Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  “Sleep . . . Yeah.” He rubbed his face. “Listen, my cat comes in at night and sleeps on my bed. He’ll be at the door waiting for me.”

  Nick’s mind had to be pummeled by anxiety, fear, and disbelief. He’d seen a man die and now found himself a suspect in that death. None of this would ever have occurred to him in his wildest nightmares. Yet he worried about a battle-scarred tomcat waiting for a door to open.

  Dee had said, “. . . but there are those who love him . . .”

  I felt a rush of affection. “We’ll see about Champ. We’ll make sure he’s fed until you’re home again.”

  “Home.” Nick’s voice was hopeless. “Yeah. Well, if I don’t get out, maybe Jan will take him. He’s a great guy. He wants to be talked to, but don’t pick him up. He’s got a bad hip. And maybe when you talk to Jan . . .” He stopped, looked even more discouraged. “But you can’t talk to her. I mean, the cops are hunting for you, Hilda. Plus, if I got it right, it’s against the rules”—he sounded a little puzzled—“to be seen. I guess there’s no way to tell Jan I didn’t shoot Cole. I mean, I hope she knows that, but I’d like for somebody to tell her.”

  Dee was brusque, and I suspected beneath her stern exterior was a heart that cherished romance. “We’ll tell her. Somehow.”

  “Of course we will. Don’t worry about Jan.” Nick needed sleep. Perhaps we could ease his mind at least a little. “Write her a note.”

  He turned his hands over in defeat. “They took everything. My billfold, my cell phone, a pen.”

  “We’ll get . . .” My voice trailed off. Dee and I could speed through walls and doors, but to bring him a sheet of paper and a pen required opening the locked entrance to the cells. “Don’t worry. Dee and I will make sure Jan knows you are all right, and you are going to be all right. We’ll go there first and then we’ll take care of Champ.”

  • • •

  The lower floor of the B and B was dim except for a Tiffany lamp on a hall table. The cream, jade, and crimson art glass added cheer. The last fading notes sounded from the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. It was a quarter to eleven.

  I spoke softly, sure that Dee was nearby. “The police must have already been here. Let’s check upstairs for Jan.”

  All of the bedroom doors were closed. Jan stood at the end of the hall, her hand on a doorknob. She tried to turn the handle. “Mom, unlock the door. The police are gone.” She twisted again. “I know you came in the back way and slipped up the stairs. I have to talk to you.” She shook the knob. “Mom, where were you tonight?”

  “Dee.” My whisper was faint, too soft to be heard over Jan’s entreaties.

  Dee tapped my arm.

  I bent toward the touch, whispered, “Go into Arlene’s room. Find out what’s happening. I’ll wait until Jan goes downstairs, then I’ll appear and talk to her.”

  I waited to see if Jan prevailed. She tried again. The knob didn’t budge. Finally, she turned away from her mother’s door and walked toward the stairway, her round face creased in an anxious frown. She walked heavily down the stairs.

  When the kitchen door closed behind her, I swirled into being. Regretfully, I replaced my elegant pink and gray outfit with the black sweater, slacks, and shoes I’d worn to the gazebo. I consoled myself that the change was temporary. I pushed open the door.

  Jan whirled. “Mo—” Eagerness was replaced with shock. “You! Where have you been? The police are looking for you. You have to call and tell them you’re here. They said you don’t exist, and they wanted me to tell them who you really are. I don’t care who you are.” She sped across the floor, gripped my arm. “They’re holding Nick. They think he shot Cole. They don’t believe you were there. But you went with him. Why didn’t you help him?”

  “Jan, I’m doing my best for Nick. He understands that I can’t appear to talk to the police right now. I’m working undercover. I have every intention of informing the police of the killer’s identity. Nick is innocent, despite what the police think. I was there, and someone shot Cole from the weeping willows behind the gazebo.”

  Sheer terror flickered in her eyes. She whirled away from me, walked to the counter, placed her hands against the rim as if clinging for support.

  I followed, lightly touched her rigid shoulder. “What time did your mother get back here?”

