Merry, Merry Ghost

CHAPTER TWO

Stars glowed against the vastness of space, witness to the majesty of the universe. A streak of red and a fading whistle signaled the departure of the Rescue Express. Close at hand, darkness pooled from huge evergreens. Icy wind chilled me to the bone. Had I had bones. I imagined a white turtleneck sweater, charcoal slacks, knee-high black boots, and a chinchilla coat and cap. I immediately felt warmer as well as stylish. A woman wants to look her best when embarking on a new adven-mission.

As I zoomed around an evergreen, I gasped aloud, “Mercy me.” A cascading stream of emerald lights represented a waterfall. White lights outlined reindeer with front hooves lifted in a perpetual trot. Blue lights gleamed on a huge silver Christmas gift box with an iridescent red, blue, and green ribbon. A spotlight on the roof illuminated Santa’s sleigh, piled high with big boxes wrapped in gold and red and green foil paper. Second-floor balconies were peppermint bright with red-and-white-striped ribbons wrapped around the railings. Near the front porch, a golden light illuminated a crèche with life-size wooden figures and real straw.

Long ago when Bobby Mac and I drove around Adelaide to show Rob and Dil the Christmas lights, strings of red bulbs outlined the roof and eaves of Pritchard House. We had thought the crimson bulbs glorious. But this magnificent display was beyond my experience. Faint strains rose in the frosty air. I suppose the music was somehow beamed from the house. I smiled and hummed along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

I wished suddenly that I could be with Rob and Dil, but Wiggins was very firm about the Precept prohibiting contact with family members. As he explained it, the living must not be preoccupied with the dead, but I wished them the merriest of Christmases from Mom and Dad. Dear Rob and Dil, it wouldn’t do any harm for me simply to glimpse them for a moment on this crisp night in December.

In an instant, I hovered over a pickup truck with the lights on and the tailgate down. Light glowed from the front porch of a comfortable old house. A sailboat trimmed with blue lights was on the front lawn.

I knew them at once. Carrying an awkwardly shaped bundle wrapped in a quilt, Rob was burly in a ski jacket but hatless. That boy never would cover his head. The sharp breeze stirred his thinning red hair now frosted with silver. Dil, always stylish, watched from a top step, clutching the lapels of her black-and-red plaid jacket.

“Don’t bump him, Rob. The right front leg’s pretty wobbly.”

Rob rested the bundle on its side in the bed of the pickup. “I’ll be careful. What would Christmas be without Rudolph? I’ll get him back to you in time for you to open gifts with your crew.”

He secured the quilt, banged the tailgate shut, turned toward the house. “Remember how exciting it was when Mom and Dad pulled in the sleigh on Christmas Eve?”

Dil’s silvery laughter rang out. “Dad was so loud. He always boomed. Oh Rob, they seem so near tonight.”

I blew them each a kiss and carried the warmth of seeing them with me when I returned to Pritchard House.

The decorated house and yard crowned a ridge. Rose shrubs divided steep steps that led up to a lawn and flagstone walk. Hannah Pritchard had been famed for her Archduke Charles shrubs. In summer, there were fragrant crimson blooms with pink centers which darkened to full crimson. Now the shrub was garlanded with pink, yellow, cherry, and orange bulbs in a triple strand.

I looked past the gleaming lights at the house. Wiggins had dispatched me because he was worried about a little boy, but so far my arrival had been nothing but sheer Christmas pleasure, air with a hint of the Canadian north, amazing lights that beckoned the spirit to smile, music more warming than my chinchilla coat, the crèche with its promise of goodness evermore. Yet I felt uneasy. I had to find Keith. Was he inside the house?

Headlights from a passing car swept across the unlighted front porch. A woman bundled in a heavy jacket knelt beside a child.

At once I was beside them. I bent toward the little boy.

The woman’s whisper was low and hurried. “I’m going to ring the bell, Keith. When the door opens, hand this”—paper crackled—“to whoever comes. I can’t be with you.”

“Mütter?” His voice was uncertain, wavering.

The woman drew her breath in sharply. “Mütter can’t be here. She’s thinking about you, Keith. Remember that. Every day she is thinking about you. She loves you and wants you to be safe. Remember how she told you about your daddy, how brave he was. You’re his boy. You’ll be fine. Here, stand right in front of the door.” The woman lifted him up, placed the boy close to the screen. “I’ll ring the bell and then I have to move the car.”

She reached out, pressed the buzzer. From within came a faint peal. She pressed and the bell pealed again and again. For good measure, she lifted her arm and pounded. With a last look, sad yet hopeful, at Keith, she turned and hurried from the porch, running across the flagstones to the stairway. Flying steps clattered and she was lost in the shadows of the drive.

