Merry, Merry Ghost

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Chief Cobb’s moderate-sized office seemed crowded. Peg and Johnny sat at the circular table near the wall with the old-fashioned blackboard. A gawky woman with spiky violet hair and metallic gray eyes frowned in concentration at the sketch pad on the table. Her hand, the fingers long and graceful, moved with quick surety. Detective Sergeant Price stood behind her chair, his eyes thoughtful.

As red curls and a thin freckled face came clearer on the sketch pad, Chief Cobb watched with the curious expression of a man who doesn’t trust what he sees.

Behind the chief’s desk, Keith made whooshing noises as he pushed the swivel chair around and around.

A burly police officer with a Saint Bernard face opened the hall door. “Mrs. Norton is here. From St. Mildred’s.”

The church secretary bustled inside, her bony face eager. She pulled off a scarf, tucked it in the pocket of her red lamb’s wool coat, handed the coat grandly to Detective Sergeant Price. Her green wool dress was as shapeless as a gunny sack. “Have you caught that woman? She was certainly up to no good.”

I found her vindictive attitude hard to fathom. Did she dislike redheads on principle? I wouldn’t stoop to suggesting possible jealousy on the part of a faded brunette with sprigs of gray. After all, the hijacking of a church directory surely didn’t qualify as high crime. I would have pegged it a misdemeanor.

Chief Cobb took the coat and added it to the several on the coat tree. “The artist will appreciate any help you can offer.”

I looked over the artist’s shoulder. Hmm. My cheekbones were perhaps a little more prominent.

Detective Sergeant Price shook his head. “She’s a lot better-looking than that if she’s who I think she is. Kind of a haunting beauty. Her face is thinner—”

The artist erased, reformed my cheekbones.

“—and the chin is delicate. Freckles across her nose.” For an instant, he might not have been in the winter-stuffy room. His eyes had a faraway look. “I like freckles.”

Johnny hunched forward. “Green eyes like a cat’s, really bright.”

Peg squinted in remembrance. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I was upset.” She didn’t look toward Johnny. “She had a great smile, one of those I’ve-just-met-you-but-I-already-like-you-and-let’s-befriends smiles.”

The secretary’s nose wriggled. “Really curly bright red hair. You know, the vixen-vamp kind of hair. Probably out of a bottle.”

I glared at her lank graying hair and snapped, “Women with boring hair always resent natural redheads.” Oh. And oh. Once again I’d spoken aloud when I shouldn’t. I hoped Wiggins was safely in Tumbulgum.

The secretary’s head jerked toward Peg. “I beg your pardon.”

Peg clutched Johnny’s arm. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Someone did. A woman.” The church secretary glared at Peg.

Chief Cobb, Detective Sergeant Price, and Officer Cain had uncannily similar expressions of uneasiness. As if in concert, their eyes moved around the room.

Chief Cobb cleared his throat. “Mrs. Norton, the voice wasn’t at all similar to Miss Flynn’s voice. Much huskier. Forceful.”

Certainly I have always spoken with vigor. I hadn’t taught English and chaired meetings to sound meek. For an instant, I felt I heard a ghostly echo of boisterous laughter, Bobby Mac guffawing at the idea of a meek me. As he often told our kids, “You’ll get the best of your mother when elephants tap-dance.” Actually, there’s a traveling troupe of pachyderms I caught on their last Milky Way show who did a fine shuffle hop step.

“I heard what I heard.” The church secretary’s voice was icy.

“We more than likely had an errant transmission in here.” Chief Cobb waved a hand toward his computer. “Sometimes we get communications that we aren’t expecting. Whatever we heard, the comment had no connection to you. We appreciate your contribution as a concerned citizen. Should the redheaded woman return to St. Mildred’s, please call us.” He retrieved the red wool coat, held it out for her. “Sergeant Mersky will take you back to the church.”

As the door closed behind Mrs. Norton, Detective Sergeant Price said firmly, “I think I know who she is. Not a chance that red was out of a bottle. Her hair glistens like copper in the summer sun.”

Who would have thought a homicide detective would be so poetic?

I sent a little telepathic message to Bobby Mac: He’s adorable, but you are my man. Not to worry. Bobby Mac always had an eye for good-looking women and understood when I admired a manly male. But we always danced the last dance together.

Cobb glanced at Price, his gaze speculative. “Right.” He turned to the artist. “Okay, Tammie, print up some copies for us.”

The artist made a change, smudged charcoal, added a stronger line to the jaw.

I nodded in approval. A very nice likeness indeed. However, my pleasure ebbed, it wouldn’t be helpful to have this image broadcast.

