Ghost at Work: A Bailey Ruth Mystery Read online

  I had a moment of inspiration. “Where would you like to send me?”

  “Bailey Ruth”—approval radiated from him—“that reflects a splendid understanding of our program.” Wiggins reached for another folder.

  I basked in a glow of rectitude. Certainly I was not in this for myself. I felt noble. I would charge forth and do my best wherever I might be sent. I bade a silent, regretful farewell to visions of Paris.

  London, perhaps?

  “We’ve given some thought to the matter.” He was thumbing through several sheets that looked to be densely typewritten. “It seems quite likely that for your first task you would feel more comfortable in familiar surroundings. We are sending you to Adelaide. ”

  He was as pleased as if he’d presented me with a beribboned box of Whitman’s Samplers. Whitman’s Samplers were always a favorite in Daddy’s drugstore. I wondered if the store was still there . . .

  Even though Adelaide, Oklahoma, pop. 16,236, was a long way from Paris or London, I smiled and felt a quiver of anticipation. I loved Adelaide and its rolling hills and soft-voiced people, Mississippi kites making watchful circles in a hot August sky, sleet crackling against windowpanes in February. It wasn’t Paris or London, but I’d do my best. Would I know anyone? Of course, my daughter, Dil, lives there. It would be such fun to pop in on Dil—

  “First, however”—his tone was emphatic—“you must master the Precepts.” He waggled a roll of parchment. “After you have familiarized yourself with them, we’ll have another visit and I’ll give you your specific assignment.” He bent his head forward, looked at me sternly. “You will be on probation as you undertake your first task.”

  I almost whipped back a quick “Not to worry,” but decided upon looking into his serious brown eyes that he might not appreciate snappy retorts. Instead I simply repeated approvingly, “On probation.”

  The tension eased from his face. “That’s the right attitude. You will find that attitude is everything, Bailey Ruth.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. It was my job to be sure he had the right attitude about me. I nodded soberly.

  “If you successfully complete this assignment, we will welcome you as a full-fledged emissary.” He pushed up the rim of his eyeshade, looking perplexed. “I suppose . . .” The words trailed off. He gave a shake of his head, his mustache quivering. “I scarcely like to bring this up. I find the topic distasteful.” He looked pained.

  I attempted to look pained as well, though I had no idea what dreadful behavior we were contemplating.

  “Ghosts.” He pursed his lips in disapproval. “I deplore that characterization of a Heavenly resident dispatched to be of service.”

  I offered quickly, “We aren’t ghosts.” I tried to keep the hint of a query from my voice.

  He thumped a great fist on his desk and folders bounced. “Precisely. Never. Stories of apparitions and rattling chains foment the most inaccurate imaginings on earth. It is of foremost importance that you do not, in the pursuit of your duties, create situations that will further these mistaken beliefs.”

  “Oh.” I was fervent. “I would never do that.”

  “Subtlety is the key.” Wiggins appeared troubled.

  I wondered if he was remembering unfortunate episodes with previous emissaries or if he feared I might be lacking in that quality.

  “Subtlety, of course.” I was as world-weary and wise as Barbara Stanwyck. Turner Classic Movies had given me a whole new world to emulate. Actually, here in Heaven she’s quite approachable.

  The flush faded from his face. He nodded benignly. “I will take that as a solemn pledge.”

  I raised my right hand. If the man wanted a pledge, I was ready.

  “Very well. We won’t talk of ghosts.” His nose wrinkled in distaste.

  He glanced down at his papers, thumbed through a stack. “Oh yes. I should mention that we sometimes have missions that do not succeed. Not”—he spoke quickly to preclude any misunderstanding—“

  that we would ever characterize any volunteer as a failure. Oh, Heavens no. But”—and he clapped his hands together—“there is a foolproof means of achieving success.”

  My expectant look was a model of the pupil eager to hear the master’s declaration.

  “Adhere to the Precepts.” His nod was emphatic.

  I was fascinated by the quiver of his walrus mustache.

  “For example”—his look was stern—“there is an absolute stricture prohibiting casual contact with family members, such as your daughter, Dillon. We do not want the living preoccupied with the dead. It simply doesn’t do.”

