Ghost to the Rescue (21 page)

I was up at first light. I was sure Sam would be at his desk shortly, but I had time for breakfast. In an instant I was on Main Street. I looked through the plate-glass window of Lulu's, a fine cafe when
I lived in Adelaide and still thriving. In Lulu's ladies' room, I checked to be sure I was alone. I knew Wiggins resisted emissaries appearing unnecessarily, but I would point out that being on earth demanded huge reserves of energy. Surely he wouldn't begrudge me a quick breakfast. I pondered for a moment. I wanted to start my day in the very best way. I watched in the mirror as I appeared, and I admired the white crocheted tunic with a V-neck. The fringe reminded me of froth on a breaking wave, so I chose aquamarine soft slacks that narrowed at the ankle above white leather stiletto heels with aquamarine beads across the instep. A multistranded blue necklace was the coup de grâce. I smoothed back red curls, added a touch of lipstick. I felt young and buoyant, ready to take on the world.

I stepped into the narrow corridor not much changed from the days when Bobby Mac and I brought the kids for chicken-fried steaks and played rock 'n' roll on the jukebox. The old jukebox was still wedged in an alcove between the restrooms along with a wall pay phone. I wondered if either still worked. I paused to look at the list of tunes, knew them all. Oh, yes—Les Paul and Mary Ford's “Vaya con Dios” and Tony Bennett's “Rags to Riches
.
” Those were the days. . . .

I strolled into the dining area. There were four booths to my left, several tables straight ahead, and the counter to my right. Despite the early hour, three booths and four tables were occupied. I was halfway to the counter when my stride checked.

Sam Cobb sat on a red leather stool second from the door. He was watching me in the mirror behind the counter. He gestured at the empty stool to his left. Instead of his wrinkled brown suit, he wore a crisp navy suit with a white shirt and red tie.

I slid onto the round vinyl-covered seat. “Morning, Sam.”

A plate with a partially eaten cake doughnut and a mug of coffee sat in front of him.

He was freshly shaven, but dark shadows under his eyes indicated fatigue. “I thought you might show up.”

Was I that predictable?

“I didn't see you come in.” For an instant, there was a gleam of humor in his brown eyes. “I guess that's no surprise. What'll you have?”

I ordered country bacon, scrambled eggs, grits, coffee, and orange juice. “Have you seen the photos that were deleted from Jay's computer?”

“Don called me last night. I went over after I left the lodge.”

I wasn't surprised that Sam already knew. “Cliff Granger acted as though the party last year was no big deal. You may be able to find out more about the coeds who were there from Maureen Matthews. A student told her about the party.”

Sam nodded. “I'll check with her.” His gaze flicked up at the TV screen mounted above the mirror. The sound was muted. Below the picture of an arm-waving politician ran the continuous news ticker. His heavy face rock hard, Sam said, “I don't suppose you've seen the news. That's one reason I came over here this morning. Claire fixed me a big breakfast. We have a little TV set on the kitchen table. That's when I first found out. So I came over here to show everybody that the Adelaide Police Department is fine.” He jerked his head toward the tables and booths, mostly filled with Adelaide movers and shakers. “I stopped at each booth and every table, made it clear that it's business as usual at the department. Look up now. Here's the feed.”

I gazed at the screen:

Adelaide police face cover-up questions. Chief suspect in prof's murder has detective on speed dial.

Above the feed was a shot of Sam Cobb and Detective Weitz, Deirdre Davenport and Hal Price. Deirdre looked pale and anxious, Hal startled.

So last night's image taken by the scruffy young man with a video camera was now showing on TV around the state, and viewers could enjoy a taste of scandal with breakfast.

The waitress, a buoyant blonde with a ready smile, brought my order. “Here y'are, hon.”

Sam picked up his coffee cup, drank. “Deke Carson didn't waste any time.”

I could see reverberations from many directions, none of them good. I buttered a biscuit. “What are you going to do?”

He managed a half smile. “Speak to anybody I missed earlier on the way out. Laugh off the TV stuff as sensational junk. Go hell for leather the rest of the day.”

Hell for leather—that's Oklahomaspeak for ride hard, do what has to be done, no matter the
cost.

