Merry, Merry Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  “Was Mitchell driving too fast?” Was he too furious from the quarrel to think? Had he pushed on the gas pedal when he should have slowed? A few times I recalled being swept by such a rush of anger that later I scarcely knew what I had said or done.

  Dried leaves drifted down as Wiggins opened his hand. “His father thought so. Thomas Flynn adored his daughter. He turned away from Mitchell, said he’d killed Ellen because of his damnable temper. He told Mitchell he never wanted to see him again.” Wiggins brushed his fingers against his overcoat. “And he didn’t. The day after Ellen’s funeral, Mitch disappeared. The Flynns did everything they could. Mitchell was sought as a missing person. They hired private detectives. They found no trace. Thomas Flynn died two years ago, a broken man. I think he grieved himself to death. Susan withdrew, had less and less contact with the outside. She has congestive heart failure, the result they say of a virus. How vulnerable to illness the body becomes when there is no will to live. From the day after Ellen’s funeral to the day military officers arrived to tell her that Mitchell died a hero in Ramadi, Susan Flynn had no inkling of where her son had gone and what he had done.”

  I flung out my hands, outraged. “How could he do that to his mother?”

  Wiggins looked past me, but he wasn’t seeing graves and winter-bare trees and, in the distance, the cross of St. Mildred’s. He was looking into a past filled with faces I’d never seen. “Mitchell bore the heaviest burden of all, anguish that is harder to bear than sorrow. Guilt crushed him. Guilt kept him from coming home until he came home for his final rest. He could never see past the guilt to understand the heartbreak his disappearance brought.”

  “No wonder Keith’s arrival means so much to Susan.” I reached out and gripped the sleeve of Wiggins’s overcoat. “Thank you for letting me help.”

  His genial face folded in a frown. “Bailey Ruth, I never doubt your desire to be of help.” His eyes glinted. “However, maneuvering the directory back and forth by the secretary’s window was reprehensible.”

  “Mea culpa.” I tried to sound contrite. Possibly the more formal Latin assumption of responsibility would please Wiggins. I hoped my look of regret touched his heart, which apparently was feeling pretty stony right this minute. “Wiggins, I will do my best to remain in the background, but Keith might be at risk. Surely I can stay until his grandmother has made provision for him.”

  He put one hand in a pocket, jingled coins. Finally, he sighed. “Someone must be on the spot to look after Keith. And”—he didn’t sound overwhelmed with delight—“you are here. Very well. Remain on duty.” He looked at me. A tiny smile tugged at his generous mouth. “Have you sung ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ for Keith?”

  “I will. I promise.” I broke into a vigorous version.

  Wiggins laughed aloud. “You do that. And keep a careful eye on him. You shouldn’t have to be here much longer.” That prospect seemed to bring him great cheer.

  “Probably not.” I tried to sound pleased as well, but I was sorry to see my hours in Adelaide dwindling. Once Keith was firmly established in Pritchard House as Susan Flynn’s grandson, my task would be done. I hoped I could dawdle a bit. I wanted to hug close the sights and sounds of Christmas, smiling faces, children’s awe, twinkling lights, carols rising on a frosty night. Perhaps I’d be in Adelaide long enough to attend the children’s Christmas Eve service, the boys in bathrobes as shepherds, the girls with angel wings and halos.

  A shadow touched Wiggins’s face. “Be sure and keep guard over—” He stopped as if jolted by a shock. “Oh my goodness! I must be off.” His eyes widened. “To Tumbulgum. An emissary seduced by…oh dear…never in my experience…shocking…”

  Abruptly, he disappeared.

  I tried to squash an uncharitable hope that the emissary was in a big fat pickle and would absorb Wiggins’s attention for a good long while. I had no idea where Tumbulgum was, but hopefully it was very, very remote. If so, perhaps when Wiggins once again considered my actions, a penchant for appearing would seem rather minor in comparison. Of course, we all know that taking pride in being less sinful than another doesn’t get your ticket punched. I would never do that. Certainly not. But I felt less constrained than before.

