Merry, Merry Ghost (9 page)

Chief Cobb…

The church secretary carried the phone and poked her head out in the hallway to keep an eye on the closet door. “This woman was certainly well dressed and charming, but I didn’t believe a word she said. She claimed to know people in the parish, but I think she just wanted to get the directory so she’d know what people looked like and their addresses. I locked her in a storeroom. When I let her out, I’ll explain the door slipped and I had to find a better key and she can’t prove otherwise, and besides if there wasn’t something funny about her, why hasn’t she banged on the door and shouted for help? She hasn’t made a sound. Please hurry. Maybe an officer can say she was observed speeding and he can ask for identification.”

I gave Lucy a cool glance. At least she apparently found me charming.

Within a few minutes, a stocky, middle-aged police officer arrived. “Sergeant Linton, ma’am.” He looked concerned. “You say you have a woman locked up here in the church?”

“I’ve got the key. I saw that story in the
Gazette
and I knew she was a fraud.” She was shaking with excitement. “She hasn’t even called out and asked for help.” Her tone was portentous. “That’s a sure sign she isn’t on the up-and-up. When I open the door, I’ll explain that lock slips sometimes and I’m so sorry and I went to get a key and it took a moment for me to find it.”

They walked swiftly down the hall.

I picked up the directory next to the secretary’s phone. At the window, I pushed up the sash and looked outside. I didn’t see a soul. I unhooked the screen and tossed out the directory. I put the latches back in place and zoomed outside.

“…no way she could have gotten out of that storeroom.” The secretary hurried into the office with the policeman behind her. The icy rush of air from the window had already chilled the office. She jolted to a stop. “That window was closed. And look, my directory on my desk is gone. Somehow she got out of the closet and came in here and she’s gone out the window. With my directory.”

I grabbed the directory and rose in the air.

Sergeant Linton was at the window in two strides. “No one’s out there. Not a soul.”

The secretary joined him, peered through the screen. “Look up there.” She pointed above the bare limbs of a sycamore. “There goes my directory.” Her voice was a screech. “Up there. Way up there.”

I shot a defiant glance Heavenward. I knew I shouldn’t, but sometimes people just ask for trouble. With a cheerful smile, I made a circle eight and swooped by the office window. I flipped open the pages and flapped the directory with the vigor of a mallard duck heading for a pond. I shot upward.

Faint cries rose from below. The policeman’s voice was deep and gruff. “Wind gust. Happen anytime.

Downdraft. Updraft.”

The secretary’s voice was shrill with an undertone of panic. “How did the directory get up there? Why does it look like it’s flying?”

I made one more flamboyant swoop.

CHAPTER FIVE

I
dropped into the cemetery that adjoined St. Mildred’s. I needed a moment to regain my usual calm demeanor. Perhaps Wiggins would take exception to that self-description. Possibly I am not often the epitome of calmness. But I am always upbeat. I did a couple of shuffle steps as I coasted to a stop inside the cemetery gate and sang a verse of “When the Saints Come Marching In.”

In the past, I had always found respite from worldly cares among the cemetery’s old granite stones and newer bronze markers. I strolled past the Hoyt family plot and stopped to admire a scroll inscribed with Spenser’s poignant lines:
Sleepe after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas, / Ease after Warre, Death after Life Doth greatly
please
.

Winter-bare limbs creaked in the ever-present Oklahoma wind. Bradford pears, sweet gums, sycamores, and maples dotted the gentle landscape. In summer, the foliage added comforting swaths of shade in the blazing sunshine. I loved the cemetery equally in every season. Peace surrounded me.

I felt a twinge of remorse over my dramatic departure from the church secretary’s office with the directory. I thought of Precept Five. Once again I had transgressed.

Hey, I’d do better next time.

Of course I would.

I looked down. The directory, firmly gripped in my hand, apparently moved of its own accord a few feet above the ground.

I swirled into being. My suede coat kept me warm from the chill wind. I wiggled my fingers in soft suede gloves. I felt justified in appearing. Clearly I should avoid the possibility of an airborne parish directory disturbing a visitor to the cemetery.

I walked briskly, admiring Christmas wreaths on many of the graves. The ECW hosted a wreath-making coffee the first Saturday in December in the parish hall. I always added holly berries and frosted pinecones to mine. We placed fresh, fragrant wreaths at the graves of those who no longer had family in Adelaide to remember them.

