Merry, Merry Ghost (28 page)

The car crashed through the fence and Kim screamed. She slammed hard against the windshield. Her terrified cry ended abruptly. I reached out, tried to catch Kim’s arm. The car went end over end. I whipped through the windshield and out into space.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

F
lashlights beamed from every direction. Headlights cut twin swaths through darkness, illuminating running figures. Men called out as they ran, reaching the edge of the pit as a thunderous crack sounded, the impact of the car on the water.

Dazed, I hung above the pit.

Maglites swept the roiled surface, catching in their crossing beams a wavering silver plume that rose and fell.

Shouts rose: “Divers, get some divers.” “We need more light.” “Where did that shot come from?” “Block the road.” “Form search units.”

Chief Cobb stood at the edge of the pit with a megaphone, directing the efforts to reach Kim’s car. “How deep is the water?”

Detective Sergeant Price shrugged. “Maybe ninety feet, maybe more.” He pointed a Maglite down. Ripples eddied on the dark surface. “By the time we get divers here, it will be too late to save anyone.”

I’d hoped to protect Kim, envisioning a moment when I might push a hand holding a gun to one side, knowing the police would be in place and ready to pounce and make her safe. Instead, a hidden marksman shot her tire, spinning the Cruiser out of control and down to death.

I hung above the black water and called out forever too late. “I’m sorry. Kim, I’m sorry.”

“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was kind and gentle. “You cannot blame yourself.”

I didn’t pause to wonder why he was back from Tumbulgum. I was only grateful for support when I felt such a crushing sense of failure. “I was afraid she might be meeting Susan’s killer. I should have appeared and warned her.”

“My dear”—his tone was emphatic—“you did everything you could to assure her safety, and I applaud your ingenuity. Forces to protect her were at hand. You could not foresee what occurred. However”—there was noticeably less warmth—“I expect you to make a strong”—he repeated the adjective with even more emphasis—“
strong
effort to remove all thoughts of
ghostly
”—the word was uttered with distaste

—“intervention from Chief Cobb’s mind.”

As spotlights pointed down, the last ripples subsided on the surface of the black water.

“I had to intervene the best and fastest way I could.” My tone was hot. “If it seemed otherworldly, well, after all, it was, and so be it.” Wiggins had a talent for yanking my string. “If the police hadn’t been here, thanks to me, no one would ever know what happened to Kim. She would have disappeared. Now the police know she was murdered. That proves Susan was murdered.” I smacked one fist into a palm. “None of this would be known if I hadn’t grabbed Chief Cobb’s attention. I didn’t have time to approach him any other way.”

Wiggins’s “Hmm” was judicious, but there might have been a hint of amusement. “Much as I admire your spirit, dear Bailey Ruth, you do not excel at logic. In fact, your conclusions rather remind me of your grasp of Zen. Imprecise. You cannot reasonably conclude that Kim was murdered by the person who murdered Susan.

Kim may have been killed because an heir had no intention of being blackmailed and every intention of preventing the emergence of the new will. Her death may be quite separate from Susan’s.”

“The idea of two murderers is silly.” How could Wiggins be so muddled? “I may not be good at logic, but I have common sense. Of course Susan’s murderer killed Kim.”

“I’m sure”—his voice was a bit fainter—“you will solve everything, whether there is one murderer or two. I will admit that you did a clever piece of work in arranging for the police to be here, even though your method left much to be desired. Not only did their presence make it clear that Kim was murdered”—I could scarcely hear him—“you should consider another result of their positioning tonight: the shocking effect of police intervention immediately after the shot on a murderer who assumed there was no one else within miles.

Tallyho, Bailey Ruth.”

More sirens sounded. The road near the broken fence where Kim’s car crashed over was clogged with police cars. The sounds of a search reverberated. Flashlights swept across the plant buildings.

I lifted a hand, unseen, in farewell to Wiggins. He had come to comfort me, rebuke me, pull me from sadness to combativeness, and to point the way ahead. I mulled the meaning of his farewell.

I imagined myself cloaked in darkness, holding a rifle, watching the Cruiser swing around the curve in the road beside the pit. I would have felt, as Kim’s murderer must have felt, utterly secure, the abandoned brick plant deserted, no one to see, no one to hear. The car for an instant was revealed in the red flare of a warning light. I squeezed the trigger. The tire exploded. The car jerked out of control, swung toward the pit, plummeted down, all according to plan.

