Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (22 page)

I opened a frosted door, stepped into a room with several oak tables reminiscent of an old-fashioned library, a row of microfiche readers along one wall, and a no-nonsense metal desk in one corner. A woman with a mass of snowy curls held a telephone receiver. “Really? That will be interesting. Certainly. I’ll keep her talking.” She replaced the receiver, turned to me. Thick-lens glasses magnified appraising but kind blue eyes. “How may I help you?”

“I’m Hilda Whitby from City Hall”—my expression was earnest—“and I’ve been asked to continue the promotional efforts for Old Timer Days. I know you’ve heard the sad news about our director, Cole Clanton.”

She nodded.

“I’m sorting through files and notes and memos and dealing with matters on his schedule. Unfortunately, I sometimes have difficulty deciphering his handwriting.” I opened my purse and drew out a small notebook, turned several pages. “Ah, here it is. Can you give me the name of the older woman who contacted you wishing to speak with him about one of his
Gazette
articles describing early-day crimes in Adelaide?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be of any help to you.” Her tone was commiserating. “Mrs. Barnett passed away yesterday in Oklahoma City. She was ninety-two and bright as button, though she couldn’t see well at all. They took her up for hip surgery and she didn’t make it through. We’ll miss her.”

The door opened. Dee walked in, tall, crisp, and commanding as Officer Augusta.

Kathryn O’Connell’s expression was bland as her gaze scanned Dee. “I’ll be right with you.”

I turned until my face was out of view by the librarian, and mouthed, “The police are coming.”

Dee blinked in quick acknowledgment. She glanced at her wrist. “I’ll be right back.” She turned and was through the door before the librarian could respond.

Kathryn grabbed her phone, punched. “Joan, in regard to the personage of whom we spoke, she was here but left. She should either be in the basement hall or the elevator.”

“Do you know why Mrs. Barnett wished to talk to Mr. Clanton?”

“Mrs. Barnett?” The librarian was clearly distracted. “Oh, something to do with one of the stories. She said she had some information he might find interesting.”

“Did Mrs. Barnett indicate which story?”

The librarian looked amused. “Sadie Barnett played her cards close to her chest. She instructed me to tell Cole she had old family papers that put a very different twist on one of his stories, and she gave a huge cackle.”

“Does she have family here in Adelaide?” My only hope was that someone else in her family was privy to her secret. I wasn’t terribly hopeful. If she’d found a map to Belle Starr’s treasure, surely someone would have made an effort before now to dig up the gold.

Yet the facts seemed clear: Cole went to see Sadie Barnett; he quit his job; he became an instant expert on Adelaide’s past and the director of Old Timer Days; he worked closely with Rod Holt; he proposed recreating the original trading post on the Arnold property; he shot at Nick after Nick had arranged to buy the property; he agreed to delete compromising photographs of Arlene Richey in return for the property.

“The Barnetts are an old Adelaide family.” The librarian’s eyes moved past me toward the frosted door, her head was cocked for any sounds. Voices rose in the hallway. “I’ll see if there are any survivors.” She faced her computer, clicked the mouse several times, reached for sheets of paper curling out of her printer. “Here’s the obituary that will run in this afternoon’s paper. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must check on a matter.”

She crossed the room and opened the door.

Voices called:

“Nobody on the elevator.”

“Check the rooms down there.”

“Has to be trapped.”

She left the door open as she stepped into the hall.

The crime reporter’s breathy voice demanded, “Where is she, Kathryn? You were supposed to keep her talking. . . .”

I disappeared and rose to the ceiling with the obituary copy. As I moved toward the doorway, I folded the sheets into the form of a paper airplane, using that simple design we all learned in first grade. In the hallway, I held the plane by the fold below and skimmed high above the police milling about, opening doors, seeking, searching.

The librarian stood with her hands on her hips. “I had no chance. I was getting information for a woman from City Hall. I told the policewoman I’d be right with her, and she turned and walked out. What could I do?”

“What did she look like?” Hal Price’s face was intent.

“Tall, blonde, piercing blue eyes.”

I felt a faint tap on the hand holding the paper airplane. A whisper. “Got your back.”

Dee would have been a superb police officer, looking ahead, foreseeing that a partner (and how nice to think she considered me as such) might be at risk.

So intent were the police on opening every door, moving warily into the huge area with the presses, and beyond that to the concrete-floored, starkly lit room that housed the massive heating and cooling system and air transfer unit, not a single officer ever looked up.

