Ghost at Work by Carolyn Hart Page B

rattled the clubs. He checked the zippered side pockets. He stepped back, glanced up and down the porch, gave an irritated shake of his head. “There’s no weapon here. Looks like we got a crank call.” He nodded toward Kathleen. “I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott. Please ask the reverend to call me tomorrow. I understand Daryl Murdoch spent a lot of time at the church. Maybe the reverend might have some idea why he was in the graveyard. I’ll make another check of the backyard and be on my way.”
    As the screen door opened, I was up and over the guttering. I nestled the swaddled gun next to the telephone. Objects were accruing. I must deal with them. And with Kathleen. As soon as possible. But perhaps I’d better keep tabs on the investigation in case the murderer had other surprises in store…

CHAPTER 6
    I lightly touched the meshed grille as the police cruiser turned east on Main Street. Riding in a police car was a new experience. I would have preferred to be in the front passenger seat, but it was occupied by a grease-stained sack from Braum’s, a sixteen-ounce plastic malted-milk container, several file folders, a wrinkled windbreaker, and a can of mixed nuts. Chief Cobb lifted the yellow plastic lid of the latter, fished out a handful of nuts.
    A sudden crackle and a voice spoke from the dashboard. “Chief, Anita.” Her voice was low and hushed, her words quick. “Mrs. Murdoch just came home. I’d say she hasn’t heard. Saw her face when the garage door opened. She looked tired, but no sign of emotion. She had on her uniform. She’s a nurse. I’d guess she just got off duty. You’d think somebody would have called her on her cell, but maybe she has it turned off.”
    Chief Cobb’s face was somber. “I’m on my way. Keep watch until I get there.”
    I sank back against the slick, plastic-sheathed seat. I’d not thought beyond saving Kathleen from her perilous predicament, but tonight marked trouble for others as well.
    The cruiser picked up speed. We headed out Broadway. Everything seemed different. Littleton’s Lumber Yard was gone. There were a series of big buildings with fancy signs—Home Depot, Wal-Mart, Circuit City. Parking lots teemed with cars. Many of them seemed to be an odd hybrid between old-fashioned pickups and sedans. About the spot where I remembered the turnoff to a drive-in movie, there was a cluster of houses. We passed more and more houses, many with amazingly peaked roofs. High ceilings were obviously in vogue, but heating and cooling costs must be huge.
    The cruiser turned in between two stone pillars. A discreet sign on one pillar read KENSINGTON HILLS . The street wound in a rambling fashion with offshoots every block or so. A half mile into the hilly development, the cruiser turned onto Laurel. We drove a half block, then slowed as the chief pulled up beside another cruiser almost hidden in deep shadow beneath a cottonwood. He pushed a button and his window came down.
    Officer Leland—aka Anita—who was in the second cruiser, opened her door, stepped out. She bent to look inside his car.
    The chief grabbed at the stuff lying on the seat, pushed it onto the floor. “Get in, Anita. I haven’t had a chance to ask about your trip. When did you get back?”
    She came around the cruiser to the passenger door, opened it. In the brief flash of the interior light, I had a better glimpse of her face, somber blue-gray eyes, thin high-bridged nose, pointed chin with the hint of a cleft. If she smiled, she would be pretty in an old-fashioned, understated way. She was a little older than I had realized, possibly her late twenties or early thirties. She looked tired.
    â€œYesterday afternoon. Murray took my shifts while I was gone. It’s good to be back at work.” She sounded distant and I wondered if it was fatigue or if she was keeping some emotion under tight