A
t the station, worried glances followed Sam as he walked down the hall to his office. Good-mornings were subdued. There was an air of gloom, except for Howie Harris.

Howie stood next to the water cooler, a plastic cup in hand. No doubt he'd been ready to talk about the morning news with anyone who stopped.
Gee, what do you think? . . . Sure looks bad for the department. . . . What was Hal thinking? . . .
Perhaps to compensate for his height, about five foot six, Howie pulled his shoulders back and poked out his chest.

The smirk on his face reminded me of our last encounter, when he'd done his best to sabotage Sam while he and Claire were on their honeymoon. A pet of Mayor Lumpkin's, Howie hungered to replace Sam. I wondered if he was responsible for the leak to Deke Carson. From his satisfied expression, I thought so. Howie was
ready for golf in a polo shirt and shorts, so he obviously had the day off, but the inflammatory news flash brought him like a crow to road kill.

Howie's thin voice called out, “Hey, Chief, looks like Hal Price has his hands in the cookie jar.”

Sam didn't slow down, looked like a lumbering bear. He didn't turn his head to speak, but his response was loud and clear. “You got that wrong, Howie. Don't worry your pretty head.”

Howie's hand shot up to smooth one of the few strands of limp blond hair on his balding head. Once Sam was past, Howie's good humor evaporated. He'd thought Hal was in deep trouble.

I thought briefly of Precept Five. “Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.” I should have resisted temptation. But Howie Harris was a jerk.

I swooped down, delicately draped one longish blond strand over one ear, one over the other. The effect was, I think I may say with confidence, transforming. I hoped his new look remained with him all the way to the golf course.

Sam stepped into his office. As Sam opened the door, Hal turned from the window, slowly walked toward him.

Hal was dressed as he'd been last night—blue polo, faded jeans, sneakers. Light stubble covered his cheeks. His thick blond hair was neatly combed, but he had the appearance of a man who'd slept in his clothes, as I was sure he had. I wouldn't have expected Hal to appear bright and shiny, but the bleak emptiness in his eyes frightened me.

Sam closed the door behind him, took one look at Hal's drawn face. “Screw TV. As far as I'm concerned, you're in good standing and anything said to the contrary is scurrilous and may be actionable.”

Hal's face softened. “Thanks, Sam. But”—he was grim again—“TV's the least of my worries right now.”

Sam knew trouble when he saw it. “What's wrong?”

Hal held a couple of printed sheets in his hand. He walked to Sam's desk, slid the sheets across his desk. “I stopped downstairs on my way in, picked up the report on the beer bottle resting”—his voice was sour—“so very conveniently on the bank. The killer might as well have put up a sign with a red arrow pointing at the bottle.”

Sam dropped into his swivel chair, which creaked at his weight. He picked up the sheets, read swiftly, looked up at Hal. “Somebody sure wants Deirdre Davenport to go to jail.”

Relief, gratitude, and surprise transformed Hal's face. “I was afraid you'd say this clinched the case against her.”

Sam leaned back in his swivel chair, hooked his fingers behind his head. “That's the intent. Sure, this looks bad. In fact, if you just looked at the facts, you'd say it was time to get the arrest warrant. Her fingerprints are on the champagne bottle that killed Knox.” He tapped the sheet. “Now the lab says her prints are on a beer bottle with traces of Toomey's hair and blood. But let's give the facts another look. We know the history of the champagne bottle. We know Knox took the bottle and a couple of glasses to her room, put them on the coffee table. Davenport picked up the bottle and glasses, handed them to him as he left. Now”—he tapped the sheet again—“we have to find out why her prints are on a beer bottle Toomey held. We have to find out how somebody got hold of that beer bottle and used it to kill Toomey.”

Slowly, struggling to keep his voice even, Hal said, “I know she's innocent because she's Deirdre. It doesn't matter to me what the evidence shows. How do you know?”

Sam made a fist, rubbed his jowl with his knuckles. “Sometimes it's better not to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Hal's back was to me. At the blackboard, I quickly sketched a horse with a halo, not that I claim any saintly qualities.

Sam looked at the blackboard, almost managed a smile.

“Gift horse?” Hal was puzzled.

