Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sorry to have kept you waiting.” His voice was pleasantly deep. His eyes told her he was acutely aware of her presence.

“You are very kind to see me without an appointment.” The words were mundane, but her gaze responded to his.

He still held her hand. “What can I do for you?”

She gave him a quick smile. “I’m hoping you can help me with some research.” She pulled her hand free. “I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

He pointed at the chair nearest his desk. “The springs are better in that one. Martha’s been after me to redecorate.”

I popped out to the waiting room. Martha was a plump seventy with a mound of white hair and bright blue eyes in a face wrinkled with good humor. I returned to his office.

Kay sat lightly in the chair. She drew a small notebook from her purse. “Jack had your card among his papers. Had he consulted you?”

Paul settled in the other easy chair, the one with presumably inadequate springs. In my day, lawyers wore dark gray or blue suits, white shirts, and tastefully striped ties. He looked athletic, muscular, and very attractive in a light blue polo and tan slacks and black loafers. “I was not”—he spoke precisely—“representing him in a legal matter.”

“I’m eager to know whatever you and he discussed. Everything Jack did while he was in Adelaide is important to me.”

His quizzical look was pronounced. “How does that information fit into a book about his life?”

“Some of the information will be important. Some won’t. His life ended here. Readers may gain a particular insight if they know what mattered to him in his final days. Why did Jack come to you, if not for legal counsel?” Her gaze was intent. His careful answer had caught her attention.

Paul looked thoughtful. “I was his oldest friend. He trusted me.”

“He trusted me as well. I hope you will, too.”

Paul looked toward a wall filled with framed certificates and photographs. One pictured a football team in a formal pose. “He was my quarterback.”

That simple sentence told Kay everything she needed to know about Jack and Paul. When Jack turned to Paul, Paul helped him, not as a lawyer, but as a long-ago teammate.

The lawyer reached over to pick up a green folder from his desk.

I hovered behind his shoulder.

Paul opened the folder. “Jack came to see me a few days before he died. He didn’t want to go back to Africa until he was sure everything was right at The Castle. He felt responsible for the well-being of his sister and his brother’s widow.” Paul glanced at an index card. “He asked me to obtain information for him about Alison Gregory and Laverne and Ronald Phillips.”

I was abruptly alert. There were two more names on that card that he hadn’t mentioned.

“Alison Gregory.” Kay repeated the name, made a note on her pad.

Paul’s tone was warm. “That was easy duty. As I told Jack, I’ve known Alison for years. She played tennis with my wife. Alison was a huge help when Mindy was sick. Alison took her for some of her chemo treatments. She was there for Mindy right up to the end.” He glanced away.

“I’m sorry.” There was sincerity and understanding in Kay’s voice. “My husband died two years ago.”

They exchanged glances, understanding that each had experienced loss and that memories mattered.

She brought them back to the comfortable office. “Why was Jack interested in Alison?”

“Jack said Evelyn was considering becoming Alison’s partner. That surprised me. Alison’s very independent. I asked Jack if he was sure and he said maybe he’d misunderstood, but he wanted to know the financial status of her gallery, just in case. That would reassure him, even if nothing ever came of the proposal. He wanted a dossier on Alison. That was easy to put together. Alison grew up here, but she’s quite a bit younger. She was Alison Frazier. She has a degree in fine arts from SMU. Her folks owned an upscale clothing store. They did fine until her father died. Her mother ran the store well enough, but she let the insurance lapse. A fire wiped out the store. Her mother wasn’t able to rebuild. When she died, the money was all gone. Alison was an only child and she’d grown up having everything she wanted. Her degree was useless for a job that would make money. She ended up in Dallas, working for an art dealer. That’s where she made her contacts in the art world. She married a trust-fund cowboy, E. J. Gregory the Fourth. The marriage didn’t last. She took the settlement and came back to Adelaide and opened a gallery. She has contacts in Dallas and Mexico City. I got the names of some of the private collectors she deals with. She often brokers private sales of big-deal art. I nosed around, got financials on her. She’s made a bundle, no outstanding debts, good reputation in art circles. Evelyn Hume is her best client. Evelyn collects Mexican and American art. Evelyn’s awfully proud of a Frida Kahlo self-portrait. I thought it looked pretty dingy and lifeless, but I’m no art critic. Anyway, Jack didn’t see why Alison wanted a partner if she was solvent. I was able to reassure him. Gregory Gallery has lots of cash in the bank. She’s a great supporter of the art department at Goddard, often exhibiting student work. She’s thick with one of the full-time faculty, Leonard Walker. Some people think they are very close.”

