Merry, Merry Ghost

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Flashlights beamed from every direction. Headlights cut twin swaths through darkness, illuminating running figures. Men called out as they ran, reaching the edge of the pit as a thunderous crack sounded, the impact of the car on the water.

Dazed, I hung above the pit.

Maglites swept the roiled surface, catching in their crossing beams a wavering silver plume that rose and fell. Shouts rose: “Divers, get some divers.” “We need more light.” “Where did that shot come from?” “Block the road.” “Form search units.”

Chief Cobb stood at the edge of the pit with a megaphone, directing the efforts to reach Kim’s car. “How deep is the water?”

Detective Sergeant Price shrugged. “Maybe ninety feet, maybe more.” He pointed a Maglite down. Ripples eddied on the dark surface. “By the time we get divers here, it will be too late to save anyone.”

I’d hoped to protect Kim, envisioning a moment when I might push a hand holding a gun to one side, knowing the police would be in place and ready to pounce and make her safe. Instead, a hidden marksman shot her tire, spinning the Cruiser out of control and down to death.

I hung above the black water and called out forever too late. “I’m sorry. Kim, I’m sorry.”

“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was kind and gentle. “You cannot blame yourself.”

I didn’t pause to wonder why he was back from Tumbulgum. I was only grateful for support when I felt such a crushing sense of failure. “I was afraid she might be meeting Susan’s killer. I should have appeared and warned her.”

“My dear”—his tone was emphatic—“you did everything you could to assure her safety, and I applaud your ingenuity. Forces to protect her were at hand. You could not foresee what occurred. However”—there was noticeably less warmth—“I expect you to make a strong”—he repeated the adjective with even more emphasis—“strong effort to remove all thoughts of ghostly”—the word was uttered with distaste—“intervention from Chief Cobb’s mind.”

As spotlights pointed down, the last ripples subsided on the surface of the black water.

“I had to intervene the best and fastest way I could.” My tone was hot. “If it seemed otherworldly, well, after all, it was, and so be it.” Wiggins had a talent for yanking my string. “If the police hadn’t been here, thanks to me, no one would ever know what happened to Kim. She would have disappeared. Now the police know she was murdered. That proves Susan was murdered.” I smacked one fist into a palm. “None of this would be known if I hadn’t grabbed Chief Cobb’s attention. I didn’t have time to approach him any other way.”

Wiggins’s “Hmm” was judicious, but there might have been a hint of amusement. “Much as I admire your spirit, dear Bailey Ruth, you do not excel at logic. In fact, your conclusions rather remind me of your grasp of Zen. Imprecise. You cannot reasonably conclude that Kim was murdered by the person who murdered Susan. Kim may have been killed because an heir had no intention of being blackmailed and every intention of preventing the emergence of the new will. Her death may be quite separate from Susan’s.”

“The idea of two murderers is silly.” How could Wiggins be so muddled? “I may not be good at logic, but I have common sense. Of course Susan’s murderer killed Kim.”

“I’m sure”—his voice was a bit fainter—“you will solve everything, whether there is one murderer or two. I will admit that you did a clever piece of work in arranging for the police to be here, even though your method left much to be desired. Not only did their presence make it clear that Kim was murdered”—I could scarcely hear him—“you should consider another result of their positioning tonight: the shocking effect of police intervention immediately after the shot on a murderer who assumed there was no one else within miles. Tallyho, Bailey Ruth.”

More sirens sounded. The road near the broken fence where Kim’s car crashed over was clogged with police cars. The sounds of a search reverberated. Flashlights swept across the plant buildings.

I lifted a hand, unseen, in farewell to Wiggins. He had come to comfort me, rebuke me, pull me from sadness to combativeness, and to point the way ahead. I mulled the meaning of his farewell.

I imagined myself cloaked in darkness, holding a rifle, watching the Cruiser swing around the curve in the road beside the pit. I would have felt, as Kim’s murderer must have felt, utterly secure, the abandoned brick plant deserted, no one to see, no one to hear. The car for an instant was revealed in the red flare of a warning light. I squeezed the trigger. The tire exploded. The car jerked out of control, swung toward the pit, plummeted down, all according to plan.

