Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(11)
A secretary opened a safe and carried the requested item to her employer and someone watched and remembered.
“Who was there?”
? ? ?
I shooed Susan from the kitchen. “I’ll take care of the dishes. You go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep.” Her lips quivered. While we talked, she’d held tight to the thought that tomorrow a call would come and she could deliver the money and Sylvie would be safe. Now fatigue plucked behind her eyes, fatigue and the possible horrors of a night she could not control.
I was firm. “You have to go to work in the morning.”
Her hands clenched. “I can’t.”
“You have to act as if it’s an ordinary day and keep your usual routine. Find out everything you can about Wilbur Fitch’s recent contacts with those on our list.” Because we had a list. The guests at the luncheon knew Susan could open the safe. One of them was almost certainly Sylvie’s kidnapper. I dismissed the possibility that Wilbur Fitch gratuitously informed an unknown person that his secretary knew the combination to his safe. Why would he? The tidbit My secretary can open my safe was unlikely in casual conversation. That information came about incidentally because he wanted to show off a new acquisition to his coin collections.
With the list of names, I was tempted to immediately pop to the location of each person, but at a quarter after one in the morning it was unlikely they would be engaged in revealing activity. I doubted the kidnapper was anywhere near Sylvie. If Sylvie was to return safely, it was essential that she not know the identity of her kidnapper.
I declined the offer of Sylvie’s room. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.” Susan provided sheets and a quilt and pillow. I finished the dishes and made certain Susan was settled in her bedroom. I spread the sheet and quilt on the sofa, arranged the pillow at one end, turned off the light, and disappeared.
Chapter 3
The luminous glow of the moon through the windows provided enough light to find the desk and turn on a droopy gooseneck lamp with a green metal shade. I immediately felt at home. I was quite familiar with Sam Cobb’s office, the battered oak desk stained by coffee rings and long-ago cigarette burn scars, the wall with the detailed city map of Adelaide and assorted Impressionist prints, an old-fashioned green blackboard with white chalk in the tray—Sam once taught high school math and disdained modern grease boards—and a worn leather couch near the windows that looked out over Main Street.
I settled into his desk chair, opened the center drawer. I found a sheet of paper with a list of scratched-out words except for the most recent addition. Sam loathed passwords, often demanded aloud in his deep voice, If a computer’s not secure in the police station, where the hell is it secure? But Mayor Neva Lumpkin demanded that city employees change passwords each week. This week’s password was Curlicue. I wondered if Sam was hungry when he came up with that one. I pictured him at Lulu’s, dipping a clump of the cafe’s signature curly french fries in heavily peppered ketchup.
I turned the chair, tapped the mouse, entered the password. I wished he was here and I could tell him about the missing girl, but that would entail revealing the theft of more than a hundred thousand dollars. Sam was an understanding police chief, willing to listen, but a stolen box of money would certainly propel him to action, which very likely would see Susan jailed, the money returned to Wilbur Fitch. I had every intention of making sure the mass of cash ended up in the safe. Susan could pay the ransom, Sylvie would come home, and I, unseen, would have easy access to the money. As soon as Sylvie was free, I would hijack the ransom and a kidnapper would be outwitted.
I imagined the kidnapper’s call to Susan. Come alone. You will be watched. If you want to see Sylvie again, do precisely as instructed. Put the box inside the Prichard mausoleum next to the greyhound.
Every Adelaidean is familiar with the mausoleum that houses the stone tombs of Maurice and his wife, Hannah. His resting place is graced by a statue of his faithful greyhound, hers by a statue of her Abyssinian cat. The instructions would allow Susan only minutes to arrive to preclude a police trap. The cemetery offered many vantage points where Susan could be observed.
If not the cemetery, there were other possibilities around town. There was open space near the merry-go-round in the park. Or possibly a country road could be used: Leave the box at mile marker 7.
Whatever the venue, I would be there, Susan’s unseen companion. I pictured her hurried placement of the box, Susan getting into her car, driving away, the cell phone in her lap. Perhaps she would be told to drive downtown, park at the library or near the cement plant, anywhere far from the location of the ransom. She would drive away, park, await the call signaling Sylvie’s release, but I would remain with the box and I would discover the identity of the kidnapper.
However, I like to hedge my bets. Now that I had a specific list of suspects, I intended to discover every scrap of information possible just in case . . . I pushed away the thought that the call might never come, that it might be too late for Sylvie. I would hold to the hope that such a meticulously planned enterprise would run according to schedule. The objective was a box full of money and that depended upon contacting Susan.
The temperature was chilly in Sam’s office. Buildings do love to lower the thermostat at night. I swirled present in a rose-marled crewneck sweater, gray heather wool trousers, rose leather ankle-top boots, and warm argyle socks. As a pepper upper I added a ceramic necklace, five colorful oblongs on a beaded chain. I stifled a yawn. My eyes felt grainy with fatigue. Yes, a ghost—excuse me, Wiggins—emissary needs slumber, too. Wiggins dislikes the use of ghost to describe his emissaries. But as Mama always told us, “Calling a spade an excavation implement doesn’t change what it is.” As for appearing, I needed any boost I could manage, and the sweater—I smoothed one sleeve—was elegant. For a burst of energy, I opened Sam’s lower left desk drawer, found his big sack of M&M’S, poured myself a handful.