Ghost at Work (18 page)

“Blackmail?”

“He had me over a barrel. He kept my share of the partnership. As long as he had that confession, I had to agree to anything he wanted.” He shoved the file drawer shut, faced me. There was no fight in him. His shoulders slumped, his hands hung loosely at his side.

“You had to make sure he didn't turn you in.” The confession resting beneath the Oriental rug was surely reason enough for murder. “How did you lure him—” I broke off. I'd almost said
to the rectory
.

Walter's head jerked up. “Wait a minute. I didn't take him to the cemetery. You think I shot him? That's crazy. I hated him, that's for sure, but I knew he wouldn't use the confession. He wouldn't want Georgia Hamilton to know she'd been cheated.”

I folded my arms, looked at him skeptically. “If you knew he wouldn't use it, why did you let him have money that belonged to you?”

“I couldn't take the chance.” He looked at me earnestly. “But I swear I didn't shoot him. You've got to believe me.”

I didn't have to believe him. But I did. I saw a man who had gambled and lost, but there wasn't an iota of threat in him. And he'd said “take him to the
cemetery
.” Or was that simply a clever murderer taking advantage of the mysterious transfer of Daryl's body?

How could I know? But whatever the truth in regard to Daryl's murder, surely I wasn't going to gloss over Walter's chicanery. The thought didn't catch up with my swift impulse to reassure him. “If you didn't shoot him, there's no reason for the financial problems to be aired.”

His stare was incredulous. “You mean nobody will ever know?”

“If you didn't shoot him,” I spoke firmly, “the matter is closed. When Chief Cobb contacts you, say that you and Daryl disagreed over the future of the business. As for what you've lost, you might consider it a penalty for dishonesty.”

“What about the confession? As long as it exists, I can never feel safe.” He still looked hopeless.

“I'll take care of that.” One way or another.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” He was suddenly suspicious.

I was about to ignore another Precept, but circumstances alter cases. “You might consider me your conscience.”

I disappeared.

Walter's face went slack. His head swiveled slowly around the room. He breathed in short, tight gasps.

I had his attention. I made my voice crisp. “Swear you will never again mishandle any financial matter.”

Once again, he looked around the room, seeking the source of the voice. But there was no place where a slender red-haired policewoman could be hidden. He stared at the closed door.

He knew the door hadn't opened. He knew there was no other exit.

Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand. “I swear.”

I
popped to the rectory. A lamp shone in the kitchen and another in the front hall, but no one was home. Where was Kathleen? Why couldn't she follow instructions? Perhaps I now had some inkling of Wiggins's distress when I improvised. How could I blame Kathleen? She was trying to save the man she loved, but I wished I were at her side.

I popped back to the parking lot outside Daryl's office. The starry night was crisp and cold. I looked Heavenward. If there were a cosmic scoreboard, it might read
HOME TEAM 14, VISITORS
0. So far I'd yielded all the points to Daryl's mistress and his ex-partner. I'd set out to discover whether Cynthia Brown or Walter Carey had motives for murder. The obvious answer was yes.

My original plan had been to provide Chief Cobb with any information he might find relevant. I didn't doubt the chief would find Walter and Cynthia legitimate suspects—if he knew.

Whether he ever knew was up to me.

Had I been too impulsive? Was Wiggins even now scratching through my name as a future emissary from the Department of Good Intentions? I welcomed the cool fresh breeze and waited.
Wiggins didn't come. Perhaps once again he was willing to accept a good result or, at the least, wait and see the outcome. Perhaps another emissary, hopefully one far distant, was embroiled in difficulties.

Impulsive or not, I needed to keep going, as fast as I could. The night was young. There were others to seek out. I'd never wallowed in introspection when I was of the earth. This was no time to start.

I stood in the parking lot outside Daryl's office. I found a stall with his name painted in red:
RESERVED FOR DARYL MURDOCH
. He'd brushed aside a desperate girl, driven to the exit onto Main Street, and been stopped in an illegal turn by Officer Leland. About this time his son arrived.

I remembered the high young voice, cracking in anger, that had been recorded on Daryl's cell phone:
I can't believe what you did…I just found out from Lily…You'll pay for this. I swear you will.

What had Daryl done?

 

The small sign in
the front yard was tasteful:
THE GREEN DOOR
. I recognized the old Victorian house. In my day, it had belonged to Ed and Corrine Baldwin. Now it housed a dinner restaurant. I stood on the porch and looked through sparkling glass panes. Old-fashioned teardrop crystal bulbs in a chandelier shed a soft light over a half-dozen circular tables with damask cloths and rose china. Small tap-dancing skeletons flanked centerpieces of orange mums.

A slender young woman was serving orange sorbet in tall crystal glasses at a near table. A scarecrow hung in the doorway to the entry hall.

It might be awkward for Lily Mendoza if a police officer arrived demanding to see her. I didn't want to jeopardize her job. I thought for a moment, nodded. I glanced around the floor of the living room, noted styles of purses. When I wished myself present, I held a small blue leather bag.

