Ghost in Trouble (2010)

Clint’s eyes flickered, but his face was rigid.

Chief Cobb retrieved the folder, opened it, and placed on the desk the plastic bag with Ryan Dunham’s photograph. “Were you aware that Jack Hume is Ryan’s father?”

Clint’s jaws ridged. For an instant, his hands closed into fists.

The chief looked stern. “Three people have been murdered, Mr. Dunham. If you are innocent, you may hold information which can help solve these crimes. Did you hear the Humes’s cocker barking last night?”

No response.

Chief Cobb gestured at the shiny black fingerprint case. “Those who were at The Castle last evening are being asked for fingerprints.”

“No.”

“I can take you to the police station as a person of interest.”

Clint reached toward the telephone. “I’ll call my lawyer.”

The chief studied him for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet. He picked up the fingerprint kit, slid the plastic bag beneath one arm. “Don’t leave town, Mr. Dunham. I’ll be back in touch.” He paused in the doorway. “You could make this easier. It’s important to know whether you heard the cocker bark.”

Clint folded his arms.

Chief Cobb’s voice was grave. “There’s a killer out there, smart, quick-thinking, ruthless. When word gets out that you were on The Castle grounds, you may look into the muzzle of a gun and know in that last instant that you made a mistake.”

Chief Cobb turned the a/c on high. He glanced toward the empty passenger seat.

I floated above the seat.

“Might wait a minute before you sit down.” He gave a small head shake. “I feel dumb talking to somebody who isn’t here. But”—now the words were rushed—“please keep it that way.”

I hovered for a moment longer. A car with closed windows in Oklahoma on a hot June day resembles a kiln. The plastic seat was still uncomfortable when I dropped into my place.

The cruiser pulled away from the curb.

“You didn’t get much information.” I wasn’t being critical, simply stating a fact.

“He’s scared.” The chief was matter-of-fact. “Maybe for himself. Maybe for his wife. Scared and smart. He was on The Castle grounds and he knew better than to lie. But maybe not smart enough to save his life—if he’s innocent.”

I felt a quick stab of worry. “Is Jimmy in danger?”

Cobb shook his head. “He’s told what he knows. If he saw anyone else, he would have spoken up. Or Jimmy may be the killer and he’s taking advantage of Dunham being on the grounds. Or Dunham may be the one we’re looking for. What I need is proof, a physical piece of evidence linking someone to the crime.”

Alison Gregory stared at the chief in wide-eyed shock. “That’s horrible.” She was as carefully and artfully groomed as always, blond hair gleaming, makeup understated but perfect, well dressed, sophisticated, and self-possessed. But now there was an element of uncertainty in her blue eyes. The hand she lifted to brush back a strand of hair shook slightly. “Shot? That’s incredible.” Sudden worry flared in her eyes. “Is Evelyn all right?”

Cobb sat in a large leather chair, hands planted firmly on his knees. The fingerprint kit rested on a corner of the pine coffee table. “Miss Hume is shocked. She now believes her brother was murdered. I understand he came to see you.”

Alison picked up a bronze letter opener inlaid with turquoise and turned it around and around in her hand. “That’s correct.” She recounted Jack’s hope that he could become closer to his sister, but she spoke almost absently, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

I raised an eyebrow. Alison didn’t repeat Jack’s words about his sister’s anger: My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me.

As always, the chief’s heavy face reflected calmness, with no hint he was aware that Alison had omitted a significant piece of information.

He glanced at his notes. “I understand you recommended Leonard Walker to Jack Hume.”

“Leonard?” She repeated the name without interest. “That wasn’t important. Except”—she gave a small shrug—“to Jack. He was interested in having a portrait painted of his late wife. Chief Cobb.” She sounded embarrassed. “I have a confession to make.”

He waited, his brown eyes intent.

Alison tossed back her hair. “I didn’t take it seriously about that vase falling the other night. When was it?” She looked as if she were figuring. “I guess it was yesterday that Evelyn called me. So Tuesday night. I’m not too clear on what happened, but I think that woman who knew Jack was in the garden when the vase came down. Evelyn pretty clearly wanted me to look over the pedestal and”—touches of pink flared in her cheeks—“conclude that the vase fell by accident.” She looked away from Cobb, as if studying a brilliantly colorful Baranov painting on a sidewall. “Okay.” She gripped the letter opener. “There’s no graceful way to put it. I went up on the balcony and smudged away traces of a chisel. I figured some vandal had prized the vase loose. It never occurred to me somebody really tried to kill anybody. So”—now she looked at him directly—“I guess I’m guilty of destroying evidence. But with Laverne and Ronald dead, I had to tell you.” She looked diminished.

Cobb didn’t change expression. “We’ll ask you to come to the station and make a formal statement. For now, I want to hear about last night’s seance.”

Alison spoke quickly. She was accurate and complete.