Merry, Merry Ghost

CHAPTER TEN

A dim glow marked a second-story window in the frame Victorian ranch house.

Tucker Satterlee, groggy with sleep, held a portable phone as he swung over the edge of the bed. His dark curls were tangled. He blinked sleepily. The low-wattage light from the lamp on the bedside table was flattering to the slender young woman clutching a sheet to her bare shoulders. “Who’s calling? What’s happened?” Her voice was shrill.

Tucker waved her to be quiet. He reached for a wool robe, stood and pulled it on. “Susan?…Yeah. Oh, hey.” He looked somber. “I’m sorry…” His face changed, brown eyes narrowing, bony features taut. “Smothered? That’s crazy…”

The woman gave a tiny gasp.

A wary look crossed his face. He spoke slowly. “I picked up Lorraine around ten. We went over to Firelake Casino to play the slots and have a couple of drinks. Then we came out here.” A muscle twitched in one jaw. “Lorraine can vouch for me if somebody saw Susan at midnight. But I can’t believe she was out chasing around Pontotoc County with some unknown redhead. Why do you want to know where I was?” His tone was sardonic. “Oh, sure. You called to ask where I was when somebody smothered Susan. Always nice when your sister asks you for an alibi. Anyway, you can cross me off any list of suspects.” His eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are the suspects?…Yeah. I guess so. All right. Two o’clock. Yeah. I’ll be there.” He clicked off the phone, turned to Lorraine, his face grim. “A bad deal. Susan’s dead. They found her tonight lying on the floor of her bedroom, a pillow over her face. The cops say it’s murder.” His face was abruptly hard. “I don’t know what will happen now.”

Nor did I. I was only sure—and pleased—that a stealthy killer’s plans had been disrupted and there would be more shocks to come.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I closed the swinging door before I turned on a light. Although the appliances had been updated, the big room was unmistakably early nineteenth-century with cupboards and a white wooden breakfast table and wood floors that dipped a little in one corner. I moved fast, keeping an ear cocked for footsteps. I found a directory in the drawer near the old-fashioned wall-mounted phone and flipped to the H’s. I ran my finger down the listings to Harrison Hammond, 903 Osage.

I felt intrusive poking into bedrooms, but I would go wherever necessary to find out how the news of Susan’s death affected the heirs.

Harrison sat on the edge of the bed, holding a telephone receiver. “I’m shocked, Jake. Do you want me to come there?…No, I guess there isn’t anything I can do at this hour of the morning…All right. We’ll be there at two.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Charlotte, who sat bolt upright, a pillow clutched in her hands.

His face was drawn. “You heard. Susan’s dead. They think it’s murder.”

Charlotte stared at him, her eyes wide. “That’s dreadful.”

Harrison sat unmoving, his hands folded into tight fists.

Charlotte reached out, touched his pajama sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer as he lowered himself onto his pillow.

Charlotte’s face filled with foreboding. “It’s dreadful that Susan was murdered tonight of all nights.”

Hammond looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte fingered the ruching at the throat of her green silk nightgown. “Susan announced plans to change her will. That same night she is murdered. What if the police”—her voice was scarcely audible—“find out you owe a lot of money?”

He rubbed at one temple. “It won’t matter.” His voice sounded hollow. “I was with you tonight.”

She looked at him. Without her glasses her eyes looked fuzzy, but the intensity of her gaze was unmistakable.

“I only went to the office for a little while.” He avoided looking at her. “I can’t believe any of this. Susan dead. My God, I’m sorry.”

Charlotte’s voice shook. “She’s dead. And she didn’t change her will.”

Harrison started to speak, stopped. He reached for the switch on the bedside lamp.

They lay on the bed, close yet separated by an incalculable distance.

In the faint glow through the windows from a streetlamp, the bedroom was a hodgepodge of shadows.

“I didn’t hear you come in tonight.” Her voice was a whisper.

He came up on one elbow. “Listen to me, Charlotte. I went to my office because I was trying to figure out a way to keep out of bankruptcy. I was there all evening. I never left until I came home at midnight.”

Keith was curled on one side, his fingers crooked around one of Big Bob’s paws. Across the room, Peg’s breathing was deep and even. I foresaw no danger for Keith now. No one knew the old will was to be set aside so Keith was safe. As soon as the holographic will was proved, Keith would also be safe because his death would accomplish nothing.