The artist returned the pastel pencils to their box and slipped the sketch pad and box into a portfolio. “Major crook?” Her voice was startlingly deep.

Cobb cleared his throat. “She may have information that would be useful in an investigation.”

The artist stood almost six feet tall. Although she was careless with makeup—too much eyeliner and an orange lip gloss that bordered on strange—I admired her silvery gray silk charmeuse cap-sleeve blouse and an ankle-length bias-cut jacquard skirt with swirls of raspberry, silver, and indigo and open silver sandals. I supposed she didn’t mind cold toes.

She walked to the door, then turned. For an instant, her posture froze. She looked at me.

I looked back at her.

Our eyes met.

Uh-oh.

Some children see what isn’t there. Rarely is that true of adults.

The artist slouched against the lintel. “Is she on the side of the angels?”

Detective Sergeant Price’s generous mouth twisted in an odd, lopsided grin. “I think so. I definitely think so.”

Tammie waggled her portfolio. “Who knows? She may be closer than you think.” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “I have a feeling she’ll be in touch.”

I nodded vigorously.

Her eyes, also silvery gray, watched me. “I’ll get the copies out as soon as possible.”

I shook my head with equal vigor.

“Of course”—her tone was casual—“we’ve been having some problems with the program. Sometimes when I try to make the transfer to digital, everything gets screwed up.” As she turned away, she gave me a decisive, amused wink.

The door closed behind her, and I started to breathe again.

Peg glanced at her watch. “Chief Cobb, I’d lost track of the time.” Her tone was anxious. “I’m due at Susan’s lawyer’s office at two and I need to take Keith home.”

Chief Cobb held up his hand. “If you can spare just a minute more, Miss Flynn.” He was genial, but his eyes were intent. “How did you happen to have lunch with the woman Officer Cain identifies as the driver of the car the night your aunt died?”

Peg turned her hands up in amazement. “I was shocked when Johnny told me that.” Her face turned pink. “I mean, when Officer Cain told me. I’d never seen her before today. She came into Lulu’s behind us and sat down next to Keith. Keith spoke to her and she was very nice to him. If she knew Susan, she didn’t tell me. It’s so odd, all of it. But I’m sure Jo—Officer Cain isn’t mistaken. He’s always very precise.” Her face turned even pinker. “We were lab partners in chemistry in high school. He is very methodical.”

Johnny’s face was pink, too. He carefully didn’t look toward Peg. “Susan Flynn said the redheaded woman was a friend from out of town.” He gazed earnestly at the chief. “There’s no reason Peg—I mean Miss Flynn—would have known her.”

Small steps sounded on the wooden floor. Keith ran toward Peg. “I found M&M’s. Can I have some?” He pointed at Chief Cobb’s oak desk. A side drawer had been pulled out.

“Oh, Keith.” Peg came to her feet.

Cobb grinned. “That’s okay. All right, Keith, it looks like you’re a good M&M detective.” He strode to the desk, lifted out a big bag of the small candies. “I’ll bet you count good, too. How many candies does a good detective deserve?”

Keith’s eyes danced with pleasure. He held up both hands, fingers outspread.

The chief laughed aloud and measured out ten M&M’s.

Peg looked at her watch. “I’m going to be late to the meeting. Leon Butler was going to show Keith some horses, but I don’t have time to drive out there.”

Johnny Cain stepped forward. “Sir, since Miss Flynn was helping us, perhaps I can be of assistance. Miss Flynn and I are old friends. I could take Keith out to Leon’s and she’ll be able to get to her meeting.”

Chief Cobb looked from one to the other. “If that is agreeable to you, Miss Flynn, Officer Cain has my permission.”

Johnny turned to Keith. “Would you like to ride with me in a real police car?”

Keith crunched another M&M and nodded vigorously. Peg knelt to help him into his coat. Johnny swung Keith up and onto his shoulders.

Peg squeezed Johnny’s arm. “Thank you, Johnny. We can switch the car seat to the police car. Please tell Leon I’ll pick Keith up…”

As the door closed behind them, Chief Cobb held out the M&M bag.

Detective Sergeant Price opened his hand, popped a half dozen in his mouth.

The two men exchanged thoughtful glances.

Cobb looked dour. “Susan Flynn was last seen with this knockout redhead. Next time the redhead shows up, definitely identified by Johnny Cain, she’s sitting next to Susan Flynn’s grandson at Lulu’s. Peg Flynn claims she never saw her before. I don’t like coincidences. They stick in my craw.”

Price crunched the candies. “Lots of unanswered questions on this one, Chief.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got feelers out to pick up financial background on the Flynn heirs. Off the record.”