I almost swooped after her. Yet I couldn’t leave a little boy by himself, waiting for the door to open. What if no one came? He was so small and so alone.

A car motor sounded, an engine roared. Tires squealed as a car jackrabbited away.

I jerked toward the street in time to see taillights disappear. I’d lost all chance of finding the car and talking to the woman.

Wall sconces on either side of the door blazed, emphasizing the darkness beyond the Christmas display on the lawn.

Keith blinked in the sudden harsh light. He was perhaps four, no more than five, a sturdy little boy with tow hair and a narrow face and eyes dark as ebony. He took a step back, bewildered and frightened. A dingy plaid suitcase was propped against the wrought-iron railing.

I wanted to scoop him up, hold him in my arms. I called softly, “Keith, I’m here, honey. I’ll be with you.”

He looked up. His eyes widened. He gave a tentative smile.

I wasn’t here and yet he saw me. Children behold what adults rarely see. I smiled and bent to kiss the top of his head and was taken back a lifetime at the sweet scent of a little boy’s fresh hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll take your envelope inside where it’s warm. I’ll bet maybe we can get you some cookies.” What well-run home didn’t have Christmas cookies spattered with red and green sparkles? I ended in a whisper as the door opened.

Bubbly. The young woman at the door was as bright and fresh as just-poured champagne. Curly brown hair, wide hazel eyes in a rounded kind face, lips that were made for laughter. The pleasant look on her face was replaced by puzzlement as she looked out. Her gaze was straight. She didn’t see the small stiff figure standing near the screen. “Hello?” Her voice was pleasant.

Keith stood silent and afraid, still as a bent tree in a wintry landscape.

I moved past him and tapped the screen.

She looked down. “Hello there!” Astonishment lifted her voice. She looked around, seeking an adult. “Are you lost, honey?” Quickly, she opened the screen door and stepped outside. She scanned the paved terrace, seeking life and movement, someone to care for a small boy. “Hello?” she called out into the night.

An owl hooted. A car drove past. Her call seemed to hang in the frosty night.

Beyond the pool of light from the porch and the diffused colors of the Christmas lights, the shadows were deep and dark.

She looked down at Keith, her expressive face troubled. Steps sounded behind her.

“What are you doing out there, Peg? Come in and close the door. That air’s cold as a freezer.” A slim young woman in a creamy shaker-stitch silk sweater and black-and-white silk skirt reached the door and stopped in surprise. “Who’s the kid? What’s going on?”

Keith tried to pull back. I kept a firm grip and whispered, “It will be all right.” I was banking on Peg.

“I don’t know. Let’s find out.” Peg knelt in front of Keith. “Hi. I’m Peg. Is someone with you?” Her voice was soft and kind.

“Lou.” His little boy voice was scarcely audible.

Peg looked relieved. “Who is Lou?”

“Mütter’s friend.” He watched Peg with uncertain eyes.

The screen door opened and the slender young woman stepped outside. Impatiently, she brushed back a strand of straight dark hair. Silver bracelets jangled on her arm. She stared out at the Christmas lights and the dark shadows, empty of movement. “Do you suppose somebody’s dumped this kid here? Or maybe someone has car trouble and sent him up to the house. Anyway, we’d better call the police.”

Keith pressed against me, and I squeezed his shoulder.

“Wait a minute, Gina.” Peg turned back to Keith. “Where do you live?”

He responded to the kindness in her voice. “Mütter said we didn’t have anywhere to live after Daddy died. Lou let us stay with them. But when Mütter didn’t come home, Lou said she had to bring me where I had family. She said I didn’t have anywhere else to go and she couldn’t keep me.”

“Lou left you here? By yourself?” Peg’s voice rose in dismay.

“I don’t know.” His high voice wobbled.

Gina gestured toward the open door. “There’s no point in standing out here and freezing to death. Bring him inside and let’s call the police.”

I bent close and whispered, “Give Peg the envelope.”

He thrust out his arm, the manila envelope clutched in a red mitten. His tan corduroy jacket was too small and rode high on his wrist. He shivered from cold. The jacket was worn and thin. He should have a nice wool coat.

Peg took the envelope. She glanced at dark printing on the outside and drew in a sharp breath. “Oh dear heaven.” Her voice shook. She looked up at Gina. “This says he’s Mitch’s son.”

Gina looked as if the ground had rocked beneath her feet. She whirled, stared at Keith. “Mitch’s son?”

Keith stood straight. “My daddy was Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn. My daddy was a hero.” His little boy voice was thin and high.

