Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (16 page)

Price read the message aloud. “You think Magruder’s crazy story could be true?”

Cobb spoke carefully. “Strange things happen sometimes. Maybe I’m having a brain snap. But get the crime lab over there. It won’t hurt to run the test. Look for footprints.”

Happily, they were too absorbed to notice that a folder now lay open on the chief’s desk. Cole Clanton had lived in Apartment 3-G, River Oaks Run Apartments, 2018 Magnolia.

• • •

All the lights blazed in Cole’s apartment. I surveyed the surroundings. I heard a squeak and watched as the center drawer of battered yellow pine chest was pulled out. Dee was here and busy.

The studio apartment was definitely a bachelor pad, with a sofa, a couple of chairs, a small kitchenette, a breakfast table, a desk, and a double bed. Sports and true-crime magazines were stacked on a ledge along one wall. A black walnut four-gun rack was mounted above the ledge. One rack held a shotgun, a second a .22 rifle. Haphazard piles of clothing covered the top of a small bookcase crammed with CDs and DVDs. Bunched cushions at the end of a threadbare sofa appeared tattered. A game console was connected to a flat-screen television, which looked extravagantly expensive in comparison to its surroundings.

I studied the gun rack. “The top rack appears never to have been used. The felt strips on the empty second rack have traces of oil.”

“You’re here.” There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in Dee’s voice.

“I doubt there is any way to prove that Cole owned the murder weapon unless we find registration papers.”

“He wasn’t orderly.” She spoke with disdain. “I didn’t find a file or records about any guns. However, there are several boxes of ammunition in the desk. The box with bullets for the Winchester hasn’t been opened.”

“There had to have been another box.” I was certain of my conclusion. “The murderer left a handful in Nick’s desk, but I foiled that little trap.”

“Even if we prove that Cole owned the rifle, it won’t save Nick.” The yellow drawer closed. The bottom drawer squeaked out. “The police will say Nick came here and got the rifle Wednesday morning.”

I understood her point. Nick spent Wednesday hunting for Cole. Of course he would have tried his apartment.

The chest’s bottom drawer closed with a bang—Dee venting her frustration.

I settled on the edge of the desk, noticed it was bare of papers. “Did you find anything interesting when you searched the desk?”

“Not much. No address book. No handy notes with lists of names under a helpful heading:
Enemies I Have Known
.”

I’d already offered the beginning of a list—Arlene Richey and Lisa and Brian Sanford—but Dee was too high and mighty to follow my lead. However, to give my unwilling companion her due, the more we knew about Cole, the better idea we would have of those with a reason to want him dead. “If he had an address book or a day planner, it was probably in his cell phone.” The cell phone was now at the bottom of the lake behind the gazebo. I surveyed the room again and realized what was missing. “There aren’t any books.”

“Why would there be books?” She wasn’t impressed by my comment.

“He was heading up the Old Timer Days celebration. Where are the books about Oklahoma history?” Now I opened the desk drawers looking for a Kindle or a Nook. “Maybe he had one of the e-book readers.”

There was a questioning silence, and I brought Dee up to date on the new means of reading.

She was crisp. “I didn’t find anything other than unpaid bills, check stubs, a bankbook. Only about two hundred dollars in his account. He bounced three checks last month.”

I wasn’t surprised at his precarious financial situation. If he’d had any money, he would have been able to buy the Arnold property. But surely there was something of interest among Cole’s possessions. “Have you checked the closet?”

In response, the closet door swung open. “Clothes. Stuff.”

I like to see for myself. I put out my hand to prevent the closet door from shutting. Several expensive sweaters and two pairs of worsted wool trousers, all of which looked new and of excellent quality, hung toward the front of the single rack. I wondered if these clothes were gifts from Arlene. Less expensive sports shirts and slacks hung toward the back. Sweat clothes were folded on a shelf next to stacks of magazines. I craned to see. Apparently all were true-crime magazines. A tennis racket leaned against a bag of golf clubs, a pair of skis, and a new shovel. Two pairs of cowboy boots, three pairs of loafers, ratty tennis shoes, and new running shoes were crowded at the rear of the closet.

“Possibly you can deduce the victim’s state of mind by the contents of his closet?” Dee was falsely judicious. “Was he cross-eyed? Did his digestive tract trouble him?”