The paper airplane slipped just beneath the ceiling tiles to the stairwell. Possibly I was a bit too exuberant. The paper plane shot straight up and out onto the ground floor. For an instant, truly no longer than heartbeat, the little plane nosed straight up, heading for the ceiling.

“Hey, Betty!” The raucous voice behind the counter belonged to a buxom woman in a too-tight blouse, who obviously was not attending to her job. “The cops arrive like a B-movie SWAT team and somebody’s got time to play with paper airplanes. Hey, I’m going to catch it.”

She pushed through a swinging gate, stood in the middle of the area by the front counter, staring upward. “It has to come down. Just another example of your taxpayer dollars at work.” This witticism reduced her to cackling laughter, but she never took her eyes off the plane, leaping to try to snatch it.

“Vick, you’d better watch where you’re going. What if someone comes in?” The cautionary call came from a thin-faced woman looking over her shoulder from her computer terminal.

The plane glided beneath the ceiling toward the front door. Vick careened after it, making occasional jumps, red-tipped fingers outstretched. “Look at that sucker go. There must be a current of air coming from somewhere.”

The front door opened.

Dee was indeed at my back.

The challenge lay in the height of the doorway. To clear the transom, the paper airplane would be within reach of those predatory fingers, which were beginning to take on the shape and size of mobile tree stumps in my mind.

Now for a swoop and elude.

Vick was more agile that I expected. We collided as she leapt and I sped.

Her fingers grabbed at the airplane, tearing off a corner as she tumbled to the floor.

“Not to worry. Make the jump.” Dee’s voice was cool and confident.

I rolled to one side, grasping most of the airplane, and fled through the door.

Outside I looked through the plate-glass window.

Vick rolled heavily to her knees, then went rigid as her fingers bent apart, the scrap retrieved, the door opened, and the remnant of the airplane zoomed outside.

“Roof,” Dee said crisply.

As I reached the parapet, I had a last glimpse of Vick as she plunged out onto the sidewalk and stared upward with an expression of disbelief.

The wind was brisk on the rooftop. I must confess that I paused for a moment to catch my breath.

The scrap of paper approached. “I should be repentant. Precept Six prohibits alarming earthly creatures, but I haven’t had that much fun since the time I told an arrogant ass that not only was he an inept horseman, his pickup line would embarrass a slobbering clown.” Her laughter was a satisfied gurgle.

I don’t know which offense most irritated Dee, but her good humor was infectious.

The scrap was thrust at me. “What’s this?”

I was ready for a moment’s respite. I settled on a raised wooden top to a trapdoor, opened the torn sheet, and held it and the scrap in my right hand. “Sadie Barnett’s obituary. The librarian didn’t think there was any family, but maybe there will be the name of someone we can contact.” Cole Clanton had learned something from her that prompted him to create an elaborate excuse for digging on the Arnold property. However, no one else may have been privy to Sadie’s information.

I read the obituary aloud.

Sadie Watkins Barnett

Sadie Watkins Barnett, 92, departed this earth following surgery in Oklahoma City. She was the daughter of the late Robert Armand and Nettie Louise Killeen Watkins. The Reverend Robert Watkins was well known in Pontotoc County as an evangelical preacher who warred against the evils of alcohol and gambling. He founded the Come to the Glen Missionary Church. His wife, Nettie, played the organ. Sadie was a native of Adelaide. She graduated from Adelaide High School and from the University of Oklahoma with a degree in education.

Sadie returned to Adelaide and taught first grade at Alcott Elementary for 47 years. She married Daniel Barnett in 1947. Daniel Jr. was born in 1950. She was predeceased by her parents, her husband, Daniel, her son, Daniel Jr., who was killed in combat in Vietnam, her uncle and aunt, Emmett and Louise Watkins, and her cousin, Edward J. Killeen. Sadie loved children. . . .

As I read, it was like watching a roulette wheel and seeing the ball stop on my number. Now I knew what Cole must have discovered when he spoke to Sadie Barnett and she revealed information that had been left out of one of his stories. Sadie had had “family” papers, and in those papers Cole had learned enough to believe that the Arnold property was the site of hidden wealth. It would likely have been a simple matter, except Gabe Arnold had permitted no one on the property, and his dogs had made a nighttime intrusion impossible. Now Gabe was dead and the dogs were gone. I wondered how and when Gabe had died. If his death had been “accidental” and occurred after Cole spoke with Sadie Barnett, it would be further proof of my theory.

I turned to Dee and started talking. Fast.

When I finished, she gave a low whistle. “Officer Augusta?”

