Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  I looked over Albert’s shoulder. The city editor’s notes were neat:

  Claire Arnold—319-0809

  4 p.m. Saturday—bulldozer excavate/ claims to have map/ buried steel lockbox/ half mil in cash/ ck files Buster Killeen/ murdered ’82/ tickets $5

  Albert hurried back to his desk, studied the notes, his rounded face drawn in a tight frown beneath his mop of curly brown hair. Finally, he grabbed a pencil and picked up the telephone. “Mrs. Arnold, Albert Harris at the Gazette . . .”

  Mission accomplished. This afternoon’s Gazette would carry the story reporting the planned excavation. Likely the feature would run on page 1, because the editor was right that buried treasure fascinates. This would confirm Claire’s call to Rod, give the announcement authenticity. Moreover, in accordance with Chief Cobb’s request, a bulldozer had duly been hired.

  Wherever Rod looked—if he did—there would be another proof that in less than twenty-four hours Buster Killeen’s hidden cash would belong to Claire Arnold.

  • • •

  The wind stirred the leaves in the oak tree, rustled the shrubbery. An owl hooted, the wavering cry mournful. I strained to hear and tried not to shiver. The temperature was likely in the low fifties. Dee was perched nearby, both of us on a sturdy limb that poked above the area where the intruder had searched Tuesday night. I tried not to lose hope. It was now past two o’clock in the morning. No one had approached the Arnold property. If no one came, Chief Cobb might face suspension if Nick Magruder didn’t go back to jail.

  Had Rod Holt sensed a trap, decided he had no cards to play?

  A twig snapped not far away.

  Police dressed all in black ringed the area, some behind shrubs or trees, others posted in the shadows of the house and outlying sheds. They would be chilled now and stiff from the long, quiet hours when no one had come.

  I scarcely dared to breathe.

  Rustling in the grass. More crackles of leaves and twigs. Suddenly a flashlight illuminated a square patch of ground. The breeze rippled a tiny orange warning flag atop a wire poked into the ground. Whenever construction is planned, buried lines are located and little flags placed every so often to prevent accidental rupturing of phone or gas or utility lines. How easy to retrieve one of those flags and place it atop the spot where a metal detector would give its loudest ping. No one would notice or remark upon such a flag.

  The shadowy figure, dressed in a dark Windbreaker, jeans, and running shoes, appeared slightly bulky. There were no features, the face hidden beneath a black cotton face mask. A backpack was dropped to the ground, a flap opened. Gloved hands pulled out a collapsible field spade, opened and locked the handle to the blade. He waited for an instant, head cocked to listen, then moved quickly to the little flag, plucked it from the ground, and began to dig.

  “Police.” The shout was loud and clear. “Hands up. Police.”

  The intruder whirled, flung the shovel in the direction of the voice, and kicked the flashlight into the dense shrubbery. In a scramble, he jerked a metal canister from the backpack, yanked. Smoke billowed, dense and choking. He grabbed the backpack and swung toward a path that plunged into darkness. As he ran, his hand came out and moonlight glinted on metal. His arm rose.

  Shots.

  Shouts.

  “Hold your fire by order of the chief,” Chief Cobb shouted, his deep voice clear and recognizable.

  Officers crouched with weapons drawn behind trees and shrubs were hampered by darkness and smoke, unable to fire because of risk to their fellow officers.

  “Dee!” My call was urgent. “He started off to his left.” I took a deep breath and whirled through the smoke. Just over the bridge at the pond, a dark figure ran, heading for the grounds of the Majestic Buffalo B & B. Pausing long enough to tuck the gun beneath his arm, he pulled out another canister, yanked the pin, and lobbed it over his shoulder. The gun once again in one hand, he darted toward the gate.

  Behind us Maglites shone muzzily, obscured in swirling smoke. Men shouted.

  At the gate to Arlene’s garden, shadows wavered, changed, shifted into a huge black horse. His rider stood in the stirrups, right arm uplifted. Snaking through the sky, clear now in the moonlight, a lasso whirled through the night and fell neatly over the running figure. In an instant the horse thundered close. Dee swung to the ground and with several jerks bound the figure tightly. When he was immobile, she pushed him over with her boot. The backpack lay on the ground next to a pistol.

  I swirled into being and bent down to pull the face mask up and off.

  Albert Harris glared at us, his stare malignant, his round face twisted in fury.

  Running steps sounded.

  Dee swung back aboard McCoy, reached out for my hand.

  I swung up behind her. I smiled as I settled on McCoy’s rump. That was how we began our adventure near the entrance to the Department of Good Intentions.

