Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER FIVE

It is better to give than to receive. Especially if trouble is on the way. Before Wiggins could scold, I beamed and clapped my hands in appreciation. “How nice of you to come. I’m sure you want to know the latest developments.”

“I know the latest.” His voice had a curious strangling sound. “Appearing, always appearing.”

I suspected an accusatory forefinger was at this moment pointed at me. I increased the wattage of my smile, clearly a woman confident of her actions. “Everything is working out splendidly!”

“Working out?” There was a note of uncertainty and possibly a flicker of hope.

I almost felt a moment of compunction. Really, men are such lambs, always responding readily to concrete statements.

“Definitely.” I was tempted to break into “Everything’s Coming Up Roses,” but decided not to push my luck. “Kay thinks I’m imaginary. So, should I need to appear, no harm done. She won’t believe I’m there.”

I continued to beam in the approximate direction of his voice. I wished he weren’t so averse to being visible. “Of course, tomorrow—today actually—I’ll try again to convince Kay to leave the investigating to me. The wisest course would be for her to leave Adelaide.”

“That will be wonderful.” Relief buoyed his voice. “Your mission will be done. The Express can pick you up this afternoon.”

Perhaps I was too clever by half. My high-wattage smile felt fixed. “I’ll do my best to persuade her to depart, but there are ramifications.” My face grew grave.

“Oh?”

I spoke quickly. “Others may be at risk. Kay is my primary responsibility, but I need to discover the reason for Jack’s murder.” I gave my husky voice a portentous vibrato. “Until then, no one at The Castle may be safe.”

“Unfortunately”—Wiggins sounded somber—“I have a similar feeling. In the department, we are not privy to the innermost thoughts of those on earth. Only God knows. However, when I checked your file, I felt most uneasy. Though possibly your predilections might be the source of my discomfort. And”—his voice was dour—“I find it discouraging that you arrived at your post unaware you were here to protect Kay Kendall Clark. I most specifically”—great emphasis—“advised that you were perhaps unsuitable considering your attitude toward Kay. You assured me”—now there was a put-upon note to his voice—“that you were absolutely capable of discharging your duties. That moment in the garden when each recognized the other was not a scene I like to dwell upon.”

I refused to be daunted. “All missions have their ups and downs. Why, you yourself when last in Tumbulgum”—at the conclusion of my previous visit to earth, Wiggins had admitted a deviation from the Precepts when he had been forced to intervene in a mission in that remote Australian community—“realized that despite the best of intentions, at times one does what one has to do. In this instance, I will emphatically carry out my duties with a brave heart and a clear conscience.”

“Well put.” He was hearty.

Dear Wiggins. So easily deflected from the matter at hand.

I looked soulful. I caught a quick glimpse in the mirror. Perhaps the world lost a great actress. Truly, I appeared as noble as Portia in the famous painting by Millais.

“Bailey Ruth, do your best.”

I stood straight as a soldier with a battlefield commission. Until I was sure he was gone. Then I gave a whoosh of relief. In any event, I’d better work fast and hope Kay Clark turned out to be as stubborn as I thought she was. It was essential that I speak with her privately in the morning. I thought for a moment, then popped to the kitchen. I turned on a light, found a notepad near the telephone, and composed a message. I left the note on the kitchen table. Upstairs in Kay’s room, I used a sheet from her notepad, wrote quickly: Breakfast will arrive at eight o’clock. Await further instructions. I propped the note on the lavatory in Kay’s bathroom and returned to the guest room.

Possibly I fell asleep even more quickly than Kay. A clear conscience affords that luxury.

My eyes popped wide. I’d had only a few hours’ sleep, but I was eager to get a glimpse of the inhabitants of the house. When they are alone, many people’s demeanors differ profoundly from that exhibited when in the company of others. Also, I needed to check on the not-quite-hidden tools.

With no fear of observation while in the bedroom, I chose to be visible. In the luxurious bathroom, I was enchanted by the huge white marble shower designed without a curtain or glass door. Absolutely Heavenly. As the water pelted, I recalled the household members as they gathered on the porch last night:

Evelyn Hume—Tall, imposing, a commanding figure. Dark hair streaked with silver. A long face with a determined jaw. A deep, imperious voice.

Diane Hume—Faded blonde. Dresden-fine features marred by a lost look in her blue eyes and anxious lines at her eyes and mouth.