Then the plan went awry. Lights flashed and shouts erupted as police raced toward the pit. There was no moment to savor success. Instead, the unimaginable, the unexpected, the unforeseen had occurred, police officers shouting, searching, seeking. The murderer most certainly was deeply shocked.

Could I take advantage of that shock?

It was hard to estimate how much time had passed since Kim’s car tumbled into the pit. Fifteen minutes, perhaps? If the marksman was in a car, that was time enough in a town as small as Adelaide to leave the abandoned plant far behind.

I didn’t hesitate. I intended to observe Susan’s heirs as quickly as possible.

The front porch light was on at Harrison and Charlotte Hammond’s house. Inside, I found the lower floor dark. Light glowed from the top of the stairs. In the master bedroom, Charlotte sat propped in bed with two pillows, reading a novel. Harrison’s side of the bed was untouched. I went to Harrison Hammond’s construction company. Large outdoor lighting illuminated a parking area. The supply warehouse was dark, as was the small single-story frame office. Where was Harrison Hammond?

Next I arrived at Pritchard House. A dim light glowed near a side door of the garage. Inside, I turned on the overhead light and moved from car to car, seeking telltale heat. None of the hoods was warm, but the garage was quite cold. It wouldn’t take long for any heat to dissipate. As I returned to the light switch, I saw two bicycles. I was thoughtful as I stepped toward them. I moved one, swung onto the seat. The tires were firm. I squinted to remember. Though the road was hilly and winding, the brick plant was no more than a mile away.

I doubted the police had discovered how the marksman had traveled to or from the abandoned brick plant. The sounds of a departing car would easily have been lost as the police spread out to search and turned on their headlights to afford more light. But the murderer could have ridden a bicycle or approached on foot.

In the kitchen of Pritchard House, Jake Flynn closed the refrigerator door, carried the remnants of a baked ham to the counter. Her face drawn and pasty, she put together a sandwich with ham, lettuce, Swiss cheese, and mustard. She opened a Coke and sat at the white wooden table. She ate as if starved. Was food her succor when stressed? It was nearing midnight. She wore a black velour pullover and trousers and boots, a good costume to move unseen in the dark.

In Peg and Keith’s room, Peg was propped up in bed with two pillows behind her, staring emptily toward the wall. She looked forlorn and depressed. I knelt for an instant by Keith’s bed, lightly touched his shoulder. He was curled against Big Bob, sunk in a deep sleep.

In Peg’s bedroom now turned over to Gina, the room was dark and very cold. Gina sat in a chair near the open window, smoking. In the wash of moonlight, her face was pale, her expression strained and fearful. She stared out into the night. Abruptly, she jammed the cigarette stub into an ashtray. “I’m scared. God, I’m scared…” Her voice was desolate, defeated, despairing.

I had no luck at the home of Dave Lewis’s brother. The guest bedroom was dark and untenanted.

A Tiffany lamp on a side table glowed in the living room of the ranch house on Burnt Creek. I moved from room to room. A black Lab trotted toward me, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. I held out a hand and he sniffed. From the front hall to the back porch, there was no one in the house but me and the Lab. I dropped on one knee, gently massaged the Lab’s throat. “Where is he, boy?” The Lab pushed against me. Then he lifted his head, turned, and thudded toward the front door.

I sped outside.

A horse and rider trotted down a dirt road, clearly visible in the moonlight. The rider dismounted, opened a gate, drew the horse through, closed the gate. Once again astride the horse, the rider lifted the reins and the horse headed for the barn. As the door was pulled wide and a light flicked on, Tucker Satterlee moved with easy grace, leading the horse inside.

I watched as he loosened the saddle. As I remembered my geography, Burnt Creek was a couple of miles from the brick plant. There were country roads Tucker would know well. At an easy pace, the ride could be made in a half hour. The east gate was no barrier to a man accustomed to using wire cutters.

The murderer had likely pulled the gate wide and either driven, walked, biked, or, in Tucker’s case, ridden a horse to a hill overlooking the pit and waited in the shadow of the trees for Kim to arrive. As the PT Cruiser came through the gate, the rifle was lifted. When the car passed through the security light, the rifle fired. One shot and the car careened out of control.

