Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER TWO

Frogs wheezed, barked, and trumpeted in a dimly seen pond. I took a breath of pure happiness. Not that I don’t appreciate the scents of Heaven, but the rich smell of a hot summer night in Oklahoma brought glorious memories: hayrides, marshmallow roasts, and Bobby Mac’s embrace. The ever-present breeze wafted a hint of fresh-cut grass, water, and magnolia blossoms. Over everything, I delighted in the sweet fragrance of gardenias blooming in cloisonné vases that sat next to a marble bench in a small cul-de-sac facing the pond. Aromatic evergreens on either side and at the back formed the cul-de-sac. Cream-colored lighting in clear glass torches rimmed the pond. The cul-de-sac was shadowy, but not in deep gloom. The spot was well screened from the terrace though overlooked by a balcony.

In a rush of happiness, I forgot my mission for an instant. Truly, I was inattentive for a very short span of time, though we all know how life can change in a twinkling. I had no thought whatsoever about Kay Clark. I was too absorbed in the perfume of my favorite flower. The Castle’s hothouse gardenias were famous in Adelaide. In warm weather, gardenias also grew in tall vases along the terraces and on the parapets of the third-floor balcony.

I had a vague sense of surprise that I had been dispatched suddenly. Certainly everything appeared quiet and peaceful at The Castle. Lights high in rustling trees and at the top of the terrace steps shed some radiance, but the huge house lay dark and silent except for occasional dim lights on the balcony. I knew it must be late, that hour of the night when foxes prowl, coyotes howl, and cats slip through darkness unseen.

Quick steps sounded.

I watched with interest as a woman hurried toward broad steps that led down to the terrace. She neared a lamppost and was briefly illuminated. I was captivated by her haircut. Her dark locks were so perfectly messy with artfully tousled midlength bangs and layered strands razored at the ends.

I brushed back a curl and wondered if I might try that style. I admired her outfit as well, a lime green Irish linen jacket with deep square pockets and linen slacks. Her green sandals were a perfect match. She didn’t slow as she left the pool of light behind her. She crossed the dim terrace, evidently seeing well in the moonlight. The slap of her steps silenced the frogs.

I replaced my tweed suit with a white blouse and turquoise paisley cropped pants. White woven straw flats seemed a good choice for summer. Certainly I wasn’t motivated by an earthly pang of envy. Even though I wasn’t visible, I liked to be properly dressed.

She came directly to the cul-de-sac, but she didn’t sit on the bench. She frowned and turned to look toward the dark house. Hands on her hips, she was a model of impatience. The frogs resumed their boisterous chorus.

In a moment, she glanced at her wrist. I assumed she wore a watch with a luminous dial. She tossed her head impatiently. A very nice effect with that tousled look. She glanced out into the garden on the other side of the pond, then up at the house, as if looking for someone. Evidently she had expected to be met.

I looked, too, but there was no movement in the garden or on the terrace below the steps from the house. I was curious that she remained near the bench. I assumed the cul-de-sac was the place designated for an assignation. Was I about to witness a romantic interlude? I shook my head. There was nothing of sensual anticipation in her rapid pacing. Instead, she exuded brisk determination.

Suddenly I heard an odd crackling.

The sound was ominous, out of the ordinary, frightening.

I looked up and for an instant froze in horror. An enormous vase directly above the cul-de-sac teetered on its pedestal on the third-floor balcony. The vase tilted, then hurtled down toward the impatient woman, so near to me, so near to death.

With no time for thought and little room to maneuver, I zipped into the cul-de-sac, whirled, and shoved her, shouting, “Jump!” I pushed with all my strength. We tumbled together out of the cul-de-sac.

The vase struck with enormous force where she had stood. The sound of her cry was lost almost immediately in the thunderous crash. Shards of porcelain and clumps of earth flew in every direction. A huge chunk of vase struck the marble bench. Clumps of dirt pelted us. The sweet scent of gardenias cloyed the air.

She landed on the flagstones well in front of the main portion of the fractured vase. I felt certain she’d escaped injury except for scratches to her hands and knees from her tumble forward. She struggled to her feet and turned to stare at the wreckage.

I regret to say she was swearing in a clipped, angry tone. I zoomed to her side. “Oh, my goodness. Thank Heaven you’re all right.” I was too excited to remember silence was my goal.

Her head jerked around as she sought the speaker.

