Ghost in Trouble (2010) Page 10

  “Angel, ghost, agent, emissary, whatever. Why me?”

  “Maybe because you’re so difficult.” I’m afraid I sounded testy. “Heavens, I don’t know. Maybe years from now, somewhere down the road, there’s something important you’re going to do or say. Maybe there’s a great big celestial lottery and your number came up.” I rather liked that idea. God clearly was a gambler. He’d certainly taken a flier on creating Earth.

  “If it weren’t for the honor, I’d be just as happy if you returned to…”—she took a deep breath and forced out—“Heaven.”

  “When my task is done.” I’d never analyzed how or why the recipients of aid were selected by Wiggins. Did files simply appear in Wiggins’s office? The ways of Heaven are, of course, Heavenly. I urged Kay, “Remember ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’” My years as an English teacher sometimes prompted a literary reference.

  Kay looked at me blankly.

  “‘Theirs not to reason why, theirs to do and die.’”

  “You are so last century.”

  Kay had a talent for offending me. I snapped, “You may not be this century for very long if I fail. Now let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  I was beginning to feel like an old Abbott and Costello routine, but I wouldn’t share the thought with Kay. “Wherever you were going.” I waved my hand.

  She ran her fingers through her dark hair in a gesture of exasperation. Her unevenly cut hair appeared even more casual and youthful.

  I brushed back a curl. “I really like your haircut. Would you mind if I tried that style?”

  “Bailey—”

  “Francie.”

  She tried for a smile, but it took great effort. “Let’s try not to talk for a while. I feel like I’m in the middle of an old Abbott and Costello movie and I should say, ‘What style?’”

  I felt much more warmly toward her. “I won’t say a word.” At least until I had something cogent to offer. “Where are we going?” Surely a simple question was permitted.

  “Paul Fisher’s office. Jack said ugly things were bubbling beneath the surface at The Castle. Paul might know.” She pushed the brake and reached out to punch a button. The motor purred to life.

  “Oh. That’s clever. No key.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it.

  “I know. So last century.”

  “You said it, not me.” There was a burble of laughter in her voice.

  She started to shift, then looked in the rearview mirror.

  A bright red Lexus curved into the drive and jolted to a stop near the front steps. A strikingly attractive blonde climbed out. In her mid-to-late thirties, sleek Jean Harlow–bright hair (I liked the last century) gleamed in the sunlight. She was one of those perfectly put together women who always drew every eye, especially those of men. She ignored the front steps and walked swiftly around the corner of the house.

  Kay jerked a thumb in that direction. “Hey, you can make up for your generally irritating ways. Do your disappearing act. Follow her. That’s Alison Gregory. She was here last night and Jack had one of her cards. She’s made a fortune selling this, that, and the other to Evelyn. Find out what’s going on.”

  The enormous cottonwood still shaded the stone table on the terrace. A vagrant breeze rustled the shimmering leaves. From her chair, Evelyn Hume looked toward the sound of Alison Gregory’s shoes on the terrace.

  Alison was midway to the table when she stopped to look up at the empty pedestal. Her gaze traveled down to the three-sided enclave of evergreens. From her vantage point, the great mass of debris was hidden by the evergreens, but clumps of dirt and pieces of vase were visible. She whirled and stalked toward Evelyn. “I came the minute I got your message. That vase can’t have fallen. I’m telling you”—she spaced the words for emphasis—“the vase absolutely could not have fallen. The balance was perfect. I placed a slight glaze around the base to prevent erosion, but the stability of the vase was maintained by its weight and design. There is no way that vase could have fallen.” She stood beside the table, face flushed, hands outflung.

  Evelyn was crisp. “No one is blaming you. I want your expert judgment. Please go up on the balcony and examine the pedestal.”

  “I don’t need to go up on the balcony. The only way that vase could come down is by someone using a tool.” She mimed gripping, jamming, and pushing down. “It’s criminal. That vase was Chinese porcelain. What barbarian did this?”

  “Sit down, Alison.” Evelyn’s hand wave was peremptory. “The police claim a vandal was at work. Unfortunately, Kay Clark was in the garden, apparently standing in the cul-de-sac, and she barely managed to avoid being crushed. She was there very late at night, conferring with her assistant, who had just arrived in Adelaide.” There was a singular lack of conviction in Evelyn’s voice.

