Free Ghost Wanted by Carolyn Hart

“Yes, ma’am.” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a black leather holder with a plastic card.
    She looked at it, then at him. “Detective Don Smith.” She returned the holder. “What’s the search warrant for?”
    â€œMa’am, we are responding to a tip that stolen goods may be here.” He spread a big hand to encompass the square room with two rattan chairs, a blue sofa that looked lumpy, a desk in one corner. Despite the worn appearance of the furnishings, the room had character. Two posters decorated one wall; one was a replica of a 1939 New York World’s Fair poster, the other Dorothea Lange’s emotionally wrenching photograph of the migrant mother with two small children. A copy of the most recent
Smithsonian
magazine lay on the coffee table by the sofa.
    â€œStolen goods?” The manager’s tone was incredulous. She made a sound between a snort and a humph. “Nonsense.”
    He was unruffled. “You are welcome to remain and observe our search. When did you last see Ms. Hoyt?”
    â€œWednesday afternoon, about five. She was getting out of her car with groceries. I asked her if she was going to have something special for dinner. She’s a gourmet cook . . .”
    I heard a soft coo of approval not far from me. I would have to point out to Lorraine at some more propitious moment that young women’s matrimonial prospects no longer hinge on culinary skills. I made a shushing sound that I hoped Lorraine would heed.
    Detective Smith looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Johnny, you hear that noise? Some kind of hiss?”
    Officer Johnny Cain poked his head into the living room. I smiled. Johnny was a fine young officer. I had no doubt Johnny Cain remembered the redhead—now he saw her, now he didn’t—who made a huge difference for the lovely girl Johnny loved and later married.
    â€œHiss? No, but look.” Johnny pointed at a large black cat staring fixedly at the white-haired woman.
    The cat turned and marched toward a bowl on the floor, meowing.
    The woman looked worried. “George is hungry. His bowl’s empty. Something’s wrong here, Detective.” She spoke in a nononsense staccato with a flat Midwestern accent. “I’ve been renting apartments to students for twenty-six years. I
know
kids. I don’t care if you find the mayor’s red negligee—”
    The detective pressed his lips together.
    Mayor Neva Lumpkin was an oversized blonde with the physical attributes of a Wagnerian soprano. She was supercilious, condescending, and overbearing. I pressed my hand over my mouth to smother a giggle as I pictured her in a red negligee.
    â€œâ€”somebody else put it in here. Michelle Hoyt is as serious a scholar as I’ve ever had as a renter. She follows all the rules, pays her rent on time, no loud noise—and that’s not like some I could name. She’s lived here three years and never spent a night away without telling me she would be gone and asking me to feed George. I noticed her car wasn’t in its slot when I went out to jog Thursday morning at six. The car should have been there. It wasn’t there Thursday morning or this morning.”
    â€œWhatever.” Smith sounded indifferent. “Lady, we got work to do. We’ll talk to you later.” He nodded at Johnny, who turned and disappeared from sight. There was the sound of a door opening, likely a closet. Detective Smith moved toward a small desk in the corner of the room.
    The cat stood in the doorway to the kitchen, meowed.
    â€œThat cat’s starving. I’m going to feed him.” The manager gave Smith a defiant glare and darted across the room.
    Detective Smith looked irritated. He followed her and waited in the doorway to the kitchen. “Make it fast. Don’t touch anything but cat food.”
    A rattle as dry pellets were poured into a bowl. “Here you are, George.” A