Merry, Merry Ghost Read online

  Merry, Merry Ghost

  Carolyn Hart

  To Dan Mayer, who knows and loves mysteries.

  This one’s for you.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Bailey Ruth, honey, always wait to be invited.”

  Chapter Two

  Stars glowed against the vastness of space, witness to the…

  Chapter Three

  Light spilled from a room at the end of the…

  Chapter Four

  Gina rushed into the kitchen. Her black cashmere turtleneck emphasized…

  Chapter Five

  I dropped into the cemetery that adjoined St. Mildred’s. I needed…

  Chapter Six

  I hovered near the ceiling of the blue room at…

  Chapter Seven

  Tucker poked at the fire. Flames danced and crackled, flickering…

  Chapter Eight

  What will we do?” Susan was distraught. “You don’t have…

  Chapter Nine

  The Meissen clock on the mantel chimed a quarter after…

  Chapter Ten

  A dim glow marked a second-story window in the frame…

  Chapter Eleven

  A young woman bundled in a pink jacket counted to…

  Chapter Twelve

  Soft December sunlight splashed cheerfully into the living room through…

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chief Cobb’s moderate-sized office seemed crowded. Peg and Johnny sat…

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sidewalks were crowded outside Wade Farrell’s office building on…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Flashlights beamed from every direction. Headlights cut twin swaths through…

  Chapter Sixteen

  The police car sat in front of Pritchard House. Johnny…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Yellow flames danced among the logs in the living room…

  Chapter Eighteen

  I had one more task to accomplish if I could.

  About the Author

  Other Books by Carolyn Hart

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bailey Ruth, honey, always wait to be invited.”

  I edged a little nearer an arch of clouds suffused with gold and rose. Once around that cumulus corner, I knew what awaited, softly rolling hills, a redbrick train station, and shining silver rails stretching to the horizon.

  I wanted to break into a run, yet I couldn’t quite dismiss the memory of my mother’s caution when I was a child. Certainly, I didn’t want to impose myself upon anyone even though in Heaven I’d always found welcome everywhere.

  Heaven?

  Do I detect skepticism?

  That’s fine. Avert your eyes from beauty. Ignore love. Yawn at the splendor of the universe. Insist that the world is nothing more than rollicking atoms. Someday you’ll see.

  I always knew there was a Heaven, even before Bobby Mac and I met our demise when our cabin cruiser went down in the Gulf of Mexico as Bobby Mac pursued a tarpon on a fatefully stormy day. There’s nothing like going out with a big splash. I recalled with pleasure the Adelaide, Oklahoma, Gazette and the front-page story with a picture:

  OIL WILDCATTER,

  MAYOR’S SECRETARY

  PERISH IN GULF STORM

  Robert MacNeill (Bobby Mac) Raeburn II, 54, and his wife Bailey Ruth Raeburn, 52, of Adelaide were presumed lost at sea following a storm in the Gulf of Mexico. Their capsized cabin cruiser Serendipity was discovered yesterday off the coast of Texas. Despite a massive sea-air search, no trace has been found of the Adelaide natives and well-known civic leaders.

  Raeburn was a successful oilman…

  The photograph on the Serendipity had been taken in sunshine, unlike the lowering black clouds and driving rain we faced that final day. It was an especially fine picture of Bobby Mac with his dark hair, dark eyes, and a daredevil smile. He held a rod bent against the pull of a tarpon. I lounged against a railing, red hair tangled by the breeze, smiling freckled face lifted to the sun. I remembered that lime green blouse. The color was a nice contrast to crisp white shorts.

  On impulse (I’m afraid I often succumb to impulse), I envisioned myself in an identical blouse and shiny white cotton shorts and espadrilles. I paused and took a peek at my reflection in a sheet of crystal. Of course, I abjured vanity in Heaven. I was simply enjoying a memory. There I was, a youthful and lively ethereal me with red curls bright as flame, narrow eager face spattered with freckles, and curious green eyes. I smoothed my hair, beamed at the reflection. In Heaven, no matter our age at death, we are seen at our best, whenever that was. I’d enjoyed all my days, but twenty-seven had been a very good year. Occasionally I was reflective—not, I will admit, a usual state for me—and then I might appear a confident forty, but twenty-seven was my age of choice.

