Ghost at Work (4 page)

 

The thump of the
small black ball caroming around the walls combined with hoarse grunts and the scrape of athletic shoes on the floor.

Rob's thatch of flaming red hair had thinned. He was a little portly but he'd always been built like his dad. His dark eyes slitted in concentration. Muscles tensed as he swung.

My face creased in concern. Rob (Robert MacNeill Raeburn III) was truly a dear boy and a kind man, but he couldn't help himself when he engaged in a sport. He revved up his motor and gave it his all.

The score was called. I was never too quick about numbers but I gathered the handball game was tied, Rob was serving, and if he prevailed, the match would be over.

His face was frightfully red.

In a flash, I darted into the court, timed my swing and scooped up a ball a scant inch from the floor, and drilled it into the corner, barely escaping Rob's tardy lunge.

Rob blinked, glanced at his hand, which had missed by half a foot. “Game.”

His opponent blinked, too, then shrugged. “Good shot, Rob.” He stared at the corner. “Kind of miraculous, actually.” He shrugged again, grinned. “Spot you to a brew.”

 

I decided it would
only be proper to check on Kathleen. She was my responsibility until I felt she was no longer in peril. That done, I might immediately be on my way back to Heaven if my assignment was completed. Should there be more for me to do, I must return to earthly ways and have a moment's respite. After all, when
on
earth even though not
of
the earth, I was affected by temporal realities. I'd
had a momentary lift from my glimpse of Dil and Rob, but I was tired, hungry, and thirsty from the excitements of my arrival at the rectory and that challenging trip to the cemetery.

I wondered if Lulu's was still on Main Street next door to the bank. Lulu's was a single storefront wide and twenty feet deep, with a counter that ran the length of the grill and room for a half-dozen booths. Onion burgers were her specialty, topped by grated longhorn cheese and chili. Mmm. A burger and fries with a frosty root beer would lift my spirit.

But, duty first.

A
cuckoo clock warbled the quarter hour. No wonder I was hungry. Bobby Mac expected his supper at six-thirty sharp and it was past seven. He groused when we had to go out to dinner. As far as he was concerned, dinner at eight was more than late, it was an offense to the natural order. Bobby Mac was big on the natural order. I grinned and hoped the tarpon was giving him a majestic battle. I wouldn't tell him I'd given Rob's handball a slight bit of assistance. Men are so sticky about rules.

I adored the new color scheme in the rectory kitchen, lots of orange and yellow and tomato red. A golden oak table overlooked the windows to the back porch. Chairs at either end and two on each side afforded plenty of space. I felt at home when I saw Fiesta dinnerware. Two azure plates topped by butter-yellow soup bowls sat on red woven cotton place mats. The napkins were white and red gingham.

I especially liked the vivid painting of the Grand Canyon on the wall where our rector's wife had placed a shaggy macramé in tones of beige, brown, and gray.

The flooring was new, no longer wood planks that had a distressing
tendency to slope in one corner. Instead, beige tiles were interspersed with blocks of smaller red, yellow, and orange tiles in a pyramid pattern. Instead of avocado green, the refrigerator was a shiny steel color with two vertical doors, one small and one large. A pot bubbled on a flat surface with concentric rings where the stove had sat.

I wafted nearer, drawn both by the savory aroma and my interest in the gleaming surface with the coils. My, what a lot of controls. We had a gas stove. You turned it on, lit the flame, and cooked.

I found a hot pad, lifted the lid. Mmm. Brunswick stew. A light glowed in the oven. I opened the door, welcomed a rush of heat, and sighed in happiness at the old-fashioned heavy iron skillet with cornbread batter, one of my sister Kitty's specialities.

Steps sounded from the central hallway. Slow steps. I heard a voice, but couldn't distinguish words. Kathleen entered the kitchen. She looked younger in the bright overhead light. Her dark curls were freshly brushed. She'd applied fresh makeup and changed into a berry-red turtleneck sweater and a long paisley skirt that swirled as she walked. Ah, she was talking into one of those new phones.

“…don't know if the candles have arrived or not…Certainly the rector keeps track of orders, but he hasn't mentioned it to me. I'll let him know of your concern, Mrs. Harris.” Her voice was pleasant, but Kathleen surely wouldn't want her face to freeze into a mask with those icy eyes and grim frown. “Certainly, Mrs. Harris. I know the ECW luncheon will be especially meaningful to everyone who is new to Adelaide. I will be there.” She whirled and stalked toward the stove.

Nimbly, I moved aside. She might be startled to bump into what seemed to be air. The thought caught me by surprise. I puzzled over the physics of it. I was invisible, but I knew I existed in space since I had no difficulty gripping the handles of the wheelbarrow, yet I was able to move through the solid medium of a door. Probably there was an equation that explained everything, but I'd never been good at math.

