Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(54)

I looked at him blandly, pictured a jealous, insecure man turning the knob, hearing the voices, listening, then slipping away after the conversation ended.

“—and I heard Alan and Wilbur. Alan was saying something like maybe Wilbur could give it some more thought. Wilbur was nice enough but he told Alan no deal, nothing more to talk about. I’d told Wilbur last week it was a dumb idea. I told everybody it was stupid and it came up at the Kiwanis luncheon and I knocked the idea flat and that made Wilbur mad because he hadn’t made up his mind. He yelled at me. But Wilbur always thought things over. I hadn’t seen him since he’d unloaded about Kiwanis. I stood there and realized he’d followed my advice.” There was definite satisfaction in Todd’s voice. “But he always liked to think everything was his own idea, so I left and didn’t try to talk to him. And that night at the party, Wilbur was having a great time. I’m glad I had a chance to tell him what a great party it was. He gave me a thumbs-up.”

Wilbur berated Todd for disloyalty, but now Todd insisted Wilbur’s displeasure was always fleeting. Perhaps this time Wilbur’s anger wasn’t appeased.

I closed my notebook. “Will you be staying with Fitch Enterprises, Mr. Garrett?”

He blinked those uncertain blue eyes. “I’ll stay long enough to help Ben sort everything out. I keep good records.” He was proud. “Wilbur always figured out what to do, but I kept everything in order. I’m not”—he was suddenly humble—“the brightest guy about business. But I’m careful. Wilbur appreciated me. I’ll do what I can to help Ben but then—” There was a flash of eagerness, of youthfulness. I had a sense of what he looked like when he was young and the crowd roared as he fell back and cocked his arm to send a football spiraling though the air on a crisp fall day. “—I’ve got a little cabin down on Lake Texoma and a boat. See, Wilbur left me a lot of money—”

I recalled George Kelly’s dry recitation: Todd Garrett, five hundred thousand.

“—and it’s enough for me to live there. I’ve met a few people in Madill. There’s a gal at the catfish cafe. She’s real nice. I can live in my cabin and fish and do a little hunting.”

And no one would yell at him again.





Chapter 11


George Kelly looked like a man quite pleased with himself and his world. A cigar smoldered in an oversize bronze ashtray. He hummed a toneless little tune as his fingers raced over a calculator. He looked at the sum, nodded, picked up the receiver, punched numbers. “Calling Les Timmons. . . . Hey, Les, that car I talked to you about, the Lexus sports car. I want it in red. . . . Houston? Yeah. Tell you what, I’ll fly down there next week, pick it up. Since it’s going to be my work car”—a small laugh—“I can deduct the trip expense if I drive it up here. Right. Sure thing.”

Life apparently was good for Mr. Kelly at the moment.

The hallway was unoccupied. I appeared and stepped into the outer office.

The secretary greeted me as an old friend. “Do you want to see Mr. Kelly? He’s here.” She reached out to touch the intercom.

I said quickly, “Don’t announce me. I’ll pop in.”

At her look of concern, I said, “Since no one was here, perhaps you were gone to the ladies’ room, I showed myself in.” She was up and stepping into the hall before I reached Kelly’s office door.

Kelly turned at the sound of the opening door. His pleased expression was replaced with a frown. “I’m expecting a conference call—”

“The secretary must be on break. I only have a few minutes so I didn’t wait. I know you are eager to be helpful in the investigations. Some questions have arisen about two Fitch employees.”

He didn’t want to deal with me, but he was the attorney for the executor of the estate, and whatever affected Fitch Enterprises was within his purview. He listened to what was by now my almost rote recitation. When I concluded, he made a dismissive gesture. “I suppose the police have to pay attention to anonymous tips, but this is nonsense. Todd Garrett and Alan Douglas were loyal to Wilbur. They knew a shout today would be a backslap tomorrow. Why”—and now he leaned back in his desk chair, was relaxed, expansive—“Wilbur fired me more times than I can count. We had a dustup last week. Of course nothing came of it. Wilbur being Wilbur. So, you can”—he smiled—“chalk this up to somebody with a gripe.”

I was still standing. I asked politely, “Who do you think committed the murders?”

He put his fingertips together, looked judicious, used the sonorous voice suitable for a jury. “I am confident the investigation will solve the crimes.” A head shake. “Shame about Carl Ross. If he had any information he should have taken it directly to the police. But perhaps he was uncertain, willing to give someone a chance to explain.”

I looked inquiring.

Kelly turned his hands over, palms up. “Wilbur always insisted that women be treated with utmost respect. Perhaps that influenced Carl.”

“The only woman who has been mentioned publicly in regard to the investigation is Mr. Fitch’s secretary. Are you referring to her?”

He was bland. “I make no claims. I simply know what I read in the Gazette. It sounds as though an arrest is imminent. Is it?”

It was my turn to make a disclaimer. “The investigation continues.”