Ghost Blows a Kiss, page 19
‘I definitely will,’ I shouted after him, in huge relief that I wasn’t being yanked aboard the caboose. ‘Of course. Don and …’ I certainly would do what I could to erase a reprimand from Don’s record, secure his promotion, but right now I needed a burst of confidence to see me through the coming evening. I stepped first to the cat, stroked her cold whiskers. ‘Make Fran free tonight.’ I took three steps, patted the greyhound’s shoulder, said rather helplessly but with definite hope, ‘Don and …’
Brilliant light cascaded from the three chandeliers in the huge living area, revealing the frayed edges of a tapestry with a weary wayfarer in a plain gray robe and worn leather sandals straining up a mountain path, the film of dust on a marble-topped table, and the imprint of stress and fear on wary faces.
Elise Douglas was pale with dark pouches beneath grieving eyes. Black hair, black clothing, black world. Bright red nails were the only touch of color. Crystal’s rose warmups, perfect for tennis, were a bright contrast, but her blue eyes were haunted and the blonde hair in a ponytail was at odds with pinched features. Jason was seated but mobile, flexing his hands and feet. His country-club-perfect appearance, thick blond hair, handsome face, tidy mustache, were a stark contrast to Elise’s misery. Stuart looked more attentive than apprehensive, comfortably wearing the mantle of the man of the house. Thinning hair neatly brushed, no flush from whisky. Instead of sweats, a cream polo shirt, khakis, loafers. Margaret’s V-neck black cardigan was saved from severity by the red trim on the lapels and hem. The red-and-black striped blouse was another touch of color. Black slacks. Her lean face, framed by short gray hair, looked uncertain, as if she felt out of place. Perhaps that’s why she sat a little apart from the family in a plain card-table chair. Perhaps she saw herself as an employee, not really involved.
The front door opened. Don Smith held the door wide for Jennifer and Travis Roberts. Don carried the small black recorder in his right hand. Jennifer’s blue eyes were huge. Her soft brown hair was carefully brushed and she wore a pale green silk dress and heels. All dressed up to visit the King’s Road house? Travis’s angular face was freshly shaved and his overlong hair drawn back in a neat man bun. He looked sporty in a beige crew-neck sweater and brown slacks.
Don unfolded chairs for Jennifer and Travis, placed them near Margaret.
A grandfather clock bonged the hour as the front door opened again. Judy Weitz was spruced up in a navy silk dress. I winced at the black shoes. Thankfully Fran was not in jail garb. Her thin face was wan, but her candy-striped sweater and rose wool slacks were attractive. Her dark eyes moved uncertainly from face to face and then she saw Don. A look, a pause, and a moment of sun in her gaze.
Travis jumped up, held out a big hand. ‘Fran, what are you doing here?’
Judy surveyed the faces turned toward Fran. ‘Mrs Loring is assisting the investigation.’
‘It’s all right, Travis.’ Fran’s clear voice was steady.
‘All right? Nothing’s right.’ Elise Douglas jumped to her feet, stretched out a shaking hand. ‘You’re the one. You were on the terrace. You killed Sylvia. You killed my husband.’ Elise started across the terrazzo tiled floor, crimson-nailed hands outstretched, shoes staccato against stone.
Jason moved fastest, clutched her arm. ‘Take a breath. Hey, take a breath.’
Fran stepped forward. ‘I never met your husband. I never spoke to him. When I answered that call from what turned out to be his cell phone, I’d just taken an apple pie out of the oven.’
Every woman in the room thought of apple pie, making a pie. What woman would bake an apple pie and kill a man?
I moved close to Elise. ‘Mrs Loring is innocent.’
Tears edged down Elise’s cheeks. She was scarcely able to stand, held on to Jason’s arm. ‘Who killed Dwight?’
Jason gently moved her toward her chair.
I spoke directly to Elise. ‘Your husband saw the murderer Friday night in the hallway outside the pool. Your husband knew the murderer. Your husband did not know Mrs Loring.’
Her haggard face was piteous. ‘Someone here?’ She looked from face to face, Crystal, Jason, Stuart, Margaret.
No one spoke. No one moved. The silence was as icy and foreboding as wind off a glacier.
