Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(17)
As Brandt left, death officially established, the uniformed phalanx from the hall entered, free now to begin slow careful measurements, take pictures, lift fingerprints, collect evidence.
Sam gave the open safe another look, then lumbered toward the hall door, skirting Wilbur Fitch’s outflung hand. Hal walked beside him. When they stepped into the hall, Weitz and Smith both stood a little taller and straighter.
I was at Sam’s elbow when he said to Hal, “I want to know what was in that safe.”
Hal nodded, checked his phone. “Wilbur’s secretary arrived about ten minutes ago. She may be able to help. She’s in with the people who were on the premises when we arrived.”
“Who was in the house when the body was discovered?”
Hal used a thumb to slide the screen. “Carl Ross, Fitch’s butler. Marta Jones, cook. She arrived at the house shortly after six, never left the kitchen. The housekeeper, Rosalind Millbrook. Three employees of a local maid service, Emma Edwards, JoAnn Harmon, and Ellen Garcia. The housekeeper oversees their work. They come daily. One houseguest, Ben Fitch, his son.”
Weitz spoke up. “Dispatcher was notified at a quarter to eight.” She pulled a slim notebook from a pocket. “Fitch’s butler reported a homicide, identified victim as Wilbur Fitch. Ross told dispatch he was looking for Mr. Fitch, that his bed had not been slept in. He came downstairs, saw a light shining out into the hall from the study. When he walked into the study, he found Mr. Fitch lying on the floor with the back of his head caved in. Ross said he was unable to find any sign of life. First officers on the scene were Holliday and Cain. Three cruisers followed and an ambulance. Officer Holliday directed the occupants of the house to gather in the living room and remain silent until called for an interview. Officer Holliday remains on duty there. Officer Cain directed a search of the house and found no one in any of the rooms. The officers in Cars Three and Four searched the grounds. No one found.”
Sam looked up and down the hall. “Where can we talk to these people?”
Detective Smith gestured down the long hallway. “The dining room.”
Sam nodded. “Get the secretary.”
? ? ?
The banners hung still and straight. Sunlight slanted through huge east windows, making the crimson letters FITCH vivid against white silk, the blue Dodgers pennant bright as the day it was made, the Oklahoma flag glorious with seven red-tipped eagle feathers dangling from an Osage buffalo hide shield on a blue field.
Sam wasn’t diminished by the length of the long table. He sat at the head of the table, solid, stalwart, and commanding. The chair to his right was empty. Hal Price sat next to the unoccupied seat. Judy Weitz lifted out a recorder, checked to be sure it was in working order, placed it on the table, took her place across from Hal.
Officer Holliday held the massive dining room door open as Susan stepped inside. She paused, eyes wide, glanced around as if seeking someone. She stood in a shaft of sunlight, young and appealing in her blue sweater and gray slacks.
Sam rose. “We appreciate speaking to you, Miss Gilbert. I’m Sam Cobb, chief of police.” He nodded at Hal, who also rose. “Detective Sergeant Hal Price. Detective Judy Weitz.” He gestured at the empty chair to his right. “Please sit here.”
Judy Weitz turned on the recorder, spoke in a low clear voice: “Interview with Susan Gilbert, 9:28 a.m., Wednesday, November 16.”
It seemed to take a long time for Susan to walk the length of the table. The clip of her shoes on the flagstone floor sounded loud in the utter quiet. She knew every eye watched her. She managed to appear composed though concerned. Obviously anyone would be concerned to come to work and be greeted by a police presence. Her gaze moved from face to unrevealing face.
Hal pulled out the chair for her. She nodded her thanks as she sat down. The oblong pin holding her scarf glittered in the sunlight. I hoped the flash of red and blue and green stones didn’t emphasize the paleness of her face.
The massive grandfather clock at the far end of the room tolled the half hour. Nine thirty.
Susan gripped her hands together. She spoke in a rush. “I have an appointment at noon. I need to leave here at a quarter to twelve.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, Miss Gilbert. Now for a few particulars.” Sam quickly obtained name, age, address, education, marital status, work history.
Susan replied as quickly, then leaned forward, her face anxious. “Where is Wilbur? Did he call you here?” Her voice was shaky.
Sam watched her with interest. He was always quick to sense unease, the telltale tension that betrays knowledge or fear or, sometimes, guilt.
“Why would Mr. Fitch call us?” His tone was guileless, as if he were merely inquiring, but his brown eyes were intent.
Susan burst out, “Something’s wrong. Why are you here? What’s going on? Why were we kept in the living room and told not to talk? Where’s Wilbur? He’s always in charge. What’s happened?”
Sam’s deep voice was pleasant. “We are conducting an investigation. We received a nine-one-one call at seven forty-five this morning. Carl Ross entered the study—”
Susan’s face was suddenly sunken.
Sam watched her reaction, as focused as a hawk circling above a rabbit.
“—and he found Mr. Fitch’s body near his desk.”
Susan stared at him in horror. She leaned forward, held to the edge of the table. “In the study?” The words were scarcely audible. “That can’t be true.” She repeated, “That can’t be true.” But Sam Cobb’s face told her she had not been the only visitor to the study last night, that she had come and gone, and that Wilbur entered the study later and never left.