by Carolyn Hart
I disappeared.
I didn’t move fast enough to evade Wiggins’s clipped order. “The chandelier.”
I sat on the chandelier and felt a bump as Wiggins joined me.
Below us, the chief grasped at air. His face creased in astonishment.
His big head jerked from one side to the other, his eyes seeking an answer. There was an empty circle where I’d stood and talked to Irene. Irene, eyes huge, trembled, still mouthing in a hoarse whisper, “. . . brew can’t get you . . .”
Cobb plunged nearer, glared down at her.
She gasped.
“Where is she?” he shouted over the music.
She looked back and forth. “Who?”
“That . . .” He swallowed, forced out the words. “That cop. That redheaded cop.”
“I don’t know.” Her tone was numb. “She was here and she went away.”
Cobb’s hands clenched. “There isn’t any place to go.”
The beat continued and the ghosties pranced. “. . . hey say, hey say, watch the ghosties flop . . .”
Irene blinked. “Maybe she went behind the cotton-candy machine.”
Cobb took a few steps, peered behind the churning froth of pink sugar. Impatiently, he strode back. “What did she talk to you about?”
“I told her I didn’t know anything about anything.” Irene’s voice rose. “She threatened me, said she’d take me to the police station, and here I am, trying to help out at the church.” Her voice wavered in a sob. “I told her I was busy and couldn’t talk now.”
Cobb made a growl of frustration in his throat. “That woman’s going to jail just as soon as I get my hands on her. Impersonating a police officer is a serious crime.”
“Impersonating . . .” Irene had her goldfish look, eyes huge, mouth open.
“If she comes around again, call us.” Cobb frowned. “Who are you, ma’am?”
Irene murmured, “Chatham. Irene Chatham.”
His question came hard and fast. “Are you the one Daryl Murdoch accused of stealing from the collection plate?”
She grasped at her throat, eyes bulging. “That was a mistake. Absolutely a mistake. I just needed to make change. There’s not a word of truth to it.” Her lips folded in a tight line.
He was unimpressed. “When did the incident occur?”
Her face was mulish. “There was no incident.”
Cobb’s eyes narrowed. “Did Murdoch take his accusation to Father Abbott?”
She stared at him wide-eyed. “I wouldn’t have any knowledge about conversations between Mr. Murdoch and Father Bill.”
“That’s not an answer.” His look was scathing. “Are you the one Abbott’s protecting?”
Her hands clenched. “Ask Father Abbott.”
I was furious. She knew Father Bill would protect her.
Cobb stared at Irene. “Did that redheaded woman ask you about stealing?”
Irene’s eyes flickered away. “I didn’t understand what she wanted, but she was unpleasant. Now you say she’s a fake. The police department shouldn’t let people go around pretending they are officers and acting rudely.”
His face was grim. “I’ll be back in touch, Mrs. Chatham.” He turned on his heel, began a slow, measured survey of the hall.
I wasn’t done with Irene Chatham. She might think she’d seen the last of me, but she hadn’t. We’d have a tête-à-tête she wouldn’t forget as soon as she left the parish hall. If, of course, I managed to elude Wiggins.
Now the rumble was deep and full-throated. “Bailey Ruth, I’ve reached the end of my patience. The Rescue Express is en route. You will board shortly.”
I held tight to the rim. “No.”
“No?” He was dumbfounded.
Was I the first emissary to mutiny? Was Purgatory my destination?
I took a deep breath, tried to keep my voice steady. “I’ve not finished my job. And I have to say”—I felt the sting of tears down my cheeks and my voice wobbled—“I’ve never had anyone treat me this way. Give me a chance, Wiggins. Leave me alone. Stop looking over my shoulder every minute. I can handle everything by myself.”
“Oh.” He sounded chagrined, a kindhearted man daunted by the sniffles that indicate tears. “Possibly I have been too much here. After all, it’s your responsibility. Very well. Do your best.” He didn’t sound as if he had the faintest hope that I would manage with any success.
The chandelier swung.
I wiped my cheeks and felt liberated. No more Wiggins looking over my shoulder, frowning and grumping and harrumphing. I would be in charge. I would do very well by myself, thank you very much.