Reassured, I moved to the kitchen. I carefully shut the door into the hallway before turning on the light, although sheer exhaustion made it unlikely that anyone would wander downstairs now.

The refrigerator was well stocked. I cut several slices of rare roast beef. Oklahoma was beef country and there was none better in all the world, though of course, Kansas and Texas made similar claims. Sooners smiled kindly, having no doubt as to which state actually had the best beef. I spread two thick slices of fresh white country bread with Hellmann’s mayonnaise, added bread-and-butter pickles and a curl of horseradish. I found potato chips in a cabinet, poured a glass of whole milk, and settled at the kitchen table.

With a thump, Duchess landed on the table, gleaming eyes fixed on my sandwich, nose sniffing.

I cut a thin slice of beef, placed it in Duchess’s bowl.

The discovery of Susan, apparently dead from suffocation, was shocking to everyone connected to her. To her murderer, who alone at this point knew how her death had been achieved, that discovery was not only shocking but inexplicable.

I munched the sandwich and tried to put myself in the skin of Susan’s killer.

The murderer must be wondering and worrying. Who wanted Susan’s death to be investigated as murder? Why? Was the real murderer’s role known? How could that be? How could Susan have taken Jake’s car? Who was the redheaded woman? What were the police going to do?

The murderer had to be anxious, fearful, shocked, and, beneath the face presented to the world, suffused with rage.

As I took the last bite of sandwich, I was sure of that fury. To commit a perfect crime and see that undone had to have a cataclysmic effect on the killer. Yet, though I’d watched each of them carefully—befuddled Jake, grieving Peg, observant Gina, sleep-dazed Tucker, stricken Harrison, worried Charlotte—I had no inkling who was guilty.

Breakfast Sunday morning was subdued. Jake sat hunched over her coffee. She waved away food. Gina toyed with a sweet roll, crumbling it into pieces. Peg dished up Keith’s breakfast, put it at his place. “Gina, will you help Keith? I’d better call Dave.” She didn’t sound eager.

Gina tried for a smile. “Hey, Keith, let me cut your waffle. Do you want syrup or jelly?”

Keith leaned to one side, offered a piece of waffle to Duchess.

Jake managed a smile. “That cat likes caviar, but not waffles.”

Peg hurried from the kitchen. She was already dressed in a pullover sweater and jeans. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket. She carefully shut the living room door after her and stood by the cold fire. She pushed a button.

I arrived at a rambling ranch house on Peace Pipe Lane, the home of Everett Lewis, and found Dave in tartan plaid boxers, shaving. He heard the phone, grabbed a towel, and wiped his hands. His face still lathered, he walked into the bedroom to scoop up a cell phone from the nightstand. “Hey, Peg.” He listened and looked astonished. “Smothered?”

His shock was evident. Unfortunately, I had no way of knowing whether the shock came from the event or from the news that a death that should have been accepted as accidental was now deemed a homicide.

“That’s crazy. Did somebody break in?” His eyes narrowed as he listened. “Oh…Well, that’s tough. I know you were really close to her…This afternoon?…Right. I’ll be there. And hey, Peg, God knows this is pretty grim, but she wouldn’t have lived long anyway. Everybody knows that, and the truth of the matter is that the timing is good for us…Don’t take my head off. I’m just facing facts. She’d always promised the money to all of you and now it looks like it will all work out, and hey, we can take good care of the kid.” His tone was magnanimous.

Obviously the prospect of marrying a woman with a substantial inheritance was pleasing to him.

“Do you want me to come over now?…Oh. Okay then. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

I wasn’t surprised to find Police Chief Sam Cobb in his office on Sunday. His suit coat hung from the back of his office chair so I judged he’d been to church. He was as big as I remembered, a stocky man, grizzled dark hair receding from a domed forehead. His face was heavy, his jaw blunt. He’d known unhappy times. Even though only a short span of earthly time had passed, he looked older than when we’d last met, if one could describe our fleeting encounters as meeting. It had been my pleasure on my previous visit to Adelaide to assist the police in the guise of Officer M. Loy.

