Ghost at Work

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

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

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

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

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. . . .

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

A musical peal sounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Murdoch may have been shot here.“

“Here?” Father Bill looked shocked. “In the church?” Chief Cobb nodded. “Here or near the church or the rectory.

Murdoch left his office, right after five, headed this way.” He moved nearer the edge of the chair. “Where were you Thursday evening, Reverend, from five o’clock to six-fifteen?”

“At the hospital. Ted Worsham was dying.” His face was weary.

“Not unexpected, but his wife was very upset.” The chief asked quickly, “Did you leave the hospital at any time between five and seven p.m.?”

Father Bill’s face was somber. “I got there around four, but I came back here a little while later. I don’t know exactly when.”

“You left the bedside of a dying man. Why?” His eyes never left Father Bill’s face.

Father Bill rotated the Dresden shepherd around and around.

“Daryl paged me around five. I called him. He said he wanted to see me in a few minutes at the church. I hurried here. I waited half an hour, but he didn’t come.”

Cobb’s face was grim. “You didn’t say anything about this yesterday. Don’t you think it might be important to a murder investigation when the body is found next door to the church to tell the police the victim had planned to be at the church around five o’clock?” Father Bill said nothing, his face as unyielding as the chief’s.

Cobb frowned. “You and Murdoch argued Thursday morning.

You won’t say why. Now you claim he pages you Thursday afternoon, you call him, he asks you to come to the church, and you leave a dying man’s bedside to come. What was so urgent that you would do that, Reverend? Did Murdoch ask you? Or did he order you?” Father Bill’s gaze was level. “It concerned the matter we’d dis-212

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cussed Thursday morning. I had to be here to make sure—” He broke off.

“What matter did you and Murdoch talk about, Reverend?” The chief’s glare demanded an answer. “What was so important you left a dying man to come and see Murdoch?” Father Bill slumped back in his chair, his face weary. “It was a parish matter that I am not at liberty to discuss.” Cobb snapped, “What did he have on you, Reverend?”

“It did not concern me personally.” Father Bill’s hand tightened on the statuette.

“Didn’t it?” Cobb stared at him. ”I talked to a couple of members of the vestry yesterday. Murdoch had contacted them, called a special meeting for Sunday afternoon to address, as he put it, ‘a fiduciary matter.’ ”

Kathleen’s chat with the junior warden at the Friends’ dinner last night was probably enough to salvage Father Bill’s reputation with the vestry, but Chief Cobb might not be convinced.

“That was the warden’s prerogative.” Father Bill’s face looked pinched.

Cobb demanded, “What will you tell the vestry?” Father Bill’s voice hardened. “Nothing.” Cobb let silence build. Finally, he stood.

Father Bill came to his feet, realized he was holding the shepherd.

He glanced at it in surprise, placed it on the desk. “Chief, I regret that I can’t answer your question. However, I’m sure the matter has no connection to Daryl’s murder. If I felt otherwise, I would take action.” His face was solemn. “I swear before God that I did not see Daryl Murdoch at any time Thursday afternoon or evening. I have no knowledge of his murder.”

Cobb gave a short nod. “I’ll be back in touch, Reverend.” When the door closed behind Cobb, Father Bill walked, frowning, head down, to his desk. He settled into his chair, reached for 213

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a yellow legal pad, the page filled with dense writing. He took a breath, picked up his pen, began to reread his work. Abruptly, he flung the pen down, along with the pad. He retrieved the parish directory, opened it.

I looked over his shoulder.

His finger ran down the page, stopped at the number for Irene Chatham. He picked up the receiver, then slowly replaced it, shaking his head.

It was obvious that Father Bill intended to continue to protect Irene Chatham’s good name even though his own reputation was at risk. Even worse, he might be arrested on suspicion of a murder he had no motive to commit.

Not if I could help it . . .

The small houses on Whitlock Street ranged from well kept to dilapidated. Purple and yellow pansies bloomed in profusion in the front bed of a neat brick bungalow on the corner. Next door was a frame house painted dark purple. A jacked-up, tireless pickup looked as though it had been in the rutted drive for years. A too-thin black-and-tan dog with droopy ears was tethered to a railing on the sagging porch. His head came up. He lifted it and howled.

I veered toward him. He backed away as far as he could until the rope held him fast, body rigid. I dropped to one knee. “It’s all right, old fellow. They aren’t taking very good care of you, are they?” I stroked his head. Slowly, he relaxed. I ran my hand over his back, felt his spine and ribs. “I’m sorry, Jack,” I murmured. My son, Rob, always called his dogs Jack. “I’ll come back, I promise, and see what I can do.” Irene’s house was the third from the corner. It needed paint and a new roof. Overgrown bushes rose midway to the windows. The flower bed was a mass of leaves. Brown weeds poked from ridges and cracks in the cement walk.

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Inside the house, I sniffed in distaste at the living room’s stale, airless smell, potpourri mingling with dust. Irene stood in front of the fake fireplace, digging frantically into a shapeless crocheted bag.

She yanked out a clear plastic change purse, upended the contents on the dingy white mantel. She counted aloud. “Ten—twenty—thirty-four.” She swept the bills and assorted change back into the purse and dropped it into the crocheted bag. She moved toward the front door, eyes feverishly bright, long face drooping in misery.

A woman’s clothes announce to the world how she sees herself.

Whether she chooses the latest fashions or prefers plain and sensible, each choice tells its own story. I shook my head at Irene’s dress. One cuff was torn, a spot of grease stained a front panel, part of the hem sagged. She was a walking testament to despair. She needed fresh makeup and a good wash and brush of her straggly gray hair, but she plunged toward the door, obviously in a tearing hurry to go somewhere, do something.

In a flash, I was on the porch and became visible. I changed, reluctantly, from dashing velour into the crisp Adelaide police uniform. I was absorbed in the transformation and didn’t realize until I heard a sound behind me that I wasn’t alone. I swung about to look into the startled face of a postman.

He shifted the heavy bag, peered at me in astonishment. “You had on one outfit, now you’re in a uniform. That’s what I saw.” He was belligerent. “Where’d you come from, anyhow?” His question was understandable. I stood with one finger poised to jab the doorbell. When he climbed the steps, he couldn’t have missed seeing me. I pushed the bell, gave him a reassuring smile. “I know how it is. Sometimes our minds are a million miles away. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

The postman jammed mail into the box, turned, and fled down the steps.

I looked after him in concern. I hoped the rest of his day went better.

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The door opened. Irene gasped and took a step backward, eyes wide with shock.

“Mrs. Chatham, may I have a moment of your time?” I looked at her sternly. “I’m Officer Loy. I need to speak with you about a matter concerning St. Mildred’s.”

Irene’s lips moved, but no words came. She opened the door with a shaking hand. She led the way into the frowsy living room, gestured at an easy chair. She sank onto the divan, clutching her purse and coat, and stared at me with desperate eyes. “Father Bill promised he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Father Abbott has not discussed you in any manner with the—

uh—with us.” I must remember that I represented Adelaide’s finest.

“Our information came from Daryl Murdoch’s cell phone.” Indeed it had. “You recall the photographs he took?” Irene wrapped her arms tightly across her front.

“You do recall?” I imitated the chief, bent forward, looking stern. “Two photographs. In one, you held the collection plate. In the second, you took money and stuffed it into the pocket of your Altar Guild smock.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She took shallow breaths.

“Come, come.” I doubted my response exemplified effective in-terrogative technique. I tried again. With a glower. “Mrs. Chatham, you were photographed stealing money from the collection plate.

This would not be a serious matter from the police standpoint except for the fact that Father Abbott and Mr. Murdoch quarreled. Father Abbott has refused to explain the reason to the police, saying only that it is a parish matter which must be kept confidential.” Watery brown eyes regarded me sullenly.

I didn’t mince words. “Father Abbott’s silence has made him a prime suspect in the murder investigation.” Something flickered in Irene’s eyes. Hope? Relief? “I don’t know 216

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anything about a disagreement between Father Bill and Daryl. Daryl was”—her voice shook—“always complaining about something at church.” Her gaze slid away, sly as a fox easing into a chicken house.

Craven self-interest should never come as a surprise, but I’d been confident I could easily prove Father Bill’s lack of motive and make Chief Cobb realize that the answer to Daryl’s murder didn’t lie in the church.

Perhaps it did.

I looked at Irene in a different, more searching light. Her expression was vacuous. Deliberately so? “Mrs. Chatham, the police are not interested in internal matters at St. Mildred’s. They—we—are investigating a murder. If you explained that Father Abbott was defend-ing you and not engaged in a personal quarrel with Mr. Murdoch, it would direct the investigation away from Father Abbott.” The fingers of one hand plucked at the collar of her coat. Irene lifted her eyes, watched me carefully. “Those pictures make it look bad, but it wasn’t that way. I’d put money in the plate earlier and then I realized I had to pay some bills and I took it back.” Her voice was stronger as she spoke, realization dawning that no one could prove otherwise. Daryl was dead. “That’s all there was to it. But Daryl wouldn’t listen and he went around to Father Bill and told lies about me, called me a thief.”

“If you don’t speak out, tell the truth, Father Abbott may be arrested.” Surely she would explain when she understood the serious-ness of his situation.

Irene’s sandy lashes fluttered. She stared at the floor, didn’t say a word.

I waited.

She jumped to her feet. “I’ve got things to do. I was on my way out. I’m sorry I can’t help.”

I stood and blocked her way. “Where were you Thursday between five and seven p.m.?”

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Panic flared in her face. “I didn’t even—” She clapped a hand to her lips.

“What didn’t you do?” My tone was sharp.

“Nothing. I was here. I was here the whole time.” She shrugged into her coat, took a step toward the door. “You can’t prove I wasn’t.” Irene Chatham was terrified and in her fear was willing to say and do anything to protect herself.

Why?

If I could find the answer, I might know everything I needed to know about Daryl Murdoch’s murder.

I moved ahead of her to the door. “We’ll be back in touch, Mrs.

Chatham.” As soon as I could figure out how to set Chief Cobb on her trail.

She slammed the door behind us, clattered down the front steps.

She was almost running to reach her car, a shabby green coupé.

I was glad that she didn’t take time to realize there wasn’t a police car parked on the street and that Officer Loy was no longer behind her, but sitting beside her as the car lurched around the corner.

Irene drove too fast, lurching across Main as the light turned red.

She ran another red light and careened around corners. On the outskirts of town, she pushed even harder on the gas pedal. The car swooped up and down hills, squealed around curves. We’d gone perhaps ten miles from Adelaide when a billboard on the right announced:

Buckaroo Casino

Fun and Money

Money, Money, Money for Every Honey

The billboard sparkled with gold coins spewing from a slot machine, piling into a glistening mound.

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. . . .

As she found a parking space in a crowded lot, I craned for a better view of the low-slung stucco building with a crimson neon outline of a slot machine on the near wall.

Irene slammed out of the car and hurried in stumbling eager steps up the broad cement walk with images of green shamrocks and dia-mond rings. She pushed through the door, turned immediately to her right. She stood in a short line, pushed over the money for a bag full of change.

The huge crowded room was dimly lit except for the flash of neon.

Music blared loud enough to hurt my ears. An electric guitar echoed, drums thumped, and a hoarse-voiced man shouted lyrics. Clouds of cigarette smoke turned the dim air dusky.

Irene dashed to a line of slot machines, began to feed quarters.

She yanked the lever, watched, stuffed in another coin. One quarter after another. Squeals of excitement sounded from a buxom blonde at a nearby slot machine. A croupier’s call rose above the mutter of voices.

I’d obviously returned to an Oklahoma quite different from the one I’d departed. If anyone had told me, a lifetime ago, that there would be a gambling casino right outside Adelaide, I would have said, “When little green men arrive from Mars.” Perhaps that had happened, too.

Now I understood why Irene Chatham was a thief. All I needed to know was whether she was a murderer, too.

Jack gave an eager snuffle. I rubbed behind a black-and-tan ear.

“Told you I’d come back, boy.” I untied the rope from the railing, gave a tug. He obediently trotted alongside. We were almost to the 219

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street when a woman’s voice cried out, “Shelly, look at that dog. Look at his rope. It’s up in the air as if someone’s holding it.” Behind a well-kept white picket fence, a woman bent toward the ground. A silver-haired woman with bright eyes pointed toward Jack.

“That dog’s rope is straight out like a comet’s tail.” I dropped the rope.

A young woman, balancing a baby on one hip, rose from picking up a pacifier. The baby wailed. “Every time he spits it out, he wants it back. That rope’s on the ground, Mama.”

“It was in the air.” Her voice was insistent.

I darted behind an oak, appeared, then strolled out. I picked up the rope and smiled at the neighbors. “Good morning.” The older woman continued to look puzzled.

The young mother spoke over the baby’s cry. “Are you taking that dog? Thank Heaven.”

The young mother’s response was more appropriate than she would ever realize.

She patted the baby’s back. “I’ve called the city a bunch of times to complain about how the Dickersons treat him. He’s a stray and they kept him, but half the time they don’t put any food out. I’ve been giving him kibble and water. You can’t talk to the Dickersons.” Her nose wrinkled as if she smelled rotten fish. “Mostly they’re drunk, both of them, and yelling so much in the middle of the night it wakes Tommy up.” She gave the baby a swift kiss. Then she looked distressed. “Are you taking the dog to the pound? They put them to sleep after three days.”

Jack gave a little yip.

“Absolutely not. He’s on his way to a new home.” I hoped Kathleen was up to a new family member. “Though”—I was realizing I had some challenges facing me—“I wonder if you could help out.

We have volunteers who take care of dogs while we find a new home.

It’s a new program. But I don’t have time to get any dog food. I’m on 220

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duty.” Much as I wanted to help Jack, I had no time to shop. “Could you possibly give me enough kibble to take care of him for a couple of days?”

The older woman nodded. “Of course. I’ll dash in and get some.”

The young mother jounced the wailing baby on her hip. “Did you leave them a notice?”

My rescue mission was getting ever more complicated. I tried to appear chagrined, which wasn’t difficult. “I didn’t have a notice with me. If you would have some paper, perhaps . . .” She called after her mother. “Bring out a pen and paper, Mama.” In only a moment, I was jotting in capital letters on an 8-by-10

white notecard:

NOTICE OF A NIM AL R ESCUE

Neglect of a domestic dog is prohibited in Sect. 42, Para. 12 of the Adelaide City Statutes. Under the authority vested in me as a sworn officer of the law, I herewith and hereby take custody of one malnourished mixed breed dog from the front porch at I glanced toward the house.

817 Whitlock Street. Inquiry may be made at the Adelaide Police Station.

Signed this 28th day of October.

I wrote Officer M. Loy with a flourish.

