Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (21 page)

“You always have an answer.” She sounded amused. “Treasure hunter connects with expert. How much do you suppose he was willing to share?”

“I’d guess he offered Holt half of the proceeds.” I looked through the plate glass at the old Winchesters. I wondered if Cole had any sense that he was dealing with a man who not only knew everything about lost treasures but was steeped in an Old West where the man with a gun could take what he wished. “I expect the agreement was for Cole to arrange for construction of the trading post. Holt would have been right there to watch every spadeful. But everything changed Tuesday.”

Dee mused aloud, “‘Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.’”

I was silent.

“Robert Southwell. An apt quotation, I believe.”

Not to be outdone, I murmured, “As the man from Stratford-upon-Avon once wrote, ‘Giddy Fortune’s furious fickle wheel . . .’” No one ever matched Shakespeare for the bon mot. With honors even, I said briskly, “Right. Tuesday was the sea change. Nick arranged to buy the Arnold place. Claire Arnold warned Cole off the property. Tuesday night Cole shot at Nick and someone hunted on the Arnold property. Knowing that Cole was barred from the Arnold place, I think Holt decided to search with a metal detector to be sure he knew the location of the treasure. Wednesday morning, when the news was all over town about the shooting at Nick’s house, Holt figured Cole was the assailant. By then, Cole had heard from me about the searcher on the Arnold property. Cole went to see Holt, demanding to know about the search. I think Holt persuaded Cole that everything was aboveboard. Cole had already decided to blackmail Nick about the cell phone photos of Arlene, so Cole was sure everything was on track to get the property in exchange for deleting Arlene’s pictures. However, Holt now knew the location of the treasure, and he decided to take his chances on getting it all for himself. Besides, he may have been afraid that the police might suspect Cole of shooting at Nick, and he didn’t want the police nosing close to Cole. Cole’s public quarrel with Nick provided a handy scapegoat. Holt retrieved Cole’s rifle. At some point, Cole must have told him he was meeting Nick at the gazebo.”

Dee made an indeterminate noise, which might have indicated either agreement or disagreement.

I glanced up and down the street. “No one’s coming this way and there’s no traffic. It’s time for Officer H. Augusta’s arrival.” I spoke as if I took her cooperation for granted, but I held my breath. Dee was quite capable of galloping off on a path of her own.

I was grateful and relieved when colors formed next to me. After a moment, I looked into the appraising gaze of tall, slender Officer H. Augusta, blonde hair perfectly coiffed, aristocratic face intent and measuring.

She gave a shrug of those elegant shoulders. “I am willing to explore all avenues.” She reached for the handle of the old oak door.

The cluttered store seemed even mustier today. The gaslights on the walls flickered, doing little to dispel the gloom. At the rear of the store, Holt’s wooden chair in the shadowy corner wasn’t occupied. Officer Augusta stood for an instant at the deserted counter, noted an ornate, solid-brass Victorian desk bell, and tapped the ringer with vigor.

“Coming.” Rod Holt came through the storeroom doorway and ambled to the counter—thin, slightly stooped, picture perfect as a late-nineteenth-century tradesman with his sleek black hair and mustache, 1890s shirt, trousers, and boots. He looked slightly surprised when he saw Dee.

“Can I help you?” His drawl sounded puzzled.

“Officer H. Augusta, Adelaide police.”

His gaze shifted behind Dee and back again. Slowly he inclined his head. “What can I do for you, Officer?”

She pulled a notebook and a pen from her pocket. “I’m here as part of the investigation into the murder of Cole Clanton Wednesday night. You and Cole Clanton worked together closely on the Old Timer Days festivities.”

He nodded agreeably. “Guess you could say that. I thought it was a good idea, and I was happy to help out.”

“It was your idea, I understand.” She spoke as if this were simply a throwaway line, preparatory to her interview.

Holt gestured toward a straw chair. “Sit a spell if you want.” He dropped into his seat, stretched his legs out straight. “I can’t take the credit.” He sounded regretful. “Cole came to me with a gangbusters plan.”

“I understood you called him after the features ran in the
Gazette
.”

“No’m. Other way around.”

Holt could be telling the truth.

