Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (3 page)

Except apparently I was.

He grinned and was suddenly appealing, his wide mouth turning down in a lopsided smile. “—sorry ass.”

I managed a quick smile in return. “Carcass, to be precise.” But I didn’t have time to be pleasant. I shot one more questing gaze around the yard. If a killer was lurking, he was lurking quietly. In fact, I had no sense of danger, and I have a pretty good instinct for malevolence. “I think you’re safe enough now.” I trotted down the steps, opened the door to the snazzy sports coupe.

He was close behind me. “Wait a minute. What are you doing?”

I was brisk. “Looking for your cell phone. Ah. Here it is. Now you can call the police. It will be better if I leave before they arrive. It would be awkward for me to be involved.”

“La—” He broke off. “I didn’t say it.” He pointed at the drive, then stiffened. He made a strangled noise in his throat. “Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have a car.” I would have thought that fact was apparent.

“How’d you get here?” His head jerked as he checked out the drive and street.

“Train.” I spoke absently. My mind quivered with imperatives: Call the police. Protect Nick. Figure out why I was stuck
in
the world. But first, I needed a pick-me-up. We’d wasted so much time already, another few minutes wouldn’t matter. I swung around and walked swiftly to the steps.

He was on my heels. “Train?”

I strode toward the wet bar. I went around the counter, rummaged in the cabinets. “Don’t you have anything besides alcohol here? I’m starving.” I’d had a rather active time since my arrival, and when I am on the earth, I need sustenance.

Nick reached the counter. “La—” He saw my look, broke off, took a breath. “Let’s start over.” His voice was agreeable, the kind of tone a hapless male employs when dealing with a difficult woman.

I couldn’t find even a cracker. “If I could start over, you can bet I wouldn’t have jumped on that horse and caught the Express—” It was my turn to break off as he began to edge cautiously backward.

Clearly he thought I was demented.

I found a jar of maraschino cherries.

I wasn’t
that
hungry.

I hoped Wiggins was aware that duty was ever most present on my mind. Wiggins? I didn’t have a sense that he was near. He always popped down to remonstrate when I inadvertently flouted the Precepts. “Wiggins?” My voice sounded forlorn.

Nick stopped edging away. “What’d you say?”

“My supervisor. I don’t know where he is.” Obviously this was where he wasn’t.

“Your supervisor at the chamber?” Nick sounded like a man who sighted a fact and intended to pursue it. “I never heard anybody called a supervisor at the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Actually, Wiggins is a stationmaster.”

Nick looked bewildered.

“At his train depot.”

“Of course.” Nick’s tone was hearty. “The train that brought you here. Sure. I understand.”

“You”—my tone was icy—“don’t understand anything. However, I am responsible for your safety, and I am here—”

“Oh boy, you can say that again.” Nick shoved a hand through his unruly dark curls. “Here I was, playing my drums, not bothering anybody, and the next thing I know I hear your voice and you aren’t here and nothing makes sense and my head hurts and then you appear”—he looked uneasy—“and you claim somebody tried to shoot me. That’s probably a crock, too.”

“Look at the window screen.” My tone was steely.

He immediately looked. Somewhere in his past a good woman had started him down the right path: When a woman speaks, salute. Then his eyes slid toward me. “Did you rip it?”

I folded my arms, stood at the tip top of my five foot five inches. “The rifle barrel poked through, and then there was a shot and it smashed that vase on the bookcase.”

He turned. His bony face registered shock as he gazed at the broken pieces of the vase. His eyes scanned the height of the bookcase. “If I’d been standing there, a bullet would have got me in the chest.”

Finally, I was making progress. “I expect the slug went into the wall.” I quickly walked nearer, pointed to a round, blackened depression. “There’s the hole. The police may be able to trace the gun.” If they ever found the rifle.

He moved with all the grace of a zombie, clutched the top of the bookcase, and stared at the bullet hole: clear, distinct, ominous, and ugly in the pale yellow plastered wall. “Oh my God. You aren’t making this up.”

I refrained from slapping my temple and shouting, “Duh.” Instead I tried to remain equable. “You finally understand. Somebody’s out to get you. We’ll talk more about that later. Right now, here’s what you need to do: Call the police, make a report. I wish I could be here to tell them I saw the rifle, but that’s not possible.” In previous encounters, I’d been of assistance to Sam Cobb, chief of the Adelaide police, but I’d most often been able to maintain my distance as an unseen helper. As soon as Nick made the call, I would address my unfortunate position. I was definitely too much
in
the world. And I didn’t even have a purse. I looked forlornly down. No purse. How was I going to eat? Where could I stay? What was I going to
do
? Where was Wiggins?

