by Carolyn Hart
A film clip showed Irene, vivacious and voluble, lank gray hair stirred by the breeze, clutching her brown cardigan against the night chill, standing on the side steps at St. Mildred’s: “So glad I was able to help. Just the most fortunate circumstance.” Her cheeks glowed bright pink. “I’d been to the church Thursday evening, some things to check for the Altar Guild, and I saw Daryl Murdoch and that police officer and I had no idea until tonight that…”
I was smiling as I appeared. I chose my purple velour. After all, it was one of the final times I would enjoy it.
Irene froze, sat stiff as a cardboard skeleton. “You’re here.” Her voice shook. “You’re not here. You’re here.”
I settled beside her on the sofa. “Just for a moment.” I took a shaking hand between mine, held it tight. “You saved Bayroo. You were very brave.”
Her eyes blinked. Some of the fear seeped away. “That’s what everybody’s been saying and it makes me think, maybe things work out the way they should. I mean, if I hadn’t taken the money from the collection plate, he wouldn’t have caught me and got those awful pictures. I still don’t know where those pictures are, and if anyone ever sees them they’ll know I’m a thief even though Father Bill said I could pay the money back.”
I was emphatic. “The pictures were destroyed.” As Irene said, maybe things happen for a purpose. I had been upset when Kathleen flung the cell phone into the lake. Now I was glad.
“Destroyed?” Her lips were tremulous. “I don’t have to be afraid?”
“You don’t have to be afraid.” I gave her hand a final squeeze, stood. “Everyone’s proud of you.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “You saved Bayroo. I’m sure of that. I know what everyone’s saying, that she was clever and managed to get free, but I know you were there and you asked her not to tell.”
“I was there only because you made it possible.” I was fading away.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Irene called after me. “I’m going to pay the money back, and I won’t ever gamble again.”
The Rescue Express would be here soon. I’d almost completed my rounds. I actually felt a little thinner, as if I weren’t quite here. Of course I wouldn’t be here much longer. Any minute now I expected the Express to barrel across the sky, sparks flashing from its smokestack, wheels thrumming.
I zoomed to Daryl Murdoch’s office. Once inside, I turned on the light. After all, I don’t see in the dark and I had to find Walter Carey’s confession. I’d promised him it would be destroyed if he had nothing to do with his former partner’s murder.
I lifted the rug, picked up the envelope, and, once again, faced that pesky law of physics, the impossibility of wafting a concrete object—the letter—through walls with the ease I enjoyed.
It was a minor impediment. I opened the office door, stepped into the secretary’s anteroom. I found Walter Carey’s address—619 Cherry Street—in the directory on Patricia’s desk. Now all I had to do was deliver this material. Walter would be exceedingly relieved and my duties would be nearing completion. I opened the door to the hall.
Brrrng. Brrnng. Oooh-wah. Wah-oooh.
The cacophony almost startled me into my skin. Flashing lights joined the wails and rings. Heart thudding, I was at the end of the hall. I yanked on the door, almost fainted when it refused to open. I scrambled to release the lock, yanked the door open, and flew outside.
“Halt or I’ll shoot!” The shout was harsh. “Stop! Police.”
A patrol officer stood at the base of the steps, gun aimed at the door.
I rose into the sky. When I looked down, the officer was staring upward for a last glimpse of the letter rising above him. His head swiveled to the open door through which no one had emerged.
I listened hard. Was that the shriek of the Express in the distance?
Fortunately, Cherry Street was only a few blocks from downtown. I circled the Carey house. Light splashed out on a stone terrace from a room at the back. I looked through the window.
Walter Carey was writing steadily on a legal pad. He stopped to raise his arms above his head, stretch, massage a spot on his back.
A distant whoooo brought my head up. I had to be quick. I tapped on the French door.
He looked toward the terrace, frowned.
I tapped again. I became visible, once again choosing the purple velour outfit. My image was indistinct in the glass.
Walter unlocked the French door. His lips parted. No sound came.
I thrust the envelope at him. “Here it is. The confession. You did a good job tonight. With the Scouts.”
His fingers closed on the paper, held it tight. He managed an odd, lopsided smile. “You get around, don’t you?”
I smiled in return. “Sometimes. Good-bye, Walter. Good luck.” And I disappeared.
Only a few minutes remained. I must take my return ticket and board the Express. But there was one more stop I had to make.
Father Bill was stirring dark chocolate into hot milk. A tray held three mugs and a plate full of oatmeal cookies.
Upstairs, in Bayroo’s room, Kathleen sat beside her bed. Bayroo’s Titian hair, shining clean, tumbled over the shoulders of her soft white nightgown. Propped up against a bolster, Spoofer curled against her side, purring with a happy rumble. Bayroo held her mother’s hand. “I’m okay, Mom.” Bayroo’s smile was drowsy. “I’m all right. I—” Then, eyes shining, she rose on one elbow, looked where I stood had I been there to see. “Auntie Grand, I told Mom you saved me.”
Kathleen stood up so quickly her chair fell to the floor. “You’re here? Oh, Bailey Ruth, thank you. I wish we could tell the world—”
I touched a finger to her lips. “It’s our secret, Kathleen. I came to say good-bye.”
The wheels clacked, the Express thundering toward the rectory, just as it had on Thursday evening. I had no time left.
“Good-bye.” I threw a kiss to Bayroo. “Good-bye. I love you.”
I rushed outside, hurrying up to grab the handrail, and was swept up into the Express. I looked down at the lights below, watched until I could see them no longer.
Good-bye, dear Adelaide. Good-bye.
