Merry, Merry Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  Gina moved swiftly past Peg down the central hall, heading toward an oak door. Her silk skirt swirled as she walked.

  “Don’t call the police.” Peg’s voice was low but sharp. “I’m taking him upstairs.”

  Gina stopped and faced Peg. “Up to see Susan? That’s crazy. We don’t know anything about him.”

  Peg held up the envelope. “It’s written here. He’s Mitch’s son. Do you honestly think someone would drop a strange child on the front porch and make that claim? Everyone knows about DNA. No one would try to foist off a child as Mitch’s. There are tests that can be done and then we’ll know without a doubt. For now, if you think Susan will thank you for trying to turn away her grandson, a grandson she never knew about, even for a few minutes, you can think again.”

  Gina lifted her hands. “All right, maybe he’s for real. I don’t know and neither do you. But we do know how sick Susan is. Do you want to kill her?”

  Her round face uncertain for an instant, Peg drew in a sharp breath. “Joy never killed anyone.”

  They stood a foot apart on the Oriental runner in the center of the main hallway, Peg’s eyes determined, Gina’s sharp features resistant.

  One of the doors to the left squeaked as a plump woman in her fifties stepped into the hallway. “Girls, you’re missing the most fascinating description of Christmas in Lapland. Did you know Santa lives on a fell called Big Ear? Harrison knows so many things.” Her voice was cheerful and only slightly tongue-in-cheek.

  With a sidelong glance, Peg moved a little to her left, shielding Keith from the woman’s line of vision. Peg managed a bright smile. “Please tell Harrison we’ll be there in a minute. I’m sure he has much more to say. I’m going to run up and see Susan for a minute. A message came for her. Gina and I will see to it and be down in a little while. Susan may want to talk to us.”

  “Tell Susan we are all thinking about her. It isn’t the same not to have her downstairs with us. I think this is the first time she’s missed Harrison’s birthday celebration. She must not be feeling well. Don’t stay too long and tire her.” With a quick smile, she turned away. Before the door closed, her high dithery voice could be heard. “The girls will be back in a few minutes.” The door squeaked shut.

  Gina jerked her head toward the closed living room door. “You had your chance to tell Jake. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  Jake. It was an interesting name. I wondered if the name reflected a wish to be different or a streak of boyishness not evident in the heavyset blonde’s matronly appearance.

  Peg looked both uneasy and defiant. “I don’t want to bother her.”

  Gina’s grin was malicious. “She’ll have a fit when she finds out, cuz. Your mom fancies herself queen of the hive in this house.”

  Peg’s hands clenched. “Mother will understand. Besides, this is Susan’s house. We have no right to keep Keith’s arrival from her.”

  Gina shrugged. “What if this is a hoax? If he’s truly Mitch’s son, why would he arrive like this?”

  Keith pressed against me. Gina’s words held little meaning for him, but he saw her frowning face. Tears glistened in his dark eyes.

  I bent down and whispered, “Let’s go upstairs, Keith.” I realized I no longer needed the warmth of the chinchilla coat and cap and wished it away.

  The two women were engrossed in their quarrel. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I lifted Keith—the steep old steps would be a stretch for his short legs—and sped up the stairs. His sweet breath tickled my cheek and he felt warm and dear in my arms. In scarcely an instant, we reached the landing and soon were out of sight from below.

  I’ll admit I acted on impulse. Keith was obviously tired, probably hungry, alone and frightened. I felt that ultimately Peg would prevail but I wasn’t going to chance Keith being handed over to the police. Besides, I have faith in instinct. Somewhere upstairs a woman named Susan had no inkling of the joy that was to be hers. Bringing joy is good, and as Peg insisted, joy never killed anyone.

  In the upstairs hallway, twin rosewood lamps on an English Hepplewhite sideboard shed soft light through their milky bowls. The Oriental runner was old, its colors faded to a muted glow of rust and sage. I had little time. I moved swiftly along the hallway, opening doors.

