Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER TEN

I waited until the convertible was well out of sight from downtown before I swirled into the passenger seat. “I’ve been thinking.”

“What an accomplishment.” Kay’s tone didn’t invite me to share. She shot a searching glance at me. “I gather you and Chief Cobb have a history.”

I tried to look modest. “I’ve been honored to assist the department on previous visits.”

Slowly, her lips curved into a smile. “I’ll bet there are some stories behind that sweet modicum of words. Maybe someday the chief and I can let our hair down and trade ghost stories.”

I cleared my throat. “Just in case Wiggins is about, perhaps you might refrain from comments guaranteed to distress him.”

“Oh, boy. Wow. I sure wouldn’t want to distress the head spook—”

The rumble from the backseat sounded like a cross between a water buffalo’s bellow and the strangled gurgle of a suddenly unplugged drain.

Kay hunched over the wheel. “Just kidding. One sp—One helper is all I need.”

“Spook!” Wiggins’s deep voice quivered. “Bailey Ruth, this is the fruit of your transgressions. Constant appearances and open interaction with your recalcitrant subject have now”—and his anguish was obvious—“caused me to breach Precept Three.”

Kay glanced in the rearview mirror at the empty backseat. “Precept Three?”

“‘Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.’” Wiggins was chagrined. “My lapse clearly reflects that I have succumbed to the temptation against which I warn all emissaries. I have become too much of the world instead of pursuing my duties unseen, unnoticed, and unsung in the world. I succumbed to the worldly sin of anger.” His voice fell lower than I had ever heard him speak, a man in despair.

“Wiggins, your instinct trumped the rules.” My voice was fervent in admiration. “You have come to the rescue. Who would have thought you would be this clever! Of course, you are always on top of your job. But your appearance now, at this moment”—I gave Kay a sub rosa pinch—“has made all the difference. Look at Kay.” Was I adroit enough to pluck Wiggins from his abyss of contrition?

I pointed at Kay.

Kay appeared startled and a shade (sometimes I succumb to pun fun) apprehensive. Kay also looked youthful and very attractive as the wind whipped her dark hair. Her gaze continued to flicker toward the backseat.

“I’m looking.” Wiggins sounded resigned, but I thought I sensed the faintest hint of hope that I could restore his equilibrium.

Kay’s peek in the rearview mirror reconfirmed the emptiness of the backseat. Her shoulders tightened.

“Kay regrets her failure to fully cooperate.” I was counting on Kay’s obvious desire to see—uh—hear the last of Wiggins. “Since I appeared solely to prevent the reckless firing of her gun in the garden last night and thereby was glimpsed by a resident of the house, remaining invisible at all times was no longer possible for me and I put aside my personal wish to honor each and every Precept.”

The silence in the backseat seemed somewhat receptive.

So far, so good. “Your well-timed arrival emphasizes the importance the department places upon Kay’s safety. I’m sure before you depart, Kay will pledge her willingness to follow my directives so that I may remain unseen, unnoticed, and unsung, except, of course”—my tone suggested this to be a trifling matter—“for those household moments now required by my initial appearance.” This not only gave me latitude, but reemphasized the point that my actual presence on the scene had become essential. “Before you leave—is there anywhere you are needed at the moment, Wiggins?”

“Well…”

I pictured Wiggins tugging at his walrus mustache.

“There is one small matter, a too-diffident emissary at Ulaa Lodge in Patagonia. From one extreme to another.” He sounded exasperated.

I chose not to respond to the latter comment. “Please, don’t let us delay you. Quickly, now, Kay, so that Wiggins may depart in good conscience, repeat after me: I, Kay Clark—”

She shot me a look of unadulterated fury.

My left hand wasn’t visible to Wiggins. I poked Kay’s arm and jerked a thumb toward the backseat.

Kay took a deep breath. “I, Kay Clark—”

“—do hereby solemnly promise on my word of honor—”

“—do hereby solemnly promise on my word of honor—”

“—to cooperate fully with Department of Good Intentions Emissary Raeburn.”

