Two crime technicians worked in the library. The body was gone, an outline marked in chalk. A skinny tech in blue coveralls filmed one end of the room. A big bulky bald-headed tech held a sketchpad in one hand. Surprisingly delicate fingers gripped a pencil, drew with precision.
The poker remained on the floor between the sofa and the fireplace. Blood and matted hair clung to the pronged end. Eventually the weapon would be carefully placed in a clearly marked evidence container.
Possibly a stranger entered a mansion in search of loot, grabbed up the poker when Sylvia confronted him. I gazed around the library. Nothing appeared out of order. There were no telltale bare hooks on the walls to indicate a purloined painting. I admired two Monets and a Cézanne. A small silver chest graced an end table. An elegant jade statuette of a dragon reigned atop the fireplace mantel.
Elise Douglas suggested a burglar attacked Sylvia Chandler, a burglar who ignored expensive paintings and silver double eagles nicely framed in an alcove.
I stared at the poker with its grisly stains. I considered what might have happened. A stranger came through the woods, entered the library, walked to the fireplace, grabbed a poker to strike the woman seated on the sofa. Why wouldn’t Sylvia scream? Raise an alarm? In my view, if someone entered from the terrace, the visitor was known to Sylvia. That visitor might have mentioned the cold, hurried to the fireplace, used the poker to prod the burning logs. I estimated the distance between the fireplace and the sofa. About five feet. Perhaps she was reading, looked down again at her book and the visitor raised the poker, struck. Or someone who lived in the house entered from the hall, locked the door, murdered Sylvia, exited to the terrace.
My gaze moved to the open door to the terrace. Perhaps the dead woman herself locked the hall door which meant the murderer, known or unknown, entered from outside. Or perhaps the hall door was locked by the murderer who then slipped outside, leaving the terrace door open.
To be fair, the open door might truly point to a murderer who entered from the terrace. Jennifer and Fran climbed the hill tonight after Travis spoke to Sylvia Chandler. Why did he call her? Did he find Sylvia dead then hurry to get a painting for an excuse to return and discover the dead woman in the company of someone such as Margaret? Or was Sylvia alive when he arrived and he agreed to fetch a painting? Or did tall, strong Travis bludgeon her with the poker? Did Jennifer find the body? Something upset her so much that she fled the hilltop leaving Buddy behind.
I believed Fran found the open door, stepped cautiously inside, still seeking Jennifer or Travis, and found Sylvia collapsed on the sofa. If Fran saw the dead woman and heard Buddy barking outside, her immediate impulse was to find the dog and Jennifer. She didn’t find Jennifer. The yips led her to the staircase. When she loosened the leash from the railing, Buddy jerked free. Fran chased him and ended up in the pond.
At the moment, I saw no danger to Fran from the death in the library. Even though she and Jennifer and Travis came and went on the Chandler terrace tonight, all apparently arrived and departed without attracting any notice.
I sniffed. No coal smoke.
Often I’d been distressed that the Rescue Express was coming to whisk me away when I felt I still had much to accomplish. Tonight the still clear air worried me. I’d left Fran safely in her bungalow, washing away the chill and scum of the pond. Surely her rescue was all that was required. Perhaps Wiggins was distracted by other worries. Perhaps he was dispatching an emissary to guide a plane safely through fog or reminding a mother to check the backyard in time to forestall a tragedy in the pool or nudging a young woman to call a young man, smooth over a misunderstanding. Wiggins has a great sympathy for lovers. He treasures those moments when an emissary links hands and hearts.
Yet I was puzzled that no coal smoke swirled. Surely all was well with Fran. Perhaps I would find a way for her to be happy again. I pondered that thought, remembered her unguarded face that revealed sadness and grief. Perhaps my focus tonight on this house of death was far afield from my purpose.
My uncertainty almost prompted an instant return to Fran’s bungalow, but my second-grade teacher gently taught me to finish one task before beginning another. Fran was scared and her fear was linked to this house. I had a clear sense of how the investigation was proceeding in the library. What was happening outside?
Acting Chief Howie Harris stood with arms akimbo at the edge of the terrace. ‘Fan out from the stairs. Take those Maglites and scour—’
I wondered what TV script prompted Howie’s word choice. Honestly, have you ever heard anyone, police or civilian, instruct searchers to scour an area?
