by Carolyn Hart
“Hold up,” she cried. “I can get it.” She bent perilously far out, reaching.
I gave the turban a little push and it came easily into her hands.
Her weathered face softened. “Why, it’s the prettiest thing I ever did see. I’ll dry it out and it’ll be good as new.”
He frowned. “How’d that get out here, Effie?”
Effie didn’t know or care. She carefully laid her treasure on the bottom of the boat. “Some old crow got it and decided it wasn’t no use to him and dropped it down just for me, Pa.”
He grunted and swung the boat around, heading back for the dock. He gave a final questioning look over his shoulder.
I shook the icy lake water from my fingers. I didn’t bother to look about. Not that I would have seen Wiggins. I knew he was near. I wished I wasn’t picturing him glowering, with arms folded.
“Precepts Three, Four, and Six flouted.” His voice was gruff.
Did I hear the faraway whistle of the Rescue Express, dispatched to retrieve an errant emissary?
Silence.
Had Wiggins left? Or was he affording me quiet time in which I might ponder working behind the scenes without making my presence known, becoming visible only when absolutely essential, and refraining from alarming earthly creatures? Or, in the case of Detective Sergeant Price, attracting them.
A rumble sounded near enough that I cringed.
“Unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate.” A heavy sigh. “However, though I am loath to endorse the concept of the ends justifying the means, it would be equally reprehensible to refuse to admit that sometimes desperate measures may be demanded.”
That was good enough for me. “Thank you, Wiggins. I knew you’d be pleased.”
“However, it appears”—a pause—“an unfortunate choice of words.” His displeasure was evident. “It is clear,” he rumbled, “that you are far too attractive.”
“Oh, Wiggins.” If I could have seen him, I would have flashed him a wink. “Men like women. Women like men. Don’t you remember?”
Suddenly a deep burst of laughter erupted nearby. “Oh, I remember. I certainly remember. But”—he was once again stern—“it is simply a reminder that you really must not appear, Bailey Ruth.”
“I’ll do my best.” That might be ambiguous, but I meant it well.
“Now I hate to hurry away, but I simply must deal with the gun.“
If a shout followed me, I honestly didn’t hear it.
———
St. Mildred’s brimmed with activity. I stood on the rectory roof and nudged the lumpy head cover with the toe of my shoe. Any of the women scurrying into or out of the church could easily have tucked a gun in a purse and marched into the cemetery without anyone paying any attention.
I had made every effort to honor the Precepts despite Wiggins’s perception of chaos. I pushed away the memory of my interlude with the very appealing detective sergeant and the tussle with the gunnysack above the lake. Did I dare appear again in another guise to take the gun to the cemetery? Time was wasting. That gun needed to be placed where the police could find it. It seemed amazing that I’d begun the morning with that intent, and here it was, almost noon, and the gun remained atop the rectory.
Moreover, I was hungry. I felt buffeted from my morning, my encounters with Wiggins, the shock of that anonymous call implicating Kathleen, my scramble to warn her before the chief caught her by surprise, my last-second heroics to snatch the nightgown from the cleaning lady, my samba-energized cleaning of the porch, and the challenges of dispatching the tarp. Nonetheless, I was determined to dispose of the gun before pausing for lunch.
My gaze skimmed the parking lot and the backyard. Three women, chattering cheerfully, were walking toward the church, their backs to me. Just below me, the Halloween decorations were much less ominous in bright sunshine than they’d been on my arrival last night, although it seemed to me that the huge spider’s reddish eyes had an eerie glow and the bat was amazingly lifelike.
In an instant I was hovering beside the bat. The papier-mâché creature wasn’t the almost cuddly, small furry creature I associated with barn lofts. This bat had a good six-inch wingspan. It was definitely big enough. I loosened the wires that held it to a dangling rope. With a quick glance around, I tossed the rope up around the tree limb.
With my help, the bat flapped its wings and rose to the roof. I doubted my bat was particularly batlike, but it would serve well enough. I took the gun out of the head cover, placed it on the back of the bat, where it was hidden from view below. Wiggins would applaud the ingenuity that made it unnecessary for me to appear at this moment.