“—to cooperate”—she sounded morose—“with Department of Good Intentions Emissary Raeburn.”

I firmly believe formality encourages decorum. Ask any former high school English teacher. Ah, Department of Good Intentions Emissary Raeburn! If that didn’t have a ring! Possibly I might design a card. DGIE Bailey Ruth Raeburn would look impressive in bright red script. I have a fondness for red.

I gave Kay a magnanimous smile, then looked over the seat. “Thanks to you, Wiggins, our ship is now on course. Have a great trip to Ulaa Lodge.”

“You are very kind. Bailey Ruth, I know you do your best.” If he took comfort in that conclusion, it wasn’t evident from voice. “But, please, try harder.”

“You can count on me.”

Possibly I heard a sigh that faded away on the wind.

As the convertible started up the hill to The Castle, Kay still clutched the wheel in a tight grip.

Halfway up, I reassured her. “He’s gone.”

Her sideways glance was cold. “Is blackmail included in your Precepts?”

“Now, now.”

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

“The psychological profiles—”

“Spare me.” Her words were clipped. “If you want to send me off to twiddle my thumbs, say so.”

“That is an unworthy accusation.” I didn’t dispute its accuracy. “Actually, you can accomplish a great deal by finding out what makes these people tick. Paul Fisher can tell you everything about them.”

“Paul Fisher?” She spoke his name with a mixture of hesitancy and eagerness.

“He’s the obvious choice. He knows these people intimately and he was Jack’s best friend.” Moreover, I felt confident Kay would be absolutely safe in his company. On the day of the murder, the lawyer had dined in Oklahoma City with golf friends and not returned to Adelaide until late. He could not have slipped through shadows to push his old friend down steep steps. Nor had we discovered any hint of a rift between the two men. It was true that Paul hadn’t told Kay about Jack’s interest in Gwen and Clint Dunham, but the lawyer didn’t know that Kay’s questions had to do with murder, not a biography. “See what you can find out from him this afternoon. Then we’ll have a better idea on where to concentrate our efforts.”

“‘Our’ efforts? What will you be doing while I round up insights?”

“Popping here and there.”

“Mine but to do, mine not to question why?” The Corvette turned into The Castle drive. “Okay. I’ll play your game after I talk to Diane, Jimmy, and Margo.”

I held up my hand. “Leave them to me. They know you were close to Jack. How forthcoming do you think they will be? But me, I’m the help. I didn’t know Jack Hume. They are much more likely to drop their guard with me.”

She looked thoughtful as she braked. “Much as it galls me to admit it, you’ve got a point.”

I glanced at my watch. I had a little over an hour before my meeting at the gazebo with Gwen Dunham. There was much to do. “I appreciate your cooperation. Let’s go inside and I can meet my hostess.” And possibly others. “Then you can be on your way to Paul Fisher’s office.”

I glanced around to be certain no one was observing the car, then transformed my appearance. Gone was the jade green cotton top with a square neck and cap sleeves, short white skirt with green-stemmed daisies, and white sandals. Instead, I wore a drab, too-large taupe smock, black slacks, green tennis shoes, and Ben Franklin granny glasses. Most painful was the lack of makeup. Even red hair and appearing twenty-seven didn’t save me from looking like a street waif.

Kay’s eyes widened. “Have you had a nervous breakdown?”

I pushed the granny glasses higher on my nose. “Would you worry about talking to me?”

Diane Hume had changed from her gardening clothes to an Irish linen blouse in a robin’s-egg blue, perfect for her faded blond prettiness, and navy slacks. I was glad the light was fairly dim in the main hallway, though she apparently hadn’t noticed my transformation from stylish assistant in the gazebo to Francie Frump in the hallway.

Diane’s smile was shy and welcoming. “Just leave your suitcase here.” She gestured at the base of the broad stone stairway. “Margo will bring it to your room. Margo’s our wonderful housekeeper. If you need anything, Margo will see that you get it.” Diane looked at Kay. “Francie will be in the white room, just down the hall from you.”

