaning on her walker, his client, Winifred Kellogg, watched intently, bright dark eyes skittering from Doug to Jack to Brewster.

The big man savored the moment. “Ladies love romance, right?”

Geraldine bolted up the hallway, stood a little too near the oilman. “I'll bet you're exaggerating, Mr. Sherman. But I'm here and ready to clap.” She lifted her hands high above her head in a flamenco dancer pose, which drew her blouse even tighter across her chest.

Sherman gave an appreciative whistle.

Geraldine dropped her arms, grinned. “If you need someone to model the ring, I really like jewelry.” She fluttered her right hand with rings on three fingers.

Sherman took two big steps to tower over Keith Porter. “And you, young fella. You can see how a man with means snags a rich widow.” He swung around, faced Doug. “Bring Out The Ring.” His tone added the capitals. “Come on, man, haul that ring out here, share the glitter.”

Doug's expression was strained. “A time and a pl—”

“Want me to twist your arm? Remember the last time we arm-wrestled? Cost you a thousand. Now I want to see the stone. I hear it's as big a chunk of ice as Jory Jewelry's ever had in the store. I'm here, and here I stay until you haul that sucker out.” He glanced down at a massive watch. “I got to hustle out to the rig, but I'm not leaving—”

Doug pushed his office door wide, stood aside. “Come on in, Jack. I'll—”

The jovial oilman passed him with a punch on a shoulder that slightly staggered Graham. Jack Sherman's big voice was clearly heard. “Where's the ring? In your desk?” Heavy steps across the room, a squeak as a drawer slid out. “Red velvet!” A whistle. “Man, you know how to celebrate a conquest.” Sherman elbowed past Doug to the hallway. He held up the large ring case, which looked small in his callused palm.

Doug's voice was clipped. “That's enough, Jack.” He thrust out his hand. “You've had your fun.”

Jack flipped open the ring case, whistled. The diamond flashed
its brilliance in the stark light from overhead fluorescents. The oilman bellowed, “Ladies, you can tell your grandchildren you saw the ring that Doug Graham will be sliding on the finger of Lisbeth Carew.”

Geraldine reached out and grabbed the velvet case. “That's the biggest diamond I've ever seen.” She lifted out the ring, slipped it on her left ring finger, held her hand high.

Sherman clapped appreciatively. “Sparkles real pretty.”

Geraldine preened, made a pirouette.

Doug took a step forward and there was no good humor in his face.

Geraldine proclaimed dramatically, “This ring should have my name on it,” but she was pulling off the ring, replacing it in the box. She pressed the box to her heart for a moment, then, clearly reluctant, handed it to the oilman. “That is one big ring.”

Sherman's laughter boomed. “Doug, the lady put her finger on it. And in it.” Geraldine's face was a mixture of cupidity and jealousy. Megan gave the ring a brief glance, one eyebrow slightly raised. Sharon's gaze locked on the vivid, sparkling stone. Anita blinked, perhaps trying to merge this odd moment into the welter of fear in her mind. Lou made a soft cooing sound. “Oh, so lovely. So beautiful. That's the biggest diamond I've ever seen. The little stones around the setting are amazing.” Nancy's eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted. Winifred touched a cameo pinned to her blouse. Small pearl earrings were her only other jewelry. Her expression suggested she thought the stone and its setting gaudy and vulgar.

Sherman stopped in front of Keith Porter. “Ever seen anything like this, son?”

Keith stared down at the glittering diamond.

The big man threw back his big head, delighted to stretch out the moment. “Don't ever say Jack Sherman didn't give you a glimpse of life among the one percent in Adelaide, Oklahoma.” He turned back to the cluster of women. “Ladies, you're among the first to know that Doug is landing in a big patch of clover. When he marries Lisbeth Carew, he won't need clients.” Sherman snapped the ring case shut. “On your toes, Doug.” He tossed the ring case in a smooth underhand throw to Doug. “Better put it in the bank 'til you need it.”

The lawyer moved fast, caught the red plush velvet case in his right hand, held it tightly. “Maybe I should.” He tried to sound good-humored, but he was obviously angry.

“You got to promise to send a selfie of you and Lisbeth when you give it to her. I hear she's due back from Lucerne next week. Now, I got to get out to the rig.” Sherman clumped heavily up the hall.

Keith Porter scowled at Graham. “I'll be back in touch. Like tomorrow.” He turned, walked away. He reached the door to the reception area as it was closing, gave one last angry look over his shoulder, stepped through, and pulled the door shut. Hard. There was silence in the hallway.

Doug Graham looked at his partner. “I'm sorry the noise interrupted your meeting with Winifred. I know you'll both dismiss Jack's performance from your minds and not mention it to anyone.”

Brewster raised an eyebrow. “I don't discuss private matters.”

Winifred gave Doug a chilly glance. Her tone was clipped. “I wouldn't dream of speaking of the matter. It is of no interest to me.” She turned and stepped into Brewster's office. He followed and the door closed.