directresses of the Altar Guild. That would never do.”
“Oh.” She was thoughtful. “I don’t think they’d recognize you.
You’re a lot younger now.” She said it easily, as if it made all the sense in the world. She shook her head, looked solemn. “But if anybody did recognize you, I guess, like Mom always says, the fat would be in the fire.”
Kathleen had learned that old saying from her grandmother, my sister, Kitty.
Bayroo waggled the mixing spoon at me. “I know what to do. You can’t be here as yourself, but you can be here as somebody else. You know, a disguise.”
“A disguise?” I pictured a trilby hat and oversize spectacles.
“Sure.” She stirred. “Like a nurse or secretary or census taker or social worker.”
It was an interesting suggestion, but Walter Carey, Irene Chatham, Isaac Franklin, Kirby Murdoch, Kirby’s girlfriend Lily, and the unknown woman wouldn’t be likely to answer questions from a stranger unless they thought I had official status.
Official status . . .
“Bayroo.” I sang her name. “You are brilliant. A disguise!” It was as if a door had opened. “Have fun with your cake. I’ll see you later.”
C H A P T E R 1 1
Partitions separated six cubicles. Each held a computer. Voices rose and fell around us. Brisk footsteps and ringing telephones contributed to an atmosphere of intense activity.
Patrol Officer A. Leland’s desk took up half the space in her cubicle. She hunched in her chair, apparently oblivious to her surroundings, and stared at an open notebook, her expression empty.
I doubted her eyes saw the writing.
Today her honey-colored hair was drawn back in a bun. A few curls escaped to soften the severity of the style. If she loosened her hair, let it frame her narrow face, and added a bit more makeup, she would be pretty. Her eyes were deep blue, her features fine—wide-spaced eyes, straight nose, gently rounded chin.
The police uniform was flattering to her fair skin, the long-sleeved shirt French blue, the trousers French blue with a navy stripe down each leg. The shirt bore an Adelaide police patch on each shoulder and a metal name tag —a. leland—and badge over the left breast pocket. The leather shoes were black, as were the socks.
It had been a sacrifice to shed my elegant pantsuit, but I knew it was necessary. I envisioned my new outfit, found the shirt a bit scratchy. I G h o s t at Wo r k
needed a name for my tag. I couldn’t appear as Officer B. R. Raeburn.
Perhaps A. Great for Alexandra the Great? J. Arc for . . . No. That was not a happy ending and too presumptuous. N. Bly for Nellie Bly?
If Wiggins had seen fit to send me to France, that might have been an option. There had to be the perfect name, a woman I’d admired . . .
I smiled. I would be M. Loy. I’d always tuned in for her Nick and Nora Charles movies on TV, although it seemed to me that she spent most of her time holding Asta the terrier on her lap and watching as William Powell detected. But Myrna Loy had style and that was enough for me.
Patrol Officer M. Loy was now ready to embark on her investigation. I debated adding a holster for a gun, decided that wasn’t necessary. After all, I wouldn’t be passing in review to make sure I met department regulations. I simply needed to appear official to those whom I wished to question.
The phone on Officer Leland’s desk rang.
She picked up the receiver. “Officer Leland.” She listened, her shoulders tightening. “Yes, Chief.” A quick breath. “I stopped Mr.
Murdoch at shortly after five p.m. yesterday. He was making an illegal left turn onto Main Street. Since you’d spoken to me”—she cleared her throat—“I didn’t give him a ticket, just a warning.” She picked up a pencil, rolled it around and around in her fingers. “No, I didn’t follow him. He drove off, heading east. That’s all I know. Yes, sir.” She put down the receiver, looking drained.
She reached out to pick up a silver picture frame. She placed it on the edge of her desk, stared at the photograph of a young woman with soft brown hair, bright blue eyes, a devil-may-care smile, and a defiant tilt to her head. I saw a resemblance to Officer Leland, but she was a pallid version of the vibrant creature in the photograph.
Officer Leland’s face crumpled for an instant, her hands gripping the sides of the silver frame. Slowly her face changed, from grief to stern resolve. She grabbed up the receiver, held it for a long
Ca ro ly n H a rt
moment until a buzz sounded. She replaced the receiver, her hand resting on it, then, with a deep breath, yanked it up, dialed.
“Chief, may I see you for a moment? There’s something I have to tell you . . . Thank you.” When she pushed up from her chair, it seemed to take a great effort, slightly built as she was. She walked down the narrow corridor between the partition-separated cubicles.
Each foot might have been weighted with chains.
Whatever difficulty she faced, her problems were far afield from my tasks. I steeled myself against the sense that here, too, was someone in deep trouble. I couldn’t take on everyone’s problems. I was charged with aiding Kathleen and already I’d widened my concern to include Father Bill. I couldn’t add Officer Leland to my list.
She paused at the doorway, gripped the knob, and opened the door. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the hall as if marching to her doom.
It was time for me to depart. I was now equipped to find out whether I needed to bring to Chief Cobb’s attention any of those pictured or recorded on the dead man’s cell phone. That was my clear-cut objective. But that