Then the plan went awry. Lights flashed and shouts erupted as police raced toward the pit. There was no moment to savor success. Instead, the unimaginable, the unexpected, the unforeseen had occurred, police officers shouting, searching, seeking. The murderer most certainly was deeply shocked.

Could I take advantage of that shock?

It was hard to estimate how much time had passed since Kim’s car tumbled into the pit. Fifteen minutes, perhaps? If the marksman was in a car, that was time enough in a town as small as Adelaide to leave the abandoned plant far behind.

I didn’t hesitate. I intended to observe Susan’s heirs as quickly as possible.

The front porch light was on at Harrison and Charlotte Hammond’s house. Inside, I found the lower floor dark. Light glowed from the top of the stairs. In the master bedroom, Charlotte sat propped in bed with two pillows, reading a novel. Harrison’s side of the bed was untouched. I went to Harrison Hammond’s construction company. Large outdoor lighting illuminated a parking area. The supply warehouse was dark, as was the small single-story frame office. Where was Harrison Hammond?

Next I arrived at Pritchard House. A dim light glowed near a side door of the garage. Inside, I turned on the overhead light and moved from car to car, seeking telltale heat. None of the hoods was warm, but the garage was quite cold. It wouldn’t take long for any heat to dissipate. As I returned to the light switch, I saw two bicycles. I was thoughtful as I stepped toward them. I moved one, swung onto the seat. The tires were firm. I squinted to remember. Though the road was hilly and winding, the brick plant was no more than a mile away.

I doubted the police had discovered how the marksman had traveled to or from the abandoned brick plant.

The sounds of a departing car would easily have been lost as the police spread out to search and turned on their headlights to afford more light. But the murderer could have ridden a bicycle or approached on foot.

In the kitchen of Pritchard House, Jake Flynn closed the refrigerator door, carried the remnants of a baked ham to the counter. Her face drawn and pasty, she put together a sandwich with ham, lettuce, Swiss cheese, and mustard. She opened a Coke and sat at the white wooden table. She ate as if starved. Was food her succor when stressed? It was nearing midnight. She wore a black velour pullover and trousers and boots, a good costume to move unseen in the dark.

In Peg and Keith’s room, Peg was propped up in bed with two pillows behind her, staring emptily toward the wall. She looked forlorn and depressed. I knelt for an instant by Keith’s bed, lightly touched his shoulder. He was curled against Big Bob, sunk in a deep sleep.

In Peg’s bedroom now turned over to Gina, the room was dark and very cold. Gina sat in a chair near the open window, smoking. In the wash of moonlight, her face was pale, her expression strained and fearful. She stared out into the night. Abruptly, she jammed the cigarette stub into an ashtray. “I’m scared. God, I’m scared…” Her voice was desolate, defeated, despairing.

I had no luck at the home of Dave Lewis’s brother. The guest bedroom was dark and untenanted.

A Tiffany lamp on a side table glowed in the living room of the ranch house on Burnt Creek. I moved from room to room. A black Lab trotted toward me, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. I held out a hand and he sniffed. From the front hall to the back porch, there was no one in the house but me and the Lab. I dropped on one knee, gently massaged the Lab’s throat. “Where is he, boy?” The Lab pushed against me. Then he lifted his head, turned, and thudded toward the front door.

I sped outside.

A horse and rider trotted down a dirt road, clearly visible in the moonlight. The rider dismounted, opened a gate, drew the horse through, closed the gate. Once again astride the horse, the rider lifted the reins and the horse headed for the barn. As the door was pulled wide and a light flicked on, Tucker Satterlee moved with easy grace, leading the horse inside.

I watched as he loosened the saddle. As I remembered my geography, Burnt Creek was a couple of miles from the brick plant. There were country roads Tucker would know well. At an easy pace, the ride could be made in a half hour. The east gate was no barrier to a man accustomed to using wire cutters.

The murderer had likely pulled the gate wide and either driven, walked, biked, or, in Tucker’s case, ridden a horse to a hill overlooking the pit and waited in the shadow of the trees for Kim to arrive. As the PT Cruiser came through the gate, the rifle was lifted. When the car passed through the security light, the rifle fired. One shot and the car careened out of control.