I hurried up the marble steps of the Pritchard mausoleum. Whenever I visited the cemetery, I always stepped inside to stroke the marble greyhound at the head of Maurice Pritchard’s tomb and slide my fingers on the stiff whiskers of the marble Abyssinian at the head of Hannah Pritchard’s tomb. Paying tribute to Maurice and Hannah’s dog and cat is an old Adelaide custom purported to bring good fortune.

I loved the feel of the cold marble beneath my fingers. “Here’s for luck.” Repeated homage had turned the greyhound’s head shiny and added a gloss to the cat’s whiskers.

A deep voice boomed. “Precept Five.”

Air whooshed from my lungs. “Wiggins!”

“Precept Five.” In a rat-a-tat clip, Wiggins quoted: “‘Do not succumb to the earthly temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.’” A heavy sigh. “I am exceedingly disappointed, Bailey Ruth. I overlooked your appearance in Wal-Mart. No harm done. But this latest contretemps—”

Contretemps
…What a cosmopolitan word choice for a rural train station agent. Perhaps Wiggins might share some of the uplifting experiences he’d enjoyed as the director of the Department of Good Intentions that had no doubt expanded his vocabulary. I’ll bet he’d been to Paris. I pushed away a pang of jealousy. After all, those in charge received perks not available to foot soldiers. Certainly I was happy to bloom where I’d been planted, as dear St. Thérèse of Lisieux sweetly advised. Moreover, much as I would have thrilled to be helpful in Paris, I loved returning to Adelaide.

I sensed Wiggins was quite near. Just before a summer storm, purple-black clouds banked up against the horizon. When the storm unleashed sheets of rain and the fury of the wind, thunder rattled louder than a cannon and lightning sizzled. The senses reeled from the impact.

I felt a similar explosion was imminent.

“—reveals without any doubt that you are not now and will likely never be suited to serve as an emissary from the department.”

I expected any instant to have a return ticket on the Rescue Express thrust in my hand. Tears burned my eyes.

My lips trembled. I’d tried my best to fulfill my duties and now I undoubtedly faced an unceremonious return to Heaven. I felt buffeted by embarrassment, discouragement, and frustration.

So I blurted out the truth.

“I don’t like being invisible all the time. In Heaven, I’m me. You know me.” He had a file inches thick on Bailey Ruth Raeburn. “I want to be a part of things and talk to people and laugh and have a good time. I understand that solitude is good for the soul.” I’d read that somewhere. “Everyone can profit from moments spent in quiet contemplation.” Contemplating what? Being in the moment? I’d better not go there. Quiet contemplation sounded as appealing as sitting on an ice floe. There was never a moment I’d spent that wasn’t better if it was shared. Sailing with Bobby Mac. Laughing with family and friends. Grieving with those in trouble. Dancing cheek to cheek. “I need to be with people. When I’m not here, I feel separated from everyone.”

I held the parish directory up high. I wished I knew where Wiggins lurked. Had that last sigh come from behind me? Above me? I made a full turn, waving the directory like a knight’s banner. The directory was incontrovertible evidence of my transgressions against the Precepts, but if I was on the verge of dismissal, I was going out in style. “Here’s the directory and I think you should be proud of the efforts I made to obtain a copy. If I don’t know how to find the people around Susan Flynn, how can I discover whether they want to harm Keith?” I might as well make my attitude clear. If I stayed on the job—faint hope—I had to be out and about and discover the good and the bad about those who surrounded Susan. If I was going to be on the earth, I’d do my best not to be of the earth (a nod to Precept Eight), but if circumstances required, I fully intended to swirl into being. “I have to find out about Jake and Peg and Tucker and Gina and Harrison and Charlotte if I’m to be on guard for Keith. That means sometimes I may have to be here, just like I am in Heaven.”

“Heaven”—his voice was stern and seemed to come from the foot of Maurice’s tomb—“is not here. Precepts One, Three, and Four.”

I stamped my foot. Wiggins was being dense. “I can’t spook around never talking to anyone.”

The silence was absolute. Had I crossed Wiggins’s Rubicon? If he decried the term
ghost
, how did he feel about
spook?

“Wiggins”—I talked fast as the beat of hummingbird wings—“the directory is essential.” I felt my cheeks turn pink, a redhead’s unmistakable response to stress. Standing in the pale warmth of afternoon sunlight shining through the mausoleum’s entrance, my curls stirred by a chill wind, I opened the directory. I flipped to Susan Flynn’s picture, then my eyes settled on the photograph above her. I thumped the directory. “Look at this. Now I know who Jake is. She’s Jacqueline Flynn. I didn’t know her last name. But that makes sense.