His oak desk was as battered and stained as I remembered. His computer screen was on. He turned from the computer to pick up a legal pad. He began to write:

Susan Pritchard Flynn stopped for speeding by Officer Johnny Cain at 12:14 A.M. Sunday in a blue Ford belonging to her sister-in-law Jacqueline Flynn. Car taken without permission. Mrs. Flynn accompanied by unidentified young woman described as very attractive redhead.

The chief paused, a frown tugging at his iron gray brows. I hoped he wasn’t recalling the occasional presence of redheaded Officer Loy.

With a brief headshake, he resumed writing:

At shortly before 1 A.M., Officer Cain observed the Ford driven recklessly down Persimmon Hill. Officer Cain gave chase. The car stopped at the base of the hill. Officer briefly glimpsed driver, the redheaded woman previously seen with Mrs. Flynn. Mrs. Flynn was not in the car. Driver was not apprehended. Officer Cain overheard a man and woman quarreling but never saw them. A woman cried, “Murder.” Woman may or may not have been driver.

The reason for Mrs. Flynn’s midnight trip is unknown. According to family, she was too ill to be out. Officer Cain knew Mrs. Flynn personally, had known her for years, and insists that he saw and spoke with her.

The identity of redheaded woman is unknown. Family claims they know of no one—

The phone rang. Chief Cobb glanced at the caller ID, punched the button for the speakerphone. “Hey, Doc. Hope you aren’t calling to say the autopsy’s on hold.”

“Man, I’m done. Started the autopsy at three A.M., got a pitiful nap, ran the tox test this morning. Major fact: The dig level was out of sight, 6.0. Normal is 1 to 2. The digitalis vial on the nightstand only had a couple of tabs. I didn’t notice the fill date. Better check. My guess is it was a fresh prescription and Mrs. Flynn ingested most of the tablets.”

The chief rustled through some papers. “Got a report here that digitalis was found in the dregs of the pot that had held cocoa as well as the cup. How did the medicine get in the cocoa?”

“I’m no fortune-teller, Chief, and that’s what you’re going to need here. Maybe the tablets fell in her cup by accident. That’s unlikely but things happen. Maybe she tossed the tablets in the cocoa in an absentminded moment, one tablet two, three tablet four, who knows how many more, you get the picture. Maybe she dropped them into the cup on purpose. Maybe somebody brought her cocoa laced with enough digitalis to drop a horse. It’s your pick: accident, suicide, murder.”

I don’t know when I’ve been more distressed. I’d assumed the medical examiner would find the cause of death, but I hadn’t considered the possibility that Susan’s death might not be deemed homicide. After all, I knew she had been murdered. I had it on excellent authority. Wiggins said so. Besides, Susan would never have committed suicide. I’d not known her long, but I had no doubt. She knew she had to finish the course, no matter how difficult the path. Susan Flynn had understood and accepted that the road wound uphill all the way.

Chief Cobb didn’t know Susan. I watched as he wrote:

Accident? Suicide? Murder?

“But,” boomed the voice on the speakerphone—for a man who’d likely been up most of the night, the medical examiner was ebullient—“I got more interesting news for you.”

Cobb’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like the sound of your voice. May you too live in interesting times.”

The bark of laughter was satisfied. “You got yourself a muddy sandpile to play in, Chief.

“One: Except for the circumstances of her discovery, i.e., on the floor with a pillow on her face, the death would have passed as natural. She had severe congestive heart failure and coronary artery disease. No attending physician would have suggested an autopsy.

“Two: She didn’t pop down on the floor of her own accord. She was placed there after death. Lividity indicates she died while resting on her left side. Now this is interesting. There were some traces of lividity on her back but the major lividity was on her left side. That’s consistent with the body being moved less than six hours after her death. If more than six hours had passed, the lividity wouldn’t have been changed by movement. Instead, from the amount of lividity on her side, I’d guess—and this has to be a guess—that the body was moved about three hours after she died.

“Three: Time of death is tricky, but I would have estimated around nine P.M. based on temp, lividity, stomach contents. However, Price said she was last seen about twelve-fifteen.”

Chief Cobb’s face corrugated in a heavy frown. “If you had to testify at a trial, when would you put the outer limits on time of death?”

“If it will help you sleep any better at night, I can equivocate like a politician. On the one hand, on the other hand…The defense expert medical witness could read the report and say in the range of his experience with the facts as presented, the outer limit is ten o’clock. My gut feeling? She was probably dead an hour earlier. But, on the other hand…”

Chief Cobb looked morose. “I got to deal with facts, Doc. She was seen around twelve-fifteen by an officer who positively ID’d her.”

