Ghost at Work (15 page)

I returned the confession and the rights reversion to the envelope, but I didn't clip it to the document. I closed the folder, placed it in the
G–I
drawer. I still held the envelope.

A check of the windows revealed that they were solidly implanted within their frames. I couldn't raise a window, loosen a screen, and tuck the envelope there for later retrieval. The windows, walls, and door afforded no difficulty for my passage, but the envelope simply couldn't—

Patricia's brisk voice caught me by surprise.

I looked toward the door. It was opening. “…no one's been here, Chief Cobb, but I'm happy to show you.”

The envelope dangled in the air. I dropped to the floor, the envelope darting down. I slid the envelope beneath the edge of an Oriental rug atop the red carpet.

“…told Mrs. Murdoch I would check the office to make sure everything was all right.”

Patricia Haskins drew herself up. “Is there any reason why the office should not be in good order?”

Chief Cobb was quick to reassure her. “Mrs. Murdoch said you would have everything well in hand, but there was an unauthorized entry at the home this morning and I wanted to be certain nothing had been disturbed here.” He scanned the office. His face gave no hint of his attitude toward the bordello-red room.

“Oh.” The secretary drew in a quick breath. “My goodness, that's shocking. No, everything's as it should be.” She looked about the room with pride.

Chief Cobb walked around the desk, looked down at the folders. He gestured toward them. “Is there any particular reason why these two folders are out?”

“He was scheduled to meet with these clients today.” She opened the first folder. “Mr. Murdoch had drawn up a list of underperforming stocks with a recommendation to sell in order to offset capital-gains taxes.” She flipped open the second. “Mrs. Flint was a new client. Here's the financial plan he'd worked out.” She sighed. “I suppose I might as well put them up.”

I stared at Chief Cobb's right foot. The tip of his black shoe was perhaps an inch from the edge of the rug.

If I eased out one end of the envelope, then tapped on his shoe, he would look down, see the end of the envelope protruding. The chief would pick it up and Walter Carey would be exposed as a crook.

I touched the fringe on the rug.

“…any change in his demeanor in recent days, Mrs. Haskins? I know you are very perceptive and possibly you can help us more than anyone else to determine Mr. Murdoch's state of mind.” The chief's tone was warm and admiring. Obviously, he wasn't above using flattery to encourage confidences.

Mrs. Haskins preened. “Well, when you put it like that. But”—she looked disappointed—“I'm afraid Mr. Murdoch was just as he always was. In fact, he'd seemed in a very good humor recently.”

That didn't raise my general opinion of Daryl, considering his activities.

Mrs. Haskins brightened. “The only thing—”

I scooted my fingers beneath the rug.

“—a little out of the ordinary was last night. Right after work. Oh.” She clapped a hand to her lips, but her eyes were excited. “I suppose he died not long after he left here. Do you suppose…I hope not…but I saw his son.” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Kirby's been a real trial to Mr. Murdoch, taking up with a girl the family didn't care for. I was getting into my car when Kirby drove into the parking lot, his tires screeching. Mr. Murdoch was turning left into the street. That lady policewoman stopped him. Left turns are
prohibited there. It's the middle of the block, you see, and they've had so many accidents there.”

Chief Cobb looked impatient. “Mr. Murdoch started to turn left?”

“He pulled out and the police car came up behind him. The officer got out and talked to him for a minute, then she went off. I suppose she warned him. Anyway, he turned right. Now that I think of it, his son's car came out and turned right, too.” Her eyes were huge. “Do you suppose…”

Chief Cobb was bland. “That may turn out to be helpful. Perhaps his son can give us some idea of the direction his father took. Did you know where Mr. Murdoch was going?”

“Why, yes.” She was the all-knowing, competent secretary. “He had a meeting set up at St. Mildred's.” She frowned. “He was found in the church by the cemetery, wasn't he? I wonder why he went there?”

“We don't know that he did.” The chief's tone was judicious.

Clearly, Chief Cobb wanted to know why dust balls with cat fur had been found on Daryl's suit coat. The chief gave the secretary an encouraging look. “It's helpful to know he intended to go to the church. Would anyone else have known?”

