Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (12 page)

Their faces expressionless, the police officers watched Nick.

Nick gazed back and forth. He tried to move to the steps.

“Don’t move.”

Nick looked frustrated, half-scared, half-mad. “She must have panicked and run away.”

The officer drew out a small pad. “Name.”

“Hilda Whitby.”

“Description.”

“Redhead. About five five. Maybe twenty-five, twenty-six.”

“Wearing.”

“Black outfit. Sweater, slacks, shoes.”

“Relationship.”

Nick blinked. “She works for me.”

The sergeant looked around the gazebo, out into the darkness. “At night?”

“Business.” Nick was uneasy. If he said I was a private detective, that would require explanation.

It was my turn to blink. Someone shot at Nick and missed, thanks to me. Someone shot at Cole and didn’t miss. Surely the two attacks were connected, but who would try to kill both Nick and Cole?

“What kind of business?”

“She was looking into some things for me. She’ll be at the Majestic Buffalo B & B. You can find her. She can tell you I didn’t shoot him. Someone else did.”

“Sergeant, no woman came out of the gazebo.” An officer stood on the gazebo steps. “We got here right after the shots. We ran across the park. I heard the shots as I was walking to the side entrance of City Hall—”

The sergeant nodded. City Hall, home to the police department, was directly across the street. The side entrance was about twenty feet from the street. Once across the street and into the park, the officer would reach the main walk in less than a minute.

A chorus of voices rose. “. . . nobody came away from the gazebo . . . didn’t see anybody . . . only the guy and the victim in the gazebo . . . had a clear view . . .”

Behind the police, Albert held a cell phone to one ear. He was talking fast.

I popped near enough to hear.

“. . . heard shots when I was coming out of the office.” Albert’s voice was high and shaky. “Cole Clanton’s dead. In the gazebo. The cops are holding Nick Magruder. I don’t know what happened. The cops won’t let me get near. Yeah. Well, you’re the crime reporter. I was going to hog the show when I heard all the commotion, but Cole was my friend. I don’t want to do the story. Yeah. I’ll wait for you.” He slid the cell into his pocket and watched the gazebo, but his gaze was strained and his face drawn.

“All right, people.” The sergeant held up a hand and the cops fell silent. “We’ll sort things out later.” He gestured to the trim policewoman. “Go to the B and B. Find this woman and bring her in.”

Nick looked relieved. “She can tell you.”

I felt stricken by guilt. I couldn’t appear and vouch for Nick. Hilda Whitby’s brief moment had passed. Once questions were asked, there would be no refuting the fact that there was no private detective agency of that name in Dallas and no Hilda Whitby.

I had to do something to help him.
We
had to do something, Dee and Wiggins and I. Dee surely was nearby, because she had alerted Wiggins to my impending capture. I also felt certain Wiggins was close at hand. He had every intention of seeing me aboard the Rescue Express.

I looked at Nick, shirtless, his arms pulled behind him, but he appeared more relaxed. He thought it was only a matter of time until he was cleared.

I had put Nick in a deep and dangerous hole. I couldn’t leave him there.

Softly, I whistled, “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” I hoped Nick would make the connection.

The park and gazebo hummed with activity. A crime van drove across the grass, parked only feet away from the gazebo.

My light, soft whistle was, however, clear and distinct.

The sergeant looked around. “Hey, knock off the whistling.”

I continued.

Abruptly, a warm hand touched my cheek. “Shh.”

“Wiggins!” I was so excited his name came out in a yelp.

“Unprofessional,” came a hiss close to me.

“Shut up, Dee.”

“Ladies,” Wiggins implored.

“So, hey, wait a minute,” the lieutenant bellowed. “If somebody thinks this is time for a comedy routine, cut it out.”

I wouldn’t say Wiggins yanked me. Wiggins is always a gentleman. However, I was clutched by one arm and up we zoomed until the gazebo was far beneath us and we hung in the sky against a backdrop of stars.

“Delilah Delahunt Duvall.” Wiggins spoke her name grimly. “Do not return to the gazebo.”

I took pleasure that the name so announced was not mine. I recalled a wonderful author, Doreen Tovey, who wrote charming books about life with her Siamese cats. It always seemed that her boy Siamese were, to put it politely, a challenge, and her girl Siamese were well-behaved and prim, often emphasizing in a Siamese wail, “I’m a Good Girl, Am I.” I felt uncannily like a Siamese princess. I would have to ask Wiggins if cats—

“Bailey Ruth Raeburn.”

