Ghost to the Rescue (18 page)

I liked his satisfied tone. I looked over his shoulder, and my eyes widened.

The photos were explicit, revealing, damning. Cliff Granger had been casual in his dismissal of a year-ago party as irrelevant, casual and dishonest. I didn't doubt the date corresponded with the night at Jay's house before last year's conference. I also felt sure Cliff had been unaware a camera had filmed his sexual encounter with a girl. Both were— But I don't need to describe them. The pictures revealed everything.

Why had Jay Knox filmed what Cliff must have assumed at the time was private? The filming could easily have been done, a camera cleverly concealed in a clock, lamp, or book, set to turn on and film whatever occurred for a period of several hours. Certainly
the host—Jay—directed which bedrooms were available to those at a licentious party.

Don Smith was thorough. He not only sent e-files to Chief Cobb, he took advantage of Jay Knox's color printer and printed out a copy of every photograph that contained Cliff Granger and the young woman, including those in the bedroom and others taken at earlier points during the evening.

I waited until he was almost done, then popped to the front porch and rang the bell. As I expected, Don walked down the hall and to the door. Back in the office, I selected a print of a photo of Cliff's companion that had been taken earlier in the evening. Shoulder-length blonde hair shimmered. I admired her sleeveless sundress with huge peonies splashed against a white background. She stood with an out-flung hand as if gesturing in excitement. I rose to the ceiling with the photo. Don never looked up. His face creased in irritation, he strode back into Jay's office.

The photo I'd filched could be shown to anyone. That wasn't true of many of the others. What had Jay done with those photos? He'd made them and kept them for a purpose.

I remembered Jessica Forbes's unconcealed contempt at the bar Thursday night.
More dreck?
she'd asked. Had Jay used the photos to blackmail Cliff into accepting manuscripts from Jay's clients? Did the pictures matter that much? Did Cliff have a jealous wife? Or was there a more dangerous outcome from a public revelation?

Cliff claimed last year's party didn't matter. Perhaps the party and what happened that night mattered immensely. Had Cliff seen a woman's hand at the door of cabin 5? Or was that an invention to suggest a woman killed Jay?

As soon as I settled into the shadows of the honeysuckle arbor near the terrace, I appeared as Judy Hope, my red-haired, freckled self. I was evening casual in a pale yellow pullover cotton shirt; paisley print pants with a yellow, green, and light blue pattern; and calfskin thongs in lime leather with bamboo trim. I strolled through the garden to the terrace and around to a side entrance. In the dimness, no one paid any attention to the photograph I now held down to one side. I hurried up the stairs. At Maureen's door, I knocked firmly. If she wasn't there, I'd have to look for her. But the peephole opened.

I spoke quickly, holding up the photograph. “You will want to help.”

The peephole closed. The door opened. She stared at me, her quite remarkably lovely face tight with anger, her violet eyes scornful. “You took my letters.”

“They are quite safe. Please let me explain.”

She remained in the doorway, blocking my entrance. “I don't know who you are or what you want.” Her voice was low and angry. “Maybe you're a blackmailer. Maybe worse. A person is dead. Why should I let you in my room?” Her gaze slid up the hall as a couple came off the elevator. She was ready to push past me, ready to cry out.

“I need your help to find out who killed Jay.” I thrust out the photo. “Take this. Find out who she is. She was at the party last year. I want every fact you can scrape up. I'll contact you in the morning.” I started to turn away, paused. I remembered her wariness, her looking to see if help might be near, fearful I might be Jay's killer. Was that an excellent actress at work or the caution of an innocent woman?
I rather thought the latter. I made a quick decision. “I believe you are innocent. Your letters will be returned to you.”

In the honeysuckle arbor, I changed from my evening casual clothes to the French blue uniform, walked swiftly up the path. I knocked and the porch light came on in cabin 7. Jessica Forbes opened the door. “It's rather late—” She broke off and gazed at the uniform. “Yes?” There was polite inquiry and, as might be expected from a guest staying not far from the site of a murder, a flash of alarm. She was her usual commanding figure, silver hair drawn back, strong features, and wearing a long-sleeved green silk blouse and cream trousers.

“Officer Judy Hope, ma'am.” I held out the black leather folder. “I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions about last night.” I flashed what I hoped was an ingratiating smile. “I know it's late, but I'll be very appreciative if you can spare a moment.”

“Of course.” Her agreement was quick. “I want to help if I can.” She held the door for me.

After we settled on the sofa, Jessica crossed her ankles and looked at me inquiringly.