‘—every square inch. We will find evidence of an intruder. Yeah,’ he bellowed, ‘scour the hillside. Fan out. Get out in the grass. A murderer fleeing the scene doesn’t tippy-toe down well-lighted steps like a debutante leaving a party. That open door means somebody came out this way. Put those lights close to the ground.’
Maglites now illuminated the entire terrace. The bright red door at the end of the west wing was closed. A yellow door in the center of the central block of the house was also firmly shut. Likely the yellow door led into the kitchen. The green door at the end of the east wing remained wide open. I liked the painted doors. How easy to be specific. No need to say east wing or kitchen or west wing. ‘Let’s meet at the red door.’ But now crime tape was draped across the green door and the library would always be remembered as the murder room.
Harris watched bobbing lights on the hillside below. ‘It rained yesterday. The ground’s still muddy—’
‘Hey, Chief.’ A high shout. ‘Come look.’ A Maglite swung in an arc, back and forth.
I reached a spot midway down the hill. The light exposed several deep imprints in muddy soil. Time warps even the best shoes. The right sole was distinctive, a crease with a squiggly curve across the upper portion.
A Tiffany lamp glowed in Fran’s small living room. All was silent, the silence of deep night. I slipped through the house, not to be intrusive but to get a sense of its layout. One room was quite dark except for a slant of moonlight across a portion of a bed and a chaise longue. A robe was draped over the chaise longue. My eyes adjusted to the dark. There was a form beneath covers. Muff lay at the foot of the bed. She lifted her head to look at me.
In the hallway I went straight to the bathroom. I eased the door shut, turned on the light. Damp clothes including bunched argyle socks lay in a pile near the bathtub. No boots. I scanned every inch of the bathroom, even opened cabinets. No boots.
I turned out the light and opened the door. Perhaps I moved too fast. I stepped into the foyer, came up hard against the protruding edge of a bench. ‘Ouch.’ I clapped my hands over my mouth, held my breath. The door to her bedroom remained closed with no telltale line of light beneath the door.
Limping a bit, I moved cautiously to the living room, flicked a switch. The bronze wheel lighting fixture on the ceiling offered soft warm illumination. I carefully paced the room, searching. No boots. I turned out the light, remembered the layout and advanced carefully to a swinging door. I stepped through, found the light switch.
My relief was euphoric when I saw the gray boots, freshly polished with no trace of mud, standing on a newspaper atop the tiled counter next to the sink.
I picked up the right boot. The leather was still moist, suggesting repeated applications of polish, likely in an effort to prevent cracking. I turned the boot over, saw the worn upper sole and the squiggly blemish so evident in the prints on the muddy hillside.
‘Aunt Hortense?’ Fran’s voice was uneven, breathless.
I whirled. Of course the boot whirled as well, apparently hanging in mid-air with no signs of support.
Fran looked young and vulnerable in a short pink cotton nightie, but she held a .22 pistol in her right hand. The gun was aimed straight at me. Yes, I know. I’m dead and I don’t have to worry about following that trail again, but I do feel pain, witness my sore knee from cracking into the foyer bench.
I spoke with urgency. ‘Do not shoot. I’m here to help.’
‘You aren’t Aunt Hortense?’ There was a mixture of relief and uneasiness in her voice.
‘Bailey Ruth Raeburn. Late of Adelaide, Oklahoma.’ I don’t usually chatter but the barrel was still aimed at me. ‘Before your time. Our cruiser went down in the Gulf in 1978. I might have known your parents. If they lived in Adelaide.’ I took two steps to the side. The boot moved also. ‘But I don’t know your last name.’
‘Why is my boot floating?’
‘I’m holding it.’
‘Your voice.’ An exclamation. ‘I’ve heard you. Tonight. You helped me out of the pond.’ Slowly the gun lowered. Her other hand reached up to smooth a tangle of golden curls. Her light blonde hair with its natural curl was much more attractive now than when plastered to her head after her dousing in the pond.
The gun now pointed at the kitchen floor. Whew. ‘It was my pleasure.’
‘You bumped into me at the edge of the woods. You were in my car.’ She shivered. ‘Aunt Hortense believed in ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night. I was always nice about it but I thought she was nuts. Look, my boot floating in the air makes me feel dizzy. Please put my boot down.’
