Ghost to the Rescue Read online

  Face grim, he walked back to the bar, slid onto a stool. A woman shyly approached, spoke to him. He shook his head, rudely turned his back to her. Her face flushed.

  So much for my hope for a tête-à-tête with either Jay’s agent or his editor.

  The noise was increasing. As was said long ago in a very different context: Loose lips sink ships. Maybe I could find out enough to capsize Jay Knox. But I needed entrée. . . .

  I looked around the crowded area. From Deirdre’s description, I easily spotted the chair of the department. Dr. Randall was bigger than I’d imagined, likely six foot one or two, heavy shouldered and stocky, which made him a giant in the gathering. I wondered if writers ran smaller than average. White head slightly inclined, he listened with a patient smile to a bony woman with flying hands. Silver bracelets jangled on one arm. I could hear their tinkle even above the roar of conversation and hoots of laughter.

  I made a quick decision.

  In an instant, I was in the ladies’ room. I stepped into a stall and appeared. It wasn’t my intent to show up the dowdiness of the attendees. Certainly not. But in my new role, I needed to be comfortable and, for me, comfort begins with appearance. I stepped out of the stall and appraised myself in the mirrors over the washbasins. Truly lovely: a classic thin-weave jacket with flared lapels and matching tank in pale jade with white straight-leg pants and white woven leather sandals. I felt complete as a bronze link long-loop necklace with a medallion of St. Jude appeared. I took only a moment to fluff my hair.

  I pushed through the door into the powder room.

  An older woman seated on a leather bench turned a startled face toward me. She looked and her eyes began to resemble pop-outs. She held a lipstick in one hand that remained frozen in the air.

  Obviously, she had been in the restroom area and been certain no one was there.

  I am rarely at a loss for words.

  “I don’t . . .” she began slowly.

  I flashed a friendly smile. “I didn’t see you when I came in. I must have been thinking about something else. And you looked quite deep in thought. Plot lines coming together?”

  Her relief was endearing. “I guess. . . . Yes. I have a problem in chapter six.”

  I was at the door. “If all else fails, your heroine walks into her room/office/garage and lying on top of a bench are three small brown parcels.” The door sighed shut behind me.

  I walked fast. I wanted to catch Dr. Randall. He wouldn’t share any negative information about Jay Knox. It would not be to Randall’s advantage to admit any clouds loomed on the academic horizon. But I needed to speak to Randall first to carry out my plan. I also walked fast because Wiggins surely wouldn’t approach me in the middle of a crowded bar—

  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  I stopped, looked around. My heart sank. No one was near me. Despite the hubbub, I heard a growl in my ear. “Front drive. The magnolia tree.”

  “Wiggins, let’s visit later.” I couldn’t see him, of course. I looked up and about, generally spoke as though addressing a small platform a few inches above my head. “You know I treasure our talks.” Was that laying it on too thick? But as Mama always said, “You can never tell a man often enough how wonderful he is.” Mama also always told us kids that a positive attitude turned a detour into a new adventure. “I’m making excellent progress.”

  “Progress? A glass rising in the air, the contents splashed?” In his outrage, Wiggins’s volume increased as he spoke. “That woman in the powder room?”

  I was a bit surprised Wiggins had ventured into a powder room. “Isn’t the décor lovely?”

  “Bailey Ruth, can you give me one good reason why—”

  I heard the clack of wheels, the distant whoo of the Rescue Express.

  “—you shouldn’t be on board?”

  “Because . . .” I felt rather desperate, then said in rush, “you are much too kind and wonderful to abandon Deirdre. She’s desperate for inspiration. I’m sure the minute I solve Deirdre’s job problem, why—whoosh—she’ll be able to write again, and perhaps I can help with the job—”

  The sound of the whistle was fading, the clack of wheels on the rails farther away. Wiggins was no longer near.

  I gave a huge sigh of relief.

  I became aware that the Woman in the Powder Room stood riveted only a foot or so away. She said shyly, “I’ll bet you’re working out a scene, aren’t you? I use different voices for different characters, too.”

