Ghost to the Rescue (14 page)

“Did you see anyone near cabin five?”

His eyes narrowed. “I'm not sure. I glanced that way. There might have been someone coming down the steps, but it was just a quick glimpse. It's shadowy there. Sorry I can't be more definite. I didn't go as far as cabin five. I turned in, fixed myself a drink, relaxed. I went to bed around midnight.”

I was reminded of an eel slipping through water, moving too quickly to be caught.

“Anything else?” He glanced at his watch. His tone was slightly peremptory, that of a busy man who'd indulged an inquisitor but was nearing the end of his patience.

“What can you tell me about the party at Jay Knox's house last year during the conference?”

“Party?” He looked blank.

“I understand there was plenty of whiskey and sex.”

“Oh.” He brushed a large hand through his damp hair. “A year's a long time. Frankly, I just went to be polite.”

“No whiskey or sex for you?”

“Officer, some matters a gentleman doesn't discuss.”

I resisted the impulse to ask how gentlemanly it was to attend a party with students where alcohol was served and apparently consumed in quantity. “This is a murder investigation.”

He was irritated. “What does a stupid party a year ago have to do with anything?”

The party and its circumstances had a lot to do with Maureen Matthews's plan to get Jay in trouble. But Jay was dead. “Did you know the girls attending were from the college?”

“I didn't know or care.” Now he was clearly impatient. “Like I said, the party was a year ago. Everybody was on a first-name basis. The lights were dim. I wasn't taking an inventory of the guests.”

“Do you remember the name of the girl you were with?”

“I wasn't with a particular girl. Some trouble I'm smart enough to avoid. I stayed at the bar until a couple of the guys were ready to go back to the lodge. I hitched a ride. So, I don't know much that would interest anybody.”

Except, perhaps, Dr. Randall.

I thanked him for his time. I had a feeling he was delighted to see me go.

Sam Cobb's office was familiar, a long, wide room with an old brown leather sofa facing the windows. He sat with his back to the sofa at a battered oak desk littered with files. His wrinkled suit coat hung from a wooden coat tree near the door. Two framed Matisse prints added a spot of color to one dingy beige wall. Between the prints were a bulletin board and an old-fashioned blackboard. A stub of white chalk lay in the tray. A street map of Adelaide hung to the left of the hall door, a map of Pontotoc County to the right.

Sam's right arm moved as he wrote on a legal pad. His left arm dropped as if without volition, pulled out a side drawer, fished out a sack of M&M'S, his sustenance when thinking. He put down his pen and a stream of gaily colored candies flowed onto a broad palm. He swiveled around to face the windows.

At the blackboard, I eased the chalk into my hand, checked to
be sure Sam still faced the windows, squeezed my eyes in remembrance, and began to print:

1. Four authors attending the conference paid Jay Knox to place manuscripts with an agent or editor: Liz Baker, Joseph Burns, Wanda Hamilton, Ellen Ben—

“Want some M&M'S?” Sam's deep voice was amused.

I swung around.

Sam had turned and was gazing at the blackboard. “You're still holding the chalk. Looks funny hanging there in the air. Lots of trouble to write everything on the chalkboard. How about we sit on the sofa.” He waggled the M&M sack as he heaved himself to his feet.

I replaced the chalk and walked toward the couch.

“Kind of wonder who's visiting me today.” He was deadpan except for a slight twitch of his lips. “Officer Judy Hope spoke to Liz Baker and Cliff Granger. She's a redhead. Cute, they said. Then there's Officer M. Loy. Redheaded, too. It's pretty clear Professor Lewis thought she was a knockout. Like the old joke about a younger man's surprise at an elderly gentleman leaning on a cane as he eyes a good-looking woman. The old codger says he may be old but he isn't dead yet. Then there's Detective M. Loy in a blonde wig and a baggy gray dress. She checked out Tom Baker and Harry Toomey.”

He didn't know about my interesting encounter with Maureen Matthews.

“An officer does what an officer has to do.” My tone was demure.

Sam laughed, turned a thumbs-up. “Your cover is still good. I figured I'd be getting some celestial pointers and I wouldn't interfere.”

