The movement of the light seemed stealthy and vaguely threatening. I wished mightily that I were the old me (although always twenty-seven, mind you) and could at will appear and disappear, moving from one location to the next in an instant by thinking of a destination. Right now, had I been an official emissary, I would think wooded area next door and there I would have been.
I began to have a better appreciation of investigators limited by physical boundaries.
Of course, the area with the occasional light wasn’t the property of the inn. There was probably no reason for me to be alarmed. So far as I knew, no one was aware that Nick Magruder was in a room down the hall from me. Still, the vagrant bounce of light was not ordinary. A punched-out window screen and a rifle shot weren’t ordinary, either.
The window looked out over the second-story veranda. I touched the lower sash, lifted. The sash slid up, noiseless and smooth. It took only an instant to unhook the screen. I started to slip out, realized I was clad only in a terry cloth robe. With a little huff of exasperation, I dashed across the room, donned the now oh-so-familiar blouse, slacks, sweater, and shoes.
From my second-story vantage point, I could see over the tall stockade fence between the inn and next door. The light was sometimes visible, sometimes not. From Jan’s description, the Arnold property was thick with uncut shrubbery and heavily wooded. That would explain the occasional disappearance of the beam. Finally, there was a flicker and then a kind of soft glow that was almost indiscernible through shifting limbs.
Nick was going to buy that property. Cole Clanton wanted permission to build a replica of the trading post there. Now someone was creeping about in the deep of night. I wanted to know who was there and why.
I tiptoed to the stairs that led down to the B and B’s backyard. As Jan had said, her mother’s garden was well kept. Shaded lanterns illuminated October blooming plants—Indian mallow, Chinese lanterns, goldenrod, and mums. I smelled the sweet scent of autumn clematis as I passed an arbor.
Now I couldn’t see anything next door, my vision blocked by the stockade fence. I reached a heavy iron gate, which stood ajar. I slipped through the opening and was plunged into darkness. Occasional swaths of moonlight appeared through shifting tree limbs to help me stay on a winding dirt path. I heard an occasional, distant pinging noise. I had a quick vision of a war movie, actors hunched in silence in a hunted submarine as an enemy destroyer passed overhead. I shook my head and had a moment of amazement at the long-submerged memories harbored in my brain. This was no time for daydreaming.
I made a wrong turn and lost the path. I had no flashlight. I was plunged into a tangle of greenery, brush encroaching from both sides, vines and tendrils snaking across the path. I felt my way forward, sliding one foot forward, then the other, my hands spread wide like an insect’s antennae to brush aside whip-lashing branches. I tried to move quietly, but the shrubbery rustled. I was thankful that a playful wind rattled leaves somewhere near. The noise of my intrusion could easily be attributed to the wind. I heard an occasional rasp of a still-surviving cicada.
Abruptly, a coyote howled, the shrill wavering sound as shocking as a cross between a wailing banshee and a berserk soprano. The cry seemed to come from behind me. I gave a startled yelp, took a breath, and continued forward. I felt claustrophobic in the intense darkness. I saw a light and veered to my right. I stepped into a moonlit clearing.
There was a sense of movement behind me, but before I could turn, a plastic bag was thrown over my head. My arms were pinned to my sides. I was hefted like a feed sack in a tight, painful grip. I felt an instant of vertigo as I was carried, twisting and struggling, unable to see, enveloped in the plastic, my cries muffled.
Over the sound of my ragged breathing and strangled gasps came the thump of footsteps on wood. Abruptly, I was flung high. I flew through the air to splash into cold water. I flailed frantically and finally freed myself of the plastic sack. I sputtered to the surface. My hand banged against something slimy. It took a heart-wrenching moment for me to realize I was standing waist deep in a fish pond. I flinched as something smooth touched my skin. If my hair hadn’t been plastered to my head, it likely would have stood on end like the needles of a threatened porcupine.
In the distance, the sound of running steps faded to silence.
Shivering, torn between fury and relief, I moved toward the edge of the pond, jerking like a marionette each time I was touched by a fish. I scraped one knee crawling out onto the bank, trying hard not to imagine what might have been lurking in the dried stalks that rimmed the water. At least Oklahoma ponds didn’t run to leeches. At worst, I’d probably been nudged by a catfish.
