Ghost at Work: A Bailey Ruth Mystery

by Carolyn Hart

  “Block letters?” He scrabbled through the nearest folder, pushed it aside, checked one after another.

  Anita spread out her hands. “Somebody wrote it.”

  He closed the last folder. “Yeah. Somebody did.” He stared at the sheet, his face perplexed. “I would have sworn this wasn’t in any of the files.”

  The door opened. Detective Sergeant Price hurried to the table.

  He moved fast, as if there was much to do and too little time.

  The chief held out the sheet. “Take a look at this, Hal. Do you know anything about it?”

  Hal read it, raised an eyebrow, returned the sheet. “News to me.”

  Chief Cobb slapped it on the table. “There are too many weird things about this case. But”—he jabbed a finger at the sheet—“wherever it came from, we have to check it out. It’s too specific to ignore. Anyway, I can use some help this afternoon.”

  He described his conversation with Kathleen Abbott. “She claims she misunderstood, didn’t mean a wheelbarrow, that she went out into the backyard to retrieve some donation for the collectible sale at the church. It’s part of the big Halloween bash that starts”—he checked his watch—“in about fifteen minutes. I want us to show up. I want people to get the idea we’re there to look things over. I’m going to track down the vestry members, see what I can find out about the padre and the vestry. And talk to this”—he tapped the printed message—“

  Irene Chatham. Hal, find Mrs. Abbott and insist she show you the teal arrow. Anita, check with some of the church ladies, see if you can get a get a line on this Helen Troy. Hal, describe her.”

  “Nefertiti.”

  The chief blinked. Officer Leland looked puzzled.

  I kissed my fingers, blew a kiss toward my favorite police detective.

  A slight flush pinked his cheeks. “Classic bone structure. She’s a knockout. It shouldn’t be hard to find her.”

  “Shouldn’t be if she’s such a hottie.” The chief looked amused.

  “But nobody’s pointed the way yet.”

  Hal looked thoughtful. “Not the kind of gal you see at the grocery. The kind of woman who’d look good in a sleek black dress and I think she had a helluva figure from the look of her legs. She was wearing fancy gray heels.”

  I nodded with approval.

  Officer Leland was intrigued. “Of course churchwomen will do anything to help, but she doesn’t sound like someone who spends much time cleaning porches. So I wonder what was so important about the porch.”

  I looked at her sharply, realized her eyes were shrewd and intelligent.

  She’d figured out what mattered.

  The chief was looking at her with admiration. “That’s the point. She cleaned the porch. Maybe she knew there’d been a body there.”

  He suddenly looked formidable. “I want to know if she was a redhead. Maybe she likes to impersonate the police. Keep your eyes open for a good-looking redhead.”

  ———

  In the church parking lot, Kathleen stood outside a big plastic contraption with clear plastic panes on all sides. The green top was shaped like a dragon. A machine blew air to keep it inflated. Inside, a half-dozen boys yelled and rolled and jumped on the bouncy plastic bottom.

  Kathleen lifted a flap and yelled, “No kicking. Absolutely no kicking or wrestling. Two more minutes and it’s the girls’ turn.”

  I had to speak loudly for her to hear, but the boys were making so much commotion I didn’t worry about being overheard. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  Kathleen lifted a finger to indicate she’d be with me ASAP, then turned her thumb toward the contraption, yelled, “Jupiter Jump, only three tickets. Girls next for the Jupiter Jump.”

  I suppose she thought that was a sufficient explanation. I wished I had time to go inside and bounce. What fun! However . . . I shrieked into her ear. “The police are coming. We have to find a teal arrow. They’ll want to see it.”

  Suddenly the shouts inside the inflated plastic plaything turned angry. “. . . off my back . . . stop that . . . gonna shove you . . .”

  Kathleen lifted the flap at the entrance, poked her head inside.

  “That’s enough, boys. Time’s up. Out. Out. Out.”

  Boys ranging from six to midteens tumbled through the opening.

  The last one was scarcely gone before the girls clambered inside.

  I tugged on Kathleen’s jacket sleeve. “A teal arrow. You’ve got to find one. The police will be here any minute and you have to show it to them.”

  A sudden screech and a burst of tears sounded inside the jump.

