by Carolyn Hart
“A technician is on the way to dust for prints. Don’t touch anything until we’re finished. Have you checked the rest of the house?”
He nodded toward the hallway.
Kirby looked embarrassed. “I wanted to look around, but Mom made me stay with her.”
The chief nodded in approval. “Smart move. I’ll take a look.“
A rap on the partially open French door brought a gasp from Judith.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Murdoch. I asked Officer Leland to make a survey of the premises.” He looked inquiring. “Officer?”
Officer Leland was careful not to touch the door. She looked crisp and competent, her French-blue uniform fresh and unwrinkled. “No one home on either side, sir. No trace of an intruder except for what appears to be a fresh footprint in a patch of mud near a path into the woods. The print isn’t distinct. It looks as though a man—that’s from the size of the print—was running and slid on a mound of leaves. It is possible that the intruder parked in the wooded area behind the house. Of course the print could have no connection to the break-in.”
“Put tape up. Show the technician, then search the woods for fresh tire prints.”
“Yes, sir.” Officer Leland turned away.
Chief Cobb looked at Judith. “Let’s check the rest of the house, see if anything else has been disturbed.”
I zoomed ahead of them. Everything looked to be in perfect order.
I doubted there was more for me to learn at the Murdoch house. It was time to honor my promise to Kathleen and deal with the red nightgown.
———
Years ago Pontotoc Road was on the outskirts of town. It circled Chickasaw Lake. Most of the original cabins were fairly ramshackle, masculine retreats for poker and fishing and booze. Now the road was paved, but it still dipped and curved through thick woods and up- and downhill.
Oklahoma weather was as coquettish as I remembered. The morning’s cold wind and lowering clouds were gone. The sky was a soft fall blue, and the air was warming. The high temperature would likely edge near seventy this afternoon. I wished away my lamb’s-wool coat. Bradford-pear leaves glowed bright as Burgundy shot through with sunlight. Red-and-gold maple leaves fluttered in the gentle breeze. A sturdy sycamore shed tawny leaves that were heaped, sculpted by the wind, near the Murdoch cabin’s front steps.
The drive ended in a turnaround near the cabin. A small green pickup was parked near the steps. It likely belonged to the cleaning ladies. I expected that was where Daryl had parked Wednesday evening.
Kathleen likely pulled in behind his car. The drive didn’t circle behind the cabin. Parking must always be a problem, cars straggling along the drive back to the road.
When Kathleen fled, she’d jumped into her car, locked the doors, made a tight turn, and sped up the drive to the road. She’d made no mention of another car. There were no offshoot lanes from the drive.
Where had the other car parked?
I knew there had been another car or some means of transportation.
Someone else must have been present that evening to know about the red nightgown.
I heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner within the cabin. Soon I would go inside and see about the nightgown, but it was essential to understand what had happened here Wednesday night.
Had Daryl told someone about the episode of the red nightgown?
Sexual bullies don’t relish looking foolish. It was not a moment for him to recount with pride to his buddies, Kathleen tossing the nightgown into the fire and slamming out of the cabin. Therefore, someone saw Kathleen unwrap that present, fling it to destruction, and flee. The front windows were uncurtained, the interior shutters folded back, affording a clear view within. I glanced up the drive.
The house wasn’t visible from the road.
I pictured the cabin in the gloom of approaching night, Daryl inside, the fire burning. Kathleen arrived, tense and upset, and somewhere outside someone watched.
I stepped close to the window on the right. A buxom woman in a red T-shirt and jeans flapped a spread onto a twin bed.
I moved to the first window on the other side of the porch. The window was raised about an inch. A wiry cleaning woman in a flower-patterned housedress pushed a sweeper close enough to the window that we would have looked eye to eye had I been there. The machine’s shrill whine rose to a shriek.
I looked past her, saw the cream sofa where Kathleen had sat.
A leather recliner faced the sofa. A sagging easy chair was near the fireplace. From here an observer would have seen everything that transpired.
