Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (7 page)

Arlene had mentioned Rod Holt. “What is Holt’s Back Shop?”

Claire lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “Kind of a silly name. It’s an Old West store. Rod means back in time. He carries all kinds of stuff. I’d call it junk, everything from washboards to spurs to leather trunks. He’s helping plan events for Old Timer Days. He’s nutty about old treasures, and he’s going to sell maps that show where Belle Starr buried some loot. Cole wanted to set up a replica of the original trading post here, but he has to stay off this property now.”

She pointed to her right. “Near that oak, you can see a couple of stones jutting up from the ground. Belle was rumored to have visited the trading post several times in the late eighties. One visit came not long after she and her gang boarded a Katy train near Boggy Depot and blew apart a safe to escape with a metal strongbox containing a shipment of Army gold worth almost two hundred thousand dollars. Who knows what those gold pieces would be worth today? People have hunted for that cache for years. Some people think she buried it near the trading post, but there’s an old legend that Ezra helped her bury it near a cistern in what’s now City Park. Rod’s fixed up a bunch of maps on thick paper yellowed to look like parchment. He’s using the old story about the cistern and making lots of maps with directions to Belle’s treasure. Each treasure hunter gets a map keyed to some spot near the ruins of the cistern. It’s kind of a cute idea. Each map has a different little story to account for why she buried the stuff there. After all, the whole idea is probably hokum anyway, so nobody cares if the maps all have different sites. Rod’s going to plant prizes at all the places. That’ll be the biggest draw. Not having the trading post here isn’t that big a deal. Like I told Cole, they’ve got plenty of places to feature, and they can do without this one. Maybe it’s all for the good. Gabe never let anyone step foot on the land.” Again there was a look of loss and pain.

A distant bell chimed. She glanced at her watch. “I got to get on to work in a few minutes, but you feel free to look wherever you want.” Her tired face was lit for an instant by an impish smile. “But no digging!”

As soon as the door closed, I headed down the steps and moved toward the thicket of trees between the Arnold house and the B and B. As near as I could guess, the bobbing flashlight had been near the big oak with the ruins of some old structure, which may or may not have been the original trading post.

Between the oak and a caved-in wishing well, its decorative bucket rusted and fallen to one side, I found a trampled area of still-blooming Indian paintbrush, stems crushed and fluted orange and reddish blossoms broken. Not all of the patch had been crushed, but it was easy to see a zigzag pattern near the center of the grassy area.

I went to the far side of the patch of disturbed grass. Now I stood between the trampled area and the oak tree. To my left was a stagnant pond with a wooden bridge. In the morning sunlight, algae looked thick as a crust. There was nothing to indicate I’d been tossed over the railing to flounder in the muck. I tried not to remember the slimy feel of the algae.

Portions of the B and B’s second-story veranda were visible through the shifting limbs of the trees. Last night I’d seen a flashlight from my room. Mrs. Arnold could wander about her property anytime she wished, so I was confident the late-night visitor was an intruder. I came up to the edge of the trampled grass. The closer view offered nothing new. Someone had walked over portions of the grassy area, but bent stalks and crushed grass appeared to be the only damage. Why sneak onto the lot late at night to walk about in the thick grass mixed with tall-stalked wildflowers? I had no idea, but my dousing in the pond indicated the trespasser was determined to remain unknown.

I had no idea why someone had skulked about the area last night, but two men had a definite interest in the property: Nick Magruder and Cole Clanton. As far as I knew, Nick had been safely ensconced at the B and B when the flashlight beam was flitting. I would ask him. It might be interesting as well to ask Cole Clanton about his whereabouts last night.

I stopped long enough at the B and B to call the mayor’s office. “This is Hilda Whitby, reporter for
Middle News Press
. I’m trying to contact Cole Clanton, director of the Old Timer Days celebration.”

A familiar Oklahoma accent was soft and cheerful. “Mr. Clanton’s office is on the third floor of City Hall. His extension is thirty-eight, but he’s often out making arrangements.” The secretary gave me his cell phone. “The celebration is sponsored by the Mayor’s Office. The mayor will be here this afternoon. She is the proper person to interview for your story. May I schedule an appointment?”