  “Of course not.” I was righteously indignant. Besides, I felt quite close to Dil without making a special trip to earth. One of the lovely aspects of Heaven is that whenever anyone on earth thinks of you, you are there with them for that instant. Why, Dil had thought of me just this morning. She was driving too fast and clipped a hedge as she came around a curve. As her husband cringed, hearing the scrape on the fender, she’d grinned. “If it had been Mama, she would have leveled that bush. Hold on, Mike, we’re late.”

  I didn’t share this with Wiggins.

  “However, there will be a special familial aspect to your first visit. As for the other Precepts, I’ll give you this copy”—he unrolled the parchment and slid toward me a cream-colored sheet embossed with gold letters—“which you can study while we prepare the materials for your visit. The most important Precept—”

  I leaned forward, ready and alert. It looked as though I might make the grade. As for the Precepts, I was good at following rules.

  Well, usually . . .

  Except when I forgot.

  “—is this: You will be on the earth,” an emphatic pause, “not of the earth.”

  My, Wiggins certainly felt strongly about this rather simple concept. Where was the problem? I was quite sure I wouldn’t have any difficulty.

  . . . on the earth, not of the earth . . .

  Simplicity itself.

  Wiggins tone was solemn. “If, after studying and mastering the Precepts, you still feel that this is the right path for you, you can come back—”

  Just then, a staccato dot dot dot erupted from the telegraph sounder on his desk.

  Wiggins listened, quickly tapped a response.

  A rapid clack clack erupted.

  He pulled a pad of paper near, wrote furiously, his face creased in concern. The minute the message ended, he was on his feet, gesturing to me. “Bailey Ruth, there is no time to delay. You must be dispatched immediately.”

  He moved hurriedly to the ticket window, grabbed a ticket, found a stamp, slapped it to the cardboard slip. “Here.” He thrust the ticket at me, then yanked at a lever on the wall. “I’m dropping the signal arm on the pole outside. The Rescue Express will stop long enough for you to board. Quickly, now. You’ll have to make a run for it.”

  A rumble announced the train’s arrival. I glanced at my ticket, which had a corner nicked off, but I could read delaide, Oklahoma stamped in bright red. I jumped to my feet and raced toward the platform. The Rescue Express slid to a stop. A conductor leaned out to help me board.

  Suddenly heavy footsteps sounded behind me. Wiggins caught up, breathing fast. He thrust another ticket at me. “Your ticket’s torn. That will never do. Here’s a proper one.”

  Clutching my new and perfect ticket, I clasped a strong hand and swung aboard.

  A stentorian shout sounded from the platform. “The rector’s wife is in dire straits. Do your best for Kathleen Abbott.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Brrr. I hadn’t been cold in a long time. A gusting wind fluttered autumn leaves from a big maple and a sweet gum.

  Daylight was almost gone, though enough dusk remained to emphasize the stark shadows thrown by the evergreens that fringed one side of the yard. I was standing near a puddle, shivering and wishing for a nice warm coat . . . Oh. How nice. I smoothed the arm of a thick woolen jacket. It had been one of my favorites, red-and-black plaid.
I remembered it well.

  I looked at the back of a rambling two-story frame house with excited recognition. “Ohhh . . . ” My voice was soft. Wiggins could not have pleased me more. I’d been here many times. The sweeping backyard was one of the glories of the rectory. I’d enjoyed croquet and watermelon socials and volleyball games here, especially when we had that very athletic priest, Father Meadows. He had been quite hearty, with a penchant for mountain climbing, so he’d jumped at an invitation to lead a church in Colorado.

  A dim light shone above the back steps to the screened-in porch. I moved forward eagerly. I came around the old stone well and stopped, breathless and shocked. My heart pounded.

  Bulbous red eyes glowed in a huge rounded body with four great striped legs that arched to the ground. A moaning sound issued from the huge creature’s orange lips. A few feet away, a skeleton lounged in a lawn chair, bony hands holding a book, one leg folded over the other. A witch on a broomstick poked from the woodpile. Her dark cloak streamed in the wind.