I glanced down. Sycamore leaves bunched up in a puffy mound.
Shoes would leave no mark. If someone had watched through this window Wednesday night, I would find no trace here.
I wasn’t following the progress of the vacuum cleaner. The sudden cessation of sound startled me. I looked into the room and realized the cleaning lady was bending toward the fireplace.
At once I was beside her, but I watched helplessly as she gingerly lifted up the singed remnants of the red silk nightgown and the gift box and wrapping paper. She lifted her voice. “Jenny, you won’t never believe what I found. Come look at this. Don’t you know there’s a tale behind this here.”
Kathleen was my charge and here was evidence that would link her to a murder and tarnish her reputation forever. If I had come directly from the rectory as I had promised, Kathleen would not be in jeopardy. It was my old sin of curiosity. With a dash of impulsiveness.
Good intentions may indeed pave the road to hell, but if-onlys point the way to the slippery slope to despair.
I stared at the dangling remnants of the red silk gown. Kathleen’s future hung in the balance.
The Precepts warned against alarming earthly creatures and certainly Wiggins found any such activity reprehensible, but I had no choice. In a flash, I shot to the kitchen, opened my mouth, and yelled.
As my shrill shout rose and fell, I felt a moment of pride. The sound was unnerving. I didn’t know I had it in me.
“Mabel, what’s wrong?” The strangled call came from the bedroom.
“Are you hurt?”
In the living room, Mabel shouted, “Somebody’s gettin’ killed in the kitchen. Hurry, Jenny. Run. Get out the front door.”
I screamed again, as loudly as possible, pulling breath all the way from my toes.
Pounding steps sounded in the living room. I moved back to the fireplace in time to glimpse heavyset Jenny plunging through the front door. Doors slammed. The pickup roared to life, tires squealing as it took off.
I didn’t waste a minute. The police would be here soon. I found a box of matches on the mantel. I set fire to various portions of the gown, flaring up a brisk blaze. I made sure the cardboard box and paper burned as well as the nightgown, every last scrap. When the flames began to die down, I took a poker and stirred the ashes, mashed them into nothingness.
My heart was pounding. I’d almost been a day late and a dollar short. I was ready to depart, pleased with my quick thinking, when I heard that unmistakable rumble. I didn’t hesitate. “Hello, Wiggins. You’ll be glad to know everything’s dandy. The red nightgown—I’m sure you know all about it—is destroyed and Kathleen is safe.” If not a gold star, surely I deserved a silver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see about the cat fur.”
———
I reached the roof of the rectory. It was a good five minutes before I heaved a sigh of relief. I had no invisible companion, rumbling with displeasure. Apparently Wiggins was cutting me some slack. At least for the moment, I was captain of my fate. However, I wished St.
Mildred’s was not quite such an active church. A half-dozen cars were parked in the lot. Women streamed in and out. All were, I’m sure, doing good works, but at the moment they hampered my movements.
Moreover, not fifty yards away, the back of the crime van was wide open and I noticed a technician jump out, carrying a blue plastic hand vacuum.
Standing to on
e side of a silver Lincoln Continental was the energetic young police detective. He bent to peer inside. “Hey, Artie, don’t think this’ll take long. Looks like Murdoch kept it clean.”
They wouldn’t, I was sure, find a trace of cat fur. I had to hurry. I clapped my hands in satisfaction. If I couldn’t work unseen, why, no problem. It was time to be in the world, however briefly. Surely Wiggins would approve this circumspect appearance.
I landed on the rectory back porch and appeared. My elegant pantsuit was not quite the attire for housecleaning. I topped it with a blue smock appropriate for the Altar Guild. Possibly it was an excess of caution, but I added a matching turban. If anyone noticed a helpful member of the Altar Guild busy at the rectory, it would be better if red hair wasn’t part of her description. I smoothed the edges of the turban to be sure no red-gold sprigs peeped from beneath.
