Ghost at Work

GHOST

AT W RK

A Ba il ey Ru t h Myst e ry

Carolyn Hart

To Phil—“Side by Side” has been our song since that sunny summer of 1957

Contents

Chapter 1

Incandescent dashes of pink and gold spangled the fluffy white…

1

Chapter 2

Brrr. I hadn’t been cold in a long time. A…

14

Chapter 3

The wheelbarrow squealed as Kathleen jolted to a stop.

29

Chapter 4

A cuckoo clock warbled the quarter hour. No wonder I…

39

Chapter 5

I sat on the branch of a cottonwood and watched…

53

Chapter 6

I lightly touched the meshed grille as the police cruiser…

79

Chapter 7

I drifted deliciously between sleeping and waking, luxuriating in the… 90

Chapter 8

I knelt by the chimney on the rectory roof and…

101

Chapter 9

Judith Murdoch fingered the faux pearls at the neck of…

123

Chapter 10

If possible, Kathleen looked even more stricken. “You’re going to…

146

Chapter 11

Partitions separated six cubicles. Each held a computer. Voices rose… 164

Chapter 12

I popped to the rectory. A lamp shone in the…

181

Chapter 13

I tried to be quiet as a mouse.” Bayroo sat…

197

Chapter 14

Father Bill picked up a small Dresden shepherd, but his…

211

Chapter 15

The chief sat at a circular table near his desk.

226

Chapter 16

Chief Cobb gestured up the hallway. “Let’s find her. I’ll…

243

Chapter 17

Cries and shouts rose. “Jan, where are you?” “Wait for…

259

Chapter 18

My eyes adjusted to the almost impenetrable darkness. Slowly shapes… 272

Chapter 19

The Rescue Express thundered into the familiar red-brick station. I…

287

About the Author

Other Books by Carolyn Hart

Credits

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

C H A P T E R 1

Incandescent dashes of pink and gold spangled the fluffy white clouds that arched over the entrance to the Department of Good Intentions. The opening was wide and welcoming. Heaven doesn’t run to doors. No one is shut in. Or shut out.

If I entered, I was committing myself to an unknown adventure.

Possibly. Or possibly not. Perhaps I wouldn’t be considered a worthy candidate. My natural effervescence immediately bubbled, banishing that negative thought. Of course I was a worthy candidate. I love to go and do and hold out a helping hand. I was a superb candidate.

I hurried forward even though I didn’t know what to expect.

Unctuous solemnity? Goody Two-shoes stuffiness? Earnest exhortations? That hadn’t been my experience of Heaven. Surely the Department of Good Intentions was filled with kindred spirits eager to offer a boost up to those in need.

A wash of golden light spilled out, beckoning, encouraging, welcoming. I was drawn by the warmth, yet wary of the unknown. I had felt the same conflict of anticipation and reluctance when I was a kid at the swimming hole a few miles outside of Adelaide. I remembered the dammed-up pool with shivery delight, the water deep and Ca ro ly n H a rt

cold, shaded by majestic oaks. We clambered up the rope ladder to the top of a huge red rock, teetered on the sloping surface, scared yet eager, and took a flying leap. That plunge through air was as near to weightlessness as I ever knew. Until now, of course. The first jump was always the hardest. The shock of the icy water took your breath, turned your skin cold as ice. The thrill was worth the scare.

Could I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma, take the plunge now? Certainly, if I ever, within an eon or two, intended to offer my services, it was time and time past. Time and age do not exist in Heaven, but I had the sense that Bobby Mac and I had been here quite awhile. Our cabin cruiser went down in a sudden August storm in the Gulf of Mexico. I expected much had changed since we departed the earth. If I hoped to be helpful, possibly I should volunteer while I still had some memory of earthly ways.

Our arrival here had been precipitous, but, as Scripture warns, the householder knows not the appointed hour. Dark clouds had scud-ded toward us. Blinding rain pelted our struggling boat. Thunder crashed, lightning blazed. Serendipity, our small but sturdy cabin cruiser, capsized beneath a thirty-foot wave. I’d chosen our cruiser’s name. I always felt that I was in the right place at the right time, even then. Now, that’s a funny thing. I’d come close to being lost at sea when I was seven. I’d been visiting my California cousins and we’d taken the excursion boat to Catalina. Ever a daredevil, I’d scooted behind a lifeboat and hung over the edge. I lost my balance and tumbled overboard. Happily for me, a brawny seaman saw me fall and raced to the railing and climbed to the top to jump after me. I’d flailed to the surface, choked and stunned. The excursion boat faded in the distance. Happily, perhaps fatefully, the sailor kept me afloat, and not long after a sailboat ran near enough to find us. I doubt I would have survived on my own.

Maybe it was full circle that Bobby Mac and I were lost at sea. Of course, our daughter, Dil, was furious with her dad and even more 2

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furious with me for tagging along. There had been warnings of a coming storm, but Bobby Mac had lost a big tarpon the day before and he was determined to go after him again. That man was what they call a fishing fool. Still is, and he’s thrilled that the tarpon have never been bigger than here in Heaven. Dear Bobby Mac, built like a bull rider with coal-black hair, flashing dark eyes, and a rollicking grin. I smiled, grateful for love that had spanned our years together and flourished still. We two were as youthful in Heaven as on the day we’d met at Adelaide’s famous rodeo, Bobby Mac dust-streaked and swaggering after his event, but blessed as well in Heaven with the glorious depth of all we’d known and shared together, happiness, passion, sorrow, tears, and, always, laughter.

From my watery adventure off the coast of California to the Serendipity’s demise in the Gulf of Mexico, I was convinced I’d led a charmed life, thanks to the brave sailor on the excursion boat. Now I wanted to do my bit for someone in trouble. As I understood it, the Department of Good Intentions specialized in lending a hand to those in tight spots.

I strode under the arch of clouds, as much as an ethereal figure who isn’t terribly tall can stride. I’m not small, but then again I’m not large. Five foot five on a good day in slingback pumps. I glimpsed my reflection in a shining crystal wall, curly red hair, a skinny face with curious green eyes, lots of freckles. I remembered a Polaroid picture Bobby Mac had taken when I was twenty-seven at a church picnic.

That’s how I looked now! Heaven is full of wonderful surprises and perhaps one of the sweetest was knowing that others see me always at my best, my brightest, my happiest. Age doesn’t matter. There is no old, no young. The dear children who left the earth too soon are what they were meant to be in full flower and the aged who are worn and bent and frail at death once again blossom. It was such a thrill for me to see Mama in a flapper’s dress with a little tilted red hat and a glittery beaded dress and high heels, her beautiful face shining with 3

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love. In Heaven, your essence determines your appearance. You are the best you ever were and yet nothing is lost of your lifetime.

My image was crisp in the glittering crystal. I must admit I paused for an instant to admire—certainly not in a prideful manner because we all know what pride goeth before—my charming seersucker jacket and slacks and comfortable white sandals. Heaven is simply heaven-sent for fashion. Picture what you want to wear and you are wearing it. It’s that easy and never a concern about sizes. We are all a very good size, whatever it is.

I gave my reflection a two-finger salute, a remnant of my days as a Cub Scout mom, and felt a thrill as I swung around the soft cumulus corner. Suddenly I was confident. I hurried, passing a cool rushing stream and tall pines.

Ahead of me, nestled against a green hill, was a little red-brick country train station. A train whistle sounded in the distance. I smelled coal smoke, saw a dark spiral curling into the sky, and heard the clack of great iron wheels.

Was I going in the right direction?

Not more than a half dozen feet away, a small white arrow pointed toward the steps. On the arrow was painted bailey ruth.

Oh, I was expected. I took the steps two at a time and laughed aloud as I reached the platform. Wooden carts were lined up against the wall, filled with luggage of all sorts, the kind that speaks of faraway places, satchels and grips and great leather trunks, tagged and plas-tered with travel stickers. I was already eager. Maybe I would get a ticket to adventure, always keeping in mind, of course, that the objective was to help someone in travail, not to provide me with excitement. Certainly I understood that.

I rubbed my hand along the top of a leather trunk. Mama and Daddy had owned a trunk just like that one.

Suddenly a florid-faced man with a huge walrus mustache appeared directly in front of me. He wore a high-collared white shirt.

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Substantial suspenders and a wide black belt with a heavy silver buckle combined to hold up gray flannel trousers above sturdy black shoes. Arm garters between his elbow and shoulder pulled his shirt cuffs up a trifle. Pencils poked from his shirt pocket. He looked in charge, the man I was meant to see. Heaven is like that. People appear. Who and when depends upon what you are seeking.

A stiff dark cap topped his curly brown hair. His round face was made heavier by his mustache and thick muttonchop whiskers. Pen-etrating brown eyes seemed to look into my soul. “Bailey Ruth, I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Wiggins.” He reached out both hands to fold mine in a warm clasp.

“For me?” I wished now I’d not tarried. But, as Wiggins well knew, Heaven offers so much. The wondrous glory of God and His angels permeates every thought with love. There are people to cher-ish, books to read, plays to see, songs to sing, colors and nuances and beauty to absorb, God and all God’s creations to adore.

He beamed at me. “I knew you’d come.” The train whistle sounded nearer. The acrid smell of coal smoke tickled my nose. I looked around the platform. “I wasn’t expecting a train station for the Department of Good Intentions, Mr. Wiggins.”

“Simply Wiggins, please. As for my station, isn’t it beautiful?” He gazed around with innocent joy. “Since my section of the department could be whatever I wanted it to be, I chose a station just like mine used to be. I was the station agent. I helped people travel, make the right connections. When I got to Heaven, I felt right at home when I was asked if I’d like to keep on helping. There are many other sections and they are all different. But we know that you love to travel. So, here you are.” His smile was avuncular. I don’t suppose I’d ever had a proper use for the word, but it suited him. He was jolly and made me feel jolly. I smiled in return.

“I’m glad to see a smile on your pretty face and glad that you’ve come. However.” He dropped the word like a boulder and peered at 5

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me from under thick beetling brows, his gaze questioning. “Am I correct in understanding that you want to go back to earth?” I tried to look properly solemn, though I could have tap-danced with excitement. “That’s right. I want to help someone in big trouble.”

“Admirable. Sterling. Inspiring.” He was nodding, his walrus mustache quivering. “Right this way.” His hand was on my arm and he shepherded me into the main waiting room with its great wooden benches. We passed through to an office with station agent above the lintel.

He waved me to a seat on the hard wooden bench to the right of his desk. He carefully hung his hat on a coat tree, replaced it with a green eyeshade, and settled behind the huge oak desk. The stacks of paper and folders on top of the desk were geometrically aligned.

A telegraph key was fastened to the right side of the desk next to a sounder to amplify the sound of incoming messages.

The desk sat in a big bay window that overlooked the platform.

From his seat, Wiggins could look out and see the track in both directions. The windowpanes showed not even a trace of grime despite the inevitable soot from coal-burning trains. The left side of the office faced the waiting room and had a ticket window. Blank tickets rested in a slotted rack. A clutch of rubber stamps hung on the wall.

He sat comfortably in his four-legged oak chair, tapped a folder. “I know a bit about you.” He tugged at his mustache, eyes intent. “You grew up in Adelaide, Oklahoma. Your daddy, Paul, had the drugstore on Main Street. Your mama, Kate, kept you rascally kids—” Four of us, all redheaded as a woodpecker—Sammy, Joe, Kitty, and me. We were rambunctious as colts and got into our share of scrapes.

“—bright as new pennies and in church every Sunday. You were the liveliest of them all.” His gaze was searching. “Inquisitive.” It was a pronouncement.

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I nodded. After all, how else would I ever know what was going on?

His gaze was thoughtful. “Impulsive.” I’d been known for responding first, quick as a lightning strike, thinking later. Mama had often urged me, “Bailey Ruth, honey, think before you speak.”

Wiggins placed his fingers in a tepee.

I was afraid I understood the direction he was going. I tried for a bland smile. “I’ve changed a lot since I arrived here. After all, Heaven encourages grace in all matters. I’m much more reflective.” I hoped I didn’t sound defensive. I repeated with assurance, “Reflective.” Such a dignified word, though I suppose no one would ever think of me as dignified. I almost told him I’d recently reread Walden. It was our book-club selection. We have a lovely book club, but that is not ger-mane at the moment.

“Rash.” He wasn’t talking about measles or poison ivy.

I waved a deprecating hand, hoped my nail polish wasn’t too vivid. I wanted him to take me seriously. “Such a long time ago.” My tone invited him to join me in rueful dismissal of impulsive behavior.

I wondered if he was thinking about the time I lost my temper at a faculty meeting and told the principal he was an idiot. Of course I had justification. Of course I lost my job. It all turned out well. I got a job as the mayor’s secretary. The principal had put Bubba, the mayor’s oldest son, on probation and Bubba missed his chance to be quarterback at the state championships. I loved being in city hall.

Nothing happened in Adelaide that I didn’t know about.

He flipped to another page. “Forthright.” We gazed at each other with complete understanding. All right, so I called a spade a spade. I liked forthright better than tactless.

“Daring.” He shut the folder.

“I would hope”—I tried to sound judicious—“that a willingness to take chances might be just what the department is seeking. In appropriate circumstances.”

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“Mmm. That is always a possibility.” Wiggins dropped his hands to his desk, reached for a pipe from a rack. As he tamped sweet-smelling tobacco, he looked thoughtful. “A good-hearted emissary is always prized. No doubt you are offering your services for the best of reasons. It wouldn’t do to send someone seeking adventure.” I tried to banish all thoughts of adventure from my mind. Adventure? Of course not. I gazed at him sincerely, eyes wide, expression soulful, an approach I’d always found very effective when I’d explained to Bobby Mac that the latest crumpled fender was an utter mystery to me, that certainly I thought I’d had plenty of room to back out. “I truly want to be of help to someone in dire straits.” My pronouncement had a nice ring to it and I hoped dire straits conjured up a vision of a hapless victim stalked by an Alfred Hitchcock villain.

He nodded, his green eyeshade glistening in a golden glow. “Very well.” Now he was businesslike. “Where do you want to go?” When fresh out of college, Bobby Mac and I had spent a summer hitchhiking through Europe. It was the most glorious impecunious ragtag holiday that could be imagined. I’d loved Montmartre. What fun it would be to return, to see the street artists, drink coffee in an outdoor café, visit the Moulin Rouge . . .

“Possibly Paris.” My shrug was casual.

The pause might have been described as pregnant. “Paris,” he said finally.

“Paris.” I clasped my hands together to keep from wriggling on the bench.

He plucked a pencil from his shirt pocket, tapped it on the desktop. “How’s your French?”

“Oh.” I looked into chiding brown eyes. “I’d thought it would be like here.” In Heaven, everyone is understood, always, whether they speak Urdu, Cherokee, Yiddish, Welsh, Hindi, or any of the world’s 6,800 languages.

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“Ah”—he waggled an admonitory yet gentle finger—“that is the crux of the situation. There is not here.” I suspected this was more profound than I could manage. I’m bright enough, but I have my limits. Deep thoughts remain precisely that, deep thoughts, and I don’t have a shovel.

“Once in the world again, some”—Wiggins didn’t name names, such as Bailey Ruth—“might find it a struggle not to revert.”

“I see.” This useful phrase had seen me through many puzzling moments on earth. Revert to what?

“So”—now he was brisk—“should we enlist you—” Was I going to be given rank and serial number?

“—it will be with the clear understanding that your mission is for others, not yourself. Moreover, we will go over the Precepts before you depart. Now, where would you like to go?” His brown eyes were sharp.

I had a moment of inspiration. “Where would you like to send me?”

“Bailey Ruth”—approval radiated from him—“that reflects a splendid understanding of our program.” Wiggins reached for another folder.

I basked in a glow of rectitude. Certainly I was not in this for myself. I felt noble. I would charge forth and do my best wherever I might be sent. I bade a silent, regretful farewell to visions of Paris.

London, perhaps?

“We’ve given some thought to the matter.” He was thumbing through several sheets that looked to be densely typewritten. “It seems quite likely that for your first task you would feel more comfortable in familiar surroundings. We are sending you to Adelaide. ” He was as pleased as if he’d presented me with a beribboned box of Whitman’s Samplers. Whitman’s Samplers were always a favorite in Daddy’s drugstore. I wondered if the store was still there . . .

Even though Adelaide, Oklahoma, pop. 16,236, was a long way 9

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from Paris or London, I smiled and felt a quiver of anticipation. I loved Adelaide and its rolling hills and soft-voiced people, Mississippi kites making watchful circles in a hot August sky, sleet crackling against windowpanes in February. It wasn’t Paris or London, but I’d do my best. Would I know anyone? Of course, my daughter, Dil, lives there. It would be such fun to pop in on Dil—

“First, however”—his tone was emphatic—“you must master the Precepts.” He waggled a roll of parchment. “After you have familiar-ized yourself with them, we’ll have another visit and I’ll give you your specific assignment.” He bent his head forward, looked at me sternly. “You will be on probation as you undertake your first task.” I almost whipped back a quick “Not to worry,” but decided upon looking into his serious brown eyes that he might not appreciate snappy retorts. Instead I simply repeated approvingly, “On probation.” The tension eased from his face. “That’s the right attitude. You will find that attitude is everything, Bailey Ruth.” I couldn’t have agreed more. It was my job to be sure he had the right attitude about me. I nodded soberly.

“If you successfully complete this assignment, we will welcome you as a full-fledged emissary.” He pushed up the rim of his eyeshade, looking perplexed. “I suppose . . .” The words trailed off. He gave a shake of his head, his mustache quivering. “I scarcely like to bring this up. I find the topic distasteful.” He looked pained.

I attempted to look pained as well, though I had no idea what dreadful behavior we were contemplating.

“Ghosts.” He pursed his lips in disapproval. “I deplore that characterization of a Heavenly resident dispatched to be of service.” I offered quickly, “We aren’t ghosts.” I tried to keep the hint of a query from my voice.

He thumped a great fist on his desk and folders bounced. “Precisely. Never. Stories of apparitions and rattling chains foment the most inaccurate imaginings on earth. It is of foremost importance 10

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that you do not, in the pursuit of your duties, create situations that will further these mistaken beliefs.”

“Oh.” I was fervent. “I would never do that.”

“Subtlety is the key.” Wiggins appeared troubled.

I wondered if he was remembering unfortunate episodes with previous emissaries or if he feared I might be lacking in that quality.

“Subtlety, of course.” I was as world-weary and wise as Barbara Stanwyck. Turner Classic Movies had given me a whole new world to emulate. Actually, here in Heaven she’s quite approachable.

The flush faded from his face. He nodded benignly. “I will take that as a solemn pledge.”

I raised my right hand. If the man wanted a pledge, I was ready.

“Very well. We won’t talk of ghosts.” His nose wrinkled in distaste. He glanced down at his papers, thumbed through a stack. “Oh yes. I should mention that we sometimes have missions that do not succeed. Not”—he spoke quickly to preclude any misunderstanding—“that we would ever characterize any volunteer as a failure. Oh, Heavens no. But”—and he clapped his hands together—“there is a foolproof means of achieving success.” My expectant look was a model of the pupil eager to hear the master’s declaration.

“Adhere to the Precepts.” His nod was emphatic.

I was fascinated by the quiver of his walrus mustache.

“For example”—his look was stern—“there is an absolute stric-ture prohibiting casual contact with family members, such as your daughter, Dillon. We do not want the living preoccupied with the dead. It simply doesn’t do.”

“Of course not.” I was righteously indignant. Besides, I felt quite close to Dil without making a special trip to earth. One of the lovely aspects of Heaven is that whenever anyone on earth thinks of you, you are there with them for that instant. Why, Dil had thought of me just this morning. She was driving too fast and clipped a hedge as she 11

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came around a curve. As her husband cringed, hearing the scrape on the fender, she’d grinned. “If it had been Mama, she would have leveled that bush. Hold on, Mike, we’re late.” I didn’t share this with Wiggins.

“However, there will be a special familial aspect to your first visit.