  Jan jerked to face me. “Mom didn’t shoot Cole. I know she didn’t.” She tried to sound confident, but her voice was shaky.

  “The police will find out if she was at the park. She’d be much better advised to contact them and describe what she saw.”

  Jan took a deep breath. “I’ll tell her.”

  I looked into eyes brimming with fear. “Ask your mother if she wants an innocent man to go to prison.”

  “Mother wasn’t there.” It was a prayer.

  I turned and walked to the hall door.

  “Wait.” Jan started after me. “The police want to talk to you.”

  “I’ll contact the police when I have information that clears Nick. If you want to help him, don’t tell anyone I came here.” I pushed through the door. As it closed behind me, I disappeared and flowed back into the kitchen.

  Jan rushed to the telephone, grabbed up the receiver, then slowly replaced it in the holder. “Oh Nick.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “Nick, I don’t know what to do.” She whirled away from the counter, began to pace.

  She wasn’t going to report my return, hoping that her silence would be best for Nick. But she wasn’t afraid only for Nick. Arlene had known that Nick was meeting Cole in the gazebo. Had Arlene been in City Park, too?

  • • •

  Arlene’s bedroom was pure Victoriana. Another time I would have been enthralled by the pine Georgian fireplace and its flowered-tile insert of urns with roses and ferns. A reproduction of a Sargent painting hung above the massive carved mahogany bedstead. A Japanese screen stood in one corner of the room. Filmy muslin edged with lace draped a dressing table, which sat in a bay window framed by dark red velvet drapes. Bric-a-brac decorated several small tables, all with lace cloths.

  I was puzzled. Jan had stood at her mother’s door, asking for entry. Where was Arlene?

  “Dee?” I spoke softly.

  “Over here.” Dee’s reply was equally soft. “She’s in the bathroom. She’s dreadfully upset.”

  The bathroom door creaked. Arlene stepped into the bedroom. Her black silk dressing gown with golden embroidery was lovely, but in the privacy of her chamber, her face revealed shock, despair, and fear, eyes red-rimmed, face bloated from tears, quivering lips. She walked to a rose-patterned chair, fell into it, stared blindly at the drawn window curtains. Slowly she lifted her hands. Her face sank down. Sobs shook her shoulders.

  Was she crying for Cole? Or for herself?

  • • •

  Thankfully, once again I had an emissary’s mobility. Dee and I simply thought, Nick’s house, and we were in the dark living room. I turned on the overhead light and several lamps. The rich chocolate leather sofa and two matching chairs gleamed. Immediately I felt more cheerful. Light is nice.

  A stick rose near the drum set. The stick reached the level of Dee’s face, likely held briefly to a cheek.

  “Dee, he’s going to be all right.”

  The stick slowly descended and lay atop a drum. She cleared her throat. “Let’s see to the cat.”

  I opened the front door. Champ was curled in a ball on the welcome mat. He rose and stretched. When I held the door for him, he strolled inside, tilted his head to look up. Cats can see what people can’t. I bent down and petted him. He rose on his back legs, placed his paws on my leg. “Time for dinner.”

  I started for the kitchen and Champ moved quickly ahead of me.

  Cabinet doors were opening, one after another. “Ah.” A can of cat food rose in the air. A click and the lid was pulled back. A spoon appeared suspended in air. A couple of quick scoops and a blue plastic bowl floated to the floor.

  Champ reached the bowl as
it settled on the floor.

  I opened the refrigerator. I was ready for a snack. “Old pizza. An egg carton.” I picked up the carton. “A week past the sell date.”

  “That will do for breakfast.” Dee clearly had low standards.

  “Possibly for you. I intend to have breakfast at Lulu’s.” I swirled into being. “But the house will suit us admirably as a place to stay.”

  A thunderous knock sounded at the front door. “Police! Open up! Police!”

  I disappeared. “Quick, Dee. I’ll toss things around in the living room. You go upstairs, make it appear someone’s searched the bedrooms.”

  “But why—?”

  “A diversion.” With that, I was in the living room pulling out the couch cushions, flinging them to the floor.

  The shouts continued. “Police! Open up! We’re armed!”

