Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  “Aunt Dee, I can’t take a lot of comfort there.”

  “Nick.” She sounded stern, even in a whisper. “Remember that on your mother’s side you are a Delahunt.”

  Did I hear the distant sound of bagpipes?

  “There is that.” His grin was twisted, but it was a grin.

  I admire wry courage. The threat of county jail might have proven the last demoralizing straw. I would have liked to have given him a hug, but I doubted he would be pleased.

  As it was, we’d tarried long enough. “Dee.” I scarcely made a sound, but I knew she was attentive. “Meet me at Nick’s house.” I moved close enough to lightly whisper near Nick’s ear. “Don’t despair. With Dee and me on the case, you have nothing to fear. We’re leaving now.”

  I would like to report that his mood immediately lightened. Honesty compels me to admit that the only expression on his face was relief at our departure.

  • • •

  A sharp meow sounded from the porch.

  Champ knew Dee and I were in Nick’s living room even though we’d arrived unseen. Cats, dogs, and children look with eyes that fathom more of the universe than most adults ever realize.

  I opened the door. The big orange tabby twined around my ankles, and I bent to lift him to my shoulder, taking care not to hold him gently. “You’ve been in a sunny patch.” His warm fur smelled of fresh earth. His purr was deep in his throat. At the sound of a snapped-open lid, he twisted free and loped toward the kitchen.

  In a moment, two glasses moved through the air.

  I took one and drank fizzy cold Coke. “Champion thanks you and so do I.”

  Her glass was lifted. “Better than cat food.”

  “Unless you’re a cat.”

  Nick’s sunny living room was a cheerful contrast to Cole’s apartment. The drumsticks lay on the floor where I’d flung them as the police arrived.

  Dee’s glass settled on a nearby table. The sticks rose in the air. A blues shuffle beat sounded, the sticks flicking between snare and bass drums. Why, it was perfect for “Stormy Weather.” I belted out the lyrics. As I finished, she concluded with a rattling finale.

  “Very nice.” I always give credit where credit is due.

  “Thank you.” The sticks were replaced. “All right, we’ve had a break. Now we need to canvass the apartment house.”

  I swirled into being. I needed a lift from the gritty atmosphere of the jail. I chose a V-necked tee in a soft violet, fine black corduroy jeans with a paisley scarf instead of a belt, and pebbled black leather ankle boots. I sighed happily, drank half the Coke, put the glass on the desk, and found the phone book.

  “Can you breathe in those jeans?” Dee’s tone was bland.

  Some questions do not deserve a response. “An advantage of your police uniform is that it comes with equipment. If you’ll pop here, I’ll use your phone.” I smiled brightly and held out my hand.

  Dee gave an irritated huff, but colors swirled and French blue appeared. “I don’t suppose it does any harm to be visible here.” She unclipped the cell, handed it to me.

  I flipped pages, found the number. The phone was answered on the fifth ring. “La Hacienda.”

  “I’m supposed to drop something by for Bill Magruder. What hours does he work?”

  “Five to ten tonight, eleven to three tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up the phone.

  “What do you intend to take to Bill?”

  “Nothing. Bill works at La Hacienda—”

  “Are you hungry for Mexican food?”

  “Always, but a visit there will combine pleasure with business. Nick said Bill was friendly with Cole. He may be able to tell us about Cole’s sudden passion for the history of Adelaide.” I settled in Nick’s chair, opened the center desk drawer to search for paper. I settled finally for a plumber’s bill that I flipped over.

  Officer H. Augusta perched at one end of the desk. Despite the perfect fit and crispness of the uniform, Dee seemed diminished. She was as imperious as always, but her eyes were shadowed and there was a droop to her shoulders. She looked at me soberly. “I’m afraid for Nick, terribly afraid.”

  “Dee, this morning I went to the cemetery.” I quoted the inscription, “‘The acts of this life are the destiny of the next.’ I asked myself what actions by Cole or by others led to Cole’s death at the gazebo. Here is what we know.” I wrote on the back of the plumber’s bill:

  1. Cole worked on the Gazette until he took leave to head up the Old Timer Days celebration.

  2. Cole was not known to have great interest in Oklahoma history, yet he orchestrated a celebration recreating the early days of Adelaide’s settlement. What caused this transformation?