I felt warmly toward Diane. Perhaps she’d noticed my hair, which flamed while the rest of me drooped, and decided the white room offered the proper background.

“That’s excellent.” Kay’s enthusiasm seemed to be well contained.

Diane said diffidently, “If you’d like, I’ll show Francie the main rooms on the lower floor before we go up, and then she’ll know her way around.”

Kay looked like someone marooned on an island who sights a cruise ship. “That would be such a help. I’ll slip away. I have an appointment at the historical society.” Her glance flicked toward a shadowy alcove.

Diane looked impressed. “I know you have so much you need to learn. I’ll take good care of Francie.”

My gaze swung to the alcove. Ronald Phillips stood very still, his figure almost invisible, except for the telltale gleam of white buck shoes.

White buck shoes might be passé, but I suspected they added a buoyancy to Ronald’s steps. He no doubt saw himself as quite the dandy fellow, and he continued to be a man who never hesitated to eavesdrop. Was he observing Diane? Or did he have suspicions about Kay?

I didn’t envy his shoes, but I loathed my current pair. Appearance does matter. A beautifully patterned, swinging silk makes a woman feel butterfly free and just as lovely. I wasn’t enjoying being Francie the Frump. Perhaps better shoes would lift my spirits. The green tennis shoes gave way to adorable ruffled orange leather flip-flops.

Kay drew in a sharp breath and shook her head warningly.

I gave her a reassuring pat on her elbow.

If Ronald hadn’t been watching, I suspect she would have chastised me. My smile was blithe as she walked away.

Diane had turned toward an archway. “The living area is this way.” I followed Diane through the main living and dining rooms. The heavy Victorian furniture was massive, lightened by occasional Chinese chairs and couches, many of them either red or gold, an odd but intriguing combination of styles. She flicked on lights to illuminate paintings and statuary. She paused in the dining room to look up at an enormous painting of an angel garbed in denim blue holding a small drum. Two lines of blue feathers accented huge golden wings. “This is one of my favorites. James says the drumbeat is so soft it seems as though you are listening to God’s heart. He knows.” She turned limpid, trusting blue eyes on me. “You see, my friend Laverne—you haven’t met her yet, but you will—is able to reach out to James. That’s my husband. He died five years ago.” Tears made her eyes brilliant.

“Hearing from him must bring you great comfort.” Hopefully Wiggins was deeply engaged at Ulaa Lodge. I well knew the stricture in Leviticus 19:31. I intended to unmask Laverne as a fraud before Kay and I left Adelaide. You might well ask how it was that I, admittedly a spirit, abhorred spiritualism. Ah, the difference is that I had been dispatched from Heaven to help. Mediums claiming to contact those who have passed over were initiating contact from earth. Legitimate contact came solely from Heaven.

Diane clasped her hands beneath her chin. “I don’t know what I’d do without Laverne.” Her voice quivered.

“I suppose when you face a big problem, or a fear, she is able to seek James’s counsel.” And gouge more money from you.

Diane’s eyes looked huge and her face was wan. “Usually.”

“I hesitate to speak.” Have I ever uttered a less accurate statement? “And, of course, we are strangers.” How much easier it is to confide in someone who is not a part of your world. “But I sense that you are in great distress and you aren’t sure how to proceed. Maybe I can help.”

Diane’s fingers hooked around the big beads of her costume pearl necklace. “I can’t tell anyone. I hope James will tell me what to do. Truly, Jimmy didn’t mean—” She broke off, clapped a hand to her mouth.

“That’s all right.” I made a reassuring sound. “Kay’s told me about Jimmy. She understands how upset he was.”

Her eyes grew enormous. “How did Kay know?”

“Kay’s a marvel.” My tone was admiring, though, of course, I deserved the kudos. However, I am selfless in carrying out my duties.

