Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  Cole looked frantically around, seeking the phone.

  Nick’s face was a study in disbelief as the phone sped through the air toward the back of the gazebo.

  Cole made a strangled noise and lunged in pursuit of the phone, which disappeared into the darkness.

  An explosive crack shattered the night silence.

  Cole staggered.

  Another shot rang out.

  Cole gave a cry of pain, clasped one hand to his upper thigh. He wavered, took one unsteady step, then crumpled, blood splashing as he crashed heavily to the gazebo floor.

  Nick shouted and moved toward the fallen man.

  After a stunned instant, I ran toward the gazebo. Distantly I heard a shrill scream and knew it was me.

  Nick knelt beside Cole, reached for his hand.

  Out of the darkness, a rifle spun toward Nick, striking him across the face. Nick lurched to one side, grappling with the weapon. He lost his balance and landed on the floor next to Cole.

  I reached the gazebo as Nick flung the rifle away and rolled to his knees.

  “We have to get help,” I cried. “Call nine-one-one.”

  Nick fumbled with his pocket, drew out the cell. “Did you see who shot him?” He pressed the numbers. “A man shot in the park. The gazebo—” His voice was ragged. “Nick Magruder. Man shot. Send help.”

  The night was suddenly alive with crisscrossing lights. Beams settled on the gazebo. Nick was clearly visible, the lights pinning him in a glare. I was on the other side of Cole, deeper in the shadows. Nick was still on his knees, holding the cell phone. I crouched by Cole, his hand in mine, seeking a pulse.

  Sounds of running feet. Shouts. “Police. Hands up. Police.”

  How could help have come so quickly? Then I understood. We were across the street from the police station. Two shots had been fired and heard. Police knew the sound of gunfire, and they reacted quickly.

  Nick still knelt by Cole. “We have to stop the bleeding.” He peeled off his ratty polo.

  I laid down Cole’s arm. I had found no pulse. One of Cole’s legs jerked. I feared the movement meant little, a final quiver of a dying body.

  Help was coming for Cole, but there was no help for me. In only minutes, I would be asked questions I could not answer and only too quickly the truth would be known. There was no Hilda Whitby from Dallas.

  “Dee!” My shout was desperate.

  Spears of harsh light from the police officers’ Maglites came nearer.

  “Bailey Ruth,” Wiggins’s deep voice commanded. “Come. At once.”

  I disappeared.

  Hilda Whitby was no longer in the gazebo. I gazed down at the fallen man and at Nick, breathing fast, shaking, but keeping the shirt pressed against welling blood.

  “Stand up. Hands above your head.” The shout was brusque, demanding compliance.

  Nick looked over his shoulder. “He’s bleeding. I’m trying to stop it, but the blood keeps coming and coming.” His voice shook.

  Gun in hand, a policewoman warily circled the downed man and Nick as a muscular policeman trained his gun on Nick. “No weapon, Sergeant. I’ll take over until the medics get here.” She approached warily, the gun waggling at Cole to move away. She was on the floor, one hand pressing Nick’s shirt against the wound, the other holding the gun steady on Nick as he slowly stood and lifted his arms. As he pushed up from the floor, his hand left a reddish smear. Blood stained both of his hands and one knee of his jeans.

  Stark white Maglite beams harshly illuminated the interior of the gazebo. The muscular sergeant held his gun in both hands, pointed unwaveringly at Nick. “Got you covered, Officer.”

  Half-blinded by the lights, Nick lowered his arm to shield his eyes.

  “Up, up, up.” The sergeant spoke quickly.

  Nick raised the arm. “He needs help. He’s been shot.”

  “Don’t move, man. Medics are coming.”

  I was poised to push the policeman’s gun away from Nick. Surely he wouldn’t shoot Nick. Every muscle in the officer’s body appeared hair-trigger tight. Of course, it looked to him and the other officers like they’d captured a criminal red-handed.

  Nick glanced up at his hands with a sick expression. “I didn’t shoot him.”

  In two strides, a second officer moved to Nick’s side. He ran his hands over Nick, lightly, quickly. “Unarmed. Stay where you are.”

