Sam’s office was a warm refuge from the chill of the terrace. I turned on the lights. The thermostat was still set at 72. I hurried to his desk, slipped into the chair, tapped his computer, checked e-mail.
I found the report I sought, factual, matter-of-fact, but to me the words loomed as large as the iconic sign on the famous hill above Hollywood. I clapped my hands together. Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
The cat lifted her head, looked at me curiously. I arrived eager to share my news, but Fran wasn’t home. The cat turned away from me, walked past me as a car door slammed. I looked out the window.
Fran stood beside Don’s red Corvette, hands on the sill of the door. The wind tousled her golden ringlets, tugged at her navy-blue cardigan. ‘Thank you. Thank you for a perfect day.’
The car remained in place as Fran came up the walk. On the porch she turned and smiled and waved. She stepped inside and closed the door and only then did a deep rumble sound as Don drove away. She was smiling as she took two steps and scooped up the black cat. She buried her face in Muff’s neck for a moment then lifted her head and began to sing, ‘Oh What a Beautiful Day!’ Oklahomans know and love the song which opens the musical Oklahoma! Her alto voice was rich and strong and she curved into a slow dance step, holding Muff.
I am a robust soprano and I know all the lyrics. I joined in on the second verse.
Fran stopped for an instant, her head jerking as she searched for her duet partner. Muff squirmed free and dropped to the floor.
I came near and reached out to grasp Fran’s hands in mine. I tugged. ‘Let’s dance.’ After only an instant’s resistance, she joined in the lyrics and we made a high stepping circle in the small foyer. We finished, laughing and breathless.
I dropped her hands and clapped.
Fran clapped in response. ‘Today who cares if I’m nuts? It doesn’t matter. Why not a duet? I’ve had the most beautiful day and I’m happy and it’s a long time since I’ve been happy.’
‘I’m happy, too.’ To celebrate, I Appeared in a gorgeous sea-blue short-sleeve jersey knit dress accented with multicolored swirls. ‘We sing well together.’
She tilted her head, studied me. ‘I remember your hair. That’s just how I imagined it before. Red like a splash of sunset. Everything’s hazy in my mind about last night. I thought I imagined you because I was upset. Now I’m happy and I see you. Go figure. But anyway, here you are again.’ She gave an approving nod. ‘Nice dress. I have to hand it to my imagination. If I’m going to hang out with a figment, why not a good-looking redhead in a knockout dress?’
I grinned, ‘Flattery will get you a gold star.’
‘Gold star? I remember the first time I took home a report card with a gold star. My mom made brownies and she put buttercream stars on each brownie. After that, we always made them for special occasions and called them Gold Star Brownies.’
I walked near, tapped her shoulder. ‘By the way, I’m not a figment.’
She slowly reached out, touched my arm. Her fingers brushed my cheek.
Colors swirled. I disappeared.
She stood rigid, eyes darting around the entryway.
‘I’m still here.’ Colors swirled. This time I chose an emerald-green cardigan, white blouse, gray wool slacks and gray leather loafers.
She covered her face with her hands, slowly spread her fingers wide, peeked. ‘I liked the dress better.’ Her hands fell. ‘I give up. I’m either so crazy I can imagine warm flesh under my fingers or you are who you say you are.’ She gazed into my eyes. ‘If you’re here, Great-Aunt Hortense gets the last laugh.’ Fran pressed fingertips to each temple. ‘OK, when my boots floated in the kitchen I thought you were part of a crazy night. And then you insisted you were here from Heaven.’ Her hands dropped and she clasped them together so tightly the skin blanched. ‘So I guess you are real and I’m in big trouble. Today when Don and I were driving and laughing, I thought last night was behind me. But here you are. It’s like Dracula’s at the door and you’re the welcome committee. Come right in. Lucky me. You’re the stamp that says File Closed, Fran Loring’s on her way to jail.’
I was chagrined to see happiness drain away like champagne from a carelessly tipped flute, leaving emptiness behind. The glow of her day was replaced by dread. I rushed to reassure her. ‘I’m not the welcome committee for Dracula or a File Closed stamp. I have good news. That’s why I’m here. I’ve going to find the murderer. I’m very close.’ Well, perhaps very close was an exaggeration. ‘I have proof,’ great emphasis, ‘that the murderer is a resident of the Chandler house. Last night the murderer was on the far side of the terrace when Travis arrived.’
