Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(38)

“What time did you check the door from the garden into the study?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“The door was closed and locked?”

“Right.”

Likely the ransom caller waited until around eleven to slip downstairs and into the study to unlock the door.

“You arranged Mr. Fitch’s room last night?”

“Right.” He was matter-of-fact. Nothing in his impassive face reflected the reality that he would never perform those duties again.

“You worked long hours.”

“My time didn’t start until four in the afternoon, weekends off. I like working nights. The cook served breakfast and lunch unless there were guests, then she brought in some girls from the college to wait the table.”

“How about last night?”

“I brought the milk and cookies about twenty after twelve. He was sitting on his sofa, gave me a wave, asked what I thought about the music. He was kidding me. I don’t like the kind of stuff they play now. I stopped going to a bar that started playing all this squealy stuff. I like rock ’n’ roll. I told him it sure sounded like he had a pig farm in the ballroom. He slapped his hand on his knee, said, I like that. I can see it now. A bunch of pigs in tuxes and gowns. He was still laughing when I went out.” The heavy face squeezed a little. “That’s the last time I saw him.”

“When you stepped out in the hall did you see anyone?” It must have been near the time that someone knocked on Wilbur’s door.

He raised an eyebrow. “Like who would I see? The house was shut down for the night.”

“Wilbur went downstairs.”

“Yeah.” A considering tone. “Funny.”

“Unusual?”

“Yes.” He folded his powerful arms across his front.

That had been his posture in the living room this morning as he waited to be seen by the police. I wondered if this was his pose when he was deep in thought.

I remembered Don Smith’s comment to Judy Weitz. “Do you think he might have gone to the library for a book?”

The thin lips curled in a wry smile. “The library was a showpiece. Classics. Rare books. The books he read were in his living area.”

“Some work he’d forgotten?”

The cold gray eyes were dismissive. “He never forgot anything. Whatever he intended to do yesterday, he’d done.”

“Possibly he heard a noise downstairs—”

“No noise in his suite.”

“If he looked outside would he see a light shining from the windows of the study?”

“The curtains were drawn. Besides”—he was more animated— “I get the idea some stuff was taken from the safe. I don’t think a burglar would be stupid enough to turn on a light.”

Nor did I.

“So you have no idea what led Wilbur to go down to the study after you said good night to him.”

He turned up two beefy palms, a physical display of puzzlement, but he looked like a man who had his own thoughts.

“If you know anything, it’s important to tell the police.”

His fish gray eyes told me he had little respect for either authorities or women. “What would I know?” His tone was just this side of insolent.

? ? ?

Following Ross’s directions, I returned to the second floor and walked up the west wing to another massive oak door, knocked.

In a moment, the door swung inward. I held out my ID folder, introduced myself.

“Come in.” Ben Fitch was very young to look so bleak. He gestured toward a cream leather couch next to a fireplace. The suite wasn’t quite as large as his father’s, but it was very nice indeed, expensive comfortable furnishings, bright paintings on the walls. An open door in one wall likely led to a bedroom and bath.

Ben Fitch was pale beneath his Hawaiian tan. His curly dark hair needed a comb, and his cheeks were heavily shadowed. He looked like a young man who’d been the life of the party and suddenly the party was over. I noted his red-rimmed eyes and that he looked at me expectantly. “Any—” He broke off, pressed his lips together. How hard would it be to ask about the murder of your father?

I liked him. I reminded myself that the person who killed Wilbur would make an intense effort to appear appropriately concerned. Still my voice was gentle after I settled on the couch. “You’ve not been back in town long.”

He flung himself into a massive red leather chair, jammed a hand through his thick dark hair, stared at flames dancing among crackling logs. “Too long.” His face ridged. “But not long enough.” He gazed at me and there was misery in his young face. “Dad—he was bigger than big. Always in command. We were like fireworks and somebody drops a match. We couldn’t ever be in the same room for long without all hell breaking loose. I should have left last week, but he wanted me to stay. Dammit, he wanted me here, wanted me in the business, but I knew it would never work. You know”—and now there was a shine in his blue eyes—“he really was proud of what I did in Hawaii. I took a little surf shop and now I’ve got shops on all the islands and business tripled last year. He liked that, said I was a natural, then yesterday I told him he needed to dump Todd Garrett—he’s the COO—and it was like old times, he was hot and mad and telling me I was a wet-nosed kid and what the hell did I know about Todd and I should spend a year working for Todd and maybe figure out how to get along with people and find out what a chief operating officer does. We were both shouting—”