  Gradually my gasping breaths eased. Obviously, it was near Halloween.

  The monstrous spider was eerily realistic. I hoped this wasn’t Wiggins’s idea of a joke. Was there really a Kathleen Abbott in dire straits or had some Halloween mischief gotten out of hand?

  I was uncertain whether to call out for Kathleen. Perhaps if I went inside, I’d find her. As I came nearer the rectory, I became aware of a dimly visible young woman standing rigidly on the back porch.

  I wafted through the door. Her frozen posture was understandable.

  She gazed down at a dead man lying on the worn wooden planks, a dead man with a small bullet wound in his left temple.

  “Oh my, oh my.” She wavered unsteadily on her feet, lifted a shaking hand to her lips. Frantically, she looked around. She stepped toward the back door, peered into the yard. She took another stumbling step forward. A series of unmistakable expressions flitted over her face—shock, apprehension, panic.

  If she hadn’t been terrified, she would have been pretty. Curly dark hair framed a long face with deep-set brown eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a generous mouth.

  I admired her cardigan, multicolored, with swaths of violet, purple, and blue in some kind of fuzzy material. Very attractive and the material was quite new to me, rather reminiscent of angora. She was trim in a black turtleneck and slim-fitting dark pants.

  “He’s dead!” Her voice was a whisper. “What am I going to do?”

  “Call the police.” I clapped my fingers to my mouth. I hadn’t intended to speak.

  “I can’t.” It was a moan. The moan turned into a strangled gasp.

  She looked wildly about. “Who’s there? Where are you?” Skirting the body, she hurried to the back door, flung it open, clattered down the steps. In an instant she returned to the porch, dashed to the rectory back door, yanked it open, seeking the source of the voice.

  I felt a pang of remorse, knowing I’d made a big mistake. Wiggins had worried that I might be impulsive. I supposed his worst fears were realized. But it had seemed natural to speak up. After all, the woman had her duty as a citizen. However, would I have been dispatched, especially in such a hurry, if the solution were as simple as picking up the phone and alerting the authorities?

  She struggled for breath and looked as though she might faint. I had to do something, though I was afraid one of the Precepts dealt with appropriate moments to actually be of the world. From Wiggins’s dour discourse about ghosts (Heaven forbid), I suspected he favored as few manifestations as possible. If I’d had time to study the Precepts, I’d’ve known the protocol. Since I wasn’t sure, I had to use my best judgment.

  I willed myself present.

  Kathleen tottered back, a hand pressed to her lips.

  “Don’t scream! I’m here to help.” I spoke gently but firmly as though to a frightened child. “You’re Kathleen Abbott, the rector’s wife?”

  Her yes was scarcely above a whisper.

  “I was sent because you’re in trouble.”

  “How did you know? Who are you?” Her voice wobbled.

  “That doesn’t matter now. It’s rather complicated to explain.” I glanced at the dead man. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I just found him. How could you possibly know I needed help?” She looked past me as if fearful others might arrive.

  “Where did you come from? You don’t belong in Adelaide.”

  I was indignant. “Of course I do! I grew up here, my dear, and I know where the bodies are buried.”

  She made a choking sound and took a step back.

  I waved my hand. “Simply in a manner of speaking. Now, I’ve arrived to lend you a hand. I gather you don’t wish to call the police?”

  “I can’t call the police.” Her voice was desperate. “I’ll be in terrible trouble if he’s found here.”

  I looked down at the body, a man in his forties who had likely been rather attractive when alive, thick brown hair, a trim mustache, regular features. “Why?”

  “Because—” She choked back a sob. “Oh, I don’t have time to explain. The women’s Thursday-night Bible study is here tonight.”

  She gestured frantically toward the backyard and the drive. “They’ll park there and come in this way. Any minute now somebody may drop in to bring a dessert or leave a note for Bill. Oh,” she moaned, “what am I going to do?”

  I understood. Parishioners consider the rectory to be an extension of their own living room. “That would be awkward.” I glanced outside. Mercifully, no one was approaching, but Kathleen was right.

  We might be joined at any moment.