A faraway clack sounded, wheels rolling on rails. A faint scent of coal smoke alerted me, a warning that the Rescue Express was en route for me. “Sam”—my words were rushed—“there's a hitch.” Wiggins knew more than I. Perhaps my work was done. “Before I talk to you, I need to know something ASAP.”

Sam was a big, heavy man but he thought fast. He heard the change in my tone from ease to tension. His reply was immediate. “Sure.”

“Is Deirdre Davenport still a suspect?”

Sam raised a grizzled dark brow. “Is she your charge? You've got a tough job. Davenport's at the top of the list. The mayor wants to know why I haven't picked her up already. The mayor wants to have a press conference and tag her as a person of interest. I said no way, not yet. But Davenport doesn't have any clout in town. No money. No connections. She came here fresh out of a Texas college to work on the
Gazette
. She married a guy who taught for a couple of years at Goddard, then went to work at the Chamber of Commerce in public relations. The mayor doesn't like reporters. Not even ex-reporters, and that includes Davenport.”

Mayor Neva Lumpkin was living proof of the adage that there's a fly in every ointment. In her case, more like a big black splotch of selfishness, greed, ambition, and backstabbing. Sam loved his job, was well respected round town, but the mayor would happily replace him with a political supporter.

Sam was thoughtful. “The mayor has a point. Davenport's the only person linked to the crime scene physically. Plus she had motive. Plus a witness describes her as looking angry and vengeful when she set out to see Knox.”

The smell of coal smoke was acrid now and the rumble of the
wheels loud as thunder. Sam continued to placidly munch M&M'S, obviously unaware of the imminent arrival of the Rescue Express. I had only a moment. “Officer Loy's report can definitely expand the field.” I enunciated clearly for Wiggins's benefit. “I will return shortly”—I hoped—“but I've been summoned to consult for a moment with a higher authority.”

Sam spoke quickly. “I sure hope you can help us. Right now we're stuck.” His eyes skittered around the room, perhaps wondering if the higher authority was lurking near. “It looks bad for Davenport.”

I could have given him a hug. He sensed that I needed all the help I could get for my upcoming interview. “Back in a flash.” If Wiggins could be persuaded to let me remain.

I'd conferred at other times with Wiggins atop City Hall. I was sure he remembered with clarity. Those encounters were on fall days, a brisk wind scudding leaves across the roof. This evening the blacktop roof radiated heat. The smell of coal smoke burned my nose. The only shade was a patch on the east side of the small shedlike structure that gave access to the roof.

If Wiggins was wearing his long-sleeved, heavy white cotton shirt and black flannel trousers and black shoes, he must be melting.

I popped into the shade. “Wiggins.” My voice lifted as if this were the very nicest surprise the day could offer.

“Precepts One, Three, and Four. Especially Four.” Wiggins's tone was doleful. “My patience is at an end. I've lost track”—now his tone was stentorian—“of just how many times and ways you've appeared. As yourself, as Judy Hope, as—”

I was facing the shed that provided access to the roof.

The door eased open a crack.

I was delighted. Sam had guessed where I would be. I was flattered that he came up to see if I succeeded in continuing my mission, but I kept an expression of remorse on my face. I've never been sure whether Wiggins sees his emissaries when we aren't visible, but I wasn't taking any chances.

“—Officer Loy, as Detective Loy. Perhaps next time you'll be Inspector Loy?”

I wouldn't have expected irony from Wiggins. I couldn't resist an exclamation. “Heavens, no, Wiggins. I would never be so presumptuous.”

“You wouldn't be . . .” A pause and then a rumble of laughter.

I grinned.

“Did anyone”—his deep voice was both chiding and admiring—“ever tell you that you're a minx?”

