Free Ghost Gone Wild (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel) by Carolyn Hart Page B

unencumbered.
    The movement of the light seemed stealthy and vaguely threatening. I wished mightily that I were the old me (although always twenty-seven, mind you) and could at will appear and disappear, moving from one location to the next in an instant by thinking of a destination. Right now, had I been an official emissary, I would think
wooded area next door
and there I would have been.
    I began to have a better appreciation of investigators limited by physical boundaries.
    Of course, the area with the occasional light wasn’t the property of the inn. There was probably no reason for me to be alarmed. So far as I knew, no one was aware that Nick Magruder was in a room down the hall from me. Still, the vagrant bounce of light was not ordinary. A punched-out window screen and a rifle shot weren’t ordinary, either.
    The window looked out over the second-story veranda. I touched the lower sash, lifted. The sash slid up, noiseless and smooth. It took only an instant to unhook the screen. I started to slip out, realized I was clad only in a terry cloth robe. With a little huff of exasperation, I dashed across the room, donned the now oh-so-familiar blouse, slacks, sweater, and shoes.
    From my second-story vantage point, I could see over the tall stockade fence between the inn and next door. The light was sometimes visible, sometimes not. From Jan’s description, the Arnold property was thick with uncut shrubbery and heavily wooded. That would explain the occasional disappearance of the beam. Finally, there was a flicker and then a kind of soft glow that was almost indiscernible through shifting limbs.
    Nick was going to buy that property. Cole Clanton wanted permission to build a replica of the trading post there. Now someone was creeping about in the deep of night. I wanted to know who was there and why.
    I tiptoed to the stairs that led down to the B and B’s backyard. As Jan had said, her mother’s garden was well kept. Shaded lanterns illuminated October blooming plants—Indian mallow, Chinese lanterns, goldenrod, and mums. I smelled the sweet scent of autumn clematis as I passed an arbor.
    Now I couldn’t see anything next door, my vision blocked by the stockade fence. I reached a heavy iron gate, which stood ajar. I slipped through the opening and was plunged into darkness. Occasional swaths of moonlight appeared through shifting tree limbs to help me stay on a winding dirt path. I heard an occasional, distant pinging noise. I had a quick vision of a war movie, actors hunched in silence in a hunted submarine as an enemy destroyer passed overhead. I shook my head and had a moment of amazement at the long-submerged memories harbored in my brain. This was no time for daydreaming.
    I made a wrong turn and lost the path. I had no flashlight. I was plunged into a tangle of greenery, brush encroaching from both sides, vines and tendrils snaking across the path. I felt my way forward, sliding one foot forward, then the other, my hands spread wide like an insect’s antennae to brush aside whip-lashing branches. I tried to move quietly, but the shrubbery rustled. I was thankful that a playful wind rattled leaves somewhere near. The noise of my intrusion could easily be attributed to the wind. I heard an occasional rasp of a still-surviving cicada.
    Abruptly, a coyote howled, the shrill wavering sound as shocking as a cross between a wailing banshee and a berserk soprano. The cry seemed to come from behind me. I gave a startled yelp, took a breath, and continued forward. I felt claustrophobic in the intense darkness. I saw a light and veered to my right. I stepped into a moonlit clearing.
    There was a sense of movement behind me, but before I could turn, a plastic bag was thrown over my head. My arms were pinned to my sides. I was hefted like a feed sack in a tight, painful grip. I felt an instant of vertigo as I was carried, twisting and struggling, unable to see, enveloped in the plastic, my cries muffled.
    Over the sound