Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

“Yeah?” He had the expression of a driver who scooted through a light turning from yellow to red, wondering if a traffic cam had caught him.

  “Officer H. Augusta. I am investigating the murder of Cole Clanton. I have some questions for you.” Her face was stern. “May I come in?”

  Bill scratched at his unshaven cheek. “Yeah. Well, I just got up.” He glanced down at his tee and shorts. “I’m not dressed, but come on in.” He led the way, grabbing a ragged pair of jeans and stepping into them. He zipped and buttoned, stumbling slightly, before turning to face Dee. He looked around, hurried to dump a pile of shirts from a chair. “Yeah. Why don’t you sit down.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bill blinked, looking hung over and miserable. “I haven’t had any coffee. Would you like a cup?”

  Dee was pleasant. “No, thank you, but please prepare a cup for yourself.”

  “Yeah. Gee, thanks.” In a rush, he sloshed water into a mug, put it in the microwave, punched twenty-five. He found one of the small tubes of instant coffee from Starbucks, emptied it into the steaming water, stirred, then dropped onto the sofa. “Gee, it’s too bad about Cole. But”—and he hunched forward—“listen, you got my cousin in jail, and Nick never shot anybody. Not even Cole. I mean, he didn’t like Cole, but Nick can’t stand to see anything get hurt. That’s how Nick got crossways years ago with Cole. Cole was gonna kill this spider, and Nick’s nuts about spiders. And cats. And dogs. And rabbits. Nick never even hunted. So, my cousin didn’t do it.”

  “I will share that information with my superior.”

  Bill sagged back against the cushion, lifted the mug, drank deeply of the coffee. He swallowed and his expression became more benign. “What can I do for you?”

  “Were you a longtime friend of Mr. Clanton’s?”

  “We hung out together, me and Cole and sometimes Albert Harris.”

  “Are you aware that Mr. Clanton wrote a series of articles about old crimes in Adelaide for the Gazette?”

  Bill took another gulp of coffee. “Yeah. But only ’cause he had to.”

  Dee frowned. “Please clarify that response.”

  Bill looked blank.

  Dee said gently, “What do you mean?”

  His shoulders lifted and fell. “Yeah, well, Cole actually didn’t want to work at the Gazette, but his uncle pretty much said he had to do something, and that seemed easier than a lot of things. The city editor told him to write about all these old crimes. Cole liked a good murder, but he was interested in current stuff, like CSI. He was totally freaked about having to flip through those musty old papers. I mean, who cares what happened in Adelaide a long time ago? Cole sure didn’t. He bitched the whole time he was writing that stuff.”

  If we’d needed confirmation that Cole Clanton was not a student of Adelaide history, we had it from a guy who knew Cole when he wasn’t putting on a good face at his job.

  Dee looked perplexed. “If Cole didn’t care about old Adelaide, why did he quit the Gazette to head up the Old Timer Days celebration?”

  Bill smothered a yawn. “Sorry. Didn’t get in until real late last night. Karaoke night at the Blue Note. Well, it was like some kind of karma.” He looked doubtfully at Dee. “You know, something happens that leads to something else and you draw an ace and it blows your mind. I mean . . .” He trailed off, apparently despairing of communicating serendipity to the police officer watching him with an unblinking gaze. “Anyway, it was kind of funny. I guess maybe after the crime stories had been printed, we were hanging out one night and his cell rang. It was a lady at the Gazette, the one who’d helped him look up all that stuff. He almost didn’t answer, then he muttered something about Uncle Curt being such a jerk, and if she complained to his uncle he might get fired. Cole said he’d probably made some mistake and she wanted him to fix it, like it mattered when it all happened a long time ago. Anyway, he answered and talked for a minute. When he hung up, he was really pissed.” Bill cleared his throat. “Excuse me. He was kind of irritated. He said some old lady had called up the gal who’d helped him and told her to send the reporter to see her—the old lady that called—because she had kept some papers—”

  I felt a moment of sheer euphoria. I had been certain that somewhere along the way Cole Clanton had discovered the site of Belle Starr’s gold. What papers? Who had held them?