I returned the boot to its mate.
‘Aunt Hortense said someday she’d show me. She didn’t say it nicely. Tonight’s been hellish. Did she send you?’
I’d hoped that I might complete this mission and not Appear a single time. But the Precepts approve Appearing to reassure a frightened creature, and Fran surely had endured enough stress tonight.
I Appeared, colors swirling, happy colors, cream and rose and pale blue and a Heavenly orange. I felt stylish in a pale jade shaker-stitch roll-neck sweater and white wool trousers and white loafers with a jaunty jade bow that matched the sweater. I fluffed my red curls, smiled.
She didn’t smile. Instead, she sagged against the door jamb. ‘I’ve lost my mind.’ She spoke in a monotone. ‘Somebody shoved me up on the dock. I heard a voice at the edge of the woods. Now I’m imagining my boot hanging in the air and a redhead in my kitchen.’
I was eager to help. ‘Could I fix you a nice hot toddy?’
Fran looked at me with an odd smile.
To my relief, the gun still pointed at the floor.
‘Sure. Why not? All visiting ghosts know how to make hot toddies. That or my nutty mind is looking for comfort. But sure, I’ll get the brandy.’
When she’d retrieved the ingredients, placed them on the counter a space away from the boots on the newspaper, I patted her shoulder, ignored her flinch, and said happily, ‘I’m famous for my hot toddies.’ Famous might be an exaggeration but Bobby Mac always said they were swell. I measured the brandy and lemon juice and honey and added boiling water and poured the fragrant mixture into two cheerful red-dotted ceramic mugs that Fran provided.
She kept up a running commentary. ‘Just standing here watching. Big dollop of honey. A little more than I add but hey you have to allow a visiting ghost a free hand.’ She held out her hands, looked at them. ‘There they are. Not at the counter. Not pouring. Not stirring. But presto, there are the toddies. What fun.’ She didn’t sound like a woman having a grand time.
I beamed at her. ‘The toddy will cheer you up.’
She glanced at the clock. ‘Almost one a.m. Perhaps I’m into a new lifestyle. To bed at eleven. Can’t sleep. Finally drift off. Then I hear noises and get up and imagine a ghost who makes hot toddies. But I didn’t make them. This bright redhead made them. But hey, it’s all my imagination.’
We settled in the living room. Fran dropped into an easy chair. She placed the gun on a side table. I handed her the toddy. She took the mug, stared at it, then slowly lifted her head to regard me. I was opposite her on a small sofa. I took a long slow sip. Bobby Mac always said a woman who could make a good hot toddy was a jewel beyond price. I murmured with satisfaction, ‘Jewel beyond price.’
Fran carefully placed her mug on a malachite-topped side table. ‘I don’t have any jewels. But you know what, I’d like to have an amethyst necklace, blue as the sky, big chunks of amethyst. Since I can imagine a redhead in a gorgeous sweater and voices and floating boots, why not jewels?’ There was the slightest quiver of hysteria in her voice.
The brandy infused me with warmth, but my muscles sagged with fatigue. I wanted to finish the toddy and find a bed. ‘Do you have a guest bedroom?’
‘Jewels, no. Spare bed, yes. You’re welcome to snuggle in. Let’s finish our toddies and call it a night.’ She drank half the toddy.
I took another sip. I spoke conversationally. ‘After you found Sylvia Chandler dead on the sofa—’
Her eyes widened and her face sagged.
‘—you rushed outside. You heard Buddy yipping. But when you untied his leash from the railing, he got away. You ran after him.’
‘Down the hill.’ Her eyes held a memory of darkness and panic and a skidding descent.
‘You left footprints.’
The words hung between us like a carcass strung on a pole.
Fran put down her mug, stared at me as if I were a combination of a witch doctor and a boa constrictor.
‘So,’ I was cheerful, ‘the first thing to do is get rid of the boots. I’ll take them to the lake and weight them with rocks. No one will ever see them again.’
She jumped to her feet.
I was right behind her as she rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the leather boots from the counter. She whirled, clutching the boots tight to her chest, and pushed past me with only a single frozen moment when her arm brushed against me.
