Ghost to the Rescue (11 page)

They looked at each other in understanding, an acceptance that more existed in their lives and the lives of many than they would ever understand or be able to explain.

This time I reappeared in an old phone booth near the door to the ladies' room. I felt confident as I stepped out that no one in the busy lobby was paying attention to this twentieth-century relic. As promised, a box lunch and ginger ale awaited me at the check-in table. I thanked Sheila. As I crossed the lobby, I glanced down the hall to my left and saw a row of occupied seats outside conference room B.

Cliff Granger, relaxed and smiling, strolled toward the door, nodded at the occupants of the chairs, the hopeful authors waiting to see him. Harry Toomey was in the third chair holding several copies of his book. One knee jounced as he fidgeted.

I strode outside and down the winding path, all the way to the end of the pier. I leaned against the railing as I ate a ham-and-cheese sandwich, enjoyed salty potato chips, sipped crisply cold ginger ale. I finished with a sugar cookie iced with a happy face. I'd hoped for more information from Cliff Granger, such as a handy list of authors attending the conference who were Jay's clients. There might be
others as disappointed and angry as Liz and Tom Baker. That was the problem of being on the outside of an investigation. If only I could take a look at Jay's cell phone. He was young, hip, very likely to keep notes and schedules on his iPhone. But there was another possibility.

I deposited the box and soda can in a waste receptacle, strolled to the honeysuckle arbor, stepped inside, relished the sweet scent. I made sure no one was passing, and disappeared. Transport was no problem. I simply thought,
Jay Knox's house
, and I was
there.

J
ay's house was in an older part of town, not far from the campus. One-story homes, mostly brick, were shaded by oaks and elms. Jay's house was among the oldest, a mellow stucco bungalow. Mail was jammed in the black iron mailbox on the porch. Two newspapers in plastic bags were halfway up the lawn. There was no sign of life or movement, no car in the drive.

Inside, the air-conditioner hummed. Air-conditioners run 24–7 during an Oklahoma summer and Jay Knox had fully expected to return to his house. I was grateful for the coolness. There was no other sound. I was sure no living creature was in the house. Even though I was invisible, a dog or cat would have found me, known I was there, perhaps been friendly, perhaps not. But nothing broke the silence.

I stood in the center of a long living room, a rather well-appointed room for a bachelor—angular modern furniture with brightly colored
cushions, two sofas, three chairs, a long, low glass-topped coffee table. A painting with huge splashes of crimson and turquoise hung above the fireplace mantel. I gave the room a cursory glance, noting what was likely an expensive black metal sculpture of geometric shapes in one corner. I wondered if the artist harked back to the assurance of mathematical precision or was illustrating the complexity of modern life.

I walked down a hallway, checked several rooms, found a large office at the back of the house. The door was open. I stepped inside. Everything appeared to be in order. The top of a brown wooden desk was bare except for in/out boxes and a small legal pad with a pen lying across it. A computer monitor glowed on a side table. The swivel chair was turned toward the monitor, away from the desk.

I was thoughtful when I stood by the desk. I looked from the monitor to the desk. The pad contained a list in large, looping handwriting. All of the notes were unremarkable reminders of tasks to be done—get a birthday card for Aunt Helen, attend dinner next week at Dr. Randall's, renew driver's license, make out bills. Each number had a check mark by it.

I glanced at the in/out boxes. The bottom tray was empty. Several stamped envelopes were stacked in the top tray. I picked them up, noted the addresses—utilities, a cable company, a car dealership.

Obviously, Jay paid some bills the old-fashioned way, rather than authorizing withdrawals from his checking account or making purchases with a debit card. What mattered to me at the moment was whether Jay's last action at the desk had been paying bills or working at his computer.

If he paid the bills, checked the last number, pushed back the chair, and stood, it would seem more natural to slide the chair forward against the desk. Instead, the chair faced the computer.

Had someone other than Jay slipped into the house, come to the computer, looked for and possibly found a particular file or photo, and deleted it? It was quite possible. If a shadowy figure came to the house late last night, it could have been the murderer. Or it was possible, after Jay's death was made public, that someone else hurried here today to access a particular file or photo.

I still held the envelopes Jay had placed in the out-box. As I returned them to the top tray, I was struck by an idea. I pulled open the center desk drawer. His checkbook was lying next to an ornate fountain pen with an eagle crest serving as the clip. I opened the checkbook, read the stubs. The recent checks had been written the day before. I skimmed back over the month and found a deposit of five thousand dollars marked
Baker Consulting Fee.
I closed the checkbook, shut the drawer.