My tone was sweet. “He had good eyesight, because he played tennis and golf, which require excellent eye-hand coordination. He didn’t have much money in the bank, but he had expensive tastes. Those sweaters are new and both are cashmere. I’ll bet they came from the lady friend. You know why?”

“Tell me, oh swami.”

“Pink. No guy buys a pink sweater. And he was big on true crime.” I reached out and touched the lurid cover of a true-crime magazine, this one of a scantily clad, curvaceous blonde in extremis. “High fashion, but low tastes.”

“Not half-bad.” She sounded faintly amused. “A good jump.”

Generous praise indeed from my prickly companion.

I stepped out of the closet, closed the door. My eyes roamed the dingy, cluttered single room with its overlying scent of beer and pizza.

“The state of his living quarters”—distaste was evident in Dee’s tone—“tells us is that he was broke and slovenly.” She wasn’t about to admit the visit here was a bust. We would leave with no better sense of Cole Clanton than we’d had before we came.

I glanced at a digital clock. Almost one o’clock. Time was speeding past. “Dee, your instinct was right for us to come here.” Was I magnanimous or what? But as Mama always said, “Perfume smells better than a hog lot.” Dee was as hard to corral as a skittish horse, and I was willing to do a little sweet talk to secure her cooperation. “I think we agree that the chances are very good that Cole shot at Nick. Our challenge is to find out who hated Cole or feared him or wanted something from him. There had to be a powerful reason for his murder. Was he killed because of sex, money, jealousy, fear, or revenge? Cole was unfaithful to Arlene and threatened her reputation. He made love to Lisa Sanford, then dropped her. Brian Sanford was intensely jealous over his wife. I always think sex is a good place to start.”

• • •

Dee straightened her name tag. She lifted her hand toward the doorbell.

I was pleased by the choice of names. Dee was now Officer H. Augusta. Saint Helena Augusta was famed for her success at discovery. Hopefully, her temporary namesake would do as well.

“Very nice.” My tone was admiring. Dee looked superb in the French-blue uniform of the Adelaide police.

Her aristocratic face, however, was troubled. “Wiggins emphasized that we must observe the Precepts.” She glanced down at the uniform.

She needed pumping up, one of my specialties. “As is made absolutely clear in Precept Four, an emissary can become visible only when absolutely necessary.” I emphasized
only
and
absolutely
and sounded both stalwart and soulful, a combination I’d always found very effective.

A swift, wry smile lighted her ascetic features. “When next we see Wiggins, I will tell him that you explained the Precepts to me in such an effective way.” The smile slipped away. “At this point, it’s obvious we’re Nick’s only hope. I will do what I have to do.” She lifted her hand and jabbed the doorbell. Now her face was stern and intent.

Jan Richey answered the door. Her eyes widened in apprehension. She tried to speak normally. “Hello.”

Dee was unsmiling and gruff. “Adelaide police. Officer Augusta. Arlene Richey, please.”

Jan held tight to the edge of the door. “She’s not feeling well. May I help you?”

“It is necessary that I speak with Mrs. Richey in connection with the murder of Mr. Cole Clanton.” Dee’s gaze was cold and insistent. “She can be interviewed here or at the police station.”

Jan looked sick and frightened. “If you’ll come inside, I’ll call her.” Jan led the way to a small room off the main hallway, opened the door. “Please wait here and I’ll see if she can come down.”

“Her choice. Here or the police station.” Dee stepped inside the narrow room with red velvet curtains, an Axminster carpet, a harpsichord, and a spinet. Dee did not sit on the petit-point sofa or in a Queen Anne chair with lace tatting. She remained standing in the center of the small room, an imposing figure with a cold, piercing gaze.

I followed Jan up the stairs. She climbed fast and hurried up the hall to knock on her mother’s door. When there was no answer, she rattled the knob. “Mom, the police are here. Please, you have to open the door.”

I flowed into the dim bedroom. Neither the rose-shaded lamp on the dressing table or the bronze floor lamp with its fussy fabric shade were turned on. Arlene slumped in an oversized easy chair.

“Mom, a policewoman’s here.” Jan’s voice was muffled and distant through the door. “She insists on talking to you. About Cole.”

Panic etched the white face turned toward the door.

“Mom, if you don’t talk to them here, they’re going to take you to the police station.”

Arlene touched her throat with a shaking hand.

