“Of course that’s what she’ll think.”
His momentary elation fled. He gazed at me from head to foot. “What could I hire you for?”
His emphasis on the third-person pronoun was not pleasing. Possibly, I thought, I should add to his reading list a self-help book extolling the value of tact. However, a seriously rich twenty-four-year-old probably felt tact was as unnecessary as a landline. But this wasn’t the moment to try to improve Nick’s attitudes.
He shook his head in disgust. “Who’s going to believe I need a redheaded babe to do anything? I’ve never had a secretary. I’m thinking about a new game, but I’ll bet you don’t know a thing about vampires. That’s what’s hot.” His face brightened. “I’ve got this great idea about vampires who vaporize giant squid invading from Saturn.”
Great idea. . . .
I clapped my hands together. I don’t know if it was the cashews or the prospect of finding sanctuary or the light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel relief that finally the police would be contacted, but suddenly I knew exactly what to do.
Chapter 4
I shared my plan in a few short sentences.
Nick looked even more disagreeable.
I was adamant. “It’s a brilliant ploy. Nobody will dare touch you.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He gave a kind of snicker.
“I am not kidding.”
He made a sound between a moan and a snort. “You look about as much like a private eye as a belly dancer resembles a bishop.”
My eyes slitted. “Are you sexist? Why couldn’t a belly dancer become a bishop?”
His mouth opened, closed. He took a breath. “I’m not touching that one, lady.”
“But you are going to cooperate with me.” I tried to maintain a pleasant tone. “Unless you want an unexplained female voice reporting the shooting.” I grabbed the cell from his hand, punched 911.
With a yelp, he grabbed it back, lifted it. With a gulp, he muttered, “Nick Magruder here.” His glare at me was malevolent. “Nick Magruder. Eight nineteen Mulberry Lane. Somebody shot a rifle through my front window. Nobody’s hurt, but there’s a slug in the wall. Yeah, I’ll be here.” He clicked off the phone. “A patrol car’s on the way.”
“Which side of town are you on?”
He gave a strangled moan. “You’re going to pretend like you’re a private eye, and you don’t even know where you are?”
“Aunt Dee”—my tone was icy—“didn’t share much information.”
He squeezed his face as if his head hurt. “Aunt Dee. Do I believe you? Actually, there’s something screwy here. Tomorrow I’m going to find out all about you and get you out of my hair.”
“Tonight comes before tomorrow.” I paused to contemplate my observation. Perhaps stress made me even more lucid than usual. “Tonight,” I spoke with emphasis, “comes before tomorrow.”
“You already said that.”
I felt in top form. “It was worth repeating.” Such an apposite observation deserved to become a maxim. Possibly after he knew me better, he would appreciate shared wisdom. “Tonight I am here. You don’t want me here. But here I stay until you agree to my plan. I need transportation and funding.”
From his expression, he would have enjoyed tossing me into a deep pit.
I held out my hand. He was seriously rich, and if he didn’t want to be seriously compromised by my presence, he would ante up.
“Okay. You win. For now.” He shoved a hand in the pocket of his jeans, shook his head. He stalked to the desk.
I was right behind him.
He pulled out the center drawer. Keys slid toward us. I reached in and grabbed a small pad with a hotel logo and the single pen. Obviously, he didn’t use the desk for work.
Nick picked up the scooter key, plopped it in my hand. From his back pocket, he retrieved his billfold. He flipped it open, plucked out a bunch of bills, thrust them at me.
I counted aloud. “Six hundred dollars. I’ll keep a meticulous count of expenses. I’ll need clothes, of course. Oh, rummage around and find a suitcase.”
“There aren’t any clothes here.” He looked abruptly mulish. “You can’t have any of mine.”
“Why would I want your clothes?” I found his thought processes puzzling.
“I don’t know. Why do you want a suitcase?”
“When I arrive at the B and B, it will look odd if I don’t have a suitcase.”
“You’re going to look odd anyway, arriving on a motor scooter. Are you going to pretend you drove up here from Dallas on the scooter? Yeah, Dallas private eyes go everywhere on scooters.”
I remained unruffled. “There may be a few flaws in my plan, but it gets me out of here.”
