by Carolyn Hart
I wanted to add “up and down” in a lilting voice, but as Mama often warned, “Smart alecks always get their comeuppance, Bailey Ruth.”
Indeed, I had covered a lot of ground. I swiftly reviewed the evening’s activities—making contact with Kathleen, moving the body to the cemetery, retrieving the cell phone. I’d packed quite a bit of action into a short period. I doubted Wiggins’s usual emissaries achieved this much this early. Perhaps he’d come to commend me.
“Wiggins.” I almost had my breathing under control. “How nice of you to come.” I wondered if it would be impolite to ask that in the future he somehow let me know of his presence before shouting my name. It would be even nicer, more comfortable, if we both appeared and I’d see him in his stiff cap and crisp white shirt and gray flannel trousers. That would be much jollier than voices unattached to bodies. Clearly, we would see each other if we were in Heaven, yet such was not the case on earth. That required becoming visible, not a state Wiggins viewed with favor. I supposed he’d located me by following the suspended cell phone.
There was a rumble. It sounded like distant thunder, then I realized Wiggins had cleared his throat.
“It is imperative that we speak.” His tone was heavy, dour as a high school principal discussing a panty raid with the chief raider. (A true-life experience for one Rob Raeburn many years ago. His daddy thought the entire episode was funny.)
I tried to lighten the moment. “Speaking with you is always a pleasure, Wiggins.” Was fudging the truth a misdemeanor or a felony at the Department of Good Intentions? “You‘ve caught me at a bad time. I’m working hard to extricate Kathleen from a truly difficult situation.”
“Bailey Ruth, there must be no more departures from the Precepts. I understand you are new at this, but rules are rules. Already”—he held up a hand, ticked off my offenses one by one—“you have encouraged the popular misconception about”—he shuddered, forced out the word—“ghosts by becoming visible. Moreover, you have attracted unwarranted attention at the mausoleum, pinched the police chief, stolen that contraption, and displayed it above the church parking lot. These incidents will combine”—horror lifted his voice—“to suggest the cemetery is haunted.”
Twigs crackled nearby.
I feared Wiggins was pacing.
A heavy sigh sounded. “You have done all of this in the space of less than two hours earthly time.”
“Oh.” I was not to be commended. “Kathleen’s not in jail.” My voice was small.
There was such a long silence I wondered if he had left. Then I thought—perhaps I dreamed it—I heard a faint chuckle.
“Well put.” His tone had warmed. “We do not subscribe to the belief that the ends justify the means, but I agree that so far you have executed your duties as capably as possible.”
I brightened.
Another sigh. “For you. There’s the difficulty. You may well not be suited to serve as an emissary—”
I interrupted swiftly or I suspect I might have been handed a return ticket on the Rescue Express. Did I smell coal smoke? “Trust me, Wiggins. I’ll be a model of subtlety from now on.”
Headlights swept over the sweet gum as a car turned into the rectory drive. Two more cars arrived. Doors banged. Loud cries of greeting ensued. There was the enthusiasm of friends gathering who had likely not seen one another for all of a day and a half.
Abruptly I realized I was alone below the sweet gum. Faintly I heard an admonitory order: “Follow the Precepts.” A pause, and fainter still, “Please.”
Oh, sweet Heaven. I was still here. I had another chance to do my best.
Wiggins would be proud of me. I could be subtle. Certainly I could.
The chattering group moved toward the rectory back door. I smiled. Adelaide’s church ladies hadn’t changed a whit since the days when I came for fellowship, bringing a plate of cookies or a casserole. I edged to the far side of the trunk, the phone well out of sight, and watched as seven—no, eight women surged onto the porch and into the house, chattering and laughing. Kathleen would be off-limits to me for an hour or so. After the lesson and discussion, there would be dessert and coffee.
Dessert . . . I was ravenous. I waited five minutes. No more cars arrived. I reached the door to the back porch and once again was reminded of my burdened state. There would be no slipping through the door without opening it. I reached for the handle, stopped, looked at the phone. It dangled inches from the entrance, its luminous window glowing sea green.
