Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Evelyn Hume smiled as she pointed toward the painting which I imagined she saw as a diffuse impression of colors. “…Metcalf was one of the first American artists to visit Giverny…He enjoyed his years in France and even spent two months in North Africa in 1886…his greatest success as an artist came during his years in Connecticut…”

Kay stepped nearer the canvas as Evelyn’s deep voice recounted facts and descriptions.

I, too, studied the magnificent painting. The colors of the poppies were as red as my hair. Gorgeous. When Evelyn paused for a breath, I asked diffidently, “Have you looked at the painting recently with your magnifying glass?”

She paused in mid-oration, looking surprised. “I haven’t done so. I believe I will this afternoon. Often I prefer to enjoy my memories of the paintings before my eyes grew so dim. This painting was a special favorite of my brother James.” Suddenly her face softened. “Jack and I looked at it only a few days before he died.” She shook her head, was abruptly remote. “Please enjoy looking at the collection. I believe I’ll go rest now.”

Kay paced back and forth in front of the bedroom’s stone fireplace. “If Evelyn has a guilty conscience, I’ll jump from the balcony with wax wings.” She slapped a fist in the opposite palm. “Why did Laverne stick in the stuff about the Metcalf painting? Ronald must have seen Evelyn looking at the painting with her magnifying glass. Why was that important? The painting belongs to her. She can look at it every day if she wants to.”

I wasn’t listening. I was seeing Ronald as he slipped quietly around The Castle, watching, looking, noting. Suddenly a different picture filled in my mind. Not Evelyn. Of course, Ronald didn’t see Evelyn. He wouldn’t have given a thought to Evelyn peering closely at one of the famous paintings. I could scarcely breathe I was so excited. “Kay, listen, what if—” I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked around inquiringly.

Kay broke off. Her eyes widened. “Is he back?”

I felt a wisp of whisker as Wiggins leaned close to whisper in my ear: “I must talk to you.” I obligingly bent nearer.

Kay pushed to her feet. “Do you have any idea how spooky it is to see you listening to someone who isn’t here? Look, I’ve gotten used to you. I mean, you’re here and it’s all kind of crazy, but familiarity breeds a certain relaxed feeling. So that’s okay. More than one of you makes me feel like I’m a certifiable nut.” She darted a haunted look around the room. “For all I know, there are a bunch of you. Maybe that grade school teacher who always made me stand out in the hall. Maybe that married city editor who thought he was God’s gift to single girl reporters. Maybe—”

“Kay, we’re here to help. There are only the two of us.”

She folded her arms, stood as if braced against a high wind. “Let’s go back to one of you. One. Uno. Wahid. Eins. Please.”

It wasn’t my place to instruct Wiggins, but Kay was truly distressed. “Wiggins, possibly this is a moment to remember Precept Six.”

“I wouldn’t have to alarm earthly denizens if I could ever find you by yourself.” Wiggins sounded plaintive as he swirled into being. “You’re here and there and everywhere and always with someone.” He turned toward Kay, his expression earnest. “I beg your forgiveness for my intrusion. Outstanding emissaries”—he shot me a disapproving glance—“neither appear nor”—great emphasis—“converse unseen with earthly creatures. Bailey Ruth means well.” There was a singular lack of conviction in his voice. “But she’s communicated with you and with the police chief, though at least she hasn’t appeared in his presence.” His brows beetled as he shot me a demanding glance.

I beamed at Wiggins. “Only as Francie de Sales and, of course, that doesn’t count.”

Wiggins heaved a despondent sigh and looked morose. “That is a sore point which will require further consideration on my part at the appropriate time.”

Uh-oh.

I’d been happy as a bobbing red balloon and now it was as though my energy were seeping away, along with my self-esteem. I couldn’t help noticing in the mirror the transformation of my bright, vivid, eager face with glowing green eyes and spatter of freckles and lips poised to smile into a drooping, wan, forlorn visage.

