Ghost at Work (20 page)

Cobb waited.

Kirby shuddered, again stared at the floor. “We were yelling, and when I looked up we'd walked into the cemetery. I got madder and madder and he shoved me and I shot him.”

“What happened to the gun? Did you put it in the trunk and somebody stole it?” The chief looked sardonic.

“No. I threw it away in the cemetery.”

Cobb pursed his lips. “Nobody stole it?”

“No. I threw it away.” Kirby's expression was dogged.

Chief Cobb studied Kirby. “I am taking you into custody for questioning. We'll go downtown and arrange for a lawyer to be present.”

Judith threw out her hands. “He didn't do it.” She was frantic, her voice rising. “He's lying. He didn't shoot his father. I did. Kirby didn't follow his father.”

Chief Cobb turned on her. “How do you know that, Mrs. Murdoch?”

Judith looked oddly calm when she spoke. “I was there. I was waiting in my car. I followed Daryl. He was alone in his car.” She looked at Kirby, her face stricken. “You saw me, didn't you?”

“Mom, don't.” Kirby's voice was anguished.

Cobb looked at her intently. “Why did you follow him?”

Judith's face was bleak. “He's been cheating on me for years. I finally had enough. I followed him to the church. I'd already gotten Kirby's gun out of his car. He never locks his car. That was another lie. I drove by his girlfriend's apartment and saw his car Thursday afternoon. That's when I got the gun.”

Chief Cobb folded his arms. He looked from one to the other. “I want to speak to each of you separately. Kirby, let's step outside for a moment.” He nodded at Judith. “Please wait in the living room.”

Judith clasped her hands. “Kirby didn't shoot his father.”

Kirby didn't look toward Judith. “Mother didn't do it. I swear. She doesn't know how to shoot a gun. I did it.”

Chief Cobb folded his arms. “I can take you both into custody, interview you separately. So take your choice. Here. Or downtown.”

Kirby jerked a shaking hand toward the door. “Let's go outside.” He turned away. The chief followed. Judith stood rigid, staring after them.

When the front door closed, I was at the chief's elbow.

Cobb gave Kirby a hard look. “Take it from the first. You got to the church. What happened?”

“I caught up with him outside the church. We started arguing. We were making a lot of noise. He grabbed my arm, pulled me toward the cemetery. We walked for a few minutes and we were yelling at each other and I pulled out my gun and shot him.”

“Which gate did you take into the cemetery?”

Kirby looked wary. “How should I know? It was just a gate.”

Cobb rubbed one cheek. “The main road curves to the south. Were you near that curve?” The Pritchard mausoleum was a good hundred yards from that curve.

Kirby moved uneasily, but he managed a straight stare. “I guess. Yeah. That sounds right.”

Cobb gestured as if he held a gun. “You pulled out the gun and shot him. Did the bullet hit him in the chest?”

Kirby thought fast. He knew guns, especially knew .22s. To be deadly, a small-caliber bullet had to strike a vital area. “Yeah. His heart. Right on.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

Kirby hesitated an instant too long, then said quickly, “I went over to the nature preserve and threw it into the lake.”

Cobb's face furrowed in irritation. “You've got a new story every
time. First, somebody stole the gun. Then you threw the gun away in the cemetery. Now you tossed it in the lake. You're lying. One way or another, you're lying. You don't know where the body was found. You don't know where he was shot. Or maybe”—his gaze was cold—“you're clever as hell and you know the answers but you're lying your head off. Wait here.” He slammed into the house.

Kirby called after him, “Mom's trying to protect me. She didn't shoot him.”

Cobb strode into the living room.

Judith waited by the fireplace. The flames crackled but she shivered. “Kirby's trying to protect me. I'm sorry.” She looked like she would collapse, then drew herself up. “I'm ready to go to jail.”

The chief nodded. “Just a few facts, Mrs. Murdoch. Where were you standing when you shot your husband?”

Her eyes flared. “I was”—she hesitated—“facing him. We'd quarreled. He came toward me. I pulled the gun out of my purse and shot him.”

“Where were you?”