Fran’s eyes widened in horror. ‘The murderer saw him?’
‘The murderer watched to see what he would do, but Travis didn’t raise an alarm.’
Fran was frantic. ‘We have to find Travis, protect him.’
His big sister still wanted the best for gifted, difficult Travis.
‘There’s no danger to Travis. The murderer by now is sure Travis didn’t see anyone. The murderer was in dark shadows near a door that opens into the hallway by the pool and exercise rooms. Imagine for a moment that you killed Sylvia Chandler. You slipped outside, leaving the door open, and hurried across the terrace. Suddenly you hear footsteps. Travis is clearly visible in the light streaming from the library windows. He goes inside. You wait to see if he reports Sylvia’s death. You take one step, another, reach the door into the house. Travis bolts outside. He gazes frantically around the terrace. You are safe in the shadows but he must not see you. Quickly you grab the knob, open the door. As you step inside you use a scarf or a handkerchief to wipe the doorknob. Once inside,’ I spaced the words, ‘you … close … the … door. Now you are free and safe in the house.’
Fran scarcely breathed.
‘Travis hears the door shut and he runs.’
Fran shivered. ‘If Travis had arrived any sooner …’ She briefly closed her eyes, opened them. ‘The door shut.’
‘Before you reached the terrace.’
She gave me a weary smile. ‘The police won’t believe him. Even if they did, they would dismiss the shutting of a door, say that doesn’t mean the person who killed Sylvia shut the door.’
‘The person who entered took time to polish the doorknobs, inside and out. There’s the proof.’
‘I don’t think so. Maybe someone else found her and didn’t want to call the police and polished the knobs.’
‘Not enough time. Sylvia was alive when Travis called her. He arrives within ten minutes and she is dead. There simply wasn’t time for anyone else to have entered and left the library but the person who killed her. And,’ I was on a roll, ‘why was the door to the pool hallway unlocked? I’m sure the door is normally locked, only open if someone chooses to go out on the terrace that way and return. Someone unlocked that door, came outside. Was it a lovely night for a walk?’ I remembered the sharp cold wind. ‘A resident of the Chandler house came out on to the terrace with the sole purpose of entering the library, killing Sylvia, and returning. I am positive that’s what happened because the outside doorknob and the inside doorknob have no trace of fingerprints. No trace. Shiny clean. Not even a smudge. Those doorknobs were wiped very carefully.’ I took a victory lap. ‘I cleverly’ – surely it is proper to take pride in an important achievement – ‘arranged for the police to fingerprint the inner and outer doorknobs of the door. No fingerprints. Ta Da. Trumpet tattoo. And I came to tell you.’ I beamed at her.
She did not beam in return. ‘So a couple of doorknobs don’t have any fingerprints. That proves somebody in the house killed Sylvia?’
I tugged at her elbow, maneuvered her to the front door. ‘Open it.’
I punched the words like Rosie the Riveter on an airplane wing.
She grabbed the knob, yanked open the door.
I tapped the hand holding the knob. ‘Fingerprints.’ I yanked off her hand, lifted the hem of my cardigan, swiped at the knob. ‘The only way the knob on any door can be absolutely totally without a trace of even a smudge is that someone wiped them clean. Both the outer and inner knobs on the red door are as shiny as the day they rolled on a conveyor belt at the factory to be packed. So get your happy face back. The murderer entered the Chandler house and I’m headed back there right now.’
But a whiff of coal smoke took me to Sam’s office instead.
To my surprise, Wiggins Appeared on Sam’s sofa before I could say a word. His stiff cap was tipped back on his russet hair. His broad face was kindly.
I Appeared in a pale blue sweater set and a tweed skirt, gray flats. Understated. I joined him on the sofa. ‘No fingerprints is huge.’
He was admiring. ‘You are making grand progress. As soon as the acting chief is apprised of the door handles with no fingerprints, our Fran will be safe. In fact, you could hop aboard the Express now.’
Coal smoke thickened
I wasn’t confident Howie Harris would agree. ‘Wiggins, it is imperative that I remain until Fran is officially cleared. You know how important it is to be sure of the outcome.’