Nick came a step nearer. “You sick or something? Maybe I can drop you somewhere.”

A brisk knock jerked both of us around to face the door.

A light voice called. “Nick, it’s Jan. I came as fast as I could.”

Emotions raced across Nick’s bony face: shock, panic, utter vulnerability. He swung toward me. “You’ve got to get out of here. Jan can’t see you. She’ll think—”

The front door swung open.

“N
ick, I—”

Jan was lovely, chestnut curls and a rounded, kind face with wide-set brown eyes, pert nose, and generous mouth. She wasn’t beautiful, but she carried an aura of sweetness. Sweetness trumps beauty any day of the week.

She saw the two of us standing near the wet bar. I suspected she was also intuitive and that she sensed drama, of which there had been plenty in the last fifteen minutes. Nick looked strained and I, no doubt, appeared stressed.

“Oh.” She lifted her chin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had . . . company.”

My hope of dispatching Nick to the police, then slipping away to seek a solution to my own challenges disappeared, unlike me, into an unknowable future.

Yes, the police would have to be informed, but there was no way to adequately explain the situation to Jan unless I admitted my identity as an emissary, and Wiggins—wherever he was—would be utterly appalled if I revealed the truth to yet another mortal creature. Instead, I would have to make it clear that I had no designs on Nick and then possibly she would depart.

Nick looked at me with despair in his blue eyes.

I sprang into action. “Jan, how wonderful to meet you.” I was across the room in a flash. “Nick’s told me all about you.” I hoped his oh-too-revealing face wasn’t stricken with terror. I reached out, took her hand.

She was too well bred to resist, though her small hand was limp in mine.

“We’re going to have a wonderful time this evening. Nick loves to dance, and he’s asked me to teach you both”—I am inventive, but for an instant I was at a loss. Did they dance? What did they dance? What dance wouldn’t they know?—“how to”—a deep breath—“shag.”

“Shag?”

“Shag! Here we go. Watch my feet. Triple step, triple step, rock step.”

Nick’s face brightened.

I gestured to him. “Come on, Nick. Take Jan’s hand.” I sang “Under the Boardwalk
.
” Have I ever mentioned that I love to sing?

“Oh.” Jan looked surprised, then pleased. Stumbling and laughing, they followed fairly well.

A door slammed. Quick footsteps came nearer. A dark-haired young woman burst into the living room through the kitchen door.

I broke off in mid-lyric.

Nick and Jan stumbled to a stop. Nick’s face looked like that of a midnight traveler confronted by a vampire. Happiness seeped out of Jan’s face, replaced by repugnance.

The newcomer was pretty in a flamboyant fashion, but her features were marred by discontent and too much makeup. A low-cut red satin blouse, intended to be provocative, appeared skimpy, as did skin-tight jeans. She flung out one arm in a posture that rivaled Bette Davis on an emotional rampage and stared at Nick, her gaze beseeching. “I come”—her voice was husky with emotion—“and what do I find? You and two women. How could you do this to me?”

Jan shot Nick a glance of disgust. “I see you had other plans tonight. Why did you text me?” Her voice wobbled in disappointment and chagrin. “Oh well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Jan, wait a minute—”

Head held high, Jan rushed across the room. The screen door clattered shut behind her.

Nick strode after her.

The new arrival hurried across the room, caught his arm. “You sent for me. You apologized. You said we would be together now. Only to betray me—”

Nick’s face flushed. “I’m not betraying you. Everybody knows you run around on Brian. So I took you out a few times. That doesn’t mean anything. I don’t owe you anything. And I didn’t send for you.”

Nick pulled free and plunged out onto the porch. “Jan, wait . . .”

Nick’s accuser pressed a hand to her lips. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Nick might not feel he owed her anything. She clearly didn’t agree.

I felt a pang of sympathy. She was obviously a mess, but I had a sense life had not been gentle with her. I moved to the door and looked out.

I joined Nick. He was at the foot of the steps, hands balled into fists, as a blue Camry jolted toward the street.

A battered pickup truck making explosive sounds, likely from a defective muffler, careened into Nick’s drive.

“Jan, watch out!” Nick’s shout was frantic.

In an instant of peril, Jan’s car veered off the drive to avoid the pickup.

The pickup’s horn blared. The exhaust backfired again as the pickup jolted to a stop. The driver’s door slammed. “Where is she?” A barrel-chested man hurried toward the front porch. “Don’t tell me she’s not here,” he yelled at Nick. “She said she was going to her mom’s, but I called and she isn’t there.”

