Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER NINE

I didn’t bother going to the campus. It had never been my experience that academics spent much time in their offices and certainly not during the summer. I disappeared and zoomed to a nearby dress shop. An empty office provided a phone book. I found Leonard Walker’s address.

I felt no need to hurry, so I wafted through the shop to see the clothes. Oh, yes. Very nice. I changed into a salmon rose-print blouse and cool gray trousers, then arrived on a shady street near downtown with well-kept bungalows from the 1930s. The modest homes were unpretentious, charming, and livable. I immediately applauded Walker’s taste.

I waited until the mailman walked away to become visible. I admired the crisp white of the heavily timbered front-porch gable, then climbed the shallow front steps. The shingled wood exterior was painted a soft sea green. The gleaming mahogany front door featured an opaque oval glass inset with a daylily incised in the center.

I rang the bell and faintly heard a distant chime.

Cicadas rose to a crescendo, dropped away, began again. In the moments between their songs, I heard the poignant cry of mourning doves and the rustle of magnolia leaves. But the house lay silent.

I rang again.

Possibly Leonard Walker was out of town. The mention of his name had apparently surprised Alison Gregory. I had only her word for Jack’s question to her. Had he really sought an artist to create a painting of his late wife? Or had Jack been interested in Walker for another reason?

I only knew for a fact that Leonard Walker’s name had been written on the back of Alison’s business card, his name and a time.

I pressed the bell again.

Suddenly the door swung in. A tall, stocky bear of man with a mane of golden hair filled the doorway. He gave me an admiring glance from dark brown eyes. He was handsome in a bohemian way, a blue work shirt loose over cotton shorts, a single earring, a gold-link necklace. “Yeah?”

I introduced myself. “I’m hoping for a moment of your time. I’m gathering information on Jack Hume for a book and apparently he was in touch with you before he died.”

He looked blank. “Hume?” He sounded puzzled.

“I understand he wanted to commission you to paint a portrait of his deceased wife from a photograph.”

“Oh. Yeah. Dude in his sixties.” He lifted his heavy shoulders, let them fall. “He never got back to me.”

“He died in a fall.”

Again he shrugged, though this time he added a commiserating shake of his head and the thick blond hair rippled. “Sorry about that. Anyway, he came to see me a couple of weeks ago, I never heard back. That happens. People change their minds. So, I can’t help you.”

The door closed in my face.

I walked swiftly down the sidewalk. I waited until I was screened by trees to disappear. In an instant, I was inside the house. The living room enchanted me: a copper flying pig hung from a thin wire, a tulip vase adorned a cherry-and-ebony cabinet, and every where there was distinctive Stickley furniture, cabinets, chairs, and end tables, as well as Queen Anne and Chippendale armchairs.

Walker was in the kitchen. He picked out a can of Coke from the refrigerator, flipped the top. He looked relaxed. It didn’t appear my visit was lingering in his mind.

I floated about the house and found his studio. A large easel sat in the middle of the room. Paint splotches marked the old wooden floor. Canvases leaned against the walls, some finished, some not. The strong scent of turpentine and linseed oil cloyed the air. Mussed paint rags overflowed from a wastebasket, littering the nearby floor. A studio easel held a half-finished oil painting of a golden retriever. A photograph of a dog was clipped to the top right of the easel. In the clear north light, there was an uncanny resemblance between the photograph and the painting of the large blond dog holding a pheasant firmly in his jaws. The oval palette on the nearby table was splotched with varying shades of oil paint.

Footsteps sounded. Walker came in and picked up his palette, looked at the painting, lifted his brush. He added several dots of orange to one paw, then stroked the bristles against the canvas. The fur looked amazingly lifelike, shining in sunlight. His face folded in a frown of concentration.

I left him at work. Outside, I moved out of sight of the house, stepped into the shadow of a willow, and, after a careful look about, appeared long enough to look at my watch. Of course I have one. Heaven doesn’t stint on details. I changed from a silver case and black leather strap suitable for Kay Clark’s research assistant to a stylish Swatch, the bull watch. This had nothing to do with Pamplona. This had to do with Black Angus bulls in Pontotoc County, Oklahoma. It was a quarter after twelve. Paul Fisher’s office should be empty. I disappeared.