Jimmy Hume—Tall and well built. Bright blue eyes. Wiry, shortcut brown hair. Squarish face set in a dark frown.

Margo Taylor—Frowsy auburn hair. Unsmiling. An aura of discontent.

Shannon Taylor—Young and pretty, blue-eyed, brown hair with gold highlights, her expression withdrawn and sad.

Laverne Phillips—Coronet braids. Dark eyes. Thin nose. Bony face. She tried to appear important, but came off as theatrical, a shopgirl pretending to be personage.

Ronald Phillips—He, too, seemed to be playing a role, the husband of a great woman. I wondered what was behind his unctuous manner and perfectly styled silver hair and beard.

Stepping out of the shower, I enjoyed the fleecy softness of the towel. Once dry, I disappeared and chose my clothing. Before departing, I materialized long enough to glance in the bedroom mirror, an extravagant, full-length affair with a white limestone frame. My copper-bright hair shone. An azure blouse complemented white slacks and sandals. My green eyes sparkled, my freckled face was eager. I was ready.

I checked to be sure there was no evidence the room had been used. I’d made the bed, of course. The bathroom had a plentiful supply of towels, so one less would not be noticed. I folded my damp towel. I’d drop by The Castle laundry room on my way out.

I disappeared and stepped into the hall, making sure no one was about to observe the floating towel. I gently closed the bedroom door and thought: laundry room. To move an object required me to traverse the distance rather than immediately arriving. I floated—floating is such fun—down the hallway to an inconspicuous door. I opened it to find the interior stairs meant for the domestic staff. A dim light midway down revealed a narrow passageway and steep steps. I found three narrow doors at the bottom of the stairs. Dimly, I heard a dog barking excitedly.

The first door opened. “Walter, what’s wrong with you? What’s on the stairs?”

A yipping bundle of golden fur scrambled up the steps, nails clicking, in a wriggling frenzy of excitement.

“Shh.” I reached down to pet.

The dog lunged, yanking the towel from my other hand.

I grabbed one end, held tight.

A joyous growl sounded. The dog pulled, his claws scrabbling on the uncarpeted stairs. What could be more fun than tug-of-war first thing in the morning?

“Walter, what are you doing?” Margo sounded exasperated. She stood at the foot of the steps, glaring upward. “Hush. You’ll wake everyone up.” The door evidently opened into the kitchen. The scent of coffee and bacon beckoned me. I let go of the towel.

Walter slid down several steps, dragging the towel with him.

“Give me that towel.” Margo bent, but the dog bolted past her into the kitchen, the towel dragging behind him.

I sighed. Now there would be the Mystery of the Damp Towel on the Service Stairs. Wiggins felt strongly about unexplained incidents that might prompt speculation of otherworldly intervention.

Looking on the bright side—I hoped Wiggins would do so as well—now that I wasn’t burdened with the towel, I was free to carry out my plans.

I had a decision to make. Although Kay’s refusal to involve the police likely put her in greater danger, I understood her reasoning. As long as those with whom she spoke—with the exception of the murderer—remained unaware that Jack Hume had been pushed, they likely would answer whatever questions Kay asked.

However, if the tools I’d so cleverly placed in the drawer in the oak cabinet were discovered, it was inevitable that the police would be summoned and a thorough investigation begun on the sabotage of the vase.

I am rarely indecisive. Did I play Kay’s game? Or did I try to involve the police in hopes of protecting her? If the former, I must move quickly, retrieve the tools, place them in the tool room.

I popped to the main hallway. Shadowy openings at either side near the front door led to the living and dining area. I looked at the massive cabinet.

The second drawer was closed. I reached out, pulled.

The tools were gone.

I’d expected the first person through the hallway this morning to see the glint of the crowbar in the light from the wall sconce and immediately raise the alarm. The police would be summoned.

Someone had indeed walked past and been attracted by the silvery glint, but no alarm had been raised.

Either a murderer had walked this way or someone willing to protect a killer.

In the workshop, the spaces for the crowbar, hammer, and chisel remained empty. The tools could be in the pond or hidden in dense vegetation. I’d been outwitted. I had no idea when the tools had been taken. Yet I felt almost certain they must have been discovered early this morning. Who had been up early?