The front door opened. I announced as if presenting a royal personage, ‘Acting Chief Howie Harris has arrived.’
If Howie enjoyed being a focal point, this was his moment. He, too, dressed for King’s Road, a gray pinstripe suit that gave him dignity.
I walked to meet him, shepherded him to a space between a Goya and a suit of armor. I faced the room. ‘It is my honor tonight to represent Acting Chief Harris. He has overseen the investigation from its beginnings. He cleverly took advantage of Mrs Loring’s accidental arrival on the terrace to suggest the murderer was a stranger to the house.’ Howie’s face stiffened. I talked faster. ‘Friday night Travis Roberts called Sylvia Chandler to discuss next summer’s art festival. She and Mr Roberts weren’t in agreement on the artists to be invited. Sylvia was the festival judge and had sole discretion in the selection of artists.’
Travis Roberts’s angular face came alive. ‘Everything’s set for the festival. I talked to the woman who’s taking over. We got everything arranged.’
His monumental self-concern wasn’t fazed by murder or the search for a murderer. First things first and his paintings would always be first for Travis.
I gave him a bright smile. ‘Mr Roberts has been extremely helpful to the authorities.’
‘Yeah.’ It was as if he came back to the big room from a far distance. No doubt he was picturing his painting that was perfect for the festival poster. ‘Glad to help.’
‘The information he provided is critically important. Mr Roberts, describe your arrival on the Chandler terrace.’
Travis cleared his throat. ‘I called Mrs Chandler to discuss the summer arts festival. I had a painting I wanted to show her but it was at the gallery so I started off in my car. Then I decided to talk to her first. I stopped halfway up the hill. I went through the woods to the terrace stairs.’
My smile never wavered. Some truth, some deception, but Travis could be expected to put himself in a good light. There was no hint of aggrieved artist storming up to demand his due.
‘I ran up the steps to the terrace. The door to the library was wide open. I stepped inside, called out for her. I figured she’d gone somewhere for a minute. I decided to take a look at another painting and when I walked close to the fireplace,’ his voice fell, ‘I saw her all crumpled up on the couch. God, it was awful. I panicked and wanted to get away, not see the blood. All of a sudden I was out on the terrace. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I needed to get help. I was about to go back inside and then I heard a door shut. There are three doors from the terrace into the house. The library door. A yellow door that goes into the kitchen. And a red door at the end of the west wing. I couldn’t see the red door because the whole west wing was in dark shadows. But I heard a click and I knew it was the red door. Somebody,’ his eyes were dark with remembered shock, ‘went into the house. When I heard that door shut, I ran. Somehow I got back to my car and I thought I had to do something. By that time I was at the gallery and I got the painting and I thought I would show up and say it was for Sylvia because she couldn’t just be left there, lying in all that blood.’
I summed up his statement. ‘Mr Roberts heard the red door into the house shut and, thanks to his wife, Jennifer, we know that door shut at eight fifteen.’
Jennifer Roberts, looking young and earnest like a camp counselor organizing activities, said eagerly, ‘Well, it is just such a good thing I was out with our dog.’ She gestured to her left. ‘We live at the foot of the hill. After Travis left, Buddy had to go outside and he got all excited and sniffed and tugged me toward the hill. I went up the steps. I tied his leash to the railing. But there was something scary about the lights on the terrace and I though oh, I’d better go home, and I hurried down the stairs. All of a sudden I heard running footsteps. And just at that moment my cell-phone reminder for Buddy’s pills sounded so I know the footsteps were at exactly eight fifteen because that’s when my phone chimed. And then I saw Travis and I didn’t know what to think. He was running so fast. Bless his heart. No wonder he was upset. Why, Mrs Chandler had been such a boost to his career and he thought the world of her. Seeing Travis run was so upsetting I just flew home. But my sister-in-law,’ she pointed at Fran, ‘was at our house when I took Buddy out and after a while she came out I guess to get in her car and go home and I think she heard Buddy so she came up the hill to help. And she found Buddy but he got away from her and she chased him down the hillside and bless her little heart she fell into the pond and so did Buddy, they were both soaking when she came back to the house. But anyway Fran didn’t come outside until Travis had already gone to the gallery so when she came to the terrace Mrs Chandler was already dead so Fran—’
I interrupted. ‘Thank you, Mrs Roberts. Clearly Mrs Chandler was dead before Mrs Loring arrived. The great importance of your testimony and your husband’s is the fact that the red door into the house closed at eight fifteen. Mr Roberts called Mrs Chandler at shortly after eight. The murder occurred between the time he spoke to her and his arrival on the terrace. A crime technician examined the knobs on the red door that opens to the hall by the pool. There were no fingerprints Saturday on either the outer or inner knob. The murderer re-entered the house at eight fifteen and polished those knobs. Chief Harris,’ I gave him an approving nod, hoped his congealed expression didn’t indicate indigestion resulting from chocolate custard donuts, ‘knew then that the murderer was a resident of Chandler house.’ I looked at each in turn. ‘That brings us to the murder of Dwight Douglas.’
