Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(58)
“That’s great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. Susan’s lack of access to a weapon was great material for her defense attorney, but I knew she was innocent. “Is the lack of gun and fingerprints enough to keep her from being charged tomorrow?”
“If I were calling the shots, I would keep the investigation open. Neva has the bit in her teeth.”
Bit in her teeth is Oklahoma-speak for a runaway horse.
“Bailey Ruth, I’ll continue to look for facts even after Susan’s charged. But”—he turned his big hands up in a gesture of resignation—“I have to tell you I don’t have anything yet that points at a different person.”
? ? ?
Susan was transformed in a sweater as vivid as holly berries and gray wool slacks. She was no longer barefoot, wore gray leather flats and ribbed gray socks with flecks of red. Nice. I’d observed her in moments of stress, her dark brown eyes filled with terror and despair and fear, her angular face pale with the cheekbones too prominent, the generous mouth kept from trembling by huge effort. Now she looked young and almost carefree and this despite the somber silence that pressed against her in the solitary cell. There were no other occupants in any of the cells. That was likely to the good. A jail cell can never be a place of joy.
This small cell might be the exception.
Susan was sitting as comfortably as possible, her back against one end of the bunk, one leg crossed over the other. Her eyes held a glow, the kind of radiance that shines from good memories, a kind word, a smile, and from anticipation that no matter how dark the sky there is a sliver of light on the horizon and faith that the light will grow and grow and soon there will be an explosion of brightness.
“Susan.”
Her face turned toward the bars and the corridor. I stood between the bunk and the bars, and had I been present she would have looked at me directly. Her gaze wasn’t startled or distressed. “I thought you might come. Thank you for telling Sylvie about my shoes. She brought fresh clothes, too. She and Ben told me how she made the police look silly today. Ben said everything will be much better in the newspapers tomorrow, that he and Sylvie were behind me a hundred percent.” Her voice was soft. “I can’t believe how nice Ben is. He knows I didn’t hurt his dad. But to come with Sylvie to see me.” Her voice held wonder. She looked toward me with those luminous eyes. “That’s special, isn’t it?”
“Very special.” Special enough to fill this steel-barred concrete space with light and joy and hope.
“Ben,” she said softly. And then she seemed to bring herself fully present. She moved to swing her legs over the edge of the bunk. She came to her feet, eager, excited. “Do you know yet?” Only four little words, but they meant life and freedom and a future for her. I’d told Susan and Sylvie I was sure the murderer was one of five men and I would bring to justice the man who had put her in such danger. I would find him and convince the police and the cell door would swing open and she would walk free. I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn (aka G. Latham), had promised.
One of five, one of five, one of . . . I didn’t know which one.
But I couldn’t bear to dim her radiance. “By noon tomorrow everything will be wonderful.”
Five men . . .
Chapter 12
I’d gathered a great deal of information about the men who would be affected by a big change at Fitch Enterprises. I’d felt even more confident I was on the right path when Sam Cobb reported the visit from Minerva Lloyd. I pictured the interchange between Wilbur and Minerva, a domineering man enjoying a show of power—I’m making a big change—with an admiring woman as his audience, a buck pawing the ground near a doe. Obviously Wilbur enjoyed women, liked beauty, wouldn’t hesitate to emphasize his strength. But I didn’t feel an iota nearer knowing which of the five was a killer, even after speaking with each of them. Time was running out. There was one more possible source of information.
Juliet Rodriguez evidently never met a stranger. She beamed at me as she opened her apartment door. “Detective, come right in.” She waved me to the sofa, closed the door, and hurried to join me. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s as if it’s meant to be.” Her gaze was now earnest. “I saw in the paper—”
The Gazette would be pleased to know it was so widely read.
“—that Susan is trying to help you, and I thought we all should be trying to help, and I’ve thought and thought and I hate to say it”—and now her lovely face drooped—“but Wilbur was so mad. I talked to him Tuesday afternoon. He came in the library and he was just beside himself. I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone, but what’s true is true. I wasn’t going to say anything but here you are.” And now she clearly struggled. “I hate to say anything because I liked him. So handsome. Not anything like his father with that dark hair and those blue eyes. But Wilbur said he was going to wipe his name off of everything, drop him from the will. He said there was nothing worse than a son who thought he was better than everyone else.”
? ? ?
Rose Bower was bequeathed to Goddard College by Charles Marlow. The Marlows were great supporters of the college, and his wife Lorraine’s portrait hangs in the library on the first-floor landing of a double stairway. Light shone cheerfully through the ornate rose window above the front entrance. I moved inside and was pleased to see that the stately rooms beyond the huge marble foyer lay in darkness except for lavalieres on the side of each archway. To my right the chairs behind a magnificent rosewood desk were empty. The college used this expansive structure to host grand events and also to provide on the second floor elegant rooms for visiting dignitaries. If an event were planned or guests expected, the desk would be staffed.