Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (20 page)

However, Dee had also found frozen brownies and, after a zap in the microwave, the aroma was marvelous. The taste, while not quite divine, was plenty good enough. If a brownie after breakfast seems a trifle decadent, remember that “seize the moment” is a nice creed at any time. I was comfortable in a snazzy Pointelle openwork orange cotton sweater with an adorable cowl neckline and dark brown trousers with boot-cut legs and low brown boots. Even Dee had unbent enough to appear. She was elegant in a white blouse, gray jodhpurs, and, of course, high riding boots.

I glanced at the clock. “Before we set out to make inquiries, let’s look over the stories Cole wrote for the
Gazette
.”

Dee retrieved the green folder from beneath the bunk mattress and sat far enough away that the folder was out of my reach.

Wiggins, are all horsewomen as controlling as Dee?
I squashed the thought, lest I be guilty of uncharitableness, and forced a pleasant smile.

Her quick glance at me suggested my benign expression didn’t fool her for a moment. “We’ll start at the first. ‘Upcoming series announced August second.’ Banner headline: ‘Missing Gold, Passion, Unsolved Murders from Adelaide’s Steamy Past’ . . .” Dee raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I’d say the city editor decided to liven up the dog days. The August third article is about Belle Starr . . . born in Carthage, Missouri, in 1848 . . . attended Carthage Female Academy . . . excelled in Greek and Latin . . . played the piano . . . During the war she reported on Union troops to the Confederates. . . . Brother was one of Quantrill’s guerrillas . . . killed by Union troops . . . family moved to Texas . . . Belle knew Jesse James and Younger brothers. . . . Belle married a former Quantrill Raider who turned to crime. . . . She was accused of taking part in robberies. . . . She wore buckskins and moccasins and sometimes tight black jackets, velvet skirts, high-top boots, holsters with matching pistols, and a man’s oversize cowboy hat with a feathered plume. After her first husband’s death, she left their two children with family and plunged into the life of an outlaw . . . spent time in prison . . . returned to robbery when released . . . married Samuel Starr in 1880 . . . Samuel was shot in 1886. . . . In November 1888 she and four men held up a Katy train. . . . Adelaide legend says Belle knew Ezra Porter at the trading post in the Chickasaw Nation from his days as a Quantrill Raider and that she trotted up on her big black horse one snowy December day when dusk was falling, leading a donkey with saddlebags slung across its back. Some people believe she buried the gold near the trading post, but a Chickasaw Indian told a grandson he’d been riding past a cistern in the area now encompassed by City Park and saw lanterns and two figures with shovels digging. The next day Belle rode away. An unknown killer shot her in the back a few months later on her ranch near Eufaula, and the booty from the train robbery was never recovered. The Indian’s grandson claimed to have a map, but he was killed in a bar fight and no map ever surfaced.

“The next story is about murder suspects taken from the jail by an armed mob in 1909.” Dee raised an eyebrow.

“That gruesome story is known to every Adelaide resident.” My parents had been children when the murders occurred. They’d never wanted to talk about that night. “The prisoners were hung from the rafters in the abandoned livery stable behind the jail a couple of blocks from here. Not near the Arnold place.”

Dee talked as she scanned. “A bootlegger disappeared in 1932. His cabin out near Allen burned down. It was said to be arson. He was supposed to have kept money at his place. No one knows what happened to his stash. . . . In 1934 a lady of the night was found dead in an upstairs room at a bordello at two forty-eight Buffalo Street.” She looked at me. “Isn’t that the address of the Arnold place?”

Dim memories returned, Mama shushing a visiting uncle when he’d raised an eyebrow about Buffalo Street. However, the Arnold place had been turned into a genteel boardinghouse in the 1940s. “Claire Arnold said that unhappy things had happened there.”

Dee raised an eyebrow. “Here’s another one. Nineteen eighty-two. Edward J. ‘Buster’ Killeen was found dead in the backyard of the Arnold place. He’d been shot a half dozen times. The killer was never caught. . . . Killeen was a gambler—”

I remembered Claire’s description of the poker table in the basement.