I perched on the counter and wondered at the wary expression in Holt’s eyes, deep set beneath thick tufting black eyebrows, eyes that looked cold despite the slight smile on his hawklike face.

“Please describe the plan to me.”

Holt lifted a hand to tug at his mustache. “What’s Cole’s plan got to do with Nick Magruder shooting him?”

Dee was brisk. “Information received suggests that Mr. Clanton’s murder resulted from his connection to the Old Timer Days celebration.”

Holt raised an eyebrow, looked amused. “Do tell. Did some crazed historian take him out because Cole didn’t know the difference between a Lazy Q brand and a Lazy U?” He shook with silent laughter. “Ma’am, I don’t think your dog’s gonna find a coon up that tree. Cole may not have known a lot about history, but he was having a high good time sweet-talking merchants into contributing to giveaways and setting up Old Timer events. His best idea was the treasure dig.”

Dee’s stare was hard. “Digging for treasure was his idea?”

“Sure was.” Rod’s tone was easy. “He asked me to make the maps.”

“For Belle Starr’s stolen gold?”

“Belle Starr has star power around here.” He looked pleased with his reply. “Cole’s first story told all about her. She showed up here in 1888, sometime in December. That was around the time Adelaide was first settled. There was a trading post and a couple of settlers. Everybody knows about Belle coming here. She knew Ezra Porter at the trading post. Of course, the rest of it may be like whispering a story to one kid and he whispers on to the next and so on to the end of the line, and you end up with nothing like what got started. Some folks think Belle brought that stolen gold in saddlebags and hid them by the trading post, but there’s another legend about an Indian on his way home who saw two people digging not far from a cistern on what’s now part of City Park. Cole had a nifty plan to make up a bunch of maps and have folks dig in the park. I got permission to dig from the park department. The digging will be where they want to plant some redbuds and sycamores to take the place of the pines killed by wilt last summer.”

She glanced down at her notebook as if checking off queries, gave a little nod. “Why was Mr. Clanton determined to gain access to the Arnold property?” She asked as if this were just one more question she’d been instructed to ask.

Holt waved a languid hand. “He wanted to build a replica of the original trading post, and that’s where the post was. I liked the idea, too, because”—his thin lips curved in a satisfied smile—“I was going to stock the trading post, and I only had to give ten percent off the sale price to Old Timer Days. I figured I’d make a couple of thousand that weekend.”

“Did Clanton believe the original tale that located Belle’s treasure near the site of the old trading post?”

“Believe it?” Holt raised both eyebrows. “Maybe he believed in fairy dust. I don’t know. It was a good gimmick. But the trading post was his deal; the treasure maps were mine. I sketched out the maps and had them printed up on some stuff that looks and feels like tanned leather with charcoal markings. Cole didn’t know much about real treasure maps.”

“Yet he came to you with the idea for the celebration?” There was a hint of disbelief in her voice.

“Sure did. I guess he got fired up when he did the stories. He had some of his facts wrong, but the stories all had punch. He got a lot of responses from people.” Holt shrugged. “Maybe somebody told him about the Eighty-Niner Day celebrations in Guthrie and he decided he’d try to start something here. Mostly, I think he was looking for a soft deal, and did he ever get it with an office in City Hall and me to do most of the real work. But I played along. I figured I’d sell a bunch of stuff that weekend. I’ve already talked to the mayor’s office. The celebration’s still on.”

Dee persisted. “Can you explain how Mr. Clanton was able to create a plan for the celebration when he lacked knowledge about Adelaide history?”

“No’m, I sure can’t.” His smile was bland. “But I got some papers back in my storeroom. Maybe they’d be some help. I’ll go see what I can find.” He paused, nodded his head. “If you got the time.”

“I have time, Mr. Holt.”

I followed him through the doorway. He walked to another door, opened it, flicked on a light, and stepped into a closet jammed with old saddles, worn boots, branding irons, and Indian baskets, and closed the door behind him. He pulled out his cell, tapped a number. “Sergeant Bucky Cresswell, Rod Holt calling. . . . Hidey, Bucky. Rod. You got a new cop name of H. Augusta, about six feet tall, blonde, blue eyes, cleft chin, looks whipcord tough . . . ? I thought it was a mite strange, a cop without a partner asking me all about Cole Clanton, and I already talked to Johnny Cain and Ed Loeffler. She’s wearing a nice new Adelaide uniform. Hardly looks like it’s ever been worn before. . . .” He glanced up at a television monitor. His bronzed face was rock hard. “She’s still sittin’ there, pretty as you please. I’ll talk to her until you get here.” He clicked off the cell.

