Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (6 page)

“Yeah. Well.” he stared over my head as if the blank wall were mesmerizing. “There’s Albert Harris. Just because we used to toss ideas around, he thinks I should split everything with him. No way. I’m the one who designed the game.”

“Nothing you and he discussed ended up in your game?”

He was a shade strident. “Sure, I always talked about spiders. But I did the work.”

“Anyone else?”

He relaxed. “That’s the crop.”

“How can I find them?”

“Cole Clanton wangled an office at City Hall since he’s the director of Old Timer Days. He parlayed some stories he wrote for the
Gazette
into this Old Timer Days celebration.”

“Is Cole a serious student of Oklahoma history?”

Nick gave a whoop. “He’s a serious student of sex and whisky. He wouldn’t know an old timer if he fell over him. Nah, he’s just figured out how to be a big deal without working a lick. It’s easier to sit on a cushy chair at City Hall than work on the
Gazette
. He only got that job because his uncle owns the paper. As for Lisa, she’s got a job as a clerk at the college library. Brian’s mowing yards. He lost his job with a construction company last year. Albert’s a reporter at the
Gazette
. I doubt he and Cole were buddies. Cole’s way too cool for Albert, and Albert’s got a superiority complex that won’t stop even though he didn’t play football.” Nick cracked his knuckles. “If it weren’t for the hole in my wall, I’d say this was nuts. Maybe I’ve rubbed some people wrong, but I haven’t done anything to make somebody mad enough to shoot at me.” He looked bewildered.

He didn’t want to face the fact that he was alive by the merest fraction of an instant. I was blunt. “If I hadn’t pushed you, your next of kin would be dealing with funeral arrangements tomorrow.” Speaking of . . . There was one more fact I needed to know. “Since you are seriously rich, I assume you have an estate plan.”

“Estate plan?” He looked as blank as if I’d started to discuss the charms of a point-collar pale pink blouse that I’d recently worn with a new suit. The jacket had the most adorable narrow lapels. I felt a pang. I was going to be tired of my current costume very, very soon. Sartorial boredom is a sad state of mind.

I focused. “You are rich. Do you have a will naming a beneficiary or beneficiaries? Or have trusts been set up?”

He jammed a hand through his thick curls. “La—Hilda, if that’s your name, give it a rest. I’m only twenty-four. I don’t need a will.”

No will. “Who’s your next of kin?”

“My cousin, Bill. Bill Magruder.” There was no fondness in his tone. “I sure wouldn’t leave him anything. He’s a bum. And he hangs around with Cole. I wouldn’t give him the time of day, much less money.”

My voice was thoughtful. “A bum here in Adelaide?”

“Yeah. He’s had his hand out ever since I got back. It’s not my fault he has a degree in art history and he can’t find a museum job. He’s working at La Hacienda, the Mexican restaurant downtown. The only good thing he’s ever done is spill a bowl of queso on that cop who sneered at me.” A happy smile lighted his face. “Sticky, hot queso.”

“Where does Bill live?”

“Those old apartments out near the railroad tracks, the Lilac Arms.” He gave a muffled snort. “Who’d name something the Lilac Arms? Can’t you see big, fat arms sprouting purple flowers?”

The Lilac Arms had been the latest, most up-to-date apartments when they were built in the 1970s. I remembered them well. To Nick, they would be so far distant in history as to be ancient.

I added Bill’s name to my mental list. I was going to be busy tomorrow with both personal and professional tasks. I needed clothing. After all, a woman can’t wear the same old tired outfit and function at a high level. Once equipped, I intended to ask provocative questions of the likely suspects. I had no expectation that I would speak to those who disliked Nick and discern like a dowser who had pulled the trigger of the rifle. My goal was much simpler: to warn off a killer from trying again.

I
should have sunk into instant, deep sleep. Heaven knew I’d expended both physical and emotional energy since my arrival. But that was the problem: Heaven didn’t know. I lay wide-eyed. Moonlight streamed into the room, illuminating the dressing table, which sat in a bay. White dimity with antique lace fringes decorated the table. Wooden towel rails were well stocked with fluffy pink embroidered towels. In a mahogany wardrobe I’d found two pink terry cloth robes. One now served as a makeshift nightgown. With little expectation of success, I employed my usual method of dress, envisioning an item of clothing in which I then would appear. There was no change in the feel of terry cloth against my skin. The much more appropriate silk of red pajamas remained a hope.