“—and reportedly kept huge sums of money hidden in his house. An interesting twist on his murder is that he was dressed for travel in a topcoat, dark pinstripe suit, and black dress shoes. In the kitchen, the police found two fully packed suitcases. He had about a thousand dollars in his billfold. The house was searched extensively, but no money was found. The murderer wasn’t caught. Police thought Killeen knew someone was gunning for him and had planned to leave town. Killeen was divorced. His ex-wife lived in California. The house and land went to his sister, who sold them and used the money for her husband’s church.”

Dee riffled through the sheets. “Three more stories, all unsolved murders, none with a connection to the Arnold place.” Dee replaced the copies of the news stories in the folder, slapped the cover shut. “Cole doesn’t quote anybody in any of the stories or refer to sources. He probably got all his information from old
Gazette
files. There’s no evidence he did any independent research and no hint he had found a link to buried treasure.”

Dee had a good point, but I wasn’t convinced. “There had to be a compelling reason for Cole to be so determined to get onto the Arnold property. He wasn’t genuinely interested in Adelaide history. He could have set up an ‘original trading post’ next door at the B and B and it would have been in the right vicinity. I believe he wanted to set up the trading post on the Arnold place so he could dig for gold. Cole may have found something in writing one of the articles about Belle Starr that pointed to the hiding place.”

I have looked into the eyes of dead fish that evinced more enthusiasm than Dee’s gaze.

Dee’s tone was tart. “And, of course, no one else in all these years ever tumbled to that wonderful little nugget of information.”

I felt as deflated as a punctured balloon. Dee was right. Anything evident to Cole would certainly have been evident to a person knowledgeable about Belle Starr. Yet, I felt certain Cole had discovered some fact while writing the series that prompted him to leave the
Gazette
and wangle a job that gave him an excuse to gain access to the Arnold property.

“If Cole found out”—I was adamant—“we can find out.”

“Buried gold. That’s absurd in the twenty-first century.” Dee was disdainful. “Everyone assumes Brian Sanford is stupid. Who had a better motive to kill both Cole and Lisa? Obviously, he adored her and she cheated on him. Maybe Brian is stupid like a fox.”

“Cole died because of the Arnold property.”

We glared at each other.

I took a breath, held out a conciliatory hand. “We can agree to disagree. What matters is that we both know Nick is innocent. The more we find out, the better chance we have to clear him.” I lifted my mug of coffee in a toast. “Here’s to Officer H. Augusta and Officer M. Loy, who can aid and abet Adelaide’s finest.”

There was no answering salute from Dee. “My posturing as a police officer resulted in Lisa’s murder.”

I put down the mug so sharply that coffee sloshed onto the breakfast table. “Lisa’s actions led to her death. She had every opportunity to inform the police if she knew the identity of the person who came to Cole’s apartment for that rifle. Instead, she apparently chose to ask for money in exchange for her silence. She made that decision, not you. Blaming yourself is an exercise in absurdity and a reprehensible waste of emotional energy.”

Slowly a smile softened her thin lips. “Why am I not surprised you taught English?”

I think it was a compliment. I continued full steam. “We need you at your best—alert, quick thinking, and confident.”

Dee face was set in a distinctly wary expression. “What”—her tone was gentle, but her eyes cold—“do you have in mind?”

M
y nose wrinkled at the scent of room deodorizer. Two brown tabbies twined about Dee’s legs. A creamy Siamese stood on back feet and pretended Dee’s leg was a scratching post while giving the anguished Siamese howl that resembles the screech of a tortured banshee.

“Sneakums and Bootikins and Shimmysham think you’re wonderful.” Billiemae Oldham’s eyes were wide in approval. Bluish white hair cupped a plump, eager face.

Dee’s eyes glinted.

I whispered in her ear as the Siamese howled. “Cats rule.” We didn’t want Clanton’s neighbor to have an unfavorable view of the Adelaide police.

Dee gave a short nod, tried to shake the Siamese loose.

“Oh, oh, oh.” Billiemae’s wheelchair scooted forward, and she reached to pick up the cat, which hissed, twisted free, and jumped an astonishing distance. Billiemae’s glance at Dee was reproachful.