I turned on the light in Paul Fisher’s office. My stop would be brief. As a widower, I doubted he went home for lunch. I felt a pang. Was he even now settling into one of the four booths at Lulu’s? I was starving. However, I resisted the impulse to pop to Lulu’s for a heavenly hamburger. Lulu’s is an Adelaide institution. More important, Lulu’s serves delectable, sizzling hamburgers with freshly chopped onions, crisp lettuce, and real tomatoes, not those bright red but tasteless greenhouse products. I could picture my hamburger, the bun fresh and hot and seasoned from a slap-down on the grill. In a minute, perhaps…

I dropped into Paul’s chair, opened the lower right drawer, and picked out the green folder. I looked at the square white card:

6/3

Alison Gregory

Laverne and Ronald Phillips

There was a space and in a different ink, black, not blue, was written:

6/5

Gwen and Clint Dunham

The folder contained several sheets of paper. I found information on Alison Gregory and Laverne and Ronald Phillips. The lawyer had accurately reported his findings to Kay. The last sheet had the names of Gwen and Clint Dunham at the top. Instead of a summary of information, this sheet listed three questions.

Wedding date?

Birth of son?

Hairbrush?

I turned the sheet over. The other side was blank. I looked again at the questions. There were no answers given. I went carefully through the folder. There was no further mention of the Dunhams. All of the other material pertained either to Alison Gregory or the Phillipses.

Three questions asked on June 5; no answers given. Or, at least, no answers had been recorded in this file. Jack died the night of June 6. Quite likely Paul had not had time to make any inquiries.

In addition, Paul had deflected questions about the Dunhams to Diane, saying that Diane and Gwen were close friends. Was that intended to be helpful or was it a subtle attempt to maneuver attention away from Jack and the Dunhams?

I replaced the folder in the drawer. Just in case, I flipped through the other files. This apparently was Paul’s personal drawer. Folders contained income-tax statements, home-, car-, medical-, and life-insurance policies, the Paul Forbes Fisher REV. Trust, deeds, and Ameritrade quarterly reports.

I had difficulty replacing the files. I reached inside and felt an obstruction at the back of the drawer. My fingers touched a slick material. Something covered with plastic wrap had apparently slid forward when I picked up the files.

My fingers closed around the oval lump. I pulled it out, intending to replace the files, then drop the object behind them as Paul must have done. I stared through clear plastic wrap at a man’s silver-backed hairbrush with the initials RPD ornately engraved.

I didn’t disturb the wrapping. I placed the hairbrush on the desk as I returned the folders. I started to shut the drawer, then stopped. If I took the hairbrush with me and Paul discovered its loss, he might sharply question his elderly secretary. I could not put her character in jeopardy. If I didn’t take the brush, there was always the possibility that the lawyer might dispose of it. Or return the brush to its owner. However, he had no reason to believe anyone would ever become aware of the brush. Perhaps he had decided the brush, whatever secret it held, might be safest tucked behind his folders.

Reluctantly, I reached to the back of the drawer and slid the brush sideways behind the folders. It was now as he had left it. I hoped the brush remained where it was. Whatever happened, I knew Jack Hume very likely had brought the brush to Paul and I could describe, very accurately, the bright silver back and intricately engraved initials: RPD.

RPD…

On the second floor of the public library, I wafted through the staff offices until I found one momentarily unoccupied but with the computer on. It was the work of only a moment to find what I needed. Gwendolyn Marie Parker and Clint William Dunham were married at the First Baptist Church on August 11, 1990. Ryan Parker Dunham was born April 23, 1991. RPD…

The Dunhams’ stone, clinker-brick, and oak-beam house was a small version of an English manor house. Slate shingles glittered on the steep roof and terra-cotta pots adorned the chimney. The dark green of thick ivy emphasized the brilliance of red shutters. The lawn was a green pelt. A maroon Lexus was parked in the shade of spectacular pink, white, and red flowering crape myrtles.

Inside, I heard the distant sound of a piano. I flowed through the house, admiring the living room with a white marble chimney piece, hand-beaten copper vases, a rosewood whatnot with a collection of porcelain birds. In the dining room, stained-glass windows with a heraldic motif of a metal visor in the center of a blue-and-gold design overlooked a rectangular mahogany table. Balloon-backed chairs repeated the design in blue-and-gold tapestry.

