Ghost at Work (16 page)

“What is what?” She was clicking and moving the oblong on the pad next to the keyboard.

I reached out and touched the screen. “This! I see them everywhere.”

“It's a computer, Auntie Grand.”

“Computer.” Another new word for me. “How does it work?”

Bayroo found what she sought, clicked again, and paper oozed from the machine on the floor.

By the time we reached the kitchen, Bayroo clutching the recipe and explaining computers, I was overborne with information about word processing (a fancy name for typing), e-mails, programs, printers, passwords, files, and mouses.

At least the next time I visited the chief's office, I wouldn't be so
confounded. The next time…Should I go there now? But I wasn't ready to impart the information I'd gained from Daryl's cell phone. I had yet to talk to Irene Chatham. I sighed.

“…I use butter. It makes all the difference—” She broke off. “What's wrong, Auntie Grand?”

I managed a smile. Dear, empathetic Bayroo. I suppose I looked gloomier than the nature-preserve lake on a January day. “I have a problem, sweetie, but there's nothing you can do about it. Go ahead with your baking.” I tapped my pen on my notebook. I knew what I had to do, but I didn't see any way to accomplish my task.

“Maybe I can help.” She came and stood by me, hands planted on her slender hips. “I know a lot about Adelaide. What do you need to know?”

I had no idea if she was aware of the senior warden's demise. In any event, she was much too young to embroil, even peripherally, in a murder investigation. Certainly I couldn't tell Bayroo why I needed to talk to people. But perhaps if I articulated my difficulty, a solution would occur to me.

I stood and gave her a hug. “You are a help just being my friend. Let's get everything out for your cake and I'll explain.”

She pulled up a kitchen chair next to a counter. “You sit here, Auntie Grand. I can do it all by myself. I told Travis I'd make it.” She bustled about the kitchen, retrieving a mixing bowl and measuring cups and spoons and cake tins. A moment later, she'd assembled her ingredients. She propped her recipe sheet on a stand.

I remembered my cooking days. I had a Betty Crocker cookbook that was dog-eared and stained. I settled on the chair. “I have some questions I need to ask some people.”

She nodded and poured cake flour into the measuring cup.

“But”—I shook my head—“even if I could go and see them, they can't see me. And even if they could”—after all, I could appear if it was essential—“I can't see why they'd talk to me.”

Bayroo looked thoughtful. “I can see you.”

“I know. Other people can't.”

She cut butter into the flour-and-sugar mixture. “Way cool. But I thought you could do something special and actually be here.”

“Oh yes, indeed.” Much to Wiggins's consternation. “I could be here if this were a big city. But in Adelaide, everyone would want to know about that redheaded stranger. You know how small towns are. If someone from the church saw me, they might walk down the corridor outside the parish hall and look at the paintings of the former directresses of the Altar Guild. That would never do.”

“Oh.” She was thoughtful. “I don't think they'd recognize you. You're a lot younger now.” She said it easily, as if it made all the sense in the world. She shook her head, looked solemn. “But if anybody did recognize you, I guess, like Mom always says, the fat would be in the fire.”

Kathleen had learned that old saying from her grandmother, my sister, Kitty.

Bayroo waggled the mixing spoon at me. “I know what to do. You can't be here as yourself, but you can be here as somebody else. You know, a disguise.”

“A disguise?” I pictured a trilby hat and oversize spectacles.

“Sure.” She stirred. “Like a nurse or secretary or census taker or social worker.”

It was an interesting suggestion, but Walter Carey, Irene Chatham, Isaac Franklin, Kirby Murdoch, Kirby's girlfriend Lily, and the unknown woman wouldn't be likely to answer questions from a stranger unless they thought I had official status.

Official status…

“Bayroo.” I sang her name. “You are brilliant. A disguise!” It was as if a door had opened. “Have fun with your cake. I'll see you later.”