“How did Jack react to your report?”

“He thanked me, said that seemed like good news.”

“And Laverne and Ronald Phillips?”

Paul looked amused. “A different breed of cat altogether. I confirmed Jack’s suspicions. Laverne Phillips had a shabby little office in a strip shopping mall in Gainesville. You know the sort of thing: ‘Psychic Readings, Private Consultations.’ When I see that kind of setup, I wonder how anyone can be sucked in. If the ‘psychic’”—his tone put the noun in quote marks—“knows so much, why isn’t the office upscale? You’d think applying a little of that savvy to the futures market would make a hacienda in Acapulco small change. Of course, any rational person knows the answer. It’s bogus. Certainly, Laverne Phillips is bogus, but Diane is convinced that Laverne is her personal portal to the afterlife. Not long after James died, Diane was on her way to Dallas and she saw the sign and stopped.” Paul looked sardonic. “I can imagine the scene, Laverne delicately probing, ‘You are clearly suffering. Perhaps the spirits can bring you comfort,’ and Diane prattling about James and The Castle and how lonely she was. Diane wasn’t Laverne’s first victim. A Gainesville woman’s daughter filed a lawsuit, claiming her mother had been swindled. Laverne paid back some money and the suit was dropped. Who knows how many others she’s fleeced.”

Kay’s hand was poised above her notepad. “Do you have the Gainesville victim’s name?”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you were trying to round up information on Jack’s last days.”

Kay was bland. “I want to see if he contacted the Gainesville woman. If he did, that conversation will give readers a wonderful example of his determination to protect the family.”

Paul slowly nodded. He thumbed through some papers. “Helen Cramer.” He added the address and phone.

Kay wrote rapidly. “Anything else?”

“I gave Jack plenty of ammunition to use against the Phillipses. Basically, Diane rescued Laverne and Ronald. He’s a ne’er-do-well with a checkered work career—car salesman, insurance agent, radio DJ. He’d lost his latest job selling vacuum cleaners and was on his last week of unemployment. They were behind in their house and car payments. Now they’re on easy street with more than a hundred thousand in the bank.” He grinned. “You can take that as an educated guess.”

Later I could explain that enigmatic statement to Kay. It’s a good-old-boy world in Adelaide. I was confident that Paul, as a high school football hero, had faced no difficulty in getting an unofficial report on Laverne and Ronald’s bank account.

“Did Jack confront the Phillipses?”

“I don’t know.”

Kay was brisk. “I’ll find out.”

He looked skeptical. “I doubt you’ll get much out of them.”

Kay was confident. “People like to offer their side of a disagreement. That will be my approach. Inclusion in a book may be tempting. What I discover may or may not be useful. I never know where I may find an important fact or impression that will give life to a piece. That’s why I explore every possible source.” Kay glanced at her notebook. “When did you last talk to Jack?”

“The day he died. He wanted to see me, but I was on my way to the City for a golf foursome. I stayed for dinner. Jack and I planned to get together the next day. I found out about his accident when I got home. The dinner ran late, and I didn’t get in until almost eleven. There was a message on my phone from Evelyn.”

“How would you describe Jack’s mood when he talked to you Saturday morning?”

“Not good.” Paul sounded regretful. “He told me he had some unpleasant tasks facing him and he intended to deal with them as soon as possible.” The lawyer kneaded a cheek with knuckles. “Maybe that’s why I wasn’t surprised that he’d died. I thought maybe he was furious with someone and saw that person in the garden and started down the steps too fast.”

His words evoked a picture of a man caught up in powerful emotion.

“When he came to your office, did he say anything about a serious disagreement with someone?”

“He was disgusted by Laverne and Ronald’s free rein at The Castle and upset when I told him I didn’t think there was any legal approach that could be taken. Otherwise, he confined our discussion to obtaining information.”

If I had been a cartoonist, I would have drawn a balloon above the lawyer’s head with this message: There are many different ways to tell the truth.

Kay wrote swiftly in her notebook, then looked up. “I don’t want to overlook anyone who might have spoken with Jack those last few days. I understand the Dunhams, next-door neighbors, were at dinner the night Jack died. What can you tell me about them?”