I knew of no way to bring my plight to Wiggins’s attention. Possibly he might summon me for an adventure and discover I was not to be found. Until then, here I was and here I would be. Much as I loved Adelaide, I had no wish to become a permanent resident. Without money or identification, I would be a wretched waif. Nick Magruder could provide income while I sorted out the truth behind the attack on him, but I could not expect him to provide for me when that task was done. In the past, when I had been here as an official emissary, Wiggins often arrived to encourage or chide. Perhaps if I ended up in peril, he would sense my need.

My predicament was enough to make anyone sleepless!

However, as Mama always told us kids, “If you rip your shorts, sew on a patch and hold your head high.”

Possibly sleep would come if I got up and found something to read, I thought. I popped up and was halfway to the chest to turn on the lamp when I stopped at a window, my gaze caught by an intermittent flash of light in the thick rank of shrubbery and trees next door. It must now be well past midnight. Absently, I imagined a watch with a buffalo face. My wrist remained unencumbered.

The movement of the light seemed stealthy and vaguely threatening. I wished mightily that I were the old me (although always twenty-seven, mind you) and could at will appear and disappear, moving from one location to the next in an instant by thinking of a destination. Right now, had I been an official emissary, I would think
wooded area next door
and there I would have been.

I began to have a better appreciation of investigators limited by physical boundaries.

Of course, the area with the occasional light wasn’t the property of the inn. There was probably no reason for me to be alarmed. So far as I knew, no one was aware that Nick Magruder was in a room down the hall from me. Still, the vagrant bounce of light was not ordinary. A punched-out window screen and a rifle shot weren’t ordinary, either.

The window looked out over the second-story veranda. I touched the lower sash, lifted. The sash slid up, noiseless and smooth. It took only an instant to unhook the screen. I started to slip out, realized I was clad only in a terry cloth robe. With a little huff of exasperation, I dashed across the room, donned the now oh-so-familiar blouse, slacks, sweater, and shoes.

From my second-story vantage point, I could see over the tall stockade fence between the inn and next door. The light was sometimes visible, sometimes not. From Jan’s description, the Arnold property was thick with uncut shrubbery and heavily wooded. That would explain the occasional disappearance of the beam. Finally, there was a flicker and then a kind of soft glow that was almost indiscernible through shifting limbs.

Nick was going to buy that property. Cole Clanton wanted permission to build a replica of the trading post there. Now someone was creeping about in the deep of night. I wanted to know who was there and why.

I tiptoed to the stairs that led down to the B and B’s backyard. As Jan had said, her mother’s garden was well kept. Shaded lanterns illuminated October blooming plants—Indian mallow, Chinese lanterns, goldenrod, and mums. I smelled the sweet scent of autumn clematis as I passed an arbor.

Now I couldn’t see anything next door, my vision blocked by the stockade fence. I reached a heavy iron gate, which stood ajar. I slipped through the opening and was plunged into darkness. Occasional swaths of moonlight appeared through shifting tree limbs to help me stay on a winding dirt path. I heard an occasional, distant pinging noise. I had a quick vision of a war movie, actors hunched in silence in a hunted submarine as an enemy destroyer passed overhead. I shook my head and had a moment of amazement at the long-submerged memories harbored in my brain. This was no time for daydreaming.

I made a wrong turn and lost the path. I had no flashlight. I was plunged into a tangle of greenery, brush encroaching from both sides, vines and tendrils snaking across the path. I felt my way forward, sliding one foot forward, then the other, my hands spread wide like an insect’s antennae to brush aside whip-lashing branches. I tried to move quietly, but the shrubbery rustled. I was thankful that a playful wind rattled leaves somewhere near. The noise of my intrusion could easily be attributed to the wind. I heard an occasional rasp of a still-surviving cicada.

Abruptly, a coyote howled, the shrill wavering sound as shocking as a cross between a wailing banshee and a berserk soprano. The cry seemed to come from behind me. I gave a startled yelp, took a breath, and continued forward. I felt claustrophobic in the intense darkness. I saw a light and veered to my right. I stepped into a moonlit clearing.

