Ghost to the Rescue (25 page)

Obediently everyone gazed at the plastic receptacle.

Everyone looked except Maureen and Cliff. She was gazing at him with a slight smile. His face was turned toward her, the muscles taut.

Sam continued ponderously, “Remember last night. Think back. If you saw anyone walk to that receptacle after Professor Davenport turned and left, come to conference room A. Do not share your information with others. It is important that you speak to the police first.”

Cliff forced his body to relax. He managed a dismissive smile. “I'm not worried about any photographs.” His tone was contemptuous.

Maureen's quite lovely face was suddenly implacable. “You should be worried. Very worried. The photos are backed up on my laptop. Jay had you in a box. You didn't know she was only seventeen. But that doesn't matter. Nor does it matter that she's a year older now. She was seventeen that night. You can still go to prison for statutory rape. The law is quite clear in Oklahoma: No adult can legally have sex with anyone under age eighteen. Jay kept silent as long as you agreed to hawk those sorry books. But I didn't realize you'd killed him until just now. You see, I saw you get that beer bottle. Now, do you want me to talk to the police? Tell them about the beer bottle—and the party and statutory rape?”

Cliff's face turned an unhealthy red. His shoulders bunched.

She started to rise.

He reached out, grabbed her arm, pulled her down.

She stiffened, wrenched away from him. “Don't touch me.”

“Maureen, we can talk about this.” Now his face was smooth, unreadable, the flush of red fading away.

Her lips curved in a derisive smile. “I don't think so. I have no intention of engaging in tête-à-têtes with you, now or in the future. You have a couple of minutes to decide your future. I will keep what I know to myself”—she spaced the words—“on one condition.”

“What is that?” He waited, muscles tensed—big, strong, dangerous.

Her face furrowed. “I need something to protect me.”

“Maybe keeping your mouth shut will do that.”

She reached up, touched her necklace. “Something specific.” She gripped the stones, gave a decisive nod. “You won't dare come after me if I hold your confession.”

He gave a short, ugly laugh. “You have the damn photographs.”

“That isn't enough.”

“What do you want? The truth? Jay pushed me too far. I told him I couldn't sell those sorry manuscripts and he had to back off. He laughed at me. I didn't have any choice. If he hadn't been greedy, he'd be alive. I picked up that bottle and hit him. He didn't make much noise when he fell.” His voice held mild surprise. “Look, Maureen, we can work this out. I can't take the kind of books I was getting, but you can winnow them out, send me something that won't make editors mad. That's the deal I'll make. I'll even give you a cut of any earnings. That should be good enough for you.”

Sam was still speaking. “. . . and again, let's take a moment for each of you to recreate that moment in your mind. Someone walked to the trash receptacle. . . .”

Maureen gazed at him warily. “It won't surprise you if I say I don't trust you. Your offer sounds okay. But I want something in writing.” She opened her purse, drew out a pen and pad, handed them to Cliff. “Write down:
I, Cliff Granger, murdered Jay Knox and Harry Toomey
. Sign it. Date it. Hand it to me.”

He sat immobile, the pad in one hand, the pen in the other.

Sam concluded, “And if you saw someone remove the beer bottle from the trash can, please go directly to conference room A. Thank you for your attention.” Sam turned away, strode across the terrace.

Though screened by people streaming into the building, I glimpsed Hal Price. He was poised to move fast, cover the twenty feet across the flagstones in an instant.

“Well.” Maureen shrugged. “You've had your chance. I'll go to conference room A. I'd rather”—her tone was baiting—“plan a trip to Bermuda. But that's up to you.” She rose.

“Sit down.” Cliff spoke through clenched teeth.

She remained standing. “You have one minute.”

He looked down at the pad, wrote in a savage jerky motion, looked up, thrust the pad at her.

Maureen read the words:
I, Cliff Granger, murdered Jay Knox and Harry Toomey.
His signature was a scrawl, the date overlarge.

She turned away.

He came to his feet, jammed his hands into his pockets, turned to head down into the gardens.

Sam Cobb waited in the path, taller than Cliff, heavier, big face implacable.

Cliff slowed, stopped, stared.

Officers were closing in, hands on the butts of their holstered guns.

Sam stepped forward. “Cliff Granger, you are under arrest for the murders . . .”

Cliff—tall, lean, at bay—swung around, his face malignant, fists clenched.

Hal Price—equally big, immovable, holding a pair of handcuffs—barred his way.

I murmured a thank-you to Saint Jude as the handcuffs snapped shut.

A sandy-haired, thirtyish police officer patiently dusted powder on the doorjambs in Jay Knox's study. Sam Cobb obviously didn't intend to overlook any possibility. If Cliff Granger had touched a surface on his surreptitious visit Thursday night, those fingerprints would be found, catalogued, offered in evidence.

I admired the chief's forethought and diligence. I mightily wished he'd not been so efficient. I needed a moment alone in Jay's study. I looked at the handsome bronze clock on Jay's desk. The news conference at City Hall would begin in twenty-three minutes.

Grayish powder clung to the wood. The tech, careful and intent, bent nearer.

How quiet could I be? I eased open the center drawer of Jay's desk. I lifted the ornate fountain pen, rested the pen atop the desk. I reached for the checkbook, inadvertently moved a metal box of Altoids.

In the utter quiet, the sound seemed loud as a cymbal.

The tech straightened, turned to look across the office.

Would he remember that the surface of the desk had been bare?

He looked past the pen, the in/out box, the computer, the chair. Face crinkling in puzzlement, he swung around, stepped into the hall. “Yo, anybody here?” His footsteps thudded as he walked down the hall seeking the source of that sound.