I doubted the Dickersons would rush to call the police. I used the tape provided by my new friends to attach the message to the front door of Jack’s former residence. As I passed by the picket fence, I paused. “We had a call out here on Thursday. A car ran the stop sign”—I pointed toward the corner—“and almost hit a bicyclist. By 221

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the time we got here, there was no trace of the car and the rider was too upset to give us a good description. I don’t suppose either of you”—I looked inquiring—“happened to be outside around five o’clock Thursday evening? It was cold and windy.” The older woman clapped her hands. “I’ll bet it was Irene Chatham. She’s a hazard behind the wheel. I get off work at four-thirty and I get home about a quarter to five. She almost hit me coming out of her drive.” She pointed at Irene’s house. ”I’ll bet she ran right through that stop sign.”

I got the particulars, the make and year and color of her car, then tucked the bag of food under one arm, took Jack’s rope, and off we went. I hoped it didn’t occur to the bungalow’s residents to wonder why Officer Loy was afoot. I didn’t look back.

We’d gone only a few steps when I heard that familiar rumble.

“Precepts—”

I finished for Wiggins, “Three and Four.” Jack gave an eager snuffle, came up on his back legs, his front paws in the air.

“Good fellow.” Wiggins spoke with delight.

Jack’s chin went up and I knew Wiggins was stroking his throat.

Jack dropped down.

A genial harrumph. “Although becoming visible is best avoided, you handled this chap’s rescue very nicely. The official notice was well done. There will be no cause for the observers to suspect that anything unusual has occurred. However”—a heavy sigh—“the episode last night at the police station was highly irregular. Awkward.

A blot upon the bright shield of the department.” I was puzzled. “The police department? I thought the policeman did as well as could be expected.”

”Not a blot on the police department.” Now Wiggins was roused. “A blot on the fine reputation of the Department of Good Intentions.”

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“Wiggins.” I handed him the leash. “If I’ve failed, I’ll resign at once.“ The leash was back in my hand immediately. Just as I expected, Wiggins would never desert Jack and I was taking him to a new and good home. I had a sudden picture of Wiggins as a little boy, minus the walrus mustache, a hound eagerly licking his face as he laughed in delight.

“Don’t be hasty, Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was a bit farther away. “In the face of adversity, you protected Kathleen last night.

Moreover, Kathleen is growing in courage. Keep up the good work.”

Jack’s head turned, and I knew he was watching Wiggins depart.

I tugged on the leash. “Jack, old buddy, let’s go faster.” He answered with a little woof.

When we reached the church, Jack and I moved from tree to tree because there were a half-dozen cars parked behind the rectory and more cars and pickups in the church parking lot. Teenage boys were hefting bales of hay and monster pumpkins. Girls giggled and held the door to the parish hall. I was glad Kathleen was occupied with setting up for the Spook Bash.

As soon as Jack and I were safely on the porch, I disappeared. In the kitchen, I found some plastic bowls, filled one with water, the other with a small portion of kibble, brought them to the porch. Jack noisily drank, then devoured the food. He looked up expectantly.

I smoothed the top of his head. “I know you’re still hungry. But we’d better start off slow.”

Jack stared for a moment more, then wagged his tail, as if to say, Sure thing, and began to explore the porch. I stepped back into the kitchen and printed on the message blackboard: Stray dog in need of a good home. Name: Jack. Will bring good fortune. BR

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I was sure of the latter. If it weren’t for Jack, I wouldn’t know one important fact: Irene Chatham had lied when she claimed to be home from 5 to 7 p.m. Thursday evening. In fact, she’d screeched from her driveway in a tearing hurry at about a quarter to five. I was almost sure I knew where she was going, but I needed proof. I suspected that Murdoch had called Irene from his office, intending to force a showdown with her and the rector, and Murdoch’s secretary was aware of that call. She was the kind of secretary who always knew what the boss was doing.

I found the telephone directory. In only a moment I had the address for Daryl Murdoch’s secretary. I checked the parish directory.

Patricia Haskins was also a communicant of St. Mildred’s. I found that very interesting, but not, given my speculations, surprising.

The stucco apartment building was built around a patio with a pool and benches. I checked the mailboxes near the office. A neatly printed card in 307 read: Patricia Haskins.

I reappeared when I stood outside her door. The wooden shutters were closed in the front window. I knocked. No answer. I looked around, saw no one, disappeared, and wafted inside.

The living room was exquisitely clean, the walls pale blue, the overstuffed furniture in soft white faux leather. A tiger-striped cat on a cushion near the kitchen lifted his head, studied me with enigmatic golden eyes. I had no doubt he saw me.

I knelt, smoothed silky fur. “Nobody home?” The cat yawned, revealing two sharp incisors and a pink tongue.

I popped up, made a circuit of the living room. No dust. No muss.

No casual disarray. One wall of bookshelves held biographies, books on bridge, and Book-Of-The-Month club titles. On another wall were three framed Edward Hopper prints.

A small walnut desk sat in one corner. I found her checkbook 224

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in the right-hand drawer and a box of checks as well as stubs neatly bound with rubber bands. I hunted for an engagement calendar, found an address book. There was an entry for Irene Chatham. It was a link, but this was a small town. I needed more.

The bedroom yielded nothing of interest but a collection of family pictures in neat rows atop a bookcase and on a dresser. It was cheerful to see that the rather formal Mrs. Haskins was also a mother and grandmother. In a Christmas scene, her eyes soft, her smile beatific, she was reaching out to touch the dark curls of a chubby little girl.

The kitchen was immaculate. A neat white cardboard bakery box was open. It held three dozen sugar cookies shaped like pumpkins with big chocolate eyes and curlicues of orange frosting. I edged one out, ate it neatly. I was turning to go when I saw the large wall calendar with notations in several squares. And yes, she’d marked this Saturday:

8 A.M., PICK UP TWILA, OKC

4–8 P.M. MADAME RUBY-ANN/SPOOK BASH

I understood the first entry only too well. Patricia had picked up a friend and gone up to Oklahoma City, probably for a couple of hours of shopping and lunch. The second entry gave me hope that she planned to return in time to attend St. Mildred’s Spook Bash this afternoon. But who was Madame Ruby-Ann?

I planned to attend the Spook Bash. I wanted to see Bayroo’s new friend. Now I had another excellent reason to be present. I was counting on Patricia Haskins telling me the name of someone who’d called Daryl or whom Daryl had called to set up a meeting at St.

Mildred’s.

I wondered if Chief Cobb had picked up on Patricia’s careful reply when he’d asked whether anyone else might have known Daryl’s destination . . .

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The chief sat at a circular table near his desk. He frowned, wrote swiftly on a legal pad. Folders surrounded him. A cordless telephone was within reach.

The chief ’s desk was pushed out from the wall and a bulky figure squatted behind the computer that had suffered unfortunate trauma last night. I was disappointed to see that the screen was still black.

The oblong box next to the screen had been opened. The interior looked like so much honeycomb to me. I moved around the desk.

Cords lay in a limp row on the floor.

The man staring at the computer shook his head. His orange po-nytail swung back and forth. White stitching on the back of his blue work shirt read computer whiz. “Chief, you gotta know this had to be deliberate.”

My heart sank.

A chair scraped. The chief came behind the desk. “Last night Sergeant Lewis found the light on. He saw an intruder.”

“You don’t say,” Computer Whiz marveled. “How’d some joe break into the cop shop?”

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Chief Cobb hunched his shoulders. “There wasn’t a break-in. No alarms sounded. The electric keypad on my office door didn’t record an entry.”

Computer Whiz rocked back on his heels. “So nobody came in but somebody came in. Did the cop get a good look?” Chief Cobb folded his arms. “Sergeant Lewis thinks it was a woman.”

A snicker. “He doesn’t know one when he sees one?” Chief Cobb was short in his answer. “All he saw was a witch’s costume. When he came after her, she went out the window.” The repairman glanced toward the windows. “Second story, Chief. Was she was flying on a broomstick?”

“Whoever it was got away. Somehow.” The chief, too, glanced at the windows. “Lewis is a good man, but he claims he was running toward her when a chair tripped him and he dropped his gun and the window slammed down. His gun’s gone. We haven’t found any trace of it. That’s when he saw a flash and heard popping sounds and the computer went black.”

“Somebody”—Computer Whiz pointed with an accusatory finger—“jammed this cord here and that cord there. Nobody ought to take out plugs and put them back in the PS2 ports when the monitor’s up and running. It blew the fuses on the motherboard and the whole system crashed.”

Cobb frowned. “Sergeant Lewis claims no one was near it.” Computer Whiz looked skeptical. “Maybe Sergeant Lewis imagined pops and crackles and somebody’d already done the deed. Or maybe it’s like he said, he walks in and the system blows. In that case, invisible fairies must have been playing pin the tail on the poor damn computer. Take your pick, but somebody did it.” The chief looked morose. “Can you fix it?”

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Cobb’s face wrinkled. “How long? I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.” He pointed at the legal pad. “I’m having to write stuff out by hand.”

Computer Whiz shrugged. “I’ve done all I can do today. Got to order some parts from Oklahoma City. When I get them, it’ll be two days minimum. If all goes well.”

Chief Cobb grunted, returned to his table. When the door closed behind Computer Whiz, Cobb blew out a spurt of air, scrawled on his pad: Screwy stuff re Murdoch case

Victim’s cell phone missing from the crime scene. Had it in my hand, something poked me in the rear, I dropped it. It has never been found despite thorough search.

Anonymous call claimed murder weapon was on the back porch of the rectory. During search, golf balls thudded into a black trash bag full of cans. How did the golf balls get out of the bag? No one standing by bag.

Tip received that preacher’s wife got a red nightgown from victim at his cabin. Call made at three minutes after 8 P.M.

Thursday from pay phone outside Shell station on Comanche.

Cleaning lady Friday claimed she found a burned portion of a red silk nightgown in the fireplace. She picked it up and a woman screamed in the kitchen. The cleaning ladies fled. There was no trace of a nightgown when Det. Sgt. Price investigated. Nothing but ashes. Who was in the kitchen?

Tip came in Friday from library that murder weapon was in the Pritchard mausoleum. Librarian in next cubicle looked over.

Phone was in the air, slammed into receiver. Nobody there. Gun found as promised.

Fake police officer interviewed Joyce Talley, owner of the Green Door, Friday night. Impersonation discovered when Mrs.

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Talley called the police to insist Lily Mendoza had nothing to do with Murdoch murder. When contacted, Mendoza related she also was interviewed by a redheaded policewoman with a nameplate reading M Loy. Described her as attractive redhead in her late twenties, about five feet four inches tall and slender.

Corresponds to description given by Mrs. Talley.

I’d left rather a trail across Adelaide. Hopefully Officer Loy need not need appear again.

More screwy stuff possibly related to Murdoch case Friday afternoon Det. Sgt. Price spoke to a woman on the back porch of the rectory. Said she was drop-dead gorgeous.

I remembered looking into slate-blue eyes . . . I shook myself back to the present.

Wore a wedding ring. Expensive clothes under one of those blue cover-ups church ladies use. Hair covered by a turban with a bunch of fruit on it. Wonder if she was a redhead? Gave her name as Helen Troy. No Troys at St. Mildred’s. No one of that name is listed in any directory in the city or county. Description: Late twenties, about five feet five inches tall. Fair skin with a spattering of freckles.

I felt rather breathless. It didn’t take a badge to see the direction of Chief Cobb’s thoughts. Who was the unknown Mrs. Troy? Why was she cleaning the back porch of the rectory? I was afraid I’d erected a signpost reading crime scene.

Chief Cobb scrawled:

Intensify search for Troy.

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To-go sack taken from Lulu’s Friday evening. Front door opened, sack sped down sidewalk, nobody there. However, cash left on the counter with the check. Order for M. Loy.

Fake police officer M. Loy took custody of a black-and-tan dog from 817 Whitlock Street. Next-door neighbor called to commend police department on its new policy to rescue abused animals. Description of Loy corresponds to those given by Talley and Mendoza.

Loy? Troy? Some meaning there?

Computers blew Friday. Sgt. Lewis saw light on in my office, suspected intruder. Unlocked door, entered. Insists he surprised a witch at the computer who fled, climbing out of the window.

He was tripped, gun disappeared, window slammed shut, then computer whined, popped, and flashed, screen went dark.

Nobody was in the room.

Cobb shook his head, flipped to a fresh page.

PER SONS OF INTER EST

1 The Rev. William Abbott, rector St. Mildred’s. Quarreled with Murdoch Thursday morning. Refused to reveal reason for disagreement. Claimed privileged matter. Murdoch had called vestry meeting for Sunday afternoon to consider fiduciary irregularity. Motive: Possible financial wrongdoing. Opportunity: In church when crime likely occurred.

2. Kathleen Abbott, rector’s wife. Lied about reason for visit to Murdoch cabin Wednesday

I drew in a sharp breath.

Cobb started. He looked around, stared at his closed door, frowned.

I edged away from his shoulder. The man had hearing like a lynx.

He resumed writing.

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I returned, breathing delicately.

evening. Junior Warden Bud Schilling said Murdoch was determined to see church secretary fired, under no circumstances would have planned to purchase a birthday gift for her. Motive: Unclear. Cabin visit and phone call re red nightgown suggest sexual liaison, but Murdoch was having an affair with Cynthia Brown. No evidence exists that Mrs. Abbott was involved with Murdoch. Moreover, she appeared to dislike him. Possibly she quarreled with him in defense of her husband, but that doesn’t explain the red nightgown. Opportunity: Her whereabouts during critical period unknown.

He reached for a file, flipped it open. He picked up his telephone, punched numbers. “Mrs. Abbott?” He listened. “Do you have a cell number for her?” He wrote quickly on the outside of the folder. “Thank you.”

No doubt Bayroo had answered. I hoped the delivery of the cake had gone well.

Cobb clicked another number. “Mrs. Abbott? Chief Cobb. Where were you from five to seven Thursday evening?” He scrawled a thumb-size question mark on his pad. “Oh, at the rectory. Did you see anyone near the shed at the back of the property?” I hoped Kathleen was keeping her cool.

“A witness observed you returning a wheelbarrow to the shed.” He looked as predatory as a cat toying with a mouse.

I gasped. Aloud.

His head jerked every which way.

I didn’t regret worrying him. Wasn’t it against the law for a policeman to lie? Why, his very own notes made it clear he didn’t know where Kathleen was when Daryl was shot.

He gripped the phone tighter. “You didn’t mention that earlier.” 231

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What was Kathleen saying? It was time I went to the parish hall.

If only I were in time . . .

The parish hall looked like a combination rummage sale and carni-val. Huge posters announced:

Annual Spook Bash

4–8 p.m. Saturday October 29

St. Mildred’s Parish Pumpkin Party

All goods, services, and entertainments donated Proceeds Designated for Adelaide Food Bank Big fans in the corners of the room were tilted toward the ceiling, rippling orange and black streamers that dangled from oak beams.

