Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  My smile was benign. “You’re not.”

  Chapter 10

  Dee and I sat at Lulu’s counter. In the mirror, she looked aristocratic in a wine-red wool jacket with oversize enamel buttons. As always, her short-cut blonde hair was perfectly coiffed. However, her pointed face was drawn in a worried frown. I checked my reflection. I admired the fit of a pink silk ruffle pullover. The blouse was perfect for the gray and pink plaid skirt I’d chosen. High heels, of course, gray leather with a strap over the instep.

  “All right.” Her tone was crisp, impatient. “We’re here, since you insisted.” She, too, glanced in the mirror, but not with pleasure. “Wiggins feels strongly about emissaries appearing.”

  I’d stayed mum about my plans, hoping a nice breakfast would improve Dee’s attitude. Moreover, in order to eat at Lulu’s, we had to appear. I hoped Dee would find swirling into being easier the more often she became visible. Her stony expression suggested otherwise. I pulled a sheet of paper from my pocket. I’d worked a bit after Dee rolled over in her bunk and fell asleep. I unfolded the sheet, placed it on the counter between us, and tapped it with my forefinger. Hmm. Red polish didn’t complement my lovely blouse. Oh yes, that was much better. I smiled at the new light pink polish.

  Dee didn’t miss the change in shade. She seemed rarely to miss much. Her cool blue eyes weren’t admiring. “Did you spend every waking moment admiring yourself when you were alive?”

  I glanced at her colorless nails. “Scarlet would be an excellent choice.”

  Her cleft chin jutted. “I’ve indulged you. We are having breakfast at what is apparently your spiritual home. You claim to have a plan. What is it?”

  “Dee, it’s a Heaven-sent opportunity.” I tried to sound as if surely this was meant to be. “You left Adelaide after your teenage years. No one will recognize you as an adult. You can talk to people with motives to shoot Cole, such as Lisa and Brian Sanford and Arlene Richey. There may be others as well.”

  Dee stirred steaming grits. “Why would anyone talk to me?”

  I squeezed a dollop of honey on my toast. “Police officers have every right to ask questions.”

  “Of course they can. No one disputes—” She stopped, the spoon midway between the bowl and her mouth. “Exactly what are you proposing?”

  “The Adelaide police have a very flattering uniform, French blue with black stripes down the trouser legs.”

  “No.”

  “Do you want Nick tried for murder?” I regretted the sharp question the minute I’d spoken.

  Dee’s face twisted. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. Heartbreak stared at me. “We might do more harm than good. Surely the police will investigate and find out the truth.”

  “I hope so.” My tone was grave. “Chief Cobb is a fine man.” Possibly Dee was right. Possibly I enjoyed the hunt too much. As Wiggins always warned, emissaries must fight against being too much of the earth.

  However, I didn’t hear the distant whistle of the Rescue Express, which did not augur well for Nick Magruder.

  I felt a sense of urgency. The DA would press Chief Cobb to file charges if the evidence against Nick continued to mount. Even if we managed ultimately to clear Nick, sooner was better than later. Mud sticks. Nick might well want to stay in Adelaide. As a seriously rich young man, he could live wherever he wished, and I thought his wish would be to stay where Jan was.

  Was Nick truly in danger of a murder charge?

  There was only one way to find out. “It’s time to go to Chief Cobb’s office.”

  A gray alligator purse appeared in my lap. I opened the bag and lifted out a matching billfold as I picked up the check. Heaven always provides.

  • • •

  Sam Cobb’s brown suit jacket hung limply from his chair. Folders were strewn across his desk. He stood at an old-fashioned blackboard with a thick stub of chalk in his right hand. I was pleased to see the blackboard. The chief had resisted the mayor’s effort to replace it with a more modern whiteboard and dry-erase markers. The chief knew who he was and where he came from. He’d used chalk as a high school chemistry teacher; he used chalk as police chief. Today his blunt face, domed forehead, strong nose, and square chin looked formidable.

  Although the chief was no artist, I recognized the outline of the gazebo on the blackboard. Steps led up to a horizontal line that represented the floor. Hatch marks indicated the presence of weeping willows at the rear of the structure.