Nick hunched his shoulders. “You damn near hit Jan. Are you crazy, Brian?”

The young, balding man in a torn T-shirt, faded Levi’s, and scuffed boots thudded onto the porch. He moved with the ferocity of a charging bull, but his face held misery and aching disappointment.

Nick shot me a panicked look and raced up the steps as Brian slammed into the living room.

Dimly I heard the sound of another car’s motor, likely from behind Nick’s house. I ran up the steps and inside. “Oh my, oh my, oh my. What a to-do this evening.” I spoke loudly as if everyone in the vicinity might be hearing impaired. I guessed the departing car held the girl with the haggard face, who was making a strategic withdrawal. Likely, she was driving without lights until she’d eased a block or so distant from Nick’s.

Brian stood in the center of the room, his head swinging in a slow circle. “Where is she?”

I grabbed Nick’s arm. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

Nick’s response was scarcely flattering. He looked like a man snared by an octopus.

I pinched his side.

He jerked away.

I folded my face in a pout. “I declare, I don’t know what’s happened to our
romantic
”—heavy emphasis—“evening.” I patted Nick’s arm, which was as rigid as a steel beam. “Honey, don’t you worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

The burly young man’s face creased in bewilderment.

I moved toward him with a smile. “You must be Brian.”

He made an angry sound in his throat. “Where’s Lisa?”

I heard a strangled sound behind me. I put my left hand behind my back and made a waggling gesture, indicating, if Nick had the wit to understand, that he should leave the driving to me.

“You just missed her.” I had no doubt this was the forlorn young woman’s husband.

There was a definite groan from Nick.

Before Brian could gather his muscles to leap and put a throttlehold on Nick, I looked sweetly up at Brian. “Poor dear. Your wife apparently thought you were here. She came and pled with us to say where you were. Perhaps you’d better scoot home and reassure her that you are fine.”

Brian blinked, his expression surprised.

I felt a stab of pity at the sudden glisten of hope in his eyes.

Some of the tension eased out of his big shoulders. “Lisa was worried about me?”

“Worried as can be. Nick and I assured her we hadn’t seen you all evening.”

Brian massaged the side of his branch-thick neck. His eyes narrowed. “You been here with him”—he jerked his head at Nick—“all night?”

“Every minute. We love spending time together.” I increased my volume to drown out Nick’s growl. “I told Lisa we understood how important you are to her and assured her we understand how much she cares about you. I had to forgive her”—I gave a tinkling laugh and a gentle head shake—“for pretending to be interested in Nick. It’s just a ploy to get your attention. The best thing for you to do is pretend you don’t care. Why, if you act as if you’re interested in someone else, Lisa will be so jealous, she’ll do everything in her power to get you back.”

His face furrowed. “I’ve always been true to Lisa.”

Uh-oh. Talk about unintended consequences! I certainly had no intention of encouraging the man to violate his wedding vows. Wiggins would be appalled.

I didn’t sense a pulse of indignation near me. I couldn’t even picture Wiggins’s handlebar mustache quivering in dismay.
Wiggins, where are you?

I pushed back my feeling of abandonment and hastened, I hoped, to clear up any misunderstanding. “Certainly you have been faithful. Just as she has been.” Not being sure, I crossed my fingers on the hand behind my back. “Perhaps now you’d better hurry home after her.”

He started to turn, then stopped and glared up at Nick. “You’re a sorry louse. Taking advantage of a woman when she’s down.” Brian squared his shoulders. “I’d knock you halfway to Dallas—”

I lightly touched Brian’s muscular arm. “Every minute they spent together, Nick was building you up to Lisa.” I glanced at Nick and wished he didn’t have such an unpleasant expression on his bony face. I was sure he could be attractive if he tried. “Didn’t you do just that, Nick?” I wiggled the fingers on my hidden hand, the old “come on now, play along” gesture.

Unless Nick preferred have his sorry ass kicked halfway to Dallas, he needed an attitude adjustment and maybe a dash of my creativity.

Nick’s face had a decided prunelike stiffness, but he muttered, “Yeah. I think Lisa”—pause—“well, she wasn’t interested in me”—pause—“she kind of seemed to want to kick up her heels”—pause—“like”—He looked at me. A moment of shock rippled across his face as he realized he couldn’t bring up my name, because he didn’t know my name—“like the lady”—I detected a touch of malice in his voice—“says, Lisa’s kind of messed up thinking about you and her.”

