Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(51)

Sylvie led the way across the living room, stood by the sofa. Her intense, defiant face broke. For an instant, there was heartbreak and a small child’s terror at abandonment. “She—” Her voice quivered. Sylvie gulped for air, then her chin jutted. “They can’t do this to Susan. Ben Fitch agrees with me. He’s really nice and he thinks Susan’s not being treated right.” Sylvie dropped onto the sofa, patted the seat next to her.

I gave her a positive smile. “Megan Wynn, a very good lawyer, is representing Susan. The firm of Smith and Wynn.” I spoke as if the young firm was Adelaide’s finest, which I was sure someday it would be. “Moreover, I have narrowed the list of suspects.”

Sylvie’s eyes bored into mine. “Narrowed the list? How?”

“A man called Susan last night. I’m sure the caller was the murderer.”

“Why?”

She had a future as a reporter or lawyer. It would do no harm to offer information that would reassure her. “The medical examiner firmly believes Carl was dead by nine forty-five at the latest. Susan didn’t get there until right after ten.”

“Then why are they holding Susan in jail?”

“Because the police following her heard a shot and found Susan standing by the body.”

“If there was a shot,” Sylvie thought out loud, “it must have been the murderer trying to get Susan in trouble. The murderer . . . He has to be one of the men at the luncheon, right?”

I looked at her with respect. She’d listened and listened well when Susan and I discussed how the original crime was planned and that the planner had to know that Susan could open Wilbur’s safe.

“Exactly. I am continuing my investigation.” Susan’s arrest for homicide would be announced tomorrow at noon. As I glanced at the grandfather clock, the minute hand moved. That black hand would move and move and move. I had so little time. I knew the murderer was one of five men, but which one was guilty?

Sylvie clenched her fists. “I called the jail. The soonest I can see her is at one this afternoon. Ben will come with me.”

I said quietly, “Susan doesn’t want you to see her at the jail.”

Sylvie’s eyes were bright. “She loves me. She’s always tried to keep me from knowing about bad things. But I have to see her. I’ll tell her I know you’re working hard for her.”

I didn’t try to discourage her. Seeing Sylvie would be a boost for Susan, and I rather thought Ben would be a welcome addition. “I don’t know about the jail rules, but it would be nice if you took her some clean clothes and a pair of shoes.” I remembered the single suede loafer on the cement floor below the bunk.

“Shoes?”

“When she tried to help Mr. Ross, one of her shoes became stained.”

There was a flash of horror in Sylvie’s blue eyes. Violent death became terribly real when she pictured blood on her sister’s shoe. “That’s awful. I’ll take her everything fresh.” A pause and now her eyes glinted with anger. “I’m surprised there wasn’t a picture of that shoe in the newspaper. There was sure plenty of bad stuff about Susan in the paper yesterday. I talked to the reporter at the Gazette.”

I must have looked surprised.

Sylvie nodded eagerly. “I called the Gazette and talked to that woman who wrote the story that made it sound like Susan was involved. She was kind of gruff but nice. She said all she does is report the facts and those were the facts released at the mayor’s news conference and if the facts changed, she’d change her story and there was a news conference at noon today. And all I can say is, if they’re going to say things about Susan, they’re going to hear from me.”

? ? ?

Five men. I’d spoken to George Kelly, who would surely soak up big fees as he closed the estate, and Wilbur’s son, Ben, who shouted at his dad but now looked quite ready to take over a multimillion-dollar business. That was a profiteering pair. Were the others a three of a kind? I’d find out. Detective Sergeant G. Latham had some questions for Alan Douglas, the vice president with big ideas; Todd Garrett, the ostensible COO who wasn’t a savvy businessman; and Harry Hubbard, the charming stepson with expensive tastes.

Fitch Enterprises occupied several acres of land on Highway 3 near the city limits. Perhaps two hundred cars were parked in asphalt lots adjoining a one-story brick main office building and two warehouse-sized galvanized steel buildings. I checked out the nearest large structure. I’d never had any experience with a factory or assembly line. There was a subdued atmosphere that I attributed to the deaths of Wilbur Fitch and Carl Ross. I suspected on an ordinary day not marred by loss there would be cheerful conversations. The huge ground floor was open to sunlight through skylights in the ceiling. Today there was no brightness because of thick cloud cover. Stairs led up to a row of offices and a walkway that overlooked the floor. Bars of fluorescent light offered excellent illumination. The temperature was comfortable. Employees, either standing or seated, worked at long wooden tables. Some dismantled electronic devices, some sorted components, some worked with intricate wiring, some used magnifying glasses to pluck out computer chips. Workers wore everything from dressy casual attire to cowboy shirts with string ties, well-worn jeans, and cowboy boots.

I took a last look from the second-floor walkway, impressed by Wilbur Fitch’s achievements. I hoped his son would do as well and that jobs, good jobs, would continue to be created. As Mama told us kids, “Work is the stuffing in the Raggedy Ann.” It didn’t take long for me to understand what she meant. Doing a good job and having a good job to do gives you pride, and we all need to be proud. Wilbur Fitch gave his workers a lot more than a paycheck. Wilbur gave his workers pride.