There was a sense of movement behind me, but before I could turn, a plastic bag was thrown over my head. My arms were pinned to my sides. I was hefted like a feed sack in a tight, painful grip. I felt an instant of vertigo as I was carried, twisting and struggling, unable to see, enveloped in the plastic, my cries muffled.

Over the sound of my ragged breathing and strangled gasps came the thump of footsteps on wood. Abruptly, I was flung high. I flew through the air to splash into cold water. I flailed frantically and finally freed myself of the plastic sack. I sputtered to the surface. My hand banged against something slimy. It took a heart-wrenching moment for me to realize I was standing waist deep in a fish pond. I flinched as something smooth touched my skin. If my hair hadn’t been plastered to my head, it likely would have stood on end like the needles of a threatened porcupine.

In the distance, the sound of running steps faded to silence.

Shivering, torn between fury and relief, I moved toward the edge of the pond, jerking like a marionette each time I was touched by a fish. I scraped one knee crawling out onto the bank, trying hard not to imagine what might have been lurking in the dried stalks that rimmed the water. At least Oklahoma ponds didn’t run to leeches. At worst, I’d probably been nudged by a catfish.

The wind picked up. I began to shake with cold. I gazed around the clearing. There was no indication, at least not in the moonlight, of what my assailant might have been doing. The gleam of the flashlight was gone. Beyond the pond with its wooden bridge and a screened gazebo rose a three-story frame house, utterly dark.

I was confident an intruder had been in the side yard of the Arnold property. When I’d reached the clearing, I’d been grabbed and thrown into the pond so the intruder could escape.

I shivered and turned back toward the overgrown path. Whatever my attacker had intended, I couldn’t see a connection between the fitful flashlight in the Arnolds’ yard and the shot fired earlier at Nick Magruder.

However, I’d found trouble when I landed at Nick’s house. He’d arranged for me to stay at the Buffalo B & B and I’d found trouble again.

Possibly I’m talented.

Possibly I was a shade too curious for my current earthbound status.

I hurried back toward the B and B, clothes squishing, water oozing from my loafers, thinking about Nick and the property he intended to buy simply to thwart Cole Clanton.

• • •

The sunlight slanting through the window emphasized the shabby state of the clothes I’d draped over the towel rack last night. Now they were stiff, wrinkled, and stained by moss and algae. The rose blouse looked mottled, the sweater was damp, and the slacks sagged. Trust me, I have never in this world or the next ever worn saggy slacks.

My face wrinkled in distaste. I picked up the blouse reluctantly. Perhaps this equivalent of a hair shirt was to remind me that I was currently
of
the world, not simply
in
the world. In Heaven, my dress would be perfect. Perhaps I would have chosen a long, sunset-orange linen pullover with a ballet neckline and a tiered cream voile skirt and orange leather heels.

I closed my eyes, pulled on the musty-smelling, stained clothing. I took a moment to walk down the hall and slip a note beneath Nick’s door. The instruction was simple:
Stay with Jan.

As a seriously rich young man, he could arrange his day as he wished. I didn’t think he would find my order hard duty. The attack at his house had occurred after dark when he had been ostensibly alone. The shooter had not been aware of my presence because I had not yet appeared. During daylight hours in the company of Jan, he should be safe. If my plans went well today, there should be no more attacks.

I slipped down the stairs and hurried out into the early morning. I hopped on the yellow scooter and wove in and out of morning traffic to a strip shopping mall anchored by Wal-Mart. I was at the door when it opened at 8:00 a.m. Normally, to shop is to live; or, in Heaven, to swirl from one outfit to another is simply another sublime aspect of paradise.

However, this morning I darted from rack to rack, from department to department, in a whirlwind of activity. In twenty-eight minutes, I had assembled a wardrobe, everything from undies to blouses, slacks, skirts, two cardigans and a fleecy jacket, three pairs of shoes and costume jewelry, plus makeup and toiletries, all for less than three hundred dollars.