  The Gazette story told all about Bobby Mac and me and our families, and son Rob and daughter Dil and their children and spouses. I was described as “the vivacious redheaded secretary who added a lively element to the mayor’s office and was known for her frankness.”

  Frankness.

  I sighed, came to a full stop. Frankness was a nice way of saying I often spoke without thinking. That’s why I was uncertain of my welcome around the cumulus corner that was now close enough to touch. I reached out, stroked the soft wall of cloud, filmy as springtime fluff from a cottonwood tree. We had lots of cottonwoods in Adelaide.

  Frankness.

  Okay. I’m forthright. Quick to act. Some might say hasty.

  All right. All right. I spoke aloud in admission.

  I wanted to go around that corner.

  All right, around that corner I would go. All Wiggins could say was no.

  My heart would be broken.

  Before I could change my mind, I strode around the cottony column touched by streaks of pink and gold and there was the adorable old-fashioned country train station, silver tracks stretching into the blue sky. Department of Good Intentions was emblazoned on a golden arch. Wiggins, who ran the department, had been a station agent when on earth. Since a well-run station was his sense of Heaven, here he was, in charge again, sending out emissaries to help those in trouble. On earth I’d often felt I was the beneficiary of celestial grace. Giving back is one of earth’s—and Heaven’s—greatest pleasures.

  This wasn’t my first visit to the department. I’d been eager to return to earth to help someone in a tough spot, and truly I’d done the best I could on a previous mission. All emissaries are issued a parchment roll inscribed with the Precepts for Heavenly Visitation. I’ll admit I’d run afoul of Wiggins’s rules a few times.

  To be accurate, I had transgressed a great many times.

  I drooped. If Wiggins listed my infractions, they’d run a page or more.

  Yet when I had made my final report, Wiggins had clearly said I might be used again as a Heavenly agent, though, he’d hastened to add, I would still be on probation. Had Wiggins decided I was too unsuitable? Was even probationary status not possible for me? Was that why I’d had no summons from him for another adven-mission?

  Possibly he’d simply neglected to consider me for a task. Mama told us kids not to invite ourselves, but I remembered quite a few instances when being bold paid off. The squeaky wheel and all that.

  In the distance, I heard the clack of wheels on the rails and the poignant wail of the train whistle. The Rescue Express was nearing the station. Clearly Wiggins would soon be dispatching earthbound travelers or welcoming home those whose journeys were done.

  I was shot through with a hot flash of sheer envy.

  Oh dear. How small-spirited of me. Certainly I was delighted that others
had found favor in Wiggins’s eyes and been dispatched for adventure…Scratch that thought. Adventure was never the goal of a well-behaved emissary. Certainly I wasn’t seeking fun and thrills.

  Well, maybe a little bit.

  Okay, okay, I loved excitement, and whether Wiggins wanted to admit it or not, being dispatched to earth to help someone in dire need was a grand adventure.

  If Wiggins was aware of my unworthy feelings, surely he understood I was only revealing the depths of my desire to be helpful.

  I filled my mind with a vision of the parchment roll and the Precepts and mounted the station steps two at a time. It was only as I was passing into the station that I realized I was still in a blouse and shorts. Fortunately, a new wardrobe occurs in an instant of thought.

  By the time Wiggins looked up from his desk, I was in a drab black jacket dress with white trim on the jacket and plain black leather shoes. My hair was subdued in a chignon with only a few unruly red curls. I affected a reserved expression.

  Wiggins rose at once, a look of surprise on his florid round face. He was just as I remembered, stiff black cap riding high on reddish-brown hair, bristly eyebrows, spaniel-sweet brown eyes, thick muttonchop sideburns, walrus mustache, crisp white shirt, suspenders, gray flannel trousers, and shiny bootblacked shoes.

