Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(63)

I felt forlorn. I could not climb aboard with a smile on my face or cheer in my heart.

“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins spoke in a kind and gentle tone.

Whoo, whoo.

I felt a rush of tears. “I fai—”

“Bailey Ruth, you have six hours yet.” Wiggins was brisk.

I turned toward the sound of his voice.

Colors swirled and there he was, stiff blue cap atop reddish hair, high-collared stiffly starched white shirt with elastic armbands above the elbows, heavy gray flannel trousers supported by wide suspenders, highly polished sturdy black shoes.

“There’s no way forward.” My voice was bleak. Then my usual combativeness coursed through me. “It’s maddening because I know one of them, one of five men, created this terrible trap for Susan and—”

He patted my shoulder. “You’re almost there. I believe in you, Bailey Ruth.” With that calm pronouncement, the Rescue Express whooed, coal smoke swirled, wheels clacked.

I stood alone in silence except for the chatter of a squirrel, a crow’s raucous caw, the faraway hut-two at an early morning football practice. Bobby Mac was the quarterback of the Cougars. He was a good passer, and I remembered one game when he fell back and sent the football spiraling downfield. That’s what I needed, a good play. The warmth of the memory faded. I needed more than a good play, I needed a miracle. I stood very still. A miracle . . . Roger Staubach at the playoff game between the Cowboys and the Vikings on a cold December day in 1975, a wind chill of seventeen degrees. Twenty-four seconds left in the fourth quarter, his team down 10–14, Staubach looked at the wide receivers running downfield, raised his arm, threw the ball, and said a Hail Mary. Drew Pearson locked the ball in his arms at the five and carried it into the end zone. Cowboys won 17–14.

Against all odds, Staubach took action.

Action . . .

? ? ?

I went straight to Susan Gilbert’s desk in the alcove of Wilbur’s study. I was glad she used an old-fashioned Rolodex. I took a sheet of copy paper from a bottom drawer, folded it in half. It took only a moment to write down five telephone numbers.

The living room of Carl Ross’s garage apartment was as lifeless as Wilbur’s study, two rooms not currently in use. In the kitchen I found a telephone mounted on the wall next to a counter. I put the sheet of paper on the counter.

I steadied my thoughts. I had one chance. I took a deep breath, tried out a few words. “Carl shouldn’t’uv trusted you.” I used a voice harder and flatter than my own, slightly nasal, with no resemblance to my husky deeper tone. Bobby Mac once compared my voice to Lauren Bacall’s. Is he a smart man or what?

Which number first?

Only one number mattered.

I glanced at a kitchen clock. Seven minutes after seven. I closed my eyes, whirled my index finger in a circle, came down to the sheet, opened my eyes. I dialed. Caller ID would show the caller as Carl Ross. I didn’t doubt the call would be answered.

“Hello.” The voice was muzzy with sleep.

“You should’uv paid Carl. He would’uv kept quiet. You’re gonna pay me—”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He saw you that night and he told me all about it and I wrote it down in my diary—”

The connection ended.

I drew a line though Harry Hubbard.

I closed my eyes, made a circle with my finger, tapped the sheet, looked.

I dialed.

“Hello.” The faintest inflection of surprise.

“You shouldn’t’uv shot Carl. He would’uv kept quiet. But you’re gonna pay—”

“Lady, you got the wrong number. I don’t know anybody named Carl and I never shot anyone.” The call ended.

I drew a line through Alan Douglas.

I tried again.

“Hello.” A cautious voice.

“You shouldn’t’uv shot Carl. You should’uv paid him. You got the money and more where that comes from. But you’re gonna pay me or I’ll tell the police what happened.”

“Who is this?” The voice was wary, careful.

“Carl’s friend. Me and Carl been together off and on. We were back on. He told me all about you. What he saw. He told me he was going to meet you at the cabin and you was going to bring money. But you killed him. I want that money. You’re gonna bring it to me. But I waited to call you ’til morning. I’m at his place now, but I’ll be gone before you can get over here. Anyway, I waited ’til morning ’cause I’m not gonna meet you at night away from people. No way. You bring the money to the gazebo in the downtown park. There’s always people there and the police right across the street. I can yell loud enough to get the cops over there pronto. You bring the money at eleven sharp or I’ll tell the cops. In the gazebo.”

This time I ended the connection.

? ? ?

After they married, Sam Cobb moved in with Claire in her huge old house. Now the gardens were neat, the trees clipped, the grass cut, the pond clear of algae. Claire was in the kitchen, humming to herself. I smiled as I recognized “The Church in the Wildwood.” Bacon sizzled in an iron skillet, the old-fashioned kind of skillet my mama used. The kitchen smelled like bacon and cinnamon and happiness. As Mama always said, “Start the day happy and you march in seven-league boots.”