P
artitions separated six cubicles. Each held a computer. Voices rose and fell around us. Brisk footsteps and ringing telephones contributed to an atmosphere of intense activity.

Patrol Officer A. Leland's desk took up half the space in her cubicle. She hunched in her chair, apparently oblivious to her surroundings, and stared at an open notebook, her expression empty.

I doubted her eyes saw the writing.

Today her honey-colored hair was drawn back in a bun. A few curls escaped to soften the severity of the style. If she loosened her hair, let it frame her narrow face, and added a bit more makeup, she would be pretty. Her eyes were deep blue, her features fine—wide-spaced eyes, straight nose, gently rounded chin.

The police uniform was flattering to her fair skin, the long-sleeved shirt French blue, the trousers French blue with a navy stripe down each leg. The shirt bore an Adelaide police patch on each shoulder and a metal name tag—
A. LELAND
—and badge over the left breast pocket. The leather shoes were black, as were the socks.

It had been a sacrifice to shed my elegant pantsuit, but I knew it was necessary. I envisioned my new outfit, found the shirt a bit scratchy. I
needed a name for my tag. I couldn't appear as Officer B. R. Raeburn. Perhaps A. Great for Alexandra the Great? J. Arc for…No. That was not a happy ending and too presumptuous. N. Bly for Nellie Bly? If Wiggins had seen fit to send me to France, that might have been an option. There had to be the perfect name, a woman I'd admired…

I smiled. I would be M. Loy. I'd always tuned in for her Nick and Nora Charles movies on TV, although it seemed to me that she spent most of her time holding Asta the terrier on her lap and watching as William Powell detected. But Myrna Loy had style and that was enough for me.

Patrol Officer M. Loy was now ready to embark on her investigation. I debated adding a holster for a gun, decided that wasn't necessary. After all, I wouldn't be passing in review to make sure I met department regulations. I simply needed to appear official to those whom I wished to question.

The phone on Officer Leland's desk rang.

She picked up the receiver. “Officer Leland.” She listened, her shoulders tightening. “Yes, Chief.” A quick breath. “I stopped Mr. Murdoch at shortly after five
P.M.
yesterday. He was making an illegal left turn onto Main Street. Since you'd spoken to me”—she cleared her throat—“I didn't give him a ticket, just a warning.” She picked up a pencil, rolled it around and around in her fingers. “No, I didn't follow him. He drove off, heading east. That's all I know. Yes, sir.” She put down the receiver, looking drained.

She reached out to pick up a silver picture frame. She placed it on the edge of her desk, stared at the photograph of a young woman with soft brown hair, bright blue eyes, a devil-may-care smile, and a defiant tilt to her head. I saw a resemblance to Officer Leland, but she was a pallid version of the vibrant creature in the photograph.

Officer Leland's face crumpled for an instant, her hands gripping the sides of the silver frame. Slowly her face changed, from grief to stern resolve. She grabbed up the receiver, held it for a long
moment until a buzz sounded. She replaced the receiver, her hand resting on it, then, with a deep breath, yanked it up, dialed.

“Chief, may I see you for a moment? There's something I have to tell you…Thank you.” When she pushed up from her chair, it seemed to take a great effort, slightly built as she was. She walked down the narrow corridor between the partition-separated cubicles. Each foot might have been weighted with chains.

Whatever difficulty she faced, her problems were far afield from my tasks. I steeled myself against the sense that here, too, was someone in deep trouble. I couldn't take on everyone's problems. I was charged with aiding Kathleen and already I'd widened my concern to include Father Bill. I couldn't add Officer Leland to my list.

She paused at the doorway, gripped the knob, and opened the door. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the hall as if marching to her doom.

It was time for me to depart. I was now equipped to find out whether I needed to bring to Chief Cobb's attention any of those pictured or recorded on the dead man's cell phone. That was my clear-cut objective. But that burdened young woman…All right. I'd find out why she was upset, but I wouldn't tarry long. I wafted to the chief's office.

