Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  “Just a moment, sir.” Papers crackled. “We have a good match between the bullets in the cadaver and the forty-four Winchester rifle.”

  Neither Cobb nor his detective sergeant changed expression. The information confirmed what they had expected.

  Cobb leaned back, and the old leather chair squeaked. “Did you run the check to compare the slug from the Magruder house?”

  “Yes, sir.” The voice was bright. “Another perfect match.”

  Cobb jolted upright. “Are you telling me the bullet that went into the wall of Nick Magruder’s house and was taken into evidence Tuesday night came from the Winchester that killed Cole Clanton?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cobb’s heavy face wrinkled in thought. “Send up the report.” He replaced the receiver, looked at Price. “Explain that one.” The chief shook his head in puzzlement.

  Price pursed his lips, finally said, “I like simple. Simple almost always gets you where you want to go. Loeffler thought the shot in the wall was a setup. He knew all about the push and shove going on between Magruder and Clanton about the Arnold place. Loeffler thought Magruder intended to accuse Clanton of shooting at him to make Clanton look bad around town. A lot of people thought Magruder was a horse’s ass to muscle the Arnold property away from Clanton. If Loeffler’s right, Magruder poked out a screen, shot a hole in his wall, called the cops. The next day he took the rifle to the gazebo to hide it. It isn’t likely Clanton would have stood like a shooting gallery pigeon if Magruder waltzed up with a gun that night. The two men met, Magruder retrieved the rifle and shot Clanton.”

  I felt utterly thwarted. I knew without question that Nick had nothing to do with the shot at his house Tuesday night.

  The chief pulled another folder near, riffled through several pages. “Here’s the report from the interview with Jan Richey last night. She insisted the redhead was at Magruder’s place when the shooting occurred and, in fact, pushed Magruder out of the way.”

  I felt a welling of relief. Chief Cobb was always thorough. Surely this information proved that Nick had no connection to the murder weapon.

  Price’s expression was skeptical. “I want to hear it from the redhead. She could have said anything to the Richey woman. After all, Whitby claimed to be a private detective hired by Magruder, and we know that’s probably a lie. And neither Magruder nor the redhead sidekick said a word about a shooting when Jan Richey came to his house.”

  A hand groped near me, touching my wrist. Making contact, long, slim fingers tightened against my wrist, pulling me forward. A faint whisper sounded near my cheek. “Your fabrications have put Nick in grave danger.”

  I whispered back, “Nick’s temper didn’t help. Hush for now. I have some ideas.”

  The chief gazed up toward the ceiling. “Do you hear that?”

  The detective sergeant slowly nodded. “Sounded like people whispering.” He looked again at the air vent.

  I placed a horizontal finger on Dee’s face. The cautionary finger missed her lips and landed on her cheek but surely she got the point. Then I moved to the ceiling and rattled the handle of the air vent.

  Price looked relieved. “Yeah. Air currents.”

  Chief Cobb shook his head, like an old dog coming out of water. “Right. Air vent. And I get what you’re saying about the rifle. But Nick Magruder’s apparently a pretty smart guy. How stupid would he have to be to fake a shooting, call the cops and see the slug taken out of the wall for evidence, and use the same gun the next night to blow Clanton away?”

  Price’s smile was cool. “Cocky guy from what everybody says. Goes around telling people he’s ‘seriously rich.’ The really rich think they’re smarter than everybody else. No other weapons were found at his house after he was arrested, so apparently he had only one rifle. He shot the wall at his place Tuesday night. The next day he hid the rifle at the gazebo after he set up with meeting with Clanton. He had everything planned. The gazebo’s remote, right in the heart of the park. He thought he could shoot Clanton and get the hell away before anybody saw him. Maybe he planned to toss the rifle in the lake. Magruder didn’t intend to be caught in the gazebo. He intended to shoot Clanton and melt into the night. Maybe he had no idea the police station was across the street. Even if he knew, he probably didn’t think the shots would bring anyone as soon as they did. He never counted on our officers immediately taking command of the grassy area in front of the gazebo.” Price’s expression was satisfied. “Served him right. All he could do then was hope nobody checked the slug taken from his wall with the murder weapon. He hoped wrong.”

