Ghost to the Rescue (12 page)

There is something reassuring in finding a pluperfect example of type in a world where often nothing is what it seems to be. Although there are many kinds of academics—the intellectual, the blowhard,
the conniver, the dreamer, the overachiever, the floater—there are also plenty of piercing-glanced, goateed, lanky, tweedy (in season), dramatic iconoclasts.

Ashton Lewis jabbed a stubby forefinger, glared out at his listeners over heavy-rimmed glasses as he concluded the session on journalism. “Don't play the big-time-news corporate game. Those reporters are shills. They don't report. They interpret. How do they interpret?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “With insight.” His voice reverberated with disgust. “Insight. Hmm, it couldn't be they're crafty, could it, using words that demean one side, elevate the other? Grab a highlighter the next time you read a news story. Pick out words that nudge opinion one way or the other. You'll find them. But”—he leaned forward, gripped the edges of the lectern—“you can do better. Go out there, ask questions, delve to the bottom of each side's claims, report the damn facts that you find, don't embellish. Don't interpret. If you give readers unembellished facts, they'll draw conclusions, make judgments. Write the truth, and then, to paraphrase Kipling, then you'll be a reporter, my son.” A sudden, charming smile lit his face. “And daughter.”

He bowed to resounding applause.

Behind the curtains, I appeared as Officer Loy, a redhead who felt quite comfortable in the French blue uniform. I rather thought Professor Lewis liked young women. I hurried across the stage.

He was almost to the steps when I caught up with him. “Professor Lewis.”

He turned, gave me an appreciative—I hew to truth—glance.

I opened the black leather folder. “If you'd be so kind, sir, we are seeking information about Professor Knox.”

His face transformed into a glower. “I don't have anything good
to say about the man. Being dead doesn't grant a halo. If you want a testimonial, find a simpering woman.” He started to turn away.

“Sir.” I lifted my voice. “You e-mailed Jay that he had one week. Please explain the circumstances.”

He hunched his head down until his neck disappeared beneath the point of his white goatee, stared at me out of light blue eyes. “I suppose I have to. I always instruct students to tell it straight. But I won't give you a name. There's no point in hurting the girl's reputation. I knocked on Jay's office door Wednesday. I turned the knob and walked in. This was during faculty office hours. There was a girl in his arms. They jerked apart. Her hair was mussed, makeup smeared. He—well, no point in graphic details. I checked. She's a student. She's only nineteen. She ran out. I told Jay in no uncertain terms—” A bark of laugher. “I'm not given to uncertain terms. Ask anyone who knows me. I told him he'd crossed the line. I almost went to Randall then, but I thought it over. I wanted to save the girl embarrassment, but Jay had to go. I told Jay he had a week to resign. If he didn't, I was going to Randall. If necessary, I intended to tell the world.” As he talked, his face turned an ever-deeper shade of red.

“Jay e-mailed you saying it would be your word against his.”

Lewis glowered. “He was an absolute cur. I don't think anyone would ever accuse me of lying.”

I was touched. Very Kiplingesque. But I wasn't deterred. “When did you talk to him last night?”

His shaggy gray brows knotted. “Least said, soonest mended. I didn't kill him. But I'm not surprised someone did. As I said, he was an absolute cur. And now I've said all I'm going to say.” He turned and, head down, walked away, stomped down the steps. I watched his determined march away from me. The back of his neck was still
red. Here was a man who was easily angered, the kind of man who might in a haze of fury pick up a champagne bottle and strike.

The auditorium was empty. As I recalled, no more main talks were scheduled. The afternoon was devoted to appointments. I moved behind dusty curtains, smothered a sneeze, and disappeared.

Conference room A was empty. That meant Sam Cobb had concluded interviews, but he would be at work, scanning reports at the police station.

I felt an uncertain lurch within. I hadn't checked on Deirdre since lunch. I assumed she was still here at the lodge. I remembered the gloom of the interrogation room at the police station. Surely she wasn't being questioned there, wasn't close to arrest. But the evidence had been mounting against her.

Sunshine streamed through the windows in Deirdre's room, adding light and cheer. She sat on the sofa, a soft smile on her face, hands loose in her lap.

I was so excited to see her, I gave a glad whoop.

She gasped and looked wildly about.

I was standing by the desk. “I'm over here.” I was cheery. I chose a navy tee with a V-neck and ankle pants in a matching navy with a silver fish pattern. Silver sandals completed my outfit.

Deirdre watched colors swirl and settle with a familiar look of disbelief and shock.

I would have thought she'd be more comfortable with me at this point.

Deirdre gazed at me with wide, strained eyes. “I wish you wouldn't
come and go, here one minute, gone the next. Maybe I'm really nuts. Hal says—” She looked at me questioningly.

“I know Hal.”

“Good.” She didn't sound overjoyed. “You won't mess things up with him, will you? Today at lunch, he knew that voice wasn't mine. I don't want him to think crazy things happen around me.”

“Sweetie”—I was reassuring—“nothing will come between you and Hal. Especially not if we can figure out what happened and satisfy the police that you had nothing to do with Jay's death.”

“‘We can figure out what happened'?” Her voice rose. “Somehow I don't like the sound of that. I'm not a detective. You're not a detective.” A pause. “Are you?”

I was vague. “I do this and that. I'm here to help you, and right now we need to show the world that you are innocent. You know”—I tried to break it to her gently—“everyone here is fascinated by what's happened, and I imagine there is a great deal of discussion. I think it's likely that you've been mentioned as a suspect.” With waspish Gladys Samson on the loose, I was sure of it.

