Merry, Merry Ghost (21 page)

Despite her unattractive bulk and bullying nature, Neva Lumpkin was nobody’s fool. Suicide was a lovely resolution.

No scruples

Chief Cobb glanced toward the blackboard as I lowered the chalk. I let the piece fall to the floor.

Frowning, Cobb pushed up from his chair and walked slowly toward the blackboard. He moved quietly for such a big man.

Mayor Lumpkin followed his progress. She sniffed as he bent to pick up the chalk. “I believe this is the only office in City Hall with an old-fashioned chalkboard. Everyone else is up to date with dry-erase boards and colored markers. We have to keep pace with the times, Chief Cobb.”

He was gruff. “Chalk was good enough for me when I was a high school math teacher. It’s good enough now.”

“Really! In any event,” she spoke loudly, “Jacqueline will be relieved when I tell her everything will be resolved quickly and quietly.”

Cobb swung toward her, his expression abstracted. “I’ll bring Mrs. Flynn up to date on the investigation when I meet with the family at the house this afternoon.”

The mayor’s gaze was cool. “Surely that meeting is no longer necessary since it’s obvious Susan’s death was undoubtedly self-inflicted.”

Cobb’s face tightened. “I’ll tell you what, Neva, you look after City Hall, I’ll look after suspicious deaths.”

“I am looking after City Hall.” She heaved herself to her feet, face dangerously red, and strode to the door.

She stopped in the doorway, head held high. A trumpet roll could not have better announced a dramatic farewell. “I expect a sensible attitude on the part of all city employees. If you refuse to accept ambiguity—and most emphatically there can be nothing certain in the circumstances of Susan’s death—the council will have to consider what action to take concerning the renewal of your contract in January. It may turn out that you should consider a return to teaching.” She flounced into the hall, banging the door shut behind her.

Chief Cobb’s exclamation was short, explicit, and forceful.

I had to agree. She certainly was.

He shrugged. “Comes with the territory.” He started for his desk, then turned back to the blackboard.

I suspected no one knew better than he that the blackboard had been quite clean.

Once again I’d intruded upon the discrete world. Despite the Precepts, it was a very good thing I had done so.

The longer Chief Cobb stared at the blackboard, the more time I had. He needed help to stave off the mayor’s interventions, discover the truth, and not lose his job in the process.

I looked at the legal pad on his desk. Earlier he’d written:
What was Susan Flynn’s mental state?
Imitating his neat square printing, I added:
Check with Father Abbott
. The rector would know Susan Flynn well and certainly attest to her mental health.

After
Interview persons who saw her in the last few days
, I added:
Was there any disruption of the household
recently?
This would catch Keith’s arrival.

His third question was all-important:
Who inherits?
I added:
When did she last see her lawyer and what did
they discuss?

I studied question four:
Who moved the body after death and why?
I decided to go for broke:
Was someone
aware Susan Flynn had been murdered and set up a crime scene to be sure there was an investigation?

The pencil was yanked from my hand.

“Ooh.” I swung around and my elbow jammed into Chief Cobb’s side.

“Ouch.” He massaged his side. “How can a pencil stand up by itself?” He looked uncertainly at his chair. “I didn’t bend over. What did I bump into?”

I tried to still my quick breaths. I should have kept a closer eye on the chief. I moved well out of his way.

He stared at the pencil, small in his massive hand, then toward the blackboard. He shook his head in denial.

“That woman’s driving me nuts.”

I was offended until I realized he was referring to Mayor Lumpkin. Perhaps he would attribute any confusion on his part to his irritation with her.

He gingerly placed the pencil on the desk, again shook his head. “Now I’m seeing things.” He spoke aloud, forcefully. He flipped the legal pad shut without seeing my insertions. “I can’t think straight when Neva’s around.” He glanced at the clock and tucked the legal pad in a folder.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
young woman bundled in a pink jacket counted to ten. Cheeks red from the cold, Keith ran as fast as he could across the front yard of Pritchard House. He skidded around a big sycamore and pressed against the trunk.

“…eight, nine, ten. Okay, Colin, you can look around now. See if you can find Keith.”

A skinny dark-haired boy about seven years old dropped his hands from his eyes and took a half dozen steps toward a fir.