Dee cleared her throat, said grimly, “Sorry. Regulations. No scratches permitted on uniforms.”

“Regulations,” Billiemae murmured. “Oh, I understand. Well, come sit down, Officer. Yesterday there were two of your nice officers who came to see me. I was so glad I was able to be helpful.”

Dee glanced toward the hall. A screen door afforded a clear view of the hallway.

Billiemae’s pink and white face was serene. “Wasn’t it nice of the owner to let me have a screen door? He thought it was the cutest thing when I asked. But the babies and I don’t get out, and this way we can see people come and go.”

Dee gazed at the doorway. “Wednesday you observed an attractive, dark-haired young woman, a lanky man in his twenties, a blonde woman in her forties, and a pizza deliveryman. Are those the only persons who passed your door that day?”

“Oh no, indeed. Mrs. Binney in twelve has her groceries delivered, and the girl brought two sacks. The Ozarka man—I know him because he goes to my church—brought water for Mr. Jones in nine.”

“As I understand the layout of the apartment house, there is only the one stairway. Therefore, anyone visiting Mr. Clanton’s apartment had to pass your door. Is that correct?”

Billiemae nodded vigorously as if Dee were an especially bright pupil. “The stairs are at the front of the building. There isn’t any other exit past my door except for the fire escape, and those doors sound an alarm when they are opened.”

“That’s very clear. Therefore, anyone who came to see Mr. Clanton had to pass your door both arriving and departing. Now, do you recall the approximate time each of the visitors passed your doorway?” There was only one time period that mattered. If Lisa’s murder had resulted from her visit to Cole’s apartment, the murderer must have arrived while Lisa had been here.

Billiemae ticked them off in order. “The grocery girl—her name’s Winona—at nine o’clock. The skinny young man just before lunch. He looked upset, and he made so much noise at Mr. Clanton’s door I was afraid the panels would break, and he scared my babies right under the bed. He rattled the knob and yelled. Finally, he gave up and went stomping away. I’ve seen the pretty girl before.” Billiemae shook her head. “I think she and Mr. Clanton . . . Well, young people these days don’t act the way they did when I was a girl. I’ve seen her many a time. She went down the hall a few minutes after noon. Like I told the officers yesterday, she must have gone inside Mr. Clanton’s apartment. The pizza man passed by a few minutes later. I don’t know which apartment he went to. I heard a knock, and then it was quiet. You know, I hadn’t thought about it, but he must have gone to Mr. Clanton’s apartment and the young lady let him in, because no one else is home during the daytime. A few minutes later my phone rang and I scooted over to answer it.” She pointed at a portable phone in its cradle on a bookcase. “I answered, but no one was there. I came back to my usual place and in about five minutes the pretty girl went by. The blonde arrived about three fifteen and the water man at four, and that’s everyone until people who live here came home from work.”

Dee opened a notebook, pretended to skim. “I don’t believe I have a description of the pizza man.”

Billiemae twined a blue-white curl around a plump finger. “I didn’t see him that well. Are you thinking he may have seen something interesting and you want to try the pizza places? My, that would be a lot of calls to make. I just had a glimpse. He was walking fast. He was wearing brown slacks. He was carrying the pizza box balanced on his hand with his arm up, like waiters do in restaurants sometimes.” She lifted her arm, elbow even with her shoulder, forearm at a right angle.

Oh, clever. Someone knew Cole well enough to be aware of his observant neighbor. The thick pizza box was an effective screen.

I whispered in Dee’s ear. “Ask his height.”

“How tall was he?”

“Oh”—she was vague—“he wasn’t real tall, but he wasn’t short. It’s hard to judge when you don’t see someone clearly.”

Dee bent forward. “When did the pizza deliveryman depart?”

Billiemae’s rosebud mouth rounded in an O. “I didn’t see him leave.” Her eyes blinked in surprise. Then she clapped her hands together. “He must have gone by when I went to answer that wrong number.”

I imagined a hand lifting the receiver in Cole’s apartment, ringing the next-door neighbor, and then a swift, unseen departure. The murderer had planned ahead, the pizza box held up as a screen, the nosy neighbor’s name obtained from the downstairs mail slots.