As for the other Precepts, I’ll give you this copy”—he unrolled the parchment and slid toward me a cream-colored sheet embossed with gold letters—“which you can study while we prepare the materials for your visit. The most important Precept—” I leaned forward, ready and alert. It looked as though I might make the grade. As for the Precepts, I was good at following rules.

Well, usually . . .

Except when I forgot.

“—is this: You will be on the earth,” an emphatic pause, “not of the earth.”

My, Wiggins certainly felt strongly about this rather simple concept. Where was the problem? I was quite sure I wouldn’t have any difficulty.

. . . on the earth, not of the earth . . .

Simplicity itself.

Wiggins tone was solemn. “If, after studying and mastering the Precepts, you still feel that this is the right path for you, you can come back—”

Just then, a staccato dot dot dot erupted from the telegraph sounder on his desk.

Wiggins listened, quickly tapped a response.

A rapid clack clack erupted.

He pulled a pad of paper near, wrote furiously, his face creased in concern. The minute the message ended, he was on his feet, gesturing to me. “Bailey Ruth, there is no time to delay. You must be dispatched immediately.”

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He moved hurriedly to the ticket window, grabbed a ticket, found a stamp, slapped it to the cardboard slip. “Here.” He thrust the ticket at me, then yanked at a lever on the wall. “I’m dropping the signal arm on the pole outside. The Rescue Express will stop long enough for you to board. Quickly, now. You’ll have to make a run for it.” A rumble announced the train’s arrival. I glanced at my ticket, which had a corner nicked off, but I could read delaide, Oklahoma stamped in bright red. I jumped to my feet and raced toward the platform. The Rescue Express slid to a stop. A conductor leaned out to help me board.

Suddenly heavy footsteps sounded behind me. Wiggins caught up, breathing fast. He thrust another ticket at me. “Your ticket’s torn.

That will never do. Here’s a proper one.” Clutching my new and perfect ticket, I clasped a strong hand and swung aboard.

A stentorian shout sounded from the platform. “The rector’s wife is in dire straits. Do your best for Kathleen Abbott.” 13

C H A P T E R 2

Brrr. I hadn’t been cold in a long time. A gusting wind fluttered autumn leaves from a big maple and a sweet gum.

Daylight was almost gone, though enough dusk remained to emphasize the stark shadows thrown by the evergreens that fringed one side of the yard. I was standing near a puddle, shivering and wishing for a nice warm coat . . . Oh. How nice. I smoothed the arm of a thick woolen jacket. It had been one of my favorites, red-and-black plaid. I remembered it well.

I looked at the back of a rambling two-story frame house with excited recognition. “Ohhh . . . ” My voice was soft. Wiggins could not have pleased me more. I’d been here many times. The sweeping backyard was one of the glories of the rectory. I’d enjoyed croquet and watermelon socials and volleyball games here, especially when we had that very athletic priest, Father Meadows. He had been quite hearty, with a penchant for mountain climbing, so he’d jumped at an invitation to lead a church in Colorado.

A dim light shone above the back steps to the screened-in porch. I moved forward eagerly. I came around the old stone well and stopped, breathless and shocked. My heart pounded.

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Bulbous red eyes glowed in a huge rounded body with four great striped legs that arched to the ground. A moaning sound issued from the huge creature’s orange lips. A few feet away, a skeleton lounged in a lawn chair, bony hands holding a book, one leg folded over the other. A witch on a broomstick poked from the woodpile. Her dark cloak streamed in the wind.

Gradually my gasping breaths eased. Obviously, it was near Halloween. The monstrous spider was eerily realistic. I hoped this wasn’t Wiggins’s idea of a joke. Was there really a Kathleen Abbott in dire straits or had some Halloween mischief gotten out of hand?

I was uncertain whether to call out for Kathleen. Perhaps if I went inside, I’d find her. As I came nearer the rectory, I became aware of a dimly visible young woman standing rigidly on the back porch.

I wafted through the door. Her frozen posture was understandable. She gazed down at a dead man lying on the worn wooden planks, a dead man with a small bullet wound in his left temple.

“Oh my, oh my.” She wavered unsteadily on her feet, lifted a shaking hand to her lips. Frantically, she looked around. She stepped toward the back door, peered into the yard. She took another stumbling step forward. A series of unmistakable expressions flitted over her face—shock, apprehension, panic.

If she hadn’t been terrified, she would have been pretty. Curly dark hair framed a long face with deep-set brown eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a generous mouth.

I admired her cardigan, multicolored, with swaths of violet, purple, and blue in some kind of fuzzy material. Very attractive and the material was quite new to me, rather reminiscent of angora. She was trim in a black turtleneck and slim-fitting dark pants.

“He’s dead!” Her voice was a whisper. “What am I going to do?”

“Call the police.” I clapped my fingers to my mouth. I hadn’t intended to speak.

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“I can’t.” It was a moan. The moan turned into a strangled gasp.

She looked wildly about. “Who’s there? Where are you?” Skirting the body, she hurried to the back door, flung it open, clattered down the steps. In an instant she returned to the porch, dashed to the rectory back door, yanked it open, seeking the source of the voice.

I felt a pang of remorse, knowing I’d made a big mistake. Wiggins had worried that I might be impulsive. I supposed his worst fears were realized. But it had seemed natural to speak up. After all, the woman had her duty as a citizen. However, would I have been dispatched, especially in such a hurry, if the solution were as simple as picking up the phone and alerting the authorities?

She struggled for breath and looked as though she might faint. I had to do something, though I was afraid one of the Precepts dealt with appropriate moments to actually be of the world. From Wiggins’s dour discourse about ghosts (Heaven forbid), I suspected he favored as few manifestations as possible. If I’d had time to study the Precepts, I’d’ve known the protocol. Since I wasn’t sure, I had to use my best judgment.

I willed myself present.

Kathleen tottered back, a hand pressed to her lips.

“Don’t scream! I’m here to help.” I spoke gently but firmly as though to a frightened child. “You’re Kathleen Abbott, the rector’s wife?” Her yes was scarcely above a whisper.

“I was sent because you’re in trouble.”

“How did you know? Who are you?” Her voice wobbled.

“That doesn’t matter now. It’s rather complicated to explain.” I glanced at the dead man. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I just found him. How could you possibly know I needed help?” She looked past me as if fearful others might arrive.

“Where did you come from? You don’t belong in Adelaide.” I was indignant. “Of course I do! I grew up here, my dear, and I know where the bodies are buried.”

She made a choking sound and took a step back.

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I waved my hand. “Simply in a manner of speaking. Now, I’ve arrived to lend you a hand. I gather you don’t wish to call the police?”

“I can’t call the police.” Her voice was desperate. “I’ll be in terrible trouble if he’s found here.”

I looked down at the body, a man in his forties who had likely been rather attractive when alive, thick brown hair, a trim mustache, regular features. “Why?”

“Because—” She choked back a sob. “Oh, I don’t have time to explain. The women’s Thursday-night Bible study is here tonight.” She gestured frantically toward the backyard and the drive. “They’ll park there and come in this way. Any minute now somebody may drop in to bring a dessert or leave a note for Bill. Oh,” she moaned,

“what am I going to do?”

I understood. Parishioners consider the rectory to be an extension of their own living room. “That would be awkward.” I glanced outside. Mercifully, no one was approaching, but Kathleen was right.

We might be joined at any moment.

“Awkward?” Her voice rose in despair. “They’ll put me in jail.”

“We can’t let that happen. Let’s move him.” I didn’t consider this to be a rash suggestion. My mission was to help Kathleen Abbott.

Clearly, if the presence of a murdered man on the screened-in back porch of the rectory put her in jeopardy, he had to go.

“Move him?” She stared at me in horror. “How? Where?” I pointed out the back door. “Outside, of course.” I looked at the body, wished the light were better. He was tallish, around six feet.

In the dim glow from the porch light, one hand was oddly distinct.

Manicured nails. Bobby Mac had no use for men with manicured nails. The dead man’s navy woolen sweater was expensive and so were his black loafers. Slacks of fine worsted wool. I frowned as I studied him. “He wasn’t killed here.”

“He wasn’t?” Her gaze was suddenly sharp and suspicious. “How do you know?”

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I patted her arm, tried not to notice that she jumped at the touch.

Was my hand cold? “You didn’t grow up in Adelaide.” She plunged fingers through her hair, tangling the curls. “This is crazy. First you say he wasn’t killed here, then you want to talk about where I grew up.” Her voice was rising. “That’s part of my problem here. Everybody knows I’m from Chicago and they say I’m nice but awfully worldly for a rector’s wife.” I understood. Episcopal Church Women (ECW) do have opinions and the vestry expects so much of a rector’s wife. “Chicago is lovely.

Bobby Mac and I went to Wrigley every chance we got. Don’t worry about being from Chicago. But you don’t know anything about hunting. I’ve heard almost as many hunting stories as fish tales. I’m one Adelaide girl who knows about guns and”—I looked down, made a careful effort to phrase my sentence with delicacy—“people who’ve been shot.” A tracery of blood streaked from the crusted circular entry wound, but no blood or tissue surrounded his head. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Mr. . . .” I looked at her encouragingly.

“Murdoch. Daryl Murdoch.” She spoke the name with concentrated loathing.

“. . . Murdoch was shot somewhere else and brought here.”

“Oh.” She looked startled. “You mean somebody brought him here?” Her voice wavered. “That’s dreadful. That means somebody knew I’d be in trouble if he was found here. Somebody knows—” She broke off, apparently stricken by the enormity of the murderer’s knowledge.

“First things first.” It was time to get to the matter at hand. “Is the toolshed still behind the weeping willow?”

“Yes, but it’s locked, and the sexton keeps the keys.” Once again her gaze was suspicious. “How do you know about the toolshed?”

“My dear”—and I spoke with a lilt—“there isn’t much I don’t know about St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church and the church property.” I’d been directress of the Altar Guild three times. “Back in a 18

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flash.” With that—and I suppose I should have prepared her for it but didn’t—I disappeared. I didn’t intend to startle her. I felt apologetic when I heard her gasp.

I was too elated with my discovery of ghostly movement to spare time for Kathleen’s travail. I went from there—the back porch—to here—the shed—in an instant. I had no need to tramp through the backyard. How exciting! In the future I would think of a destination and a graceful zoom later, there I would be. And, of course, no door was a barrier to me.

Inside the shed, I turned on the light and found the wheelbarrow.

It was no problem to unlock the door from the inside. I wheeled out the barrow, turned off the light, but left the door ajar. I was glad for the golden glow of the porch light because it was truly dark now, the trees and bushes black shapes in the night.

I trundled the barrow up the flagstone walk, frowning because the front wheel squealed like a banshee, not the happiest of sounds when planning to transport a body.

I parked the barrow next to a ramp at the end of the porch. That was an addition since my days. How useful. When I once again stood by the body, I thought for a moment that Kathleen had left and then I saw a kneeling figure feverishly unrolling a tarp.

“Excellent, Kathleen. Couldn’t be better.” We definitely needed a means of pulling him to the ramp.

She rocked back on her heels. “I’ve lost my mind.” Her voice was ragged with despair. “That’s all there is to it. I’m delusional. I hear voices and no one’s here. I imagine this woman and I talk to her and then she disappears and now that hideous voice—” Hideous? Not a generous description, but I had to be charitable.

I’d always thought my voice rather attractive, a trifle husky perhaps, but cheerful. I debated reappearing. However, I wanted to follow the Precepts. I must study them as soon as possible, but it seemed to me that I was truly encouraged to remain invisible.

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In the world, not of the world . . .

I decided instead to have a frank talk. “Kathleen, let’s straighten things out.”

She looked wildly around. “Where are you? Come out! You’re driving me crazy.”

“Deep breath, Kathleen,” I barked. “Suck it in, let it out. One, two, three, four . . .” I tried to sound as authoritative as the tartar who’d directed the ladies’ morning exercise class at the Y when I was in my exercise years, the earnest years of push-pull-shove-away-dessert until the realization came that chocolate made me happy and happiness was a virtue.

Kathleen breathed in, breathed out. Then, with an anguished cry, she flailed her hands, jumped to her feet, and backed toward the doorway into the kitchen.

“Stop right there.” I tried to remember how Humphrey Bogart cowed opposition. I’d watched Casablanca, my all-time favorite movie, not too long ago.“Get a grip, sweetheart.” Maybe I’d missed my calling. I had a knack for this. “I’m here, but you can’t see me right now.

It isn’t appropriate for me to be present in the flesh at the moment”—

she could mull that over—“and we don’t have time to waste. I’m going to help you move him. Let’s take him to the cemetery.” The cemetery was on the other side of the church from the rectory. As I recalled, a graveled path through oaks and willows curved from the backyard of the rectory behind the church to the cemetery.

“Now, are you in or out?”

She cowered by the door, frozen in a crouch. “In.” It was scarcely a breath.

I flowed past her, grabbed the tarp, pulled it briskly across the floor.

Kathleen watched the moving canvas with the same horror she would have accorded the progress of a cobra.

I tried to distract her. “Hop to it. We’ll ease him onto the tarp.” I spread the canvas out beside him. “Take—oh, wait.” Forensic mat-20

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ters had never been a consuming interest of mine, but I dimly recalled that cloth could hold fingerprints. Of course it depended upon the coarseness and weave of the material, but it would be best if Kathleen had no close contact with the deceased. “Fingerprints. Hmm.”

“Fingerprints.” She was struggling not to hyperventilate.

“Deep breaths. In. Out.” The advice was a bit perfunctory. Perhaps I could scare up some backbone pills for Kathleen. Fingerprints

. . . Ah. I spotted a pair of gardening gloves lying on the counter near a sink. I picked them up, moved toward her. “Better put these on.” She scrambled backward.

Before I could toss the gloves to her, a girl’s voice called from inside. “Mom . . . hey, Mom, where are you?” Kathleen clutched at her throat, tried to speak, couldn’t make a sound.

Footsteps clattered in the kitchen. A girl’s voice carried through the open back door. “I’ve got to ask Mom first. Maybe she’s over at the church. Come on, Lucinda.”

I swooped to the body and pulled the tarp over him.

The screen door banged open. “Hey, Mom, what are you doing out here in the dark?” A flick and a hundred-and-fifty-watt bulb blazed above us, throwing the furnishings of the porch into sharp relief, the counter with an old-fashioned sink, a rattan table and three chairs, a shiny galvanized tub, two bags of apples, a pair of muddy work boots, a mound of pumpkins, several large bulging black trash bags, stacked newspapers, a heap of old coats.

And the shiny black tip of a shoe peeking from beneath the tarp.

Kathleen saw the shoe, wavered on her feet, moved in front of the body. “Bayroo, stop there.” Kathleen’s voice was scratchy.

Bayroo. What a curious name.

A skinny red-haired girl, all arms and legs like a wobbly colt, balanced on one foot, throwing her arms wide. “Mom, you won’t believe it.” She was a bundle of excitement, energy, and vibrant personality.

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I felt an instant liking for her and an immediate sense of compan-ionship. I was enchanted by her golden red curls and green eyes and the intelligent, questing look on her narrow face. She was eleven or possibly twelve, almost ready to slip into her teen years, angular now where she would soon be slender. And lovely.

Behind her, a plump girl with dark hair in braids, gold-rimmed glasses, and prominent braces echoed, “You won’t believe it, Mrs.

Abbott!” She bounced up and down in excitement.

Kathleen’s daughter clapped her hands. “Mom, Travis Calhoun’s here in town! We actually saw him at Wal-Mart and he’s staying with his aunt Margaret. You know, Mrs. Calhoun up the street. I invited him to come to the Spook Bash Saturday and asked him if he’d judge the painted pumpkins and told him how great it would be for everyone who’s worked so hard for the bash to raise money for the food pantry and, Mom”—it was an unashamed squeal—“he said he’d come. Isn’t that great?”

“Great. Wonderful. Lucinda, why don’t you stay for supper with Bayroo. The stew’s ready. There are oatmeal cookies in the cookie jar.” Kathleen waved a shaking hand toward the kitchen.

”Mom.” Meals were for ordinary times. “Travis Calhoun! Besides, we’re going over to Lucinda’s for pizza. The committee’s meeting and will they be excited when they hear about Travis!”

“Golly, they won’t believe what happened!” Lucinda’s voice rose in a squeal. “Bayroo is so brave. We would have missed him if she hadn’t hidden and then she heard noises and got scared but—” Bayroo reached out and clapped a hand over Lucinda’s lips.

Kathleen kept glancing down at the tarp, then away. “That’s wonderful, honey.” She gestured toward the screen door. “You’d better hurry over to Lucinda’s if the committee’s coming.” Lucinda was staring toward me. She couldn’t see me, of course.

What could she possibly . . . Oh. I still held the gloves. I released my grip. The gloves floated gracefully toward the floor.

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Lucinda tugged on the red-haired girl’s arm. ”Bayroo,” she hissed.

“Anyway, Mom, Lucinda and I are going over to her house—”

“Bayroo.” Lucinda’s whisper was piercing. “Where did those gloves come from? They were like, up here.” She held a hand to her chest. “Now they’re down there. How were they up in the air all by themselves?” She pointed at the gloves just as they reached the floor.

Bayroo turned toward me. Our eyes met. She smiled, a quick, engaging, hello-we-haven’t-met, I’d-like-to-be-friends smile.

Oh dear. Bayroo saw me. I couldn’t explain it. Sometimes the young have eyes to see what no one else sees. Bayroo saw me. Lucinda did not.

Bayroo asked quickly, “Mom, who’s—”

I held a finger to my lips, shook my head, then smiled and turned my hands as if I were shooing chickens.

Bayroo’s lips parted in surprise, then she grinned and gave me a tiny conspiratorial nod. She removed Lucinda’s arm. “Oh, those gloves.” Her tone dismissed levitating gloves as unworthy of notice.

“It happens sometimes when the fan’s turned on.” She gestured toward the ceiling fan.

Lucinda looked up at the still blades, her face serious and thoughtful. “The fan isn’t turned on.”

‘Well, I guess it was. C’mon, Lucinda. We’ve got to hurry. We can tell everyone about Travis. Mom, I’ll do my homework later.” With that, the girls turned toward the back door, Bayroo in the lead.

Lucinda’s head swung back for a last puzzled glance at the ceiling fan and her left foot caught the tip of the dead man’s shoe. She stag-gered forward. “Whoops.”

Bayroo held the screen door open. “Don’t kick the dummy. He’s going to sit on top of the magic maze at the Spook Bash. C’mon, Lucinda, let’s hurry. They’re not going to believe . . .” As their voices faded, lost in the soughing of the branches and the keening of the wind, Kathleen reached out to cling to the counter.

“What am I going to do?”

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“Buck up.” I was getting exasperated, although I did understand how draining the girls’ arrival had been. Even I had felt an icy qualm when Lucinda stumbled over the tip of the dead man’s shoe.

Kathleen jumped. “Please. Don’t talk.” I didn’t bother to answer, merely scooped up the gloves and thrust them toward her.

Kathleen shuddered, but pulled them on.

“All right. I’m here.” I tugged at his shoulder. “You take his ankles.”

As her face stretched in a gargoyle grimace, Kathleen gingerly grabbed the dead man’s ankles with her gloved hands, shuddered again, and pulled.

“One, two, three.”

Daryl Murdoch slid onto the tarp. In the sharp light from the overhead bulb, I could see there was no muss on the wooden flooring.

Decidedly, he had met his fate elsewhere. Perhaps when we knew that, we would know who shot him.

The thought bobbed in my mind and I realized I was concerned about justice. I felt no scruples about removing the murdered man from the rectory’s back porch. After all, someone had brought him there with no good intentions. Other thoughts bobbed. What connection did Kathleen have with the dead man? Why had the murderer assumed Kathleen would be implicated if Daryl Murdoch were found here? There was much I needed to know to complete my mission. I hoped I was off to a good start. If I did well, I wouldn’t be on probation. I would be officially attached to the Department of Good Intentions. Perhaps I’d be awarded a ribbon or badge.

As we passed the switch near the door to the kitchen, Kathleen turned off the overhead light.

“Hustle.” I tugged on the tarp.

Kathleen again gave that odd little moan from deep in her throat, but she hurried forward.