A drumroll sounded, da-dum, da-da, da-dum, da-da, da-dum. A trumpet blew. Lights blinked on and off.
At the base of the steps to the small stage, Marie Antoinette was impatiently adjusting a white-gold wig. A pirate—oh, it was Bayroo!—waved a sword aloft in time with the drums. She looked eager, excited, and, to Auntie Grand, absolutely lovely, Titian hair gleaming, fine features alive with delight. A sandy-haired boy in a blue pullover sweater and faded jeans grinned at her. Freckles splashed his angular face. He gave a thumbs-up. A towheaded Robin Hood thudded up the steps.
Father Bill joined Robin Hood on the stage. For once, Father Bill didn’t look pressed or weary. His smile was bright and glad and proud.
From the audience, a peasant girl yelled, “Go, Jeffie.”
Robin Hood flapped a big hand. He went to the mike, thunked it. “Sound on?” His voice reverberated. “Welcome to St. Mildred’s annual Spook Bash.”
The drummer pounded in a frenzy. Cheers rose.
Robin Hood grinned. “Thanks for coming and supporting the youth group outreach to Adelaide. I’m Jeff Jameson, youth group senior high president. We’ll begin our program with a prayer from Father Bill.”
Father Bill shook Jeff’s hand, then took the mike. He bowed his head and prayed in thanksgiving for the youth group and their hard work to raise money for the food pantry. Before he handed the mike back to Jeff, Father Bill grinned at the revelers. “How about a cheer for the youth group?”
The roar from the audience was almost equal to the welcome given to Adelaide’s Bobcats when they took the field on a Friday night.
Jeff took the mike. “Thanks, everyone. We’ve worked hard, but it’s been so much fun and now we have a wonderful turnout, so all the effort was worthwhile. This year’s Bash offers more fun and prizes and scary thrills than ever before. Most amazingly, we have a very special guest who’s come to help us make this the best Spook Bash ever. Everybody please welcome Travis Calhoun.”
The lanky boy in jeans reached the platform, one hand held high in greeting.
Girls squealed and hugged one another. It reminded me of the bobby-soxer days when teenage girls swooned over Frank Sinatra.
Robin Hood gestured toward the trestle tables laden with pumpkins.
“Travis has agreed to judge the painted-pumpkin faces and present the awards. He’s in Adelaide to visit his aunt and there’s a special story behind his appearance here. Lucinda Wilkie, middle school president, wants to tell us how she and Bayroo Abbott met Travis and invited him to join our party. Come on up, Lucinda.” He clapped. “And Bayroo.”
Marie Antoinette bustled onstage. Bayroo followed, but she looked surprised. She glanced from Robin Hood to Marie, a frown tugging at her face.
Marie Antoinette righted her wig, pushed her glasses higher on her nose, and stepped to the mike. “Everybody in the world knows Travis Calhoun—”
Lucinda was guilty of exaggeration. I’d never heard his name until she and Bayroo arrived on the rectory porch Thursday evening. Of course I had to remember that I was in the world, not of the world.
“—who stars in Show Me the Way, Emmy Award–winning TV series now in its third season. Travis has the lead in a feature film, Gotcha Covered, to be released in November. He plays the role of a teenager who has to turn detective when his mom, a bank president, is kidnapped during a holdup. He’s h
ere this afternoon to spend time with us and we want to thank Bayroo Abbott, who made this possible. Bayroo heard at Safeway that Travis was in town to visit his aunt and she wanted him to know we’d love to have him at the Spook Bash. His aunt lives across from the entrance to the nature preserve.”
Lucinda pointed vaguely to her right. “Anyway, it was Thursday and just getting dark and kind of a spooky night.” She leaned close to the mike. Her wig tilted. She pushed it upright. “We decided we’d wait at each end of the block so we’d know when Travis got home and then we’d go up and introduce ourselves. There’s a busy parking lot next to the house and Bayroo wasn’t sure she’d see him because of cars coming in and out. She realized she’d have a better look at the house if she waited in the nature preserve.”
Bayroo reached out, tugged at Lucinda’s puffy sleeve.