  The officer kneeling by Cole returned her gun to the holster. Still pressing the bloodied shirt to the wound, she lifted a flaccid arm, touched the wrist. Her face squeezed in concentration. Finally, she spoke. “No detectable pulse. Severe wound to upper thigh, apparently femoral severed, massive blood loss. Second wound to the chest.”

  Sirens shrilled in the street. Running steps sounded. An ambulance drove squarely up the center path.

  “He’s dead?” Nick glanced toward Cole with a look of horror.

  I looked, too, and was swept with regret. Cole had caused trouble, but he had been young and alive and now his time here was over.

  The officer in charge spoke rapidly. “Inform the chief. Apparent homicide in City Park. Rifle near the body. Possible suspect in custody.”

  “Suspect?” Nick’s voice wobbled. “Listen, somebody shot him. Don’t just stand there. You’ve got to find him. The shot came from behind the gazebo.”

  “Handcuffs.” The order was crisp.

  In an instant, Nick’s arms were behind his back, and handcuffs clicked.

  The officer placed his gun in a holster, handed the Maglite to a patrolman. He walked up to Nick. “We’ll be taking you to the station for questioning. You have the right to call a lawyer.”

  “I didn’t shoot him. The shots came from there.” Nick jerked his head toward the dark mass of willows.

  “Hey!” The shout was loud. “I’m press.” A stocky young man about fifteen feet from the gazebo tried to step around a wiry police officer. “I got a right to be here. Press. The Gazette. Albert Harris.”

  “Get back, buddy.” The tall, thin cop barred the way. “I don’t care who you are. You’re interfering with a crime scene.”

  Albert leaned to one side for a better view. “Hey, Nick, what are you doing here? Who’s—?” Albert broke off, stood stiff and still. “My God. Blood . . . That looks like Cole.” He stared, his round face slack with shock. “Nick, did you shoot him?”

  “I didn’t shoot him.” Nick’s voice was strident. “I don’t know who shot him.”

  The officer approached the reporter. “Back up, buddy. You’re in the way.”

  Albert backpedaled a few feet, shouted, “Who shot him? Where are they? Has the killer been arrested? Nick, why’d they handcuff you?”

  The officer glared at Albert. “This is a crime scene. Back off.”

  Under cover of the officer’s gruff command, I heard Wiggins’s sharp whisper. “The Express is coming.”

  I whispered in return. “We can’t leave Nick now.”

  There was a huff of exasperation, then silence. I had no sense that Wiggins was nearby. He had let me remain, but who knew for how long.

  “I want you at least twenty yards from the steps. Keep your mouth shut.” His expression grim, the officer turned away from Albert.

  In the gazebo, a sergeant spoke to Nick. “Name?” He slipped a video camera from his belt loop, turned it on.

  “Nick Magruder.” Nick squinted against the brightness of the Maglites.

  “Address?”

  “Eight nineteen Mulberry.”

  “Mulberry. You the one that called nine-one-one about a shooting Tuesday night?”

  “Yeah. I sure as hell did.” Nick was combative.

  The sergeant’s gaze moved back to the dead man and the rifle lying on the gazebo floor. “Another rifle.” The tone was thoughtful. “Who’s the dead man?”

  Nick glanced at Cole’s body, closed his eyes briefly. He opened them and met the sergeant’s stare with dogged determination. “Cole Clanton. I didn’t shoot him, and you idiots are
standing around and the guy who shot Cole’s in the next county by now.” Nick gazed at the darkness of the willows. “The shot came from there.”

  The sergeant’s stolid face remained unmoved. His voice was terse. “Describe the shooter.”

  “I didn’t see him.” Nick saw disbelief in the tough faces around him. “Listen to me, will you? I was up here with Cole and he turned away from me and moved toward the back of the gazebo. There was a shot and Cole staggered. Then a second shot. Cole fell. I ran to help him. I was looking at Cole, not that way.” He nodded toward the willows. “Then somebody threw the rifle at me.”

  “How’d somebody throw a weapon at you and you didn’t see the person?”

  Nick tried to keep his voice steady. “I was down beside Cole. I was trying to help him.” He looked queasy. “That’s when I got blood on my hands. I was helping him.” His voice shook. “I wasn’t hearing anything or seeing anything. It was like I had roaring in my ears. The gun hit me. I never saw it coming. I kind of fell to one side.” He looked at Cole’s body. “I tried to help him.” His voice was shaky.