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As we maneuvered the tarp across the porch floor toward the ramp, Kathleen muttered, “It’s shock. That’s all. I’m in shock. That’s why I’m strong enough to move him. Adrenaline. Memory lapses. I’m doing things and I don’t remember them. That’s what’s happening.” She looked almost cheerful as the tarp slid down the ramp. Then she saw the wheelbarrow. “How did I get it out of the shed? The shed’s locked. Maybe it was unlocked. That’s it. I just don’t remember . . .” Poor dear. She would have to come to grips with reality—me—

sooner or later. Later would suffice. I concentrated on easing our burden from the ramp into the wheelbarrow. Daryl’s feet dangled over the back.

Kathleen, looking squeamish, pulled a corner of the tarp down to cover his shoes.

I was glad to see she was thinking ahead. “Good job.”

“In case we see—” She stopped, shook her head, grabbed the handles. “I have to stop talking to myself,” she muttered. “I am not carrying on a conversation with anyone. I am not.” She stopped after a few feet, struggling to catch her breath. “I never knew a wheelbarrow was so heavy.” I doubted she’d ever moved one before. Especially not a wheelbarrow laden with a body. I slipped in front of Kathleen and placed my hands in front of hers. Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about muscle strain. The wheelbarrow moved with noticeably more speed, though still lurching and squealing. The flagstone path ended.

It was harder going through the grass. Kathleen breathed in quick gasps. We reached the edge of the rectory yard and stood in the shadow of a pine. The always-present, ever-vigorous Oklahoma wind whipped the branches, buffeted us.

Even with my warm wool jacket, I was cold. I was exhilarated.

In Heaven you choose your surroundings, the ultimate in climate control. Bobby Mac and I love the seashore. Other climes are also available. Amundsen, for example, spends most of his time on an 25

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ice cap. Sarah Bernhardt exults on a stage with the velvet curtains parting. To each his own. Yet now I was in the world and must cope with weather.

I wasn’t surprised at the bite of the wind, the plummeting temperature. Halloween in Oklahoma was often synonymous with the arrival of a blue norther. It may have been seventy-five degrees earlier in the day, but if Halloween was imminent, so was cold weather.

Weather in Oklahoma is an adventure, in the twenties one day, nudging seventy the next.

I wished we’d thought to bring a flashlight. We wheeled onto the graveled path, which added a crackling sound to the screech of the wheel. The path curved around a stand of pines. Ahead were blazing lights. I admired the brightly lit paved parking lot behind the church.

My goodness, that was a change. A half-dozen cars were parked near the side entrance.

Kathleen stopped. To reach the west gate to the cemetery required crossing the far end of the lot. The wheelbarrow and, of course, Kathleen would be in full view of anyone leaving the church or looking out of the parish hall.

Despite the circumstances, I took pleasure in a swift survey of my beloved St. Mildred’s, a graceful church built of limestone. A latticed wall and limestone arches enclosed a cloister between the church and the L-shaped wing with the Sunday school rooms and church offices. The parish hall was between the church and the wing.

Kathleen crouched.

I divined her intent just in time and pushed down the handles of the barrow as she was pulling up, preparatory to dumping our burden.

I was firm. “We can’t leave him here.” She jumped back from the barrow, pointed at the starkly illuminated parking lot. “Don’t you see?” She shuddered. “Of course you don’t see. You aren’t here.”

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I stamped my foot.

She looked down at the stick that crunched.

“Quickly, Kathleen.” He who hesitates . . .

She pushed back a lock of dark hair, looked fearfully toward the church. “If anyone looks out, they’ll see us. Me.”

“We’ll run.” It was a straight shot.

She dropped her hands from the shafts. “He can stay here.” Her sigh of relief rivaled the whoosh of the wind in the pines. She turned to go.

I grabbed her arm, hung on, rocked back on my heels for lever-age. “Don’t be silly. The barrow might be traced back to the rectory.

Look, we’re really close. You take one shaft, I’ll take the other and run like . . .” I remembered to be of the world, not in the world. After all, one doesn’t want to trifle with Hell. “. . . fast.” I firmly fastened her hands on the right shaft. “Go.”

We pelted across the blacktop, the barrow rocking from side to side, wheel rasping, Daryl’s shoes thumping. I’m sure it seemed a lifetime to Kathleen, but in only a few seconds we plunged through the open gate into the cemetery, leaving behind the light. The gently rolling, heavily treed cemetery was dark as a root cellar.

Kathleen stumbled to a stop. “I can’t see a thing.” I have excellent night vision and saw that the graveled path picked up again. “Straight ahead, then veer around the clump of willows.” I gave Kathleen an encouraging pat, ignored her recoil. “We’ll leave him near the Pritchard mausoleum.” It was a showpiece of the cemetery, white marble with Corinthian columns. The marble tombs within were crowned with a sculpture of a greyhound on Maurice’s tomb and an Abyssinian cat on Hannah’s. He loved dog races and she loved cats and they were rich enough to indulge their whims.

Locals who visit the cemetery make it a point to swing by the mausoleum and stop to pat the greyhound’s head and stroke the cat’s 27

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whiskers for luck. The custom assured that Mr. Murdoch’s remains would be found tomorrow. He was due that courtesy, not that cold wind and darkness were a trouble to him now.

The barrow wheel continued its grating screech. We came around the curve, brushed by the dangling tendrils of a weeping willow. The Pritchard mausoleum stood only feet away on a small rise. There was a clinking sound. A darting beam of a light danced within the mausoleum.

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The wheelbarrow squealed as Kathleen jolted to a stop.

“What’s that screeching noise?” A young voice quavered.

“Buzzy, somebody’s out there.”

“Haven’t you ever heard an owl?” Buzzy’s equally youthful, but more forceful voice dripped disdain. “That’s why they’re called screech owls.”

“Yeah. Well, I don’t like it here.” The words came in uneven spurts, likely a product of struggling breaths. “This is a lousy idea.

Everybody around is dead. Let’s get out of here. ” I wafted inside the mausoleum.

A tall skinny boy pulled at the crowbar jammed beneath the edge of the greyhound’s pedestal. “What’s the matter, Marvin. You scared?” Plaster crackled, drifted down toward the floor.

Marvin held the flashlight trained on Maurice’s tomb. “Who, me?

No way. But this is a stupid bet, and if anybody finds us we’ll end up in jail and Mom will yank my car keys for the rest of my life. Anyway, that dog’s probably too heavy to move even if we get him free.” I flew into action. I don’t know how many times I’d brought flowers to graves and I always stopped at the Pritchard mausoleum to Ca ro ly n H a rt

smooth the dog’s head and run my fingers over the cat’s whiskers. I was furious. Halloween fun was one thing, say draping the statues with plastic leis, even a touch of washable paint. But defacing a tomb . . .

I grabbed the crowbar away from Buzzy and flung it out into the darkness, where it clattered down the steps.

Buzzy stared at his empty hands. “How’d you do that, Marvin?” Marvin, eyes wide as saucers, tried to speak, couldn’t.

Outside, the wheelbarrow screeched. Where was Kathleen going?

Marvin’s head jerked, seeking the source of the shrill whine.

“Something’s out there. And something weird’s going on in here.” He began to edge toward the exit.

“That wasn’t funny, Marvin.” Buzzy’s straight dark brows drew down in a frown. “Go get the crowbar. I can’t get the dog loose without it.” I marched over to Marvin, yanked the flashlight from his hand, twirled it in a circle. Light swung disco-quick around the walls of the mausoleum.

Marvin yelped, flung himself toward the entrance. Buzzy outran him.

I followed, sweeping the flashlight high and low. That turned out to be a mistake. I intended to scare them sufficiently to discourage a return, but the light swept over Daryl Murdoch lying on his back a few feet from the steps into the mausoleum.

Marvin flailed his hands in panic, then broke into a lumbering run, trying to catch up with Buzzy.

I turned off the flashlight and it was dark.

Excited shouts, the thud of running feet, and grunts marked the teenagers’ progress as they careened around headstones. When silence once again cloaked the cemetery, I turned on the light.

“Kathleen?” I called softly. No answer. I’d not expected one. That high rasp of the wheelbarrow when I was inside the mausoleum must have signaled her departure.

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Murdoch was lying on his back near the first step. The tarp was gone as well as the wheelbarrow. I hoped Kathleen shook the tarp well and put it in its customary place and returned the wheelbarrow to the shed. Perhaps I’d better check with her before I departed, though I doubted she would be pleased to see me. Or not see me.

Now I felt a need to make amends to Daryl Murdoch. I placed the flashlight on the top step. The beam illuminated him and perhaps five feet or so beyond. I folded his hands on his chest and straightened his legs. He looked quite peaceful, though I wondered how pleasant his face had been in life. But I mustn’t make assumptions just because Kathleen didn’t like him. There was a lovely bouquet of artificial chrysanthemums in a nearby vase. I selected a bright yellow bloom and placed it in his hands, then said a prayer to speed him on his way and for his family’s comfort.

Sirens wailed in the distance. I lifted my head, listened. At least two sirens rose and fell. The wail increased in volume. I smiled. The boys were good citizens despite their Halloween prank. I must move quickly.

I dropped to one knee beside the body. The ground was cold. I shivered as the frosty wind whistled around me. I was reaching for his wallet when a ding-dong bell sounded very near. I stared at the body. The sound, which reminded me of long-ago cartoon music, emanated from his jacket pocket. How odd.

I reached in the pocket and brought out a small hard plastic oblong not much larger than a fancy compact. The musical tones sounded three more times, then cut off. How curious. I shrugged, replaced the object, and focused on my task. Once I had the wallet out of his pocket, I flipped through it. His driver’s license gave his address as 1906 Laurel Lane, not an address I knew.

The sirens were loud enough now to wake the dead. The quip was irresistible. Red lights flashed. One police car, then a second jolted to a stop on the paved road about fifty yards south of the mausoleum.

Car doors opened, interior lights flashing.

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A woman’s voice shouted, “Police. Don’t move. Put your hands up. Police.” A low murmur ensued and two dark shapes moved cau-tiously toward the mausoleum, flashlights sweeping back and forth.

I replaced the wallet. As I stood, one of the lights swept near me and I saw the track of the wheelbarrow in soft dirt near the path. Heavens, I should have checked the area first. Now there was no time to lose or the police might track the wheelbarrow back to the rectory. I scooped up Marvin’s flashlight. I had no choice but to turn it on.

The police officers both called out. “Halt, there. Police.” I swooped to a nearby grave, plucked a large evergreen wreath from the marker, returned to that revealing trail. I took a good look, turned off the light. One of the perks of being a ghost was the ability to propel myself high, low, or in between. I moved a few inches above the ground—picture a glider—pulling the bristly wreath over the track of the barrow.

A stunningly brilliant light swept toward me, illuminating the wreath and the flashlight I’d borrowed from Marvin. Both were several inches above the ground. I came to my feet, the flashlight and wreath rising, too, and flung them into the darkness.

In the stark light from her huge flashlight, a slender young woman stared in disbelief as the flashlight spun out of sight behind a clump of shrubbery. The wreath plopped into a puddle. “Jake, did you see that?” Her pleasant contralto voice was matter-of-fact, but her blue eyes were startled.

A stocky young man growled, “Who’s the joker? You kids better—Oh hey, Anita, look. By God, that call was for real.” He, too, held an oversize flashlight and his bright beam centered on the body.

“Hey, that looks like Daryl Murdoch.” Her light joined his. “He looks dead.” Her voice sounded strange.

“We’ve got to get the EMT. Call the dispatcher. I’ll check for a pulse.” She crossed to Murdoch, taking care to walk on the paved area in 32

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front of the mausoleum. She knelt, turned that blazing light down, and lifted Daryl’s wrist.

Jake held a small plastic oblong to his face, spoke fast. “Car Seven.

Officer Harmon. Suspected murder victim, St. Mildred’s cemetery.

Send ambulance and fire truck. Notify the M.E. Contact the chief and Detective Sergeant Price.” As he spoke, brown eyes darted in every direction.

“No pulse.” Anita rose, reached for her gun. “Somebody was here.

We’d better check around.”

“Wait a minute. You get a look at the perp?” Jake stared at the wreath in the puddle.

“No.” She shook her head. The wind stirred her short honeycomb-blond hair. “Did you?”

Jake peered at the tombstones, his bony face wary, eyes searching.

“I don’t see how they got away without making a sound, especially without any light. They must be hunkered down, crouching behind something.” He reached for his gun.

She glanced at the tombstones, some large, some weathered and crumbling. Everything beyond the radius of the flashlights lay in dense darkness. “Listen up, Jake. No shooting unless somebody shoots at us. I know we got a body, but that call came from a kid.

He said they’d found a dead man, not killed somebody. The corpse felt cool. He’s been dead for a while. I don’t think it was the perp we almost caught.”

I thought her declaration a trifle extravagant. I definitely had not almost been caught.

“Call dispatch back. Better let them know we think the victim is Daryl Murdoch.” She stood and once again swung the light in a slow careful circle. Light streaked over graves and stones, probing the shadows beneath towering sycamores.

Jake held a plastic oblong similar to the one I’d found in Murdoch’s 33

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pocket, spoke into it. I wafted to him and peered over his shoulder, close enough to smell a piney aftershave scent.

“Dispatch.” Jake tried to sound cool, but excitement lifted his voice. “The DOA in the cemetery next to St. Mildred’s looks like Daryl Murdoch, the businessman. Somebody got away just as we arrived. We’re looking around.”

I scooted in front of him. He was talking—somehow—into that object. Curiosity overcame caution. I reached out, seized the shining metal object so similar in size to a compact though oblong, not circular. I stared at the hinged lid, which contained a small screen and a lower surface with numbers on it, then held it up to my ear as Jake had done.

I heard a brisk voice. “Chief says to secure the scene. He and Detective Sergeant Price and the crime lab are en route.” I realized I held a small radio of some kind. How amazing!

Jake’s young face creased in astonishment. He stared at the now silent object hovering a half foot from him.

I placed the object in his hand.

He jumped as though it radiated static electricity, then once again held it to his ear. “Damn.” He punched one of the numbers. “Yeah, dispatch. We got cut off.” His breathing was rapid. “Sure. I’m right here. We won’t touch a thing.” He clicked a button, then swung his flashlight in a circle. “Anita?”

Leaves crackled. She came from behind the mausoleum. “Nada.

Have you looked that way?” She speared a beam of light behind him.

Jake turned. “Just got off the horn. I’ll look around.” As she waited, she swept her light back and forth near the mausoleum.

In a moment Jake returned. “I don’t see anything out there. We need more light to check everything. Anyway, the chief ’s on his way.” He glanced at the metal object he still held in one hand. “Hey, Anita.

Funny thing about my phone . . .”

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Phone! I had expected changes from my day to now, but I never thought I would see a phone without wires that worked in the middle of a cemetery. Why, Bobby Mac would have been in hog heaven out on one of his drilling rigs with a phone.

“Phone?” She stared down at the dead man, her attractive face pulled into a puzzled frown.

“Yeah. It kind of got away from me.” His tone was bewildered.

“And it hung in the air like for a minute.” She turned toward him and I knew she was recalling the wreath and flashlight that I heaved away. She opened her mouth, closed it.

He hunched his shoulders. “Kind of strange.”

“Yeah.” Her tone was thoughtful. “Kind of.” He shivered. “Spooky place for a guy to get killed. What do you suppose he was doing here?”

Anita scanned the ground. “Don’t know. I guess the chief’ll find out.”

Jake looked nervously toward the mausoleum, spoke loudly.

“Bet there’s a hell of a story behind it. Isn’t he the guy you liked to hassle?”

Anita folded her arms. “I enforce traffic laws. So far as I’m concerned, that isn’t hassling. Murdoch thought the rules didn’t apply to him. He drove like he was special. I tried to teach him he wasn’t special.” Her young face was stern. She stared down at the body without a glimmer of pity.

Jake’s bark of laughter sounded odd in the cemetery. “So you gave him enough tickets to—” Sirens sounded. “Here they come.” His relief was obvious.

Anita turned toward the road, walked swiftly toward a tall man in a brown suit. He swung a huge flashlight from side to side.

I was tempted to remain. I’d never seen the beginning of a crime investigation, but I knew there wasn’t much to be learned here.

I hoped relocating the body didn’t pose a special problem for the 35

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authorities. Still, the detectives might as well start from this false location as from the equally false location on the back porch of the rectory.

I wondered if my task was done. If so, it had been a rather short adventure. I hastily recast my thoughts. I was not adventuring, definitely not. A rather short mission was a much more appropriate description.

If I would soon be boarding the Rescue Express for my return to Heaven, there were two stops I couldn’t resist making.

Broad windows on either side of a huge limestone fireplace overlooked a patio bordered by Bradford pears. Dancing flames crackled in the fireplace. Comfortable sofas and easy chairs, a game table, two walls of bookshelves, and shining pegged wooden planks created a warm and lovely room.

However, I was startled when I saw the woman sitting near the fire. For an instant I felt confused. I was here, so how could I be there? She was speaking into one of those curious telephones. Even her voice seemed like mine “. . . be glad to help with the chili supper except Mike and I will be out of town that weekend . . .” Of course. Dil and Mike. I remembered their wedding as if it were only yesterday. She was always young in my memory and now as she talked and laughed, occasionally smoothing back a golden red curl, I realized she was on the sassy side of forty-five. I hoped she hadn’t minded becoming so much like her mother.

I wafted near, bent, touched my lips to her hair.

Dil broke off. In a moment she spoke again. “Sorry, Ellen, I missed what you said. Oh, do I sound odd? No, nothing’s wrong. I had the strangest feeling my mom was here. No.” Her eyes moved to a picture of me and Bobby Mac on the Serendipity. ”No, she died a long time ago. You would have liked her . . .” 36

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. . . .

The thump of the small black ball caroming around the walls combined with hoarse grunts and the scrape of athletic shoes on the floor.

Rob’s thatch of flaming red hair had thinned. He was a little portly but he’d always been built like his dad. His dark eyes slitted in concentration. Muscles tensed as he swung.

My face creased in concern. Rob (Robert MacNeill Raeburn III) was truly a dear boy and a kind man, but he couldn’t help himself when he engaged in a sport. He revved up his motor and gave it his all.

The score was called. I was never too quick about numbers but I gathered the handball game was tied, Rob was serving, and if he prevailed, the match would be over.

His face was frightfully red.

In a flash, I darted into the court, timed my swing and scooped up a ball a scant inch from the floor, and drilled it into the corner, barely escaping Rob’s tardy lunge.

Rob blinked, glanced at his hand, which had missed by half a foot. “Game.”

His opponent blinked, too, then shrugged. “Good shot, Rob.” He stared at the corner. “Kind of miraculous, actually.” He shrugged again, grinned. “Spot you to a brew.” I decided it would only be proper to check on Kathleen. She was my responsibility until I felt she was no longer in peril. That done, I might immediately be on my way back to Heaven if my assignment was completed. Should there be more for me to do, I must return to earthly ways and have a moment’s respite. After all, when on earth even though not of the earth, I was affected by temporal realities. I’d 37

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had a momentary lift from my glimpse of Dil and Rob, but I was tired, hungry, and thirsty from the excitements of my arrival at the rectory and that challenging trip to the cemetery.

I wondered if Lulu’s was still on Main Street next door to the bank. Lulu’s was a single storefront wide and twenty feet deep, with a counter that ran the length of the grill and room for a half-dozen booths. Onion burgers were her specialty, topped by grated longhorn cheese and chili. Mmm. A burger and fries with a frosty root beer would lift my spirit.

But, duty first.

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Acuckoo clock warbled the quarter hour. No wonder I was hungry. Bobby Mac expected his supper at six-thirty sharp and it was past seven. He groused when we had to go out to dinner. As far as he was concerned, dinner at eight was more than late, it was an offense to the natural order. Bobby Mac was big on the natural order. I grinned and hoped the tarpon was giving him a majestic battle. I wouldn’t tell him I’d given Rob’s handball a slight bit of assistance. Men are so sticky about rules.