The eruption of light, the shouts of the police, the headlights of the police cars must have shocked the murderer into immobility. But not for long. Unseen and unheard, the murderer slipped away, either to a car or bicycle hidden in shadows beyond the gate, or, if Tucker, to a tethered horse.

Inside the barn, Tucker’s sheepskin jacket hung from a hook near the door. Tucker carried the saddle and blanket to the tack room. I didn’t see a rifle or a scabbard for a rifle. He returned with a bucket of water for the horse.

I felt a twinge of uncertainty. Where were the wire cutters? Where was the rifle? Where was the rifle scabbard?

The hook where his coat hung was behind him. Quickly, I checked the pockets, both exterior and interior. A ball of twine. Two oblongs of bubble gum. A crumpled map. A half-eaten energy bar.

No wire cutter.

The horse drank, then lifted her head. He gave her a pat. “Good girl,” and began to walk her up and down.

I shook my head in self-irritation. The man might be a killer, but he was no fool. When pandemonium erupted as the Cruiser tumbled into the pit, the murderer knew immediately that Kim’s death would clearly be recognized as murder. There were ponds, a small lake, and brush-thick gullies between the brick plant and Burnt Creek, and, of course, between the brick plant and Pritchard House or Harrison Hammond’s office or home.

If Tucker Satterlee rode out tonight equipped to commit murder, he was smart enough on his return to jettison anything that could be linked to the crime. As a rancher, he would have several rifles. If he had carried a rifle tonight, I felt certain it could not be traced to him. As for wire cutters and a rifle scabbard, he likely had several of both. The lack of a firearm was no proof of his innocence.

Still, he had been out on a horse on a cold winter night. What innocent reason could there be?

If I tried to alert Chief Cobb, it would take a good while before anyone would be dispatched to question Tucker. If Tucker was the murderer, the longer time he had to relax and formulate an alibi, the less likely he was to reveal guilt when questioned.

Now was the time to ask.

Outside the stable, I swirled into being, strode quickly across the uneven ground, rapped smartly on the open barn door. “Police.”

“Coming.” He reached the barn entrance. His angular, attractive face held no hint of uneasiness. “Officer.” He sounded puzzled. “Is there a problem?” He looked past me. No police cruiser was parked behind me. “Car trouble?”

My hope of intimidating Tucker Satterlee plummeted, like a lead sinker in a pond. I ignored his question. “Mr. Satterlee, where were you at eleven o’clock tonight?”

He looked surprised. “Eleven? Hey, that’s about the time I heard a lot of noise, sirens and stuff. I wondered what was going on. Are you looking for a fugitive?” There was nothing but curious inquiry in his face and voice.

I was polite but brisk. “You are a person of interest in a murder that was committed at approximately eleven P.M.”

He stiffened, his face hard, his good humor gone. “Somebody’s mixed up, got some other guy in mind. Not me. Around eleven o’clock I was making sure a heifer’s first delivery went okay. That’s how I happened to be outside and hear the noise. If you want to ride over to the pasture with me, I’ll introduce you to the calf, a pretty little black baldy heifer.”

I knew the kind of calf well, all-black with a white face, a cross between a black Angus cow and a Hereford bull.

“Now, unless you need my help”—he was curt—“I need to cool down Big Sal, brush off the salt, and put her in the corral.” He started to turn away, then stopped, waved his hand. “You folks can make free on Burnt Creek if it helps you in your search. And I’ll let you know if I run across anything funny.”

Tucker Satterlee had an answer for everything. I didn’t doubt the newborn calf existed and her Angus mother. No one could prove the birth had occurred earlier than eleven o’clock. Nor could I prove his presence or, as a matter of fact, the presence of any of the heirs at the brick plant.