I clapped cautionary fingers to my lips. From this point forward, I must remember to be unheard as well as unseen. However, despite my vocal lapse, I was confident Wiggins was pleased. I had arrived in time to save a life. Wiggins had warned of skulduggery, so I was sure the vase hadn’t tumbled of its own accord.

The vase! Who engineered its fall? I zoomed upward and hovered above the empty pedestal. There were the occasional lights along the parapet, but none offered much illumination. I saw no one, heard nothing.

I didn’t know which direction to take. I listened hard and heard the unmistakable click of a closing door. Quickly, I moved from one French window to another, trying the handles. All were locked. But a fleeing person would obviously click the lock once inside.

All was not lost. The woman on the terrace clearly had expected to be joined by someone. Perhaps I had now fulfilled my mission. Perhaps I had been sent simply to save her life and now Kay Clark would be forewarned and could take appropriate action. I confess I felt a quick sense of disappointment. It wasn’t that I was reluctant to return to Heaven, but Heaven knew I just arrived.

However, I didn’t hear the whistle of the Rescue Express.

I zoomed back to the ground. I stopped beside a weeping willow not far from where she stood.

The near victim looked at the empty parapet, the remnants of the vase, the mounds of dirt, the cracked marble seat. She exuded determination, which seemed an odd response to near annihilation. Moreover, nothing in the way she stood indicated distress. Indeed, there was a cocky lift to her shoulders. She kicked a dirt clod. “I’ll be double damned.” Her husky voice was brusque and, oddly, not so much shocked as satisfied.

“I sincerely hope not.” Once again, I clapped fingers to my lips. Surely Wiggins would forgive my exclamation. Damnation is no joking matter in Heaven.

She swung toward the sound of my voice. “Who’s there?” She took a step nearer the weeping willow. She was partially in the shadow of the evergreens and partially in a swath of moonlight. She reached into a deep pocket and yanked out a small but deadly looking revolver, holding it steady in an unwavering hand. Moonlight glinted on the gun. Her left hand dipped into the opposite pocket and retrieved a flashlight. She switched it on.

The stark beam was shocking after the dimness.

Me and my big, open mouth. That was how I got off to a bad start in my first visit to Adelaide. I’d spoken aloud and then had felt it necessary to appear to calm the situation. The effect had been unfortunate. Earthbound creatures are sadly unimaginative. If you come and go, that is, appear and disappear, the conclusion is immediate that you are a ghost. It is to no avail to speak of a Heavenly visitor as an emissary. The earthbound cling to stereotypes, believing that ghosts are horrid specters rattling chains and exuding a chill that turns hearts to ice.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Take me. I’m a redhead who likes to have fun. I am, if I say so myself, cheerful, energetic, and friendly. However, Precept Four was clear. I glanced Heavenward and gave a thumbs-up. I was determined to remain unseen. Precept Four was clear as could be. Moreover, this woman obviously was in no need of reassurance.

She took two steps toward the willow. The fronds drifted in the breeze. The flashlight beam whipped back and forth. She held the small pistol with apparent competence. “I have a good ear. Come out with your hands up or I’ll shoot.”

She aimed directly at me. That wasn’t a problem, but I felt she was much too ready to wield a weapon. Public safety was paramount. I felt a pang of dismay. Had that pompous thought actually entered my mind? Maybe there was a basis to Wiggins’s continuing worries about reversion.

She raised her hand, straightened her arm.

“Don’t shoot.” I spoke crisply. “I pushed you out of the way. Why attack your rescuer?”

“Who are you? Why are you hiding?” Her tone was equally crisp. “Did you know the vase was going to fall? Or do you claim to have ESP? Whatever, you are a little too handy on the spot to be innocent.” Her disdain was obvious. “Come out or I’ll shoot. One, two, three—”

I became visible. I spared an instant’s thought to be glad I’d changed out of the tweed suit. Certainly I didn’t want to appear unfashionable in front of a woman who obviously had style even if at the moment she lacked charm.

She took a stumbling step back, deeper into the shadow of the evergreens.

I reminded myself that I was not, repeat not, taking pleasure in her discomfiture. Her reaction was understandable, since becoming visible is a striking phenomenon. Colors swirl and slowly take form. It’s quite arresting. I regretted I hadn’t chosen more dramatic tones. Turquoise flatters a redhead, but the gentle shade lacks emphasis. I changed colors in midswirl, and, voilà! I was clothed in a scarlet tunic and gold trousers. I added matching gold sandals and a multitude of gold chains. I was sure I was clearly visible in the light of the flash.