Elise gripped the wooden chair arms.
‘At eight fifteen Friday evening, Dwight Douglas opened the door from the pool and watched the murderer hurry up the hallway.’
Elise’s head moved as she gazed in turn at Crystal, Jason, Stuart and Margaret.
‘Dwight thrived on excitement. He knew that only he and Sylvia’s murderer understood the significance of each person’s location at eight fifteen. He devised an entertainment. Everyone would take a selfie of their whereabouts at that moment. Perhaps he looked knowingly at the murderer at several points during the day on Saturday. I saw you … He knew everyone would take the selfie and one would be a lie but he would have that special knowledge and enjoy every moment.’
‘I warned him.’ Elise’s broken cry came from deep in her throat.
‘Saturday night Dwight strode down the hall to the pool door. He intended to follow the rules of his game, take his selfie at the appointed time as he departed after his swim. He would hold up the cell phone and snap himself in the doorway looking up the hallway. But first he would swim. He dropped his robe, the cell phone in the pocket, on a deckchair.’
Elise began to tremble.
‘We can picture his last moments. Dwight dives from the high board. The murderer, holding a rescue pole, attacks as he comes to the surface. The murderer dips the pole in the water to wash away blood—’
Elise shuddered.
‘—then hurries around the end of the pool to return the pole to its brackets. Now a search for his cell phone. Dwight’s robe is lying on a deckchair. The phone is in the pocket. A quick check to make sure there was no early bird selfie. The murderer carefully eases open the hall door. Listens. No sound. No movement. Hurry, hurry, hurry. The murderer steps into the hall, closes the door. Quickly to the terrace door. Perhaps using a handkerchief or the edge of a sweater, the murderer opens the door to the terrace. Opening the door takes only an instant and then a whirl and rush to get out of the hall. Everyone is supposed to be at their selfie spot. The murderer reaches that special place and shuts the door; Dwight’s cell phone is in one hand. The murderer stares at the phone. The door to the terrace is open but it would be even better to use Dwight’s cell to increase suspicion of Fran Loring. The whispery call is made to try and entice Fran to come to the terrace. Now there would be a record of a call from Dwight’s phone on her cell phone. Then a call to nine-one-one and a frantic hoarse cry for help for a drowning victim. Finally, a careful inspection of the hall, still empty, and a rush to the door and out into the night to fling Dwight’s phone into the woods.’
I glanced at Fran. ‘Tell us about the call.’
Her face held remembered terror. ‘The caller whispered, threatened me, demanded I come to the terrace. Then there was silence. I immediately called Detective Don Smith and he told me to stay home and lock the doors.’
Don nodded. ‘After I received her call, I drove to the Chandler house. I approached through the woods. As I reached the terrace, I saw the red door was open. I heard screams.’
‘After killing Dwight, the murderer returned to the selfie spot. The call to Fran on Dwight’s phone occurred at eight thirty-two. Chief Harris’ – Howie looked startled and wary – ‘agrees that the call made on Dwight’s phone was the murderer’s critical error.’
Harris’s mouth was agape.
‘At eight thirty-two Margaret is in her office, Stuart is in the dart room, Jason is in the pinball room, Crystal is upstairs in her suite, Elise is in her suite. Picture the murderer safely returned to the selfie spot. No one to see. No one to hear. Looking at Dwight’s cell and the exciting decision. Call the antique lady.’
