Ghost at Work _a Bailey Ruth Mystery

“That’s right.” She watched him carefully.

“The bullet struck him in the chest.” Another statement.

She made no answer.

“Chest or face?”

“I didn’t look. I pressed the trigger and turned and ran away.” I shook my head. Judith obviously had never hunted, never listened to men who did. Hitting any target is difficult. Shooting blind was almost a guarantee of a wild shot.

Cobb’s expression was skeptical. “Where’s the gun?” Now she looked triumphant. “In the backyard. I buried it in the flower bed behind the third rosebush from the walk.” His eyes narrowed. His gaze became intent and speculative.

“Show me.”

She hurried to a patio door, flung it open. The chief was right behind her.

Cobb found the soft mound of dirt behind the third rosebush. He knelt and gingerly scraped away loose soil, piling dirt to one side. He scraped until the ground turned hard. He looked up at Judith, his face grim.

She bent forward, anxious and uncertain. “It was there. I buried it there.”

Cobb pushed up from the ground, grimacing as he straightened one knee. “If you did”—his tone was cold—“it doesn’t seem to be there now, Mrs. Murdoch.”

“Someone’s taken it.” She twisted her hands together.

208

G h o s t at Wo r k

“Just like somebody took it from the trunk of your son’s car. Or didn’t take it, depending on who I ask.” He glared at Judith. “I’m telling you and you can tell your son that I intend to find out who killed your husband, with or without your help.” The patio door opened and Kirby came out.

Cobb looked at him. “Maybe you took the gun out of its hole.” Kirby said nothing, though he cut his eyes toward his mother.

Cobb brushed the dirt from his hands. “I’ll be in touch.” When he disappeared around the edge of the house, Kirby strode toward his mother. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I shot your dad. He didn’t believe me.” Kirby jammed a hand through his hair. “He didn’t believe me either.”

Judith’s face was ashen. “What did you tell him?” He blinked, holding back tears. “I didn’t tell him I saw your car when we came out of the parking lot. I never will.”

“You saw my car?” Suddenly her face looked years younger. “You saw me following your dad? So you turned away, didn’t you? Oh, Kirby, when I realized your dad was going to the church, I came home.”

“Then what happened to my gun? It should have been in my car.” Judith began to laugh and it turned into a sob. “I was so afraid when they said he was shot with a twenty-two. Friday morning I went out and looked and found it in your trunk. I picked it up and smelled it—”

He looked shocked. “I was target-practicing Thursday afternoon.

That’s all. Did you think I shot Dad?”

“Of course not. But I was terrified the police would think so. I buried the gun in the backyard, but now it’s gone.”

“Gone?” For an instant, satisfaction lighted his face. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Let’s hope it never turns up. We know it didn’t have anything to do with Dad getting shot, so good riddance.” 209

Ca ro ly n H a rt

. . . .

Chief Cobb moved quietly away from the side of the house where’d he stood and eavesdropped. His face was grim as he climbed into his car. “Damn fools?” he muttered to himself. “Or is one of them crafty as hell?”

A musical peal sounded.

The chief yanked out his cell phone. “Cobb.” He listened. “A clear match?” His smile was grim and satisfied. “Yeah. I’m on my way to the church now.”

210

C H A P T E R 1 4

Father Bill picked up a small Dresden shepherd, but his gaze was abstracted, the gesture automatic. The glaze of the shepherd’s coat was worn away. I suspected Father Bill often held the figurine, turned it in his hand when dealing with troubles of body and soul. His face furrowed. “You’re certain the tracks were made by the rectory wheelbarrow?”

Chief Cobb was in a familiar posture, sitting upright in the straight chair that faced the rector’s desk, hands planted firmly on his legs. He looked overlarge in the shabby office with its full bookcases and old-fashioned wooden filing cabinets. The chief’s gray suit was wrinkled, his tie loose at the neck. He looked tired. “No question.

There are traces of mud and cedar needles from the cemetery on the wheel. There are no cedars in your backyard. Moreover, the wheel rim has a gash in it that makes the tread unmistakable.”

“I can’t explain it.” Father Bill’s thumb slid up and down on the faded porcelain. “Daryl’s keys would open the shed, although I don’t see why he would have wanted a wheelbarrow or, if he wanted one, why he would take it to the cemetery.” The chief’s gaze was sardonic. “I don’t think Mr. Murdoch took Ca ro ly n H a rt

the wheelbarrow. We have to wait for confirmation from the lab, but right now it looks like his body was placed in the wheelbarrow and transported to the cemetery. The barrow was returned to the shed.

Murdoch may have been shot here.“