Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  He didn’t ask where I was. I suspected his caller ID had already identified the number as Cole Clanton’s and that he was even now scribbling orders dispatching police units here.

  He spoke in a pleasant tone. “We need to take your statement.”

  “Another time, perhaps.” As Mama always said, “There are many nice ways to say no.” “I’m calling now to provide you with a definite lead to the murderer of Cole Clanton and Lisa Sanford.”

  The intensity of his silence was gratifying.

  “Cole’s next-door neighbor, Billiemae Oldham, saw Lisa Sanford shortly before noon. . . .” I quickly sketched the conclusions I’d shared with Dee, adding, “Now you can eliminate Nick Magruder and Arlene Richey as suspects. And, of course, Brian Sanford as well.”

  “That’s good to know.” His voice was heavy with irony.

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Sa—” I broke off, realizing I’d been about to call him Sam, as if I knew him. I rushed to speak. “Once you arrive at Cole’s apartment, you will find the police seal intact. The pizza box is in the refrigerator. If you check, I am positive the box will not reveal a single fingerprint.” I hung up.

  “Pushing all your chips on top of a pizza box?” Dee’s tone was quizzical.

  “You sum up the facts nicely, Dee.”

  She was acerbic. “I can’t match your utter disregard for the bounds of possibility.”

  “Would you care,” I asked sweetly, “to place a small wager on the presence or absence of fingerprints on the box? Possibly an abject apology if there are no prints?”

  “The pizza box isn’t your only flight of fancy. Why didn’t you tell him about Belle Starr’s gold and Rod Holt?”

  “I want to provide proof.”

  “Oh, the confidence of a woman who thinks she’s on a roll. You aren’t fooling me. You know you’d lose all credibility if you sprang buried treasure on the man.”

  As Mama often said, “When an uncomfortable truth smacks you in the face, make the best of it.”

  “Dee, your insight is impeccable. We need more than a theory, we need certainty. Here’s my wager to you: If Cole Clanton found a link to buried treasure, we can find it, and our ticket to success is Rod Holt.”

  “There you go again.” But she sounded more amused than irritated.

  “Meet me at the Back Shop.”

  • • •

  “That’s an impressive collection of branding irons.” Dee’s cool voice was near.

  I hovered near the plate-glass window on the left side of the entrance to the Back Shop. “If I had my choice, I’d pick the calico bonnet. You wonder about the woman who wore the bonnet when it was new and the sights she saw and the work she did.”

  “Would we have been as brave?” Dee’s voice was thoughtful. “And now there’s only a bonnet in a window. We can be sure of one thing: She never gave up. Nor will we. Now”—I envisioned Dee standing near me in her Adelaide police uniform, arms folded—“is it your thesis that Rod Holt was the brains behind Old Timer Days?”

  We had the sidewalk to ourselves, and I spoke freely. “Exactly. Cole was interested in true crime, not Adelaide history. Even if he knew the site of Belle Starr’s treasure on the Arnold property, how could he hope to dig there? How about a celebration of old Adelaide and building a replica of the original trading post? Nothing we’ve learned about Cole suggests he had the imagination or background or intelligence to come up with Old Timer Days. On the other hand, Holt knows everything about Adelaide’s early history. Holt could easily feed Cole the necessary information.”

  “True, but Cole probably spent enough time in a newspaper office to learn how to find information to fake his way.” Dee was pleasant but firm.

  “Planning the celebration was only the first step. Even if Cole could have managed to dig up the gold, how would he have disposed of it? I think he approached Holt looking for a way to cash in on the treasure. The gold would be worth much more than its original value because of the age of the coins.”

  “You always have an answer.” She sounded amused. “Treasure hunter connects with expert. How much do you suppose he was willing to share?”

  “I’d guess he offered Holt half of the proceeds.” I looked through the plate glass at the old Winchesters. I wondered if Cole had any sense that he was dealing with a man who not only knew everything about lost treasures but was steeped in an Old West where the man with a gun could take what he wished. “I expect the agreement was for Cole to arrange for construction of the trading post. Holt would have been right there to watch every spadeful. But everything changed Tuesday.”

  Dee mused aloud, “‘Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.’”