I hadn’t worked at the mayor’s office without understanding the good old boy network in Adelaide. Someone always knew what you wanted to find out and a promise of confidentiality loosened lips faster than a shot of Jack Daniel’s. If other evidence suggested the murderer’s identity, a court order could be obtained to get any needed records.

Price grabbed a navy ski jacket from the coat tree. “Hey, Sam. To call a spade a spade, I’ll bet this redhead is that good-looker who was mixed up in the murder at St. Mildred’s, the one who talked to witnesses pretending to be Officer M. Loy. She had a way of disappearing, too. We never found a trace of her. Anywhere. She was a babe.”

Cobb managed a good-humored chuckle. “You need a girlfriend, Hal. No point in holding out for somebody who clearly doesn’t live in Adelaide.”

“Yeah.” Hal’s tone was regretful. “Besides, even if she”—he didn’t identify me, but that wasn’t necessary—“showed up, I remember for sure she wore a wedding ring when I saw her on the back porch of the rectory. The good ones are always taken.”

After the door closed, Cobb’s genial expression faded. He walked toward the blackboard. There were no marks on it. Someone had wiped away the comments I’d added yesterday.

Cobb picked up a broken piece of chalk. He muttered aloud. “Who wrote on the blackboard and every word nailed Neva. Another coincidence?” He stared down at the chalk fragment in his big fingers. “Then the chalk fell on the floor. I saw it. I think. Okay, things fall. Another coincidence? And how about my notes? That pencil sure seemed to be moving, and when I got to Pritchard House and looked at the legal pad, I found stuff I don’t remember writing down. I guess I could have. And now I’m talking to myself. Out loud. Maybe it’s all Neva’s fault. It’s hard to think straight when Neva’s around.” He lifted his hand to the blackboard.

I waited, wondering.

He printed in distinctive large block letters: Officer M. Loy? He looked hopefully around the office, then abruptly dropped the chalk in the tray, turned on his heel. “I’m sure desperate for help when I try to call on somebody who isn’t here.”

He folded his hands behind his back, walked to his desk with his heavy shoulders slumped. He might as well have shouted his frustration to the world. The evidence suggesting murder could be explained away, leaving the cause of Susan’s death open: murder, suicide, or accident.

I’d thought I’d be off on the Rescue Express after the meeting at the lawyer’s office established Keith as Susan’s heir. However, that left unfinished the matter of Susan’s murder. I’d believed my duty done once I’d set the stage for an investigation. Clearly the matter was not so simply resolved.

Would Wiggins let me assist Chief Cobb in catching Susan’s murderer?

Wiggins had been outraged at her untimely demise. Wiggins had encouraged me to bring Susan’s murderer to justice. Obviously I’d not finished my task. I had to do what I had to do.

I moved to the blackboard, picked up the chalk, wrote in a stylish hand:

Officer M. Loy reporting for duty.

Chief Cobb stood at the window, staring out. He would find my message.

Wade Farrell’s conference room was shabby but reassuring, an old oak table that had seen years of use, sturdy straight chairs, faded red velvet drapes, and over the fireplace an oil portrait of a man in a judge’s robe, his face both stern and thoughtful. Though Wade’s face was more rounded and his hairline receding, there was a marked resemblance to the man in the portrait.

Wade waited until everyone was seated, then took his place in a chair at one end.

A dark gray folder rested at each occupied place.

Wade’s face was somber. “I regret the circumstances of our gathering.” He frowned and avoided looking directly at any of the heirs. He cleared his throat. “I will briefly acquaint you—”

Obviously Wade Farrell wanted to avoid any discussion of the cause of Susan’s death.

“—with the provisions of the will.”

Jake touched a handkerchief to reddened eyes. Tears trickled down Peg’s cheeks. Tucker leaned back in the leather chair, his expression intent. Once again he was clean-shaven. Gina fingered a jade necklace that was startling in its beauty against her white silk blouse. Charlotte Hammond gazed unseeingly at the portrait of the judge. Harrison took an impatient breath.

“In the folder in front of you, you will find a copy of Susan’s last will and testament. The provisions are simple. The estate is to be divided equally among Jacqueline Flynn, Peg Flynn, Tucker Satterlee, Gina Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond.”

If a bucket of ice water had been upended over me, I could not have been more stunned. I leaned over Harrison’s shoulder. He flipped through the pages. I recognized the document I’d found when I had explored Wade’s files.

“…would like to point out that Susan specifically indicated that Pritchard House was to be included in Mrs. Jacqueline Flynn’s share and Burnt Creek in the share allotted Tucker Satterlee. Of course…”

I zoomed back and forth above the table, feeling frantic and helpless. Where was Susan’s new will?