I doubt Keith had any inkling of what “hero” meant. He was repeating what he’d been told.

“Daddy saved his men. Daddy was hurt but he kept on going. Mütter said he was a hero and that’s why he couldn’t come home to us.”

“Oh dear God.” Peg reached out and gently touched Keith’s face.

Gina yanked the envelope from Peg and read aloud the inscription on the envelope. “I am Keith Flynn. My daddy was Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn.’ How could Mitch have a son and we didn’t know?”

“We didn’t know Mitch was still alive until the Army told us he was dead.” Peg’s voice was ragged.

I was startled. Peg’s words made no sense to me.

Peg made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “How do we know Mitch hadn’t married? For that matter, if this is Mitch’s son, what difference does it make whether he was married. Let me have the envelope. It belongs to Keith.”

Gina slowly handed the envelope to Peg. “This is some kind of scam.”

“Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe this really is Mitch’s little boy.” Peg’s tone was hopeful, incredulous, joyful. She reached down for Keith’s mittened hand. “For now, Keith’s here and he’s cold and we’re going inside.”

Keith looked up at me. His thin face was tired, and he looked on the verge of tears.

I gave him a warm smile, turned a thumbs-up, gestured toward the house.

Gina wrapped her arms tight across her front. “Who brought him here? Someone brought him. He didn’t get here on a broomstick. We have to call the police. He’s an abandoned child. It’s nonsense to say he’s Mitch’s son.”

Peg ignored her and gently steered Keith into the warm and cheerful foyer. Gina followed with a frown.

An ornate oak staircase led upward. Scarlet ribbons and frosted pinecones decorated a magnificent pine garland draped on the railing. The scent of fresh pine mingled with the yeasty smell of baking and the lemon of furniture polish. Vivid red poinsettias, their containers wrapped in silver or gold foil, were bunched on the landing. Clumps of mistletoe hung above the double doors to the right and the left in the main entrance hallway.

As I recalled from long ago, the doors to the right opened into a dining room. The double doors to the left were partially open. Light streamed out into the hallway. Voices murmured. I’d attended many a Christmas tea for the Altar Guild in that ornate room with a low beamed ceiling, gilded Louis XVI furnishings, and a hand-carved green Italian marble fireplace.

Gina moved swiftly past Peg down the central hall, heading toward an oak door. Her silk skirt swirled as she walked.

“Don’t call the police.” Peg’s voice was low but sharp. “I’m taking him upstairs.”

Gina stopped and faced Peg. “Up to see Susan? That’s crazy. We don’t know anything about him.”

Peg held up the envelope. “It’s written here. He’s Mitch’s son. Do you honestly think someone would drop a strange child on the front porch and make that claim? Everyone knows about DNA. No one would try to foist off a child as Mitch’s. There are tests that can be done and then we’ll know without a doubt. For now, if you think Susan will thank you for trying to turn away her grandson, a grandson she never knew about, even for a few minutes, you can think again.”

Gina lifted her hands. “All right, maybe he’s for real. I don’t know and neither do you. But we do know how sick Susan is. Do you want to kill her?”

Her round face uncertain for an instant, Peg drew in a sharp breath. “Joy never killed anyone.”

They stood a foot apart on the Oriental runner in the center of the main hallway, Peg’s eyes determined, Gina’s sharp features resistant.

One of the doors to the left squeaked as a plump woman in her fifties stepped into the hallway. “Girls, you’re missing the most fascinating description of Christmas in Lapland. Did you know Santa lives on a fell called Big Ear? Harrison knows so many things.” Her voice was cheerful and only slightly tongue-in-cheek.

With a sidelong glance, Peg moved a little to her left, shielding Keith from the woman’s line of vision. Peg managed a bright smile. “Please tell Harrison we’ll be there in a minute. I’m sure he has much more to say. I’m going to run up and see Susan for a minute. A message came for her. Gina and I will see to it and be down in a little while. Susan may want to talk to us.”

“Tell Susan we are all thinking about her. It isn’t the same not to have her downstairs with us. I think this is the first time she’s missed Harrison’s birthday celebration. She must not be feeling well. Don’t stay too long and tire her.” With a quick smile, she turned away. Before the door closed, her high dithery voice could be heard. “The girls will be back in a few minutes.” The door squeaked shut.

Gina jerked her head toward the closed living room door. “You had your chance to tell Jake. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Jake. It was an interesting name. I wondered if the name reflected a wish to be different or a streak of boyishness not evident in the heavyset blonde’s matronly appearance.

Peg looked both uneasy and defiant. “I don’t want to bother her.”