  The chief held a sheet of paper in his left hand. He muttered, “Rifle fired from a distance of approximately five feet.” He marked an arrow and turned toward Detective Sergeant Price, who leaned against the stippled plaster wall. “The shot knocked the victim backward, so Clanton was facing the rear of the gazebo when he was struck. Magruder said the shot came from the willows, which is consistent with the position of the body. Magruder claims he was standing near the entrance to the gazebo and was behind Clanton when he was shot.”

  Price quirked one blond eyebrow. “Why would Clanton turn his back on Magruder? It seems more likely that Magruder was at the back of the gazebo and Clanton faced him. It’s pretty shadowy there near the willows. Maybe Magruder hid the rifle there before they met. That works out to about five feet.”

  Chief Cobb placed an X near the hatch marks. “Magruder was found on his knees next to Clanton, and Magruder was facing the willows.”

  Price waved a dismissive hand. “Magruder’s luck ran out. He planned to beat it before anyone saw him. After Magruder shot the guy, he waited for a couple of seconds to be sure Clanton was dead or dying. Unfortunately for him, Smitty heard the shots when he got out of his patrol car and immediately raised the alarm. Magruder started for the steps, and here came men with lights. Magruder knew he was trapped.” Price’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, he’s standing there and lights are flashing and cops are shouting. Maybe he’s a quick-thinking dude. He uses the tail of his polo to swipe away the fingerprints on the trigger and some of the stock and barrel. He hurries to the body and drops down by Clanton like he’s trying to help the guy. For a little extra, he gives himself a whack on the head and crashes over, wounded hero, the rifle lying next to him.”

  Cobb looked thoughtful. “That would account for his fingerprints on the rifle in odd places.”

  Price pushed away from the wall, reached for a tan folder on a circular table near the blackboard. “We have a half dozen witnesses”—he held up a sheaf of papers—“who say Magruder was hell for leather all over town yesterday looking for Clanton.”

  Chief Cobb placed the chalk in the tray, walked slowly to his desk, and settled in the sturdy, worn leather chair. “Anybody know the reason?”

  Price settled on the corner of the desk. “Nobody seems to know why. Magruder admits he wanted to keep Clanton off the Arnold property, but last night Magruder showed up with an agreement to sell the place to Clanton for one dollar. That doesn’t explain why Magruder was running after Clanton and yelling threats.”

  The chief pulled a folder close, flipped it open. “Something happened yesterday to change the status quo re the property.” He picked up a plastic bag with a single sheet of paper in it. He picked up a pair of reading glasses, pushed them high on his nose, and read aloud: “‘Upon completing purchase of the Arnold property, I, Nicholas Duvall Magruder, agree to sell the land and house to Cole Brewster Clanton for the sum of $1 (one dollar).’ It’s signed by Magruder and dated yesterday. The paper was found in his pocket when he was taken into custody.”

  Price’s eyes gleamed. “I smell blackmail. Magruder stormed all over town breathing fire, but he meets Clanton at the gazebo ready to surrender.”

  Cobb leaned back in his chair. “If Magruder intended to shoot him, why make out the agreement?”

  Price shrugged. “Maybe he used it as bait, flapped the sheet but kept it out of Clanton’s reach until he could grab the rifle and shoot. Magruder never intended to be caught at the gazebo.”

  “Granted.” Chief Cobb pulled out a side
drawer, retrieved a sack of M&M’S. He dribbled candies into his hand, offered the sack to Price.

  Price took a handful and lounged against one end of the chief’s brown leather sofa. He munched, said indistinctly, “Magruder claims a woman was there. Hilda Whitby.”

  The chief pulled a legal pad closer, scrawled Hilda Whitby? in large script.

  Price shook his head. “Whoever she is, she’s not Hilda Whitby from Dallas. We’ve run checks up and down and sideways. No Hilda Whitby in Dallas.”

  Cobb’s heavy face folded in thought. “What’d you find at the B and B?”

  “A woman answering her description checked in Tuesday night. She arrived on a motor scooter belonging to Nick Magruder. It’s still there. We’ve dusted for prints and ditto in the room she occupied. We ran the prints. No matches. All the clothing was new and a bunch of tags and a Wal-Mart sales slip were in the wastebasket. She bought the clothes yesterday morning. Apparently, she claimed her stuff had been stolen.”

