Ghost in Trouble (2010)

I thought of the two of them in their lovely home, marred by strained silence and averted eyes.

She leaned forward, her voice urgent. “What Jack said doesn’t matter now. I don’t know anything about Jack’s death. He fell. That’s all I know. Last night, that awful woman”—Gwen’s face was hard and angry—“in her silly black dress and beads and thick makeup, pretending to commune with the dead. No wonder someone killed her. But their deaths have nothing to do with me or with Clint. We were here.”

“Did you leave the house after returning from The Castle?”

“No.” She was vehement.

“Did your husband leave the house?”

“No.” Her voice was ragged, her stare hard and bright.

“I see.” Nothing in the chief’s demeanor revealed the fact that I’d told him about Clint Dunham making up a bed downstairs in the den or that Jimmy Hume claimed to have seen Clint coming from The Castle toward his house. “Very well. Then I presume you have no objection to Detective Sergeant Price taking your fingerprints to see if there is a match on the murder weapon?”

Price picked up the shiny black case.

“I don’t care. Take them.” Her voice shook. “I didn’t shoot those people. Clint didn’t shoot them. Clint doesn’t know anything about any of this. Last night at the seance, he didn’t have any idea that awful woman was talking about Ryan.”

Cobb tilted his head, peered down at her, his expression skeptical.

“Clint doesn’t know anything.” Her voice was husky with despair. “Don’t tell him. Please don’t tell him.”

Cobb slowly shook his head. “I’m investigating three murders, Mrs. Dunham.”

She swallowed, said thickly, “You said they were shot? Well, then, neither of us could have done it. We don’t have a gun. We’ve never had a gun. Ask anybody.”

Cobb looked phlegmatic. “I understand you and Mrs. James Hume have been close friends for many years. During that time, you have visited The Castle many times.” His gaze was intent. “Were you and your husband familiar with the history of J. J. Hume’s office?”

A flash of knowledge moved and shifted in her eyes. “Diane’s always talking about The Castle. I never listened closely.”

The chief nodded. He glanced toward Hal. “Mrs. Dunham might prefer to have her fingerprints taken in the kitchen. I’ll be on my way to my office.”

She came to her feet, her face distraught. “I want Ryan’s picture. You have no right to keep it.”

“The photograph is included in evidence taken from the crime scene. If your son’s picture turns out not to be germane to the investigation, you may make a claim for its return.”

The chief retraced his steps, walking fast. At The Castle’s front drive, he headed for a police cruiser parked in the shade of a cottonwood. He unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat, placing the bagged photograph in a side pocket. Immediately the air-conditioning hummed.

The passenger seat was not, to put it kindly, tidy. I removed two empty Frito bags, a McDonald’s sack, three Styrofoam coffee cups, and a crumpled Baby Ruth wrapper.

As the cruiser pulled out of The Castle drive, he said conversationally, “Nice of you to come along. Make yourself comfortable.”

I brushed out the seat and settled back. “I’d be glad to appear.” I always enjoyed wearing an Adelaide police uniform. The French blue was a lovely color. I started to swirl into—

“No need to do that.” It was as near a yelp as I’d ever heard from Chief Cobb.

Obediently, I retreated. Another time.

As the car curved right at the base of the hill, I observed brightly, “If we’re on the way to your office, you could pick up some hamburgers from Lulu’s.”

“The office was for Gwen Dunham’s benefit.” As soon as the car was a block away from the Dunham house, he reached forward, punched a button. The siren squealed. The cruiser picked up speed, curved around a corner.

“Ooooh. Fun. You must be as hungry as I am.”

“I don’t use a siren to go to lunch. Hal will keep Gwen Dunham occupied long enough for me to get to her husband’s office before she can call him.”

Clint Dunham sat behind an unpretentious, plain gray metal desk in an ebony leather swivel chair. To one side on a shelf was a computer monitor with a keyboard. The room was large enough for two upholstered chairs in a bright floral print, bookcases on one wall, filing cabinets against another. Plain blue drapes framed large casement windows.

He stared at Chief Cobb, his face dogged, determined, and resistant. “I have nothing to say.” In a soft blue, short-sleeved polo shirt and khaki slacks, he was an odd figure for high drama. He looked like a man ready for a round of golf, not a man possibly fighting for his life.

The chief sat with his hands spread on his thighs. A fingerprint kit and manila folder were on the floor next to him. “Did you leave your house last night?”

No response.

“Did your wife leave your house?”

No response.

“A witness saw you on the grounds of The Castle.”