The eruption of light, the shouts of the police, the headlights of the police cars must have shocked the murderer into immobility. But not for long. Unseen and unheard, the murderer slipped away, either to a car or bicycle hidden in shadows beyond the gate, or, if Tucker, to a tethered horse.

Inside the barn, Tucker’s sheepskin jacket hung from a hook near the door. Tucker carried the saddle and blanket to the tack room. I didn’t see a rifle or a scabbard for a rifle. He returned with a bucket of water for the horse.

I felt a twinge of uncertainty. Where were the wire cutters? Where was the rifle? Where was the rifle scabbard?

The hook where his coat hung was behind him. Quickly, I checked the pockets, both exterior and interior. A ball of twine. Two oblongs of bubble gum. A crumpled map. A half-eaten energy bar.

No wire cutter.

The horse drank, then lifted her head. He gave her a pat. “Good girl,” and began to walk her up and down.

I shook my head in self-irritation. The man might be a killer, but he was no fool. When pandemonium erupted as the Cruiser tumbled into the pit, the murderer knew immediately that Kim’s death would clearly be recognized as murder. There were ponds, a small lake, and brush-thick gullies between the brick plant and Burnt Creek, and, of course, between the brick plant and Pritchard House or Harrison Hammond’s office or home.

If Tucker Satterlee rode out tonight equipped to commit murder, he was smart enough on his return to jettison anything that could be linked to the crime. As a rancher, he would have several rifles. If he had carried a rifle tonight, I felt certain it could not be traced to him. As for wire cutters and a rifle scabbard, he likely had several of both. The lack of a firearm was no proof of his innocence.

Still, he had been out on a horse on a cold winter night. What innocent reason could there be?

If I tried to alert Chief Cobb, it would take a good while before anyone would be dispatched to question Tucker. If Tucker was the murderer, the longer time he had to relax and formulate an alibi, the less likely he was to reveal guilt when questioned.

Now was the time to ask.

Outside the stable, I swirled into being, strode quickly across the uneven ground, rapped smartly on the open barn door. “Police.”

“Coming.” He reached the barn entrance. His angular, attractive face held no hint of uneasiness. “Officer.”

He sounded puzzled. “Is there a problem?” He looked past me. No police cruiser was parked behind me. “Car trouble?”

My hope of intimidating Tucker Satterlee plummeted, like a lead sinker in a pond. I ignored his question.

“Mr. Satterlee, where were you at eleven o’clock tonight?”

He looked surprised. “Eleven? Hey, that’s about the time I heard a lot of noise, sirens and stuff. I wondered what was going on. Are you looking for a fugitive?” There was nothing but curious inquiry in his face and voice.

I was polite but brisk. “You are a person of interest in a murder that was committed at approximately eleven P.M.”

He stiffened, his face hard, his good humor gone. “Somebody’s mixed up, got some other guy in mind. Not me. Around eleven o’clock I was making sure a heifer’s first delivery went okay. That’s how I happened to be outside and hear the noise. If you want to ride over to the pasture with me, I’ll introduce you to the calf, a pretty little black baldy heifer.”

I knew the kind of calf well, all-black with a white face, a cross between a black Angus cow and a Hereford bull.

“Now, unless you need my help”—he was curt—“I need to cool down Big Sal, brush off the salt, and put her in the corral.” He started to turn away, then stopped, waved his hand. “You folks can make free on Burnt Creek if it helps you in your search. And I’ll let you know if I run across anything funny.”

Tucker Satterlee had an answer for everything. I didn’t doubt the newborn calf existed and her Angus mother. No one could prove the birth had occurred earlier than eleven o’clock. Nor could I prove his presence or, as a matter of fact, the presence of any of the heirs at the brick plant.

Chief Cobb was haggard
in the slant of sunlight through his office windows. His hair was scarcely combed.

He’d shaved but missed several patches. Bloodshot irises and dark pouches beneath his eyes spoke of little sleep. I empathized. I’d managed a few hours on the chaise longue in Peg and Keith’s room, and I’d stoked my inner spirit with a huge country breakfast of bacon, fried eggs, grits, biscuits and cream gravy at a truck stop on the outskirts of Adelaide where a traveling redhead in a sweatshirt and jeans provoked no interest, but I too felt exhausted and weary.