I was at Dee’s shoulder. “Disappear. He’s called the police.”

Holt stepped from the back room. He stopped and stared at the empty chair on the other side of the counter. Eyes narrowed, he moved fast, careening around the corner and into the central aisle. He paused midway and stared at the closed front door. There was no sound in the store except the heavy tick of a grandfather clock. His face puzzled, he strode to the front door, yanked it open. The bell sounded. He looked up at it. He yanked the cell from his pocket, called. “Bucky, Rod. She beat it. . . .”

As he talked, he moved around the store, checking between shelving, peering underneath tables. “She’s not here. I saw her in the back room on the monitor, and three seconds later I got to the counter and she was gone. The bell on the front door didn’t ring. I don’t know where she went. It’s like she vanished into thin air. I don’t get it. There’s no way out but the front and the back, and I’d have heard the bell as soon as I stepped out of the closet. No point in your coming now. But I don’t like it. Who was she and what did she want?”

I heard a faint whisper. “I’ll make a noise in the storeroom. Might frazzle his nerves. Meet you outside by the front windows.”

In a moment a loud crash sounded from the storeroom.

Holt loped down the center aisle, flung himself around the counter. He bent and grabbed a gun from beneath the back of the counter and edged into the storeroom.

As soon as he was out of sight, I opened the front door, heard the distinct ring of the bell. Another unexpected noise might truly demoralize him.

In an instant, Dee was beside me. “Rod Holt’s back on his cell. Very likely several police cars will soon arrive.”

“Adelaide’s good-old-boy network. He and Bucky probably hunt together. Holt thinks fast. Since he doesn’t know how or where Cole obtained the link to the gold, he’s immediately suspicious of anyone who shows up and asks questions, especially when he knows the police department well enough to realize you were a phony. You can bet he’ll be asking his old buddy Bucky all about the search for Officer H. Augusta. But we found out what we wanted. Holt’s claim that he’s not behind the Old Timer Days planning is hogwash.”

Dee was judicious. “He sounded credible.”

“He couldn’t wait to tell us it was Cole who wanted the Arnold property. The clincher is his insistence that Cole made all the plans. Unless Cole learned an awful lot about Adelaide history awfully fast, that can’t be true. We need to talk to someone who spent time recently with Cole.” Lisa was dead. Arlene was unlikely to cooperate. Moreover, I doubted Cole had revealed to Arlene his disdain for history.

I had a quick memory of a face that looked so much like Nick’s. “Nick said his cousin hung out with Cole. That’s another reason Bill was on Nick’s blacklist. It’s still early. Let’s try Bill’s apartment.” I frowned, foreseeing an obstacle. “I suppose Bill knows you.”

“I rarely visited Adelaide. I saw Nick in the summers when his mother”—her voice softened—“brought him to see me. Bill is the son of Nick’s father’s brother. Possibly we met in passing at funerals.”

Dee possessed a memorable personality, but hopefully a teenage Bill had scarcely noticed. “Even if he vaguely remembered you, appearing as Officer Augusta is an effective disguise.”

I
admired Dee’s appearance. Tall and trim, immaculate in a crisp uniform, her aristocratic features imperious, she was imposing. She knocked with authority on the door of apartment 6. After several attempts, she spoke too softly for anyone else to hear, “Perhaps he’s not here.”

I popped inside. The shades were drawn and no lights shone. Unwashed dishes filled the sink. Clothes were draped over chairs and CDs scattered across a table. Through the open door to the bathroom came the sounds of rushing water.

I returned to Dee. “He’s there. Keep knocking.”

The door opened on Dee’s fifth try. Barefoot in a wrinkled T-shirt and red and black plaid boxer shorts, unshaven and obviously irritated, he burst out, “Stop the—” Then he saw the uniform.

