Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel)

by Hart, Carolyn

  I gave Arlene a swift glance. Undeniably she was a youthful and quite firm late forties, but late forties are late forties. I wasn’t taking undue pleasure in forever being twenty-seven. That would not reflect a generous spirit. “The kitchen is amazing. The plate rack over the butler’s sink is such an excellent Victorian detail.” I slid into my place, pulled out my folded sheets and pen, and looked at them brightly. “It’s been my experience as a detective that authorities are excellent at investigating homicides. But they are not adept at preventing homicides. My job is to protect Mr. Magruder. To do so, it is essential that I speak to everyone who has reason to be angry with him. As I understand the situation, and I have had the opportunity for only a brief talk with Mr. Magruder, he has returned to Adelaide as a very wealthy man and it might be said he came home with an attitude.”

  Arlene looked sour. “He can’t wait to tell everyone how rich he is.”

  Jan rushed to his defense. “That’s not fair. He’s a success, and he has every right to be proud. The guys who treated him like scum in high school are the ones badmouthing him now.”

  I asked quickly, “Such as?”

  Arlene’s lips thinned. “I don’t blame them. Nick sneers at anyone who played football. But he hasn’t stopped there. He’s gone out of his way to try to block Cole’s plans for the festival.”

  “Cole?”

  “Cole Clanton.” Arlene slipped a cell phone out of her pocket, swept her thumb across it several times, held it out to me.

  Cole Clanton’s thick brown hair was tousled. His dark eyes looked sleepy. Sensuous lips parted in a half smile, he lounged shirtless on a rumpled bed, propped on one elbow. He looked reckless, sexy, and arrogant.

  Arlene gazed at the picture. Desire glowed in her eyes, her lips were parted.

  Jan looked away, her expression a mixture of sadness and distaste.

  Arlene spoke with energy, oblivious to Jan’s discomfort. “Cole’s amazing. Everybody’s excited about the upcoming festival. He has wonderful ideas.” Arlene gestured around the room, her gaze settling on a glass-paned china cabinet filled with Victorian bric-a-brac, ruby red lusters, paperweights, papier-mâché trays, small statues, china vases, crystal boxes, silver goblets. “We’ll serve a Victorian tea every afternoon, and we’re selling tickets for a Ladies’ Book Society meeting, and everyone will wear eighteen-nineties dresses. We’ll have a review of The Light that Failed by Rudyard Kipling. It was published in eighteen ninety, a couple of years after the trading post was built. The Strand Shoppe has picked up twenty or thirty dresses discarded by a costume shop in New York, and the dresses will be for rent with a percentage of the rental going to the festival fund. The Chickasaw Nation Dance Troupe will give a special program at the lake amphitheater, and tickets are selling like wildfire. Bud Hotchkiss has a restored stagecoach and he’s going to take groups for rides. Rod Holt, who runs an Old West store, plans to sell replicas of Oklahoma treasure maps. The festival will get a percentage of the profits. And if Nick hadn’t messed everything up, Cole was going to put up a replica of the original trading post, but that’s all off now. Nick’s going to buy the place from Claire Arnold.”

  I looked up from my sheet of paper. “How did Nick block the trading post?”

  “Money.” Arlene’s tone was dry. “Claire was willing to let Cole set up the trading post, but Nick told her he would buy only if Claire refuses to let Cole come on the land. Nick offered her a lot more than the place is worth, so of course she agreed. Cole’s really upset. Claire told Cole this morning that she’d changed her mind about participating in the festival. It’s really hateful of Nick. It wouldn’t hurt anything to let Cole put up the replica. Nick did it out of spite.”

  Jan shrugged. “Nick has the money. If that’s how he wants to spend it, it’s his business. Anyway, I’ll be glad when someone buys that place and fixes it up. It was bad enough when Gabe Arnold was alive, but the shrubbery’s even thicker now. At least the gates aren’t locked anymore and the dogs are gone. Gabe had two German shepherds, and nobody dared ever touch foot inside those walls.” Jan looked toward me. “Mom’s yard is gorgeous, daylilies and roses and grass like velvet. To have that eyesore next door is hideous.”

  I was puzzled. “Did Nick grow up there?” I distinctly remember his saying that he’d grown up next door to Jan.