Chief Cobb was standing by a long rectangular table. File folders were ranged around the perimeter. Each bore a large square white label. All pertained to the Murdoch investigation. Chief Cobb's thick iron-gray brows knotted in a frown. Lines of fatigue creased his square face. He picked up a report.

I looked over his shoulder.

A brisk knock sounded.

He replaced the report on the table, turned.

Officer Leland stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She was pale, but composed.

“What can I do for you, Anita?” His voice was formal, but the look in his eyes startled me, a mixture of gravity and longing.

Anita stood stiff and still. She looked young and vulnerable. She didn't meet his gaze.

Yet each was intensely aware of the other even though both were making every effort to pretend it wasn't so. They were linked by that magic sensitivity that spells desire and uncertainty and hope.

She moved to the end of the table, stood with her hands in tight fists. “I may have information that could be important in the Murdoch case.”

He frowned. “You followed him yesterday?”

“Oh no.” The denial was swift. “It isn't that. It's…I have to go back a long way to explain. You remember two years ago when you came out to my brother-in-law's farm, the night he shot himself.”

“I remember.” His steady gaze was filled with pity.

“You were kind.” Her eyes mourned. “You tried to help us. Then, when Vee ran away, you did your best to find her.”

His jaw tightened. “She shouldn't have left you to deal with it.”

Anita's shoulders sagged. “She never could face up to things. Never. I don't think she's still alive, you know. I keep thinking someday word will come, but every time it's like this last trip. The description matches—young woman, unidentified, found dead. But it isn't Vee. Anyway”—she made a sudden impatient gesture—“I don't know if you ever knew the man Vee was involved with.”

He rubbed one cheek. “It didn't need to be part of the record. When a man shoots himself, leaves a note, that's all an investigation needs.”

“I know. But now I have to tell you.” She flexed her fingers, shook them. “She was having an affair with Daryl Murdoch.”

Chief Cobb looked startled. “Murdoch?”

“Vee should have known better.” Anita spoke in a monotone. “She was always wild, even when she was a kid, taking chances, thinking she was special, and when somebody like him went after her, I guess she thought she'd have a chance to marry a rich man and she told Carl she was leaving him. When he shot himself, she called Murdoch and he hung up on her. Like everything else in her life, when things got rough, she quit. She took all the money in the house and left town.”

“Is that why you followed him around?” His voice was sharp.

Anita stared down at the tips of her shoes, her face working. “The first time I stopped him, I didn't know who it was. He couldn't believe I was actually going to give him a ticket. The second time I knew his car. I guess I liked stopping him. He didn't know I was Vee's sister. No reason why he should have. After that, I kept an eye out for him.” She lifted her face. “I know I shouldn't have, but I didn't see why he shouldn't have to follow the rules. So”—her gaze was defiant—“I followed him around and that's what I have to tell you about. It might be important. He always has a girlfriend. He's been seeing a woman who lives on Olive Street for about a year now. Cynthia Brown, 623 Olive. But he hadn't gone there for about a week.” She reached up, touched her name badge. “If you want to fire me, I'll understand.” Tears filmed her eyes. “I hate to disappoint you, Chief. I tried hard to be a good officer. You're the reason why I changed my major to criminal justice. I've never forgotten the night Carl died…I wanted to be able to help people the way you helped me.”

“Speed laws are supposed to be enforced.” His voice was gentle. “Your surveillance of Murdoch may turn out to be key to solving the case.”

She reached up, wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “I had to tell you even if it meant my job.”

“Your job's okay.” His tone was abstracted. He turned away, paced along the table. “I've been meaning to tell you. There's an opening in the security office at the college.”

Anita watched him with a stricken look. “I see.”

He stood, staring down at the folders. “If you're interested, I'll give you a top recommendation. Then, if that works out, maybe some Saturday…” He swung to face her. “Maybe we could go up to Oklahoma City, have lunch at Bricktown, take a ride on the canal, maybe drop by Bass Pro.” His gaze was hopeful.