I always enjoyed housework. There’s such a sense of accomplishment when everything is tidy. Heaven doesn’t need dusting. The only tidying that remains is to continue growing in goodness, and goodness knows, for most of us there is always room for improvement.
I felt a moment’s unease. Had my return to earth encouraged my tendency to be inquisitive, rash, impulsive, and forthright?
“Undoubtedly.” Wiggins sounded resigned.
Although my breath caught, I was almost getting used to his sudden utterances. I was terribly aware that he was once again here and I was in deep Dutch.
“However”—even his rumble was subdued—“there are times when appearing will cause less turmoil than not appearing. Try hard”—his tone was plaintive—“to remain out of sight. If I’d realized you were quite so noticeable . . .” His voice faded.
I started to reply, then felt certain he’d once again departed. Obviously he agreed that I must address the pressing matter of a dusty porch and a tarp that must never be subjected to a police microscope.
Did I have carte blanche?
I hurried inside and grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet in the kitchen. I took only a moment to glance in the mirror over the sink. Good. The turban was a success. I had a brief memory, thanks to Turner Classic Movies, of Carmen Miranda and a turban piled high with a tower of pomegranates, mangoes, and bananas and presto, gleaming plastic fruit appeared. Smiling, I returned to the porch and set to work, humming “Trite Samhita,” and sweeping in triple time. I loved to samba. Occasionally I added a conga step for flair.
I dumped several full dustpans into a trash sack. Spoofer certainly shed a great deal of black fur, but soon the porch was shiny bright. I was especially thorough around, behind, and beneath the corner of the porch where the tarp lay. I carried the trash sack out to the garbage pail. All four doors of the Lincoln were open. Dark gray legs protruded from the floor of the back seat. The blond detective stood with hands on his hips, watching. I observed him with pleasure.
Bobby Mac understood when I admired a manly physique because I always saved the last dance for him.
As I returned the broom and dustpan to the closet in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and laughed aloud. Although it looked top-heavy, my turban was quite comfortable. I patted a bright yellow banana, gave a little back tap, and samba’d onto the porch.
All that remained was to dispose of the tarp. A coil of cord, likely left over from a clothesline, hung from a hook. I cut a six-foot length.
In one corner, I found a stack of gunnysacks. I shoved the rolled-up tarp in the gunnysack, added three stacked pottery pots for ballast, and flicked out the length of cord.
A knock sounded on the porch screen door.
I broke off humming and, clutching the open gunnysack, turned to look.
Standing on the steps was the handsome detective, the sun turning his cotton top snow white. He held out an open wallet. “Detective Sergeant Hal Price. I’m looking for the sexton. Can you tell me where I might find him?”
I stared at him, my mouth agape. Before I could think—there I went again, impulsive to the bone—I clasped the sack to the bosom of the smock and made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a shriek.
“Pardon me, miss.” His drawl was contrite and his eyes, for a brief instant, admiring, until professional coolness returned. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He spoke gently as if to a shying filly.
“Detective Sergeant?” I clung to the gunnysack, which bulged awkwardly over the pots, and was furious at myself. He didn’t know what I held. He had no idea. I forced my grip to relax, rested the sack casually on the floor. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine.” His smile was electric.
On the one hand, I was flattered. On the other, I was uneasy. I didn’t want to be remembered, but there is that spark when a man admires a woman that can’t be disguised. Detective Sergeant Price wasn’t going to forget our encounter. If I were old, he’d have been polite, kept a mental record as a good detective should, but there would not have been this crackle of electricity between us.
“Can I help you?” I tried to sound cool, not quite unfriendly, but definitely not encouraging.
He glanced at my left hand, saw the gold band, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “I’m looking for the sexton and at the church they told me he might be at the shed by the rectory. Can you direct me?”
I pointed at the flagstone path. “Follow the path past the old well and go around those weeping willows and you’ll find the shed.”
He stood a moment longer, then nodded. “Thank you. And you are . . .”
Attracted he might be. A detective he remained.