  Tumbulgum. Hats off. Wherever you are. I was reprieved for yet a while. I would attend to my duties and enjoy the season. I gazed around the cemetery at the wreaths and poinsettias and caroled “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

  Still humming, I hurried back to the Pritchard mausoleum, tucked the precious directory behind Hannah’s tomb, and disappeared.

  Wade Farrell’s office was old-fashioned, three windows with faded red velvet drapes pulled wide for the pale December sunlight, a cotton braided oval rug with red and beige circles, a mahogany desk with ash inlays, legal bookcases full of golden beige law books. Face folded in thought, he wrote vigorously on a legal pad. He stopped and checked his watch. He punched the intercom. “Kim, I’ve finished the general revisions.” He clicked it off.

  In a moment, his office door opened and a poised brunette with feather-cut hair stepped inside. Her oval face was remarkably pretty, but her brown eyes were cool and remote.

  I nodded in approval at her zebra-striped silk chevron blouse and black pencil skirt made stylish by large black buttons on the left front.

  He pushed the legal pad to the edge of the desk. “The Flynn will. I don’t know when you can get to it. It’s more important to pin down the facts about the little boy. Are you making any progress?”

  “Faxes from all over. We have to get a money order in German.” Her voice was brisk and commanding. She looked intelligent, perhaps even a little intimidating.

  “Try to get confirmation of the birth certificate and the name of the hospital and when and where Mitch Flynn was married. Work all night if necessary. Susan Flynn wants to know by tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  Farrell tapped a pen on the bare desk. “Thanks for being a sport, Kim. I hope this isn’t ruining an evening for you.”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “I didn’t have anything special planned.” She closed his office door behind her and walked to her desk. I followed her. She slid onto her seat, muttered, “The rich get richer, the poor get poorer; he’ll go home whenever he chooses, I get to work until the wee hours.” She reached for the phone, tapped a number. “Hey, Sue. I can’t come. I’ve got to spend the night trying to scare up information on an estate.” She swung her chair away from her computer, stared moodily toward a window.

  I perched on the corner of her desk and leaned close to the computer and keypad. I’d become somewhat familiar with computers, programs, and passwords on my previous visit to Adelaide. Obviously her computer had previously been turned on and her password used so she was able to access files.

  I reached over and used the mouse to close out the program. The screen went dark.

  “…Did you ever see that old movie Nine to Five?”

  I smothered a giggle. Dolly Parton’s song and role in that film were definitely Heavenly favorites of a certain generation of women.

  “I’ll try to come late if I can.” She clicked off the phone and swiveled her chair to face the computer. She frowned at the dark screen, puzzled.

  I watched carefully as she clicked buttons, moved her mouse, waited until instructions came up to enter her password. I’d been a first-rate typist, but I wasn’t quite sure I’d followed her fingers. I edged a finger under her hands and poked d. The message Invalid Password flashed.

  She gave an irritated breath, typed again.

  Was her password sable or cable?

  Once I again I tapped d.

  Her shoulders hunched. This time she picked each finger up and put it down with exaggerated care.

  Ah, sable. I glanced at a short black cloth coat, much worn, that hung from the nearby coat tree. I doubted she had a sable coat at home.

  She clicked Open, highlighted the FlynnEstate file. That was all I ne
eded to know.

  Thin white clouds streaked the afternoon sky. The backhoe operator swung the boom and dumped dirt from a two-foot hole in the front yard of Pritchard House. The excavation was located about ten feet from the Christmas light displays.

  On the front porch, Keith bounced in excitement, his cheeks pink from cold. “Can I help?”

  Peg ruffled his blond hair. “Maybe I can get you a special ticket.” She shouted over the rattle of the motor. “Leon, can Keith ride with you?”

  Gina hunched her shoulders against the sharp wind. “You’re going to spoil Keith big-time.” But her tone was amused. “Sorry you missed going out to the ranch for the tree. You’d think it would get old, but it never does. I always feel like a kid again. Tucker’s so proud of the tree, he’s about to bust.”

  A whip-thin man with short silver hair and a weathered face twisted in the seat of the backhoe. He had the tough look of a man used to hard physical labor. He lifted a gloved hand in acknowledgment. “As soon as the tree’s in place.” He jumped from the cab and strode close to the hole.