  3. Cole worked closely with Rod Holt of the Back Shop.

  4. Cole received permission from Claire Arnold to set up a replica of the original trading post on the Arnold property.

  5. Out of spite, Nick arranged to buy the Arnold land on the condition Cole not be permitted to erect the trading post.

  6. Tuesday morning Claire informed Cole he could no longer gain access to the property.

  I stopped and marked two big Xs next to number six. “Claire informed Cole Tuesday morning that he couldn’t come on the property. That night Cole shot at Nick. Nick and I went to the Buffalo B & B, which is next door to the Arnold property. Late that night I saw lights next door. Since I was concerned about Nick’s safety, I decided to investigate. The Arnold property was overgrown with vines and downed branches on the path. I caught glimpses of a light—I think it was a flashlight—and I heard an occasional pinging sound. The light disappeared. I lost my way and went off the path, and then a coyote howled and I started running. Suddenly I was wrapped in a plastic trash bag, picked up, carried to a wooden bridge and thrown into a pond.” My nose wrinkled. “A nasty, scummy pond.”

  Dee folded her arms.

  I admired the Adelaide police insignia, a shield with the Latin inscription Magna est veritas et praevalebit. If only we could make truth prevail for Nick.

  Dee looked at me quizzically. “I fail to connect your introduction to pond scum with shots at Nick and Cole’s murder.”

  I wrote on the sheet:

  7. Cole was willing to commit murder to place a replica of the original trading post on the Arnold property.

  Dee tapped number seven. “Isn’t commit murder too strong an interpretation of the attack on Nick?”

  I remembered the thunder of the shot. “If I hadn’t been here, Nick would be dead.”

  She pursed her lips. “You have a talent for the dramatic.”

  I pushed up from the chair and walked to the wall. “Come here, please.”

  Dee joined me.

  “Stand there.” I pointed at the spot in front of the bookcase where Nick had been. The remnants of the broken vase still remained on the top surface and the floor. “You are about the same height as Nick. Look at the wall.”

  Dee studied the pocked wall. “I see.” She turned away, a sick expression in her eyes. “All to gain access to an overgrown piece of land.”

  “And replicate the original trading post.”

  “That is a motive for murder?” Dee was incredulous.

  “To build a trading post would require moving materials onto the land. Putting in the foundation would require digging.” I wrote swiftly:

  8. Rod Holt arranged for treasure digs in City Park. Digging on the Arnold property while building a trading post wouldn’t attract attention. Rod Holt has created as many as twenty treasure maps. The maps carry the legend Belle’s Treasure.

  I scored three heavy lines beneath Belle’s Treasure.

  Dee’s face curled in utter derision. “G’wan.” Her heavy cockney accent would have done justice to Eliza Doolittle. The put-down was inelegant but emphatic. “Buried gold? I can’t believe you’re serious.” Dee pushed up from the desk, paced to the drum set, picked up a stick, and whacked a cymbal. “Belle Starr’s gold. That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever he
ard.”

  “Why then”—I kept a tone of reason (Wiggins, don’t you see how handicapping it is to deal with this woman?) and inquired mildly—“did Cole try to kill Nick, if not to prevent Nick from buying the Arnold property? Cole was having fun insulting Phidippus, but Tuesday night he took his rifle and shot at Nick. Nick didn’t screw up Cole’s affair with Arlene until Wednesday morning. The act that propelled Cole to shoot was Nick’s success in barring Cole from the Arnold place. Everything centers on the Arnold place.” Ignoring Dee’s rolling her eyes, I pulled the list closer, added:

  9. Wednesday morning at the B and B, I described the lights next door and my toss into the pond. I thought Cole might have been on the property, but he seemed shocked, and I don’t think he was pretending. He wanted to know exactly what I’d seen and heard.

  10. Nick arrived and ordered Cole to leave. Cole emphasized Nick’s devotion to Jan and said Nick would probably do almost anything to keep Jan happy. I think that’s when Cole figured out he could force Nick to sign over the Arnold house in exchange for the photos on Cole’s phone.