Bill reminded me of Nick, the same deep-set eyes, bristly cheeks, and pointed chin. I had a sharp memory of Nick hunched in the Adelaide jail cell. Somehow we had to find facts that would convince Chief Cobb to seek the man I believed had conspired with Cole to find Belle Starr’s gold.

Dee said crisply, “Mr. Magruder?”

“Yeah?” He had the expression of a driver who scooted through a light turning from yellow to red, wondering if a traffic cam had caught him.

“Officer H. Augusta. I am investigating the murder of Cole Clanton. I have some questions for you.” Her face was stern. “May I come in?”

Bill scratched at his unshaven cheek. “Yeah. Well, I just got up.” He glanced down at his tee and shorts. “I’m not dressed, but come on in.” He led the way, grabbing a ragged pair of jeans and stepping into them. He zipped and buttoned, stumbling slightly, before turning to face Dee. He looked around, hurried to dump a pile of shirts from a chair. “Yeah. Why don’t you sit down.”

“Thank you.”

Bill blinked, looking hung over and miserable. “I haven’t had any coffee. Would you like a cup?”

Dee was pleasant. “No, thank you, but please prepare a cup for yourself.”

“Yeah. Gee, thanks.” In a rush, he sloshed water into a mug, put it in the microwave, punched twenty-five. He found one of the small tubes of instant coffee from Starbucks, emptied it into the steaming water, stirred, then dropped onto the sofa. “Gee, it’s too bad about Cole. But”—and he hunched forward—“listen, you got my cousin in jail, and Nick never shot anybody. Not even Cole. I mean, he didn’t like Cole, but Nick can’t stand to see anything get hurt. That’s how Nick got crossways years ago with Cole. Cole was gonna kill this spider, and Nick’s nuts about spiders. And cats. And dogs. And rabbits. Nick never even hunted. So, my cousin didn’t do it.”

“I will share that information with my superior.”

Bill sagged back against the cushion, lifted the mug, drank deeply of the coffee. He swallowed and his expression became more benign. “What can I do for you?”

“Were you a longtime friend of Mr. Clanton’s?”

“We hung out together, me and Cole and sometimes Albert Harris.”

“Are you aware that Mr. Clanton wrote a series of articles about old crimes in Adelaide for the
Gazette
?”

Bill took another gulp of coffee. “Yeah. But only ’cause he had to.”

Dee frowned. “Please clarify that response.”

Bill looked blank.

Dee said gently, “What do you mean?”

His shoulders lifted and fell. “Yeah, well, Cole actually didn’t want to work at the
Gazette
, but his uncle pretty much said he had to do something, and that seemed easier than a lot of things. The city editor told him to write about all these old crimes. Cole liked a good murder, but he was interested in current stuff, like
CSI
. He was totally freaked about having to flip through those musty old papers. I mean, who cares what happened in Adelaide a long time ago? Cole sure didn’t. He bitched the whole time he was writing that stuff.”

If we’d needed confirmation that Cole Clanton was not a student of Adelaide history, we had it from a guy who knew Cole when he wasn’t putting on a good face at his job.

Dee looked perplexed. “If Cole didn’t care about old Adelaide, why did he quit the
Gazette
to head up the Old Timer Days celebration?”

Bill smothered a yawn. “Sorry. Didn’t get in until real late last night. Karaoke night at the Blue Note. Well, it was like some kind of karma.” He looked doubtfully at Dee. “You know, something happens that leads to something else and you draw an ace and it blows your mind. I mean . . .” He trailed off, apparently despairing of communicating serendipity to the police officer watching him with an unblinking gaze. “Anyway, it was kind of funny. I guess maybe after the crime stories had been printed, we were hanging out one night and his cell rang. It was a lady at the
Gazette
, the one who’d helped him look up all that stuff. He almost didn’t answer, then he muttered something about Uncle Curt being such a jerk, and if she complained to his uncle he might get fired. Cole said he’d probably made some mistake and she wanted him to fix it, like it mattered when it all happened a long time ago. Anyway, he answered and talked for a minute. When he hung up, he was really pissed.” Bill cleared his throat. “Excuse me. He was kind of irritated. He said some old lady had called up the gal who’d helped him and told her to send the reporter to see her—the old lady that called—because she had kept some papers—”

I felt a moment of sheer euphoria. I had been certain that somewhere along the way Cole Clanton had discovered the site of Belle Starr’s gold. What papers? Who had held them?

