Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(27)

I’d never felt so alone. Before I’d always been welcome in Sam’s long office with the battered desk and lumpy brown leather couch. I knew what was going on behind the scenes in an investigation. This time what I knew scared me. The investigation was over. Friday at noon Susan would be in jail, no longer a “person of interest” but held on suspicion of murder, facing an arraignment and enough evidence to convict her of first-degree murder.

Sam was focused on building the case against Susan. She probably had only a few hundred dollars in her bank account. She lived in a modest house. Likely she was paying for Sylvie’s education. There could be debts, probably were debts. In his view, greed prompted her to hold on to the rare coins. Worst of all, a closed case meant Sam wasn’t looking for the person who landed Susan in a murderous mess. Sam was convinced she’d succumbed to temptation when a hoax led her to open Wilbur’s safe, that she decided she was already a thief so why not get something out of it for herself. Sam didn’t buy my contention that the hoax was a ruse to embroil her in a murder and the plan had succeeded handsomely because she was the chief suspect. Someone with a compelling reason to want Wilbur dead created a clever diversion. Sam thought Susan had an enemy, but the real effect of the hoax was to tempt Susan and lead her to murder. I had to prove him wrong. I had to push behind the false front, find the clever mind that wanted Wilbur dead and Susan accused.

I stared down at the shadowy street, the gloom emphasized by the Christmas lights. The strands of tinsel strung across the street swayed in the sharp gusts, making an eerie rustling sound.

Adelaide, my beautiful Adelaide, no longer welcomed me. I felt as alien as any private eye walking down a mean street. Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade made those walks. So would I.

In less than forty-eight hours, I had to find Wilbur’s murderer.

? ? ?

The grandfather clock in the corner of the living room in the Gilbert house showed the time at a quarter after two, still plenty of afternoon left to seek out suspects.

Sylvie paused to glance in the mirror above a side table. She fluffed her blonde curls. “Let’s go out to dinner tonight. We need to do something fun. There’s a new restaurant by the lake. Rummy’s Retreat. The steaks are supposed to be great.”

A drained, depleted Susan looked small in the corner of the sofa. “A last meal for the condemned?”

Sylvie whirled around, stalked across the room. “That’s not funny, Susan. I just meant you and I didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Fitch being killed and we need to act like everything’s all right.”

Susan gazed at her sister, and a smile tugged at her lips. “You look like a kitten with frizzed-up fur facing down a Doberman.”

“If that awful man—”

She meant Sam.

“—was here, I’d scratch his eyes out.”

Susan patted the seat beside her. “Honey, I love you. What really matters is that you’re all right.”

Sylvie dropped onto the cushion. “Why doesn’t that police guy get it? Of course whoever called you has to be the one who killed Mr. Fitch. Why else was there a fake ransom call? It’s obvious. Any idiot can see it was a clever plan to get you to go to the house and take the money.”

That was my cue.

On Susan’s front porch, I paused to consider my wardrobe. What should a successful private investigator wear? I didn’t need a topcoat and scarf inside the house. I decided on a pale lavender merino wool basket weave cardigan over a darker purple top and matching lavender wool slacks and black leather heels. A necklace of intertwined silver links provided elegance.

I knocked firmly.

The peephole opened.

I gave a reassuring smile. I hoped my red curls didn’t look too windblown.

The door opened. Susan stared at me with a mixed look of recognition, disbelief, and uncertainty.

I didn’t give her a chance to derail my participation. “I came as soon as I could. I’ll be glad to take on the investigation, find out the identity of Mr. Fitch’s murderer.” I pulled open the screen door. “If you didn’t get my name earlier, I’m Private Detective G. Latham with Crown Investigations, the Dallas office.” I rather liked the agency name. I thought it added a touch of class. My alias? Leslie Ford’s Washington DC socialite Grace Latham often assisted Colonel John Primrose in his difficult cases. Ford’s mysteries were not hard-boiled, but I enjoyed diversions into Southern mischief among the upper classes.

Susan backed away, still staring, and trying, of course, to account for my reappearance. Last night she’d dismissed me as a creation of her own distress.

Sylvie darted around her. “A private detective? That’s what we need. Somebody has to find out what happened.”

Susan backed into the end of the sofa.

I saw realization in her eyes. My appearance last night wasn’t a product of her imagination. I could come and go. I was what I’d claimed, an emissary from Heaven. “You’ll help me?” Her voice wavered.

“I will.”

Sylvie clapped her hands. “What do you want us to do?”

“I’ll establish some particulars first. Please make yourselves comfortable.” I gestured toward the sofa. When Susan and Sylvie were side by side on the sofa, I drew a straight chair closer. I looked at Susan. “Who hates you?”

Sylvie bristled. “No one hates Susan.”