At the end of the hall, I entered a long room. Chintz-covered easy chairs, a large-screen television, and a wet bar provided a homey atmosphere. A bricked wall suggested this room was a later addition.

A slender woman sat at a grand piano. Her hands moved lightly as she played “Clair de lune.” The mood and movement were mournful. She looked cool and summery in a light blue cotton blouse and a leaf-print-pattern blue-and-silver sarong skirt. Softly curling blond hair framed a face with the beauty of classic features: smoothly rounded forehead, wide-spaced blue eyes, narrow nose, perfect lips curved in a hint of a smile. She had the kind of beauty made famous long ago by Grace Kelly.

My gaze swept past a wall with an English hunting scene and stopped at a knotty-pine wall covered with family photographs that followed a little boy from toddler days to college. I saw the boy and the woman seated at the piano as they had changed over time. The woman who held him when he was little smiled down at him adoringly, a mother’s look of passionate love. The little boy’s father had an open, blunt face that had improved with age from a rather vacuous expression when he was young to a tolerant, genial middle age. Family pictures, the three of them smiling and happy, included sitting on the top rail of a wooden fence, skiing, playing tennis, boating, birthdays, dances. I studied the photos with a prickling of shock.

I stepped back, scanned the wall. Across the top of the wall was a series of studio photographs. The pictures were evenly spaced except near the end of the row, where three of the frames hung several inches farther apart.

I glanced behind me. The pensive pianist was focused on the keys, the slow music continuing.

I moved nearer the wall and quietly lifted several frames in turn. There were nicks from previous nails a few inches from the current hooks. The photographs at the end of the line had been moved to hide a missing frame. At one time, another picture had hung there.

I gently straightened the last frame and gazed at the woman. Her lovely face appeared troubled. She half turned toward the wall of pictures, perhaps sensing my movement, perhaps seeking solace. For an instant, sheer misery made her face forlorn. Her hands came down, crashing into a discordant chord.

Now was the time to confront Gwen Dunham.

On the front porch, I glanced around. No one was about. I swirled into place. I took no pleasure in what I was about to do, but someone had pushed Jack Hume to his death and I might be near to knowing why. I pushed the bell.

In a moment, the door opened. The smooth social veneer that keeps misery hidden molded her face into polite inquiry. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Dunham, I’m assisting Kay Clark with her book about Jack Hume. I would like to speak with you—”

“I can’t help you.” Her voice was thin. “I hardly knew him.” The door began to close.

“Jack Hume took your son’s hairbrush.”

“Oh God.” She clung to the doorjamb as if all her strength were gone.

“Hey, Gwen?” The robust call came from down the hall. A burly man with thinning sandy hair and a sun-reddened face strode up the hallway. “Ready to go?”

Violet eyes huge in a blanched face, she held out a beseeching hand to me. “It’s my husband. I can’t talk to you now. I can’t.”

“Three o’clock in the gazebo at The Castle.”

She nodded jerkily and the door swung shut.

I disappeared. Inside the house, I watched her turn to meet him.

The smile slid from his face. “Gwen, what’s wrong?” He darted an angry look at the door. “Who was that woman? What’s happened?”

She reached out and spread her fingers on the tiled top of the side table in the foyer. She tried to smile, but her face was paper white, her eyes staring. “The woman?” Her voice was uneven, breathless. “I don’t know.” There was a ring of truth to her voice, truth and puzzlement. “I shouldn’t have opened the door. I have a terrible headache. I’m going upstairs. I’ll lie down for a while. Go on to lunch without me. Tell Ted and Tracy I have a headache.” She turned and moved blindly toward the stairs.

He came after her, reached out to take her arm. “I’ll help—”

She pulled away. “No. I need to rest. Everything will be all right. I’ll take some medicine. Please, go on without me.”

He watched as she climbed, using the banister to pull herself from one step to another. His face held uncertainty. He moved toward the stairs, stopped, shook his head in frustration. He walked down the hall, a man deep in thought. Clearly the thought was not pleasant.

The terrace room at The Castle reflected a taste for Moorish architecture. A long wooden table near the French windows apparently served the family for lunch. Evelyn looked remote and unapproachable. Diane’s sundress was too youthful, exposing bony, freckled arms. Jimmy’s square face looked set and hard. Kay’s dark head was bent toward Diane and Kay seemed to hang on every word. Laverne and Ronald Phillips weren’t in evidence.