Despite my hunger, I knew my duty. It took only a moment to waft up to the roof. Once there, I squinted to see and struggled to keep from zooming into space. The night sky was a black pit without a hint of moonlight. The lights from the church lot afforded no illumination here. A fitful wind gusted out of the north, a harbinger of winter.
I moved close to the rooftop, up and over a peak to the central chimney. I tucked the phone next to the base of the chimney on the lee side. I was pleased. No one would find the phone there. The ring wouldn’t be heard over the rustle of branches and the keening of the wind. Now I go could inside.
I was in the kitchen when I heard a clatter at the back door. Bayroo’s high clear voice carried well. “Mom made some oatmeal cookies. We’ll have a snack, then go up and do our homework.”
I was back on the roof in a flash. Bayroo would see me at once and I certainly couldn’t have dinner while she and Lucinda were at the kitchen table. I sighed. I felt that I’d spent a good deal more time on the roof than Santa’s reindeer. Then I smiled. It wouldn’t take the girls long to eat their cookies and meanwhile I would explore my surroundings, set up a base camp. I wondered if the guest bedroom was available.
Indeed it was. I turned on the light, welcoming the warmth within. I clapped my hands in appreciation of the burl-walnut bed topped by a snowy chenille spread. Puffy pillows looked extremely comfortable. A cozy nook held matching Egyptian Revival chairs with Sphinx-head armrests. The Herter wardrobe glistened with inlays of mother-of-pearl. I suspected a church patron had provided the beautiful Victorian furnishings so appropriate for the rectory.
This was a perfect spot for me. I was tempted to become present, but perhaps I should remain as I was until I’d studied the Precepts.
My lips curved upward. I wondered if this interlude had been arranged by Wiggins to provide me with a moment to chart my future on, of course, the basis of the Precepts.
I settled into one of the easy chairs. Hmm. Not the most comfortable of resting places. I plucked a downy pillow from the bed, placed it on the seat, sank comfortably down, and unfurled the shining parchment scroll that appeared as I thought of it.
PRECEPTS FOR EARTHLY VISITATION
1. Avoid public notice.
2. No consorting with other departed spirits.
3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.
4. Become visible only when absolutely essential.
5. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.
6. Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.
7. Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, “Time will tell.”
I understood. What I knew wasn’t to be shared. Heavenly realities are confined to those in residence.
8. Remember always that you are on the earth, not . . .
“Got it.” Oops. I’d spoken aloud. I must remember that in my present situation silence was golden, always a difficult concept for me. And, I think, for most redheads.
It was deflating to realize, as Wiggins had pointed out, that I’d already broken four of the eight Precepts. I’d do better tomorrow. I patted a Sphinx head for emphasis.
A high squeal in the hallway heralded the arrival of Bayroo and Lucinda on the second floor. I refurled the parchment and, out of mind, it disappeared. Now I could have dinner.
I thought and, presto, I was in the kitchen. Perhaps someday Wiggins would explain the dynamics to me. I moved toward the stove and fe
lt bitter disappointment. No pot. Had Kathleen forgotten that she’d invited me to dinner? The cuckoo chimed the quarter hour.
Oh, it was almost nine o’clock. The engaging author of The Egg and I, Betty MacDonald, proclaimed that to dine at nine was divine. I was in fundamental disagreement. Seven is Heaven, but I would admit that delay had definitely enhanced my appetite.
A kitchen is a kitchen. In only a moment I had plucked the covered bowl from the refrigerator and poured a substantial portion of stew into a saucepan. It was a bit of trial and error, but I managed to turn on the stove top. Fortunately, the cornbread was still in the skillet.
I cut a generous wedge, added a chunk of butter. I carried a bowl of steaming stew and a small plate with cornbread to the table.
It is more cheerful to say grace with a full table, but I nodded my head and murmured a favorite . . . “Bless this food to my use and me to your service . . .” The first spoonful was grand. Kathleen was a good cook. The stew was savory and the cornbread a twin of Kitty’s recipe. In fact, I was certain it was Kitty’s recipe, with buttermilk and a dollop of bacon grease. I enjoyed every mouthful, though my thoughts swirled uneasily.