Uh-oh.

Steel wheels clacked on rails, the rumble coming nearer and nearer. A deep-throated woo-woo-woo, rising and falling, signaled the Rescue Express was en route.

“Ladies”—there was no warmth in his tone—“when we board—”

“I can’t leave now.” Dee’s bold voice was determined. “Nick’s in terrible trouble.”

“Neither can I.” For once Dee and I were in agreement. “Wiggins, we can’t desert Nick. He thinks I will be able to prove he didn’t shoot Cole. The police won’t be able to find me, and they’ll discover there’s no private detective from Dallas named Hilda Whitby. Then they won’t believe a word Nick says.”

Wiggins was disapproving. “Appearing always leads to problems.”

“That’s what I told her.” Dee sounded quite proud. Now it was her turn to be a virtuous Siamese princess.

“I wouldn’t have stayed visible,” my voice was hot, “if I’d been an official emissary, and we all know whose fault that is.”

“Ladies.” It wasn’t brusque, for Wiggins is never brusque, but his tone definitely brooked no further bickering.

The smell of coal smoke carried across the sky. The clack of wheels on the rails was loud, the woo-woo of the horn compelling.

Wiggins made a soft whuff of indecision.

I had a quick vision of Nick: bony face, stubbled cheeks, sloppy clothes, cocky, seriously rich, good-hearted. “Nick was trying to do good tonight. Wiggins, if ever a man needs help, it’s Nick.”

“Please don’t send me away.” Dee’s voice was tremulous. “Of course, I shouldn’t have tricked Bailey Ruth, but I knew something awful was going to happen to Nick. McCoy was fractious. When McCoy ducks his head between his knees, trouble’s coming. I was certain you wouldn’t send me—all that nonsense about no contact with family members—but I thought she’d be better than nothing.”

I was incensed. “Who saved Nick’s life?” Did the woman have no gratitude? Did she appreciate the swirl of panic that had engulfed me when I wasn’t able to disappear? Did she care?

“That was well done.” Her grudging tone had all the warmth of a polar ice cap.

“Thank you.” I can drip sarcasm with the best of them. I pictured Katharine Hepburn in
Pat and Mike.
For good measure, I swirled into a pants suit reminiscent of her style, a gray pinstripe and an orchid silk blouse. I immediately felt much more comfortable. Orchid suede ballerina flats completed my transformation. I might not have been able to see my apparel, but a vibrant sense of good fashion infused me with energy.

“Stop bickering.” Wiggins’s tone was more hopeful than commanding. Wiggins cleared his throat. “Nonsense?” He was clearly perturbed.

“Dear fellow,” Dee spoke kindly, “you might let me take a shot at the Precepts. I could update them in a heartbeat.”

“The Precepts are what they are.” Wiggins is a man who would cling to his country railroad station and Teletype no matter the changes on earth. But I was sure he applauded emissaries who adapted to the mores of the times in which they moved. I was rather proud of my familiarity with cell phones, iPads, iPhones, and the aptly named Web, with its electronic tentacles that enmesh the globe.

Nick was likely en route to the police station as we chattered. “Perhaps the shots in the gazebo are more relevant than a shot at the Precepts. Wiggins, I can help Nick. Dee’s a hindrance.”

“Hindrance!” She was outraged. “That’s absurd.”

“Dee won’t appear when she’s needed, and she flits off without a word.”

“I’ve never been able to tolerate ineptitude. Bailey Ruth was no help today in finding Nick in time to stop him from making threats against Cole. Now those chickens will come home to roost.”

I snapped, “If he weren’t seriously spoiled as well as seriously rich, he’d have the good sense not to broadcast his moods.”

“Nick didn’t know someone was going to shoot that odious young man.” Her defense was passionate.

“Ladies.” Wiggins’s patience was at an end.

I could scarcely hear him over the woo-woo of the Rescue Express. The scent of coal smoke tickled my nose. The clack of iron wheels pulsed nearer.

“Nothing about this episode”—his distaste was evident—“reflects well upon the department. Certainly the two of you lack a collegial spirit. The department prides itself upon cooperation, quietness,
remaining unseen
”—the emphasis was strong—“effort. Faced with an unpalatable choice, I believe the department’s goals will be better met if Bailey Ruth accepts the assignment. Come, Dee, we’ll board the Express, and then we can discuss your highly irregular acts.”