  I was silent.

  “Robert Southwell. An apt quotation, I believe.”

  Not to be outdone, I murmured, “As the man from Stratford-upon-Avon once wrote, ‘Giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel . . .’” No one ever matched Shakespeare for the bon mot. With honors even, I said briskly, “Right. Tuesday was the sea change. Nick arranged to buy the Arnold place. Claire Arnold warned Cole off the property. Tuesday night Cole shot at Nick and someone hunted on the Arnold property. Knowing that Cole was barred from the Arnold place, I think Holt decided to search with a metal detector to be sure he knew the location of the treasure. Wednesday morning, when the news was all over town about the shooting at Nick’s house, Holt figured Cole was the assailant. By then, Cole had heard from me about the searcher on the Arnold property. Cole went to see Holt, demanding to know about the search. I think Holt persuaded Cole that everything was aboveboard. Cole had already decided to blackmail Nick about the cell phone photos of Arlene, so Cole was sure everything was on track to get the property in exchange for deleting Arlene’s pictures. However, Holt now knew the location of the treasure, and he decided to take his chances on getting it all for himself. Besides, he may have been afraid that the police might suspect Cole of shooting at Nick, and he didn’t want the police nosing close to Cole. Cole’s public quarrel with Nick provided a handy scapegoat. Holt retrieved Cole’s rifle. At some point, Cole must have told him he was meeting Nick at the gazebo.”

  Dee made an indeterminate noise, which might have indicated either agreement or disagreement.

  I glanced up and down the street. “No one’s coming this way and there’s no traffic. It’s time for Officer H. Augusta’s arrival.” I spoke as if I took her cooperation for granted, but I held my breath. Dee was quite capable of galloping off on a path of her own.

  I was grateful and relieved when colors formed next to me. After a moment, I looked into the appraising gaze of tall, slender Officer H. Augusta, blonde hair perfectly coiffed, aristocratic face intent and measuring.

  She gave a shrug of those elegant shoulders. “I am willing to explore all avenues.” She reached for the handle of the old oak door.

  The cluttered store seemed even mustier today. The gaslights on the walls flickered, doing little to dispel the gloom. At the rear of the store, Holt’s wooden chair in the shadowy corner wasn’t occupied. Officer Augusta stood for an instant at the deserted counter, noted an ornate, solid-brass Victorian desk bell, and tapped the ringer with vigor.

  “Coming.” Rod Holt came through the storeroom doorway and ambled to the counter—thin, slightly stooped, picture perfect as a late-nineteenth-century tradesman with his sleek black hair and mustache, 1890s shirt, trousers, and boots. He looked slightly surprised when he saw Dee.

  “Can I help you?” His drawl sounded puzzled.

  “Officer H. Augusta, Adelaide police.”

  His gaze shifted behind Dee and back again. Slowly he inclined his head. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

  She pulled a notebook and a pen from her pocket. “I’m here as part of the investigation into the murder of Cole Clanton Wednesday night. You and Cole Clanton worked together closely on the Old Timer Days festivities.”

  He nodded agreeably. “Guess you could say
that. I thought it was a good idea, and I was happy to help out.”

  “It was your idea, I understand.” She spoke as if this were simply a throwaway line, preparatory to her interview.

  Holt gestured toward a straw chair. “Sit a spell if you want.” He dropped into his seat, stretched his legs out straight. “I can’t take the credit.” He sounded regretful. “Cole came to me with a gangbusters plan.”

  “I understood you called him after the features ran in the Gazette.”

  “No’m. Other way around.”

  Holt could be telling the truth.

  I perched on the counter and wondered at the wary expression in Holt’s eyes, deep set beneath thick tufting black eyebrows, eyes that looked cold despite the slight smile on his hawklike face.

  “Please describe the plan to me.”

  Holt lifted a hand to tug at his mustache. “What’s Cole’s plan got to do with Nick Magruder shooting him?”

  Dee was brisk. “Information received suggests that Mr. Clanton’s murder resulted from his connection to the Old Timer Days celebration.”