  “—that he should see, and she gave Cole the old lady’s phone number. After Cole hung up, he shrugged and said, what the hell, he’d go see her, but for sure he would do it on Gazette time, and maybe it would take him all morning. We had a big laugh about it.”

  “Did he mention whether that interview came to fruition?”

  “Fruition?” Bill repeated.

  Dee was patient. “Did Cole talk to the old lady with the papers?”

  “I asked him about it a couple of days later. He said he talked to this old dame and it just went to show that kissing his uncle’s ass was going to pay off big time, very big time. I asked him what he meant. He said he had some big plans in the works. It was the next week that he quit the Gazette.”

  Dee leaned forward. “Did he describe the big plans?”

  Bill took another swallow of coffee and appeared slightly energized. “Not exactly. He said he was going to make a bundle and blow town, and maybe he’d buy a Maserati and I could come along and we’d drive out to LA. But I thought he was just talking big.”

  • • •

  I carefully lifted Champ and buried my face in his fur. He nuzzled me in return, then wriggled free when the can opener sounded in the kitchen.

  Dee lifted her voice. “Come on, big guy.”

  I joined her in the kitchen. Nick’s cabinets didn’t run to coffee, either real or instant. However, all was not lost. I retrieved two Dr Peppers from the refrigerator. I popped the tabs, held out one.

  Dee took the can.

  I held up mine in a toast. “Here’s to crime.”

  “That doesn’t seem in the best of taste, given the current circumstances.” Her distant tone clearly indicated reproof.

  Honestly, I wondered if the woman ever found anything funny. However, she was still my very own Officer H. Augusta, and this was no time to find fault.

  “Albert Harris can tell us who helped Cole with the background. We’ll pop over to City Hall and use the phone in Cole’s office.” Then I realized that Officer Augusta could appear and use her cell phone—

  “Ladies.” Wiggins’s deep voice brimmed with good humor.

  I was so startled, I spilled Dr Pepper on my sweater. I was glad I’d not asked Dee to appear. Wiggins found us in compliance with Precept Four. I can’t abide being sticky. A new outfit—even if I couldn’t see it—was a necessity. An open-throat, white cotton blouse with a lace trim collar, slim-leg aqua twill trousers, and matching aqua slingback pumps immediately made me feel spiffy without a trace of sugary residue. After an instant—half an instant?—of calculation, I threw Precept Four overboard and swirled present. As Mama always said, “Men are much more susceptible to feminine charm if you smile and look deep into their eyes. In a very nice way, of course.”

  “Wiggins!” Bobby Mac once told me I have a smile with more megawatts than stadium lights on a Friday night. What a guy, both then and now, my handsome, exuberant, ebullient, sexy husband. “How grand for you to take time for Dee and me. We have so much to report—”

  In the distance, I heard the faint rumble of wheels clacking on the steel. Oh, surely not! With an ingenuous expression indicating utter certainty of wholehearted approval, I segued into my pitch.

  “—and a great deal more to do. We’re here to feed Champ, then we’ll be off to use a phone.”

  Champ, gentleman that he was and probably missing the man of the house, twined around Wiggins’s ankles. I couldn’t see Wiggins, but I knew he stood a few feet from me, dark cap riding high on curly brown hair, high-collared white shirt stiffly starched, arm garters between shoulder and elbow pulling the cuffs up a trifle to reveal strong wrists, plain v
anilla suspenders, and a thick black belt holding up gray flannel trousers.

  Champ rose into the air and appeared draped in space. “Good boy.” Wiggins’s voice was deep. “Good boy.”

  “Now that we’ve taken care of Champ, even though we are in a rush to wind things up”—it didn’t hurt to emphasize both our thoughtfulness and the necessity for further action—“Dee needs to call Albert Harris at the Gazette. As soon as we know the name of the woman who helped Cole with his research, we’ll track down the information that will lead us to the gold.”

  “Ladies, that’s why I’m here. Although I deeply”—great emphasis—“regret the wholesale contraventions of Precepts One, Three, and Four, I am hopeful that once these wicked crimes are solved, the activities of an unauthorized policewoman will fade from the memory of those involved.”

  His tone lacked conviction. Poor, dear Wiggins. Perhaps I might suggest he try those positive affirmations made so popular by Oprah, something on the order of, “If I try, I can believe six impossible things before breakfast.” One can’t go wrong with Alice in Wonderland.