I slipped into the chair facing the computer and had a sudden shivery feeling. I wondered if I'd spooked myself with my conjectures. Was I was sitting in a chair last occupied by a murderer?

I pushed away that shrinking feeling and focused on my task. Thankfully, Jay kept his computer on, so I wasn't stymied by lack of a password. I didn't bother to look at files or photos. That kind of search would take far more time and expertise than I possessed to discover if anything had been deleted after his death.

I went to e-mail.

I've learned my computer skills on the fly, so to speak, but they are adequate. It took only a few minutes to find a series of e-mails Jay sent to authors confirming the submission of manuscripts to Cliff Granger. Three responses indicated excitement over seeing Cliff at the conference and were effusive in their thanks. I memorized their names and would make sure Sam Cobb spoke to them, although it
didn't seem likely any were involved in Jay's death, since they were apparently satisfied in their arrangement with Jay.

The e-mail string from Liz Baker was an entirely different matter. In five e-mails, the first late last week, she begged him to return the money. “. . . I took it out of our joint checking account. . . . Tom didn't know. . . . He left paying the bills to me . . . then his car went out. . . . He needs the money. . . . The money wasn't mine. . . . I should have asked him before I wrote the check but you said I had to pay now or I couldn't see Mr. Granger. . . . I'm afraid of what he might do.” An e-mail sent Thursday was stark. “I've never seen him like this. . . .”

Two other e-mails Jay received Thursday, and his answers, needed to be explained.

The first, from Maureen Matthews, was cryptic:

I have an appointment with Gilbert on Monday.

Jay's reply was brutal:

Cancel it. Or I'll do a collection of love letters, self-pubbed, a pink cover with a red hot arrow pointing at your name.

The second, from Professor Ashton Lewis, was apoplectic:

You have a week. I've warned you.

Jay:

Your word against mine.

A faint creak sounded, then the click of a door shutting.

I turned my head, listened.

Quick footsteps sounded in the hall. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Maureen Matthews walked past the open doorway to the office. She would have been a lovely figure in a swirling silk dress with splashes of violet against gray, except for the anguish in her face, her beauty shadowed by memory and fear.

I immediately followed her.

At the end of the hall, she turned to a closed door, stopped, one slender hand gripping the knob. Now her face carried an imprint of sadness. She remained with her hand in that tight grip, her shoulders tensed for one minute, two, then shook her head, turned the knob. She stepped into a masculine bedroom—dark furniture, a king-sized bed with an Indian blanket in a red and black, diamond-and-star pattern used as a spread. A brown chest of drawers sat against one wall next to a bookcase.

I watched from the open doorway.

Maureen walked to the chest, pulled out the top drawer, moved the contents about. In a moment, she lifted out a packet of letters, blue envelopes held together by a double-looped red rubber band.

She expelled her breath in a slow sigh. Tension drained from her body. The presence of the letters appeared to provide her with enormous relief.

I made a quick decision. Detective M. Loy appeared with her blonde pageboy, purple-framed harlequin sunglasses, and shapeless gray dress. I cleared my throat. “I'll take those.” I spoke quietly, but with confidence, and moved toward her.

She stood frozen for a moment, then jerked around, the packet of letters clutched to her chest. Her face was stark white, the red of her lipstick garish in contrast.

I pulled out the black leather folder, opened it. My steps sounded
loud on the hardwood floor. “Detective M. Loy.” I held out my other hand for the letters.

She stared at me intently, then gave me a cool smile and opened her purse, dropped the letters inside, zipped it shut. “I think not.”

“Detective M. Loy,” I repeated stolidly. “You are removing material from a murder victim's home. The house and its contents cannot be disturbed—”

She shook her head. Her lustrous black hair, fine as silk, rippled. “Pretty good job. Not good enough. You can't hide bone structure.”

I suppose my astonishment was evident.

She studied me with a sharp gaze. “I admired your bone structure when you talked to me in the bar last night—high cheekbones, a slightly pointed chin. Judy Hope, as I recall.” Maureen took a step forward, reached up, pulled. The blonde wig dangled from her hand. “And your voice is rather distinctive.”

I'd forgotten to alter my tone.

She tossed the wig to me, tucked her purse under her arm, started for the door. “Perhaps it would be better for both of us if we pretend this moment never occurred. I doubt if your employer would be impressed by your behavior. Only the most scandalous online tabloids go in for disguises.”