  Alison’s face reflected a cascade of responses: surprise, wariness, suspicion. “It’s odd the vase came down when someone was standing in the cul-de-sac.” There was the faintest hint of a question in her voice.

  Evelyn spaced the words for emphasis. “That’s why it’s important to be clear that the vase’s fall was an accident. I’m sure when you oversaw the installation of the vases, you directed that every precaution be taken to assure their stability. Now, if you find evidence of, say, erosion, despite the application of a sealant, we can inform the authorities and insist that the matter be dropped.”

  Alison’s head turned to look up at the pedestal. Her white-gold hair glistened. I judged she likely spent quite a bit of money on her hairdresser.

  “I’m confident you can find an excellent replacement.” Evelyn’s voice was smooth. “Perhaps an antique porcelain. We might replace all of the vases. That would be an interesting project.”

  And such a lucrative one.

  Evelyn added casually, “I’ve always depended upon your good taste. You’ve done an excellent job of reframing some of the finest paintings. I think several others might be enhanced by a change. Perhaps we might consider some Baroque frames in the upper gallery.”

  I could almost see dollar signs dancing in Alison’s blue eyes. She spoke quickly. “I’m always happy to help improve the setting for pieces in your collection. I’ll take a look at the vase. I should have examined everything before I spoke. I was remembering how carefully the vase was installed. But time does pass and weather can affect stone.” Alison walked swiftly toward the steps to the balcony.

  A hint of movement behind the cottonwood caught my eye.

  In the shadow of the huge trunk, Ronald Phillips watched Alison climb the steps. His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. He soundlessly clapped as if in admiration of a performance, then turned and stepped lightly, making no sound, to a line of evergreens. He was natty in a green polo and white linen slacks.

  I followed him to the front of the house. He hummed as he walked up the front steps. I thought I recognized the tune. Oh. Of course. “Happy Days Are Here Again.” How last century.

  Inside, he bounded up the stairs and walked swiftly to his and Laverne’s room. His thin lips curved in a satisfied smile.

  I flowed into the combination bed and sitting room. Laverne huddled in one corner of a lime-colored sofa with a faintly pebbled fabric. She clutched a bright orange cushion and stared unseeingly toward chrome bookcases filled with books too evenly aligned, books meant for decoration, not enjoyment. As the door clicked, she drew in her breath and turned to look.

  Ronald flung himself into a chair opposite the sofa and gave a bark of laughter.

  She stiffened, her eyes wide with apprehension.

  He gave her a contemptuous glance. “Pull yourself together.”

  She lifted long, thin fingers to clutch a gold chain. “I talked to Diane a little while ago.”

  His good humor fled. “What have you done?”

  “I told her we needed to go home to Dallas, that Jenny was sick—”

  He was up and out of the chair, gripping her arm and pulling her to her feet. They stood close e
nough for a lovers’ embrace, but there was no love, only fear and anger.

  I sensed this was a long-standing pattern. There was no physical abuse, but emotional control.

  “Tell Diane”—the softness of his voice was chilling—“the Great Spirit has assured you that Jenny is going to be fine and your duty is to remain here, that you sense turmoil and danger which can only be warded off by summoning the Great Spirit. You have been bombarded by fragments of thought, but one thing is clear. The Great Spirit must be invoked tonight for protection. Otherwise, Death”—he smiled with relish—“will walk these halls again.”

  “I get such dreadful headaches.” Her voice was faint. “I can’t do the séances anymore.”

  “You will perform tonight. If you do a good job, we’ll go and visit Jenny.” The tightness of his grip eased. He patted her shoulder. “I’ve got a few more things to check out. Isn’t this Diane’s afternoon with James?”

  Laverne looked at him with pleading eyes.

  “Don’t make me mad.”

  Her hands clenched. She nodded.

  “When does she go?”

  “At four.”

  He looked pleased. “Plan on meeting her. You can tell her James has been talking to you. I’ll have everything worked out by then. The Great Spirit’s going to put on a good show tonight.”

  His smile was wolfish as he turned toward the door.

  Kay had turned off the car motor. Her fingers drummed on the steering wheel.