I chased after her as she hurried through the living room. ‘Fran, we have to talk.’ How many dramas have heard those words uttered in despair or hope or anger or command?
As she opened her bedroom door, I gripped her arm.
She shuddered, pulled free, the boots firmly clasped to her body. ‘I’m going to bed. If I have to endure a nightmare, it’s more comfortable under the covers.’ The door slammed in my face, a lock clicked.
Of course locks are no barrier to me. But Fran was in no mood for reasonable conversation. Tomorrow would do. I called out, ‘Good night, sleep tight,’ in hopes of calming her. I heard a thump or two beyond the door but no cheery response. I knew I was at the moment unwelcome. I needed to pep her up. I’d get up early and fix a delicious breakfast.
In the kitchen, I checked the refrigerator, spotted everything I would need. I am tidy. I retrieved the mugs from the living room, rinsed hers, gave my almost full mug a regretful look, poured out the contents, held the mug under the faucet. Before I sought refuge in the guest bedroom, I had one more task.
I found Fran’s purse on a table in the foyer. I pulled out her billfold, studied her driver’s license: Frances Mitchell Loring, 503 Minerva Street, b. 6 July 1988. The purse held the usual contents, blush, eyeliner, a compact, comb, a set of keys, a silver cardcase. I opened the case. The script was ornate: Mitchell Antiques, 206 Main Street, Adelaide, Oklahoma 74820. Frances Mitchell Loring, Prop. 508-ANT-IQUE A legend in gold letters at the bottom of the card: Find Your Treasure at Mitchell Antiques. A small leather folder held three photographs. Fran in a summery dress stood with her arms wide in welcome in front of a plate-glass window. Ornate gold letters proclaimed: Mitchell Antiques. Fran was quite lovely and young in the second photo. She glowed with happiness in a simply styled ivory wedding dress. A tall, slightly stooped man in a tuxedo gazed down at her, his face equally joyful. The third photo was a testament to summer and to love. Hand in hand, they splashed through shallow water at the seashore, laughing, happy, living in the moment. He was possibly ten or fifteen years older than Fran. I liked his face, intelligent, thoughtful, eager; a man who listened when others spoke.
I carried that glow with me as I settled in for the night in the spare bedroom. I chose pale blue flannel pajamas. As I smoothed a sleeve, I added silvery seashells and admired the adorable pattern. Seashells are magical, a connection to tide and sand. I slept fitfully as muddy gray boots marched past a reviewing stand where I shivered in a sharp wind. Thump. Thump. Thump. I watched boots bigger than boxcars halt, stamp, swing about, thump, thump, thump.
I sat bolt upright, realized the top cover had slipped to the floor. I shivered, blinked away sleep, saw the hands of the bedside clock. Seven a.m.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I disappeared, changing into a luxuriously soft and warm azure-blue cotton top with embroidery at the front and cuffed long sleeves. Gray flannel slacks and thick wool socks in fleece-lined ankle boots provided more warmth. I fluffed my hair as I reached the front door. I might be invisible but I am not careless in my appearance.
Thump. Thump. Thump. A male voice was loud, brusque. ‘Police. Open up.’
Fran was breathing fast as she reached the foyer.
The demand came again. ‘Police. Open up.’
Her hand shook as she gripped the doorknob. Her left arm was bent as she tried to pull on a navy-blue wool robe with red piping at the wrists and hem. Her curly blonde ringlets were sleep tousled. She was barefoot.
Thump. Thump. Thump. ‘Po—’
Fran turned on the porch light and pulled the door open. Cold air swept inside. She stared at the two figures facing her, each holding out a leather folder open to display identification.
I knew them, in the past would have welcomed their presence. Detective Judy Weitz’s rather worn blue-and-green plaid winter coat had a frayed cuff. Plain black would have been more flattering. I winced at the purple scarf. A few wisps of soft brown hair edged free of the silk. Her face was expressionless, but her blue eyes were alert and wary. She’d seen too much darkness, domestic violence, robbery victims with injuries, overdosed teenagers, abused children, to approach the world unguardedly. Don Smith’s handsome face had lines of fatigue, but he looked especially masculine and athletic in a leather aviator jacket, dark slacks, and cordovan loafers. He carried a small square black plastic case in his left hand.
‘Judy.’ Fran’s voice had a wondering tone.