The bat and gun and I sailed into the cemetery without incident.
I went directly to the mausoleum, which was included within the yellow tape erected by the police to proclaim a crime scene. A moment later, the gun was tucked between Hannah Pritchard’s tomb and the interior wall.
Sunlight spilled into the mausoleum. I wafted to the greyhound, smoothed the top of his head, would have sworn I heard a throaty yip, felt the warmth of skin. At Hannah’s tomb, I stroked the cat whiskers.
I definitely felt lucky. Now all I needed to do was make an anonymous call to the police, inform them that the gun that had been used to shoot Daryl Murdoch was hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum.
My face furrowed in a frown. Making phone calls was definitely more challenging now than it had been when I’d lived in Adelaide.
Obviously, there were means of tracing where calls originated. I needed a telephone that wasn’t linked to the rectory or the church.
I was stymied for a moment. I didn’t have time to zoom around Adelaide seeking a telephone. I needed a place where there were plenty of telephones and possibly one I could use without notice.
The library.
The solution came so swiftly I knew it was meant to be. Bobby Mac’s sister Julianna had been a librarian for thirty years. Her passion was Latin. Julianna’s thrill upon arriving in Heaven was meeting the poet Horace. As she had murmured to me: Sic itur ad astra.
As always, she kindly translated: “Thus one goes to the stars,” or more eloquently, “Such is the way to immortality.”
I smiled and murmured Julianna’s favorite from Horace: Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero! It was my credo at this moment.
I definitely intended to seize this hour and not trust some later day.
I was puzzled for a moment when I found myself in a rotunda with the state flag of Oklahoma in a bright mosaic on the floor. This wasn’t the old red-brick Carnegie library on Second Street, but I approved of the lovely new building, nonetheless.
Three witches huddled around a cauldron. Bunches of red tissue simulated a bed of burning coals. Twists of silver tissue poked upward from the cauldron as coils of steam. To one side, a witch with a beaked nose held a decorated placard announcing: STORY TIME FOR LITTLE SPOOKS 10 A.M. SATURDAY. On the other side, a witch with bright red eyes held another sign: FRIENDS’ MONSTER SLIME DINNER 7 P.M. FRIDAY, COME AS YOU AREN’T!
Two bulbous-bodied cardboard tarantulas balanced on a giant black web that stretched over the door to the reading room. I stepped inside and a plastic skeleton extended a hand as a sepulchral voice intoned, “Welcome to thrills and chills.”
Books filled rows of metal shelving, but a goodly portion of the near room was filled with the television-like machines. Patrons hunched at the keyboards. Colorful images flashed on the screens.
I looked covetously at the telephone on the main information desk. However, it was far too public for me to use. I wafted upstairs in a flash and through a locked door marked STAFF.
A narrow hallway led past four cubicles separated by partitions.
Puffy paper pumpkins hung from the ceiling. Each cubicle held a desk and a chair with one of those machines with a keyboard and screen. Three were occupied. Telephones rang, chairs squeaked, voices rose in a hum.
I slipped into the unoccupied cubicle. The in-box held a green skull that g
lowed with phosphorescent paint. I admired the studio portrait of a little girl about seven. The desktop was neat, papers stacked, pens at the ready. I opened drawers until I found a directory.
The first time I dialed, I got an automatic recording: “Dial nine for outside calls.” I started over.
The call was answered on the second ring. “Adelaide Police.”
I spoke softly. “I have information about the murder of Daryl—”
”Excuse me, ma’am. You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.”
I gripped the receiver, tried again. “I have information—”
”Louder, please.”
This time I spoke loud and fast. “The gun used to shoot Daryl Murdoch is hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum at the cemetery.”
A chair on the other side of the partition squeaked. A round face framed by spiky black curls appeared over the edge of the partition.
“Hey, Callie, what’s—”
No more words came. A look of eager curiosity was replaced by the beginnings of a puzzled frown. “Callie?” She looked up and down, seeking what evidently wasn’t there. “How come the phone’s up in the air?”