Chief Cobb was haggard in the slant of sunlight through his office windows. His hair was scarcely combed. He’d shaved but missed several patches. Bloodshot irises and dark pouches beneath his eyes spoke of little sleep. I empathized. I’d managed a few hours on the chaise longue in Peg and Keith’s room, and I’d stoked my inner spirit with a huge country breakfast of bacon, fried eggs, grits, biscuits and cream gravy at a truck stop on the outskirts of Adelaide where a traveling redhead in a sweatshirt and jeans provoked no interest, but I too felt exhausted and weary.

Frowning, arms folded, he stared at the top of the table, which was covered by taped-down black plastic garbage bags. Displayed were Kim’s open purse, the leather streaked and misshapen from immersion, and the purse’s contents: twenty-two pistol, comb, lipstick, compact, Tide washout stick, nail file, cell phone, disintegrating photo folder with limp prints separated and spread out, billfold open and emptied.

Where was the will? Even though I held out little hope that the ink writing would be legible, a sodden square envelope was not among the items on the table.

Chief Cobb swung around as his door opened. His demeanor was grim and intent.

Fatigue didn’t weigh as heavily on Detective Sergeant Price. He looked vigorous, his step buoyant. He was as attractive as always, white-blond hair, grayish-blue eyes, interesting and compelling face with a bold nose and chin. A folder tucked under one arm, he strode to the table with his usual energy, a man always in a hurry. “We went through Weaver’s apartment like locusts. Not a trace, Sam.”

The chief grimaced. He gestured wearily at the table. “The will was supposed to be in her purse.”

Price slapped his folder on the table and looked quizzical. “Your source good?”

Chief Cobb glanced at the still-smudged blackboard. “Horse’s mouth. I would have bet the house on it.”

I wasn’t sure the attribution appealed to me, but I appreciated his confidence.

Price turned his large hands palms up. “You lost.”

“The same source tipped me to the brick plant.” Again he gave a furtive glance at the blackboard.

Price’s sandy eyebrows rose. “The source had that one right. In fact”—he pointed at a green folder—“I got confirmation from the lab. A rifle slug was in the front right tire. Too smashed to be identified. We know what happened because we were there, but if we hadn’t known to look for a slug, nobody ever would have. Besides, the car would probably never have been found and she would have been tagged a missing person.”

He rested one hip against the table, glanced over the exhibits. “Now we got the car, we got a body, we got proof of murder. As for the will, maybe it fell out of the purse and was thrown clear when the car went over.”

Cobb was brusque. “Purse was zipped when they pulled the car out.”

Price’s blue eyes were sardonic. “Maybe the horse’s mouth on the will was like most race tips: wishful thinking. Maybe there never was a new will.”

Chief Cobb settled his shoulders like an obdurate bulldog refusing to budge from the food bowl. “There’s a will. I talked to the man who signed it as a witness Saturday night. Susan Flynn brought the will to his house and signed it. She had him read it, and the terms correspond to what she’d told Wade Farrell to draw up. Farrell’s really upset by the idea that Kim Weaver intercepted the will. He said we can look anyplace we want to in his office, including Kim Weaver’s desk. I don’t expect to find anything. Obviously, if she kept quiet about the will, she didn’t make a nice little notation recording its arrival.

“Anyway, there is—or was—a will. That’s why Kim Weaver died. We may never find the will. A lot of things are possible. Maybe Weaver took the will out of her purse, laid it on the car seat. When they brought the car up, it was full of water. One of the windows broke on impact. The will could have washed right out of the car and turned into mush. Maybe she stopped on her way to the brick plant and left it somewhere and very likely we’ll never find it. Right now, the will doesn’t matter. We have the testimony of the witness that it existed. That’s all we need to provide a motive for her murder. The existence of the previous will gives us the identities of the people who were better off, big bucks better off, if the new will wasn’t produced.”

The chief wriggled his shoulders as if trying to ease strained muscles. “Here’s how I see it. One of Susan Flynn’s original heirs or Peg Flynn’s boyfriend overdosed her on digitalis Saturday night to make sure she wouldn’t sign a new will Monday morning, leaving everything to her grandson. Oddly enough”—there was a strange expression on his face—“and maybe the work of providence, if your mind runs to that kind of stuff, Susan Flynn wrote the new will Saturday night, took her sister-in-law’s car, and went out to get the will signed. I talked to the witness first thing this morning. I’m going to keep him under wraps. It isn’t healthy to be connected to that will.”