Returning to the B and B, I hurried upstairs and changed into a bright blue shirt, added oval-shaped turquoise drop earrings and a gold-plated chain-link necklace. Navy slacks and flats completed my outfit. I admired my appearance—truly this could not be said to be vanity; it was simply an expression of heartfelt relief—in the framed mirror and whirled toward the door, a new woman. A quick breakfast and Hilda Whitby would be on the case. But first . . .

• • •

The front gate to the Arnold property hung askew, the bottom tension-bar band missing. Shrubbery ran amok on either side of a sidewalk with jagged cracks. I stepped inside the gate, shaded my eyes to study a rambling three-story white-frame house, probably built in the 1920s. The big structure had likely housed a huge family or served as a boarding house. Now, paint peeled, and there was an aura of disrepair and neglect.

I moved toward the front porch with a confident air. As Mama always said, “A dog on his belly won’t get the bone.” I pushed the doorbell, heard a distant chime. The door opened to reveal a bouncy, pert brunette probably in her late forties. I was surprised. Given the dolorous appearance of the house, I expected an occupant more on the order of an undertaker’s assistant. Or a standin for Morticia Addams.

“Mrs. Arnold?”

“That’s me, honey. Call me Claire. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Hilda Whitby, Mr. Magruder’s assistant. He asked me to write up a report on the property. Do you mind if I wander around the yard? He’s thinking about landscaping.”

She glanced at the greenery run amok. “That sounds like a good idea. Tell him he can send in a crew anytime he wants. I got rid of the dogs after Gabe died. Rufus and Wally were great watchdogs, but they always scared me. My brother has a farm, and they don’t mind dogs that don’t let anybody get near the house. Kind of a help when you live out in the country. Please ask Nick not to have the shrubs and trees cut too much. My husband never wanted to trim anything.” Her smile was quick. “Just like his beard. He had a big, bushy brown beard and looked kind of like a hulk, but he was kind as could be. People thought our place was scary because of the dogs, but Rufus and Wally loved Gabe.” She looked around as if seeking a familiar face.

“I’m sure Nick will cooperate.”

Claire smiled. “He’s real nice. Anyway, I never gave Gabe a hard time about the yard. Let it grow, I’d say. When he died, I kept it the way he liked it.” For an instant loss transformed her face with a look of puzzled hurt in her eyes. “But he’s gone, and I’ll have to tell you I can’t wait to sell the place. I don’t like living here by myself. It’s an old, old house and there’s been a lot of misery here.”

“Most old houses hold a lot of stories.”

“You got that right.” Claire nodded agreement. “I agreed to live here because Gabe liked all the stories, even the bad ones. Some of the rooms I hated to go into, but Gabe said nobody could ever call our house boring. Once a gambler owned the place. His old green-felt poker table’s still in the basement. Gabe was always looking for the secret room the gambler was supposed to have built, but he never found it. Anyway, I hope the place can stay the way Gabe liked it. Nick said he wouldn’t trim a whole lot, kind of keep the wild-and-woolly look. There’s a lot of history here. The first trading post was over by that oak.” She pointed to her right. “This was part of the Chickasaw Nation, but settlers were coming in anyway. Ezra Porter built the post around 1888. He was married to a Chickasaw. There are lots of Porters still in town. That’s the only thing I’m kind of disappointed about in selling to Nick Magruder, but we’re going to sign the papers tomorrow. I’d promised to let the Old Timer Days people put up a replica of the trading post, but Nick said that would be a deal breaker. He didn’t want anybody on the land for any reason. Yesterday I had to call the fellow who was going to put up the trading post.”

“Cole Clanton?”

She looked uncomfortable. “He was mighty upset, said I’d promised him. But like I told him, I don’t owe him anything. I put the place up for sale after Gabe died, but I hadn’t even had a looker. I want to go help my sister, who’s real sick. So that’s that. I told Cole a few feet doesn’t make any difference, and he’s thick with Arlene. Maybe she’ll let him put the replica up over there. He said that wouldn’t be authentic. I could have told him history was bunk. Sure, people say the trading post was here, but it could have been a couple of hundred yards either way. But he got excited about Adelaide’s history when he did some stories for the
Gazette
in August. He got stuff out of the old newspapers, and then Rod Holt joined in. He owns Holt’s Back Shop.”