Ghost at Work: A Bailey Ruth Mystery

by Carolyn Hart

  He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. Things usually come right. And if they don’t, we’ll have done our best. Now”—he was brisk—“can you pack up some of that nice lunch for me? I’m late getting out to the Carson ranch. Juanita’s having a bad day.”

  Kathleen shivered. “There can’t be anything worse than losing a child. Tell her I put a flower on Josie’s grave yesterday.” It took her only a moment to put together a lunch, fill a thermos with coffee.

  Bill took the brown bag, bent, kissed her lightly on the lips, but Kathleen held tight, kissed him with a desperate intensity.

  Slowly they moved apart. He reached out to touch her cheek. “It’s okay, honey.” But when he reached the door, he looked back. “I hate it that you had to lie for me. If the chief comes back to you, tell him the truth, Daryl inveigled you to go to the cabin so he could quiz you about me, but you didn’t know a thing. And you don’t. Because”—

  his frown was ferocious—“I didn’t like some of the chief ’s questions. He seemed to think you and Daryl . . . Well, I set him straight there. I told him you didn’t even like the man, and much more to the point, you’re my wife and you would never dishonor your vows.”

  Suddenly he was serious again. “I love you, Kathleen.”

  “Oh, Bill.” She was in his arms. They clung to each other. Their lips met in a passionate kiss.

  I left. Some moments are not meant to be shared.

  When Father Bill came outside, striding toward his car, I returned to the kitchen.

  Tears were streaming down Kathleen’s face. She stumbled to the table, sank into a chair, sobbing.

  I brought a box of tissues, placed it at her elbow.

  “. . . feel so awful . . . what would he think if he knew . . . and I went to Raoul’s apartment . . . oh, Bill . . . I’ve got to tell him the truth . . .”

  I poked her in the shoulder. “Do you want the chief to arrest him?”

  She flung up her head, stared at me—well, in my general vicinity—

  in horror. “Bill? That can’t happen.”

  “It could.” I hated to make her day harder, but it was time to face facts. “The chief is already suspicious of Bill. If you suddenly tell the truth about your visit to Daryl, the red nightgown’s enough to convince the chief that Bill had plenty of reason to shoot Daryl. Don’t change your story.” I handed her some tissues. I retrieved my plate and table setting from their hiding place, settled back at the table.

  She swiped at her face. “What if the chief finds out Daryl wanted to fire Mamie? Somebody will know. Somebody,” she said bitterly, “always knows in Adelaide.”

  That was small-town truth baldly stated. Someone always knew.

  “That’s news to you. All you can report is what Daryl said, so he must have changed his mind.” I was sorry Kathleen had lost her appetite.

  Stress seemed to increase mine. I enjoyed every mouthful.

  Kathleen clasped her hands. “All right. We talked about a present for Mamie. She loves to eat at fancy restaurants. I said I was going up to Oklahoma City next week to shop and I could pick up a gift certificate at Mantel’s. She adores Bricktown.”

  I bustled to the sink with our plates. This time Kathleen didn’t even complain about the airborne dishes. “Good. Now”—my crisp tone was a call to order—“it’s time to talk turkey.”

  CHAPTER 10

  If possible, Kathleen looked even more stricken. “You’re going to be here for Thanksgiving?”

  Clearly I was not affording her comfort during a difficult time. It’s lonely work to save someone who views you as just one more problem. I resisted the temptation to share my favorite turkey recipe.

  Instead I took pity on her obvious despair. “I expect to finish my task before then. That, of course, depends upon you.”

  “Me? What can I do?” She wadded damp tissues into a ball.

  “Provide information no one else possesses.” I’d never spoken truer words.

  Her look of astonishment was genuine.

  “Kathleen.” I was patient. “An anonymous caller informed the police that you were at Daryl’s cabin Wednesday night and”—here I spaced my words for emphasis—“you were holding . . . a . . . red . . .

  nightgown.”

  She waited without a flicker of comprehension.

  “What does that tell us?” I remembered my long-ago teaching days and Moby-Dick and the student who couldn’t see why everybody made such a big fuss about a whale.

  Her face crinkled with effort. “Daryl told someone?”