Lucinda shook her off, increased her volume. “Bayroo’s trying to hush me. Her folks told us never to go in the preserve by ourselves and of course we don’t, but this was a special exception for a very good cause and it’s brought more people here today than ever before and that means we are raising more money for the Adelaide food pantry for the homeless. But”—her tone was breathless—“Bayroo had a really scary time. She heard leaves crackling and somebody was walking through the woods not too far from her and she just about had a heart attack. She hunkered down behind the stone pillar at the entrance. A little later, she heard sounds again and she was really glad when she saw Travis getting out of the car and she dashed across the street and said hello and said we all think he’s swell and we’d like to make Adelaide fun for him while he was here and he was so nice and he invited us in and we met his aunt and we told him about the Bash and here he is. Travis Calhoun!” She held out the mike.
He moved with the ease of a seasoned performer, flashed a goodhumored smile. He gestured for Bayroo to join him. “Sounds like you could star in a Nancy Drew film.”
Bayroo’s face was as red as her hair. She glanced uneasily around the hall. “It didn’t amount to anything. Lucinda’s making up a good Halloween story.”
Travis held the mike down to pick up the sound of his shoes as he stealthily slid them on the flooring, lifted it again. “Footsteps of doom.” His voice was sepulchral. He intoned, “Bayroo Abbott, what frightful denizens of darkness dwell within the haunted preserve?”
Bayroo looked uncomfortable. “Honestly, we never go in the preserve alone.”
I suspected she was hoping to avoid searching questions from Kathleen and Father Bill.
She managed a bright smile. “Sure, it was scary, but as soon as I saw the car, I knew everything was all right. Anyway, nobody cares about that. Everybody wants to know who the winners are.” She picked up a burlap sack. “We have them right here.” She handed an embossed diploma-size sheet to Travis.
Travis held it up in the air for all to see. “Neat, isn’t it? Everybody who painted a pumpkin face gets one. You know, that’s nice.” He was suddenly serious. “It gets pretty old to see kids try their hearts out and not get any notice. I’d like to congratulate the Pumpkin Patch committee for making everybody a winner.” He looked at Bayroo.
“And for making me feel like a winner here in Adelaide, where I didn’t know a soul, and now I feel like I belong.” He swung back to the audience. “You know what Bayroo did?” He waved to encourage the audience’s questions.
“Hey, what?” “Did she scare up a ghost in the preserve?” “Bet she gave you a Bobcat T-shirt.”
Travis shook his head. “I’d like to have a T-shirt. But this was even better. She baked me a birthday cake, my favorite, white with chocolate icing, and she brought it over and gave it to me this morning and I’ve already eaten half of it. It’s the first homemade birthday cake I’ve ever had.”
Oh, that dear boy. Living in a mansion may be fine and fun.
Living in a loving family is better than a mansion any day.
“So”—he turned his hands up—“when she asked if I’d mind judging the contest, I said sure. I had a blast looking at the pumpkin faces. All of them were great. We have prizes for everything from the meanest face to the sweetest, the scariest to the friendliest, the happiest to the grumpiest. As your name is called, please pick up your pumpkin and bring it to the stage to receive your award. Our first award goes to Emily Howie for . . .”
A sweet-faced little girl carried a dainty pumpkin toward the stage.
Travis continued to call out prizewinners. Bayroo slipped down the steps, looking relieved to be out of the spotlight.
I surveyed the hall, spotted Chief Cobb in the doorway, face somber, eyes still scanning the crowd. While I’d watched the presentation on the stage, the hip-hoppers had disbanded. Irene Chatham was nowhere to be seen.
I zoomed back and forth, seeking Irene. Kathleen was working fast at the cash desk for the collectibles. Father Bill stood in an alcove, arms folded, head bent, as he listened to a sharp-featured woman who gazed up at him searchingly. Walter Carey, his face gentle, knelt to listen as a dark-haired elf whispered in his ear. Isaac Franklin helped an old lady with a cane as she tapped toward the bake sale.
I found Irene in a far corner that had been turned into a temporary old-fashioned diner. She sat at a table with several other women, sipping a Coke, listening intently.
I swooped down, caught fragments of conversation: “They say Father Bill’s had to talk to the police several times. Why do you suppose?” The plump woman’s bright brown eyes darted about the parish hall.