  “Awkward?” Her voice rose in despair. “They’ll put me in jail.”

  “We can’t let that happen. Let’s move him.” I didn’t consider this to be a rash suggestion. My mission was to help Kathleen Abbott.

  Clearly, if the presence of a murdered man on the screened-in back porch of the rectory put her in jeopardy, he had to go.

  “Move him?” She stared at me in horror. “How? Where?”

  I pointed out the back door. “Outside, of course.” I looked at the body, wished the light were better. He was tallish, around six feet.

  In the dim glow from the porch light, one hand was oddly distinct.

  Manicured nails. Bobby Mac had no use for men with manicured nails. The dead man’s navy woolen sweater was expensive and so were his black loafers. Slacks of fine worsted wool. I frowned as I studied him. “He wasn’t killed here.”

  “He wasn’t?” Her gaze was suddenly sharp and suspicious. “How do you know?”

  I patted her arm, tried not to notice that she jumped at the touch.

  Was my hand cold? “You didn’t grow up in Adelaide.”

  She plunged fingers through her hair, tangling the curls. “This is crazy. First you say he wasn’t killed here, then you want to talk about where I grew up.” Her voice was rising. “That’s part of my problem here. Everybody knows I’m from Chicago and they say I’m nice but awfully worldly for a rector’s wife.”

  I understood. Episcopal Church Women (ECW) do have opinions and the vestry expects so much of a rector’s wife. “Chicago is lovely. Bobby Mac and I went to Wrigley every chance we got. Don’t worry about being from Chicago. But you don’t know anything about hunting. I’ve heard almost as many hunting stories as fish tales. I’m one Adelaide girl who knows about guns and”—I looked down, made a careful effort to phrase my sentence with delicacy—“people who’ve been shot.” A tracery of blood streaked from the crusted circular entry wound, but no blood or tissue surrounded his head. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Mr. . . .” I looked at her encouragingly.

  “Murdoch. Daryl Murdoch.” She spoke the name with concentrated loathing.

  “. . . Murdoch was shot somewhere else and brought here.”

  “Oh.” She looked startled. “You mean somebody brought him here?” Her voice wavered. “That’s dreadful. That means somebody knew I’d be in trouble if he was found here. S
omebody knows—”

  She broke off, apparently stricken by the enormity of the murderer’s knowledge.

  “First things first.” It was time to get to the matter at hand. “Is the toolshed still behind the weeping willow?”

  “Yes, but it’s locked, and the sexton keeps the keys.” Once again her gaze was suspicious. “How do you know about the toolshed?”

  “My dear”—and I spoke with a lilt—“there isn’t much I don’t know about St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church and the church property.”

  I’d been directress of the Altar Guild three times. “Back in a flash.” With that—and I suppose I should have prepared her for it but didn’t—I disappeared. I didn’t intend to startle her. I felt apologetic when I heard her gasp.

  I was too elated with my discovery of ghostly movement to spare time for Kathleen’s travail. I went from there—the back porch—to here—the shed—in an instant. I had no need to tramp through the backyard. How exciting! In the future I would think of a destination and a graceful zoom later, there I would be. And, of course, no door was a barrier to me.

  Inside the shed, I turned on the light and found the wheelbarrow.

  It was no problem to unlock the door from the inside. I wheeled out the barrow, turned off the light, but left the door ajar. I was glad for the golden glow of the porch light because it was truly dark now, the trees and bushes black shapes in the night.

  I trundled the barrow up the flagstone walk, frowning because the front wheel squealed like a banshee, not the happiest of sounds when planning to transport a body.

  I parked the barrow next to a ramp at the end of the porch. That was an addition since my days. How useful. When I once again stood by the body, I thought for a moment that Kathleen had left and then I saw a kneeling figure feverishly unrolling a tarp.

  “Excellent, Kathleen. Couldn’t be better.” We definitely needed a means of pulling him to the ramp.

  She rocked back on her heels. “I’ve lost my mind.” Her voice was ragged with despair. “That’s all there is to it. I’m delusional. I hear voices and no one’s here. I imagine this woman and I talk to her and then she disappears and now that hideous voice—”