The wind picked up. I began to shake with cold. I gazed around the clearing. There was no indication, at least not in the moonlight, of what my assailant might have been doing. The gleam of the flashlight was gone. Beyond the pond with its wooden bridge and a screened gazebo rose a three-story frame house, utterly dark.
I was confident an intruder had been in the side yard of the Arnold property. When I’d reached the clearing, I’d been grabbed and thrown into the pond so the intruder could escape.
I shivered and turned back toward the overgrown path. Whatever my attacker had intended, I couldn’t see a connection between the fitful flashlight in the Arnolds’ yard and the shot fired earlier at Nick Magruder.
However, I’d found trouble when I landed at Nick’s house. He’d arranged for me to stay at the Buffalo B & B and I’d found trouble again.
Possibly I’m talented.
Possibly I was a shade too curious for my current earthbound status.
I hurried back toward the B and B, clothes squishing, water oozing from my loafers, thinking about Nick and the property he intended to buy simply to thwart Cole Clanton.
• • •
The sunlight slanting through the window emphasized the shabby state of the clothes I’d draped over the towel rack last night. Now they were stiff, wrinkled, and stained by moss and algae. The rose blouse looked mottled, the sweater was damp, and the slacks sagged. Trust me, I have never in this world or the next ever worn saggy slacks.
My face wrinkled in distaste. I picked up the blouse reluctantly. Perhaps this equivalent of a hair shirt was to remind me that I was currently of the world, not simply in the world. In Heaven, my dress would be perfect. Perhaps I would have chosen a long, sunset-orange linen pullover with a ballet neckline and a tiered cream voile skirt and orange leather heels.
I closed my eyes, pulled on the musty-smelling, stained clothing. I took a moment to walk down the hall and slip a note beneath Nick’s door. The instruction was simple: Stay with Jan.
As a seriously rich young man, he could arrange his day as he wished. I didn’t think he would find my order hard duty. The attack at his house had occurred after dark when he had been ostensibly alone. The shooter had not been aware of my presence because I had not yet appeared. During daylight hours in the company of Jan, he should be safe. If my plans went well today, there should be no more attacks.
I slipped down the stairs and hurried out into the early morning. I hopped on the yellow scooter and wove in and out of morning traffic to a strip shopping mall anchored by Wal-Mart. I was at the door when it opened at 8:00 a.m. Normally, to shop is to live; or, in Heaven, to swirl from one outfit to another is simply another sublime aspect of paradise.
However, this morning I darted from rack to rack, from department to department, in a whirlwind of activity. In twenty-eight minutes, I had assembled a wardrobe, everything from undies to blouses, slacks, skirts, two cardigans and a fleecy jacket, three pairs of shoes and costume jewelry, plus makeup and toiletries, all for less than three hundred dollars.
Returning to the B and B, I hurried upstairs and changed into a bright blue shirt, added oval-shaped turquoise drop earrings and a gold-plated chain-link necklace. Navy slacks and flats completed my outfit. I admired my appearance—truly this could not be said to be vanity; it was simply an expression o
f heartfelt relief—in the framed mirror and whirled toward the door, a new woman. A quick breakfast and Hilda Whitby would be on the case. But first . . .
• • •
The front gate to the Arnold property hung askew, the bottom tension-bar band missing. Shrubbery ran amok on either side of a sidewalk with jagged cracks. I stepped inside the gate, shaded my eyes to study a rambling three-story white-frame house, probably built in the 1920s. The big structure had likely housed a huge family or served as a boarding house. Now, paint peeled, and there was an aura of disrepair and neglect.
I moved toward the front porch with a confident air. As Mama always said, “A dog on his belly won’t get the bone.” I pushed the doorbell, heard a distant chime. The door opened to reveal a bouncy, pert brunette probably in her late forties. I was surprised. Given the dolorous appearance of the house, I expected an occupant more on the order of an undertaker’s assistant. Or a standin for Morticia Addams.
“Mrs. Arnold?”