The wail of a winter wind moaned from the sound system. Black trash bags were taped to the windows, making the room dim. Cardboard skeletons with arms akimbo and one leg in a high kick were pinned on either side of each window. Decorated gourds, Thanksgiving centerpieces, pumpkin ceramics, assorted collectibles, homemade cakes, candies, breads, and jams filled trestle tables around the perimeter. Apples bobbed in large zinc pails. Cardboard signposts advertised face painting, madame ruby-ann’s fantastic fortunes, mysterious maze, ghost busters tent, pumpkin palette, and di-nah’s dee-licious diner.

Orange T-shirts with spook bash in topsy-turvy black letters identified volunteers. Teenagers arranged pumpkins and struggled with bales of hay. Voices, high and low, young and old, reverberated. “. . .

over here, Pete, over here . . . be careful or it’ll fall . . . put all the chocolate on one table . . . can’t stand that noise . . . Suzie, those angel cards are precious!”

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clutching her cell phone. She looked as wary as a kayaker in a swamp teeming with alligators, but she sounded untroubled. “Oh, that. I never thought about mentioning it. I saw the wheelbarrow out in the yard and thought I’d better—”

I yanked the cell phone from her hand—“bring it in the house.”

“In the house? You mean the shed.” The chief sounded puzzled.

“Did you say Fred?” My voice was an excellent imitation of Kathleen, but that was easy, she sounded so much like my sister, Kitty. “It’s awfully noisy here. I think I’m misunderstanding you.” I held the phone up in the air as the wind noise reached a high pitch and a teenage girl shrieked, “Eeeek, there’s a snake in the hay. Tommy said so.”

“What’s going on?” Cobb snapped.

I spoke loudly. “We’re getting ready for the Spook Bash. It starts at four o’clock here in the parish hall. We have baked goods and hot dogs and chili and collectibles and games and a contest to paint faces on the pumpkins and—”

A little girl’s piercing voice demanded, “Mama, Mama, look at the cell phone up in the air.”

I glanced down. Curious brown eyes stared at the cell in my hand.

Of course there was no hand visible. Drat.

Kathleen moved fast, placing her hand over mine.

I struggled to hear.

Chief Cobb interrupted. ”Okay, Mrs. Abbott. I saw the posters when I was at the church this morning. But I want you to explain why you put the wheelbarrow in the shed Thursday evening.” I grabbed Kathleen’s shoulder, pivoted her so that she was between me and the little girl who was tugging on her mother’s T-shirt.

“Wheelbarrow?” My voice rose in surprise. “What wheelbarrow?” Kathleen tilted to one side, valiantly held up her hand, but there was a gap between it and the cell phone.

Chief Cobb was impatient. “The wheelbarrow that is kept in the rectory toolshed. You were observed returning it to the toolshed.“ 233

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The little girl’s voice rose. “Mama, that cell phone’s up there by itself.” Her plump mother, chattering to an animated volunteer, reached down, swooped her up onto one hip. “Don’t interrupt, Mindy.” I dropped down behind a bale of hay. “I don’t know anything about a wheelbarrow.” I combined innocence, amusement, and a hint of impatience. Myrna Loy was such a good influence. “The sexton takes care of all the lawn equipment and tools and he does a wonderful job. Someone’s made a mistake. Certainly I had nothing to do with a wheelbarrow at any time. I only went out into the yard for a minute Thursday to get the teal arrow. I know people get rushed, but even a volunteer should be responsible. There it was, simply propped up by the back steps, and you know how uncertain the weather’s been and I was right in the middle of dinner and scarcely had time but I dashed out to bring it inside—”

”Bring what inside?” He sounded confused.

“Why, I told you.” I oozed patience. ”The teal arrow. A donation for the collectible table. That’s what I thought you were asking about.

The teal arrow.” I enunciated clearly.

“Teal arrow.” He might have gnawed the words out of concrete.

“That’s right.” My tone was congratulatory. “Teal arrow. Just the prettiest shade of blue. Quite striking.” Cobb tried again. “I’m talking about the wheeeeeel barrrrrow.”

“You’ll have to ask the sexton. Perhaps he can help you.” The little girl’s head poked above the hay. She peered down.

I swooped up, thrust the phone at Kathleen. I hissed in her ear.

“Teal arrow. Keep it up. Invite him to the Bash. Find a teal arrow.” I settled in the chair across from the chief. I was relieved when he finally said a brusque good-bye to Kathleen. Obviously, she’d held her own and continued to talk about the teal arrow.

Chief Cobb clicked off the phone. He glared at his tablet, scrawled: 234

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Admitted seeing wheelbarrow, then changed her story.

Something about a teal arrow. Slippery as an eel. She’s hiding something. That anonymous phone call claimed the gun was on the back porch. Something funny went on when I was searching the porch. And a black cat lives there. Murdoch got that dust and cat fur somewhere. Maybe it’s time to call the judge, see about a search warrant. But the porch was cleaned! Who was the woman in the turban? Who’s running all over town pretending to be an officer? It all ties up with the rectory. Could Mrs. Abbott have found the body on the back porch, used the wheelbarrow to move it? She isn’t big enough to handle the body by herself. Maybe a friend helped her. Maybe her husband helped. Opportunity: Yes.

Judith Murdoch. Motive: Jealousy. Aware of husband’s infidelities. Originally claimed she went to a movie, but has now admitted she was near her husband’s office as he left. She followed him to church. Offered confession but cannot describe actual crime scene or body. Fearful of son’s involvement (see below). Took gun from son’s car, claims she hid it in the backyard but the gun wasn’t there. Opportunity: Yes.

Kirby Murdoch. Motive: Anger over father’s treatment of girlfriend. Admits target practice with a .22 pistol that afternoon, could not produce gun. Followed his father’s car as he left his office. Also confessed. Couldn’t accurately describe crime scene or body. Possibly deliberate misinformation. Opportunity: Yes.

Lily Mendoza. Motive: Remove obstacle to her relationship to Kirby Murdoch. Never known to have met the victim. No expertise with guns, but could have taken .22 from Kirby’s trunk.

Claims to have been home alone during critical period. No corroboration. Opportunity: Yes.

Cynthia Brown. Refused to confirm relationship with victim although she admits trying to contact him after work Thursday.

Claimed he drove away and she went home. Opportunity: Yes.

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Walter Carey. Insisted breakup of partnership with victim was Carey’s decision. Knowledgeable business leaders indicated Carey has been in financial distress for several years, and certainly the termination of the partnership wasn’t positive for him.

Obvious hard feelings as the breakup was sudden and Murdoch immediately replaced the locks at his office. Carey said he was working late Thursday. No corroboration. Opportunity: Yes.

Isaac Franklin, sexton St. Mildred’s. Motive: Victim confronted him over removing food from the church pantry for the needy. Sexton supported by rector. Sexton’s report on wheelbarrow led to search of cemetery and church grounds.

Discovery of tracks suggests murder occurred at or near the church. Use of the wheelbarrow likely would not have been otherwise discovered, which supports sexton’s lack of involvement.

Arrived home at a quarter after five. Arrived at daughter and son-in-law’s home at six. Confirmed by wife and daughter and son-in-law. Collusion unlikely. Opportunity: Unlikely.

Cobb frowned at the tablet. He pushed away from the table, wan-dered to his desk, his gaze abstracted. He opened the drawer, found a sack of M&M’s, poured out a half dozen, tossed them in his mouth.

He glanced at the wall clock, gave an abrupt nod. He punched his intercom. “Hal, if you’ve got a minute, I’d like to see you.”

“Be right there.”

The chief punched another button. “Anita, I can use your help if you’re free.”

“I’m on my way.”

He was standing with his back to the table, munching M&M’s.

I resisted the impulse to filch a few. I picked up his pen, delicately loosened a clean sheet from the table. The chief stood with his back to me. I printed in block letters:

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IRENE CHATHAM STOLE FROM THE COLLECTION

PLATE AT ST. MILDRED’S. MURDOCH HAD PROOF.

HE INSISTED FATHER ABBOTT CALL THE POLICE.

FATHER ABBOTT REFUSED. THEY QUARRELED.

The chief’s door opened. I wrote a little faster: THIS IS THE FIDUCIARY MATTER MURDOCH

INTENDED TO REPORT TO THE VESTRY.

“Chief.” Anita’s voice was puzzled. “How’s that pencil moving by itself?“ She stood in the doorway, one hand pointing.

I eased the pencil to the table.

Cobb whirled, approached the table. He picked up the pencil, shrugged. “Optical illusion, I guess. Anyway—” His gaze stopped.

He reached for the sheet with the printed message. “Where’d this come from?”

Anita came up beside him. “One of the folders?” She waved at the laden tabletop. She looked fresher today, less tired.

“I know everything in every folder.” He thrust the sheet at her.

“Who did this?”

She read, shook her head. “I suppose it was part of someone’s notes.”

“Block letters?” He scrabbled through the nearest folder, pushed it aside, checked one after another.

Anita spread out her hands. “Somebody wrote it.” He closed the last folder. “Yeah. Somebody did.” He stared at the sheet, his face perplexed. “I would have sworn this wasn’t in any of the files.”

The door opened. Detective Sergeant Price hurried to the table.

He moved fast, as if there was much to do and too little time.

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The chief held out the sheet. “Take a look at this, Hal. Do you know anything about it?”

Hal read it, raised an eyebrow, returned the sheet. “News to me.” Chief Cobb slapped it on the table. “There are too many weird things about this case. But”—he jabbed a finger at the sheet—“wherever it came from, we have to check it out. It’s too specific to ignore.

Anyway, I can use some help this afternoon.” He described his conversation with Kathleen Abbott. “She claims she misunderstood, didn’t mean a wheelbarrow, that she went out into the backyard to retrieve some donation for the collectible sale at the church. It’s part of the big Halloween bash that starts”—he checked his watch—“in about fifteen minutes. I want us to show up.

I want people to get the idea we’re there to look things over. I’m going to track down the vestry members, see what I can find out about the padre and the vestry. And talk to this”—he tapped the printed message—“Irene Chatham. Hal, find Mrs. Abbott and insist she show you the teal arrow. Anita, check with some of the church ladies, see if you can get a get a line on this Helen Troy. Hal, describe her.”

“Nefertiti.”

The chief blinked. Officer Leland looked puzzled.

I kissed my fingers, blew a kiss toward my favorite police detective.

A slight flush pinked his cheeks. “Classic bone structure. She’s a knockout. It shouldn’t be hard to find her.”

“Shouldn’t be if she’s such a hottie.” The chief looked amused.

“But nobody’s pointed the way yet.”

Hal looked thoughtful. “Not the kind of gal you see at the grocery. The kind of woman who’d look good in a sleek black dress and I think she had a helluva figure from the look of her legs. She was wearing fancy gray heels.”

I nodded with approval.

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anything to help, but she doesn’t sound like someone who spends much time cleaning porches. So I wonder what was so important about the porch.”

I looked at her sharply, realized her eyes were shrewd and intelligent. She’d figured out what mattered.

The chief was looking at her with admiration. “That’s the point.

She cleaned the porch. Maybe she knew there’d been a body there.” He suddenly looked formidable. “I want to know if she was a redhead. Maybe she likes to impersonate the police. Keep your eyes open for a good-looking redhead.”

In the church parking lot, Kathleen stood outside a big plastic contraption with clear plastic panes on all sides. The green top was shaped like a dragon. A machine blew air to keep it inflated. Inside, a half-dozen boys yelled and rolled and jumped on the bouncy plastic bottom.

Kathleen lifted a flap and yelled, “No kicking. Absolutely no kicking or wrestling. Two more minutes and it’s the girls’ turn.” I had to speak loudly for her to hear, but the boys were making so much commotion I didn’t worry about being overheard. “What is this? What’s going on?”

Kathleen lifted a finger to indicate she’d be with me ASAP, then turned her thumb toward the contraption, yelled, “Jupiter Jump, only three tickets. Girls next for the Jupiter Jump.” I suppose she thought that was a sufficient explanation. I wished I had time to go inside and bounce. What fun! However . . . I shrieked into her ear. “The police are coming. We have to find a teal arrow.

They’ll want to see it.”

Suddenly the shouts inside the inflated plastic plaything turned angry. “. . . off my back . . . stop that . . . gonna shove you . . .” Kathleen lifted the flap at the entrance, poked her head inside.

“That’s enough, boys. Time’s up. Out. Out. Out.” 239

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Boys ranging from six to midteens tumbled through the opening.

The last one was scarcely gone before the girls clambered inside.

I tugged on Kathleen’s jacket sleeve. “A teal arrow. You’ve got to find one. The police will be here any minute and you have to show it to them.”

A sudden screech and a burst of tears sounded inside the jump.

Kathleen held up a hand, once again pulled aside the flap. “Abigail, don’t pull Teentsy’s braids. Let go. Pronto. Abigail, you get in that corner. Teentsy, come bounce by the door.” When a semblance of harmony was restored, she gripped the edge of the opening flap, looked around.

“I’m over here. Come on, Kathleen, we don’t have much time.”

“I’m all alone. Sally Baker didn’t show up. I can’t leave the jump.

I’ll tell them—”

I gripped her arm. “Don’t tell them anything. I’ll take care of it.” I zipped to the rectory. A teal arrow. I closed my eyes. Perhaps I might look in the attic and find some arrows. Our vigorous rector had been quite an archer. A piece of wood and I would be in business.

I opened my eyes. Lying on the kitchen table was a two-by-four-foot weathered wooden plaque. Mounted on it was an arrow. The shaft was a bright teal.

I clapped my hands. “Thank you, Wiggins.” I looked out the window. Three police cars turned into the far end of the church lot. Not a minute too soon, but miracles always seem to happen that way.

I looked critically at the plaque. Wiggins had done a fine job, but I felt it needed a tad more pizzazz. I rummaged in the craft drawer and found a large gold sticker that had an official appearance.

I added it beneath the arrow. I used a red marker and inscribed in looping script:

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Authenticated By Hackworth Antiques, St. Louis, Mo

In the same ornate handwriting, I wrote on a plain sheet of stationery:

Genuine arrow once owned by Daniel Boone

For good measure, I added a seal to the bottom of the sheet. I turned the board over, taped the sheet to the back.

As I started down the back steps of the rectory, I realized, with an unhappy memory of the upright dog leash, that the arrow could not arrive apparently self-propelled. I’d half appeared when I looked down and saw slate-blue trousers. This was no time for Officer Loy to surface. A quick transformation into my purple velour and I hurried toward Kathleen.

“Mrs. Abbott?” I looked at Kathleen inquiringly.

Kathleen looked past me and gasped.

I turned and came face-to-face with Detective Sergeant Price. It was too late to wish for a scarf.

We looked at each other across time and space. I saw strength and honor in his eyes and more.

I don’t know what he saw in mine.

I took a step back and gave him an impersonal smile, a smile that I hoped was cool and distant and yanked up the drawbridge between us. I rushed into speech. “Isn’t this a lovely event? I can’t resist church sales. You never know what you are going to find.” I swerved toward Kathleen. “Hello, Mrs. Abbott. You probably don’t remember me.