“Oh.” Wiggins tugged in dismay at his thick walrus mustache. “Now, Bailey Ruth, that isn’t to say you haven’t done good work.” His reddish face brightened. “Excellent work, in many respects. In fact, that is what brings me here. You have completed your task. Kay Clark”—he nodded at her respectfully—“is safe from harm. The proper authorities are investigating the murder of Jack Hume. Sadly, Ronald Phillips followed the wrong path, but”—and he gazed at me with approval—“you made every effort to keep him from harm. And you did so”—and here I’m afraid his voice reflected surprise—“without violating most of the Precepts.”

I wished he didn’t sound as if he found that almost incomprehensible.

“Therefore, I am relieved I am finally able to inform you that the Rescue Express is en route.”

In the distance, I heard the throaty, I’m-on-my-way, almost-there cry of an approaching train.

“Oh, no.” My cry was heartfelt. “I can’t leave now.”

Wiggins looked startled. He pulled a watch on a chain from the pocket of a vest. “The train is almost here. When an emissary’s task is successfully completed, the pickup time is set. I’ve been trying”—he sounded aggrieved—“to alert you for quite some time now.”

Another mournful whistle sounded, louder, nearer. Soon I would hear the clack of iron wheels on silver rails stretching into the sky.

“Wiggins, just as you arrived, everything became clear to me. I know what happened and only I can bring the murderer of Jack Hume and Ronald and Laverne Phillips to justice.” I spoke rapidly, laying out my reasons. “There isn’t a shred of proof. The only solution is for me to obtain fingerprints and see if there is a match. It is imperative that the fingerprints be secretly retrieved. The police can’t do that. But”—and I tried to keep pride from my voice—“I know I can succeed.” I appealed to his sense of honor. “Surely the Department of Good Intentions won’t walk away and leave a calculating murderer free.”

Kay watched with her eyes wide, lips parted.

The train whistle shrieked.

Kay clearly heard nothing.

Did I smell coal smoke?

Wiggins tipped his stationmaster cap to the back of his head. “A conundrum, to be sure.” He gazed at me in perplexity. “I fail to understand why nothing proceeds in an orderly fashion when you are involved.”

I do believe it was the first time I was ever described as a conundrum. Possibly the word was intended to be flattering?

He looked almost overcome. “Your methods, Bailey Ruth, your methods! At the very least, you plan upon breaking and entering.”

I disappeared, reappeared.

“Oh, I know. You won’t need to break inside. But still, I am uneasy.”

The thunderous roar of the express rattled the room.

“Wiggins!”

He threw up his hands. “…against my better judgment…and yet good must be served…” He began to swirl away. “The Rescue Express will be here at ten P.M. No sooner. And,” he announced, “no later.”

I picked up a half-empty Coke can from a side table in the den. I didn’t worry about leaving fingerprints. That wasn’t a problem when I was invisible.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

My heart lurched. The can hung in the air. Swiftly, I flowed behind a sofa. The footsteps continued past the doorway and I heard the distant slam of a door. Still, I was careful. I slithered along the floor to the hall and on to the kitchen. As I poured the soda into the sink, the soft gurgle sounded in my ears as loud as Niagara.

I now faced the difficult challenge of transporting the can safely without blemish to the police station. I would likely have to appear at one point or another since a can of Coke wafting through the air, brilliantly visible against a bright blue sky, might provoke unfortunate attention.

I needed a plastic bag. When I appeared, I wanted to be sure I didn’t add my fingerprints or muss those on the can. I opened a cabinet and the hinges squeaked. The kitchen door opened.

Just in time, I placed the Coke behind a trash can.

The footsteps didn’t pause, though I scarcely heard them over the thud of my heart. When the room was empty, I opened other cabinets and on the fourth try found a container of gallon-size plastic bags. I unzipped a bag and dropped in the can. I opened the back door and stepped outside. I swooped as fast as possible to take cover within the dangling fronds of a willow.

I appeared and with one hurried glance over my shoulder walked fast. As soon as I was out of sight of the house, I waited until a pickup truck rattled past. I disappeared and joined a large German shepherd intelligently riding on a folded moving pad on the hot aluminum flatbed. I scratched behind his ears and rode until we reached downtown. A block from the police station, I zoomed up thirty feet. I hoped no eagle-eyed passersby would note the traveling can in the plastic bag. I reached the station without any startled cries from below.