The doorknob rattled. “Mom!” There was desperation in Jan’s cry.

Arlene pushed up from the chair. She moved woodenly. At the door, she turned the key in the antique lock.

Jan stepped inside. “A policewoman’s waiting in the music room.” She looked at her mother in despair.

Arlene made a pitiable attempt to appear calm. “I suppose I’d better see her. Not that I know anything about . . .” She bit her lips, and tears welled.

“Oh, Mom. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.” Arlene’s voice was harsh. “I haven’t felt well today.” She turned, stumbled to the dressing table. She found powder and patted several layers, trying to hide the ravages of tears. A shaky hand unevenly applied lip gloss. She combed her hair and squared her shoulders and moved toward the open door. “All right.” She walked down the stairs with Jan following. At the music room, she took a deep breath as she stepped inside.

Jan started to follow.

Arlene held up her hand. “I’ll talk to the officer by myself.”

“But Mom—”

“Please, Jan.” Arlene averted her eyes from her daughter.

“Mom, it’s okay. I understand.”

“I know you do. Not”—Arlene tried to sound bright—“that there’s much to understand. He was a friend. That’s all. I’ll be glad to help the officer. If I can.” With that she turned and closed the door, leaving Jan in the hallway.

In the music room, Arlene faced Dee with an attempt at dignity. “You wish to talk to me?”

“Yes, ma’am. I am here in regard to the murder last night of Cole Clanton.” Dee was doing her best imitation of officialdom. Fortunately, I doubted Arlene was acquainted with police procedure. The fact that officers worked in pairs was likely unknown to her. Dee pulled a small notebook from a pocket. She nodded toward the Queen Anne chair. Dee had placed the chair directly beneath the chandelier so that Arlene would be in a bright pool of light.

Arlene sank into the chair, but she seemed oblivious to the glare that exposed the puffiness of her face, likely from a sleepless night.

Dee remained standing, a formidable figure. “You are Arlene Richey.”

“Yes.”

“You were having an affair with Cole Clanton.”

“We were friends.”

“Intimate friends.”

“Friends.” Arlene’s voice was dull, despairing.

“When did you last see Mr. Clanton?”

For the first time, Arlene hesitated. Finally, painfully, she said, “Yesterday morning.” Her lips quivered.

“Describe the circumstances.” Dee waited with folded arms.

“He came here. We spoke for a few minutes. He left.”

Dee’s voice was sharp. “You had discovered that he was betraying you with another woman.”

“My conversation with him had nothing to do with his death.” Arlene looked pummeled, weary, heartsick.

“Was he angry when he left?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was dull. “He may have been.”

“In fact, Mrs. Richey, you know he was angry because he threatened to make public photographs of you—”

At the mention of the photos, Arlene stiffened. She stared at Dee in shock. One hand pulled at the lace tatting on the chair arm, wadded it into a tight ball.

“—taken on his cell phone, unless Mr. Nick Magruder sold the Arnold property to him for one dollar. Is that correct, Mrs. Richey?”

Arlene trembled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We have a witness. Mr. Clanton told Mr. Rod Holt about the photos. Mr. Magruder came to see Mr. Holt and made threats against Mr. Clanton.”

Arlene pressed fingertips to each temple, shook her head back and forth, back and forth.

Dee took two steps, loomed above Arlene, tall and intimidating. “You were desperate to prevent Mr. Clanton from posting those photographs online.”

Arlene’s face crumpled. She swiped her sleeve to try to staunch the tears.

Dee stared down at her. “You knew Clanton owned a rifle. In fact, you suspected he used that rifle to shoot at Mr. Magruder Tuesday night. You were seen at Cole Clanton’s apartment yesterday.”

Arlene stared upward, a hand raised to ward off the blinding light. “Who says so?”

“There is a witness.”

“I don’t care what anyone says. It must have been someone else. God knows he had enough women in his life. I don’t know anything about his rifle.”

I dropped next to Dee, spoke in a deep voice that sounded uncannily like hers. “You knew Mr. Magruder was meeting Mr. Clanton at the gazebo. You came to the park. Your car was seen.”

Arlene breathed rapidly, then abruptly pushed to her feet. “I didn’t shoot him. I wouldn’t have shot him. Oh God, I loved him. Can’t you understand? I loved him.”

“You were at the gazebo last night.” Dee spoke with utter, damning certainty.