Ghost at Work: A Bailey Ruth Mystery

by Carolyn Hart

  She hunched in her chair, apparently oblivious to her surroundings, and stared at an open notebook, her expression empty.

  I doubted her eyes saw the writing.

  Today her honey-colored hair was drawn back in a bun. A few curls escaped to soften the severity of the style. If she loosened her hair, let it frame her narrow face, and added a bit more makeup, she would be pretty. Her eyes were deep blue, her features fine—widespaced eyes, straight nose, gently rounded chin.

  The police uniform was flattering to her fair skin, the long-sleeved shirt French blue, the trousers French blue with a navy stripe down each leg. The shirt bore an Adelaide police patch on each shoulder and a metal name tag—A. LELAND—and badge over the left breast pocket. The leather shoes were black, as were the socks.

  It had been a sacrifice to shed my elegant pantsuit, but I knew it was necessary. I envisioned my new outfit, found the shirt a bit scratchy. I needed a name for my tag. I couldn’t appear as Officer B. R. Raeburn.

  Perhaps A. Great for Alexandra the Great? J. Arc for . . . No. That was not a happy ending and too presumptuous. N. Bly for Nellie Bly?

  If Wiggins had seen fit to send me to France, that might have been an option. There had to be the perfect name, a woman I’d admired . . .

  I smiled. I would be M. Loy. I’d always tuned in for her Nick and Nora Charles movies on TV, although it seemed to me that she spent most of her time holding Asta the terrier on her lap and watching as William Powell detected. But Myrna Loy had style and that was enough for me.

  Patrol Officer M. Loy was now ready to embark on her investigation.

  I debated adding a holster for a gun, decided that wasn’t necessary.

  After all, I wouldn’t be passing in review to make sure I met department regulations. I simply needed to appear official to those whom I wished to question.

  The phone on Officer Leland’s desk rang.

  She picked up the receiver. “Officer Leland.” She listened, her shoulders tightening. “Yes, Chief.” A quick breath. “I stopped Mr. Murdoch at shortly after five P.M. yesterday. He was making an illegal left turn onto Main Street. Since you’d spoken to me”—she cleared her throat—“I didn’t give him a ticket, just a warning.” She picked up a pencil, rolled it around and around in her fingers. “No, I didn’t follow him. He drove off, heading east. That’s all I know. Yes, sir.” She put down the receiver, looking drained.

  She reached out to pick up a silver picture frame. She placed it on the edge of her desk, stared at the photograph of a young woman with soft brown hair, bright blue eyes, a devil-may-care smile, and a defiant tilt to her head. I saw a resemblance to Officer Leland, but she was a pallid version of the vibrant creature in the photograph.

  Officer Leland’s face crumpled for an instant, her hands gripping the sides of the silver frame. Slowly her face changed, from grief to stern resolve. She grabbed up the receiver, held it for a long moment until a buzz sounded. She replaced the receiver, her hand resting on it, then, with a deep breath, yanked it up, dialed.

  “Chief, may I see you for a moment? There’s something I have to tell you . . . Thank you.” When she pushed up from her chair, it seemed to take a great effort, slightly built as she was. She walked down the narrow corridor between the partition-separated cubicles.

  Each foot might have been weighted with chains.

  Whatever difficulty she faced, her problems were far afield from my tasks. I steeled myself against the sense that here, too, was someone in deep trouble. I couldn’t take on everyone’s problems. I was charged with aiding Kathleen and already I’d widened my concern to include Father Bill. I couldn’t add Officer Leland to my list.

  She paused at the doorway, gripped the knob, and opened the door. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the hall as if marching to her doom.

  It was time for me to depart. I was now equipped to find out whether I needed to bring to Chief Cobb’s attention any of those pictured or recorded on the dead man’s cell phone. That was my clear-cut objective. But that burdened young woman . . . All right.

  I’d find out why she was upset, but I wouldn’t tarry long. I wafted to the chief ’s office.

  Chief Cobb was standing by a long rectangular table. File folders were ranged around the perimeter. Each bore a large square white label. All pertained to the Murdoch investigation. Chief Cobb’s thick iron-gray brows knotted in a frown. Lines of fatigue creased his square face. He picked up a report.

