Ghost at Work _a Bailey Ruth Mystery

I left the secretary at work and sped through a closed door into Daryl’s elegant and surprising office. Nothing was out of place. I felt a whoosh of relief. I had arrived before Walter Carey with the keys I suspected that he’d stolen from Daryl’s desk this morning. I felt certain Daryl’s study must have contained an extra set of keys to the office.

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I’d tell Bobby Mac all about Daryl’s office, red leather sofas, a rich burgundy desk, each wall a different shade of red, from carmine to rose to crimson to a purplish hue. The ridged and serviceable carpet was brilliant fire-engine red. A blue seascape above the faux fireplace was a striking contrast. The office was different, dramatic, and undoubtedly expensive.

The desktop was clear except for two folders. The in-box held several papers. The out-box was empty. A row of red lacquered wooden filing cabinets sat against an interior wall.

I started with the files, opening the cabinet marked g–i. I flipped past Grindstaff, Grimsley, Gunderson . . . I skipped faster. Hadley, Hall, Hasty . . . I backed up. Ah, here it was: Georgia Hamilton.

I plucked the file from the cabinet, settled into the luxurious comfort of the red leather sofa.

My eyes widened as I read the neat printing on the outside of an envelope appended to some kind of legal document: Enclosed within is Walter Carey’s admission of guilt in obtaining Georgia Hamilton’s signature to the sale of mineral rights to the Hamilton ranch with the intention of skimming a portion of income.

The simple sentence was followed by a legal description of the property. I opened the envelope, slipped out a piece of white stationery. This, too, was handwritten.

On April 16, 2005, knowing that Daryl Murdoch was out of town, I took a mineral deed to Georgia Hamilton and told her I was there on Daryl’s behalf. I told her the mineral deed was an oil-and-gas lease covering the mineral rights to Hamilton ranch for a one-eighth royalty. Actually, it was a deed by which she sold all of the mineral rights to Horizon Development Corporation.

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I knew she was unable to read the contract because of macular degeneration. As the agent for Horizon Development, I leased the rights to Monarch Drilling for a three-sixteenths royalty. I kept half the bonus money that Monarch paid up front for the lease, and sent half to Mrs. Hamilton. When royalty income came in, I sent her a portion. I created fake royalty reports which I mailed to Mrs. Hamilton in an envelope with the letterhead of Murdoch and Carey.

Walter Carey

A second sheet contained the brusque notation: All mineral rights held by Horizon Development to the Hamilton Ranch reverted to Georgia Hamilton on October 18, 2007.

Walter Carey

Authorized Agent Horizon Development My eyebrows rose. Not at the confession. I knew there had been chicanery and any Oklahoman knows that mineral rights can spell big money if the land overlies an oil-and-gas deposit.

The dates shocked me.

I was on the earth in the twenty-first century, quite a long time after Bobby Mac and I started out on our last big fishing trip. My, how time had flown, but of course there is no time in Heaven. In the everlasting communion of all souls and all saints, I enjoyed the presence of souls from all ages without the limitations of the temporal world. Still, the twenty-first century . . .

No wonder so many inventions were unfamiliar.

I wondered how Daryl had discovered his partner’s double-dealing.

Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton spoke to him of the oil-and-gas lease she thought she’d signed. Daryl knew he hadn’t arranged for either the 153

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lease or sale of the mineral rights. It probably didn’t take him long to discover the truth about Horizon Development, resulting in a confrontation with Walter and that cell-phone photo of a man in despair.

I returned the confession and the rights reversion to the envelope, but I didn’t clip it to the document. I closed the folder, placed it in the g–i drawer. I still held the envelope.

A check of the windows revealed that they were solidly implanted within their frames. I couldn’t raise a window, loosen a screen, and tuck the envelope there for later retrieval. The windows, walls, and door afforded no difficulty for my passage, but the envelope simply couldn’t—

Patricia’s brisk voice caught me by surprise.

I looked toward the door. It was opening. “. . . no one’s been here, Chief Cobb, but I’m happy to show you.” The envelope dangled in the air. I dropped to the floor, the envelope darting down. I slid the envelope beneath the edge of an Oriental rug atop the red carpet.

“. . . told Mrs. Murdoch I would check the office to make sure everything was all right.”

Patricia Haskins drew herself up. “Is there any reason why the office should not be in good order?”

Chief Cobb was quick to reassure her. “Mrs. Murdoch said you would have everything well in hand, but there was an unauthorized entry at the home this morning and I wanted to be certain nothing had been disturbed here.” He scanned the office. His face gave no hint of his attitude toward the bordello-red room.

“Oh.” The secretary drew in a quick breath. “My goodness, that’s shocking. No, everything’s as it should be.” She looked about the room with pride.