Merry, Merry Ghost (8 page)

Peg smiled and took the tray. “Thank you, Tess. And thanks for the loan of the car seat. I put yours back in your car. I bought a new one when we shopped.”

Keith was on his knees, his eyes excited as he carefully petted Duchess.

“That car seat’s been warmed by all my grandkids and I’m glad you could use it for Keith.” The cook bent down. “Here, Keith, I made this especially for you.”

He turned to take the small triangular-shaped piece of candy, brown with bits of pecans. “Thank you.”

“Your daddy loved Aunt Bill’s candy and I’ll bet you will too.”

As Peg and Keith walked up the steps, Keith nibbling his candy, I checked upstairs and down. I didn’t find Jake or Gina. With Peg and Keith in Susan’s bedroom and Tess in the kitchen, I was free to discover what I could.

Although I had arrived only the evening before, I feared Wiggins might feel I’d not made enough progress in learning about those connected to Susan Flynn. Although I was fairly clear on their relationship to Susan, not blood kin as Gina had emphasized to Jake, I had yet to find out the full names of everyone present last night and where they lived.

I looked for an address book in the study. I checked near the telephone. I opened desk drawers. No address book. Possibly Susan kept her address book upstairs.

Photograph albums in a bookcase yielded many pictures of now familiar faces, but the inscriptions weren’t helpful. Those who identify family photos expect that first names will suffice. Nor could I utilize a phone book since I didn’t have surnames. In a flash, I realized the solution. The church directory. Susan Flynn was a lifelong member of St. Mildred’s, as had been her family before her. As I knew from my last sojourn in Adelaide, St. Mildred’s had a pictorial church directory, the better, of course, to encourage recognition and fellowship among members. Somewhere in this house there had to be a church directory. I would find plenty of names and pictures, including, I was willing to bet, the full name and address of Susan’s lawyer. As a staunch supporter of the church, Susan would be very likely to choose her lawyer from among its members.

His office would contain all the information about the beneficiaries of Susan’s will.

The kitchen was the most likely spot for directories of all sorts. I sped to the kitchen and was immediately rewarded. A church directory hung on a silver cord from a hook below an old-fashioned wall telephone squeezed between a cabinet and the refrigerator. The directory dangled perhaps a foot from the floor, tantalizing as a tiara to a jewel thief.

Tess rolled out pastry crust on a wooden board. She whistled an off-key but energetic version of “Deck the Halls,” tapping time with her right foot. She stood at the end of the counter, very near the recess that held the telephone and the directory.

I didn’t have much room to maneuver. I edged sideways to reach into the narrow space between the cabinet and the refrigerator. If she didn’t look down, I could filch it with no problem. As I slipped the cord over the hook, the directory swung in an arc.

Fur pressed against my leg. The directory was yanked from my hand and dragged to the ground.

I jumped and gasped.

Tess jerked at the unexpected sound. She bumped into me, felt an undeniable presence—after all, I was there even if not seen—and gave a shocked yelp.

I scrambled backward, tripped over Duchess, and crashed to the floor, making an unfortunate thudding sound.

The calico cat howled, her tail straight up.

Tess pressed a floury hand against her chest. “My goodness me my, Duchess, whatever got into you? Look at that, you knocked down the directory. Bad girl. I’d put you out in the cold but my hands are all floury. Now you get yourself back to your cushion.”

Duchess’s tail switched and she gave Tess a malevolent look.

Tess snagged the cord, lifted the directory, and returned it to its hook.

Unblinking golden eyes followed the progress of the directory.

I was not going to be outwitted by a cat.

It was as if Duchess heard my thoughts. That malevolent stare settled on me.

It was time to make peace. I moved close, held out an invisible hand.

Duchess sniffed. She pushed her head against my hand, clearly inviting me to pet her.

I obliged.

Duchess dropped to the floor, rolled over on her back.

Still kneading pastry, Tess looked over her shoulder. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d been into some catnip.”

Duchess came to her feet, moved close to me, twined around my ankles.

Tess stopped kneading. “Duchess, are you all right?”

It was time for finesse. I hurried outside, then turned and rapped on the back door.

