Merry, Merry Ghost

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Yellow flames danced among the logs in the living room fireplace at Pritchard House. The house was quiet now, friends departed, the table cleared of casseroles. The unmistakable reminder of death was the overpowering scent of flowers from the florists’ spectacular arrangements in vases scattered atop tables, the piano, in the entry hall, curving on either side of the fireplace.

The small sofa near the rosewood piano was comfortable, but I was as tense as the mayor had been on long-ago election nights even though he’d spent plenty of walk-around money to bring friendly voters to the polls. I didn’t have any walk-around money. I’d cast my one vote, and the minute hand on the big grandfather clock continued to tick, tick, tick with no sign of victory.

On the floor in front of the fire, Keith and Peg played Chutes and Ladders. Keith’s face folded into an intense frown when he landed on a square that sent him sliding down.

Peg teased him. “That’s what happens when someone eats too much of anything, a tummy ache and a drop back to a lower square. Don’t be discouraged. You’ll land on a good square and scoot right up a ladder next time.”

The phone rang.

I scarcely breathed.

Peg retrieved the handset from the hall. “Hi, Johnny…”

I sank back in disappointment.

“It was a beautiful service. I’m glad you came.” A tiny frown pulled at her face. “Oh, everything’s okay. Except”—her voice was tight with misery—“sometimes I don’t think anything will ever be right again. Johnny, have they found that will?”

Keith moved restively.

I dropped down beside him, pointed at the dice and Peg’s hand. It was her turn.

He picked them up, tried to tuck them in her hand.

“Just a second, Johnny. I have to roll the dice.” She smiled at Keith. Two and three came up. She counted five squares and ended up on a chute down to the first row. “Keith and I are playing a game. He’s about to beat me…Yes, that would be fun. I’d love to see you. Maybe we can go to the park on Christmas afternoon and…”

My ESP to Peg, “Hang up. Hang up. Hang up,” wasn’t working.

The clock ticked. The chime sounded marking a quarter past three. Chief Cobb and I had agreed on a plan. But everything depended upon Wade Farrell. Had he changed his mind?

“Oh.” Peg glanced at the caller ID window. “Johnny, I’d better take this call. Yes, thanks.” She clicked. “Wade?” Peg’s face drew into a frown. “This afternoon? Can’t it wait until next week?…I see. Yes, I’ll tell my mother.” Suddenly her face lighted. “Is it about the new will, the one that’s missing? Has it been found?” Her eagerness slipped away. “Oh, I see. All right, I’ll tell Mother. Yes, I’m sure we’ll be able to come.”

Keith was counting and moving his marker up to the next level.

Peg clicked off the phone. “I’ll be right back, Keith. I’ll bring you a cookie.”

I followed Peg into the kitchen. All was spick-and-span. Sparkling clean china platters and cut-glass dishes were ranged on counters, awaiting their return to cabinets.

Jake sat at the white wooden table, comfortable in a velour blouse and pants, drying silver spoons and slipping them with loving care into a felt cutlery wrap. She looked weary but at peace.

Peg stood in the doorway. “Wade Farrell called. He says we need to be at his office at four o’clock. He’s calling everyone to come. He has information about Susan’s new will.”

The aura of contentment vanished from the kitchen. Jake’s eyes flared in alarm. “Has he found that will?” Her voice was high and strained, her face suddenly gaunt and fearful.

Peg’s gaze filled with uncertainty and doubt. “He doesn’t have the will, but he said he felt it was his duty to inform us of new information.”

The faded red velvet curtains at the windows were drawn. Despite the glow of light from the fluorescent fixtures, Wade Farrell’s conference room seemed gloomy. This afternoon there were no folders on the table.

Wade waited until everyone had entered, then closed the conference room door. He walked to the chair beneath the judge’s portrait. He remained standing until everyone was seated: Peg Flynn, Gina Satterlee and Tucker Satterlee on one side of the table, Jake Flynn, Harrison and Charlotte Hammond on the other.