“You just said the magic words.” He dashed across the room, banged open a door, disappeared from view. In a moment, he was back with a canvas duffel bag. “It’ll fit better on the back of the scooter.”
The bag appeared to be full.
“I stuffed in a couple of pillows so it looks like you’ve got stuff.” He glanced at his watch. “The cops will be here in a jiffy. You need to get out of here. Now.” He strode to the door, flung it open. “The B and B’s at the corner of Elm and Buffalo. I’ll call Arlene as soon as you leave.”
I felt a bit pressed for time as well. I definitely wanted to avoid the police. What if I were asked for identification? I grabbed the duffel and hurried to the door. “Remember, I’m your employee. You can leave the rest to me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He was gloomy. “Don’t do anything rash. I’ll check with you after breakfast.”
I folded my arms, slowly shook my head. “I expect you to arrive at the B and B as soon as you finish with the police. You will be safer if you are always in the company of others from this point forward.”
“You want me to stay at the B and B?” Expressions flitted over his face—irritation, consideration, anticipation. “Yeah, maybe that makes sense.” He rubbed his furry cheek. “If Arlene’ll let me in. But hey, money’s money.”
“I’m beginning to think that attitude is what put you in peril.”
He cocked his head. “You talk like an old radio show. But if I have to hang out with you, the B and B sounds good.”
He didn’t care a bean bag about my protecting him, but apparently proximity to Jan appealed mightily. He nodded energetically. “I’ll make a reservation for two rooms.” As I stepped onto the porch, he stuck his head out the door. “Don’t come to my room.”
I grinned at him. “Only for business conferences.”
He didn’t grin in return. Possibly he was humor-impaired.
He massaged his cheek again. “I’ll tell Jan’s mom you work for me and need a place to stay while you’re in town. Oh hey, wait up. What’s your name? I have to give Arlene your name.”
My name . . . Bailey Ruth Raeburn was chiseled into a stone in St. Mildred’s cemetery: Bailey Ruth Raeburn, cherished wife of Robert MacNeil Raeburn. There was a nice carving that did justice to the Serendipity, and the legend Forever Fishing.
In my past adventures, I’d assumed several names. Police Officer M. Loy, a tribute to Myrna Loy, who played Nora Charles to William Powell’s Nick; Jerrie Emiliani in a nod to Jerome Emiliani, the patron saint of orphans; and Francie de Sales in honor of Francis de Sales, the patron saint of writers.
The right name came to me in a flash. My mission—even if unauthorized—was clear: I needed to lift Nick out of the mess he’d obviously made of his return to Adelaide as a seriously rich twenty-four-year-old. But, as Mama always told us kids, “Honey tastes better than vinegar,” so I would have to use finesse and be adroit. The blessed Hilda, revered abbess of the monastery at Whitby, was renowned for her charm and grace in directing the lives of those in her care. I couldn’t aspire to her accomplishments. However, I would do my best. Did I hear a distant tattoo of trumpets? “Tell them Hilda Whitby is on her way.”
I felt jaunty as I started down the steps, the scooter key tight
in my hand. I had transport and six hundred dollars in my pocket. If I had to be marooned, at least I had enough to keep me clothed and fed for a few days.
Some of the bounce left my steps by the time I reached the scooter. As I swung onto the seat and turned the key, I looked up at the diamond-bright stars in the immeasurable night sky and felt far, far away from Heaven. Previously I’d known with certainty that when my task was done (I usually hoped not too soon due to occasional mishaps), I’d hear the triumphant whistle of the Rescue Express and I would be homeward bound. What if . . . ?
I gave myself a shake. Mama also told us kids not to borrow trouble. As I wheeled down the drive, my hair streaming in the night air, I gave Heaven a thumbs-up. “I’m here, Wiggins. I’ll do my best.” But I’m afraid the sound of my voice was plaintive.
• • •
I parked the scooter on the street, hefted the duffel, and followed a mosaic walkway to the front steps of a three-story Victorian house with a corner turret. Light spilled from ground-floor windows through lace curtains. On the porch, a hexagonal lantern with intricate ironwork offered a welcoming golden glow. Ferns in terra-cotta jars framed the paneled and elaborately carved jade green front door. On the side door panels, peacocks postured brightly in stained-glass insets. A center inset featured a shaggy buffalo.
