A Specter of Justice by Mark de Castrique Page B

satin sheet to be folded and stored. But even as fashion-ignorant as I was, I noticed a ruffled shoulder strap and realized the pastel pink color went with nothing else in the room. We were looking at the dress for The Pink Lady, the ghost Lenore played the previous night. At least the ghost she was assigned to play.
    â€œCan you tell if the dress has been worn?” I asked.
    Shirley pulled back a layer of fabric to reveal a yellowing tag. “The costume identification information is still pinned to the neckline. Maybe Lenore reattached it, but then why didn’t she hang the dress in its protective bag?”
    â€œIs the bag here?” Hewitt asked.
    â€œYes. I found it in the front coat closet.”
    â€œHow about her car?” I asked.
    Shirley shook her head. “Gone. And we’d also rented a pair of period shoes to go with the dress. They’re not in the house. Why would she wear the shoes and not the dress?”
    â€œMaybe the dress didn’t fit,” Hewitt suggested.
    â€œWe tried the dress on at the theatrical company. Lenore liked it so much she asked if she could buy it.”
    Hewitt looked at me and pursed his lips. He was thinking and didn’t like where his thoughts were leading. “And as far as we know, no one saw or heard from her yesterday?”
    â€œI didn’t,” Shirley said.
    â€œNeither did I.” Nakayla answered the question as she entered the bedroom. “And I don’t know if anyone saw her at the Grove Park Inn last night. The first bus scheduled turned around when Molly’s murder brought everything to a screeching halt.”
    I looked around the room. Other than the dress, nothing seemed out of place. I dropped to my knees, lifted the bed skirt, and peered under the box springs. Shoved just out of sight were a pair of gardening shoes, the kind with the rubber base and leather upper that goes only as high as the ankle. The small size suggested they belonged to a woman. Flecks of black soil clung to the rubber and a few larger clumps were scattered on the floor. Looking closer, I noticed the dirt protruded a few inches from underneath the bed. A gap of clean hardwood extended another foot and then soil traces appeared again, but now in eight discernible lines about an inch wide.
    â€œEveryone move back against the nearest wall.” I got to my feet and turned to Shirley. “Was Lenore a good housekeeper?”
    â€œTotally. You could eat off the floor.”
    â€œNot this floor. It looks like someone wheeled a small cart or wagon in here. Probably from the garden given the richness of the soil. Her gardening shoes are under the bed.”
    â€œThat’s crazy,” Shirley argued. “She keeps her shoes in the shed, and that shed is cleaner than my house.”
    â€œI suggest you all go back to the front porch,” I said. “Watch where you step.”
    When they had cleared out, I walked along the baseboard following traces of soil. Four of the lines were darker and I wondered if some of the wheels had been more deeply embedded in one of the flowerbeds. The trail led down the hall, past a bathroom, and through the kitchen to stop at a side door. Through the windowpane, I saw the shed directly opposite.
    Concerned that I was in the midst of a crime scene, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and lightly grasped the doorknob. The deadbolt was already withdrawn and the latch released easily.
    A wide concrete walkway spanned about ten feet from the kitchen door to the shed. The outbuilding was constructed on a cement slab with a three-foot apron running along the front. The shed’s roof extended overhead just enough to provide rain protection for several rakes and spades that hung from hooks on the exterior wall.
    From this angle I saw the two flower baskets farthest from the street were knocked over. Their potting soil spilled across the concrete like a three-dimensional inkblot. Four wheel-tracks emerged