A pert, saucy girl—how sweet! Perhaps while Wiggins was bemused by my charm—and, of course, my excellent intentions—I would plead my case. “Wiggins, I am thrilled to bring you up to date, but”—a pause for dramatic emphasis—“the situation is perilous.” If he envisioned a heroine tied to tracks and an oncoming locomotive looming, that would be all to the good. “Mayor Lumpkin wants Deirdre Davenport arrested. ASAP. Deirdre is innocent. I am trying hard to be an exemplary emissary. I appeared only out of dire necessity in order to find out information that will help save poor innocent Deirdre.” I was earnest. “You know I would never appear unless I had no other choice. However, I have collected information that will help Chief Cobb. You don't want him to arrest Deirdre, a young mother whose reputation would always be besmirched.” If I sounded like a Victorian novel, I knew my audience. “A young mother struggling to put food on the table, provide for her children, abandoned by her former husband.”

“Poor child.” He harumphed. “Very well. One more day. Not a moment more. And see if there is some way to make your report to Chief Cobb without blatantly revealing your presence.”

He didn't have to mention Precept Four again.

The door to the structure eased shut.

I was suddenly alone, the clack of wheels on rails fading in the distance, the scent of coal smoke dissipating.

I reached the chief's office before he returned from the roof. He closed the door, walked to his desk, clicked on his intercom. “No calls or visitors for half an hour.” He clicked it off. “Sometimes when I think, I hear voices.” His expression was musing. “I kind of have a picture in my mind of an ideal police officer. Redhead. About five five. Green eyes. One of those interesting faces. Lots of freckles.” His tone was cheerful. “This officer speaks out and it's like having a voice tell me stuff. She's got a good voice, kind of husky. I find that's a good way to think.” He picked up the sack of M&M'S, strolled to the couch, sat down. He held up the sack, ready to pour. “I can see her now. Though, of course, I know it is purely my imagination at work.”

If Wiggins were still about, he surely wouldn't fault the chief for being so imaginative. I settled beside him.

Sam noted that the cushion gave a little.

I positioned my unseen hand at the lip of the sack. “M&M'S always give me a boost.”

Red and yellow and brown candies poured into my outstretched hand until there was a generous mound.

Sam moved the sack, filled his left hand, popped several in his mouth.

After a scrumptious M&M moment, I talked.

Sam listened.

At one point, his face intent, he retrieved a legal pad from his desk, dropped heavily onto the couch, made notes.

When I finished, Sam tapped his pen on the pad. “Anytime you want to join the force, you're on. This gives us a lot to work on. Harry Toomey and Tom Baker were on the scene. One of them went to the end of the pier, one of them didn't. Toomey could have quarreled with Knox about the job, lost control, knocked him down. Maybe Baker slammed in, threatened Knox, maybe Knox came for him. Baker's not big. He might have grabbed the bottle, swung. Or Liz Baker might have killed Knox and Tom's covering for her. Maybe she's the one who grabbed the champagne bottle. As for the bottle, there are fragments of Davenport's prints on the neck, but they're smudged. DA could claim she tried to wipe them off but was too stressed to do a good job. Or somebody else grabbed the bottle and then wiped it or maybe held it with a handkerchief or a washcloth from the bath. That's always a possibility. Say X is there, spots the bottle, decides to whack Knox, steps into the bathroom. Takes only a second to grab a cloth from a rack, walk out with a hand down to one side. Knox had no reason to suspect danger. X strolls over to the coffee table, comments on the champagne, picks up the bottle—holding it out of Knox's view—swings around, moves fast, strikes, and Knox is on the floor. It didn't take a paramedic for the killer to know he was dead. We'll take a look at Liz and Tom Baker and Harry Toomey. Professor Lewis might have lost his temper if he confronted Jay about the coed and Jay laughed it off, said he'd insist Lewis was a liar. Lewis sounds like he'd blow up if Knox smirked and said he'd claim Lewis was making up the accusation to cause trouble. Definitely Maureen Matthews is in the running. Women don't like to be dumped, especially if they figure out they've been used. She wants revenge, so she plans to tell
the department chair about Knox's party with coeds and sex and whiskey. I'll have Weitz ask around, see what she can find out about that party. Maybe Granger was more involved than he let on. Anyway, Knox's threat to publish those letters might have been the last straw for Matthews.” He frowned. “You said she came for the letters. What are the odds she's gotten rid of them by now?”