  Chief Cobb slowly nodded. “That could be what happened. Or maybe Magruder’s telling the truth. Maybe X shot at him Tuesday night and X showed up in the willows behind the gazebo Wednesday night and shot Clanton.”

  Price folded his arms. “Do you think somebody had a motive to shoot both Magruder and Clanton?”

  Chief Cobb cleared his throat. “It doesn’t sound reasonable. Murder, like you say, is usually simple. We know Magruder was furious with Clanton. We’ll find out why. We have enough evidence for the DA to bring a murder charge.”

  Suddenly the stack of folders on the chief’s desk slid to the front, toppled over the edge. Papers fluttered toward the floor.

  Chief Cobb watched with an expression of bemusement.

  I darted down toward the desk, bumped into Dee, who made a whiffing sound.

  I grabbed her arm and tugged.

  She resisted.

  I yanked and though I expected she was much stronger than I from her years of controlling McCoy, suddenly she yielded. We sped up and through the ceiling and the third floor to the roof.

  “Let’s sit on the parapet.” I tried hard not to sound chiding. “Perhaps we can calmly discuss our situation.”

  “Precept Five.” Her deep voice was morose.

  I reached out, found her arm, gave it a gentle pat. Obviously she knew that scattering the chief’s folders in a fit of pique was a contradiction of Precept Five: “Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.”

  “These things happen.” I was once again the virtuous Siamese princess. At least, in this particular incident.

  “With alarming frequency.” Wiggins was equally morose.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Wiggins.” Dee spoke hastily. “But those men are dolts.” Dee’s voice rose in outrage. “How can they possibly think Nick would shoot anyone? Why, any fool can take one look at Nick and see what a lamb he is.”

  Wiggins sighed. “Possibly a bit callow.”

  I forbore to point out that the chief and the detective sergeant might think seriously rich Nick arrogant enough to believe that whatever he wanted he should have, no matter the cost. However, we had to face facts. “How can the police not think he shot Cole? Officers arrived on the scene within a minute, and there was Nick with the murder weapon and blood on his hands and clothes. In fact, as the chief said, they have all the evidence they need. Don’t you see what that means?”

  Dee’s voice shook. “They’re wrong!”

  Wiggins cleared his throat. “A hopeless situation?”

  “Of course not. An emissary from the Department of Good Intentions never flags or fails until an assignment is completed with honor.” I could almost hear a bugle tattoo in the distance. As Mama always advised, “Tell a man what he wants to hear and he will bow every time.” Not, of course, that I would take advantage of Wiggins’s good heart, but I had to forestall his instinct to shepherd Dee and me aboard the Rescue Express.

  “However, the meaning is absolutely clear.” I spoke in a somber tone. “The official investigation will now be focused on rounding up more evidence against Nick.”

  Dee gripped my arm. “What are you saying?”

  “If Nick is to be saved, it is up to us to save him.”

  There was a strangled sound of dismay a little to my left.

  I turned in that direction. “Wiggins, Dee and I will right this wrong, prevent a
travesty of justice, bring honor to the department.”

  “Honor!” There was a definite hint of despair in the pronouncement. “Precepts One, Three, Four, and Five flouted, disregarded, abandoned.”

  Dee spoke, her voice ragged with tears. “Wiggins, he’s such a dear boy.”

  If anything pleased Wiggins more than devotion to the department, it was evidence of a good heart and now, clearly, a grieving heart.

  “Oh well,” he said in a rush, “do your best, ladies. Of course, you must make every effort to see justice done. But mind now, follow the Precepts!” The last was scarcely audible.

  I waited several seconds to be sure he was gone, then heaved a sigh of relief. “I thought he’d yank us on the Express sure as shooting.”

  Dee cleared her throat. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a fine command of—” She broke off.

  “Bull?” Mama always urged delicacy in language. “I learned it when I was a secretary at the Chamber of Commerce.”

  She managed a laugh, which ended abruptly. “All right. We’re still here. What do we do next?” I imagined an elegant hand gesturing at the gritty rooftop.