  Arlene shook her head. “The Arnold house is on one side,” she pointed over her shoulder. “The Magruder house is on the other side.”

  I made quick notes, but losing out on a place to set up a replica of an old trading post didn’t sound like an A-rated motive for murder. I was ready to move on. Sex is a much better motive than a disappointed event planner. I didn’t want to compound Nick’s difficulties with Jan. Perhaps I could give Nick a boost with Jan but get the information I needed. “Mr. Magruder was irritated tonight when a young woman named Lisa showed up uninvited.”

  “Lisa Sanford.” Jan paused. “Uninvited?” Her tone was slightly breathless.

  “Absolutely. He hadn’t called her and he wasn’t interested in having her at the house. Then her husband arrived. He thought Lisa was involved with Mr. Magruder. I diverted Mr. Sanford by pretending that Mr. Magruder and I were a couple.”

  Jan’s eyes scoured me.

  I made every effort to appear as inoffensive and sisterly as possible. “Mr. Magruder was offended—”

  “You got that right.” Nick strode into the kitchen. He glanced at Arlene. “Front door wasn’t locked. Since I’m a guest, I thought it was okay if I came on in.” He bit off his words. His thin, unshaven face was taut and his eyes had a flinty glint. “Offended puts it a lot nicer than I would. In fact, I am pretty damn pissed off. I’m playing my drums tonight, having fun, and everything goes to hell. You come”—he pointed at me with an accusing finger and not a shade of warmth, which should have been reassuring for Jan, but didn’t augur well for a cooperative effort—“I’ve got blood on my head, Aunt Dee’s screwing with my life, there’s a bullet hole in my wall, Jan rushes off because the town tramp blows in through absolutely”—he glared at Jan—“no fault of mine. Lisa claims I called her on my cell. I didn’t. But,” and he sounded morose, “a little while ago I checked, and damned if there weren’t calls to Lisa and Brian and Cole. I didn’t make those calls. Somebody must have taken my cell from my car and used it and then thrown it back in the car tonight.” He sighed. “At least Cole didn’t show up. But Lisa’s sad-sack husband barrels up mad as a stuck pig, and, to top it all off, one of the cops—Ed Loeffler—is an old buddy of Cole Clanton’s, and he all but calls me a liar.”

  I was shocked. “Didn’t he see the slug in the wall?”

  “He looked at the hole, walked over to the window, looked at the ripped screen, turned around and asked me where I was when the shot occurred. I told him I was standing by the wet bar. He got a sneer on his face that looked like a Mafia hit man’s, and said, ‘I don’t think so. If you were standing there,’ and he jabbed a finger, ‘you’d be dead.’ He rocked back on his heels like a gunslinger in a saloon door, and said in this menacing growl, ‘There’s a law against falsely reporting a crime.’ I told him I thought there was also a law against somebody shooting at a man when he’s in his living room. He said, ‘Yeah, if it happened.’”

  “Didn’t he do anything?” Oh, if only I could pop to the police department unseen, a ghost on the warpath. But here I was, stuck.

  “Oh, sure. He took pictures, wore plastic gloves, eased the slug out, put it in what he called a collection bag. Then he asked me if I was trying to get rumors started about some crazy sniper and ruin Old Timer Days. That’s when I got the picture. Ed didn’t buy the idea that somebody tried to shoot me. He thought I faked it to scare people away this weekend.” He rubbed his cheek. “He’s a buddy of Brian Sanford, too. I guess Brian had unloaded about me. Johnny Cain was the other cop. He’s a good guy. He never called me Phidippus.”

  “Was Ed a football player with Cole?”

  “Yeah.” The ans
wer was short.

  “You don’t like any of the football players.”

  His voice curdled with loathing. “You got that right.”

  I gave him a cool look. “So you came home to settle scores and used your money to keep Cole off the Arnold property and pretended you were interested in Brian’s wife to make him miserable even though you didn’t care for her.” I was sorry to add to Nick’s difficulties with Jan, but his actions were what they were.

  Nick’s stubbled cheeks flushed. “I didn’t hire you to preach at me. If Cole wants to have his little celebration on that land, let him scare up the money to buy it. A man can do what he likes with his own property.” His bony jaw jutted.