  The last door revealed a spacious bedroom with a fireplace. A too-thin woman sat in a Sheraton chair to one side of the fireplace with glowing fake logs. Her oval face, even though drooping with pain and illness, was lovely, a high forehead, finely arched brows, eyes dark as shadows at midnight, long narrow nose, narrow lips, a firm chin, an air of command. Silver frosted her softly waved chestnut hair. She rested against the cushion, her gaze remote, sorrow her companion. She was in the room yet she seemed distant and unapproachable. There were no garlands of evergreen, no flicker of red candles, no red-and-green taffeta bows in this room. On a cushion by her feet, a large calico cat slumbered, her patches of red-and-black fur striking against the white.

  Over the fireplace hung a reproduction of Fra Angelico’s Nativity: Mary and Joseph with their heads bowed, the infant Jesus helpless and little on a bed of straw in the manger, a mule and an ox behind them, eleven angels above. I suspected the reproduction hung there year-round and was much more than an annual holiday decoration.

  She didn’t turn at the sound of the opening door. “You’re early, Jake.” She spoke as if coming back from a far distance. “No matter. Put the tray on the table.” She turned a hand toward the gleaming dark Queen Anne table next to her chair. “You can tell me about the evening tomorrow. I’ll not visit tonight.”

  I put Keith down, once again murmured in his ear, smelled his sweet little boy scent.

  He looked up at me, his eyes huge and dark.

  I blew him a kiss, nodded.

  He moved uncertainly forward. His sneakered feet scarcely made a sound on the wooden floor.

  She heard the faint scuff. Her head turned. A hand touched her throat when she saw him. Her robe, undoubtedly made of finest Chinese silk, was brilliant red with gold piping. As quickly as sunlight slipping across summer water, her face brightened. “Hello.” Her voice was low and sweet.

  When young she must have been startlingly beautiful, a beauty of elegant bone structure and mesmerizing character.

  She smiled, a kind and gentle smile. “I haven’t had a little boy visit me in a long time.” Tears filmed her eyes but she kept on smiling. “Who are you, my dear?”

  “Keith.”

  “I’m glad you came to see me, Keith. Come closer, please.”

  Steps sounded on the stairs, a rapid, hurried clatter.

  Still smiling, she glanced toward the open door. “It sounds as though someone’s coming after you. Please, come close for a moment.”

  Keith moved toward her, his face grave. He stopped next to the chair.

  She lightly touched his shoulder.

  Keith looked back at me.

  I nodded energetically.

  Keith stood very straight as he must have been told. He spoke in a rush. “I’m Keith Flynn.” His words were indistinct. Keef for Keith, Finn for Flynn. “My daddy was Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn. My daddy was a hero.” His little boy voice ended in a wobble.

  Her illness-drained face was quite still. She stared into his dark eyes, so like her own. “Your daddy…”

  Gina hurried into the bedroom. She stopped and stared at Keith, her narrow face exasperated. She flung out an accusing hand. “How did he know where to come?”

  Keith quailed at her sharp tone.

  Susan Flynn curved an arm around his shoulders, pulled him near. “It’s all right. Don’t be frightened, sweet boy.” Her voice was as soft as the sweep of a feather.

  Peg pushed past Gina. “Someone left him on the front porch with a note.” She hurried forward, held out the envelope, then sank to her knees beside Keith. “I promised you some hot chocolate.”

  Susan opened the envelope with trembling hands, lifted out a stiff sheet.
>
  I peered over her shoulder at script in an unfamiliar language. There was an official seal near the bottom. Gold foil glinted in the flickering firelight.

  “It’s in German! Mitch was stationed in Germany.” Quickly she emptied the envelope. “A birth certificate from the military hospital in Würzburg: Keith Mitchell Flynn, born to Sergeant First Class Mitchell Pritchard Flynn and Marlene Schmidt Flynn.” With every word, her voice grew stronger. Joy lifts voices. “Mitch’s medals and news clippings.” Suddenly, her brows drew down. “Here is a printed notice of his mother’s death from pneumonia. So that’s why she didn’t bring him to me.” Susan’s face was puzzled. “Peg, who brought him here?”

  Peg gestured toward the front yard. “We don’t know. The doorbell rang, and there was no one there but Keith. He said his mother’s friend Lou brought him. We don’t know where she is or why she left.”