  “All right. Edge back a few feet and walk toward the steps.” The sergeant turned to a female officer standing next to him. “Get on protective foot gear. We can’t touch the body until the ME gets here and makes it official, but I want a visual search made of the interior, then record the scene on video. Is crime lab on the way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Listen, I can prove I didn’t shoot him.” Nick talked fast. “I have a witness. She can tell you where the shot came from. She—” He was looking around the gazebo. “Hilda? Hey, Hilda, where are you?”

  Their faces expressionless, the police officers watched Nick.

  Nick gazed back and forth. He tried to move to the steps.

  “Don’t move.”

  Nick looked frustrated, half-scared, half-mad. “She must have panicked and run away.”

  The officer drew out a small pad. “Name.”

  “Hilda Whitby.”

  “Description.”

  “Redhead. About five five. Maybe twenty-five, twenty-six.”

  “Wearing.”

  “Black outfit. Sweater, slacks, shoes.”

  “Relationship.”

  Nick blinked. “She works for me.”

  The sergeant looked around the gazebo, out into the darkness. “At night?”

  “Business.” Nick was uneasy. If he said I was a private detective, that would require explanation.

  It was my turn to blink. Someone shot at Nick and missed, thanks to me. Someone shot at Cole and didn’t miss. Surely the two attacks were connected, but who would try to kill both Nick and Cole?

  “What kind of business?”

  “She was looking into some things for me. She’ll be at the Majestic Buffalo B & B. You can find her. She can tell you I didn’t shoot him. Someone else did.”

  “Sergeant, no woman came out of the gazebo.” An officer stood on the gazebo steps. “We got here right after the shots. We ran across the park. I heard the shots as I was walking to the side entrance of City Hall—”

  The sergeant nodded. City Hall, home to the police department, was directly across the street. The side entrance was about twenty feet from the street. Once across the street and into the park, the officer would reach the main walk in less than a minute.

  A chorus of voices rose. “. . . nobody came away from the gazebo . . . didn’t see anybody . . . only the guy and the victim in the gazebo . . . had a clear view . . .”

  Behind the police, Albert held a cell phone to one ear. He was talking fast.

  I popped near enough to hear.

  “. . . heard shots when I was coming out of the office.” Albert’s voice was high and shaky. “Cole Clanton’s dead. In the gazebo. The cops are holding Nick Magruder. I don’t know what happened. The cops won’t let me get near. Yeah. Well, you’re the crime reporter. I was going to hog the show when I heard all the commotion, but Cole was my friend. I don’t want to do the story. Yeah. I’ll wait for you.” He slid the cell into his pocket and watched the gazebo, but his gaze was strained and his face drawn.

  “All right, people.” The sergeant held up a hand and the cops fell silent. “We’ll sort things out later.” He gestured to the trim policewoman. “Go to the B and B. Find this woman and bring her in.”

  Nick looked relieved. “She can tell you.”

  I felt stricken by guilt. I couldn’t appear and vouch for Nick. Hilda Whitby’s brief moment had passed. Once questions were asked, there would be no refuting the fact that there was no private detective agency of that name in Dallas and no Hilda Whitby.

  I had to do something to help him. We had to do something, Dee and Wiggins and I. Dee surely was nearby, because she had alerted Wiggins to my impending capture. I also felt certain Wiggins was close at hand. He had every intention of seeing me aboard the Rescue Express.

  I looked at Nick, shirtless, his arms pulled behind him, but he appeared more relaxed. He thought it was only a matter of time until he was cleared.

  I had put Nick in a deep and dangerous hole. I couldn’t leave him there.

  Softly, I whistled, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” I hoped Nick would make the connection.

  The park and gazebo hummed with activity. A crime van drove across the grass, parked only feet away from the gazebo.

  My light, soft whistle was, however, clear and distinct.

  The sergeant looked around. “Hey, knock off the whistling.”

  I continued.

  Abruptly, a warm hand touched my cheek. “Shh.”

  “Wiggins!” I was so excited his name came out in a yelp.

  “Unprofessional,” came a hiss close to me.

  “Shut up, Dee.”

