Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) (17 page)

Arlene wavered on her feet. There was horror and the memory of horror in her eyes, the horror of blood and death. “I didn’t shoot him.”

“You were there. You can swear that Mr. Magruder is innocent.”

She wavered. She had only to speak and Nick would be saved. There was that understanding in her desperate face, but the understanding, too, of her peril. If she admitted her presence, how could she prove that it was not her hand that had held the rifle, steadied it, pulled the trigger?

She might be innocent but she may well have shot the man who broke her heart and threatened her with humiliation as well as betrayal.

Was she innocent? Was she guilty?

Her words tumbled fast. “There are lots of cars like mine. No one can prove my car was there.” She took a deep breath. “I was driving around. I was a lot of places. I didn’t shoot Cole.”

She turned and rushed toward the door. She yanked open the door, plunged into the hall. The sound of running feet marked her progress up the hallway and onto the stairs.

“Mom!” Jan’s cry was sharp. “Wait.”

Dee’s face was grim. “Arlene can prove Nick is innocent, but she won’t admit she was there.” Despair weighted Dee’s voice.

I was grave. “She may have shot Cole. But if she is innocent, she may know something that could point to the killer. We have to let Chief Cobb know.”

O
nly one light shone in the chief’s office, a goosenecked lamp on the desk. Folders were strewn across the desk and table.

“He’s not here.” I spoke with relief. “You check the folders, see if he’s had a report on gunpowder residue on the gazebo railing and the search for footprints. I’ll leave a message.” On the blackboard I printed:

Arlene Richey May Have Taken Rifle From Cole’s Apartment. She Was At The Gazebo When Shots Fired. She Can Exonerate Magruder.

Behind me papers rustled. “I found it.” A pause. “Oh.” A discouraged sigh. “GSR test inconclusive. Heavy dew overnight. Residue would have dissipated.” More papers rustled. “Search behind gazebo revealed a partial footprint of the sole of a woman’s shoe and a clear impression of the heel print of a man’s shoe. The sprinkler system came on at 8:00 p.m. Wednesday, which accounted for wet ground. The woman’s shoe print was about eight feet from the willows behind the gazebo. The heel print was nearer the gazebo and in a direct line with the estimated trajectory of the bullets that struck the victim. A reasonable conclusion is that the footprints were made after 8:30, when the sprinklers turned off. However, the ground would have remained soft for at least four hours. That means,” Dee’s voice was bitter, “they won’t pay any attention to the prints because there’s no proof they occurred between 8:30 and 9:07, when Cole was shot. How’s that for throwing away an important piece of evidence? Obviously, they’ve made up their minds that Nick is guilty, so why pay any attention to inconvenient facts?”

“Don’t be silly, Dee. Chief Cobb is an honorable man—” I was turning as I spoke. I broke off and looked across the table and the desk where a folder hung in the air, the goosenecked lamp turned to beam light upon it, and beyond the desk at Chief Cobb’s blunt face peering over the back of the leather sofa, eyes wide, mouth ajar. Oh my. I doubted he had indulged in an early afternoon siesta. I suspected he had taken a moment to stretch out in comfort and ponder the unexplained odds and ends of an investigation. Possibly he might not have been shocked by a chalked message, but a conversation between unseen women clearly disturbed him.

“Put the folder down.” My voice was urgent.

“I beg your pardon.” Her deep voice was affronted. “I am simply following your instructions, which, I might add, I successfully—”

“Ladies, hush.” Wiggins was emphatic. “The roof.”

Chief Cobb was on his feet. “Must have fallen asleep . . . odd dream . . . Did I write on the blackboard . . . ?”

As I landed on the roof, I carried with me a memory of his wide eyes and bemused expression.

• • •

The wind gusted yellowed maple leaves across the blistered and cracked tar roof. “One would think,” I said brightly, “that the city would better maintain—”

“Bailey Ruth, I am not concerned with upkeep of public buildings in Adelaide.” Wiggins’s voice was stern. “I am concerned with maintaining a respectful distance between Heaven and earth.”

“Wiggins, that is simply poetic. As well,” I added hastily, “as a poignant reminder of the duty of all well-meaning emissaries. Dee and I have made every effort to avoid any indication of otherworldly intervention as our investigation proceeds. Most especially”—(As Mama always said, “If the bull is thundering straight at you, grab the horns.”)—“in Dee’s efforts as Officer H. Augusta. I know, Wiggins”—my voice was admiring, suggesting that he was, as always, exercising excellent taste—“you are an especial fan of Saint Helena. Arlene Richey and her daughter have no reason to wonder at the authenticity of Officer H. Augusta, since Dee presented herself most admirably.” Maybe a little sweetness would charm Ms. Prickly, though that was a faint hope. “And”—I simply exuded satisfaction—“our sojourn to the chief’s office was an unqualified success.”

