Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(48)

“She went to the Fitch house. No one answered the door so she leaned on her horn until Ben Fitch came out. I expect she may know you are here by now.” I didn’t doubt Officer Warren alerted Sam Cobb. “I’m sure she will try to see you tomorrow.” Not tomorrow now, actually today.

Susan sat up straighter. “I don’t want her to come to the jail. Please, tell her not to worry, that everything will be all right, that I want her to stay home.”

“She’s tougher than you think.”

“She’s eighteen years old. She shouldn’t have to see me here. Please, will you talk to her?”

“I will.” I remembered Sylvie’s fierce attack on the front steps of the Fitch house. I had confidence in Sylvie. She might always see the world in a different way, but she was nobody’s pushover.

“I can’t bear seeing Sylvie here.”

I heard tears in her voice.

“In that event, let’s get busy and get you out of here. Did you recognize Carl Ross’s voice?”

“The caller said he was Carl Ross. I thought he was speaking quietly because he didn’t want to be overheard. Could the caller have been Carl? Yes. Was it Carl? I don’t know. I rarely spoke with him. Carl had a very soft voice. That always seemed odd for such a tough-looking man. He made me think of a cottonmouth slipping through water, dangerous if you got in his way. Maybe I thought that because I knew he was a Marine. Tonight the voice was—” She pressed fingertips against each temple, then her hands fell and she sighed. “I don’t know. Low. Soft. Almost a whisper.”

“Could the caller have been a woman?”

“It was definitely a man. But it may not have been Carl.”

“I don’t think the caller was Carl.” I was frank. “Carl was already dead and the killer called you, wanted you to come.”

“Is that why there was a gunshot after I went into the cabin?”

“Exactly.” My eyes were grainy with fatigue. There was something about the cabin. . . . Oh yes. “When was the last time you visited the cabin?”

“Never. I worked up at the house. I don’t even know if the cabin was used much. Anyway, I never had occasion to be down there.”

It was as energizing as a jolt of Mountain Dew. “Describe what you did when you got out of your car at the cabin. Everything.”

“The cabin lights were on. That was reassuring, meant he was already there. I parked in front. When I got out of the car, I remember thinking it was awfully quiet. An owl whooed. I’m scared of owls. They’re so big and they swoop so fast. I hoped the owl wasn’t coming my way. Anyway, it was very quiet. It sounded loud when I went up the steps. The door was ajar. I called out, Carl? No answer. I went up to the door—”

“Did you touch the knob?”

She frowned. “I knocked and the door swung in. There isn’t a screen door, just this big wooden door. I looked inside and didn’t see anyone. I called out again. It was very quiet. I almost didn’t go inside, but I thought he was in the woods watching me to make sure I was alone, so I decided to go in and wait for him. When I stepped inside, I saw him. I ran across the room and reached down.” She shuddered. “That’s when I got blood on my hand. I heard a shot outside and that was terrifying. I knew I needed to get help. I went over to the sink and I was washing my hands so I could call and then somebody yelled, Police, and the door banged open and he shouted at me to get my hands up.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“The cold-water handle at the sink. Nothing else. I never had a chance. That gun was pointed at me and I had to raise my arms and then the other policeman put those handcuffs on me.” She sagged back against the plastered wall.

“You heard the shot. Where did it sound like it came from?”

“Outside.” Her answer was quick and definite. “Someplace outside. Maybe closer to the lake. I was afraid someone was going to shoot me. I kept thinking I had to get the blood off my hands and call for help, but the door banged back against the wall. I whirled around and a policeman was aiming a gun at me and shouting. And now no one will listen to me. What am I going to do?” She was scared, could foresee arrest, a trial, prison. Perhaps worse.

I would have been scared, too. I made my voice warm and relaxed. “Everything will be fine.”

I hoped Saint Jude was listening. I was beginning to feel like it would definitely take a miracle to free Susan.





Chapter 10


I would not want to be seen as a complainer. I simply state that arduous activity, both physical and mental, is as wearing on an earthly visitor as for anyone else. In other words, a ghost—excuse me, Wiggins prefers emissary—knows when it is three o’clock in the morning and the next day is a final chance to accomplish a mission that looks doomed to failure. I needed energy, but I had one more task before I could snatch a bit of rest.

Sam’s office, of course, was dim and quiet. The password was unchanged. I skimmed the reports labeled re: Fitch/Ross homicides, made several notes. As I read, I felt as cheerless as an OU booster leaving the stone-quiet stadium after the Irish trounced the Sooners 7–0 on November 16, 1957, ending OU’s forty-seven-game winning streak. In essence, the reports could be summed up: Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert. I was pleased by one sentence in Sam’s cogent conclusions: If Ross dead at nine forty-five, Gilbert innocent and shot heard by Porter/Warren an anomaly. Unfortunately, the very next sentence was a sobering qualification: ETD (estimated time of death) is notoriously unreliable, so it’s possible Gilbert shot Ross immediately upon arrival at the cabin.