“…until there is a final accounting, the amount of each bequest can only be estimated, but I feel safe in saying that the estate’s current value is approximately twelve million dollars.”

Jake took a quick little breath. Harrison looked like a man with a last-minute reprieve from the guillotine. He lifted a shaking hand to pull at his collar. Tucker slouched back in the leather chair. Gina clasped her hands tightly together.

Peg closed the folder with a slap, looked at Wade in dismay. “Susan wanted her estate to go to Keith. She told you to draw up a new will.”

It was as if a cold wind swept the room.

Jake pressed both hands against her cheeks. Harrison folded his arms and stared down at the table. Tucker gave a slight head shake. Gina clutched at the jade beads, her face stiff. Charlotte shook her head.

Peg looked at each in turn. “You know that’s true. So what are we going to do?”

Wade looked troubled. “You are correct, Peg. That was Susan’s intent. The fact remains that she didn’t live long enough to execute a new will. The will that exists controls disposition of her estate.”

Peg’s look at her fellow heirs was imploring. “We can assign our portions to Keith. All of us. That’s what we should do.”

Wade held up a cautioning hand. “Each of you may give your inheritance to whomever you wish. However, there will be gift taxes to consider. Or, in the event an heir elects not to receive an inheritance, that portion of the estate would then be divided among the remaining heirs, and”—he tapped the gray folder—“those heirs are Mrs. Flynn, Tucker Satterlee, Gina Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond.”

“Keith is Susan’s grandson.” Peg’s cry was impassioned.

Her mother looked away, crushing a wisp of sodden handkerchief in one hand.

Tucker shrugged. “Peg, honey, you can do what you want with what you get. Susan promised the ranch to me a long time ago. I didn’t stay here to work for somebody else.” His face was abruptly hard and determined. “Burnt Creek is mine.”

Jake turned toward her daughter. Her eyes begged for understanding. “We’ll make a wonderful home for Keith and see him through school and everything, but I don’t see why Mitch’s son should be dropped on us after Mitch ran away and broke his parents’ hearts. Susan didn’t even know about Keith until this weekend and I’ve spent years taking care of her and the house. Susan wanted me to have the house.”

Gina said nothing, but she avoided looking toward Peg.

Harrison spoke loudly. “I agree with Jake. The boy is a latecomer and I still have doubts as to his legitimacy. Even if he is legitimate, Mitch was nothing but trouble for his parents and he killed his sister—”

Peg stood so quickly the chair tipped and crashed to the floor behind her. “That’s mean, Harrison. Mitch made a terrible mistake. No one suffered more than he did. He loved Ellen. That’s why he ran away. He couldn’t bear what he had done.”

Harrison was gruff. “Mitch disappeared and never contacted Tom or Susan. He wasn’t even here for his father’s funeral. You do what you wish about your share, but my share is mine.”

Peg spoke to Farrell, her voice shaky. “Keith should be Susan’s heir. I want my portion to be used for him. If you say there will be less if I give it to him, then I’ll take the money and put it in the bank and I’ll spend every penny for Keith.” She whirled and hurried to the hall door. She ignored her mother’s call. The door slammed behind her.

Harrison picked up the folder. “It will be helpful to have a breakdown on the estate’s assets as soon as possible. Perhaps next week?”

Farrell was impassive. “My intention is to provide each of you with a definitive description of the holdings when our office reopens after the holidays.”

Harrison, now a man of substance, was magnanimous. “I don’t want to impinge upon your holiday. However, I’m in the midst of some financial negotiations and the figures will be useful to me.”

Tucker leaned forward. “The accounts are all…”

As Peg predicted, the vultures had gathered, eager to tear away their succulent piece of flesh.

They had no right.

Where was Susan’s holographic will?

I zoomed into Wade’s private office. A memo pad on his desk listed several appointments. A stack of opened mail rested in his in-box. It took only a moment to flip through letters from other law firms and from businesses. There was no stiff square envelope addressed in Susan’s distinctive handwriting and with her return address. I burrowed through the wastebasket and found no trace.

I whirled to the fireplace. Flames danced and the warmth eddied out. If the will had been burned, it was lost forever in the feathery ashes. I reached out, touched the shiny, clean poker. There was no indication the poker had been used this morning.

Why would Wade Farrell care who inherited? Was there some evidence of malfeasance that could better be hidden in an estate divided among five beneficiaries? To the contrary, wouldn’t it be easier to hide theft or misuse of funds in an estate left to a child with him as the lawyer in charge?