A white wooden sign hung to the right of the door with the legend Majestic Buffalo B & B. Beneath a doorbell, a taped white card instructed: Ring after ten p.m.
I punched the bell.
An athletic blonde in her late forties opened the door. Trim and graceful, she had the healthy glow of a tennis player or golfer. She flashed a quick but meaningless smile that didn’t reach ice-blue eyes. “Miss Whitby? Nick Magruder called. Please come in. I’m Arlene Richey.” Her white blouse was as crisp as though she’d just dressed. Palm-print pale green linen slacks fit her loosely. Her apple green, single-band leather sandals were especially attractive, the band having the fine-grained appearance of bamboo. Her daughter Jan bore not the slightest resemblance to her.
I stepped into a hallway with golden yellow oak wainscoting and geometrically patterned floor tiles. A mirror framed in gold leaf hung above a mahogany chest. A Tiffany lamp sat on a pillar styled after an Ionic column. At the end of the hallway stood an oak grandfather clock. The stairway, with ornate cast-iron floral balusters, was in shadow, but a slim figure stood watching from the landing.
I smiled at Arlene. “I’m sorry to be late arriving. Travel difficulties.” I waved them away with a flick of my fingers. I wasn’t pleased with the rose red of my nails, but I couldn’t, as in the past, think pink and achieve a better result. “Mr. Magruder,” I hoped the more formal appellation made clear that Nick and I were not well acquainted, “will arrive as soon as the police complete the initial investigation of the crime.”
Arlene looked shocked, but I didn’t detect concern for Nick. “Crime?”
Jan clattered down the steps. “What happened?”
“Someone shot at Mr. Magruder tonight. Fortunately, the shot missed him. You arrived very soon afterward. Mr. Magruder insisted the incident not be mentioned. He didn’t want you to be worried. That’s why we danced.” I was businesslike. “I’m a private investigator, not a dance teacher.” Announcing myself as a private eye pleased me so much that I feared I was succumbing to worldly ways. However, even Wiggins—if he ever were to know—would have to admit that I was at the moment most definitely not only in the world but of the world. “My job often requires me to assume different identities, but I’ve never taught the shag before. Hopefully, when everything is sorted out and Mr. Magruder is safe, we can have another lesson before I leave.”
If I ever left. . . .
“Someone shot at Nick!” Jan stood with one hand at her throat, her eyes wide and stricken. “Why?”
“That’s what I’m here to discover. My agency is SAM Private Enquiries, Limited.” If pressed, I’d give the principals’ names: Spade, Archer, and Marlowe. “We have a one hundred percent success rate once we take a case.” I am nothing if not positive. “Mr. Magruder contacted us after he received several threatening letters. He didn’t keep the letters and ignored the threats until the night he almost crashed into a log that had been dumped onto his private drive.” I must remember to inform Nick about the letters and the log, fancies I’d spun as cleverly as a Featherfoot. “I arrived tonight for a personal consultation. The shooting occurred at about twenty minutes before ten. He is dealing with the authorities at this moment. I recommended he rent a room here. He should not remain in that isolated house.” I looked at Arlene inquiringly.
She nodded, though her lips were pursed. “He rented rooms for you and for him.”
“Staying here will help keep him safe and it will aid me in my investigation.”
Jan clasped her hands together. “We’ll do everything we can to help.”
I gave her a quick, warm smile. “He’ll be here soon. I hope you’ll let me ask a few questions. The more I learn, the quicker we can find out who is behind the attack. I need to find out as much as I can as fast as I can”—hopefully before Nick arrived at the B and B—“about anyone who might be angry with Mr. Magruder.”
Jan bit her lip and looked away. Her mother’s cool gaze studied me.
I looked wistfully at Arlene. “Perhaps I might have a snack? I missed dinner this evening.”
• • •
The sandwich was delectable—thinly sliced rare roast beef piled on a buttery croissant with a layer of Thousand Island dressing. I took a forkful of tangy coleslaw, munched a sweet potato chip. A tall glass of whole milk added to my contentment.