I knew from past experience—I had a fleeting memory of a chilly October night and a rope ladder—that Chief Cobb’s office windows opened and closed, unlike some in more modern buildings. I pressed against the window shaded by a cottonwood.

Chief Cobb sat at his battered oak desk, his back to the windows. He was in his shirtsleeves, his suit jacket hanging from a coat tree.

Detective Sergeant Price perched on a corner of the desk. Price’s rugged features creased in concentration. He tapped a folder, then thrust it toward the chief.

Cobb flipped the folder open and looked down at the contents. His left hand pulled out a side drawer, fumbled in it, and emerged with a handful of M&M’s.

I looked at my watch. It had taken me twenty-four minutes to achieve my first objective and arrive here with my trophy. I placed the plastic bag with its precious contents on the window ledge. The minutes were ticking past.

I flowed into the chief’s office.

“…no fingerprints on the gun. Nothing on the dog bone.” Price grinned. “Didn’t make me popular in the lab. Slimier than algae.”

“Any luck on dog-bone sales?”

Price shook his head. “I’m supposed to get a buzz if they find anything.”

Time, time, time, I had so little time. I moved to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. I came up behind Hal Price and held the chalk above his head.

The chief looked up. He stiffened.

I pointed the chalk at Hal, then at the door.

The chief gobbled a half-dozen M&M’s. “Hey, Hal, print out the Phillipses’ autopsies. And make some calls and find out who takes care of Evelyn Hume’s eyes. I’d like a report on how well she sees.”

As the door closed behind Detective Sergeant Price, I was at the window and pulling up the sash. I grabbed the plastic bag.

Chief Cobb watched the plastic bag approach his desk and land squarely in front of him.

“I don’t like sodas.”

“You’ll like this one. Here’s what you need to do…”

In midstream I paused. “You don’t look well.”

He pointed at the plastic bag. “How did you get that can?”

“I took it. I needed it. You need it.”

“I’ll be fired. You can’t steal somebody’s fingerprints.”

I felt impatient. Men are so literal. “Don’t worry about it. Once you get these prints, then it will be easy to see if they are also at The Castle. I am absolutely sure they are. Then”—I spoke slowly—“you’ll know. Once you know, you can go about getting evidence the way you usually do.”

“Good.” His voice had a strangled sound. “I’d be all in favor of getting evidence the old-fashioned—” He stopped, his heavy face suddenly excited. “Yeah. If we know, I can either make an arrest or use the knowledge to get big-time cooperation. Threat of arrest on first-degree murder may get me a little canary song.”

“Exactly. You’ll also need an art expert. That won’t be hard.” I pulled his legal pad to one side of the desk, began to write. “I have a plan.”

Chief Cobb punched his intercom. “I need prints made from a Coke can. ASAP.” He frowned in thought, then affixed a piece of tape to the plastic bag, identifying the contents and assigning the case number.

His door opened in less than three minutes. A slender woman in a beige smock and blue slacks took the plastic bag. “Fifteen minutes, Chief.”

“Thanks.” He reached for his phone.

When Detective Sergeant Price returned, Chief Cobb waved away the autopsy reports. “I got a tip. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He dispatched Price to pick up the expert.

True to her word, the technician returned with a sheet of fingerprints in fifteen minutes.

Chief Cobb smiled. “Thanks, Esther. I want a crime van at The Castle in an hour. Bring these prints. We’ll be looking for a match.”

As she left, Chief Cobb picked up the phone, punched a number. “Miss Hume? This is Chief Cobb. Our crime technicians will return to The Castle for further testing this afternoon. Some fingerprints may also be checked on the third floor in connection with your brother’s death. This is all a matter of routine.” His tone was bland. He listened, nodded. “Thank you.”

Once again he punched his phone. “Hal, get the expert to The Castle in an hour. I’ll meet you there.” He clicked off the phone, settled back in his chair, and looked around.

“Good work, Chief.” I spoke with warmth and admiration. “Everything’s going perfectly.”

His expression was wry. “That’s assuming there’s a match between the Coke prints and the prints you think we will find at The Castle.”

“O ye of little faith,” I murmured.