  “Dealing with Nick, however, wasn’t Cole’s focus as he left.” I squeezed my eyes and tried to be precise. “Cole said, ‘I got some business to see to, then I’ll be in touch, Phidippus.’” I wrote on the back of the plumber’s bill:

  11. Cole returned to his office, clearly upset. His secretary overheard Cole on the telephone make what sounded like a threat. Cole then left. Where did he go? Who did he see? What “business” was more important to Cole than getting the Arnold place?

  Dee was judicious. “You have to do the jumps in order. If your analysis is correct, everything hinges on the Arnold place. We need to be sure that we’re in the proper ring. You think Cole”—she gave a head shake—“discovered the location of Belle Starr’s stolen gold, and the gold is buried on the Arnold property, possibly near the site of the original trading post. Moreover, you are suggesting a conspiracy based on the conversation overheard by Cole’s secretary. Her interpretation may be the result of a heated imagination after a murder. But the big hurdle to my mind is believing that Cole and an unknown coconspirator”—heavy irony—“know the whereabouts of Belle Starr’s treasure.” She slapped her hands on her hips. “How would Cole come up with information that no one else had ever discovered in the one hundred and twenty years of Adelaide’s history?”

  “Cole wrote a series of articles for the Gazette about the early days.”

  Her smile was sardonic. “We all know how reliable newspaper stories are. Besides, nothing we’ve learned about Cole suggests he was capable of careful research. I’d think his approach would be to rehash previous stories.” She gazed at me in cool disbelief. “Your conclusions aren’t justified by the facts.”

  “I have facts. Tuesday night at the Arnold place, I not only saw a light, I heard occasional pings. Metal detectors ping. Cole was stunned when he heard about the obvious search. I think Cole knew the identity of the searcher, and that Cole’s ‘business’ was to deal with that person before he met with Nick.”

  “Hidden treasure.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it, but”—her tone was grudging—“there appears to be a connection between the Arnold place and Cole Clanton’s murder. Since he never expressed interest in Adelaide history until he wrote those articles, obviously the Gazette is the place to start.” She swirled away.

  I started to speak, then stopped.

  Champ sauntered up and effortlessly jumped to the desktop. He flopped onto the sheet with my notes. I stroked his head. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

  Champ placed a moist nose against my hand.

  Independent Dee continued to set her own course. I was exasperated. A visit to the Gazette was in order, but the newsroom wasn’t where I had intended to start. For now I had to follow Dee’s lead.

  • • •

  In the Gazette newsroom, I gazed down at the unoccupied city desk. A page layout filled the screen on the monitor. There was a somnolent air. The minute hand on the big, round-faced clock marked seven minutes before five, the work day almost done. The Gazette was an afternoon newspaper, so today’s deadline was long past. Several freshly printed newspapers were stacked to one side. One newspaper was spread wide and there were red checkmarks by several stories.

  Across the room, a white-haired woman made notes on a laptop. Another reporter watched a rerun of a football game. Albert Harris hunched over an electronic game at his desk. His resentment at Nick’s success with Featherfoots apparently didn’t prevent him from playing video games.

  Crisp footsteps sounded. Dee came through the newsroom door from the hall.

  Albert slipped the game into his pocket. The city editor would probably consider him on company time. Albert looked over his shoulder.

  Dee surveyed the room. “Adelaide police. Who can provide information about Cole Clanton’s employment here?”

  The sports reporter didn’t look away from the screen. “The city editor’s in a meeting.” He jerked a thumb toward Albert. “They knew each other.”

  Dee moved to Albert’s desk. “Officer H. Augusta. I’m here about Cole Clanton. Is there a quiet area where we can talk?”

  Albert looked interested. “You new on the force?”

  Of course the Gazette reporters likely knew most of the police officers in town.

  “I started last week. Used to be a cop in Pensacola. Now, are you the man to see about Clanton?”

  “As much as anybody, I guess.” Albert’s eyes jerked toward a metal desk a few feet away, a desk obviously not in use, the surface empty, no laptop, no papers, no mementos. Albert swallowed. “That was Cole’s desk.” He looked for a moment longer, his expression strained, then stood. “We can go in the break room.”