‘Oh. Perhaps you are right. But you’ve accomplished enough work for today. I’m especially pleased that your most important task is right on track.’
‘My most important task?’
He nodded happily. ‘So now you can take the evening off. Settle in at a nice room at Rose Bower and tomorrow no doubt all will be clear to the police.’
Rose Bower is the Italianate mansion left to Goddard College by the Marlow family. Wiggins is especially fond of Rose Bower because his beloved Lorraine Marlow lived there for so many years.
Coal smoke swirled. ‘Perhaps stay in The Gusher Room.’ The second floor of Rose Bower is devoted to bedrooms for distinguished guests of the college and each room has its own name.
Wiggins’s approving smile was better than any gold star.
‘Keep up the good work. Don and …’ And he was gone.
I was buoyed. I was on the right track. But my most important task? Don and …
Don was in a small study at his computer. He clicked several times. I looked over his shoulder as he skimmed several reports. He read too rapidly for me to catch more than a fact here and there: … paw prints near site of boot imprints … estimate dog likely weighing less than 12 pounds … autopsy … well-nourished female … victim caught unaware … no self-defense … poker used as weapon … upper portion of poker scrubbed clean of fingerprints … room temperature at nine p.m. consistent with door to terrace open forty-five minutes …
‘Oh clever.’ I clapped my hand over my mouth.
Don Smith’s head jerked, but the study held only him and the door to the hall was closed. Finally, his broad mouth twisted in an odd grin. ‘No, buddy, she’s not here. Didn’t sound like Fran anyway. Husky voice. Fran’s voice is like a clear sweet bell. Fran … Come on. Buddy, focus on—’
Brrring. Doorbell held. Rapid knocks.
Don pushed back the chair, stood. He moved with the grace of an athlete. His face was set and hard. I doubted the importunate visitor was going to be welcomed. I followed him into the hall and to the front door. The bell continued to ring, a shrill accompaniment to demanding knocks.
Don checked through the peephole. He looked big, powerful, and combative. He opened the door.
Howie Harris’s index finger pressed hard against the button.
Don folded his arms, looked down. ‘Yeah?’
Howie jerked his hand back. ‘Knew you were here.’ A thumb jerked over his shoulder at the red car on the driveway. ‘So what’s the deal? You and the perp.’
‘Did Ginger have fun in Pawhuska?’
Howie blinked. ‘How’d you know?’
‘Ginger kept a little too close on my tail. Tell her next time she follows a car to let another car get between occasionally.’
‘That’s not the point.’ Howie’s face reddened. ‘You should have known I’d set a watch on the perp.’
‘Don’t call Fran Loring the perp.’ Each word was as distinct as the rise and fall of a sledgehammer.
Howie sputtered, ‘I could have had you stopped. I could have had you arrested. A member of the force conniving with a murderer. It doesn’t get much worse than that.’ His face quivered with indignation.
Don rocked back on his heels, spoke quietly. ‘She’s innocent, Howie. Think about it. You know why people get killed. Money. Or Sex. Sex. Or Money. This time it’s money. Let me get at the people living in that house. I’ll find the murderer.’
‘You think you’re special. Sam looked the other way when you went off on your own. This time you’ve gone too far. Running around with a suspect. I’m going to file an official reprimand.’
‘Be my guest.’ Don’s drawl was unrepentant.
Howie balled his fists. ‘I’m acting chief. You were up for a promotion. I’ll see you don’t get promoted.’ Howie turned on his heel and strode toward the modest gray sedan parked behind the flamboyant red car.
It was as though a bright light beamed in a foggy tunnel. Don and … I welcomed a moment of clarity. My tasks were obvious. Clear Fran. Make sure Don gets his promotion. Wiggins was quite cavalier about Fran, apparently convinced I would prevail easily. He saw restoring Don’s promotion as a greater challenge. To my mind, missing out on a promotion didn’t compare with being arrested. I had no doubt which effort required my concentration. I suppose I should have been regretful about Don’s promotion. Instead I was pumped. I wasn’t alone in protecting Fran. Don Smith was on the case.