Deirdre said happily, “Hal promised he'd find out the truth.”

I was touched by her confidence in him. “Hal will certainly do his best. But you have a reputation to defend. You need to show the flag.”

She looked at me blankly.

Sometimes I wonder at the education young people receive now. I explained gently, “‘Show the flag' means to make your presence known no matter what the circumstances.”

“Do you have any idea how quaint that sounds?” For an instant, she looked young and amused.

“Quaint or hip, I'm positive you have to be on the scene to make
your case. The afternoon is winding down. Go mix and mingle. Show everyone you aren't afraid.”

Deirdre gave a resigned shrug. “Okay. Have it your way. I might as well go downstairs. Maybe if I talk to people, I can forget about you.”

The afternoon sessions over, guests streamed from the hallways. The lobby was full. Some headed for the bar, others strolled out onto the terrace, blinking in the sunlight like moles awakening from a stupor. So many ways to write, so many notes to take.

Scraps of conversation floated past me. “Clichés are clichés because they're true. . . . cardboard characters . . . If prologues are passé, how can the reader know the background? . . . I like using the present tense. . . . vampires in da Vinci's studio . . .”

The speakers were also among the exodus from the meetings. Cliff Granger avoided looking directly at anyone, clearly hoping to escape yet another author ready to make the inevitable pitch. Long face preoccupied, obviously a man with a destination, he glanced at his watch, walked swiftly onto the terrace. He strode past a clump of writers and stopped at a table near the weeping willow and bent forward to speak to Jessica Forbes. She wore her silver hair in coronet braids today. A heavy-link gold necklace glittered in the sunlight. Granger made a gesture toward a chair. She nodded and he pulled out a chair and joined her. Her expression was pleasant, perhaps to indicate she wasn't dwelling on their exchange last night at the bar. Once seated, he appeared to be making an effort to be charming.

Sidelong glances followed Deirdre as she crossed the terrace. When she approached a table, most faces reflected a mixture of embarrassment and uneasiness.

At a table in the center of the terrace, Gladys Samson tossed her head, a defiant gesture. It didn't take a mind reader to know that she'd spent the afternoon regaling anyone who would listen with her version of Deirdre stalking down the hall on her way to see Jay Knox in his cabin late at night.

Deirdre noted gazes shifting away from her, slight pauses in conversations as she passed.

I dropped down beside her, whispered softly. “Last night in the hall, you talked to Gladys Samson, the woman with short dark hair and a thin face and jangly bracelets. She told police she saw you and you admitted you were going to see Jay and she described you as distraught and upset.”

Deirdre looked around the terrace, spotted Gladys. Deirdre walked straight to Gladys's table, gazed down at her. “To think”—her clear voice was easily audible to everyone in a sudden fraught silence—“that I spoke with you when I was on my way to see Jay last night. It's shocking to remember that the last time I saw him he was full of life, eager to celebrate my happiness at joining the faculty. That's how I will remember him. I'm so glad I hurried on my way there. If I'd stopped to look at your manuscript, I might have missed seeing him. It still seems unbelievable that someone killed him. I know we are all feeling sad today.”

At a nearby table, Maureen Matthews gave a nod of approval. Very likely she'd heard the rumors about Deirdre, didn't believe them, was glad to have reassurance. Although Maureen still looked weary, she was quite lovely, her soft dark hair in a cloud around her elegant, memorable features. Her expression gave no hint of worry, so I assumed she had yet to discover that the packet of letters was no longer in her purse.

Jessica Forbes was a dominating presence, the coronet braids emphasizing the strength of her features—deep-set eyes, long nose, sharp chin. She watched Deirdre with interest. Likely she, too, was aware of the rumors swirling around Deirdre. She leaned toward Cliff Granger and spoke with one hand shielding her lips. He listened with an intrigued expression, his gaze riveted on Deirdre. He'd spent the afternoon meeting with authors and was likely just now learning from Jessica that Deirdre had been a subject of speculation by the conference attendees and gossip had fingered her as a suspect in Jay's murder.

I imagined whispers in the hallways, around the tables, at the bar.
They say she looked mad. Why did she go to his cabin late at night? They say he slept around. They say he was killed with a champagne bottle. They say . . . They say . . . They say . . .

Last night Liz Baker was alone in the bar after her husband left. She was alone now, late in the afternoon on the terrace. She, too, watched Deirdre, but there was no relief from tension in her young face. Where was her husband? Did she know where he was last night when she ran away from Jay's cabin, tears streaming down her face?

Harry Toomey stood at the edge of a group of writers. There was a slight smile on his plump face. No doubt he was enjoying Deirdre's effort to salvage her reputation.

Deirdre stared at Gladys until the older woman's gaze fell. Deirdre waited an instant longer, then turned away from the table.

The silence still held.

Deirdre stood tall and thin and alone on the terrace. The breeze stirred her long frizzy brown hair and molded her patterned silk dress against her. “I hope everyone here is cooperating with the investigation.” She looked from table to table, her gaze touching
every face. The silence was absolute. “I told the police everything I know. I believe I was helpful. Anyone with information about Jay from ten forty-five to midnight is asked to contact the police. If you saw Jay or know of anyone who intended to speak to him last night, please tell the police. The police assure me they are making progress in finding out what happened.”