Diane’s delicate features suddenly set in a mask of anger. “I thought Margo heard Jimmy. Well, she can’t pretend she wasn’t mad at Jack, too. I know what happened years ago. She never got over Jack dropping her, and Shannon running after Jack made Margo furious. But she shouldn’t have told Kay what Jimmy said.”

“I’m sure he can explain everything when I talk to him. Is he here this afternoon?”

“Somewhere.” Her voice was faint. “He’s researching a paper for one of his professors. He’s worked hard this summer.” There was a trace of defensiveness in her voice. I wondered if her background had been less privileged than that of her husband. Perhaps she thought even rich kids should have summer jobs.

“That’s wonderful. Certainly it will be important to have his views of his uncle in the book.”

“The book.” She looked as wilted as a chrysanthemum corsage left out in the sun. “Please, don’t put in what Jimmy said. He didn’t mean a word of it.”

“Let me see what I have.” I delved into a shabby straw purse and pulled out a notebook. I flipped past a few pages, peering intently. “Of course, comments often get garbled when they are repeated. Jimmy said something to the effect that he intended to push Jack?” I ended on a questioning note.

“He didn’t threaten to push him.” Diane’s denial was vehement. “If Margo said that, she should be ashamed. It was Saturday afternoon and Jimmy was upset about Shannon and how she was chasing Jack. Jimmy said the next time he saw Jack, he was going to knock him flat. But Jimmy came to dinner and he and Jack didn’t say a word to each other, so that shows Jimmy was only blowing off steam. He would never hurt Jack. That’s how boys talk. Boys make a lot of noise and don’t mean anything serious. Everybody knows Jack fell. His death was a terrible accident.” There was terror in her eyes.

Kay was sure Jack had been murdered.

So was Diane.

I would have enjoyed exploring the subtleties of the white bedroom. Wherever I looked, I saw unusual decorations: a photograph of a polar bear on an ice floe with brilliant blue sky the only note of color, an ivory miniature of the Taj Mahal at sunset, a framed Alençon lace bridal handkerchief with the intertwined initials CKH, an all-white spiral seashell in an alabaster box lined with red velvet, a lustrous white costume pearl necklace dangling from a red coral branch. Instead, as soon as the door closed after Diane, I became invisible and followed her.

In the hallway, I hovered near the frescoed ceiling, white clouds shot through with gold against a blue sky. Diane stood at the landing, her head turned to look up toward the third floor. She shuddered and whirled away. She hurried downstairs, her shoes thudding on the steps as if she could not go fast enough.

I dropped by the Phillipses’ suite. Laverne lay back on a chaise longue, a magazine loose in her lap. Alone, all pretense of imperiousness was gone. Her heavily made-up face sagged, lines of uncertainty and foreboding pulling at her lips. She lifted a shaking hand to massage one temple.

I bypassed Diane’s suite and the unoccupied guest rooms. Jimmy Hume wasn’t in his room. At the other end of the hall, I entered Evelyn’s suite. The impress of her personality was everywhere, from Stickley furniture to art-glass windows to Mission-style lighting to a vibrantly warm still life by Helen Clark Oldfield. The oil painting in an understated white frame hung by itself in the center of a cream stucco wall. On a teak table rested a silver-handled magnifying glass. How much did Evelyn see when she held the oversize glass close to the canvas? Perhaps a dim mélange of Oldfield’s rich colors. Was possession of beauty enough in itself to give her pleasure?

Downstairs, Margo worked in the kitchen. Her face was pinched in thought. She looked dour. Evelyn Hume sat at a piano in an alcove off the living room, her expression remote, her hands forceful as she played a polonaise. Ronald of the white shoes was not in any of the ground-floor areas, nor did I find Jimmy Hume or Shannon Taylor.

I stood in the central hallway. I almost materialized to go to the kitchen when I decided to look over the grounds. The sound of a steel guitar led me over a row of poplars. Below was a sparkling swimming pool in the shape of a T and a cabana.

Green-and-cream-striped awnings provided shade. Jimmy Hume lounged on a cushioned deck chair. He wore swim trunks, but they appeared dry, and a laptop was propped on his knees. The music thrummed from speakers mounted on the cabana. I floated behind him, read over his shoulder.