All eyes were on Farrell, who looked flushed and uncomfortable. I edged out the chair opposite him and slipped onto the seat. As I had hoped, all the previous heirs were here. The only absent suspect was Dave Lewis. There was no excuse for him to be present. However, if the chief’s suspicions about Peg and Dave were correct, she would very likely inform him of what occurred during the coming meeting. I was sure the chief was wrong about her.

There was no police presence. That was essential to my plan.

Wade’s expression was strained as he settled into his chair. He looked like a man who wished he were elsewhere. His eyes flicked uneasily from face to face. “I felt I had to speak with all of you since I have been apprised of facts that clearly impact the information I previously gave you in regard to Susan Flynn’s estate. I’m leaving tomorrow for the holidays and won’t be back until after the first. When we met on Monday, I had no way of knowing that Susan had written out a new will on Saturday night.”

Harrison leaned forward, his worried gaze magnified by his bifocals. “Wait a minute, Wade. I don’t know what Peg’s told you, but if there’s a new will, no one knows where it is. I asked the police about that. I don’t see any point in talking about a piece of paper that may not exist.”

“The police may not know where the will is”—Wade nodded in agreement—“but they know that Susan drafted a new will before she died on Saturday night. The police are interested in the will only as an apparent motive for the murder of Kim Weaver. The police believe Kim intercepted the new will when it arrived here in the Monday mail and offered it to someone.” Wade’s tone was grim. “I am upset that my employee apparently took advantage of her position to prevent the receipt of Susan’s new will. However, Kim paid a terrible price for her decision. The police said that she planned to meet someone at the abandoned brick plant and that she apparently had the will with her when her car went into the pit. As I understand it, the police also searched her apartment. No trace of the will has been found.”

The deep lines grooved in Harrison’s face eased. “If that’s the case, why are we here? Either there is a will or there isn’t. I, for one, don’t believe for a minute there was another will. There’s no proof.”

Charlotte’s gaze was somber. Jake lifted a shaky hand to her lips. Tucker had the air of an observer at a sporting event awaiting the game’s conclusion. Gina hunched in her chair as if she were cold and stared down at the bare table. Peg’s face furrowed into a disappointed frown.

Wade took a deep breath. “There is definite proof that the will existed. The will was seen, read, and witnessed on Saturday night. The terms of the holographic will, written on Susan Flynn’s stationery with her monogram, corresponded to the terms of the will she had instructed me to prepare for her signature on Monday morning.”

Tucker’s question was quick and to the point. “Even if a new will existed and someone claims to know what was in it, what difference does it make if there isn’t a copy of the will?” His posture was relaxed, but his eyes never left the lawyer’s face.

Wade tugged at his shirt collar as if it were too tight. “Although I can make no definitive judgment, in my considered opinion Judge Blackburn would combine the testimony of a reputable witness that a holographic will had been duly signed with the undeniable evidence that Susan intended to sign a new will with similar content on Monday. If he did so, I believe Judge Blackburn would rule that clear and convincing evidence existed that a will had been drawn up and that would effectually void the previous will.”

His words came in gruff bullets which possibly made his message even more effective. Only I understood that he was making a herculean effort to lie and he hated every minute of it.

He took another deep breath. “In my considered legal opinion”—his expression was dismal. The man had no talent for subterfuge—“Judge Blackburn will rule that the estate should be apportioned on the basis of intestacy since the proven existence of a new will, notwithstanding its disappearance, effectively voided the previous document. If the estate is distributed on that basis, the heir would be the closest living relative.”

“Oh, Wade”—Peg’s voice rose in excitement—“does that mean Keith inherits even if they never find the new will?”

Wade flushed again.

I hoped a shot of Jack Daniel’s would ease his blood pressure later. Or did whiskey raise blood pressure? I’d always preferred plain club soda.

