Ghost at Work (12 page)

The rectory kitchen was
dark and quiet. I didn't bother to call out. Obviously, Kathleen hadn't returned from her errands yet. Perhaps if I concentrated on Kathleen while picturing a bubbling pot on an unattended stove, she would feel uneasy and be drawn home. Was ESP counter to the Precepts? Possibly, but I was desperate.

I was pacing back and forth when the chief's car pulled into the drive. The church, of course, was very close to downtown. At this moment it was way too close. As he walked up the path to the back porch, Kathleen's cream-colored Ford station wagon rattled past the kitchen window.

If he reached Kathleen before I did…

In an instant I flowed into the front passenger seat of her car. There was no time for a greeting. “Don't look panicked, but we have a crisis.”

The car jolted to a stop. Her head whipped toward the passenger seat, eyes wide. Her fingers clenched on the steering wheel.

I talked fast. “Somebody called the police, told them to ask you about the red nightgown—”

Kathleen hunched her shoulders.

“—and your visit to Daryl's cabin Wednesday night.”

She watched the chief's approach as if he were a giant squid wielding a blazing hatchet.

I was exasperated. “Don't look like that. You might as well hold out your wrists for handcuffs. Smile, Kathleen.”

Her lips stretched into a travesty of a smile.

The chief was perhaps ten feet away from the car.

So much to tell. So little time. Such an unpromising confederate. “Tell him you went to the cabin because Daryl called and asked you to come and help him plan a surprise thank-you party for the church secretary. You don't know anything about a red nightgown. You talked about gifts but—”

The chief rapped in the window.

Kathleen rolled it down. “Chief Cobb.” Her voice was high and thin.

I reached over and pinched her smartly on the arm.

She flashed a startled look in my direction.

The chief followed her gaze to stare, bewildered, at nothing.

“I thought I heard—” Kathleen looked flustered.

I've always been a good mimic. I was locally famous for performing a dialogue between Lucille and Ethel—I did both parts—that left our friends in stitches. Of course they might have already had one or two of Bobby Mac's bourbons on the rocks.

“—my cell phone.” I sounded just like Kathleen.

Kathleen looked haunted.

“Oh.” Cobb nodded. “If you have a few minutes, Mrs. Abbott, I'd like to visit with you about Mr. Murdoch.” He stepped back, an obvious invitation for her to get out of her car.

I gave her another pinch.

Kathleen's hand jerked to the handle. She opened the door, scrambled out to stand beside the car.

When she made no move to invite him into the rectory, Chief Cobb studied her, his eyes cool and thoughtful. “From information received—”

I was impressed at how official that sounded. It had simply been an anonymous phone call. I wondered if he was being quite fair.

“—we understand you spent time at Mr. Murdoch's cabin on Pontotoc Road.”

Kathleen was obviously surprised. “That's not true.”

I gave her an approving pat on the shoulder. This time she didn't flinch. Good girl.

Cobb's stare was hard, his eyes suspicious. “Do you deny having been there Wednesday night?”

Kathleen looked blank for an instant, not too long but long enough to convey the recall of an unimportant memory. Perhaps Bayroo's acting talent was inherited.

“Wednesday night? Oh, that.” Her tone was casual. “He asked me to drop by and help him plan a special surprise for the church secretary. Daryl was senior warden, you know.”

“How long did you stay?” He pushed one hand into a pocket, tumbled coins in a muted jingle.

Kathleen looked confident. “Only a few minutes.”

“Why did he ask you to come to his cabin?” Cobb's gaze was searching, his suspicions not totally allayed.

She turned her hands up. “I don't know. He didn't explain. I suppose he had something planned there and it was more convenient for him.”

“Not very convenient for you. All the way to Chickasaw Lake.”

“Chief Cobb.” Her tone was dry. “The rector's wife exists to make life more convenient for the members of the vestry.”

He wasn't done. “What about the red nightgown?”

Kathleen's eyes widened in classic puzzlement. Ingrid Bergman couldn't have done it better. “I don't know anything about a red nightgown.”

“You and Daryl never talked about a nightgown?”

Her laughter almost sounded genuine. “No. In fact, I've never talked to him about anything but church matters or OU football or the chances for the Adelaide Bobcats to win another state championship.”