  My, how thorough. Of course, I have always had the highest respect for the investigative abilities of the Adelaide police. I hoped Dee was impressed.

  “Kind of like she disappeared.” Cobb’s voice was faintly uneasy.

  “We should be able to find her.” Price spoke a trifle loudly. “She doesn’t have transport. Her purse was in the bedroom.” He frowned. “That was odd. The purse had a billfold with money in it but no ID, no credit cards. The purse was part of the Wal-Mart purchases. No ID, but lots of makeup.”

  The chief frowned. “No ID at all?”

  “Nada.”

  “Kind of like she doesn’t exist.” The chief moved uneasily in his chair, reached for the M&M sack.

  “She exists.” Price spoke flatly. “The B and B owner’s daughter confirmed that she and her mother talked at length with the woman Tuesday night. Whitby claimed to be a private investigator hired by Magruder. Hilda Whitby of SAM Private Enquiries, Limited. No such firm in Dallas. Or in the entire state of Texas.”

  “A redhead.” There was a curious tone in Chief Cobb’s voice.

  Price stiffened. Quick interest flared in his eyes, then slowly died. “No way, Sam. Those other times—”

  The detective was referring to previous visits to Adelaide when it had been essential that I appear. After my first mission, I’d tried hard not to been seen by Detective Sergeant Price. We found each other much too attractive. I was true to Bobby Mac, and Hal Price needed to find an earthly redhead. In my encounters with Chief Cobb, he and I had achieved an unspoken agreement not to delve deeply into the origin of helpful information.

  “—we probably picked up on stuff our subconsciouses knew all along. You know, you tumble to something and you don’t quite know how you made the leap, but it all proves out.”

  Cobb cleared his throat. “Sure. Still, it’s odd how she’s here and then she isn’t here. But,” he continued hastily, “what we have to find out is whether there’s any truth to the tale she spun for Jan Richey and if she was at the gazebo last night.”

  Price shrugged. “But who is she? What does she have to do with Magruder?”

  Cobb leaned back in his chair, eyed the ceiling. “Let’s not worry about who she is or where she is for the moment. The other screwy thing is her telling the Richeys that Magruder hired her to investigate some threats he’d received and that someone had shot at him at his house.” Cobb’s gaze dropped to the desktop. He moved several files, found the one he sought. “Last night before he clammed up and asked for a lawyer, Magruder said Whitby was at his house Tuesday night when someone shot at him.” Cobb lifted the sheet, brought it closer to his face. “Here’s the report. Officers Loeffler and Cain answered the call. They found Magruder alone. He told them somebody shot at him. A window screen was poked out. A slug was embedded in the opposite wall. Loeffler said the whole setup looked phony to him. But he took the slug into evidence.” Cobb looked at Price. “I’ve asked ballistics to take a look. That’s rifle shots two nights in a row. Anyway, Loeffler and Cain said Magruder was there by himself. Last night Magruder said the redhead was there but she’d gone to the B and B before the police arrived and she’d insisted he come to the B and B, too, after the police left. She thought he would be in danger if he remained at the house.”

  Cobb dropped the sheet on the desk. “If Whitby—if that’s her name—was there when someone shot at Magruder, why did she beat it before the officers arrived?”

  Price popped an M&M into his mouth. “She didn’t have ID. She isn’t who she said she was. What are the odds she’s someone else entirely?” Price pushed away from the couch and walked to a table covered with files. “Magruder’s house,” he muttered. “Yeah. Here it is.” He turned to face the chief. “About the time Magruder was locked in a cell, I sent Loeffler and Cain to his house to look for anything that would link him to Clanton. They had a warrant. The front door was open. According to Loeffler’s report, someone was in the house when they arrived. They heard somebody banging on the drums.”

  Cobb looked bank. “Drums?”

  “There’s a big drum set in one corner. The report said the drums were hit several times.”

  Cobb’s heavy brows drew down. “Who’d they find?”

  “Nobody. They went in, ready for trouble. There was noise upstairs. There is only one stairway to the second floor. They went up. Nobody was there. The house had been searched, drawers pulled out, stuff on the floor. They called in help, made a thorough check inside and out.”