Some knowledge flickered in the secretary's eyes, but her face was smooth and bland as she spoke. “I suppose that's possible.”

Not only possible, but, I was sure, quite certain. Her indirect answer was truthful as far as it went. I wished I could tug on Chief Cobb's sleeve, remind him that truth isn't always complete, but he was glancing at his watch, moving toward the door.

I slid my hand away from the rug. Walter's confession was safe enough where I'd put it. I have no sympathy for swindlers, but I should afford Walter Carey a chance to explain his actions. If I was not very much mistaken, Walter would slip into this office tonight with his stolen keys.

I intended to be here.

 

The cuckoo clock warbled
two-thirty. I stood in the middle of the rectory kitchen, hands on my hips. I hadn't asked Kathleen to await my return and, to be reasonable, she had no idea how long I would be gone, but I couldn't help feeling thwarted. I felt some urgency in deciding whether the individuals pictured or recorded on Daryl's cell phone should be revealed to Chief Cobb.

I retrieved my notebook and jotted down the information about Walter Carey and the Hamilton ranch mineral rights. I felt calmer. After all, I now knew everything but the identities of the Altar Guild member who had stolen from the collection plate and the woman who had begged Daryl to call her.

“A church member…” I popped to my feet, opened drawers near the telephone, found the church pictorial directory. In a moment I had the Altar Guild member's name: Irene Chatham. Perhaps it was just as well that Kathleen wasn't here. She would have been reluctant to tell me. I added Irene Chatham's name to my list.

I still faced the challenge of identifying the woman with the desperate voice. But just as someone saw Kathleen enter the young professor's apartment and repeated that information, I was confident that the Adelaide gossip mill knew all about Daryl's extramarital adventures. All I had to do was find a source of information.

I pulled my chair nearer the table. I like making lists. It was time—

The back door banged open. Bayroo plunged into the kitchen. “Hi.” Her voice was pleased.

I looked up with delight. It was lovely to feel warm and welcome and that's how I felt every time Bayroo looked at me. And saw me.

Her wide grin was as warming as a hug. “I've had the swellest day ever. Is Mom here?” She shrugged out of her backpack, tossed it into a wicker rocking chair, pulled off her pink jacket, and tossed it on a rung of the coat tree. “I can't wait to tell her about our party.”

“She's not home—”

Bayroo's eager smile faded.

“—but why don't you tell me?” It is lonely to come home to an empty house.

Her freckled face once again glowed. “Okay. I'm starving. Won't you have a snack with me?”

“I'd love that.” I flipped my notebook shut.

She hesitated, then asked quickly, “I don't know what to call you. I know you are my great-grandmother's sister, so should I say great-aunt?”

I laughed. “That sounds like a very distant relative. Why don't you call me Auntie Grand?”

“Auntie Grand.” She listened as she spoke, then flashed me a smile. “Yes. You are Auntie Grand.”

In a moment we had a feast on the table. Mugs with steaming-hot chocolate and graham crackers topped with melted chocolate and marshmallows.

Bayroo licked away a chocolate mustache. “We had a monster style show and everybody voted. My costume came in third. We had candied apples with black licorice stuck to the sides, dangling like jellyfish tentacles. “She grinned and gave a mock shudder. “Mrs. Gordon showed a vampire movie in social studies and told us all about Bram Stoker. It was the most fun day ever. But tomorrow will be even better!” She wiped a smear of marshmallow from her chin. “The Spook Bash is going to be the most exciting party in the history of Adelaide. You remember how I told you last night that we met Travis Calhoun—”

When Bayroo had shared her news last night on the rectory back porch, I'd been much more attuned to the proximity of Lucinda to the exposed tip of Daryl Murdoch's black leather shoe.

“—and he said he would come. Well, his aunt's a teacher and she came by homeroom and told me Travis was really excited to be in
vited. It's all because I asked him and I was the one who saw him. Lucinda was scared to stay in the preserve. She was a scaredy-cat and went to the other end of the block and watched his aunt's house from Mrs. Berry's yard and I had to come and tell her after I actually talked to him. I did it all by myself and we would never have been able to run into him, you know, like it was a real accident, if I hadn't hidden behind the big cottonwood in the preserve and watched for him.” Bayroo's eyes shone. A quick frown tugged at her eyebrows. “You won't tell Mom, will you?”

