Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(55)
Kelly stood, looked at his watch. “If that’s all, I have an important call to make.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.” At the door I turned and looked back as if struck by a thought. “One more thing. Did Mr. Fitch ever apologize about his remark?”
“Remark?”
“When he told you he thought he had a bull in the courtroom but you turned out to be a steer.”
Kelly’s face for an instant was hard with antagonism. For me? Or at the memory of Fitch’s steer slur? Then he gave a wry laugh. “Wilbur at his worst. He could be a sore loser. I told him the suit was a long shot but he insisted we try it. He had to blame somebody when we lost.”
? ? ?
Neva Lumpkin’s azure blue pants suit would be attractive on a willowy model. Suffice to say the too-tight jacket and slacks emphasized an operatic bosom and matching hips.
Almost every chair was taken in the third-floor meeting room. I had an equally good view of both the podium and the audience from my vantage point along one wall.
Sam Cobb stood to one side of the lectern, a foot or so behind the mayor. His broad face beneath grizzled dark hair was impassive. A blue suit today but as wrinkled as usual. He held a yellow legal pad.
The regulars were in the front row, Joan Crandall of the Gazette, lean as a greyhound and poised to run; Ted Burton, the AP bureau chief with a plump man’s cheerful countenance but slate blue eyes that didn’t like anybody very much; counterculture representative Deke Carson flaunting a necklace with dangling brass knuckles, a sweatshirt with an obscene expletive, and tattered Bermuda shorts. I suspected his knees were cold when he stepped outside, but a man will do what he must to be different from the norm. I counted six blonde TV reporters and their nearby cameramen.
My gaze stopped on the third row. Sylvie Gilbert’s orange sweater and vivid green pants seemed even brighter in contrast to Ben Fitch’s subdued gray cashmere pullover and navy slacks. Sylvie would always attract attention. Several of the TV cameramen glanced her way as men do when women, young or old, have a special magic. Even in a room filled with attractive blondes she was noticeable, her curls shining, fresh, obviously untouched by chemicals. Her blue eyes appraised Neva and Sam, and there was cool judgment in her gaze: Lady, you’re fake, mister, I don’t like you but you look strong. Ben Fitch seemed an unlikely companion with the air of a man more at home at the country club grill.
I glanced at the lectern. The mayor was checking off the attendees. Her gaze stopped for an instant at Sylvie and Ben, moved on. She would have no reason to know Susan Gilbert’s sister, and Ben had not been in town long enough to be recognized as the owner of Fitch Enterprises. She likely assumed they were reporters from around the state. But Sam knew who they were, and his stare was speculative.
Neva cleared her throat, stepped forward. In the small venue she had no need for a microphone. “I am Neva Lumpkin, mayor of Adelaide. I am joined today by Sam Cobb, our chief of police. Chief Cobb is directing the investigation into the murder Tuesday night of revered Adelaide business leader Wilbur Fitch and the murder last night of Carl Ross, Mr. Fitch’s butler.” She picked up several sheets of paper, read aloud, “The body of Wilbur Fitch was discovered Wednesday morning by his butler, Mr. Ross. Mr. Fitch died of massive head trauma in the study of his home. No weapon was found at the scene. No weapon has been recovered. The medical examiner estimates that death occurred after midnight Tuesday and before three a.m. Wednesday. The motive for his murder isn’t known, but a safe normally hidden behind a painting was found open and the painting swung back against the wall. The door to the garden was open. Coins taken from the safe were found in the yard of Mr. Fitch’s secretary, Susan Gilbert. Ms. Gilbert disclaims any knowledge of the coins and insists they were placed there by another party.”
“What’s with the dead butler?” Deke Carson sounded supremely bored. He lounged back on the straight chair, feet poked out straight in front of him.
Neva ignored him, turned a page. “Ms. Gilbert, though not named as a ‘person of interest,’ was under police surveillance yesterday.” The tone of her voice indicated she certainly saw Susan as a “person of interest.”
There was a sudden intensity in the reporters’ posture. Pens scratched. Fingers flew over keyboards. Microphones were held up to capture her voice. “At shortly before ten p.m. last night Ms. Gilbert received a phone call and departed her house. Two officers followed her. She arrived at a cabin on the Fitch property at a few minutes after ten. She entered the cabin. Officers approaching the cabin heard a gunshot at seven past ten. Officers Warren and Porter proceeded to the cabin and found Ms. Gilbert in the act of washing blood from her hands—”
Chair legs scraped. Sylvie jumped to her feet. She was a picture of youthful fury, blonde curls quivering, heart-shaped face flushed. “I’m Sylvia Gilbert. I’ve got something to say. Those people”—she pointed at Neva and Sam—“aren’t telling you everything. Susan went inside the cabin just after ten p.m., pay attention to that time, that’s when Susan got there. I was with her all evening until she left the house because she got a phone call from a man who said he was Carl Ross but now we know it was the man who killed Mr. Fitch and decided to kill Carl Ross probably because Carl asked for money to keep quiet about what happened Tuesday night when Mr. Fitch was killed—”
The reporters were all standing and turned toward her. The cameramen were jockeying for good shots. The blonde TV reporters were worming nearer, thrusting their microphones at Sylvie.