Ghost in Trouble (2010)

People change their minds. So, I can’t help you.”

The door closed in my face.

I walked swiftly down the sidewalk. I waited until I was screened by trees to disappear. In an instant, I was inside the house. The living room enchanted me: a copper flying pig hung from a thin wire, a tulip vase adorned a cherry-and-ebony cabinet, and every where there was distinctive Stickley furniture, cabinets, chairs, and end tables, as well as Queen Anne and Chippendale armchairs.

Walker was in the kitchen. He picked out a can of Coke from the refrigerator, flipped the top. He looked relaxed. It didn’t appear my visit was lingering in his mind.

I floated about the house and found his studio. A large easel sat in the middle of the room. Paint splotches marked the old wooden floor. Canvases leaned against the walls, some finished, some not. The strong scent of turpentine and linseed oil cloyed the air. Mussed paint rags overflowed from a wastebasket, littering the nearby floor. A studio easel held a half-finished oil painting of a golden retriever. A photograph of a dog was clipped to the top right of the easel. In the clear north light, there was an uncanny resemblance between the photograph and the painting of the large blond dog holding a pheasant firmly in his jaws. The oval palette on the nearby table was splotched with varying shades of oil paint.

Footsteps sounded. Walker came in and picked up his palette, looked at the painting, lifted his brush. He added several dots of orange to one paw, then stroked the bristles against the canvas. The fur looked amazingly lifelike, shining in sunlight. His face folded in a frown of concentration.

I left him at work. Outside, I moved out of sight of the house, stepped into the shadow of a willow, and, after a careful look about, appeared long enough to look at my watch. Of course I have one. Heaven doesn’t stint on details. I changed from a silver case and black leather strap suitable for Kay Clark’s research assistant to a stylish Swatch, the bull watch. This had nothing to do with Pamplona. This had to do with Black Angus bulls in Pontotoc County, Oklahoma. It was a quarter after twelve. Paul Fisher’s office should be empty. I disappeared.

I turned on the light in Paul Fisher’s office. My stop would be brief. As a widower, I doubted he went home for lunch. I felt a pang. Was he even now settling into one of the four booths at Lulu’s? I was starving. However, I resisted the impulse to pop to Lulu’s for a heavenly hamburger. Lulu’s is an Adelaide institution. More important, Lulu’s serves delectable, sizzling hamburgers with freshly chopped onions, crisp lettuce, and real tomatoes, not those bright red but tasteless greenhouse products. I could picture my hamburger, the bun fresh and hot and seasoned from a slap-down on the grill. In a minute, perhaps…

I dropped into Paul’s chair, opened the lower right drawer, and picked out the green folder. I looked at the square white card:

6/3

Alison Gregory

Laverne and Ronald Phillips

There was a space and in a different ink, black, not blue, was written:

6/5

Gwen and Clint Dunham

The folder contained several sheets of paper. I found information on Alison Gregory and Laverne and Ronald Phillips. The lawyer had accurately reported his findings to Kay. The last sheet had the names of Gwen and Clint Dunham at the top. Instead of a summary of information, this sheet listed three questions.

Wedding date?

Birth of son?

Hairbrush?

I turned the sheet over. The other side was blank. I looked again at the questions. There were no answers given. I went carefully through the folder. There was no further mention of the Dunhams. All of the other material pertained either to Alison Gregory or the Phillipses.

Three questions asked on June 5; no answers given. Or, at least, no answers had been recorded in this file. Jack died the night of June 6. Quite likely Paul had not had time to make any inquiries.

In addition, Paul had deflected questions about the Dunhams to Diane, saying that Diane and Gwen were close friends. Was that intended to be helpful or was it a subtle attempt to maneuver attention away from Jack and the Dunhams?

I replaced the folder in the drawer. Just in case, I flipped through the other files. This apparently was Paul’s personal drawer. Folders contained income-tax statements, home-, car-, medical-, and life-insurance policies, the Paul Forbes Fisher REV. Trust, deeds, and Ameritrade quarterly reports.

I had difficulty replacing the files. I reached inside and felt an obstruction at the back of the drawer. My fingers touched a slick material. Something covered with plastic wrap had apparently slid forward when I picked up the files.

My fingers closed around the oval lump. I pulled it out, intending to replace the files, then drop the object behind them as Paul must have done. I stared through clear plastic wrap at a man’s silver-backed hairbrush with the initials RPD ornately engraved.

I didn’t disturb the wrapping. I placed the hairbrush on the desk as I returned the folders. I started to shut the drawer, then stopped. If I took the hairbrush with me and Paul discovered its loss, he might sharply question his elderly secretary. I could not put her character in jeopardy. If I didn’t take the brush, there was always the possibility that the lawyer might dispose of it. Or return the brush to its owner. However, he had no reason to believe anyone would ever become aware of the brush. Perhaps he had decided the brush, whatever secret it held, might be safest tucked behind his folders.

Reluctantly, I reached to the back of the drawer and slid the brush sideways behind the folders. It was now as he had left it. I hoped the brush remained where it was. Whatever happened, I knew Jack Hume very likely had brought the brush to Paul and I could describe, very accurately, the bright silver back and intricately engraved initials: RPD.

RPD…