“In the cemetery.”

“Where in the cemetery?” His gaze was sharp.

Judith clutched at her throat. “I don't know exactly. I don't remember where we were. I was too upset.”

“Did you enter by the south gate or the west gate?”

I thought rapidly. Kathleen and I had used the wheelbarrow to enter through the north gate. The main gate was on the west side of the cemetery. There was also a gate to the south. I had the distinct sense Judith was desperately trying to guess the right answer. Logically, if she and Daryl had walked from the church, they would have entered through the west gate.

She fluttered her hands. “We came in through the west gate.”

“Where did you go?”

She shrugged, looked puzzled. “I don't know. We were walking and talking. I wasn't paying any attention. I don't know exactly where we were. I can't say exactly. I shot him and then I ran. I don't know where I was.”

“You were facing him as you fired the gun.” Chief Cobb made it a statement.

“That's right.” She watched him carefully.

“The bullet struck him in the chest.” Another statement.

She made no answer.

“Chest or face?”

“I didn't look. I pressed the trigger and turned and ran away.”

I shook my head. Judith obviously had never hunted, never listened to men who did. Hitting any target is difficult. Shooting blind was almost a guarantee of a wild shot.

Cobb's expression was skeptical. “Where's the gun?”

Now she looked triumphant. “In the backyard. I buried it in the flower bed behind the third rosebush from the walk.”

His eyes narrowed. His gaze became intent and speculative. “Show me.”

She hurried to a patio door, flung it open. The chief was right behind her.

Cobb found the soft mound of dirt behind the third rosebush. He knelt and gingerly scraped away loose soil, piling dirt to one side. He scraped until the ground turned hard. He looked up at Judith, his face grim.

She bent forward, anxious and uncertain. “It was there. I buried it there.”

Cobb pushed up from the ground, grimacing as he straightened one knee. “If you did”—his tone was cold—“it doesn't seem to be there now, Mrs. Murdoch.”

“Someone's taken it.” She twisted her hands together.

“Just like somebody took it from the trunk of your son's car. Or didn't take it, depending on who I ask.” He glared at Judith. “I'm telling you and you can tell your son that I intend to find out who killed your husband, with or without your help.”

The patio door opened and Kirby came out.

Cobb looked at him. “Maybe you took the gun out of its hole.”

Kirby said nothing, though he cut his eyes toward his mother.

Cobb brushed the dirt from his hands. “I'll be in touch.”

When he disappeared around the edge of the house, Kirby strode toward his mother. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I shot your dad. He didn't believe me.”

Kirby jammed a hand through his hair. “He didn't believe me either.”

Judith's face was ashen. “What did you tell him?”

He blinked, holding back tears. “I didn't tell him I saw your car when we came out of the parking lot. I never will.”

“You saw my car?” Suddenly her face looked years younger. “You saw me following your dad? So you turned away, didn't you? Oh, Kirby, when I realized your dad was going to the church, I came home.”

“Then what happened to my gun? It should have been in my car.”

Judith began to laugh and it turned into a sob. “I was so afraid when they said he was shot with a twenty-two. Friday morning I went out and looked and found it in your trunk. I picked it up and smelled it—”

He looked shocked. “I was target-practicing Thursday afternoon. That's all. Did you think I shot Dad?”

“Of course not. But I was terrified the police would think so. I buried the gun in the backyard, but now it's gone.”

“Gone?” For an instant, satisfaction lighted his face. “Maybe that's a good thing. Let's hope it never turns up. We know it didn't have anything to do with Dad getting shot, so good riddance.”

 

Chief Cobb moved quietly
away from the side of the house where'd he stood and eavesdropped. His face was grim as he climbed into his car. “Damn fools?” he muttered to himself. “Or is one of them crafty as hell?”

A musical peal sounded.

The chief yanked out his cell phone. “Cobb.” He listened. “A clear match?” His smile was grim and satisfied. “Yeah. I'm on my way to the church now.”

