by Carolyn Hart
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by Carolyn Hart
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Also by Carolyn Hart
Bailey Ruth Ghost mysteries
GHOST AT WORK
MERRY, MERRY GHOST
GHOST IN TROUBLE
GHOST GONE WILD
GHOST WANTED
GHOST TO THE RESCUE
GHOST TIMES TWO
GHOST ON THE CASE
Death on Demand series
LAUGHED ‘TIL HE DIED
DEAD BY MIDNIGHT
DEATH COMES SILENTLY
DEAD, WHITE, AND BLUE
DEATH AT THE DOOR
DON’T GO HOME
WALKING ON MY GRAVE
Henrie O series
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
GHOST UPS HER GAME
Carolyn Hart
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2020
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2020 by Carolyn Hart.
The right of Carolyn Hart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9047-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-707-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0428-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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A toast to Rhys Bowen, Donis Casey, Hannah Dennison, and Earlene Fowler. Wonderful writers, cherished friends.
ONE
Heaven expects our best. Whether solving a mystery or digging up radishes or maneuvering a tugboat, do your job and don’t give up. Never give up. If it takes shenanigans to foil a bad guy or a borrowed trowel or an extra hawser to pull a barge, do what you need to do and don’t be too proud to ask for help.
Heaven eschews pride. That’s a twenty-four-carat verb for don’t-even-think-about-it. Pride prompts us to think we can do everything by ourselves. I will admit I always feel confident about my accomplishments and I always look forward to continued success at the Department of Good Intentions as either a dispatcher or as a celestial spirit on an earthly mission.
Dispatcher? Earthly mission? Department of Good Intentions? Heaven? Before you either guffaw or flee the room, let me introduce myself. I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma. Late as in Deceased. Bobby Mac, my husband, wildcatted for oil all over Oklahoma and Texas. We raised two redheaded kids, Rob and Dil. I taught English until I called the principal an idiot when he made the football coach the geometry teacher. It was time for a new career. I trouble-shot for the Chamber of Commerce. That was quite a while ago in earthly time, but one of Heaven’s charms is timelessness. We are the best we ever were or could be. Twenty-seven was a very good year for me and that is how I appear and feel whether in Heaven or on earth, all five feet five inches of me, red curls, narrow face, inquisitive green eyes.
It isn’t my aim to take you on a tour of Heaven. That glory awaits you. Besides, the Precepts for Earthly Visitation discourage revelations about Heaven. The Precepts are required reading at the Department of Good Intentions, which sends emissaries to earth to help those in trouble.
My next visit to earth will be my ninth return as an emissary. I look back with pr— with pleasure on the assistance I’ve given to people in trouble, ranging from a rector’s wife trying to move a murdered man off her back porch to a frantic sister desperate for ransom money.
Honesty compels me to reveal that Wiggins – that’s Paul Wiggins, who runs the Department – often finds my efforts lacking. To be precise, I try to follow the Precepts, but things happen. Wiggins in his heart doesn’t believe ‘things happen’ suffices as an explanation for transgressions of the Precepts. I will agree that the Precepts are clear.
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.’
8.Remember always that you are on the earth, not of the earth.
I loved helping people in trouble but I was honored when Wiggins invited me to assist him in dispatching emissaries. I did wonder a bit if he thought I’d get into less mischief at his side. Wiggins was a stationmaster on earth. He recreated his red-brick station to house the Department. The Rescue Express thunders on silver tracks, its deep-throated whistle and clacking wheels announcing arrivals and departures.
Wiggins insists we are emissaries when on a mission. To me, a visitor from Heaven who arrives unseen but can materialize at will is a ghost. Oh, I know, Precept Four (4. Become visible only when absolutely essential), and all that, but sometimes Appearing is essential. Besides, total honesty here (honesty is a Heavenly attribute), Appearing is fun. It’s a matter of form. You will forgive me the pleasure I take in making that statement. To Appear begins with the decision to be present. Colors swirl, gorgeous swaths of lavender and silver, magenta and royal blue, gold and rose, and in a moment here I am.
On earth I wear attire suitable to the occasion. Wiggins fears tha
t I am rather vain and give too much thought to my appearance. I confess I adore lovely clothes. A woman owes it to herself to choose clothes that lift the spirits of those around her. If they make her feel good as well, that’s surely a plus.