By the time Tess opened the door, I was inside the kitchen. I yanked the cord attached to the directory from its hook.

“I declare, somebody knocked on the door and ran away.” Tess stepped onto the porch. “Who’d be playing tricks on such a lovely day?”

When unencumbered by material objects, my passage through space was as lively and quick as St. Nick in his miniature sleigh. I would be in one spot, envision my destination, and there I was. However, material objects, such as the parish directory, required portage.

I was in a hurry to get the directory and flee the kitchen. I reeled the directory up.

In a bound, Duchess was across the room. She snagged the cord with a determined paw and yanked.

The directory splatted on the hardwood floor.

Tess whirled on the porch, came shivering into the kitchen. She slammed the door behind her. “My goodness, I’m going to be vexed in a minute. Somebody knocking on the door and running away and you”—she shook her head at Duchess—“trying to cause trouble the minute I turn my back. Enough of this.” Tess grabbed the directory, evaded Duchess’s leap, and stuffed the booklet in her apron pocket.

I took a moment
in the front hallway to catch my breath. My objective had once seemed so simple. Find the church directory, discover the identity of Susan Flynn’s lawyer, go to his office, and explore his files.

Admittedly, nosing into files in a busy law office might be another challenge, perhaps far more difficult than the episode in the kitchen.

However, I was determined. I intended to have a parish directory. Why not go to the source?

I thought and there I was.

I know I am prejudiced but I always felt a thrill when I saw St. Mildred’s. Winter-bare elms and oaks provided a frame for the small gray stone church. Stained-glass windows sparkled bright as the richest jewels, ruby red, emerald green, royal amethyst, and ocean blue.

On the front steps, after a quick glance around, I swirled into being. Invisibility had advantages, but I was ready for the open, direct, uncomplicated approach. Besides, I was tired of not being. I hadn’t realized how much of a Heavenly day I’d spent in conversation. I’d never been reclusive when on earth and this was no time to start. I wanted to see people, talk, laugh, make friends. That such action was in direct contravention of Precept Four (Become visible only when absolutely essential…) bothered me not at all. In fact, I intended to suggest to Wiggins that, to the contrary, emissaries should appear as often as possible, the better to be part of the community.

I strode forward, invigorated, confident of my course. I didn’t bother with my chinchilla coat. I was going inside. I ducked into the church proper.

A brisk woman in coveralls directed two younger women as they placed potted geraniums in stands by each pew. She smiled a welcome, her prominent blue eyes friendly. “Are you with the Standish-Ellison wedding?”

I shook my head. “I’m a long-ago member of the church back in town for a visit.” I was pleased at my quick and honest response.

We discussed the floral swags and brown candles and the lovely effect when pink rose petals would be strewn in the aisle.

I pushed through the door into the main hallway. Direct and simple, that was the path to take. Soon I would have the parish directory in hand and I could obtain the information I needed. Wiggins would be proud of me.

Christmas artwork from Sunday school classes was taped to the walls of the corridor outside the parish hall: Christmas trees made of pasted strips of art paper, stained-glass windows created by pieces of colored cellophane, manger scenes, Mary cradling Baby Jesus in her arms, stars with gold glitter, red-nosed reindeer with toothy smiles and Santa Clauses with jolly smiles, bells with silver glitter.

I threw out my arms and began to sing “Silver Bells.” I couldn’t resist a sweeping dance with a curtsy here and a bow there. I reached the end of the hallway and the second stanza. Portraits of past directresses of the Altar Guild graced both sides of the corridor here.

It wasn’t pride that made me pause in front of my portrait, assuredly not. I was paying tribute instead to time past. I’d been proud to serve and felt I’d managed my terms with a minimum of acrimony, though there had been fractious moments. Hortense Maple, for example, had been very difficult to deal with over the matter of when to replace candles. Emmaline Wooster was slapdash when it came to ironing the linens. The time she’d been absorbed in an
I Love Lucy
episode and scorched the altar linen donated by the Templeton family didn’t bear thinking about. None of this long-forgotten past was apparent in my portrait. I looked gay and carefree though much older than I now appeared. I nodded in approval at the contrast between my flaming curls and a white organza hat. That frock of pale lilac eyelet lace had been one of my favorites.