The hand with the gun sank to her side.

She had only herself to thank if my sudden appearance scared her.

Immediate upon the uncharitable thought came contrition. I hoped Wiggins wasn’t keeping count of these small errors on my part. As the colors swirled and resolved into me, I forced a conciliatory smile and moved toward her. Wiggins might not be pleased at my appearance, but surely he wanted me to prevent a shooting spree. What was it Wiggins had said about Kay Clark?…willful and headstrong and reckless…

Without hesitation, she walked toward me.

I was impressed. She had to be shaken by my unorthodox arrival, yet she moved with determination to meet me. She stepped fully into the light from one of the torches as we came face-to-face.

I struggled to breathe. Despite the passage of years, I recognized her at once. Her oval face was elegant in its perfection and her beauty perhaps more striking in the mature woman than in the less polished late teen. Of all people…

Was this the circumstance which had concerned Wiggins, made him doubt my suitability to serve as an emissary?

She swore, her husky voice shocked and uncertain.

“You!” I sounded hoarse.

Kay took a step back. “I don’t believe this.” Thankfully, the hand holding the gun remained at her side.

Now I understood Wiggins’s reservations about sending me. He had spoken of Kay Clark. How could I have had any idea of her identity? If only I’d attended to Wiggins’s words more carefully, but my thoughts had been distracted by memories of Bobby Mac and Montmartre. Still, I was indignant. “You’re Kay Kendall.” I would never forget that face.

Kay Kendall—I suppose I’d have to remember that she was now Kay Clark—had been beautiful as a very young woman. She was beautiful as an older woman. What was she now? Nearing fifty, at least, but time had touched her lightly. Now there was the faintest of shadows beneath her eyes, an attenuation of her high cheekbones, giving her a poignant aura of vulnerability. Her face was elegant and memorable, high forehead, straight nose, pointed chin with a tantalizing cleft, raven dark hair lightly flecked with silver, compelling dark brown eyes. Kay Kendall Clark was arresting, fascinating, unforgettable. Few could resist her magnetism; though, like moths drawn to a flame, those entranced by her might forever rue their encounter.

“Bailey Ruth Raeburn?” Kay’s rich contralto voice rose in disbelief. “Oh, wait a minute. You’re dead.” She blinked uncertainly. “I must have a concussion.”

“No such luck.” This time my fingers flew to my mouth in dismay. I must not quarrel with my charge. “You’re fine. Besides, I didn’t push you that hard.”

“You’re dead!” Kay repeated accusingly.

“Yes.” And she was impossible. What was Wiggins thinking? Of course, it wasn’t in my purview to judge whether Kay Clark, aka Kay Kendall, deserved to be rescued, apparently from a foolhardy scheme she had hatched.

Now I understood Wiggins’s trepidation that I might revert, leave behind the Heavenly graces of charity and patience, succumb to anger, dislike, and disdain. To be utterly frank, I had decided opinions when I was on the earth. I was quick to make up my mind about people.

Oh, all right, I was a good hater, and that’s a bad thing.

When we arrive in Heaven, one of our first duties is forgiveness. No grudges are permitted. I’d passed that test with flying colors.

Well, perhaps not with exceedingly high marks.

However, I passed. For those who might think less of me, consider this: How many on earth have grudges they gnaw with the pleasure dogs give to old bones? Well, then. They, too, may find that entry exam a challenge. Before crossing through the Heavenly portals, I forgave everyone.

But that was in Heaven.

To go back to earth and maintain such magnanimity was, I’m afraid, expecting a bit much.

I gave myself a mental shake. I desperately wanted to make this visit to earth a picture-perfect exercise as an emissary from the Department of Good Intentions. If so, I must suppress all negative feelings about Kay Clark and convince her I wished her well. “Kay…” I forced a smile which didn’t feel genuine, but hey, I was making the effort. “I’m here to help you.”

She blinked again, as if she might will away my presence. “This is crazy. You are definitely dead. You’ve been dead for years. You and Bobby Mac went down in the Gulf.” Kay glanced at the broken vase and debris-littered ground. “There’s the vase. Or what’s left of it.” She looked down at the gun in her hand. “The gun’s real.”

“Much too real. Put that pistol in your pocket.” I’d developed quite a firm voice when I taught high school English.

Numbly, she dropped the gun into her pocket and glared at me. “I feel like I’m standing here. Maybe I’m not. If you’re dead, I must be dead.” Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t be here, and besides, you’d be ancient and you look younger than I do.”