“But”—his brown eyes gleamed—“if the prints are there”—he glanced down at my plan—“your idea is swell. I’ll request everyone to be at The Castle at eight o’clock tonight, ostensibly to re-create the séance.” He tapped the sheet of paper with his forefinger. “None of them will dare refuse.”

Kay handed me her cell phone. “Moment of truth,” she announced.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost four o’clock. While Kay and I had awaited the chief’s call, we’d talked and paced and worried. And now we would know if we had succeeded. “Chief?” I held the phone tightly.

“Everything went just as you planned.” He sounded amazed. “The expert confirmed your guess. The prints were exactly where you said they would be. That was my ace in the hole. When I showed up and gave the Miranda warning and started talking about a triple murder charge, there was absolute shock and a pretty credible explanation. Actually”—the chief’s voice was thoughtful—“I don’t think there was a murder conspiracy. So, the canary sang and is fully on board for tonight. See you at eight.” A rumble of laughter. “I guess I won’t see you. But I’m sure you’ll be there.” The connection ended.

Kay looked depressed. “I don’t see why I can’t come.”

I have a fondness for silk sweaters. I tried a seashell pink with pale blue silk crepe trousers. Matching pink leather thongs were lovely. I pirouetted in front of the mirror. The light slanting through the window added a glow to my hair. But…I shook my head. Not dressy enough. I changed to a light blue Irish-linen shirt with openwork embroidery and a long A-line skirt with matching embroidery that started six inches above the hem. A different shade for my shoes—sky blue—and I was ready. I added a medallion necklace of ivory. “Perfect.” I was admiring the artistry of the clothing, not myself, of course.

Kay stood with her arms folded, glaring. “What is with you? Nobody’s going to see you. Why bother?”

Sometimes waspishness disguises disappointment. “I’m sorry you can’t be in at the finale.”

Kay paced, her narrow face in a tight frown. “Maybe I can slip into the library and hide behind the drapes.”

I straightened a curl over one ear. “The library isn’t the place to be. That’s simply a ruse to get everyone here. After everyone gathers, slip up to the ballroom. Open a door just a sliver.” I felt a pang of uncertainty. Our adversary was smart, tough, and strong-willed. “Oh, Kay, if ever you hoped for luck, hope tonight.”

In the library, I hovered near a chandelier with a clear view of everyone present.

Chief Cobb stood with folded arms at one end of the oak table, only a few feet from the chaise longue where Laverne Phillips had spun the web that robbed her of life. Although his brown suit was wrinkled and his tie loose at his collar, the chief looked powerful and impressive. The drapes were drawn, but tonight the chandeliers glittered, banishing all the shadows. In the bright, harsh light, wary faces looked toward him.

Evelyn Hume held her glasses in one hand. Her milky eyes made her look vulnerable, but she sat with regal dignity, her soft mauve chiffon dress appropriate for a grande dame. Diane’s face was blotched from crying. Every so often, she pressed a tissue to her lips. Jimmy studiously avoided looking toward Clint Dunham. He stared at the tabletop, his face sad and drawn. Clint’s shoulders hulked forward, a man in a tense, defensive posture. Gwen Dunham appeared remote and fragile despite her Grace Kelly beauty. Alison Gregory toyed with the emerald ring on her right hand, her gaze shifting from face to face. She was as perfectly turned out as always, blond hair smoothly brushed, makeup understated but effective, yet her cheekbones looked sharp above lips pressed tightly together. Margo Taylor’s auburn hair was pulled back in a tight bun, emphasizing deep lines at her eyes and lips. Shannon Taylor darted occasional worried glances toward Jimmy.

Chief Cobb’s deep voice was smooth and pleasant. “I am grateful to all of you for your willingness to return this evening to assist us in our investigation. We have made a great deal of progress today. However”—he glanced down at my suggested queries—“in some instances, information has been withheld.” He looked at Margo. “Where did you put the tools used to leverage the vase loose from the balcony?”

Margo was by far the likeliest person to have found the tools. I’d left them poking out of the chest in the main entrance hall Tuesday night. They were gone when I checked early Wednesday morning.

Shannon burst out, “I took them. Not Mom.”