I adored the new color scheme in the rectory kitchen, lots of orange and yellow and tomato red. A golden oak table overlooked the windows to the back porch. Chairs at either end and two on each side afforded plenty of space. I felt at home when I saw Fiesta din-nerware. Two azure plates topped by butter-yellow soup bowls sat on red woven cotton place mats. The napkins were white and red gingham.

I especially liked the vivid painting of the Grand Canyon on the wall where our rector’s wife had placed a shaggy macramé in tones of beige, brown, and gray.

The flooring was new, no longer wood planks that had a distressing Ca ro ly n H a rt

tendency to slope in one corner. Instead, beige tiles were interspersed with blocks of smaller red, yellow, and orange tiles in a pyramid pattern. Instead of avocado green, the refrigerator was a shiny steel color with two vertical doors, one small and one large. A pot bubbled on a flat surface with concentric rings where the stove had sat.

I wafted nearer, drawn both by the savory aroma and my interest in the gleaming surface with the coils. My, what a lot of controls. We had a gas stove. You turned it on, lit the flame, and cooked.

I found a hot pad, lifted the lid. Mmm. Brunswick stew. A light glowed in the oven. I opened the door, welcomed a rush of heat, and sighed in happiness at the old-fashioned heavy iron skillet with cornbread batter, one of my sister Kitty’s specialities.

Steps sounded from the central hallway. Slow steps. I heard a voice, but couldn’t distinguish words. Kathleen entered the kitchen.

She looked younger in the bright overhead light. Her dark curls were freshly brushed. She’d applied fresh makeup and changed into a berry-red turtleneck sweater and a long paisley skirt that swirled as she walked. Ah, she was talking into one of those new phones.

“. . . don’t know if the candles have arrived or not . . . Certainly the rector keeps track of orders, but he hasn’t mentioned it to me. I’ll let him know of your concern, Mrs. Harris.” Her voice was pleasant, but Kathleen surely wouldn’t want her face to freeze into a mask with those icy eyes and grim frown. “Certainly, Mrs. Harris. I know the ECW luncheon will be especially meaningful to everyone who is new to Adelaide. I will be there.” She whirled and stalked toward the stove.

Nimbly, I moved aside. She might be startled to bump into what seemed to be air. The thought caught me by surprise. I puzzled over the physics of it. I was invisible, but I knew I existed in space since I had no difficulty gripping the handles of the wheelbarrow, yet I was able to move through the solid medium of a door. Probably there was an equation that explained everything, but I’d never been good at math.

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Kathleen held the phone over the stove and punched a button. A grating buzz sounded. She pulled the phone back. “That’s the timer!

Excuse me, I have to run. Thanks for calling.” She punched a button, apparently ending the call. She turned off the timer and, mercifully, the noise ended.

“Clever.” Oh dear, there I went again.

Kathleen stiffened. Her eyes shifted nervously around the kitchen.

I didn’t hesitate. Wiggins would have to understand. As I appeared, Kathleen’s mouth opened, but no words came. My arrival was reflected in the mirror over the sink, and I had some understanding of her distress. At first, I wasn’t there. Suddenly colors misted and swirled, resolving into me, red curls damp from the misty night, green eyes glistening with eagerness, a friendly smile on my face. The red-and-black plaid jacket looked as new as the day I’d bought it. It did look a trifle unseasonable hanging over seersucker.

Since the kitchen was toasty, I slipped out of the jacket, tossed it to a straight chair near the door. I nodded approval. I’ve always loved seersucker, though I would have to think about winter clothes if I was going to be here very long. I glanced again at Kathleen. Perhaps a white turtleneck and a crimson wool skirt and black pumps would be better.

Kathleen gasped. “How did you do that?” I checked the mirror. I must remember that the thought is mother to the deed. I managed not to preen. But honestly, and speaking without pride because we all know what pride goeth before, the combination was striking. I studied my reflection judiciously. Possibly a crimson scarf might add an accent.

Kathleen moaned and backed away, apparently an unfortunate habit of hers. She held up shaking hands. “You aren’t here. It’s all in my mind.”

It was time to set her straight. “I am here. At least, I am here for the moment. Don’t be frightened. I want to help you.” I couldn’t resist 41

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a small complaint. “I had rather thought you’d stay long enough to assist me in the cemetery.”

Her eyes were huge. “There was a light in the mausoleum and voices and I was scared. I didn’t think you were there.” I understood she might have felt abandoned. “Some boys on a Halloween prank. I couldn’t let them take Maurice’s greyhound.” She watched me uneasily. “You sound as though you knew him.

Maurice, not the dog.”

“Everyone knew Maurice and Hannah.” I wouldn’t claim intimacy. The Pritchards were one of the first families of Adelaide.

“Sure. Of course.” She spoke soothingly, as if to a child describing an encounter with Martians. “Right.”

I almost took issue, but time would prove my claim and Kathleen would offer a suitable apology for doubting me. “All’s well that ends well.” I was willing to be charitable. “Did you put the wheelbarrow in the shed?”

Kathleen shuddered. “I put it up and pushed the button inside to lock the door. I folded up the tarp and put it out there.” She bent her head toward the porch. “I’ll never use it again. Never—”

“Steady.” I reached out to pat her arm, but she moved away.

“All right.” Her tone was resigned. “You know everything, so you must really be here.” She still faced me with her hands raised, palms out. Not a welcoming gesture. “If you’re here, who are you?” That was a reasonable question. A woman has every right to know the identity of a guest—especially an unexpected guest—in her kitchen. The difficulty was in knowing how much to say. Whip quick, I decided a long-winded explanation of my history and connection to Adelaide was surely unimportant. I matter-of-factly announced, “I’m Bailey Ruth Raeburn.”

The effect was amazing. Kathleen’s eyes widened. She appeared to be having difficulty breathing.

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I put my hands on my hips, possibly in a confrontational manner.

“For Heaven’s sake, what’s wrong with you now?” She struggled for breath. The words came in uneven spurts.

“. . . crazy . . . has to be all in my mind . . . she’s dead . . . that’s Grandmother’s sister . . .” Then, angrily, “Why are you impersonat-ing my grandmother’s sister?”

I flung myself toward her, wrapped my arms around stiff shoulders. “You’re Kitty’s granddaughter? How wonderful.” Finally I loosed my embrace of her rigid body. “Kathleen, your grandmama would be mighty upset to know you were treating me this way.”

“You’re too young.” Her tone was accusing.

What sweet words. “I’m me. As I was.” And will always be. Odd to think that on earth though wrinkles had come and a sprinkling of silver in my hair and an occasional pang that our time here was fleeting, I’d still, deep within, been fresh and new. Now that was the me Kathleen saw. I wondered how the world would be if no one judged anyone else on the basis of age. Perhaps I could write a letter to the editor . . . Oh, Wiggins would deplore a public statement. I’d have to mull this over, but for now Kathleen must be persuaded. “My dear, take my word for it. You see, Heaven has no calendar for anyone.”

She squinted at me. “You do look like an old picture of Grandmother’s sister.” Kathleen looked wily. “How did you die?”

“A storm in the Gulf. Bobby Mac and I went down in the Serendipity.”

She folded her arms. “You could have looked that up somewhere.”

“My dear, you have such a suspicious nature. If you have any doubt about who I am, Kitty always had a cat named Spoofer. It didn’t matter whether that cat was black or white or tortoiseshell, that cat was Spoofer. I don’t know where anyone would look that up.” Kathleen swallowed, said jerkily, “Spoofer.” 43

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“The last Spoofer”—I was emphatic—“was all black except she had white whiskers and a white throat and tummy and four white paws. And she bit.”

Suddenly there was a thump. I looked on the table. A huge black cat walked majestically toward us, yellow eyes gleaming.

Kathleen waved weakly. “Get down, Spoofer.” I laughed aloud.

Kathleen didn’t join in. Instead she walked unsteadily to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sank into it.

I followed, settling on the opposite side of the table. How dear of Wiggins to send me to help Kitty’s granddaughter. I hoped I was scheduled to stay for a while. Since I was still here, there must be more for me to do. Perhaps I was expected to offer reassurance, though so far my appearance had not appeared to afford Kathleen any pleasure.

“We’re family. Now—”

The phone rang.

Kathleen popped up and grabbed the little phone. She glanced at the tiny window and smiled. She was genuinely pretty when she looked happy. She answered with a lilt. “Bill.” As she listened, the smile fled. “Sure. I know. Of course. Try to grab something to eat.” Her shoulders sagged. She walked back to the chair, dropped into it. “Sure. See you.” She clicked off the phone, set it on the table.

“Whenever.” She buried her face in her hands. Her body sagged in sad resignation.

“What’s wrong?” I would have liked to give her a hug, but I didn’t want to see her cringe.

She dropped her hands, pulled a Kleenex from her pocket, swiped away tears. “I wouldn’t cry except everything’s so awful. And I can’t even tell him—”

I scooted forward in my chair. “Who’s Bill?”

“How can you know all about Grandmother and not know who Bill is?” Her eyes glinted with suspicion.

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I took a deep breath and launched into my narrative. I tried to be cogent, though she looked bewildered about Wiggins and the Rescue Express, but finally she seemed to understand.

Huge brown eyes stared at me. “You’re a ghost.”

“Shh.” I looked warily around. Wiggins would not be pleased.

In fact, I had the strangest feeling that he was quite near, his walrus mustache quivering in indignation. That was absurd. I mustn’t get nervy. Perhaps Kathleen’s uneasiness was affecting me.

Kathleen hunched in her chair, her eyes huge. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Huh-uh.”

“I am an emissary.” That was Wiggins’s line, and I was stuck with it.

“If you’re dead and you’re here”—Kathleen thumped the table—

“you are a ghost.”

“All right, ghost it is.” I spoke soothingly. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m a ghost or emissary.” Why did I feel a sudden chill?

“The point is that I am here to rescue you from an almighty mess.” Kathleen rubbed her face with the tissue. “Mess. That’s what it is. A great big mess. Your Wiggins had it right when he said I was in dire straits. I am definitely in dire straits even if it sounds like an episode from The Perils of Pauline.” I clapped my hands. “Mama loved Pearl White. Mama said she had the most expressive eyes and great grace and style. Mama showed us pictures. I loved the hairstyles then, those soft puffy curls. Pauline was so daring. I hope I can do half as well.” Kathleen closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, shook her head. “Spoofer and The Perils of Pauline and a body on the back porch.” Her smile was strained, though she tried to be gracious. “I appreciate your good intentions, Bailey Ruth, but maybe . . .” She looked yearningly at the back door. “Maybe you can go on back to wherever you came from now. Everything will be all right now that Daryl’s gone.” She pressed fingers against her cheeks. “Except some-45

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body brought him here. That scares me. What if they know—” She broke off, her expression distraught.

I began to suspect my task wasn’t done. What could be known about Kathleen and a man whose body had been dumped on her back porch? “Know what?” I didn’t have two red-haired children to no avail. Anybody who can survive the teenage travails of two redheads can worm the truth out of anyone. I fixed a commanding eye on Kathleen.

I saw the desire to jump and run, and I saw her shoulders slump.

I doubt she quite articulated her thought, but, clearly, wherever she went, I could go and no doubt would.

She drew a ragged breath. “—about me and Daryl Murdoch at his lake cabin Wednesday. Or about Raoul. What if Daryl wrote something down? It would be just like him. I don’t care what I say, nobody will ever believe nothing happened. Bill would be so hurt. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with Raoul except it’s always the same old story.” She pointed at the phone. “Bill calls and he can’t come home for dinner. Tonight he’s at the hospital. Old Mr. Worsham is dying and he’s with the family. I understand. But if it isn’t the hospital, it’s a vestry meeting or the finance committee or a Lions Club dinner or somebody who needs counseling or . . .” Tears trickled down pale cheeks. “It’s always something for somebody and never for me. I know it’s wonderful he can be rector of such a fine old church—”

Of course. Bill was the rector of St. Mildred’s. That made everything clear.

“—but he never has a free minute. He spends more time with other people’s kids than he ever does with Bayroo—” I had to interrupt. “That’s such an interesting name. What is its origin?”

“Oh, that’s funny.” She was laughing and crying at the same time.

“Bayroo is Bailey Ruth. After you. She was born on your birthday, 46

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and when Grandmother heard she had red hair, she asked me please to name her after you. Bayroo couldn’t say Bailey Ruth when she was little, just the beginnings of both names. She’d say ‘Bai Ru,’ and we started calling her Bayroo.”

“And it stuck.” I tried not to sound too proud. No wonder I felt such empathy with Bayroo. And here was her mama, Kitty’s granddaughter, in about the direst straits possible. Obviously, I had my work cut out for me. “Bayroo looks like a happy girl.” Kathleen used both hands to wipe her cheeks. She sat up straight.

“So why am I such a mess?”

I was crisp. “Don’t take everything personally.” She flared right back. “I didn’t know ‘for better or worse’ meant always taking second place to the church. Bill’s wonderful. He’s good and kind and funny and sweet. That’s why I fell in love with him.

But he never takes time for himself and that means he never takes time for me.”

I looked at her kindly. “Which brings us, I expect, to Daryl and Raoul.” I fervently hoped there had not been a romantic entanglement with Daryl Murdoch. I remembered that Errol Flynn mustache. Surely Kathleen had better taste. As yet, I knew nothing about Raoul, though I had some suspicions.

Her mobile lips drooped. “I felt up to here”—she chopped the edge of her hand at her throat—“with the ECW and the Altar Guild and Winifred Harris, though I know she’s a nasty exception. Most of them are old dears who are as kind as can be. Sweet Mrs. Douglas keeps bringing me cherry pies. She knows I’m blue and she thinks a cherry pie solves everything. Sadie Marrs brings by the nicest clothes from her shop”—she touched her turtleneck—“in exactly my size and insists they were used in a style show so of course she can’t sell them and they are as good as new and of course they are new and she knows we don’t have a dime and she thinks pretty outfits will get Bill’s attention. Sometimes I think everybody in town knows I’m a 47

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church widow. If I were a golf widow, I could learn to play the game, but what can I do about the church?”

I understood. The rector of a small church has to do practically everything himself and works from dawn to midnight. His wife is always onstage. As for Mrs. Harris, I knew the type. I’d dealt with a few overbearing ladies in my years at the church. I remembered, with a distinct lack of charity, Jolene Baker, who never thought anyone could iron the linens as well as she and didn’t mind saying so.

Kathleen looked forlorn. “Bayroo’s busy as can be. That’s what I want for her, but the house is empty now most of the time. She’s in the choir and she plays tennis and soccer and half the time she’s having dinner with Lucinda, then going to the Baptist church because they have the biggest youth group in town. Friday night they’re having a Halloween skating party at the roller rink in their gym and tonight Bayroo’s at Lucinda’s helping plan our Spook Bash. It’s on Saturday from four to eight. Last night she went to the youth meeting with Lucinda. There are some on the vestry who don’t like the idea of the rector’s daughter going to the Baptist youth group on Wednesday nights.

“Bill stood up to them and said he was glad Bayroo wanted to go and learn Scripture verses, and if they played games in the Baptist youth group and had fun, too, so much the better. He pointed out how he’d proposed building a youth center and the vestry hadn’t agreed. Daryl Murdoch was the main obstacle, insisting the church couldn’t afford that kind of expenditure even if the Goddard family was willing to put up the major portion of the cost.” The Goddards. That was an old name in Adelaide dating back to the time when the first oil field was discovered. How nice that some of the family still lived here and still served as patrons of the church. But we were getting rather far afield from Daryl and Raoul.

Or Raoul and Daryl. “You were fed up. What did you do?”

“I decided to take Spanish at the college—” 48

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One of Adelaide’s charms is Goddard, the four-year college es-tablished shortly after the city was founded, the land donated by the Goddard family. The campus is in the historic part of town not far from the rectory. Adelaide is hilly and Goddard’s ivy-twined, red-brick buildings spread over three hills.

“—and Raoul Chavez was my teacher. He seemed to like me and I was one of the best students and we got into the habit of having coffee in the union.”

“Handsome?” I pictured the young Anthony Quinn I’d seen in Turner Classic Movie reruns.

She nodded. “He has a wonderful laugh.”

“Single?” Did I need to ask?

Another nod. “He told me he’d never met the right woman.” She bit her lip. “Until he met me.”

I wished I could place my hands on each shoulder and give Kathleen a gentle shake. Or maybe I should get her a primer: Single Men Who Flirt with Married Women Are Up to No Good. “All of the fun and none of the bother.”

She looked at me blankly.

Kathleen was definitely naive for a girl who grew up in Chicago.

“Of course he liked you. You were married and obviously at loose ends or why else take Spanish, and you probably had long soulful conversations over coffee about life, love, meaning, the universe, and his hand brushed yours and there were looks.” She was genuinely impressed. “Were you there?” I was startled when I realized she was serious. “No. I’ve just now been dispatched here. Had I been there, I would have spoken to you about the primrose path.”

She blinked.

The allusion didn’t register. I said gently, “Beware a stranger bearing gifts.”

Her face crinkled in thought.

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I put it baldly. “He had designs on your virtue from the moment you walked into class. Flattering, of course.” She gasped. “But I thought—he was so reluctant—he said he knew we had no future—”

Except, of course, for idyllic sweet-sorrow assignations at his apartment and no danger of entanglement.

“—and he knew he’d always love me and we might have just a brief moment together—”

“He invited you to his apartment one rainy afternoon, and when you came . . .”

Her cheeks turned rosy red. ”I walked in and looked at him and all I saw was Bill and Bayroo and I turned around and walked out.”

“You felt cruel, leaving his wounded heart behind you, and you didn’t go back to class and dropped the course. But somehow Daryl Murdoch found out.”

She was astonished. “How do you know this?” It wasn’t the moment to explain that I, too, had once been young and naive. I still had interesting memories and I’d learned to dance a dramatic tango. Ah, Latin men. I settled for a dictum: “A married woman must never trust a single man.” Or married ones, for that matter, but we couldn’t cover all the bases tonight.

“I never will again. Oh, damn, I don’t know how I got into so much trouble.”

The buzzer sounded on the oven. “The cornbread’s done.” She looked at the clock and abruptly jumped up, “I’ve got to eat something. The Bible study class will be here in about twenty minutes.

The stew’s ready. But there’s nobody here to care.”

“Not so.” To me, the succulent stew was a matter of great interest. “I’d love to have a bowl.” I thought under the circumstances I wasn’t being too forward to invite myself to dinner, though Mama had always been strict with us: “Don’t let me ever catch you kids asking for food at someone’s house. Wait till it’s offered.” 50

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Kathleen looked surprised. “Do you eat?”

“When invited.” I grinned at her.

She managed a smile. “I’ll move Bill’s plate—” She stopped, her face suddenly stricken, one hand holding the lid from the pot, as she stared at the table.

I stared, too. All I saw were the place settings and, of course, that cunning small telephone.

Emotions rippled over her face, recollection, shock, panic. “Daryl’s cell!”

I was bewildered. Cell? Did he have monastic interests? Surely she’d not visited him in a cell. Was she confusing the mausoleum with a cell?

She banged the lid back on the pot, whirled, and started for the back door. “I’ve got to get it. He took pictures of me when I was at the cabin, and if they find it and see, I’ll be in a terrible mess.” I plunged after her, grabbed her arm as she tugged at the door handle. “Cell? He isn’t in a cell.”

She tried to wriggle free. “His cell phone. His cell takes pictures.” I made the connection. I’d heard the ring and even picked it up.

How amazing. A little phone could take pictures? But it must be so. Nothing but the hideous reality of images captured in the phone would explain her panic.

“Let go.” She yanked her arm free. “I have to get that phone or I’m ruined.”

As the door banged open, I grabbed her hand. “The police are there.”

She stumbled to a stop, her face despairing. “The police are there?

Already? They’ve found him?”

I explained about Marvin and Buzzy’s good citizenship. I glanced at the clock. “The police have been there a good twenty minutes now.

The chief had just arrived when I left. They were expecting someone else.” I couldn’t remember. “Something about a laboratory.” 51

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She leaned against the wall, unable to move.

“Daryl’s phone has pictures of you?” I wanted to be sure I understood.