I opened the front door and stepped into the nineteenth century. Panels of gleaming mahogany covered the lower walls. Heavily patterned wallpaper in a rich shade of burgundy rose above the wainscoting. Geometric tiles glimmered in the pale light from hanging stained-glass lanterns. Ferns trailed from a huge wicker basket. A gimlet-eyed parrot peered from a brass birdcage. As I entered, it gave a piercing squawk and spoke in a rough throaty voice, “Ahoy, matey. Avast. Begone.”

A waitress, who looked trim and athletic despite being dressed in a hoop dress with a daisy pattern, pushed through a door at the end of the hallway, carrying a tray with two entrées. She paused when she reached me, glanced at my uniform, but asked politely, “Do you have a reservation?”

I shook my head, held up the purse. “I'm here with a lost purse. May I speak to Lily Mendoza?”

“Lily doesn't work here anymore. Mrs. Talley”—a pause—“let her go.”

Let her go? Why? “When?”

The girl's gamin face squeezed into a frown. “Yesterday. Anyway, if you want to take the purse to her, she has an apartment in the old Blue Sky motel near the railroad tracks.” She moved toward the living room.

I kept pace. “Where's Mrs. Talley?”

The girl gestured down the hallway. “In her office.” She moved swiftly into the dining room.

I walked past a whatnot with a bust of Homer and a collection of Dresden shepherdesses. I gave a quick knock on the door, stepped inside a library that now served as an office, though the mahogany bookcases still held leather-bound volumes. Austen, Trollope, and Thackeray, no doubt. To my left was a blue Chinese vase as tall as I was. The red-and-blue Oriental rug was worn and frayed.

An angular woman with frizzy gray hair piled atop her head sat behind a massive walnut desk, staring at a glowing screen. The
computer looked out of place in the carefully done Victorian room. She heard my step, turned to see. Prominent collarbones detracted from her décolleté blue silk gown with puffy sleeves. She frowned, making her porcelain-white face querulous. “Yes?”

“Good evening, Mrs. Talley. I'm here about Lily Mendoza and Daryl Murdoch.” I closed the door behind me.

She drew in a sharp breath, stood. “You don't think Lily had anything to do with what happened to him?” She lifted a hand, clutched at the thick rope of amber beads.

“We have to check it out.” I looked stern.

She held tight to the necklace. “She was upset, but she wouldn't do anything like that. She's a sweet, sweet girl.”

I frowned at her. “What did she say?”

Mrs. Talley stared at the hollow bust of Homer. “I hated doing it. But I didn't have any choice. Daryl held the mortgage on the house and he'd given me a break on payments while I'm getting the Green Door up and running.” She swung toward me, her face haggard. “We're doing real well. I can make a go of it. I have to since Johnny died and there isn't any money and I have to be home during the day with my mom—oh, you don't care about all that. But you see my position. Daryl insisted I fire her, said he'd call all the payments due immediately if I didn't.” She looked at me with shamed, sad eyes. “I told her I had to cut back on staff, but she knew that wasn't it. She'd seen Daryl leave my office and I guess she figured it out. She said, ‘Mr. Murdoch made you, didn't he?'” Mrs. Talley's eyes glistened with tears. “She came up and hugged me and told me it was all right, I mustn't worry. Don't you see? She's a good girl.”

 

Blue Sky Apartments was
a fancy name for a seedy former motel. Units ran lengthwise behind the office with two shorter sections on either side. I found Lily's apartment, number seventeen, by walking
from door to door, checking the nameplates. An old Dodge with one flat tire listed in the drive on one side of the building. Through thin walls, a television blared. On the other side, a rocking horse and playpen sat next to two motorcycles. A baby's cry rose. Lily's front curtain was drawn, but light seeped around the edges.

I knocked.

Through the thin door, I heard running steps. The door was flung open. For an instant her heart-shaped face was open and eager, dark eyes luminous. “Kir—”

I understood why Kirby Murdoch cared. She was lovely, dark-haired, slim, vibrant, but more than that, she had an aura of kindness as warming as a blazing fire on a snowy night.

“Miss Mendoza, I need to speak with you about the murder”—I let the word hang in the cold night air—“of Mr. Daryl Murdoch.”

Her face was abruptly still and shuttered. “I don't know anything about it.”

I forced myself to be brusque. “May I come in? Or would you rather go down to the station?”

She backed away, held the door for me.

The room had been provided with a small kitchenette. There was a small camp bed, a sofa with a red-and-black-checked throw, two chairs that had seen better days. A gooseneck lamp stood by a card table with a small computer. Textbooks were stacked on the floor.

She gestured toward the sofa, took one of the chairs, sat stiff and straight with her hands folded in her lap. She looked small in an oversize maroon sweatshirt with the emblem of Goddard College.

I looked at the books. “Are you in school?”

“I go part-time.”

“Are you putting yourself through school?”

“Yes.”