Margo turned toward her. “Hush.” Her voice was frantic.

Shannon shook her head. “I didn’t push that dumb old vase. I was scared. I thought somebody was trying to cause trouble for somebody else.” She so obviously kept her gaze from Jimmy that she might as well have marked a huge black X in front of him. “I tossed them in the pond.” Her gaze was both scared and defiant.

Jimmy looked startled, then touched. “Yeah. My fingerprints would be on the crowbar. I changed a tire on my Jeep last week.” His eyes softened as he looked at Shannon.

She looked back and her heart was in her eyes. “You might have socked Jack. You wouldn’t sneak up from behind and push him.”

“It is helpful to know the whereabouts of the tools. However”—now Cobb’s look was dour—“you lied about not leaving your house last night, Miss Taylor.”

Shannon drew a deep, shaky breath.

Chief Cobb was brusque. “You went outside. You saw Jimmy Hume. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Jimmy wouldn’t hurt anybody.” Her voice was shaky, but her tone fierce.

“You might be interested to know that Mr. Hume had already told us he was outside.”

It was as if a chill pervaded the room.

The chief glanced at Margo. “You claimed Shannon never left the house. Did you hear her leave? Or return?”

“I was outside, too.” Margo talked fast. “I heard the front door. I followed Shannon. She wandered down to the pool and then she came back. That’s all she did. She didn’t go near The Castle. I saw her go inside our house and in a few minutes I came in.”

“Where was Jimmy Hume?” The chief’s tone was conversational.

Margo’s eyes flickered. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

Shannon reached out, took her mother’s arm. “Mom, it’s all right. I walked toward the gazebo. That’s when I saw Jimmy. But he was walking away from me. I almost called out, but I didn’t.” She looked toward him and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I was afraid you wouldn’t ever want to talk to me again. Jack was amazing, but you’re the only one who matters to me. Last night I wanted to talk to you so much, but I was afraid you would be mad at me.”

Jimmy’s face softened. “It’s okay, Shannon. Everything’s okay.”

I hoped that would be true for them now.

The chief turned toward Clint Dunham. “You were on The Castle grounds as well.”

Again, as in the afternoon, Clint Dunham said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together. His heavy face held a look of dumb misery and furious anger.

Cobb massaged his cheek with the knuckles of his right hand. “Mr. Dunham, you saw a woman near The Castle.” The chief’s voice was flat. It was not a question. It was a statement.

Silence settled in the room, a silence heavy with fear.

Cobb looked grim. “Who did you see?”

Dunham made no response.

A quick peal sounded.

Chief Cobb pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He glanced, tapped, apparently read a text. He lifted his head. Power emanated from him. “We’ll go upstairs now. A great deal of new evidence has been uncovered today. In fact, we will be making an arrest shortly. In conjunction with that and before we proceed further here, I will ask you to accompany me to the third floor. We expect the arrival of a witness, who has interesting information.” He walked to the hall door, held it wide.

“What kind of nonsense is this?” Clint Dunham slammed a hand on the table.

Gwen reached over and gripped his arm. Her violet eyes were wide and frightened. She didn’t speak.

Clint took a breath of aggravation. “None of this has anything to do with us.”

“Please, Clint.” She clutched his arm, tugged. Perhaps she hoped their cooperation would indicate innocence. Perhaps she was willing to do whatever they were asked to shift attention away from them.

No one else spoke. Chairs squeaked against the floor. Footsteps sounded.

Evelyn Hume led the way, moving with unerring accuracy through the door, walking to the stairs. She rested her hand lightly on the banister and started up.

At the base of the stairs, Diane clung to Jimmy’s arm. “I don’t like this. Jimmy, why we are going up there? If they ask us to go out on the balcony, I won’t go. I can’t bear thinking about Jack and those steps.”

“It’s okay, Mom. Let’s get up there and get this over with.”

I flowed above them.

Evelyn was the first to reach the third floor. She peered myopically down the hallway at the officers lining the hallway, four on each side. For an instant, her pace slowed, then she lifted her head and moved forward.

Diane clung to Jimmy’s arm, whispered, “Why are they here? Jimmy, what’s going to happen?”