“That’s me, honey. Call me Claire. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Hilda Whitby, Mr. Magruder’s assistant. He asked me to write up a report on the property. Do you mind if I wander around the yard? He’s thinking about landscaping.”
She glanced at the greenery run amok. “That sounds like a good idea. Tell him he can send in a crew anytime he wants. I got rid of the dogs after Gabe died. Rufus and Wally were great watchdogs, but they always scared me. My brother has a farm, and they don’t mind dogs that don’t let anybody get near the house. Kind of a help when you live out in the country. Please ask Nick not to have the shrubs and trees cut too much. My husband never wanted to trim anything.” Her smile was quick. “Just like his beard. He had a big, bushy brown beard and looked kind of like a hulk, but he was kind as could be. People thought our place was scary because of the dogs, but Rufus and Wally loved Gabe.” She looked around as if seeking a familiar face.
“I’m sure Nick will cooperate.”
Claire smiled. “He’s real nice. Anyway, I never gave Gabe a hard time about the yard. Let it grow, I’d say. When he died, I kept it the way he liked it.” For an instant loss transformed her face with a look of puzzled hurt in her eyes. “But he’s gone, and I’ll have to tell you I can’t wait to sell the place. I don’t like living here by myself. It’s an old, old house and there’s been a lot of misery here.”
“Most old houses hold a lot of stories.”
“You got that right.” Claire nodded agreement. “I agreed to live here because Gabe liked all the stories, even the bad ones. Some of the rooms I hated to go into, but Gabe said nobody could ever call our house boring. Once a gambler owned the place. His old green-felt poker table’s still in the basement. Gabe was always looking for the secret room the gambler was supposed to have built, but he never found it. Anyway, I hope the place can stay the way Gabe liked it. Nick said he wouldn’t trim a whole lot, kind of keep the wild-and-woolly look. There’s a lot of history here. The first trading post was over by that oak.” She pointed to her right. “This was part of the Chickasaw Nation, but settlers were coming in anyway. Ezra Porter built the post around 1888. He was married to a Chickasaw. There are lots of Porters still in town. That’s the only thing I’m kind of disappointed about in selling to Nick Magruder, but we’re going to sign the papers tomorrow. I’d promised to let the Old Timer Days people put up a replica of the trading post, but Nick said that would be a deal breaker. He didn’t want anybody on the land for any reason. Yesterday I had to call the fellow who was going to put up the trading post.”
“Cole Clanton?”
She looked uncomfortable. “He was mighty upset, said I’d promised him. But like I told him, I don’t owe him anything. I put the place up for sale after Gabe died, but I hadn’t even had a looker. I want to go help my sister, who’s real sick. So that’s that. I told Cole a few feet doesn’t make any difference, and he’s thick with Arlene. Maybe she’ll let him put the replica up over there. He said that wouldn’t be authentic. I could have told him history was bunk. Sure, people say the trading post was here, but it could have been a couple of hundred yards either way. But he got excited about Adelaide’s history when he did some stories for the Gazette in August. He got stuff out of the old newspapers, and then Rod Holt joined in. He owns Holt’s Back Shop.”
Arlene had mentioned Rod Holt. “What is Holt’s Back Shop?”
Claire lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Kind of a silly name. It’s an Old West store. Rod means back in time. He carries all kinds of stuff. I’d call it junk, everything from washboards to spurs to leather trunks. He’s helping plan events for Old Timer Days. He’s nutty about old treasures, and he’s going to sell maps that show where Belle Starr buried some loot. Cole wanted to set up a replica of the original trading post here, but he has to stay off this property now.”