“—that he should see, and she gave Cole the old lady’s phone number. After Cole hung up, he shrugged and said, what the hell, he’d go see her, but for sure he would do it on
Gazette
time, and maybe it would take him all morning. We had a big laugh about it.”

“Did he mention whether that interview came to fruition?”

“Fruition?” Bill repeated.

Dee was patient. “Did Cole talk to the old lady with the papers?”

“I asked him about it a couple of days later. He said he talked to this old dame and it just went to show that kissing his uncle’s ass was going to pay off big time, very big time. I asked him what he meant. He said he had some big plans in the works. It was the next week that he quit the
Gazette
.”

Dee leaned forward. “Did he describe the big plans?”

Bill took another swallow of coffee and appeared slightly energized. “Not exactly. He said he was going to make a bundle and blow town, and maybe he’d buy a Maserati and I could come along and we’d drive out to LA. But I thought he was just talking big.”

• • •

I carefully lifted Champ and buried my face in his fur. He nuzzled me in return, then wriggled free when the can opener sounded in the kitchen.

Dee lifted her voice. “Come on, big guy.”

I joined her in the kitchen. Nick’s cabinets didn’t run to coffee, either real or instant. However, all was not lost. I retrieved two Dr Peppers from the refrigerator. I popped the tabs, held out one.

Dee took the can.

I held up mine in a toast. “Here’s to crime.”

“That doesn’t seem in the best of taste, given the current circumstances.” Her distant tone clearly indicated reproof.

Honestly, I wondered if the woman ever found anything funny. However, she was still my very own Officer H. Augusta, and this was no time to find fault.

“Albert Harris can tell us who helped Cole with the background. We’ll pop over to City Hall and use the phone in Cole’s office.” Then I realized that Officer Augusta could appear and use her cell phone—

“Ladies.” Wiggins’s deep voice brimmed with good humor.

I was so startled, I spilled Dr Pepper on my sweater. I was glad I’d not asked Dee to appear. Wiggins found us in compliance with Precept Four. I can’t abide being sticky. A new outfit—even if I couldn’t see it—was a necessity. An open-throat, white cotton blouse with a lace trim collar, slim-leg aqua twill trousers, and matching aqua slingback pumps immediately made me feel spiffy without a trace of sugary residue. After an instant—half an instant?—of calculation, I threw Precept Four overboard and swirled present. As Mama always said, “Men are much more susceptible to feminine charm if you smile and look deep into their eyes. In a very nice way, of course.”

“Wiggins!” Bobby Mac once told me I have a smile with more megawatts than stadium lights on a Friday night. What a guy, both then and now, my handsome, exuberant, ebullient, sexy husband. “How grand for you to take time for Dee and me. We have so much to report—”

In the distance, I heard the faint rumble of wheels clacking on the steel. Oh, surely not! With an ingenuous expression indicating utter certainty of wholehearted approval, I segued into my pitch.

“—and a great deal more to do. We’re here to feed Champ, then we’ll be off to use a phone.”

Champ, gentleman that he was and probably missing the man of the house, twined around Wiggins’s ankles. I couldn’t see Wiggins, but I knew he stood a few feet from me, dark cap riding high on curly brown hair, high-collared white shirt stiffly starched, arm garters between shoulder and elbow pulling the cuffs up a trifle to reveal strong wrists, plain vanilla suspenders, and a thick black belt holding up gray flannel trousers.

Champ rose into the air and appeared draped in space. “Good boy.” Wiggins’s voice was deep. “Good boy.”

“Now that we’ve taken care of Champ, even though we are in a rush to wind things up”—it didn’t hurt to emphasize both our thoughtfulness and the necessity for further action—“Dee needs to call Albert Harris at the
Gazette
. As soon as we know the name of the woman who helped Cole with his research, we’ll track down the information that will lead us to the gold.”

“Ladies, that’s why I’m here. Although I
deeply
”—great emphasis—“regret the wholesale contraventions of Precepts One, Three, and Four, I am hopeful that once these wicked crimes are solved, the activities of an unauthorized policewoman will fade from the memory of those involved.”