F
ather Bill picked up a small Dresden shepherd, but his gaze was abstracted, the gesture automatic. The glaze of the shepherd's coat was worn away. I suspected Father Bill often held the figurine, turned it in his hand when dealing with troubles of body and soul. His face furrowed. “You're certain the tracks were made by the rectory wheelbarrow?”

Chief Cobb was in a familiar posture, sitting upright in the straight chair that faced the rector's desk, hands planted firmly on his legs. He looked overlarge in the shabby office with its full bookcases and old-fashioned wooden filing cabinets. The chief's gray suit was wrinkled, his tie loose at the neck. He looked tired. “No question. There are traces of mud and cedar needles from the cemetery on the wheel. There are no cedars in your backyard. Moreover, the wheel rim has a gash in it that makes the tread unmistakable.”

“I can't explain it.” Father Bill's thumb slid up and down on the faded porcelain. “Daryl's keys would open the shed, although I don't see why he would have wanted a wheelbarrow or, if he wanted one, why he would take it to the cemetery.”

The chief's gaze was sardonic. “I don't think Mr. Murdoch took
the wheelbarrow. We have to wait for confirmation from the lab, but right now it looks like his body was placed in the wheelbarrow and transported to the cemetery. The barrow was returned to the shed. Murdoch may have been shot here.”

“Here?” Father Bill looked shocked. “In the church?”

Chief Cobb nodded. “Here or near the church or the rectory. Murdoch left his office, right after five, headed this way.” He moved nearer the edge of the chair. “Where were you Thursday evening, Reverend, from five o'clock to six-fifteen?”

“At the hospital. Ted Worsham was dying.” His face was weary. “Not unexpected, but his wife was very upset.”

The chief asked quickly, “Did you leave the hospital at any time between five and seven
P.M
.?”

Father Bill's face was somber. “I got there around four, but I came back here a little while later. I don't know exactly when.”

“You left the bedside of a dying man. Why?” His eyes never left Father Bill's face.

Father Bill rotated the Dresden shepherd around and around. “Daryl paged me around five. I called him. He said he wanted to see me in a few minutes at the church. I hurried here. I waited half an hour, but he didn't come.”

Cobb's face was grim. “You didn't say anything about this yesterday. Don't you think it might be important to a murder investigation when the body is found next door to the church to tell the police the victim had planned to be at the church around five o'clock?”

Father Bill said nothing, his face as unyielding as the chief's.

Cobb frowned. “You and Murdoch argued Thursday morning. You won't say why. Now you claim he pages you Thursday afternoon, you call him, he asks you to come to the church, and you leave a dying man's bedside to come. What was so urgent that you would do that, Reverend? Did Murdoch ask you? Or did he order you?”

Father Bill's gaze was level. “It concerned the matter we'd dis
cussed Thursday morning. I had to be here to make sure—” He broke off.

“What matter did you and Murdoch talk about, Reverend?” The chief's glare demanded an answer. “What was so important you left a dying man to come and see Murdoch?”

Father Bill slumped back in his chair, his face weary. “It was a parish matter that I am not at liberty to discuss.”

Cobb snapped, “What did he have on you, Reverend?”

“It did not concern me personally.” Father Bill's hand tightened on the statuette.

“Didn't it?” Cobb stared at him. “I talked to a couple of members of the vestry yesterday. Murdoch had contacted them, called a special meeting for Sunday afternoon to address, as he put it, ‘a fiduciary matter.'”

Kathleen's chat with the junior warden at the Friends' dinner last night was probably enough to salvage Father Bill's reputation with the vestry, but Chief Cobb might not be convinced.

“That was the warden's prerogative.” Father Bill's face looked pinched.

Cobb demanded, “What will you tell the vestry?”

Father Bill's voice hardened. “Nothing.”

Cobb let silence build. Finally, he stood.

Father Bill came to his feet, realized he was holding the shepherd. He glanced at it in surprise, placed it on the desk. “Chief, I regret that I can't answer your question. However, I'm sure the matter has no connection to Daryl's murder. If I felt otherwise, I would take action.” His face was solemn. “I swear before God that I did not see Daryl Murdoch at any time Thursday afternoon or evening. I have no knowledge of his murder.”