Margaret might have been graven in stone, utterly intent. Stuart’s pudgy hands lifted slightly as if warding away unthinkable images. Jason moved uncomfortably, flexed his fingers again and again. Crystal pressed a soft hand against her lips and a bright emerald gleamed in its ornate setting. Elise’s hands tightened into claws.
‘The murderer’s safe space is familiar, comfortable, used so often that any background noise is no longer heard.’ I thought of each safe space and its distinctive sound. The big black bird observed and cawed in Elise’s suite. Wind chimes played a tinkling melody for Crystal. Margaret erratically tapped a pencil. Stuart aimed darts that thunked into a target. Jason rapidly worked a lever to light up the pinball machine. I turned to Don. ‘Detective Smith.’
Tall, rangy, athletic, Don looked powerful in a black turtleneck, jeans and black sneakers. He moved to the center of the area ringed by chairs. ‘Police work often depends upon witnesses. What they saw. What they smelled. In this particular case Fran Loring listened to a whisper. We asked her to focus on the memory of that call. Was there any noise in the background? Mrs Loring has tried to describe an erratic sound that occurred several times during the call. Tonight for the first time she will hear a recording of sounds that occurred in the safe spaces described by Detective Loy. Mrs Loring, please come forward.’
Fran rose, walked slowly to join him. She looked small standing beside him, small but gallant.
Don held up the black plastic recorder. ‘Five sounds from five safe places.’ He stepped nearer and now the recorder was perhaps a foot away from Fran. He flicked a switch.
Fran lifted a hand to her throat. She stared unseeing at the frayed medieval tapestry.
Five times there was a separate, distinctive sound followed by silence. The sounds in order:
Caw. Caw. A pause. Caw, caw.
Winds chimes tinkled. A moment of quiet. Chime.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Several seconds passed. Thump. Thump.
Flip. Flip. Faster, flip, flip, flip. Flip.
Tap. Tap. A pause. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Fran took a deep breath. ‘A little sound. Just a little sound. Very faint. Tap. Tap. Tap. That’s what I heard.’
All the family looked at Margaret.
Elise bolted to her feet, took a step. Stuart was there to grip her arm.
Margaret Foster’s aura of command and competence was unchanged, but her face was hard, as if sculpted from stone. ‘Nonsense.’ A dismissive look at Fran. ‘What an absurd performance.’
Jennifer Roberts turned her slightly vacant stare on Margaret. ‘Fran never lies. If Fran says she heard that noise behind the whisper, then she heard that noise.’
I gazed at Margaret, gestured at the shocked observers. ‘Everyone recognized that sound. When you are in your office and thinking hard or perhaps concerned or worried, you pick up a pencil and strike the desktop. Tap. Tap. Tap. No pattern. Tap. Tap. Your stress has been enormous this past week. Sylvia was close to selling the company. The papers in her desk indicate the two sides would meet next Wednesday for final negotiations. The company you loved more than anything in the world, the company you helped build, gone. If Sylvia had lived another week, Chandler Oil would be no more. You killed her and you lied to Stuart, told him Sylvia changed her mind. I expect the family may be interested in talking to the buyers—’
‘No.’ A visceral cry. She rose from the chair, an animal at bay, ridden by fury. ‘All she cared about was money.’ Margaret took a step, reached out to Stuart. ‘Don’t sell the company. Don’t.’
SIXTEEN
‘It seems like old times.’ Sam Cobb poked a chunk of his waffle into a mound of whipped cream.
I smiled at him, grateful for his solid presence, a big strong man with a kind heart. I smiled at my plate, loaded with Lulu’s breakfast steak and scrambled eggs and hash browns. Perhaps a bit hearty but I felt entitled. ‘A near thing for Fran Loring, but all’s well that ends well. And speaking of Shakespeare, I have an idea about Howie.’
Sam listened with an odd expression on his large face. ‘The mayor’s news conference is in five minutes. I’ll make a special announcement. And,’ Sam laughed, ‘I look forward to being introduced to Detective Loy, the special agent from OSBI.’
‘I hate to disappoint you but she’s turned in her report, which emphasizes the excellent leadership of Acting Chief Harris, and left town. I’ll be on the platform. But you won’t see me.’