She could not have mentioned safer topics of conversation at any Oklahoma gathering. Football, both college and high school, was sure to be discussed in almost any social setting from a honky-tonk bar to the parish hall.

He inclined his head. “Appreciate your help, Mrs. Abbott. “He glanced toward the church. “Might as well visit with your husband while I'm here.” But as he turned away, he stopped and stared at the black cat strolling toward Kathleen.

Spoofer came closer, green eyes lifted to gaze at the chief.

Cobb pointed. “Your cat?”

“Yes.” Kathleen reached down, stroked black fur that glistened reddish in the sun.

Cobb squinted. “He ever go in the church?”

Kathleen looked surprised. “Oh no. The vestry wouldn't approve.”

Cobb gestured toward the rectory. “I saw him in your house last night.”

Kathleen's glance at the chief was puzzled. “Yes.”

Cobb nodded, gave Kathleen one final unsmiling look, and walked toward the church.

Kathleen stared after him. Spoofer twined at her ankles, but she paid no attention. When the police chief was almost at the church door, Kathleen whirled toward her car.

I caught her by the elbow, hissed in her ear, “You just got home. Go inside.”

If Chief Cobb had looked back, he might have seen Kathleen walking on a tilt toward the back porch because she was trying to veer to her car and I was tugging mightily toward the house.

I won.

In the kitchen, she looked wildly about, glared at a spot near the door. “I've got to get to that cabin. My fingerprints are all over that gift package. I threw the gown and box and paper in the fireplace and ran out. I don't know if everything burned.”

I poured coffee into my flamingo mug. “I'm over here.”

She whirled toward the table. “Can't you ever do anything but drink coffee?”

It was hard to believe she'd begrudge a cup of coffee. Before I could point out that even a ghost, certainly one as active as I had been so far today, welcomed a brief moment of relaxation, she had clapped her hands to her head.

“I can't waste time talking to nobody. I've got to get to that cabin before—”

I upended the rest of the mug. “Kathleen, please. Don't you have any confidence in me? I was able to prepare you for the chief's questions. Now I'm going to the cabin.” I glanced toward the back porch. I decided that she'd had as much stress as she could manage. I didn't think it was a propitious moment to tell her about the dust ball with Spoofer's fur on Daryl's suit jacket. I'd surely have time to sweep the porch and get rid of the tarp after I dealt with the red nightgown. “Everything will be fine.” I put the mug in the sink, aware that her eyes followed its progress through the air as if it were utterly repellent.

I was ready to depart for the cabin to check on the status of the gift box and gown when I looked through the kitchen window.

Chief Cobb still faced toward the church, but he wasn't moving. He stood with his cell phone to his ear. Ah, he must have had a ring before he went inside. A moment later, he turned, thrusting the cell phone into his pocket, and strode toward his car.

He moved like a man with a purpose.

I felt a tingle of excitement. Something had happened.

Kathleen was pacing near the table. “Bailey Ruth, have you left?
Are you there yet? Oh, dear Heaven, how can I talk to somebody who isn't—”

“I'm here.” I was ready to leave, but I had a suspicion that Kathleen might be poised to put herself in a big jam. “Promise me you won't go anywhere near Daryl's cabin.”

Kathleen's face might not have been an open book, but I had no trouble reading it. Consternation was succeeded by guilt. Obviously, she'd intended to make a foray there as soon as I was safely absent. I hadn't raised two redheaded children without discovering all there was to know about guile, deceit, and general foolhardiness.

I walked to the table, pulled out a chair.

Kathleen stared at the moving chair, then flung out her hands in defeat. “All right, Bailey Ruth. You win. I promise. Hurry. You've got to get there before the chief. If the police find that box, my life is ruined.”

“They won't. Trust me, sweetie.” I didn't see an iota of trust in the forlorn face turned toward me, so, of course, I didn't tell her I was going to make a slight detour. As long as the chief was otherwise occupied, the red gown in Daryl's cabin was not a threat to Kathleen.

I wavered for an instant. I could go to the cabin and attend to the red nightgown, or I could follow the chief, be in on the latest developments. However, I was sure that it was essential that I keep tabs on the progress of the chief's investigation. Certainly I wasn't succumbing to the siren song of curiosity.