Paul’s expression didn’t change. He placed his fingertips together in a careful, precise tepee. “Native Adeladians. Clint has an insurance agency. Gwen is active in AAUW and League of Women Voters. She and my wife worked on a bunch of committees together. You might ask Diane. Gwen is her good friend. I believe they go back a long way. I don’t know if Clint and Jack had ever met. Diane would know.”

“I’ll do that.” Kay closed her notebook. “Did Jack mention anything else to you?”

I watched the lawyer carefully.

He didn’t hesitate. He’d been practicing law for a long time and he knew how to play a hand. “I wish I knew something more that I thought would be helpful.” He sounded sincere. He placed the closed folder on his desk.

I studied him with great attention. The card in the folder had also contained the names of Gwen and Clint Dunham. Surely that indicated they also had been the subject of an inquiry by Jack. If so, the lawyer had not shared that information with Kay.

She stood, held out her hand. “I appreciate the information you’ve given me.”

He rose and came nearer.

She didn’t move away.

He looked down into her face as if seeking an answer to an unasked question.

She looked up, her dark eyes intent.

He took her hand.

Again, their handclasp marked an instant of connection far beyond polite leave-taking.

“I’ll see you again.” He spoke decisively.

She gave him swift, appealing smile. “I hope so.”

He walked to the door, held it for her. He closed the door behind her, moved to his desk chair, and sank into it. He reached for the folder and placed it in the lower right drawer of his desk, his face drawn in a troubled frown.

As the Corvette roared from the parking lot, I debated whether to tell Kay about the Dunhams. I decided to wait. I had every intention of looking at that file. A fragile connection had been made between Kay and Paul. I wouldn’t destroy it heedlessly. There might be a good reason for Paul’s reticence.

I hoped Wiggins was pleased by my thoughtfulness. Did I feel an ethereal pat on my shoulder?

“Wiggins—” I clapped my fingers to my lips.

The car swerved. Kay’s hands tightened on the wheel. She shot a glance toward the passenger seat. “I thought maybe you weren’t here. You usually aren’t quiet.”

“The less said the better,” Wiggins boomed. “Oh, bother. Remember, Bailey Ruth, silence is golden!”

Kay turned a startled glance toward the passenger seat. “Where did that come from?”

“Watch the road.” I reached over to push the wheel to the left. The Corvette barely missed a parked FedEx truck.

She looked straight ahead, her shoulders hunched. The Corvette turned on a back road. “I heard a man’s voice. He spoke to you.” Her tone was accusing. “Where was he? Where is he?”

“Not to worry. You should be honored. That was Wiggins, my supervisor.” Wiggins no doubt was embarrassed that he had spoken aloud in Kay’s hearing. I was sure he’d departed. I would encourage him when next we spoke. One mistake does not a disaster make. I was living proof. Ghostly proof? Whatever. “Wiggins doesn’t take a direct part in most missions.” It wasn’t necessary to explain that perhaps the oversight was for me, not for her. Everyone likes to feel special. I decided it might make Kay feel more comfortable if she could see me. I appeared.

She shivered. “One ghost I can take. Two is more than my mangled sensibility can tolerate.”

“You have such a nice way with words.”

She shot me a look of pure loathing. “Look, Bai—”

“Francie. You don’t want to make a mistake at The Castle.”

“You’re still coming to stay?”

I decided to overlook her clear lack of enthusiasm. “With a song in my heart.” I paused, grinned. “I know. Soooo last century.” I thought I detected a quiver of amusement on her face. Possibly we might forge a better relationship.

I gave some thought to my visit, selecting clothes and accessories and personal items, then informed Kay. “My suitcase is in the trunk. You might see if I could be put in that lovely white room. That’s where I stayed last night. It’s very convenient to yours.”

“Oh, sure, I’ll ask. Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like.” Her tone was just this side of churlish.

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother. Nothing I’d rather do than make you as comfy as possible.” The car picked up speed.

My feeling of bonhomie eroded. However, I resisted responding in kind. I hoped Wiggins was even now adding a star to my file. “Is Gregory Gallery near The Castle?” I knew this old part of town well and we were retracing our earlier route.

“Gregory Gallery?” She sounded abstracted.

“Alison Gregory. Surely that’s where we’re headed.”

“Bai—Francie, you may ostensibly be my assistant, but please leave the tactical planning to me.”