  Kathleen held up a hand, once again pulled aside the flap. “Abigail, don’t pull Teentsy’s braids. Let go. Pronto. Abigail, you get in that corner. Teentsy, come bounce by the door.”

  When a semblance of harmony was restored, she gripped the edge of the opening flap, looked around.

  “I’m over here. Come on, Kathleen, we don’t have much time.”

  “I’m all alone. Sally Baker didn’t show up. I can’t leave the jump. I’ll tell them—”

  I gripped her arm. “Don’t tell them anything. I’ll take care of it.”

  ———

  I zipped to the rectory. A teal arrow. I closed my eyes. Perhaps I might look in the attic and find some arrows. Our vigorous rector had been quite an archer. A piece of wood and I would be in business.

  I opened my eyes. Lying on the kitchen table was a two-by-fourfoot weathered wooden plaque. Mounted on it was an arrow. The shaft was a bright teal.

  I clapped my hands. “Thank you, Wiggins.” I looked out the window. Three police cars turned into the far end of the church lot. Not a minute too soon, but miracles always seem to happen that way.

  I looked critically at the plaque. Wiggins had done a fine job, but I felt it needed a tad more pizzazz. I rummaged in the craft drawer and found a large gold sticker that had an official appearance.

  I added it beneath the arrow. I used a red marker and inscribed in looping script:

  Authenticated By Hackworth Antiques, St. Louis, Mo

  In the same ornate handwriting, I wrote on a plain sheet of stationery:

  Genuine arrow once owned by Daniel Boone

  For good measure, I added a seal to the bottom of the sheet. I turned the board over, taped the sheet to the back.

  As I started down the back steps of the rectory, I realized, with an unhappy memory of the upright dog leash, that the arrow could not arrive apparently self-propelled. I’d half appeared when I looked down and saw slate-blue trousers. This was no time for Officer Loy to surface. A quick transformation into my purple velour and I hurried toward Kathleen.

  “Mrs. Abbott?” I looked at Kathleen inquiringly.

  Kathleen looked past me and gasped.

  I turned and came face-to-face with Detective Sergeant Price. It was too late to wish for a scarf.

  We looked at each other across time and space. I saw strength and honor in his eyes and more.

  I don’t know what he saw in mine.

  I took a step back and gave him an impersonal smile, a smile that I hoped was cool and distant and yanked up the drawbridge between us. I rushed into speech. “Isn’t this a lovely event? I can’t resist church sales. You never know what you are going to find.” I swerved toward Kathleen. “Hello, Mrs. Abbott. You probably don’t remember me. Helen Troy. I’ve just transferred my membership from All Souls’ in the city. I’m making friends with some of the church ladies and I was so glad to help out yesterday with a little sweeping at the rectory, but you weren’t home. I found this adorable teal arrow at the collectible sale and they said you could tell me about this donation. Is it really”— my voice was hushed—“an authentic Daniel Boone arrow?” I turned the board over, handed it to her.

  Sergeant Price came a step nearer, staring at my undeniably flaming-red hair.

  Kathleen balanced the board in one hand, then the other, looked at the front, peered at the back. Now it held her fingerprints.<
br />
  I was pleased with myself. I felt as buoyed as a poker player drawing an inside straight. That moment of pride lasted until I looked across the church parking lot and saw Chief Cobb heading toward us. Purposefully.

  Kathleen sounded buoyant. “Teal arrow. Yes, indeed, here’s the teal arrow. We certainly hope it’s genuine, but I don’t know who donated it. Someone left it propped up against the back steps of the rectory Thursday night.”

  “I see. Perhaps I’ll not take a chance on it, then. But thank you.”

  I began to back away.

  Detective Sergeant Price moved toward me. “Mrs. Troy, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

  “Oh, my son Billy’s waiting for me at the fortune-teller booth. I’m really in quite a hurry.” I swung on my heel and headed for the church. I sped in front of a large family. Redheads.

  “Wait. Wait, please.” The detective dodged around a group of Cub Scouts.

  I used a group of teenage boys as a screen and ran for the church.

  On the church steps, I risked a backward glance.

  Detective Sergeant Price stood by Chief Cobb and Officer Leland, pointing, then they started toward me, moving fast.

