Merry, Merry Ghost

Downstairs in the kitchen, I closed the swinging door before I turned on a light. Although the appliances had been updated, the big room was unmistakably early nineteenth-century with cupboards and a white wooden breakfast table and wood floors that dipped a little in one corner. I moved fast, keeping an ear cocked for footsteps. I found a directory in the drawer near the old-fashioned wall-mounted phone and flipped to the H’s. I ran my finger down the listings to Harrison Hammond, 903 Osage.

I felt intrusive poking into bedrooms, but I would go wherever necessary to find out how the news of Susan’s death affected the heirs.

Harrison sat on the edge of the bed, holding a telephone receiver. “I’m shocked, Jake. Do you want me to come there?…No, I guess there isn’t anything I can do at this hour of the morning…All right. We’ll be there at two.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Charlotte, who sat bolt upright, a pillow clutched in her hands.

His face was drawn. “You heard. Susan’s dead. They think it’s murder.”

Charlotte stared at him, her eyes wide. “That’s dreadful.”

Harrison sat unmoving, his hands folded into tight fists.

Charlotte reached out, touched his pajama sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t answer as he lowered himself onto his pillow.

Charlotte’s face filled with foreboding. “It’s dreadful that Susan was murdered tonight of all nights.”

Hammond looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte fingered the ruching at the throat of her green silk nightgown. “Susan announced plans to change her will. That same night she is murdered. What if the police”—her voice was scarcely audible—“find out you owe a lot of money?”

He rubbed at one temple. “It won’t matter.” His voice sounded hollow. “I was with you tonight.”

She looked at him. Without her glasses her eyes looked fuzzy, but the intensity of her gaze was unmistakable.

“I only went to the office for a little while.” He avoided looking at her. “I can’t believe any of this. Susan dead. My God, I’m sorry.”

Charlotte’s voice shook. “She’s dead. And she didn’t change her will.”

Harrison started to speak, stopped. He reached for the switch on the bedside lamp.

They lay on the bed, close yet separated by an incalculable distance.

In the faint glow through the windows from a streetlamp, the bedroom was a hodgepodge of shadows.

“I didn’t hear you come in tonight.” Her voice was a whisper.

He came up on one elbow. “Listen to me, Charlotte. I went to my office because I was trying to figure out a way to keep out of bankruptcy. I was there all evening. I never left until I came home at midnight.”

Keith was curled on one side, his fingers crooked around one of Big Bob’s paws. Across the room, Peg’s breathing was deep and even. I foresaw no danger for Keith now. No one knew the old will was to be set aside so Keith was safe. As soon as the holographic will was proved, Keith would also be safe because his death would accomplish nothing.

Reassured, I moved to the kitchen. I carefully shut the door into the hallway before turning on the light, although sheer exhaustion made it unlikely that anyone would wander downstairs now.

The refrigerator was well stocked. I cut several slices of rare roast beef. Oklahoma was beef country and there was none better in all the world, though of course, Kansas and Texas made similar claims. Sooners smiled kindly, having no doubt as to which state actually had the best beef. I spread two thick slices of fresh white country bread with Hellmann’s mayonnaise, added bread-and-butter pickles and a curl of horseradish. I found potato chips in a cabinet, poured a glass of whole milk, and settled at the kitchen table.

With a thump, Duchess landed on the table, gleaming eyes fixed on my sandwich, nose sniffing.

I cut a thin slice of beef, placed it in Duchess’s bowl.

The discovery of Susan, apparently dead from suffocation, was shocking to everyone connected to her. To her murderer, who alone at this point knew how her death had been achieved, that discovery was not only shocking but inexplicable.

I munched the sandwich and tried to put myself in the skin of Susan’s killer.

The murderer must be wondering and worrying. Who wanted Susan’s death to be investigated as murder? Why? Was the real murderer’s role known? How could that be? How could Susan have taken Jake’s car? Who was the redheaded woman? What were the police going to do?

The murderer had to be anxious, fearful, shocked, and, beneath the face presented to the world, suffused with rage.

As I took the last bite of sandwich, I was sure of that fury. To commit a perfect crime and see that undone had to have a cataclysmic effect on the killer. Yet, though I’d watched each of them carefully—befuddled Jake, grieving Peg, observant Gina, sleep-dazed Tucker, stricken Harrison, worried Charlotte—I had no inkling who was guilty.

Breakfast Sunday morning was subdued. Jake sat hunched over her coffee. She waved away food. Gina toyed with a sweet roll, crumbling it into pieces. Peg dished up Keith’s breakfast, put it at his place. “Gina, will you help Keith? I’d better call Dave.” She didn’t sound eager.

Gina tried for a smile. “Hey, Keith, let me cut your waffle. Do you want syrup or jelly?”

Keith leaned to one side, offered a piece of waffle to Duchess.

Jake managed a smile. “That cat likes caviar, but not waffles.”