Price walked to a side table with a coffeepot, poured a mug. He held up the pot. “You want some?”

“Yeah.” Cobb blinked as if trying to stay alert.

Price poured a second steaming mug, carried them across the room, handed one to the chief. “Kind of funny that Susan Flynn writes out a will when she knows her lawyer will have one ready with all the fancy language Monday morning.”

Chief Cobb avoided Price’s gaze. “Maybe she had a premonition. Women are funny that way. All we know for sure is that she went out that night.”

“With a redheaded friend.” Price’s voice was carefully expressionless. He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his gray wool slacks. “It would be helpful if we could find the friend.”

Cobb paced back and forth. He didn’t look toward Price when he muttered, “The witness was kind of confused about the friend’s name, thought it was something like Floy.”

Price tensed. “Floy? Could it have been Loy?” There was a note of excitement in Price’s voice. “Last time”—he didn’t elaborate on when that had occurred—“her nameplate read M. Loy.”

Cobb was equally expressionless. “No point in guessing about things we don’t know. Let’s leave it that Mrs. Flynn’s friend was a redhead.” Cobb glanced at the blackboard. “I’ve got a feeling she may get in touch. Until then, we’ve got other fish to fry. Susan Flynn’s funeral is at ten. We’ll allow time for the service and the reception. They’ll all be at the house. We’ll call around four o’clock, ask everybody who was at Pritchard House Saturday night to come to the station, make it clear they’ll be picked up for questioning if anybody declines. If somebody wants to bring a lawyer with them, that’s fine. Plus we’ll have a nice invitation for Peg Flynn’s boyfriend. Dave Lewis was trying to borrow from Susan to finance a vet clinic and she was having second thoughts. Lewis was there Saturday night and knew Susan intended to change her will. Maybe he decided it would be easier to marry an heiress than ask for a loan. We need to find out if he knew Kim Weaver.”

Cobb moved heavily to the blackboard, weariness evident in his slumped shoulders and slow steps. He picked up a piece of chalk, gave it a bemused glance, then printed in large block letters:

Jacqueline Flynn

Peg Flynn (Dave Lewis)

Tucker Satterlee

Gina Satterlee

Harrison Hammond

Charlotte Hammond—not a direct heir, profits through husband

Cobb’s face corrugated in thought. Then, with deliberation, the chalk harsh against the board, he added Kim Weaver’s name to the center right of Susan’s previous heirs. “There’s a line from Weaver to one of them. Last night she followed it right over the edge of the clay pit. It’s up to us to make the connection.” He slapped the chalk into the tray. “Get Johnny Cain up here.”

As soon as the door closed behind Detective Sergeant Price, I picked up a piece of chalk, stepped to one side of the chief’s list of heirs. I hoped Wiggins was fully engaged in Tumbulgum.

Chief Cobb still stood within a foot of the blackboard. The movement of the chalk caught his eye. He blinked, hunched his shoulders, watched.

I couldn’t convey all that I knew in the little time that I expected to have. Ever since my arrival at the chief’s office, there had been a constant stream of officers in and out. Detective Sergeant Price would likely return with Officer Cain in a very few minutes. I cut to the chase.

11:30 P.M. last night:

Harrison Hammond not at home or office. Charlotte home.

Jake Flynn downstairs, dressed, appeared upset.

Peg Flynn and Gina Satterlee in bedrooms, appeared stressed.

Car hoods not warm but bikes available in Pritchard garage.

Couldn’t find Dave Lewis.

Tucker Satterlee out on a horse at 11 P.M. Claims heifer in labor.

Look on hillside for shell, hoof marks, bike tread.

The door hinge squeaked. Swiftly, I wiped the eraser over what I had written. The eraser and chalk were in the tray by the time Price and Johnny Cain entered the room.

Chief Cobb stared at the smudged blackboard, frozen in shock.

Price stopped so quickly Johnny bumped into him. “Hey, Sam, you okay?”