  • • •

  Saturday is a morning for pleasure, especially this Saturday. I smoothed the sleeve of my cotton blouse, admiring the soft autumn-foliage design against a butterscotch background. My suede riding pants—a tribute to Dee—weren’t visible, since I was sitting at Lulu’s counter. Breakfast was superb: country bacon, two eggs over medium, cheese grits, orange juice, and black coffee. I ate with the Saturday morning Gazette propped against the menu holder. The Gazette is an afternoon paper on weekdays, morning on weekends.

  I looked with interest at Albert Harris’s story about the planned Saturday-afternoon excavation on the Arnold property. This was an expanded version of the shorter announcement that had appeared in the Friday afternoon edition. Of course, the Saturday Gazette had also gone to press long before he crept through the night, armed and dangerous, seeking the payoff for his crimes. Albert—smart, quick, and clever—had been the guiding force behind Cole. Albert had taken the interest generated by Cole’s stories and come up with Old Timer Days as a means of gaining access to the property, and Albert had prompted Cole to enlist Rod Holt. Albert quite possibly had followed Gabe Arnold to his lonely fishing place, knocked him out, and pushed him off the dock to drown. Probably Cole would never have lived to share in the loot, but once Cole had shot at Nick, Cole’s hours were running out.

  I looked at the clock as I took a last sip of coffee. I paid the bill, strolled outside, stepped into a doorway, and disappeared.

  Dee had decided, not to my surprise, to spend her remaining hours in Adelaide near Nick. I popped from place to place to observe just for a moment those I’d assisted on earlier visits and, of course, I paused briefly in my daughter Dil’s kitchen—

  “Hugh, the funniest thing yesterday. I was out visiting Margie Patton’s mom at the retirement home and I caught a glimpse of a woman walking out who looked so much like Mom. Much younger; I could tell by the way she moved. I wanted to talk to her. By the time I’d reached the porch, she was gone. Do you remember how Mom and Dad used to lead the senior class in a rumba line and it just scandalized . . .”

  —and hovered about my son, Rob, his red hair thinning and touched with white as he jogged through the park. I hoped he wasn’t overdoing it.

  I soared up high and belted out “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.” I heard the church bells chime the hour. I was sure Chief Cobb was always at his desk by eight.

  • • •

  Sam Cobb swiped a handkerchief against watering eyes, still weepy red from the acrid fumes of the smoke bombs. His face looked doughy, muscles slack with fatigue, but he walked toward the blackboard with a spring in his step. He picked up a piece of chalk, wrote:

  EVIDENCE LINKING ALBERT HARRIS TO CLANTON/SANFORD HOMICIDES

  Possession of the .38 pistol belonging to Brian Sanford. Slugs that killed Lisa Sanford a match.

  Heel print of Harris’s right brown oxford matched print found in patch of damp grass behind gazebo the morning after Clanton’s murder.

  Search of Harris apartment yielded the brown slacks he wore Thursday, which match des
cription of those worn by pizza deliveryman. A notebook contained detailed descriptions of all Old Timer Days events, several with notations to advise Cole to add to the program.

  A partial thumbprint on Cole Clanton’s refrigerator matched Harris’s fingerprints. Otherwise refrigerator surface had been polished and was clean of all prints.

  A Jolly Roger Haven resident out walking a dog noted a red Mustang parked behind a stand of bamboo Thursday afternoon at the approximate time of death of Lisa Sanford and recalled the license plate. The car is registered to Albert Harris.

  Harris’s cell phone records indicate two or three daily calls to Cole Clanton or receipt of calls from Clanton.

  Cobb swung around and moved heavily to a chair by the table, sat across from Hal Price. “There’ll be more. Once you know, it’s pretty easy to untangle all the knots.” The chief sounded hugely satisfied.

  Hal Price lifted a hand to his face, yanked it down again. “I’ve got to stop rubbing my eyes. I’ve got a hot date tonight, and if we turn off the lights and my eyes glow red, she’d going to shriek and leave.” Instead, he massaged the back of his neck and gave the chief a quizzical look. “So how come you played it so close to the vest? Don’t you trust your staff? Were you afraid there’d be a leak to Harris?”

  Cobb looked startled. “Not trust—hey, knock it off, Hal. Nope, here’s the skinny. I thought the perp was Rod Holt. I got a tip from the horse’s mouth.”

  I reached up, touched my lips, not sure I cared for the simile.