Ah, yes, she thought I was Judy Hope, reporter extraordinaire for the
Rabbit's Foot
. I blocked her path. “I can tell Sam Cobb about the letters and that Jay Knox threatened to publish them.”

She was shocked. Her hands tightened on the purse as she tried to figure out how this stranger, this woman who worked for an entertainment site, not only knew about the existence of the letters but was aware of Jay's threat. “Did you talk to Jay?”

“Let's leave it that I am well aware of all of Jay Knox's activities.”

“Are you planning on writing a titillating tell-all story? You'd better think twice.” Her voice was harsh. “It's a serious offense to impersonate a police officer. I don't think the police chief would approve.”

She was unaware that I wasn't worried about the chief being told of my actions. But perhaps, if I were adroit, I could take advantage of her perception.

I fluffed my hair. I knew it was squashed from the wig, and it never hurts to appear at one's best. I wished I could also be rid of the ill-fitting gray dress. “I suggest we see if we can reach an understanding. I have no wish to cause you any concern about your letters.” If later evidence pointed to Maureen as the killer, the e-mails existed for the police to find. “However, it is imperative you tell me what you intended to report to Dr. Randall.”

She brushed back a strand of that incredibly fine, soft hair. She was puzzled. “I don't understand how you know about that.” Her brows drew down in a tight frown. “Did Jay show you his e-mail? I would think he would have kept quiet about that night. But I have no reason not to tell you or anyone else who is interested. Jay and his agent and a few more men from the conference were here at Jay's house on the Thursday night before the conference last year. Jay arranged for some ‘entertainment.' I have no idea how he chose the girls involved but they were students. I have photos and some names. At least one girl was underage at the time. I was told it was a bang-up party with whiskey and plenty of sex. I intended to inform Dr. Randall. Jay was pretty much off-limits to criticism because of his family, but Gilbert wouldn't ignore that kind of behavior, even though it was a year ago.”

“How did you know about the party?”

For the first time she looked uncomfortable. “A student told me.”

“When?” I watched her closely.

Her gaze dropped. “That doesn't matter.” She moved around me, walking fast. She was in the hall. Hurried footsteps clicked on the hall floor. A door slammed.

I rather thought that when she became aware of the facts about the party mattered a great deal. Did she confront Jay at the time? Did Jay express remorse, promise never to take advantage of students again? Even though a year had passed, if one of the coeds had been underage at the time, somebody could be in big trouble. Had Jay—handsome, appealing Jay—set out to ensnare Maureen? Had he engineered an affair to ensure her silence? When he discarded her and she made her threat to report the evening to Randall, he taunted her with a threat to publish her love letters to him. That's why she had been so relieved to find the packet of letters in the chest.

I understood her desire to protect her reputation, but the letters would be critical evidence if it was she who snatched up the champagne bottle and crashed the base against his temple.

That left me with a dilemma.

I disappeared.

Maureen was in the drive, hurrying to a red Corvette Stingray. She opened the driver door, slid into the seat, tossed her purse on the passenger seat.

Not even the most preoccupied driver would remain unaware if a purse in the next seat opened and an item appeared to depart of its own volition.

The motor roared.

I never had a sports car but the sound of the engine made me adjust my view of Maureen. Mid-forties and fiery.

I rapped five times on the trunk as the car started.

The Corvette jolted to a stop. Maureen put the car in park and climbed out, her face furrowed.

As she moved toward the trunk, I was in the passenger seat. I opened the purse, grabbed the letters, closed the purse. I lowered the window a couple of inches, pushed the packet through. By the time she slid behind the wheel, I was outside the car, picking up the letters from the drive. Would she notice the open window? Possibly. But she was likely preoccupied by her thoughts about our encounter. She would be interested in getting away as soon as possible with the letters safely in her purse.

As the Corvette roared down the drive, I settled on a sturdy limb of an oak tree. I surveyed the roof of Jay's bungalow, shook my head. The likelihood of someone wandering about on the shingles was remote, but I didn't want the letters to be found.

A deep-throated growl rose from behind the next-door neighbor's fence. I looked down at one of the largest German shepherds I have ever seen. His hackles rose. He lifted his thin face and howled.

“Hey, boy.” I dropped down beside him, made soft cooing sounds.

He looked right at me. His taut shoulders relaxed.

A large doghouse, elevated on cinder blocks, sat in the shade of a sycamore. In an instant, I was there. I thrust the packet of letters deep beneath the house. The German shepherd had followed and stood watching. “Thanks, buddy.”

No one would get those letters now.