Helen Troy. I’ve just transferred my membership from All Souls’ in the city. I’m making friends with some of the church ladies and I was so glad to help out yesterday with a little sweeping at the rectory, but you weren’t home. I found this adorable teal arrow at the collectible sale and they said you could tell me about this donation.

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Is it really”— my voice was hushed—“an authentic Daniel Boone arrow?” I turned the board over, handed it to her.

Sergeant Price came a step nearer, staring at my undeniably flaming-red hair.

Kathleen balanced the board in one hand, then the other, looked at the front, peered at the back. Now it held her fingerprints.

I was pleased with myself. I felt as buoyed as a poker player drawing an inside straight. That moment of pride lasted until I looked across the church parking lot and saw Chief Cobb heading toward us. Purposefully.

Kathleen sounded buoyant. “Teal arrow. Yes, indeed, here’s the teal arrow. We certainly hope it’s genuine, but I don’t know who donated it. Someone left it propped up against the back steps of the rectory Thursday night.”

“I see. Perhaps I’ll not take a chance on it, then. But thank you.” I began to back away.

Detective Sergeant Price moved toward me. “Mrs. Troy, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

“Oh, my son Billy’s waiting for me at the fortune-teller booth.

I’m really in quite a hurry.” I swung on my heel and headed for the church. I sped in front of a large family. Redheads.

“Wait. Wait, please.” The detective dodged around a group of Cub Scouts.

I used a group of teenage boys as a screen and ran for the church.

On the church steps, I risked a backward glance.

Detective Sergeant Price stood by Chief Cobb and Officer Leland, pointing, then they started toward me, moving fast.

I yanked open the door, plunged inside. The hallway was crowded.

A half-dozen children giggled and pushed as they hurried toward the parish hall.

The door opened. I saw Officer Leland’s slate-blue sleeve.

I disappeared.

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Chief Cobb gestured up the hallway. “Let’s find her. I’ll check the main hall, you two take a look in classrooms, offices.” He raised his voice. “Coming through.” The authoritative tone parted the mass of children.

I hovered near the ceiling of the parish hall. The lights had been dimmed on the north end. Flashing orange, red, green, and yellow spots played across the ceiling and walls. Somber organ music evoked specters tiptoeing through a graveyard. Occasional high screams and banshee wails shrilled from a tent. A crooked sign on the front of the tent identified it as spook house. enter at your peril. 5 tickets.

Children of all ages painted pumpkins lined up on trestle tables.

Thumpy music blared from one corner where sheet-draped children bent and swayed and hopped and chanted in an odd combination of dance and calisthenics. Lights blazed over a small stage at the south end of the hall. Almost everyone was in costume except for Sunday school volunteers in orange T-shirts.

A long line stretched from Madame Ruby-Ann’s tent out into the hall. I dropped inside. An orange turban, dance-hall makeup, and flaming cerise robe transformed Patricia Haskins into a fortune-Ca ro ly n H a rt

teller. She bent near a crystal ball, touching it lightly with her fingers.

Eyes closed, she crooned to a wide-eyed teenage girl in a peasant costume, “Beware the dark stranger. Turn aside, reach out to the blond Galahad. The familiar may seem ordinary, boring, pedestrian, but the crystal never lies. Your future belongs to a young man whom you’ve overlooked. He awaits you.” A shudder. Her hands fell away.

She pressed a palm to her head. “The crystal demands much. Make way for my next appointment.”

The girl looked dreamy. “Is the blond boy’s name Jeff?” Mrs. Haskins picked up a small fan, opened it, hiding her face.

“Jeff, Jeff, I think it is Jeff.”

I materialized in my Officer Loy uniform directly behind the girl.

“Did I hear you say you were ready for me?”

“Oooohh. Jeff.” The girl bounced to her feet. “I can’t wait to tell Amy.”

“Go the most direct way,” I urged. “Duck out over here.” I held up a side of the tent.

Madame Ruby-Ann frowned. “Wait a minute. Why send her out that way?”

I’d learned a thing or two when I worked in the mayor’s office.

If a question isn’t welcome, ignore it. “Mrs. Haskins, I’ll be quick and to the point. You weren’t altogether frank when you spoke to Chief Cobb yesterday. You are, in fact, withholding important information.” I stalked, which was difficult in the limited space, to the card table and bent down to place my hands on either side. “Someone contacted Mr. Murdoch just before he left his office. Who was it?” Fingers laden with costume jewelry toyed with the fringe on the brocade cloth covering the card table. “That call didn’t have anything to do with what happened to him. Irene Chatham’s in the Altar Guild and she probably called to check something with him.”

“Did you overhear their conversation?”

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‘I’ll be at the church in fifteen minutes.’ So I suppose”—Patricia’s tone was defiant—“that even though technically it’s true that Irene was aware he was going to the church, she could never be a suspect.

She’s terrified of guns. Anyway, you can go ask. She’s in charge of the hip-hop ghosts.”

“Hip-hop?” This was new to me.

“Kids love hip-hop. The nice kind,” she explained hastily. “No dirty lyrics or gang stuff. They do a musical review at the far end of the parish hall. They’re dressed in sheets with white paint on their faces. They have a great time.”

I ducked out of the tent.

A growl greeted me. “No more appearing, Bailey Ruth. I have reached the limits of my patience.”

A volunteer in an orange T-shirt stared at me. “What did you say, Officer?”

No one stood near us and I knew she was trying to locate that deep, undoubtedly masculine, and obviously irate voice.

Wiggins might soon embroil us in more public notice than he would wish.

“I heard that, too. An echo, I suppose.” Wiggins could mull that over. “Perhaps sound bounces off the ceiling.” I looked up. “Heavens, aren’t the chandeliers interesting? They’re very unusual. Different colors. I particularly like the red one.” I pointed up to the chandelier in the center of the parish hall.

The volunteer slowly nodded, managed an uncertain smile, and moved away.

As soon as she walked around the fortune-teller’s tent, I disappeared and wafted up to the red chandelier. I perched on the rim. It was easier than it sounds. Three massive wooden chandeliers shaped like wheels hung from the parish-hall ceiling. There was plenty of room to sit on the outer rim.

I felt a sudden lurch.

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“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins was adamant. “No more appearing. It simply won’t do. Now, I’ll admit that was good work with the dog and I understand you felt it essential to speak with several people.

But, enough is enough.”

It was time for an end around, as Bobby Mac always advised when nose to nose in an altercation. “Wiggins, look at the children.

Isn’t that adorable?”

Irene Chatham, her lugubrious face transformed by a bright smile, energetically led a troupe of sheet-clad, starkly white-faced kids in an energetic—and to me most peculiar—performance. She, too, wore a sheet, which flapped as she moved. Madame Ruby-Ann called it a dance, so I supposed it was.

Irene lunged to her right, one arm extended, and chanted in concert with the dancers, “Shake a leg,” a lunge to the left. “Watch the ghosties flop. Witches’ brew can’t get you,” a lunge to the right.

“Shake a leg. Halloween’s hot, school’s not. Hey baby, hey baby, hey baby . . .”

“My goodness, how active,” Wiggins observed. “I suppose you’re waiting for a moment to confer with Kathleen. Remember, Bailey Ruth, work quietly in the background.” The chandelier rocked as he left.

I’d made no reply to Wiggins. I could not later be accused of per-fidy because I knew full well I would appear again. I was determined to confront Irene. At the moment the presence of Chief Cobb kept me aloft. He was in the center of the room, face grim, looking, looking, looking.

I drifted down, stood a few feet from Irene.

Chief Cobb gave a final searching glance at this end of the hall. He shook his head, moved toward Detective Sergeant Price, who stood near the pumpkin-painting station. The hip-hop dance concluded and the ghosties ran toward a lemonade stand. Irene turned off the music. She swiped at her flushed face.

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I dropped down beside her, hoped I was hidden by the milling crowd, and appeared in my French-blue uniform, fresh, crisp, and stern-faced. “Mrs. Chatham.”

Irene’s mouth opened, rounded in an “oh” of dismay. She took a step back, one hand grasping at her neck, panic flickering in her brown eyes.

I folded my arms, hoped my posture was intimidating. “From information received, we are aware that you spoke with Mr. Murdoch shortly before five p.m. Thursday. You met him at the church. It will be necessary for you to describe what happened or I’ll have to take you to the station.” My eyes were cold, my voice gruff.

She gulped, desperate as a goldfish out of water.

I lifted one hand to shake a finger at her, then stopped, feeling my own sweep of panic. Chief Cobb came around a corner of the Mysterious Maze and saw me. His face twisted in a scowl. He plunged into the swirling crowd, elbowing his way.

“Mrs. Chatham, you were seen. What happened?” I wished I could grip her scrawny shoulders and shake.

“I didn’t meet him. I swear I didn’t. When I saw—” She stopped, clapped shaking fingers to her mouth. “I didn’t stay. I don’t know anything and I’ve got to get the next number started.” She whirled around, shouted, “Middle school hip-hop. Time.” Chief Cobb was momentarily slowed by two burly high school boys maneuvering a dolly piled with cases of Cokes.

I had only seconds left. “What did you see? Quick?” She flung out her arm, shooing the gathering ghosties into place.

She bent, touched a button, and the throbbing beat blared. The children began their gyrations, shouting, “Boy say, boy say, boy . . .” Chief Cobb loomed just past Irene, shouted, “Stop there, lady. I got you now.”

What could I do? An abrupt disappearance violated Precept One: Avoid public notice. And possibly Precept Five: Do not succumb to 247

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the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you. However, I had no choice.

Chief Cobb ducked around a cotton-candy machine, hand outstretched.

I disappeared.

I didn’t move fast enough to evade Wiggins’s clipped order. “The chandelier.”

I sat on the chandelier and felt a bump as Wiggins joined me.

Below us, the chief grasped at air. His face creased in astonishment. His big head jerked from one side to the other, his eyes seeking an answer. There was an empty circle where I’d stood and talked to Irene. Irene, eyes huge, trembled, still mouthing in a hoarse whisper,

“. . . brew can’t get you . . .”

Cobb plunged nearer, glared down at her.

She gasped.

“Where is she?” he shouted over the music.

She looked back and forth. “Who?”

“That . . .” He swallowed, forced out the words. “That cop. That redheaded cop.”

“I don’t know.” Her tone was numb. “She was here and she went away.”

Cobb’s hands clenched. “There isn’t any place to go.” The beat continued and the ghosties pranced. “. . . hey say, hey say, watch the ghosties flop . . .”

Irene blinked. “Maybe she went behind the cotton-candy machine.”

Cobb took a few steps, peered behind the churning froth of pink sugar. Impatiently, he strode back. “What did she talk to you about?”

“I told her I didn’t know anything about anything.” Irene’s voice rose. “She threatened me, said she’d take me to the police station, and here I am, trying to help out at the church.” Her voice wavered in a sob. “I told her I was busy and couldn’t talk now.” 248

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Cobb made a growl of frustration in his throat. “That woman’s going to jail just as soon as I get my hands on her. Impersonating a police officer is a serious crime.”

“Impersonating . . .” Irene had her goldfish look, eyes huge, mouth open.

“If she comes around again, call us.” Cobb frowned. “Who are you, ma’am?”

Irene murmured, “Chatham. Irene Chatham.” His question came hard and fast. “Are you the one Daryl Murdoch accused of stealing from the collection plate?” She grasped at her throat, eyes bulging. “That was a mistake. Absolutely a mistake. I just needed to make change. There’s not a word of truth to it.” Her lips folded in a tight line.

He was unimpressed. “When did the incident occur?” Her face was mulish. “There was no incident.” Cobb’s eyes narrowed. “Did Murdoch take his accusation to Father Abbott?”

She stared at him wide-eyed. “I wouldn’t have any knowledge about conversations between Mr. Murdoch and Father Bill.”

“That’s not an answer.” His look was scathing. “Are you the one Abbott’s protecting?”

Her hands clenched. “Ask Father Abbott.” I was furious. She knew Father Bill would protect her.

Cobb stared at Irene. “Did that redheaded woman ask you about stealing?”

Irene’s eyes flickered away. “I didn’t understand what she wanted, but she was unpleasant. Now you say she’s a fake. The police department shouldn’t let people go around pretending they are officers and acting rudely.”

His face was grim. “I’ll be back in touch, Mrs. Chatham.” He turned on his heel, began a slow, measured survey of the hall.

I wasn’t done with Irene Chatham. She might think she’d seen 249

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the last of me, but she hadn’t. We’d have a tête-à-tête she wouldn’t forget as soon as she left the parish hall. If, of course, I managed to elude Wiggins.

Now the rumble was deep and full-throated. “Bailey Ruth, I’ve reached the end of my patience. The Rescue Express is en route. You will board shortly.”

I held tight to the rim. “No.”

“No?” He was dumbfounded.

Was I the first emissary to mutiny? Was Purgatory my destination? I took a deep breath, tried to keep my voice steady. “I’ve not finished my job. And I have to say”—I felt the sting of tears down my cheeks and my voice wobbled—“I’ve never had anyone treat me this way. Give me a chance, Wiggins. Leave me alone. Stop looking over my shoulder every minute. I can handle everything by myself.”

“Oh.” He sounded chagrined, a kindhearted man daunted by the sniffles that indicate tears. “Possibly I have been too much here. After all, it’s your responsibility. Very well. Do your best.” He didn’t sound as if he had the faintest hope that I would manage with any success.

The chandelier swung.

I wiped my cheeks and felt liberated. No more Wiggins looking over my shoulder, frowning and grumping and harrumphing. I would be in charge. I would do very well by myself, thank you very much.

A drumroll sounded, da-dum, da-da, da-dum, da-da, da-dum. A trumpet blew. Lights blinked on and off.

At the base of the steps to the small stage, Marie Antoinette was impatiently adjusting a white-gold wig. A pirate—oh, it was Bayroo!—waved a sword aloft in time with the drums. She looked eager, excited, and, to Auntie Grand, absolutely lovely, Titian hair gleaming, fine features alive with delight. A sandy-haired boy in a blue pullover sweater and faded jeans grinned at her. Freckles splashed his angular face. He gave a thumbs-up. A towheaded Robin Hood thudded up the steps.

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Father Bill joined Robin Hood on the stage. For once, Father Bill didn’t look pressed or weary. His smile was bright and glad and proud.

From the audience, a peasant girl yelled, “Go, Jeffie.” Robin Hood flapped a big hand. He went to the mike, thunked it. “Sound on?” His voice reverberated. “Welcome to St. Mildred’s annual Spook Bash.”

The drummer pounded in a frenzy. Cheers rose.

Robin Hood grinned. “Thanks for coming and supporting the youth group outreach to Adelaide. I’m Jeff Jameson, youth group senior high president. We’ll begin our program with a prayer from Father Bill.”

Father Bill shook Jeff’s hand, then took the mike. He bowed his head and prayed in thanksgiving for the youth group and their hard work to raise money for the food pantry. Before he handed the mike back to Jeff, Father Bill grinned at the revelers. “How about a cheer for the youth group?”