Cobb gave a short nod. “I'll be back in touch, Reverend.”

When the door closed behind Cobb, Father Bill walked, frowning, head down, to his desk. He settled into his chair, reached for
a yellow legal pad, the page filled with dense writing. He took a breath, picked up his pen, began to reread his work. Abruptly, he flung the pen down, along with the pad. He retrieved the parish directory, opened it.

I looked over his shoulder.

His finger ran down the page, stopped at the number for Irene Chatham. He picked up the receiver, then slowly replaced it, shaking his head.

It was obvious that Father Bill intended to continue to protect Irene Chatham's good name even though his own reputation was at risk. Even worse, he might be arrested on suspicion of a murder he had no motive to commit.

Not if I could help it…

 

The small houses on
Whitlock Street ranged from well kept to dilapidated. Purple and yellow pansies bloomed in profusion in the front bed of a neat brick bungalow on the corner. Next door was a frame house painted dark purple. A jacked-up, tireless pickup looked as though it had been in the rutted drive for years. A too-thin black-and-tan dog with droopy ears was tethered to a railing on the sagging porch. His head came up. He lifted it and howled.

I veered toward him. He backed away as far as he could until the rope held him fast, body rigid. I dropped to one knee. “It's all right, old fellow. They aren't taking very good care of you, are they?” I stroked his head. Slowly, he relaxed. I ran my hand over his back, felt his spine and ribs. “I'm sorry, Jack,” I murmured. My son, Rob, always called his dogs Jack. “I'll come back, I promise, and see what I can do.”

Irene's house was the third from the corner. It needed paint and a new roof. Overgrown bushes rose midway to the windows. The flower bed was a mass of leaves. Brown weeds poked from ridges and cracks in the cement walk.

Inside the house, I sniffed in distaste at the living room's stale, airless smell, potpourri mingling with dust. Irene stood in front of the fake fireplace, digging frantically into a shapeless crocheted bag. She yanked out a clear plastic change purse, upended the contents on the dingy white mantel. She counted aloud. “Ten—twenty—thirty-four.” She swept the bills and assorted change back into the purse and dropped it into the crocheted bag. She moved toward the front door, eyes feverishly bright, long face drooping in misery.

A woman's clothes announce to the world how she sees herself. Whether she chooses the latest fashions or prefers plain and sensible, each choice tells its own story. I shook my head at Irene's dress. One cuff was torn, a spot of grease stained a front panel, part of the hem sagged. She was a walking testament to despair. She needed fresh makeup and a good wash and brush of her straggly gray hair, but she plunged toward the door, obviously in a tearing hurry to go somewhere, do something.

In a flash, I was on the porch and became visible. I changed, reluctantly, from dashing velour into the crisp Adelaide police uniform. I was absorbed in the transformation and didn't realize until I heard a sound behind me that I wasn't alone. I swung about to look into the startled face of a postman.

He shifted the heavy bag, peered at me in astonishment. “You had on one outfit, now you're in a uniform. That's what I saw.” He was belligerent. “Where'd you come from, anyhow?”

His question was understandable. I stood with one finger poised to jab the doorbell. When he climbed the steps, he couldn't have missed seeing me. I pushed the bell, gave him a reassuring smile. “I know how it is. Sometimes our minds are a million miles away. Isn't it a beautiful day?”

The postman jammed mail into the box, turned, and fled down the steps.

I looked after him in concern. I hoped the rest of his day went better.

The door opened. Irene gasped and took a step backward, eyes wide with shock.

“Mrs. Chatham, may I have a moment of your time?” I looked at her sternly. “I'm Officer Loy. I need to speak with you about a matter concerning St. Mildred's.”

Irene's lips moved, but no words came. She opened the door with a shaking hand. She led the way into the frowsy living room, gestured at an easy chair. She sank onto the divan, clutching her purse and coat, and stared at me with desperate eyes. “Father Bill promised he wouldn't tell anyone.”