There was an admirable story here, a student without a family to help, making her own way, trying hard to build a better life. If Daryl
Murdoch had been here, I would have told him he was a fool. I liked this girl, admired her, hoped she and Kirby would have the happiness they both deserved. But…

“You told Kirby his father got you fired. Kirby was furious. He called his father, threatened him, said he would pay for what he'd done.”

She didn't say a word, stared at me with dread.

“He threatened his father, went to his office.”

Lily jumped up. “Kirby didn't talk to him. He was too late. His father had left.”

“Kirby's car was seen turning after his father's.”

“Kirby didn't follow him. I called Kirby, got him on his cell, told him to come here. He did. We were here. I promise.”

Were they together at her apartment before—or after—Daryl Murdoch was shot?

Chief Cobb's information indicated Kirby's gun hadn't been found. “Where did Kirby keep his gun?”

She hesitated, reluctantly said, “In the trunk of his car.”

“Did you know it's missing?” I watched her closely.

She lifted a hand to her throat. “It can't be. Kirby went out for target practice Thursday afternoon.”

“Kirby claims someone stole it.”

Lily jumped to her feet. “If Kirby said it's gone, it's gone.”

The gun was gone, but did it disappear before or after Daryl Murdoch died?

 

I smelled cake when
I entered the rectory kitchen. I smiled. It was the first time I'd smiled in hours. Tramping around in the cold, finagling information, was draining. I lifted the plastic cover from the stand. If Bayroo's cake was as delicious as it looked and smelled, Travis Calhoun was going to be very happy. I wondered if I would be here to
attend the Spook Bash tomorrow and see this famous young man.

Very likely yes. I didn't seem to be making any headway in my task. Or tasks. I'd uncovered multiple motives for murder, but I was unwilling to implicate Cynthia Brown or Walter Carey or Lily Mendoza.

Maybe I wasn't cut out for detecting. Was I naive? I bristled at the thought. I may have been a small-town girl, but I knew a Galahad from a Cardinal Richelieu. However, and I felt perplexed, perhaps I was too empathetic.

…
impulsive…

I looked toward the ceiling. If Wiggins wanted my attention, he would have to be more direct. I didn't dwell on the fact that I'd certainly been visible this evening, but now that I was at the rectory, I was properly invisible. Perhaps that would soothe Wiggins. In fact, he should be pleased at my progress.

Had I been hoodwinked by Cynthia or Walter or Lily? Possibly. In the end, I might feel compelled to reveal to Chief Cobb what I'd learned about one or all of them.

I replaced the cake cover without filching even a tiny swipe of the rich chocolate icing. Perhaps I'd find a snack in the refrigerator.

The rectory was silent. Where was everyone? Especially Kathleen? It was a quarter to nine. The Abbotts were certainly a busy family. I supposed Father Bill was out on parish duty. I remembered that Bayroo was going to a skating party tonight. As for Kathleen, I felt uneasy. Obviously, she'd tried to stir things up with Walter Carey. What else had she done?

The porch door slammed.

I was ready with a cheery greeting when the kitchen door opened and a black-robed witch stepped inside, carrying a scruffy broomstick. Her conical hat tilted forward. Sticky-looking strands of green hair protruded sideways. A squashy red boil disfigured the wrinkled, putty-colored face. A hand swept up, lifting the hat with at
tached hair and mask. Kathleen dropped her purse onto the table and slipped out of the robe.

“What a stunning outfit.” Almost horrid enough to destroy my appetite. Almost.

Kathleen drew in a sharp breath. “Hello, Bailey Ruth. I didn't know you were here. How could anyone know?” The last was a mutter. “Isn't the mask neat?” She sounded more cheerful. “It's fun to wear a mask. No one can see you frown. Did you know it's against the rules for a rector's wife to frown?” She smoothed her ruffled hair. “I was at the Friends of the Library dinner. If I didn't show up in costume, I'd be fined. That's twenty-five bucks I can use to buy groceries. But”—her face lightened—“I got in some good work. Bud Schilling's the junior warden. He's got a houseful of kids and he's always wanted the church to build a family center. I told him I knew there'd been some concern on the vestry about Daryl's saying he was going to talk to Bill about a financial matter. I told Bud Judith Murdoch called me and she said she was sorry Daryl got mad at Bill because of the new plans Bill had for the family center.” Kathleen beamed.

“Clever.” I looked at Kathleen with new respect. The junior warden would tell the rest of the vestry. No one would ever bring up the matter with Judith Murdoch out of kindness. Kathleen had very likely rescued her husband's career.

Kathleen's smile faded. “How about you? Do you have anything important to give to the police?”

“Not yet.” I opened the refrigerator door, found some Cheddar cheese. “Walter Carey's wife called him and told him you'd been to see her.”

Kathleen whirled toward the refrigerator. “How did you know?”

“I was there.” I was already at the cabinet. I opened it, lifted down a box of Ritz crackers.

“Do you eat all the time?” She didn't wait for an answer. “I know you told me to sit tight. I can't. I'm scared to death for Bill. I had to
do something. Harriet's scared. That seems suspicious to me. Did you find out anything?”