Ghost at Work (9 page)

Meg moved rapidly toward Judith. “I was afraid it was true when I saw the police car. I had a bunch of calls about Daryl and I tried to get you but your cell didn't answer. Oh, honey, I'm so sorry.”

Judith took one step, stopped. Her face crumpled. “Someone killed him.”

Meg was pale. “As soon as I heard, I called Father Abbott. He's on his way over.” The little woman swung toward the chief. “You go on now, Sam. I'll take care of Judith.”

The chief pushed up from the chair, dropping the notepad in his pocket. “I'll be back in touch tomorrow. We may know more by then.”

I watched him go, torn by uncertainty. If I went with the chief, there might be more to learn, but I wanted to meet—so to speak—Father Abbott.

The two women stood frozen as the chief moved heavily across the room. When the front door closed behind him, Judith whirled and ran from the room. Her face was unguarded, eyes staring, mouth working, a woman consumed by fear.

Meg was shocked. “Judith, wait. Let me help.” But her call was unanswered.

Judith ran into a long room with a fireplace and easy chairs and two sofas and a pool table. She stumbled to the desk, grabbed up a telephone, punched numbers with a shaking hand. She leaned against a tall wingback chair as if her body had no strength.

Meg bustled up to her. “I'll make any calls—”

Judith slashed her hand for quiet, a harsh imperative gesture that brought Meg to a standstill. Finally, her words hurried and uneven, she said, “Lily, please, this is Kirby's mother. I have dreadful news. His father is dead. He was shot. When you get this message, tell Kirby to come home. I know he was with you this afternoon from four to
seven. That's important. The police want to talk to him. Make sure he remembers to tell them that he was with you from four to seven.” She clicked off the phone.

Meg slipped her arm around Judith's shoulders. “Do you want me to go over there, find him?”

“Oh yes, Meg. What if she doesn't get the message in time? You'll tell him—”

“I'll tell him. From four to seven.”

They exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

“It's just to protect him. Kirby would never hurt anyone, but the police don't know him. When they find out Thursday is his day off, they'll want to know where he was.” Judith's voice was metallic. “Someone might think the wrong things if they knew about everything.”

Meg gave Judith a hug. “It might look bad. Bud and I used to bowl with Sam and Jewell. But after Jewell died, he stopped coming. Sam's a swell guy, but pretty black-and-white.”

Their words were oblique, hinting at much I didn't understand. It was like seeing an old film with subtitles that left out most of the story, but I was a mother and I understood. Kirby and his dad obviously had quarreled ferociously, possibly in a public place, and Judith knew Chief Cobb would discover that fact.

The front doorbell rang. Meg whirled and hurried into the hallway. Her voice rang out: “Come in, Father Abbott. Judith's in the den.”

Judith held tight to the back of the chair, trying hard to stand taller, smooth out her face, hide her fear.

Brisk steps sounded. Father Abbott stopped in the doorway, his face creased in concern. His sandy hair looked mussed, as if he'd forgotten to comb it. His priestly collar was slightly askew as if he'd tugged at it, his black suit wrinkled. His angular face sagged with
weariness, but his dark blue eyes were kind and empathetic. “I came as soon as I heard.” He walked to her, hands outstretched.

Judith sagged against the chair, her face crumpling, scalded by tears.

This was not a moment for me to observe. I looked away from Judith toward Father Abbott.

As I left, I carried with me an indelible memory of the man most important to Kathleen. Faces reflect character. Even in a quick glance, I saw grace and intelligence, purpose and commitment, sensitivity and determination.

I also saw deep fatigue, perhaps mental as well as physical. A slight tic fluttered one eyelid. His shoulders slumped with weariness. The immensity of life and death and the gulf between was mirrored in his eyes. He was there to offer solace and hope, peace and acceptance.

What a gift that was and what a burden to bear.

I
drifted deliciously between sleeping and waking, luxuriating in the comfort of the downy feather bed. I stretched and wiggled my toes. Heaven, of course, is always comfortable. Everything is in perfect harmony, so there is never a sense of mental or physical unease. On earth, minds fret, hearts grieve, muscles tire, bodies ache. Achieving the right balance is a never-ending quest.