I left the workshop and rose in the air to survey the surroundings.

Evelyn Hume walked down the stairs from the terrace. Her fingertips slid smoothly down the stone balustrade. Her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a bun. She looked cool and attractive in a gray chambray blouse and slacks. As I watched, she reached the terrace, turned, and walked without hesitation to the cul-de-sac.

I dropped down beside her, near enough to see the grim set of her face. The thick lenses of her glasses magnified her milky eyes.

Despite the bright morning sun, the cul-de-sac was dim, shadowed by the tall, thick evergreens on three sides. There was light enough to see that the vase had been blue porcelain. Light enough also to recognize the great force of the vase’s impact. The vase had shattered into large pieces, spilling clods of dark rich dirt. There was still the scent of gardenias, though the blossoms were already browned and wilted.

It was only as Evelyn moved slowly forward, her steps cautious, that her poor vision became apparent. As the toe of her right shoe encountered debris, she stooped to pick up a shard of pottery. Her lined face was brooding, intent.

She held the broken piece for a moment, then dropped it. As she turned away, she reached out, touched a prickly evergreen. As soon as her shoe grated on the flagstones, she swung to her right, walked unerringly toward the marble stairway.

Had she come to the cul-de-sac to confirm the fall of the vase? Did she find it hard to believe that a huge porcelain vase, securely in place for many years, would topple of its own accord? Or was her early-morning inspection more sinister in intent? Was she a thwarted murderer hoping that there would be no suspicion raised about the vase’s fall?

I watched as she climbed the steps. After one initial brush with her hand at the base of the steps, she climbed with confidence. I didn’t know why she had visited the cul-de-sac. However, it was obvious now that poor vision was no obstacle to Evelyn Hume’s going anywhere she chose. Would she have noticed the not-quite-hidden tools? The old Spanish cabinet was on the way to the front door. Did she customarily reach out to touch the cabinet to confirm her distance from the door? Had her hand encountered the cold steel tip of the crowbar?

I didn’t know.

However, Evelyn Hume’s poor vision was no proof of her innocence. She could easily have walked up behind her brother on the balcony, pushed him to his death, and slipped away in the darkness, just as her hand might have gripped the crowbar that tipped the vase last night.

I glanced up at the balcony. A silent observer watched as Evelyn reached the terrace and moved purposefully toward a side door.

I landed a few feet from Ronald Phillips. His silver hair was stiff from hair spray and his Vandyke perfectly trimmed. He was natty in a blue polo and blue-and-white-striped seersucker trousers. Ronald was too much of a dandy to be attractive to me. Nor did I care for the cunning look on his face. He reminded me of a ferret. As Evelyn disappeared, he moved swiftly and lightly, his steps making little sound, to a French door.

I followed him through a ballroom to the main stairway and down to the second floor. He turned left and walked swiftly to the end of the hallway and opened a door.

Laverne sat at a desk midway across the room. She watched as he stepped inside. There was no warmth in her gaze. A lamp revealed a face with all imperfections concealed by makeup. She, too, was fully dressed. Despite the heat, she was garbed all in black, a rayon blouse, polished cotton slacks, leather sandals. “Where have you been?”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Here and there.” He had a light tenor voice. “Evelyn’s worried. She was down there nosing around the broken vase.”

Laverne’s narrow face was abruptly expressionless. “Where were you last night?”

He smoothed his beard. “Out for a cigarette. It’s damn stupid I can’t smoke in here.”

“You know how Diane feels about smoking.” Laverne’s tone suggested this was a familiar reply to an oft-stated grievance.

His face twisted in a sneer. “This place has absorbed plenty of cigarette smoke. And enough whiskey to supply a whorehouse.” His smile was wolfish. “I’ve got more stuff for James’s spirit to talk about, thanks to the historical society. The ladies there think I’m wonderful. I take them Godiva chocolates. They can’t wait to help me find stuff. Yesterday I looked at microfilms about James and Diane’s wedding. I even got some pix. Did you know Jack was part of the wedding party when James and Diane got married?”

She waved a long thin pale hand in dismissal. “Diane didn’t like Jack. She only wants to hear about her husband.”

Ronald rocked on his feet, the quick movement of a man with too much restless energy. “James will have lots to say.”

Laverne’s dark eyes were alert. “What are you doing, Ronald?”