“In the freezer, Colin.” She wrapped her arms tight across her front, gave a dramatic shiver.

Colin veered to his right.

“Colder. Ice on your nose.”

Colin swiped his nose with a red mitten and laughed. He turned and retraced his steps.

“Warmer.”

Colin trotted ahead.

“Getting hot.” She clapped.

I wished I could stay outside and watch the boys play. Colin shouted as he came around the sycamore. “Got you,” he shouted as he grabbed Keith, who squealed with laughter.

I dropped into the living room for a different game of gotcha!

Chief Cobb stood to one side of the fireplace. A cheerful fire crackled. The living room was warm, but there was no air of holiday cheer.

Jake’s eyes were huge and strained. “I talked to Father Abbott at St. Mildred’s. Do you know when Susan—when we can have her service?”

“The autopsy has been completed.” The chief looked commanding, his heavy face purposeful.

Was there a greater feeling of tension among his listeners than the quiet statement should evoke? Did one of them fear what had been found?

“The body will be released this afternoon.”

“I’ll call Father Abbott.” Jake’s relief was apparent. “Tuesday morning will be good. We can announce the services in the Monday and Tuesday papers.”

“I know there is much for the family to deal with.” The chief gazed at his listeners. “I appreciate the opportunity to meet with those who spent time with Mrs. Flynn on her last day to live.”

There was a grim finality to his words, reminding each of them of their proximity to Susan’s death. He reached into his folder, pulled out the legal pad and a sheaf of printed pages. “I’d like to understand how you knew her and why you were here yesterday.”

Each person in turn described their connection to Susan as Chief Cobb took notes.

Jake Flynn’s face was puffy from lack of sleep. She wore a little too much makeup and her hair had untidy sprigs. Today’s blue cashmere sweater and gray tweed skirt were more flattering than the brown sweater and slacks she’d worn yesterday. She sat on the sofa beside Peg, whose eyes were swollen from crying. Peg’s black dress emphasized her paleness. She wore no jewelry. Even though Dave Lewis sat on the small sofa beside her, the space between them seemed huge. His face wore a conventional expression of concern. Gina Satterlee sat stiffly on a rosewood chair, twining a strand of dark hair in her fingers. She was the picture of fashion in a crimson sweater and gray worsted wool slacks and red loafers. Tucker Satterlee, his freshly shaved face brooding and still, slouched in an oversize leather chair in a rumpled plaid shirt and Levi’s and boots. Harrison and Charlotte Hammond were in their Sunday best, although his charcoal gray suit was wrinkled and his tie askew. Her long-sleeved black silk blouse matched a subtle geometric square in a violet silk georgette skirt that ruffled nicely over blue leather boots.

The chief flipped back several sheets in the legal pad.

When his eyes widened in surprise, I knew he had reached the questions he’d listed in preparation for this meeting. Of course, he had no recollection of having written my additions. Understandably.

Chief Cobb’s brows drew down in a line. He gave an uncertain shake of his head, cleared his throat. “In investigating a suspicious death, it is helpful to have an understanding of the circumstances surrounding the deceased. Had there been any disruption of this household in recent days?”

I would have liked to shout a loud bingo! That was the question that mattered. With backs and starts and obvious uneasiness, the story unfolded: Keith’s arrival on Thursday, the summons of Susan’s lawyer Friday, the confirmation of Keith’s legitimacy Saturday morning.

Cobb wrote fast. I was reminded of a lion gnawing on a carcass. “Obviously Susan Flynn had an eventful weekend. Now I would appreciate your assistance in piecing together an account of her last day.”

Jake sat forward in her chair, her cheeks turning a bright pink. She said breathlessly, “I spoke with my good friend Mayor Lumpkin and Neva assured me that the investigation was only a formality since no one would ever be able to determine exactly how Susan died.”

I wished I could see every face at once. One listener knew exactly why Susan died.

“The mayor”—Cobb’s tone was level—“misinformed you. Mrs. Flynn died from an overdose of digitalis.

What remains to be determined is whether her death was self-inflicted, an accident, or murder.”

Jake sagged back against her chair. Peg gave a soft cry. Dave reached for her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Gina’s face was abruptly an unreadable mask of emptiness. Tucker’s lips formed a soundless whistle. Hammond cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the silence. Charlotte reached over, gripped his hand, and the tiny pops ended. She didn’t look at him.