  Cobb stared at his detective sergeant. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Except”—Price cleared his throat—“when they first saw the upstairs bedroom, a bunch of clothes were lying on the floor. The second time they looked, some of the clothes had been rehung.”

  Cobb’s expression was sour. “They missed the perp,” he said flatly.

  Price turned his hands over. “They swear nobody came in or out of the place.”

  Cobb looked frustrated. “Two smart cops both heard someone upstairs. They went up. They found a mess and nobody there. Was there any exit from the bedroom where they heard the noise?”

  Price shook his head.

  Cobb growled, “So they hear noise and find a mess but they don’t see anyone.”

  Price was exasperated. “That appears to be the case.”

  “Appears to be the case,” Cobb repeated, his voice heavy. “Just like it appears to be the case that there’s a redhead who’s sometimes here and sometimes not.”

  Price looked stubborn. “They saw evidence of a search. They heard noise. The only explanation is that they somehow missed the perp.”

  Cobb heaved out of his chair and walked with his hands clasped behind his back. “Obviously Nick Magruder wasn’t there. He was locked up in a cell. We had him in hand within minutes after the shooting and retrieved his phone, so he didn’t call a buddy and suggest a search. Besides, why would he search his own house? If he somehow contacted somebody, maybe by ESP”—the chief’s voice was heavy with sarcasm—“he’d give instructions on where to look for whatever he didn’t want found. That washes out Magruder, any way you look at it. But”—Cobb’s eyes narrowed—“Cain and Loeffler would for sure have checked for guns, ammo. Was there anything in the house to show Magruder was a hunter?” He looked inquiringly at Price.

  The detective sergeant was emphatic. “Nothing along that line was found. No ammunition, no gun safe, no guns.”

  Cobb settled again in his desk chair and reached for a notepad. “Cain’s around the same age as Clanton and Magruder. Have him check people he went to school with. It’s important to know if Magruder shoots.”

  “It doesn’t take a lot of skill to hit a man in the upper thigh from five feet.” Price’s tone was mild. He straddled a straight chair by the table.

  “The killer had to know one end of a rifle from another. But the search of Magruder’s place bothers me. Maybe somebody was in the park, saw what happened, and went to the Magruder house to—” Cobb broke off, then said explosively
, “To do what? Search the place? Who was looking for what? What does Magruder’s house have to do with Cole Clanton being shot?” Cobb’s face furrowed. “And what, if anything, does a shot at Magruder’s house Tuesday night and a missing redhead have to do with Cole Clanton’s murder?”

  Price was decisive. “Let’s focus on what we know for sure: Magruder was hot to get his hands on Clanton. Magruder was at the gazebo when Clanton was shot. Magruder’s fingerprints are on the rifle.”

  “Not on the trigger.” Cobb made the observation almost absently. “He checked out okay on the GSR test, no barium or antimony on his hands or his clothing. He could have rubbed his hands on the victim’s trousers. Like you say, if he heard officers coming and managed to wipe most of the fingerprints off the rifle and get his hands clean, he’s one cool-thinking dude.” Cobb moved the open folder aside, pulled a legal pad near. He wrote, pausing occasionally. Finally, he ripped off a sheet. “Here’s what we need to know.”

  Price stood and came to the chief’s desk. He took the sheet.

  I moved to look over Price’s shoulder, bumped into something, knew that Dee had gotten there first. Unfortunately, I recoiled from the slight impact and my hand brushed Price’s shoulder.

  Price jerked his head and craned to see what had touched him. He glanced up at a vent. “I guess you got some funny air currents.” He took a step to one side and read the questions aloud:

  1. What was the quarrel between Magruder and Clanton?

  2. Trace ownership of the rifle.

  3. Can Magruder shoot?

  4. Check to see if slug from Magruder’s wall came from the murder weapon.

  5. Check upstairs bedroom at the Magruder house for fingerprints.

  Price looked puzzled. “Whose fingerprints?”

  “The redhead’s. Check the hangers in the closet.”

  Price opened his mouth, closed it, and continued to read aloud:

  6. Where is Cole Clanton’s iPhone?

  Cobb walked back to his desk, settled in his chair. He picked up the phone, punched an extension. “Cobb here. Where’s the ballistics report on the Clanton case?” He leaned over to turn on the speaker phone.