“Of course I look younger.” I did not say this pridefully. I simply stated a fact. “That’s one of the joys of Heaven.” I hoped Wiggins didn’t feel I was revealing too much. However, I had to convince Kay that she was alive, and I was, well, dead. “Age doesn’t matter in Heaven. Those who died too young find full flower. Those worn by illness or despair once again move with ease and grace. They are at their best and brightest. That is the criterion, to be your best and brightest whenever in life that may have occurred. Your choice. One of my happiest years was twenty-seven. That’s the me you see.”

There wasn’t a handy alabaster pillar to reflect me, but I was confident the crimson tunic and gold trousers were a perfect foil for flaming red hair. I would emphasize that I was merely taking an innocent pleasure in the lovely fabric. Heaven knows I eschew vanity.

“If I’m alive, you are not standing there.” She tugged at an earlobe. “So why do I hear you?”

“Watch closely.” I disappeared. I counted to five, reappeared. For good measure—really the change wasn’t intended to be spiteful—I transformed the tunic to emerald green and the trousers to brilliant white. White sandals, too, of course.

Kay blinked several times. She touched fingers to her temple. She took an experimental hop. “I’m not hurt, so how can I be dead? Besides”—her tone was dismissive—“if Heaven is like the terrace of The Castle, I want my money back.” She shot me a look of undisguised distaste. “Obviously you are a figment of my imagination. Although why I’d draw you of all people out of my subconscious is one for my psychologist.” She paused, gave a gurgle of laughter. “Now that I think of it, maybe you’re part of the baggage I’ve carried since I slammed out of the mayor’s office, jumped in my car, and left Adelaide in my rearview mirror. Did you know the mayor made a pass at me? I suppose he’d heard the rumors about Jack and thought I’d be a nifty entry in his black book. I saw you on the way out. Your face had a decided prune look. You and all the other virtuous ladies of the town had decided I was a vixen. Actually, I doubt you and your friends were quite so ladylike in your terminology. I can’t wait to tell my psychologist. She’s always insisted that almost everyone has ghastly repressed memories except for me and I might be better off if I started repressing stuff. Finally, I have a repressed memory for her. But it’s weird that you popped to the top of my mind just because I had a close call. Okay.” She blew out a breath of relief. “I’m alive and I’m nuts, but that’s fine. Anyway, since you’re imaginary, I’m not going to waste any more time with you. I’ve got things to do.” She started for the steps.

I grabbed her elbow. “What do I have to do to get your attention?”

She jerked her arm away, her face strained. “Those felt like real fingers.”

“Kay Clark, listen to me.” I shook my head in exasperation. “You haven’t changed since you were working on the Adelaide Gazette and hell-for-leather to break up Jack Hume’s marriage.” Poor Virginia Hume. Sweet, gentle, kind, shy. What chance did the wren have when a macaw strutted onstage?

Kay’s thin face was abruptly still. Her eyes were deep pools of sadness. And anger.

I didn’t evade her gaze. Despite the passage of many years, we both remembered our last encounter. I had been, if possible, even more impulsive then than now. Virginia was the only daughter of Madge Crenshaw, my best friend. It was past ten on a hot summer night when Madge called, crying out her anger and despair over Virginia’s unhappiness. “…that awful girl’s chasing Jack. I tried to talk to him but he slammed out of the house. Virginia’s heartbroken.”

The minute I hung up the phone, I snatched my car keys and raced out of the house. I drove straight to Kay Kendall’s apartment and knocked on the door.

She’d faced me, young and beautiful and defiant.

When I finished, she’d stood straight and tall, her face deathly pale. Her lips had trembled. I’d scarcely heard her low voice. “…you don’t know…you don’t know!” The door slammed shut.

There was no door between us tonight, but there were memories and heartbreak. Her eyes held mine. “All my fault?”

I didn’t speak. I suppose my cold gaze told her my opinion.

