Ghost to the Rescue (13 page)

I scanned faces. I don't know what I was seeking. A fleeting look of worry, uncertainty, fear?

Maureen Matthews was pensive. She might have known that Jay had been in full pursuit of Deirdre, but there was a sensitivity in her eyes, an understanding of Deirdre's isolation.

Jessica Forbes's gaze was appraising. Did she find Deirdre gallant? Or suspect?

Cliff Granger leaned back in his chair, a portion of his face in shadow. The uneven lighting emphasized the jut of his jaw, gave him a predatory aura. But he seemed to be looking beyond Deirdre.

I followed his gaze, but the crowd eddied and shifted.

Liz Baker no longer stood at the edge of the terrace. The crowd shifted again and I had a clear view of Harry Toomey, his round face pleased, then a heavy woman blocked him from view. I suspected Harry was taking pleasure in Deirdre's efforts to discredit the ugly gossip and hoping the gossip was true.

Maureen Matthews pushed back her chair, came to her feet. “Deirdre is speaking for all of us at the college.” Her clear voice could be heard throughout the terrace. “Please contact the police if you can help with the investigation.”

Deirdre flashed her a look if gratitude, then brushed back a tangle of wiry curls. “Please come forward if you feel you know
anything
about last night. It's up to everyone here to help.”

Deirdre forged ahead, a light flush in her cheeks. “If anyone feels shy about talking to the police, I'll be glad to pass along information to them. I have them on speed dial.” With that, Deirdre lifted her chin and walked swiftly to the path. With her back to those watching her depart, her long face drooped and she pressed trembling lips tightly together.

I walked beside her. “Good job.”

Her stride checked momentarily. She gulped in a breath. “Are you always next to me?”

“Oh no. I'm here and there.”

“Maybe you might go there for a while.”

“Where would that be?”

She turned her hands over. “Somewhere where you can find out what really happened.”

It was excellent advice. I decided to follow it.

W
hen the hallway was empty outside the door to Liz and Tom Baker's room, I reappeared in the blonde pageboy, sunglasses, and frumpy gray dress. I would be delighted when the gray dress was only a memory. I knocked firmly on the door.

Tom Baker opened the door, looked apprehensive.

I flashed the black leather folder. “It's time we talked, Mr. Baker.”

His young face was pale and set. He jerked his head, stood aside for me to enter.

I moved confidently forward, waited until the door was closed.

He paced to the window, stared out at tree leaves fluttering in the breeze. “Yeah?”

I looked at his back. “Face me, Mr. Baker.”

Slowly he turned. The muscles in his throat moved convulsively. “Look, I don't know anything about—”

“I'll ask. You answer.” I'd watched a few interrogations at the police station. I snapped, “You stood in the bushes outside cabin five. We have casts of footprints. They'll match yours.” I pointed at his faded black running shoes, old shoes. The right one had a decided list from a worn front sole. “What did you do after Liz left?”

A muscle jumped again in his throat. His eyes were wide and staring. “I didn't do anything.”

“You saw Jay slam the door in her face.”

He realized that I knew what had happened between Liz and Jay.

He licked dry lips. “All right. I was there. I heard. But he was fine when Liz left. You got to know that.” His tone was urgent. “Liz wouldn't hurt anybody. She was crying.” His voice was shaky. “She did her best to get the money back. He—” Tom broke off, as if realizing he was saying more than he should. “Yeah. I stood there a minute.” His face was hard and set, reflecting remembered rage. His eyes flickered from side to side as he tried to decide what to say.

I knew he was going to lie.

“Yeah. She left.” His gaze was open and guileless, but a slight tic pulled at the side of one eye. “I almost went after her but my mind was all messed up. I kept thinking about the money and my car, and I ran down to the lake. I went to the end of the pier and stood there for a long time. Too long.” A bitter twist to his mouth. “Some big damn bird crapped on me. Damn bird. I went back to the shore and slopped lake water on my shirt. That's when I went up to the lodge. Liz was asleep. I took off my shirt and washed off the stuff and went to bed.”

But I didn't think he'd slept for a long time. And I didn't believe he watched Jay slam the door in Liz's face and went meekly down to the lake.

Only a few tables on the terrace were still occupied. I imagined most guests had gone to their rooms, the industrious perhaps looking over notes from the sessions, others resting in anticipation of this evening's barbecue. I didn't see any familiar faces. Lodge staff bustled about, setting up the outdoor buffet. Paper tablecloths covered a couple of Ping-Pong tables on the left side of the terrace. Rackets were neatly stowed in shelving on one wall that also held pool cues, badminton racquets, and horseshoes.

