Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (23 page)

“Nick will buy the property.” I had no qualms about committing him.

Claire clapped her hands. Her face shone. “I can’t tell you how happy that would make me.”

A sharp pinch shocked me.

Dee would have to hold her peace. I spoke ostensibly to Claire, but for Dee’s benefit. “Nick will be delighted to buy the place, restore it to its old glory, and create a companion inn to the Majestic Buffalo B & B.” Nick was seriously rich, the price of the Arnold place was a drop in his monetary bucket to him, and, if all went well, Nick would owe me—and Claire—big time, and this would be a nice thank-you. “However—”

Claire’s face drooped, foreseeing the end of a very brief dream of escape.

“—I need information about Buster Killeen.”

• • •

Shoulders hunched, feet wide apart and solidly planted, Chief Cobb stood behind his desk. He had the look of a bull hunkered down against horseflies.

His particular horsefly loomed as large as a vulture in the middle of his office—lacquered blonde hair in odd spikes, puffy face with overdone makeup, bejeweled hands on plump hips. Jagged black stripes against the white background of her silk dress numbed the eye. The Honorable Neva Lumpkin, mayor of Adelaide, was on the attack. “. . . absolutely a dereliction of duty. The DA made the situation clear to me. There is more than adequate evidence to bring charges in not one, but two cases, yet you are not holding either suspect! The town of Adelaide is unprotected from murderous assaults. The city council shall be informed. An inquiry shall be instituted. I insist that Nick Magruder be arrested. If he is not in jail by this time tomorrow, you will answer to me. I will call a special meeting of the council. The DA will present his evidence. You will no doubt be relieved of your duties. It is my sacred pledge to protect dear Adelaide. I will not rest, I will not pause, I will not—”

Once launched into campaign mode, her rhetorical range was nearly inexhaustible.

I tapped her on the shoulder.

She broke off and swung around to berate the dolt who had dared interrupt her.

No one stood between her and the closed doorway to the hall. Her features froze.

I slipped to the other side, again tapped her shoulder.

Despite her bulk, she pivoted, her face purpling. “Sam—”

Sam Cobb remained behind his desk, brows drawn down in a puzzled frown. “Something wrong, Neva?”

She looked up. She looked down. She looked to her right. She looked to her left. She yanked around again to look behind her.

This time I gave her a sharp poke in the middle of the back.

With a yelp, she swung around, mouth working. “What are you doing, Sam?”

“I’m not doing anything.” Innocence has its own authenticity. He, too, had a haunted expression.

Carefully, taking one step at a time, she backed to the doorway, hand behind her to reach for the knob.

I delicately tapped her upturned left palm three times.

With a muffled cry, Neva turned and yanked open the door, slamming it behind her.

Dee’s laughter was muffled. “I don’t blame you. But there goes Precept Five.”

“Surely Wiggins will understand.” I spoke without confidence, already ruing the fact that I’d once again succumbed to the temptation to confound those who appeared to oppose me. “Chief Cobb deserves support. That woman—”

“Ladies.” Wiggins sounded grim. “The roof.”

• • •

The sunny roof was unoccupied. I settled on the parapet, my back to the street.

“Regrettable behavior.” A heavy sigh. “Reversionary.” His voice came from a few feet away. I knew he faced me, his genial face now set in stern lines. Wiggins always worried that emissaries might revert to earthly attitudes. That accounted for his insistence that we remember always that we were
on
the earth, not
of
the earth.

“Repugnant?” I offered. As Mama always said, “Be the first to say you’re sorry and you’ll be the last to cry.”

“Oh, well.” Wiggins had a big heart. “I wouldn’t go so far as to deem your actions repugnant. You are much too well meaning, dear Bailey Ruth, to be characterized in such a fashion.” A sigh. “If only you weren’t so impulsive, so impetuous, so uninhibited.”

“But then”—and Dee’s voice quivered with amusement—“that odious mayor would have made life miserable for Chief Cobb. Besides, did you see her face?” Dee erupted in merriment.

Her gurgle of laughter and perhaps even a shamefaced chuckle or two from Wiggins masked the gritty scrape as the roof door opened. Chief Cobb slipped out, moving quietly for such a big man.

“However—”

That Wiggins continued to speak indicated he was looking toward me and was unaware of the chief’s arrival on the roof.

“—Nick Magruder has been released, and therefore your mission is accomplished.”

Chief Cobb’s face indicated careful attention. I had no doubt he heard every word. Wiggins always spoke in a robust tone. Chief Cobb inched backward and eased behind the small structure until he was out of sight but our conversation would still be audible.

“Wiggins, I have a plan.” I was tense at the prospect of our mission ending when I had the necessary information to trap our quarry. However, I didn’t hear a train whistle in the distance. “Dee and I will leave first thing in the morning if the police apprehend the murderer tonight.”

“How can that be accomplished?” Wiggins was skeptical.

“Claire Arnold will announce that she intends to dig for buried treasure tomorrow afternoon near the site of the original trading post, and the public is invited to attend—five dollars a ticket. Late tonight—well after midnight—the murderer will slip onto the Arnold property with a metal detector and a shovel. The police will be waiting, hidden in the shrubbery.”