“Let me connect you . . .” I slammed the phone into the receiver.
Abruptly the face disappeared. Feet thudded as the questioner bounded out into the aisle. She moved to the cubicle’s entryway, peering inside. “Callie, where are you?” She looked up and down the aisle. “Where did you go?”
The phone on the desk rang.
As I zoomed out of her way, I knocked against the skull. It rolled from the in-box and bounced on the desk.
The puzzled librarian clutched at the partition.
The phone continued to peal.
Reluctantly, the librarian edged into the cubicle. Leaning away from the shiny skull, she yanked up the receiver. “Adelaide Library.”
Her voice was uneven, breathless. “How may I help you?” She warily watched the skull.
“Yeah. I heard part of it.” She twined the cord around one finger.
“No. It wasn’t me. I don’t know who called you. I mean, I heard it, but nobody’s here.” Her face folded in a frown. “I don’t know a thing about a gun. Well, sure, send somebody over if you want to. But I can tell you now that nobody here knows a thing. And there’s this skull that bounced . . .”
———
Kathleen spread mustard on thick slices of homemade white bread. She added lettuce, bread-and-butter pickles, and ham. I counted three sandwiches on the stoneware platter. One for me, possibly? She lifted a bowl of potato salad from the refrigerator.
I always like to help my hostess. “Would you like for me to set the table?”
She whirled toward the sound, though I’d moved to the cabinet and was reaching up for dishes. “How many will there be?”
She turned again. “Bill and me. But—” She glanced out the back window. “If you’re hungry, I suppose you could eat first.”
It wasn’t the most gracious invitation I’d ever received, but it would do.
I opened the cabinet, picked out three plates, each in a different color, one of the charms of Fiesta pottery. I selected azure blue for Bill, pine green for Kathleen, sandstone red for me.
As I placed them on the table, she glanced through the window into the backyard and the path from the church, then demanded anxiously, “What about the nightgown?”
”Not a trace remains.” I didn’t think it was necessary to explain that the gown’s destruction had been a near thing.
She leaned against the counter, holding the potato salad. “Thank you, Bailey Ruth.”
“My pleasure.” I took the bowl from her, carried it to the table, then lifted the platter of sandwiches.
Kathleen watched its progress through the air. “What frightens me is that I’m beginning to think that platters and bowls traveling through the air untouched by human hand is normal.”
I would have been insulted, but she was stressed. I didn’t bother to answer. It took only a moment more to add silverware and napkins.
She delved again into the refrigerator, added a plate of deviled eggs bright with a dash of paprika, and cut celery stalks stuffed with pimiento cheese.
I pulled out my chair. “Since Father Bill’s coming, you don’t mind if I start?” I took a sandwich, scooped up a generous amount of potato salad, plucked a deviled egg and stalk of stuffed celery. The ham was delicious, the bread fresh and yeasty. The potato salad was my favorite, made with mustard, not drenched in mayonnaise. I murmured grace and lifted my sandwich.
“He’s supposed to be here at noon.” She sounded weary. She plunked ice cubes into glasses, brought them and a pitcher of iced tea.
I knew I was home in Oklahoma, where iced tea is the drink of choice year-round.
“Who knows if he’ll come? Bill never does.” She poured tea for us. “Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.”
I wondered if she realized how forlorn she sounded.
Soon enough it would be time for me to demand information from Kathleen, but as my mama always insisted, “Mealtime is a time for happy faces.” Deferring to the Precepts, I couldn’t offer a smiling face to Kathleen, but I could focus on happy matters. “Will you help out at Bayroo’s Halloween party this afternoon?”
Kathleen’s smile was immediate. “It’s going to be so much fun. I baked meringue in the shape of hearts and made an X on them with red licorice for ‘X marks the spot.’ And . . .”
I listened and murmured and smiled as she described the party plans. I forced myself to eat sedately, though, truth to tell, I was ravenous from my morning’s exertions and could have devoured two sandwiches in the time I spent daintily consuming one. “Bayroo says she always wears a pirate costume.”