Oddly, I was impressed with his honesty. He wouldn’t lie, even though his rangy frame didn’t appear to be a match for Lisa’s muscular, aggrieved husband.

“Yeah. Well, gee, I guess you meant well. I got it all wrong. So”—Brian’s voice was gruff—“sorry I busted up your evening.” He gave me a shy nod. “Glad you and him are an item.” He swung around and moved swiftly across the room. He banged through the door. In a moment, we heard the roar of his truck.

I gave a whoosh of relief.

Nick glared at me. “It will be all over town that I’ve got a redheaded girlfriend. Jan will never talk to me again.”

For a man whose sorry ass had not been kicked to Dallas, he was exceedingly ungrateful. “We can deal with that.”

“We”—his voice was deep in his throat—“are not going to deal with anything. You need to go home.”

Home.

“I don’t have a home.” My voice was shaky. Tears burned my eyes. I was half-scared, half-mad, and feeling way too much
in
the world. “It’s all the fault of that woman on the horse. I should have demanded to talk to Wiggins, but she looked so grand in her riding habit. She had such an aristocratic face and the most vivid blue eyes. She looked as if she could see right through me. She said you were such a fool, but there were those who loved you.”

Nick reached out, grabbed the back of a straight chair. He appeared to be struggling for breath. His voice was strangled. “What color was the horse?”

“Black. Black as a chunk of coal. He glistened. A gorgeous creature.” My tone wasn’t admiring. If I ever found the horse and its rider, I’d demand an accounting. But if I couldn’t disappear from the present, I couldn’t count on climbing aboard the Rescue Express to return to Heaven.

“All black?” There was faint hope in his voice.

I pictured the horse and its rider. “Except for a big white splotch on his forehead shaped like a crescent.”

“Oh God.” Nick looked haunted. “That’s McCoy. Her horse, The Real McCoy.” He swung around and headed for the stairs, took the treads two at a time.

“Nick!” Where was he going? He and I had to talk. I was here on his behalf, and I needed help in return. I hurried to the base of the stairs and folded my arms. If he didn’t come down again quickly, I would pursue him.

The stairs reverberated as he thudded back down the steps, again two at a time. He clutched in one hand a silver photograph frame. He skidded to a stop in front of me, took a deep breath, thrust out the frame.

I studied the photograph with widening eyes. The woman pictured on the jumping horse was older than the rider who had directed me to catch the Express. The woman in the photograph had silver hair and a thinner face, but there was no mistaking the cool blue eyes, pointed chin with a distinctive cleft, and long, thin nose. She and the horse had melded into one, moving together as the horse rose in the air to jump.

I was excited. “That’s she.”

“You mean it’s her.” He sounded glum.

I almost corrected him, but decided grammar wasn’t important at this point. I tapped the glass. “Who is she?”

Nick managed a sickly smile. “Come on. Explain the joke. Did you know her a long time ago? Did she leave a bequest asking you to come here and shake me up?”

Bequest. I sighed. “She’s dead, of course.”

He looked relieved. “So you did know her. Did you ride together? Or travel or something?”

“I never saw her in my life or in Heaven until she came thundering up to me on that beast and sent me down here to help you.”

“Heaven.” He offered the word experimentally. “You really mean”—there was a trace of a gulp—“Heaven?”

“I mean Heaven.”

He turned away, walked unsteadily across an oval braided rug, and flung himself onto a plaid sofa.

I pattered after him, settled at the opposite end, and, just for fun, sang “My Blue Heaven.” “Bobby Mac and I used to do a great duet.”

He drew himself up in a defensive posture, gazed at me as if I might suddenly produce a Heavenly choir.

“Bobby Mac’s my husband.”

“I didn’t know ghosts were married.”

I smiled brightly. “I’ve probably told you too much. But that’s the situation. I’m a ghost.”

His chin jutted out. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“You will.” My tone was mild. “I am here because you are in danger.” I pointed at the bullet hole in the wall. “Now, who was the woman on the horse?”

He gazed down at the photograph. “Delilah Delahunt Duvall. She lived in Adelaide when she was a kid, but moved to California after college. She died last year. In an accident climbing Liberty Ridge on Mount Rainier.”

“Mountain climbing? She did that as well as ride?”

“Aunt Dee rode, climbed, white-water rafted, caved, scuba dived, gambled, and wrote thrillers, and along the way she collected lovers on five continents. Aunt Dee never took no for an answer and always said yes to a challenge.” Nick sounded weary.