  I looked over his shoulder.

  Persons of Interest:

  Kirby Murdoch, son of victim. Estrangement over girlfriend. Target practice on the river bottom Thursday afternoon. Cannot produce gun. Claims it was stolen from his car.

  The Rev. Wm. Abbott—Quarreled with victim Thursday morning, refuses to reveal cause. Was his wife involved with Murdoch? Story of her visit to Murdoch’s cabin not credible.

  Kathleen Abbott—A vestry member is worried that Mrs. Abbott is

  A brisk knock sounded.

  He replaced the report on the table, turned.

  Officer Leland stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She was pale, but composed.

  “What can I do for you, Anita?” His voice was formal, but the look in his eyes startled me, a mixture of gravity and longing.

  Anita stood stiff and still. She looked young and vulnerable. She didn’t meet his gaze.

  Yet each was intensely aware of the other even though both were making every effort to pretend it wasn’t so. They were linked by that magic sensitivity that spells desire and uncertainty and hope.

  She moved to the end of the table, stood with her hands in tight fists.

  “I may have information that could be important in the Murdoch case.”

  He frowned. “You followed him yesterday?”

  “Oh no.” The denial was swift. “It isn’t that. It’s . . . I have to go back a long way to explain. You remember two years ago when you came out to my brother-in-law’s farm, the night he shot himself.”

  “I remember.” His steady gaze was filled with pity.

  “You were kind.” Her eyes mourned. “You tried to help us. Then, when Vee ran away, you did your best to find her.”

  His jaw tightened. “She shouldn’t have left you to deal with it.”

  Anita’s shoulders sagged. “She never could face up to things. Never. I don’t think she’s still alive, you know. I keep thinking someday word will come, but every time it’s like this last trip. The description matches—young woman, unidentified, found dead. But it isn’t Vee. Anyway”—she made a sudden impatient gesture—“I don’t know if you ever knew the man Vee was involved with.”

  He rubbed one cheek. “It didn’t need to be part of the record. When a man shoots himself, leaves a note, that’s all an investigation needs.”

  “I know. But now I have to tell you.” She flexed her fingers, shook them. “She was having an affair with Daryl Murdoch.”

  Chief Cobb looked startled. “Murdoch?”

  “Vee should have known better.” Anita spoke in a monotone. “She was always wild, even when she was a kid, taking chances, thinking she was special, and when somebody like him went after her, I guess she thought she’d have a chance to marry a rich man and she told Carl she was leaving him. When he shot himself, she called Murdoch and he hung up on her. Like everything else in her life, when things got rough, she quit. She took all the money in the house and left town.”

  “Is that why you followed him around?” His voice was sharp.

  Anita stared down at the tips of her shoes, her face working. “The first time I stopped him, I didn’t know who it was. He couldn’t believe I was actually going to give him a ticket. The second time I knew his car. I guess I liked stopping him. He didn’t know I was Vee’s sister. No reason why he should have. After that, I kept an eye out for him.” She lifted her face. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t see why he shouldn’t have to follow the rules. So”—her gaze was defiant—“I followed him around an
d that’s what I have to tell you about. It might be important. He always has a girlfriend. He’s been seeing a woman who lives on Olive Street for about a year now. Cynthia Brown, 623 Olive. But he hadn’t gone there for about a week.”

  She reached up, touched her name badge. “If you want to fire me, I’ll understand.” Tears filmed her eyes. “I hate to disappoint you, Chief. I tried hard to be a good officer. You’re the reason why I changed my major to criminal justice. I’ve never forgotten the night Carl died . . . I wanted to be able to help people the way you helped me.”

  “Speed laws are supposed to be enforced.” His voice was gentle.

  “Your surveillance of Murdoch may turn out to be key to solving the case.”

  She reached up, wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “I had to tell you even if it meant my job.”

  “Your job’s okay.” His tone was abstracted. He turned away, paced along the table. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s an opening in the security office at the college.”

  Anita watched him with a stricken look. “I see.”