  Susan’s gaze was thoughtful. “We’ll find out.” Suddenly a brilliant smile lifted her lips. “It doesn’t matter really. In any event, he’s here where he should be.” She reached out a shaking hand to smooth a blond curl, gently touched Keith’s shoulder. “It’s warm in here. I keep this room too hot for a little boy. Let me help you with your coat.”

  He lifted his arms obediently. She folded the thin little corduroy jacket. “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded, his face solemn.

  “Do you like roast beef, Keith?” She looked at Peg. “Will you get him some supper?”

  “And some cocoa and a cookie. I promised.” Peg’s smile was delighted. She turned to hurry from the room.

  Keith lifted rounded fists to rub at his eyes and gave a huge yawn.

  Susan gestured sharply at Gina. “Open the corner bedroom. Put on fresh sheets. Make sure there are plenty of blankets.”

  I drifted around the room, listening to Susan’s soft murmurs as she talked to Keith and looking at the panoply of photographs in a bookcase and atop a dresser. It took only a moment to realize the pictures were primarily of a boy and girl from babyhood to late teens. The dark-haired girl had irregular gamine features and an aura of energy and enthusiasm and good humor. Snapshots showed her making mud pies when she was about six with a missing tooth and a streak of dirt across one cheek. At around ten, bony and thin with sharp elbows and knees, she held aloft a tennis trophy. As a teenager in a décolleté white gown, she smiled up at an older man whose irregular features matched her own. The blond boy was cocky with a square jaw and muscular build. He stood stiff and still with a Webelos salute in his Cub Scout uniform. As a Scout, he dangled from a climbing rope over a sandstone gorge. He pinned an opponent in a wrestling match, caught a pass on a football field, strummed a guitar in a pensive mood.

  Two frames held school pictures, starting with kindergarten. The last photo in the frame inscribed Ellen’s Class Photos showed a girl with a vivid questing glance and effervescent smile. Beneath the photograph was written in now faded ink: Ellen’s junior class picture.

  There was no senior class photograph for Ellen.

  I looked at the boy’s framed class pictures. He was on top of the world in his senior picture, confident, cocky, charismatic.

  Peg returned with a tray holding a sandwich and potato chips, a glass of milk, a sugar cookie with a Santa face, and a Spode pitcher and cup and saucer. Keith sat gingerly in his grandmother’s lap. He managed half a sandwich, drank a portion of the milk, drowsily subsided against her.

  Gina poked her head in the door. “The room’s ready.” She was subdued, still with a faint frown.

  “Thank you, Gina.” Susan lightly brushed back a lock of blond hair. “He’s almost asleep. Peg”—Susan’s face was suddenly worried—“will you stay with him tonight? He’s in a strange place. I don’t want him to wake up and be frightened. If he wakes up…” She paused, struggled for breath.

  Peg took two quick steps to the chair. “I’ll stay with him. Do you need oxygen?” As Peg wheeled a portable tank near, I understood why the fireplace held fake electric logs.

  Susan shakily reached out for the mask and held it to her face. Slowly her breathing eased. The bluish tinge faded from her face. She put aside the mask, sank back against the chair. “I’m tired now.” Her voice was faint. “Tomorrow I’ll read everything.” Her voice was flagging. Susan gathered up the papers, replaced them in the envelope. “Mitch’s little boy…tomorrow…some toys…I’ll talk to Wade…He’ll take the proper steps, make everything official.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Mitch’s little boy…” She twisted to look up at Peg. “Take good care of him.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Light spilled from a room at the end of the hall as Peg nudged the door wider with her knee. She carried Keith to a twin bed with the sheet turned down. She eased him gently between the sheets, then lifted the cover to untie his sneakers, slip them from his feet. He sighed and turned on one side. Dark lashes fluttered on a pale cheek. He was deep sunk in sleep, the soft and yielding abandonment of a child.

  Peg lifted his head, edged a corner of the pillow beneath his cheek. She drew up the sheet and a beige wool blanket and a puffy pale blue comforter. “Good night, sleep tight.” She tiptoed softly from the room, joined Gina in the hallway.

  I took a moment to be certain Keith was comfortably asleep, then I moved through the closed door into the hall and joined Gina and Peg at the head of the stairs. The calico cat padded from Susan’s room and moved lightly down the stairway.