Cobb took a step toward the door, then wavered unsteadily.

Instinctively, I grabbed his arm to provide support, though I certainly wasn’t strong enough to keep him from toppling.

He jerked his arm free and reeled against the blackboard.

Price thudded across the room, reaching for the chief’s elbow. “Hey, Sam, maybe you need to take a rest. Guess you didn’t get much sleep last night. Why don’t you take a seat?”

Cobb pushed away from the board, shook off Price’s grip. “I’m okay.” He slid a quick look toward the blackboard, shook his head. “No big deal. I’m short on sleep and maybe I need some breakfast.”

Price jerked his head at Johnny. “Order a couple of Lulu’s Early Bird Specials.” His grin was quick. “For me and the chief. We’ve got a job for you.”

Johnny stepped a few feet away, pulled out a cell phone, punched a number. “Police chief’s office. Send two Lulu’s Early Birds.” The call ended, he looked from Price to the chief.

Cobb’s color was better. “Thanks, Johnny. I’ll sketch out what I want you to do in a minute.” He turned toward Price. “Got a tip while you were gone. Tucker Satterlee was out on a horse—”

Price interrupted. “How’d you know? Haskins just called in. About eight-thirty this morning, he saw a horseman on a hill overlooking the pit, challenged him. Satterlee told Haskins he heard on the eight o’clock news about a car going into the pit and he rode over to take a look since the property belonged to the Flynn estate. Satterlee thought somebody from the family should check out what was happening.”

A brooding expression on his heavy face, Chief Cobb folded his arms. “So we’re too late.”

Price looked puzzled. “Haskins told him the area was closed until further notice. Satterlee didn’t get near the pit, though that wouldn’t have done any harm.”

“Satterlee was also out on a horse last night.” Cobb’s voice was grim. “Around eleven o’clock. Maybe he was out to a pasture to see about birthing a calf. Maybe he was on that hill overlooking the pit. Now we’ll never be able to prove anything. All we know for sure is that if hoof marks were left last night, they can never be distinguished from the ones his horse left this morning.” He stalked to his desk, picked up the phone. “Benson, get with Haskins out at the brick plant. Rope off the area where he saw a horseman this morning. Search the area for a rifle shell. Or for footprints or bike-tread prints. Search like you’re hunting for a silver grain of sand.” He clicked off the phone, slammed into the swivel chair behind his desk, slammed a fist on the desktop. “I don’t like to be screwed over. But Satterlee’s too clever by half. He drew a fat red arrow pointing to the place the shooter stood.”

Price dropped into a chair in front of Cobb’s desk, waved Johnny to the next seat. “Why would Satterlee take that chance? Maybe he really was out with a calf last night. Maybe he heard the news, wanted to flex a little muscle as a newly rich man.”

“And St. Nick’s going to bring me a winning lottery ticket.” Cobb’s tone was sour. “I’ll lay odds that shell casing is there. If anything’s found, you take me out for a steak dinner.”

Price’s smile was easy. “If they don’t find it—and they might miss a single casing—nothing’s proved. Anyway, a casing is meaningless without a rifle. Say that Satterlee or one of the others was out last night with a rifle. How many places could they have disposed of a rifle after they left the brick plant?”

“I’m not counting on linking a casing to him or to anybody. What I want is proof that he took his horse this morning to the place where the shot was fired. When I’ve got that, I’ll know he’s either the killer or he knows something we need to know.” Cobb’s eyes glinted. “One way or another, I’m going to find out which of them killed Kim Weaver.” Cobb jerked his head at Johnny. “That’s where you come in.”

“Yes, sir.” Johnny’s handsome face also showed little effect of last night’s late hours. His thick black hair, combed hard to corral the natural curl, emphasized the sea blue of his eyes. His uniform was immaculate. He looked eager, excited, and proud to be chosen by the chief for special duty.

The chief’s expression was thoughtful, his face somber. “We have reason to believe Kim Weaver’s murder is connected to the murder of Susan Flynn. We have a tip that Susan Flynn signed a new will and Kim Weaver intercepted it in the mail yesterday morning.”

“A new will?” Johnny’s face furrowed.