  That explained Wiggins’s departure. I gave a cheery laugh. “Exactly. I say dialogue aloud to make sure I have the right cadence. Now I know I’m on the right track.” The latter in case Wiggins was lurking. “How is chapter six?”

  “I’m hurrying right up to my room. I can’t wait to get to my laptop. I can see it now”—her eyes had a faraway look—“Sanduska—that’s my main character—has been to the dentist and when she gets back to her office, do you know what’s sitting in her chair?”

  “Three brown paper—”

  She dismissed brown paper packages with a wave of one hand. “A triangle, a square, and a hexagon! Isn’t that cool?”

  My late geometry teacher would be thrilled, but I failed to see the attraction to readers. The Woman in the Powder Room had already turned away, muttering to herself. “The triangle’s purple, the square . . .”

  My gaze skittered about me. No one appeared to have noticed anything unusual. I took that as a good omen. I turned and headed straight, or as straight as one can maneuver through a crowded bar area, for Dr. Randall. A ceiling spot illuminated his dramatic bush of white hair. His florid face might be a trifle redder than usual, likely hypertension, but he held what I guessed to be a glass of seltzer and his pale blue eyes were bright and observant and quite sober.

  The bony woman, iron gray hair, tortoiseshell glasses, a baggy black sateen blouse, jeans, and high-top tennis shoes (I repressed a shudder), was still planted solidly in front of him, her face poked forward, her voice didactic. “. . . and then my character—the lawyer, not the minister—goes around the corner and there’s an explosion. He’s knocked against the wall. Through the smoke, he sees a gazelle.” She paused, eyed him with intensity.

  “A gazelle. How remarkable. Definitely high tension.” Randall lifted his arm, looked down at his wristwatch, clearly a man planning to slip-slide away.

  I spoke briskly. “Dr. Randall, I’m glad I found you.”

  If ever a man welcomed Heavenly intervention, it was the besieged academic. He welcomed me heartily. “Oh yes. Very good to see you.”

  I managed to slide a shoulder in front of the writer while giving her an appreciative smile. “So sorry to interrupt, but I’m a few minutes late for my meeting with Dr. Randall.” I sounded very official.

  “Oh.” She looked deflated, started to turn, paused. “Perhaps tomorrow I can finish telling you about my book.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said firmly, “will be a very full day. I doubt you’ll have a moment between sessions.”

  She moved away, gray head poking this way and that, likely in search of another audience to regale.

  I nodded toward the archway, which was framed by potted palms. “Perhaps we might step over by that palm”—it was a highly visible location where we could easily be observed by anyone in the bar. I wanted to underline my standing with Dr. Randall—“and I’ll explain?”

  He shot me a wary look.

  “I’m very interested in the work of your wonderful department.” Obviously he feared I might also have a plot and the staying power of a limpet. But I can appear almost angelic (not wishing to presume, but it is what it is) when necessary. Once when the car (yes, I was driving) went forward into the garage door instead of backward to the street, I exclaimed, “Now that’s a surprise!” and beamed at Bobby Mac. He laughed, and said, “How can you look so innocent? ‘Me, drive the car into the gar
age? Can’t believe you’d even think that! Hey, must have been two other guys.’” Of course, it helps to have a husband with a sense of humor.

  I turned and Dr. Randall followed. I stopped beneath a ceiling spot and spoke briskly. “I’m Judy Hope. From Rabbit’s Foot.” I wasn’t surprised that he looked blank. “We’re a new online magazine set to launch next month. Everything’s under wraps until we come out with a big announcement next week. We’re based in Austin. Top secret.”

  “Rabbit’s Foot?” He was trying to wrap his mind around it.

  “For luck, you know. Everybody needs a rabbit’s foot, especially if they Want to Be in the Know.” I can speak in caps with a flourish. “We’re launching with a big article on unlocking the world of writers. Your conference has a great reputation. I intend to do an in-depth interview tomorrow with Jay Knox.” If that sounded as though I’d spoken to Jay and the interview was set, everyone must interpret what they hear as best they can. “Tonight I’m rounding up personal views of him. Perhaps you can point me to some people here who know him well.”