I remembered the mayor from previous encounters. She had all the charm of a warthog but the financial backing of a banker husband, who provided plenty of cash for her campaigns. “My schedule is full today. I’ll be back in touch.” I replaced the receiver. Wiggins would have been pleased that I had resisted the unworthy temptation to promise worldwide attention for Old Timer Days, which, of course, would not be forthcoming.

That is, he would have been pleased if he’d had any inkling of my activities. I suppressed a hot pang of panic. For now, I had nice clothes and a place to stay. What the future held . . .

Sternly, I returned to my to-do list. First, Cole Clanton, then the others who had little fondness for Nick Magruder.

Cole Clanton answered on the first ring. “Hey, Arlene. We can work everything out.” He was trying for charm, but there was a hint of desperation in his voice.

I raised an eyebrow. Obviously the telephone in Cole’s temporary office had caller ID. He saw that the call came from the Majestic Buffalo B & B. Obviously, he’d spoken earlier with Arlene. Last night she’d run from the dining room, carrying with her Nick’s careless revelations about Lisa and Cole.

“Listen, babe.” His voice was beseeching. “Lisa doesn’t mean anything to me. I swear to you. Nick’s trying to cause trouble. I’ll be right over and—”

I hung up. Cole Clanton appeared frantic to repair his relationship with Arlene. She must have demanded to know about Lisa and revealed Nick as her source of information. If Cole had been angry with Nick before, he would be enraged now. My intent was to warn off everyone who had reason to shoot at Nick. I intended to inform Cole that if anything happened to Nick, Cole’s name would be at the top of the list going to the police.

If only I had been able to disappear and immediately pop to a destination.

I reconnoitered. Jan was in the kitchen and turned with a polite smile, a B and B employee ready to be of assistance.

“Have you seen Nick?”

“I said good morning a little while ago.” She evinced no enthusiasm. “He’ll be back soon.” She was making a factual report. Her tone indicated it was immaterial to her if he ever returned. “He went out to his house to feed his cat.”

I felt an instant of alarm. I’d warned him to stay close to others. However, it was unlikely that the assailant would be lurking at Nick’s house this morning. “It would be better if he weren’t alone today. Perhaps he can give you a hand here.”

Just for an instant, concern flashed in her eyes, then she shrugged, possibly dismissing last night’s attack as more of a prank than a threat. “Nick?” She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think mopping is one of his skills. When he gets back, he’ll find breakfast in the dining room. He’s a guest. He’s welcome to hang around. I can’t wait for him. I’m on my way to the grocery as soon as I finish the dishes.” She turned back to the sink.

I scanned the room.

Water gushed from the faucet.

I used the sound to cover my soft footsteps to a closed door. Cole Clanton was en route to the B and B, and I wanted to overhear his conversation with Jan and possibly one with Arlene. I turned the knob, winced at the click. I glanced toward Jan, but she was working at the sink, her back to me. I eased the door open wide enough to slip inside the pantry. I pulled the door almost shut. If I were found . . . I’d cross that bridge when I came to it, hopefully with more success than my bridge crossing last night.

A door squeaked. Arlene Richey slowly crossed my sliver of a view. Last night she’d been an older woman proud of a young lover. This morning she was a woman diminished, eyes red-rimmed in a pale face. “Are the muffins hot?”

“Let me pop them in the microwave. Mom, take the morning off.”

“Why would I do that?” Arlene’s voice was brittle, a quick challenge to Jan.

Jan took a quick breath, turned away. In a moment, the microwave pinged. “Here they are.”

In a moment, Arlene passed me on her way to the door to the dining room.

When the door creaked shut, Jan said violently, “Oh, Mom, he’s not worth your pain.”

Abruptly, I heard the back door open.

I eased the pantry door open another inch.

In Arlene’s phone pic, Cole Clanton had been a man pleased with himself and his world. Now he looked anxious and uncertain. He gazed around the kitchen, started for the swinging door.

Jan’s voice was hurried. “Mother doesn’t want to see you. Please leave.”

“Sure she does. Listen, Jan, that’s all crap about Lisa.”

“No, it’s not.” Jan’s tone was flat.

His eyes narrowed and his face hardened. “Lisa’s a slut. So I took my turn. That has nothing to do with Arlene. Come on, Jan, give me break. Where’s your mom?”

The swinging door to the kitchen opened. Arlene stood in the entryway. She gestured at the refrigerator. “Take some apple juice to the old ladies.”

