Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(23)

The explosion came. “Forty-eight hours! You have the killer here at this very moment.”

Sam came to his feet. She was six feet tall, but he was taller. “The best of all possible worlds, Neva. You can have another press conference at noon tomorrow, spill out some more facts. I’ll keep you up to date. Friday you can announce an arrest, wrap it all up with a big red bow.”

Some enjoy visions of sugarplums. Neva Lumpkin’s eyes glistened. Three press conferences . . .

? ? ?

Neva Lumpkin waved grandly at wooden straight chairs in a small room on the third floor of City Hall. She nodded at Joan Crandall from the Gazette and Deke Carson, a slouchy stringer for several papers, but Neva beamed at a portly newsman in a rumpled sweater and gray slacks. “You’re Ted Burton, the AP bureau chief from Oklahoma City.” He nodded. “I saw you at the conference of mayors.”

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Neva had dossiers on all Oklahoma reporters.

The room seemed full with the addition of three highly lacquered blonde TV reporters and their accompanying cameramen.

Neva gazed at each in turn. Her makeup was freshly applied, a fact apparent to any observer. She would certainly be visible on-screen, pink patches on her full cheeks and lips bright enough to rival a cherry Popsicle.

“It is with great sadness that I announce the brutal murder of Wilbur Fitch, one of Adelaide’s finest citizens. Mr. Fitch was found . . .” She followed Sam’s lead, concluding, “. . . intense investigation is under way and we expect to announce an arrest as soon as possible. A press conference will be held at noon tomorrow.” She was too canny a politician to reveal Sam’s decision to hold off on an arrest until Friday. Let the reporters assume there might be big news tomorrow.

Joan Crandall got the first question: How much money was in the shoe box?

The mayor was ready, thanks to Detective Howie Harris, her mole in the department: Approximately one hundred thousand dollars.

The AP bureau chief: How was the money recovered?

Neva was bland: Outstanding detective work. The details will be revealed when the arrest is announced.

The stringer, Deke Carson, was as unprepossessing as when I first observed him during the murders at Silver Lake Lodge: Is Fitch’s secretary in custody?

Howie had apparently been sharing what he knew far and wide.

Crandall and the bureau chief looked like pointers sighting a fox.

Crandall: Who is his secretary?

Bureau Chief: Is the secretary a “person of interest”?

Neva’s eyes narrowed. I suspected Howie would be instructed that she and only she spoke with reporters. “The investigation has not formally designated a ‘person of interest.’ However, I can assure you appropriate steps are being taken. Mr. Fitch’s secretary is Susan Gilbert, and she is, along with others, being interrogated by detectives in accordance with standard investigative practices. I assure you that—”

I rather doubted Neva would recognize an investigative practice if it joined her for morning coffee.

“—I and the Adelaide Police Department focus on the safety of our community. Intense surveillance has been arranged, and the public need have no fear that any danger is abroad. Thank you very much. The next news conference will be tomorrow at noon.”

? ? ?

I was familiar with the interrogation room at the police station. Stark light from fluorescent bars in the ceiling illuminated the straight wooden chair where Susan Gilbert sat. Her face was drawn and pale. In her eyes I saw shock from the discovery of the small wooden chest and the red velvet bag hidden beneath a tub in her backyard. She had to feel surrounded by danger, enmeshed in a trap with no way to escape. And wondering what hellish surprise might occur next.

Sam Cobb and Hal Price sat behind a wooden table. Sam’s heavy face was folded in a frown. He knew what I’d told him, but Susan’s guilt seemed apparent. Hal’s gaze at her was cold. He’d liked Wilbur Fitch, and he obviously thought Susan was guilty.

A legal pad and pen were at each place. The table was far enough from the chair to be out of the bright fluorescent light. Sam clicked on a gooseneck lamp, twisted it to send another bright beam at Susan.

She blinked, turned a little to avoid the direct flare in her eyes.

Sam cleared his throat, repeated the Miranda warning. “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”

I bent close to Susan, whispered, “Ask him if the police have checked with neighbors about anyone seen near your house last night between one and two a.m.”

She jerked to one side, slid her gaze in my direction.

Sam broke off, picked up again. “. . . the right to an attorney . . .”

I tried again. “Tell him you didn’t put the coins there but obviously someone did.” Susan gave a very good imitation of a rabbit mesmerized by a snake, but she did as instructed.

I said forcefully, or as forcefully as one can whisper, “The murderer was there!”

“You need to—” Susan’s voice was thin.

I wished she’d stop flicking her eyes from one side to the other.

“—find out who was in my backyard after midnight. The murderer put those coins there. Not me.”

“Check the neighbors.” Perhaps my whisper was a little too sibilant.

Sam’s face had a curious expression, a mixture of uneasiness, irritation, and resignation. Hal leaned forward and peered as if he might, if he looked hard enough, see something—or someone—who wasn’t there.