He avoided looking at them. “That is my judgment.” He spoke slowly, weighting each word evenly. “The determining factor, in my view, will be the testimony of the witness. If Judge Blackburn believes the witness to be credible, I don’t see how he can rule otherwise.”

“Who is this presumably credible witness?” Harrison’s tone was tense. “Why, this could be a sensation-seeking, delusional person off the street.”

Peg turned on Harrison. “How did some unknown person know enough to describe a will that reflects what Susan had already directed Wade to write?”

Harrison ignored her question. “If everything depends upon this unknown witness’s credibility, who is this witness? We have a right to know.”

Wade folded his arms. “The witness is a man you know well, a man who has the respect of Adelaide, a man who spent most of his working life protecting Susan Flynn’s investment in Burnt Creek. Susan Flynn took that new will to Leon Butler’s house Saturday night. Moreover, Susan asked Leon to read the will and sign it as a witness. Leon Butler will swear to the existence of the new will and he will also testify to the contents and that he watched as Susan signed the document. I have arranged for his testimony to be taken here in the morning with a notary public present. As soon as the courthouse opens after the holidays, I will present Leon’s affidavit to Judge Blackburn.”

Harrison pushed back his chair. “There’s still no will. I’ll have my lawyer get in touch. I’m going to fight this trumped-up claim.” His bluster was loud and determined, but his face was slack with shock. He turned on his heel, walked blindly to the door. Charlotte hurried ahead to open it.

The other presumptive heirs filed out of the conference room. Jake moved like an old woman with hunched shoulders and slow steps. Gina burrowed her hands into the pockets of her coat, her face grim. Tucker walked swiftly, leaving the others behind.

Only Peg smiled. She looked back from the doorway. “You’re doing the right thing, Wade.”

He massaged one temple, clearly glad the meeting was over. “I’m doing what I can for Susan.”

In the law firm parking lot, Jake tried to stifle sobs. “It isn’t right. If the judge does what Wade said, I won’t even be able to live in the house.”

Tucker’s pickup gunned out into the street. Harrison and Charlotte passed without a word of farewell.

Peg reached out a hand toward her mother. “Of course you will. We’re going to take care of Keith and—”

Jake swung away, broke into a trot to follow Gina. “I’m going to drive home with Gina. Oh, it won’t be my home. Not anymore.”

Peg stood by her car. All traces of her elation in Farrell’s office drained from her face. She slid into the driver’s seat, sat there in despair. In the light from the lamppost, she looked terribly young and unhappy and alone. One hand reached for her purse. She lifted out her cell phone, held it for a moment, started to slip it into the purse, then, her eyes huge and empty, quickly punched a number.

“Dave, I wanted to let you know—”

I wasn’t certain of her tone. Was she calling in hope or in dread?

“—that I don’t have to decide anything about Susan’s will. Leon Butler witnessed the new will Saturday night and he’s going to make a sworn statement tomorrow and that means Keith will inherit.”

She listened.

I wished I knew what Dave Lewis was saying.

Peg’s face was abruptly resolute. “I’ll call you later.” She clicked off the phone.

Leon Butler’s pickup was the only vehicle parked in front of his house. Light outlined closed blinds at several windows. The front porch was shadowy. The early dusk of winter turned the surrounding woods dark and menacing. The only sounds were those of the night, the rustle of leaves, the occasional hoo of an owl, the faraway whistle of a train, the falsetto yips of a coyote.

It took me ten minutes of scouting to find the silent sentinels, at least a dozen of them, dressed all in black, caps, jackets, trousers, and boots. They were stationed in various places around the house and in the woods near the road. They had blended into the night, shadows among shadows.

Relieved, I popped inside. Since the blinds were closed, no sharpshooter would spot Leon Butler through a window and fire. If an attack came, that attack would have to occur in the house.