I admired the saucy cream bow on the instep of her attractive heels.

She waited for me to speak. I imagined she often used silence to her advantage and rarely offered impulsive comments.

I took a small notebook from my pocket, opened it, held a pen poised to write. “Could you tell me your whereabouts last night between ten and eleven?”

Her dark eyes were thoughtful. “Between ten and eleven . . .
Let me think. I left the bar a few minutes after ten and walked directly here. I noticed Jay's lights were on as I passed. I did not see him. I sat here”—she gestured at the couch—“and talked to one of my authors in Hawaii until shortly after eleven. Then I read a manuscript until almost midnight. I did not leave this cabin until I went to the terrace for breakfast at half past seven.”

The call to Hawaii could easily be checked. If Jessica was on the telephone from ten thirty to eleven p.m., she could not have killed Jay.

“That's very helpful. May I have the name of the author with whom you spoke and the telephone number?”

Her smile was cool. “Of course.” She turned on her cell, went to Contacts, provided the information. “Would you like to call her?”

In only a moment, the call was placed and Jessica's alibi confirmed. I'd not thought her a likely suspect, but certainty of her innocence added credibility to her responses.

“What was your relationship with Jay Knox?”

She was formal. “I was his editor. He had recently turned in a manuscript. Frankly, it was third rate. I sent it back, asked him to revise, but I told him there would have to be a huge improvement.” Full stop.

This gave a different picture of Jay Knox as an author. Perhaps he wasn't as successful as he tried to appear. “Was he upset?”

“He knew”—another cool smile—“that histrionics wouldn't matter to me. I offered to drop out of the conference. He insisted I come. Of course, that was for the prestige of the conference. Having a New York editor is a huge draw.” She shrugged. “We maintained a pleasant relationship. I suppose he intended to try to fix the book. I'm not sure that was possible. It would have required a huge rewrite,
and I never thought Jay was unduly burdened with a work ethic. I didn't expect it to work out. I thought he was one of those writers who manage two or three passable books, then fizzle.”

“It wouldn't bother you to drop an author?”

Her eyes were unsmiling. “My job is to publish good books.” She spoke with finality.

“Is that why you warned Cliff Granger to stop sending you lousy manuscripts?”

There was a flicker of surprise in her dark eyes. “On what do you base your question?”

“You were overheard.”

She slowly nodded. “I suppose you talked to someone who was at the bar.” Another shrug. “I don't deny our conversation.”

“Will you really decline to look at manuscripts he offers?”

“I meant what I said. I always mean what I say.” Her tone was crisp. “I don't have the luxury of spending time on unpublishable manuscripts. No editor does.”

“Are you going to give Cliff Granger one more chance?”

“One more chance.” Now her face was formidable.

One light shone in the backyard of the house next to Jay's. The doghouse was in deep shadows near the back fence. I reached past the cinder block, swept the ground with seeking fingers.
Ah, there.
I pulled out the small packet of letters.

The dog poked out his head, growled. He was beautiful in the moonlight, the creamy glow turning his ruff silver.

“Good boy.” I reached out and stroked his fur, felt taut muscles
relax. “Just a quick visit. Thank you for you taking good care of these letters.”

It was late now and easy to pass unseen high in the sky to Silver Lake Lodge.

The hallway outside Maureen's door was dim and empty. I made sure no one was about, then placed the letters on the floor. I passed inside the room, waited and listened. In a sliver of light from the cracked bathroom door, I could make out the bed and a sleeping form.

Maureen's breathing was light and relaxed.

It took only a moment to carefully loosen the chain, ease open the door, bring the letters inside. With the door closed, I put the chain in place, let my eyes adjust to the dimness. I crossed to the suitcase sitting on a rack against the wall. She'd emptied out the contents. I slipped the packet of letters into a zippered compartment. She was unlikely to open that compartment until she was ready to check out. If tomorrow proved her to be among the innocent, the letters would be there for her to find. If not, Sam would easily discover them.

Sam Cobb's office was dark. I'd known him to stretch out on his long, comfortable brown leather couch when working on a case, but he now had a wife waiting at home and I imagined she always had a hot meal ready. Sam and Claire Arnold met when I was in Adelaide on a mission that almost saw me stranded here. I still felt a little breathless when I recalled being visible and, no matter how hard I tried, not being able to disappear. A shocking development. But all had ended well. When I was most recently in town, and could happily appear and disappear at will, Sam and Claire had
been on their honeymoon. However, Sam had hurried home when I called him for help.