My eyes popped open. Was I perhaps being too much of the earth? I flung back the covers and came to my feet. Quickly I imagined a rather formal blue flannel robe and slipped into it. Just in case. Gradually my tension eased. Wiggins wasn't here. After all, even Wiggins wouldn't frown on enjoying the moment. Joy is surely Heaven-sent.

I gazed happily around the charming bedroom. I was sure—almost sure—that Kathleen would have been delighted to invite me to stay in the guest bedroom upon my return last night. I hadn't wanted to bother her and certainly morning was time enough to bring my presence to her attention.

Last night I'd prepared for sleep by envisioning pink satin pajamas. Comfortably attired, I'd slept the sleep of the just. I looked at the mirror. Oh, of course. I wasn't here.

I was uncertain how to dress for the day. Nothing too formal, but should I need to appear, should my actual presence be unavoidable and essential (Wiggins, are you listening?), it was important to be appropriately dressed. It wouldn't do to be garbed in the styles of my day, attractive though they were.

When I observed the church ladies last night, I was enchanted by the new fashions, although a little puzzled that most wore slacks. Their outfits were quite charming. Except for the shoes. The shoes appalled me, especially those with long upturned toes like an elf or blocky heels that brought Wiggins's sturdy black shoes to mind. I prefer jaunty shoes with shiny buckles or bright bows.

I wafted to the sewing room. It was rather cold. I rose and pushed up a register, welcoming a draft of warm air and the enticing scent of bacon. I was eager to reach the kitchen, but first I must dress.

I found a stack of clothing catalogs on a worktable. I would have enjoyed looking at everything, but I hastily made a selection, a double-breasted jacket and slacks in gray wool with a herringbone pattern and a Florentine-gold silk blouse. Matching gray leather pumps (with a reasonable heel) and small gold hoop earrings completed a tasteful ensemble.

I'd no more than made my choice when the door burst open and a slender form catapulted inside. Bayroo skidded to a stop halfway across the room. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here.” Her quick smile was warm. “Your pantsuit is beautiful.”

The child had excellent taste. “Good morning, Bayroo. Thank you.” I smiled though I was disconcerted. Once again, even though I wasn't here, Bayroo saw me.

“I didn't mean to startle you. I need to get my costume out of the closet.” She gestured across the room. “We're having our class Halloween parties today.”

Bayroo would very likely mention seeing me when she went downstairs for breakfast. “Bayroo, can you keep a secret?”

She folded her arms in an X across her chest. “Sure. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Your great-grandmother and I were very close”—I was counting on Bayroo having a very fuzzy idea of how long ago that might have been—“and I'm visiting here to lend your mom a hand, but it's a secret from everyone because it might be complicated to explain.”

She stared at me, her gaze startled, then thoughtful, finally eager. She clapped her hands. “I know exactly who you are. There's a painting of you in the hall outside the parish hall. All the past directresses of the Altar Guild are there.” She looked puzzled. “You were a lot older then. You have red hair just like mine. Mom told me you were my great-grandmother's sister. I'm named after you.” She smiled, a curious smile that radiated mischief, excitement, and certainty. “You're a ghost and I guess you're young and pretty now because that's how you are.”

Trust a child to understand. However, I had a conviction that Kathleen would not be pleased. I didn't even want to think about Wiggins.

She gave an excited hop. “This is so cool. How did you do it?”

“Do what?” I hoped for inspiration.

“Come back.” She looked at me eagerly.

“On a wing and a prayer.” Of course the reference meant nothing to her.

Bayroo nodded solemnly as if everything were explained. “Way cool. So”—she looked thoughtful—“you're here to help Mom? That's swell. She's been pretty blue lately. Dad's too busy to notice. You know my dad, don't you? He's the rector and he works all the time. He left before seven this morning. Men's early-morning Bible study. He has to do most everything and he only has a retired military chaplain to help out on Sundays and with some of the hospital visits and everybody on the vestry has plenty of ideas of more for Dad to do but there's never enough money and he's worried about the roof on the church and the winter heating bills. The heating bills are unbelievable—”

I heard the echo of parental discussion.