“I was nineteen years old. He was twenty-seven. I came here”—she pointed up at The Castle—“to interview his father, J. J. III, about a rumor that Hume Oil was for sale. I met Jack in the main hallway as I was leaving.” There might have been a quick sheen of tears in her eyes. “I was so young. I didn’t know how much love hurt. I didn’t know…” She gave an impatient shake of her head. “He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen.” She spoke without emphasis, stating a fact. “Being near him made everything sharper, brighter, faster. Did I chase him? No. Suddenly he was everywhere I went. I left town, went to Dallas. He came after me.” Her face was suddenly sad. “Every time he walked into a room, it was like the Fourth of July, but I would have gotten away if Virginia hadn’t died.” Her eyes probed mine. “Did the ladies of the town blame me for her death and Sallie’s, too?” Her gaze was somber. “Why do I ask? Sure, everybody blamed me and Jack.” She shook her head. “Jack and I didn’t create Virginia’s demons. He tried to help her. His dad tried. Did you know Jack’s dad had insisted on Virginia and Sallie coming to live at The Castle? He’d been down to see them in Houston. He wasn’t anybody’s fool. He was crazy about the baby. That’s the only reason Jack was in Adelaide that summer. He spent very little time here after Hume Oil moved its headquarters to Houston. Of course, his dad still called the shots from Adelaide. But that one summer, Jack was here. He got away as often as he could. He was in Dallas the night of the accident.”

I remembered his absence. “We’d all heard that he was in Dallas. With you.” Everyone had talked, of course…running after that girl…poor little Virginia…his fault…was it really an accident?…

“He was with me.” Kay spoke as if from a far distance, as if she were observing shadowy figures dimly seen in a dusky lane. “I told him I wouldn’t see him again. And then the call came. Virginia’s car went into the lake on a bright, sunny, beautiful afternoon.” There was pity and sadness in Kay’s dark eyes. “Virginia was drunk. As usual.”

“Virginia?” I remembered sweet slender Virginia and her beguiling blue eyes and gentle smile. My shock must have been evident in my face.

“Did you know her headaches and the days she spent in bed were because of vodka?” The honesty in Kay’s voice was unmistakable.

I didn’t want to believe Kay, but I’d lived long enough to understand that people we think we know well often hide destructive secrets.

Kay spoke quietly. “Hardly anyone knew. Jack. His dad. His sister. I don’t think Virginia’s mother knew, or perhaps she refused to see. Virginia was always pretty and kind, a sweet, good-natured, pathetic drunk.”

I looked at Kay and saw beyond the mature woman who faced me now. I saw the girl of nineteen, beautiful and accused. I remembered myself that night, angry, my voice hard. “Why didn’t you say anything the night I came to see you?”

Her dark brows drew down in a fierce frown. “Did I owe you an explanation? And how could I talk about Virginia? The family was trying to help her.”

I made many mistakes during my lifetime. Here was another, even if lately realized. “I’m sorry.” I wished my words could make a difference, but nothing I said now would erase that night.

Her face twisted in a sardonic smile. “I’ll save your apology for a therapy session. Apparently, my subconscious likes you better than I do. But that encounter with you was the least of my concerns after Virginia and Sallie died. I had too much else to deal with then. Jack was devastated. He blamed himself for the accident. He said he should have put Virginia in a hospital and made sure that she wouldn’t be out alone with Sallie. But he never expected what happened. Of course”—and now her tone was bitter—“the generous ladies of Adelaide had the answer, Virginia drove into the lake because of Jack and me. The reality? Virginia drove into the lake because she was too drunk to drive and she made a wrong turn on the way to the park with Sallie.”

The photograph in the Gazette had been heartbreaking, water spilling out of the convertible as the winch pulled the white car to the surface of the lake.

Kay’s thin hands tightened into fists. “Virginia didn’t commit suicide. She would never have hurt Sallie. Jack didn’t matter to her. She shut him out after Sallie was born, but she adored Sallie. So did Jack. When Virginia and Sallie died, Jack was lost. It was the only time I ever knew him to be lost. Until—” She drew a sharp breath. “Why should I tell you any of this? You aren’t here, and I’ve got plenty to deal with.”

“Skulduggery.” I spoke firmly.

She came back from the past, gave me a disdainful stare. “I would never have expected you to be quaint, Bailey Ruth.”

I felt a flicker of outrage. Kay Clark might not be a scarlet woman who had tried to steal another woman’s husband, but she was definitely infuriating. The night I’d made a plea for Virginia, Kay hadn’t revealed the truth. I realized now she’d been hurt by the town’s suspicions, but she had refused to defend herself. Was she driven by pride? Or was she a woman who would always go her own way without any thought to the effect of her actions on those around her? Now she was doing everything in her power to send me packing.

I was tempted to disappear and let her deal with whatever forces she had unleashed.

…on the earth, not of the earth…

Did I hear the whistle of the Rescue Express in the distance?