After a tiny nod toward the blackboard, Sam said stolidly, “As I intend to put it to you and to anybody who asks, I'm acting on information received.”

“Information received?” Hal was eager, hoping perhaps that someone had come forward and somehow cleared Deirdre.

“I can't say more. Confidential source. Deirdre Davenport's definitely out of it.” Sam spoke with conviction. “A killer is using her as a stalking horse. I have some leads that we'll focus on. But we have to deal with the fallout from the TV smear.” Sam's big mouth curved into a wry smile. “If you have the lady on speed dial like the news ticker says, give her a ring. We have to have an answer for the beer bottle. But first . . .” He grabbed his phone, tapped an extension. “Howie, Sam Cobb. Got a word for you. If you leak anything else about the Knox-Toomey cases, you're on an indefinite suspension. So like the big boys say, don't even think about it.” He slammed down the receiver, drew in a breath. A red flush slowly subsided from his neck. “Okay, Hal, make that call.”

“She's having breakfast in the lodge coffee shop.” Hal hunched his shoulders and I knew his face was defiant. “I spent the night in her room. Like I told her, somebody's gone to a lot of trouble to frame her. She needs somebody with her all the time, because who knows what will happen next.”

Sam's face was impassive. “Not a bad move. I like men who
think ahead, take the initiative.” There was the slightest flicker of amusement in his eyes. “If anybody asks, you've been detailed to keep an eye on her. That can blunt the innuendo on the news ticker and it will keep her safe as well. Probably better to keep her in view, not hover.”

I imagined Sam foresaw other footage on TV if Hal stayed right next to Deirdre.

Hal nodded. “I told her to stay in her room or hang out around people until she speaks this afternoon.” He paused. “Her topic's ‘Upping the Ante for Your Hero.'” He managed to keep his voice expressionless.

Sam gave a quick bark of laughter. “She never knew when she wrote her speech that she would be living the reality. I'd say having her fingerprints on two murder weapons makes her an expert. And that's exactly where we need her help.”

Hal pulled out his cell. He clicked Speaker, sat on the edge of Sam's desk, called. “Hey, Deirdre. I'm working with the chief and we need some information. Tell us about your contact last night with Harry Toomey.”

Deirdre sounded tired, but composed. “Harry was sitting on the wall of the terrace with his dinner.”

“What was he was eating and drinking?” Hal kept his tone casual.

Deirdre likely didn't understand his interest, but she responded immediately. “He had a paper plate with barbecue.” A pause. “He was licking his fingers.”

“Anything else?”

I wondered if she heard the tension in Hal's voice.

But her reply was quick. “A bottle of beer and a paper bowl with strawberry shortcake.”

Hal silently exhaled.

Sam's face was intent. He made a quick note in his pad.

I looked over his shoulder and read:
Davenport—No hesitation in mentioning beer bottle.

Hal was pleased. “What happened next?”

“That redheaded writer came up.” She took a quick breath.

Sam looked studiously down at his pad. Perhaps prompted by his subconscious, he drew the stick figure of a horse.

“Redheaded writer?” Hal's voice was odd.

Sounding only a little uncomfortable, Deirdre said hurriedly, “You know who I mean. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she isn't. She said her name was Judy Hope and she was working on a feature for a new online entertainment site. The
Rabbit's Foot.
She asked Harry if she could talk to him, get his insights on Jay's murder. I guess Harry thought he'd have a chance for some publicity, so he picked up his beer and dessert from the wall and put them on the ground by his feet. Of course, he was making a place for her, not me, but she told me to sit down and she'd go to the buffet and get some food for us. That left Harry with me. He wasn't pleased. But this gave me the chance to ask him about Thursday night. I told him I thought I'd seen him in the shadows by Jay's cabin. He acted odd. I got scared. I had the feeling he really had been there.” Her voice was shaky. “He said a lot of people might be mad at Jay. He looked around the terrace one by one at Maureen Matthews, Liz and Tom Baker, Ashton Lewis, and Cliff Granger. He said maybe one of them was in the shadows. He seemed to think that was funny. Then he left.”

“What happened then?”

“Nothing.”

I could almost see Deirdre's shrug.