Her eyes lighted. “That sounds wonderful.” The words came on a ragged breath. “I'll apply Monday.”

I smiled. My presence hadn't been necessary. Everything looked positive for the widowed chief and the young woman he had inspired. I was glad to see the beginnings of happiness. Moreover, I now had the last piece of information I needed. Unless I was very much mistaken, the woman who had desperately wanted Daryl Murdoch to call her lived at 623 Olive Street.

It was time for Officer M. Loy to begin her investigation.

 

Olive Street was four
blocks north of Main. Most of the small frame houses were in various stages of disrepair, window screens missing, front porches sagging, paint peeling. Weeds choked the abandoned train tracks that intersected Olive near number 623.

The middle front step to 623 had buckled in the center. The window shades were down. No light glimmered in front. I circled the house. Light shone from a high kitchen window. I looked inside, drew my breath in sharply.

A young woman with a mass of dark curls and a round face sat at a battered kitchen table. Slowly she raised a gun to her temple. Tears
streamed down a face blotched from crying. She gulped and sniffed, her eyes dull with misery.

There was no time to knock, no time to arrive in customary fashion. I was at her side at once. Reaching out, I gripped her arm, forced the gun to one side. I willed myself present, saw my image, unfamiliar in the blue uniform, in a cracked mirror over the sink.

“No.” I spoke sternly.

Her hand sagged. The gun clattered to the floor.

Now I knew that my detour through Chief Cobb's office had not been on behalf of Anita Leland. I relinquished my grip, reached down to pick up the gun. I broke it open, spilled out the shells in my hand. Bobby Mac taught me how to handle a gun a long time ago.

She stared at me. “How did you get in?” She brushed back dark curls. “You're the police?”

I pulled out a chair, sat opposite her. “That doesn't matter. I'm here to help you.” I smiled. “Tell me, Cynthia.”

“No one can help me.”

“God will help.”

She stared at me uncertainly. “You sound as if you know.” She shook her head almost angrily. “What can you know? You aren't any older than I am.”

I wished suddenly I could shout it aloud:
Don't judge anyone by age, not the young and not the old. It's who they are and what they've done and what they know in their hearts that matters, always and forever.
No one would listen. The world would go on its merry way, adoring youth for the wrong reason, ignoring those in the winter season.

Instead, I looked deep into her eyes.

She looked into mine.

Slowly her face changed.

I've known sorrow and fear, loss and trouble, sat at the bedside of the dying, tried to help the lost, struggled to find my own way. Bobby Mac and I were happy, but no life is untouched by heartbreak and
pain. That was part of me and that was what I offered to Cynthia.

“Your eyes…They're like my mother's eyes. Oh, if only she hadn't died. She would have kept him from hurting me. He'll hurt me so bad I'd wish I was dead, so I might as well do it myself.”

I took her hand, felt its clammy coldness. “Who will hurt you?”

“My dad. He's hurt me a lot and if he finds out I'm pregnant—” She clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Daryl Murdoch?”

The emptiness of her face told its own story. “I told him about the baby and he didn't care. He said I should have been more careful.”

“When did you tell him?”

She massaged her head as if it hurt. “I called him and he didn't call back. I went to his office yesterday. I told him when he came out to his car. He pushed me away and left. Now he's dead. I saw it on the morning news. He's dead and there's no one to help me, no one at all.”

“Yes, there will be help. Go to Father Bill at St. Mildred's Church. Do you know where that is?”

She nodded, her hand clinging to mine.

“Tell him you need help to go away to a safe place to have your baby. You can go and stay. They'll help you find a job, and when the baby comes, they'll find a home. Will you do that?”

“Yes.” The word was a sigh.

But I had to ask. “Did you follow Daryl when he left his office last night?”