  I yanked open the door, plunged inside. The hallway was crowded.

  A half-dozen children giggled and pushed as they hurried toward the parish hall.

  The door opened. I saw Officer Leland’s slate-blue sleeve.

  I disappeared.

  CHAPTER 16

  Chief Cobb gestured up the hallway. “Let’s find her. I’ll check the main hall, you two take a look in classrooms, offices.”

  He raised his voice. “Coming through.” The authoritative tone parted the mass of children.

  I hovered near the ceiling of the parish hall. The lights had been dimmed on the north end. Flashing orange, red, green, and yellow spots played across the ceiling and walls. Somber organ music evoked specters tiptoeing through a graveyard. Occasional high screams and banshee wails shrilled from a tent. A crooked sign on the front of the tent identified it as SPOOK HOUSE. ENTER AT YOUR PERIL. 5 TICKETS.

  Children of all ages painted pumpkins lined up on trestle tables.

  Thumpy music blared from one corner where sheet-draped children bent and swayed and hopped and chanted in an odd combination of dance and calisthenics. Lights blazed over a small stage at the south end of the hall. Almost everyone was in costume except for Sunday school volunteers in orange T-shirts.

  A long line stretched from Madame Ruby-Ann’s tent out into the hall. I dropped inside. An orange turban, dance-hall makeup, and flaming cerise robe transformed Patricia Haskins into a fortune-teller. She bent near a crystal ball, touching it lightly with her fingers.

  Eyes closed, she crooned to a wide-eyed teenage girl in a peasant costume, “Beware the dark stranger. Turn aside, reach out to the blond Galahad. The familiar may seem ordinary, boring, pedestrian, but the crystal never lies. Your future belongs to a young man whom you’ve overlooked. He awaits you.” A shudder. Her hands fell away.

  She pressed a palm to her head. “The crystal demands much. Make way for my next appointment.”

  The girl looked dreamy. “Is the blond boy’s name Jeff?”

  Mrs. Haskins picked up a small fan, opened it, hiding her face.

  “Jeff, Jeff, I think it is Jeff.”

  I materialized in my Officer Loy uniform directly behind the girl.

  “Did I hear you say you were ready for me?”

  “Oooohh. Jeff.” The girl bounced to her feet. “I can’t wait to tell Amy.”

  “Go the most direct way,” I urged. “Duck out over here.” I held up a side of the tent.

  Madame Ruby-Ann frowned. “Wait a minute. Why send her out that way?”

  I’d learned a thing or two when I worked in the mayor’s office.

  If a question isn’t welcome, ignore it. “Mrs. Haskins, I’ll be quick and to the point. You weren’t altogether frank when you spoke to Chief Cobb yesterday. You are, in fact, withholding important information.”

  I stalked, which was difficult in the limited space, to the card table and bent down to place my hands on either side. “Someone contacted Mr. Murdoch just before he left his office. Who was it?”

  Fingers laden with costume jewelry toyed with the fringe on the brocade cloth covering the card table. “That call didn’t have anything to do with what happened to him. Irene Chatham’s in the Altar Guild and she probably called to check something with him.”

  “Did you overhear their conversation?”

  “Only a little. I opened Mr. Murdoch’s door and heard him say, ‘I’ll be at the church in fifteen minutes.’ So I suppose”—Patricia’s tone was defiant—“that even though technically it’s true that Irene was aware he was going to the church, she could never be a suspect. She’s terrified of guns. Anyway, you can go ask. She’s in charge of the hip-hop ghosts.”

  “Hip-hop?” This was new to me.

  “Kids love hip-hop. The nice kind,” she explained hastily. “No dirty lyrics or gang stuff. They do a musical review at the far end of the parish hall. They’re dressed in sheets with white paint on their faces. They have a great time.”

  I ducked out of the tent.

  A growl greeted me. “No more appearing, Bailey Ruth. I have reached the limits of my patience.”

  A volunteer in an orange T-shirt stared at me. “What did you say, Officer?”

  No one stood near us and I knew she was trying to locate that deep, undoubtedly masculine, and obviously irate voice.

  Wiggins might soon embroil us in more public notice than he would wish.