Rapid footsteps clattered near.

I whirled around, possibly with a guilty start. It wouldn’t do for anyone to compare me to that long-ago portrait.

The steps paused. A graying pageboy framed a long worried face. The woman glanced at me uncertainly.

“Excuse me, did something startle you?”

I gave her a friendly smile. “I’m looking for the church office.”

She looked reassured. “Right this way.” She hurried ahead, held the door wide. “I’m Lucy Norton.” She gestured toward a wicker chair with plump red cushions. “How may I help you?”

I looked around the familiar room, shabby and plainly furnished, but the chintz curtains at the windows were freshly ironed. As she took her place behind the desk, I settled comfortably in the chair.

The desk was neat, envelopes tidily stacked in the in and out baskets and several folders aligned with a church bulletin next to a copy of the afternoon newspaper. A church directory rested near the telephone.

“I used to live in Adelaide and was a parishioner. I’m visiting friends.” I was, after all, Keith’s friend Jerrie.

“I want to pick up a copy of the parish directory so I can call old friends.”

“Call old friends,” she repeated. Her eyes fell to a story below the fold on the front page.

“You know how it is when you pack in a rush.” I invited understanding. “I didn’t bring my address book with me.”

“Are there particular families you wish to contact?” Her smile was bright, but it didn’t reach suspicious blue eyes. She folded the newspaper.

“Just old friends.” My shrug was casual. “I talked to Susan Flynn, but I didn’t want to trouble her for phone numbers.”

Her smile was swift. “Susan is a dear. I suppose she told you the sad news about the Carstairs?”

“Actually, we didn’t talk about the Carstairs.” Carstairs? That wasn’t a name I recalled.

The secretary’s eyes widened. “I would have thought that was the first thing Susan would have brought up, the dreadful accident last week.”

“We had so many old friends to remember. Now, if you don’t mind”—I glanced at my watch—“I’ll take the directory and run along.” I glanced pointedly at directories stacked on a shelf in the walnut bookcase on the near wall.

She popped to her feet. Without a glance at the bookcase, she pulled a key ring from the pocket of her yellow cardigan. She came around the desk, gestured toward the hall. “The new directories are in the supply closet.

If you’ll come with me, I’ll get one for you.”

I gestured toward the bookcase. “I don’t need the most recent edition.”

“Might as well be up to date.” She led the way into the hall.

I was tempted to march to the bookcase, seize a directory, and sail past her. Instead I rose and followed her.

As we walked in silence, she darted uneasy sideways glances at me.

Had I said something amiss?

Midway down the corridor, she stopped and unlocked a door. She swung it open and stood aside for me to enter. She turned on the light, revealing a long narrow storeroom. “The new directories are on the middle shelf.”

I saw the stack. Success was to be mine. I hurried forward.

The door slammed. A click. I rushed to the door and twisted the knob. Locked!

Locked doors posed no difficulty for me, but I wanted the directory. I could waft right out into the hall but I would have to open the door to take the directory and I had no key to unlock the door once I stood in the hall.

I disappeared. In a flash, I was back in the secretary’s office.

Hands shaking, she punched numbers. “Police? Come at once to St. Mildred’s. I’ve detained a suspicious woman. She came to the church and tried to get a parish directory. I saw the story in this afternoon’s
Gazette
.” She yanked up the newspaper, held it with a shaky hand.

I read over her shoulder.

BEWARE CHRISTMAS SCAMS

Police Chief Sam Cobb reported today that a statewide alert has been issued by the OSBI regarding fraudulent activities common during the holiday season.

Calls purporting to come from charitable groups should be checked by the recipient. Chief Cobb advises against providing any personal information, including Social Security numbers or back account numbers, over the telephone.

A favorite scam reported in Dallas and Oklahoma City involves a well-dressed woman claiming to have monies that will be paid over as soon as the person contacted provides a checking account number.

Chief Cobb said in another ploy, a woman arrives at a home to pick up a promised donation for a church or charity. The woman exhibits familiarity with the family using information gained from newspaper society pages or church directories.