Kathleen laughed. “With a gold eye patch, not a black one. Bayroo says her pirate is stylish.”
We were absorbed in lunch and conversation. The sudden opening of the back door shocked us to silence. Kathleen looked in panic at my plate, with its obvious remnants of a meal at a place where no one sat.
I didn’t hesitate, stealthily moving the plate and glass below the surface of the table. I put them on the floor, then reached up to grab the silverware and napkin, and dropped down again. However, a meal service is not a normal feature of a kitchen floor. I looked swiftly about. There was a space between the refrigerator and the counter. The area between wasn’t visible from the table.
Two black-trousered legs stood between me and my goal.
“Kathleen.” Father Bill’s voice was grim.
I shot up to look.
A bleak frown combined with his clerical collar and dark suit made Kathleen’s husband appear somber. He stopped, hands clenched at his sides. He should have been handsome, his shock of sandy hair cut short to disguise a tendency to curl, deep-set dark blue eyes, straight nose, stalwart chin with a cleft. Instead he looked haggard and worried.
“Bill?” Kathleen took a step toward him. “What’s wrong?”
He took a deep breath. “The police chief came to see me. He told me you went to Daryl Murdoch’s cabin Wednesday night.” Father Bill jammed his hands into his jacket pockets.
Kathleen stood as if her bones had turned to stone.
Father Bill tried to smile. “That was some story you came up with. I know he didn’t plan a gift for Mamie. He wanted me to fire her. But I told the chief surprises were right up Daryl’s alley. That was certainly true. And the uglier the better.” He looked even grimmer.
“I know what happened. You went because of me, didn’t you? Daryl said he had to talk to you about me.”
Father Bill seemed to have no awareness of his surroundings. Now was the moment. Hovering just above the floor, I moved behind him with my plate and napkin and silverware. There was barely room to squeeze past.
Kathleen’s eyes widened. Her gaze followed the table service moving a few inches above the floor. She looked stricken.
Father Bill’s face softened. “That’s what I thought.” He moved towa
rd her in a rush, pulled her into his arms, looked down into her face. “You shouldn’t have gone there. Did he try to get you to tell him? What did you say?”
I reached the refrigerator.
Kathleen gave him a quick look, then her eyes veered down, drawn as if by a magnet to the retreating table setting.
I tucked everything out of sight.
She closed her eyes in relief.
“Kathleen.” His voice was suddenly soft. “Don’t be upset. You’re wonderful.” He gently took her chin, lifted her face. Her eyes opened and their gazes met. “It must have been horrible for you, the police chief demanding to know what you talked about and you trying to protect me. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Sorry about everything. But you’re my wonderful brave girl, going to that cabin, staring him down. It was just like Daryl”—his voice was hard—“to try and pry information out of you.”
“He was awful.” Kathleen’s eyes were dark with memory. “But I didn’t say anything about you.”
He loosed his grip, began to pace. “Of course not. I wouldn’t tell you anything about—well, that’s the problem, I can’t tell anyone. That makes me suspect number one to the police.”
Kathleen’s hand clutched at her throat. “You? Bill, I don’t understand.”
He faced her. “It’s simple enough. Daryl and I had a shouting match yesterday morning. Somebody must have heard and told the police. The chief wants to know what happened and why. I can’t tell him. I don’t know what Daryl may have said to anyone else on the vestry. If Daryl hinted at financial laxity, well, I may not be rector here much longer. An audit will show everything’s absolutely as it should be, but if that kind of suspicion is raised, I’m done for. Everybody will think I was going to do something illegal and Daryl called my hand. If anyone has to be above suspicion, it’s a priest.”
Kathleen was distraught. “No one can ever say that about you. You’re the most honest man in the world, the most honorable, the kindest, the best.” If she’d had a sword, she would have brandished it.
Suddenly Bill’s face re-formed, alight with laughter. “That’s my girl.”
She was distraught. “It’s crazy for them to suspect you.”