  I dropped into the passenger seat. “I haven’t been gone that long. Have you ever heard about the stressful effects of a type A personality?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she punched the button. “When I want mental-health advice, I’ll ask my shrink. What took you so long?”

  “Ronald Phillips eavesdropped on Evelyn and Alison.” I described the scene in Laverne and Ronald’s bedroom.

  She gave a low whistle of surprise. “Laverne moves majestically around The Castle and he follows like a well-bred lapdog.”

  “Fake.” I was crisp. “He’s the puppeteer.”

  “What do you think he’s up to?” Her tone was considering.

  “He said, ‘The Great Spirit’s going to put on a good show tonight.’” I had a feeling of foreboding.

  Kay gave a hoot of laughter. “They’ll make Diane pay double. Sounds like fun.”

  “Kay!” My tone rebuked her.

  She shot a wickedly amused glance toward the passenger seat. “I forgot, you don’t take kindly to the afterworld. Isn’t that a bit of a double standard, lady?”

  “Absolutely not.” My reply was hot. “I am an official emissary of the Department of Good Intentions, sent to achieve goodness. Psychics and fortune-tellers purvey nonsense to the credulous for their own profit.”

  “Go, girl. I like a woman who will slug it out. As for psychics, et al, I agree with you, even if you sound like you have vinegar in your mouth.”

  Had I sounded acidulous? Possibly. But that wasn’t the point. “We should discourage Diane from engaging in the occult.”

  “Lots of luck on that one.” Kay’s expression was abruptly compassionate. “Threatening to cut her lifeline to James turns her into a shrew.”

  I remembered the gazebo and Diane’s passionate defense of Laverne.

  Kay glanced behind her, backed up, then wheeled the car toward the street. “I’ve got places to go and people to see.” The Corvette burned out of the drive. “But”—and her tone was almost admiring—“your coming and going may turn out to be helpful. What did Alison want?”

  My hair streamed behind me. I liked speed. I recalled the exhilarating plunge down one of Adelaide’s biggest hills when I was here for a spot of Christmas intrigue. As then, I couldn’t resist a whooping, “Yee-hah!” If you’ve never given a Rebel yell, you don’t know how to have fun.

  Kay gasped and the Corvette swerved. “What’s up with you?” Her voice was both shaky and exasperated.

  “Riding shotgun, sweetie, and having a blast. As for Alison, it’s a shame I didn’t have a camcorder. The Adelaide police carry them as part of their equipment.”

  Just for fun I appeared in full police regalia, black-billed blue cap, long-sleeved French blue blouse, French blue trousers with a darker blue stripe, a nameplate for Officer M. Loy—my tribute to Mryna Loy—holster, gun, belt with flashlight, and a camcorder.

  After one swift glance, Kay stared straight ahead. “Has anyone ever told you showing off is poor form?” The Corvette slowed to the speed limit.

  I didn’t think it was showing off to swirl into a more summery outfit. Besides, Adelaide is a small town and a police officer riding in the passenger seat of a yellow Corvette would definitely be noticed. This time I chose a hand-painted silk georgette blouse and pale pink slacks.

  Kay glanced again. “Nice blouse.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why did you wish you had a camcorder?”

  We were almost downtown. “I wish I had a recording of Evelyn and Alison’s conversation.” I described Evelyn’s not terribly subtle offer of profit for a verdict of erosion at the base of the vase and concluded, “As soon as Evelyn dangled the bait of replacing the vases, Alison did the Texas two-step quicker than a firefly flickers. Tell me about Alison.”

  Kay turned into a parking lot behind a small redbrick building with black shutters. “Clever, smart, on the make. Jack called Laverne and Ronald Diane’s leeches. I’d describe Alison as Evelyn’s leech, albeit a suave, sophisticated, savvy leech.” She eased the Corvette beneath the shade of a sycamore.

  “It doesn’t surprise you that Alison would be willing to adjust her opinion to suit Evelyn?”

  Kay was sardonic. “Does the sun rise in the east? The surprise is Evelyn. Either she’s protecting herself or someone else.”

  “Who would she protect?”

  Kay looked thoughtful. “Possibly Jimmy. She’s fond of her nephew. I’d say no one else in the house matters to her at all. Maybe it’s all much simpler. Maybe she’s trying to deflect scandal from the family.”