“Buried treasure!” Wiggins’s exclamation was incredulous. “Oh, my dear Bailey Ruth, surely you don’t believe that after all these years Belle Starr’s booty will be found. I never thought you, of all people, would succumb to the lure of buried treasure.” His voice expressed disappointment and embarrassment at my intellectual gaffe.

“Not Belle Starr’s gold.” I was romantic enough to believe that on a long-ago cold November day Belle Starr might have left a fortune in Adelaide, but rotting saddlebags filled with coins would remain undisturbed now and perhaps forever. “Belle’s gold was a stalking horse, just as the Old Timer Days celebration was a diversion. Rod Holt designed the Belle Starr treasure maps to draw attention away from the Arnold property. Holt claimed that Cole Clanton contacted him with plans for the celebration. Cole didn’t care about history. Cole cared about money.”

Dee’s deep voice was crisp. “Bailey Ruth deserves credit here. When Cole wrote about early-day Adelaide crimes, Sadie Barnett contacted him. She has since passed away, but Bailey Ruth discovered in her obituary that her cousin was Buster Killeen. One of Cole’s stories told about the murder of Buster Killeen at the Arnold place. Then Bailey Ruth talked to Claire Arnold, and that’s where she hit pay dirt. Buster Killeen once owned the Arnold property. He was found murdered, presumably just as he was preparing to leave town. In the kitchen was a briefcase containing ten thousand in cash. But according to Claire Arnold, there was an even larger amount of money that was never found.”

I spoke in a resonant voice. I definitely wanted Chief Cobb to hear. “Claire’s husband, Gabe, grew up hearing stories from his father about Buster. One of those tales involved more than half a million in cash in a strongbox. Gabe believed Buster had planned to escape the night he was shot. Knowing he was in danger, Buster had hidden the money, hoping a threat from a disgruntled customer would blow over and he would return. Sadie Barnett gave Cole some old papers, papers she wasn’t able to read because of her failing eyesight. I think Cole found confirmation of her story and directions to the location of a steel box full of cash. Mrs. Arnold said her husband was convinced the money was hidden in the house, but Cole’s actions make it clear the money must be buried outside. Cole soon discovered he couldn’t gain access to the Arnold property. That’s when he and Rod Holt hatched their scheme. Pretty soon Cole was director of the celebration with an office in City Hall. Cole wanted to build a replica of the original trading post on the Arnold property, which would make it easy to dig without arousing suspicion, but he was blocked until Gabe Arnold drowned. I think Gabe’s death was murder.”

“Wiggins, one jump follows another.” Dee was emphatic. “After Gabe drowned, Cole charmed Claire Arnold, and everything was set for the replica to be built until Nick came to town ready to settle some old scores. That’s when Cole found his horse was hobbled. Nick promised to buy the Arnold property on the condition that Claire prevent construction of the trading post.”

It all seemed clear to me, one domino falling and then the others. “When Rod learned the trading post was blocked, he searched Tuesday night and found the site. Wednesday Cole came to see him, demanding to know if he had been on the property and had thrown me into the pond. Rod must have satisfied Cole that he was just checking out the site and that they were still working together. Cole told Rod about his plan to trade the photos of Arlene for the property, but Rod had heard about the shooting at Nick’s house, and he decided Cole was a liability. Rod made up his mind to kill Cole and retrieve the money for himself. Nick’s quarrel with Cole made Nick an excellent scapegoat. Rod took a pizza to Cole’s apartment and left with the rifle. That night he shot Cole at the gazebo.

“Lisa Sanford had been hidden in Cole’s apartment when Rod retrieved the rifle. When she realized Cole’s rifle was the murder weapon, she attempted blackmail. On Thursday Rod came to the trailer presumably to give her money, but he overpowered Lisa and shot her with her husband’s gun. At this moment, he is basking in success, but tonight Rod Holt can be trapped.”

“Why would Chief Cobb agree to follow your directions?” Wiggins did not sound persuaded.

Dee’s laughter was again robust. “When Bailey Ruth gives him a chance to solve two murders, he’ll jump at the chance. He’ll relish the expression on the mayor’s face when he holds a news conference to announce the solution to two crimes, which only he and his department realized were connected.”

“Possibly you have a good point.” Wiggins was silent.

Would Wiggins agree? I hoped he would make a decision quickly. It wasn’t quite noon, but there would be much to do to create a successful trap for a highly intelligent and ruthless adversary. I had no illusions that Rod Holt would be easy to fool. We would have to be exceedingly clever.

“Very well.” Wiggins was brisk. “The Rescue Express will be here at nine in the morning.” A pause. “Do make every effort to communicate with Chief Cobb without creating a sense of otherworldly intervention.”

“Oh, Wiggins, of course.” My voice was as smooth as butter, since what Wiggins didn’t know would never cause him distress. “Dee and I will be utterly circumspect.” After a fashion.

