Ghost at Work (13 page)

“Everything's fine.” His smile was electric.

On the one hand, I was flattered. On the other, I was uneasy. I didn't want to be remembered, but there is that spark when a man admires a woman that can't be disguised. Detective Sergeant Price wasn't going to forget our encounter. If I were old, he'd have been polite, kept a mental record as a good detective should, but there would not have been this crackle of electricity between us.

“Can I help you?” I tried to sound cool, not quite unfriendly, but definitely not encouraging.

He glanced at my left hand, saw the gold band, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “I'm looking for the sexton and at the church they told me he might be at the shed by the rectory. Can you direct me?”

I pointed at the flagstone path. “Follow the path past the old well and go around those weeping willows and you'll find the shed.”

He stood a moment longer, then nodded. “Thank you. And you are…”

Attracted he might be. A detective he remained.

“Helen Troy.” The moment I spoke, I regretted the name. But what can you do when a man makes his interest so plain? It happens, you know, an encounter, and each of you knows that had the time been different, circumstances altered, memories could have been made.

He nodded and turned away.

At the bend in the path, he looked back.

A very attractive man. As soon as he was out of sight, I yanked up the sack and raced to the kitchen. I tightly rolled the cord around and around the sack and tied it in my best sailor's knot.

I waited several minutes. Detective Sergeant Price didn't reappear.
I eased out the kitchen door. Women continued to come and go in the church parking lot, but none veered toward the rectory. I strolled to the pines and slipped behind them.

I was torn. Violating the Precepts seemed to result in an automatic visit from Wiggins, but I was in a hurry. The sooner I dumped the tarp, the better, and I still needed to deal with the gun. I could zoom to the lake faster than I could walk. Surely Wiggins would applaud swift execution of my duties.

I disappeared and zoomed. The gunnysack, of course, dangled in the air. I darted from tree to tree so the sack appeared in midair only briefly. The sense of isolation and peace increased the deeper I traveled into the nature preserve. When I sighted the sparkling blue water of the lake, I felt as relieved as any ten-year-old hearing that old familiar cry, “Ollie, ollie, oxen's free.” Of course I had no idea at the time we were shouting what was likely a phonetic imitation of the German
Alle, alle, auch sind frei.
I hoped I might have occasion to share this moment later with Wiggins, and he would have an appreciation of my intellectual turn of mind.

Perhaps it was this thoughtful pondering that distracted my attention from my surroundings. I rode a breeze out toward the middle of the lake, imagining the surprise on Wiggins's face when—

Abruptly, the bag was tugged from my hand.

Startled, I made a grab for it. Had a crow intercepted me?

“Precept Six, Bailey Ruth, Precept Six.” Wiggins's tone was imploring.

I loosened my hold.

The lumpy gunnysack plummeted down.

I was exasperated. After all, he'd yanked the bag from me. “Wiggins, I thought you had it.”

“A gentleman never struggles with a lady.” Clearly, in his heart he found this custom a grave hindrance.

Water plumed upward as the sack splashed into the lake.

A hoarse shout sounded below. “Lord Amighty, look!” An old man with a straggly white beard stood at the end of the dock, pointing his bamboo fishing pole at the ripples in the water. He wore a puffy jacket over bib overalls.

A lean woman with sharp features turned from a bait cooler. “What's the matter with you, Pa?”

He waggled the pole. “Something big poked out of that water. Bigger than any fish. I'm going to get the boat and go out there and see.”

If he poked his pole down, snagged the gunnysack, and hauled it out, he'd be sure to tell his cronies at the feed store. If word got back to Detective Sergeant Price, as it very well might in a small town, he would remember the turbaned lady with the gunnysack on the rectory porch.

The fisherman lumbered toward the end of the dock. His boat wasn't in sight. That gave me a minute, perhaps two.

“Wiggins, that sack mustn't be found. There's no time to spare.” At all costs, I must forestall a discussion. If Wiggins wouldn't play up, well, I looked down, it would be a long fall. “Quick, I'm going to reappear. Hold me up. I need my turban.”

Below us, oars slapped through water.