  “Bailey Ruth.” Big hands enveloped mine in a warm grip. Suddenly he frowned. “You look different.”

  Was he remembering the lavender velour pantsuit I’d enjoyed on my previous earthly adven-mission? If I were fortunate enough to serve on earth again, I could find out about the latest fashions and enjoy them. I was confident that pleasure in beauty, whether of nature or couture, was God-given. At this moment, I was determined to appear studious and contemplative, a role model of an emissary, the sort who popped to earth, worked unobtrusively, and left without notice.

  Unlike my previous experience in Adelaide.

  I gave a cool smile. “It’s the new me. I’ve been studying Zen.”

  “Oh?” He blinked in surprise.

  “The better to serve as an emissary.” I remembered not to even hint at the word ghost. Wiggins loathes the term. Although as far as I’m concerned, calling a spade a digging implement doesn’t make it not a spade. If you know what I mean.

  “Zen.” He raised a brushy eyebrow.

  “Zen.” I tried to sound authoritative.

  “Zen?” His tone invited elucidation.

  “Zen. Meditating on paradoxes.” I dredged that from a long-ago memory of my son Rob’s Zen phase when he was in college.

  “Indeed.” His smile was kind. “Does that assist you in remaining in the moment?”

  He might as well have been speaking Greek. If he had been speaking Greek, I would have understood. In Heaven we all understand each other whether we speak Cherokee, Yiddish, or Mandarin. Or Greek.

  Zen in any tongue was beyond my grasp. It was manifestly unfair that Wiggins, who’d departed the earth long before I, had obviously been attending Zen classes in Heaven.

  “I don’t know a thing about Zen.” In admitting defeat, I hoped to demonstrate my core honesty.

  His smile was huge. “Oh, Bailey Ruth, you always manage to surprise me.”

  I blinked back a tear. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t do things by the book.” I meant “by the parchment roll,” but he understood. “Is that why you haven’t summoned me for a new adven-mission?”

  Wiggins tugged at his mustache, then gestured to a bench beside his desk. He settled into his chair, and after a quick glance through the bay window at the tracks he faced me, his genial face perplexed. “You have been in my thoughts.”

  Was this good? I was determined to believe so. I beamed at him. “I’m glad. Perhaps my coming here today was meant to be.” I leaned forward. “Clearly there’s a problem on earth that I can solve.” That put the ball in his court. Hopefully my can-do attitude was attractive.

  Instead of an answering smile, he looked thoughtful. “You do have a special qualification.”

  Better and better. “Whatever the project requires, I am ready.”

  “Undoubtedly you have a qualification.” His tone was reluctant, as if an admission wrung under duress. “However, you lack the calm and reserve of a Heavenly emissary. You are”—he ticked off the offenses one by one—“inquisitive, impulsive, rash—”

  I completed the litany. “—forthright and daring.”

  We looked at each other, I with fading hope, Wiggins sorrowfully.

  I was tempted to change back into a blouse and shorts and waft to Bobby Mac and the Serendipity, riding in crystal clear blue waters for another eternal day. Yet Wiggins had thought of me for a mission. There had to be a reason. “My special qualification?”

  His florid face relaxed into warmth and delight. “Bailey Ruth, you always loved Christmas.”

  Christmas…Oh dear Heaven, Christmas was the most special season of the year. Cold and gray outside? When I listened to the jingle of the Salvation Army kettle, I felt warm as toast. Jammed among sharp-elbowed shoppers in a suffocatingly hot store? That cashmere sweater was perfect for Aunt Mamie. A broken oven and twenty-three expected for Christmas dinner? Bobby Mac pulled out the grill, bundled up against a forty-degree north wind, and that day’s rib eye steaks were ever after celebrated in family history.

  My eyes sparkled as I recalled some of my favorite things:

  Sugar cookies shaped like stars and iced in red.