“Success!” Wiggins sounded guttural. Perhaps the dear man’s breath had been taken away by the stiff breeze on the rooftop.

“Definitely.” I was serene, a complacent Siamese princess. “I’m sure the chief has already persuaded himself that he had slipped into slumber and awakened from a most vivid dream.” I reached up and tried to smooth my hair. I would need a brush when we finally exited the roof. I decided I’d create a purse containing an elegant tortoiseshell brush.

Dee cleared her throat. “Certainly no one abhors going outside the rules more than I. But if it weren’t for my inquiry, the police would have no way of knowing that Arlene Richey was very likely present when the murder occurred and, in fact”—Dee was judicious—“may well be the murderer.”

I smiled. How nice that Officer Augusta was taking pride in her work. “Now it’s time for Officer Augusta to speak with Lisa Sanford. We’ll find her at the library.”

Leaves whirled in a particularly strong gust. I truly needed that comb.

A small wooden structure contained the door that gave access to the roof. The door opened. Chief Cobb stepped out, shaded his eyes, and gazed carefully around the area. Finally, his tense stance relaxed. “Nobody here.” A pause. “Of course nobody’s here. Just a dream. My subconscious is right. I need to see what the crime scene search turned up. Since there’s a print of a woman’s shoe near the gazebo, we’ll check, see if anybody noticed Arlene Richey downtown Wednesday night.” He swung about, moving fast. The roof door slammed behind him.

“Well”—Wiggins’s voice was almost cheerful—“perhaps all’s well that ends well. However, Bailey Ruth, you too often skirt disaster by a mere whisper. Follow the Precepts . . . when you can.”

It was as near carte blanche as we were likely to receive.

• • •

Leaves rose in swirls, cascading across the grassy slope behind the library. Dee—Officer Augusta—and Lisa Sanford stood near a vine-covered arbor in a sculpture garden. Lisa clicked a lighter as she cupped one hand to shield the cigarette between her lips.

Dee waited, her expression imperious.

The cigarette finally lit, Lisa inhaled deeply. “I got a fifteen-minute break.” Red-rimmed eyes stared at Dee from a puffy, haggard face.

“Mrs. Sanford”—Dee placed emphasis on the title—“how long were you and Cole Clanton lovers?”

Lisa swallowed jerkily. “What business is it of yours?”

“You can respond to my questions here”—Dee was brusque—“or we can go to the police station. Or possibly you might wish for me to start my inquiry with your husband?”

Lisa’s face twisted in despair. “Don’t tell Brian. Please. Him and me, I don’t know, but maybe we can get things good again. Brian loves me. I don’t guess anyone else ever has.”

Dee looked away, but I saw a quick flash of compassion in her eyes.

Tears slid down Lisa’s cheeks unchecked. “I was always crazy about Cole. In high school, when Brian and I were dating, Cole would come over and we’d go out back of my house. I knew he didn’t care. I was just a body to him, but I wanted him. He never had much to do with me in public, but people knew. They always know. Everybody but Brian. When Brian and I got married, I told Cole not to come around and I didn’t have anything to do with him, not until Brian lost his job and he was miserable and we didn’t have any money. I guess Cole was looking for an easy lay, like always. Anyway, he looked me up and I was so unhappy I started going out with him. And then”—her voice was bitter—“Cole dumped me for that old woman.” She drew on the cigarette, made a face, dropped it and ground the stub into the grass.

Arlene was in her late forties, old enough for Cole’s choice to diminish Lisa.

“I don’t know what he saw in her.” Her tone was hot. “But she knows people around town and she was helping him with that dumb Old Timer Days.”

I suspected Cole had combined business with pleasure. Older women have much to offer younger men.

“I thought if I went around with Nick, it would make Cole jealous.” She gulped back a sob. “Cole didn’t care.”

“Your husband cared. He’s a jealous man. Maybe he figured out what was going on and that you only cared about Cole Clanton. Your husband knows how to handle guns. Did he and Mr. Clanton ever hunt together?”

Lisa shot a wild look at Dee. “Don’t you go after Brian. He’d never hurt anybody. He gets mad and makes noise and yells but he’s never mean. Never.”

“There are only so many people who had access to Mr. Clanton’s apartment. You have a key. Your husband could have found it.”

“No, he didn’t.” Lisa spoke in a rush. “He couldn’t have had the key. I had the key—” She broke off.

Lisa was certain her husband didn’t have her key. Had Lisa used the key that day? Had she entered Cole’s apartment? I gave Dee a poke.

Dee pounced. “Why did you go to Cole’s apartment yesterday?”

Lisa stiffened. Her eyes rounded in panic.

Dee’s voice was deep. “Did you go to get his rifle?”

Lisa’s face was suddenly rigid. “Was Cole killed with his own rifle?”

“Yes.” Dee’s answer was clipped, and her eyes never left Lisa’s face. “How did you get the rifle out of his apartment? Did you wrap it in a blanket?”