‘Clair de Lune’ played on a sound system in the marbled entrance hall. The fountain splashed softly. Silver clinked on china and voices rose and fell in the dining room visible through an archway. I sniffed. The scent of excellent beef. The voices sounded cheerful. I didn’t feel at all cheerful. I’d talked to each of them today: stiff-faced Elise, her somewhat brutish husband Dwight, fumbling, bumbling-with-the-aura-of-a-loser Stu, athletic Crystal, self-absorbed Jason and somber Margaret. I’d flung out my demand, ‘Where were you at eight fifteen?’ What more could I do? Detective M. Loy had no excuse to return this evening. I was here in the Chandler house but to what purpose? Was I to move from room to room, unseen, unheralded, like an ineffectual ghost wandering on a misty moor? I pushed the image away. Wiggins insists that we are emissaries. Not ghosts. Never ghosts. If I wasn’t careful, coal smoke would engulf me and I’d be plumped on to a plush seat aboard the Rescue Express.
The scent of food and the chattering voices drew me into the elegant dining room. I looked down at a sumptuous buffet: rare tenderloin, grilled scallops, sweet potato casserole, steamed asparagus, a green salad with strawberries, pecans, goat cheese and avocado.
The luscious lunch at the Mercantile seemed long ago and far away. I steeled myself. I was famished, but duty first. I stood near the buffet. The diners were animated, Elise using both hands to describe the sweep of a gown, Jason tapping a large wristwatch and crowing, ‘Twelve thousand steps.’ Dwight managed to sit mostly upright. He downed a half-glass of red wine. Stuart looked down the table at Margaret. ‘I got an idea.’ He looked earnest. ‘Since there’s going to be plenty of money, I vote we give Mrs Collins a bonus. She’s fed us like royalty for a week now and dinner tonight is the best yet.’
Elise frowned. ‘Hush Stu, she’ll hear you.’
‘Maybe she should.’
As the siblings wrangled, I edged to the sideboard. No one was looking this way. I lifted the skirt of the tablecloth and quick as a fox in a chicken coop I piled a little bit of everything on a salad plate. I dropped the cloth and stepped to the end of the sideboard. I held the plate out of sight from the table and ate fast. I was taking a last bite when Dwight boomed, ‘Listen up, people. We need to liven things up around here. I’ve watched enough Netflix and ESPN and jogged to the pond and back. Boring.’ Pronounced bo-ring.
I debated what to do with the plate. I finally eased it on to the buffet. I doubted the visitors cleared. The remarkable Mrs Collins might be puzzled, but it was not hers to reason why there might be an extra plate.
I was in a much better humor when I again looked down at the table. I wondered about dessert, noticed there wasn’t a wine glass at Stuart’s place.
Elise nibbled on a celery stick. Her plate showed little evidence of use. A small remnant of tenderloin, some salad and asparagus. What price thinness? ‘There’s always Jeopardy,’ Crystal offered.
Dwight poured more wine. ‘I can do you one better. I suppose that odious policewoman talked to everyone?’ Elise reached for her wine glass, held it tight. The smile slid from Stuart’s face. Crystal looked tense. Jason touched her arm. Margaret stiffened.
Odious? If I had a face that would be at home on a ‘Wanted’ poster, I wouldn’t be calling other people odious.
‘But,’ he waited until everyone looked at him, ‘she gave me an idea. She was obsessed with, “Where were you,” he intoned in a deep voice, “at eight fifteen?” Here’s what I want everyone to do. Take a selfie of exactly where you were at eight fifteen last night. Go wherever you were and selfie up. The person who comes up with the funniest photo will be the grand winner. Maybe I’ll stand on my head in the door to the pool. Look cross-eyed. Stick out your tongue. At precisely,’ deep voice again, ‘eight fifteen.’
Crystal was eager. ‘What do we win? I’d like tickets to the Open next year.’
Jason shouted, ‘Tickets to Cabo.’
Dwight’s big face pursed in thought. ‘Yeah, we need a prize.’
He looked at Margaret. ‘Just for the hell of it, cut a check. Maybe a hundred grand. It’s worth a hundred grand to see what everyone comes up with.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘It gives us something to do tonight.’ He paused then intoned in a deep, quavery voice, ‘Eight fifteen.’
Elise laughed.
Coal smoke swirled.