  Holt raised an eyebrow, looked amused. “Do tell. Did some crazed historian take him out because Cole didn’t know the difference between a Lazy Q brand and a Lazy U?” He shook with silent laughter. “Ma’am, I don’t think your dog’s gonna find a coon up that tree. Cole may not have known a lot about history, but he was having a high good time sweet-talking merchants into contributing to giveaways and setting up Old Timer events. His best idea was the treasure dig.”

  Dee’s stare was hard. “Digging for treasure was his idea?”

  “Sure was.” Rod’s tone was easy. “He asked me to make the maps.”

  “For Belle Starr’s stolen gold?”

  “Belle Starr has star power around here.” He looked pleased with his reply. “Cole’s first story told all about her. She showed up here in 1888, sometime in December. That was around the time Adelaide was first settled. There was a trading post and a couple of settlers. Everybody knows about Belle coming here. She knew Ezra Porter at the trading post. Of course, the rest of it may be like whispering a story to one kid and he whispers on to the next and so on to the end of the line, and you end up with nothing like what got started. Some folks think Belle brought that stolen gold in saddlebags and hid them by the trading post, but there’s another legend about an Indian on his way home who saw two people digging not far from a cistern on what’s now part of City Park. Cole had a nifty plan to make up a bunch of maps and have folks dig in the park. I got permission to dig from the park department. The digging will be where they want to plant some redbuds and sycamores to take the place of the pines killed by wilt last summer.”

  She glanced down at her notebook as if checking off queries, gave a little nod. “Why was Mr. Clanton determined to gain access to the Arnold property?” She asked as if this were just one more question she’d been instructed to ask.

  Holt waved a languid hand. “He wanted to build a replica of the original trading post, and that’s where the post was. I liked the idea, too, because”—his thin lips curved in a satisfied smile—“I was going to stock the trading post, and I only had to give ten percent off the sale price to Old Timer Days. I figured I’d make a couple of thousand that weekend.”

  “Did Clanton believe the original tale that located Belle’s treasure near the site of the old trading post?”

  “Believe it?” Holt raised both eyebrows. “Maybe he believed in fairy dust. I don’t know. It was a good gimmick. But the trading post was his deal; the treasure maps were mine. I sketched out the maps and had them printed up on some stuff that looks and feels like tanned leather with charcoal markings. Cole didn’t know much about real treasure maps.”

  “Yet he came to you with the idea for the celebration?” There was a hint of disbelief in her voice.

  “Sure did. I guess he got fired up when he did the stories. He had some of his facts wrong, but the stories all had punch. He got a lot of responses from people.” Holt shrugged. “Maybe somebody told him about the Eighty-Niner Day celebrations in Guthrie and he decided he’d try to start something here. Mostly, I think he was looking for a soft deal, and did he ever get it with an office in City Hall and me to do most of the real work. But I played along. I figured I’d sell a bunch of stuff that weekend. I’ve already talked to the mayor’s office. The celebration’s still on.”

  Dee persisted. “Can you explain how Mr. Clanton was able to create a plan for the celebration when he lacked knowledge about Adelaide history?”

  “No’m, I sure can’t.” His smile was bland. “But I got some papers back in my storeroom. Maybe they’d be some help. I’ll go see what I can find.” He paused, nodded his head. “If you got the time.”

  “I have time, Mr. Holt.”

  I followed him through the doorway. He walked to another door, opened it, flicked on a light, and stepped into a closet jammed with old saddles, worn boots, branding irons, and Indian baskets, and closed the door behind him. He pulled out his cell, tapped a number. “Sergeant Bucky Cresswell, Rod Holt calling. . . . Hidey, Bucky. Rod. You got a new cop name of H. Augusta, about six feet tall, blonde, blue eyes, cleft chin, looks whipcord tough . . . ? I thought it was a mite strange, a cop without a partner asking me all about Cole Clanton, and I already talked to Johnny Cain and Ed Loeffler. She’s wearing a nice new Adelaide uniform. Hardly looks like it’s ever been worn before. . . .” He glanced up at a television monitor. His bronzed face was rock hard. “She’s still sittin’ there, pretty as you please. I’ll talk to her until you get here.” He clicked off the cell.