“Hilda Whitby, I think.”

“Oh, all right. I suppose it’s your turn. But I would have liked to have been in at the kill.”

“If all goes as I expect, we’ll both have that opportunity.”

I
opened the front door of the Majestic Buffalo B & B and stepped inside. The only sound was the tick of the grandfather clock and the distant rush of water in the kitchen. I swirled into being. In the long, ormolu-framed mirror, I nodded approval of my white drop-shouldered cardigan, pale blue blouse, and matching spandex slacks. Blue boots, too. I smoothed curls tangled by the ever-present Oklahoma wind and my hurried departure from the
Gazette
. I glanced at the clock. A few minutes after ten. I called out, “Hello? Jan?”

The kitchen door began to open. Jan, wiping her hands on a dish towel, stared at me in surprise. “I didn’t think you would come back. The police are still looking for you.”

“Don’t be worried. I will be speaking with the police quite soon.” That was definitely my hope.

“I’m glad.” She spoke simply, but with obvious relief. “I felt dreadful not telling them I’d talked with you.”

Jan clearly believed in following the rules—normally, of course, a laudable attitude. I hoped I wasn’t going to hear a celestial snicker, but surely Wiggins wasn’t privy to my thoughts and in any event would be too much of a gentleman to indicate amusement at my expense. I always have the best of intentions. “I have great news for you. Nick will soon be released, and your mother is cleared.”

Invisible but whipcord-strong fingers gripped my arm. Dee apparently lacked faith and very likely felt it was unkind to make promises I couldn’t keep.

I would keep them.

I spoke with emphasis. “The police have received information that will prove Nick’s innocence.” I had no doubt that Sam Cobb would realize the importance of the pizza box without fingerprints. No fingerprints was definite proof that the pizza deliveryman was a fake. The presence of the box in the refrigerator proved the “deliveryman” had entered the apartment. There could have been no reason other than to obtain Cole’s rifle.

The pressure on my arm increased.

“I’m hoping you can provide a time frame for me.”

She looked puzzled.

“Cole’s stories about early-day crimes appeared the first week in August. When did Cole become involved with your mother?” It was another way of finding out when Cole and his partner had put their scheme into motion.

Jan looked pained. “It was right after the mayor appointed him to head up the Old Timer Days event. I didn’t see how there would be time to organize a program by November, but I have to admit Cole worked like a demon. He rushed around town and whipped up enthusiasm and got a lot of people on board, like Rod Holt, and that gave him some clout. Rod knows everybody. Cole came to see mom because he thought the B and B”—she spread her hands—“was a great venue for an early-day book club.”

I maintained an expression of pleasant interest. Indeed, the old Victorian house was an excellent background for pioneer-day activities, but more important, the B and B was next door to the Arnold property.

Jan looked half-sad, half-mad. “He gave Mom a huge rush. I tried to tell her he was a creep, but she wouldn’t listen. She tried to persuade the Arnolds to let him put up a replica of the trading post.”

I heard the plural. “I thought Mrs. Arnold was a widow.”

Jan nodded. “He hasn’t been gone long. He died on Labor Day. He drowned.”

“An accident?”

Jan shrugged. “No one knows what happened. He loved to fish. But he was such a loner, he never went where there were other people. He had a favorite fishing hole on a private lake about twenty miles from town. He didn’t come home for dinner, and Claire called for help. A deputy sheriff found his body not far from the end of the pier. All his fishing stuff was on the dock. Apparently he fell and struck his head on the dock and drowned. He was a strange man, a real recluse, but nice as pie if you ever talked to him. That was hard on Claire, because she’s as friendly as can be. She’s a social director at the Sunshine Serenade retirement home. I understand everybody loves her. She plays the piano and arranges bingo and takes people around town in a minivan. I guess having fun during the day made it possible for her to put with being all cooped up at home.”

“Cooped up?”

The pressure on my arm had eased. I imagined Dee was listening just as hard as I was.

“Cooped up puts it nicely. Gabe surrounded the place with ten-foot-tall fences, and all the gates were padlocked. It’s only been since he died that Claire opened the gate between our place and hers. Now she drops by sometimes for breakfast on her way to work. The funny thing is, she was really crazy about him, but she can’t wait to get away from that place, and I don’t blame her.” Jan shivered. “All that wild growth of shrubs and vines and Gabe not letting anybody step foot on it.”

“So he wasn’t receptive to Cole putting up the trading post?”