Diane’s face glowed with eagerness. “…Laverne gives so much of herself. She is absolutely drained after a séance. I worry about her…” Her praise continued.

Jimmy ate stolidly, his face drawn in a frown.

Evelyn ignored the conversation except for an occasional disdainful glance.

Obviously Kay hadn’t shared her information about Laverne and Ronald with Diane. I wondered if Kay had spoken yet with Laverne. But that could wait until later. At the moment, I was impatient to talk to Kay.

I dropped down beside her, bent to whisper in her ear. “Remain calm.”

Kay stiffened. Her expression became glazed.

“Meet me downtown at Lulu’s in twenty minutes.”

I sat at the counter and smiled at my reflection in the mirror. I no longer felt the need to appear businesslike, at least not for lunch. A jade green cotton top with a square neck and cap sleeves made my eyes look even greener. Green is good for redheads. A short white skirt with green-stemmed daisies and white sandals completed my ensemble.

I took a last bite of hamburger as Kay slid onto the next stool. Providentially, the space was open, even though Lulu’s was at the height of the lunch crunch.

The waitress filled up my tea glass, cast a professional eye. “Dessert today?”

“Lulu’s special.” After my successful morning, I deserved fresh apple pie with melted Cheddar and a scoop of homemade vanilla.

“Coming up.” She glanced at Kay. “What’ll you have?”

“Key lime pie and coffee.”

When our desserts arrived, I forked flaky crust first.

Kay slid here eyes toward me. “Where have you been?”

She gave the distinct impression she would have been happier had I never reappeared. Fortunately, I wasn’t sensitive. “I had an instructive chat with Alison Gregory.”

Kay looked bored. “So Alison’s sinking her piranha teeth deeper into the Hume fortune. What else is new?”

“Not so fast. Evelyn wasn’t interested in a partnership, nor was Alison. Jack wanted Alison’s help. He made a special effort to be charming to her at The Castle one evening, asking her to describe some of the paintings to him.”

Kay looked puzzled. “Describe the paintings to him? Why? He was as much a connoisseur as Evelyn. Jack’s wife was an artist and they often spent time at galleries in Europe.”

I shrugged. “I suppose it was a way to be friendly with Alison. In any event, it wasn’t art that brought him to her gallery. He wanted to talk to Alison about Evelyn.”

As Kay listened to my report, her eyes widened and her fork with a mound of key lime pie remained on her plate. When I finished, she sat silent for a moment, then shook her head. “Paul was Jack’s best friend. Why did Jack lie to Paul about Evelyn planning to go into a partnership with Alison?”

“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe Alison Gregory lied.”

Kay looked efficient. “There’s a quick way to answer that.” She pulled out her cell, dialed. “Evelyn, this is Kay. I may have misunderstood Jack in a phone conversation before he died. We were talking about Gregory Gallery. Are you considering becoming a partner with Alison?” She listened, then said smoothly, “Actually, I was on my cell and there was static. He must have said something about you and Alison working so closely together in your art acquisitions, a real partnership.” She ate a bite of pie. “I understand. It’s a minor point, but I wanted to clear it up. Thank you.” She clicked off the cell. “Jack lied to Paul. Why?”

I hadn’t known Jack. I didn’t know how closely—or not—he hewed to truth, but there could be an explanation. “Paul and Jack were old friends, but would Jack necessarily want to discuss Evelyn with him? Instead, he made up a story to give Paul a reason for his curiosity.”

“I suppose.” Kay didn’t sound convinced. “The whole conversation seems off-kilter to me. Jack might dissemble with Paul if there was an important enough reason, but I don’t see Jack asking a woman he barely knew for advice about his family.”

“He’d been gone a long time. From all accounts, Evelyn and Alison are very close. There was real affection in her voice when she spoke of Evelyn.” I finished the last delicious scrap of apple pie. “We can be sure it’s never occurred to Alison that Jack was pushed or she wouldn’t have told me what Jack said about Evelyn.” I quoted, “‘My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me.’”