  “Exactly, and that’s why Dee must call as soon as possible.”

  The woo-woo of the Rescue Express was nearer now.

  “I fail to see why further activity by Officer Augusta is necessary.” Champ was lowered to the ground. Oh, dear. Wiggins was all business now. “At the very most”—Wiggins’s voice was stern—“a final call to Crime Stoppers can provide police with the necessary information to complete the investigation. Chief Cobb is an able and thorough investigator.”

  Coal smoke tickled my nose. A whistle blasted as the Express pounded down silver rails to pick us up. It was all or nothing. “Wiggins, how credible will the police find an anonymous tip claiming that Cole Clanton and Lisa Sanford died because of Belle Starr’s gold?”

  The shriek of the Express rattled Nick’s house.

  After a pause, Wiggins cleared his throat. “I had not considered the likelihood that the authorities would scoff at the suggestion of buried treasure.”

  Dee’s deep voice was brisk. “Regrettably, Bailey Ruth’s analysis is correct. So far, no one is aware of our suspicion about the gold. We need proof that Cole Clanton indeed had information about a treasure for that motive to appear credible to the police. Therefore”—she could make a pronouncement with the force of the “Hanging Judge,” Isaac Parker, who had once convicted Belle Starr and had been the scourge of outlaws in Indian Territory—“if two innocent men are to be saved, Wiggins, only Bailey Ruth and I have the skill to finish this jumper course.”

  Wiggins was a stalwart man, but Delilah Delahunt Duvall was not a rider to be bested.

  The thunder of the Rescue Express receded.

  “I see that the obstacles you face are almost insurmountable, but I have confidence in you.” A pause. “And Bailey Ruth.”

  I would have been more impressed if the addition hadn’t seemed a bit perfunctory.

  “Ride hard.” He spoke as a man rallying his troops.

  The scent of coal smoke vanished. Iron wheels no longer clacked.

  Wiggins was gone.

  “Well done, Dee.” No one can say I’m not a magnanimous spirit. Mostly. “And now, to City Hall.”

  • • •

  Cole’s office door was closed. The telephone receiver floated in the air. Dee punched speaker phone and dialed. “Albert Harris, please.”

  “City room. Harris.” The tone was abstracted. Likely he was pressed on a deadline.

  “Mr. Harris, Officer Augusta here. I’m seeking information about the archives of the Gazette.” She spoke briskly. “Who is the woman who assisted Mr. Clanton in his research of old crimes in Adelaide?”

  There was a noticeable pause. Then, he repeated, “His research?”

  Since Dee had just spoken with him the afternoon before about Cole’s series, the reporter’s hesitation seemed curious. I whispered, “I’m off to the Gazette, Dee.” With that, I disappeared and arrived unseen at Albert’s desk.

  Albert sat with his back to the city room, the receiver gripped in his hand. Eyes narrowed, his rounded face looked puzzled, wary, and very alert. “The old news stories? Kathryn O’Connell dug stuff up for him. She runs the Gazette library. A lot of the old stuff is on microfilm. I’m not sure about the hours. You can call the Gazette’s main number, ask to be connected. . . . Sure. Glad to help.” He put the receiver down, swung his chair around, came to his feet. As he crossed the room, he called out, “Hey Joan, that fake cop just called, the one you got a story on. She’s on her way here to talk to Kathryn.”

  “Albert, honey, you just bought yourself a steak at Lulu’s.” The crime reporter grabbed her cell, punched a number. “I got a big break for you, folks. That fake cop’s on her way to the Gazette.”

  In an instant, I was in the basement. The corridor was empty. I didn’t worry about Dee. Whatever happened, no one would trap either Dee or me. My concern was not with Officer Augusta. Hilda Whitby swirled into view, businesslike in a subdued cream silk blouse, belted black wool pencil skirt, and circumspect black pumps with only a tiny gold bar as decoration.