  Main Street ablaze with green and red lights and plenty of tinsel.

  Strings of holly.

  Carolers on a crisp starlit night.

  Cutting down our very own Scotch pine out in the country.

  Bobby Mac holding Rob in one arm, Dil in the other, and small hands reaching up to place a wobbly star atop the tree.

  Presents wrapped in bright red and gold foil.

  Crimson poinsettias massed behind the altar and on the ledges by the stained-glass windows and in the narthex.

  The exquisite peace and hope of Mother and Child in the manger.

  I was swept by that wonderful feeling of the season when workaday cares recede and we glimpse a world bright with love. “Ooh, Christmas.” Every Christmas Eve, Bobby Mac (a robust tenor) and I (an energetic soprano) entertained Rob and Dil with our duet of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as we pulled a sled laden with gifts into the living room. A two-foot-tall stuffed reindeer with a shiny red nose was harnessed to the sled.

  I came to my feet, quickly attired in my best Mrs. Claus suit and floppy red Santa hat, and belted out my most spirited version of “Rudolph.” Tap was popular when I was young, and the wooden floor of the station a perfect venue…four slap ball changes, four shuffle hop steps, a shuffle off to Buffalo…Sweeping off my Santa hat, I ended with a flap cramp roll and a graceful bow.

  Flushed with success, I lifted my gaze to Wiggins.

  He sat, brown eyes wide, expression bemused.

  Had the man never seen a hoofer before? Had I blown any chance for adven—to be of service? Had my impetuous nature once again landed me in trouble?

  His lips curved in a broad smile. His eyes shone. “That takes me back. Indeed it does. I saw Bojangles in Chicago in 1909. I never miss any of his shows.”

  I made a mental note to check the jazz schedule for Bill Robinson’s next starlit performance. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a show with the Milky Way as spots.

  “Only you, Bailey Ruth, would remember Christmas with a tap dance.” Wiggins’s tone was admiring.

  I think.

  Abruptly, he gave a decided nod. “That’s why your dossier kept reappearing.” He reached out, pulled a candy-cane-striped folder close to him, flipped it open.

  I craned to see. There was my picture, a sea breeze stirring my flaming hair as the Serendipity breasted swells.

  Wiggins patted the top sheet. “You have the true spirit of Christmas and that is what I need here, despite your impetuous nature.” He turned and thumbed through a stack of folders in
various colors. He opened a black one.

  I didn’t dwell on his qualifying phrase. Christmas spirit I could supply in plenty.

  His face was grave when he faced me. “This situation”—he tapped the folder—“is murky. Your previous task was clear-cut: a lovely damsel visited with a body on her back porch. Of course, I didn’t expect the action you took…” Some of his enthusiasm seemed to drain away. He gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know if the department should take a chance again. But”—hope lifted his voice—“possibly in this instance nothing will be required of you except calm overseeing.” He nodded decisively and repeated with vigor, “Calm overseeing,” as if I might have trouble hearing.

  I decided not to be offended.

  “On balance, you might be perfect for this visit. You love Christmas and you have a youthful heart. I was especially touched that you spun stories for Dil and Rob about Santa’s workshop and who might need a particular toy. You helped them feel the spirit of giving. Whatever happens, you can beam love on a dear little boy, an orphan whose future is uncertain.” Wiggins’s tone fell to a puzzled mutter. “Surely Keith’s protector has the best of intentions. She is kind and caring.” He pulled a map close, marked a path in red, muttered, “Adelaide obviously is her goal. However, no contact has been made at the house.”

  “The house?” I figuratively rolled up my sleeves. This time around Wiggins could give me the background, prepare me for my task. I pushed away the uneasy sense that no matter how prepared I might have been on my previous mission, I would have been tempted to flout the Precepts if I felt the need. This time, however, I would be on my best behavior.

  For starters, I would avoid appearing. The rich swirl of colors that preceded my transformation from spirit to earthbound creature had an unfortunate effect on viewers.