Kay shivered. “He must have sensed enormous anger on Evelyn’s part. She has a very strong personality. I think if she were angry, she’d be frightening.” Kay pushed away the rest of her pie. “No matter what we discover, I never feel that we are getting any closer to the reason Jack was killed. I don’t see how I’m going to find out who’s guilty. Even if I do, what do I do then?” Her voice was forlorn.

It was a surprise to see Kay discouraged. Possibly I should encourage her to give up. I looked into her dark eyes, filled with doubt and sadness. Where was the Kay who never met a challenge she wouldn’t take? No doubt she was weary. Her sleep must have been disjointed, what little she had achieved after the crash of the vase. But if she quit, she would always look back and feel that she had failed a man who had been a treasured, if troublesome, part of her life.

I weighed my choices: encourage Kay to leave Adelaide, thus keeping her safe, my prime responsibility, or urge her to fight the good fight, for herself and for the memory of a man she’d loved.

My lips parted.

Kay sat up straight, her eyes blazing. “I have to keep going. No matter what it takes, I’ll find out who’s guilty.”

Here was the Kay I’d come to respect. I didn’t even consider suggesting she leave the task to me. For her own peace of mind, she had to finish the course. “I’ll do everything I can to help.” I meant every word of my offer.

“Thank you.”

Was there a hint of appreciation in her eyes?

She gave me a thumbs-up. “I’ll catch Jack’s murderer.” She hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “You’re a big help. Thanks for the update.”

Since she didn’t ask if I had learned anything else, I felt under no compulsion to describe my visit to the Dunham home. If my talk with Gwen Dunham at the gazebo proved to be relevant, I would report what I learned as if I’d discovered all my facts from Gwen. I would leave Paul Fisher out of the equation altogether. I not only believe in young love, I believe in late love.

Kay gestured to the waitress, who nodded, and in a moment placed Kay’s check and mine on the counter. As Kay started to rise, I spoke fast. “Did you get anywhere with Laverne and Ronald?”

She settled back on the stool. “Not far. I cornered Laverne alone on the lower terrace and here came Ronald.” She looked thoughtful. “It’s hard to square your version of him and the one he presents when he’s with Laverne. He played the diffident, adoring husband to the hilt, but, thanks to your tip, I watched her. She slid her eyes toward him, time and again. I’d hoped to talk to her alone, but I got the real clear feeling that wasn’t going to happen, not if he could help it. I was as pleasant as could be and said I’d heard some interesting facts from Helen Cramer’s daughter. Laverne looked like one of Poe’s apparitions had her by the neck.” Kay paused and gave me an uncertain glance.

Heavens, I would hope I’m never guilty of being overly sensitive. I waved a negligent hand. “‘No offense meant, none taken.’” I smiled as I remembered Sergeant Buck, who faithfully served Colonel Primrose in the Grace Latham mysteries by Leslie Ford. I’d recently read her latest, evocatively southern and drenched with the scent of magnolias. Oh. Perhaps I shouldn’t share that little fact about Heaven. Dismiss the possibility from your mind that your favorite authors write merrily away in their Heavenly abode. But you might remember the first stanza of Rudyard Kipling’s “When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted” and draw your own conclusions.

Kay cleared her throat. “Ronald wasn’t fazed. He gave Laverne a glance that meant ‘get that terrified look off your face,’ then he went on the offensive. He claimed that Laverne had been set up by Carol Cramer, Helen’s daughter. He said one afternoon when Helen was resting, Carol encouraged her to look at some old albums and that’s why Laverne’s fingerprints were on the albums. The fact that Carol surreptitiously obtained her fingerprints from a teacup and had them compared to the prints on the album certainly indicated that Carol was not trustworthy. Laverne had only looked at the albums to be polite and was appalled when Carol poisoned her mother’s mind against her, convincing Helen that the intimate details recounted during séances had been taken from the albums. As for the money, it had been freely given as a gift in appreciation for Laverne’s great service in affording comfort to Helen. However, when there was a lawsuit, Laverne felt so dishonored she decided not to keep any of the money even though it had been freely given to her by Helen. By the time Ronald finished, Laverne didn’t look quite so spooked. Oh. No offense meant.”

“None taken.” I laughed aloud.