…and the oil-bearing layers are reminiscent of a sponge, in that…

I moved to the other side of a hedge and swirled present as Francie the Frump. My soft-soled flip-flops made no sound as I strolled around the greenery and crossed the deck. “Hello.”

He looked up in surprise, but put aside the laptop and came to his feet.

I appreciate good manners. He was also a hunk, dark hair thick on his tanned chest, flat stomach, powerful legs, and the good looks of the Hume men.

“May I help you?” His voice was youthful, but confident. Millions in the bank have a way of instilling confidence.

“I’m Francie de Sales, Kay Clark’s assistant. I wondered if I might visit with you for a moment.” I pushed up the granny glasses and endeavored to appear innocuous. Of course, that is always a challenge with red hair, despite a lack of makeup.

He closed the laptop and gestured toward a white wrought-iron table and chairs. When we were seated, he looked at me inquiringly, but said nothing. He reminded me of a long-ago movie actor, Montgomery Clift.

I explained in a diffused and rambling fashion that I was gathering material for the book about Jack’s life. I leaned forward, pen poised above an open notebook, my expression earnest and slightly dim-witted. “I hope you will describe your uncle’s last few days. I understand you had a difficult exchange with him the day he died.” I made my tone confidential and sympathetic.

His face twisted in a frown. “So who’s mouthing off about me?”

“My sources are confidential.” I sounded regretful. “Of course, that’s why I am asking you. Everyone deserves to defend themselves.”

“There’s nothing to defend.” He was clearly angry. “I tried to talk to Jack and he blew me off.” There was depth of pain in Jimmy’s anguished eyes. “He treated me like I was a stranger.”

I felt an instant of connection with Jack Hume. That final day a powerful force had driven him. Something mattered terribly to him, mattered so much he couldn’t take the time to understand his nephew’s distress.

I was also touched by Jimmy’s misery. There was grief in his eyes as well as anger. “Did you want to talk to him about Shannon?”

“Jack blew her off, too. I’d never seen her so upset.” Jimmy was gruff. “I didn’t want her hurt, not like that. She had a big-time crush on him and he made her feel like a silly fool. I knew all along that Jack wasn’t serious about her, but he shouldn’t have dumped her like that. I was going to tell him he was a jerk.”

“Is that why you threatened to knock him flat the next time you saw him?”

Jimmy’s jaw jutted. “Yeah. I would have. After dinner, I was going to make him pay. I went up to the balcony.”

I looked at him in a confused fashion, but there was no confusion in my mind. “Let me see. I thought he fell down the balcony steps. If you went that way—”

Jimmy shook his head. “I was inside. I came up the interior stairs.”

I observed his handsome face. I liked him. I wasn’t sure I believed him.

“I went through the ballroom and out to the balcony. He wasn’t there.” Jimmy looked half sick. “If I’d gone down the steps, I guess I would have found him. Instead, I went back into the house.”

Shannon Taylor wasn’t in the house nor was she attending Evelyn. Outside, I floated above The Castle. In addition to the workshop, I saw a long building with five bays that obviously served as the garage. I caught a glimpse of white beyond a row of willows. In an instant, I stood in front of a modest frame house with a screened-in porch.

Inside, Shannon sat on a cheerful yellow chintz sofa. She looked young and lovely in a rosebud-embroidered mauve tank top and blue chambray shorts. She held a book in her lap. The immaculate, simply furnished room was cool and quiet.

I came nearer. The page was opened to “Nocturnal Reverie” by Anne Finch. Shannon pressed a finger against a line.

I bent to see.

But silent musings urge the mind to seek Something, too high for syllables to seek. Tears glistened in her eyes.

I reappeared on the front porch and knocked.

She was unsmiling when she opened the door. She glanced at my dowdy clothes. “No soliciting permitted.”

Before the door closed, I said quickly, “I’m not soliciting. I’m Francie de Sales, Kay Clark’s assistant.”