  “Very unlikely.” I hadn’t known Daryl Murdoch, but nothing I’d learned about him suggested a man who would reveal an episode that made him look foolish and, possibly worse, ridiculous.

  She nibbled at her lower lip, knowing the answer, reluctant to voice a chilling truth. “Someone saw me open that box.” Her eyes rounded in scared realization. “Someone was watching through a window.”

  “Try to remember everything about the cabin and the woods around it. When you arrived, it was getting dark. Did you see another car?”

  “No.” She was definite. “There was only one car, Daryl’s silver Lincoln. Lights were on in the cabin. I could see inside, so the blinds weren’t closed. Anybody could have seen us.”

  “The cabin is off the road. You didn’t see another car. Yet someone watched through a window.” I considered why a stealthy approach, which had included hiding either a car or bicycle, might have been made to that cabin. “I think your arrival gave Daryl one more day to live.”

  “One more day to live?” Her voice was faint.

  “A visitor with innocent intent doesn’t lurk outside and spy. The murderer stood there, gun in hand. When you opened the gift and quarreled with Daryl, the plan changed. Instead of shooting Daryl there and then, the decision was made to lure him to the rectory. The murderer’s plan was for his body to be found on your back porch and your fingerprints in his cabin. Part of the gift box survived the fire until I burned every scrap. You would have been suspect number one.”

  Kathleen’s eyes were huge. “That means the murderer knows me. Bailey Ruth, what am I going to do?”

  I wafted up and retrieved the notepad from the top of the china cabinet.

  Kathleen was too dazed to object to the airborne notebook and pen.

  I sat down opposite her. “You won’t be safe—and Father Bill won’t be safe—until Chief Cobb solves the crime.”

  Kathleen frowned. “No one could honestly suspect Bill.”

  I looked at Kathleen’s tear-streaked face. Was she too fragile to take any more shocks? Or could she be tough? “My dear.” I spoke gently. “Father Bill may end up as the prime suspect. He and Daryl quarreled Thursday morning. Daryl was shot Thursday afternoon on the back porch of the rectory—”

  Kathleen gripped the edge of the table. “No one knows that.”

  “The murderer does, and Chief Cobb has his suspicions.” I described the cat-fur-laden dust balls on Daryl’s suit jacket and the chief’s plan to get a search warrant. “. . . but I’ve swept up the porch and gotten rid of the tarp.”

  Kathleen looked down as Spoofer strolled across the kitchen floor.

  “That’s why the chief looked hard at Spoofer, isn’t it?” Abruptly, she sat up straighter in her chair. “I’ll tell the police about finding Daryl’s body.”

  “Absolutely not.” I was firm. “That would only increase the chief ’s suspicions of Father Bill.”

  A flush colored his cheeks. “There has to be something I can do. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t gone to Raoul’s apartment, Daryl wouldn’t have been murdered here.”

  Kathleen was right, of course. Daryl would have been shot in his cabin as the murderer first intended. Mea culpas didn’t matter now.

  She looked ready to jump up and rush out, wanting to do battle for her Bill.

  “There’s a lot you can do.”

  Her face was eager.

  “Daryl’s cell phone.”

  She sagged ba
ck in her chair. “I’m pretty sure it’s ruined, Bailey Ruth. Besides, I don’t see how finding it would help.”

  “We don’t need to find it.” I was impatient. “Look at it, Kathleen. Why did he save your picture?”

  “To cause me trouble.” Her eyes narrowed. “I see. Anybody could look at my picture and say there was a motive for his murder. So maybe the other pictures—”

  I patted her hand. “Exactly.” I flipped open the notebook. “Let’s take the photos in order. Why would Daryl keep a picture of Georgia Hamilton’s signature?” I’d scarcely had a glimpse before Kathleen erased it. “Do you have any idea what kind of document it was?”

  Kathleen looked thoughtful. “A contract of some kind. The thing that sticks in my mind is that the date wasn’t recent and I wondered why he’d have a picture of it now.”

  A legal document? “Who was her lawyer?”

  “Bob Shelton. Shelton, Shelton, and Shelton. He’s the middle one. But there can’t be anything there. Bob was the best senior warden we ever had, and he’s honest to the core.”