Kay’s lips quivered for an instant in amusement, then her amusement fled. She sighed and turned her hands up in a gesture of defeat. “As for the historical society, Ronald was as smooth as silk. He said he was greatly interested in Adelaide’s history and was working on a monograph about the founding families, the Humes and the Pritchards.”

“What an eel.” I pictured an eel with carefully coiffed silver hair and cold blue eyes.

“He has an answer for everything and Diane will always take their part.” Kay looked disgusted.

“I imagine she will. However, exposing Laverne and Ronald isn’t our main concern. The point is to catch Jack’s murderer.” I looked into the distance as if seeking enlightenment. I do believe I might have excelled at acting. Possibly that’s why I felt such an affinity with auburn-haired, velvet-voiced, witty Myrna Loy. Those who loved her films will be delighted to know she is as urbane and delightful…Oh. There I go again. Never mind. One day you will know. Perhaps my inner soliloquy made my expression even more arresting. I widened my eyes. My lips parted. I turned to Kay with a happy look of triumph. “Kay, you are so insightful, so clever, with such an unerring sense of character. There is an avenue open to us that only you are suited to follow.”

She looked at me warily.

Was her inner hogwash detector vibrating? I glanced at the mirror. I have never seen anyone look more sincere than I and the light was very flattering to my hair. “Thanks to your good efforts, we know everyone who was present at The Castle the night Jack was killed. However, we must discover which one was angry enough or desperate enough to murder him. You can use your investigative skills to put together their psychological profiles.” This project would be a nice, safe diversion for Kay while I followed more fruitful lines of inquiry. “I’ll—” I broke off. The mirror gave a good view of everyone entering Lulu’s.

Chief Cobb stood in the doorway. Despite the heat, he wore a brown suit, white shirt, and tie. The temperature outside probably hovered around ninety-seven. He looked hot, wiping a hand across his sweaty face. He started toward a booth.

I bent near Kay and whispered, “Pay my check,” as I disappeared.

Kay flinched. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Her voice was sharp.

The waitress turned. She was a big woman with a broad, freckled face. “Ma’am?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

The waitress looked at the pudgy man on the stool to Kay’s left. He was turned away, deep in conversation with a little boy in thick glasses and a backward ball cap. Her gaze moved past Kay to my empty seat. She stared. “Where’d that redhead go? She hasn’t paid.”

Her raised voice caught the chief’s attention. He glanced toward the counter.

“I’m paying for her.” Kay added my check to her own.

The waitress looked to the front door and back to my empty space. Her face creased in a frown. “She was there when I turned around to get the coffeepot.” She held a metal pot with a red rim. “All I did was get the pot and turn back around.”

The chief stood behind my seat. “Hey, Imogene.”

“Hey, Chief.” Imogene jerked a thumb toward the door. “Did you see a redhead go out just now?”

Sam Cobb’s heavy face was suddenly alert. “A redhead? No.” He looked at Kay. “Good to see you, Mrs. Clark. Is your assistant here?”

Kay maintained her poise. “Not at the moment.”

“Where did she go? That’s what I want to know?” Imogene had met the inexplicable and she gripped it tighter than a dog with a bone as she automatically cleared the counter.

Kay smiled. “She moves quickly. But it doesn’t matter. I’m paying.” She started to rise.

Chief Cobb blocked her way. “I’d like a moment of your time, Mrs. Clark.” He was polite, but commanding.

Kay sank back onto the stool and the chief slid into my place. “The usual, Imogene.” He turned toward Kay.

Her dark eyes looked apprehensive, but her face was molded in pleasant inquiry. “What can I do for you, Chief Cobb?”

He studied her. “I’ve looked into your background. You are exactly who you claim to be, a successful nonfiction author and a longtime friend of Jack Hume’s.” There the slightest emphasis on friend.

Her expression didn’t change. She said nothing.

His bulldog face was intent. His dark eyes were not so much combative as stern. “You claim to be writing a book about him. I did a little checking. Your publisher never heard of that book. Apparently, the usual procedure would be for you to submit a proposal. You haven’t. According to your editor, you’re writing a book about Meg Whitman.”

The waitress brought iced tea and shot another puzzled look toward the door.

Kay folded her arms. “Jack’s death prompted me to honor his request that I write a book about him. I have every intention of completing the other manuscript. However, I didn’t believe I’d have another opportunity to interview those who spent time with Jack here in Adelaide.”