I don’t like to be patronized. However, I made my tone quite reasonable. “Jack specifically sought information about Alison Gregory’s financial status. There was a time noted on the back of her business card and a name. That suggests he made an appointment with her.”

Her head jerked toward me. “How do you know about the business card?”

I didn’t bother to answer. If she was so smart…

Her face screwed up in dismay. “That gives me the willies. You’ve been creeping around—”

“I never creep.” Absolutely not. I float.

“You know what I mean. You were there, but I couldn’t see you and you pawed around in the desk.”

“Please.” It was my turn to patronize. “Let’s focus on what matters.”

The Corvette curved into the front drive. “Let’s do that very thing,” she snapped. “Alison Gregory’s a side issue. Jack didn’t find out anything to derail Evelyn’s plan to buy into the gallery. What matters is the background of Laverne and Ronald Phillips. I’m going up to my room and do some calling.”

Sometimes it’s better to remain aloof from controversy.

I disappeared.

The Corvette squealed to a stop. Kay looked above, around, and behind. “Come back here. What are you going to do? Where are—”

Diane Hume stepped from the shadow of an elm. Eyes wide, she stared at Kay.

“Are you all right?”

Kay punched off the car. She managed a strained smile. “I’m fine. Sometimes”—she swallowed hard—“I practice questions before I talk to people. I asked myself, ‘What are you going to do?’ That helps me organize my thoughts.” Kay slammed out of the car, headed for the front steps.

Diane hurried to catch up. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll try it. ‘What are you going to do?’ Why, I already feel more empowered. That’s what Laverne urges me to do. Open up and be empower—”

The front door shut behind them.

In my experience as an emissary, I’d learned that clothes and accompanying articles such as a purse with customary contents could be imagined into existence. Perhaps…I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined the most fetching red Corvette convertible—not, of course, that I wished to imitate Kay, but the ride was exhilarating.

I opened my eyes.

No red Corvette gleamed in the drive of The Castle.

Oh, well. It never hurt to try. Instead, I thought Gregory Gallery and there I was.

Built of golden adobe in the style of Santa Fe, Gregory Gallery drowsed in the shade of cottonwoods. Water splashed from a fountain of brilliant red-and-blue-patterned Talavera tiles. A bell tinkled as I turned the oversize iron knob and pushed the hand-planed, sugar-pine door.

The entryway opened to a large, rectangular room. Cleverly spaced lights plus natural light from skylights illuminated paintings mounted on pale lemon walls.

Alison Gregory moved gracefully toward me. Her cool blue eyes swept me, likely tallying the price of my hairdo, makeup, and wardrobe. The sum must have been adequate for a customer. I was glad I’d chosen the silk georgette blouse. Perhaps she admired the pale pink of the hand-painted flowers against the lime background. Her smile was welcoming. “May I help you?”

I smiled in return. “I hope so. I’m Francie de Sales.”

A graceful hand was extended. An emerald glittered in an elegant gold filigree setting. “Alison Gregory. Welcome to Gregory Gallery.” Her handshake was cool and firm. “Are you looking for a particular kind of painting?”

“I wish I were.” My voice was admiring. “That’s a striking scene.” I gestured at a painting of Indians on horseback against the backdrop of granite buttes.

“Thomas Moran.” She spoke as if he were an old friend.

“Remarkable.” My gaze swept the displayed paintings. “Your gallery is very impressive. No wonder Evelyn Hume plans to become your partner.”

Utter surprise widened her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh?” I showed confusion. “That was my understanding. Jack Hume told a friend that Evelyn hoped to become a partner in the gallery. Wasn’t that what he discussed with you?”

Her face was suddenly unreadable, smooth and controlled. “What do you have to do with the Humes?”

“I’m Kay Clark’s assistant. She asked me to visit with you for her book about him. He had an appointment with you. I doubt there’s much that would matter for the book, but she didn’t want to overlook you since he’d made a special note about seeing you. I hope you can spare a few minutes to tell me about your meeting.”

“I’ll be happy to do that, though I doubt my conversation with him will be of interest to you.” She gestured toward an alcove. Well-worn leather furniture looked comfortable. “Come sit down.”

We faced each other across a rough-hewn pinewood coffee table. Several art magazines rested on the table.

