Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(64)

I glanced around the breakfast room. Petunias were a spot of beauty in the middle of the white kitchen table. Two places were set. Sam wasn’t downstairs yet. I found him shaving at the lavatory in the bathroom, attired in navy boxers.

“Sam.”

His hand jerked. A spot of blood welled from a nick on his right cheek. He looked wildly around.

Heavens, I assumed he would recognize my voice, but, of course, he expected to hear Claire’s voice here, and she spoke in a much higher register than I.

I darted to a rack, grabbed a washcloth, held it under the water. “Ouch.” Of course the water was hot. I turned the hot water off, the cold water on, doused the cloth, held it up to his cheek.

He exhaled as he took the cloth, pressed it against the welt. “Couldn’t it wait until I get to the office?”

For Sam that was grumpy.

“Sam, there’s no time to waste. . . .”

? ? ?

Sam Cobb rose through the ranks to become chief of police because he listened, evaluated, and dealt intelligently with whatever situation arose. This morning he skipped his shower, was dressed and on his way down the stairs in less than ten minutes. He poked his head into the kitchen. “Got a call. Have to go. I’ll catch a bite.”

Claire moved fast, popped warm cinnamon muffins into a brown paper sack, and filled a coffee thermos. She was at the front door as he pulled it open. She looked up and in her eyes was the fear police spouses know. “Be careful.”

He took the bag with a smile, bent to kiss her cheek. “I’ll come home. I promise.”

He used the siren and cars swerved to the curb. In his office, he pulled a legal pad near, made several notations, began to issue orders.

I watched as a coverall-clothed workman climbed a ladder in the gazebo. Another worker held the ladder steady. A can of paint and a brush were set on the ladder’s pail rest. There were several swipes with the brush, then a minute videocam was secreted in a rafter. The videocam was set to rotate to cover the entire interior once every two minutes. The recorder was scheduled to begin recording at ten forty-five.

I was in the park at nine a.m. when officers in street clothes began to arrive, one by one. A workman rolling a wheelbarrow. A young woman pushing a carriage containing a rifle instead of a baby beneath the closed top. Two joggers with guns in their backpacks. An artist who set up an easel with a good view of the gazebo. Four shovel-equipped workmen who turned over earth a few feet from a fountain. A sharpshooter in camouflage who climbed midway up a huge magnolia and wormed onto a broad limb that overlooked the gazebo. Magnolias, as all Southerners know, keep their glossy leaves year round, providing cover.

The park was perhaps three city blocks in size. The white-frame gazebo sat in the center. Elms, sycamores, redbuds, and magnolias filled the area north of the gazebo. To the south was a broad open grassy expanse, the grass now the dull brown of winter. The killer wouldn’t come from the south. Wisteria, holly, yew, and red chokeberry shrubs dotted the winding walkways.

I had one more stop before I kept my appointment in the park.

Sylvie sat at the small kitchen table. A notebook lay open before her. Crumpled sheets littered the floor. I looked over her shoulder. Lists. Lists of what to do, who to call, what to ask Susan’s lawyer.

I went to the front porch, pressed the bell.

I had only an instant. In the now-empty kitchen, I picked up the pen, wrote on a blank sheet in all caps: NOON PRESS CONFERENCE. SUSAN’S RELEASE ANNOUNCED. CASE SOLVED. BE THERE. I signed it quickly, Detective G. Latham. I’d no more than put down the pen when Sylvie returned.

She grabbed a half-filled mug from the table, emptied it in the sink, replenished the mug with fresh coffee, sat down again. She picked up the pen, went suddenly rigid as she read the note. She looked wildly, got up so quickly her chair crashed to the floor, and ran to the back door. She flung the door open, hurried down the steps, gazed around, then shook her head. She yanked her cell phone from her pocket, swiped. “Ben . . .”

I was pleased she already had his number on speed dial.

I made a last survey of City Park. All appeared perfectly normal. People walking. Workmen working. There was no indication the park was secured by undercover police.

At a quarter to eleven, I appeared in the ladies’ room of Lulu’s. I chose a black wig in a bouffant style, oversize aviator sunglasses, and a wide-leg pink pants suit beneath a shiny sequin-speckled leather jacket. I suppressed a shudder as I gazed at the image. No one would confuse this apparition with Detective Sergeant G. Latham or Private Investigator G. Latham.

It was five to eleven when I approached the park from the grassy southern expanse. I was too far from the wooded area to provide a good vantage point for a gunman. Shooting Carl Ross at a distance of perhaps ten feet didn’t equate with a moving target at thirty yards. Moreover, I would be safe until I stood in the gazebo because my adversary had no idea of my appearance. He knew only that a woman knew too much, a woman was a threat, a woman had to be dealt with.

I didn’t believe he would arrive to cajole or temporize or offer cash. He would be armed.

At two minutes to eleven I paused in the shadow of a red chokeberry shrub not far from a fountain where four city workers in baggy coveralls, with pockets capable of holding guns and ammo, stood in a semicircle gazing at the waterless spout. Were they awaiting an oracle? Was there an endangered grub worm in the vicinity? Oh, perhaps they were contemplating activity. One of them placed both hands on a shovel, wedged the steel into hard dry ground.