Her husband was Susan’s husband’s brother. She was at the house when Keith came.” And none too pleased when Gina suggested the will might be changed. “Here’s the listing for her daughter, Margaret. That’s Peg.

So I’m making a start.”

“I will admit”—his tone was grudging—“that your actions were well-intentioned.”

I tried to pinpoint Wiggins’s voice. Was he standing near the greyhound now? “Susan told her lawyer to get proof about Keith.” I flipped to the first pages of the directory. I didn’t have to go far. Wade Farrell was on the vestry. I found the
F
’s. “Wade and Cindy Farrell, 1106 Arrowhead Drive. He’s Susan Flynn’s lawyer.”

Was Wiggins listening? Was he still here? “I’m sure I can find out a huge amount from Susan Flynn’s files in his office. As soon as she has proof that Keith is her grandson, she will have the lawyer draw up a new will.”

“A new will?” The sharp voice was right at my shoulder.

I jumped. “Wiggins, you scare me to death. Well, of course, not actually.” But my laugh was hollow. “Don’t hover about and shout. Won’t you please join me?”

“Appear?” His voice rose in shock.

I wasn’t asking him to embrace a cobra. “For a moment. What harm can it do?”

A deep breath was drawn. “I would rather enjoy being on earth in winter.” His tone was wistful. He cleared his throat. “After all, a leader must make every effort to support his representatives. I regret that I startled you when I spoke. If my appearance will make you more comfortable, why certainly it’s a small sacrifice on my part.”

“Thank you, Wiggins.” My lips quivered in amusement, but I managed not to smile. How reassuring for a minion such as I, subject to impatience and irritation and all sorts of worldly attitudes, to see Wiggins succumb to the wiles of rationalization. I hoped he never realized he was flouting Precept Eight (Remember always that you are
on
the earth, not
of
the earth…) and actually reverting to earthly thinking.

Colors swirled and there he was, stiff-brimmed cap riding high on his thick thatch of reddish-brown hair, ruddy complexion, handlebar mustache, a heavy black coat open to reveal his starched high-collar shirt, suspenders, and gray flannel trousers. He definitely had the look of another century, but how reassuring to have him here in person.

“I’m glad to see you.” I truly was. Wiggins might find me a challenge, but I loved his old-fashioned courtesy and serious demeanor. “Let’s walk around the cemetery. It’s beautiful even in winter and the Christmas wreaths are lovely.” He could kick a mound of leaves with his snub-toed black shoe, draw in that dark woody scent, and remember long-ago winter walks in the woods.

We stepped out into the sunlight and followed a graveled path toward a rise. The sunlight emphasized the rich chestnut sheen of his hair and mustache. We walked in companionable silence, Wiggins smiling and breathing deeply of the frosty air.

“Ah.” Abruptly, his smile fled. He tugged at his mustache, his expression concerned. “If Susan Flynn plans to redo her will, it is highly advisable to explore the reactions of those who would have been her beneficiaries.”

How nice to be vindicated. However, I minded my manners. Self-satisfaction wasn’t an attractive quality even though my pursuit of the parish directory now appeared to be justified.

He nodded in approval. “It is well that she intends to make proper provision for Keith. And”—his voice was kind—“his arrival has brought her happiness. She has known very little happiness these past few years.”

“I’m sorry Mitchell was killed in combat.” Susan Flynn had confronted the horror of knowing that her son, strong, young, and vital with many years that should have been his, instead died from wounds far away from home. “No mother ever stops grieving the loss of a child.” Mitch had died a hero, his little boy said. Bravery would ever be honored, but medals are no balm to a grieving heart.

Wiggins turned to face me, his brown eyes full of sadness. “Not one child. Two.”

I came to a stop, stricken by the enormity of his quiet words.

His honest, open, frank face was full of compassion. “Young people—and old—make mistakes. Mitchell was his mother’s darling, handsome, vigorous, daring, brave. Unfortunately, he was equally reckless, defiant, and hot-tempered. The weather was icy that December night. Adelaide’s hills began to glaze before the party was over. Mitchell and the girl he’d brought to a party quarreled. Mitchell slammed out of the house. His sister Ellen ran after him and managed to jump into the passenger seat before he gunned out of the drive. He lost control on Indian Hill Road.”