Gina’s grin was malicious. “She’ll have a fit when she finds out, cuz. Your mom fancies herself queen of the hive in this house.”

Peg’s hands clenched. “Mother will understand. Besides, this is Susan’s house. We have no right to keep Keith’s arrival from her.”

Gina shrugged. “What if this is a hoax? If he’s truly Mitch’s son, why would he arrive like this?”

Keith pressed against me. Gina’s words held little meaning for him, but he saw her frowning face. Tears glistened in his dark eyes.

I bent down and whispered, “Let’s go upstairs, Keith.” I realized I no longer needed the warmth of the chinchilla coat and cap and wished it away.

The two women were engrossed in their quarrel. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I lifted Keith—the steep old steps would be a stretch for his short legs—and sped up the stairs. His sweet breath tickled my cheek and he felt warm and dear in my arms. In scarcely an instant, we reached the landing and soon were out of sight from below.

I’ll admit I acted on impulse. Keith was obviously tired, probably hungry, alone and frightened. I felt that ultimately Peg would prevail but I wasn’t going to chance Keith being handed over to the police. Besides, I have faith in instinct. Somewhere upstairs a woman named Susan had no inkling of the joy that was to be hers. Bringing joy is good, and as Peg insisted, joy never killed anyone.

In the upstairs hallway, twin rosewood lamps on an English Hepplewhite sideboard shed soft light through their milky bowls. The Oriental runner was old, its colors faded to a muted glow of rust and sage. I had little time. I moved swiftly along the hallway, opening doors.

The last door revealed a spacious bedroom with a fireplace. A too-thin woman sat in a Sheraton chair to one side of the fireplace with glowing fake logs. Her oval face, even though drooping with pain and illness, was lovely, a high forehead, finely arched brows, eyes dark as shadows at midnight, long narrow nose, narrow lips, a firm chin, an air of command. Silver frosted her softly waved chestnut hair. She rested against the cushion, her gaze remote, sorrow her companion. She was in the room yet she seemed distant and unapproachable. There were no garlands of evergreen, no flicker of red candles, no red-and-green taffeta bows in this room. On a cushion by her feet, a large calico cat slumbered, her patches of red-and-black fur striking against the white.

Over the fireplace hung a reproduction of Fra Angelico’s Nativity: Mary and Joseph with their heads bowed, the infant Jesus helpless and little on a bed of straw in the manger, a mule and an ox behind them, eleven angels above. I suspected the reproduction hung there year-round and was much more than an annual holiday decoration.

She didn’t turn at the sound of the opening door. “You’re early, Jake.” She spoke as if coming back from a far distance. “No matter. Put the tray on the table.” She turned a hand toward the gleaming dark Queen Anne table next to her chair. “You can tell me about the evening tomorrow. I’ll not visit tonight.”

I put Keith down, once again murmured in his ear, smelled his sweet little boy scent.

He looked up at me, his eyes huge and dark.

I blew him a kiss, nodded.

He moved uncertainly forward. His sneakered feet scarcely made a sound on the wooden floor.

She heard the faint scuff. Her head turned. A hand touched her throat when she saw him. Her robe, undoubtedly made of finest Chinese silk, was brilliant red with gold piping. As quickly as sunlight slipping across summer water, her face brightened. “Hello.” Her voice was low and sweet.

When young she must have been startlingly beautiful, a beauty of elegant bone structure and mesmerizing character.

She smiled, a kind and gentle smile. “I haven’t had a little boy visit me in a long time.” Tears filmed her eyes but she kept on smiling. “Who are you, my dear?”

“Keith.”

“I’m glad you came to see me, Keith. Come closer, please.”

Steps sounded on the stairs, a rapid, hurried clatter.

Still smiling, she glanced toward the open door. “It sounds as though someone’s coming after you. Please, come close for a moment.”

Keith moved toward her, his face grave. He stopped next to the chair.

She lightly touched his shoulder.

Keith looked back at me.

I nodded energetically.

Keith stood very straight as he must have been told. He spoke in a rush. “I’m Keith Flynn.” His words were indistinct. Keef for Keith, Finn for Flynn. “My daddy was Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn. My daddy was a hero.” His little boy voice ended in a wobble.

Her illness-drained face was quite still. She stared into his dark eyes, so like her own. “Your daddy…”

Gina hurried into the bedroom. She stopped and stared at Keith, her narrow face exasperated. She flung out an accusing hand. “How did he know where to come?”

Keith quailed at her sharp tone.

Susan Flynn curved an arm around his shoulders, pulled him near. “It’s all right. Don’t be frightened, sweet boy.” Her voice was as soft as the sweep of a feather.