Certainly not.

J
udith Murdoch fingered the faux pearls at the neck of her blue sweater. “Are we in danger? Maybe Kirby and I shouldn't stay here.”

Chief Cobb shook his head. “I don't see a threat to you or your son. You weren't home.” He gestured at the ransacked room. “Whoever broke in probably made sure you were gone.”

Kirby stood protectively near his mother, his thin, dark face furrowed in a worried frown. “Everything was fine this morning. We were only gone about an hour. We went over to the cabin—”

The cabin! I almost willed myself there, but a break-in at the Murdoch house had to be significant.

“—to get it ready for some cousins who're driving up from Dallas this afternoon. We left the back door unlocked for the cleaning ladies.”

Chief Cobb stood in the doorway and surveyed the shambles an intruder had left behind in Daryl Murdoch's study. Drawers from the mahogany desk had been emptied and flung aside. A cabinet behind the desk hung on wrenched hinges, the paneling scraped and gashed, files pulled out, papers tossed. Books had been yanked from shelves, thrown into uneven mounds.

The chief crossed the room, pulled aside heavy red drapes. Splintered glass in a French door marked the means of entry. The door stood ajar. He glanced toward Judith. “Alarm?”

She stared at the broken pane and mound of glass. “We only set the alarm at night.”

“Always set the alarm when you leave the house.” The chief's admonition was automatic. He gestured at the mess. “Can you tell if anything is missing?”

She spread her hands helplessly. “I wouldn't have any idea. This was Daryl's room.” Off limits to her was the unspoken message.

“A technician is on the way to dust for prints. Don't touch anything until we're finished. Have you checked the rest of the house?” He nodded toward the hallway.

Kirby looked embarrassed. “I wanted to look around, but Mom made me stay with her.”

The chief nodded in approval. “Smart move. I'll take a look.”

A rap on the partially open French door brought a gasp from Judith.

“It's all right, Mrs. Murdoch. I asked Officer Leland to make a survey of the premises.” He looked inquiring. “Officer?”

Officer Leland was careful not to touch the door. She looked crisp and competent, her French-blue uniform fresh and unwrinkled. “No one home on either side, sir. No trace of an intruder except for what appears to be a fresh footprint in a patch of mud near a path into the woods. The print isn't distinct. It looks as though a man—that's from the size of the print—was running and slid on a mound of leaves. It is possible that the intruder parked in the wooded area behind the house. Of course the print could have no connection to the break-in.”

“Put tape up. Show the technician, then search the woods for fresh tire prints.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Leland turned away.

Chief Cobb looked at Judith. “Let's check the rest of the house, see if anything else has been disturbed.”

I zoomed ahead of them. Everything looked to be in perfect order. I doubted there was more for me to learn at the Murdoch house. It was time to honor my promise to Kathleen and deal with the red nightgown.

 

Years ago Pontotoc Road
was on the outskirts of town. It circled Chickasaw Lake. Most of the original cabins were fairly ramshackle, masculine retreats for poker and fishing and booze. Now the road was paved, but it still dipped and curved through thick woods and up-and downhill.

Oklahoma weather was as coquettish as I remembered. The morning's cold wind and lowering clouds were gone. The sky was a soft fall blue, and the air was warming. The high temperature would likely edge near seventy this afternoon. I wished away my lamb's-wool coat. Bradford-pear leaves glowed bright as Burgundy shot through with sunlight. Red-and-gold maple leaves fluttered in the gentle breeze. A sturdy sycamore shed tawny leaves that were heaped, sculpted by the wind, near the Murdoch cabin's front steps.

The drive ended in a turnaround near the cabin. A small green pickup was parked near the steps. It likely belonged to the cleaning ladies. I expected that was where Daryl had parked Wednesday evening. Kathleen likely pulled in behind his car. The drive didn't circle behind the cabin. Parking must always be a problem, cars straggling along the drive back to the road.

When Kathleen fled, she'd jumped into her car, locked the doors, made a tight turn, and sped up the drive to the road. She'd made no mention of another car. There were no offshoot lanes from the drive.