Billiemae brightened. “I’ll bet that pretty young woman can give you a good description.”

I imagine Lisa Sanford very well might have been able to do so—if she were alive.

• • •

In Cole’s apartment, nothing appeared changed since yesterday, there was simply a little more dust, the same sense of emptiness.

“What’s the point in popping into Cole’s apartment?” Dee sounded impatient.

I held up a hand, but, of course, I wasn’t visible. I do like to be present, because what good are pretty clothes if no one can admire them? I swirled into being. Cole’s mirror on the back of the closet door wasn’t the finest quality, but I appeared in a pool of sunlight splashing through the east windows. Serendipity or Heaven-sent? I smoothed a red curl and applauded, purely on the basis of taste, my orange pointelle sweater.

“I hope you’re satisfied with your appearance.” In her usual stubborn fashion, she remained invisible.

“Oh, I am.” I beamed a smile in her direction, then surveyed the room. “Lisa arrived shortly before noon. She had a key and came inside. A few minutes later the deliveryman knocked on Cole’s door. He either had a key or jimmied the lock. According to Nick, jiggling a credit card will open most doors in old buildings.” I glanced around the room. “When she realized someone was coming in, Lisa would have been worried that it was Cole. Where could she hide?”

I strolled around the room, stopped by the closet. “This is almost the only possible hiding place. All right, she stepped inside but she must have left the door cracked. As she watched, the man with the pizza came inside.” I pointed to the kitchen table. “First he put the box down, then he got gloves out of his pocket. My guess is that after he bought the pizza, he first took the box home and carefully wiped it to remove all fingerprints. Then I think he covered the box in Saran wrap.”

“How do you pretend to know that?” Dee was disdainful.

I walked to the refrigerator, opened the door, looked inside, and felt a surge of triumph. “That’s what must have happened, or a pizza box wouldn’t be on the center shelf. This murderer would never leave fingerprints.”

Dee’s tone was judicious. “That makes sense. But if Lisa saw someone take a rifle, why didn’t she realize after Cole was shot that she’d seen the murderer?”

“Lisa had no reason to connect Cole’s rifle with the crime. Everyone in town knew that Nick was being held. Moreover, I’m sure she recognized the visitor. Maybe she thought the pizza had been brought for a meal later.” I walked across the room to the closet, which was ajar, elbowed it wide enough to step inside, pulled my sleeve down over my fingers to prevent leaving any fingerprints, and cracked the door. “I can’t see the wall with the gun rack. The murderer wrapped the rifle in a trash bag or possibly a towel. When he crossed the room to use the telephone to decoy Mrs. Oldham away from her door, Lisa saw the general shape but didn’t realize it was a hidden rifle until you talked to her. At that point, she would simply be praying that the visitor left without discovering her. The murderer had no idea he’d been seen until she called him yesterday afternoon.”

“She’d been in love with Cole for a long time.” Dee’s tone was pensive. “How could she cover up the identity of his killer?”

“Anger. Jealousy. Bitterness. And”—I felt regretful—“she wanted money, and she wanted to make a new start away from Adelaide where she wouldn’t be the woman everybody had tabbed a tramp. Brian loved her. Maybe she wanted to give the two of them a new chance.”

“Granting all of that, what kind of fool plans to meet a killer?”

“She felt that she was prepared. When she got home, she took Brian’s gun out of the drawer. That gave her confidence. She sat on the sofa with the gun aimed at the murderer, made her demand. Who knows? A thousand dollars? Two? Ten thousand? Whatever, the murderer agreed to pay and maybe pulled out a checkbook, then asked for a pen. When we were in the chief’s office last night, he clicked on the ME’s report. Lisa had bruises on her jaw and abdomen. When Lisa started to get up, the murderer socked her in the face and the gut, got the gun, moved back far enough to be out of the way of the blood, maybe he even had another trash bag and held it up as a shield, then shot her in the leg.”

“And you”—Dee’s tone was bemused—“deduce all of that from a box of pizza.” The refrigerator door opened. “If you’re right—about any of it—there will be no fingerprints on the box. If there are fingerprints, it means Lisa opened the door at the knock and took the box from a genuine deliveryman. So, either there will be no prints, or Lisa’s prints and unidentified prints.”