Peg pushed past Gina. “Someone left him on the front porch with a note.” She hurried forward, held out the envelope, then sank to her knees beside Keith. “I promised you some hot chocolate.”

Susan opened the envelope with trembling hands, lifted out a stiff sheet.

I peered over her shoulder at script in an unfamiliar language. There was an official seal near the bottom. Gold foil glinted in the flickering firelight.

“It’s in German! Mitch was stationed in Germany.” Quickly she emptied the envelope. “A birth certificate from the military hospital in Würzburg: Keith Mitchell Flynn, born to Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn and Marlene Schmidt Flynn.” With every word, her voice grew stronger. Joy lifts voices. “Mitch’s medals and news clippings.” Suddenly, her brows drew down. “Here is a printed notice of his mother’s death from pneumonia. So that’s why she didn’t bring him to me.” Susan’s face was puzzled. “Peg, who brought him here?”

Peg gestured toward the front yard. “We don’t know. The doorbell rang, and there was no one there but Keith. He said his mother’s friend Lou brought him. We don’t know where she is or why she left.”

Susan’s gaze was thoughtful. “We’ll find out.” Suddenly a brilliant smile lifted her lips. “It doesn’t matter really. In any event, he’s here where he should be.” She reached out a shaking hand to smooth a blond curl, gently touched Keith’s shoulder. “It’s warm in here. I keep this room too hot for a little boy. Let me help you with your coat.”

He lifted his arms obediently. She folded the thin little corduroy jacket. “Are you hungry?”

He nodded, his face solemn.

“Do you like roast beef, Keith?” She looked at Peg. “Will you get him some supper?”

“And some cocoa and a cookie. I promised.” Peg’s smile was delighted. She turned to hurry from the room.

Keith lifted rounded fists to rub at his eyes and gave a huge yawn.

Susan gestured sharply at Gina. “Open the corner bedroom. Put on fresh sheets. Make sure there are plenty of blankets.”

I drifted around the room, listening to Susan’s soft murmurs as she talked to Keith and looking at the panoply of photographs in a bookcase and atop a dresser. It took only a moment to realize the pictures were primarily of a boy and girl from babyhood to late teens. The dark-haired girl had irregular gamine features and an aura of energy and enthusiasm and good humor. Snapshots showed her making mud pies when she was about six with a missing tooth and a streak of dirt across one cheek. At around ten, bony and thin with sharp elbows and knees, she held aloft a tennis trophy. As a teenager in a décolleté white gown, she smiled up at an older man whose irregular features matched her own. The blond boy was cocky with a square jaw and muscular build. He stood stiff and still with a Webelos salute in his Cub Scout uniform. As a Scout, he dangled from a climbing rope over a sandstone gorge. He pinned an opponent in a wrestling match, caught a pass on a football field, strummed a guitar in a pensive mood.

Two frames held school pictures, starting with kindergarten. The last photo in the frame inscribed Ellen’s Class Photos showed a girl with a vivid questing glance and effervescent smile. Beneath the photograph was written in now faded ink: Ellen’s junior class picture.

There was no senior class photograph for Ellen.

I looked at the boy’s framed class pictures. He was on top of the world in his senior picture, confident, cocky, charismatic.

Peg returned with a tray holding a sandwich and potato chips, a glass of milk, a sugar cookie with a Santa face, and a Spode pitcher and cup and saucer. Keith sat gingerly in his grandmother’s lap. He managed half a sandwich, drank a portion of the milk, drowsily subsided against her.

Gina poked her head in the door. “The room’s ready.” She was subdued, still with a faint frown.

“Thank you, Gina.” Susan lightly brushed back a lock of blond hair. “He’s almost asleep. Peg”—Susan’s face was suddenly worried—“will you stay with him tonight? He’s in a strange place. I don’t want him to wake up and be frightened. If he wakes up…” She paused, struggled for breath.

Peg took two quick steps to the chair. “I’ll stay with him. Do you need oxygen?” As Peg wheeled a portable tank near, I understood why the fireplace held fake electric logs.

Susan shakily reached out for the mask and held it to her face. Slowly her breathing eased. The bluish tinge faded from her face. She put aside the mask, sank back against the chair. “I’m tired now.” Her voice was faint. “Tomorrow I’ll read everything.” Her voice was flagging. Susan gathered up the papers, replaced them in the envelope. “Mitch’s little boy…tomorrow…some toys…I’ll talk to Wade…He’ll take the proper steps, make everything official.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Mitch’s little boy…” She twisted to look up at Peg. “Take good care of him.”