When did you get back?”
She came around the cruiser to the passenger door, opened it. In the brief flash of the interior light, I had a better glimpse of her face, somber blue-gray eyes, thin high-bridged nose, pointed chin with the hint of a cleft. If she smiled, she would be pretty in an old-fashioned, understated way. She was a little older than I had realized, possibly her late twenties or early thirties. She looked tired.
“Yesterday afternoon. Murray took my shifts while I was gone. It’s good to be back at work.” She sounded distant and I wondered if it was fatigue or if she was keeping some emotion under tight control.
The chief reached out, awkwardly patted one hand. “Guess the news wasn’t what you’d feared.”
G h o s t at Wo r k
She shivered. “Every time they turn up an ID that sounds like Vee, I think maybe this time I’ll find her, know what happened to her. But it’s always some other dead girl and I wonder where her family is, if anyone’s looking. So”—she drew a deep breath—“Vee’s still lost.”
“You’re worn out.” His smile was kind. “You shouldn’t have tried to come straight back to work.”
“It’s better to be busy.” Her tone was strained. She clasped her hands, tight and hard.
“Well, I can sure use you. There’s going to be plenty to do.” He cleared his throat, was once again brisk. “Get word out to everybody to come in tomorrow morning, then knock off for tonight.”
“You’re sure you don’t need me here?” She gestured toward a Tudor-style house. The light from living-room windows suddenly lessened as the drapes were drawn.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t take two to bring bad news.” She nodded. “Good night, Chief.”
He waited until she was in her cruiser, then eased his car down the street. He pulled into the driveway and parked.
I was right beside him when he reached the top of the bricked steps. He pushed the doorbell.
The porch light came on, brilliant as a stage spot, throwing the chief’s face into hard relief, emphasizing the deep lines that grooved from lips pressed tightly together. He looked like a man bringing bad news.
The door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman looked out, her face inquiring. The RN badge on her wrinkled white uniform read judith murdoch. Blond hair braided coronet-style made her plain face look severe. She had an air of weary competence.
I was surprised. Even dead, there had been a sporty attitude about Daryl Murdoch. There was nothing sporty about the woman staring out with a puzzled face. “Yes?”
Ca ro ly n H a rt
“Mrs. Murdoch? Mrs. Daryl Murdoch?”
She looked anxious. “Yes.”
He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to show his shield. “I’m Chief Cobb of the Adelaide Police. I regret having to inform you—”
“Has something happened to Kirby?” Her voice trembled. “Is my son hurt?”
“I’m here about your husband, Mrs. Murdoch. His body was found tonight in St. Mildred’s cemetery.” The chief’s voice was gentle, but his eyes never left her face.
She looked dazed, uncomprehending. “Daryl’s dead?” The words were slow and painful.
“Yes, ma’am.” He spoke quietly. “His body was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum. He died as the result of a gunshot wound, an apparent homicide. His body has been taken to the hospital. The law requires an autopsy. Is there someone I can call to come and be with you?”
“Daryl was shot?” Her voice was faint. “Who shot him?”
“We have not found any witnesses. We have secured the crime scene—”
I felt another qualm. Certainly the cemetery was not the actual crime scene.
“—and the investigation is proceeding. I know this is a hard time for you to answer questions, but I would appreciate a few minutes with you. I won’t stay long. If you’ll tell me someone to call . . .” She held the door, moved like a sleepwalker to her right. She touched wall switches and bright lights revealed a rather stiff-looking living room with brocaded furniture, heavy red drapes, a red-and-blue Oriental rug, and a grand piano. She walked to a sofa, sank onto it. She gestured to an opposite chair with an overstuffed cushion and curly walnut legs.
Chief Cobb sat squarely, shoulders braced, hands on his knees. “To your knowledge, did Mr. Murdoch appear to be in fear for his life?”
G h o s t at Wo r k
“Daryl afraid? He was never afraid of anything.” There was an odd tone in her voice.
The chief nodded. “Did Mr. Murdoch have any enemies?” I stood by the piano, looking at family photographs. There was a long-ago wedding portrait of Daryl and Judith. She looked prim, but her shy smile had charm, her blue eyes were eager. Dark hair gleaming, he stood with his chest out, proud and confident. So many photos, documenting passing seasons, a little boy with a mop of dark hair on a tricycle, the same boy marching in a school band with a clarinet, diving from a platform, throwing a Frisbee high in the air.
I glanced at Judith. Her face was now flaccid with shock, but I doubted she’d had that eager look for many years.
“Enemies?” She made an odd, helpless gesture. “Sometimes Daryl made people mad. He always wanted things done his way.” The chief persisted. “Had he quarreled with anyone recently?”
“Not exactly quarrels.” She took a deep breath. “Daryl didn’t think a day was worth living if he didn’t butt heads with someone.
He wanted things done right. If they weren’t, he let people know about it.”