I walked to the oak desk and picked up the telephone. I knew this number well. I dialed and punched on the speaker phone.

“Chief Cobb, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

I smiled. “Hilda Whitby.”

I was on hold for only seconds. “Cobb here.” His tone was crisp.

“Hello, Chief.”

“You are wanted for questioning in regard—”

“—to the murder of Cole Clanton. I was there. Nick Magruder told the truth. The shot came from the shrubbery behind the gazebo.”

He didn’t ask where I was. I suspected his caller ID had already identified the number as Cole Clanton’s and that he was even now scribbling orders dispatching police units here.

He spoke in a pleasant tone. “We need to take your statement.”

“Another time, perhaps.” As Mama always said, “There are many nice ways to say no.” “I’m calling now to provide you with a definite lead to the murderer of Cole Clanton and Lisa Sanford.”

The intensity of his silence was gratifying.

“Cole’s next-door neighbor, Billiemae Oldham, saw Lisa Sanford shortly before noon. . . .” I quickly sketched the conclusions I’d shared with Dee, adding, “Now you can eliminate Nick Magruder and Arlene Richey as suspects. And, of course, Brian Sanford as well.”

“That’s good to know.” His voice was heavy with irony.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Sa—” I broke off, realizing I’d been about to call him Sam, as if I knew him. I rushed to speak. “Once you arrive at Cole’s apartment, you will find the police seal intact. The pizza box is in the refrigerator. If you check, I am positive the box will not reveal a single fingerprint.” I hung up.

“Pushing all your chips on top of a pizza box?” Dee’s tone was quizzical.

“You sum up the facts nicely, Dee.”

She was acerbic. “I can’t match your utter disregard for the bounds of possibility.”

“Would you care,” I asked sweetly, “to place a small wager on the presence or absence of fingerprints on the box? Possibly an abject apology if there are no prints?”

“The pizza box isn’t your only flight of fancy. Why didn’t you tell him about Belle Starr’s gold and Rod Holt?”

“I want to provide proof.”

“Oh, the confidence of a woman who
thinks
she’s on a roll. You aren’t fooling me. You know you’d lose all credibility if you sprang buried treasure on the man.”

As Mama often said, “When an uncomfortable truth smacks you in the face, make the best of it.”

“Dee, your insight is impeccable. We need more than a theory, we need certainty. Here’s my wager to you: If Cole Clanton found a link to buried treasure, we can find it, and our ticket to success is Rod Holt.”

“There you go again.” But she sounded more amused than irritated.

“Meet me at the Back Shop.”

• • •

“That’s an impressive collection of branding irons.” Dee’s cool voice was near.

I hovered near the plate-glass window on the left side of the entrance to the Back Shop. “If I had my choice, I’d pick the calico bonnet. You wonder about the woman who wore the bonnet when it was new and the sights she saw and the work she did.”

“Would we have been as brave?” Dee’s voice was thoughtful. “And now there’s only a bonnet in a window. We can be sure of one thing: She never gave up. Nor will we. Now”—I envisioned Dee standing near me in her Adelaide police uniform, arms folded—“is it your thesis that Rod Holt was the brains behind Old Timer Days?”

We had the sidewalk to ourselves, and I spoke freely. “Exactly. Cole was interested in true crime, not Adelaide history. Even if he knew the site of Belle Starr’s treasure on the Arnold property, how could he hope to dig there? How about a celebration of old Adelaide and building a replica of the original trading post? Nothing we’ve learned about Cole suggests he had the imagination or background or intelligence to come up with Old Timer Days. On the other hand, Holt knows everything about Adelaide’s early history. Holt could easily feed Cole the necessary information.”

“True, but Cole probably spent enough time in a newspaper office to learn how to find information to fake his way.” Dee was pleasant but firm.

“Planning the celebration was only the first step. Even if Cole could have managed to dig up the gold, how would he have disposed of it? I think he approached Holt looking for a way to cash in on the treasure. The gold would be worth much more than its original value because of the age of the coins.”