  Arlene’s voice was hot. “If he got the money, and you know he doesn’t have any way to raise it or get a loan, you’d just double your offer.”

  His grin was ferocious. “You bet I would. As for Lisa, I sure wouldn’t have gone with her except everybody knows she runs around on Brian. Everybody but him. She’s been sneaking around with Cole Clanton for a couple of years.”

  Arlene’s chair jolted back. She came to her feet. She trembled, eyes wide, lips parted. Her breaths came shallowly. “You’re making that up. Cole wouldn’t have anything to do with someone like her.”

  As obtuse as most men, Nick clutched his main point like a caveman with a spear. “You’ve got to be kidding, Arlene. Everybody in town knows about Lisa and Cole. I saw them at the casino a couple of nights ago. I was talking to some guys, and they said room seven at the Roadhouse Inn is called the L and C Special.”

  Arlene’s face crumpled. She moved leadenly across the floor, her back rigid. In a moment, there was a clattering sound as she started up the stairs, faster and faster.

  Nick stood with his mouth open. He looked at Jan. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t think you’d understand. Just like you didn’t care that Lisa might be fooled by you. I’d heard people say they’d seen you with her, and I didn’t believe it. I guess I should have known. All you care about is getting back at people.” Jan’s gaze was steely. “I’ll get the keys for you and Miss, uh, Ms. Whitby.” She moved fast, hurrying past him, out to the hall and back again in a flash, carrying two old-fashioned metal keys on rings with dangling trinkets. She handed me the key with a pink ceramic heart. “You’re in the Sweetheart Room. At the top of the stairs, turn right and go to the last door. Breakfast is served from seven to nine.” She thrust a ring with a plastic arrow quiver at Nick. “Good night.” She turned to move swiftly toward the hall.

  “Hey, Jan. Wait a minute.” He took a step after her.

  She kept on going and spoke over her shoulder. “The Powwow Room. Top of the stairs, third door on your left.” Then she was gone.

  Nick stopped and looked miserable. “What’d I do wrong?”

  “Possibly everything. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. But quickly, before I go up, who else have you infuriated since your return?”

  He lifted his bony shoulders in a shrug, let them fall. “How should I know?” He avoided my eyes.

  I wasn’t about ready to accept his evasion. “You know.”

  He looked so hangdog, I felt sorry for him.

  “Nick, you came home with a bunch of grudges and you didn’t see past getting some payback. You forgot”—Wiggins would be proud of my tact—“that kicking a bumblebee nest can get you stung. It’s up to me to swat the bumblebee. As soon as I know the person who tried to shoot you, you can make amends with everyone else. That will impress Jan.”

  I’d tugged the right string. He looked hopeful and eager. “You think so?”

  “A very good chance. The sooner I find your attacker, the sooner you can set everything right.” Though I rather doubted Arlene’s faith in Cole Clanton could be restored. “So, who else is mad at you besides Cole Clanton and Lisa and Brian Sanford?”

  “Yeah. Well.” he stared over my head as if the blank wall were mesmerizing. “There’s Albert Harris. Just because we used to toss ideas around, he thinks I should split everything with him. No way. I’m the one who designed the game.”

  “Nothing you and he discussed ended up in your game?”

  He was a shade strident. “Sure, I always talked about spiders. But I did the work.”

  “Anyone else?”

  He relaxed. “That’s the crop.”

  “How can I find them?”

  “Cole Clanton wangled an office at City Hall since he’s the director of Old Timer Days. He parlayed some stories he wrote for the Gazette into this Old Timer Days celebration.”

  “Is Cole a serious student of Oklahoma history?”

  Nick gave a whoop. “He’s a serious student of sex and whisky. He wouldn’t know an old timer if he fell over him. Nah, he’s just figured out how to be a big deal without working a lick. It’s easier to sit on a cushy chair at City Hall than work on the Gazette. He only got that job because his uncle owns the paper. As for Lisa, she’s got a job as a clerk at the college library. Brian’s mowing yards. He lost his job with a construction company last year. Albert’s a reporter at the Gazette. I doubt he and Cole were buddies. Cole’s way too cool for Albert, and Albert’s got a superiority complex that won’t stop even though he didn’t play football.” Nick cracked his knuckles. “If it weren’t for the hole in my wall, I’d say this was nuts. Maybe I’ve rubbed some people wrong, but I haven’t done anything to make somebody mad enough to shoot at me.” He looked bewildered.

