Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(22)

Officer Riordan poked his head out from the kitchen. “Finished in here.” He looked at Susan. “Is the garage locked?”

Susan shook her head. “We never lock up unless we’re leaving town. You can lift the door. It’s manual. Or go in through the side door.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He moved silently away.

Sam cleared his throat, looked skeptically at Sylvie. “Did you check with your professor on this so-called test?”

Sylvie shook her head. “Doctor Rodriguez is always coming up with something different. I thought it was great fun.”

“Can you text her?”

Sylvie nodded.

“Please do so. Inquire about the results of the no-cell-phone test.”

Sylvie used her thumb.

I hovered behind her, read the text: Did I win the Blake Shelton tickets?

In only a moment, a reply pinged: What Blake Shelton tickets?

Sylvie’s eyes widened. Quickly, her thumb moving faster than a hummingbird’s wings, she sent another message.

In a moment another ping.

I read the professor’s reply: Someone played a joke on you. Sorry. If I find some Blake Shelton tickets, we can go together!

Sylvie’s eyes widened. “The test was a fake! Who—”

The back door slammed. Brisk footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Officer Riordan stepped into the living room. “Chief”—his voice was matter-of-fact, but his green eyes gleamed—“I found what we’re looking for. Got photos. Objects remain in situ. You—”

Sam was already moving, Hal right behind him.

Susan stared at the retreating figures, hurried to catch up.

“Miss”—Officer Malone was in the doorway to the hall—“remain where you are.”

“It’s my garage. There isn’t anything that could matter to the police.”

She dashed across the kitchen, pushed through the screen door, clattered down the wooden steps.

The garage door was lifted, but Officer Riordan stood by a large galvanized tub near an outdoor faucet next to the back steps. Officer Riordan pointed into the tub. “The tub was bottom up. I saw some mud sticking to the rim. That stopped me. Sure, it made sense the tub was turned over to keep it from filling with rain. But I didn’t like those mud fragments. They looked pretty fresh, so maybe the tub was sitting upright until, say, last night. I turned it over. Look what was there.” He held a Maglite in one hand. The brilliant beam illuminated a small wooden chest and a lumpy red velvet bag.

“No.” There was shock in Susan’s voice, shock and utter disbelief.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me that I was looking at the velvet bag and lacquered wooden chest that held Wilbur Fitch’s prized rare coins.

? ? ?

Neva Lumpkin stood with arms akimbo staring down at Sam Cobb. The mayor was a memorable figure. I think that is a kindly description. Her coronet braids were too rigid, her wide-striped orange and yellow blouse too bright, her brown slacks too tight. She was a six-foot, two-hundred-pound mass of self-regard, self-adulation, and self-aggrandizement.

She slapped her hands on the desktop. “I called twice. I texted three times. No response. I have to come to your floor and find you in a subordinate’s office and, after hemming and hawing, you finally consent to speak with me. I am the mayor.” The announcement was delivered in a stentorian tone. “I represent the people. One of Adelaide’s shining lights has been struck down in the sanctity of his home—”

I thought sanctity was reserved for holy places, but I am always eager to learn.

“—and I pledge my sacred honor to devote myself fully to the apprehension of his murderer.” Her cheeks burned bright red. “Howie says the case is all wrapped up. The secretary broke into Wilbur’s safe, absconded with cash and a rare coin collection, and the coins were actually found at her residence. I’ve had a dozen calls from the media. Even the New York Times.” A reverent pause. “I couldn’t speak to them because I have not been informed.”

Ah, now her fury was explained. Neva Lumpkin swayed like a cobra when the media flute played.

“Howie assures me it’s only a matter of hours and an arrest will be made. I’ve called a press conference at noon.”

Sam’s face congealed at the mention of Detective Howie Harris, a sycophant the mayor would like to see named chief of police.

“According to Howie, the secretary cracked Wilbur’s skull.” Neva’s heavy face assumed contours of sadness. “Wilbur Fitch, a town father. An example to all citizens of Adelaide, to all Oklahomans, to—”

“Yeah. All of the above.”

The mayor gasped, her lips parted. Outrage lifted her penciled brows.

“I got it the first time, Neva. Damn shame about Wilbur. Agree there. We are investigating and talking to witnesses—”

She thumped the desk with a fist. “I understand the killer is in the building.”

“We will interrogate a person of interest—”

“The secretary?”

“Not for publication.” His voice was hard. “But,” he hurried to forestall an explosion, “you are right to have the news conference. Tell reporters Wilbur Fitch was found dead in his study this morning. He suffered blunt trauma to the head. He was attacked from behind. The weapon has not been found. The ME says he was killed with a blackjack or some similar weapon. There are no witnesses to the crime. Tell reporters a shoe box filled with cash and some rare coins that were missing from his safe have been recovered. There is uncertainty as yet about the identity of his killer, but police hope to announce an arrest—” He glanced up at his clock. It was a quarter to noon. “—within forty-eight hours.”