  Randall’s light blue eyes gleamed with interest. Free positive publicity charms most college administrators. He launched into a detailed description of the English Department and the creative writing section. I was attentive and admiring. He was expansive by the time he pointed out possible sources for me.

  As he spoke, I studied them.

  Maureen Matthews, Jay Knox’s second in command, according to Randall, was a fortyish brunette with a haggard beauty, high cheekbones, a beautifully sculpted jawline. She wasn’t engaged in conversation, but instead lingered at the edge of a group, apparently listening.

  Liz Baker, a recent graduate, sat at a small table half-hidden in the shadow of a rubber tree. She appeared tense and wary, hands folded into tight fists. Occasionally, she flicked an uncertain glance at her companion. He was young, too, sandy-haired, slender, sullen. He held an almost empty glass in one hand, stared at it. On happier days, Liz Baker would have had a delicate charm, with her thin face and fine features framed by dark brown hair. Her clothes were inexpensive and simple but attractive, a sleeveless white cotton shirtdress with scalloped edges and white sandals, a welcome change from the sea of black on the older women.

  Harry Toomey, Deirdre’s competition for the faculty job, leaned back in an overstuffed chair. He looked expansive and slightly drunk. Lank brown hair straggled on each side of a moon face with a wispy mustache. He was forty pounds overweight, much of it bulging against a tight pea green polo.

  “. . . and that’s Jay’s agent, Cliff Granger, fourth from the end of the bar. I don’t see Jay’s editor, Jessica Forbes, but I’m sure you can find her tomorrow.”

  “I definitely will.” I started to turn away, then said brightly, “Oh, by the way, I’ll do a special inset about the new creative writing teacher. I’ve asked around and everyone is thrilled. Deirdre Davenport’s a marvelous choice.”

  Randall looked startled, then pleased. He assumed I had learned Jay Knox’s choice by talking to him.

  I put a finger to my lips. “But hush-hush until tomorrow, right?”

  I hurried away. I’d made a start in positioning Deirdre as the de facto appointee. It wasn’t a trump card but it might play well when I confronted Jay Knox.

  I looked in turn at Maureen Matthews, Liz Baker, and Harry Toomey. Maureen didn’t look especially approachable, but she looked highly intelligent, skeptical, and observant.

  I chose Maureen.

  Chapter 3

  Maureen Matthews turned as I spoke to her. “Ms. Matthews, I’m Judy Hope. Dr. Randall suggested I speak to you.”

  She gazed at me politely, her violet eyes inquiring. She was taller than I, slender and lovely in a rose print linen dress with a bateau neck and a graceful midcalf length. She listened without comment as I described Rabbit’s Foot. “. . . and if I could visit with you for a moment, I’d be most grateful.”

  She smiled and nodded, a faculty member dutifully responding to what she saw as the department chair’s wish.

  We found a small table around the corner from the bar, quiet enough that we could speak comfortably, and ordered wine.

  “I suppose”—her tone was casual—“you only focus on the positive aspects of a program.”

  I lifted my chin, said firmly, “I report what I find, good and bad. Otherwise we would have no credibility.”

  She nodded and I thought I saw a flicker of a satisfied smile. “Yes, of course. That’s understandable. Goddard is extremely fortunate to have someone of Dr. Randall’s caliber. He is a superb . . .”

  I drew out a notepad from my purse, looked attentive, and made notes. Maureen was extremely positive, as would be expected in speaking of a superior, but I thought her admiration for the department chair was genuine.

  “. . . and he is always alert to creating a curriculum that addresses what students need to know. That means a great deal to students.” She nodded in approval. “Now, how can I help you?”

  There was quick intelligence in the depths of her violet eyes. More, there was sensibility and intuitiveness and perception.

  I chose my words carefully as I met her gaze. It was as if she drew in my words, arranged them, analyzed them, foresaw possibilities beyond my understanding. “. . . and if you could give me a sense of Jay Knox’s character?”