  I opened a frosted door, stepped into a room with several oak tables reminiscent of an old-fashioned library, a row of microfiche readers along one wall, and a no-nonsense metal desk in one corner. A woman with a mass of snowy curls held a telephone receiver. “Really? That will be interesting. Certainly. I’ll keep her talking.” She replaced the receiver, turned to me. Thick-lens glasses magnified appraising but kind blue eyes. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m Hilda Whitby from City Hall”—my expression was earnest—“and I’ve been asked to continue the promotional efforts for Old Timer Days. I know you’ve heard the sad news about our director, Cole Clanton.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorting through files and notes and memos and dealing with matters on his schedule. Unfortunately, I sometimes have difficulty deciphering his handwriting.” I opened my purse and drew out a small notebook, turned several pages. “Ah, here it is. Can you give me the name of the older woman who contacted you wishing to speak with him about one of his Gazette articles describing early-day crimes in Adelaide?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be of any help to you.” Her tone was commiserating. “Mrs. Barnett passed away yesterday in Oklahoma City. She was ninety-two and bright as button, though she couldn’t see well at all. They took her up for hip surgery and she didn’t make it through. We’ll miss her.”

  The door opened. Dee walked in, tall, crisp, and commanding as Officer Augusta.

  Kathryn O’Connell’s expression was bland as her gaze scanned Dee. “I’ll be right with you.”

  I turned until my face was out of view by the librarian, and mouthed, “The police are coming.”

  Dee blinked in quick acknowledgment. She glanced at her wrist. “I’ll be right back.” She turned and was through the door before the librarian could respond.

  Kathryn grabbed her phone, punched. “Joan, in regard to the personage of whom we spoke, she was here but left. She should either be in the basement hall or the elevator.”

  “Do you know why Mrs. Barnett wished to talk to Mr. Clanton?”

  “Mrs. Barnett?” The librarian was clearly distracted. “Oh, something to do with one of the stories. She said she had some information he might find interesting.”

  “Did Mrs. Barnett indicate which story?”

  The librarian looked amused. “Sadie Barnett played her cards close to her chest. She instructed me to tell Cole she had old family papers that put a very different twist on one of his stories, and she gave a huge cackle.”

  “Does she have family here in Adelaide?” My only hope was that someone else in her family was privy to her secret. I wasn’t terribly hopeful. If she’d found a map to Belle Starr’s treasure, surely someone would have made an effort before now to dig up the gold.

  Yet the facts seemed clear: Cole went to see Sadie Barnett; he quit his job; he became an instan
t expert on Adelaide’s past and the director of Old Timer Days; he worked closely with Rod Holt; he proposed recreating the original trading post on the Arnold property; he shot at Nick after Nick had arranged to buy the property; he agreed to delete compromising photographs of Arlene Richey in return for the property.

  “The Barnetts are an old Adelaide family.” The librarian’s eyes moved past me toward the frosted door, her head was cocked for any sounds. Voices rose in the hallway. “I’ll see if there are any survivors.” She faced her computer, clicked the mouse several times, reached for sheets of paper curling out of her printer. “Here’s the obituary that will run in this afternoon’s paper. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must check on a matter.”

  She crossed the room and opened the door.

  Voices called:

  “Nobody on the elevator.”

  “Check the rooms down there.”

  “Has to be trapped.”

  She left the door open as she stepped into the hall.

  The crime reporter’s breathy voice demanded, “Where is she, Kathryn? You were supposed to keep her talking. . . .”

  I disappeared and rose to the ceiling with the obituary copy. As I moved toward the doorway, I folded the sheets into the form of a paper airplane, using that simple design we all learned in first grade. In the hallway, I held the plane by the fold below and skimmed high above the police milling about, opening doors, seeking, searching.

  The librarian stood with her hands on her hips. “I had no chance. I was getting information for a woman from City Hall. I told the policewoman I’d be right with her, and she turned and walked out. What could I do?”

  “What did she look like?” Hal Price’s face was intent.

  “Tall, blonde, piercing blue eyes.”

  I felt a faint tap on the hand holding the paper airplane. A whisper. “Got your back.”

  Dee would have been a superb police officer, looking ahead, foreseeing that a partner (and how nice to think she considered me as such) might be at risk.

  So intent were the police on opening every door, moving warily into the huge area with the presses, and beyond that to the concrete-floored, starkly lit room that housed the massive heating and cooling system and air transfer unit, not a single officer ever looked up.