I took my time following the walk that wound among the trees and the cabins. Privacy was enhanced by trees and shrubs. In effect, each cabin was tucked into its own wooded area. I stopped outside cabin 5. Police tape remained in place around the cabin. At this particular point, a portion of the front porch to cabin 6 was visible.

A blooming crape myrtle with reddish violet blossoms cast a thick shadow by the steps to cabin 5. Was that where Tom Baker hid as Liz hurried onto the porch? I dropped down for a closer look and was pleased to see separate crime-scene tape that marked off two footprints. I was sure a mold had been made. And yes, the right one had an uneven depth. So my fictional threat was a reality.

On the other side of the cabin, a bamboo thicket could also have afforded a hiding place. I studied the ground there, saw no footprints, but there was a layer of grass clippings carelessly left by a gardener, so no footprints were likely.

I returned to the path. At cabin 6, two wicker chairs sat on the porch. They were unoccupied. Anyone seated there would have a good view of Jay's porch.

I followed the path around a curve. The remaining cabins were
also half-hidden among thick woods. I reached the shore and walked out on the pier. A few energetic guests were on the lake in rowboats. A huffing fiftyish rower jerked past. On shore, a long-haired man in a cowboy hat and a scrawny woman with a too-red face occupied a seat in a beached boat. Scraps of conversation rose over the slap of water on the pilings. “. . . so I started with action. ‘At the third blow, the door exploded in a shower of wood. Three masked men catapulted into the room. She turned to run, but a loose shoelace brought her down. The snub nose of a rifle pressed against her throat.' You know what that editor said? She said rifles don't have snub noses. She missed the whole point!” The man picked up an oar from the boat. “That's not as bad as what that guy told me.” He tilted the oar over the side of the rowboat, thumped the ground. “Wish I'd had this with me. I would have whopped him one. See, I had this great segue to the next chapter. ‘The door creaked behind him. That was the last thing he heard.' What reader's not going to turn the page, find out what happened? He gave me this snide look, and said, ‘Man, that's about as subtle as elephant tracks.'” The two of them were united in mutual outrage.

I shut out their impassioned defenses of their creative efforts and imagined the pier as it was last night. Silent. Possibly dark. There were occasional lights, but they were high on poles and far apart. Both Harry Toomey and Tom Baker claimed they'd visited the pier, yet neither mentioned seeing anyone else.

I started with one fact known to me: Jay Knox was dead by a few minutes before eleven, when Deirdre Davenport came to cabin 5.

Liz Baker and Harry Toomey also claimed they spoke to Jay. Tom Baker confirmed Liz's claim. I rather thought they were both telling the truth that Jay was alive when Liz left the cabin.

I wasn't at all certain about the rest of Tom's story.

As for Harry, I thought he also told the truth about his talk with Jay.

But either Harry or Tom was lying about a sojourn on the pier.

Had Tom knocked on Jay's door, pushed his way in, quarreled? Maybe Jay shoved him, knocked him down. Jay was a much bigger man. Could Tom have struggled to his feet and moved backward toward the coffee table, snatched up the bottle, and attacked Jay? But if he committed a murder in haste, almost a blow in self defense, his fingerprints should be on the neck of the bottle. But once Jay lay motionless on the floor, Tom might have realized his danger, wiped the bottle with a washcloth from the bathroom. I doubted Tom usually tucked a handkerchief in his pocket. Possibly then, upset and scared, Tom slipped out of the cabin, seeking the shadows, and ran to the pier, trying to escape the reality of what he had done.

Yet that left the contradiction of Tom and Harry, both claiming they'd stood alone on the pier with their thoughts.

The evasion I sensed with Tom might be much more innocent. Perhaps he had confronted Jay, but Jay, bigger and stronger, manhandled him out the door. Furious and thwarted, Tom ran to the pier and, as he gazed out at the dark water, a bird had flown above him and soiled his shirt.

What if Harry didn't go to the pier? What if instead he'd started down the path toward the pier, then—still upset, desperate to restore his dream—he swung around, returned to the cabin?

Why would Jay have admitted him to the cabin? Perhaps Harry was charming.
Just want to tell you how much I appreciate you. . . . How about a drink to show no hard feelings? Call room service. . . . Can I introduce Deirdre tomorrow at her morning session? . . .
Something,
anything to get back inside. Then perhaps a return to a plea, Jay responding rudely, and Harry snatching up the bottle.