I snatched up the checkbook. I looked at the check register, imitated Jay's handwriting, an almost indecipherable scrawl. I wrote fast, gently tugged to tear out the blank check. I returned the checkbook to the drawer, gently pushed the drawer shut.

I heard the tech returning. Quickly, I yanked open a lower
drawer, grabbed an envelope and a sheet of stationery imprinted with Jay's name and address.

As the tech reentered, I kept my hands below the desk, folded the sheet, inserted the check, slipped the sheet and check into the envelope.

The clock read nineteen minutes to eleven.

I didn't have time to be subtle. I shoved Jay's desk chair backward and it careened toward a bookcase.

The tech swung around, watched the chair crash against the wall. His eyes wildly searched the room. A tentative step backward, another, a turn, and a lunge into the hall.

I pushed up the nearest window, unlatched the screen, raised it high enough to flow under and out into the air, the envelope in one hand.

I congratulated myself when I reached the entrance of Silver Lake Lodge. So far I'd moved the envelope high enough to escape notice. Now if I could find a spot to appear, all would be well. My undoing came in the lobby. I moved the envelope near the ceiling. Most people do not survey ceilings.

A little girl, possibly five or six, sat cross-legged on a sofa. She looked up from her iPad. Her eyes widened behind thick lenses in sturdy blue plastic frames. “Hey Mom, look up. There's a woman carrying a letter up there,” she said, and she pointed at the ceiling.

She saw me. A child's heart is open to more than adults ever know.

A distracted woman at the desk fumbled in her purse. “I know I've got that coupon somewhere.”

“Mom.” The girl now stood on the sofa, staring up with a fascinated gaze.

Without a pause, her mother called out, “That's lovely, darling. You can show me after I finish here.”

“Mom!”

I dropped down, looked into magnified, intensely excited brown eyes. “Honey, do me a favor. When you talk to your mom, tell her you looked up at the ceiling and for a minute it was just like a movie, this woman was carrying a letter, and then she disappeared. And you and I will always know you really did see me, but if you don't tell anyone, do you know what will happen?”

She gazed at me with huge eyes. “What?” she whispered.

“I can take this letter where it needs to go and it will mean that someday not too long from now a wonderful young mommy and daddy will have a beautiful baby girl just like you. Will you help me?”

She nodded solemnly.

“I need to get this letter into the ladies' room. Will you carry it there for me?”

Her mother turned. “What's wrong, Abby?”

“Mom, I need to go to the ladies' room.”

Her mother made a shooing motion toward the ladies' room.

The little girl took the letter, clasped it against her chest, and rushed across the lobby. Inside the ladies' room, she held up the letter. “That's a pretty dress.”

“Thank you, Abby.”

The lounge area was empty except for us. An instant was all I needed. I will admit to a touch of pleasure as I watched the lovely white crocheted V-neck tunic appear. I did a little jog to see the fringe sway. The light in the lounge didn't adequately reflect the verve of the aquamarine slacks, but I knew they looked like the shimmering sea at St. Croix. The white leather stiletto heels gave me a lift,
emotionally and physically. I sat on the yellow-cushioned stool, fished out the enclosed sheet. I quickly printed a note:
Dear Liz—As requested, here is your refund for the book consultation. Good luck with the book. Best Regards—Jay Knox.
I filled out the check, signed it in a very nice imitation of Jay's signature, wrapped the check in the sheet, placed it in the envelope.

I turned to Abby. “Thanks a bunch. You're a hero.”

Abby ducked her head, smiled. Then she looked at me, blinked, her eyes owlish behind the thick lenses. “How were you up in the air?”

“Sometimes, when I need to go somewhere in a hurry, I just think what I might do and there I am.”

“How were you not here, and then you were a bunch of colors, and there you are?”

“Oh, it's just a way of arriving. Let's keep that our secret, Abby.”

She gave me a gap-toothed grin. “Sure.”

I patted her cheek, then turned away.

Abby's thoughtful voice followed me. “Mama says I have enough imagination for six kids. I wonder what I can imagine next?”

I flashed her a smile. “Imagine you're a princess and nobody knows, but that's why good things happen all around you.”

I hurried through the door. There was very little time left.

Chattering groups eddied back and forth in the lobby, some on their way to the main auditorium for a session, others headed to the meeting rooms in the wing. Perhaps it was my turn for luck. Or perhaps the fortuitous is divinely orchestrated. Your pick.

Liz Baker no longer looked haunted, but she still moved with dragging steps, all joy leached away. She clutched a notebook, was thumbing the conference schedule as she neared the exit to the terrace.

I caught up with Liz outside. “Mrs. Baker.” I held out the envelope. “I have something for you.”

Startled, she took the thin envelope in hand. She looked down and drew a quick breath at the address logo.

Before she could speak, I hurried on. “If anyone ever inquires, you received this in the mail and you threw the envelope away. I suggest you immediately deposit the check in your and Tom's account. The check will be honored, since it is dated before the death of the signatory. I doubt if there will ever be any questions asked.”

She looked down, unsealed the flap. With shaking fingers, she lifted out the check, stared. “How—”

“Checks Jay Knox signed before his death are being sent to the proper recipients. As I said, if anyone ever asks”—I spoke slowly, forcefully—“you received this envelope in the mail, you didn't keep the envelope because you had no reason to keep it, and you are appreciative that Professor Jay Knox honored your request that he return the sum of five thousand dollars, which you paid for a manuscript submission that you later recalled. That's all”—I paused for emphasis—“you have to say. And now”—my smile was gentle—“you might want to share the good news with your husband. Bless you.” I turned away.

She took several steps, caught my arm. “Who are you?”

I shook my head. “A friend. But as we both know, this moment never happened. You received a check in the mail.”

Her eyes shone, her voice was tremulous. “How can I thank you?”