“Hallucination?”

Cobb returned to the open file on his desk.

I bent nearer his shoulder.

As he scanned Johnny Cain’s report, he highlighted in canary yellow:

…light must have been funny in the car. When I first approached no one seemed to be in the front seat. By the time I got to the door, Mrs. Flynn was there in a black fur coat. She said she was sorry she’d driven so fast and she said, “We got to talking.” I looked in the passenger seat and it was empty and then Mrs. Flynn said she saw a fox and pointed at the road. I turned that way. When I looked back there was a redheaded woman in the passenger seat in a brown fur coat. I don’t see how I could have missed seeing her the first time, but I did. She told Mrs. Flynn to get her purse. She talked a lot.

Was there an aura of desperation about Officer Cain’s claims? I admired his painful honesty. How easy it would have been for him simply to report that Susan Flynn was the driver. Instead, he tried to be accurate as to what he saw. Or didn’t see.

I wondered if Chief Cobb foresaw Officer Cain on the witness stand, describing his post-midnight encounter with Susan Flynn. Defense attorney: Officer, tell us how you approached the car?…You immediately saw Mrs. Flynn?…Oh, you didn’t see Mrs. Flynn at first?…How many feet are there, Officer, from the back of the car to the driver’s window?…Was your view unobstructed?…Can you account for your inability to see Mrs. Flynn as you first approached the car?…What did you see in the passenger seat?…I see, at first the seat was empty and then it was occupied by a redheaded woman?

“Chief, you there?”

“Yeah.” Cobb rubbed at his neck as if it were stiff. “Problem is, there are some unusual aspects to the whereabouts of Mrs. Flynn after midnight. But that blue Ford’s a fact. It was abandoned at the foot of Persimmon Hill. The warning ticket issued to Susan Flynn was found in the front seat.”

“Yeah.” There was doubt in the M.E.’s voice. “Maybe the timing works out. Although if he’d seen her at eleven, I could buy it a lot easier than after midnight.”

Cobb cleared his throat. “Can digitalis in that amount be administered in hot chocolate?”

“Sure. If somebody put it in the drink, she’d never notice. If it was suicide, she probably popped them into the cup and drank it down and went off to bye-bye land. Maybe the easy answer’s the best. She must have felt lousy. She knew she didn’t have much time left anyway. Drop the pills into cocoa, give it a stir, no more pain.”

The chief circled: Suicide?

The M.E. was brisk. “Check out her mental state. If she’d been depressed, talked a lot about death, you can close the investigation.”

Cobb loosened his tie. “Can I? What about the fact that she was found on the floor, pillow on her face? Like you said, she didn’t get there by herself.”

“Looks like you have a few loose ends. Anyway”—the M.E. was blithe—“I’ve attached the file and emailed you. As soon as I have a double shot of espresso, I’m on my way to pick up my hot date and drive to Stillwater. Go, Cowboys.”

I wafted away. I wrung my hands. Oddly enough, specters purportedly are often seen pacing and twining their hands in desperation. I hated to be a cliché but this turn of events was ghastly. I had to alert the chief that Susan’s death was murder.

Cobb punched off the speakerphone. He looked like a man trying to piece together a broken vase, but several of the pieces were pulverized. He turned to his computer, opened the medical examiner’s report, printed it out.

He clicked another file, opened it.

I read the title of that report on his screen: Preliminary report homicide lab re: cup and china pot with cocoa residue from bedroom of deceased Susan Flynn.

He punched Print, gathered up both the autopsy and lab reports, and placed them on his desk. On the legal pad, he wrote:

What was Susan Flynn’s mental state?

Interview persons who saw her in the last few days.

Who inherits?

Who moved the body after death and why?

Who prepared the cocoa that she drank shortly before death?

Are there fingerprints—

A perfunctory knock sounded on his office door. The door was opened and in came a heavyset blonde in a silver-gray wool-silk suit with a Peter Pan collar. The dropped bodice wasn’t flattering to the age spots on her upper torso. Her short skirt revealed dimpled knees that deserved merciful covering.

I hadn’t liked Mayor Neva Lumpkin on my earlier visit to Adelaide. I doubted she would charm me this time.