Kathleen held the phone over the stove and punched a button. A grating buzz sounded. She pulled the phone back. “That's the timer! Excuse me, I have to run. Thanks for calling.” She punched a button, apparently ending the call. She turned off the timer and, mercifully, the noise ended.

“Clever.” Oh dear, there I went again.

Kathleen stiffened. Her eyes shifted nervously around the kitchen.

I didn't hesitate. Wiggins would have to understand. As I appeared, Kathleen's mouth opened, but no words came. My arrival was reflected in the mirror over the sink, and I had some understanding of her distress. At first, I wasn't there. Suddenly colors misted and swirled, resolving into me, red curls damp from the misty night, green eyes glistening with eagerness, a friendly smile on my face. The red-and-black plaid jacket looked as new as the day I'd bought it. It did look a trifle unseasonable hanging over seersucker.

Since the kitchen was toasty, I slipped out of the jacket, tossed it to a straight chair near the door. I nodded approval. I've always loved seersucker, though I would have to think about winter clothes if I was going to be here very long. I glanced again at Kathleen. Perhaps a white turtleneck and a crimson wool skirt and black pumps would be better.

Kathleen gasped. “How did you do that?”

I checked the mirror. I must remember that the thought is mother to the deed. I managed not to preen. But honestly, and speaking without pride because we all know what pride goeth before, the combination was striking. I studied my reflection judiciously. Possibly a crimson scarf might add an accent.

Kathleen moaned and backed away, apparently an unfortunate habit of hers. She held up shaking hands. “You aren't here. It's all in my mind.”

It was time to set her straight. “I am here. At least, I am here for the moment. Don't be frightened. I want to help you.” I couldn't resist
a small complaint. “I had rather thought you'd stay long enough to assist me in the cemetery.”

Her eyes were huge. “There was a light in the mausoleum and voices and I was scared. I didn't think you were there.”

I understood she might have felt abandoned. “Some boys on a Halloween prank. I couldn't let them take Maurice's greyhound.”

She watched me uneasily. “You sound as though you knew him. Maurice, not the dog.”

“Everyone knew Maurice and Hannah.” I wouldn't claim intimacy. The Pritchards were one of the first families of Adelaide.

“Sure. Of course.” She spoke soothingly, as if to a child describing an encounter with Martians. “Right.”

I almost took issue, but time would prove my claim and Kathleen would offer a suitable apology for doubting me. “All's well that ends well.” I was willing to be charitable. “Did you put the wheelbarrow in the shed?”

Kathleen shuddered. “I put it up and pushed the button inside to lock the door. I folded up the tarp and put it out there.” She bent her head toward the porch. “I'll never use it again. Never—”

“Steady.” I reached out to pat her arm, but she moved away.

“All right.” Her tone was resigned. “You know everything, so you must really be here.” She still faced me with her hands raised, palms out. Not a welcoming gesture. “If you're here, who are you?”

That was a reasonable question. A woman has every right to know the identity of a guest—especially an unexpected guest—in her kitchen. The difficulty was in knowing how much to say. Whip quick, I decided a long-winded explanation of my history and connection to Adelaide was surely unimportant. I matter-of-factly announced, “I'm Bailey Ruth Raeburn.”

The effect was amazing. Kathleen's eyes widened. She appeared to be having difficulty breathing.

I put my hands on my hips, possibly in a confrontational manner. “For Heaven's sake, what's wrong with you now?”

She struggled for breath. The words came in uneven spurts. “…crazy…has to be all in my mind…she's dead…that's Grandmother's sister…” Then, angrily, “Why are you impersonating my grandmother's sister?”

I flung myself toward her, wrapped my arms around stiff shoulders. “You're Kitty's granddaughter? How wonderful.” Finally I loosed my embrace of her rigid body. “Kathleen, your grandmama would be mighty upset to know you were treating me this way.”

“You're too young.” Her tone was accusing.

What sweet words. “I'm me. As I was.” And will always be. Odd to think that on earth though wrinkles had come and a sprinkling of silver in my hair and an occasional pang that our time here was fleeting, I'd still, deep within, been fresh and new. Now that was the me Kathleen saw. I wondered how the world would be if no one judged anyone else on the basis of age. Perhaps I could write a letter to the editor…Oh, Wiggins would deplore a public statement. I'd have to mull this over, but for now Kathleen must be persuaded. “My dear, take my word for it. You see, Heaven has no calendar for anyone.”

She squinted at me. “You do look like an old picture of Grandmother's sister.” Kathleen looked wily. “How did you die?”

“A storm in the Gulf. Bobby Mac and I went down in the
Serendipity
.”

She folded her arms. “You could have looked that up somewhere.”

“My dear, you have such a suspicious nature. If you have any doubt about who I am, Kitty always had a cat named Spoofer. It didn't matter whether that cat was black or white or tortoiseshell, that cat was Spoofer. I don't know where anyone would look
that
up.”