  I was at Dee’s shoulder. “Disappear. He’s called the police.”

  Holt stepped from the back room. He stopped and stared at the empty chair on the other side of the counter. Eyes narrowed, he moved fast, careening around the corner and into the central aisle. He paused midway and stared at the closed front door. There was no sound in the store except the heavy tick of a grandfather clock. His face puzzled, he strode to the front door, yanked it open. The bell sounded. He looked up at it. He yanked the cell from his pocket, called. “Bucky, Rod. She beat it. . . .”

  As he talked, he moved around the store, checking between shelving, peering underneath tables. “She’s not here. I saw her in the back room on the monitor, and three seconds later I got to the counter and she was gone. The bell on the front door didn’t ring. I don’t know where she went. It’s like she vanished into thin air. I don’t get it. There’s no way out but the front and the back, and I’d have heard the bell as soon as I stepped out of the closet. No point in your coming now. But I don’t like it. Who was she and what did she want?”

  I heard a faint whisper. “I’ll make a noise in the storeroom. Might frazzle his nerves. Meet you outside by the front windows.”

  In a moment a loud crash sounded from the storeroom.

  Holt loped down the center aisle, flung himself around the counter. He bent and grabbed a gun from beneath the back of the counter and edged into the storeroom.

  As soon as he was out of sight, I opened the front door, heard the distinct ring of the bell. Another unexpected noise might truly demoralize him.

  In an instant, Dee was beside me. “Rod Holt’s back on his cell. Very likely several police cars will soon arrive.”

  “Adelaide’s good-old-boy network. He and Bucky probably hunt together. Holt thinks fast. Since he doesn’t know how or where Cole obtained the link to the gold, he’s immediately suspicious of anyone who shows up and asks questions, especially when he knows the police department well enough to realize you were a phony. You can bet he’ll be asking his old buddy Bucky all about the search for Officer H. Augusta. But we found out what we wanted. Holt’s claim that he’s not behind the Old Timer Days planning is hogwash.”

  Dee was judicious. “He sounded credible.”

  “He couldn’t wait to tell us it was Cole who wanted the Arnold property. The clincher is his insistence that Cole made all the plans. Unless Cole lear
ned an awful lot about Adelaide history awfully fast, that can’t be true. We need to talk to someone who spent time recently with Cole.” Lisa was dead. Arlene was unlikely to cooperate. Moreover, I doubted Cole had revealed to Arlene his disdain for history.

  I had a quick memory of a face that looked so much like Nick’s. “Nick said his cousin hung out with Cole. That’s another reason Bill was on Nick’s blacklist. It’s still early. Let’s try Bill’s apartment.” I frowned, foreseeing an obstacle. “I suppose Bill knows you.”

  “I rarely visited Adelaide. I saw Nick in the summers when his mother”—her voice softened—“brought him to see me. Bill is the son of Nick’s father’s brother. Possibly we met in passing at funerals.”

  Dee possessed a memorable personality, but hopefully a teenage Bill had scarcely noticed. “Even if he vaguely remembered you, appearing as Officer Augusta is an effective disguise.”

  Chapter 16

  I admired Dee’s appearance. Tall and trim, immaculate in a crisp uniform, her aristocratic features imperious, she was imposing. She knocked with authority on the door of apartment 6. After several attempts, she spoke too softly for anyone else to hear, “Perhaps he’s not here.”

  I popped inside. The shades were drawn and no lights shone. Unwashed dishes filled the sink. Clothes were draped over chairs and CDs scattered across a table. Through the open door to the bathroom came the sounds of rushing water.

  I returned to Dee. “He’s there. Keep knocking.”

  The door opened on Dee’s fifth try. Barefoot in a wrinkled T-shirt and red and black plaid boxer shorts, unshaven and obviously irritated, he burst out, “Stop the—” Then he saw the uniform.

  Bill reminded me of Nick, the same deep-set eyes, bristly cheeks, and pointed chin. I had a sharp memory of Nick hunched in the Adelaide jail cell. Somehow we had to find facts that would convince Chief Cobb to seek the man I believed had conspired with Cole to find Belle Starr’s gold.

  Dee said crisply, “Mr. Magruder?”