Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(65)

I was about fifteen feet from the gazebo. The white structure was elegant and old-fashioned with steps to the south and north. A wooden railing with columns supported a peaked roof.

I started up the steps. At the crack of a gun I would disappear. Eight steps in all. I took them slowly. I reached the elevated wooden floor, moved around the interior, gazed to the south and the fountain with one workman jamming a shovel near a bricked rim. A woman pushed a baby carriage on the central path. I walked around the perimeter again, looked to the north at winter-bare trees and the occasional shiny green magnolia and clumps of shrubbery.

He came from the shadow of a huge wisteria shrub, moving swiftly to the north steps. He was almost unrecognizable, head down, shoulders hunched, making it hard for an observer, if there were an observer, to estimate height and weight. A wool cap covered his head. A muffler wrapped around his neck obscured the lower portion of his face. A dark jacket. A black sweater. Dark trousers. Sneakers. His right hand thrust into the jacket pocket, a pocket that bulged. He came closer, stared at me. “You called me?”

“Carl told me. You killed Mr. Fitch. I know what happened and you’re gonna pay me. You got the money?”

“You’re as stupid as Carl. He thought he could blackmail me. At the cabin, he was sprawled in a chair like he owned the place. I let him talk, told him sure, I’d pay him five thousand a month. I said maybe we should have a drink to seal the deal. I got up and walked toward him and shot him and his shirt was bloody, a big splotch of blood, and I watched him slide to the floor and die. Now it’s your turn.” His hand jerked free from his pocket. The blue black of an automatic gleamed in a shaft of sunlight.

A shout blared from a megaphone. “Drop that gun. Police. Hands up. Police. We have you covered.”

I flung myself to the side, disappearing as I moved.

A shot exploded, loud enough to startle grazing geese into lumbering flight.

Two more shots.

? ? ?

Sam’s office bustled with activity. Detective Sergeant Hal Price swiped off his cell phone, spoke rapidly. “He’s expected to survive. Harley’s a good shot. Got the gun hand, knocked the .45 to the floor. It went off. A tech prized out a perfect slug plus we got two cartridges. They’re in the lab now.”

Sam reached for his phone, tapped an extension. “Any match between the cartridge at the Fitch cabin and the slug the ME dug out of Ross with the slug and cartridges from the gazebo?” His face was intent.

His office door burst open. Neva Lumpkin charged across the room. Today’s pants suit was better cut, more flattering, but if I were asked for fashion advice I would murmur that black or gray are more flattering than cerise to a woman who weighs in at a good two hundred pounds. She jolted to a stop in front of Sam’s desk. Her chest heaved. “I am preparing for the press conference—you do remember that a press conference is scheduled”—she looked at a gold watch in a sapphire-studded band—“to begin in four minutes to announce the arrest of that thief, Wilbur Fitch’s secretary, and I am told that sirens shrilled right here by City Hall and there was a live-shooter incident across from my office and no one told me. And Howie says an important citizen was arrested and—”

Sam stood, all grizzled muscular six foot two inches of him, but his expression was genial. “You have arrived just at the right moment, Neva. I’ll walk upstairs to the press conference with you.” He came around his desk, politely took her arm. “We have just this moment received important ballistics information. I will explain to you as we go upstairs.” He gave a quick glance at Hal. “Miss Gilbert, of course, is to be released promptly and thanked for her cooperation in the investigations into the murders of Wilbur Fitch and Carl Ross. And give Claire a call, tell her everything’s fine, I’ll be home for dinner on time.” By now the word would be on radio and TV about shots fired in City Park across from the police station.

Neva frowned. “Susan Gilbert was at the scene of two crimes.”

Sam knew his listener. “She was never a serious suspect. And, when you think about it, Neva, it would be pretty boring for the newshounds if we arrested a secretary. Now we have an arrest that will rock the town—” The door closed behind them.

? ? ?

The small room was jammed, seven cameras with handlers and on-air blondes, almost fourteen print reporters. I was sure I spotted a college student clutching a notebook and another with a microphone and recorder, so the college newspaper and radio station were here as well. Joan Crandall was in the center of the first row as became the Gazette’s star reporter. The AP bureau chief sat next to her. Deke Carson looked as scruffy as usual in a white T-shirt and dungarees with one ragged knee.

Neva and Sam stood just inside the door, Sam murmuring into her ear. She listened with widening eyes.

The downtown carillon chimed the noon hour.

Neva strode to the lectern. “I am Mayor Neva Lumpkin. Adelaide prides itself upon its safety and concern for citizens. Adelaide seeks justice without fear or favor, treating all citizens equally. Today the police arrested George Kelly, a leading citizen, and charged him with two counts of murder in the deaths of Wilbur Fitch and Carl Ross. The arrest was accomplished at shortly after eleven a.m. this morning at the gazebo in City Park. Acting on information received, police were in waiting when Mr. Kelly arrived and met with an unknown woman at the gazebo. Mr. Kelly drew a gun and attempted to shoot the woman. At this time the identity of the woman and her connection to Mr. Kelly have not been established. As police closed in on the gazebo and shots were fired, the woman apparently fled. Mr. Kelly was ordered by police officers to drop the gun. He refused and was shot in the right hand. His gun was recovered. Mr. Kelly has been transported to Adelaide General Hospital, where he is receiving care. He is expected to survive the wound. Mr. Kelly will be kept under guard at the hospital, and citizens can be assured there is no danger to the community. Outstanding police work”—she half turned and gave a gracious nod to Sam Cobb—“has already confirmed that the gun involved in the shooting at the gazebo is the weapon used to shoot Mr. Ross. I will take your questions now.”