Merry, Merry Ghost Page 2

  I would remember that carrying discrete objects while not in the flesh was equally unnerving to them.

  I would be particularly careful not to speak aloud when I wasn’t there.

  I wasn’t concerned about the Precept prohibiting consorting with another departed spirit. Whatever my mission, it couldn’t possibly involve a departed spirit. It would be easy to observe this stricture.

  However, I felt a qualm. Other of the Precepts could easily pose a challenge. The life of a spirit is fraught with opportunities to transgress—however unintentionally—the Precepts.

  I came back to the moment—perhaps I did have a penchant for Zen—to realize that Wiggins had been discoursing.

  “…though the decorations are up, and I will admit they are spectacular, the heart of Christmas left Pritchard House when Susan Flynn received word of her son’s death. So much sadness.”

  “Pritchard House?” I pictured a grand home high on Chickasaw Ridge. Only one house in Adelaide was redbrick with two huge bay windows on the first floor, half timbered and stuccoed and balconied in English Tudor with Gothic accents on the second story.

  Wiggins tapped my folder. “I assume you know the Pritchards.”

  “Everyone in Adelaide knows the Pritchards.” Growing up in Adelaide, I could count on these verities: My family loved me, the sun rose in the east, St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church was our spiritual home, the wind blew mostly from the south, and two families served as Adelaide’s small-town aristocracy, the Pritchards and the Humes.

  Paul Pritchard, cool-eyed and remote, came west from Boston in 1912 to establish Adelaide’s first bank. The Pritchards were formal, reserved, elegant, and supportive of the community, often hosting charity teas in their Chickasaw Ridge home. The Humes—ah well—the Humes were another story altogether, boisterous, sensation seeking, sometimes scandalous. Their drink of choice had a bit more punch than tea.

  “The Pritchards did everything perfectly.”

  Wiggins slowly shook his head. “Dear Bailey Ruth, don’t be blinded by worldly success and social position.”

  I flicked the fluffy ball on the tail of my Santa hat over my shoulder. Woe be to me if Wiggins decided I was naïve. I added hastily, “In their support of St. Mildred’s.” Paul and his wife Jane had been founding members of St. Mildred’s, and subsequent generations continued generous financial support to the church. “Hannah and Maurice Pritchard furnished the money for the chapel and cloister.” I’d been in awe of Hannah on earth, but here in Heaven she was in one of my book clubs and I thoroughly enjoyed her gentle wit.

  Wiggins’s smile was avuncular. “How appropriate that your first thought would be of St. Mildred’s. I commend you.”

  My face flamed. That is a redhead’s hazard, scarlet cheeks when attempting a fib.

  Fortunately Wiggins was looking at his folders. Again he appeared uneasy. “It’s worrisome that I am not certain of Keith’s arrival at Pritchard House. Yet I see no other purpose for the trip. The car appears to be en route to Adelaide. In any event, time is fleeting for Susan.”

  I blinked in surprise.

  Wiggins is perceptive. “In the natural order, we know when to expect new arrivals. Susan suffers from congestive heart failure but she isn’t due here until June 15. Yet”—his brow furrowed—“I am definitely worried. Call it a hunch.” His tone suggested the word was not one he commonly used. Possibly hunch wasn’t au courant until much after Wiggins’s time on earth. Could he have picked it up from an emissary? Indeed, he looked embarrassed at his suggestion and said defensively, “I’ve been doing this over the course of many years as understood in earthly time—”

  Time does not exist in Heaven, but I am no more able to explain this verity than to expound on Zen.

  “—and sometimes I have a feeling of impending danger, almost as if a darkening cloud is blotting out the sun. That’s why I think—”

  A frantic clack clack clack, sharp as Rudolph’s hooves on a Mission-style roof, erupted from the telegraph sounder on Wiggins’s desk.

  Wiggins quickly removed his stiff cap, clamped on a green eyeshade, and grabbed a sheet. He wrote furiously, murmuring, “Oh dear, what can this mean? Steps must be taken!”

  The clacking reached a peak, abruptly subsided.

  Wiggins tapped a response and came to his feet, all in one hurried motion. He gestured to me as he grabbed a bright red ticket from a slotted rack. “No time to stamp. Red signals emergency. The conductor will understand. I’ll pull down the signal arm for an unscheduled stop of the Rescue Express. Run, Bailey Ruth.”