“Helen Troy.” The moment I spoke, I regretted the name. But what can you do when a man makes his interest so plain? It happens, you know, an encounter, and each of you knows that had the time been different, circumstances altered, memories could have been made.
He nodded and turned away.
At the bend in the path, he looked back.
A very attractive man. As soon as he was out of sight, I yanked up the sack and raced to the kitchen. I tightly rolled the cord around and around the sack and tied it in my best sailor’s knot.
I waited several minutes. Detective Sergeant Price didn’t reappear. I eased out the kitchen door. Women continued to come and go in the church parking lot, but none veered toward the rectory. I strolled to the pines and slipped behind them.
I was torn. Violating the Precepts seemed to result in an automatic visit from Wiggins, but I was in a hurry. The sooner I dumped the tarp, the better, and I still needed to deal with the gun. I could zoom to the lake faster than I could walk. Surely Wiggins would applaud swift execution of my duties.
I disappeared and zoomed. The gunnysack, of course, dangled in the air. I darted from tree to tree so the sack appeared in midair only briefly. The sense of isolation and peace increased the deeper I traveled into the nature preserve. When I sighted the sparkling blue water of the lake, I felt as relieved as any ten-year-old hearing that old familiar cry, “Ollie, ollie, oxen’s free.” Of course I had no idea at the time we were shouting what was likely a phonetic imitation of the German Alle, alle, auch sind frei. I hoped I might have occasion to share this moment later with Wiggins, and he would have an appreciation of my intellectual turn of mind.
Perhaps it was this thoughtful pondering that distracted my attention from my surroundings. I rode a breeze out toward the middle of the lake, imagining the surprise on Wiggins’s face when—
Abruptly, the bag was tugged from my hand.
Startled, I made a grab for it. Had a crow intercepted me?
“Precept Six, Bailey Ruth, Precept Six.” Wiggins’s tone was imploring.
I loosened my hold.
The lumpy gunnysack plummeted down.
I was exasperated. After all, he’d yanked the bag from me. “Wiggins, I thought you had it.”
“A gentleman never struggles with a lady.” Clearly, in his heart he found this custom a grave hindrance.
Water plumed upward as the sack splashed into the lake.
A hoarse shout sounded below. “Lord Amighty, look!” An old man with a straggly white beard stood at the end of the dock, pointing his bamboo fishing pole at the ripples in the water. He wore a puffy jacket over bib overalls.
A lean woman with sharp features turned from a bait cooler.
“What’s the matter with you, Pa?”
He waggled the pole. “Something big poked out of that water. Bigger than any fish. I’m going to get the boat and go out there and see.”
If he poked his pole down, snagged the gunnysack, and hauled it out, he’d be sure to tell his cronies at the feed store. If word got back to Detective Sergeant Price, as it very well might in a small town, he would remember the turbaned lady with the gunnysack on the rectory porch.
The fisherman lumbered toward the end of the dock. His boat wasn’t in sight. That gave me a minute, perhaps two.
“Wiggins, that sack mustn’t be found. There’s no time to spare.”
At all costs, I must forestall a discussion. If Wiggins wouldn’t play up, well, I looked down, it would be a long fall. “Quick, I’m going to reappear. Hold me up. I need my turban.”
Below us, oars slapped through water.
I became visible. Just as I began to tumble down, strong hands gripped my arms, held me up. I snatched the turban from my head.
My hair cascaded free. I threw the turban high. In a flash, I disappeared.
I reached out to catch the turban. I didn’t take time to ponder what I would have done had it disappeared, but I tucked away the knowledge that imagined items, once visible but separate from me, remained in existence.
I pulled free from Wiggins’s grasp.
“Precept Six.” Wiggins’s despairing call followed me as I plunged down and poked the turban into the water, only the top of the artificial fruit protruding near the spot where the gunnysack had disappeared.
The boat came around a clump of reeds.
I eased the turban to the surface.
The woman leaned over the side. “Pa, it looks like a bunch of bananas.”
He rowed with vigor, and the boat moved nearer.