Lisa’s long black lashes fluttered. Abruptly, she shook her head. “I didn’t take Cole’s gun.”

“You had a key.” Dee’s words came hard and fast. “You knew he had a rifle. You were furious with him, the way he treated you, using you, not caring. We can find your fingerprints in his apartment. Why else would you go?”

Lisa drew in a breath that was half a sob. “I wanted him back. I wouldn’t have hurt him. Not ever.”

“The investigation has proved”—Dee was emphatic—“that Cole either gave his rifle to the murderer or the murderer came to Cole’s apartment Wednesday and took the gun.”

“If someone took his rifle . . .” Lisa’s words were barely audible. She looked like a woman remembering, thinking, figuring.

I reached out, clutched Dee’s right arm. Had Lisa passed someone she knew in the corridor of Cole’s apartment building, or had she seen someone she knew outside?

Dee gazed sternly at Lisa. “If you saw someone, it’s your duty to inform the police.”

Lisa stood quite still. Finally, her face smoothed out. Dee hadn’t offered any proof that Lisa had been seen. She lifted her chin. “I wasn’t there. I can’t tell you anything. I got to go back to work.” She turned and moved swiftly toward the door into the library, her shoulders hunched in obvious fear that Dee would command her to halt.

Dee frowned. “She was there. We need to find a witness who saw her. Until then, she’ll lie. My guess is she took the rifle or she saw someone who may have taken it. I have to get this information to the police.”

“We’ll use a phone in the library. Meet me on the second floor by the fire exit.”

Dee stepped behind the arbor and disappeared.

Upstairs in the library, we flitted unseen until we found an untenanted office with a telephone. I shut the door to the hall.

Dee dialed the operator, requested connection to the Crime Stoppers line. “In regard to the murder of Cole Clanton”—Dee’s voice was brisk and authoritative—“the murder weapon belonged to Cole Clanton. Test the rifle barrel for traces of the padding on Clanton’s gun rack. Clanton shot at Nick Magruder Tuesday night. On Wednesday Lisa Sanford entered Clanton’s apartment. She possessed a key. She had been engaged in an on-again-off-again love affair with Clanton. She either removed the rifle and shot Clanton that night at the gazebo, or she knows the identity of the person who did.” The receiver moved from its stationary position in the air and returned to the cradle.

“Well done.” I was genuinely impressed.

“Perhaps.” Dee was thoughtful. “Or I may have added another bar to Nick’s cell. If the police trace the rifle and prove that it belonged to Cole, their immediate assumption may be that Nick visited Cole’s apartment and took the rifle Wednesday. Nick was all over town looking for Clanton. I’m sure he would have tried his apartment. One way or another, Nick may be linked to the rifle. In fact, I may have made his situation worse.”

I reached out, found her shoulder. “You did the right thing.”

“I know.” Dee’s voice was weary. “But if she’s innocent, I’m afraid that fool of a woman may think she can take advantage of what she knows. We have to stop her.”

• • •

Downstairs we searched the stacks for Lisa. No luck. We started at opposite ends of each floor. When we reached the third floor, it became apparent Lisa was no longer in the library.

Dee appeared in an empty aisle behind the stacks on the first floor. She walked to the main reference desk. “May I speak with Lisa Sanford, please?”

A plump woman with a cheerful smile, murmured, “A moment, please.” She lifted a phone, asked for Lisa, listened, then ended the connection. “I’m sorry, Officer. Mrs. Sanford has left for the day. May I help you?”

“It is important that I speak with her. Please give me her home address.”

A stranger off the street would have had no luck asking for an employee’s address, but the French-blue uniform worked its magic.

• • •

The Jolly Roger Haven Trailer Park was home to about eighteen trailers, most well kept up. On the eastern edge of the park, Lisa and Brian’s rusting double wide had one boarded-over window. Towels masked the interior in the remaining windows. The middle plank of the front steps sagged. A lawn chair lay on its side. An old Pinto without wheels rested on concrete blocks. A dead rosebush looked forlorn in a weed-choked flower bed.

Dee started to appear, the first hint of French-blue swirls gathering in the air.

I spoke quickly. “Let’s go inside first and see if anyone’s home before you knock. Lisa may not answer if she looks out and sees a uniform.”

The blue wavered and disappeared.

Once inside the trailer, the darkness was intense. I fumbled near the door and found a switch. No one was home. Dirty clothes were heaped near the kitchenette. Breakfast dishes rested in a small sink. Several roaches skittered away. The trash can was full, the furniture worn, the narrow double bed unmade, the bathroom door missing a hinge.

“Defeated.” Dee’s tone was more sad than critical.

I understood what she meant. “I’m afraid so.” Lisa sought comfort in other men’s arms, Brian drank beer until he no longer felt anything. A side table was jammed with papers. I sorted through them. “No bankbook. Lisa took her library checks to a ready cash place.” There were bills and a credit card cancellation notice.