  In an instant, I was racing toward the platform, ticket in hand, Wiggins pounding behind me. What a grand turn of events. I tried to hide my excitement. Wiggins would frown upon overt delight in being dispatched to earth. That might underscore his concern that I had, in my previous adven-mission, found it difficult to remember that emissaries are on the earth but not of the earth. This Precept evoked an emotional response from Wiggins, who deplored the possibility of an emissary reverting to earthly attitudes instead of exhibiting Heavenly virtues. This time would be different. I would most nobly remember at all times that I was on but not of. I would make Wiggins proud.

  Despite my effort to remain suitably grave—hard to do when running full tilt—I felt my lips curving in delight. I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, was once again ticketed for the Rescue Express. Watch my dust!

  As the train screeched to a stop and a porter reached out to pull me aboard, Wiggins looked unhappily at the folder he clutched. “…no time for you to study the reports…find out everything about those who surround Susan Flynn…won’t do for you to take the folder…existing matter would be a burden since of course this time you will not appear. I’m sure you won’t.”

  I thought his tone rather pitiful.

  “…shocking turn of events…I should have sent you sooner…such an unexpected act…protect that dear little boy…”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stars glowed against the vastness of space, witness to the majesty of the universe. A streak of red and a fading whistle signaled the departure of the Rescue Express. Close at hand, darkness pooled from huge evergreens. Icy wind chilled me to the bone. Had I had bones. I imagined a white turtleneck sweater, charcoal slacks, knee-high black boots, and a chinchilla coat and cap. I immediately felt warmer as well as stylish. A woman wants to look her best when embarking on a new adven-mission.

  As I zoomed around an evergreen, I gasped aloud, “Mercy me.” A cascading stream of emerald lights represented a waterfall. White lights outlined reindeer with front hooves lifted in a perpetual trot. Blue lights gleamed on a huge silver Christmas gift box with an iridescent red, blue, and green ribbon. A spotlight on the roof illuminated Santa’s sleigh, piled high with big boxes wrapped in gold and red and green foil paper. Second-floor balconies were peppermint bright with red-and-white-striped ribbons wrapped around the railings. Near the front porch, a golden light illuminated a crèche with life-size wooden figures and real straw.

  Long ago when Bobby Mac and I drove around Adelaide to show Rob and Dil the Christmas lights, strings of red bulbs outlined the roof and eaves of Pritchard House. We had thought the crimson bulbs glorious. But this magnificent display was beyond my experience. Faint strains rose in the frosty air. I suppose the music was somehow beamed from the house. I smiled and hummed along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

  I wished suddenly that I could be with Rob and Dil, but Wiggins was very firm about the Precept prohibiting contact with family members. As he explained it, the living must not be preoccupied with the dead, but I wished them the merriest of Christmases from Mom and Dad. Dear Rob and Dil, it wouldn’t do any harm for me simply to glimpse them for a moment on this crisp night in December.

  In an instant, I hovered over a pickup truck with the lights on and the tailgate down. Light glowed from the front porch of a comfortable old house. A sailboat trimmed with blue lights was on the front lawn.

  I knew them at once. C
arrying an awkwardly shaped bundle wrapped in a quilt, Rob was burly in a ski jacket but hatless. That boy never would cover his head. The sharp breeze stirred his thinning red hair now frosted with silver. Dil, always stylish, watched from a top step, clutching the lapels of her black-and-red plaid jacket.

  “Don’t bump him, Rob. The right front leg’s pretty wobbly.”

  Rob rested the bundle on its side in the bed of the pickup. “I’ll be careful. What would Christmas be without Rudolph? I’ll get him back to you in time for you to open gifts with your crew.”

  He secured the quilt, banged the tailgate shut, turned toward the house. “Remember how exciting it was when Mom and Dad pulled in the sleigh on Christmas Eve?”

  Dil’s silvery laughter rang out. “Dad was so loud. He always boomed. Oh Rob, they seem so near tonight.”

  I blew them each a kiss and carried the warmth of seeing them with me when I returned to Pritchard House.