  “Jay’s character.” I heard a slight tremor in her low, soft voice, though her haggard face remained as it had been, quite lovely but clearly a faded beauty.

  “Jay is young. Perhaps you can gain a better picture of him from someone nearer in age.” She smoothed back a tendril of midnight dark hair. “I suggest you speak to one of our recent graduates.” She paused as if thinking, her glance roaming the area. “I see Liz Baker.” She nodded toward the small table a few feet from us.

  Liz now sat alone, misery evident in the droop of her narrow face. One hand turned a half-empty glass around and around.

  Maureen’s face was unreadable. “I believe Jay offered editorial help to Liz.” Maureen’s voice was uninflected. It was as if she wished to be clear that this was a casual suggestion, possibly helpful, possibly not. “You might talk to her, gain some knowledge about Jay’s work with hopeful authors.”

  “I’ll do that. I understand Jay heads up the creative writing section and you work for him.”

  The hollows deepened in her cheeks. “It would be more accurate to say we both work in the same area.” There was coolness in her tone.

  “Is he a good teacher?”

  She shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Jay and I teach our own classes. Students are in a better position to judge professors.”

  See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. She was not only intelligent, she was very, very careful. Yet I sensed an undercurrent of emotion. Did she like Jay, dislike him? Was I imagining this undercurrent?

  She gazed at wine that gleamed like gold in the glass. “Excellent Chablis.” As if as an afterthought, she said, “You might want to talk to Professor Lewis. Ashton Lewis. He has strong opinions about faculty standards.” Her voice again was uninflected. Again a flicker of a smile.

  She took a last sip of wine, put the glass on the table with finality. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Hope.”

  “One last thing,” I said hurriedly before she could rise. I offered a conspiratorial smile. “I’m sure you’re in the know about the new faculty member in creative writing.”

  Her lovely face was suddenly still and watchful. Obviously, she had no idea.

  I leaned closer, whispered. “Deirdre Davenport appears to be an excellent choice.” Would it matter to Jay Knox if he learned that the conference was burbling about Deirdre’s expected appointment? It couldn’t do any harm.

  Maureen’s response surprised me. She gave me a sudden, kind smile. “We will all be pleased to welcome Deirdre.” With that she rose, and murmured, “Good night.”r />
  I came to my feet and looked after her thoughtfully as she walked away.

  Maureen moved with grace, the long skirt of her linen dress emphasizing her slenderness.

  I puzzled over the fact that her response to Deirdre’s supposed selection surprised me. Why? Abruptly, I understood. Her quick, kind welcome for Deirdre was her only unscripted moment. Obviously, Deirdre posed no threat to her. She had no animus toward Deirdre. On the flip side of that understanding was a realization that Maureen had indeed spoken carefully to me and that she had intended to achieve a definite result. She wanted—

  A warm sweaty hand gripped my elbow. “Is it true?” The light tenor voice was slurred, the words thick.

  I looked into reddened brown eyes on a level with mine. Harry Toomey blinked rapidly. “I heard you talking to Maureen Matthews. Did Jay pick Deirdre?”

  Had Harry overheard our conversation? I looked past him to a row of ferns in a waist-high planter. If he heard, he must have followed us to this quiet area. He was well aware Maureen was second in command to Jay. I faced him. His eyes shifted away from my searching gaze. He knew he’d eavesdropped. He knew I knew. Was this habitual with him?

  “Actually,” I spoke with force, “there’s no official announcement—”

  “But you’re here to write things up.” He labored with the sentence. “Did Jay tell you—”

  “I haven’t spoken to Jay. I simply heard someone say that she would be announced, but we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.”

  Thin lashes fluttered over those red-veined eyes. He turned and walked to the little table where I’d sat with Maureen and slumped onto a chair.

  I followed, aghast at what I’d done. It was as if he’d grown smaller as I watched, round face sagging, eyes stricken, mouth slack, shoulders drooping.

  “Mr. Toomey.” I sat down opposite him.