The roar from the audience was almost equal to the welcome given to Adelaide’s Bobcats when they took the field on a Friday night.

Jeff took the mike. “Thanks, everyone. We’ve worked hard, but it’s been so much fun and now we have a wonderful turnout, so all the effort was worthwhile. This year’s Bash offers more fun and prizes and scary thrills than ever before. Most amazingly, we have a very special guest who’s come to help us make this the best Spook Bash ever. Everybody please welcome Travis Calhoun.” The lanky boy in jeans reached the platform, one hand held high in greeting.

Girls squealed and hugged one another. It reminded me of the bobby-soxer days when teenage girls swooned over Frank Sinatra.

Robin Hood gestured toward the trestle tables laden with pumpkins. “Travis has agreed to judge the painted-pumpkin faces and 251

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present the awards. He’s in Adelaide to visit his aunt and there’s a special story behind his appearance here. Lucinda Wilkie, middle school president, wants to tell us how she and Bayroo Abbott met Travis and invited him to join our party. Come on up, Lucinda.” He clapped. “And Bayroo.”

Marie Antoinette bustled onstage. Bayroo followed, but she looked surprised. She glanced from Robin Hood to Marie, a frown tugging at her face.

Marie Antoinette righted her wig, pushed her glasses higher on her nose, and stepped to the mike. “Everybody in the world knows Travis Calhoun—”

Lucinda was guilty of exaggeration. I’d never heard his name until she and Bayroo arrived on the rectory porch Thursday evening. Of course I had to remember that I was in the world, not of the world.

“—who stars in Show Me the Way, Emmy Award–winning TV

series now in its third season. Travis has the lead in a feature film, Gotcha Covered, to be released in November. He plays the role of a teenager who has to turn detective when his mom, a bank president, is kidnapped during a holdup. He’s here this afternoon to spend time with us and we want to thank Bayroo Abbott, who made this possible. Bayroo heard at Safeway that Travis was in town to visit his aunt and she wanted him to know we’d love to have him at the Spook Bash. His aunt lives across from the entrance to the nature preserve.” Lucinda pointed vaguely to her right. “Anyway, it was Thursday and just getting dark and kind of a spooky night.” She leaned close to the mike. Her wig tilted. She pushed it upright. “We decided we’d wait at each end of the block so we’d know when Travis got home and then we’d go up and introduce ourselves. There’s a busy parking lot next to the house and Bayroo wasn’t sure she’d see him because of cars coming in and out. She realized she’d have a better look at the house if she waited in the nature preserve.” Bayroo reached out, tugged at Lucinda’s puffy sleeve.

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Lucinda shook her off, increased her volume. “Bayroo’s trying to hush me. Her folks told us never to go in the preserve by ourselves and of course we don’t, but this was a special exception for a very good cause and it’s brought more people here today than ever before and that means we are raising more money for the Adelaide food pantry for the homeless. But”—her tone was breathless—“Bayroo had a really scary time. She heard leaves crackling and somebody was walking through the woods not too far from her and she just about had a heart attack. She hunkered down behind the stone pillar at the entrance. A little later, she heard sounds again and she was really glad when she saw Travis getting out of the car and she dashed across the street and said hello and said we all think he’s swell and we’d like to make Adelaide fun for him while he was here and he was so nice and he invited us in and we met his aunt and we told him about the Bash and here he is. Travis Calhoun!” She held out the mike.

He moved with the ease of a seasoned performer, flashed a good-humored smile. He gestured for Bayroo to join him. “Sounds like you could star in a Nancy Drew film.” Bayroo’s face was as red as her hair. She glanced uneasily around the hall. “It didn’t amount to anything. Lucinda’s making up a good Halloween story.”

Travis held the mike down to pick up the sound of his shoes as he stealthily slid them on the flooring, lifted it again. “Footsteps of doom.” His voice was sepulchral. He intoned, “Bayroo Abbott, what frightful denizens of darkness dwell within the haunted preserve?” Bayroo looked uncomfortable. “Honestly, we never go in the preserve alone.”

I suspected she was hoping to avoid searching questions from Kathleen and Father Bill.

She managed a bright smile. “Sure, it was scary, but as soon as I saw the car, I knew everything was all right. Anyway, nobody cares 253

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about that. Everybody wants to know who the winners are.” She picked up a burlap sack. “We have them right here.” She handed an embossed diploma-size sheet to Travis.

Travis held it up in the air for all to see. “Neat, isn’t it? Everybody who painted a pumpkin face gets one. You know, that’s nice.” He was suddenly serious. “It gets pretty old to see kids try their hearts out and not get any notice. I’d like to congratulate the Pumpkin Patch committee for making everybody a winner.” He looked at Bayroo.

“And for making me feel like a winner here in Adelaide, where I didn’t know a soul, and now I feel like I belong.” He swung back to the audience. “You know what Bayroo did?” He waved to encourage the audience’s questions.

“Hey, what?” “Did she scare up a ghost in the preserve?” “Bet she gave you a Bobcat T-shirt.”

Travis shook his head. “I’d like to have a T-shirt. But this was even better. She baked me a birthday cake, my favorite, white with chocolate icing, and she brought it over and gave it to me this morning and I’ve already eaten half of it. It’s the first homemade birthday cake I’ve ever had.”

Oh, that dear boy. Living in a mansion may be fine and fun.

Living in a loving family is better than a mansion any day.

“So”—he turned his hands up—“when she asked if I’d mind judging the contest, I said sure. I had a blast looking at the pumpkin faces. All of them were great. We have prizes for everything from the meanest face to the sweetest, the scariest to the friendliest, the happiest to the grumpiest. As your name is called, please pick up your pumpkin and bring it to the stage to receive your award. Our first award goes to Emily Howie for . . .”

A sweet-faced little girl carried a dainty pumpkin toward the stage.

Travis continued to call out prizewinners. Bayroo slipped down the steps, looking relieved to be out of the spotlight.

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I surveyed the hall, spotted Chief Cobb in the doorway, face somber, eyes still scanning the crowd. While I’d watched the presentation on the stage, the hip-hoppers had disbanded. Irene Chatham was nowhere to be seen.

I zoomed back and forth, seeking Irene. Kathleen was working fast at the cash desk for the collectibles. Father Bill stood in an alcove, arms folded, head bent, as he listened to a sharp-featured woman who gazed up at him searchingly. Walter Carey, his face gentle, knelt to listen as a dark-haired elf whispered in his ear. Isaac Franklin helped an old lady with a cane as she tapped toward the bake sale.

I found Irene in a far corner that had been turned into a temporary old-fashioned diner. She sat at a table with several other women, sipping a Coke, listening intently.

I swooped down, caught fragments of conversation:

“They say Father Bill’s had to talk to the police several times. Why do you suppose?” The plump woman’s bright brown eyes darted about the parish hall.

A lean blonde with a horsey face was adamant. “There’s nothing to it. Apparently Father Bill happened to be in his office around the time Daryl was killed.”

“What was Daryl doing”—the voice was freighted with innu-endo—“in the cemetery?”

The blonde smothered a giggle. “Maybe Judith faked a call from his current mistress, hid behind a tombstone, and blew him away.

That’s what I would have done. I can’t imagine why she’s . . .” I retreated to the nearest chandelier, intent upon keeping Irene in view. It was a relief to know the general populace had no inkling that Kathleen and Father Bill were high on Chief Cobb’s suspect list. I was sure the women below had heard everything generally known in Adelaide about Daryl’s murder and the investigation. But Kathleen and Bill faced more and harder scrutiny from Chief Cobb.

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Irene. I felt sure he’d follow up on that inquiry, but Irene’s bland response and refusal to admit to wrongdoing would likely protect her.

I had to find a way to inform the chief what I now knew for fact.

Irene had been aware that Daryl was going to the church and she’d sped recklessly from her driveway at shortly before five o’clock.

What were the odds she’d driven straight to the church? I felt it in my bones. When I had bones. But . . .

I stared down. Irene listened, her gaze darting from face to face.

She looked complacent. There was no trace of her earlier panic when I’d confronted her. She nibbled at a Baby Ruth. No one ever appeared less murderous. She’d removed her hip-hop sheet. Her green print dress had seen better days, as had her limp brown cardigan. She was frowsy, down-at-heels, possibly sinking into marginal poverty. But murderous?

A desperate creature can be driven to desperate measures.

I wondered if Chief Cobb understood the enormity of her situation. She had to have money to fund her gambling. Daryl threatened what had likely been a steady source of cash. Perhaps even worse, he threatened her respectability, Irene Chatham, member of the Altar Guild, churchwoman in good standing.

Men have surely been killed for less.

Irene licked a dangling bit of chocolate and peanut from one finger.

Had this woman stood in the flower bed Wednesday evening peering into Daryl’s cabin? Had she seen Kathleen fling the red nightgown into the fire and coolly plotted a murder on the rectory back porch? Had she met Daryl at the church Thursday evening and marched him to his date with death? Had she called the Crime Stoppers line and said the murder weapon was on the back porch? On Friday, had she called again to describe the red nightgown? Were her stubborn denials of theft the product of lucky stupidity or cunning dissembling?

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Irene? I moved impatiently. The chandelier began to swing. I oozed away.

The horsey woman glanced up. “The chandelier—” I put out a hand, stopped it.

She blinked, shook her head.

The dark-eyed woman said slowly, “It looked like someone gave it a push, then reached out and stopped it. Some spooky things have been happening around the church. That chandelier shouldn’t have moved. And did you hear about the cell phone Virginia Merritt saw up in the air Thursday night in the church parking lot?”

“Thursday night! That’s when Daryl was shot in the cemetery. I heard his cell phone’s missing. Do you suppose . . .” The women hunched nearer the table, talking fast.

I repaired to the chandelier. I hoped the church wasn’t in serious danger of achieving a reputation as a haunted place. However, a ghost has to do what a ghost has to do. Despite my ups and downs, I’d accomplished quite a bit. I knew more than anyone about Daryl Murdoch’s murder, yet I couldn’t name the murderer. Chief Cobb may have learned some facts to which I wasn’t privy, but not many, and surely I knew everything that mattered.

I knew Kathleen and Father Bill were innocent.

I knew the true suspects and their motives: Judith Murdoch. She’d set out to confront her husband over his latest mistress. Had she really turned away at the church?

Kirby Murdoch. He was estranged from his father because of Lily Mendoza and furious about her job loss. His .22 pistol had been shot that day. During target practice, he said. When he saw his mother’s car, had he turned away, driven to Lily’s? Wouldn’t he have been more likely to follow? Perhaps his mother had ended up at the church to confront Daryl. Or perhaps Judith turned away but Kirby followed his father.

Irene Chatham. Daryl was threatening to expose her as a thief.

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Cynthia Brown. Was her near suicide the product of despair? Or guilt?

Walter Carey. He had motive and to spare. He certainly had broken into the Murdoch house to get the keys to Daryl’s office. He would be ruined if the truth ever came out.

Isaac Franklin. Was an insult to his pride—Daryl treating him with disrespect over the groceries—reason enough to kill?

It had to be one of them but—

A fire alarm shrilled. The undulating shriek blared, high, harsh, shocking.

The lights went out.

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

“Get out, everybody, get out.” “Paul, find Buddy, I’ve got Leila.” “Don’t push, please.”

“Quiet.” Father Bill’s shout was commanding. He was on the platform. “Evacuate in an orderly manner. Form lines.” The black trash bags covering the farthest window were yanked down and light spilled inside. The next window was uncovered.

Father Bill called, “Good work, Jeff.”

“Travis and I will get the bags down.” Jeff was breathless.

“That’s enough light. You and Travis help the children get out.” Father Bill pointed toward the doors. It was possible to see, if dimly.

Chief Cobb’s deep voice boomed from the south door. “Police Chief Cobb here. Remain calm. Everything’s under control. Take your time.

We’re going to get everyone out. There’s no smoke. Take your time.” The surge toward the two exits slowed, became more orderly.

Father Bill peered out at the moving throng. “Thanks, Chief.

Good job, boys. Kathleen, lead through the north door and out to the parking lot. Go to the far side near the rectory. Assemble by Sunday school classes.”

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Abruptly, the main lights came on. Glad cries came as mothers scooped up children. Long lines, now four abreast, moved swiftly through both exits.

Fire engines rumbled into the parking lot, the sirens ending abruptly. It seemed only an instant and firemen in white hats and bulky yellow coats were thundering inside. One shouted, “Where’s the fire?”

Father Bill jumped down from the platform, worked his way through the diminishing crowd. “It must be the roof. There’s no smoke inside.” He looked anxious, kept checking to see if the evacu-ation was continuing. “Are flames visible outside?”

“No flames. No smoke. We’ll check it out.” The fireman turned away, gestured to his men. Firemen left the parish hall in a heavy run, thudded out into the main hallway. Chief Cobb followed. Muf-fled shouts could be heard. “Anybody smell smoke? Check those closets.”

The tall golden lights of the parking lot dissipated the gloom of dusk. Car headlights added their bright gleam. Families searched for missing children, came together in thankfulness.

Father Bill was the last person out of the church. He stood on the steps, gazing out at the surging mass of evacuees. His voice was strong, reassuring. “Firemen are looking for a blaze and making certain no one remains inside. We’ll stay here until there’s an all clear sounded.”

Breathless and shaking, the sexton burst out the door, reached Father Bill. “The fuse box was messed with. Somebody threw the switches. That’s why the lights went off. The fire alarm by the nurs-ery was yanked plumb out. Father Bill, I don’t think there’s a fire.

There’s no smoke, nothing hot. I looked everywhere. The firemen are up in the attic and down in the furnace room, but they don’t see anything wrong. Somebody played a mean trick on us.”

“No fire.” Relief made Father Bill look years younger.

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The door swung open and Chief Cobb and the fire chief stepped outside. Firemen filed down the steps, returning to their engines.

Chief Cobb held up a hand. “There is no fire. The alarm had been pulled, but there is no trace of fire anywhere in the church building.

If anyone has any information regarding this incident, please contact me or one of my officers. It is against the law to trigger a fire alarm without cause.”

Voices rose and fell. “A false alarm.” “No fire after all.” “Thank God.” “If it was a Halloween prank . . .” Kathleen pushed through the crowd bunched near the foot of the stairs. In the stark light at the entrance, her face was white and strained. “Bill, where’s Bayroo? I can’t find her anywhere.” Father Bill was impatient. “She’s out there.” He gestured at the several hundred dark figures moving in no coherent pattern. “She was with the young people.” He called, “Bayroo?” Kathleen ran to the top of the steps. She whirled to face the parking lot. She stretched out her hands. “Bayroo.” Her call rose above the sounds of the crowd, the shuffle of feet, the rumble as the fire engines pulled away. “Bayroo, where are you?” Silence fell. No one moved. No one spoke.

“Bayroo?” Kathleen clutched Father Bill’s arm.

No answer.

Father Bill held Kathleen tight, stared out at the lot. He shouted.