  He stood, staring down at the folders. “If you’re interested, I’ll give you a top recommendation. Then, if that works out, maybe some Saturday . . .” He swung to face her. “Maybe we could go up to Oklahoma City, have lunch at Bricktown, take a ride on the canal, maybe drop by Bass Pro.” His gaze was hopeful.

  Her eyes lighted. “That sounds wonderful.” The words came on a ragged breath. “I’ll apply Monday.”

  I smiled. My presence hadn’t been necessary. Everything looked positive for the widowed chief and the young woman he had inspired.

  I was glad to see the beginnings of happiness. Moreover, I now had the last piece of information I needed. Unless I was very much mistaken, the woman who had desperately wanted Daryl Murdoch to call her lived at 623 Olive Street.

  It was time for Officer M. Loy to begin her investigation.

  ———

  Olive Street was four blocks north of Main. Most of the small frame houses were in various stages of disrepair, window screens missing, front porches sagging, paint peeling. Weeds choked the abandoned train tracks that intersected Olive near number 623.

  The middle front step to 623 had buckled in the center. The window shades were down. No light glimmered in front. I circled the house. Light shone from a high kitchen window. I looked inside, drew my breath in sharply.

  A young woman with a mass of dark curls and a round face sat at a battered kitchen table. Slowly she raised a gun to her temple. Tears streamed down a face blotched from crying. She gulped and sniffed, her eyes dull with misery.

  There was no time to knock, no time to arrive in customary fashion.

  I was at her side at once. Reaching out, I gripped her arm, forced the gun to one side. I willed myself present, saw my image, unfamiliar in the blue uniform, in a cracked mirror over the sink.

  “No.” I spoke sternly.

  Her hand sagged. The gun clattered to the floor.

  Now I knew that my detour through Chief Cobb’s office had not been on behalf of Anita Leland. I relinquished my grip, reached down to pick up the gun. I broke it open, spilled out the shells in my hand. Bobby Mac taught me how to handle a gun a long time ago.

  She stared at me. “How did you get in?” She brushed back dark curls. “You’re the police?”

  I pulled out a chair, sat opposite her. “That doesn’t matter. I’m here to help you.” I smiled. “Tell me, Cynthia.”

  “No one can help me.”

  “God will help.”

  She stared at me uncertainly. “You sound as if you know.” She shook her head almost angrily. “What can you know? You aren’t any older than I am.”

  I wished suddenly I could shout it aloud: Don’t judge anyone by age, not the young and not the old. It’s who they are and what they’ve done and what they know in their hearts that matters, always and forever.

  No one would listen. The world would go on its merry way, adoring youth for the wrong reason, ignoring those in the winter season.

  Instead, I looked deep into her eyes.

  She looked into mine.

  Slowly her face changed.

  I’ve known sorrow and fear, loss and trouble, sat at the bedside of the dying, tried to help the lost, struggled to find my own way. Bobby Mac and I were happy, but no life is untouched by heartbreak and pain. That was part of me and that was what I offered to Cynthia.

  “Your eyes . . . They’re like my mother’s eyes. Oh, if only she hadn’t died. She would have kept him from hurting me. He’ll hurt me so bad I’d wish I was dead, so I might as well do it myself.”

  I took her hand, felt its clammy coldness. “Who will hurt you?”

  “My dad. He’s hurt me a lot and if he finds out I’m pregnant—”

  She clapped her hand to her mouth.

  “Daryl Murdoch?”

  The emptiness of her face told its own story. “I told him about the baby and he didn’t care. He said I should have been more careful.”

  “When did you tell him?”

  She massaged her head as if it hurt. “I called him and he didn’t call back. I went to his office yesterday. I told him when he came out to his car. He pushed me away and left. Now he’s dead. I saw it on the morning news. He’s dead and there’s no one to help me, no one at all.”

  “Yes, there will be help. Go to Father Bill at St. Mildred’s Church. Do you know where that is?”

  She nodded, her hand clinging to mine.

  “Tell him you need help to go away to a safe place to have your baby. You can go and stay. They’ll help you find a job, and when the baby comes, they’ll find a home. Will you do that?”

  “Yes.” The word was a sigh.