  “Nobody was more surprised than I was.” Cobb shook his head. “I took a chance on an anonymous source.” His expression was benign. “Sometimes you have to accept what is given and not worry about the whys and wherefores. Anyway, everything worked out. We got our man.”

  “Yeah.” Hal Price forgot and rubbed his eyes again. “But how do you explain the rope trick?”

  “Ah, the rope trick . . .” Chief Cobb turned his big hands palm up. “Maybe somebody else was there.” He spoke carefully, as if the words had the fragility of crystal glass stems. “Maybe somebody didn’t want him to get away.”

  “Somebody?”

  Cobb’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Don’t look a gift horse . . .”

  The man was almost as obsessed with the equine kingdom as the woman who was likely even now astride a huge black horse, out for a last gallop before the arrival of the Rescue Express.

  • • •

  Bright sun bathed Adelaide in gold. I hovered near the steeple of St. Mildred’s, gazed at the wooded park on one side, the cemetery on the other. The bell chimed the hour, and I saw the twisting curl of coal smoke and heard the clack of the great iron wheels on steel rails.

  I heard a snuffle nearby. “Dee, let’s see if he’ll agree.”

  “I’m with you.” She was genial and relaxed now that Nick was safe.

  Wiggins’s shout was exuberant. “Come aboard, ladies.”

  I swung aboard the rear platform. I wasn’t at all sure Wiggins would grant my plea. I spoke quickly, my voice full of entreaty. “Wiggins, since there is no time in Heaven, would you be kind enough to swing back by and pick up me and Dee at five o’clock this afternoon?”

  After an instant’s puzzlement, he laughed. “Don’t tell me you truly think there’s a steel box full of money in Claire Arnold’s yard?” His tone was teasing.

  “You don’t run a horse into a lather and not sponge him down.” Dee’s deep voice was firm. “That’s leaving a job half-done.”

  “Life is full of surprises, especially if you look for them.” That’s what Mama always told us kids.

  “The two of you make quite a pair. Partners in crime.” He found that hugely amusing. “Very well. Five o’clock it is.”

  • • •

  Smoke belched from the yellow Caterpillar bulldozer as the bucket dumped a couple of feet of rich black dirt to one side. Kids perched on tree limbs. Casually dressed adults holding paper plates and cups stood behind security tape that kept the crowd back from the bulldozer and the deepening hole. Nick’s arm was draped around Jan’s shoulder. He looked proud and happy. Jan’s face glowed. Arlene Richey was pale but composed. Claire Arnold pushed back a strand of brown hair and looked shyly at Chief Cobb, burly in a blue polo, jeans, and worn cowboy boots.

  In the broad seat, the muscular driver looked bored. He manipulated the bucket down to jam into the dark, dark dirt.

  Clank.

  The driver leaned forward, peered. “Got something down there.”

  Cobb turned to Claire. “Do you want me to see?”

  Her eyes wide and excited, she nodded. She lifted her fingers to press against her cheeks.

  The chief eased into the two-foot ditch, knelt. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, brushed away tendrils of roots and clods of dirt to reveal a rusted oblong steel lockbox. With an expression of amazement, Cobb worked the box free from the soft earth and stood. He climbed out of the hole.

  “Oh my, oh my, oh my. Oh, Sam, please open it.”

  Cobb placed the lockbox on a picnic table. He fumbled in his pants pocket with a dirt-stained hand, drew out a pocketknife, flicked out a small tool, inserted it in the rusted lock, and wiggled the blade.

  A screech.

  Claire drew in a deep breath.

  Cobb used a stronger blade to pry along the rusted seams until he could prize open the lid.

  The only sound was the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

  Yellowed newspaper lay atop the contents. Cobb removed the paper and fragments broke and drifted in the air. He picked up a packet wrapped in thick plastic and carefully unfolded the covering. “By God, look at these!” The chief’s big hand held up a thick stacks of bills bound with rubber bands.

  Tears streamed down Claire’s face. “Now I can take care of Sis.”

  • • •

  Dee and I stood on the platform of the caboose as the Rescue Express streaked toward Heaven.

  She clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll ride with you anytime, Bailey Ruth.”

  Wiggins thumped my arm. “As they used to say when I was a young man and we settled around the poker table, if you can’t be good, you’d better be lucky. This time, Bailey Ruth, you were good and lucky.”

  The wind stirred my hair. The wheels thrummed as the Express picked up speed. Heaven-bound and glad to be. I reached out and grasped a callused hand and a firm, rein-strong hand. “I’d never claim to be good, but I’ve always been lucky.”