“Bayroo! Bayroo!”

Marie Antoinette, one hand clamped to fake curls to keep her wig in place, dashed up the steps. “She was right with me. We were helping the little kids in the Mysterious Maze and we got outside and Jimmy Baker was sick at his stomach. He always throws up when he gets excited. Somebody turned on a flashlight. It was shining right at Bayroo and a voice called out, ‘Bayroo Abbott, this way please.’ I had to help Jimmy and then everybody was moving across the parking lot and I didn’t see her again.” Tears rolled down Lucinda’s face, 261

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smearing the dramatic makeup. “I even looked in the house.” She pointed toward the rectory. “She wasn’t there. Nobody’s there. Oh, Mrs. Abbott, where can Bayroo be?”

Kathleen clung to her husband. “She’s gone, Bill. She’s gone.

Somebody’s taken my baby.”

Father Bill’s voice shook. “We’ll find her. We will, Kathleen.

Please, God.” It was a father’s shaken prayer.

Chief Cobb cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bayroo Abbott.

Bayroo Abbott.”

Murmurs of sound rose, but Bayroo was gone. In the melee, no one had noticed her departure.

Kathleen darted down the steps. “I’m going to get flashlights.” Father Bill turned to Chief Cobb. “We have to have help. We need search teams. Can’t you get some dogs to help track?” Chief Cobb looked stolid, but his brows pulled down in a worried frown. “Perhaps she was frightened by the false alarm. There’s no evidence she’s been abducted.”

Father Bill gripped the chief’s arm. “Bayroo would never run away and leave the children. Never.”

Chief Cobb held his cell phone. “No one saw her leave under duress.”

Father Bill’s voice was husky. “Our senior warden was murdered not far from here. Now Bayroo’s in danger. You’ve got to help us.” Kathleen returned with flashlights. “I’m going to look.” Her eyes were hollow, her face desperate. “Maybe in the preserve, maybe . . .” Father Bill gripped her arm. “They’re setting up teams. The Boy Scouts are coming. We’d better stay here.” Kathleen pulled away. “I can’t stay.” She started out into the night, calling, calling.

Chief Cobb stared after her, then punched his cell phone. “All officers are to report to St. Mildred’s Church . . .” St. Mildred’s happy Spook Bash was transformed into a crime 262

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scene. Chief Cobb knew it wasn’t regulation to assume so soon that a missing child had been abducted, but the memory of Daryl Murdoch’s body in the cemetery had to be dark in his thoughts.

The parish hall was the heart of a rescue effort. I was aware of the bustle and effort under way. Walter Carey stood in one corner, using his cell phone to contact the Boy Scouts, calling them to come and help. Dogs arrived, barking and snuffling. Names were taken, information sought.

I understood Kathleen’s need to search. I would have joined a team, but they didn’t need me. I forced myself to remain. I had to think. I knew well enough that Bayroo had never left of her own accord. She’d been taken. But why and by whom?

The first necessity was understanding why Bayroo was taken.

The alarm was pulled, the fuses thrown, firemen summoned, all to provide an opportunity to kidnap Bayroo. Only a sense of dire urgency would have prompted such an elaborate charade. The kidnapper could not afford to allow the passage of time. Bayroo had to be snatched immediately.

What peril could Bayroo pose to anyone?

There was only one possible answer. Bayroo knew something she must not tell. What secrets did Bayroo have? She had been upset when Lucinda described her sojourn in the nature preserve Thursday evening. The girls were forbidden to go into the preserve. Everyone knew danger lurked for unaccompanied young girls in remote and untrafficked areas.

Bayroo had ignored that rule and something—someone—frightened her. But she’d reassured everyone—was she speaking to her parents?—and said she’d been scared, but as soon as she saw the car, she knew everything was all right.

She saw a car late Thursday afternoon as dusk was falling, a car hidden in the preserve. Whose car? Did she recognize that car?

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marched Daryl Murdoch at gunpoint to the rectory and shot him on the back porch. His murder was planned. The murderer would not park in the church lot and certainly not behind the rectory. Instead it would be so easy to drive into the nature preserve, leave the car hidden behind pine trees or willows. That meant the murderer knew Daryl was en route to the church, knew it beyond question.

Bayroo had been kidnapped by Daryl’s murderer. I almost dropped to the floor, determined to accost Chief Cobb. But he might brush me aside. After arresting me, of course, banishing me to jail.

That would not be a problem for me, but I had to know enough, be emphatic enough, that he would listen.

The solution was obvious now. Of all who had reason to wish Daryl ill, only Walter Carey, Irene Chatham, and Isaac Franklin had been in the parish hall to hear Lucinda’s artless revelations. Judith and Kirby Murdoch were not present. Nor was Lily Mendoza. Or Cynthia Brown. Walter was organizing the Scouts into a search team.

The somber sexton hovered near Father Bill.

Irene Chatham. She knew Daryl was coming to the church. Her rackety old car had squealed from her drive in time to arrive at the preserve, be hidden before Daryl reached the parking lot.

Irene—

I stared down.

I saw Irene Chatham shoving a serving cart with two coffee urns against the wall nearest the south exit. She lifted Styrofoam cups from a bottom shelf, arranged packets of sugar and creamers. It was a churchwoman’s immediate response to a gathering.

If I’d suddenly tumbled from a mountaintop and turned end over end through space, I could not have been more shocked. Irene Chatham was innocent. Her presence here was proof. She was innocent and she had not abducted Bayroo. Then who . . .

I gripped the wood rim of the chandelier, held on as if its concrete reality would anchor me to facts. These things I knew: 264

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1. DARYL MURDOCH HAD TOLD IRENE CHATHAM HE WAS ON

HIS WAY TO THE CHURCH.

2. IRENE’S CAR HAD SPED FROM HER DRIVE AT SHORTLY

BEFORE 5 P.M.

The conclusion seemed inescapable: Irene came to the church. I pressed my fingers against my temples. She was at the church, but it wasn’t her whom Bayroo had seen or her car that Bayroo recognized.

However, Irene told me, “I didn’t meet him. I swear I didn’t. When I saw—” She’d broken off, claimed she hadn’t seen anyone. I thought she was lying. Irene had a talent for lies.

Irene had seen something. Or someone. I had to get the truth from her. I would do whatever I had to do. Time was racing ahead.

How long had Bayroo been gone. Twenty minutes? Half an hour?

How much time did Bayroo have left?

Irene bent into the freezer in the kitchen. When she spoke, as she reached for a large tray, her voice sounded hollow. “I’ll get some cookies out, heat them up. It would be nice if we had a snack for everyone.”

Another volunteer was bustling out of the kitchen with baskets of chips. She called over her shoulder, “Good idea, Irene. Be back in a minute.”

Irene moved to a big oven, turned it, set the temperature. She looked absorbed, almost cheerful. She liked being helpful. She might be a compulsive gambler, a thief, and a liar, but she enjoyed helping people and working with children and keeping the Lord’s house immaculate and holy.

I appeared. I spoke gently. “Irene, we need your help.” She whirled, backed against the stove. “You.” It was a gasp. “I’ll call the police chief.”

“We’ll talk to him in a minute.” Please God, yes, with a name and the hope and prayer that Bayroo was still safe.

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Irene glared. “He said you were a fake. I don’t have to talk to you.

I don’t have to say a word.”

“Bayroo Abbott’s been kidnapped. You are the only person who can save her.”

Her sallow face flushed. “That’s crazy. If you’re accusing me of hurting Bayroo, I never, never would.”

“Irene, listen closely.” She was one of those women—Bobby Mac believed this to be true of all women—who never hear any statement without taking it personally. “Daryl Murdoch’s murderer kidnapped Bayroo. Bayroo was in the preserve Thursday evening and saw a car.

We have to find out what car she saw.”

“I didn’t see any car except—” She clapped a hand to her mouth.

Panic flickered in her eyes.

“You were here at the church.” I felt a surge of triumph.

Her shoulders tightened in a defensive posture. She stared at me, fear mixing with stubbornness.

“What did you see? Was it Kirby Murdoch? Judith?” Even as I asked, I was unconvinced. Neither had been in the parish hall during the Spook Bash.

Irene’s eyes jerked toward the door into the parish hall. She tried to slide away.

I blocked her escape. “Bayroo’s been gone a long time now.” I heard the tremor in my voice.

Her face crumpled. “If I admit I was here, they can say I killed him and I swear I didn’t. I got here and I saw him, and when I saw the policewoman I thought he was going to have me arrested and so I left.”

My hand closed on her arm. “Policewoman?” Her face drooped in remembered fear. “She was walking toward him.”

“Are you sure it was a police officer?” I struggled to understand.

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but I’ve got eyes that see. She had on that uniform, just like you do, but I know she’s a real police officer. She gave me a ticket once. Officer Leland.”

“Anita Leland.” Anita Leland, who had often followed Daryl Murdoch, knew his daily routine.

Irene’s eyes were empty. “There wasn’t any reason for him to have a policewoman come to the church.” Her lips quivered. “Except for me.”

Her voice was so low I could scarcely hear. She flung up her head and the words came fast as rocks thrown by an angry crowd. “If I’d had a gun, I would have been glad to shoot him. Father Bill was going to let me pay everything back. I would have. Somehow. But Daryl wanted everyone to know. He wanted me to go to jail. I hated him. I turned and ran to my car. I was afraid to go home. I drove around for hours and finally I was so tired, I drove up my street and the houses were dark and no one was waiting for me. And now . . .” I heard Irene’s bitter tirade while the puzzle pieces slotted into a perfect pattern. I’d tried to jam the wrong shapes together, poking a weak-willed woman into the role of a quick-thinking, opportunistic, coolheaded adversary.

Anita Leland hated Daryl Murdoch. Anita blamed Daryl for her sister’s husband’s suicide and her sister’s disappearance. Anita had planned to shoot Daryl Wednesday evening at his cabin, but she looked through the window and saw Kathleen and the red silk nightgown. Anita changed her plan, decided his death on the rectory back porch would provide a ready-made suspect.

Anita had been warned to stop her ticketing campaign against Daryl. Thursday evening she stopped him as he left his office. She didn’t give him a ticket, so why . . . Maybe she told him there had been trouble at the church, a break-in, and he told her he was on his way there, would meet her in the parking lot.

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nature preserve, walked the few hundred yards to the parking lot, met Daryl. Perhaps he had been told the problem was at the rectory and he walked willingly with her to the back door and onto the porch.

Anita shot him. Did she tell him who she was when she held the gun to his head? She shot him and slipped through the gathering gloom, seen by no one. She must have felt very safe when she reached the preserve. Bayroo heard the crunch of leaves. Was it at the time of Anita’s departure for the church or at the time of her return? Which-ever, Bayroo had been frightened until she saw the car. A police car.

This afternoon, Bayroo turned away the story of her derring-do, saying she’d been scared until she saw the car.

Anita Leland could not let Bayroo describe that car.

I looked at the clock above the stainless-steel sinks. A quarter to seven. Now the shadows were falling, dusk turning to dark. And Bayroo . . . My throat ached.

“. . . you want me to tell that policeman I was there.” Irene was talking again. “He knows about the money. What if he won’t listen? He won’t think a police officer could be involved. Oh”—she choked back a sob—“I have to tell him. Do you think we can save Bayroo?”

I blinked back a tear. Irene Chatham was an unlikely heroine, downtrodden, frightened, querulous, selfish, yet kind at heart, wanting to do right but failing and falling as we all so often and easily do.

I gave her a swift hug. “You can do it. You’re strong, Irene. This will put a star in your crown.”

She looked startled. I resisted an urge to reassure her that Heaven was all and more than she could ever imagine and someday all despair would be gone for her, all sadness and tribulation.

I grasped her elbow and turned her toward the entrance to the parish hall. “I’ll be right there with you.” In a manner of speaking.

Irene struggled for breath, gave a short nod.

When we reached the door, I disappeared.

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Irene’s gaze darted uneasily around the hall, stopped on Chief Cobb. Lucinda was huddled in a chair drawn up to one side of the central table, where he sat with a mass of papers and an array of phones.

People clustered in one corner, waiting to speak with detectives.

Lucinda no longer wore the bouffant wig. Her Marie Antoinette gown looked bedraggled. She lifted a hand to wipe away tears that spilled from reddened eyes.

Irene slowly approached the table, stopped a few feet away.

Chief Cobb spoke gently. “Don’t cry, Lucinda. You’re doing a good job. Try to remember what the voice sounded like.” Lucinda’s face squeezed in misery. “I wasn’t paying attention.

I barely heard it. I thought maybe her mom or dad wanted her to come help them somewhere. It was a grown-up. A woman. But”—

she shook her head—“it could have been a man with a high voice.” Fresh tears flooded.

I gave Irene a little push.

Her head swung toward me. She blinked in utter surprise. She glanced down at her arm, which I held in a firm grip. “Where . . .” It was a strangled whisper.

“I’m here.” I spoke softly. “You can’t see me. Don’t worry.” She wobbled unsteadily, the beginnings of panic in her face.

“This is no time to faint.” I squeezed her arm. “I’m here on earth to help Bayroo. That’s all you need to know. Now it’s time for you to do your part.”

She tried to pull away.

I urged her forward. “Don’t think about me. Think about Bayroo.” Bayroo and the desperate woman who had taken her away.

I pulled her up to the table. It was crowded with papers, phones, a radio set, and maps.

“. . . and that was the last time you saw her?” Chief Cobb’s expression was bleak.

“Chief Cobb?” I managed a credible imitation of Irene’s voice.

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He glanced up. “Yes?” He was brusque.

Irene stood mute, her breathing quick and shallow, trembling like a poplar in a high wind.

I whispered, “Start with the parking lot.” Her eyes slid sideways, where I should have been. She gulped for air. “I was at the church Thursday evening. I saw Daryl walking to meet that policewoman. Officer Leland.” Chief Cobb frowned. “Officer Leland?” Lucinda wiped her teary face, sniffled. “Was she the one who put the police car in the preserve?”

Chief Cobb looked from Irene to Lucinda. His look of incredulity slowly faded. Shock drained the ruddy color from his face, made him look old and gray and unutterably weary.

“Bayroo was scared to pieces in the preserve until she saw the police car. Then she knew everything was all right. And now . . .” Lucinda dissolved in sobs.

Cobb stood up so quickly his chair crashed to the floor of the hall.

The sudden clatter brought silence.

Father Bill swung around from the portable television set that was blaring the story of Bayroo’s abduction, the call for volunteers, the progress of the investigation. He took a step toward the chief, stopped as if his legs had no strength. He reached out a shaking hand.

Walter Carey turned toward the chief ’s table, holding up a hand to quiet a muscular scout’s rapid speech.

The chief’s eyes scanned the faces in the room, searching, hunting, hoping. Abruptly, he called out, “Where’s Anita? I thought she’d gone with one of the search parties.” No one spoke.

Once again I spoke in Irene’s wavering voice. “Can you call her car?”