Judy took a deep breath. ‘Detective Weitz. We have a search warrant.’ She opened her shoulder bag, drew out a document with the seal of the county judge, held the stiff papers out.
Fran slowly lifted her hand, took the document, didn’t look at it. ‘I was going to call you today. I found the cameo you were looking for. Maybe you won’t want it now.’ Fran stood straight, head up, shoulders back. She waved her hand with the official document. ‘Look wherever you want.’
My immediate instinct was to pop ahead to Fran’s bedroom, find the boots. But I couldn’t make them invisible.
Judy gave Don a quick glance.
There was a flash of sympathy in his eyes. He took over. ‘Mrs Loring, please accompany us.’
Fran watched silently as Don and Judy methodically searched the foyer and its closet. In the living room, they lifted every cushion, moved furniture, slid out every drawer. The bathroom cabinets were opened and again every drawer examined.
I waited near the foot of Fran’s bed, a queen size with old-fashioned brass headstand.
Don stepped inside, paused. His face reflected in turn surprise then an odd flash of sadness. As he walked toward the bed, his footsteps sounded heavy. Judy followed, her face determinedly blank.
Fran watched from the doorway, looking small and defenseless in her navy-blue robe.
The bed was rumpled, obviously its occupant had departed in haste, a quilt flung back, a pillow askew.
The detectives stared at the pair of leather boots nestled next to the unused pillow.
Don raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Do you usually sleep with boots, Mrs Loring?’
Fran stood stiff and still, made no answer. Her shoulders were back, but her lips trembled. She looked despairing, hopeless.
Judy slipped her phone from a side pocket, filmed the boots, the bed, the remainder of the room.
In the doorway, Fran gripped the doorjamb on either side.
Don handed the square case to Judy. She placed the case on the bed, snapped the lock, lifted the lid. She plucked out plastic gloves, pulled them on. She walked to the head of the bed, used a pincer to grip the right boot.
In the doorway, Fran pleaded, ‘Don’t take my boot.’ It was as if she cried for a piece of herself. There was no hint of fear, simply anguish at the loss of the boot.
Don studied her face, staring eyes and sunken cheeks, lips parted and quivering. Face creased in a frown, he looked toward the bed as the right gray boot was seized, back at Fran.
Tears slipped down Fran’s cheeks unchecked. She was oblivious to his regard. Her whole being was focused on the boot sliding into a large clear plastic bag. Her hands dropped. She took a step toward the bed.
Judy picked up a white square. She carefully printed date, time, location, and description of boot taken into evidence. She creased the back, pulled off the protective covering, pressed the adhesive surface to the bag.
Fran pressed a balled fist against her lips.
Judy plucked another clear plastic bag from the case, reached out with the pincers.
Fran shuddered as if she stared into an abyss.
Don watched her, his gaze puzzled.
I understood his reaction. He and Judy came seeking boots to match prints on the muddy hillside behind the Chandler house. He would have expected Fran to look frightened or stone-faced or defiant or sunnily innocent. Instead, she wept. She wept and turned to look at a mahogany table centered along the wall opposite the bed.
He looked, too.
On the wall above the table was a man’s portrait.
I recognized the man who stood next to Fran in her wedding gown. He was younger in the wedding photo, perhaps late thirties to her early twenties. He was older in the bedroom portrait, dark hair flecked with silver, an inviting, genial face, firm featured but with an air of civility and engagement, intelligent blue eyes, a quizzical half-smile.
Don looked from the portrait to the table-top. A pair of men’s soft doeskin gloves lay next to a well-worn copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Below the portrait was a chess set, ivory pieces in place ready for the opening move. On one corner was a green ceramic bowl with seashells piled high. Lining the back of the table were assorted cards, birthday, Christmas, Valentine, St Patrick. A stack of letters filled one corner.
Don walked toward the table.
‘No.’ Her cry was deep, painful.
He looked at her. ‘We got what we came for.’ He nodded at the table. ‘I minored in history. I had three classes from Professor Loring. Best professor I ever had.’
Fran turned her hands out in supplication. ‘The boots, please. He gave them to me.’
Judy Weitz’s eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she spoke briskly. ‘I will add a directive that the owner requests the return of the contents in the event the material is not needed for a trial.’