  He didn’t want to face the fact that he was alive by the merest fraction of an instant. I was blunt. “If I hadn’t pushed you, your next of kin would be dealing with funeral arrangements tomorrow.” Speaking of . . . There was one more fact I needed to know. “Since you are seriously rich, I assume you have an estate plan.”

  “Estate plan?” He looked as blank as if I’d started to discuss the charms of a point-collar pale pink blouse that I’d recently worn with a new suit. The jacket had the most adorable narrow lapels. I felt a pang. I was going to be tired of my current costume very, very soon. Sartorial boredom is a sad state of mind.

  I focused. “You are rich. Do you have a will naming a beneficiary or beneficiaries? Or have trusts been set up?”

  He jammed a hand through his thick curls. “La—Hilda, if that’s your name, give it a rest. I’m only twenty-four. I don’t need a will.”

  No will. “Who’s your next of kin?”

  “My cousin, Bill. Bill Magruder.” There was no fondness in his tone. “I sure wouldn’t leave him anything. He’s a bum. And he hangs around with Cole. I wouldn’t give him the time of day, much less money.”

  My voice was thoughtful. “A bum here in Adelaide?”

  “Yeah. He’s had his hand out ever since I got back. It’s not my fault he has a degree in art history and he can’t find a museum job. He’s working at La Hacienda, the Mexican restaurant downtown. The only good thing he’s ever done is spill a bowl of queso on that cop who sneered at me.” A happy smile lighted his face. “Sticky, hot queso.”

  “Where does Bill live?”

  “Those old apartments out near the railroad tracks, the Lilac Arms.” He gave a muffled snort. “Who’d name something the Lilac Arms? Can’t you see big, fat arms sprouting purple flowers?”

  The Lilac Arms had been the latest, most up-to-date apartments when they were built in the 1970s. I remembered them well. To Nick, they would be so far distant in history as to be ancient.

  I added Bill’s name to my mental list. I was going to be busy tomorrow with both personal and professional tasks. I needed clothing. After all, a woman can’t wear the same old tired outfit and function at a high level. Once equipped, I intended to ask provocative questions of the likely suspects. I had no expectation that I would speak to those who disliked Nick and discern like a dowser who had pulled the trigger of the rifle. My goal was much simpler: to warn off a killer from trying again.

  Chapter 5

  I should have sunk into instant, deep sleep. Heaven knew I’d expended
both physical and emotional energy since my arrival. But that was the problem: Heaven didn’t know. I lay wide-eyed. Moonlight streamed into the room, illuminating the dressing table, which sat in a bay. White dimity with antique lace fringes decorated the table. Wooden towel rails were well stocked with fluffy pink embroidered towels. In a mahogany wardrobe I’d found two pink terry cloth robes. One now served as a makeshift nightgown. With little expectation of success, I employed my usual method of dress, envisioning an item of clothing in which I then would appear. There was no change in the feel of terry cloth against my skin. The much more appropriate silk of red pajamas remained a hope.

  I knew of no way to bring my plight to Wiggins’s attention. Possibly he might summon me for an adventure and discover I was not to be found. Until then, here I was and here I would be. Much as I loved Adelaide, I had no wish to become a permanent resident. Without money or identification, I would be a wretched waif. Nick Magruder could provide income while I sorted out the truth behind the attack on him, but I could not expect him to provide for me when that task was done. In the past, when I had been here as an official emissary, Wiggins often arrived to encourage or chide. Perhaps if I ended up in peril, he would sense my need.

  My predicament was enough to make anyone sleepless!

  However, as Mama always told us kids, “If you rip your shorts, sew on a patch and hold your head high.”

  Possibly sleep would come if I got up and found something to read, I thought. I popped up and was halfway to the chest to turn on the lamp when I stopped at a window, my gaze caught by an intermittent flash of light in the thick rank of shrubbery and trees next door. It must now be well past midnight. Absently, I imagined a watch with a buffalo face. My wrist remained unencumbered.