“—but the price of oil is great for Adelaide. Anyway, maybe you can help Dad, too.”

“Bayroo?” Kathleen's call was faint.

“Mom's calling.” My namesake flashed an apologetic smile. “I have to hurry downstairs for breakfast and finish my homework.” She darted to the closet, banged inside, and came out carrying a plastic sword, a crimson smock, tall silver boots, and an eye patch. “I'm going to be a pirate. Do you think I should be Captain Hook or Blackbeard?”

“I'd be Captain Bayroo, a lady pirate who rescues captured sailors.”

Bayroo's eyes gleamed. “What does she do with them?”

“She returns them to their ships and reaps wonderful rewards, gold and silver and rubies.”

Bayroo saluted me with her sword—“Captain Bayroo, ready to sail”—and turned toward the door.

I called after her, “Remember, it's our secret. Your mom doesn't know I'm here at the moment. And, please, always pretend you don't see me unless I give you a thumbs-up.”

She paused in the doorway, looked at me earnestly. “Don't worry. I had the lead in the fifth-grade play. I won't give a thing away. I won't tell a soul even though everybody'd be really pumped. A ghost in the house for Halloween! Way cool.”

After Kathleen and Bayroo left for school, I heated two strips of bacon and a leftover frittata. I murmured a thankful grace and had a lovely breakfast. I was quite careful to be certain I was alone in the kitchen when I washed the dishes. I was enjoying a second cup of coffee when Kathleen returned.

She stopped just inside the door, stared toward the table. “You're here.”

I took another sip, placed the mug on the table.

She shivered. “It's cold outside. The wind's picking up and the clouds look like old pewter. I keep thinking everything that hap
pened last night is a bad dream, and I come home and that hideous coffee mug is in the air.” She pointed with a shaking hand. “In the air.”

I looked at the mug. It was bright pink with a flamingo-shaped handle. If she thought it was hideous, she should have discarded it. “I think it's cute.”

She quivered. “All right. I hear a voice. You're here. Unless I'm imagining—”

Wiggins would have to understand that Kathleen's nerves were stretched. I needed to reassure her. I will confess I turned toward the mirror over the sink, not with any sense of vanity but simply to be sure my pantsuit was appropriate. In an instant the swirl of color resolved into my image. I brushed back a tangle of red curls. The cut of the jacket was exquisite. I would bring no shame on the rectory should I be observed.

Kathleen approached me, one hand outstretched, her gaze desperate and determined. She came within a foot, took a deep breath, reached out to grip my arm.

I lifted my free hand, patted her shoulder.

She went as rigid as a pointer sighting quarry. “You're here. You really, really are. But you weren't. Now you are. I don't understand.”

“You worry too much, Kathleen. Relax and accept your good fortune. First we must deal with Daryl's cell phone. Here's what I want you to do…”

My instructions were simple, but she repeated them, frowning as she muttered, “…at the end of the dock.”

It would take only a moment to retrieve the cell phone from the roof. “I'll meet you there in half an hour.”

Kathleen tossed her head like a fractious horse. “I have to pick up the cupcakes for Bayroo's homeroom Halloween party and visit Mrs. Mossman at the hospital and check on the shipment of candles for the Altar Guild. Can't you bring it here?”

I shook my head. “If that cell phone were found in the rectory, you'd be in big trouble. It won't take long. You'll have time for your errands.”

She shivered. “It's awfully cold outside.”

“Brisk, but secluded. Wear gloves.” I finished the last sip of coffee.

“Gloves?” Her tone was wary. “Why do I have to wear gloves?”

I was amazed. Had Kathleen never read a mystery? Perhaps I could provide a reading list. I never missed a Leslie Ford novel. She gave such an interesting picture of wartime Washington. I'd read her latest,
Mrs. Latham's Primrose Path,
just before I visited the Department of Good Intentions. No wonder I was sent to assist Kathleen. “We don't want your fingerprints on Mr. Murdoch's phone. I'll see you there.” I was fading from view when I realized that perhaps I should be clearer. “Actually, I'll see you, but you won't see me.”

