Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(42)
I was tempted to drop by Susan’s house, but decided to wait and give her a complete report tomorrow after Detective Sergeant G. Latham spoke to Harry Hubbard, Todd Garrett, and Alan Douglas. I would again visit Sam and discover the results of the tech check of Wilbur’s suite door and inquiries with neighbors about late Tuesday night.
After I paid my bill, I strolled out into the chilly night and disappeared. In a moment, I was at Rose Bower and in the room I’d used this morning for a luxurious shower. It was almost eight.
I found a collection of Browning’s poems and settled on a chaise longue. I always feel very Marie Antoinette-ish on a chaise longue, as if I should have curls piled high above my head, wear a low-cut satin gown, and hold a delicate fan to flutter coquettishly. I savored the elegance and grace of his poetry. Time passed slowly. My eyes wandered to the clock. Almost ten.
It was very silent in the huge old mansion. Perhaps the total absence of sound, no doors opening and closing, no voices, no one about, or the size of the high-ceilinged room or a memory of Mayor Lumpkin’s choleric face plucked at my sense of well-being.
I put the book on my lap, frowned. Perhaps I should be out and about, checking on the activities of the seven. No one, of course, would wear a placard announcing MURDERER. I felt restless, uneasy. Was I taking too much for granted? Sam intended to look beyond Susan tomorrow, but—
The deep whoo of the Rescue Express thrummed against my ears. I jumped to my feet, the book sliding to the floor. Coal smoke swirled around me. The thunder of the wheels clacking on the rails seemed to echo from the walls.
Wiggins stood before me in his usual white shirt, black suspenders, black wool trousers, and black shoes. This was his attire in his office that overlooked the curving silver tracks at his station. For Wiggins to abruptly appear in a silent room at Rose Bower shocked me.
His spaniel brown eyes were wide with distress. “There’s no hope for Susan now.”
Chapter 9
Susan stood rigid, arms raised. “Don’t shoot. I don’t have a gun. I don’t!” Her brown eyes were wide with shock. She stood with her back to the sink in a wet bar. The water was running. Her hands were wet and the cuffs of her sleeves were wet. A sopping dish towel lay partially in the sink.
A young police officer, his face pale, his cheeks taut, gripped a service revolver with both hands, aimed the muzzle directly at Susan. He was tall and thin, not long past a teenager. “Don’t move.” His voice was a little too high and it wobbled.
A muscular officer in his forties, thinning blond hair, a tired face, eased from behind the younger man. He ordered in a deep voice, “Cover me, Porter. I’ll handcuff her.” He moved toward Susan, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his left hand. His right hand hovered near his holster. Even with the backup of his partner, he kept an unwavering stare on Susan, ready for any movement.
I felt a squeeze on my arm, a signal that Wiggins was leaving me here to do my best. The scent of coal smoke diminished. The sound of the wheels faded. The departure of the Rescue Express wasn’t heard by the three people—four, if you counted the dead man on the floor—in the rustically furnished living room of the cabin near the Fitch lake.
“Take two steps forward. Put your hands behind your back.” The officer’s order was brusque.
“Will he stop pointing that gun at me?” Susan’s voice wavered.
“When I snap the cuffs, he’ll put the gun away.” The words were quick, cold.
Her eyes never moving from the muzzle of the gun, Susan slowly took two steps forward, stopped, lowered her arms, put her hands behind her.
The bigger man moved fast, swung behind Susan. Click.
Officer Porter’s eyelids fluttered. He took several breaths, slowly lowered the gun, eased it into the leather holster.
I had a sense he was struggling to keep his hands from shaking.
Susan watched as he slid the gun into the holster, then she, too, drew deep breaths. Susan would have been lovely in a tan long-sleeved blouse and midcalf navy flannel skirt if it weren’t for a face slack with shock and a smear of blood on one of her tan suede wedge heels. She looked bewildered and stricken. “I tried to see if he was alive. I got blood on my hands.” There was horror in her voice. “I came over here to wash my hands so I could call for help.”
The older policeman—his nameplate read D. Warren—gave her a hard level stare. “No hurry for him.” He lifted his phone, punched, spoke loudly. “No longer active shooter scene. One-eight-seven. Male. DOA. Cabin on Fitch estate approximately half mile from house. Apparent gunshot to chest. Forty to fifty years old. Five foot ten to six feet tall. Weight around one eighty. Possible suspect in custody. Female. Name Susan Gilbert. No weapon visible. No search has been made.” A pause. He stood a little straighter. “Yes, sir.” He repeated the information. “We have everything under control.”
Porter’s eyes scanned the floor. He knew better than to disturb the body until death was officially proclaimed by the medical examiner. “I’ll look around.” He made a slow circuit of the room, looking behind furniture.
Susan stared at Officer Warren. “How do you know my name?” She was grappling with the fact that he knew her. How could he know her? And how was it that the police were here?
I knew she’d read the Gazette story, but obviously she’d not focused on the mayor’s announcement about around-the-clock surveillance. I’d paid no attention, either. The killer, who well knew that Susan must be of intense interest to the police, didn’t miss that information. The killer knew the police likely would follow Susan wherever she went. How about decoying her to the murder scene, waiting for her arrival, then, as a clever finishing touch, shooting the gun and knowing there would be cops to hear the shot.