Jake fluttered her hands. “It was an accident. It had to be an accident.”

Cobb’s gaze was demanding. “Was Susan Flynn clumsy?”

Jake’s eyes fell. “No.”

Cobb leaned forward. “Was she easily confused? Could she have taken anywhere from twelve to fourteen pills by accident?”

Jake reluctantly shook her head.

“Susan was compos mentis, Chief Cobb.” Charlotte’s tone was dry. “You will not find anyone who would describe Susan as clumsy, stupid, or easily confused. To the contrary, she was intelligent, alert, and, though weak and ill, quite capable of dealing with her medications.”

Harrison said nothing, but he slowly nodded.

“Susan didn’t make mistakes of that sort.” Peg spoke with finality.

“Since an accidental overdose seems highly unlikely, that brings us,” Cobb said smoothly, “to the question of suicide. What was Susan Flynn’s mental state on her last day to live?”

A smile trembled on Peg’s lips even though her eyes were shiny with tears. “She was happier than she’d been in years and years. Her last day was wonderful. She was thrilled to have Keith at the Christmas party and to introduce him to the neighbors as her grandson.”

Cobb looked around. “Where is he now?”

Peg gestured toward the window. “In the front yard, playing. I asked Thea Carson who runs the children’s Sunday school program to bring her son over to play. Keith’s too little to understand about his grandmother’s death. Although I think he knows more about death than any little boy should.”

The more Peg talked, the heavier the silence.

Jake’s eyes were desperate. “But Susan was ill. Very ill. I can see how she might accidentally take too much medicine. It had to be an accident.”

No one else spoke.

Cobb surveyed the room. His tone was bland. “From all accounts, Mrs. Flynn was a careful and precise woman, which makes accidental ingestion unlikely. Since Mrs. Flynn was in good spirits yesterday, the hypothesis of suicide also seems unlikely.”

Harrison cleared his throat. “Susan’s last day was filled with great happiness and we are grateful for that.

However, we all feared that she was overdoing. You have to remember that she was very ill. She hadn’t attended the Pritchard House Christmas party for several years. Yesterday, she took part and even had dinner with us to celebrate Keith’s arrival. How can anyone know what happened after she went to her room? She may have suffered great pain and, in a moment of despair, possibly not even reckoning the outcome, poured a handful of pills—”

“Susan would never commit suicide.” Peg’s eyes flashed. “Never in a million years.”

Charlotte brushed back an untidy gray curl. “Susan didn’t commit suicide.” She spoke with utter certainty.

“So”—her expression was quizzical—“I believe that leaves us with murder.”

“Charlotte!” Harrison’s voice was anguished.

Dave Lewis didn’t look as handsome when he turned to glare at Charlotte.

Charlotte’s light blue eyes watched Cobb. “You indicated Susan died from an overdose of digitalis. How was the overdose administered? Or is there any way of knowing that?”

“We can be fairly certain we know the answer.” Cobb’s answer was swift and emphatic. “Digitalis in a heavy concentration was found in the dregs of both a cup of cocoa and a pot of cocoa found on a table in her bedroom. Was she in the custom of drinking cocoa every evening?”

Jake looked stunned. “Every night.”

Cobb held his pen over the pad. “Who prepared the cocoa Saturday night?”

Jake’s fingers closed over the strand of pearls. “I did. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. I fixed it like I always did, two tablespoons of cocoa, two cups of whole milk, an eighth cup of sugar, a dash of vanilla.” Her breath came in irregular gasps.

Peg pulled away from Dave’s grasp and leaned forward, her eyes flashing. “Mother took wonderful care of Susan. Always.”

Gina stiffened. “I took the cocoa upstairs. There was a Christmas cookie on the plate as well.”

Cobb swiveled toward Gina. “Where did you put the tray?”

“On the table by Susan’s chair. Susan was in the bathroom. I didn’t call out. I knew she’d see the tray.”

“Did you pour the cocoa?”

Peg shook her head. “Susan often waited until later to have a cup. Sometimes she read late and drank the cocoa right before she went to bed.”

Cobb turned back to Jake. “When you poured the cocoa from the saucepan, did you look into the china pot?”