She pointed to her right. “Near that oak, you can see a couple of stones jutting up from the ground. Belle was rumored to have visited the trading post several times in the late eighties. One visit came not long after she and her gang boarded a Katy train near Boggy Depot and blew apart a safe to escape with a metal strongbox containing a shipment of Army gold worth almost two hundred thousand dollars. Who knows what those gold pieces would be worth today? People have hunted for that cache for years. Some people think she buried it near the trading post, but there’s an old legend that Ezra helped her bury it near a cistern in what’s now City Park. Rod’s fixed up a bunch of maps on thick paper yellowed to look like parchment. He’s using the old story about the cistern and making lots of maps with directions to Belle’s treasure. Each treasure hunter gets a map keyed to some spot near the ruins of the cistern. It’s kind of a cute idea. Each map has a different little story to account for why she buried the stuff there. After all, the whole idea is probably hokum anyway, so nobody cares if the maps all have different sites. Rod’s going to plant prizes at all the places. That’ll be the biggest draw. Not having the trading post here isn’t that big a deal. Like I told Cole, they’ve got plenty of places to feature, and they can do without this one. Maybe it’s all for the good. Gabe never let anyone step foot on the land.” Again there was a look of loss and pain.
A distant bell chimed. She glanced at her watch. “I got to get on to work in a few minutes, but you feel free to look wherever you want.” Her tired face was lit for an instant by an impish smile. “But no digging!”
As soon as the door closed, I headed down the steps and moved toward the thicket of trees between the Arnold house and the B and B. As near as I could guess, the bobbing flashlight had been near the big oak with the ruins of some old structure, which may or may not have been the original trading post.
Between the oak and a caved-in wishing well, its decorative bucket rusted and fallen to one side, I found a trampled area of still-blooming Indian paintbrush, stems crushed and fluted orange and reddish blossoms broken. Not all of the patch had been crushed, but it was easy to see a zigzag pattern near the center of the grassy area.
I went to the far side of the patch of disturbed grass. Now I stood between the trampled area and the oak tree. To my left was a stagnant pond with a wooden bridge. In the morning sunlight, algae looked thick as a crust. There was nothing to indicate I’d been tossed over the railing to flounder in the muck. I tried not to remember the slimy feel of the algae.
Portions of the B and B’s second-story veranda were visible through the shifting limbs of the trees. Last night I’d seen a flashlight from my room. Mrs. Arnold could wander about her property anytime she wished, so I was confident the late-night visitor was an intruder. I came up to the edge of the trampled grass. The closer view offered nothing new. Someone had walked over portions of the grassy area, but bent stalks and crushed grass appeared to be the only damage. Why sneak onto the lot late at night to walk about in the thick grass mixed with tall-stalked wildflowers? I had no idea, but my dousing in the pond indicated the trespasser was determined to remain unknown.
I had n
o idea why someone had skulked about the area last night, but two men had a definite interest in the property: Nick Magruder and Cole Clanton. As far as I knew, Nick had been safely ensconced at the B and B when the flashlight beam was flitting. I would ask him. It might be interesting as well to ask Cole Clanton about his whereabouts last night.
I stopped long enough at the B and B to call the mayor’s office. “This is Hilda Whitby, reporter for Middle News Press. I’m trying to contact Cole Clanton, director of the Old Timer Days celebration.”
A familiar Oklahoma accent was soft and cheerful. “Mr. Clanton’s office is on the third floor of City Hall. His extension is thirty-eight, but he’s often out making arrangements.” The secretary gave me his cell phone. “The celebration is sponsored by the Mayor’s Office. The mayor will be here this afternoon. She is the proper person to interview for your story. May I schedule an appointment?”
I remembered the mayor from previous encounters. She had all the charm of a warthog but the financial backing of a banker husband, who provided plenty of cash for her campaigns. “My schedule is full today. I’ll be back in touch.” I replaced the receiver. Wiggins would have been pleased that I had resisted the unworthy temptation to promise worldwide attention for Old Timer Days, which, of course, would not be forthcoming.
That is, he would have been pleased if he’d had any inkling of my activities. I suppressed a hot pang of panic. For now, I had nice clothes and a place to stay. What the future held . . .
Sternly, I returned to my to-do list. First, Cole Clanton, then the others who had little fondness for Nick Magruder.
Cole Clanton answered on the first ring. “Hey, Arlene. We can work everything out.” He was trying for charm, but there was a hint of desperation in his voice.
I raised an eyebrow. Obviously the telephone in Cole’s temporary office had caller ID. He saw that the call came from the Majestic Buffalo B & B. Obviously, he’d spoken earlier with Arlene. Last night she’d run from the dining room, carrying with her Nick’s careless revelations about Lisa and Cole.
Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) Page 7