When working at the Department, I choose a style that makes Wiggins comfortable. This morning I selected an aqua sweater decorated with an adorable beaded silver corsage, a sweeping navy skirt that made me want to twirl, and aqua leather slippers with silver buckles. Wiggins was impressive in his customary stiffly starched white shirt with black elastic garters between shoulders and elbows and heavy gray flannel trousers supported by both suspenders and a wide leather belt with a large silver buckle. His stiff train-master cap hung from a coat tree. His green eyeshade was slightly askew as he worked as fast as possible to ticket passengers.
Back to pride. I confess I was feeling a bit full of myself. I’d chosen a handsome young cowboy to aid a young school marm in Tombstone, a flint-eyed centurion to protect Cicero in 63 BC, an accomplished actor (David Niven is as clever as he is charming) to investigate accidents backstage at a current Broadway hit. Any old emissary wouldn’t do.
Wiggins stood by a wooden case mounted on the wall next to the ticket window. Open slots held colored tickets, everything from Siamese gray to royal purple. I handed him the files, murmured modestly, ‘I looked for the right person for the right job.’
Whoo whoo. Steel wheels clacked on silver rails. There was a general rush as emissaries emptied the waiting room, spilled on to the concrete platform.
After a quick glance, Wiggins tucked the files beneath his arm, reached for the proper tickets. ‘Well done, Bailey Ruth. Sterling choices.’
No peacock ever spread gorgeous feathers with greater pleasure than my delight in what I confidently accepted as my due. I’d done a helluva … I mean, I’d nailed this one.
As the platform filled – the Rescue Express was rumbling near – there was a sudden clatter of the telegraph key mounted on one side of Wiggins’s desk as it tapped out a message in Morse Code, just as it did in his long-ago train station. I recognized the call letters. A message from Adelaide: Urgent. High Priority. ‘Wiggins.’ Perhaps I sounded a bit breathless. ‘Adelaide. Trouble.’ No fire horse ever heard a bell with greater anticipation.
He looked over his shoulder.
I gestured at the telegraph key. ‘A message from Adelaide. Urgent.’
He handed me a sheaf of tickets and his stamp. ‘The Express must depart on time. There’s no time to deal with the matter now.’ He hurried to his desk. He grabbed a sheet of paper, transcribed the message.
As the final passengers reached the window, I gave them their tickets, but my attention was on Wiggins. As soon as the last emissary turned toward the platform, I reached up to a familiar slot, grabbed a ticket to Adelaide, used Wiggins’s stamp. After all, I excelled at choosing the right person for the right job, and no one was better qualified to help out in Adelaide than I. I flew across the office to his desk. ‘There’s just time.’ I grabbed his scribbled notes. ‘I’m on my way.’
A stentorian shout. ‘All aboard. All aboard now.’
Wiggins called after me. ‘Irregular. Problematic. Out of the ordinary.’
I regret to say my smile was patronizing. I was Bailey Ruth Raeburn, proven emissary and native of Adelaide. I knew the routine. What could go wrong? ‘I’ll take care of everything.’ I leapt for the caboose as the Rescue Express whooed and chugged. Coal smoke stung my eyes. Cinders flared. The wheels began to move. We were on our way. I gave a backward glance.
Wiggins stood on the platform, clearly distressed. ‘The Precepts,’ he shouted.
Poor Wiggins. He need have no fear. I would be on my best behavior. This time I’d aim to complete a mission without Appearing a single time. I felt noble. I lifted my hand in a jaunty wave.
The Express sped through the starry night, swathed in light from the Milky Way. I felt the same thrill I did as a child when listening to the radio and I heard the glad shout of the Lone Ranger. Since I was alone on the caboose, I let loose a lusty, ‘Bailey Ruth returns.’
In the last car, I slipped into a plush red seat next to a voluptuous blonde in a spangled dress. She was absorbed in Movie Mirror, the August 1935 issue with a picture of redheaded Myrna Loy on the cover, an actress I adored. Definitely this was a positive beginning to my journey. I wondered if the emissary would hobnob with Claudette Colbert or Clark Gable. They were so splendid in It Happened One Night. I was tempted to ask but she was immersed in the text.
The Rescue Express makes its run in Heavenly time, so I would shortly arrive where something was underway. Irregular. Problematic. Out of the ordinary. I read Wiggins’s hurried scrawl on the sheet he’d ripped from his notebook: Robert just passed the bar. Knows he’s an officer of the court. Could be disbarred. Might set a record. Attorney-at-law for one week. Iris is a—
The conductor took my ticket. ‘Next stop Adelaide.’