“Kay Clark.” A scowl marred her young face.

“You can be very important in a book about Jack Hume. I understand he felt a real rapport with you.”

Her eyes widened.

“I hope you will share what you know about his last days.”

“His last days…” Her voice was shaky.

“In his e-mails, he said you were very kind to him and he admired you.” I didn’t feel that was too much of a stretch. Certainly he’d told Kay how flattering he had found Shannon’s attention.

“He did?” Her eyes lighted. “He said that?”

How little it takes when someone hungers for even a crumb from a beloved figure.

“He said you were gorgeous and sweet.”

I could not have given her a greater gift. Her face bloomed. She opened the screen and I followed her into the living room.

When we sat on the sofa, I leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “The hope”—I carefully avoided saying this was Kay’s hope—“is to know what he was thinking and feeling those last few days.”

Shannon talked fast. “He was so much fun. We first spent time together at the pool. If Evelyn doesn’t need me, I can do whatever I want. I help Mom a lot, but I have a bunch of free time. We swam together and twice we went canoeing. One night I ran into him at Mama Pat’s.” She glanced at me and added, “That’s a club near the campus. I love old jazz. I go there a lot. He was there by himself, listening to the piano, having a drink. We danced to ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.’” Her eyes shone with the memory of a night and the touch of his arms and a smiling face looking down at her. Slowly, the softness faded, replaced by a dumb misery compounded of hurt feelings and puzzlement. “We had fun. I know we did. He liked me. I don’t know what went wrong. I thought maybe I’d said something, done something. It was that last weekend and I found him in the study. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered him. He looked upset, and when I asked him if we weren’t friends, it was like he didn’t even know me. He kind of shook his head and told me to go away, he was busy. I couldn’t believe he’d act like that after the way he’d held me. It wasn’t right.” There was aching humiliation in her eyes and passionate denial in her voice. “I found out he was seeing that woman next door. She’s old. I don’t know what he saw in her. But they had something going on. I heard the last thing she said to him. ‘I wish you were dead.’ I hope she feels bad now.”

Margo Taylor cracked another egg into the blue mixing bowl. A splash of sunlight through the kitchen window emphasized lines of discontent that flared from her eyes and her mouth. “I don’t want to talk about Jack Hume.”

“I understand you were in love with him at one time.” She pressed her lips together and clipped another egg on the side of the bowl. “He dropped you for another woman.”

A flash of satisfaction gleamed in her green eyes.

Her unexpected response caught my attention. I doubted that she harbored kind feelings toward the woman who had supplanted her. She could only feel pleased if in some way she had caused difficulty for her long-ago rival. I remembered Kay’s description of the photograph which she had assumed pictured Jack Hume on his graduation. Photographs of a darkly handsome boy covered a wall in the Dunham home. A photograph was missing from the Dunham wall.

“You slipped the photograph of Ryan Dunham under Jack’s door.” I had no doubt in my mind.

For an instant, Margo stood rigid, one hand gripping an egg. She didn’t drop her eyes to the bowl quite quickly enough to hide a quiver of shock. Then she cracked the egg with a snap.

“Why did you want Jack Hume to see that picture?”

She picked up a whisk, gently whipped the eggs. Her face was set and hard and utterly determined.

My tone was sharp. “Did you guess that Ryan was his son and want to cause trouble for him and Gwen Dunham?”

She placed the beater beside the bowl, turned to one side to pour flour into a sifter.

I moved to stay within her vision whether she acknowledged me or not. “Apparently your daughter made a spectacle of herself, chasing after Jack.”

Margo combined dry ingredients with the flour in a smaller bowl.

“Were you angry because he charmed your daughter, then dropped her? Did it remind you of what happened to you?”

She added the dry ingredients to the larger mixing bowl.

“If you decline to offer information, the book may contain material from others that you won’t find pleasing.”

She paused and looked at me, her gaze level and challenging. “Have you ever heard of invasion of privacy? Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”