“I can’t leave Nick!” Her husky voice quivered with despair. “He’s only twenty-four. He needs me.” She might have racketed around the world, felt at her best astride McCoy, loved men and left them, but her cry revealed a woman who cared above all for her dark-haired nephew, who was at the bottom of a pit without a rope.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” Wiggins, bless him, is a sucker for a woman in distress. “Stay if you must. Do what you can. But mind, you and Bailey Ruth must cooperate.”

The Rescue Express, gleaming in the moonlight, swung by, pausing for an instant. Then, with a burst of speed, the train rose in the sky and streaked away like a meteor. “Remember the Precepts” came the distant cry.

With the immensity of the star-spangled sky arching above us, the departure of the Express emphasized a deep and peaceful silence.

“Dee?”

“Here.” She sounded invigorated. She’d won her battle. As if reading my mind, she shouted exuberantly. “Wiggins is a fine fellow. Now, I must be off to help Nick.”

“Hey, wait a minute. It’s the two of us. . . .”

Delilah Delahunt Duvall was gone.

• • •

Nick’s face was pale and drawn. He moved restively in the hard wooden chair, rubbed knuckles against his bristly cheek. I was relieved to see there was no longer blood on his hand. No doubt the stained hand had been filmed and tested for gunshot residue particles before he was fingerprinted and permitted to wash. A too-large orange jumpsuit slopped over at the shoulders and sagged at his waist. His bloodied polo and blood-smeared jeans must have been taken into evidence. The jumpsuit would be dispiriting, but I imagined Nick preferred it to his own stained clothing.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Magruder?” The familiar voice was impersonal, but polite. Detective Sergeant Hal Price sat behind a high-wattage lamp turned toward Nick. I always felt a quiver of delight when I saw Hal Price, a lean blond with slate-blue eyes, a man who appreciated redheads. If my heart didn’t belong to Bobby Mac, I would be smitten.

I had assisted Detective Sergeant Price and Police Chief Sam Cobb in previous visits to Adelaide. Both had glimpsed me despite my best efforts to escape their notice. Could I help it that occasionally my actual presence was essential? I especially enjoyed appearing as Police Officer M. Loy, my tribute to the auburn-haired actress who will always be remembered opposite William Powell in the Thin Man movies.

Price was flanked by the officer who had been in charge at the gazebo and a fortyish policewoman who held a notebook and pen. Chief Cobb stood near the back wall with his arms folded, his well-worn brown suit wrinkled. His heavy face was impassive beneath grizzled black hair. He was a big man with a quietly commanding air. Both a tape recorder and video camera sat on the desk.

“Mr. Magruder, I’d like to hear again about the meeting you set up with Mr. Clanton. What was the purpose of the meeting?”

Nick looked wary. “We had some business to take care of.”

The chief was pleasant. “What business?”

Nick spoke carefully. “Cole wanted some property that I was going to buy.”

“The Arnold house.” Price tapped his pen on the table. “It’s pretty well known around town that you made a bigger offer to keep Clanton from obtaining the property.”

Nick looked truculent. “There’s no law against that.”

Price appeared interested. “Why did you want the property?”

Nick looked uncomfortable. “Yeah, well, I thought I’d like to have it.”

“Why?” Chief Cobb asked.

Nick shrugged. “I imagine you know why. I didn’t like Cole. He wanted to put up a replica of the original trading post. I thought it wouldn’t hurt for him to find out he couldn’t always have things the way he wanted them.”

Price said mildly, “Would you say there was bad blood between you and Mr. Clanton?”

Nick’s stubborn honesty glinted in his eyes. “He was a jerk. But”—his anger was evident—“I know a lot of jerks, and I don’t shoot them. I was having too much fun making him mad.”

“Good clean sport? But today, you changed your mind.” The chief’s eyes were gimlet sharp. “Why?”

Nick’s bravado faded. His eyes flickered. “Yeah. Well, Cole and I had been in touch today and I thought maybe I’d let it go. I didn’t really want the place.”

“What contact did you have with Mr. Clanton?” The even tenor of his voice made the question seem negligible.

Nick turned over a hand. “Yeah. Well, we talked a couple of times.”

Price picked up a folder from the table, flipped through it. “People keep up with the news, Mr. Magruder. Information gets around fast. Apparently local radio and TV have already broadcast news about Mr. Clanton’s murder. We asked media to suggest that anyone with information contact Crime Stoppers or send tweets. We’ve had several responses.”