In any event, I found nothing to indicate the will had ever reached him.

In the outer office, Wade’s secretary faced her computer, her fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. She was a woman who attracted notice, deep-set eyes, long nose, full lips, firm chin. There was a toughness in her expression that suggested a focus on self. I admired the dangling silver earrings that highlighted the embroidered flower pattern on her silk jacket. Especially artful were the occasional small birds in faint pastel shades palely visible among the flowers. She gazed toward the window, her oval face confident and pleased, her lips curved in a slight smile.

I scanned her desk. Her nameplate read Kim Weaver. Several folders were stacked on one side. The center portion of the desk was clear. I zoomed close to the in-and out-box. A half dozen letters and several manila envelopes, ready for mailing, were in the out-box. The in-box was empty. In Farrell’s office, letters and envelopes, neatly slit and ready for his attention, awaited him. Obviously the Monday mail had been received and dealt with.

I’d dropped Susan’s stamped and sealed square envelope in the main post office slot late Saturday night. It should have been delivered today.

I smiled at my reflection in the plate-glass door of the post office. When I’d cheerfully written Officer M. Loy reporting for duty on Chief Cobb’s office blackboard, I’d had no idea how quickly she would appear on the scene. The Adelaide police uniform was quite fetching, French blue cap with a black bill, long-sleeved French blue shirt, French blue trousers with a navy stripe down each leg. French blue was a very nice color for redheads. The Adelaide police patches looked fresh and new (as surely they should) on each shoulder. The metal name tag and badge over the left breast pocket read Officer M. Loy. The black leather shoes were shined to a glossy sheen. I shivered and immediately welcomed the warmth of a wool-lined nylon black raid jacket inscribed Police.

I skirted the long line of patrons, clutching boxes from tiny to immense. I walked to the door with a bell and punched it. In a moment, a plump, cheerful woman opened the door. “You got a—oh, hello, Officer. What can I do for you?”

In less than three minutes I had the name and current location of the postman who had delivered mail to Wade Farrell’s office this morning.

The slender mailman shifted the heavy leather pouch from his shoulder to the floor of the office building. He squinted in thought, faded blue eyes vaguely resentful. “You got to remember I deliver several thousand pieces of mail every day, especially”—he sighed heavily—“during Christmas. You got any idea how much mail we handle in December?”

I beamed my most admiring smile. “Mr. Crandall, I know it’s a chance in a thousand, but you look like a man who notices details. In fact, I imagine you have an unerring instinct for noting anything unusual. Our hope is that you might remember a delivery you made this morning to the law office of Wade Farrell. The particular item, Mr. Crandall, was unusual in its size, a square envelope from an expensive creamy thick stock, unlike most Christmas card envelopes. Moreover, the address was written in a distinctive script.” I had a clear memory of Susan Flynn’s handwriting, looping capitals and leftward slanted lowercase letters. “The W in Wade was quite large and the rest of his name leaned to the left, the letters very thin, almost skeletal. The engraved return address was Susan Pritchard Flynn, 19 Chickasaw Ridge.”

“Oh, that envelope. Sure.” His recognition was obvious and immediate. “If you’d told me right off that you meant a letter from Mrs. Flynn, I could have told you. I noticed the envelope especially. Pretty handwriting she has.”

Of course, he would have no way of knowing of Susan’s death. The announcement would be in tomorrow’s paper. “Susan passed away last night.”

“I knew she was real sick, but I’m sorry to hear that. She was a mighty fine woman. I used to deliver in her neighborhood, and every Christmas she gave me a ham.” He frowned darkly. “You think any of these fancy businesses I deliver to now give me anything? They don’t care if I get their mail to ’em when it’s a hundred and eight degrees or when the ice is so slick the sidewalk’s worse than a skating rink.”

“You delivered an envelope from Mrs. Flynn to Mr. Farrell this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. Not a doubt.”

“Thank you, sir. This is a huge help to our investigation. We may be back in touch to take your formal statement.”

“Be glad to oblige.” His eyes gleamed. “Think I might get to testify in a court case?”

“That is always a possibility. Thank you, sir, for your cooperation.”

As I turned to leave, he called after me. “If you ask me questions on direct examination on the witness stand, better not ask leading questions. You can ask me to describe the materials I delivered”—he sounded suddenly prosecutorial—“to the office of Attorney Wade Farrell on this day. I’ll describe that envelope and there won’t be any doubt about it.”

I must have looked startled.

He nodded sagely. “I never miss Law & Order. That Connie Rubirosa’s the gal to have in a courtroom.”

As he stepped into the elevator to deliver on the next floor, I disappeared.