Sam intervened. “Ms. Davenport, Sam Cobb here. I'd like to take you through the next few minutes after Toomey left. Exactly what did you do? Did you sit there for a while, get up? Precisely what happened?”

“I sat there for a couple of minutes. I felt really unsettled by Harry, his attitude, the way he looked at me.” Deirdre's voice held remembered discomfort. “Then I saw some people looking for a place to sit, so I got up. I realized Harry had left his trash, so I gathered everything up—”

Sam interrupted. “Describe the trash.”

“Plate. Bowl. Bottle.” Her voice reflected distaste. “The bottle was greasy. I put the dessert bowl on top of the plate and carried the plate and the beer bottle to a trash receptacle.”

“Where was the trash can?”

“Near the steps leading down into the gardens.”

Sam pushed up from his chair, walked around the desk to the blackboard. I scooted out of the way. He erased the horse (quite feminine in appearance, I thought) with the halo, picked up a piece of chalk. “Ms. Davenport, let's start with when you picked up the refuse. I understand that earlier Harry Toomey deliberately looked toward several people, implying they had reason to be angry with Jay Knox.”

“That's correct. He looked at Maureen Matthews, Liz and Tom Baker, Ashton Lewis, Cliff Granger.”

Sam sketched a long low wall, drew a thin figure at one end stooping to pick up a plate, bottle, and bowl. “Tell me where each one was on the terrace.”

There was silence. I pictured Deirdre's long face tensed in concentration.

She spoke slowly. “Maureen was quite near me. She was sitting on the wall between Harry and me and the steps. Liz and Tom Baker were at a table a few feet to our left. I could see their faces. She looked desperately unhappy. Professor Lewis stood near the cash bar. Cliff Granger was at the edge of a crowd on the other side of the terrace but he was looking out toward the gardens.”

Sam pinpointed each person on the blackboard. “Could any of them have seen you pick up Harry's trash?”

“Oh yes.” The answer was quick and firm. “If”—her tone was wry—“any of them cared about Harry's trash, they could easily have seen me dispose of everything.”

“What happened then?”

“I went to the ladies' room and washed my hands. I returned to the terrace and went through the buffet and carried supper up to my room. I didn't want to talk to anyone.”

“What time was that?”

Deirdre thought for a moment. “It must have been almost eight. I ate, took a shower, and got ready for bed. I wrote some e-mails to my kids. Then Harry called. And I called Hal.”

“That's helpful. All right, Ms. Davenport. Detective Sergeant Price will be returning to the hotel shortly. He'll be keeping an eye on you for your own safety. Do you have any questions?”

Deirdre asked uncertainly, “What difference does Harry's trash make?”

Before Hal could speak, Sam said smoothly, “It's important to establish all of Harry Toomey's actions. Please don't discuss this matter with anyone other than Detective Sergeant Price.”

When the connection ended, Sam gestured toward the door. “She's safe enough having breakfast on the terrace. You look like
a man who slept in his clothes. Better get home and shave, then go to the lodge. Don't tell her Harry was killed with a beer bottle. Better for her not to know.”

Hal hesitated at the door. “How're you going to deal with the photos on TV?”

Sam's face hardened. “I don't care what a snotty stringer puts out there.”

Hal started to speak, but Sam was brusque. “You got an assignment, Price. Hop to it.”

When the door closed behind Hal, I decided to appear. I admired the shimmering blue of the beads on my shoes as I strolled around Sam's desk toward the sofa. “As they say in a different context: We need to talk.”

Sam laughed. He reached over, touched the intercom. “No visitors until I buzz. Thanks, Colleen.” He turned his swivel chair to face the couch, watched as I settled comfortably in a corner. He gave me a nod. “I forgot to tell you at breakfast: nice outfit. Claire says it's always appropriate to offer a compliment. And a thanks. I would be ready to arrest Deirdre Davenport if you hadn't tipped me off. Too bad you didn't see the person who mooched over to that trash can and filched out the beer bottle.” But he looked hopeful.

I shook my head. “I wasn't looking that way when Deirdre put away the trash. But now we know Harry was a walking dead man when he and Deirdre talked.”

Sam's eyes narrowed in concentration. “Exactly. The bottle was taken because Deirdre handled it. The decision to use the bottle as a weapon against Harry had already been made.”