I became visible. Just as I began to tumble down, strong hands gripped my arms, held me up. I snatched the turban from my head. My hair cascaded free. I threw the turban high. In a flash, I disappeared. I reached out to catch the turban. I didn't take time to ponder what I would have done had it disappeared, but I tucked away the knowledge that imagined items, once visible but separate from me, remained in existence.

I pulled free from Wiggins's grasp.

“Precept Six.” Wiggins's despairing call followed me as I plunged down and poked the turban into the water, only the top of the artificial fruit protruding near the spot where the gunnysack had disappeared.

The boat came around a clump of reeds.

I eased the turban to the surface.

The woman leaned over the side. “Pa, it looks like a bunch of bananas.”

He rowed with vigor, and the boat moved nearer.

“Hold up,” she cried. “I can get it.” She bent perilously far out, reaching.

I gave the turban a little push and it came easily into her hands.

Her weathered face softened. “Why, it's the prettiest thing I ever did see. I'll dry it out and it'll be good as new.”

He frowned. “How'd that get out here, Effie?”

Effie didn't know or care. She carefully laid her treasure on the bottom of the boat. “Some old crow got it and decided it wasn't no use to him and dropped it down just for me, Pa.”

He grunted and swung the boat around, heading back for the dock. He gave a final questioning look over his shoulder.

I shook the icy lake water from my fingers. I didn't bother to look about. Not that I would have seen Wiggins. I knew he was near. I wished I wasn't picturing him glowering, with arms folded.

“Precepts Three, Four, and Six flouted.” His voice was gruff.

Did I hear the faraway whistle of the Rescue Express, dispatched to retrieve an errant emissary?

Silence.

Had Wiggins left? Or was he affording me quiet time in which I might ponder working behind the scenes without making my presence known, becoming visible only when absolutely essential, and refraining from alarming earthly creatures? Or, in the case of Detective Sergeant Price, attracting them.

A rumble sounded near enough that I cringed.

“Unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate.” A heavy sigh. “However, though I am loath to endorse the concept of the ends justifying the
means, it would be equally reprehensible to refuse to admit that sometimes desperate measures may be demanded.”

That was good enough for me. “Thank you, Wiggins. I knew you'd be pleased.”

“However, it appears”—a pause—“an unfortunate choice of words.” His displeasure was evident. “It is clear,” he rumbled, “that you are far too attractive.”

“Oh, Wiggins.” If I could have seen him, I would have flashed him a wink. “Men like women. Women like men. Don't you remember?”

Suddenly a deep burst of laughter erupted nearby. “Oh, I remember. I certainly remember. But”—he was once again stern—“it is simply a reminder that you really must not appear, Bailey Ruth.”

“I'll do my best.” That might be ambiguous, but I meant it well. “Now I hate to hurry away, but I simply must deal with the gun.”

If a shout followed me, I honestly didn't hear it.

 

St. Mildred's brimmed with
activity. I stood on the rectory roof and nudged the lumpy head cover with the toe of my shoe. Any of the women scurrying into or out of the church could easily have tucked a gun in a purse and marched into the cemetery without anyone paying any attention.

I had made every effort to honor the Precepts despite Wiggins's perception of chaos. I pushed away the memory of my interlude with the very appealing detective sergeant and the tussle with the gunnysack above the lake. Did I dare appear again in another guise to take the gun to the cemetery? Time was wasting. That gun needed to be placed where the police could find it. It seemed amazing that I'd begun the morning with that intent, and here it was, almost noon, and the gun remained atop the rectory.

Moreover, I was hungry. I felt buffeted from my morning, my encounters with Wiggins, the shock of that anonymous call implicating Kathleen, my scramble to warn her before the chief caught her by surprise, my last-second heroics to snatch the nightgown from the cleaning lady, my samba-energized cleaning of the porch, and the challenges of dispatching the tarp. Nonetheless, I was determined to dispose of the gun before pausing for lunch.

My gaze skimmed the parking lot and the backyard. Three women, chattering cheerfully, were walking toward the church, their backs to me. Just below me, the Halloween decorations were much less ominous in bright sunshine than they'd been on my arrival last night, although it seemed to me that the huge spider's reddish eyes had an eerie glow and the bat was amazingly lifelike.