“A will that leaves everything to Susan Flynn’s grandson. That will has disappeared.” Cobb leaned forward and stared at Johnny with gimlet eyes. “Kim Weaver called each of Susan Flynn’s heirs to tell them about the meeting at Farrell’s office at two o’clock. I’m guessing she told one of them about the new will and together they agreed that she’d keep it quiet. For a price. Or maybe she called Peg Flynn’s boyfriend Dave Lewis. Whoever she called, we know she had an appointment with someone at the old brick plant at eleven o’clock and she was to bring the will. You can help us find out which of Susan Flynn’s heirs”—he ticked them off one by one—“Jacqueline Flynn, Peg Flynn, Tucker Satterlee, Gina Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond, knew Kim Weaver well enough to conspire to prevent that will from reaching Susan Flynn’s lawyer. Or maybe the contact was with Dave Lewis. Peg Flynn should know whether Lewis knew Weaver.”

Johnny stiffened. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to Peg Flynn. Find out from her how well all of them knew Kim Weaver.”

Johnny looked uncomfortable. “I’m a police officer. I’ll interview her as a witness.”

Chief Cobb’s expression didn’t change. “You do that.”

Johnny’s face furrowed in unhappiness. “Is there anything else?”

Cobb waved a hand in dismissal.

As Johnny opened the door, Cobb spoke, his voice gruff. “Somebody’s dangerous.”

Johnny stood in the doorway, his shoulders tight, listening.

“I’ll be straight with you, Officer. I don’t think Peg Flynn’s dangerous. You have a chance to take a bead on a copperhead behind the log. Copperheads don’t give any warning. Peg Flynn might be the one that steps on it.”

Johnny looked back, his eyes anguished. “I’ll do what I can.”

When the door closed, Price shrugged. “He’ll do what he can. Which won’t be much. You struck out, Sam. You got to remember, a good-looking woman twists a man’s guts, makes him forget he’s a cop.” He spoke with the wry authority of a man who’d been down that road. “You heard him. He’s going to tell her he’s asking as a cop. That will shut her up. But we can keep looking. I’ve got Kim Weaver’s address book. I’ll talk to Weaver’s friends and try to pick up a link between Weaver and one or more of the heirs or with the boyfriend.”

Cobb thumped the fingers of one hand in a rapid tattoo near his phone. “We know more than these people realize. Maybe I can do a little poking. I want to catch Peg Flynn before Johnny Cain gets to her.” He glanced at phone numbers next to a list of names. His eyes gleamed. “I like cell phones. Puts most folks on a short leash.” He turned on the speakerphone and punched numbers.

“Hello.” Peg sounded weary.

“This is Chief Cobb. If you have a minute, Miss Flynn, I have a few questions.” Cobb pulled a tablet close, picked up a pen. “When did you tell Dave Lewis that Susan Flynn was unlikely to provide a loan for his new clinic?”

She drew in a sharp breath, said hurriedly, “That isn’t accurate. Susan had asked for a business plan. She hadn’t turned Dave down.”

“When did you tell him?” Cobb was patient but inexorable.

“Saturday afternoon.” Her voice was faint.

“After dinner, Lewis learned you weren’t going to inherit. That night someone made sure Susan Flynn didn’t sign her new will.”

“Chief, that’s terrible. Dave wouldn’t hurt Susan. Besides”—there was a rush of relief in her voice—“he and I went for a drive after Susan went upstairs and Dave insisted I talk to her, smooth everything over, get her to agree to the loan. Don’t you see? He wouldn’t urge me to talk to her if she wasn’t going to be all right.”

Cobb looked at Price, whose expression was sardonic.

“I see. But now he won’t have to worry about money, will he? Since you are going to inherit.”

Price mouthed, “New will?”

The chief waved a hand in dismissal.

Peg was slow in answering. “Actually”—her tone was stiff—“Dave knows I don’t intend to use any of that money for myself. I tried to give it to Keith, but Wade Farrell said I’d have to pay too much in taxes, so I’m going to set it up where every penny of my inheritance is used for Keith. I told Dave that yesterday.”

