Ghost in Trouble (2010)

by Carolyn Hart

  “Hey.” She bristled with indignation. “I can’t believe I heard that.” She shook her head. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but I’ve never been called a coward. Especially not by myself.” The emphasis on the pronoun was marked.

  I felt uneasy about Kay’s mental confusion. Perhaps she would cope better if I disappeared. I swirled away.

  She didn’t even blink.

  I returned.

  Kay’s gaze was steely. “Stuff yourself back into some far crevice of my brain. I’m here and here I stay.” She spoke fast and hard. Perhaps she felt that was the only way to communicate with the part of her mind that she credited with my appearances. Her gaze never left my face. “Tonight accomplished two things. The note on my pillow and the crash of the vase prove Jack was murdered. My acceptance of the vase as an accident should reassure everyone, maybe including the murderer, that I’m here because Jack hired me to write his life story.”

  I was skeptical. “He doesn’t sound like the kind of man who was that self-absorbed.”

  Now Kay massaged both temples. “Will you keep quiet? You know—or you should unless my subconscious has completely lost its marbles—that story is pure fiction. He wanted me to write a book about his camp near Lake Nakuru: Five-Star Safaris, Jack Hume, Victoria Falls specialist. So, I’m perfectly safe. I’m a nonfiction writer, specialty biographies, most recent title a biography of Jerrie Cobb. I’m telling everybody here that I need information about Jack’s last days in order to write the end of the story, then I’m traveling to Kenya. I can find out everything about what happened before he died. Plus the attack on me may give some clue to the identity of the murderer.”

  She drew the pad near, began to write.

  9. The note was placed on my pillow after I went downstairs for dinner at a quarter to seven. Any member of the household (Evelyn, Diane, Jimmy, the Phillipses, and Margo and Shannon) could have put the note there. Dinner guests were the family, Alison Gregory, Paul Fisher, and Gwen and Clint Dunham. Everybody but Fisher was at The Castle the night Jack died.

  Kay looked pleased. “I asked Diane to invite them since I understood Jack had seen all of them during his visit. Alison Gregory has a gallery and Evelyn buys artwork from her. They are also quite good friends, Alison being no dummy.” Kay’s tone was dry. “The Dunhams live next door and are longtime family friends. I asked Diane to include Paul Fisher because Jack may have talked to him about the photograph someone slipped beneath his door. Anyone who was at dinner could have pushed the vase. It would be easy for either of the Dunhams or Alison to return. I don’t include Paul as a suspect because I understand he wasn’t in Adelaide the night Jack died. I’ll check that out to be sure.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “Someone in the house pushed the vase. I heard a door close when I reached the balcony.”

  Kay shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. If a dinner guest left the note in my room, it would be easy to hurry up to the third floor and unlock a French door on the balcony. The Castle is old-fashioned. There’s no alarm system. Later, someone could have approached the house, climbed the balcony steps, pushed the vase, then escaped through the house to avoid being seen in the garden. There are many ways out of the house on the ground floor.”

  I glanced again at the list. “What do you know about the dinner guests?”

  She sighed in relief. “That’s why you’re haunting me. I need to find out whether Jack had a connection to one of them. Nobody was very forthcoming tonight. I don’t suppose it escaped anybody’s notice that they had all, except Paul, been at The Castle the night Jack died. The conversation was pretty stiff. Alison Gregory talked about a traveling exhibit of Impressionists at the Oklahoma City Art Museum. No matter what I asked her, pretty soon she got back to the exhibit. I learned more about Monet than I ever wanted to know. As for the Dunhams, they had very little to say. She’s a blonde with exquisite bone structure. She’s been beautiful all of her life. Tonight she was distant. Polite enough, but clearly wishing she were elsewhere. Her husband’s big and burly and looks like he’s outside a lot, a ruddy face. You would have thought the art exhibit up in the City was the most fascinating thing Gwen Dunham had ever heard about. I did manage to ask how well she knew Jack. She looked surprised and murmured she thought they’d met years ago, but her memory wasn’t too clear. Her husband just shook his head.”

  Suddenly Kay yawned. She looked at the clock. It was shortly after three A.M. She yawned again. “I’ve done all I can do.”