  In a small room with a stained Formica-top table, Albert offered Dee coffee, gestured at a greasy box with two crullers and a couple of glazed doughnuts.

  She shook her head briskly, took a seat, pulled a notebook from her pocket.

  Albert poured coffee that looked strong enough to walk into the chipped white mug. He dropped into a plastic chair across from her. “Joan said the word on the street is that Nick Magruder’s going to be charged.”

  I tensed. Albert assumed that as a police officer Dee knew the crime-beat reporter, Joan Crandall.

  “No formal charge has yet been made.” Dee was bland. “At this point, my instructions are to seek personal information about Mr. Clanton. Were you and he longtime friends?”

  Albert lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “I wouldn’t say so. We went to school together, but we didn’t hang out. He played football.”

  He spoke as if his meaning would be clear.

  Dee looked puzzled. “You weren’t friends because he played football?”

  I realized that she’d been gone from Adelaide for many years and her background was cosmopolitan, so she asked a question that no homegrown police officer would have asked.

  Albert’s round face flushed. “Football guys hung out with football guys. My best friend was Nick Magruder, the guy they think shot him. Funny, he and I aren’t friends now”—Albert’s eyes were cold—“but Cole and I got along fine when he started working here.” His expression was wry. “Cole wrote like he had a crayon in each hand. He only got the job because his uncle owns the paper. The only thing Cole was interested in was true crime. He kept trying to talk his uncle into letting him get Joan’s job, but that would never happen. Joan knows every cop in town. I guess she’s probably given you licorice, too. Every time she quits smoking, she’s got a pound of red licorice in her desk and she offers a strip to everyone.”

  Dee said smoothly, “A woman with red licorice will always have friends. So Cole wanted Joan’s job?”

  “Oh yeah, kind of like a kid wants a candy store.”

  “Why her job?”

  “He was nuts about true crime.” Albert’s face crinkled in distaste. “You ought to see the magazines he had. Who wants to see pictures of dead people?” The
n he shrugged. “CSI racks up the viewers, so what do I know?”

  I doubted Dee had a clue about CSI. Thankfully she was smart enough not to ask for an explanation. Instead, she used the comment to segue to her objective. “Please describe the articles Mr. Clanton wrote about Adelaide’s early history.”

  He stared at Dee, his gaze speculative. “What does that have to do with Nick Magruder shooting Cole?”

  Dee murmured vaguely, “Possibly Mr. Clanton’s research into early crimes in some way led to his death.”

  Albert frowned. “I don’t see what Nick has to do with early crimes.”

  Unfortunately for Dee and me, Albert Harris was not a downy sheep ready to be led.

  Dee checked the door to be sure it remained closed, then said quietly, “Mr. Harris, please treat this conversation as confidential. We have received a tip that”—her voice fell even lower—“the motive behind the murder might be connected to Cole’s articles about Adelaide.”

  I understood her decision not to mention Belle Starr’s gold. Albert Harris would probably have laughed out loud. Buried treasure has a tendency to evoke that kind of response from smart people and, looking at Albert’s measuring gaze, I decided he was bright and quick.

  Dee persisted. “When did Mr. Clanton first come up with the idea for the articles?”

  “It wasn’t Cole’s idea. It was around the end of July, and the city editor told him to look back in old files and come up with six or seven stories about unsolved crimes in Adelaide. He spent a lot of time down in the basement, looking at old issues. He talked to the Gazette librarian, and she gave him tips on what years to try. He wrote the stuff in a hurry. I think the series started the first week in August.”

  Dee nodded. “Can you provide me with copies of the articles and the dates when they appeared?”

  “Sure.” He pushed up from the table. “I’ll bring them up on my laptop and have them printed. You can pick up the copies downstairs at the reception desk on your way out. Is there anything else you need?”

  Dee rose, too. “When did you last see Mr. Clanton?”

  “I hadn’t seen him for a week or so, but he called Wednesday.” There was an odd note in Albert’s voice. A nothing-out-of-the-ordinary call marked the last time he would hear his friend’s voice. Albert took a quick breath. “He was supposed to drop by and give me stuff for a feature on Belle Starr’s treasure maps, but he said some things had come up and he’d try to come over the next day.”