A lean blonde with a horsey face was adamant. “There’s nothing to it. Apparently Father Bill happened to be in his office around the time Daryl was killed.”
“What was Daryl doing”—the voice was freighted with innuendo—“
in the cemetery?”
The blonde smothered a giggle. “Maybe Judith faked a call from his current mistress, hid behind a tombstone, and blew him away. That’s what I would have done. I can’t imagine why she’s . . .”
I retreated to the nearest chandelier, intent upon keeping Irene in view. It was a relief to know the general populace had no inkling that Kathleen and Father Bill were high on Chief Cobb’s suspect list. I was sure the women below had heard everything generally known in Adelaide about Daryl’s murder and the investigation. But Kathleen and Bill faced more and harder scrutiny from Chief Cobb.
I’d tried to deflect the chief with the block-letter note implicating Irene. I felt sure he’d follow up on that inquiry, but Irene’s bland response and refusal to admit to wrongdoing would likely protect her.
I had to find a way to inform the chief what I now knew for fact.
Irene had been aware that Daryl was going to the church and she’d sped recklessly from her driveway at shortly before five o’clock.
What were the odds she’d driven straight to the church? I felt it in my bones. When I had bones. But . . .
I stared down. Irene listened, her gaze darting from face to face.
She looked complacent. There was no trace of her earlier panic when I’d confronted her. She nibbled at a Baby Ruth. No one ever appeared less murderous. She’d removed her hip-hop sheet. Her green print dress had seen better days, as had her limp brown cardigan. She was frowsy, down-at-heels, possibly sinking into marginal poverty. But murderous?
A desperate creature can be driven to desperate measures.
I wondered if Chief Cobb understood the enormity of her situation.
She had to have money to fund her gambling. Daryl threatened what had likely been a steady source of cash. Perhaps even worse, he threatened her respectability, Irene Chatham, member of the Altar Guild, churchwoman in good standing.
Men have surely been killed for less.
Irene licked a dangling bit of chocolate and peanut from one finger.
Had this woman stood in the flower bed Wednesday evening peering into Daryl’s cabin? Had she seen Kathleen fling the red nightgown into the fire and coolly plotted a murder on the rectory back porch? Had she met Daryl a
t the church Thursday evening and marched him to his date with death? Had she called the Crime Stoppers line and said the murder weapon was on the back porch? On Friday, had she called again to describe the red nightgown? Were her stubborn denials of theft the product of lucky stupidity or cunning dissembling?
Irene? I moved impatiently. The chandelier began to swing. I oozed away.
The horsey woman glanced up. “The chandelier—”
I put out a hand, stopped it.
She blinked, shook her head.
The dark-eyed woman said slowly, “It looked like someone gave it a push, then reached out and stopped it. Some spooky things have been happening around the church. That chandelier shouldn’t have moved. And did you hear about the cell phone Virginia Merritt saw up in the air Thursday night in the church parking lot?”
“Thursday night! That’s when Daryl was shot in the cemetery. I heard his cell phone’s missing. Do you suppose . . .”
The women hunched nearer the table, talking fast.
I repaired to the chandelier. I hoped the church wasn’t in serious danger of achieving a reputation as a haunted place. However, a ghost has to do what a ghost has to do. Despite my ups and downs, I’d accomplished quite a bit. I knew more than anyone about Daryl Murdoch’s murder, yet I couldn’t name the murderer. Chief Cobb may have learned some facts to which I wasn’t privy, but not many, and surely I knew everything that mattered.
I knew Kathleen and Father Bill were innocent.
I knew the true suspects and their motives: Judith Murdoch. She’d set out to confront her husband over his latest mistress. Had she really turned away at the church?
Kirby Murdoch. He was estranged from his father because of Lily Mendoza and furious about her job loss. His .22 pistol had been shot that day. During target practice, he said. When he saw his mother’s car, had he turned away, driven to Lily’s? Wouldn’t he have been more likely to follow? Perhaps his mother had ended up at the church to confront Daryl. Or perhaps Judith turned away but Kirby followed his father.
Irene Chatham. Daryl was threatening to expose her as a thief.
Cynthia Brown. Was her near suicide the product of despair? Or guilt?