Kathleen swallowed, said jerkily, “Spoofer.”

“The last Spoofer”—I was emphatic—“was all black except she had white whiskers and a white throat and tummy and four white paws. And she bit.”

Suddenly there was a thump. I looked on the table. A huge black cat walked majestically toward us, yellow eyes gleaming.

Kathleen waved weakly. “Get down, Spoofer.”

I laughed aloud.

Kathleen didn't join in. Instead she walked unsteadily to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sank into it.

I followed, settling on the opposite side of the table. How dear of Wiggins to send me to help Kitty's granddaughter. I hoped I was scheduled to stay for a while. Since I was still here, there must be more for me to do. Perhaps I was expected to offer reassurance, though so far my appearance had not appeared to afford Kathleen any pleasure. “We're family. Now—”

The phone rang.

Kathleen popped up and grabbed the little phone. She glanced at the tiny window and smiled. She was genuinely pretty when she looked happy. She answered with a lilt. “Bill.” As she listened, the smile fled. “Sure. I know. Of course. Try to grab something to eat.” Her shoulders sagged. She walked back to the chair, dropped into it. “Sure. See you.” She clicked off the phone, set it on the table. “Whenever.” She buried her face in her hands. Her body sagged in sad resignation.

“What's wrong?” I would have liked to give her a hug, but I didn't want to see her cringe.

She dropped her hands, pulled a Kleenex from her pocket, swiped away tears. “I wouldn't cry except everything's so awful. And I can't even tell him—”

I scooted forward in my chair. “Who's Bill?”

“How can you know all about Grandmother and not know who Bill is?” Her eyes glinted with suspicion.

I took a deep breath and launched into my narrative. I tried to be cogent, though she looked bewildered about Wiggins and the Rescue Express, but finally she seemed to understand.

Huge brown eyes stared at me. “You're a ghost.”

“Shh.” I looked warily around. Wiggins would not be pleased. In fact, I had the strangest feeling that he was quite near, his walrus mustache quivering in indignation. That was absurd. I mustn't get nervy. Perhaps Kathleen's uneasiness was affecting me.

Kathleen hunched in her chair, her eyes huge. “I don't believe in ghosts. Huh-uh.”

“I am an emissary.” That was Wiggins's line, and I was stuck with it.

“If you're dead and you're here”—Kathleen thumped the table—“you are a ghost.”

“All right, ghost it is.” I spoke soothingly. “It doesn't matter whether I'm a ghost or emissary.” Why did I feel a sudden chill? “The point is that I am here to rescue you from an almighty mess.”

Kathleen rubbed her face with the tissue. “Mess. That's what it is. A great big mess. Your Wiggins had it right when he said I was in dire straits. I am definitely in dire straits even if it sounds like an episode from
The Perils of Pauline
.”

I clapped my hands. “Mama loved Pearl White. Mama said she had the most expressive eyes and great grace and style. Mama showed us pictures. I loved the hairstyles then, those soft puffy curls. Pauline was so daring. I hope I can do half as well.”

Kathleen closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, shook her head. “Spoofer and
The Perils of Pauline
and a body on the back porch.” Her smile was strained, though she tried to be gracious. “I appreciate your good intentions, Bailey Ruth, but maybe…” She looked yearningly at the back door. “Maybe you can go on back to wherever you came from now. Everything will be all right now that Daryl's gone.” She pressed fingers against her cheeks. “Except some
body brought him here. That scares me. What if they know—” She broke off, her expression distraught.

I began to suspect my task wasn't done. What could be known about Kathleen and a man whose body had been dumped on her back porch? “Know what?” I didn't have two red-haired children to no avail. Anybody who can survive the teenage travails of two redheads can worm the truth out of anyone. I fixed a commanding eye on Kathleen.

I saw the desire to jump and run, and I saw her shoulders slump. I doubt she quite articulated her thought, but, clearly, wherever she went, I could go and no doubt would.

She drew a ragged breath. “—about me and Daryl Murdoch at his lake cabin Wednesday. Or about Raoul. What if Daryl wrote something down? It would be just like him. I don't care what I say, nobody will ever believe nothing happened. Bill would be so hurt. I wouldn't have had anything to do with Raoul except it's always the same old story.” She pointed at the phone. “Bill calls and he can't come home for dinner. Tonight he's at the hospital. Old Mr. Worsham is dying and he's with the family. I understand. But if it isn't the hospital, it's a vestry meeting or the finance committee or a Lions Club dinner or somebody who needs counseling or…” Tears trickled down pale cheeks. “It's always something for somebody and never for me. I know it's wonderful he can be rector of such a fine old church—”

Of course. Bill was the rector of St. Mildred's. That made everything clear.

“—but he never has a free minute. He spends more time with other people's kids than he ever does with Bayroo—”