Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(13)
Ben Fitch, twenty-eight. BBA from OU. His FB page was heavy on sports. Ben playing tennis. Ben rock climbing. Ben skiing. Ben on a boogie board as a breaker curled and foamed. Ben with a bikini-clad blonde on a catamaran. Ben with a gorgeous brunette in a gondola. Ben standing by a stack of deck chairs with Diamond Head in the background.
I added Wilbur Fitch’s name to the list. Google showed enough results to warrant a week of reading. I was more interested in a full-length portrait recently hung in the library at the college. Short curly reddish hair flecked with silver, big face, broad forehead, bold nose, blunt chin. Instead of a formal blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, he wore a baggy gray sweater, khaki slacks, and Adidas sans socks. The artist captured the eagle sharpness of dark brown eyes, the steel strong determination of firmly closed lips. He stood near a table littered with old computer parts, balancing a mouse on one big palm. The image radiated energy. I could picture him striding up and down the aisles in a warehouse or negotiating deals. I would be very interested to learn what Wilbur Fitch, intense, engaged, observant, noted about his guests when he called for his secretary to bring the coins from the safe to the dining room.
? ? ?
I woke up, grateful for the warmth of a cotton nightgown. Susan kept her house chilly at night, too. I was deliberately up very early. I neatly folded the sheets and blanket, placed them atop a pillow at one end of the couch. To start a day that would likely demand quick wits and a steady hand, I needed a hot shower, fresh clothes, and a first-class breakfast. I made sure Susan’s alarm was on and disappeared.
I arrived at Rose Bower, a forty-room limestone mansion with extensive formal gardens on fifty acres of woodlands. The grand estate is used for honored visitors and special events. I’d spent time there—mostly unseen—when in Adelaide to tidy up concerns about vandalism at the library. I appeared in a stately upstairs bedroom that was flamboyantly red, a Victorian sofa in red damask, a four-poster bed with red bolsters, velvet hangings in red. The fire engine brightness was surely a supercharged way to start the day. After a luxurious hot shower, I appreciated the oversize fluffy towel. I appeared and chose a costume for a good day. I’m afraid Wiggins considers my interest in fashion frivolous, but appropriate dress supports successful action. This was a day to settle down to business: Bring Sylvie safely home. Arrange the arrest of a kidnapper. Return the box of cash to Wilbur’s safe.
I pirouetted in front a charming full-length Victorian mirror in an oak frame and nodded approvingly at a bright red cowl-neck sweater, a plaid bouclé skirt, blue and red squares against a fawn background, and red suede wedgies. My red curls were shiny, my green eyes eager. Confident I was well-dressed, I disappeared.
Lulu’s Cafe on Main Street was the best place in town for breakfast, lunch, and dinner in my day. Happily for me, Lulu’s continues to thrive. Outside Lulu’s, I ducked into a dark doorway and became visible. I pushed through the front door. It’s nice that some things don’t change. The plate glass mirror reflected the counter with a row of red leather stools, a few tables in the center, and four booths against the opposite wall. The smell of bacon and sausage and coffee tantalized. There was only one space at the counter, the tables were filled with Adelaide’s movers and shakers. I looked at the booths.
Wiggins lifted a hand in a summoning gesture.
Uh-oh. How did he know I was coming here? But I knew the answer. Wiggins keeps close track of his emissaries. Usually, he isn’t in touch unless he is displeased or uneasy. I sped to the back of the room and slid onto the smooth leather opposite him. Instead of his stiff blue cap and heavy white shirt and flannel trousers, he was appropriately attired in a plaid flannel shirt open at the neck and brown trousers. His big face was a bit chiding. But only a bit.
I believe in setting the tone. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Precept Four.”
“Become visible only when absolutely necessary.” I spoke rapidly and put heartfelt emphasis on the final word.
He raised a thick reddish eyebrow. “Necessary?”
“Susan’s only twenty-four.” My tone evoked the image of a pitiful waif in a dungeon. “She’s terrified for her little sister. She needed reassurance. I was compelled to comfort her.”
“Umph.”
His response was noncommittal but not a resounding negative. I pressed my case. “Alone. Late at night. No call from the kidnappers. She felt hopeless.”
As he slowly nodded, a tall, thin waitress arrived with a pot of coffee. She filled our cups. Her long face was a road map of lost illusions softened by the willingness to smile and be kind. “You folks good today?” Her voice was raspy.
“We’re fine.” Wiggins smiled.
“Heavenly,” I added.
She gave me a quick look. “Now that’s a new one. I like that. Heavenly. Next time my smart-mouth boyfriend texts me he ain’t coming, I’ll text back: Having a Heavenly day. That’ll bring him running. He’ll think I got a slab of ribs or a hot blackjack hand. Now, what can I get you folks?”
I ordered sausage, grits, fried eggs, and Texas toast. Wiggins chose bacon, scrambled eggs, corned beef hash, and biscuits with cream gravy. She saw my envious look. “You want some gravy, hon?” I nodded.
As she moved away, I avoided his gaze and hurried to speak. “Of course I was desolate to contravene Precept Four”—if my language was somewhat stilted, it was deliberately chosen for my listener—“because—”