Ghost at Work (17 page)

“No.” Her eyes flared in alarm. “I didn't shoot him.”

I felt cold. “How did you know he was shot?”

“It was on TV this morning. I didn't do it. I swear.”

I picked up the gun. “Where did you get this?” It was a .22 pistol.

“I stole it from my dad's house. He has lots of guns.”

“I'll take it with me.” I kept the shells in my hand, tucked the gun in my waistband.

She shivered. “I don't want it.” Her look was young and earnest. “I won't do that again. I'll go to the church in the morning.”

I looked around the cold kitchen, spotted a gas stove, found matches, lit the flame. “When did you last eat?” I moved to the refrigerator.

“I don't know.” Her voice was dull.

I fried bacon and scrambled eggs with milk, seasoning salt, a half teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of brown sugar. I fixed toast and poured a glass of milk.

I placed the plate in front of her. She pushed the eggs with her fork, finally took a bite, then with a look of surprise and gratitude eagerly ate. “These eggs are good. I didn't know I was so hungry.”

I debated what to do, then made up my mind. “This won't be the only visit you'll have from the police.” Chief Cobb would be sure to explore what he'd learned from Anita.

Cynthia put down her fork, her young face once again frightened and vulnerable.

I chose my words carefully. “Don't mention my visit here. We'll pretend it didn't happen. Tell them you wanted to see Daryl, so you went to his office last night, but he'd already left. Don't say anything about the baby.”

Her eyes crinkled in puzzlement. “Why are you helping me?”

Honest truth is sometimes best. “Because you are alone.” And lost. And frightened.

“All right.” Her eyes were luminous. “Thank you. I hope”—she looked anxious—“you don't get in trouble.”

I was already in trouble. Wiggins was likely despairing of me at this very moment. “Everything will work out.” That was surely the most positive of thinking. I had no reason to think anything would work out and I seemed to go from bad to worse when it came to meddling with Chief Cobb's investigation. “There's nothing you can do to help the police.” Officer Leland had stopped Daryl as he turned
out of the lot, leaving Cynthia behind. Certainly he was alive and well then. “So it's better not to say anything more than you have to.”

She drank a gulp of milk. “All right.”

I left her finishing her light supper, looking worn but at peace. I hoped I'd done the right thing to encourage her to refrain from telling the chief that she'd seen Daryl Thursday evening, but I couldn't help wondering. She'd said her father's house had many guns. Had I carried one of those guns to the Pritchard mausoleum for the police to find?

Once outside, I took my latest acquisition out of my pocket, disappeared, and wafted to the top of an old oak. I tucked the gun in the crook between a branch and the trunk, too far above ground to be noticeable. Then I zoomed down to the street, found a manhole cover, and dropped the shells inside.

Daylight was fading fast, the shadows deep and dark on Olive Street. I didn't expect Walter Carey to slip into his former partner's office until darkness fell, so I didn't feel rushed. Instead of going directly to Murdoch Investments, I strolled toward Main.

I wasn't surprised when I heard that rumble nearby. “Although becoming visible is never desirable, in some instances it is acceptable.” We moved along in silence, then a soft harrumph. “That dear girl. Good work, Bailey Ruth.”

Wiggins left as quickly as he'd arrived.

I was smiling when I reached Main Street. I took a moment to look up and down. The Bijou marquee was dark and the front looked boarded over. The corner where our drugstore sat now advertised
CORNUCOPIA TEA SHOP, NATURAL FOODS
. What other kinds were there?

Then I saw the red neon of Lulu's. In a flash, I arrived in the narrow entrance to the café. I suppose it was impulsive of me, but I hadn't had a Lulu hamburger and fries in, well, it was a lifetime ago. I was greeted by a delectable scent of hot grease.

Every stool at the counter was occupied as well as the four booths. Lulu's hadn't changed a whit in all these years and it was packing in the customers as offices and stores closed. A tall blond waitress and a lanky teenage boy served the counter and the booths. She was quick and efficient. He was more lackadaisical.

