Ghost on the Case by Carolyn Hart

Author:Carolyn Hart
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2017-10-03T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

I disappeared in the hallway outside the law offices and wished myself to the broad front steps of the Fitch home. The police cars and forensic van were gone. A single modest black sedan remained. The huge Mediterranean-style home looked dull in the late-afternoon gloom beneath heavy clouds.

I hovered in the great entry hall, looked through an archway into the majestic formal living room, where the occupants of the house waited to be interrogated by the police this morning. Straight ahead rose a sweeping double staircase to the second and third floors.

I wanted a better sense of the layout of the mansion. I stepped through the archway to my left into a long hallway and explored the rooms in turn, a magnificent library, a narrow office with files and a computer and printer, and, finally, near the end of the hall, the study where Wilbur met his death. The study had an empty feel to it. It had been restored to order, the floor scrubbed where blood had seeped, the painting again flush against the wall, covering the now closed safe, the door to the garden shut.

At the end of the hall, I looked toward a central back portion of the house with a view of the terrace. Here was the informal living and dining area, intended for family use, comfortable chairs and sofas, a game area, a small dining table, small in the sense it would seat eight instead of the twenty or so in the baronial dining hall. Stairs at either end led to the second floor.

In the west wing upstairs I found Wilbur’s suite. I admired the living area, noted an open book splayed pages down on a mahogany coffee table. I looked at the title: Hillbilly Elegy.

I heard familiar voices. I found Detectives Judy Weitz and Don Smith in a huge masculine bedroom that overlooked the terrace and lake. The view was chilling this late November afternoon, scudding clouds, the lake slate gray.

Don gave an impatient glance at his watch. “Okay, you wanted one more look at the rich guy’s bedroom. Now can we call it a day?”

Judy was pointing at the bed. “Kind of like a fancy hotel. The covers are turned back, a Godiva chocolate bar on the pillow. The drapes closed. Look at those curtains. I’ll bet they weigh a couple of hundred pounds. Somebody pulled those shut every night, pulled them open in the morning. They’re thick enough to make this place blacker than a pot of fresh asphalt when he turned off the lights. Can you imagine if somebody turned your covers back and brought you chocolates and closed the curtains every night?”

Don was amused. “You sound like a disapproving Puritan. Hey, I could live with it. Like Fitzgerald said, ‘They are different.’ He was talking about the very rich.”

Judy was precise. “Fitzgerald thought the rich believed they were better than everybody else. I don’t think that was true of Wilbur Fitch. Maybe because he made those millions all by himself.

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