The cell phone was another matter. I had removed it from Daryl’s body. The information it contained might make a difference in the search for his murderer. Somehow I had to aid that earnest police chief, though I wasn’t sure what I could do. “Kathleen, we can’t ignore what we’ve discovered.”
She wasn’t listening. She did something else with the phone, muttered,
“Three saved messages. I called him back. I’d better check.” Click.
“Thursday. Four-fifteen p.m., ‘I can’t believe what you did.’” The voice was young, male, and anguished. “‘I just found out from Lily.’” There was a silence, then a quick, choked, “‘You’ll pay for this. I swear you will.’”
Kathleen punched a button.
I sighed. One more piece of information, forever gone.
“Thursday, five-oh-seven p.m.: ‘Mr. Murdoch—’ ” It was Kathleen’s voice. “ ‘There’s been—’ ”
She punched.
“Thursday, eight-twenty p.m.: ‘You got to call me.’ ” It was a woman’s voice, young but hoarse. Bravado mingled with desperation. “ ‘Listen, Daryl, I got to talk to you. You promised . . . Please. Call me.’ ” Kathleen punched. “All gone. But”—she stared at the phone—
“even though I erased the photos, there might be images somewhere inside.” Abruptly, she raised her arm and flung the telephone far out into the lake.
100
C H A P T E R 8
Iknelt by the chimney on the rectory roof and picked up the head cover holding the gun. Kathleen’s disposal of the cell phone was an unexpected complication. I had intended to convey both the phone and gun to Chief Cobb. Now the phone was gone.
I’d done my best to assist Kathleen. In fact, my mission appeared to be successful. Likely I would soon be recalled to Heaven, but I was uneasy. I had interfered with the proper investigation of a crime.
I looked Heavenward. Thick dark clouds obscured the horizon.
Wind pushed at me. I was definitely still here. I took that as a clear indication that I should proceed. But proceed to do what?
Arrange for Chief Cobb to find the gun.
The thought was direct and breathtaking in its simplicity. Thank you, Wiggins. I pulled the gun out of the head cover. My new coat, the gray lamb’s wool I’d selected from the catalog to go with my elegant pantsuit, had capacious pockets. I tucked the gun in my pocket.
I was ready to depart for the police station, but fortunately I glanced down. I was invisible. My coat was invisible.
The gun was not invisible.
Even though the sky was overcast, someone might look up and Ca ro ly n H a rt
note the flight of a gun through the sky if I swooped to the police station, especially since I didn’t know where it was.
I pulled the gun out of the pocket, returned it to the head cover, and placed the bulging head cover beside the chimney.
I shivered. Despite the lamb’s-wool coat, I was getting cold. It was time for a respite. In a flash, I returned to the rectory kitchen. I hung my coat on a coat tree, retrieved the flamingo mug from the dish-washer, and filled it with coffee. I found a notepad and a pen near the telephone. I settled at the table, positioning my chair where I would see anyone approaching the back porch.
I drew a gun on the notepad. I had to figure out a way to get it to Chief Cobb. Moreover, the information I’d gleaned from observing Kathleen with the cell phone might be essential in solving the crime.
Quickly, I jotted notes:
PICTUR ES
1. Signature of Georgia Hamilton, apparently on a legal document of some sort.
2. A man in the depths of despair.
3. A member of the Altar Guild apparently stealing from the collection plate.
4. Isaac Franklin, the sexton.
5. The policewoman who showered tickets on Daryl Murdoch.
CALLS
1. He spoke of Lily. A young male voice. The caller had to be Daryl’s angry son, Kirby.
2. A desperate woman begged Daryl to call her. However, the call was recorded after his death, which might indicate innocence. Or might not.
I sipped coffee, drew the face of a bloodhound with drooping ears 102
G h o s t at Wo r k
and a worried expression. The cell phone was gone, but I knew what I had seen and heard. I was uncertain whether any of that information could—or should—be provided to the police. For now, I had recorded everything.
I looked around the kitchen, seeking a safe spot to keep my notebook. It was unfortunate that worldly objects, unlike my imagined clothing and coats, couldn’t simply disappear for me. But they couldn’t and didn’t. I zoomed up to the ceiling and checked above the bottle-green oak china cabinet. I put the notebook behind the top molding.
I wondered if Chief Cobb was making progress. Last night, when I’d wished to be in the cemetery, there I was.
What if I wished to be at the police station?
The two-story cream-colored stucco building covered the northwest corner at the intersection of Lee and Tishomingo, one block south of Main Street. Old Glory and the Oklahoma flag with its sky-blue field fluttered in a stiff breeze from a slender white flagpole. Shallow steps led to a central doorway. On one end of the second floor, barred windows looked as gloomy as the overcast day. I studied the inscription on the cornerstone:
Adelaide City Hall
1994
Dedicated by Mayor Harvey Kamp
I remembered Harvey as a long-haired, sneaky friend of my son.
Ah, the wonders of maturity.
I went inside and checked the directory. On the first floor were the mayor’s office, city planning, water, public works, planning commis-sion, and treasurer. Now the mayor was a woman, Neva Lumpkin.
103
Ca ro ly n H a rt
Chief Cobb, the police department, jail, city attorney, and municipal court were on the second floor.
Chief Cobb sat at his desk, studying papers. He emptied a packet of sugar into a steaming mug of coffee. Stark fluorescent light emphasized the deep lines that grooved his face. Moisture rings and scrapes marred the battered oak desk, but Matisse prints added color to one dingy beige wall. Large bulletin boards, a detailed street map of Adelaide, and a map of the county hung on the wall opposite his desk.
I was intrigued by a machine similar to a skinny television set that sat on a leaf jutting from the desk. A luminous green screen glowed.
A flat keyboard sat in front of it. Chief Cobb swiveled in his chair to face the screen. He lifted his hands, frowned, shook his head. He punched the intercom button on his desk.
“Chief?”
“Yeah, Colleen. What’s the password this week?” A sibilant hiss sounded from the intercom.
He looked irritated. “Don’t whisper. James Bond isn’t crouched under your desk, waiting to hear the password so he can crack security for the Adelaide Police Department. Changing the password every week wastes everybody’s time. Doesn’t the mayor have enough to do without figuring out a silly rule like that? Who can remember a new password every week? I, for one, can’t. And I forgot to write down the new one.”
Colleen’s voice was low. “Uh, Chief, the mayor suggests city employees write down a password and keep it in a desk drawer.”
“That’s secure?” He was sardonic. “Okay, okay. I’ll write it down.
What is it this week?”
There was a long pause.
The chief leaned back in his chair, suddenly amused, and I imagined he was picturing his secretary looking around to be certain no one was in earshot.
104
G h o s t at Wo r k
Colleen’s voice was barely audible. “Cougar.” I perched on the edge of his desk, looked at the screen. There was a line for a password, followed by asterisks. Curious.
“Cougar.” He made no effort to be quiet. “Thanks, Colleen.” He lifted his hands to the keyboard, typed.