As the Rescue Express departed, I hovered above a large terrace near an open French door. I entered the room, surveyed it. Rather dull-looking volumes filled floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases. The furnishings, mostly brown leather sofas, several circular cherry-wood tables, and comfortable easy chairs in dull gray fabric, reminded me of a library reading room, but there were no magazines draped over an armrest. No reading glasses carelessly flung on a side table. No crumpled paper twists from discarded taffy wrappers.
A young man stared at a tall, slender older woman. She was elegant in a two-button lavender linen jacket. I admired three slash flap pockets. A cream polo matched cream slacks. Lavender rosettes studded her tall cream heels.
Inspired, I imagined a gauzy light blue tunic with adorable pin-tucks in front and a navy scalloped hem, slim white crepe slacks, and navy heels with silver bows. As soon as I choose an outfit, presto, I am wearing it. Not, of course, that I felt the tiniest bit competitive.
Everything was picture-perfect for a civilized evening, except for the black blob that dangled from the woman’s slender hand and the body lying on the parquet floor and the look of shock on the face of the young man.
The woman gripped one end of a man’s long black sock. The bulging foot portion hung down, apparently filled with a heavy substance. The upper portion was knotted at the ankle. Remote violet eyes gazed at the dead man sprawled at her feet. A woman of grace and charm. Something in her face and posture reminded me of Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story.
The dead man was probably in his late thirties, early forties. The fleshy face was little touched by lines. He was a big man, likely six feet tall. His head was at an odd angle and a dark purplish bruise marred the side of his neck. It wasn’t hard to picture a swift strike with the homemade blackjack and a broken neck.
Her arched brows drew down in a frown. ‘Too bad I can’t rewind today. I’d make a few changes.’ Her breath caught. ‘I imagine he would, too.’
The young man clawed at his collar. ‘What’s that in your hand?’ He stared at the object as if it were a squirming centipede edging up his shirtfront.
The violet eyes dropped. ‘I’m not an authority on weapons, but it’s heavy. I think someone swung the bulky end and struck him. I stumbled over it,’ she made a vague gesture with her free hand, ‘and picked it up. That’s when I saw Matt.’ Her face crinkled. ‘I guess I should have checked for a pulse, but no one lives with their neck bent like that. I couldn’t help him. No one could help him.’
‘Iris.’ Her companion sounded as if he was calling to her from the bottom of a deep dark well. ‘Iris.’ His voice was imploring.
‘Don’t repeat yourself, Robert. Calling my name in a frazzled manner is unhelpful.’
Robert. And Iris. I wasn’t sure which one I was ticketed to help. But I definitely was in the right place. I felt magnanimous. I’d help both of them.
Robert clenched his fists. ‘I know you never lose your cool, but there he is,’ he pointed at the body, ‘and there you are with that thing
in your hand. It looks bad. I mean, it looks like … I don’t know what to say but the police are going to think you hit him.’ He was young, early twenties, still filling out. As a mature man, he would be impressive. Tonight, sandy hair disheveled, brown eyes shocked, he looked young and vulnerable. The collar of his shirt was slightly frayed; his blue blazer a little too tight across the shoulders and short at the wrists. What had Wiggins written about Robert? Newly sworn in to the bar. Likely an impecunious recent law-school graduate with a mountain of debt. His bony face held a mixture of emotions, disbelief, uncertainty, a touch of despair. As for Iris, Wiggins was concerned about her as well. Time would tell.
For an instant her composure cracked. ‘I didn’t break Matt’s neck.’ She looked down at the weapon, shuddered. She took a deep breath, then gave the young man a rueful look. ‘But you’re right. Here I am with a weapon in my hand and the police will want to know why I picked it up, why didn’t I leave it on the floor. I know it looks bad.’ A considering pause. ‘Trust Matt to get himself killed at the worst possible moment. And place. For me. But he did and I’ – a quick look at Robert – ‘we have to deal with the situation. Clear your mind, Robert. You did not come in here. I did not come in here. Blessed are the forgetful for they get the better even of their blunders.’
He blinked several times. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Nietzsche. To paraphrase, dear Robert, what we don’t remember can’t hurt us. To put it even more simply, follow the lead of the political class when interviewed by the FBI. Simply say, “I don’t recall.” A myriad of problems are solved when you open your eyes wide and murmur, “I don’t recall.”’ She glanced at her watch. Her chiseled features were abruptly utterly determined. She leaned down to the body, fumbled at the jacket, pulled out a handkerchief. ‘I don’t know if cloth holds fingerprints but I don’t want to find out.’ She rested the weapon on the back of a leather chair, used the handkerchief to firmly swipe at the portion she had touched, then wrapped the heavy sock in the handkerchief, took two quick steps, thrust the bundle at him.