His smile was reckless. “Looking around. I like to know what’s going on. I’m good at putting two and two together.”

Her hands clenched. “You’d better be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me. I always land on my feet.” His eyes gleamed. “Maybe you’re the one who should be careful. You went down to the garden last night.” His gaze was sharp.

“I heard that crash. You weren’t here.”

He took a step toward her. “I was here.” His light blue eyes were cold, commanding. “Neither of us left the room until you went out to see about the noise.” He took two quick steps, seized her arm. “Where was I?” His voice was silky.

“Here. With me.”

He nodded in satisfaction, loosed his grip. “I’ve been thinking about tonight’s séance. Who knows what you might hear from the great beyond.” He smiled and turned to leave the room.

As the door closed behind him, Laverne’s tight fists slowly opened. She flexed her fingers. Her face looked bleak. And frightened.

I almost whirled outside again, but decided to check the floor for other occupants. In a large bedroom, one wall contained sports trophies inscribed with Jimmy Hume’s name. The room had a comfortable, masculine appearance with brown plaid drapes and a brown rug with geometric black squares. A copy of a thriller lay open on a brown leather couch. The bathroom was still steamy. Jimmy had apparently showered and dressed and left not too long ago.

Two doors down, I found Diane Hume. This room was clearly feminine, white-and-gold French Provincial furniture, a gold Persian rug, and a plethora of knickknacks, including Chinese lacquered boxes, Hopi dolls, crystal bowls, and gleaming brass animals.

Diane arranged peach-colored dahlias in a cut-glass vase. On top of a marble table, gardening gloves rested in a basket with traces of dirt and remnants of stems. She wore a loose blue blouse and designer jeans with mud-stained knees. The anxious lines smoothed out in her face as she gently rearranged the blossoms.

When she was satisfied, she placed the vase behind a framed photograph in the center of the tabletop. She gazed at the arrangement for a long moment. She started to turn away, then picked up the silver frame. She sat in a small gilt chair and looked down at a man’s face.

He seemed familiar to me, dark hair a trifle overlong, long oval face, high bridged nose, dark eyes, well-formed lips. His gaze was remote, as if he listened to faraway music.

“Oh, James.” Her voice wavered.

I understood the familiarity. This was Jack Hume’s younger brother. The resemblance was there, but James’s portrait had no hint of the vigor and engagement in Jack’s picture by the falls.

Diane’s eyes glazed with tears. “James, you need to tell me what to do. You will, won’t you? But I can’t tell Laverne. I’m too afraid…Maybe”—her tone was feverish, intense—“you can send me a message I’ll understand.”

In the front hall, the grandfather clock struck the quarter hour. I supposed breakfast was served at eight. I still had fifteen minutes to find Jimmy. I checked the first-floor rooms, all of them silent and dim, then zoomed outside and hovered above The Castle. I spotted Jimmy on a huge stretch of grass below the second terrace. The Millie No. 1 pump jack rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

Jimmy addressed a golf ball. He swung an iron back, then down through the ball and forward. The ball hooked to the left.

I stood a few feet away. There was no joy in his practice. His face was drawn in a tight, grim frown. He hit the balls, one after another, with ferocity. If he had skill, it was lost in the fury of his swings. Usually, the balls hooked.

Finally, he glanced at his watch, yanked up a golf bag, and flung three irons into it.

The crowbar, hammer, and chisel would have fit easily into the bag.

He walked with his head down, oblivious to the chitter of starlings and the low cry of mourning doves. On the terrace, he hesitated, then swung toward the rear of The Castle. In a moment, he was looking through a window into the kitchen. His young face was taut with unhappiness, his gaze uncertain, his lips pressed together.

The Castle kitchen was impressive, everything up-to-date, with granite countertops, gleaming silvery appliances, stone floors. Daffodil yellow curtains framed the window. Shannon emptied the contents of a juicer. Fresh orange juice glistened in a clear glass pitcher. She worked swiftly, competently, but her expression was distant, as if she were far away, where no voice could reach her.

Jimmy took a step toward the door, then, with a mutter, swerved and disappeared around the side of the house.

Inside the kitchen, several platters waited on a counter. Margo’s face was flushed with exertion. She retrieved the last few strips of bacon from a skillet, dropped them onto a paper towel. “You’d better take that tray up.”