Jimmy spoke quickly. “I don’t know, Mom.” His voice was even, but his face was strained.

Shannon drew in a sharp, harsh breath. “Jack came this way.” Her face crumpled.

Margo slid an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, glared angrily at the chief. “What is this macabre exercise supposed to prove?”

“Guilt.” His answer was quick, sharp, and hard.

Gwen Dunham looked at her husband with despair.

Clint blustered, “This has nothing to do with us.”

Alison Gregory’s eyes glittered, possibly from anger, possibly from excitement.

Chief Cobb led the solemn group midway down the broad, marble-floored hall. He gestured at the paintings hanging on either side. “These are some of the finest paintings in the Hume collection.” He stopped in front of the Metcalf painting with its brilliant red poppies. On close inspection, the red of the poppies drew the eye instead of the pale blue water of the river. The intermingling of white poppies added a dramatic accent.

“At the séance”—the chief sounded matter-of-fact—“Laverne Phillips said: ‘…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass…’ We know now that Laverne was following a script created by her husband. There was a reason for each and every comment she made. We wondered at the significance of the description of this specific painting. Of course, we know that Miss Hume”—he nodded toward Evelyn—“requires aid to view paintings.”

Evelyn Hume stiffened. Her strong-boned face appeared wary.

“However”—the chief’s voice was smooth—“there would be nothing remarkable about Miss Hume observing this work with a magnifying glass. Yet Laverne’s comments suggest that Ronald Phillips saw someone with a magnifying glass and light at this painting. What if the person at the painting was not Miss Hume, but her brother Jack? Why would Jack Hume investigate this painting?”

Footsteps sounded on the staircase. “Oh, perhaps the man is here who can answer all of our questions.”

Everyone looked toward the stairway.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Professor Leonard Walker, who teaches art at Goddard College and is a local artist.”

Walker looked uneasily up and down the hallway. “I’m always willing to be helpful to the authorities. I’ll be happy to tell you what I know about the painting in question. I understand that you found my fingerprints on the back of the canvas. Let me take a look.” He strode confidently to the painting, studied it. “Of course, I recognize it now.” His tone was hearty. “This is a copy I made of the Willard Metcalf original. I understood the family wished to raise money with a private sale of the original. Certainly, when I paint copies, it is always with the understanding that the recipients have ordered a copy.”

Evelyn Hume bristled. “There are no copies in the Hume collection.”

“Ma’am.” The artist’s tone was shocked. “I assure you this is a copy I produced on the understanding you had ordered it.”

Alison Gregory took a step forward. Her face was a hard mask of emptiness with burning eyes.

A police officer moved to stand on either side of her. Johnny Cain rested a hand on his holstered gun. The older officer watched Alison intently, rocking a little on the balls of his feet.

Alison darted swift looks at them.

Walker turned away from Alison. “I’m glad I was able to be of service. If that’s all you need—”

Chief Cobb took a step toward him. “Who directed you to paint the copy?”

The artist never looked at Alison. He spoke quickly, the words tumbling. “Alison Gregory ordered the copy for Miss Hume.”

Evelyn Hume’s face was cold. “I did not order a copy.” She slowly turned toward Alison. “Where is the original?”

A pulse flickered in Alison’s slender white throat.

Evelyn looked both angry and bereft. “You were my friend. You have betrayed me and stolen from me. How many paintings”—she gestured at the paintings on the walls—“are copies made by him? How much money did you make selling the originals?”

Alison whirled toward Walker. “You fool. You complete fool.”

Walker took a step back. “I know nothing about what happened to the original of the Metcalf painting, or”—his eyes flickered—“any of the other paintings. I thought I was creating copies for Miss Hume.”

“You knew better than—” Alison broke off. She turned, tried to run.

Officers surrounded her.

Chief Cobb took two quick strides, faced the woman who no longer appeared suave and cool and confident. “Alison Gregory, you are under arrest for the murder of Jack Hume, pushed to his death on the night of June sixth, and Ronald and Laverne Phillips, shot and killed the early morning of June seventeenth, and the attempted murder of Kay Clark, the night of June fifteenth.”