With an air of proprietorship, the mayor settled in a straight chair facing the chief’s desk. She began without preamble. “The City of Adelaide has suffered a grievous loss with the death of Susan Pritchard Flynn, one of our most respected citizens.” The mayor’s voice rose with platform unctuousness. “Susan’s generosity to her community, her selfless devotion to her family and her church, and her honorable character will always serve as a sterling example to those of us who remain.”

“Blah. Blah. Blah.” I clapped my hand over my mouth.

The mayor’s face quivered. “What did you say?”

Chief Cobb’s expression was peculiar. “I didn’t say anything. The heating makes funny noises sometimes.”

The mayor’s head switched back and forth. “I heard a woman’s voice.”

I kept my fingers pressed to my mouth. I must not succumb to the temptation to confound her as I had on a previous occasion when she’d attempted to interfere in a murder investigation. Wiggins had scolded me for that incident.

“Some kind of high sound.” Her gaze moved up to the heating register.

“I turned the thermostat up when I came in. Maintenance always lowers the heat over the weekend. Probably we heard some kind of”—he was making an effort not to smile—“funny wheeze.”

It was a good thing I was pressing my fingers against my lips.

Her plump face pink, her eyes glittering, the mayor gave a short nod. “As I was saying, we have suffered a grievous loss. However, not”—great emphasis—“an unexpected loss. We all knew Susan’s time was short. She had been ill for several years. In fact, my dear friend Jacqueline Flynn doubted that Susan would see in the New Year. Jacqueline acquainted me with the odd circumstances in which Susan’s death was discovered and I felt it incumbent upon me to offer you my assistance. We both agreed the theft of Jacqueline’s car—”

I floated to the blackboard on the opposite side of the room behind the mayor. It was quite clean. The chalk lying in the tray was fresh. I picked up a piece of pristine white chalk and immediately felt as though I were back in a classroom. One of the pleasures of teaching English had been the dissection of character, Bob Cratchitt, Pip, Lady Macbeth, Holden Caulfield, Madame Bovary, Heathcliff, Huckleberry Finn, Jo March.

“—was an entirely separate matter.” The mayor was brisk, a woman sure of her facts.

Behind his desk, Chief Cobb looked immovable as a mountain, a big, solid man. He listened, his blunt face expressionless.

I rolled the chalk in my fingers, such a familiar sensation. My hand rose. I printed, the slight scratch of the chalk lost in the mayor’s volume:

Pompous

“Moreover, as we all know, at the moment of death, there will often be a magnificent, though doomed, struggle. None of us”—the mayor’s tone was lugubrious, but brave—“go willingly into that dark night. Our dear Susan no doubt had some intimation, perhaps piercing pain. This would explain the posture in which she was found. Think of Susan in pain, gasping for breath—”

The chalk moved:

Phony

“—seeking ease. She must have stumbled from her bed, clutching the pillow, only to fall and embark upon that last great journey which we all shall take.”

Not Eugene O’Neill

“I trust everything is clear now.” She spoke with finality.

“Facts are helpful, Neva. I’m sure you will be interested to know that Susan Flynn didn’t die on the floor. Someone put her there and placed the pillow over her face. A shift in the lividity of the body proved she was moved after death. That’s a fact.” He tapped the papers on his desk. “Susan Flynn died from an overdose of digitalis. That’s a fact. My job is to figure out whether the overdose was accidental or deliberate. And, if deliberate, whether she committed suicide or was murdered. Moreover, I intend to find out who moved the body after death.”

The mayor wasn’t fazed. “Sometimes facts must be interpreted to be understood.” She fluttered a pudgy hand in dismissal. “Could there be a reasonable explanation for the placement of the body? Of course. Who can ever know how death strikes an intimate of a family?” Her tone was kind, as if encouraging a listener who might not be attuned to human vagaries. “Reactions are often impulsive, hard to explain, hard to understand. There are many possibilities. Distraught by the finality of death, quite likely someone pulled Susan from the bed and tried to revive her. When it became heartbreakingly obvious that resuscitation wasn’t possible, the pillow was blindly placed over Susan, to hide the unalterable image of death.”

Cunning

“We’ll do our best to find out what happened.” His voice businesslike.