“He laughed, asked me if I wanted him to put them on the church Web site. I knew he wouldn’t because of his wife. But there they are, in his phone. The police—oh, what am I going to tell them? What am I going to tell Bill? He knows I loathed Daryl and wouldn’t have gone to his cabin unless I had to.”

Web site? That conjured up an odd and ominous picture of a gauzy web. I didn’t have time to ask for an explanation. “You stay here. I’ll go to the cemetery and see what I can do.” Obviously, I didn’t intend to walk. Time was clearly of the essence.

I disappeared. Kathleen shuddered. Poor Kathleen. She should be getting the hang of it. I was.

I landed on a tree above the body. I shivered and and wished I’d brought the red-and-black plaid jacket. Oh, how nice. I welcomed its warmth. I buttoned the front, felt much more comfortable.

Now, where was Daryl’s cell phone and how was I going to get it?

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Isat on the branch of a cottonwood and watched the scene below in fascination. Bobby Mac would be impressed when I told him. The activity under way was as taut with suspense as any battle with a tarpon. Brilliant spotlights arranged in a square illuminated Daryl Murdoch’s resting place. Yellow tape fluttered from poles jammed into the ground. A slender man in a French-blue uniform stood on the mausoleum steps. He held a camera and slowly panned the area.

Just inside the fluttering tape, a big man with grizzled black hair stared down at the body. He stood with hands jammed in the pockets of his crumpled brown suit. His hairline receded from a rounded forehead, now creased in concentration. His eyes were deep set in a heavy face with a large nose large and blunt chin.

I studied him, trying to recall . . . Oh yes. He reminded me strongly of Broderick Crawford in All the King’s Men, the same open countenance and burly build, the same aura of power. A man to be reckoned with.

A rustle sounded in the bushes. An officer stepped toward the man in the brown suit. “Hey, Chief. Take a look at this.” Ca ro ly n H a rt

The police chief strode near. “What you got?” The officer pointed a flashlight beam toward the ground. “Crowbar. No rust. Doesn’t look like it’s been here long.” The chief frowned. “Get pics. Measure. Bag it up.” I supposed many extraneous objects were gathered up in the search of a crime scene. I turned back to the body. As far as I could tell, it had not been moved. Did that mean the picture mechanism was still in his pocket? Kathleen had called it his cell phone, which was certainly a curious use of the word. A walkabout telephone that took pictures seemed quite remarkable to me.

A half-dozen cars were parked on the road on the other side of the Pritchard mausoleum. Most had their lights on and the beams illuminated trees with thinned leaves and old tombstones. A yellow convertible with the top down pulled up behind a white van. The driver’s door opened. A youngish man in a navy pullover sweater, faded jeans, and tennis shoes swung out. He shaded his eyes. “A ca-daver in the cemetery? You guys pulling my leg, putting on a special Halloween party for me?”

The chief glanced down at the body. “Not even for you, Doc, would we go to this much trouble. We got a body. Daryl Murdoch.” He spoke the name without pleasure.

The young man gave a whistle. He jumped lightly over the tape, but he took care to land on the sidewalk. “Daryl the mighty? Has the dancing begun?” As he spoke, he moved to the body, knelt. For a long moment he observed. “Somebody have second thoughts?” He pointed at the bouquet I’d placed in those lax hands.

The chief nodded. “Yeah. We’d noticed. Odd.” The doctor scanned the ground nearby. “You find a gun?”

“Nope.” The big man reached in his suit-jacket pocket, pulled out a package of spearmint.

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handle harsh reality with nonchalance. And, of course, the incredible intimacy of a small town. Everybody didn’t know everybody, but if you had any prominence at all, you were known. Even more important was the fact that someone always saw you. It was that simple. No matter where you were or what time or with whom or why, somebody saw you.

Kathleen didn’t understand how anyone had been privy to her visit to the bachelor professor’s apartment. She was the rector’s wife.

She was known. Perhaps the apartment manager saw her. Or the postman. Or Raoul’s next-door neighbor. Or a bicyclist. Or . . .

The big man sighed heavily. “Already got a call from the Gazette and from the Oklahoma City paper and a couple of TV stations.” He sounded aggrieved. “What can I tell ’em, Doc?”

“DOA.” A chortle.

There was no answering smile. “Yeah. And?” The doctor pulled a tubular flashlight from his pocket, trained it on the small crusted circular wound in Murdoch’s left temple. A fine red line had trickled and dried from the wound to his cheekbone. “It isn’t official until I do the autopsy, but you can say preliminary examination suggests he was shot to death by a small-caliber weapon.” He turned the grayish face to one side. “No sign of an exit wound.

Probably means it was a twenty-two and the bullet lodged in the skull. That’s all I can tell you for now, Chief.” The chief snapped his gum. “Killed here?” The doctor shrugged. “Can’t say. No rigor yet, so he probably died within the last couple of hours, which means there won’t be any livid-ity. The blood pattern on the cheek would be more consistent with the body lying on its left side, not the back. Might have died here, but he could have been moved.”

Another heavy sigh. “On TV the doc can tell you he was sitting up when he was shot and he fell down on his left side, and from the way the blood settled, he was moved twice.” 55

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The young doctor bounced to his feet. “Go watch TV. It’s always good for a laugh.” He jerked a thumb at the corpse. “Send him along.” He was thudding toward his car when the chief called after him. “Suicide?”

The doctor stopped, looked around. “Thought you didn’t find a gun.”

“Right.” The chief moved out of the way as the slender man who had taken pictures stepped past him. Now he held a sketch pad. I craned to look. The camera rested on one of the mausoleum steps. I’d have liked to get a close look at his camera. Bobby Mac loved to film the family, but our camera had been huge in comparison.

The chief unwrapped another stick of gum. “The squeal came from a kid. Maybe he heisted the gun. Cool souvenir.” The doctor was skeptical. “I played tennis with Daryl. He cheated on line calls.” A cool glance at the dead man. “Anyway, he was right-handed. It’s a challenge for a right-handed person to shoot himself in the left side of the head.” He trotted back to Daryl, squatted on his heels. “Doesn’t look like the slug went in on a slant. I’ll check it out.” He came to his feet, headed for his car. He called over his shoulder,

“Since you didn’t find a gun, it’s probably homicide.” I wafted back to my branch, rocked by what I’d learned. My initial assumption may have been absolutely wrong. I’d decided Murdoch had died elsewhere because there was no blood and mess on Kathleen’s porch. That may not have been the case. He may have been shot on the rectory porch, the bullet remaining in his skull.

If Murdoch was shot on the porch, it suggested the unpleasant possibility that the murderer accompanied Murdoch to the rectory and shot him there for the express purpose of ensnaring Kathleen.

The rectory seemed an unlikely place for a spontaneous quarrel and attack.

Did Kathleen have a bitter enemy? Or was she simply an attractive candidate for suspect number one?

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The doctor strolled toward his car, whistling through his teeth. The slender man continued to sketch on his pad. Every so often, Anita, one of the first police personnel to arrive, called out information to her fellow patrol officer. “. . . four feet nine inches south of the steps . . .” I was impressed by the meticulous record that was being made.

However, this record was irrelevant. Oh dear. What had I wrought? Words danced in my mind. It was almost as if Wiggins were at my elbow, reciting: impulsive, rash . . .

Well, what was done was done and I had to focus on what I should do to rectify my possible error. At this point, only I—and, of course, Kathleen—knew the investigation was beginning from the wrong place.

Oh yes, someone else knew. The murderer.

I didn’t see any way to point the authorities to the true locale of the crime without involving Kathleen. Yet if the investigation went in the wrong direction, there was no one to blame but me. That made it my solemn responsibility to provide aid and encouragement to these hardworking officials.

I can only stress my absorption in the shouldering of this task to defend myself from responsibility in what followed. I was, in fact, so consumed with concern that it took a long moment for the ripple of music to register.

When it did, I gasped aloud. Fortunately, no one heard me. I suppose a puff of sound from a tree branch wasn’t noticeable in the creaking of limbs in the wind and the crunch of leaves underfoot on the periphery of the scene.

I realized perhaps an instant before the chief that Daryl’s phone was ringing. Of course I’d heard it before and even held it in my hand.

Panic swept me. Inchoate thoughts bounced in my mind, unruly as flung marbles: . . . got to get it . . . Kathleen’s picture . . . mustn’t be seen . . . if I’d paid attention to business . . .

I reached the body at the same time as the chief. He pulled on plastic gloves of some sort as he knelt.

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I plunged my hand into Daryl’s jacket pocket. As I did, the pocket visibly moved.

The chief ’s hand stopped inches away. He had the air of a man who refuses to accept what his eyes are telling him.

I edged out the phone.

He shook his head, blinked, grabbed for it.

The chief’s hand closed around mine.

I held tight.

The chief grunted, tightening his grip around my hand. “Funny shape to this damn thing.”

My fingers crunched against metal. “Ouch.” He shot a startled glance at the young policewoman standing near. “Was that you, Anita? Something wrong?” He didn’t ease the pressure on my hand.

“Chief?” She stepped closer, her face attentive.

“You hurt yourself?” He looked up in concern.

“Not me. Jake?”

Jake strode forward, bent toward the chief. “Anything wrong, sir?”

I dug my heels into the ground, but I was losing the battle. There was only one solution. With my left hand, I gave the chief’s fanny a big pinch.

Startled, he let go of the phone and my hand and shot to his feet like a man poked by a pitchfork. “What the heck!” His exclamation brought everyone to a standstill. All eyes focused on him.

He looked around, frowning. “Something poked me in the rear.

I guess a bug or something got me.” He gave Jake, who was nearest him, an odd glance.

By this time I was once again on my tree limb. My heart raced.

Obtaining the phone had been touch and go. I held tight to it, but I was far from home free. What if it rang again? All eyes would swing up. Probably there was a means of forestalling that occurrence, but I 58

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didn’t have any idea what it might be. I couldn’t simply secrete it up here in the tree. The ding-dong ring would reveal its hiding place immediately.

“Jake, did you jab me with something sharp?” Jake looked shocked. “No, sir. There was nothing close to you.

Absolutely nothing.”

The chief shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s see. Oh yeah, that phone.”

I worried about taking the phone to the rectory. If it were found there, Kathleen would be in direr straits than she’d ever imagined.

However, I had no expertise with the cunning little machine and I needed Kathleen’s help. Wafting through the air with the phone in hand posed a danger. Even though it was dark, someone might glimpse an airborne object in the glare of a passing headlight or in the radiance of a streetlamp. That would cause comment.

I had an instant’s qualm. Had I undertaken a task beyond my capabilities? Sternly, I quelled my misgivings. I was on a mission.

If there were unfortunate repercussions, odd incidents that would go down in Adelaide folklore as the peculiar occurrences attendant upon the discovery of Daryl Murdoch’s body in the cemetery one wind-whipped night shortly before Halloween, so be it.

Below, flashlights crisscrossed the ground. The chief knelt again by the body. “The damn phone has to be here. Everybody stay where you are. Jake, grab me a Maglite.”

All eyes were on the ground. I made my move.

I was learning more and more about my invisible state. When unen-cumbered by objects, if I were in one spot and desired to be in another, I promptly found myself there. Material possessions required passage through the material world. That is to say, when I was on the branch and resolved that, whatever the risk, I must confer with 59

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Kathleen, I did not make an instantaneous leap to the rectory kitchen as I had from the rectory kitchen to the crime scene. Instead I swooped from the branch to the rectory and, in consequence, passed over the church parking lot.

Below me two elderly women were progressing slowly toward a large white car. One leaned on a cane. The other bobbed beside her, speaking in a club woman’s clarion voice. “Absolutely a disgrace that the rector—”

The ding-dong bell of Daryl’s phone pealed, its shrillness emphasized in the quiet of the parking lot.

The woman with the cane jolted to a stop. She looked up, startled.

“Look, Maisie.” She pointed her cane at the sky.

The smaller woman’s gaze rose, but, fortunately, I was beyond the bright circle from the light pole. “What?” The voice was loud.

The older woman bellowed, “Maisie, don’t you have your hearing aid turned on? There was a bell and something flew by right up there.” She gestured with the cane. “It sounded like a cell phone. It looked like a cell phone. Up there all by itself!” Maisie looked huffy. Her voice had the loudness of the hard of hearing. “I declare, Virginia, you don’t need to try and fool me with any Halloween nonsense just to make me turn on that fool hearing aid that makes me feel like I’m inside a washing machine. And—

Virginia, look over there. All those lights in the cemetery. Oh, my goodness, something’s happened. We’d better go see.” Maisie headed for the path to the cemetery.

Virginia couldn’t keep up with her short plump friend. Her progress was also slowed because she kept pausing to look back, her face a study in bewilderment tinged by shock.

I wished I could reassure Virginia. Obviously, she was a woman who knew what she had seen. But I had problems of my own. I waited in the darkness near the trunk of the big sweet gum behind the rectory. At all costs, I hoped to prevent anyone else from glimps-60

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ing the phone. I was tempted to appear so I could slip the thing in my pocket. I started to appear, changed my mind. It would be just as detrimental for me to be seen as for the airborne phone. Adelaide was a small town. I would immediately be noted as a stranger and, once seen, an interesting subject for discussion.

I could imagine the conversations now: “Who was that redheaded woman in the backyard of the rectory Thursday night?” “She was there and then she seemed to disappear. Do you suppose she was visiting Kathleen?” “Did you ask her name?” ”I was hurrying toward her and then she was gone.”

I know small towns. I was positive calls had already begun, spread-ing word of Daryl Murdoch’s demise to almost every household in Adelaide. Virginia and Maisie wouldn’t waste an instant in sharing the exciting news about a body in the cemetery.

I dared not appear where I might be glimpsed by anyone other than Kathleen. The best I could do was lurk in deep shadow until I could slip unremarked into the rectory and find her. I was beginning to feel frazzled.

Suddenly a deep voice boomed, “Bailey Ruth.” I shrieked.

“Bailey Ruth, please.”

I felt instant empathy with Kathleen. I would be more understanding in the future if she exhibited distress at an unexpected voice apparently coming from nowhere. I looked frantically around, struggling to breathe without hiccuping. I saw only shifting shadows made more ominous by the moan of the wind.

“Wiggins?” My voice wobbled.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me for catching you unaware, but you’ve been dashing about.” He sounded plaintive. “In and out. Here and there.”

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Indeed, I had covered a lot of ground. I swiftly reviewed the evening’s activities—making contact with Kathleen, moving the body to the cemetery, retrieving the cell phone. I’d packed quite a bit of action into a short period. I doubted Wiggins’s usual emissaries achieved this much this early. Perhaps he’d come to commend me.

“Wiggins.” I almost had my breathing under control. “How nice of you to come.” I wondered if it would be impolite to ask that in the future he somehow let me know of his presence before shouting my name. It would be even nicer, more comfortable, if we both appeared and I’d see him in his stiff cap and crisp white shirt and gray flannel trousers. That would be much jollier than voices unattached to bodies. Clearly, we would see each other if we were in Heaven, yet such was not the case on earth. That required becoming visible, not a state Wiggins viewed with favor. I supposed he’d located me by following the suspended cell phone.

There was a rumble. It sounded like distant thunder, then I realized Wiggins had cleared his throat.

“It is imperative that we speak.” His tone was heavy, dour as a high school principal discussing a panty raid with the chief raider. (A true-life experience for one Rob Raeburn many years ago. His daddy thought the entire episode was funny.) I tried to lighten the moment. “Speaking with you is always a pleasure, Wiggins.” Was fudging the truth a misdemeanor or a felony at the Department of Good Intentions? “You‘ve caught me at a bad time. I’m working hard to extricate Kathleen from a truly difficult situation.”

“Bailey Ruth, there must be no more departures from the Precepts.

I understand you are new at this, but rules are rules. Already”—he held up a hand, ticked off my offenses one by one—“you have encouraged the popular misconception about”—he shuddered, forced out the word—“ghosts by becoming visible. Moreover, you have attracted unwarranted attention at the mausoleum, pinched the police 62

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chief, stolen that contraption, and displayed it above the church parking lot. These incidents will combine”—horror lifted his voice—“to suggest the cemetery is haunted.”

Twigs crackled nearby.

I feared Wiggins was pacing.

A heavy sigh sounded. “You have done all of this in the space of less than two hours earthly time.”

“Oh.” I was not to be commended. “Kathleen’s not in jail.” My voice was small.

There was such a long silence I wondered if he had left. Then I thought—perhaps I dreamed it—I heard a faint chuckle.

“Well put.” His tone had warmed. “We do not subscribe to the belief that the ends justify the means, but I agree that so far you have executed your duties as capably as possible.” I brightened.

Another sigh. “For you. There’s the difficulty. You may well not be suited to serve as an emissary—”

I interrupted swiftly or I suspect I might have been handed a return ticket on the Rescue Express. Did I smell coal smoke? “Trust me, Wiggins. I’ll be a model of subtlety from now on.” Headlights swept over the sweet gum as a car turned into the rectory drive. Two more cars arrived. Doors banged. Loud cries of greeting ensued. There was the enthusiasm of friends gathering who had likely not seen one another for all of a day and a half.

Abruptly I realized I was alone below the sweet gum. Faintly I heard an admonitory order: “Follow the Precepts.” A pause, and fainter still, “Please.”

Oh, sweet Heaven. I was still here. I had another chance to do my best.

Wiggins would be proud of me. I could be subtle. Certainly I could.

The chattering group moved toward the rectory back door. I smiled. Adelaide’s church ladies hadn’t changed a whit since the days when I came for fellowship, bringing a plate of cookies or a casserole.

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I edged to the far side of the trunk, the phone well out of sight, and watched as seven—no, eight women surged onto the porch and into the house, chattering and laughing. Kathleen would be off-limits to me for an hour or so. After the lesson and discussion, there would be dessert and coffee.

Dessert . . . I was ravenous. I waited five minutes. No more cars arrived. I reached the door to the back porch and once again was reminded of my burdened state. There would be no slipping through the door without opening it. I reached for the handle, stopped, looked at the phone. It dangled inches from the entrance, its luminous window glowing sea green.

Despite my hunger, I knew my duty. It took only a moment to waft up to the roof. Once there, I squinted to see and struggled to keep from zooming into space. The night sky was a black pit without a hint of moonlight. The lights from the church lot afforded no illumination here. A fitful wind gusted out of the north, a harbinger of winter.

I moved close to the rooftop, up and over a peak to the central chimney. I tucked the phone next to the base of the chimney on the lee side. I was pleased. No one would find the phone there. The ring wouldn’t be heard over the rustle of branches and the keening of the wind. Now I go could inside.

I was in the kitchen when I heard a clatter at the back door. Bayroo’s high clear voice carried well. “Mom made some oatmeal cookies. We’ll have a snack, then go up and do our homework.” I was back on the roof in a flash. Bayroo would see me at once and I certainly couldn’t have dinner while she and Lucinda were at the kitchen table. I sighed. I felt that I’d spent a good deal more time on the roof than Santa’s reindeer. Then I smiled. It wouldn’t take the girls long to eat their cookies and meanwhile I would explore my surroundings, set up a base camp. I wondered if the guest bedroom was available.

Indeed it was. I turned on the light, welcoming the warmth within. I clapped my hands in appreciation of the burl-walnut bed 64

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topped by a snowy chenille spread. Puffy pillows looked extremely comfortable. A cozy nook held matching Egyptian Revival chairs with Sphinx-head armrests. The Herter wardrobe glistened with inlays of mother-of-pearl. I suspected a church patron had provided the beautiful Victorian furnishings so appropriate for the rectory.

This was a perfect spot for me. I was tempted to become present, but perhaps I should remain as I was until I’d studied the Precepts.

My lips curved upward. I wondered if this interlude had been arranged by Wiggins to provide me with a moment to chart my future on, of course, the basis of the Precepts.

I settled into one of the easy chairs. Hmm. Not the most comfortable of resting places. I plucked a downy pillow from the bed, placed it on the seat, sank comfortably down, and unfurled the shining parchment scroll that appeared as I thought of it.

PR ECEPTS FOR EARTHLY VISITATION

1. Avoid public notice.

2. No consorting with other departed spirits.

3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.

4. Become visible only when absolutely essential.

5. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.

6. Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.

7. Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, “Time will tell.”

I understood. What I knew wasn’t to be shared. Heavenly realities are confined to those in residence.

8. Remember always that you are on the earth, not . . .

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“Got it.” Oops. I’d spoken aloud. I must remember that in my present situation silence was golden, always a difficult concept for me. And, I think, for most redheads.

It was deflating to realize, as Wiggins had pointed out, that I’d already broken four of the eight Precepts. I’d do better tomorrow. I patted a Sphinx head for emphasis.

A high squeal in the hallway heralded the arrival of Bayroo and Lucinda on the second floor. I refurled the parchment and, out of mind, it disappeared. Now I could have dinner.

I thought and, presto, I was in the kitchen. Perhaps someday Wiggins would explain the dynamics to me. I moved toward the stove and felt bitter disappointment. No pot. Had Kathleen forgotten that she’d invited me to dinner? The cuckoo chimed the quarter hour.

Oh, it was almost nine o’clock. The engaging author of The Egg and I, Betty MacDonald, proclaimed that to dine at nine was divine. I was in fundamental disagreement. Seven is Heaven, but I would admit that delay had definitely enhanced my appetite.

A kitchen is a kitchen. In only a moment I had plucked the covered bowl from the refrigerator and poured a substantial portion of stew into a saucepan. It was a bit of trial and error, but I managed to turn on the stove top. Fortunately, the cornbread was still in the skillet. I cut a generous wedge, added a chunk of butter. I carried a bowl of steaming stew and a small plate with cornbread to the table.

It is more cheerful to say grace with a full table, but I nodded my head and murmured a favorite . . . “Bless this food to my use and me to your service . . .” The first spoonful was grand. Kathleen was a good cook. The stew was savory and the cornbread a twin of Kitty’s recipe. In fact, I was certain it was Kitty’s recipe, with buttermilk and a dollop of bacon grease. I enjoyed every mouthful, though my thoughts swirled uneasily.

If murder had occurred on the rectory back porch, where was Kathleen at the time? I don’t have a good head for puzzles. In school 66

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the very words thought problem made my head throb and my hands sweaty. Moreover, it was a matter of supreme indifference to me how long it took someone rowing four miles an hour to go six miles up-stream against a three-mile-an-hour current.

Unfortunately, what had happened and when and where to Daryl Murdoch was very near to being a thought problem. The examin-ing doctor said Daryl had been dead for a couple of hours. I worked backward, trying to estimate times. When I’d first arrived to find Kathleen discovering the body, it was dark and blustery from the heavy clouds, but there was a glow on the horizon from the setting sun. Kathleen and I discussed the situation and I located the wheelbarrow. That took at least fifteen minutes. I spooned a particularly delicious chunk of beef. I added another fifteen minutes to load him up and reach the mausoleum. How long had it taken for me to rout the boys and their crowbar? Five minutes, perhaps. I hadn’t remained long after they fled. Perhaps another five minutes. I arrived in the rectory kitchen at a quarter past seven. The times were approximate, but I figured that Kathleen found Daryl between six and six-thirty.

I was pleased with my calculations. Once I’d discovered what time he arrived at the rectory . . . Oh. That might be difficult. If he was shot on the porch, likely he was in the company of the murderer.

I doubted the murderer would cheerfully reveal times to me. If he was shot here—

The swinging door into the kitchen opened. As Kathleen stepped inside, she stopped, flat-footed. Her eyes widened. She executed an awkward turn to block the doorway. “Elise, I’ll see about the dishes.

Listen, there’s a special gift I think we should present to Miriam.” I listened with interest and scraped the last spoonful from my bowl. Kathleen sounded stressed. I was concerned for her. Tonight was not a good time for her to appear distraught. I would encourage her. Be of good cheer when others are near. Perhaps that could be her mantra. Everyone had had mantras in the sixties. Bobby Mac would 67

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stand at the top of the stairs and trumpet, “I am the tarpon man.” My mantra. I blushed. Perhaps that was better left to posterity.

A high sweet voice sounded puzzled. “Gift? I thought we were going to cut the cake.”

Cake? I looked around, saw a silver cake stand with a cover on the counter near the mixer. I wafted to it, lifted the lid. Burnt sugar, Kitty’s signature cake. I felt the same mixture of elation and delight I’d enjoyed as a girl when I received a new Nancy Drew. I resisted the impulse to edge just the tiniest taste of the delectable icing onto my finger.

“Upstairs.” Kathleen was gesturing wildly. “Please, Elise, go up to the sewing room. There’s—”

Silence stretched. I don’t want to claim that I am immediately empathetic. Yet I knew that poor dear Kathleen not only didn’t have a gift upstairs, but was frantically trying to think of some object for Elise to retrieve. I was at her side at once. I whispered into her ear.

“Pincushion.” The sewing room at the rectory always had a plethora of pincushions.

A jolt of electricity couldn’t have startled Kathleen more. She managed to convert a yelp into the cry, “Pincushion.” Elise stood with one hand on the doorjamb. Tall and thin, she stared at Kathleen with puzzled dark eyes. “Pincushion?”

“Yes. The red one.” Kathleen managed a smile. It was strained, but it was a smile. “It will be perfect for Miriam. I hadn’t had a chance to wrap it. There are paper and ribbons in the bottom drawer of the chest in the closet. Please wrap it. I’ll take care of the cake and coffee and you can bring it in and we’ll present it to Miriam.” Kathleen sounded frantic. Almost feverish. Perhaps I should remove my dishes from the table. It wouldn’t take a moment to wash up, put everything in order. I was surprised that a few dishes on the table upset her. There are women who must always have their kitchens in perfect order, especially when there are guests. I wouldn’t 68

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have thought Kathleen was that particular. I was at the sink when the kitchen door closed. Suddenly Kathleen was beside me. In fact, she bumped into me, recoiled, then grabbed the soup bowl, hissing,

“You‘ve got to stop doing things like this.” I relinquished the bowl. “My dear, you are under too much stress.

I was simply cleaning up—”

”What if Elise looked toward the table and saw a piece of cornbread move through the air and disappear? What if she saw the bowl and plate flying across the kitchen all by themselves?” Kathleen shot a hunted glance toward the door. “What if she comes back and hears me talking to no one?” She moved closer to the sink, automatically rinsed my dishes and silverware.

Oh. How could I have forgotten? However, it is difficult to remember I’m not here when I am. “I’m sorry.” I must be more careful.

That reminded me of my perilous journey with the phone. “Kathleen, you’ll be pleased to know I was able to retrieve Daryl’s phone.” Considering her present discomfiture, I thought it best not to mention that moment above the church parking lot.

“Where—”

The hall door swung in. Elise bustled toward the table, a tomato-red pincushion shaped like a teapot in one hand, pink wrapping paper, scissors, and tape in the other. My tête-à-tête with Kathleen would have to wait.

Elise deftly wrapped the pincushion, chattering all the while.

“I thought tonight’s discussion of Saint Philip Neri was excellent. I agree with his insistence that rigorism keeps Heaven empty.” When Elise fluttered paper, I used the crackling sound as cover and leaned near Kathleen to whisper, “We’ll talk in the morning.

The phone’s safe for now.”

I wished my whispers didn’t have such a galvanizing effect on Kathleen. Her eyes flared, her mouth opened, her hands opened and closed spasmodically.

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As she used the scissors to curl a strip of ribbon, Elise turned toward Kathleen. “And I love Saint Teresa’s—” Elise broke off, staring. The scissors snapped shut, cutting the ribbon in half. “Are you all right?”

“Just”—Kathleen gulped for breath—“scalded my hand.”

“Cutting the cake?” Elise looked toward the cake stand with its cover in place.

“The cake knife.” Kathleen whirled and moved to a drawer.

Elise looked at the stack of plates on the corner of the counter.

The plates contained no cake. “Why did you put the knife up? You haven’t cut the cake yet.”

“It was so hot. The water, you know.” Kathleen yanked open a cutlery drawer, drew out a serrated knife.

Elise unwound another long strip of ribbon. “You’d better check the hot water heater. It’s extremely dangerous . . .” I passed through the swinging door into the hall. Literally and with pleasure. It was such a bore to have to open and shut doors. I wanted to take a peek around the rectory before I slipped upstairs to my lovely guest room. My duties were done for the moment. Kathleen seemed to be safe. The police investigation was under way. In the morning, I would confer with Kathleen. For now, I was free to relax and consider my rather breathtaking day.

I was mindful that it behooved me to commit the Precepts to memory. Surely Wiggins understood that the opportunity for thoughtful consideration had so far eluded me due to circumstances utterly beyond my control. I pushed away the memory of his doleful voice. Hopefully, he had returned to the Department of Good Intentions. Perhaps another gh—emissary might benefit from consulta-tion. I would redouble my efforts to remain unnoticed.

In the hallway, I gave a sigh of sheer delight. I might have been transported as an eight-year-old to my Grandmother Shaw’s stately home in Fort Worth. Since my time the rectory had been restored to 70

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its Victorian glory. An ornately carved walnut Renaissance Revival étagère held a collection of Bristol glass, three vases, a mortar and pestle, and a fan holder. A pink porcelain clock on a center shelf was gilded with bronze. The hallway was papered in Delft blue with a golden medallion pattern.

The flooring was now custom redwood, the entryway runner a fine Oriental in pale shades of rose and gold. One of the church patrons must have made possible the restoration of the rectory to Victorian glory. Clearly Kathleen and Father Bill wouldn’t have the funds.

I heard the chirp of women’s voices in the living room. I lingered by the étagère. I picked up one of the fans, flared it open. It reminded me of stories I’d heard from the era when my grandparents were young. Ah, those romantic days when a young woman might flick a wrist, flutter a fan, and send a seductive sidelong glance to a side-burned gentleman tipping a white straw hat.

I was caught up in my fancies when the front door rattled with a brusque knock. Quickly, mindful of Kathleen’s concerns in the kitchen, I replaced the fan and slipped to one side of the étagère as a patrician woman stepped through the archway from the living room into the hall. Short-cut silver hair glistened in the shower of light from the chandelier. She was tall and slender, with a confident carriage.

The kitchen door swung out. Elise held it open as Kathleen entered with a serving tray.

“I’ll get the door, Kathleen.” The newcomer spoke with a brisk assumption of authority. The directress of the Altar Guild no doubt.

As to the manor born, she strode to the door, flicked on the porch light, and opened the door. “Hello, Sam.” There was the faintest edge of surprise in her voice.

The police chief squinted in the sudden glare. He straightened the baggy coat of his suit and cleared his throat. “H’lo, Rose. The reverend here?”

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“Father Abbott isn’t here.” Rose emphasized the title.

It was the old chasm between the evangelical brethren and the Episcopal congregation. The police chief, likely a stalwart Baptist, wasn’t about to call any man Father.

“Come on in, Sam. We’re just finishing our Thursday-night Bible study.” Rose held the door and turned toward Kathleen. “Chief Cobb is looking for Father Bill.”

The chief stepped inside, looking exceedingly masculine and large.

His leathery complexion reflected years of too much sun. Another fisherman, I decided. Bobby Mac would have liked him. Cobb’s gaze was steady. His broad mouth looked like it could curl into a big grin as well as straighten into toughness.

Fortunately, my gaze also encompassed Kathleen. I reached her just as the tray began to tip. I steadied it. This time I tried to keep my whisper gentle, but to the point. “Look lively. No one knows. Find out what he wants. Act normal.”

Elise’s head swiveled back and forth, seeking the source of the soft murmur.

Kathleen thrust the tray toward Elise, walked to the door as if facing the guillotine. What was I going to do with her! I flowed alongside and breathed in her ear. “Relax. Smile.” Kathleen looked up at the police chief. She managed a tight smile.

“Bill’s not here right now. He’s at the hospital. I can give you his cell number.”

The chief’s big head bent forward. He looked uncomfortable.

“You can help me, Mrs. Abbott, same as him. Thing is, we’ve had a crime in the cemetery. The body of Daryl Murdoch—” Shocked cries rose.

“—was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum.” Rose stepped forward. “Sam, what happened?” The chief was brisk. “He was found dead with a bullet wound.

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We’ve been attempting to contact family members but haven’t had any success.”

Rose looked at Elise. “Do you have Judith Murdoch’s cell number?”

Elise pointed toward the living room. “I’ll get my purse, check my address book.”

I perched on the hideously uncomfortable red plush chair next to the étagère.

I heard a click and looked down. Spoofer moved purposefully across the floor toward me. Some insist that cats’ claws always retract and can’t click on a hard surface. That is not true of all cats and Spoofer proved my point. He looked up at me, flowed through the air, and settled on my lap. I gave him a swift hug. Heaven knows that cats are God’s most elegant creatures.

Chief Cobb nodded. “That would be helpful. However, I’m here because we got an anonymous call that a weapon was hidden on the back porch of the rectory. I know it’s Halloween and crank calls can happen, but this one sure came fast. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to—”

I came to my feet. Spoofer twisted in surprise, but landed on his feet. He gave me a reproachful glance, but I wasn’t there.

Once on the porch, I turned on the brilliant overhead light.

Kathleen might be puzzled, but that didn’t matter. I doubted I had much time and I must be able to see. The anonymous call proved how fast word travels in a small town. The murderer had heard that Daryl was found in the cemetery and knew immediately that the body had been moved. That must have caused consternation, but the murderer was resourceful and determined. Obviously, the gun was hidden somewhere on the porch. Had Kathleen called the police to report the murder, a search would have ensued and the gun would have been found. Now the murderer was taking Daryl’s removal and 73

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turning it to his or her advantage. Everyone with access to the rectory would be under suspicion if the gun was found here.

Kathleen and I hadn’t made a search. We’d simply noted there was no gun near the body. Now I looked carefully. The porch ran the length of the house. The counter and sink were handy to the kitchen door. I knelt to peer underneath, noted with approval that the pipes were wrapped for winter. I poked a hand in a dark corner, not an exercise I would have undertaken had it been a hand of flesh.

Brown recluse spiders do not take kindly to trespassers.

I scrambled past the sink and counter, ran my hand behind the rolled-up tarp. Nothing. The gun was not behind the stack of garden pots or tucked in a mélange of rubber boots or nestling in the drawers of a dilapidated desk or wedged among the pumpkins. I sped to the other end of the porch.

Voices sounded and the kitchen door swung out. “Sure appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott.” The chief looked back at the gaggle of women surrounding the kitchen door. “Ladies, if you’ll stay in the kitchen, I’d appreciate it. This will only take a minute.” He tugged a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, then turned to his left, the portion of the porch I’d already checked.

I don’t know what I would have done if he’d turned toward me.

Another pinch? Three bulging black garbage sacks were clumped against the south wall. I loosed a tie to peer inside the first one. Unfortunately, I might as well have picked one up and spilled out the contents. The cans banged and clanged. I was almost startled into my skin. I tried frantically to quiet the surging metal. Heaven knows I applaud conservation, but the collection of empty soda-pop cans might be my undoing.

Chief Cobb swung around. “Nobody’s supposed to touch—” He broke off.

Of course nobody had.

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He gazed at the south end of the porch, the quivering sack and cascading cans, his face puzzled.

Kathleen bent down, picked up Spoofer, who was edging past her ankle. She held up the wriggling, offended cat. “He hates it when garbage bags are closed.”

Elise bent forward. “But the cat wasn’t—” Kathleen’s voice rose, drowning out Elise. “He probably heard a mouse. That’s what it was. Mice. Come on, Spoofer.” She hurried across the porch, opened the door, and put him out. She turned back toward the kitchen door, one hand behind her, waggling frantically.

I understood it was some kind of warning to me, but I didn’t have time to figure it out. The chief was moving purposefully along the counter, stopping to check beneath with a flashlight he’d pulled from his suit coat. Not, of course, the Maglite he’d used in his search for the missing telephone.

I tiptoed past the trash bags. A gym bag rested next to a bag of golf clubs. I knelt by the sleek plastic bag, edged the zipper open.

Empty. I lifted it up. Nothing underneath.

A piercing voice demanded, “I don’t think it’s mice. Kathleen, do you have a rat? I swear that gym bag moved. It would take a rat.” There was a hurried shuffle as the Bible study group members moved away from the kitchen door.

Kathleen gave an unconvincing laugh. “Things have been moving about out on the porch. Maybe that’s it.” She was backing closer to the bags of cans, trying to interpose herself between me and the women. Abruptly, she pointed toward the chief. “Look, he’s found something!”

I hoped her ploy was successful. In any event, I took advantage of the momentary distraction to plunge my hand into the golf bag.

I tried not to rattle anything, but the clubs clattered together. Heads swiveled in my direction. I tried to still the quiver of the clubs. I 75

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pushed my hand deeper and felt the barrel of a small gun. My fingers closed around it.

Kathleen surged toward the screen door. “Someone’s out there. I heard someone outside. Oh dear, should we check? Oh, Chief, you said there’d been a crime. Do you suppose the criminal’s come back?” High gasps and startled cries rose from the churchwomen.

Chief Cobb moved fast for a big man. He was at the screen door and pushing it wide. The beam of his flashlight crisscrossed the yard.

He plunged down the steps.

While everyone’s attention was focused on the chief, I yanked the gun out. It seemed incredibly small to me, scarcely larger than the palm of my hand. However, had anyone glanced in this direction, the gun would have been instantly visible, apparently dangling in space. Quickly, I dropped my hand behind the golf bag. This could only be a temporary respite. Somehow I had to remove the gun from the porch before the chief completed his circuit of the backyard.

I looked toward the kitchen, but the house offered no sanctuary.

Once within, I would again face the conundrum posed by the physics of a nonmaterial being transporting a material object. Besides, it would be even more damaging to Kathleen if the gun were found in the house.

Chief Cobb banged onto the porch, his face creased in a forced smile. “Nothing untoward outside, ladies. Now I’ll finish my search.

Please feel free to return to your—uh—meeting.” Not a woman moved.

He looked from one to another, gave a short nod. I assumed he had a long acquaintance with women. He accepted inevitability with grace. He moved fast, perhaps regretting his visit and certainly not giving any indication he felt the search was going to be productive.

He upended the rubber boots, gave each a shake. “This won’t take much longer.”

His audience observed him closely.

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I studied this area of the porch. It was about six feet to the screen door. I had to put myself and the gun out into the night without anyone noticing. There had to be a way. I looked at the golf bag and at the trash bags filled with cans. I snaked my free hand back into the golf bag, yanked a head cover from a wood. It was a tight fit, but I managed to squeeze the gun into the head cover. Cautiously, I un-zipped a side pocket and retrieved two golf balls. With the golf balls in my left hand and the lumpy head cover in my right, I slid above the floor close to the east wall.

I was almost to the screened door when Elise cried out, “Those golf balls. Where are those golf balls going? How are they going?” It was no time to hesitate. I placed the head cover next to the door and stood. As I did, the golf balls rose.

Elise gave a sharp squeak.

With a mighty heave, I launched the golf balls at the sacks filled with discarded cans. One bag broke. Cans bounced onto the floor.

Someone screamed. Chief Cobb thundered across the porch.

I reached down, grabbed the head cover, eased open the screened door, and slipped outside. I rose almost to the roof, the head cover well out of sight near the guttering.

“Who moved those cans?” Chief Cobb roared.

“A rat,” Elise shouted. “I saw a rat. I know it was a rat.”

“How did it open the back door?” the imperious woman with silver hair asked politely, her tone reasonable, puzzled, and verging on nervous.

“That door opens in the wind.” Kathleen was studiously casual.

I didn’t think she had a future in acting, but she was doing her best.

“It does it all the time. Don’t give it a thought.”

“The wind is out of the north,” the reasonable voice observed.

“How can it bounce open a door on the east? Chief, are you sure no one was out there?”

“Absolutely.” His voice lacked certainty. He made a grunting sound. “Almost done. Let me see about that golf bag.” 77

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He stuck his hand into the bag and rattled the clubs. He checked the zippered side pockets. He stepped back, glanced up and down the porch, gave an irritated shake of his head. “There’s no weapon here. Looks like we got a crank call.” He nodded toward Kathleen.