  Tucker watched from the driver’s seat of a tan Dodge Dakota. The cargo bed held a huge bluish-green Scotch pine.

  “Ready,” Leon shouted.

  Leaning out of the window, Tucker backed up slowly.

  Leon waved him closer and closer. Just short of the excavation, he barked, “Stop.”

  The wind ruffling her hair, Peg picked up Keith, balanced him on the porch railing. “Watch while they put the tree in the hole. Tomorrow, you can help decorate the tree. Everybody in the neighborhood comes and all the kids get to put on an ornament, then everyone has cocoa and s’mores and we sing Christmas carols.” She looked happy enough to bounce, too.

  As she spoke, Leon steadied the tree as Tucker winched it over the excavation.

  Excited children pressed nearer. Face stern, Leon made a chopping gesture with one gloved hand. “Back off, kids. We have to get her in place. The party’s not until tomorrow.”

  Peg waved hello to several young mothers with children in strollers. A teenage girl held tight to a little boy’s hand.

  As soon as the tree trunk disappeared over the edge of the hole, Tucker joined Leon. Grunting with effort, the two men positioned the tree. Using a pole, Tucker kept the pine upright.

  Leon walked to the porch. He moved at a workman’s steady pace. He looked up at Keith on the railing and Peg beside him.

  Peg’s smile was warm. “Keith, I want you to meet Leon. He was our best buddy when we were kids. He took us on hayrides and taught us to shoot and ride. He’ll build a great bonfire tomorrow and we can roast marshmallows.”

  Leon’s tone was brusque but his eyes were soft. “Are you big enough to ride in my backhoe?”

  Keith nodded, his face solemn.

  Leon held up his arms. “Sure you are. You can push the dirt into the hole and make our tree steady as a rock. Tomorrow you’ll put the star on the very top. I’ve been setting up Christmas trees for your grandmother’s neighborhood party for a long time. I lifted up your daddy to top the tree when he was your age.” Leon swung Keith up to ride on his shoulders.

  A door clicked on a second-floor balcony.

  Peg and Gina looked up as Susan Flynn stepped outside. Susan’s silk robe wasn’t enough protection against the chill wind that ruffled her silver-streaked curls. Jake bustled out to join her, carrying a fleecy white cashmere shawl. “You’ll catch your death. Here, you’d better wrap up.”

  Absently Susan took the shawl and drew it around her. She ignored Jake’s continued worried murmurs. Susan watched as Keith, sitting in Leon’s lap, Leon’s big hand over his, maneuvered the dirt, packing and tamping it around the massive Scotch pine. Susan’s eyes were shiny with tears. Peg clapped vigorously. Gina took a quick breath, turned, and stepped inside the house.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I hovered near the ceiling of the blue room at Pritchard House. Moonlight spilled through the windows. Keith was a small snug mound in his bed. Peg lay on her side, one hand curled under her cheek, lips curved in a half smile.

  Before Wiggins abruptly left the cemetery en route to Tumbulgum, he’d warned me: Keep guard…His meaning seemed clear: Keep guard over Keith. Wiggins could count on me. I’d been dispatched to protect Keith and I would continue to do my best.

  Was Wiggins listening or was Tumbulgum out of earshot?

  I had no intention of leaving Keith unsupervised. Peg clearly welcomed him. As long as he was with her, I felt he was safe. Before I went to the lawyer’s office to delve into Susan Flynn’s will, I would be certain all was secure at Pritchard House.

  First I stopped in Gina’s room. The breeze through the open window ruffled chintz curtains but had yet to dispel the lingering scent of tobacco smoke. I wondered if Gina dismissed other dangers as easily as she ignored the hazards of cigarettes. She was turned toward the wall in bed, her face in shadow, but her breathing was deep and even.

  In the next room, Jake wore a padded black sleep mask. In the moonlight, she looked like a raccoon adorned with curlers. She moved restlessly, murmuring aloud.

  I swooped near the bed.

  “…door locked…can’t get in…not fair…”

  Clearly her dreams were troubled.

  In Susan’s room, the clock on the mantel chimed, twelve soft bells announcing midnight. She sat in her chair in front of the gas fire. The china cup held a little cocoa, the remnants of her evening drink. In her lap was the manila envelope Keith had brought. She held the papers in her hand, a smile on her face.