  “Ladies,” Wiggins implored.

  “So, hey, wait a minute,” the lieutenant bellowed. “If somebody thinks this is time for a comedy routine, cut it out.”

  I wouldn’t say Wiggins yanked me. Wiggins is always a gentleman. However, I was clutched by one arm and up we zoomed until the gazebo was far beneath us and we hung in the sky against a backdrop of stars.

  “Delilah Delahunt Duvall.” Wiggins spoke her name grimly. “Do not return to the gazebo.”

  I took pleasure that the name so announced was not mine. I recalled a wonderful author, Doreen Tovey, who wrote charming books about life with her Siamese cats. It always seemed that her boy Siamese were, to put it politely, a challenge, and her girl Siamese were well-behaved and prim, often emphasizing in a Siamese wail, “I’m a Good Girl, Am I.” I felt uncannily like a Siamese princess. I would have to ask Wiggins if cats—

  “Bailey Ruth Raeburn.”

  Uh-oh.

  Steel wheels clacked on rails, the rumble coming nearer and nearer. A deep-throated woo-woo-woo, rising and falling, signaled the Rescue Express was en route.

  “Ladies”—there was no warmth in his tone—“when we board—”

  “I can’t leave now.” Dee’s bold voice was determined. “Nick’s in terrible trouble.”

  “Neither can I.” For once Dee and I were in agreement. “Wiggins, we can’t desert Nick. He thinks I will be able to prove he didn’t shoot Cole. The police won’t be able to find me, and they’ll discover there’s no private detective from Dallas named Hilda Whitby. Then they won’t believe a word Nick says.”

  Wiggins was disapproving. “Appearing always leads to problems.”

  “That’s what I told her.” Dee sounded quite proud. Now it was her turn to be a virtuous Siamese princess.

  “I wouldn’t have stayed visible,” my voice was hot, “if I’d been an official emissary, and we all know whose fault that is.”

  “Ladies.” It wasn’t brusque, for Wiggins is never brusque, but his tone definitely brooked no further bickering.

  The smell of coal smoke carried across the sky. The clack of wheels on the rails was loud, the woo-woo of the horn compelling.

  Wiggins made a soft whuff of indecision.

&
nbsp; I had a quick vision of Nick: bony face, stubbled cheeks, sloppy clothes, cocky, seriously rich, good-hearted. “Nick was trying to do good tonight. Wiggins, if ever a man needs help, it’s Nick.”

  “Please don’t send me away.” Dee’s voice was tremulous. “Of course, I shouldn’t have tricked Bailey Ruth, but I knew something awful was going to happen to Nick. McCoy was fractious. When McCoy ducks his head between his knees, trouble’s coming. I was certain you wouldn’t send me—all that nonsense about no contact with family members—but I thought she’d be better than nothing.”

  I was incensed. “Who saved Nick’s life?” Did the woman have no gratitude? Did she appreciate the swirl of panic that had engulfed me when I wasn’t able to disappear? Did she care?

  “That was well done.” Her grudging tone had all the warmth of a polar ice cap.

  “Thank you.” I can drip sarcasm with the best of them. I pictured Katharine Hepburn in Pat and Mike. For good measure, I swirled into a pants suit reminiscent of her style, a gray pinstripe and an orchid silk blouse. I immediately felt much more comfortable. Orchid suede ballerina flats completed my transformation. I might not have been able to see my apparel, but a vibrant sense of good fashion infused me with energy.

  “Stop bickering.” Wiggins’s tone was more hopeful than commanding. Wiggins cleared his throat. “Nonsense?” He was clearly perturbed.

  “Dear fellow,” Dee spoke kindly, “you might let me take a shot at the Precepts. I could update them in a heartbeat.”

  “The Precepts are what they are.” Wiggins is a man who would cling to his country railroad station and Teletype no matter the changes on earth. But I was sure he applauded emissaries who adapted to the mores of the times in which they moved. I was rather proud of my familiarity with cell phones, iPads, iPhones, and the aptly named Web, with its electronic tentacles that enmesh the globe.

  Nick was likely en route to the police station as we chattered. “Perhaps the shots in the gazebo are more relevant than a shot at the Precepts. Wiggins, I can help Nick. Dee’s a hindrance.”