“I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott. Please ask the reverend to call me tomorrow. I understand Daryl Murdoch spent a lot of time at the church. Maybe the reverend might have some idea why he was in the graveyard. I’ll make another check of the backyard and be on my way.”

As the screen door opened, I was up and over the guttering. I nestled the swaddled gun next to the telephone. Objects were accruing.

I must deal with them. And with Kathleen. As soon as possible. But perhaps I’d better keep tabs on the investigation in case the murderer had other surprises in store . . .

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Ilightly touched the meshed grille as the police cruiser turned east on Main Street. Riding in a police car was a new experience. I would have preferred to be in the front passenger seat, but it was occupied by a grease-stained sack from Braum’s, a sixteen-ounce plastic malted-milk container, several file folders, a wrinkled windbreaker, and a can of mixed nuts. Chief Cobb lifted the yellow plastic lid of the latter, fished out a handful of nuts.

A sudden crackle and a voice spoke from the dashboard. “Chief, Anita.” Her voice was low and hushed, her words quick. “Mrs. Murdoch just came home. I’d say she hasn’t heard. Saw her face when the garage door opened. She looked tired, but no sign of emotion.

She had on her uniform. She’s a nurse. I’d guess she just got off duty.

You’d think somebody would have called her on her cell, but maybe she has it turned off.”

Chief Cobb’s face was somber. “I’m on my way. Keep watch until I get there.”

I sank back against the slick, plastic-sheathed seat. I’d not thought beyond saving Kathleen from her perilous predicament, but tonight marked trouble for others as well.

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The cruiser picked up speed. We headed out Broadway. Everything seemed different. Littleton’s Lumber Yard was gone. There were a series of big buildings with fancy signs—Home Depot, Wal-Mart, Circuit City. Parking lots teemed with cars. Many of them seemed to be an odd hybrid between old-fashioned pickups and sedans. About the spot where I remembered the turnoff to a drive-in movie, there was a cluster of houses. We passed more and more houses, many with amazingly peaked roofs. High ceilings were obviously in vogue, but heating and cooling costs must be huge.

The cruiser turned in between two stone pillars. A discreet sign on one pillar read kensington hills. The street wound in a rambling fashion with offshoots every block or so. A half mile into the hilly development, the cruiser turned onto Laurel. We drove a half block, then slowed as the chief pulled up beside another cruiser almost hidden in deep shadow beneath a cottonwood. He pushed a button and his window came down.

Officer Leland—aka Anita—who was in the second cruiser, opened her door, stepped out. She bent to look inside his car.

The chief grabbed at the stuff lying on the seat, pushed it onto the floor. “Get in, Anita. I haven’t had a chance to ask about your trip.

When did you get back?”

She came around the cruiser to the passenger door, opened it. In the brief flash of the interior light, I had a better glimpse of her face, somber blue-gray eyes, thin high-bridged nose, pointed chin with the hint of a cleft. If she smiled, she would be pretty in an old-fashioned, understated way. She was a little older than I had realized, possibly her late twenties or early thirties. She looked tired.

“Yesterday afternoon. Murray took my shifts while I was gone. It’s good to be back at work.” She sounded distant and I wondered if it was fatigue or if she was keeping some emotion under tight control.

The chief reached out, awkwardly patted one hand. “Guess the news wasn’t what you’d feared.”

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She shivered. “Every time they turn up an ID that sounds like Vee, I think maybe this time I’ll find her, know what happened to her. But it’s always some other dead girl and I wonder where her family is, if anyone’s looking. So”—she drew a deep breath—“Vee’s still lost.”

“You’re worn out.” His smile was kind. “You shouldn’t have tried to come straight back to work.”

“It’s better to be busy.” Her tone was strained. She clasped her hands, tight and hard.

“Well, I can sure use you. There’s going to be plenty to do.” He cleared his throat, was once again brisk. “Get word out to everybody to come in tomorrow morning, then knock off for tonight.”

“You’re sure you don’t need me here?” She gestured toward a Tudor-style house. The light from living-room windows suddenly lessened as the drapes were drawn.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t take two to bring bad news.” She nodded. “Good night, Chief.”

He waited until she was in her cruiser, then eased his car down the street. He pulled into the driveway and parked.

I was right beside him when he reached the top of the bricked steps. He pushed the doorbell.

The porch light came on, brilliant as a stage spot, throwing the chief’s face into hard relief, emphasizing the deep lines that grooved from lips pressed tightly together. He looked like a man bringing bad news.

The door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman looked out, her face inquiring. The RN badge on her wrinkled white uniform read judith murdoch. Blond hair braided coronet-style made her plain face look severe. She had an air of weary competence.

I was surprised. Even dead, there had been a sporty attitude about Daryl Murdoch. There was nothing sporty about the woman staring out with a puzzled face. “Yes?”

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“Mrs. Murdoch? Mrs. Daryl Murdoch?”

She looked anxious. “Yes.”

He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to show his shield. “I’m Chief Cobb of the Adelaide Police. I regret having to inform you—”

“Has something happened to Kirby?” Her voice trembled. “Is my son hurt?”

“I’m here about your husband, Mrs. Murdoch. His body was found tonight in St. Mildred’s cemetery.” The chief’s voice was gentle, but his eyes never left her face.

She looked dazed, uncomprehending. “Daryl’s dead?” The words were slow and painful.

“Yes, ma’am.” He spoke quietly. “His body was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum. He died as the result of a gunshot wound, an apparent homicide. His body has been taken to the hospital. The law requires an autopsy. Is there someone I can call to come and be with you?”

“Daryl was shot?” Her voice was faint. “Who shot him?”

“We have not found any witnesses. We have secured the crime scene—”

I felt another qualm. Certainly the cemetery was not the actual crime scene.

“—and the investigation is proceeding. I know this is a hard time for you to answer questions, but I would appreciate a few minutes with you. I won’t stay long. If you’ll tell me someone to call . . .” She held the door, moved like a sleepwalker to her right. She touched wall switches and bright lights revealed a rather stiff-looking living room with brocaded furniture, heavy red drapes, a red-and-blue Oriental rug, and a grand piano. She walked to a sofa, sank onto it. She gestured to an opposite chair with an overstuffed cushion and curly walnut legs.

Chief Cobb sat squarely, shoulders braced, hands on his knees. “To your knowledge, did Mr. Murdoch appear to be in fear for his life?” 82

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“Daryl afraid? He was never afraid of anything.” There was an odd tone in her voice.

The chief nodded. “Did Mr. Murdoch have any enemies?” I stood by the piano, looking at family photographs. There was a long-ago wedding portrait of Daryl and Judith. She looked prim, but her shy smile had charm, her blue eyes were eager. Dark hair gleaming, he stood with his chest out, proud and confident. So many photos, documenting passing seasons, a little boy with a mop of dark hair on a tricycle, the same boy marching in a school band with a clarinet, diving from a platform, throwing a Frisbee high in the air.

I glanced at Judith. Her face was now flaccid with shock, but I doubted she’d had that eager look for many years.

“Enemies?” She made an odd, helpless gesture. “Sometimes Daryl made people mad. He always wanted things done his way.” The chief persisted. “Had he quarreled with anyone recently?”

“Not exactly quarrels.” She took a deep breath. “Daryl didn’t think a day was worth living if he didn’t butt heads with someone.

He wanted things done right. If they weren’t, he let people know about it.”

The chief’s face was bland. “I understand. Some people are natural leaders.”

“Daryl was always in charge.” There was more sadness than admiration in her voice, and her eyes were empty. She drew her breath in sharply. “I have to find Kirby, tell him what’s happened.” She pushed to her feet.

Chief Cobb rose, too, looked around the living room. “Do you expect him home soon?”

Her hands came together, locked in a tight grip. “He’s staying at a friend’s house.”

The chief ’s eyes glinted. “Where?”

She struggled for breath. “I don’t know exactly. I’ll be able to find him.”

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“You don’t know where he’s staying?” He raised an eyebrow.

Judith made no answer, looked away.

Chief Cobb rocked back on his heels, his face thoughtful. “When did he move out?”

Tears welled, spilled down her cheeks. Judith wrapped her arms tight across her chest. “Two weeks ago. He’s nineteen and—” She broke off, looked worn and hopeless and bereft.

Chief Cobb’s eyes were sympathetic, but the question was firm.

“Were your son and his father estranged?” She flung out her hands, looked at him earnestly. “It wasn’t serious. Things would have worked out.” Her tone was hollow. “It was about a girl. Daryl didn’t like her. But Kirby wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Ever. He’ll be very upset when I tell him. He and his daddy had so much fun when he was little, camping and fishing and hunting.”

. . . when he was little . . .

I wondered if Judith realized the implication of her words. Father and son were close when Kirby was a little boy, ready to do what his father wished. Now Kirby was big and wanted to make his own choices . . . hunting . . . Kirby would know about guns. But that was not unusual. A great many Adelaide boys grow up hunting.

Cobb’s eyes were intent. “What’s the girl’s name?”

“Lily Mendoza. She’s a waitress at the Green Door.” Chief Cobb nodded. “Is Kirby in school?”

“He’s a senior. Daryl wants—wanted him—to apply to OU, but Kirby wanted to stay here, go to Goddard.” Goddard is a wonderful regional college and the pride of Adelaide. I wondered if Daryl wanted his son to attend OU to get him away from what he saw as an undesirable romance.

“Well”—the chief’s tone was genial—“don’t worry, we’ll find him for you. Who are some of your son’s friends?” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket.

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Judith rattled off names. “Bob Harris, Al Schuster, Ted Minter.

I’ll call them, try to find Kirby.”

Chief Cobb said easily, “We’ll get in touch with Kirby. Now, it will be helpful to know something about Mr. Murdoch’s daily routine.” She answered quickly, eager to leave behind discussion of her son.

“Daryl jogs . . .” A quick breath. “. . . jogged around six. After he showered and shaved, he went downtown for breakfast at Lulu’s. He opened the office at nine.” She looked inquiringly at Chief Cobb.

He nodded. “Murdoch Investments. Used to be Murdoch and Carey.”

“He was here and there during the day, in and out of his office.” She talked fast. “Daryl was on the vestry at St. Mildred’s. That took a lot of his time. He often dropped by the church on his way home.” Chief Cobb made notes. “Was there any change in your husband’s behavior in recent days? Was he worried about anything? Did he mention any concerns? Or fears?”

Judith frowned. “He was mad about something at the church.”

“The church.” The chief’s voice had a curious tone. “That’s where we found his car. If you don’t mind, we’d like to take a closer look at it in daylight, though there didn’t seem to be anything helpful when we checked it tonight. We’ll return the keys in the morning. Why did he go to the church this evening?” He held the pen poised over the pad.

I felt uneasy. Another link to St. Mildred’s.

She stared down at the rug. “I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?” His voice was faintly surprised.

Judith’s face tightened. “No.” She spoke without expression.

Judith Murdoch’s every word revealed more than she probably realized. She might as well have worn a placard announcing failed marriage.

The chief tapped the pen on the pad. “What was his schedule this afternoon?”

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Judith turned up her hands, work-roughened hands. “I never knew.” There was a world of emptiness in her voice. “I mean . . .” She struggled for composure. “Daryl didn’t like to be pinned down.” She stared at the floor.

“Where were you from four o’clock on?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but his gaze was sharp.

Something moved in her widened blue eyes. Was it in response to the time? A ripple of uneasiness? “Four o’clock?”

“Four o’clock to seven.” The chief’s voice was pleasant but determined.

She lifted a hand, smoothed back a tendril of faded hair that had escaped the coronet braids. “I’m a visiting nurse.” She spoke slowly.

“I see patients out in the country. I’d have to look at my book. I was at the Hillman place in late afternoon. From there, I went to the Carsons’ and the Wetherbys’.”

“Are you usually out this late on Thursday?” He nodded toward the porcelain clock on the mantel.

“Sometimes. I didn’t hurry. I stopped and had dinner at the Pizza Hut on Gusher, then I decided to go to the show. When I got out, I stopped at the grocery.”

I ached for her. A movie by herself. Maybe that was her answer to Thursday night with no reason to come home. Bobby Mac and I always hurried home to each other. We never lost our laughter or our love.

The doorbell buzzed, then the door was flung open. Judith took a deep breath, looked toward the hall, fear evident in her strained posture.

Footsteps clattered on the tile. A little woman with flyaway dark hair framing sharp features burst into the living room. She was pencil thin and teetered on absurdly high heels. She looked at the police chief. “Oh God, Sam, is Daryl dead?”

“Yes. He was found in the cemetery. I’m glad you’ve come, Meg.

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I was going to call someone to help Mrs. Murdoch.” He nodded toward Judith.

Meg moved rapidly toward Judith. “I was afraid it was true when I saw the police car. I had a bunch of calls about Daryl and I tried to get you but your cell didn’t answer. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Judith took one step, stopped. Her face crumpled. “Someone killed him.”

Meg was pale. “As soon as I heard, I called Father Abbott. He’s on his way over.” The little woman swung toward the chief. “You go on now, Sam. I’ll take care of Judith.”

The chief pushed up from the chair, dropping the notepad in his pocket. “I’ll be back in touch tomorrow. We may know more by then.”

I watched him go, torn by uncertainty. If I went with the chief, there might be more to learn, but I wanted to meet—so to speak—

Father Abbott.

The two women stood frozen as the chief moved heavily across the room. When the front door closed behind him, Judith whirled and ran from the room. Her face was unguarded, eyes staring, mouth working, a woman consumed by fear.

Meg was shocked. “Judith, wait. Let me help.” But her call was unanswered.

Judith ran into a long room with a fireplace and easy chairs and two sofas and a pool table. She stumbled to the desk, grabbed up a telephone, punched numbers with a shaking hand. She leaned against a tall wingback chair as if her body had no strength.

Meg bustled up to her. “I’ll make any calls—” Judith slashed her hand for quiet, a harsh imperative gesture that brought Meg to a standstill. Finally, her words hurried and uneven, she said, “Lily, please, this is Kirby’s mother. I have dreadful news.

His father is dead. He was shot. When you get this message, tell Kirby to come home. I know he was with you this afternoon from four to 87

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seven. That’s important. The police want to talk to him. Make sure he remembers to tell them that he was with you from four to seven.” She clicked off the phone.

Meg slipped her arm around Judith’s shoulders. “Do you want me to go over there, find him?”

“Oh yes, Meg. What if she doesn’t get the message in time? You’ll tell him—”

“I’ll tell him. From four to seven.”

They exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

“It’s just to protect him. Kirby would never hurt anyone, but the police don’t know him. When they find out Thursday is his day off, they’ll want to know where he was.” Judith’s voice was metal-lic. “Someone might think the wrong things if they knew about everything.”

Meg gave Judith a hug. “It might look bad. Bud and I used to bowl with Sam and Jewell. But after Jewell died, he stopped coming.

Sam’s a swell guy, but pretty black-and-white.” Their words were oblique, hinting at much I didn’t understand.

It was like seeing an old film with subtitles that left out most of the story, but I was a mother and I understood. Kirby and his dad obviously had quarreled ferociously, possibly in a public place, and Judith knew Chief Cobb would discover that fact.

The front doorbell rang. Meg whirled and hurried into the hallway. Her voice rang out: “Come in, Father Abbott. Judith’s in the den.”

Judith held tight to the back of the chair, trying hard to stand taller, smooth out her face, hide her fear.

Brisk steps sounded. Father Abbott stopped in the doorway, his face creased in concern. His sandy hair looked mussed, as if he’d forgotten to comb it. His priestly collar was slightly askew as if he’d tugged at it, his black suit wrinkled. His angular face sagged with 88

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weariness, but his dark blue eyes were kind and empathetic. “I came as soon as I heard.” He walked to her, hands outstretched.

Judith sagged against the chair, her face crumpling, scalded by tears.

This was not a moment for me to observe. I looked away from Judith toward Father Abbott.

As I left, I carried with me an indelible memory of the man most important to Kathleen. Faces reflect character. Even in a quick glance, I saw grace and intelligence, purpose and commitment, sensitivity and determination.

I also saw deep fatigue, perhaps mental as well as physical. A slight tic fluttered one eyelid. His shoulders slumped with weariness. The immensity of life and death and the gulf between was mirrored in his eyes. He was there to offer solace and hope, peace and acceptance.

What a gift that was and what a burden to bear.

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Idrifted deliciously between sleeping and waking, luxuriating in the comfort of the downy feather bed. I stretched and wiggled my toes. Heaven, of course, is always comfortable. Everything is in perfect harmony, so there is never a sense of mental or physical unease. On earth, minds fret, hearts grieve, muscles tire, bodies ache.

Achieving the right balance is a never-ending quest.

My eyes popped open. Was I perhaps being too much of the earth?

I flung back the covers and came to my feet. Quickly I imagined a rather formal blue flannel robe and slipped into it. Just in case. Gradually my tension eased. Wiggins wasn’t here. After all, even Wiggins wouldn’t frown on enjoying the moment. Joy is surely Heaven-sent.

I gazed happily around the charming bedroom. I was sure—

almost sure—that Kathleen would have been delighted to invite me to stay in the guest bedroom upon my return last night. I hadn’t wanted to bother her and certainly morning was time enough to bring my presence to her attention.

Last night I’d prepared for sleep by envisioning pink satin paja-mas. Comfortably attired, I’d slept the sleep of the just. I looked at the mirror. Oh, of course. I wasn’t here.

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I was uncertain how to dress for the day. Nothing too formal, but should I need to appear, should my actual presence be unavoidable and essential (Wiggins, are you listening?), it was important to be appropriately dressed. It wouldn’t do to be garbed in the styles of my day, attractive though they were.

When I observed the church ladies last night, I was enchanted by the new fashions, although a little puzzled that most wore slacks.

Their outfits were quite charming. Except for the shoes. The shoes appalled me, especially those with long upturned toes like an elf or blocky heels that brought Wiggins’s sturdy black shoes to mind. I prefer jaunty shoes with shiny buckles or bright bows.

I wafted to the sewing room. It was rather cold. I rose and pushed up a register, welcoming a draft of warm air and the enticing scent of bacon. I was eager to reach the kitchen, but first I must dress.

I found a stack of clothing catalogs on a worktable. I would have enjoyed looking at everything, but I hastily made a selection, a double-breasted jacket and slacks in gray wool with a herringbone pattern and a Florentine-gold silk blouse. Matching gray leather pumps (with a reasonable heel) and small gold hoop earrings completed a tasteful ensemble.

I’d no more than made my choice when the door burst open and a slender form catapulted inside. Bayroo skidded to a stop halfway across the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here.” Her quick smile was warm. “Your pantsuit is beautiful.” The child had excellent taste. “Good morning, Bayroo. Thank you.” I smiled though I was disconcerted. Once again, even though I wasn’t here, Bayroo saw me.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I need to get my costume out of the closet.” She gestured across the room. “We’re having our class Halloween parties today.”

Bayroo would very likely mention seeing me when she went downstairs for breakfast. “Bayroo, can you keep a secret?” 91

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She folded her arms in an X across her chest. “Sure. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Your great-grandmother and I were very close”—I was counting on Bayroo having a very fuzzy idea of how long ago that might have been—“and I’m visiting here to lend your mom a hand, but it’s a secret from everyone because it might be complicated to explain.” She stared at me, her gaze startled, then thoughtful, finally eager.

She clapped her hands. “I know exactly who you are. There’s a painting of you in the hall outside the parish hall. All the past directresses of the Altar Guild are there.” She looked puzzled. “You were a lot older then. You have red hair just like mine. Mom told me you were my great-grandmother’s sister. I’m named after you.” She smiled, a curious smile that radiated mischief, excitement, and certainty. “You’re a ghost and I guess you’re young and pretty now because that’s how you are.” Trust a child to understand. However, I had a conviction that Kathleen would not be pleased. I didn’t even want to think about Wiggins.

She gave an excited hop. “This is so cool. How did you do it?”

“Do what?” I hoped for inspiration.

“Come back.” She looked at me eagerly.

“On a wing and a prayer.” Of course the reference meant nothing to her.