Jan looked from her mother to Cole and back again. With a helpless shrug, she walked to the refrigerator and lifted out a pitcher.

When the door to the dining room swung shut, Arlene gripped the back of a kitchen chair. “Get out.” Her face was pinched. She looked older. A sheen of tears glistened in her eyes.

“Hey, Arlene.” His tone was smooth, cajoling. “Let’s sit down somewhere quiet. I can explain. Sure, I hung out with Lisa, but that was before you and I got going.”

“No.” The single word fell like a stone in a well. “I called some friends. They knew. You made love to me and it was a lie.”

His features twisted in quick anger. “We said all along we were just having fun.” A flush suffused the back of his neck.

“Of course.” Her lips twisted in a pathetic attempt at a smile. “So the fun’s over.” Her voice was thin. “You go your way. I’ll go mine.” She whirled and blundered toward the door into the dining room.

He stood with his shoulders hunched, hands balled into fists.

I pushed open the pantry door and stepped into the kitchen. “Mr. Clanton.”

He jerked to face me. “Who’re you?” His tone was hard. A muscle twitched in one cheek. He was livid with the thwarted, petulant anger of a spoiled man faced with a situation he couldn’t control. It took me a little by surprise. Did he care that much for Arlene Richey? Nothing in his demeanor suggested jealousy or great passion. No, he was simply boiling mad.

People who are angry often speak before they think. I decided an up-front attack might afford Nick the most protection. “You were spotted at Nick Magruder’s house last night.”

He stared at me, his face utterly still. Finally, he spoke, his voice bland. “You got that wrong. I decided not to come.” He folded his arms over his chest.

“Why not?”

He shrugged, looked more comfortable. “He texted me, said he was ready to deal over the Arnold place. I figured he didn’t want to chump off and pay what he had offered. I decided to let him stew about it. Maybe I would’ve called him today. Maybe not.”

I felt confident that Nick’s attacker had taken his cell phone from the front seat of his car yesterday, placed some calls, then tossed the phone back into the car. Three people had shown up unexpectedly at Nick’s house: Jan Richey, and Lisa and Brian Sanford. Now it appeared Cole Clanton had been summoned as well. Obviously, the shooter had obtained Nick’s cell, texted messages setting up arrivals after the attack, possibly hoping one of the visitors would call the police and thereby be embroiled in a murder investigation.

“What were you doing at Nick’s?” His mouth twisted into a leer. His eyes roamed me up and down. “I guess I don’t need to ask. I thought he had the hots for Jan. But you look like fun in the meantime. Maybe we could get together for a drink.”

“Not in this lifetime.” My glance was dismissive. “I work for Mr. Magruder. If you didn’t come to his house, you must have a double.”

His eyes narrowed. “No way anybody saw me. I wasn’t there.” Now his gaze was steady, con-man steady.

I felt a flicker of excitement. I was almost certain Cole Clanton was lying. Although if he had arrived as a rifle was being shot, he might be excused for deciding it wasn’t a good moment to come calling. “You were there.”

“Who says?”

“I do.”

He studied me.

I don’t claim to read minds. That isn’t a ghostly skill. But, unless I was far off the mark, Cole decided I was bluffing. Maybe he played a good hand of poker. His wariness seeped away. He shook his head as if I were an annoying gnat. “You can’t prove anything. Tell your boss—” He broke off, his eyes narrowing. “Are you really working for the jerk?”

“I am investigating an attempt on Mr. Magruder’s life.”

Cole stared at me with a dark, unreadable gaze. “I heard he claimed somebody shot at him.”

“How’d you hear that?”

“Everybody was talking about it at Lulu’s this morning.”

Lulu’s was Adelaide’s old-time café with the best hamburgers in town and breakfasts to match.

Cole sounded bored. “It’s all over town. Somebody told me it was on the local radio station, and a couple of guys tweeted me about it. They knew I wouldn’t be shook up if somebody got him. I didn’t take it seriously. Around here, people who shoot don’t miss.”

I was sharp. “If anything happens to Nick, your name will be at the top of the list for the police.”

“You scare me almost as much as Phidippus. So who’s got a list and why should I care?”

“I have a list, and I will make that list available to the authorities.”

“Are you a cop of some kind?”