  The decorated house and yard crowned a ridge. Rose shrubs divided steep steps that led up to a lawn and flagstone walk. Hannah Pritchard had been famed for her Archduke Charles shrubs. In summer, there were fragrant crimson blooms with pink centers which darkened to full crimson. Now the shrub was garlanded with pink, yellow, cherry, and orange bulbs in a triple strand.

  I looked past the gleaming lights at the house. Wiggins had dispatched me because he was worried about a little boy, but so far my arrival had been nothing but sheer Christmas pleasure, air with a hint of the Canadian north, amazing lights that beckoned the spirit to smile, music more warming than my chinchilla coat, the crèche with its promise of goodness evermore. Yet I felt uneasy. I had to find Keith. Was he inside the house?

  Headlights from a passing car swept across the unlighted front porch. A woman bundled in a heavy jacket knelt beside a child.

  At once I was beside them. I bent toward the little boy.

  The woman’s whisper was low and hurried. “I’m going to ring the bell, Keith. When the door opens, hand this”—paper crackled—“to whoever comes. I can’t be with you.”

  “Mütter?” His voice was uncertain, wavering.

  The woman drew her breath in sharply. “Mütter can’t be here. She’s thinking about you, Keith. Remember that. Every day she is thinking about you. She loves you and wants you to be safe. Remember how she told you about your daddy, how brave he was. You’re his boy. You’ll be fine. Here, stand right in front of the door.” The woman lifted him up, placed the boy close to the screen. “I’ll ring the bell and then I have to move the car.”

  She reached out, pressed the buzzer. From within came a faint peal. She pressed and the bell pealed again and again. For good measure, she lifted her arm and pounded. With a last look, sad yet hopeful, at Keith, she turned and hurried from the porch, running across the flagstones to the stairway. Flying steps clattered and she was lost in the shadows of the drive.

  I almost swooped after her. Yet I couldn’t leave a little boy by himself, waiting for the door to open. What if no one came? He was so small and so alone.

  A car motor sounded, an engine roared. Tires squealed as a car jackrabbited away.

  I jerked toward the street in time to see taillights disappear. I’d lost all chance of finding the car and talking to the woman.

  Wall sconces on either side of the door blazed, emphasizing the darkness beyond the Christmas display on the lawn.

  Keith blinked in the sudden harsh light. He was perhaps four, no more than five, a sturdy little boy with tow hair and a narrow face and eyes dark as ebony. He took a step back, bewildered and frightened. A dingy plaid suitcase was propped against the wrought-iron railing.

  I wanted to scoop him up, hold him in my arms. I called softly, “Keith, I’m here, honey. I’ll be with you.”

  He looked up. His eyes widened. He gave a tentative smile.

  I wasn’t here and yet he saw me. Children behold what adults rarely see. I smiled and bent to kiss the top of his head and was taken back a lifetime at the sweet scent of a little boy’s fresh hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll take your envelope inside where it’s warm. I’ll bet maybe we can get you some cookies.” What well-run home didn’t have Christmas cookies spattered with red and green sparkles? I ended in a whisper as the door opened.

  Bubbly. The young woman at the door was as bright and fresh as just-poured champagne. Curly brown hair, wide hazel eyes in a rounded kind face, lips that were made for laughter. The pleasant look on her face was replaced by puzzlement as she looked out. Her gaze was straight. She didn’t see the small stiff figure standing near the screen. “Hello?” Her voice was pleasant.

  Keith stood silent and afraid, still as a bent tree in a wintry landscape.

  I moved past him and tapped the screen.

  She looked down. “Hello there!” Astonishment lifted her voice. She looked around, seeking an adult. “Are you lost, honey?” Quickly, she opened the screen door and stepped outside. She scanned the paved terrace, seeking life and movement, someone to care for a small boy. “Hello?” she called out into the night.

  An owl hooted. A car drove past. Her call seemed to hang in the frosty night.

  Beyond the pool of light from the porch and the diffused colors of the Christmas lights, the shadows were deep and dark.

  She looked down at Keith, her expressive face troubled. Steps sounded behind her.

  “What are you doing out there, Peg? Come in and close the door. That air’s cold as a freezer.” A slim young woman in a creamy shaker-stitch silk sweater and black-and-white silk skirt reached the door and stopped in surprise. “Who’s the kid? What’s going on?”

  Keith tried to pull back. I kept a firm grip and whispered, “It will be all right.” I was banking on Peg.