  “I heard that, too. An echo, I suppose.” Wiggins could mull that over. “Perhaps sound bounces off the ceiling.” I looked up. “Heavens, aren’t the chandeliers interesting? They’re very unusual. Different colors. I particularly like the red one.” I pointed up to the chandelier in the center of the parish hall.

  The volunteer slowly nodded, managed an uncertain smile, and moved away.

  As soon as she walked around the fortune-teller’s tent, I disappeared and wafted up to the red chandelier. I perched on the rim. It was easier than it sounds. Three massive wooden chandeliers shaped like wheels hung from the parish-hall ceiling. There was plenty of room to sit on the outer rim.

  I felt a sudden lurch.

  “Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins was adamant. “No more appearing. It simply won’t do. Now, I’ll admit that was good work with the dog and I understand you felt it essential to speak with several people. But, enough is enough.”

  It was time for an end around, as Bobby Mac always advised when nose to nose in an altercation. “Wiggins, look at the children. Isn’t that adorable?”

  Irene Chatham, her lugubrious face transformed by a bright smile, energetically led a troupe of sheet-clad, starkly white-faced kids in an energetic—and to me most peculiar—performance. She, too, wore a sheet, which flapped as she moved. Madame Ruby-Ann called it a dance, so I supposed it was.

  Irene lunged to her right, one arm extended, and chanted in concert with the dancers, “Shake a leg,” a lunge to the left. “Watch the ghosties flop. Witches’ brew can’t get you,” a lunge to the right.

  “Shake a leg. Halloween’s hot, school’s not. Hey baby, hey baby, hey baby . . .”

  “My goodness, how active,” Wiggins observed. “I suppose you’re waiting for a moment to confer with Kathleen. Remember, Bailey Ruth, work quietly in the background.”

  The chandelier rocked as he left.

  I’d made no reply to Wiggins. I could not later be accused of perfidy because I knew full well I would appear again. I was determined to confront Irene. At the moment the presence of Chief Cobb kept me aloft. He was in the center of the room, face grim, looking, looking, looking.

  I drifted down, stood a few feet from Irene.

  Chief Cobb gave a final searching glance at this end of the hall. He shook his head, moved toward Detective Sergeant Price, who stood near the pumpkin-painting station. The hip-ho
p dance concluded and the ghosties ran toward a lemonade stand. Irene turned off the music. She swiped at her flushed face.

  I dropped down beside her, hoped I was hidden by the milling crowd, and appeared in my French-blue uniform, fresh, crisp, and stern-faced. “Mrs. Chatham.”

  Irene’s mouth opened, rounded in an “oh” of dismay. She took a step back, one hand grasping at her neck, panic flickering in her brown eyes.

  I folded my arms, hoped my posture was intimidating. “From information received, we are aware that you spoke with Mr. Murdoch shortly before five P.M. Thursday. You met him at the church. It will be necessary for you to describe what happened or I’ll have to take you to the station.” My eyes were cold, my voice gruff.

  She gulped, desperate as a goldfish out of water.

  I lifted one hand to shake a finger at her, then stopped, feeling my own sweep of panic. Chief Cobb came around a corner of the Mysterious Maze and saw me. His face twisted in a scowl. He plunged into the swirling crowd, elbowing his way.

  “Mrs. Chatham, you were seen. What happened?” I wished I could grip her scrawny shoulders and shake.

  “I didn’t meet him. I swear I didn’t. When I saw—” She stopped, clapped shaking fingers to her mouth. “I didn’t stay. I don’t know anything and I’ve got to get the next number started.” She whirled around, shouted, “Middle school hip-hop. Time.”

  Chief Cobb was momentarily slowed by two burly high school boys maneuvering a dolly piled with cases of Cokes.

  I had only seconds left. “What did you see? Quick?”

  She flung out her arm, shooing the gathering ghosties into place.

  She bent, touched a button, and the throbbing beat blared. The children began their gyrations, shouting, “Boy say, boy say, boy . . .”

  Chief Cobb loomed just past Irene, shouted, “Stop there, lady. I got you now.”

  What could I do? An abrupt disappearance violated Precept One: Avoid public notice. And possibly Precept Five: Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you. However, I had no choice.

  Chief Cobb ducked around a cotton-candy machine, hand outstretched.