Cobb shot Irene a look of surprise, then bent over the table, punched at the radio set. “Calling Car Six. Calling Car Six . . .” 270

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Just then, Walter Carey plunged through the crowd, frowned down at Cobb. “GPS?”

Chief Cobb looked up. His voice was level. “I wanted to equip each car with a GPS. It was voted down by the city council. Unnecessary expense. Like the mayor said, ‘How could we lose a police car?’” He bent again to the radio.

“Calling Car Six. Calling . . .”

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My eyes adjusted to the almost impenetrable darkness.

Slowly shapes formed, dark shadowy bunches of trees, tangled shrubs, branches that let through scarcely a glimmer of cold moonlight.

I heard an eerie echo of Chief Cobb’s voice, tinny and distant.

“Calling Car Six. Calling Car Six.” I moved nearer the sound, bumped into metal. Anita’s cruiser was parked alongside a tall stand of cane.

I ran my hand along the side of the car, found an open window. I poked my head inside.

“. . . report immediately. Calling Car Six, report . . .” Taking a quick breath, I opened the door. The light flashed on. I glanced front and back. Nothing. No one. I had feared what I might find, but Anita had taken Bayroo with her. I closed the door and walked through crushed grasses to the gravel road.

Branches creaked in the ever-stirring Oklahoma wind. I faintly discerned the road. Obviously, I was out in the country, some remote and untraveled area.

Was I too late? My heart twisted. Dear, sweet, fun Bayroo, where are you? I had to search, move as quickly as possible. I rose high, G h o s t at Wo r k

looking for a light, a sign of movement. Whatever Anita planned, let me be in time. It seemed an eon and yet I knew only seconds had passed.

Below me were woods and beyond the trees an overgrown field, dark and quiet in the moonlight. A ramshackle barn loomed perhaps twenty feet away, silhouetted against the night sky. A derelict combine lay on one side amid a jumble of trash, coils of barbed wire, rusted milk cans, the frame of a windowless jalopy, lumber scraps in a haphazard pile. An owl suddenly rose from the barn roof, hooting, his wavering mournful call a warning of trespass.

Light flickered from a hayloft, a brief, dancing dart. A spear of light through the wide window illuminated the dark and leafless limbs of a huge maple. A wooden shutter creaked into place and the vagrant gleam was gone.

The hayloft . . .

I arrived in the filthy, junk-filled loft.

A Maglite lay atop a battered wooden table. In its beam, Anita struggled to push an old chest of drawers against the shutter, throwing a monstrous shadow against a stack of galvanized tubs.

Bayroo’s frightened eyes followed Anita’s every move. Bayroo’s face was pale, her wrists manacled, her pirate costume torn at one shoulder. She was a few feet behind Anita. As Anita shoved the chest, the wood grating on the loft floor, Bayroo edged toward wooden steps that descended into a black void.

The handcuffs clanked.

Anita whirled. She clamped her hand to her holster, drew out the gun, whipped it level with Bayroo’s head.

If I rushed her, the gun might fire. I was poised to move, knowing a desperate struggle would ensue. Anita was young and fit, trained to overcome attackers.

Anita held the gun steady with both hands. “How old are you?” Her voice was thin.

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“Eleven.” Bayroo’s green eyes were wide and staring.

I wished I could take her in my arms, tell her she was going to be safe, that someday she would look back and understand she’d been caught up innocently in the ugly aftermath of dark passions, that anger and murder and violence would not touch her life, take her life.

Bayroo had not yet seen me. Her eyes, young, vulnerable, defense-less, questioning, never left Anita’s ashen face.

Anita’s lips trembled. “Eleven. Vee was eleven when Mama died.

I raised her up. She was always beautiful. You’re beautiful, too.” Her haggard face was heavy with remembered grief and love.

“Thank you.” The words hung between them, Bayroo’s polite response automatic. How often must Kathleen have said, “Always say thank you when you are complimented.”

“Eleven.” Slowly the gun sank until the muzzle pointed at the dust-laden floor, streaked now by footprints.

The moment had passed, the awful moment when Anita had chosen between life and death for Bayroo.

“Why did you have to be in the preserve?” Anita’s voice shook.

“Why? If you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t seen me, everything would be all right.”

Bayroo looked puzzled. “Weren’t you supposed to be there?” Anita ignored her. She jammed the gun into her holster, flexed her fingers as if her hand ached.

Bayroo shivered. “I’m cold. Are we going to stay long? My mom and dad will be worried about me. Why did you bring me here?”

“Don’t talk, kid.” Anita’s voice was gruff. She swallowed hard, her features drawn in a tight frown as she studied the loft. Her face was pale, remote, distant. I saw no trace of the young woman whose tremulous glance had spoken of love to Sam Cobb.

Bayroo looked up and saw me. Her eyes widened in amazement, in joy, in relief.

I placed a finger to my lips, shook my head.

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Bayroo’s green eyes glistened. Tension eased from her stiff frame, terror erased.

Please God, her faith would be justified. Yet I had no surety of success. Even if I were able to find a weapon—that scythe in one corner? the ax handle without a head?—there was no guarantee I could wield an awkward tool quickly enough to forestall a gunshot.

I glanced toward the stairs. A push? I felt a bone-deep chill. I could defend, yes. I could protect, yes. But could I be the instrument of injury or worse?

The loft was cold, cold with my foreboding, cold with the chill of a late October night, cold with the emptiness of an abandoned building. The loft was a repository for discarded household goods.

Cotton wadding poked from holes dug by mice or rats in an old sofa and a stained mattress. A refrigerator door lay next to a rusted plow.

The ax handle leaned against a worn saddle. Thick dust covered everything.

Anita gave an abrupt nod. “Come here, kid.” Bayroo reluctantly took one step, another, came nearer, the handcuff links clinking.

Anita gestured at the mattress. “Sit down.” Bayroo’s face wrinkled in distaste. “It’s dirty.” Anita gave her an odd look. “Dirt won’t hurt you.” Bayroo glanced toward me.

I nodded, made a tamping-down gesture, hands outstretched, palms down.

Obediently, Bayroo sank down. She sat with her knees hunched to her chin, her body drawn tight.

Anita moved fast. She dragged the refrigerator door to the mattress, knelt next to Bayroo. In an instant she loosed the handcuff from Bayroo’s right wrist, snapped it in place around the door handle.

She pushed up from the floor, strode to the table, reached for the flashlight.

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As she started for the stairs, Bayroo cried out, “Please, don’t leave me in the dark.” Her young voice quavered.

I stood at the top of the stairs. Slanting steps plunged into gloom.

Anita came even with me; her face looked old and empty. She hesitated for an instant, hunched her shoulders, started down.

I raised my hand. If I caught Anita in the middle of her back, pushed with all my might, she would tumble head over heels.

My hand slowly fell.

The light went with her, fading as she thudded down the wooden steps, her hurrying feet pounding. The golden glow diminished, less and less, and then was gone. Blackness, thick and heavy, enveloped us, pressing down with the weight of the unseen.

“Auntie Grand!” Bayroo’s thin voice rose in a wail. .

I whirled, went to Bayroo, wrapped her in my arms. She sobbed, hiccuping for breath, her body shaking in uncontrollable spasms.

“. . . hate the dark . . . always hated the dark . . . mean things . . . awful things in the dark . . . Oh, Mom, I want my mom.”

“Hush, dear child.” I pressed my cheek against her sweet-scented hair, held her tight. “We’ll find a way. She’s gone now. I’ll open the loft window and it won’t seem so dark.” I loosed my hold, started to get up.

Immediately her fingers closed tightly on my wrist. “Don’t leave me.”

I squeezed her shoulders. “We’re fine.” I kept my voice easy. “I’ll get us out of here.”

“What did I do wrong?” Bayroo cried harder. “I just hid so I could watch for Travis.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I held her tight. “Not a single thing. It’s Mr. Murdoch’s murder. You see, she shot him and she’d hidden the police car there.”

Bayroo gasped. She sat up straight, her breaths coming quickly.

“She did? He was the senior warden. I read all about it in the paper, but Mama wouldn’t talk about it. Why did she do that?” 276

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“Anger. ‘Anger is a weed; hate is the tree.’ ” The words came readily. I’d learned that and much more in a recent class I’d taken with Saint Augustine. “She was angry for things he’d done and she let anger take over her life.” There would be, please God, time and enough to try to explain to Bayroo the noxious growths that can squeeze out love and forgiveness and grace from our lives.

“Now she’s mad at me?” Bayroo’s voice was small, but no longer shaken by sobs.

“Not you.” Not at a child, a pretty girl who baked a special cake for her new friend, a beloved daughter, a friend. “At what’s gone wrong in her life.” At the loss of choice and hope and a future.

Bayroo moved uneasily. “What is she going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Had murder been in Anita’s heart when she enticed Bayroo away? I feared so. She had come close, desperately close, when the gun was aimed at Bayroo. What would she do now? Her only chance was to make a run for it, perhaps drive to Dallas, lose herself in that sprawling city. For now, she’d left Bayroo alone.

I needed to make haste, find a way for Bayroo to escape. ”You can help me figure out how to get you out of here.”

“Out?” She moved and the links of the handcuff clinked. “I’m fastened here.” Her voice wobbled.

I spoke easily. “Let’s get a little moonlight. That will help. I’m going to move that chest away from the loft window, open the shutter. I’ll be right back.” I gave her a reassuring pat. Her body stiffened, but she made no complaint.

I pulled the drawers from the chest, placed them to one side. I gripped the sides of the chest, edged it away from the shutter. The bottom scraped against the floor. I paused to listen. Would Anita hear the noise, return to discover the source? Or did she feel confident that Bayroo was stuck and noise didn’t matter? No sound came from the stairs. In a moment I’d shoved the chest to one side.

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wedged something to keep it in place or if an old hinge had jammed.

I pulled and struggled and finally, with a desperate yank, the shutter splintered and gave way. I tumbled backward.

Moonlight splashed into the loft. Night air swept inside, cool swift air threaded with wisps of smoke.

“I smell smoke.” Bayroo’s voice was puzzled.

I smelled smoke, too, thicker and stronger. Now that it was silent in the loft, the scrapes and bangs and screeches ended, I heard a faint crackling sound, the insidious rustle as flame devoured desiccated wood. Now a rustle, the fire would soon be a roar.

“Auntie Grand!” Bayroo yanked her arm. The bracelet rattled against the handle. “I can’t get loose.” In the spill of moonlight, she was a small, dark shape jerking frantically.

In a sudden, frightening rush, hot, oily smoke clouded the loft, obscuring the moonlight, turning our world dark again with no glimmer of light from the loft window. Bayroo began to cough. “Auntie Grand, look at that funny glow.”

Orange-tinted smoke swirled into the loft, rising from the barn floor. Flames could not be far behind.

“Auntie Grand, did she set fire to the barn?” Bayroo’s voice was stricken.

“Yes.” Away from Bayroo’s young face, Anita Leland had made a fatal decision.

Bayroo choked and sputtered, words coming in short gasps. “. . .

stuck . . . can’t move that door . . . chest hurts . . .”

“I’m coming.” I pictured the ax shaft and I was beside it, my grasping hand tight on its splintery handle. Bayroo was not far away.

I dropped down beside her.

Thin arms reached out, clung to me. Bayroo breathed in quick, desperate gasps. Acrid fumes clogged our throats.

“I’m here.” I wedged the shaft into the space between the handle and door, used the ax handle as a fulcrum, and applied my weight.

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I pushed and pushed and pushed. Abruptly the refrigerator door handle snapped. The ax shaft went flying and I fell in a heap, but I was laughing and crying and hugging Bayroo. “The window,” I shouted. “We’ve got to get to the window.” Bayroo wobbled to her feet. I clutched her arm and we blindly moved forward. How far? Ten feet, perhaps twelve. Blessedly, the smoke thinned in time for me to see the opening. Bayroo hung her head out, drawing in deep breaths. The rush and hiss of flames crackled ominously.

Moonlight spread its glory over the barnyard, making the branches of the huge old maple distinct against the night sky.

The nearest branch was only fifteen feet away. Not many feet to walk or run, too many feet to jump. I looked down and saw the moonlight spread across the dirt so far below. The loft window was at least thirty feet above the ground.

Behind us the fire flared and heat pulsed toward us, flames curving and twisting, reaching to the roof.

Bayroo looked down. She clung to the side of the loft. “Auntie Grand, I can’t jump down and the tree’s too far!” Despair curled in my heart. Beloved Bayroo was doomed. I would try, but I knew, even as I slipped my arm around her shoulder, that I would not be able to carry her to the tree.

I’d never felt more alone. I’d insisted to Wiggins that I wanted no more interference, that I was capable of completing my task. Pride had prompted my outburst to him, and now Bayroo would pay a dreadful price because of me.

I bent close to her cheek, shouted over the roar of the flames.

“We’ll make it. Jump toward that lower branch, Bayroo. I’ll be with you.”

We jumped. I clutched Bayroo and held tight and struggled, but she was too heavy, slipping from my grasp, her cry rising in the night.

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the clack of train wheels. “I’ve got you both. Here we go,” and we reached the tree.

The refrigerator door handle dangling from the handcuff banged against Bayroo, but her grasping fingers locked onto a branch. She swung for a moment, pulled herself up, and clung to the trunk, pressing her face against the bark, her back heaving as she struggled for breath.

I landed beside her.

“Auntie Grand.” Her voice was faint. “I thought I heard a deep voice.”

I started to answer, then heard a faint cautionary rumble. Dear Wiggins, determined to the last that proper procedure be followed. I reached out until I found his hand and squeezed it in thankfulness.

“The fire’s making noises.” And it was. The old barn seemed to groan and cry. “Shh. We’d better be quiet.” I peered down at the uneven ground, seeking any trace of Anita. “Just in case.” Fire poked through the roof, a darting, angry tongue of red.

Suddenly a shout sounded from the loft. “I’m coming. I’ll get you out. I’m coming.”

Bayroo and I stared at the loft window. Smoke whirled and curled, orange and black and gray. A single light stabbed through the swirls.

“Where are you? I’ve got the key for the handcuffs—” A whooshing sound marked the collapse of the loft. The voice was lost in the burst of sound. Flames whirled skyward as the walls crumpled, turning the night sky crimson.

Stainless-steel handcuffs, soiled with dirt and oily smudges, lay on Chief Cobb’s desk. He jerked his head toward them. “The kid’s story has to be true. Those handcuffs prove every word. That and the scrapes on her arms. It beats everything how she got herself free. It sounds like a Houdini trick, working in the dark, using an ax shaft to 280

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prize away the refrigerator handle, jumping out to catch the tree.” Detective Sergeant Price slumped in the chair across from the chief’s desk. “Anita.” He spoke the name in sadness, in grief, in farewell.

Cobb’s face was gray and drawn. He stared at the handcuffs.