It took me only a moment to figure out the system. To-go orders in sacks were placed on a tray near the cash register to await pickup. When the boy put down his order pad to fix a chocolate soda at the fountain, I tipped over a menu to cover the pad and quickly scribbled a to-go order for Myrna: cheeseburger with onions, mustard, and pickles, and fries. When everyone seemed occupied, I pinned the order up for the cook.

I wafted through a door marked
EMPLOYEES
, found the fuse box. When my sack was ready, I peered closely at the menu, and almost let out a yelp when I saw the prices. How could a hamburger and fries cost four dollars and fifty cents! However…I imagined a five-dollar bill, a shocking sum, and hovered over the tray with the to-go orders.

When no one was near the cash register and everyone behind the counter was fully occupied, I took the check from the sack, slid it and the five-dollar bill slowly toward the cash register, then wafted to the fuse box and flipped a series of switches. The power went off. The café went dark and voices called out.

I felt my way out into the dining area. There was enough light coming through the plateglass window from streetlamps to make it easy to reach the front counter. I grabbed my sack and hurried to the front door. Unfortunately, since I'd had no need to open the door upon my arrival, I hadn't realized a bell sounded.

The bell tinkled. A flashlight beam swept toward the front, spotlighting my white sack as it moved briskly through the air.

“Wait a minute.” The waitress's shout was angry and determined. “Hey you, stop.” As the lights came back on, the waitress plunged
out onto the sidewalk, heavy flashlight in hand. She started to yell, then froze as the sack, dangling from my unseen hand, sped up the sidewalk.

I looked back.

She backed toward the door to Lulu's, her face slack with disbelief.

I reached the corner, swerved out of her sight. I was terribly aware that I had violated Precepts One and Six, but certainly it was inadvertent. I clutched my sack tighter, felt warmth through the paper, and darted from shadow to shadow, not wishing to cause any further distress.

“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins's voice was as emphatic as the stamp of a jackboot.

I wobbled on the top step of Murdoch Investments. “Did you serve in the military, Wiggins?”

“The Rough Riders, San Juan Hill, July first, 1898.” His pride was evident.

“Wiggins, that's wonderful. I can't wait to hear—”

“Bailey Ruth.” Exasperation warred with an evident delight in recalling his days with Teddy. “This is not the moment.”

I sensed movement and curled my arm around that Heavenly scented sack. I had no intention of yielding my hamburger to Wiggins. “I need sustenance, Wiggins. I have a big evening facing me.” I determinedly kept my tone light. I wouldn't be guilty of whining. Nonetheless, facts are facts. “And there's no getting around the fact that when I carry an actual physical object, I can't pop from here to there in an unobtrusive fashion.”

“There is food at the rectory.” The reproof was clear.

“Wiggins, that was my first thought.” How many fibs was I piling up on my record? Would they even let me back in Heaven without a stint in Purgatory? “But even if I popped there and back again, there wasn't enough time. I must take up my post inside”—I bent my head
toward the building—“before darkness falls.” Twilight was settling around us.

“I see.” A pause. “Bailey Ruth, you always seem to have an answer. It's quite confounding. And I do have other emissaries to oversee. Very well, carry on.”

Thus justified, my fingers tight on my sack, I oozed to the rear of the office building. I placed the sack on the top step and wafted inside. In only a moment I had opened the back door, retrieved my supper, and locked the door. A moment later I was inside Daryl Murdoch's office. I drew the drapes, then turned on a lamp near one end of the red leather sofa.

In a small refrigerator behind a curving bar, I found a Dr Pepper. That thrill could only have been topped by discovering a Grapette. Not, of course, that I was particular.

I spread out my feast on a tiled table in one corner and offered a very thankful grace. I enjoyed every mouthful. The onions were sautéed in a tasty brown tangle and the fries fresh, crisp, and salty. The taste of Dr Pepper brought memories of lazy summer picnics and fishing trips with Bobby Mac. However, I didn't linger and cleaned up quickly, depositing the sack in the kitchenette wastebasket.

I turned off the lamp and opened the drapes. The glow from a streetlamp seeped inside, providing some light. I stretched out on Daryl's exceedingly comfortable and luxurious leather couch and promptly began to worry about the notations in the chief's notebook concerning Father Bill and Kathleen. I wished I'd had a chance to read the rest of his comments before Anita arrived in his office. Perhaps I—

The door to Daryl's office swung slowly in.