Bayroo nodded solemnly as if everything were explained. “Way cool. So”—she looked thoughtful—“you’re here to help Mom? That’s swell. She’s been pretty blue lately. Dad’s too busy to notice. You know my dad, don’t you? He’s the rector and he works all the time. He left before seven this morning. Men’s early-morning Bible study. He has to do most everything and he only has a retired military chaplain to help out on Sundays and with some of the hospital visits and everybody on the vestry has plenty of ideas of more for Dad to do but there’s never enough money and he’s worried about the roof on the church and the winter heating bills. The heating bills are unbelievable—” 92

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I heard the echo of parental discussion.

“—but the price of oil is great for Adelaide. Anyway, maybe you can help Dad, too.”

“Bayroo?” Kathleen’s call was faint.

“Mom’s calling.” My namesake flashed an apologetic smile. “I have to hurry downstairs for breakfast and finish my homework.” She darted to the closet, banged inside, and came out carrying a plastic sword, a crimson smock, tall silver boots, and an eye patch. “I’m going to be a pirate. Do you think I should be Captain Hook or Blackbeard?”

“I’d be Captain Bayroo, a lady pirate who rescues captured sailors.” Bayroo’s eyes gleamed. “What does she do with them?”

“She returns them to their ships and reaps wonderful rewards, gold and silver and rubies.”

Bayroo saluted me with her sword—“Captain Bayroo, ready to sail”—and turned toward the door.

I called after her, “Remember, it’s our secret. Your mom doesn’t know I’m here at the moment. And, please, always pretend you don’t see me unless I give you a thumbs-up.” She paused in the doorway, looked at me earnestly. “Don’t worry.

I had the lead in the fifth-grade play. I won’t give a thing away. I won’t tell a soul even though everybody’d be really pumped. A ghost in the house for Halloween! Way cool.” After Kathleen and Bayroo left for school, I heated two strips of bacon and a leftover frittata. I murmured a thankful grace and had a lovely breakfast. I was quite careful to be certain I was alone in the kitchen when I washed the dishes. I was enjoying a second cup of coffee when Kathleen returned.

She stopped just inside the door, stared toward the table. “You’re here.”

I took another sip, placed the mug on the table.

She shivered. “It’s cold outside. The wind’s picking up and the clouds look like old pewter. I keep thinking everything that hap-93

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pened last night is a bad dream, and I come home and that hideous coffee mug is in the air.” She pointed with a shaking hand. “In the air.”

I looked at the mug. It was bright pink with a flamingo-shaped handle. If she thought it was hideous, she should have discarded it.

“I think it’s cute.”

She quivered. “All right. I hear a voice. You’re here. Unless I’m imagining—”

Wiggins would have to understand that Kathleen’s nerves were stretched. I needed to reassure her. I will confess I turned toward the mirror over the sink, not with any sense of vanity but simply to be sure my pantsuit was appropriate. In an instant the swirl of color resolved into my image. I brushed back a tangle of red curls. The cut of the jacket was exquisite. I would bring no shame on the rectory should I be observed.

Kathleen approached me, one hand outstretched, her gaze desperate and determined. She came within a foot, took a deep breath, reached out to grip my arm.

I lifted my free hand, patted her shoulder.

She went as rigid as a pointer sighting quarry. “You’re here. You really, really are. But you weren’t. Now you are. I don’t understand.”

“You worry too much, Kathleen. Relax and accept your good fortune. First we must deal with Daryl’s cell phone. Here’s what I want you to do . . .”

My instructions were simple, but she repeated them, frowning as she muttered, “. . . at the end of the dock.” It would take only a moment to retrieve the cell phone from the roof. “I’ll meet you there in half an hour.” Kathleen tossed her head like a fractious horse. “I have to pick up the cupcakes for Bayroo’s homeroom Halloween party and visit Mrs.

Mossman at the hospital and check on the shipment of candles for the Altar Guild. Can’t you bring it here?” 94

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I shook my head. “If that cell phone were found in the rectory, you’d be in big trouble. It won’t take long. You’ll have time for your errands.”

She shivered. “It’s awfully cold outside.”

“Brisk, but secluded. Wear gloves.” I finished the last sip of coffee.

“Gloves?” Her tone was wary. “Why do I have to wear gloves?” I was amazed. Had Kathleen never read a mystery? Perhaps I could provide a reading list. I never missed a Leslie Ford novel. She gave such an interesting picture of wartime Washington. I’d read her latest, Mrs. Latham’s Primrose Path, just before I visited the Department of Good Intentions. No wonder I was sent to assist Kathleen.

“We don’t want your fingerprints on Mr. Murdoch’s phone. I’ll see you there.” I was fading from view when I realized that perhaps I should be clearer. “Actually, I’ll see you, but you won’t see me.” Kathleen stood at the end of the weathered wooden dock, hunched in a navy peacoat with a red-and-blue plaid scarf tied under her chin.

I settled on the railing, the telephone in one hand. I was quite comfortable in a gray lamb’s-wool coat and gold cashmere scarf. I had forgotten how much fun it was to shop, although a catalog couldn’t match going to Lassiter’s. Lassiter’s had been Adelaide’s finest women’s shop in my day. Of course Brown’s in Oklahoma City had been my favorite store. I wrinkled my nose, remembering the scent in the bath-powder-and-perfume section.

Kathleen’s face looked pinched.

The dock, understandably, was deserted except for us. Bulbous gray clouds looked as immovable as elephants at rest. A gusty wind corrugated gunmetal-gray water. Autumn-faded reeds rippled. The lake was in the center of the small nature preserve that adjoined the church property. The preserve on one side and the cemetery on 95

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the other provided St. Mildred’s with a sylvan setting. Cedars and pines crowded the shoreline, providing a sense of remoteness. It was a perfect spot for our rendezvous, close to the rectory but at a safe remove.

Kathleen stared fixedly at the small telephone. “I’d better take it before someone sees it hanging there, although I don’t know what kind of fool would come here on a day like this. But I’m here. It would be just my luck to have a nature class trot onto the dock. Or who knows? Maybe the Altar Guild will show up. Nothing would surprise me.” She sounded despairing.

I was pleased to see that she wore soft leather gloves. I handed the phone to her.

She took it gingerly, flipped open the lid. It still reminded me of an oddly shaped compact. I moved to watch over her shoulder. The small screen suddenly glowed. A jaunty tune sounded.

Kathleen pushed and clicked. “See, you can take pictures.” She held the phone up and suddenly wind-whipped water was in view on the tiny screen. Another click and the lake disappeared. “You can save them, too. Daryl kept a bunch. I’ll do them in order.” She clicked again. A picture appeared on the screen.

Kathleen looked puzzled. “How odd.”

Pictured was a close-up of a shaky signature at the bottom of a printed page. I squinted to make out the name: Georgia Hamilton. I moved closer, the better to see, but Kathleen clicked and the image was gone.

Kathleen wriggled uneasily as if sensing my nearness.

I was sorry to crowd her, but I wanted a good view. “What do you think it means?”

“I have no idea. Georgia Hamilton almost died a few weeks ago, but she rallied and she’s home again.” Kathleen’s tone warmed. “She’s amazing. Ninety-five if she’s a day and she never misses the early service. I suppose Daryl handles some of her investments.” 96

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Kathleen clicked again. She made a strangled noise in her throat.

The photograph was amazing in its clarity and detail. Kathleen sat on a puffy cream leather divan. Bright red-and-gold wrapping paper mounded near the open box in her lap. She held up a red satin nightgown, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.

“Daryl snapped the picture just as I opened the box.” She glared at the screen. “I didn’t know what was inside. How could I know?

But how do I explain to anybody—especially Bill—why I was sitting in Daryl’s cabin and opening what was obviously a present and pulling out a sexy red nightgown? When Daryl called Wednesday and asked me to the cabin, he said he needed a chance for a private visit with me about Raoul. He thought it was only fair—oh, his voice was so greasy—that he and I have a conversation before he spoke to Bill.

Then he hung up. I called his cell and he didn’t answer. I know he looked and saw it was me calling and of course he didn’t answer. I was in a panic. I had to go. When I got to the cabin, he offered me a drink. I said no and he was all—oh, you know how it is when somebody’s hitting on you.”

I found the expression interesting. It was new to me, but I understood exactly what she meant.

“I told him what happened with Raoul. He pretended to be sympathetic, said he knew I’d been terribly lonely and Bill worked far too hard. Daryl said he was relieved there was nothing to this story that was getting around about me and Raoul, and since we’d cleared everything up, he had a small gift for me.

“I didn’t see how I could refuse to open it. I’d just pulled out that hideous nightgown when he took my picture. I asked him what he thought he was doing. He said he liked to take pictures with his phone and this was such a good shot he should probably print out a picture for Bill or put it on the church Web site, but if I treated him nicely, he’d keep the shot for himself.” Kathleen’s eyes blazed. “He said a good start would be for me to 97

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try on my new gown. He put the phone in his pocket. There was no way I could get it from him. I told him”—her voice was harsh—

“exactly what kind of a louse he was and then I jumped up and threw the gown and the box and the papers in the fireplace and ran out of the cabin. He came after me, but I got in my car and locked it and got away.” She jabbed at the phone and the picture disappeared.

Another click, a new picture. A man in his forties with thinning blond hair and sharp features hunched at a desk, writing on a piece of stationery. The sag of his head and the bleak emptiness of his expression spelled defeat, despair, hopelessness.

“Who is it?” But the picture was already gone and Kathleen shot me a mutinous glance. If she knew, she didn’t intend to tell me.

Another click. An untidy middle-aged woman looked warily over her shoulder. She wore the blue smock of the Altar Guild. She held a collection plate. Behind her was the counter with the vested chalice for Sunday. A crucifix hung on the white wall above the counter.

Walnut cabinets jutted into the room.

I knew at once that she was in the sacristy after a service, probably a weekday Communion since she was apparently doing the service alone. “She’s counting the collection.” Collection isn’t formally taken at a weekday service, but the plate is left out for any donations.

Kathleen’s brows drew down in a worried frown. “Maybe something startled her.”

The woman in the photo’s expression was oddly craven and wary.

I didn’t doubt that Kathleen and I were considering the same un-palatable possibility. Was a member of the Altar Guild getting ready to filch from the offering plate?

Kathleen deleted that picture, retrieved another. “Oh dear.” A furtive hand tucked a handful of bills into the pocket of the blue smock.

“Oh.” Kathleen’s soft cry was a lament. “I can’t believe it. I 98

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don’t know what to do. But—” Swift clicks and that image, too, disappeared.

“Who was she?” I was sure Kathleen knew.

Kathleen pressed her lips tightly together.

“Kathleen”—an awful possibility struck me—“are those pictures gone forever?”

Her expression defiant, Kathleen looked toward the sound of my voice. “You bet they are.”

I was horrified. “You’ve destroyed evidence that might help the police.”

She lifted her chin. “I don’t care. Let the police find out who killed him. I’m not going to get people in trouble, maybe ruin their lives, just because Daryl was nasty enough to take pictures of them when they were down. I know that’s what he was doing. Sure, he may have been right to go after some of them, but let them get found out some other way.” Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “I wonder if the rest of the pictures are like this.” She clicked twice. In one image, an elderly black man was placing cans of food in a brown grocery bag. In another, the police officer, Anita, her face impervious, was framed in an open car window.

Kathleen relaxed as the screen went blank. “Those last two don’t amount to anything. That’s Isaac Franklin, our sexton, and he’s probably filling a sack from the food pantry for a needy family. The policewoman”—Kathleen’s smile was satisfied—“was Daryl’s bête noire. He saw himself as macho man and drove like he thought he was Dale Earnhardt.”

I was never a NASCAR enthusiast, but I remember Bobby Mac’s excitement when Dale Earnhardt had arrived.

“She put a stop to that. Everywhere Daryl went, she seemed to be behind him. He got tickets faster than confetti spills. It was great to see him drive through town at thirty miles an hour. I loved it. I didn’t even mind when she gave me a ticket a couple of weeks ago.” 99

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“You got rid of all the photos? For good?” I had to be sure.

“Every single one.” Her stare, a trifle to the left of my face, was unabashed.

I understood Kathleen’s reluctance to involve innocent persons in a murder investigation, but what if one of them was the murderer?

I felt a civic responsibility. I had already complicated the police efforts by helping Kathleen move Daryl’s body, though I still believed I’d made the right decision. Kathleen was innocent. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been sent to her aid.

The cell phone was another matter. I had removed it from Daryl’s body. The information it contained might make a difference in the search for his murderer. Somehow I had to aid that earnest police chief, though I wasn’t sure what I could do. “Kathleen, we can’t ignore what we’ve discovered.”

She wasn’t listening. She did something else with the phone, muttered,

“Three saved messages. I called him back. I’d better check.” Click.

“Thursday. Four-fifteen p.m., ‘I can’t believe what you did.’” The voice was young, male, and anguished. “‘I just found out from Lily.’” There was a silence, then a quick, choked, “‘You’ll pay for this. I swear you will.’”

Kathleen punched a button.

I sighed. One more piece of information, forever gone.

“Thursday, five-oh-seven p.m.: ‘Mr. Murdoch—’ ” It was Kathleen’s voice. “ ‘There’s been—’ ”

She punched.

“Thursday, eight-twenty p.m.: ‘You got to call me.’ ” It was a woman’s voice, young but hoarse. Bravado mingled with desperation. “ ‘Listen, Daryl, I got to talk to you. You promised . . . Please. Call me.’ ” Kathleen punched. “All gone. But”—she stared at the phone—

“even though I erased the photos, there might be images somewhere inside.” Abruptly, she raised her arm and flung the telephone far out into the lake.

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C H A P T E R 8

Iknelt by the chimney on the rectory roof and picked up the head cover holding the gun. Kathleen’s disposal of the cell phone was an unexpected complication. I had intended to convey both the phone and gun to Chief Cobb. Now the phone was gone.

I’d done my best to assist Kathleen. In fact, my mission appeared to be successful. Likely I would soon be recalled to Heaven, but I was uneasy. I had interfered with the proper investigation of a crime.

I looked Heavenward. Thick dark clouds obscured the horizon.

Wind pushed at me. I was definitely still here. I took that as a clear indication that I should proceed. But proceed to do what?

Arrange for Chief Cobb to find the gun.

The thought was direct and breathtaking in its simplicity. Thank you, Wiggins. I pulled the gun out of the head cover. My new coat, the gray lamb’s wool I’d selected from the catalog to go with my elegant pantsuit, had capacious pockets. I tucked the gun in my pocket.

I was ready to depart for the police station, but fortunately I glanced down. I was invisible. My coat was invisible.

The gun was not invisible.

Even though the sky was overcast, someone might look up and Ca ro ly n H a rt

note the flight of a gun through the sky if I swooped to the police station, especially since I didn’t know where it was.

I pulled the gun out of the pocket, returned it to the head cover, and placed the bulging head cover beside the chimney.

I shivered. Despite the lamb’s-wool coat, I was getting cold. It was time for a respite. In a flash, I returned to the rectory kitchen. I hung my coat on a coat tree, retrieved the flamingo mug from the dish-washer, and filled it with coffee. I found a notepad and a pen near the telephone. I settled at the table, positioning my chair where I would see anyone approaching the back porch.

I drew a gun on the notepad. I had to figure out a way to get it to Chief Cobb. Moreover, the information I’d gleaned from observing Kathleen with the cell phone might be essential in solving the crime.

Quickly, I jotted notes:

PICTUR ES

1. Signature of Georgia Hamilton, apparently on a legal document of some sort.

2. A man in the depths of despair.

3. A member of the Altar Guild apparently stealing from the collection plate.

4. Isaac Franklin, the sexton.

5. The policewoman who showered tickets on Daryl Murdoch.

CALLS

1. He spoke of Lily. A young male voice. The caller had to be Daryl’s angry son, Kirby.

2. A desperate woman begged Daryl to call her. However, the call was recorded after his death, which might indicate innocence. Or might not.

I sipped coffee, drew the face of a bloodhound with drooping ears 102

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and a worried expression. The cell phone was gone, but I knew what I had seen and heard. I was uncertain whether any of that information could—or should—be provided to the police. For now, I had recorded everything.

I looked around the kitchen, seeking a safe spot to keep my notebook. It was unfortunate that worldly objects, unlike my imagined clothing and coats, couldn’t simply disappear for me. But they couldn’t and didn’t. I zoomed up to the ceiling and checked above the bottle-green oak china cabinet. I put the notebook behind the top molding.

I wondered if Chief Cobb was making progress. Last night, when I’d wished to be in the cemetery, there I was.

What if I wished to be at the police station?

The two-story cream-colored stucco building covered the northwest corner at the intersection of Lee and Tishomingo, one block south of Main Street. Old Glory and the Oklahoma flag with its sky-blue field fluttered in a stiff breeze from a slender white flagpole. Shallow steps led to a central doorway. On one end of the second floor, barred windows looked as gloomy as the overcast day. I studied the inscription on the cornerstone:

Adelaide City Hall

1994

Dedicated by Mayor Harvey Kamp

I remembered Harvey as a long-haired, sneaky friend of my son.

Ah, the wonders of maturity.

I went inside and checked the directory. On the first floor were the mayor’s office, city planning, water, public works, planning commis-sion, and treasurer. Now the mayor was a woman, Neva Lumpkin.

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Chief Cobb, the police department, jail, city attorney, and municipal court were on the second floor.

Chief Cobb sat at his desk, studying papers. He emptied a packet of sugar into a steaming mug of coffee. Stark fluorescent light emphasized the deep lines that grooved his face. Moisture rings and scrapes marred the battered oak desk, but Matisse prints added color to one dingy beige wall. Large bulletin boards, a detailed street map of Adelaide, and a map of the county hung on the wall opposite his desk.

I was intrigued by a machine similar to a skinny television set that sat on a leaf jutting from the desk. A luminous green screen glowed.

A flat keyboard sat in front of it. Chief Cobb swiveled in his chair to face the screen. He lifted his hands, frowned, shook his head. He punched the intercom button on his desk.

“Chief?”

“Yeah, Colleen. What’s the password this week?” A sibilant hiss sounded from the intercom.

He looked irritated. “Don’t whisper. James Bond isn’t crouched under your desk, waiting to hear the password so he can crack security for the Adelaide Police Department. Changing the password every week wastes everybody’s time. Doesn’t the mayor have enough to do without figuring out a silly rule like that? Who can remember a new password every week? I, for one, can’t. And I forgot to write down the new one.”

Colleen’s voice was low. “Uh, Chief, the mayor suggests city employees write down a password and keep it in a desk drawer.”

“That’s secure?” He was sardonic. “Okay, okay. I’ll write it down.

What is it this week?”

There was a long pause.

The chief leaned back in his chair, suddenly amused, and I imagined he was picturing his secretary looking around to be certain no one was in earshot.

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Colleen’s voice was barely audible. “Cougar.” I perched on the edge of his desk, looked at the screen. There was a line for a password, followed by asterisks. Curious.

“Cougar.” He made no effort to be quiet. “Thanks, Colleen.” He lifted his hands to the keyboard, typed.

I’d been a first-rate typist. I followed his fingers. He typed cougar into the box with asterisks. A few more clicks and he was looking at a list of messages. He clicked the first one.

To: Chief Cobb

From: Jacob Brandt, M.D.

Subject: Autopsy Report Daryl Murdoch Autopsy file attached. Cutting to the chase: Death resulted from gunshot to the left temple. .22 slug recovered, sent to OSBI laboratory. Probable time of death between 4 and 6:30

P.M. Preliminary survey shows no evidence drug use. Definitive toxicology tests under way. Victim right-handed. No trace of gunpowder residue on hand(s) of deceased. Suicide improbable.

The chief clicked. Information appeared on the screen superim-posed on the message, instructions on how to print. Another click.

Paper edged from a small square machine on the floor. The chief clicked again. The message disappeared. I studied the legend to the left of the screen. Apparently, the messages came into an in-box. One click and they appeared. Another click, a message was printed. Another click, the message disappeared. The chief reached down for the sheet, placed it in a folder.

Who would have thought such marvels were possible? I remembered how excited I’d been to have an electric typewriter. To think Wiggins still depended upon a Teletype. I would have to bring him up-to-date.