  “Something’s going on in there, Sergeant.”

  An officer must have been at one of the porch windows, peering inside.

  I took a stack of magazines, flung them toward the ceiling.

  “Johnny, somebody’s tossing stuff around.” A strained pause. “I don’t see anybody.”

  I swooped by the drum set, picked up the sticks, thumped with vigor, then tossed one to my right and the other to my left. They swooped, then dropped and clattered on the wooden floor.

  From upstairs came thumps and bangs.

  The front door banged open.

  I sped to the desk, pulled out the side drawers, upended them, then yanked at the central drawer.

  No one had yet sprung through the door. Likely, the officers were viewing at a slant, being careful not to provide a target.

  A distinct rattle sounded as the central drawer slid out at my jerk.

  I froze.

  A half dozen rifle cartridges rolled toward me.

  The cartridges had not been in this almost-empty drawer Tuesday night. Nick had not been at the house since Tuesday night except to feed Champ. In fact, he’d spent most of the day slamming around Adelaide in search of Cole. The police would easily discover the reason for his anger at Cole. If the cartridges fit the murder weapon, it would be another link to Nick.

  I grabbed them. I wasn’t visible, so I had no pockets. The cartridges hung in the air above the desk as the police officers stormed inside, guns drawn, heads swiveling, looking, checking. One I knew—handsome, dark-haired Johnny Cain. The other was muscular and heavyset with a pugnacious face.

  I zoomed up to the ceiling. If either man looked up, they would see the cartridges.

  I’d thought myself clever to create a scene of chaos to suggest forces at work while Nick was in jail. Indeed, there had been a force at work. A killer had, at some point, either before or after shooting Cole, brought the cartridges and left them here to incriminate Nick.

  A hollow boom sounded upstairs. Dee apparently was getting into the spirit of our project.

  The burly cop jerked his head toward the stairs. As he ran past, I saw his name tag: Officer E. Loeffler. He started up the treads, moving with his back to the wall, one step at a time, gun held steady in both hands. Johnny followed, gun ready. Johnny edged from step to step with his back to the railing.

  Safe from their observation, I reached the front door and hurried outside. Zooming high above the clearing, I spotted a faint glimmer in the moonlight. I sped over a patch of trees. Not far below gleamed a farm pond. With enormous relief, I reached the center of the pond and dropped the bullets one by one.

  Now unconstrained by physical objects, I landed immediately in the upper hall of Nick’s house. Officer Loeffler was in a half crouch, facing a slightly ajar bedroom door. Johnny stood at an angle in a similar crouch.

  “Police.” Loeffler’s shout was grim, threatening. “Come out with your hands up.”

  The only answer was another bang.

  “Now.” Loeffler launched himself against the partially opened door. The panel crashed back against the wall. Loeffler and Johnny plunged into the bedroom, then, slowly, they rose from their attack stance and looked around. The mattress was half off the bed. Dresser drawers stood open, the contents strewn on the floor. The wide-open closet door revealed not a threatening figure but jumbled piles of clothing.

  I popped downstairs, banged the front door.

  The officers came pounding downstairs. Again they were cautious as they reached the door, which I had left open. Loeffler stepped near, risked a quick glance outside. He straightened. “I don’t see anybody. Let’s douse the lights, go out the back way, and circle around.”

  I returned to Nick’s room. A dresser drawer closed. The floor was clear. In the closet, a shirt rose from the floor, was slipped onto a hanger. I leaned against the jamb. “Tidying up?”

  “I can’t abide a mess.” A pair of slacks was slipped on a hanger.

  I gave a soft laugh. “Let them work that out when they come back.”

  After a moment’s pause, Dee laughed, too. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I wasn’t amused long. Nick’s desk was no laughing matter. “Someone put cartridges—I’m sure they’ll fit the rifle that killed Cole—in Nick’s desk drawer. I got rid of them. The bullets were not in the drawer when I arrived Tuesday night. We know Nick didn’t shoot Cole and that he never had the rifle in his possession.”

  A hanger hung motionless next to a shirt dangling from the collar. “The bullets were planted.”