  I wrote down Bob Shelton. “If he’s an honest man, he’ll be glad to help us.”

  I felt we were making progress. “Who is the blond man?”

  “Walter Carey.” Kathleen brushed back a tangle of dark hair, her gaze intent. “His wife’s in my bridge group. Harriet’s a sweetheart. Things have been tough for them lately. She’s gone back to work and I know she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.”

  I didn’t have to tell Kathleen how disturbing that photo had been. If ever a man looked defeated, it was Walter Carey. “We’ll hope he turns out to be innocent, for his family’s sake, but we have to find out why Daryl took that picture. If you know why, you must tell me.”

  “Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Walter and Daryl quarreled. No one knows why. Maybe Walter wasn’t bringing in enough money. He hasn’t looked prosperous for a couple of years, while Daryl’s cars got fancier and his clothes more expensive. The partnership broke up a week or so ago. Walter’s opened an office in a seedy little strip shopping center on the edge of town.” She looked in my direction. “There could be something there, Bailey Ruth. I heard Daryl kept all the clients.” She stopped, looked surprised. “Georgia Hamilton was one of Daryl’s clients.”

  And Daryl carried a picture of a contract with her signature in his cell phone.

  Kathleen sniffed. “Georgia thought Daryl hung the moon. I guess maybe he was pretty good at what he did.” She shrugged. “But Georgia was Daryl’s client, not Walter’s. I guess that wouldn’t have anything to do with Walter. Anyway, about Walter, people have been gossiping—”

  In a small town, gossip is the second favorite sport after football.

  “—and some of them say there has to be something wrong with Walter and maybe he’s been drinking too much. That may be true. He had way too much to drink last week at a party at the country club. Harriet’s upset. She said Daryl didn’t have to be so insulting.”

  “Insulting?” There can be bad feelings when a partnership breaks up, but what would be insulting?

  Kathleen looked grim. “Daryl had the locks changed at the office. All of them, interior and exterior. They said Daryl had Butler’s Locksmiths there the same day Walter moved his things out. And that’s . . .”

  I wasn’t listening. Images popped in my kind: Walter’s despair, a locksmith at work, Chief Cobb surveying Daryl’s trashed den. I slapped shut the notebook. “Got to go. Hope I’m not too late.”

  I heard Kathleen’s startled cry, was almost away, then whipped back to the table to zoom the notebook and pen to their hiding place.

  I called down, “Remember, don’t change your story. Stay calm. And stay away from the people who were pictured in his phone.” It could be dangerous for Kathleen to nose around. “Now I’m off. Back soon.”

  ———

  Daryl Murdoch’s secretary replaced the telephone receiver with a bang and swiveled to her machine. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and words appeared on the screen. She had short, crisp white hair, a long face, lips that pursed as she thought, and a decisive air.

  The phone rang. She picked up the receiver with a grim frown.

  “Murdoch and—Murdoch Investments, Patricia Haskins speaking . . . Oh, thanks, Wanda.” Her voice and face softened. “I’ve already had my coffee break. I’m staying in the office.” She listened, then glanced at the clock.

  It was ten minutes after two.

  “I intend to put in a full day.” Her tone was prim. “Mr. Murdoch left quite a bit of work for me to update. I was here at eight o’clock as usual and I’ll leave at five. I want everything to be in good order for Mr. Murdoch’s clients. I’ve made progress, but”—and now she sounded huffy—“it would be easier if the phone didn’t keep ringing. Oh no, not you, Wanda. I’ve had a bunch of calls, the press and the police and some people who don’t have any manners and think I’ll tell them things I don’t even know about when it’s not my place to talk about Mr. Murdoch. Worst of all, during the lunch hour, there were five calls where someone hung up when I answered. I don’t know what the world is coming to. The caller ID said ‘Unknown.’ Unknown and Unwanted.” She sniffed in disgust.

  As I wafted through the closed door behind her desk, I made a special note of her name: Patricia Haskins. Hired to do a job, she intended to do it whether anyone knew or not. She could as easily have painted her nails or closed the office early for a long and leisurely lunch.

  I suspected that her old-fashioned sense of duty had spared this office a thorough ransacking. Unless I was very much mistaken, the lunch-hour calls had been made to determine whether the office was empty.