Imogene slid a plate in front of the chief.

He cut a cheeseburger in half, then gave Kay a level, searching look. “You may be interested to know I wasn’t the first person to ask about the book. Apparently a reporter for the Adelaide Gazette called your publisher yesterday afternoon. I contacted the Gazette. You might be interested to know that no Gazette reporter made that inquiry.”

“A man or a woman?” She stared at him, tense and eager.

“Summer colds are nasty, aren’t they? The caller apologized for hoarseness. Could have been either a man or woman.” He ate part of his hamburger, dipped a french fry in ketchup. “Now, you’re a lot better at asking than answering. I won’t waste your time and mine with questions. Instead, I’ll tell you the way I see it.” His deep voice was matter-of-fact, but he exuded the tough competence of a cop who looked hard and missed little. “You are contacting the people who were at The Castle the night Jack Hume died. Last night you arranged to meet someone in the garden. That cul-de-sac is a nice secluded spot for a quiet chat. I imagine someone left you a note.” His eyes never left her face.

Kay’s gaze dropped to the counter.

“You were a sitting duck when somebody pushed that vase. We got a 911 call, but not from you. If you hadn’t insisted that the vase toppled in an accident, we could have investigated last night. Now we’re blocked. Evelyn Hume won’t file a complaint. Moreover, I’d bet my season tickets to the Sooners that somebody’s been busy on that pedestal, smoothing away any evidence a chisel was used to loosen the vase.” His brown eyes were hard. “My take is that you believe Jack Hume was murdered and you’re stirring up people you suspect. You’ve started down a path and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. However, you can do me a favor. Fill me in on what you’ve learned.”

“Why?” Her question was short and crisp.

“When somebody finds your body, I’ll know what you know.” His dispassionate tone made the words even more chilling.

Kay drew in a quick breath. Slowly, she faced him. “Am I correct that you won’t actively investigate right now?”

He nodded. “I’m blocked. But if something happens to you…”

The unspoken proposition was grim: if someone killed Kay, he would have a head start if he knew what she now knew.

“All right. I get your point.” Her voice was steady, though thin. “I found a note in my room after dinner. She quoted, ‘Be on the terrace at midnight in the cul-de-sac. I know what happened to Jack.’”

He gave a short, hard shake of his head. “What did you think the murderer wanted to do? Confess?”

“I intended to be careful.” She didn’t mention the gun.

“You are”—he bit off the words—“a damn fool, Mrs. Clark. Murder is my job, not yours.”

“Chief Cobb, if I could prove Jack was murdered, I would have come to you first. I don’t have proof. I came to Adelaide because he was angry and upset with several people. If you started an investigation, I would never have a chance to get information from any of those people.”

“I’ve been talking to suspects for a long time. I’ll share a little fact with you.” His tone was sardonic. “People lie.”

She lifted her chin. “They are more likely to tell the truth if they don’t know they are suspects.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Sometimes they squeal like pigs on their way to slaughter to show they are innocent and fall all over themselves to pitch dirt about other people. But one of them may make sure you don’t find out too much.”

Kay slid from the stool.

He looked after her. “Of course, you may be lucky. You said your assistant was with you last night. Your redheaded assistant, Francie de Sales.” Cobb took a bite of cheeseburger, wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “According to your editor, you’ve never had an assistant, always worked alone. We ran some checks in the Dallas area. No luck with Francie de Sales.”

Kay managed a smile. “I don’t know too much about Francie. She seems capable enough.”

It wasn’t what I would call a sterling endorsement.

“Anyway, she was with you last night. I’m betting she pushed you out of the way of the vase. Am I right?”

Now it was Kay who stared with wide eyes. “Yes.”

“You could even say”—his tone was ruminative—“that your being saved was miraculous.”

His gaze held hers and between them passed an understanding.

Kay swallowed. “You’ve seen—”

I pinched Kay, once, hard.

She jumped.

A kind of smile tugged at Chief Cobb’s broad lips. He looked speculatively about. Certainly he couldn’t see me, hovering above and slightly behind Kay. I had no doubt he knew I was near.

“Yeah. Sometimes we can’t explain everything.” He stirred sugar into his coffee, gave her a sober look. “You can’t always count on miracles, Mrs. Clark.”