She relaxed against the soft leather, crossed her legs, and locked her hands around one knee. Even in the fairly dim light of the alcove, the emerald glowed grass green. “However, I first want to make it clear that you have received false information about my gallery. Evelyn Hume and I have never discussed going into partnership.” She spoke briskly, but pleasantly. “Evelyn is a dear friend and a valued customer, but she isn’t interested in being my partner, nor have I ever suggested a partnership to her. I own Gregory Gallery. I run Gregory Gallery. That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be.”

It was my turn for surprise. “I see.” Though, of course, I didn’t. “Definitely there is a mix-up. Jack told a friend he was interested in the gallery’s business performance because Evelyn was considering a partnership.”

“How odd.” She stared toward the stuccoed wall, her eyes narrowed in thought. “I don’t see why he wanted to know about the gallery…” It was as if she were speaking to herself. “…unless he was taking that route to see if I was trustworthy.” She gave a decided nod. “I suppose that had to be his reason. The Humes”—and she was both admiring and critical—“always look at the bottom line. I suppose he was vetting me to decide if he could trust me. He did come to see me for a specific reason.” She gave me a searching look. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm now in revealing our conversation.”

I felt close to discovering something important. The mixture of hesitancy and reluctance suggested she knew something of a matter that had been important to Jack Hume.

“He wanted to talk about Evelyn. On a personal level. Evelyn”—the gallery owner’s smile was quick and unaffected—“comes across as a curmudgeon. In reality, she’s kind and sensitive. She is passionate about art. And”—she looked grave—“about family. That was the problem. Jack approached me because I am one of Evelyn’s closest friends. In fact, when he came to the gallery, I wasn’t surprised. He’d made a special effort to be friendly to me. One evening at The Castle, he asked me to tell him about some of the artworks. He wanted to be able to talk to Evelyn about the art and, as he put it, he’d spent most of his life in a rough-and-ready place and he wasn’t an art connoisseur. I realized when he came to the gallery”—she waved her hand at the magnificent arrays of paintings—“that he’d used art as an excuse. What he really wanted to talk about was Evelyn.”

She brushed back a strand of blond hair, sighed. “Their situation was sad. Evelyn was angry with him. She felt that he’d neglected the family, that he’d hurt their father deeply. She especially resented the fact that her brother didn’t come home when his father was dying. Oh, he came for the funeral. But Evelyn told him, I’m afraid not very kindly, that he’d come too late. He didn’t come home to Adelaide to see his father one last time.” She pointed at me. “He sat in that chair and asked if I thought there was any way he could reach her. He said, ‘My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me. I don’t want to go home with that on my conscience.’”

My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me.

The words, spoken in Alison’s soft, quiet voice, seemed to hang between us.

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing new. Maybe there’s nothing new in the world when it comes to love. And hate.” She looked pensive. “We’ve all made mistakes with people. I never had a sister or brother, but I know when I’ve hurt someone, the best words are ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s what I suggested he say to Evelyn: ‘I’m sorry.’ He came to see me the afternoon of the day he died. He didn’t know he had so little time left. He wanted to make things right with his sister. I hope he had a chance to tell her. But I won’t ask Evelyn. If he didn’t, it will only grieve her.”

I shook my head. “I’d consider telling Evelyn. If she doesn’t know, you might bring her great comfort. And certainly, this is material that will add depth to the book.”

“You may be right.” She sat straighter on the couch. She looked poised to rise, making it clear that the interview was at an end, that she was a businesswoman, that she had matters to deal with.

I stood and smiled. “Thank you so much for your time.”

She walked with me to the door.

As I pulled the door open, sunlight flooded the entryway. She stood with the grace of a model. I admired her indigo trousers and zebra-print blouse, the zigzag blue stripe evocative of a shimmering Caribbean lagoon. Large crystals glittered in a summery golden bib necklace. She might have been any well-to-do woman on a lovely summer day except for a hint of weariness in her smooth face.

I paused. I’d forgotten one point. “Jack had made a note about Leonard Walker.”

Something moved in her blue eyes. Wariness? Fear? Or was she simply surprised? Her reply came slowly. “Leonard Walker? I can’t imagine—oh.” She shook her head. “I’d forgotten. When Jack and I talked about paintings one evening at The Castle, he asked about local artists. He said he had a photograph of his late wife and he wondered if he could commission someone to paint a portrait for him. I must have suggested Leonard. He’s in the art department at Goddard.”