Tom or Harry. They were on the scene. But there was the possibility that someone else arrived just before Deirdre came. Maureen Matthews was bitter about Jay's rejection and desperate to prevent publication of her love letters to him. Professor Ashton Lewis angered easily and he despised Jay because he was messing around with coeds. Cliff Granger looked grim after Jessica Forbes warned him he was submitting too many rubbish-heap manuscripts. Perhaps Cliff went to the cabin to tell Jay he wasn't willing to represent any more of Jay's clients.

I shook my head. All Cliff had to do was say no. The anger would be on Jay's part. Still, Cliff was a possibility. Maureen was likelier. I thought it was clear Harry spoke to Jay after his quarrel with Liz, so I discounted Liz as a suspect.

I couldn't be sure of the timetable, but I thought it likely that Jay's visitors arrived in this order: Liz, Harry, Tom, the murderer, Deirdre. Maureen Matthews, Professor Lewis, or Cliff Granger might have preceded Deirdre. If I had to put money on the wheel, I'd have gone for Tom or Harry.

I walked briskly up the path, stopping only long enough in the deep shade of a honeysuckle shrub to once again change into a French blue uniform. It was a relief to be rid of the blonde wig, sunglasses, and shapeless dress. I fluffed my hair. I do like being myself.

I concentrated to recall how I'd appeared to each person. My various personae were beginning to confuse me. Ah, yes. I was Officer Judy Hope when I spoke with Cliff Granger. I'd also been Officer Hope with Liz Baker. I was Officer Loy with Ashton Lewis. I promoted myself to Detective Loy in the wig and gray dress with Tom
Baker, Harry Toomey, and Maureen Matthews. Maureen had seen right through the disguise, recognizing me as Judy Hope, reporter for the
Rabbit's Foot
. It was enough to make my head spin.

I came around the curve and ran lightly up the steps to cabin 6.

Once again, Cliff Granger opened the door. His sandy hair was slicked back. He had a fresh look as if he'd just stepped from a shower. His blue oxford cloth shirt was crisp, his pleated tan trousers unwrinkled. He neither welcomed nor rebuffed me, simply nodded. “Yes?”

“I have a few more questions, Mr. Granger.”

There was a slight tightening of his lips, but he stepped back, held the door for me.

I followed him into the living room, noted he was barefoot. I remained standing when he slumped onto the sofa, thrust out long legs, looked up at me with a resigned expression. “I'm counting the hours until I get out of here. I signed up for a conference, not for a murder investigation. This evening I'm supposed to charm the locals at the barbecue. Part of the job. There are sessions tomorrow, but Sunday afternoon I'm off to Dallas for a flight home. I'll be glad to get back to New York.” He was suddenly apologetic. “Sorry to complain. I guess Jay would like to have something to complain about right now.”

I understood. Little discomforts always seem petty when they butted up against a harsh reality like death.

He locked his hands behind his head, looked apologetic. “What can I do for you?”

I was brisk, matter-of-fact. “You spoke to Mrs. Baker on the terrace after you left the bar. What time did you see Mr. Knox?”

His face crinkled in a puzzled frown. “I didn't see Jay.”

“We were informed you spoke to Mr. Knox around eleven o'clock—”

“Hey, hold up.” He sat up straight, his hands dropped to his knees as he leaned forward, looked at me intently. “Somebody told you wrong. I didn't talk to Jay last night. If anyone saw me on the path, I was on my way here. I suppose”—now he sounded comfortable—“that it would be an easy mistake to make, the cabins are right next to each other.”

“You didn't make an effort to see him last night?” My tone was skeptical. “Perhaps to talk about his clients and the manuscripts you've been offering?”

His green eyes were wary. “No.”

“Did you plan to tell him you weren't going to offer those manuscripts?”

He looked surprised, then shrugged. “I guess you've talked to Jessica. Yeah, I realized I had to make some changes. I was being a sap. I wanted to help Jay out, but she brought it home to me that I had to turn down the kind of stuff she called rubbish. As you can imagine”—his tone was rueful—“that wasn't a talk I wanted to have with him. He was a good client, but I was going to tell him when he dropped me off at the airport—” He paused, frowned. “That reminds me. I'll have to see if somebody'll give me a ride down to Dallas. Anyway, I intended to tell him then that I'd done all I could do for the writers he was pushing. Enough was enough. He was my client and a friend, but I had to draw the line.” His big shoulders lifted and fell. “Too bad.”

I didn't know if the latter comment referred to the task of informing Jay or the disappointment of the authors sent to him by Jay.

“When you left the terrace, you went straight to your cabin?”

He shook his head. “I took a walk in the garden. It was a nice night.”

“Did you go down to the lake?”

He was definite. “Not that far. Perhaps halfway, then I came back.”