Arlene sat across from me, Jan to my left, at a small oak table in a nook near the swinging door to the kitchen. I finished offering my creatively crafted resume. “. . . and I’ve been working for three years at SAM. Previously I was with Gilbert, Keith and Chesterton Private Inquiry Agency in Houston.” Few people knew that G. K. Chesterton, the creator of the Father Brown stories, was Gilbert Keith Chesterton. For an instant, I felt uneasy. Perhaps I was being too clever by half. I knew enough of the digital world from my previous missions to understand the threat posed by Google. A couple of clicks would reveal that my purported job history was bunk. Oh well, I’d think of something.
Arlene already appeared unconvinced. “What did the letters threaten? A good kick in the butt? If so, he’s a candidate.”
“Mother! If somebody tried to shoot Nick, it isn’t a joke.”
“I was there. It wasn’t a joke.” My gaze held Arlene’s until she looked down, her lips compressed. “We were in the living room. A rifle barrel poked through the screen of a front window. I pushed him out of the way before the rifle was fired. Had I not done so, I doubt he would be alive now.” I took a last bite, gathered my plate and cutlery. “So I need to know who wants to kick Nick’s butt and why. Please give this some thought while I take care of my dishes.” I popped up, waved Arlene to her seat, and carried the plate into the kitchen.
Picture tiles with baskets of fruits added a Victorian flavor. Glass-fronted cabinets were painted a serene pale blue. I noted the rose-colored linoleum flooring. There was even a dresser, that icon of a Victorian kitchen. Several framed photos sat on the dresser. One studio portrait pictured a broad-faced man with curly brown hair and a genial expression. I had no doubt he was Jan’s father. A cut-glass bud vase sat next to the frame. The vase held one white rose.
I rinsed the plate and cutlery and placed them in a drainer. There was a thoroughly modern notepad and several pens next to an old wall telephone. I hurried to the table, pulled off several sheets, folded and stuffed them along with a filched pen into the pocket of my slacks. What detective would interview sources without taking notes? I reached the swinging door into the dining area. I started to push it open, then stopped, held the panel slightly ajar, and listened.
“. . . no wonder someone tried to shoot him.” Arlene’s voice was acidulous. “He’s done nothing but cause troub
le since he came back. Old Timer Days is the best idea to hit Adelaide in years. Everybody’s behind it, and it’s all because of Cole. What right does Nick have to come back and ruin everything?”
Old Timer Days. This lush, rolling, hilly country had been home first to the Choctaws and, after their removal from Mississippi in 1837, to the Chickasaws. As Congress abrogated many of the promises to Indians, white settlers arrived in the 1890s.
Jan’s reply was sharp. “You’ve been listening to Cole. That’s always a mistake.”
“Cole has every right to be furious.” Arlene’s retort was indignant. “Claire called him this morning and told him that Nick’s buying the property so he can’t build the trading post like she promised. It’s rotten of Nick. He doesn’t care about the Arnold place. All he wants to do is block Cole.”
“Cole can’t possibly care that much about Old Timer Days.” Jan was dismissive. “He knows about as much Oklahoma history as that armadillo who digs up your iris. In fact, I’d bet on the armadillo if I had to choose.”
“You never have liked Cole.”
“With good reason.” Jan’s voice was cool. “He isn’t what you think he is.”
“I know him much better than you do.” Arlene’s voice was soft. “He has a hard time trusting people. He never had much kindness in his life—his dad dead, his mom dumping him on her brother and his family. The last Cole heard she was somewhere in Bolivia. His uncle is a stuffy old jerk. He thinks Cole is flaky, like his mother. Anyway, he needs understanding. He and I have a good time together.”
Jan didn’t answer. She pressed her lips together.
Her mother’s face flushed. “There’s nothing wrong with an older woman and a younger man.”
I dared not linger longer, or they might wonder if I was pilfering the silver. I bustled through the swinging door and ignored the tension in the breakfast nook, though the atmosphere was as heavy as an imminent thunderstorm. Jan pressed her lips together. She made no reply to her mother, but there was very likely no good reply that had come to her mind.
Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) Page 5