Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(15)
One gloved hand swept from the wheel, fumbled, found my arm, gripped. “Are you sure?” Her voice was heartbreakingly husky.
“Of course.” I prayed my hope was true, that a bright young life was safe, would be safe. “You’ll get a call—”
Her grip on my arm tightened. “That’s what I thought.” The words came in jerks. “That’s why I put the money in the trunk. Sometimes I go home for lunch, but I thought if the call came at noon and I already had the money in the car, I could take it wherever. It’s almost eight now. Four more hours and Sylvie will come home.” Her hand let go of my arm, returned to the wheel. “Then I’ll tell Wilbur what happened and promise to pay him back. If he calls the police, I don’t care, not if Sylvie is safe.”
“Everything will go according to plan.” I felt relaxed as Susan turned onto Hillside, the wide street that curved through trees to the ridge where Wilbur Fitch’s mansion stood. The car came around the willows.
Susan drew in a sharp breath and braked. The mansion spread in three-story grandeur atop the hill, golden walls gilded by the early morning sun. Cars filled the circular drive: a half dozen police cars, a silver Lexus, a brown sedan that looked familiar to me. A police cruiser was parked sideways at either end of the drive, blocking access or departure. Red beacons flashed.
“Continue toward the house.” I was firm. “You can’t drive away. The policeman saw you.”
“Do you think”—she scarcely managed the words—“Wilbur knows the money’s gone?”
“You are coming to work. You have to act as though you don’t know anything about a robbery. Go on up to the foot of the drive.”
I knew it took every ounce of Susan’s will to drive forward, to pull up beside the police car. She rolled down her window.
The officer, young with short-cut brown hair, a thin face, and brown eyes alive with excitement, stepped up to the window. “Access to this residence is closed, ma’am.”
“What’s happened?” She looked at the cars in the drive, the many official cars.
“No visitors are allowed. An investigation is in progress.”
That could mean anything from a hunt for a rabid dog to a domestic incident to a homicide. But I found it hard to believe the police presence had nothing to do with a missing shoe box crammed with fifties. I poked Susan.
She managed to speak. “I’m Susan Gilbert, Mr. Fitch’s secretary. I’m due at work at eight thirty.”
I hoped he didn’t notice that her voice was wobbly.
“Wait here.” He walked away, pulled a cell phone from his belt.
Susan stared up the drive. “What am I going to do?”
“You are a secretary. You are here to work. Get that terrified look off your face.”
“What if—”
I placed a cautionary finger on her lips as the young policeman strode back to the car. “You can go up. I’ll move the cruiser.”
Susan turned the car into the drive. She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the cruiser once again move into position to block the drive. “I’m trapped.” Her voice was toneless.
“Don’t worry. Somehow everything will work out. If you have to stay here”—she shot me a panicked glance—“I’ll take your cell and keys and see that the money gets where it needs to go.” I wasn’t sure how I could manage that legerdemain, but my objective at the moment was to keep Susan from crumbling. She had to deal with whatever awaited us in the mansion basking in sunlight.
A stone-faced officer with midnight black hair in a ponytail waved her to a parking spot behind the gleaming silver Lexus. She was crisp. “Go straight ahead, up the steps. Inside turn right.”
As we walked, Susan murmured, “That’s the main living room. Maybe there’s a gas leak or something.” Her voice was hopeful. “They send out lots of cars for something like that.”
But I was looking at the brown sedan, and its presence didn’t reassure me. However, Wilbur Fitch was an important citizen, and a crime at his home—theft from his safe?—might well bring out the Adelaide chief of police.
Waiting near the broad front steps was Joan Crandall, the Gazette’s star reporter, obviously alerted by the police scanner in the newsroom. The breeze stirred her silver-streaked brown hair, tugged at a shapeless cardigan. As we started up the steps, she called out to Susan, “Name?”
Susan ducked her head, ignored the question, hurried to the front door, which stood open. She stepped inside, and an officer with blond hair and a pleasant face gestured at an archway.
The archway opened into a magnificent room with Louis XVI furniture and paintings that would look at home at the Louvre. Six chairs were filled. A balding man with alert brown eyes sat with his powerful arms folded, his broad face impassive. He was unshaven in a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants and sneakers. A woman in a red jumper and an apron flicked uneasy glances toward the hallway. A statuesque blonde, her coronet braids precise, fingered a pearl necklace at the throat of an attractive gray cashmere turtleneck. Her slender face was distressed. Occupying straight chairs were three women in neat gray uniforms with Acme Cleaning stitched on the left shirt pocket. Three very different faces but in common each stared with rounded eyes at the policewoman in the doorway. Standing near a fireplace was Wilbur’s son Ben, his dark hair scarcely combed, barefoot in a T-shirt and jeans. He was clearly in a state of shock, his hands placed on the back of a straight chair in a viselike grip.