 

Kathleen stood at the
end of the weathered wooden dock, hunched in a navy peacoat with a red-and-blue plaid scarf tied under her chin.

I settled on the railing, the telephone in one hand. I was quite comfortable in a gray lamb's-wool coat and gold cashmere scarf. I had forgotten how much fun it was to shop, although a catalog couldn't match going to Lassiter's. Lassiter's had been Adelaide's finest women's shop in my day. Of course Brown's in Oklahoma City had been my favorite store. I wrinkled my nose, remembering the scent in the bath-powder-and-perfume section.

Kathleen's face looked pinched.

The dock, understandably, was deserted except for us. Bulbous gray clouds looked as immovable as elephants at rest. A gusty wind corrugated gunmetal-gray water. Autumn-faded reeds rippled. The lake was in the center of the small nature preserve that adjoined the church property. The preserve on one side and the cemetery on
the other provided St. Mildred's with a sylvan setting. Cedars and pines crowded the shoreline, providing a sense of remoteness. It was a perfect spot for our rendezvous, close to the rectory but at a safe remove.

Kathleen stared fixedly at the small telephone. “I'd better take it before someone sees it hanging there, although I don't know what kind of fool would come here on a day like this. But I'm here. It would be just my luck to have a nature class trot onto the dock. Or who knows? Maybe the Altar Guild will show up. Nothing would surprise me.” She sounded despairing.

I was pleased to see that she wore soft leather gloves. I handed the phone to her.

She took it gingerly, flipped open the lid. It still reminded me of an oddly shaped compact. I moved to watch over her shoulder. The small screen suddenly glowed. A jaunty tune sounded.

Kathleen pushed and clicked. “See, you can take pictures.” She held the phone up and suddenly wind-whipped water was in view on the tiny screen. Another click and the lake disappeared. “You can save them, too. Daryl kept a bunch. I'll do them in order.” She clicked again. A picture appeared on the screen.

Kathleen looked puzzled. “How odd.”

Pictured was a close-up of a shaky signature at the bottom of a printed page. I squinted to make out the name:
Georgia Hamilton.
I moved closer, the better to see, but Kathleen clicked and the image was gone.

Kathleen wriggled uneasily as if sensing my nearness.

I was sorry to crowd her, but I wanted a good view. “What do you think it means?”

“I have no idea. Georgia Hamilton almost died a few weeks ago, but she rallied and she's home again.” Kathleen's tone warmed. “She's amazing. Ninety-five if she's a day and she never misses the early service. I suppose Daryl handles some of her investments.”

Kathleen clicked again. She made a strangled noise in her throat.

The photograph was amazing in its clarity and detail. Kathleen sat on a puffy cream leather divan. Bright red-and-gold wrapping paper mounded near the open box in her lap. She held up a red satin nightgown, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.

“Daryl snapped the picture just as I opened the box.” She glared at the screen. “I didn't know what was inside. How could I know? But how do I explain to anybody—especially Bill—why I was sitting in Daryl's cabin and opening what was obviously a present and pulling out a sexy red nightgown? When Daryl called Wednesday and asked me to the cabin, he said he needed a chance for a private visit with me about Raoul. He thought it was only fair—oh, his voice was so greasy—that he and I have a conversation before he spoke to Bill. Then he hung up. I called his cell and he didn't answer. I know he looked and saw it was me calling and of course he didn't answer. I was in a panic. I had to go. When I got to the cabin, he offered me a drink. I said no and he was all—oh, you know how it is when somebody's hitting on you.”

I found the expression interesting. It was new to me, but I understood exactly what she meant.

“I told him what happened with Raoul. He pretended to be sympathetic, said he knew I'd been terribly lonely and Bill worked far too hard. Daryl said he was relieved there was nothing to this story that was getting around about me and Raoul, and since we'd cleared everything up, he had a small gift for me.

“I didn't see how I could refuse to open it. I'd just pulled out that hideous nightgown when he took my picture. I asked him what he thought he was doing. He said he liked to take pictures with his phone and this was such a good shot he should probably print out a picture for Bill or put it on the church Web site, but if I treated him nicely, he'd keep the shot for himself.”