CHAPTER 19
The Rescue Express thundered into the familiar red-brick station. I was the last passenger to disembark. The other travelers seemed to follow a well-known drill, dropping their ticket stubs down a chute attached to the office, gathering their luggage, and hurrying away, faces shining, voices merry.
I slowly crossed the platform, passing carts laden with luggage ready for other departures. I’d not had time to pack even a satchel when I’d jumped on board on my way to help Kathleen. Perhaps the haste of my departure would excuse my mistakes.
Except there had been so many. I pushed away memories. Certainly I had intended to honor the Precepts.
Wiggins strode toward me.
My steps were lagging. I looked here, there, everywhere, admiring the dash of gold in the arch of clouds, the trill of birdsongs, the sweet scent of fresh-mown grass, the sound of a faraway choir with voices lifting in joy.
Foreboding weighed upon me, heavy as midnight gloom.
Wiggins boomed, “Bailey Ruth, where’s your get-up-and-go?” He sounded genial.
I risked a look.
Wiggins’s stiff cap was tilted back atop his bush of curly brown hair. His round face was bright and eager, his muttonchop whiskers a rich chestnut in the sunlight. His high-collared white shirt was crisp, his gray flannel trousers a bit baggy, but his sturdy shoes glowed with bootblack.
“Welcome home.” His voice was warm. He gestured toward the station. “A few formalities, then you’ll be free to go.”
Would I be free to return to the Department of Good Intentions?
We passed a crystal wall and I glimpsed my reflection. I’d given some thought to my appearance. I wanted to appear businesslike. Not flighty. I was confident the gray wool pantsuit was appropriate and the Florentine gold of the silk blouse and small gold hoop earrings a
nd crimson scarf almost matched the glow of Heaven. Here I was, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, red hair curling softly about my face, green eyes hopeful though uncertain, home in Heaven.
We walked together into his office. I settled on the bench as he hung his cap on a coat tree. He settled into his oak chair and slipped on his green eyeshade.
I looked out the bay window, admired the shining tracks. Finally, I forced myself to look at him. His eyes were grave.
“I’m sorry to say—”
My heart sank.
“—that never in my experience as stationmaster have I encountered a rescue effort so fraught with—” He stopped, apparently at a loss for words.
I twisted a gold button on my jacket.
He appeared perplexed and muttered to himself, “A flying crowbar. The airborne cell phone. That shocking episode with the mayor. Destruction of the police station’s computer system, and”—a heavy sigh—“Officer Loy.”
I started to rise. It would be easier for all concerned, especially me, if I slipped away, left him to regain his composure.
He made a swiping gesture with his hand.
I sank back onto the chair.
His brows beetled in a frown. “However.” He cleared his throat.
That rumble was familiar. Just so had he prefaced our many encounters on earth.
His tone was judicious. “As I should have recalled from my earthly days, good often comes out of difficult circumstances. I returned to earth and do you know what happened?”
I feared I knew all too well.
“I Reverted.” His roar capitalized the verb. Wiggins slammed his fist on the desktop. “So how can I be critical when an emissary caught up in the stress of the moment makes unfortunate choices?”
I hoped this was a rhetorical question.
He swept ahead. “There’s no denying your shortcomings.”
My nod was heartfelt.
“You were inquisitive.” It was a pronouncement.
I twined my scarf in my fingers.
“Impulsive.” He made a chopping motion with one large hand.
My collar felt tight.
“Rash.” A shake of his head, this thick brown hair quivering.
Was the wool of my lovely suit irritating my skin?
“Forthright.” His tone was thoughtful.
I sighed.
“Daring.” He spoke with finality.
I awaited dismissal.
Suddenly his generous mouth spread in a huge smile, his brown eyes glowed. “God bless, Bailey Ruth. You saved Kathleen and dear Bayroo. When you thought of me, knew you needed help, why, I was able to come in time. If it had not been for you…However”—he stood and waved an admonishing finger, though kindly—“I feel that your status as a probationer must continue.”
Continue?
“Before another mission can be considered, I suggest you spend time in contemplation of the Precepts, especially Precept One.” His thick brows drew down. “And Three.” A head shake. “And Four. And Six. My goodness, that’s a shocking number of Precepts you haven’t mastered. However, if you study hard”—he looked at me doubtfully—“perhaps next time—”
My heart raced. Next time. Oh, dear Heaven, there might be a next time. I might still be on probation, but the door had not been closed.
“—events will proceed in a more orderly manner.”
“I’ll learn the Precepts by heart. Of course,” I was quick to reassure him, “I already know them. It was simply that things happened. Everything will go much better next time. Oh, Wiggins.” I jumped up and gave him a hug.
Next time…
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of more than forty books, including eighteen Death on Demand novels. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards. She is also the creator of the highly praised Henrie O series. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
www.carolynhart.com
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Also by Carolyn Hart
DEATH ON DEMAND
Death on Demand
Design for Murder
Something Wicked
Honeymoon with Murder
A Little Class on Murder
Deadly Valentine
The Christie Caper
Southern Ghost
Mint Julep Murder
Yankee Doodle Dead
White Elephant Dead
Sugarplum Dead
April Fool Dead
Engaged to Die
Murder Walks the Plank
Death of the Party
Dead Days of Summer
Death Walked In
HENRIE O
Dead Man’s Island
Scandal in Fair Haven
Death in Lovers’ Lane
Death in Paradise
Death on the River Walk
Resort to Murder
Set Sail for Murder
Credits
Jacket design by Barbara Levine
Jacket photograph by Kamil Vofnar/Getty Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
GHOST AT WORK. Copyright © 2008 by Carolyn Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780061980879
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