  “We visit the scene of the crime.”

  Chapter 11

  Yellow police tape fluttered from poles that marked a rectangle enclosing the gazebo. More tape blocked the entrance.

  I stood near the dark splotches that marked the site of Cole Clanton’s death. “When you yanked the cell phone away, Cole turned to try to grab it. That’s when someone shot him. Dee, you must have been right above the willows.”

  “I was way up high.” Her tone was regretful. “When I heard the shots, I thought perhaps Cole had a gun and was shooting in the direction of the cell phone. I’ll admit that wasn’t sensible, but everything happened quickly, and I was determined to get rid of the cell. I went straight to the center of the lake and dropped the phone, then came back. You and Nick were trying to help Cole, and the police were converging. I realized that you might be placed in an awkward position”—her voice was smooth as butter—“so I promptly sent out an urgent message for Wiggins.” A virtuous Siamese princess had nothing on Dee for putting the best face possible on her earlier lack of interest in my being stuck in the world.

  My mouth opened, then closed. This was no time to let Dee know just how reprehensible I found her callous disregard for my limboed state. Right now, as Wiggins had made clear, we would have to cooperate. I kept on point. “Did you see anything down in the willows?”

  “No.” Her tone was regretful. “I may have heard a rustle.”

  “Let’s see if we can find any trace of the shooter.”

  “The police have already looked.” She was dismissive.

  I was sharp. “How hard did they look? Their focus is on the interior of the gazebo and Nick. I’ll start at one end, you start at the other. Look for any evidence someone pushed through the willows.”

  In the patch directly behind the gazebo, the willow branches parted. “Look”—Dee’s voice was excited—“these are broken. The shooter may have stood here.”

  I agreed. We might be convinced, but there was no way to prove the willow had been disturbed last night. “The strands could have been broken at any time.” I eyed the gazebo railing. It was the right height for a rifle to be propped. “We’ll ask the chief to test the railing for gunpowder residue.”

  “Really?” she drawled. “When we next have a tête-à-tête with him? Perhaps over a cup of coffee? We could meet him at Starbucks.”

  “Don’t be offensive. I have my methods.” But I spoke absently. “We have to explain the rifle. It definitely was used to shoot at Nick. Did the person who shot at Nick Tuesday night kill Cole Wednesday night? Who would want to shoot both of them? But if Cole’s murderer also wanted Nick dead, Nick could easily have been shot at the gazebo.”

  Dee drew in a breath, realizing that Nick could now have been dead if that had been the murderer’s intention. “Nick wasn’t hurt last night.” Her voice trembled. “Think back, Bailey Ruth. You were at Nick’s Tuesday night. Was the shot simply to scare him, or would it have struck him?”

  I remembered the location of the slug in the wall. “The shot would definitely have struck him if I hadn’t pushed him out of the way.”

  Dee gripped my arm, her fingers painfully tight. “Nick may still be in danger.”

  “Not as long as he’s in jail.” I thought for a moment. “Here are the possibilities. One: The murderer shot at both Nick and Cole. Two: The shot Tuesday night was fired by another person, but Cole’s murderer obtained the rifle on Wednesday. Three: The murderer fired twice last night. One of the shots may have missed Nick. We have to look for someone with a motive to shoot both Cole and Nick or discover how Cole’s murderer obtained the rifle from the person who shot at Nick. That argues a close connection between Cole and his murderer.” My thoughts raced. Abruptly, I was certain of the identity of Nick’s attacker. “Dee, it was Cole.”

  “What do you mean, ‘it was Cole’?” Her exasperation was obvious. “Your inability to engage in a coherent exchange of information doesn’t bode well for our progress.”

  “The rifle belonged to Cole. Don’t you see?”

  “Not even through a glass darkly.” Her tone was acidulous. “That makes no sense.”

  “Here’s what happened.” To me, the solution was obvious. “Cole had a rifle and he shot at Nick. Wednesday morning he confided in someone, or someone heard about the attack and knew Cole was likely responsible. That person took the weapon from Cole’s apartment. The murderer”—I was triumphant—“saw the opportunity to kill Cole and have Nick be blamed. Everything hinges on the rifle. This was a well-thought-out crime. There was no snatching up of a weapon and murder on impulse. The killer came here prepared to shoot Cole.”