My stomach knotted. Kim Weaver had no warning when a rifle shot punctured the front right tire and her car careened into the water-filled pit. Tonight when the doorbell rang or the knock came at the back door, I would be there first. I had no weapon, but I could move without being seen. If a hand lifted with a gun ready to fire the instant the door opened, I would push the barrel to one side, afford time for a rescue to occur. From this moment until the trap either succeeded or failed, Leon Butler was my responsibility. True, he’d agreed to provide a target for an elusive killer, but it was I who had asked him to take that chance.

Water splashed and silverware clinked in the kitchen. Leon stood at the sink, washing his supper dishes. He worked with the sleeves of his red plaid flannel shirt rolled to the elbows. His lined, weathered face was somber. He dried the dishes and silverware and returned them to their proper places. He unrolled his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs, and walked to a door near the refrigerator. He opened it, flicked on the light to reveal basement steps. He closed the door, pushed home a bolt. At the back door, he slid the bolt into the bracket.

He walked across the wooden floor, his boots clumping, into the living room.

“Who’s coming?” the parrot squawked.

Leon shot a quick glance toward the cage at the blue-and-gold macaw. “Never miss a trick, do you, Archie? I don’t know. We’ll find out.” Moving purposefully, Leon strode to a gun safe tucked in a corner near an old walnut cabinet. He twisted open the lock, lifted out a thirty-eight, closed the safe. He spun the chamber, then retrieved a box of cartridges, loaded the gun. He balanced the gun in his hand with easy familiarity. In a moment, with a decisive nod, he placed the gun on a small wicker table next to an easy chair that faced the front door. The kitchen and stairs were behind the chair. He draped a copy of Field & Stream over the gun. He settled into the chair with its clear view of the front door, retrieved the magazine, and began to read.

Archie muttered, “I’m a good boy, am I,” and began to swing, the faint squeak a companionable sound in the quiet room.

Methodically, I checked out the rest of the house. Upstairs, there were three bedrooms and a study with a desk, bookshelves, and a computer. Downstairs, I flowed through a closed door to the left of the front door.

Three men waited in semidarkness in a small, military-neat bedroom with twin beds, a maple dresser, and a bedside table. Some illumination came from a hooded flashlight resting on the floor near Chief Cobb.

Cobb sat in a folding chair angled to the door. The door was opened a sliver, affording a narrow view of Leon in his easy chair, the stairs behind him, an old leather sofa to his left, and a portion of the parrot’s cage. In the narrow shaft of light from the open door, Cobb’s heavy face looked stern and determined. His gray suit was rumpled, his necktie loosened.

Detective Sergeant Price lounged in another folding chair. He was dressed in black, loose jacket, pullover sweater, slacks, tennis shoes. In a single stride, he could burst into the living room if Cobb flung the door wide. A police-issue revolver rested on one leg, his hand curved around the butt. In the dimness, his craggy face was calm, yet there was a sense of readiness and power about him despite his casual slouch.

Johnny Cain pulled a window shade back just enough to watch the front porch.

The men neither spoke nor moved. There was no sense of impatience. They were there, and there they would stay until night passed into day if necessary.

Occasionally Chief Cobb checked the luminous dial of his watch. Twilight faded to darkness.

I moved outside. Neither the house nor the woods gave any hint of watching eyes, listening ears, muscles ready for action.

Headlights abruptly swept the front porch. I blinked against the glare, trying to discern the vehicle, but I couldn’t see past the lights. The motor was turned off, the headlights doused. A car door slammed.

I almost went forward to see, knew that didn’t matter. What mattered was Leon. I went inside.

Leon’s head raised. He looked toward the door, his eyes narrowed. He placed the magazine over the gun and came to his feet.

Quick steps sounded on the front porch. The screen door rattled as a fist pounded. “Leon? Are you home?”

Shock held me immobile. I had never expected to hear that voice at Leon Butler’s house this night.

Leon’s face folded in a frown. He walked to the door, turned on the porch light. He slid open the bolt and turned the knob.

