Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(31)

“Juliet Rodriguez?”

“Wilbur liked beauty. She’s beautiful. He talked to her on the phone that last day about flying to Dallas, and he was smiling.”

“Minerva Lloyd?”

Susan looked miserable. “I don’t like talking about people like this.”

Sylvie patted her shoulder, gave me a swift look. “Susan’s the biggest softy in the world. She never says anything bad about anyone. But”—and she was emphatic, her young voice high—“it isn’t mean to tell the truth. You always say, Tell the truth and you’ll never have any regrets. So you tell Ms. Latham and me everything you know about the people at the lunch, and if they are innocent, well, no harm done. But maybe something you say will help Ms. Latham find out who killed Wilbur. That’s what matters.”

Susan took her sister’s hand. “You’re right. After all”—she glanced at me—“you aren’t the police. What I tell you won’t get someone else in trouble. So”—she drew a breath—“I’ll tell you about Minerva.”

“Last week, I think it was Wednesday or Thursday, there was a knock on the study door. I got up to go see and the door opened. Minerva came in. She was her usual spectacular self, wearing a soft green wool dress and a pearl necklace and tall green heels with gold buckles. She looked like a Vogue model. She turned her eyes on me, and that’s when I knew something was up. Her eyes kind of burned with fury. She spoke nicely enough, I’d like a latte, Susan. I started for the door. Wilbur barked, I have staff. Sit down, Susan. Minerva walked up to his desk. Wilbur dear, some words are not meant for employees. Susan will run right along. I looked at Wilbur. His face was getting red. I thought it was better if I left, so I murmured something about a morning break and headed for the hall. I heard Minerva say, Are you taking Juliet to Dallas next— as I closed the door. She was terribly angry.”

“Ooh.” Sylvie practically bounced on the cushion. “You have to call that big man, tell him. Minerva is smart enough to plan anything. She probably knows all about you and me from Wilbur.”

Susan looked skeptical. “Somehow I doubt Wilbur regaled Minerva with tidbits about his secretary and her sister. Anyway”—Susan shook her head—“the police can’t arrest Minerva because she had a spat with Wilbur.”

Sylvie said darkly, “A mad mistress is a good place to start.” She looked at me. “You’ll go after Minerva, won’t you?”

“Minerva. And the other six luncheon guests.”

As Sam Cobb tartly observed, Crimes are pretty simple, Bailey Ruth. Sex or money.

I decided to start with sex.





Chapter 7


Juliet Rodriguez opened her apartment door on the third knock. Instead of G. Latham, Private Eye, I was equipped with a lovely leather folder containing a police ID for Detective Sergeant G. Latham. Happily I could remain in street clothes for both the Crown investigator and the Adelaide homicide detective.

She was, as Susan said, drop-dead gorgeous, hair the color of wheat in sunlight, huge dark brown eyes. I am not a connoisseur of women’s figures, but my husband had a word for women like Juliet: stacked. The fawn sweater was molded to her and a nice foil for scarlet slacks.

She beamed at me, a bright, engaging smile. She was clearly eager to meet the unknown redhead at her threshold, an attitude that likely had opened many doors for her. People like smiles.

I spoke quickly as I flashed my badge. “Detective Sergeant G. Latham. If you have a moment, Ms. Rodriguez, I hope you can assist the police department in the investigation into the murder of Mr. Wilbur Fitch.” In the past, I’d sometimes appeared as Officer M. Loy, a tribute to Myrna Loy in her role as Nora to William Powell’s Nick Charles in the film version of Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man. To pursue Wilbur’s killer, I awarded myself a promotion.

Her smile was replaced by a moue of distress. “It’s so awful about Wilbur.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was the nicest man. I didn’t know until I went to the house after my class.” She held the door, welcoming me inside. “I’ve been cataloguing Wilbur’s library. I can’t believe someone killed him. And I saw the police”—her brown eyes were huge—“take Susan Gilbert away. I suppose they needed information from her.” She gestured toward an easy chair, took her place opposite me on a rattan sofa. The decor was inexpensive, bright travel posters and everyday furniture likely picked up secondhand, but a comfortable room in a small apartment. “Susan’s sister, Sylvie, is in one of my classes.” Juliet was a luncheon guest who knew enough about Susan and Sylvie to make the fake ransom call. Ditto Harry Hubbard, the charming ne’er-do-well stepson. But what of the others? It was time to test out my theory. “I understand you were among Mr. Fitch’s guests at a luncheon last week.”

Juliet brushed back a tangle of honey-colored hair, looked young and appealing. “It makes me so sad that Wilbur’s gone. He laughed and boomed and kept everything fun. He loved sharing. It could be an eagle feather he found on a camping trip or a 1929 stock certificate. That was one of his most appealing qualities. He was always himself and he loved having people for lunch and showing off his things.”

“I understand he asked his secretary to open the safe and bring some coins.”

Juliet nodded eagerly. “They were gorgeous. I love old coins. They make me think of castles and dusty roads and caravans. Susan brought them to the table in a red velvet bag. That was so Wilbur. Red velvet. Susan placed the bag on the table and said, Here you are, sir. As I told everyone after she left, she could be the perfect secretary in a TV show, and it just goes to show how different siblings can be. I told them all about Sylvie and how she’s always game to try anything and how she didn’t tell Susan when she and Harry, you know, he’s Wilbur’s stepson, went out to the airport and went up and parachuted into a field and there was a bull and, golly, it was a near thing. But she and Harry grabbed up their chutes and shook them and that distracted the bull and they got over a fence and she’d never ever tell Susan because Susan was always so cautious. Harry laughed and said I had to promise not to tell Susan because she still didn’t know, and I was right, Sylvie was the closest thing he’d ever known to a human glider, just going whichever way the wind blew and loving every minute of it.”