Fashion . . . I was a bit chilly. The sun had slipped behind a cloud. Perhaps a crisp, new double-breasted blue blazer with shiny gold buttons in lieu of my current white drop-shouldered cardigan.
Mmm. Very comfortable.
“You can count on Dee and me and the chief.” It was my sincere hope that Wiggins would be reassured and depart to some far corner of the world.

A hand came from behind the wooden structure, a big, strong hand closed in a fist with the thumb pointing up.

Chief Sam Cobb was on board.

Then the thumb curled below three fingers and a forefinger pointed down.

Chief Cobb was in agreement and directing Dee and me to report for duty.

The chief eased quietly from behind the structure, opened the door, closed it gently behind him. He was en route to his office to await inspiration—certainly not otherworldly—for the best way to bait a succulent trap for a greedy, dangerous, and resourceful adversary.

I
n his office, Chief Cobb walked to his desk, punched the intercom. “Sheila, no calls. No visitors”—he glanced at the wall clock—“for twenty minutes.” He settled into his desk chair, opened the drawer to his left, plucked out a big bag of M&M’S. “Ladies?”

“That would be lovely.” I took the sack and poured out a generous handful.

Dee took the bag from me, filled her palm. “Thanks very much.”

His brown eyes watched the sack move through the air, the mounds of M&M’S apparently suspended in space, the deposit of the sack on his desktop. His big, square face was studiously inexpressive. “Who knew M&M’S floated? Not that I intend to share that fact.” He popped a half dozen in his mouth, munched.

For an instant, there was a crackle of candy being devoured.

When the floating M&M’S were gone, Cobb pulled a legal pad close, picked up his pen. “Sometimes I like to think aloud, jot down ideas. The first step is to contact Claire Arnold, ask for her cooperation. . . .”

As he wrote, Dee and I offered suggestions. In fifteen minutes, the campaign was mapped.

As Dee put it so well: “Now it’s time to ride.”

• • •

Another time, I would have been fascinated by the interior of the Arnold house, a big central reception area with rooms opening off either side and a wide staircase leading up to the second floor. I could easily envision its past use as a bordello and as a boardinghouse. In a sitting room off to one side, a wide-eyed Claire Arnold listened to Chief Cobb.

“. . . so that is all you need to do. If you agree, Officer Shirley Abbott will remain in your house tonight as a precaution, though the activity will be confined to the yard.”

“Of course I’ll help. That nice young man threatened with jail, why it’s dreadful.” Claire’s voice was stern. “Now”—there was a sudden, teasing smile—“I’ll make the call if you’ll come over tomorrow and tell me all about it.”

Chief Cobb’s smile was easy. “That’s a promise.”

I saw admiration and possibly something more in her faded blue eyes. I heartily approved. Chief Cobb was not only a fine, upstanding man, he was very attractive—grizzled hair above a strong-featured face, a husky build with strong shoulders and tree-trunk legs.

“All right.” She took a deep breath, picked up the receiver. She punched numbers. “Hi, Rod. Claire Arnold. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I’m sooo excited. You know how Gabe always kept looking for Buster Killeen’s strongbox. Well”—her voice was slightly breathy—“I only wish he could be here now. I found a map that shows the strongbox isn’t in the house after all, like Gabe thought. It’s buried about twenty feet from the old oak tree, you know, right near where the trading post was. Anyway, it may not amount to a hill of beans, but I’ve arranged for a bulldozer to be here at four tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to make an announcement in the
Gazette
and sell tickets for five dollars each, and anybody with a ticket can come and watch. Whether we find anything or not, holding a dig here will be a great way to promote Old Timer Days, and if you want to come and sell the Belle Starr maps, that would be fine. . . . Oh yes, I think it will be a lot of fun. I thought you’d be interested. . . . Right. Four o’clock. . . . I hadn’t thought about refreshments, but that’s a good idea. I’ll whip up a bunch of brownies and make some lemonade, and I can sell that, too. . . . I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up and expelled a great whoosh of air. She looked at Chief Cobb, her eyes huge. “He thanked me for letting him know and said he’d be here with bells on.”

• • •

The city editor put down the phone, swiveled in his chair. “Hey, Albert . . .”

At his screen, Albert frowned and looked up at the clock, but he obediently popped up and crossed to the city editor’s desk.

The editor ripped off a sheet from a notepad, thrust it at him. “Need it today. Big dig planned tomorrow in a hunt for hidden money. People love those kinds of stories. No time to get out for an interview, but give her a ring. For now, give me ten inches and rustle up a file photo. Cover the excavation tomorrow.”

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

1. Possession of the .38 pistol belonging to Brian Sanford. Slugs that killed Lisa Sanford a match.
   
2. Heel print of Harris’s right brown oxford matched print found in patch of damp grass behind gazebo the morning after Clanton’s murder.
   
3. Search of Harris apartment yielded the brown slacks he wore Thursday, which match description 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.
   
4. A partial thumbprint on Cole Clanton’s refrigerator matched Harris’s fingerprints. Otherwise refrigerator surface had been polished and was clean of all prints.
   
5. 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.
   
6. 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?”