Where had the other car parked?

I knew there had been another car or some means of transportation. Someone else must have been present that evening to know about the red nightgown.

I heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner within the cabin. Soon I would go inside and see about the nightgown, but it was essential to understand what had happened here Wednesday night.

Had Daryl told someone about the episode of the red nightgown? Sexual bullies don't relish looking foolish. It was not a moment for him to recount with pride to his buddies, Kathleen tossing the nightgown into the fire and slamming out of the cabin. Therefore, someone saw Kathleen unwrap that present, fling it to destruction, and flee. The front windows were uncurtained, the interior shutters folded back, affording a clear view within. I glanced up the drive. The house wasn't visible from the road.

I pictured the cabin in the gloom of approaching night, Daryl inside, the fire burning. Kathleen arrived, tense and upset, and somewhere outside someone watched.

I stepped close to the window on the right. A buxom woman in a red T-shirt and jeans flapped a spread onto a twin bed.

I moved to the first window on the other side of the porch. The window was raised about an inch. A wiry cleaning woman in a flower-patterned housedress pushed a sweeper close enough to the window that we would have looked eye to eye had I been there. The machine's shrill whine rose to a shriek.

I looked past her, saw the cream sofa where Kathleen had sat. A leather recliner faced the sofa. A sagging easy chair was near the fireplace. From here an observer would have seen everything that transpired.

I glanced down. Sycamore leaves bunched up in a puffy mound. Shoes would leave no mark. If someone had watched through this window Wednesday night, I would find no trace here.

I wasn't following the progress of the vacuum cleaner. The sudden
cessation of sound startled me. I looked into the room and realized the cleaning lady was bending toward the fireplace.

At once I was beside her, but I watched helplessly as she gingerly lifted up the singed remnants of the red silk nightgown and the gift box and wrapping paper. She lifted her voice. “Jenny, you won't never believe what I found. Come look at this. Don't you know there's a tale behind this here.”

Kathleen was my charge and here was evidence that would link her to a murder and tarnish her reputation forever. If I had come directly from the rectory as I had promised, Kathleen would not be in jeopardy. It was my old sin of curiosity. With a dash of impulsiveness. Good intentions may indeed pave the road to hell, but if-onlys point the way to the slippery slope to despair.

I stared at the dangling remnants of the red silk gown. Kathleen's future hung in the balance.

The Precepts warned against alarming earthly creatures and certainly Wiggins found any such activity reprehensible, but I had no choice. In a flash, I shot to the kitchen, opened my mouth, and yelled. As my shrill shout rose and fell, I felt a moment of pride. The sound was unnerving. I didn't know I had it in me.

“Mabel, what's wrong?” The strangled call came from the bedroom. “Are you hurt?”

In the living room, Mabel shouted, “Somebody's gettin' killed in the kitchen. Hurry, Jenny. Run. Get out the front door.”

I screamed again, as loudly as possible, pulling breath all the way from my toes.

Pounding steps sounded in the living room. I moved back to the fireplace in time to glimpse heavyset Jenny plunging through the front door. Doors slammed. The pickup roared to life, tires squealing as it took off.

I didn't waste a minute. The police would be here soon. I found a box of matches on the mantel. I set fire to various portions of the
gown, flaring up a brisk blaze. I made sure the cardboard box and paper burned as well as the nightgown, every last scrap. When the flames began to die down, I took a poker and stirred the ashes, mashed them into nothingness.

My heart was pounding. I'd almost been a day late and a dollar short. I was ready to depart, pleased with my quick thinking, when I heard that unmistakable rumble. I didn't hesitate. “Hello, Wiggins. You'll be glad to know everything's dandy. The red nightgown—I'm sure you know all about it—is destroyed and Kathleen is safe.” If not a gold star, surely I deserved a silver. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see about the cat fur.”

 

I reached the roof
of the rectory. It was a good five minutes before I heaved a sigh of relief. I had no invisible companion, rumbling with displeasure. Apparently Wiggins was cutting me some slack. At least for the moment, I was captain of my fate. However, I wished St. Mildred's was not quite such an active church. A half-dozen cars were parked in the lot. Women streamed in and out. All were, I'm sure, doing good works, but at the moment they hampered my movements. Moreover, not fifty yards away, the back of the crime van was wide open and I noticed a technician jump out, carrying a blue plastic hand vacuum.