“It’s good we had this chance to visit, Sam. It is important for me, as mayor, to be certain all of Adelaide’s public servants are focused on our primary task”—great emphasis here—“of serving our community. Often it is necessary for public servants to be certain that we do no harm. And”—a tinkling laugh—“we must remember that truth is usually simple—”

Patronizing

“—and not twist our thoughts seeking complicated solutions. Dear Susan.” Sympathy oozed from her voice. “No doubt she felt so ill she misjudged how many pills she took. Or”—she lifted her heavy shoulders, let them fall—“though there’s never any need for public revelation of suicide, illness sometimes is too great a burden to be borne.”

Despite her unattractive bulk and bullying nature, Neva Lumpkin was nobody’s fool. Suicide was a lovely resolution.

No scruples

Chief Cobb glanced toward the blackboard as I lowered the chalk. I let the piece fall to the floor.

Frowning, Cobb pushed up from his chair and walked slowly toward the blackboard. He moved quietly for such a big man.

Mayor Lumpkin followed his progress. She sniffed as he bent to pick up the chalk. “I believe this is the only office in City Hall with an old-fashioned chalkboard. Everyone else is up to date with dry-erase boards and colored markers. We have to keep pace with the times, Chief Cobb.”

He was gruff. “Chalk was good enough for me when I was a high school math teacher. It’s good enough now.”

“Really! In any event,” she spoke loudly, “Jacqueline will be relieved when I tell her everything will be resolved quickly and quietly.”

Cobb swung toward her, his expression abstracted. “I’ll bring Mrs. Flynn up to date on the investigation when I meet with the family at the house this afternoon.”

The mayor’s gaze was cool. “Surely that meeting is no longer necessary since it’s obvious Susan’s death was undoubtedly self-inflicted.”

Cobb’s face tightened. “I’ll tell you what, Neva, you look after City Hall, I’ll look after suspicious deaths.”

“I am looking after City Hall.” She heaved herself to her feet, face dangerously red, and strode to the door. She stopped in the doorway, head held high. A trumpet roll could not have better announced a dramatic farewell. “I expect a sensible attitude on the part of all city employees. If you refuse to accept ambiguity—and most emphatically there can be nothing certain in the circumstances of Susan’s death—the council will have to consider what action to take concerning the renewal of your contract in January. It may turn out that you should consider a return to teaching.” She flounced into the hall, banging the door shut behind her.

Chief Cobb’s exclamation was short, explicit, and forceful.

I had to agree. She certainly was.

He shrugged. “Comes with the territory.” He started for his desk, then turned back to the blackboard.

I suspected no one knew better than he that the blackboard had been quite clean.

Once again I’d intruded upon the discrete world. Despite the Precepts, it was a very good thing I had done so. The longer Chief Cobb stared at the blackboard, the more time I had. He needed help to stave off the mayor’s interventions, discover the truth, and not lose his job in the process.

I looked at the legal pad on his desk. Earlier he’d written: What was Susan Flynn’s mental state? Imitating his neat square printing, I added: Check with Father Abbott. The rector would know Susan Flynn well and certainly attest to her mental health.

After Interview persons who saw her in the last few days, I added: Was there any disruption of the household recently? This would catch Keith’s arrival.

His third question was all-important: Who inherits? I added: When did she last see her lawyer and what did they discuss?

I studied question four: Who moved the body after death and why? I decided to go for broke: Was someone aware Susan Flynn had been murdered and set up a crime scene to be sure there was an investigation?

The pencil was yanked from my hand.

“Ooh.” I swung around and my elbow jammed into Chief Cobb’s side.

“Ouch.” He massaged his side. “How can a pencil stand up by itself?” He looked uncertainly at his chair. “I didn’t bend over. What did I bump into?”

I tried to still my quick breaths. I should have kept a closer eye on the chief. I moved well out of his way.

He stared at the pencil, small in his massive hand, then toward the blackboard. He shook his head in denial. “That woman’s driving me nuts.”

I was offended until I realized he was referring to Mayor Lumpkin. Perhaps he would attribute any confusion on his part to his irritation with her.

He gingerly placed the pencil on the desk, again shook his head. “Now I’m seeing things.” He spoke aloud, forcefully. He flipped the legal pad shut without seeing my insertions. “I can’t think straight when Neva’s around.” He glanced at the clock and tucked the legal pad in a folder.