  “The Humes”—my voice was dry—“have always had a talent for scandal.”

  “Not Evelyn.” Kay slipped out of the car.

  I disappeared.

  Her dark brows drew down in a tight frown. “Will you either be here or not?”

  “The two of us together would intimidate any man. Use your charm with Paul Fisher. I’m sure you have some.”

  She shot a hostile look where I had been. “As Charlie Chan said, ‘Assistants should be seen, not heard.’” She strode toward the entrance.

  I called after her, “So last century.” As she opened the door, I added sweetly, “Charlie also said, ‘Charming company turn lowly sandwich into rich banquet.’”

  She looked back. “Touché.”

  My intent was to pop directly to Paul Fisher’s office. I wanted to see him when he considered himself safe from observation. Private faces revealed character. Are the brows drawn in a frown? Is there sadness in the eyes? Does the expression show meanness or generosity?

  I felt no need to hurry. Kay must first speak with the receptionist. I paused to enjoy once again the rasp of cicadas. When I was growing up in Oklahoma, we called them locusts. A biology teacher explained they were not locusts, but insects of another order. Whenever I heard cicadas, I felt even younger than my chosen age of twenty-seven. I was ten again and running barefoot through freshly cut grass with its distinctive scent, sunlight hot on my skin, living gloriously and heedlessly in what seemed to be the never-ending sun of summer.

  “‘Mind, like parachute, only function when open.’” Wiggins’s voice was gruff. I might even describe his tone as anguished. “Bailey Ruth, when will you stop and think?”

  Without taking time to reflect, I blurted, “Too much thinking is deleterious to mental health.”

  His riposte bristled. “That’s not Charlie Chan.”

  “Of course not.” Had I made that claim? “That’s Bailey Ruth Raeburn.” Possibly I had
a future in some great salon of intellectual conversationalists.

  “Umph. Not bad. But you’re distracting me from my point. If you hadn’t appeared in the gazebo, you wouldn’t have been seen by Diane Hume and now the fat’s in the fire.”

  “It’s much too hot to picture a lump of fat sizzling in flames.”

  “Bailey Ruth, focus on the matter at hand. You. Visible you. Contravening Precepts One, Three, and Four.” His voice rose and a splatting sound suggested fist hitting palm.

  A girl walking a golden retriever stopped and looked around, seeking the source of the scolding voice. No one was visible in the parking lot. The teenage dogwalker’s gaze swept up, down, back, forth.

  Wiggins and I hovered unseen about fifteen feet above the hot, still parking lot.

  “Precept Six.” The exclamation seemed torn from Wiggins’s heart.

  At the shout above her, the girl’s head jerked up. She gazed at sycamore limbs quivering in the breeze. With a squeal, the girl turned. Pigtails flying, she bolted up the sidewalk with the dog.

  When the girl and dog were out of sight, and, of course, ear-shot, I tried for a light touch. “Don’t worry. She’ll probably decide she heard a car radio.” The street was empty of traffic.

  “From an imaginary car? From an invisible car?” Wiggins’s volume increased with each word.

  “These things happen.” I hoped he was in an accepting mood. “Dear Wiggins, don’t you always feel there’s a purpose? Perhaps that sweet girl will be led to a life of creative imagining. Why, this moment might mark the beginning of a career as a novelist. She may—”

  “Bailey Ruth.”

  “Apoplexy doesn’t become you, Wiggins.” I hoped I sounded more chiding than critical. Men are very sensitive. “Besides, quivering with distress isn’t good for you. Now, let’s talk about outcomes. Everything is happening as it should.” Sounding positive can have the most amazing effect in a combative situation. “If I hadn’t appeared in the gazebo, Kay would not have been forced to introduce me to Diane and I wouldn’t have been invited to stay at The Castle. I attributed the fortunate moment to you. You are always one step ahead of your emissaries, smoothing the path, foreseeing obstacles, creatively amending protocol when necessary. Even though becoming visible is anathema”—I was fervent and clearly in agreement—“to emissaries, sometimes we must appear in the world in order to discharge our duties. Since Kay’s safety is paramount, my visible presence at her side in The Castle will afford her great protection. Wiggins, you were brilliant to think of it!”