Shannon looked irritated. “As if I don’t have enough to do to get the buffet in place. Why can’t she come down to breakfast like everybody else?” Shannon added a napkin to a tray and condiments, including jam and ketchup.

I nodded in approval at a plate with bacon and sausages, scrambled eggs, a Danish, toast, and coffee. The note I’d left last night had requested that breakfast be delivered to Kay’s room at eight A.M.

Shannon’s face twisted in resentment. She turned to pick up the juice pitcher.

I used the tongs to add more bacon and eggs. I slipped an extra plate beneath the first.

“Maybe last night upset her.” Margo gestured toward the window. “I went out to look this morning. She must have been terrified.”

“Too bad the vase didn’t hit her.”

“Shannon.” Margo’s voice was sharp.

“I don’t know who she is, coming in here and acting like Jack belonged to her.” Shannon’s hand shook as she poured juice. “And she insisted on staying in his room.”

“I suspect she knew him better than anyone here.” Margo’s voice was dry.

“Jack didn’t care about her. I know who he was sneaking around to see.” Tears brimmed in Shannon’s eyes, spilled down her face. She gulped back a sob as she grabbed the tray and hurried to the door to the back stairs. She opened the door, left it ajar.

Margo’s eyes burned. “He isn’t worth your tears. He was…” Her words were lost in the clatter of Shannon’s shoes on the uncarpeted stairs.

I was waiting inside Kay’s room when the knock sounded on the hall door. From the bathroom, I heard the splash of the shower. I called through the panel. “Leave the tray on the floor. I’ll get it in a minute.” I’m quite good at mimicking voices.

I waited a moment, eased open the door. As soon as I heard the door to the service stairs close, I retrieved the tray and closed the door. As I placed the tray on a table near the window, I hummed “Oh What a Beautiful Morning.”

The extra plate was perfect. I found a glass at the wet bar and poured half the juice in the tumbler. As for silverware…I shrugged, picked up the spoon. Kay could make do with the knife and fork. I fixed the plates share and share alike, each with bacon, sausage and eggs, half a Danish, and a piece of toast. I replaced the plate cover over Kay’s portion.

Would it be remiss to begin without her? I called out, “If you don’t mind, I’ll start before the eggs are cold.”

Kay appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, pulling on a terry-cloth robe. She looked at the table and the settings. Slowly she lifted her hands, covered her eyes, waited a moment, let them fall.

“Delicious.” I added a dash of ketchup to my eggs. “Thanks for sharing.” I lifted a spoonful of eggs.

Her eyes dark, her face strained, she stalked to the table. She pawed the air, bumping my arm.

The spoon tipped and the eggs fell. Fortunately, they landed on my plate. “Don’t be rude.” I retrieved the eggs. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Get used to it.” In case Wiggins was attuned, I added, “Please.”

She uttered a sharp, short expletive, then grimly sat in the opposite chair. “A spoon in the air. A floating glass of juice. I thought a good night’s sleep would clear up my mind.”

Apparently, floating cutlery and glasses unnerved her. “I’m sorry.” I appeared. This morning I chose a floral-swirl print shirt, blossoms in rose red and hydrangea blue, and white cotton trousers. I spared a quick glance in the mirror, smoothed a vagrant red curl. “Eat your breakfast. You need food for strength. We have lots to do today.”

She grabbed the Danish, took a bite, poured a cup of coffee. “How did breakfast get here?”

“I put a note in the kitchen, requesting a tray for you.”

“A note. Like the note I found in the bathroom. Now I’m writing notes I don’t remember writing.” She darted a wild look toward the door, clearly dismayed that a note had been left in the kitchen. She shook her head and began to eat, ignoring me.

I finished and poured a cup of coffee into a mug from the wet bar. Mmm, excellent coffee. “I don’t believe I’ve told you about the tools. You see, I thought you made a mistake in preventing an investigation.” I described my clever arrangement of the tools in the cabinet by the front door last night and their subsequent disappearance. “Anyone in the house could have found and removed them.”

She was thoughtful. “My mind is all screwed up. I didn’t want the police. No way I would have put tools out to be found.” She brightened. “Of course I wouldn’t. That’s why they disappeared. My mind is making up for that nutty idea.” Suddenly she looked forlorn. “Why do I keep having these thoughts?”