“Absolutely not. I told Mom it wouldn’t do any good to ask Gabe, but she tried because she wanted to help Cole. Everything changed when Gabe died. Claire thought the trading post was a fun idea, and I think she hoped it would help sell the property. Then Nick said he’d buy the place but nixed the trading post. For the amount of money Nick offered, she was quite willing to tell Cole the deal was off.”

I reviewed the time frame. “Cole wrote the articles in early August. About a week after they ran, he quit his job and persuaded the mayor to support an Old Timer Days celebration. He wanted to build the trading post near the original site, but Gabe Arnold wouldn’t agree. Arnold drowned on Labor Day. Claire said Cole could put up the trading post until Nick blocked him by promising to buy the property. I suppose Rod Holt came up with the idea of digging for treasure. Or did Cole get interested in the history of Belle Starr and the gold?” I watched her carefully.

She raised an eyebrow. “Cole’s idea of Adelaide history was the football team’s record twenty years ago. Rod Holt was over here one afternoon after Cole’s article on Belle Starr ran, and he was really disgusted. Apparently, the article put way too much emphasis on that legend about the Indian who saw people digging near the cistern. Rod said if the gold was anywhere, it was somewhere on the Arnold property, but he thought the whole thing was a myth. Why would Belle Starr hide gold around here? She lived on a ranch up by Eufaula. Rod said the idea of her bringing gold to Adelaide didn’t make any sense.”

“But he’s selling treasure maps for City Park?”

She grinned. “As any good merchant knows, you sell what you got. Rod will make the treasures fun, maybe with glass beads and fake gold coins. The city will get the ground spaded up after, of course, and they’re requiring diggers to sign waivers for any injuries incurred, and Rod will pocket all the money from the maps as well as sell a bunch of stuff at his store.”

The bell tinkled behind us, signaling the opening of the front door.

Jan’s expression formed into the pleasant receptiveness of a hostess, then joy lighted her face. “Nick, oh Nick.” She plunged past me.

Nick looked even scruffier than usual, his T-shirt wrinkled, his jeans hanging low on his bony hips. He never looked my way. There was only one person in his universe at that moment. He grabbed her in his arms and held her close and pressed his bristly face into her hair. “They let me go. Janny, I was scared.”

“Nick, I was scared, too.” She held him tight for a long moment, then looked into his eyes. “I knew you were innocent. You’d never hurt anyone, ever. You even love Featherfoots.”

He touched a gentle finger to her cheek, traced a line to her lips. “You’re as beautiful as any Featherfoot.”

Oh my. What higher praise could this lover offer?

I decided to slip quietly away, but a board creaked beneath my shoe, a hazard in an old Victorian foyer.

Startled, Nick’s head moved toward me. Abruptly, he stiffened. His eyes widened. His gaze jerked around the entryway.

He was looking for Dee.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was combative.

“Nick!” Jan looked at me, then back at him. “Isn’t she helping you?”

Nick swallowed. “Yeah. But . . .” His gaze again circled the foyer. “Where’s Aunt Dee?”

His head jerked up. He touched his cheek, managed what could only be described as a pitiful imitation of a smile. “There you are. Great. One big party.”

Jan’s face folded in concern. “Nick, I’m right here. Don’t look past me.”

“Of course you are.” His laughter was hollow. “You and me and the two visitors from—” He broke off, and I was sure Dee had placed a firm hand across his mouth.

Jan took his arm, tugged. “Come into the kitchen. You must be tired. There’s only me and Hilda. You must be imagining things.”

“Imagining?” His voice skidded up an octave. “I wish. Listen.” He turned toward me. “Everything’s okay now. You and—” He took a breath, jerked a thumb at me. “You can go back where you came from. Both of you. As soon as possible. Like immediately. I’m out of jail. No charges. It turns out”—and now he looked utterly bewildered—“that I didn’t have on the right pair of pants.”

“Nick, let me fix you some breakfast.” Jan’s eyes were filled with concern and uneasiness. “Then you can go to bed and rest.”

“Jan, I swear.” Nick’s voice wobbled. “That’s what happened. The big guy, the police chief, had me brought to his office. He had a folder and he looked at it and he told me where I’d been seen all day on Wednesday. I guess I went kind of nuts trying to find Cole, and people saw me everywhere. Cobb said the descriptions all tallied, that I had on grubby jeans with one knee out. And then he said, and it was as if he quoted, ‘from information received, you were not at any time on Wednesday dressed in brown slacks.’ He said they’d obtained a search warrant and didn’t find any brown slacks in my house. I told him I only had one pair of slacks and they were gray, and who needed slacks anyway? I think he almost laughed, then he said I might not have much of a wardrobe but this time it may have saved me from a murder charge, and he said I could go.”

