How amazing. A little phone could take pictures? But it must be so. Nothing but the hideous reality of images captured in the phone would explain her panic.
“Let go.” She yanked her arm free. “I have to get that phone or I’m ruined.”
As the door banged open, I grabbed her hand. “The police are there.”
She stumbled to a stop, her face despairing. “The police are there?
Already? They’ve found him?”
I explained about Marvin and Buzzy’s good citizenship. I glanced at the clock. “The police have been there a good twenty minutes now.
The chief had just arrived when I left. They were expecting someone else.” I couldn’t remember. “Something about a laboratory.”
Ca ro ly n H a rt
She leaned against the wall, unable to move.
“Daryl’s phone has pictures of you?” I wanted to be sure I understood.
“He laughed, asked me if I wanted him to put them on the church Web site. I knew he wouldn’t because of his wife. But there they are, in his phone. The police—oh, what am I going to tell them? What am I going to tell Bill? He knows I loathed Daryl and wouldn’t have gone to his cabin unless I had to.”
Web site? That conjured up an odd and ominous picture of a gauzy web. I didn’t have time to ask for an explanation. “You stay here. I’ll go to the cemetery and see what I can do.” Obviously, I didn’t intend to walk. Time was clearly of the essence.
I disappeared. Kathleen shuddered. Poor Kathleen. She should be getting the hang of it. I was.
I landed on a tree above the body. I shivered and and wished I’d brought the red-and-black plaid jacket. Oh, how nice. I welcomed its warmth. I buttoned the front, felt much more comfortable.
Now, where was Daryl’s cell phone and how was I going to get it?
C H A P T E R 5
Isat on the branch of a cottonwood and watched the scene below in fascination. Bobby Mac would be impressed when I told him. The activity under way was as taut with suspense as any battle with a tarpon. Brilliant spotlights arranged in a square illuminated Daryl Murdoch’s resting place. Yellow tape fluttered from poles jammed into the ground. A slender man in a French-blue uniform stood on the mausoleum steps. He held a camera and slowly panned the area.
Just inside the fluttering tape, a big man with grizzled black hair stared down at the body. He stood with hands jammed in the pockets of his crumpled brown suit. His hairline receded from a rounded forehead, now creased in concentration. His eyes were deep set in a heavy face with a large nose large and blunt chin.
I studied him, trying to recall . . . Oh yes. He reminded me strongly of Broderick Crawford in
A rustle sounded in the bushes. An officer stepped toward the man in the brown suit. “Hey, Chief. Take a look at this.” Ca ro ly n H a rt
The police chief strode near. “What you got?” The officer pointed a flashlight beam toward the ground. “Crowbar. No rust. Doesn’t look like it’s been here long.” The chief frowned. “Get pics. Measure. Bag it up.” I supposed many extraneous objects were gathered up in the search of a crime scene. I turned back to the body. As far as I could tell, it had not been moved. Did that mean the picture mechanism was still in his pocket? Kathleen had called it his cell phone, which was certainly a curious use of the word. A walkabout telephone that took pictures seemed quite remarkable to me.
A half-dozen cars were parked on the road on the other side of the Pritchard mausoleum. Most had their lights on and the beams illuminated trees with thinned leaves and old tombstones. A yellow convertible with the top down pulled up behind a white van. The driver’s door opened. A youngish man in a navy pullover sweater, faded jeans, and tennis shoes swung out. He shaded his eyes. “A ca-daver in the cemetery? You guys pulling my leg, putting on a special Halloween party for me?”
The chief glanced down at the body. “Not even for you, Doc, would we go to this much trouble. We got a body. Daryl Murdoch.” He spoke the name without pleasure.
The young man gave a whistle. He jumped lightly over the tape, but he took care to land on the sidewalk. “Daryl the mighty? Has the dancing begun?” As he spoke, he moved to the body, knelt. For a long moment he observed. “Somebody have second thoughts?” He pointed at the bouquet I’d placed in those lax hands.
The chief nodded. “Yeah. We’d noticed. Odd.” The doctor scanned the ground nearby. “You find a gun?”
“Nope.” The big man reached in his suit-jacket pocket, pulled out a package of spearmint.
I wafted close, sniffed. Some things never change, the smell of spearmint, the way leaves crackle underfoot in winter, the need to
G h o s t at Wo r k
handle harsh reality with nonchalance. And, of course, the incredible intimacy of a small town. Everybody didn’t know everybody, but if you had any prominence at all, you were known. Even more important was the fact that someone always saw you. It was that simple. No matter where you were or what time or with whom or why, somebody saw you.
Kathleen didn’t understand how anyone had been privy to her visit to the bachelor professor’s apartment. She was the rector’s wife.
She was known. Perhaps the apartment manager saw her. Or the postman. Or Raoul’s next-door neighbor. Or a bicyclist. Or . . .
The big man sighed heavily. “Already got a call from the
“DOA.” A chortle.