  Gina looked bereft and forlorn. “Do you really think he’s Mitch’s son?”

  Peg was impatient. “What are you suggesting instead? Somebody had an extra kid hanging around and they happened to know enough about Susan and the family to insinuate him here? If he isn’t Mitch’s son, how did someone get Mitch’s medals?”

  Gina gripped the newel post. “I suppose there’s some reason he was left by himself on the front porch. But why didn’t the person who dropped him off stay and explain?”

  Peg turned her hands over in bewilderment. “I have no idea. I suppose we’ll find out. There are always reasons when things happen.” A sudden smile softened her face. “Susan hasn’t been this happy in years and years. I wish she were stronger and could live long enough to watch him grow up. Anyway, we can be sure everything will be sorted out properly. Susan will want everything to be on a legal basis. You know how she is. She crosses every t, dots every i. She’ll tell Wade tomorrow to find out everything about Keith.” Peg’s smile was joyful. “What a wonderful Christmas gift to have Mitch’s little boy come to us.”

  “Mitch’s little boy.” Poignant sorrow made Gina look older. She drew in a sharp breath. “Well, it’s time we shared the good news.” Her tone was brittle, her smile brilliant. “I’ll tell you what, cuz. You do the honors. Everyone will hang on each word. It’s going to be a whole new world for Aunt Jake and Tucker and me and Harrison and Charlotte. I guarantee you will upstage Harrison expounding on Lapland.”

  At the foot of the stairs, Peg squared her shoulders, moved to the closed door to the living room.

  The calico cat looked up, golden eyes gleaming, one paw lifted as if knocking on the door.

  Peg reached down, patted the svelte fur. “Ready for a party, Duchess?” Peg reached for the handle.

  I went ahead of them. It was nice not to have to wait for doors to be opened, and I always got a thrill out of passing through a wall. I like hovering above things as well. Weightlessness is fun. I will admit that I do like being on the earth, but this time I would not yield to temptation. This time I was going to stay out of public view.

  In the living room, I was delighted to find the huge room much as I remembered it: dark-stained wainscot and trim, muted rose silk walls, ornate plasterwork on the ceiling and cornices. The French doors held the same copper foil leaded-glass windows that I remembered. The room was pleasantly warm from the wood fire. An intricately carved rosewood chair sat next to the grand piano. The rose of the upper walls matched the dusty rose of the Oriental rug. On a sideboard stretched an
array of tantalizing holiday treats: cheese, fruit, crackers, brownies, cookies, and what might be the remnants of a birthday cake.

  I was ravenously hungry. Being on the earth, even when not visible, I needed food and sleep. I found that interesting. I zoomed to the sideboard, eyeing the Brie.

  “…stayed in a glass igloo. Charlotte and I could see the Northern lights from our bed. It was my most spectacular birthday to date.” The balding speaker was comfortable in corduroy trousers, a cream turtleneck, and a seasonal red vest. His ruddy complexion suggested a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors. He was muscular despite the beginnings of a middle-age paunch. Wrapping paper obviously removed from gifts was neatly folded next to a stack of diverse items: a book by Doris Kearns Goodwin, a bright Christmas tie with green wreaths against a red background, a red-and-black plaid wool hunting cap, a wall calendar for wine lovers, and a Christmas-scene paperweight.

  An angular woman with frosty hair and oversize glasses observed him with a dry but fond smile. “Harrison, I doubt anyone is interested in our accommodations.” Her tone was indulgent, not chiding.

  Light from the fire reflecting from his bifocals, Harrison grinned. “There speaks a wife who’s heard all of this before. But hey, how many people from Adelaide have spent the night in an igloo and slept on a motored bed, much less dined in an igloo restaurant with ice tables?”

  “Motored bed?” A lanky young man with dark curly hair and a stubbled chin—had shaving gone out of fashion?—stretched booted feet lazily toward the fire. He looked exceedingly masculine in a fragile-appearing gilt chair. His Western-style shirt fitted him snugly and his Levi’s were white with age. “Does the bed have spark plugs, Harrison? Maybe fins? A retro motored bed?”