  “There’s a good deal of creative imagining in your reconstruction but”—she admitted—“you may be correct. If”—a good deal of emphasis on the conditional—“your guess—”

  I wasn’t guessing. I was reasoning with the elan of a high school English teacher who entranced even football players by offering hearty dollops of Hemingway and Fitzgerald. However, vainglory does not become an emissary, so I modestly refrained from commenting.

  “—is right, we have to find out who knew Cole well enough to obtain the rifle. I can”—her tone was grudging—“almost see how the murderer came into possession of the rifle, but that doesn’t explain how the murderer knew Cole was meeting Nick at the gazebo. That’s the stumbling block.”

  “Not at all.” I was a trifle acerbic. My good humor stretched only so far. “Once in possession of the rifle, the murderer decided to shoot Cole and have Nick be blamed. There are several possibilities: Cole told the killer of the scheduled meeting with Nick; the killer followed Cole here. Nick told the person with the rifle about the meeting. Or Nick was followed. Almost everyone in town knew he was hunting for Cole.” I felt saddened, but a definite possibility had to be faced. “Jan Richey left a message on her mother’s cell, telling her Nick was meeting Cole at the gazebo. If Cole had a rifle in his apartment, Arlene would know. Tuesday night, Arlene learned someone had shot at Nick. She also learned Cole was cheating on her.”

  “She probably had a key to Cole’s apartment.” Dee was thoughtful. “They clearly were lovers, and almost certainly she would not have met him at the B and B.”

  I felt a burst of optimism. “We’ll follow up each possibility, starting with Arlene.”

  Instead of quick agreement, there was silence.

  “Dee?”

  “That approach is much too fragmented.” She spoke with great authority.

  I bristled. “How many murder investigations have you conducted?”

  “It’s a matter of taking jumps in proper order. For example, why was Cole Clanton shot last night? What made his murder essential at that particular time? Moreover, you have overlooked the most basic question.” A supercilious Siamese princess now. “Who wanted Cole Clanton dead?”

&nbs
p; “I’ve already jumped that fence.” I wasn’t even a Sunday rider, but if she wanted horse lingo, I would oblige. I ticked off the names. “The possibilities include Arlene Richey, Lisa Sanford, and Brian Sanford. Moreover, all of them knew Cole well and can give us other leads. I can’t interrogate them as Officer Loy. They know me as Hilda Whitby, private eye. That’s where you come in. If you are wearing an Adelaide police uniform, you can ask every question we need answered.”

  No response.

  I felt that I could almost reach out and grab a great big lump of disapproval. Dee’s aura was obviously flashing red. If I had the equivalent of a seismic reading that registered reluctance, the lines would be jagged.

  A silence, then a sigh of resignation. “Possibly that may be necessary.”

  I refrained from a shout of delight. Now we could get busy.

  “However”—the word was slapped down like a knight’s truncheon on a Viking’s helmet—“I have to know more about Cole Clanton. You can’t ride a horse if you don’t know which way he will jump. Let me see, they would have his address in those papers at the police station. . . .”

  “Dee—” I broke off.

  She was gone. Delilah Delahunt Duvall was willful, determined, and exasperating, but she had the upper hand. I’d spoken with Arlene, Lisa, and Brian as Hilda Whitby. I could not appear as Officer Loy. I was tempted to let Dee pursue whatever avenue she chose and go my own way, except I needed her.

  Where Dee went, I must go.

  • • •

  Chief Cobb poked a French fry into ketchup mounded on the foil paper from his hamburger. Seated at the round table not far from the chalkboard, he read as he ate. I peered over his shoulder. An autopsy report. No surprises there. He flipped to a report from Officer W. Dugan: “Witnesses report that throughout Wednesday Nick Magruder was overheard to demand knowledge about the whereabouts of Cole Clanton and that Magruder was visibly angry. See Appendix II for printout of taped interviews, n.b. Rod Holt, proprietor of Holt’s Back Shop.”