  I left the secretary at work and sped through a closed door into Daryl’s elegant and surprising office. Nothing was out of place. I felt a whoosh of relief. I had arrived before Walter Carey with the keys I suspected that he’d stolen from Daryl’s desk this morning. I felt certain Daryl’s study must have contained an extra set of keys to the office.

  I’d tell Bobby Mac all about Daryl’s office, red leather sofas, a rich burgundy desk, each wall a different shade of red, from carmine to rose to crimson to a purplish hue. The ridged and serviceable carpet was brilliant fire-engine red. A blue seascape above the faux fireplace was a striking contrast. The office was different, dramatic, and undoubtedly expensive.

  The desktop was clear except for two folders. The in-box held several papers. The out-box was empty. A row of red lacquered wooden filing cabinets sat against an interior wall.

  I started with the files, opening the cabinet marked G–I. I flipped past Grindstaff, Grimsley, Gunderson . . . I skipped faster. Hadley, Hall, Hasty . . . I backed up. Ah, here it was: Georgia Hamilton.

  I plucked the file from the cabinet, settled into the luxurious comfort of the red leather sofa.

  My eyes widened as I read the neat printing on the outside of an envelope appended to some kind of legal document:

  Enclosed within is Walter Carey’s admission of guilt in obtaining Georgia Hamilton’s signature to the sale of mineral rights to the Hamilton ranch with the intention of skimming a portion of income.

  The simple sentence was followed by a legal description of the property. I opened the envelope, slipped out a piece of white stationery.

  This, too, was handwritten.

  On April 16, 2005, knowing that Daryl Murdoch was out of town, I took a mineral deed to Georgia Hamilton and told her I was there on Daryl’s behalf. I told her the mineral deed was an oil-and-gas lease covering the mineral rights to Hamilton ranch for a one-eighth royalty. Actually, it was a deed by which she sold all of the mineral rights to Horizon Development Corporation.

  I knew she was unable to read the contract because of macular degeneration. As the agent for Horizon Development, I leased the rights to Monarch Drilling for a three-sixteenths royalty. I kept half the bonus money that Monarch paid up front for the lease, and sent half to Mrs. Hamilton. When royalty income came in, I sent her a portion
. I created fake royalty reports which I mailed to Mrs. Hamilton in an envelope with the letterhead of Murdoch and Carey.

  Walter Carey

  A second sheet contained the brusque notation:

  All mineral rights held by Horizon Development to the Hamilton Ranch reverted to Georgia Hamilton on October 18, 2007.

  Walter Carey

  Authorized Agent Horizon Development

  My eyebrows rose. Not at the confession. I knew there had been chicanery and any Oklahoman knows that mineral rights can spell big money if the land overlies an oil-and-gas deposit.

  The dates shocked me.

  I was on the earth in the twenty-first century, quite a long time after Bobby Mac and I started out on our last big fishing trip. My, how time had flown, but of course there is no time in Heaven. In the everlasting communion of all souls and all saints, I enjoyed the presence of souls from all ages without the limitations of the temporal world. Still, the twenty-first century . . .

  No wonder so many inventions were unfamiliar.

  I wondered how Daryl had discovered his partner’s double-dealing.

  Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton spoke to him of the oil-and-gas lease she thought she’d signed. Daryl knew he hadn’t arranged for either the lease or sale of the mineral rights. It probably didn’t take him long to discover the truth about Horizon Development, resulting in a confrontation with Walter and that cell-phone photo of a man in despair.

  I returned the confession and the rights reversion to the envelope, but I didn’t clip it to the document. I closed the folder, placed it in the G–I drawer. I still held the envelope.

  A check of the windows revealed that they were solidly implanted within their frames. I couldn’t raise a window, loosen a screen, and tuck the envelope there for later retrieval. The windows, walls, and door afforded no difficulty for my passage, but the envelope simply couldn’t—

  Patricia’s brisk voice caught me by surprise.

  I looked toward the door. It was opening. “. . . no one’s been here, Chief Cobb, but I’m happy to show you.”

  The envelope dangled in the air. I dropped to the floor, the envelope darting down. I slid the envelope beneath the edge of an Oriental rug atop the red carpet.