  “Yes.” The conclusion was inescapable.

  “The police came to search Nick’s house.” Dee’s tone was thoughtful.

  What a near thing it had been. Nick hadn’t forgotten Champ waiting at home, so we came here. “If the police had found the bullets, it would be another link to Cole’s murder.”

  The shirt was slowly hung, the hanger returned to the rod.

  Downstairs a door banged. “They’re back.”

  “I gathered.” Dee’s tone was dry.

  Outside a siren squalled. And another. I looked out the bedroom window, sensed Dee beside me. Police spilled out of several cars. Two teams started circling the house in opposite directions.

  “Rather busy here. We need a place to stay.”

  “I know a bunkhouse not too far away.” Dee’s voice was eager. “Dusty Road Stables. If there’s no show this weekend, the place will be empty.”

  • • •

  I looked down at three dark barns and several corrals. A light came on in a structure near one of the corrals. I joined Dee inside a double-wide trailer fixed up with a half dozen bunks, a bath, and a galley. “Nice.”

  The door of the small refrigerator opened. An ice tray arched to a counter. A cupboard door swung out. Two tall green plastic tumblers plunked onto the counter. Ice cubes popped. The water faucet hissed.

  I swirled into being.

  A disapproving huff. “Why are you appearing?”

  I smoothed the expensive material of my slacks. “Unseen clothes don’t afford nearly as much pleasure.”

  “Vanity. All is vanity.”

  “Shall we balance vanity with pompous adherence to pointless prohibitions? There’s no one to see you but me.”

  A glass approached me.

  I wondered if I was going to have a face full of ice water shortly.

  The glass went down, remained motionless for an instant, then slowly came toward me. I accepted with pleasure, drank long and thirstily. “I can talk better if I can see you.”

  The deep voice was cool. “It seems to me you talk quite well enough.”

  “Don’t be small-spirited.”

  A riffle of laughter. “You’re not quite the ass I took you for.”

  “If that’s a compliment, it seems unfortunately phrased.”

  “Oh well, in for a penny . . . and I spent many happy hours here when I was a girl. . . .” She swirled into being, her Marlene Dietrich blonde hair a perfect foil for ice-blue eyes, a pointed chin with a distinctive cleft, a long, thin nose. She was immaculately attired in a crisp white blouse, cream jodhpurs, high tan leathe
r boots. A riding crop appeared in her slender hand. She waggled it experimentally. “Feels good. If only McCoy were here.”

  I looked at her in alarm. “Don’t even think about it.” Bunking with Dee was one thing, but McCoy was quite another.

  A slight smile touched her thin lips. “He’s in the last stall on the right in the barn.” She glanced toward the trailer door. “Perhaps early tomorrow before anyone stirs, I might ride.”

  “We have plenty to do tomorrow.” I gestured toward a sofa, sank onto a wooden chair.

  Abruptly, remembrance drew down the corners of her mouth. She flung herself down on the small plaid sofa, crossed her slender legs, tapped the end of the crop against one shiny boot. “That business about the bullets. You see the implications.”

  I did indeed. I ticked them off, one at a time. “Nick was set up to take the blame from the get-go. The murder occurred at the gazebo because Nick was meeting Cole and had broadcast his anger at him all over town. Someone with reason to kill Cole was aware of Nick’s search for him.”

  “I wonder”—her tone was dry—“if anyone in town didn’t know.”

  I understood Dee’s frustration. There didn’t seem any point in trying to seek out witnesses of Nick’s highly vociferous search for Cole yesterday. The murderer hadn’t necessarily personally observed Nick’s angry stops. Word-of-mouth had carried the tale all across town.

  I sipped the wonderfully refreshing water. “We must figure out who wanted Cole dead. We have to find out everything possible about him. His enemies, his presumed friends, even acquaintances. Someone will have the information we need.”

  Dee looked puzzled. “How?”

  I spoke with confidence. “A little conversation here, a little conversation there. It’s amazing what can be discovered, especially when questions are backed up by authority.”

  “Your private-eye gig?” She shook her head. “You can’t ride that horse. You’re a wanted woman.”