Peg Flynn held the lapels of her unzipped blue jacket against the chill of the night. The breeze stirred her light brown hair. She looked desperately unhappy.

I flowed onto the porch, poised to grab Peg’s arm if she held a gun. Unlike Chief Cobb, I’d been so sure of Peg’s innocence. She had offered her share of the estate to Keith. Yet it was she who had recalled the discussions at the dinner table when they were young and Susan’s husband Tom spoke of wills and estates. Did she know full well when she offered to stand aside in favor of Keith that Wade Farrell would explain, as he had, that her stepping aside would simply afford a greater share to the current heirs? Then she’d tried to give her share to Keith and the lawyer explained about gift taxes and the wisdom of Peg retaining the inheritance and spending it for Keith if she wished. Had all of her apparent generosity been an elaborate charade, designed to portray her as lacking any motive? And tonight, in the parking lot outside Wade Farrell’s office, she’d called to tell Dave Lewis about Leon as a witness to the new will.

In the glow of the porch light, her round face was drawn and tired, her eyes strained, but both hands were empty.

The door opened. Leon looked out, his expression grave. And sad.

She spoke fast. “I can only stay for a few minutes. I had to come. Leon, I’m in trouble. I don’t know what to do. And you always helped us.” Her voice was shaky.

Leon stepped back, held the door for her. He gestured toward the small sofa, waited until she took her place before he settled into his easy chair. If ever a man looked as if his heart had turned to stone, it was Leon.

Archie whistled and sang the first line of “A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody.” The words were grotesque in his scratchy voice.

Peg pulled off her coat. She looked nervously toward the door.

I was inches away, alert for a gun.

She folded the coat, placed it beside her. Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m almost sure I know who killed Susan and Kim, but I don’t think it would do any good for me to go to the police. I don’t have any proof, at least not the kind the police need. And I’m scared for Keith. I brought him with me. He’s asleep in his car seat so I’ve got to hurry.”

My heart twisted as I pictured Keith in his pajamas and his new snow coat slumped in sleep on this dangerous night.

“Don’t cry, little girl,” Archie shrieked.

Peg leaned forward. “I’m sure I’m right because Gina is dreadfully frightened. And there’s something that happened a long time ago. I kept quiet about it. I should have told Susan and Tom, but I promised Mitch I wouldn’t.” She pressed knuckles against her cheek. “I shouldn’t have made that promise. Mitch could have been killed so easily. I still can’t think why he wasn’t crushed, the gun going off and Black Abbott rearing up above Mitch, eight hundred pounds of horse. Somehow Mitch flung himself backward and rolled away. I was up in the sycamore at the house. I could see the pasture and Mitch with his horse. Everyone knew Black Abbott could be spooked by a rabbit and the gunshot was close, so close, and Black Abbott went up—”

“We were all pretty good at climbing trees.” The lazy drawl came from behind Leon. Tucker Satterlee stood just below the landing on the stairs to the second floor. He was lean and muscular and tense in a black sweater and Levi’s and running shoes. He held a twenty-two pistol, aimed directly at Peg. He glanced briefly toward Leon. “That’s a nice big oak tree on the west side of the house, Leon. When I saw Peg’s car outside, I climbed up and pushed up a window and landed in your study. And here you are with pretty little Peggy, who’s hoping you can help get me hanged.” Tucker spoke without expression, his eyes empty. “Or do they punch you with a bunch of drugs these days? I don’t know. That’s not what I needed to know to run the ranch.” His face twisted in despair. “That’s all I ever wanted. I’ve done a good job. Everything’s up to date. The herd’s healthier than it’s ever been. I’ve made Burnt Creek better and better.”

Peg clutched at her throat. She was suddenly ashen. “Tucker, how you could hurt Susan? How could you?”

I hovered near the banister. If he lifted the gun suddenly, I had to move at exactly the right moment. Should I shove his hand toward the wall? From his vantage point on the stairs, Tucker looked down on Leon and Peg. Was Hal Price getting ready to make a move? For now, the police likely were waiting to see what Tucker might do, whether he would come down the stairs, be easier to reach.