In an instant I was hovering beside the bat. The papier-mâché creature wasn't the almost cuddly, small furry creature I associated with barn lofts. This bat had a good six-inch wingspan. It was definitely big enough. I loosened the wires that held it to a dangling rope. With a quick glance around, I tossed the rope up around the tree limb.

With my help, the bat flapped its wings and rose to the roof. I doubted my bat was particularly batlike, but it would serve well enough. I took the gun out of the head cover, placed it on the back of the bat, where it was hidden from view below. Wiggins would applaud the ingenuity that made it unnecessary for me to appear at this moment.

The bat and gun and I sailed into the cemetery without incident. I went directly to the mausoleum, which was included within the yellow tape erected by the police to proclaim a crime scene. A moment later, the gun was tucked between Hannah Pritchard's tomb and the interior wall.

Sunlight spilled into the mausoleum. I wafted to the greyhound, smoothed the top of his head, would have sworn I heard a throaty yip, felt the warmth of skin. At Hannah's tomb, I stroked the cat whiskers.

I definitely felt lucky. Now all I needed to do was make an anonymous call to the police, inform them that the gun that had been used to shoot Daryl Murdoch was hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum.

My face furrowed in a frown. Making phone calls was definitely more challenging now than it had been when I'd lived in Adelaide. Obviously, there were means of tracing where calls originated. I needed a telephone that wasn't linked to the rectory or the church.

I was stymied for a moment. I didn't have time to zoom around Adelaide seeking a telephone. I needed a place where there were plenty of telephones and possibly one I could use without notice.

The library.

The solution came so swiftly I knew it was meant to be. Bobby Mac's sister Julianna had been a librarian for thirty years. Her passion was Latin. Julianna's thrill upon arriving in Heaven was meeting the poet Horace. As she had murmured to me:
Sic itur ad astra.
As always, she kindly translated: “Thus one goes to the stars,” or more eloquently, “Such is the way to immortality.”

I smiled and murmured Julianna's favorite from Horace:
Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero!
It was my credo at this moment. I definitely intended to seize this hour and not trust some later day.

I was puzzled for a moment when I found myself in a rotunda with the state flag of Oklahoma in a bright mosaic on the floor. This wasn't the old red-brick Carnegie library on Second Street, but I approved of the lovely new building, nonetheless.

Three witches huddled around a cauldron. Bunches of red tissue simulated a bed of burning coals. Twists of silver tissue poked upward from the cauldron as coils of steam. To one side, a witch with a beaked nose held a decorated placard announcing:
STORY TIME FOR LITTLE SPOOKS 10 A.M. SATURDAY.
On the other side, a witch with bright red eyes held another sign:
FRIENDS' MONSTER SLIME DINNER 7 P.M. FRIDAY, COME AS YOU AREN'T!

Two bulbous-bodied cardboard tarantulas balanced on a giant
black web that stretched over the door to the reading room. I stepped inside and a plastic skeleton extended a hand as a sepulchral voice intoned, “Welcome to thrills and chills.”

Books filled rows of metal shelving, but a goodly portion of the near room was filled with the television-like machines. Patrons hunched at the keyboards. Colorful images flashed on the screens.

I looked covetously at the telephone on the main information desk. However, it was far too public for me to use. I wafted upstairs in a flash and through a locked door marked
STAFF
.

A narrow hallway led past four cubicles separated by partitions. Puffy paper pumpkins hung from the ceiling. Each cubicle held a desk and a chair with one of those machines with a keyboard and screen. Three were occupied. Telephones rang, chairs squeaked, voices rose in a hum.

I slipped into the unoccupied cubicle. The in-box held a green skull that glowed with phosphorescent paint. I admired the studio portrait of a little girl about seven. The desktop was neat, papers stacked, pens at the ready. I opened drawers until I found a directory. The first time I dialed, I got an automatic recording: “Dial nine for outside calls.” I started over.

The call was answered on the second ring. “Adelaide Police.”

I spoke softly. “I have information about the murder of Daryl—”