I could scarcely contain my delight. Brown slacks mattered because Chief Cobb had followed up on our tip. He had checked the pizza box in Cole’s refrigerator for fingerprints and none had been found. From there, the pieces had fallen into place: Nick, wearing jeans, had arrived and departed before pizza was delivered by a man in brown slacks. Cole had not been home. The pizza box could only have ended up in the refrigerator if the deliveryman had been a fake and either had a key or jimmied the lock. The pizza had been left and Cole’s rifle taken.

“No fingerprints. Yee-hah.” Validation satisfies the soul.

Nick and Jan stared at me.

Mama always said to leave while on a high note. “It’s time for me to go. If we don’t meet again, raise a glass of champagne in a toast to those who love you”—I looked meaningfully at Nick, and I knew he understood I meant his aunt Dee—“at your wedding.”

As I opened the door and stepped onto the porch, I felt certain my departing words would add luster to Nick’s morning and possibly to the years to come.

• • •

When the door closed behind me, I felt a yank on my arm. “Do you think she’s the right girl for him?” Dee’s voice was gruff.

“Absolutely. You can add Jan to those who love him, even if he is seriously rich.”

“She seems nice. And he cares terribly.” She knew her Nick. “Bless him. It hurts to care that much, but”—and now Dee’s voice took on a lilting tone—“love makes life worth living.” A pause. “Along with horses, of course.”

Everyone has his or her own qualification. For me? Bobby Mac, along with our kids, Dil and Rob, sunshine, laughter, good friends, and kind hearts.

“Do you suppose he’ll tell Jan about us?”

“Not in this lifetime. All’s well with Nick and Jan, but there is still a murderer to find. It’s time to talk with Claire Arnold.”

I disappeared.

• • •

Maples and cottonwoods dotted the grounds, with soft hills rising in the background. Sunshine Serenade retirement home was built with wings extending from a central core. Recently painted white shutters were cheerful. Rich purple pansies filled several flower beds. Still-green weeping willow fronds wavered cheerfully in a brisk breeze. Rockers, most of them occupied, were scattered about a shady, screened-in front porch.

Stepping inside the main foyer, I smelled the good Oklahoma aroma of crispy fried chicken. The tables in the dining room were set for lunch. I saw Claire Arnold, her brown hair shining in a patch of sunlight as she bent to arrange chrysanthemums in a pebbly blue vase. A basket of mums lay on the table beside her, and other vases across the room were filled or waiting to be done.

“Claire.” I walked swiftly across a parquet floor, easy for wheelchairs to navigate.

She looked up with interest. I imagined Claire was always interested, whether in memories of an old lady’s reminiscences or the newest app for an iPad. As I neared, her face took on a forlorn expression. “I’m sorry about Nick Magruder. I can’t believe that nice boy had anything to do Cole Clanton getting shot.”

My voice was robust. “He’s been released from jail and is no longer a suspect. I’m gathering up evidence about what really happened, and I know you will be excited to learn how you can help.”

She looked eager. “I’ll do anything I can. I knew Nick’s arrest had to be an awful mistake.”

I glanced toward a terrace. “Could we step outside and talk for a moment?”

She picked up the basket. “Of course. Come right this way.”

We stepped out onto the flagstones and into the joy of a crisp, clear Oklahoma day with the blue sky arching cloudless above us and the breeze stirring green vines in the pumpkin patch across a white board fence.

Claire plopped the basket on an outdoor planked table. “You just tell me what you want to know, though I only met Cole Clanton when he started coming over about the Old Timer Days. He tried to talk Gabe into letting him put up that trading post, and then after Gabe died, he was nice to me, and he said he and Rod Holt would give me part of the proceeds of sales they made during the Old Timer Days if I’d let him put it up. I figured Gabe was too busy finding out all about the streets of gold to pay too much mind to what I was doing, and if he was watching over me, he knew I didn’t have much money and every little bit helped. When Nick offered to buy the place, why it was an answer to a prayer, because I sure want to move out to my sister’s house. Bea’s real sick right now and she needs my help. I thought Gabe would be mighty pleased since Nick didn’t want the trading post to go up. I know that’s all off now.” She sighed. “I don’t like to feel sorry for myself when there’s so much trouble for Nick and poor Cole is dead, but the real estate agent told me he didn’t think I’d find anybody else who would buy the place. It needs a whole lot of work.”