Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(37)

Weitz was equally combative. “It doesn’t compute. Think about it, Don. She gets a ransom call and hightails it here and takes the cash box. She gets away with it. Takes the stuff to her house. Why would she come back, take another chance of being caught?”

“Greed.” His somber stare held memories of years in law enforcement.

Judy was impatient. “If I have the timing right, and I’m sure I do, she would no more than have reached her house than she would have had to start back.”

Don shrugged. “It’s kind of nuts. You ever know any nutty crooks?”

She waved the sardonic query aside. “I don’t buy it. Fitch went into that study with someone he knows. He wasn’t attacked by a burglar. No bruises. Nothing but the bash on the back of his head. He was a big man. Maybe a burglar could use a gun, force him to open a safe, but I don’t think so. I don’t think he was expecting trouble. From the way he fell, he was standing at the safe. I don’t think the safe was open. I think Fitch saw the painting ajar and opened the safe to check and see if everything was in place. If that’s the setup, then the secretary’s claim she was framed adds up. Somebody arranged for her to sneak in, get the cash box. Why would she come back? If she wanted those coins that were hidden beneath a tub in her backyard, she would have taken them when she got the cash box. Instead someone at the party and/or somebody who lives in the house came to Wilbur’s door and persuaded him to come downstairs. He had to be killed in the study because that’s where the secretary came. Somebody is a hell of a chess player, but this time the pieces are other people’s lives. Somebody wanted Fitch dead and made sure the secretary took the rap. It was never about taking what was in the safe. The killer took the coins and hotfooted it to the secretary’s house and tucked them under a tub. The secretary’s not that stupid. She’s being framed.”

Don had a supercilious male expression. “Just because you know Gilbert at church, you’re spinning her a way out.”

Judy glared at him. “I do not spin. I look at facts.” With that she stalked toward the door.

I regret to say Don slouched after her with a smirk on his face.

I felt sure Judy’s take was right. The murderer attended the party, was familiar with the layout of the house and the location of Wilbur’s suite, knew Wilbur stayed up late. During the party, the murderer at some point slipped downstairs and into the study to unlock the garden door for Susan. The murderer likely was in the hallway near a window, waited until Susan left, then went back into the study. Instead of returning to the party, the murderer may have remained in the study, possibly sitting in darkness, waiting for guests to leave and the house to fall silent. Finally, sure no one was about, it was time to open the door into the garden, turn on a light, pull the painting away from the safe. Now there was a breath-catching ascent up the private family stairs near the informal living area to the second floor. Another cautious survey, a dash to Wilbur’s door, a knock. Wilbur opened the door, saw a familiar face, and the sands of time began to rush away for him.

When Judy Weitz and Don Smith stepped into the hallway, I waited until the door closed and then I appeared. I was in a hurry but I gave them time to reach the stairs. I eased the door open. The hallway was quiet. The police, of course, had interviewed everyone present in the house. But I doubted they had the same goals.

I continued to explore, and my search was rewarded on the third floor of the west wing. Two doors contained nameplates: Rosalind Millbrook, Housekeeper. Carl Ross, Butler. I knocked on the butler’s door, then twisted the knob. He stood at the windows overlooking the garden. He turned as I stepped inside. His crisp white shirt, red tie, black trousers, and leather shoes had the look of a uniform. He projected an aura of toughness, a burly man who could hold his own in any confrontation. He had shaved since I glimpsed him this morning in the formal living room.

I held out my leather ID folder. “Glad I caught you, Mr. Ross. We have a few more questions.”

He glanced at the clock on a metal desk. A quarter to five. “All right.”

“Were you on your way home?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I live above the garages. One of the perks. No rent.”

He didn’t offer me a seat. He remained standing so I did as well.

“Mr. Ross, please describe your normal evening duties.”

He had a heavy face beneath the balding head, a fleshy nose, thin lips. His eyes were flint gray, observant, cold. His muscular shoulders lifted in a shrug, fell. “Depended. A regular night Mr. Fitch ate dinner around seven, maybe worked in his study. Sometimes he played pool with me or we did some skeet shooting. He has an indoor range on the other side of the lake. But he usually went upstairs around eleven. Some nights he was out all evening with Ms. Lloyd. When he spent the night at home, he had a glass of milk and peanut butter cookies in his suite around midnight.”

“And chocolate on the bed as well?”

“Yeah.” A slight quirk to those thin lips. “He liked money, women, and food in that order.”

“Who was in charge of locking up the house at night?”

“Me.”

“How about last night?”

“I checked the ground floor doors except for the kitchen and the main entrance. The caterer was responsible for closing up after the cleanup. I closed the front door at half past twelve and I was done.”