Merry, Merry Ghost

“Yes, ma’am. Not a doubt.”

“Thank you, sir. This is a huge help to our investigation. We may be back in touch to take your formal statement.”

“Be glad to oblige.” His eyes gleamed. “Think I might get to testify in a court case?”

“That is always a possibility. Thank you, sir, for your cooperation.”

As I turned to leave, he called after me. “If you ask me questions on direct examination on the witness stand, better not ask leading questions. You can ask me to describe the materials I delivered”—he sounded suddenly prosecutorial—“to the office of Attorney Wade Farrell on this day. I’ll describe that envelope and there won’t be any doubt about it.”

I must have looked startled.

He nodded sagely. “I never miss Law & Order. That Connie Rubirosa’s the gal to have in a courtroom.”

As he stepped into the elevator to deliver on the next floor, I disappeared.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The sidewalks were crowded outside Wade Farrell’s office building on the corner of Calhoun and Main. Not all shoppers were at the strip shopping centers anchored by Wal-Mart and Target. Downtown boasted several dress shops, a bookstore, drugstore, and hardware store. I heard the bells of a Salvation Army kettle. The sun was slipping westward, streaking the cloudy sky with rose and gold. The shadows from the buildings deepened and darkened. A skipping wind skittered late-fallen leaves.

I landed in the entry hall. Postman Crandall was emphatic that he had delivered Susan’s letter this morning. Kim Weaver had already sorted and opened mail before the heirs arrived. The will should have been deposited in Wade Farrell’s in-box. If he received the will, he had chosen to secrete or destroy it. What might have prompted such an action would have to be discovered later. If he had not received the will, he had in good faith presented the earlier instrument as valid.

A woman shrugging into a car coat while talking on a cell phone hurried toward the door. I waited until the hallway was empty, then reappeared in the golden mink coat. This time I chose a cashmere sweater and wool slacks. It was time for Susan Flynn’s old friend to make inquiries.

Kim Weaver looked up from her desk as I stepped inside. There was a flicker of envy in her dark eyes as they widened in appreciation of the mink. She noted as well my white sweater, blue costume pearls, and navy slacks.

“May I help you?” Her voice was almost deferential. Not quite. Implicit in her expression was the unstated suggestion that supplicants would do well to remember that the office was hers to rule.

I nodded regally. “I’m here on behalf of Susan Flynn.” My manner was somber but confident. “Her death has made it imperative that I speak with Mr. Farrell about Susan’s new will.” I watched her face with the attention a cat accords a mouse.

For an instant, Kim’s face was devoid of response. Then she raised a sculpted eyebrow. “A new will? I’m afraid there’s some confusion.” She was polite but firm. “Mrs. Flynn’s will has been in existence for several years.”

A resonant bong tolled the half hour. An elegant early twentieth-century grandfather clock with an ornate bronze face read four-thirty.

She glanced at the clock. “I’ll check with Mr. Farrell, but I believe he is on his way out. Possibly I can make an appointment for you for tomorrow afternoon.”

I was imperious. “Susan drafted a new will Saturday night. I must speak with him now.”

She gave me a bright smile. “I’ll see what I can do. You are?”

“Jerrie Emiliani.” I hoped St. Jerome Emiliani, that great benefactor of orphans, didn’t mind my continued use of his name. I was trying to do my best for one particular orphan.

She pushed the intercom. “Mr. Farrell, a Ms. Jerrie—” She hesitated.

“Emiliani,” I said distinctly.

“—would like to speak with you about Mrs. Flynn’s estate.”

There was no response.

“Mr. Farrell?”

Silence.

She flicked off the intercom. “Mr. Farrell has left the office.” She turned to her computer. “Tomorrow morning is blocked out for Mrs. Flynn’s funeral. I can offer you an appointment at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

I paused to listen in the entrance hall of Wade Farrell’s house. The tile floor matched the vivid blue rim of a terra-cotta vase decorated with a charging buffalo. An eight-sided Art Deco beveled-glass mirror reflected red and white pom-pom chrysanthemums in a cut-glass vase on a pine side table. To my left a living room with comfortable sofas and chairs, not too big and not too small, looked welcoming. There was an air of come-sit-down-and-let’s-share-good-times warmth. To my right in the dining room, a table looked festive with holiday decorations, a snowman centerpiece and red candles, and fine china and crystal. The stairway at the end of the hall was decorated with candy canes.

A woman’s voice was cheerful but firm. “You’ll ruin your dinner.”

Wade’s words were indistinct. “I need a pick-me-up. Mmmm. Lots of butter.”

I wafted to the kitchen. Spacious and homey with savory scents rising from several pans on the range, the kitchen was obviously geared for a dinner party.