“Father Abbott has not discussed you in any manner with the—uh—with us.” I must remember that I represented Adelaide's finest. “Our information came from Daryl Murdoch's cell phone.” Indeed it had. “You recall the photographs he took?”

Irene wrapped her arms tightly across her front.

“You do recall?” I imitated the chief, bent forward, looking stern. “Two photographs. In one, you held the collection plate. In the second, you took money and stuffed it into the pocket of your Altar Guild smock.”

“I don't know what you are talking about.” She took shallow breaths.

“Come, come.” I doubted my response exemplified effective interrogative technique. I tried again. With a glower. “Mrs. Chatham, you were photographed stealing money from the collection plate. This would not be a serious matter from the police standpoint except for the fact that Father Abbott and Mr. Murdoch quarreled. Father Abbott has refused to explain the reason to the police, saying only that it is a parish matter which must be kept confidential.”

Watery brown eyes regarded me sullenly.

I didn't mince words. “Father Abbott's silence has made him a prime suspect in the murder investigation.”

Something flickered in Irene's eyes. Hope? Relief? “I don't know
anything about a disagreement between Father Bill and Daryl. Daryl was”—her voice shook—“always complaining about something at church.” Her gaze slid away, sly as a fox easing into a chicken house.

Craven self-interest should never come as a surprise, but I'd been confident I could easily prove Father Bill's lack of motive and make Chief Cobb realize that the answer to Daryl's murder didn't lie in the church.

Perhaps it did.

I looked at Irene in a different, more searching light. Her expression was vacuous. Deliberately so? “Mrs. Chatham, the police are not interested in internal matters at St. Mildred's. They—we—are investigating a murder. If you explained that Father Abbott was defending you and not engaged in a personal quarrel with Mr. Murdoch, it would direct the investigation away from Father Abbott.”

The fingers of one hand plucked at the collar of her coat. Irene lifted her eyes, watched me carefully. “Those pictures make it look bad, but it wasn't that way. I'd put money in the plate earlier and then I realized I had to pay some bills and I took it back.” Her voice was stronger as she spoke, realization dawning that no one could prove otherwise. Daryl was dead. “That's all there was to it. But Daryl wouldn't listen and he went around to Father Bill and told lies about me, called me a thief.”

“If you don't speak out, tell the truth, Father Abbott may be arrested.” Surely she would explain when she understood the seriousness of his situation.

Irene's sandy lashes fluttered. She stared at the floor, didn't say a word.

I waited.

She jumped to her feet. “I've got things to do. I was on my way out. I'm sorry I can't help.”

I stood and blocked her way. “Where were you Thursday between five and seven
P.M.
?”

Panic flared in her face. “I didn't even—” She clapped a hand to her lips.

“What didn't you do?” My tone was sharp.

“Nothing. I was here. I was here the whole time.” She shrugged into her coat, took a step toward the door. “You can't prove I wasn't.”

Irene Chatham was terrified and in her fear was willing to say and do anything to protect herself.

Why?

If I could find the answer, I might know everything I needed to know about Daryl Murdoch's murder.

I moved ahead of her to the door. “We'll be back in touch, Mrs. Chatham.” As soon as I could figure out how to set Chief Cobb on her trail.

She slammed the door behind us, clattered down the front steps. She was almost running to reach her car, a shabby green coupé.

I was glad that she didn't take time to realize there wasn't a police car parked on the street and that Officer Loy was no longer behind her, but sitting beside her as the car lurched around the corner.

Irene drove too fast, lurching across Main as the light turned red. She ran another red light and careened around corners. On the outskirts of town, she pushed even harder on the gas pedal. The car swooped up and down hills, squealed around curves. We'd gone perhaps ten miles from Adelaide when a billboard on the right announced:

 

B
UCKAROO
C
ASINO

F
UN AND
M
ONEY

M
ONEY
, M
ONEY
, M
ONEY FOR
E
VERY
H
ONEY

 

The billboard sparkled with gold coins spewing from a slot machine, piling into a glistening mound.

 

As she found a
parking space in a crowded lot, I craned for a better view of the low-slung stucco building with a crimson neon outline of a slot machine on the near wall.