“Of course not.” I munched another bite. “It sounds exciting. Who is Travis Calhoun?”

Her sandy eyebrows shot up. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. “How could you not…Oh, sure. I guess you don't watch a lot of TV or go to the movies where you are. Anyway, he's really famous.” She twined a strand of red-gold hair in her fingers. “Travis played Huck Finn on Broadway. He has freckles, too.” She gave an impish smile. “Maybe that's why he liked me. He made movies when he was a little kid and now he's fifteen and he's the star of
Show Me the Way
on TV. Oh, you'd love his show. He got killed in a car wreck and now he's an angel and he comes back and he helps kids who are getting in scrapes.”

I almost explained that in theological terms, Travis's character was a ghost. Angels are supernatural creatures and messengers of God. But it didn't really matter.

“My dad says he's a ghost, not an angel, and I guess you know that. But it is way cool and when the show starts he wears these big golden wings and I told Dad it's dramatic license.” She nodded wisely.

Obviously, I didn't need to worry about Bayroo's religious instruction. Or her perception. “Where does he live?”

“In Hollywood.” She breathed the name in awe. “In Beverly Hills. I saw a story about him in
People
. He lives in this big mansion that has a red-tiled roof and gardens and a swimming pool, of course. A
chauffeur drives him to the studio in a Bentley.” She looked at me. “That's a really fancy car. Wouldn't it be wonderful?”

A mansion in Beverly Hills. “What about his family?”

Some of the sparkle left her eyes. “His mom died when he was little, like maybe four or five. He lives with his dad, who's a big Hollywood director, and his stepmother. She's a movie star. He usually comes here and stays with his aunt on holidays because his dad and stepmom have lots of places to go and things to do. This time he's here for his birthday. I've already talked to the music teacher and she's going to bring the sixth-grade chorus and we're going to sing ‘Happy Birthday' to him and I want to give him a special present.” Her face fell. “But what could I give somebody like Travis Calhoun?”

I pointed at the oven. “Do you like to cook?”

Bayroo nodded.

“I'll bet no one ever makes him a homemade birthday cake.” Fancy cakes are fine, but nothing ever tastes as good as homemade. “Why don't you call his aunt's house and ask him what his favorite cake is?”

She looked dubious. “That's no big deal.”

“Try it and see.”

Bayroo looked deep into my eyes. I don't know what she saw, perhaps a mother's memory of a child's face at a family birthday table. Each of mine had a favorite cake—lemon for Rob, burnt sugar for Dil.

Bayroo opened the directory, turned the pages until she found a number. She picked up the cordless telephone, shot me an anguished look.

I nodded firmly. “Courage.”

She punched numbers. “H'lo.” Her voice was high and quivery. “This is Bayroo Abbott. I invited Travis to the Spook Bash and…Hello. Hi, Travis.” She took a deep breath and the words tumbled out. “I'd like to bake a cake for your birthday and I wondered what your favorite is, you know, the kind of cake you like best, but maybe
you've already—white? With chocolate icing. That's my favorite, too. I make it from scratch, the icing, too. I'll bring it to your aunt's house in the morning but I can just leave it on the porch…Are you sure? That'd be great!” She hung up and whirled toward me. “He's really excited.” Her voice was amazed. “I can take it over and he said maybe I'd come in and we'd have a piece together. Gosh, I'd better get to work. I'll go up and print out my recipe.”

Print out a recipe?

Bayroo dashed from the kitchen. I followed as she raced up the stairs.

She darted through the third door on the right. I scarcely had time to appreciate the fresh brightness of Bayroo's room—one wall painted blue with a cresting white wave, bookcases crammed with books and hand-painted buffalo and sports trophies and dolls, and movie posters—when she thumped into a swivel chair and turned on a machine the twin of the one in the chief's office and those at use in the library and in each of the library staff cubicles.

She turned it on and the screen glowed. I looked over her shoulder. “What is it and what does it have to do with a recipe?”