I spoke quickly. “When I was sent here to help you, I was told there was skulduggery afoot. If you prefer more up-to-date language, let me put it this way. You are in a big mess, and unless you want your attacker”—I nodded at the remnants of the vase—“to get away with murder—yours—you need to listen to me. I was dispatched to save you and I’m going to do it.” Whether she liked it or not. I felt pugnacious as all get out. Kay affected me that way.

“You save me?” She flicked me a glance of disdain. “I don’t need your help. Thanks, but I know what I’m doing. I don’t need a guardian angel.”

“Stop.” I held up a commanding hand. “I am not an angel. Heavens, no. Angels are a separate order of being. I’m an emissary.”

She shrugged. “Angel, emissary, what difference does it make?”

This was not the time to argue theology. I lost patience and snapped, “In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I am a ghost.” Wiggins had to understand that sometimes language must be clear.

“Ghost?” She raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I guess you are a ghost of times past, that’s for sure. Whether you’re here or not, angel, ghost, or devil, please whisk back to wherever you came from and leave me in peace. Now that I know I’m on the right track, I’ll take it from here.”

I despised lack of clarity in speech when I was an English teacher. Right track. It. I wanted specificity.

“Take what where?”

She looked blank.

“You say you are on the right track and you will take it from here. Take what where?”

“You seem singularly uninformed for a so-called ghost.” She made a shooing gesture, as if I were a bothersome fly.

“It’s a good thing”—I hoped I didn’t sound waspish—“that Heaven doesn’t hold grudges, or I would be gone. In a heartbeat. Look, we need to talk.” I gestured at the shattered vase. “Why is someone trying to kill you?”

Her smile fled as she stared at the debris. In the moonlight, her face looked suddenly older. She drew in a quick breath.

I patted her shoulder.

Kay stiffened. “You are not here.” The words were evenly spaced, but her voice was strident. “I haven’t had that much to drink. Two glasses of champagne at dinner. That’s nothing. I am perfectly sober. Maybe I need a drink. I’ve got to get my head on straight. Maybe if I talk the situation out, I’ll know what to do next.” She flicked a quick glance toward me. “That must be why I’m imagining you. All right. My subconscious will be my guide.” She began to pace. “I found a note on my pillow. But not a billet-doux this time.” Her face softened. “Jack wrote lovely pillow notes. I still have them. This wasn’t that kind of note, but I was thrilled. I knew I was getting somewhere.”

Kay reached into a pocket.

I was wary, prepared for the gun.

Kay lifted out a square of white cardboard, read aloud: “‘Be on the terrace at midnight in the cul-de-sac. I know what happened to Jack.’”

Interesting. I asked eagerly, “What happened to Jack?”

Kay lifted startled black eyebrows in surprise. “You don’t know about Jack? My subconscious must have gone on vacation after calling you up. You can’t be a good sounding board if you don’t know what’s happened.”

“I know you are engaged in a foolhardy and”—I jerked a thumb at the wreckage—“dangerous scheme.”

“Scheme.” She considered the word and gave an approving nod. “You better believe it, honey. I’ve got a scheme, and that pile of dirt”—she jerked her thumb—“proves I was right. I knew things were breaking my way when I got the note. I suspected something would happen.” She patted her pocket. “That’s why I brought a gun. But”—she looked up at the empty pedestal—“somebody outsmarted me.”

“When I got to the balcony—”

She looked sardonic. “You flew, of course.”

I tamped down my immediate flare of irritation…on the earth, not of the earth… With an effort of will (Wiggins, are you applauding?), I was pleasant. “Not exactly. It’s more immediate than that.” I disappeared, zoomed up, stood on the balcony ledge, reappeared, and looked down on Kay. I was clearly visible in the light from a lamp. I waved, then reversed the process. In another instant, I stood before her.

Her eyelashes fluttered.

The instantaneous switch from ground to balcony to ground obviously dazzled her. What fun.

She pressed fingers against her temples. “Hallucination. That’s all that it is. Maybe champagne isn’t good for me.”

I was impatient with her dogged rejection of my presence. Time was fleeting and action was essential. I began again, firmly. “When I reached the balcony, no one was there. I heard a door shut, but I was too late to see anyone. Maybe the police will be able to find some evidence.”

“The police.” She spoke in a considering tone, then gave an abrupt head shake. “I don’t think—”

“Excuse me, is everything all right?” The puzzled call came from the upper terrace.

Kay’s expression was grim. “Everything’s just super, Laverne. Come on down.” She turned the flashlight toward the steps.