If murder had occurred on the rectory back porch, where was Kathleen at the time? I don’t have a good head for puzzles. In school the very words thought problem made my head throb and my hands sweaty. Moreover, it was a matter of supreme indifference to me how long it took someone rowing four miles an hour to go six miles upstream against a three-mile-an-hour current.
Unfortunately, what had happened and when and where to Daryl Murdoch was very near to being a thought problem. The examining doctor said Daryl had been dead for a couple of hours. I worked backward, trying to estimate times. When I’d first arrived to find Kathleen discovering the body, it was dark and blustery from the heavy clouds, but there was a glow on the horizon from the setting sun. Kathleen and I discussed the situation and I located the wheelbarrow.
That took at least fifteen minutes. I spooned a particularly delicious chunk of beef. I added another fifteen minutes to load him up and reach the mausoleum. How long had it taken for me to rout the boys and their crowbar? Five minutes, perhaps. I hadn’t remained long after they fled. Perhaps another five minutes. I arrived in the rectory kitchen at a quarter past seven. The times were approximate, but I figured that Kathleen found Daryl between six and six-thirty.
I was pleased with my calculations. Once I’d discovered what time he arrived at the rectory . . . Oh. That might be difficult. If he was shot on the porch, likely he was in the company of the murderer.
I doubted the murderer would cheerfully reveal times to me. If he was shot here—
The swinging door into the kitchen opened. As Kathleen stepped inside, she stopped, flat-footed. Her eyes widened. She executed an awkward turn to block the doorway. “Elise, I’ll see about the dishes. Listen, there’s a special gift I think we should present to Miriam.”
I listened with interest and scraped the last spoonful from my bowl. Kathleen sounded stressed. I was concerned for her. Tonight was not a good time for her to appear distraught. I would encourage her. Be of good cheer when others are near. Perhaps that could be her mantra. Everyone had had mantras in the sixties. Bobby Mac would stand at the top of the stairs and trumpet, “I am the tarpon man.” My mantra. I blushed. Perhaps that was better left to posterity.
A high sweet voice sounded puzzled. “Gift? I thought we were going to cut the cake.”
Cake? I looked around, saw a silver cake stand with a cover on the counter near the mixer. I wafted to it, lifted the lid. Burnt sugar, Kitty’s signature cake. I felt the same mixture of elation and delight I’d enjoyed as a girl when I received a new Nancy Drew. I resisted the impulse to edge just the tiniest taste of the delectable icing onto my finger.
“Upstairs.” Kathleen was gesturing wildly. “Please, Elise, go up to the sewing room. There’s—”
Silence stretched. I don’t want to claim that I am immediately empathetic. Yet I knew that poor dear Kathleen not only didn’t have a gift upstairs, but was frantically trying to think of some object for Elise to retrieve. I was at her side at once. I whispered into her ear.
“Pincushion.” The sewing room at the rectory always had a plethora of pincushions.
A jolt of electricity couldn’t have startled Kathleen more. She managed to convert a yelp into the cry, “Pincushion.”
Elise stood with one hand on the doorjamb. Tall and thin, she stared at Kathleen with puzzled dark eyes. “Pincushion?”
“Yes. The red one.” Kathleen managed a smile. It was strained, but it was a smile. “It will be perfect for Miriam. I hadn’t had a chance to wrap it. There are paper and ribbons in the bottom drawer of the chest in the closet. Please wrap it. I’ll take care of the cake and coffee and you can bring it in and we’ll present it to Miriam.”
Kathleen sounded frantic. Almost feverish. Perhaps I should remove my dishes from the table. It wouldn’t take a moment to wash up, put everything in order. I was surprised that a few dishes on the table upset her. There are women who must always have their kitchens in perfect order, especially when there are guests. I wouldn’t have thought Kathleen was that particular. I was at the sink when the kitchen door closed. Suddenly Kathleen was beside me. In fact, she bumped into me, recoiled, then grabbed the soup bowl, hissing, “You‘ve got to stop doing things like this.”
I relinquished the bowl. “My dear, you are under too much stress. I was simply cleaning up—”
”What if Elise looked toward the table and saw a piece of cornbread move through the air and disappear? What if she saw the bowl and plate flying across the kitchen all by themselves?” Kathleen shot a hunted glance toward the door. “What if she comes back and hears me talking to no one?” She moved closer to the sink, automatically rinsed my dishes and silverware.