Tucker hunched his shoulders. “Susan was dying. What difference did a few days or weeks make? If she’d lived another day, she was going to give the ranch to Mitch’s kid. When Mitch ran away, I was the one who worked the ranch, kept everything going. Then he was killed in Iraq and I was sure Burnt Creek would be mine. Who would have thought he had a kid and the kid would come here.” His eyes ached with pain. “Susan drank her cocoa and she didn’t hurt anymore. And the kid didn’t care. What was Burnt Creek to him? You would have taken good care of him.” His face twisted in despair. “You shouldn’t have brought Keith with you tonight, Peg. You really shouldn’t. He’s a nice little guy. He reminds me of Ellen. Not Mitch, but Ellen. Mitch killed Ellen.”

“You went after Kim to make Mitch mad.” Peg’s voice shook. “That’s why Ellen died. Because of you.”

“Ellen died because of Mitch’s temper.” Tucker’s reply was hot and angry. “I just wanted to gig him a little with Kim. How could I know he’d storm out of the party and drive like a fool? If he’d had any sense, he wouldn’t have gone so fast. Ellen died because of him. Not me. I never would have done anything to hurt Ellen.” Sorrow weighted his words.

“But Ellen died. And Susan. And Kim. You shot out Kim’s tire.” Peg’s voice quivered. “Tucker, you made love to Kim.”

Tucker’s eyes glittered with anger. “Kim said she’d give me the new will if I’d marry her. She wanted me and Burnt Creek and money to go to France and the Riviera. She’d already started planning a wedding trip. She deserved what she got.” His face was ugly with hatred. “She didn’t tell me there was a witness to the new will.”

Tucker turned the gun toward Leon. “That turns out to be your bad luck, Leon. I’ve gone through too much to lose everything now.” His gaze flicked toward Peg. “I wish you hadn’t come tonight. But”—and his voice was that of a man persuading himself—“you came here to try to get me in trouble. I wish you hadn’t brought the kid.”

Peg lifted her hands. “Please, Tucker. He’s only a little boy. Don’t hurt him.”

Tucker’s shoulders hunched. “I can’t turn back now. It’s your fault.” His voice was accusatory. “You brought him here.”

Leon’s powerful hands rested on the chair arms. With patience and care, he edged forward in his chair.

The barrel of the gun lifted. “Don’t move again, Leon. I can shoot fast. Remember? I can shoot you and Peg in an instant.”

Leon turned his work-worn hands over, as if in acceptance. “Tucker, you need to put that gun down. The house is surrounded by police. They’ll hear shots. They’ll protect Keith. You may kill me and Peg, but you won’t get away tonight. You’re all finished.” Leon dropped his hands. His left hand was about three inches from the magazine draped over his gun.

Tucker started down the stairs, his steps heavy.

I sensed Leon’s intention when his eyes flickered toward the magazine. Any instant now, he would move, grab his gun. I’d persuaded Leon to put his life on the line. It was up to me to make sure he didn’t lose it.

I launched myself, grabbing Tucker’s right arm and pushing the gun toward the wall. I screamed, “Help, help…”

The bedroom door slammed open. Detective Sergeant Price, gun level, plunged across the floor, shouting, “Police. Hands up. Drop your weapon. Police!”

I held on with all my strength, but Tucker twisted, jerked free.

I felt myself falling away. I managed a flip that would have been a ten in any diving competition and kicked his arm as he swung the gun forward. A shot rang out, thudding into the wall, splintering the plaster.

Johnny Cain, like a running back swerving around a tackle, thudded past Price. Johnny’s face was convulsed with fury. He ran with his hands out, feet pounding as he hurtled up the steps. Before Tucker could aim again, Johnny slammed him down onto the treads, one hand gripping Tucker’s right wrist, the other tight on Tucker’s throat.