“How did he respond?”

After an appreciable pause, she said reluctantly, “He doesn’t approve.”

“I see. Thanks very much, Miss Flynn.” He clicked off the phone.

Price gave a bark of dark laughter. “If Lewis is your man, he has to be pretty frosted to know he committed a murder and the money still won’t get to him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Women change their minds. For now she looks innocent as a daisy. I’d take everything”—he spoke with emphasis—“that she says with a bucketload of salt. I’m not as impressed with her generosity as the lawyer. For sure, if she spiked the cocoa, she’d now pretend no interest in the money. So far, she hasn’t signed anything. It’s all words.”

I heard the chief’s dark analysis with a chill. I thought I’d judged Peg well. She was sweet and kind to Keith. Her response Monday afternoon when she tried to renounce her share had seemed utterly sincere.

A dark little voice whispered to me: Someone committed murder and none of them seemed likely, not house-proud Jake, debt-laden Gina, dedicated rancher Tucker, jovial but desperate Harrison, devoted Charlotte, self-centered Dave.

“Same thing with the boyfriend.” The chief’s eyes were cold. “If he doctored the cocoa, of course he’d urge Peg to talk again to Susan. Now that the old will is still in place, you can bet he’ll try to persuade Peg to keep the money, which may have been her intent all along.”

Price grinned. “You suspicious old man, you. In any event, Cain may get an earful from her now.” Price stood with a bounce. He walked to the door, then looked back. “Hey, Sam, these tips you’re getting?”

The chief leaned back in his chair, his expression abruptly remote. “Yeah?”

“Could the horse’s mouth be a sorrel filly?” Price’s tone was light, but his eyes were hopeful.

Chief Cobb said carefully, “I haven’t seen anyone.”

Price hesitated. “If you do, maybe she’ll come by, say hello.”

I appreciated his admiration, but his hopes were doomed to disappointment.

The door closed.

“A sorrel filly? Redder hair than that. Unless I’m totally nuts.” Cobb rubbed tired eyes. “Maybe I am nuts.” He reached out for his phone. His hand fell. Finally, his face folded in a tight frown and he yanked up the receiver, punched a number. “Sam Cobb. Is Doc free?…I’ll hold.” He punched the speakerphone, turned his chair to look, eyes questioning, toward the blackboard.

“Speaking.” The contralto voice was brisk and firm, but genial.

“Hey, Janie. If you’ve got a minute, can I run something by you?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Cobb’s face turned a dull reddish color. “I wanted to talk to you about one of my officers. Good guy, but I think maybe he’s under a strain. Now, this is between us, but he gets these messages. It’s the blackboard.” Cobb ran a finger around his collar as if it were too tight. “He sees the chalk in the air and nobody’s holding it, but there are words being written and in a minute there’s a message and it has to do with a tough case.”

“Does he hear voices?”

“Oh no. Nothing like that.” He stared at the smudged blackboard. “At least, he hasn’t heard voices yet. The message was on the blackboard and signed by an officer who had a previous connection to the department.”

I smiled, pleased for Officer M. Loy to have even that grudging recognition.

“Would he have some special reason to remember this officer?”

“Oh yes.” The chief’s response was fervent. “Is it possible he’s getting some tips, say over the phone, and he writes them on the blackboard and doesn’t remember doing it?”

“That would be one explanation. Under great stress, the mind can deliberately shut off particular memories. The signature of the former officer could reflect appreciation for previous assistance. However, the solution may be simpler. Perhaps someone in the department wants him to have the information but doesn’t want to be identified as the source. Is the officer performing rationally otherwise?”

Cobb rubbed the back of his neck. “So far as I know.”

“I’d keep a close eye on the situation. I’ll be glad to talk to him if you think that would help. Got to go, Sam.” The line clicked off.

As the chief reached for files, a frown lingering, I vowed to avoid blackboard duty in the future. I didn’t want to cause the chief further stress of mind. As his doctor said, the mind was capable of adjusting reality until it was acceptable. I’d count on time to assuage Sam Cobb’s concern.

As for time, Officer Johnny Cain should arrive at Pritchard House any minute.