Even though I was expecting a visitor, my throat felt tight. I swung upright, pushed to my feet, willed myself present.

A dark form slipped across the room. The drapes were drawn. A click and light spilled over the end of the room from the lamp. Walter
Carey never glanced toward me. He went straight to the filing cabinets, pulled out the
G–I
drawer.

“Are you looking for your confession?” My voice sounded over loud in the stillness of the night-shrouded office.

He froze, one hand gripping the steel side of the drawer. Slowly, still holding to the drawer as if for support, he turned and stared at me. His lips parted. His haggard face was pasty white.

“It isn't in there.” I looked into eyes glazed with shock. “It's in a safe place.”

He took a step toward me. “How did you know?”

“When Daryl's study was the only room searched this morning and I was told that he changed the locks after you moved out of the offices, the answer seemed obvious. The intruder—you—wanted his keys. And here you are. There's one thing that puzzles me.”

He stood with his chin sunk on his chest, shoulders slumped, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

“What happened to the money you stole from Georgia Hamilton? I understand you and your wife are having financial problems, have had for some time. She's gone back to work.”

He lifted his head. “I wasn't really stealing. I borrowed the money. Just for a while.”

“‘Borrowed.'” My tone was judicious.

He flushed. “I was paying everything back. I swear to God. Pretty soon I was going to make up a contract with Mrs. Hamilton buying back the mineral rights and then she would receive the royalty reports directly from Monarch. I was within twenty thousand of making up what I'd borrowed.” His voice shook with intensity. “I told Daryl. He didn't care. Damn him to hell.”

“All right. Let's not call it stealing. Certainly it was fraud. Why?”

He stared down at the tips of his shoes, his face weary. “The stock market went to hell—” “The Beer Barrel Polka” interrupted. He
yanked a cell phone from his pocket, frowned. His glance at me was apologetic. “It's my wife. She'll worry if I don't answer.”

“Answer by all means.” I glanced down at the rug. He stood within a foot of where the confession was hidden.

“Yeah?…Catching up on some work…Father Bill's wife?” He sounded puzzled.

I was suddenly attentive.

“No, she's mistaken. I wasn't near the church last night. It must have been somebody else's car…”

Oh dear. Kathleen had ignored my warning and set out to investigate on her own. I was delighted at her initiative and concerned for her safety. If I had any idea where she was or what she was likely to do next, I'd go there. But for now, I must discover what I could from Walter.

“…I doubt it means anything. She's probably just curious. Like everybody else in Adelaide.” His tone was bitter. “Don't worry, honey. No. I can't come home yet.” His look at me was pensive. “I'll call if…” A deep breath. “If anything delays me. Yeah. Love you.” He clicked off the phone, slid it in his pocket.

“The stock market,” I prompted. I understood stock-market drops. Apparently the twenty-first century was no different from the twentieth. What goes up must come down, which many investors learn to their sorrow. He assumed I was aware of some recent financial debacle.

“I'd put the money into too many tech stocks.” He didn't explain, apparently assuming I would understand. “I fudged things, made them look better. I guess I didn't want to admit I'd made some big mistakes. But I made good on everything. I was paying Mrs. Hamilton back and I'd even added money for interest.”

“So you stole for pride, not gain.” Men won't ask for directions and they never want to admit to mistakes. “How did Daryl find out?”

He almost managed a sardonic smile. “Mrs. Hamilton may be
in her nineties, but she's a sharp old dame. A couple of weeks ago, Daryl dropped by to see her and she told him how pleased she was about the oil development on the ranch and how smart he'd been to set it up and how much she'd enjoyed having a chat with me when I brought her the papers to sign. He didn't ante to her, but he knew damn well he hadn't handled any leases. He found the recorded deed to Horizon Development at the courthouse and figured out what had happened. That's when he kicked me out of the office, all high-and-mighty even though I know he's cut corners. He was holier than a prayer book when he called me into his office, but not too holy to stop from blackmailing me.”