I gazed at her without warmth. She had to be one of the most stubborn women I’d ever encountered. “Have you ever thought about Zen?”

She flung down her napkin. “This has to stop. Okay, mind, listen. I will not be diverted. Hush. Now.”

I sighed. “I am not diverting you. I want to find out who pushed Jack ASAP, so I can leave you in my cosmic dust. If you’ll hush, I’ll let you in on what I discovered while you were relaxing in a hot shower.” I ticked off the occupants of the house, one by one. “This morning Evelyn was on the upper terrace, checking out the vase. Ronald Phillips surreptitiously watched her from the balcony. When Ronald returned to their room, he and Laverne had a curious exchange. Diane cut fresh flowers this morning and talked to her dead husband’s picture. She’s desperately worried about something. In the kitchen, Margo and Shannon talked about Jack. Jimmy practiced hitting irons on the third terrace.”

Kay spread marmalade on her toast. She gave me a defiant glare. “Big deal. People are up and around. So?”

My eyes slitted. “Has anybody ever told you that you have a smart mouth?”

Her grin was immediate and delighted. “This is more like it. Let’s level with each other. You don’t like me. I don’t like you. Why don’t you take a hike?”

I opened my mouth, grabbed my temper, pressed my lips firmly together. I managed to sound pleasant when I spoke. “Actually, it should be the other way around.”

She crunched bacon and quirked an eyebrow.

“You are lucky to be alive this morning, thanks to my timely intervention. I understand—and I’m sure Heaven does as well—that your motive in coming to Adelaide was admirable. You believed Jack’s death was murder. The note on your pillow and the toppled vase prove you were correct. However, now that I am here, the wise course is for you to leave. You can be assured I will continue to investigate.”

She swallowed the bacon, took a deep breath, and spoke through gritted teeth. “If I have two personalities, I guess I have to communicate with the asinine part of my brain that’s imagined you. Get this straight. I’m not going anywhere until I know what happened to Jack.”

I was tempted to give her a high five. I’d hoped she would refuse to leave. I needed her presence in order to approach the possible suspects.

I needed…

Wait a minute. I felt overwhelmed by remorse. What I needed or, to be more accurate, what I wanted was unimportant. Kay’s life was all that mattered. I hadn’t been dispatched by the department to find a murderer. I’d been sent to protect Kay, yet my excursions this morning were all about discovering what had happened to Jack Hume.

“Kay, this is foolish.” Just because I heard the siren call of the chase was no excuse to put her in further jeopardy. “Heaven is concerned about your safety or I wouldn’t be here. I truly will do my best to find out what happened to Jack, but you must leave.”

“Get a life.” She took another bite of sweet roll.

Kay Clark was a fighter. I suppose she felt that I (or a negative aspect of herself) was challenging her courage. “Kay…” I heard the difference in my tone. For the first time, I moved away from my irritation with her. Instead, I wanted to help the weary, grieving woman who faced me with an indomitable light in her eyes.

She looked as immovable as the tank battery for the Millie No. 1.

Her decision meant that if she were to be kept safe, I must discover the identity of the murderer.

Have I ever shared the truth that I am moved by impulse, not logic? I felt dimly that perhaps this was the course of events Wiggins desired. Was his mind serpentine enough to have known that my actions would strengthen Kay’s resolve and she and I together would be bound to investigate? It was as if I heard a distant bugle call to charge.

Impulse was all very well, but I must harness my proclivity for quick action and think logically. Kay had come to Adelaide because of Jack’s e-mails. That’s where she started and that’s where I must start. “In Jack’s last e-mail, he said a photograph had been slipped under his door. Where do you suppose he put it?”

She looked perplexed. “I don’t know.” She nodded toward the desk. “All of his papers seemed to be in the ebony box. There was only one photograph and it can’t be the one he mentioned.”

I was surprised. “There’s no photograph in the box.”

Her gaze was sharp. “How would you know?”

“I studied the contents last night.”

She pushed back her chair and hurried to the desk, returning with the box. She opened it and quickly thumbed through the contents. “That’s weird.” She shot me a suspicious glance. “You’re messing with my mind. Where did you put the picture?”

“Do not succumb to paranoia. Why would I take a photograph?”