  All was well at Pritchard House. I felt free to depart.

  The computer monitor glowed. I rubbed my eyes as I completed reading the exceedingly complex disposition of the estate of Susan Pritchard Flynn. Upon Susan’s death, her heirs would receive the equivalent in land, stocks, bonds, mineral rights, or property of several million dollars each. Inheriting, after substantial bequests to several charities and St. Mildred’s, were Jacqueline Flynn, Margaret Flynn, Tucker Satterlee, Gina Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond.

  I checked the telephone book and jotted down addresses. I knew the location of Burnt Creek, one of Pontotoc County’s largest and most prosperous ranches in my day. I had no reason to doubt that Burnt Creek was still a prime piece of property.

  I took a last look at the electronic files and noted one entitled FlynnEstateRecording. I opened the file and found a brief enigmatic statement: Recorded discussion on CD with client Re: Disposition of Flynn estate, Cabinet 3.

  Two metal filing cabinets sat behind Kim’s desk. Obviously, neither would be Cabinet 3. In Wade’s office, I turned on the light. I checked and the drapes were drawn. Built into the wall behind the desk were several walnut cabinets. Cabinet 3 revealed shelves with small plastic containers with what appeared to be small records. Apparently, they were called CDs. How interesting. Possibly they didn’t work too differently from the old 33 rpm record players.

  I spotted a device on a marble-topped table with spindly-legged chairs. The chairs didn’t look especially comfortable. I snagged a squashy red cushion from the sofa and placed it on a chair. After some punching of buttons, I popped up the lid. Yes, that looked like a turntable. I placed the little record on it, experimented further, and watched with a sense of accomplishment as it began to whir.

  There was a moment of silence, then a murmur. “I think that’s got it. I’m all thumbs with recorders. Okay, here we go.” He cleared his throat. “Wade Farrell and Susan Flynn Re: Disposition of the Susan Flynn estate.” Wade’s cheerful voice announced the date.

  “My, aren’t we formal.” Susan Flynn’s aristocratic voice sounded amused. “Is this necessary, Wade?”

  “This is for your protection.” Wade spoke with dignity. “Since your heirs have no blood ties to you, I feel that it is wise to make a record of your wishes so that there can be no doubt about the instrument reflecting your decisions. Please explain in your own words the circumstances.”

  “Very well. I have no family.”
There was a pause.

  The tape whirred.

  After a moment, Susan continued in a brittle tone. “It is my wish that the following persons, who are not related to me, shall share in my estate: my sister-in-law Jake Flynn, her daughter Peg Flynn, Jake’s nephew and niece, Tucker and Gina Satterlee, and my late husband’s cousin Harrison Hammond. I have chosen them to be my legatees because of close association over a number of years. After Jake’s husband died, Jake and Peg came to live with us. At that time our family consisted of my husband Tom, our son Mitchell, and our daughter Ellen. Peg and Ellen became close friends. A few years later, Jake’s sister and her husband were killed in a car wreck. Tom and I offered a home to their children, Tucker and Gina, because Jake was her sister’s only relative. Harrison Hammond was my husband’s first cousin. Tom was very fond of Harrison.” Susan sighed. “Will that do, Wade?”

  “That’s perfect, Susan.” Wade sounded satisfied.

  “Do you know what?” She sounded distant, weary. “I don’t care what happens to any of it. They might as well inherit as anyone. They’ve been a part of my life. If Mitch and Ellen…But they’re gone. Mitch loved the ranch. Ellen would have created such a happy life, such a good life.” Another pause. “My time is running out. I’ll see them soon. And now, I’m tired. If that’s all, Wade, please go.” The last few words were scarcely audible.

  I pictured Susan Flynn in her bed, weak and ill, turning away from the careful lawyer, her eyes seeking the photographs on her wall and the children who would never reach out again to her in this world but awaited her in the next.

  I returned the CD to its container and the cushion to the sofa. Now I knew the ins and outs of Susan’s estate. I felt chilled. When Susan changed her will, the current heirs would lose the prospect of certain wealth.