Standing to one side of a silver Lincoln Continental was the energetic young police detective. He bent to peer inside. “Hey, Artie, don't think this'll take long. Looks like Murdoch kept it clean.”

They wouldn't, I was sure, find a trace of cat fur. I had to hurry. I clapped my hands in satisfaction. If I couldn't work unseen, why, no problem. It was time to be in the world, however briefly. Surely Wiggins would approve this circumspect appearance.

I landed on the rectory back porch and appeared. My elegant pantsuit was not quite the attire for housecleaning. I topped it with a
blue smock appropriate for the Altar Guild. Possibly it was an excess of caution, but I added a matching turban. If anyone noticed a helpful member of the Altar Guild busy at the rectory, it would be better if red hair wasn't part of her description. I smoothed the edges of the turban to be sure no red-gold sprigs peeped from beneath.

I always enjoyed housework. There's such a sense of accomplishment when everything is tidy. Heaven doesn't need dusting. The only tidying that remains is to continue growing in goodness, and goodness knows, for most of us there is always room for improvement.

I felt a moment's unease. Had my return to earth encouraged my tendency to be inquisitive, rash, impulsive, and forthright?

“Undoubtedly.” Wiggins sounded resigned.

Although my breath caught, I was almost getting used to his sudden utterances. I was terribly aware that he was once again here and I was in deep Dutch.

“However”—even his rumble was subdued—“there are times when appearing will cause less turmoil than not appearing. Try hard”—his tone was plaintive—“to remain out of sight. If I'd realized you were quite so noticeable…” His voice faded.

I started to reply, then felt certain he'd once again departed. Obviously he agreed that I must address the pressing matter of a dusty porch and a tarp that must never be subjected to a police microscope. Did I have carte blanche?

I hurried inside and grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet in the kitchen. I took only a moment to glance in the mirror over the sink. Good. The turban was a success. I had a brief memory, thanks to Turner Classic Movies, of Carmen Miranda and a turban piled high with a tower of pomegranates, mangoes, and bananas and presto, gleaming plastic fruit appeared. Smiling, I returned to the porch and set to work, humming “Trite Samhita,” and sweeping in triple time. I loved to samba. Occasionally I added a conga step for flair.

I dumped several full dustpans into a trash sack. Spoofer certainly
shed a great deal of black fur, but soon the porch was shiny bright. I was especially thorough around, behind, and beneath the corner of the porch where the tarp lay. I carried the trash sack out to the garbage pail. All four doors of the Lincoln were open. Dark gray legs protruded from the floor of the back seat. The blond detective stood with hands on his hips, watching. I observed him with pleasure. Bobby Mac understood when I admired a manly physique because I always saved the last dance for him.

As I returned the broom and dustpan to the closet in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and laughed aloud. Although it looked top-heavy, my turban was quite comfortable. I patted a bright yellow banana, gave a little back tap, and samba'd onto the porch.

All that remained was to dispose of the tarp. A coil of cord, likely left over from a clothesline, hung from a hook. I cut a six-foot length. In one corner, I found a stack of gunnysacks. I shoved the rolled-up tarp in the gunnysack, added three stacked pottery pots for ballast, and flicked out the length of cord.

A knock sounded on the porch screen door.

I broke off humming and, clutching the open gunnysack, turned to look.

Standing on the steps was the handsome detective, the sun turning his cotton top snow white. He held out an open wallet. “Detective Sergeant Hal Price. I'm looking for the sexton. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

I stared at him, my mouth agape. Before I could think—there I went again, impulsive to the bone—I clasped the sack to the bosom of the smock and made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a shriek.

“Pardon me, miss.” His drawl was contrite and his eyes, for a brief instant, admiring, until professional coolness returned. “I didn't mean to startle you.” He spoke gently as if to a shying filly.

“Detective Sergeant?” I clung to the gunnysack, which bulged awkwardly over the pots, and was furious at myself. He didn't know what I held. He had no idea. I forced my grip to relax, rested the sack casually on the floor. “Is something wrong?”