  But I had to ask. “Did you follow Daryl when he left his office last night?”

  “No.” Her eyes flared in alarm. “I didn’t shoot him.”

  I felt cold. “How did you know he was shot?”

  “It was on TV this morning. I didn’t do it. I swear.”

  I picked up the gun. “Where did you get this?” It was a .22 pistol.

  “I stole it from my dad’s house. He has lots of guns.”

  “I’ll take it with me.” I kept the shells in my hand, tucked the gun in my waistband.

  She shivered. “I don’t want it.” Her look was young and earnest.

  “I won’t do that again. I’ll go to the church in the morning.”

  I looked around the cold kitchen, spotted a gas stove, found matches, lit the flame. “When did you last eat?” I moved to the refrigerator.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was dull.

  I fried bacon and scrambled eggs with milk, seasoning salt, a half teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of brown sugar. I fixed toast and poured a glass of milk.

  I placed the plate in front of her. She pushed the eggs with her fork, finally took a bite, then with a look of surprise and gratitude eagerly ate. “These eggs are good. I didn’t know I was so hungry.”

  I debated what to do, then made up my mind. “This won’t be the only visit you’ll have from the police.” Chief Cobb would be sure to explore what he’d learned from Anita.

  Cynthia put down her fork, her young face once again frightened and vulnerable.

  I chose my words carefully. “Don’t mention my visit here. We’ll pretend it didn’t happen. Tell them you wanted to see Daryl, so you went to his office last night, but he’d already left. Don’t say anything about the baby.”

  Her eyes crinkled in puzzlement. “Why are you helping me?”

  Honest truth is sometimes best. “Because you are alone.” And lost. And frightened.

  “All right.” Her eyes were luminous. “Thank you. I hope”—she looked anxious—“you don’t get in trouble.”

  I was already in trouble. Wiggins was likely despairing of me at this very moment. “Everything will work out.” That was surely the most positive of thinking. I had no reason to think anything would work out and I seemed to go
from bad to worse when it came to meddling with Chief Cobb’s investigation. “There’s nothing you can do to help the police.” Officer Leland had stopped Daryl as he turned out of the lot, leaving Cynthia behind. Certainly he was alive and well then. “So it’s better not to say anything more than you have to.”

  She drank a gulp of milk. “All right.”

  I left her finishing her light supper, looking worn but at peace. I hoped I’d done the right thing to encourage her to refrain from telling the chief that she’d seen Daryl Thursday evening, but I couldn’t help wondering. She’d said her father’s house had many guns. Had I carried one of those guns to the Pritchard mausoleum for the police to find?

  Once outside, I took my latest acquisition out of my pocket, disappeared, and wafted to the top of an old oak. I tucked the gun in the crook between a branch and the trunk, too far above ground to be noticeable. Then I zoomed down to the street, found a manhole cover, and dropped the shells inside.

  Daylight was fading fast, the shadows deep and dark on Olive Street. I didn’t expect Walter Carey to slip into his former partner’s office until darkness fell, so I didn’t feel rushed. Instead of going directly to Murdoch Investments, I strolled toward Main.

  I wasn’t surprised when I heard that rumble nearby. “Although becoming visible is never desirable, in some instances it is acceptable.”

  We moved along in silence, then a soft harrumph. “That dear girl. Good work, Bailey Ruth.”

  Wiggins left as quickly as he’d arrived.

  I was smiling when I reached Main Street. I took a moment to look up and down. The Bijou marquee was dark and the front looked boarded over. The corner where our drugstore sat now advertised CORNUCOPIA TEA SHOP, NATURAL FOODS. What other kinds were there?

  Then I saw the red neon of Lulu’s. In a flash, I arrived in the narrow entrance to the café. I suppose it was impulsive of me, but I hadn’t had a Lulu hamburger and fries in, well, it was a lifetime ago.

  I was greeted by a delectable scent of hot grease.

  Every stool at the counter was occupied as well as the four booths.

  Lulu’s hadn’t changed a whit in all these years and it was packing in the customers as offices and stores closed. A tall blond waitress and a lanky teenage boy served the counter and the booths. She was quick and efficient. He was more lackadaisical.