His tone lacked conviction. Poor, dear Wiggins. Perhaps I might suggest he try those positive affirmations made so popular by Oprah, something on the order of, “If I try, I can believe six impossible things before breakfast.” One can’t go wrong with
Alice in Wonderland
.

“Exactly, and that’s why Dee must call as soon as possible.”

The woo-woo of the Rescue Express was nearer now.

“I fail to see why further activity by Officer Augusta is necessary.” Champ was lowered to the ground. Oh, dear. Wiggins was all business now. “At the very most”—Wiggins’s voice was stern—“a final call to Crime Stoppers can provide police with the necessary information to complete the investigation. Chief Cobb is an able and thorough investigator.”

Coal smoke tickled my nose. A whistle blasted as the Express pounded down silver rails to pick us up. It was all or nothing. “Wiggins, how credible will the police find an anonymous tip claiming that Cole Clanton and Lisa Sanford died because of Belle Starr’s gold?”

The shriek of the Express rattled Nick’s house.

After a pause, Wiggins cleared his throat. “I had not considered the likelihood that the authorities would scoff at the suggestion of buried treasure.”

Dee’s deep voice was brisk. “Regrettably, Bailey Ruth’s analysis is correct. So far, no one is aware of our suspicion about the gold. We need proof that Cole Clanton indeed had information about a treasure for that motive to appear credible to the police. Therefore”—she could make a pronouncement with the force of the “Hanging Judge,” Isaac Parker, who had once convicted Belle Starr and had been the scourge of outlaws in Indian Territory—“if two innocent men are to be saved, Wiggins, only Bailey Ruth and I have the skill to finish this jumper course.”

Wiggins was a stalwart man, but Delilah Delahunt Duvall was not a rider to be bested.

The thunder of the Rescue Express receded.

“I see that the obstacles you face are almost insurmountable, but I have confidence in you.” A pause. “And Bailey Ruth.”

I would have been more impressed if the addition hadn’t seemed a bit perfunctory.

“Ride hard.” He spoke as a man rallying his troops.

The scent of coal smoke vanished. Iron wheels no longer clacked.

Wiggins was gone.

“Well done, Dee.” No one can say I’m not a magnanimous spirit. Mostly. “And now, to City Hall.”

• • •

Cole’s office door was closed. The telephone receiver floated in the air. Dee punched speaker phone and dialed. “Albert Harris, please.”

“City room. Harris.” The tone was abstracted. Likely he was pressed on a deadline.

“Mr. Harris, Officer Augusta here. I’m seeking information about the archives of the
Gazette
.” She spoke briskly. “Who is the woman who assisted Mr. Clanton in his research of old crimes in Adelaide?”

There was a noticeable pause. Then, he repeated, “His research?”

Since Dee had just spoken with him the afternoon before about Cole’s series, the reporter’s hesitation seemed curious. I whispered, “I’m off to the
Gazette
, Dee.” With that, I disappeared and arrived unseen at Albert’s desk.

Albert sat with his back to the city room, the receiver gripped in his hand. Eyes narrowed, his rounded face looked puzzled, wary, and very alert. “The old news stories? Kathryn O’Connell dug stuff up for him. She runs the
Gazette
library. A lot of the old stuff is on microfilm. I’m not sure about the hours. You can call the
Gazette
’s main number, ask to be connected. . . . Sure. Glad to help.” He put the receiver down, swung his chair around, came to his feet. As he crossed the room, he called out, “Hey Joan, that fake cop just called, the one you got a story on. She’s on her way here to talk to Kathryn.”

“Albert, honey, you just bought yourself a steak at Lulu’s.” The crime reporter grabbed her cell, punched a number. “I got a big break for you, folks. That fake cop’s on her way to the
Gazette
.”

In an instant, I was in the basement. The corridor was empty. I didn’t worry about Dee. Whatever happened, no one would trap either Dee or me. My concern was not with Officer Augusta. Hilda Whitby swirled into view, businesslike in a subdued cream silk blouse, belted black wool pencil skirt, and circumspect black pumps with only a tiny gold bar as decoration.