I pulled the gun out of the pocket, returned it to the head cover, and placed the bulging head cover beside the chimney.
I shivered. Despite the lamb’s-wool coat, I was getting cold. It was time for a respite. In a flash, I returned to the rectory kitchen. I hung my coat on a coat tree, retrieved the flamingo mug from the dish-washer, and filled it with coffee. I found a notepad and a pen near the telephone. I settled at the table, positioning my chair where I would see anyone approaching the back porch.
I drew a gun on the notepad. I had to figure out a way to get it to Chief Cobb. Moreover, the information I’d gleaned from observing Kathleen with the cell phone might be essential in solving the crime.
Quickly, I jotted notes:
PICTUR ES
1. Signature of Georgia Hamilton, apparently on a legal document of some sort.
2. A man in the depths of despair.
3. A member of the Altar Guild apparently stealing from the collection plate.
4. Isaac Franklin, the sexton.
5. The policewoman who showered tickets on Daryl Murdoch.
CALLS
1. He spoke of Lily. A young male voice. The caller had to be Daryl’s angry son, Kirby.
2. A desperate woman begged Daryl to call her. However, the call was recorded after his death, which might indicate innocence. Or might not.
I sipped coffee, drew the face of a bloodhound with drooping ears
G h o s t at Wo r k
and a worried expression. The cell phone was gone, but I knew what I had seen and heard. I was uncertain whether any of that information could—or should—be provided to the police. For now, I had recorded everything.
I looked around the kitchen, seeking a safe spot to keep my notebook. It was unfortunate that worldly objects, unlike my imagined clothing and coats, couldn’t simply disappear for me. But they couldn’t and didn’t. I zoomed up to the ceiling and checked above the bottle-green oak china cabinet. I put the notebook behind the top molding.
I wondered if Chief Cobb was making progress. Last night, when I’d wished to be in the cemetery, there I was.
What if I wished to be at the police station?
Adelaide City Hall
1994
Dedicated by Mayor Harvey Kamp
I remembered Harvey as a long-haired, sneaky friend of my son.
Ah, the wonders of maturity.
I went inside and checked the directory. On the first floor were the mayor’s office, city planning, water, public works, planning commis-sion, and treasurer. Now the mayor was a woman, Neva Lumpkin.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
Chief Cobb, the police department, jail, city attorney, and municipal court were on the second floor.
Chief Cobb sat at his desk, studying papers. He emptied a packet of sugar into a steaming mug of coffee. Stark fluorescent light emphasized the deep lines that grooved his face. Moisture rings and scrapes marred the battered oak desk, but Matisse prints added color to one dingy beige wall. Large bulletin boards, a detailed street map of Adelaide, and a map of the county hung on the wall opposite his desk.
I was intrigued by a machine similar to a skinny television set that sat on a leaf jutting from the desk. A luminous green screen glowed.
A flat keyboard sat in front of it. Chief Cobb swiveled in his chair to face the screen. He lifted his hands, frowned, shook his head. He punched the intercom button on his desk.
“Chief?”
“Yeah, Colleen. What’s the password this week?” A sibilant hiss sounded from the intercom.
He looked irritated. “Don’t whisper. James Bond isn’t crouched under your desk, waiting to hear the password so he can crack security for the Adelaide Police Department. Changing the password every week wastes everybody’s time. Doesn’t the mayor have enough to do without figuring out a silly rule like that? Who can remember a new password every week? I, for one, can’t. And I forgot to write down the new one.”
Colleen’s voice was low. “Uh, Chief, the mayor suggests city employees write down a password and keep it in a desk drawer.”
“That’s secure?” He was sardonic. “Okay, okay. I’ll write it down.
What is it this week?”