“Right from the first, I should have looked at her. Anita told me about her sister, Vee, and Daryl. Anita knew all about Murdoch, where he went, his girlfriend. But I never thought . . .” His hand shook as he touched a folder on his desk. “I checked on the girl whose body she went out to California to see. This came in just a little while ago.” He read in an empty voice: “ ‘Re inquiry unidentified body found Huntington Beach, female approximately midtwenties, blond, DOA drug overdose, positive ID made: Virginia Leland Durham.’ ” Cobb pushed the folder away. “It was Vee. Anita lied to me.” The detective pushed back his chair. “Sam, can I take you home?”

Chief Cobb sounded remote. “I’ve got stuff to see about. I’ll go in a little while.”

The detective came around the desk. His voice was gruff, but firm. “Anita tried to save the kid, Sam.” Chief Cobb was stern. “Anita set that fire.”

“Yeah. But she came back, tried to save her.” He placed his hand for a moment on the chief’s shoulder, then walked away, his steps slow.

When the door closed, Sam Cobb folded his arms on his desk. He bent forward, rested his head. “Anita . . .” A log crackled in the fireplace. Kirby Murdoch poked and flames spurted. He was smiling.

His mother stood in the doorway to the den. Judith Murdoch still looked worn and weary, but peace had smoothed away the tight and 281

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anxious lines from her face. She looked toward the plaid sofa and the slender young woman with a tortoiseshell cat in her lap. “Lady Luck likes you, Lily.”

Lily Mendoza smoothed the angora cat’s fluffy fur. “That’s a great name.”

“She’s a great cat.” Kirby replaced the poker. He settled beside Lily and Lady Luck, smoothed his hand over the distinctive brown and yellow and black fur. “You know, Mom, that’s how I knew you’d buried the gun. Lady Luck was rolling in the fresh dirt, and when I went over, I thought it looked funny, and since somebody’d broken in, I thought maybe they’d hidden something and so I dug up my gun.”

Judith gasped. “What did you do with it?”

“I shinnied up the drainpipe and hid it on the roof. I’ll get it down tomorrow. But it won’t matter since the case is closed.” There was no light in the small bedroom at the home for unwed mothers, but moonlight flowed in a golden stream through a window.

Even breathing indicated that the occupant of the near bed was deep in sleep. I still wore Officer Loy’s uniform. I hesitated, decided that she could make her final appearance. I became visible and stepped quietly to Cynthia Brown’s bed.

“Cynthia, it’s Officer Loy. I wanted to see how everything is going for you.”

She struggled upright. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” She sounded drowsy, but relaxed. She reached out, took my hand. “Everybody’s been so nice to me. Father Bill helped me come here. They’re going to help me find a job and I can stay here and have my baby.

And then—” Her hand tightened on mine.

“And then?”

She took a deep, uncertain breath. “I don’t know. I haven’t de-282

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cided. I could keep my baby, but they have families who want babies and will love them and be good to them. What do you think I should do?” Her voice was young and trusting.

“Do what is in your heart. God bless.” I bent down, lightly touched her cheek with my lips. “Sleep now.” I squeezed her hand, stepped away from the bed.

She sank back onto the pillow, and in a moment her eyes closed.

I smiled a farewell. Officer Loy faded away.

The frowsy living room blazed with light. Irene Chatham ate a maca-roon and watched, eyes wide, as the TV newswoman swept the beam of a huge flashlight across smoking rubble. “Nothing remains of the abandoned barn where an Adelaide child was held hostage tonight, barely escaping with her life. Her captor was Adelaide police officer Anita Leland. Leland, who perished in the blaze, is considered the prime suspect in the murder of well-known Adelaide businessman Daryl Murdoch, whose body was found Thursday evening in the cemetery adjoining St. Mildred’s Church. Irene Chatham, a church member, is credited with setting officers on the right track. Earlier tonight, Chatham spoke with reporters.” A film clip showed Irene, vivacious and voluble, lank gray hair stirred by the breeze, clutching her brown cardigan against the night chill, standing on the side steps at St. Mildred’s: “So glad I was able to help. Just the most fortunate circumstance.” Her cheeks glowed bright pink. “I’d been to the church Thursday evening, some things to check for the Altar Guild, and I saw Daryl Murdoch and that police officer and I had no idea until tonight that . . .” I was smiling as I appeared. I chose my purple velour. After all, it was one of the final times I would enjoy it.

Irene froze, sat stiff as a cardboard skeleton. “You’re here.” Her voice shook. “You’re not here. You’re here.” 283

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I settled beside her on the sofa. “Just for a moment.” I took a shaking hand between mine, held it tight. “You saved Bayroo. You were very brave.”

Her eyes blinked. Some of the fear seeped away. “That’s what everybody’s been saying and it makes me think, maybe things work out the way they should. I mean, if I hadn’t taken the money from the collection plate, he wouldn’t have caught me and got those awful pictures. I still don’t know where those pictures are, and if anyone ever sees them they’ll know I’m a thief even though Father Bill said I could pay the money back.”

I was emphatic. “The pictures were destroyed.” As Irene said, maybe things happen for a purpose. I had been upset when Kathleen flung the cell phone into the lake. Now I was glad.

“Destroyed?” Her lips were tremulous. “I don’t have to be afraid?”

“You don’t have to be afraid.” I gave her hand a final squeeze, stood. “Everyone’s proud of you.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “You saved Bayroo. I’m sure of that. I know what everyone’s saying, that she was clever and managed to get free, but I know you were there and you asked her not to tell.”

“I was there only because you made it possible.” I was fading away.

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Irene called after me. “I’m going to pay the money back, and I won’t ever gamble again.” The Rescue Express would be here soon. I’d almost completed my rounds. I actually felt a little thinner, as if I weren’t quite here. Of course I wouldn’t be here much longer. Any minute now I expected the Express to barrel across the sky, sparks flashing from its smoke-stack, wheels thrumming.

I zoomed to Daryl Murdoch’s office. Once inside, I turned on 284

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the light. After all, I don’t see in the dark and I had to find Walter Carey’s confession. I’d promised him it would be destroyed if he had nothing to do with his former partner’s murder.

I lifted the rug, picked up the envelope, and, once again, faced that pesky law of physics, the impossibility of wafting a concrete object—the letter—through walls with the ease I enjoyed.

It was a minor impediment. I opened the office door, stepped into the secretary’s anteroom. I found Walter Carey’s address—619 Cherry Street—in the directory on Patricia’s desk. Now all I had to do was deliver this material. Walter would be exceedingly relieved and my duties would be nearing completion. I opened the door to the hall.

Brrrng. Brrnng. Oooh-wah. Wah-oooh.

The cacophony almost startled me into my skin. Flashing lights joined the wails and rings. Heart thudding, I was at the end of the hall. I yanked on the door, almost fainted when it refused to open.

I scrambled to release the lock, yanked the door open, and flew outside.

“Halt or I’ll shoot!” The shout was harsh. “Stop! Police.” A patrol officer stood at the base of the steps, gun aimed at the door.

I rose into the sky. When I looked down, the officer was staring upward for a last glimpse of the letter rising above him. His head swiveled to the open door through which no one had emerged.

I listened hard. Was that the shriek of the Express in the distance?

Fortunately, Cherry Street was only a few blocks from downtown.

I circled the Carey house. Light splashed out on a stone terrace from a room at the back. I looked through the window.

Walter Carey was writing steadily on a legal pad. He stopped to raise his arms above his head, stretch, massage a spot on his back.

A distant whoooo brought my head up. I had to be quick. I tapped on the French door.

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He looked toward the terrace, frowned.

I tapped again. I became visible, once again choosing the purple velour outfit. My image was indistinct in the glass.

Walter unlocked the French door. His lips parted. No sound came.

I thrust the envelope at him. “Here it is. The confession. You did a good job tonight. With the Scouts.” His fingers closed on the paper, held it tight. He managed an odd, lopsided smile. “You get around, don’t you?” I smiled in return. “Sometimes. Good-bye, Walter. Good luck.” And I disappeared.

Only a few minutes remained. I must take my return ticket and board the Express. But there was one more stop I had to make.

Father Bill was stirring dark chocolate into hot milk. A tray held three mugs and a plate full of oatmeal cookies.

Upstairs, in Bayroo’s room, Kathleen sat beside her bed. Bayroo’s Titian hair, shining clean, tumbled over the shoulders of her soft white nightgown. Propped up against a bolster, Spoofer curled against her side, purring with a happy rumble. Bayroo held her mother’s hand.

“I’m okay, Mom.” Bayroo’s smile was drowsy. “I’m all right. I—” Then, eyes shining, she rose on one elbow, looked where I stood had I been there to see. “Auntie Grand, I told Mom you saved me.” Kathleen stood up so quickly her chair fell to the floor. “You’re here?

Oh, Bailey Ruth, thank you. I wish we could tell the world—” I touched a finger to her lips. “It’s our secret, Kathleen. I came to say good-bye.”

The wheels clacked, the Express thundering toward the rectory, just as it had on Thursday evening. I had no time left.

“Good-bye.” I threw a kiss to Bayroo. “Good-bye. I love you.” I rushed outside, hurrying up to grab the handrail, and was swept up into the Express. I looked down at the lights below, watched until I could see them no longer.

Good-bye, dear Adelaide. Good-bye.

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C H A P T E R 1 9

The Rescue Express thundered into the familiar red-brick station. I was the last passenger to disembark. The other travelers seemed to follow a well-known drill, dropping their ticket stubs down a chute attached to the office, gathering their luggage, and hurrying away, faces shining, voices merry.

I slowly crossed the platform, passing carts laden with luggage ready for other departures. I’d not had time to pack even a satchel when I’d jumped on board on my way to help Kathleen. Perhaps the haste of my departure would excuse my mistakes.

Except there had been so many. I pushed away memories. Certainly I had intended to honor the Precepts.

Wiggins strode toward me.

My steps were lagging. I looked here, there, everywhere, admiring the dash of gold in the arch of clouds, the trill of birdsongs, the sweet scent of fresh-mown grass, the sound of a faraway choir with voices lifting in joy.

Foreboding weighed upon me, heavy as midnight gloom.

Wiggins boomed, “Bailey Ruth, where’s your get-up-and-go?” He sounded genial.

Ca ro ly n H a rt

I risked a look.

Wiggins’s stiff cap was tilted back atop his bush of curly brown hair. His round face was bright and eager, his muttonchop whiskers a rich chestnut in the sunlight. His high-collared white shirt was crisp, his gray flannel trousers a bit baggy, but his sturdy shoes glowed with bootblack.

“Welcome home.” His voice was warm. He gestured toward the station. “A few formalities, then you’ll be free to go.” Would I be free to return to the Department of Good Intentions?

We passed a crystal wall and I glimpsed my reflection. I’d given some thought to my appearance. I wanted to appear businesslike.

Not flighty. I was confident the gray wool pantsuit was appropriate and the Florentine gold of the silk blouse and small gold hoop earrings and crimson scarf almost matched the glow of Heaven. Here I was, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, red hair curling softly about my face, green eyes hopeful though uncertain, home in Heaven.

We walked together into his office. I settled on the bench as he hung his cap on a coat tree. He settled into his oak chair and slipped on his green eyeshade.

I looked out the bay window, admired the shining tracks. Finally, I forced myself to look at him. His eyes were grave.

“I’m sorry to say—”

My heart sank.

“—that never in my experience as stationmaster have I encountered a rescue effort so fraught with—” He stopped, apparently at a loss for words.

I twisted a gold button on my jacket.

He appeared perplexed and muttered to himself, “A flying crowbar. The airborne cell phone. That shocking episode with the mayor.

Destruction of the police station’s computer system, and”—a heavy sigh—“Officer Loy.”

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I started to rise. It would be easier for all concerned, especially me, if I slipped away, left him to regain his composure.

He made a swiping gesture with his hand.

I sank back onto the chair.

His brows beetled in a frown. “However.” He cleared his throat.

That rumble was familiar. Just so had he prefaced our many encounters on earth.

His tone was judicious. “As I should have recalled from my earthly days, good often comes out of difficult circumstances. I returned to earth and do you know what happened?” I feared I knew all too well.

“I Reverted.” His roar capitalized the verb. Wiggins slammed his fist on the desktop. “So how can I be critical when an emissary caught up in the stress of the moment makes unfortunate choices?” I hoped this was a rhetorical question.

He swept ahead. “There’s no denying your shortcomings.” My nod was heartfelt.

“You were inquisitive.” It was a pronouncement.

I twined my scarf in my fingers.

“Impulsive.” He made a chopping motion with one large hand.

My collar felt tight.

“Rash.” A shake of his head, this thick brown hair quivering.

Was the wool of my lovely suit irritating my skin?

“Forthright.” His tone was thoughtful.

I sighed.

“Daring.” He spoke with finality.

I awaited dismissal.

Suddenly his generous mouth spread in a huge smile, his brown eyes glowed. “God bless, Bailey Ruth. You saved Kathleen and dear Bayroo. When you thought of me, knew you needed help, why, I was able to come in time. If it had not been for you . . . However”—he 289

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stood and waved an admonishing finger, though kindly—“I feel that your status as a probationer must continue.” Continue?

“Before another mission can be considered, I suggest you spend time in contemplation of the Precepts, especially Precept One.” His thick brows drew down. “And Three.” A head shake. “And Four.

And Six. My goodness, that’s a shocking number of Precepts you haven’t mastered. However, if you study hard”—he looked at me doubtfully—“perhaps next time—”

My heart raced. Next time. Oh, dear Heaven, there might be a next time. I might still be on probation, but the door had not been closed.

“—events will proceed in a more orderly manner.”

“I’ll learn the Precepts by heart. Of course,” I was quick to reassure him, “I already know them. It was simply that things happened.

Everything will go much better next time. Oh, Wiggins.” I jumped up and gave him a hug.

Next time . . .

290

About the Author

An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the author of more than forty books, including eighteen Death on Demand novels. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. She is also the creator of the highly praised Henrie O series. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

www.carolynhart.com

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A l s o b y C a r o l y n H a r t

DEATH ON DEMAND

Death on Demand

Design for Murder

Something Wicked

Honeymoon with Murder

A Little Class on Murder

Deadly Valentine

The Christie Caper

Southern Ghost

Mint Julep Murder

Yankee Doodle Dead

White Elephant Dead

Sugarplum Dead

April Fool Dead

Engaged to Die

Murder Walks the Plank

Death of the Party

Dead Days of Summer

Death Walked In

HENRIE O

Dead Man’s Island

Scandal in Fair Haven

Death in Lovers’ Lane

Death in Paradise

Death on the River Walk

Resort to Murder

Set Sail for Murder

Credits

Designed by Renato Stanisic

Jacket design by Barbara Levine

Jacket photograph by Kamil Vofnar/Getty Images

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

GHOST AT WORK. Copyright © 2008 by Carolyn Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader September 2008

ISBN 978-0-06-177219-1

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Document Outline

Title Page

Dedication Page

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

About the Author

Also by Carolyn Hart

Credits

Copyright Notice

About the Publisher