Oh. How could I have forgotten? However, it is difficult to remember I’m not here when I am. “I’m sorry.” I must be more careful.
That reminded me of my perilous journey with the phone. “Kathleen, you’ll be pleased to know I was able to retrieve Daryl’s phone.”
Considering her present discomfiture, I thought it best not to mention that moment above the church parking lot.
“Where—”
The hall door swung in. Elise bustled toward the table, a tomatored pincushion shaped like a teapot in one hand, pink wrapping paper, scissors, and tape in the other. My tête-à-tête with Kathleen would have to wait.
Elise deftly wrapped the pincushion, chattering all the while.
“I thought tonight’s discussion of Saint Philip Neri was excellent. I agree with his insistence that rigorism keeps Heaven empty.”
When Elise fluttered paper, I used the crackling sound as cover and leaned near Kathleen to whisper, “We’ll talk in the morning. The phone’s safe for now.”
I wished my whispers didn’t have such a galvanizing effect on Kathleen. Her eyes flared, her mouth opened, her hands opened and closed spasmodically.
As she used the scissors to curl a strip of ribbon, Elise turned toward Kathleen. “And I love Saint Teresa’s—” Elise broke off, staring.
The scissors snapped shut, cutting the ribbon in half. “Are you all right?”
“Just”—Kathleen gulped for breath—“scalded my hand.”
“Cutting the cake?” Elise looked toward the cake stand with its cover in place.
“The cake knife.” Kathleen whirled and moved to a drawer.
Elise looked at the stack of plates on the corner of the counter.
The plates contained no cake. “Why did you put the knife up? You haven’t cut the cake yet.”
“It was so hot. The water, you know.” Kathleen yanked open a cutlery drawer, drew out a serrated knife.
Elise unwound another long strip of ribbon. “You’d better check the hot water heater. It’s extremely dangerous . . .”
I passed through the swinging door into the hall. Literally and with pleasure. It was such a bo
re to have to open and shut doors. I wanted to take a peek around the rectory before I slipped upstairs to my lovely guest room. My duties were done for the moment. Kathleen seemed to be safe. The police investigation was under way. In the morning, I would confer with Kathleen. For now, I was free to relax and consider my rather breathtaking day.
I was mindful that it behooved me to commit the Precepts to memory. Surely Wiggins understood that the opportunity for thoughtful consideration had so far eluded me due to circumstances utterly beyond my control. I pushed away the memory of his doleful voice. Hopefully, he had returned to the Department of Good Intentions.
Perhaps another gh—emissary might benefit from consultation.
I would redouble my efforts to remain unnoticed.
In the hallway, I gave a sigh of sheer delight. I might have been transported as an eight-year-old to my Grandmother Shaw’s stately home in Fort Worth. Since my time the rectory had been restored to its Victorian glory. An ornately carved walnut Renaissance Revival étagère held a collection of Bristol glass, three vases, a mortar and pestle, and a fan holder. A pink porcelain clock on a center shelf was gilded with bronze. The hallway was papered in Delft blue with a golden medallion pattern.
The flooring was now custom redwood, the entryway runner a fine Oriental in pale shades of rose and gold. One of the church patrons must have made possible the restoration of the rectory to Victorian glory. Clearly Kathleen and Father Bill wouldn’t have the funds.
I heard the chirp of women’s voices in the living room. I lingered by the étagère. I picked up one of the fans, flared it open. It reminded me of stories I’d heard from the era when my grandparents were young. Ah, those romantic days when a young woman might flick a wrist, flutter a fan, and send a seductive sidelong glance to a sideburned gentleman tipping a white straw hat.
I was caught up in my fancies when the front door rattled with a brusque knock. Quickly, mindful of Kathleen’s concerns in the kitchen, I replaced the fan and slipped to one side of the étagère as a patrician woman stepped through the archway from the living room into the hall. Short-cut silver hair glistened in the shower of light from the chandelier. She was tall and slender, with a confident carriage.