“Why not? You write notes…I mean I write notes…I wouldn’t take the picture…why would I do that?” She jumped up, rushed to a dresser, opened drawers, fumbled through lingerie and clothing. “I want that picture. Maybe I put it in my things to take home.” She rushed to the closet.

I followed, leaned against the doorjamb. “Tell me about the picture.” I used my most soothing tone.

She glared. “Don’t talk to me as if I’m demented.”

I shrugged and returned to the table. I poured another cup of coffee.

Finally, she dropped into the chair opposite me. “I found a photograph in the ebony box of Jack in his cap and gown when he graduated from high school. He was incredibly handsome and young.” Her smile was tremulous. “That’s the attraction of youth, the innocence, the lack of foreknowledge. He didn’t know how many times his heart would be broken, how much life could hurt. Not then.”

“Was that the only photograph in the box?”

“The only one. It can’t be the photograph he mentioned in his e-mail. That picture upset him. I don’t understand why anyone would take the graduation picture.” Slowly her face changed. “Maybe someone else wanted to remember him when he was young.”

“That could be why.”

“I understand.” Her voice was soft. “Anyway, I don’t know what picture he was talking about in that e-mail. Either he put that picture somewhere and I haven’t found it or someone removed it before I looked in the box.” She glanced toward the door.

Either was a possibility. I reassured her. “Let’s not waste time worrying about a photograph. We know he was shocked and upset, both by a photograph and the circumstances he’d found at The Castle. It’s up to us to find out what he did and when. I can help.”

“It would make me feel better if you disappeared.” Kay reached for another piece of toast. “Come on, sometimes you’re here and sometimes you aren’t. Wouldn’t you like to disappear?” Her tone was coaxing.

“Then you’d be upset when I picked up my coffee mug. Thanks, but I’ll remain visible for now. In any event, I’m not important.” Actually, everyone’s important in Heaven, but I hoped my modesty would charm her. “What matters is finding out who killed Jack. When you interview the people Jack saw, keep these points in mind: Evelyn Hume has no difficulty moving quickly and quietly around The Castle. Ronald Phillips picks up Hume family background at the historical society, like Jack being in James’s wedding, and feeds the facts to Laverne for the séances. Laverne is either afraid for him or of him. She lied last night when she told you they were together when she heard the vase crash. Diane Hume’s hoping for guidance from her dead husband, but she’s afraid to tell Laverne what she wants to know. Jimmy Hume hit golf balls like he was killing snakes, then glared through the kitchen window at Shannon Taylor. Shannon got upset talking about you and Jack. She said—” I hesitated.

Kay licked a smear of marmalade from one finger. “Nothing Shannon says about me would come as a surprise. Go ahead.”

“She said, ‘Jack didn’t care about her. I know who he was sneaking around to see.’”

“Poor kid.” Kay’s voice was kind. “Jack turned her down, so she’s convinced he had to be involved with someone else. That’s not true. He was focused on problems, not another woman. He was magic”—her lips trembled a little—“and he was honest. In his next-to-last e-mail, he wanted me to come home with him. He wouldn’t have urged me to come to Africa with him if he’d plunged into a passionate affair.”

I saw confidence in her face as well as sorrow.

I wondered if she was missing something important, something powerful in Jack’s last days, because she didn’t believe he would betray her. I hoped she was right, but I wasn’t certain.

Kay was confident of her analysis. “The question about Shannon is whether she was angry enough by his rejection to wish him dead.”

To me, Shannon’s anger was a separate question from whether she was right or wrong in connecting Jack to another woman.

We could argue this possibility another time. “We’ll keep an open mind.”

“Open?” She made a sound similar to a strangled snort. “My mind’s as full of holes as Swiss cheese. Maybe”—she brightened—“I can push you out.”

“Maybe.” My tone was encouraging. She might feel better if she clung to the pathetic hope that I would depart. “For now, we’re working together. I suggest you start your research with Evelyn.”

She finished the sweet roll, poured another cup of coffee. She’d almost emptied the cup when her gaze slid toward me. “Why Evelyn?”

Kay might insist I didn’t exist, but she wasn’t going to take a chance on missing out on a good piece of information, whether from me or her subconscious.

Our relationship might be rocky, but, like it or not, Kay and I were going to be a team. I gave her an encouraging smile. “Older sister. Younger brother. The years of separation don’t matter. No one knows anyone better than a sibling.”

I disappeared.