  “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” Peg knelt in front of Keith. “Hi. I’m Peg. Is someone with you?” Her voice was soft and kind.

  “Lou.” His little boy voice was scarcely audible.

  Peg looked relieved. “Who is Lou?”

  “Mütter’s friend.” He watched Peg with uncertain eyes.

  The screen door opened and the slender young woman stepped outside. Impatiently, she brushed back a strand of straight dark hair. Silver bracelets jangled on her arm. She stared out at the Christmas lights and the dark shadows, empty of movement. “Do you suppose somebody’s dumped this kid here? Or maybe someone has car trouble and sent him up to the house. Anyway, we’d better call the police.”

  Keith pressed against me, and I squeezed his shoulder.

  “Wait a minute, Gina.” Peg turned back to Keith. “Where do you live?”

  He responded to the kindness in her voice. “Mütter said we didn’t have anywhere to live after Daddy died. Lou let us stay with them. But when Mütter didn’t come home, Lou said she had to bring me where I had family. She said I didn’t have anywhere else to go and she couldn’t keep me.”

  “Lou left you here? By yourself?” Peg’s voice rose in dismay.

  “I don’t know.” His high voice wobbled.

  Gina gestured toward the open door. “There’s no point in standing out here and freezing to death. Bring him inside and let’s call the police.”

  I bent close and whispered, “Give Peg the envelope.”

  He thrust out his arm, the manila envelope clutched in a red mitten. His tan corduroy jacket was too small and rode high on his wrist. He shivered from cold. The jacket was worn and thin. He should have a nice wool coat.

  Peg took the envelope. She glanced at dark printing on the outside and drew in a sharp breath. “Oh dear heaven.” Her voice shook. She looked up at Gina. “This says he’s Mitch’s son.”

  Gina looked as if the ground had rocked beneath her feet. She whirled, stared at Keith. “Mitch’s son?”

  Keith stood straight. “My daddy was Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn. My daddy was a hero.” His little boy voice was thin and high.

  I doubt Keith had any inkling of what “hero” meant. He was repeating what he’d been told.

/>   “Daddy saved his men. Daddy was hurt but he kept on going. Mütter said he was a hero and that’s why he couldn’t come home to us.”

  “Oh dear God.” Peg reached out and gently touched Keith’s face.

  Gina yanked the envelope from Peg and read aloud the inscription on the envelope. “I am Keith Flynn. My daddy was Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn.’ How could Mitch have a son and we didn’t know?”

  “We didn’t know Mitch was still alive until the Army told us he was dead.” Peg’s voice was ragged.

  I was startled. Peg’s words made no sense to me.

  Peg made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “How do we know Mitch hadn’t married? For that matter, if this is Mitch’s son, what difference does it make whether he was married. Let me have the envelope. It belongs to Keith.”

  Gina slowly handed the envelope to Peg. “This is some kind of scam.”

  “Maybe. But maybe not. Maybe this really is Mitch’s little boy.” Peg’s tone was hopeful, incredulous, joyful. She reached down for Keith’s mittened hand. “For now, Keith’s here and he’s cold and we’re going inside.”

  Keith looked up at me. His thin face was tired, and he looked on the verge of tears.

  I gave him a warm smile, turned a thumbs-up, gestured toward the house.

  Gina wrapped her arms tight across her front. “Who brought him here? Someone brought him. He didn’t get here on a broomstick. We have to call the police. He’s an abandoned child. It’s nonsense to say he’s Mitch’s son.”

  Peg ignored her and gently steered Keith into the warm and cheerful foyer. Gina followed with a frown.

  An ornate oak staircase led upward. Scarlet ribbons and frosted pinecones decorated a magnificent pine garland draped on the railing. The scent of fresh pine mingled with the yeasty smell of baking and the lemon of furniture polish. Vivid red poinsettias, their containers wrapped in silver or gold foil, were bunched on the landing. Clumps of mistletoe hung above the double doors to the right and the left in the main entrance hallway.

  As I recalled from long ago, the doors to the right opened into a dining room. The double doors to the left were partially open. Light streamed out into the hallway. Voices murmured. I’d attended many a Christmas tea for the Altar Guild in that ornate room with a low beamed ceiling, gilded Louis XVI furnishings, and a hand-carved green Italian marble fireplace.