  I understood. A near escape from death had sent her adrenaline sky-high. Now the adrenaline had drained away and she was exhausted.

  Kay pushed back the chair, walked toward the bed, turning off lights. She kicked off her shoes, and fully dressed, she dropped onto the bed.

  I think she was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

  I struggled, too, with fatigue. Being in the world is physically tiring. Appearing and disappearing consumes enormous energy, though I didn’t think I would get any sympathy from Kay. I rubbed scratchy eyes. Before I slept, I wanted to explore the papers left behind by Jack Hume.

  The ebony box still lay open on the desktop, next to Jack’s e-mails. I lifted out the contents one by one. A passport. I opened it, saw a photograph of Jack Hume. I flipped through the pages. He was indeed well traveled, visiting London and Paris several times each year as well as many of the African countries adjoining Kenya. His only recent visit to the United States coincided with his arrival in Adelaide. There was a packet of letters from Kay. I did not read them.

  A thick legal document turned out to be the trust provisions of his father, John J. Hume III. A handwritten sheet in masculine writing was tucked inside along with two business cards. The sheet was the beginning of a letter to Kay. The sheet wasn’t dated.

  Hi, Kay,

  Too late tonight to call you. Paul explained the provisions of Dad’s estate this afternoon. All the trusts are set up, equal shares for Evelyn, me, and Jimmy. Surprised the hell out of me. I guess the old man really had mellowed. Maybe my coming back for James’s funeral made a difference. Maybe using the inheritance from Mom and making a go of my company in Kenya pleased him, even if he was mad as hell that I blew off Hume Oil. Who knows? Anyway, the Hume fortune will last at least another couple of generations. Everything will ultimately come to Jimmy since Evelyn and I don’t have kids. None of it matters a damn to me, anyway. I want to get back to the bush. I hope you…

  Apparently, Jack had started the letter to her, then tucked it in the legal folder, intending to finish it later. I studied the business cards. On thick white stock with black printing:

  PAUL FORBES FISHER, ESQ.

  FISHER, BENTON, AND BORELLI, LLC

  201 W. MAIN STREET

  ADELAIDE, OK 74820

  580.333.7942

  The second card was a soft cream with dark blue lettering:

  ALISON GREGORY

  GREGORY GALLERY

  104 WISTERIA LANE

  ADELAIDE, OK 74820

  580.333.6281

  The second card carried a brief notation on the back: 2:30 P.M. Leonard Walker.

  The last item in the ebony box was a computer printout entitled Hume Estate Artwork. I scanned several single-spaced pages, a list of paintings, statuary, silver, and any other artworks in The Castle. The evaluations startled me. A painting by Gainsborough was valued at $640,000. My oh my.

  I checked to see if anything was tucked between the pages of the list or the copy of the estate provisions sheets.

  In Jack Hume’s final e-mail, he was upset because a photograph had been slipped beneath the door of his room. What photograph and where was it?

  Tomorrow I would ask Kay.

  I replaced the items in the order in which I’d found them. Jack Hume’s letter about his inheritance indicated that no one in the Hume family needed money, making it unlikely that Jack had been murdered for his estate.

  Kay was focused on what Jack had discovered in his three weeks at The Castle that made his murd
er essential. Tomorrow I would try again to convince her to leave the investigating to me.

  I checked her bedroom door. It was locked. However, I propped a chair beneath the handle. It never hurt to take precautions.

  I disappeared and whirled through the wall into the hallway. I began to explore, seeking a suitable guest bedroom. Who would ever have thought I would spend a night at The Castle?

  I had some difficulty in making a choice, finally opting for a truly dramatic guest room with white walls, white rugs, and a spacious four-poster bed with a white spread. White is such a nice background for a redhead.

  Of course, I could better appreciate the contrast if I appeared. I swirled into being. White shorty pajamas were perfect…

  “Oh, dear. Harumph.” A hurried clearing of his throat announced Wiggins’s arrival. “Bailey Ruth, please.” There was a touch of embarrassment in his voice, but I didn’t miss the underlying stern tone.

  Quick to observe the proprieties, I changed to a sky blue blouse and white linen trousers with the most fetching white sandals. I took a deep breath and looked in the direction of his voice. I wished he would appear. I suddenly empathized with Kay Clark. Dealing with an unseen presence was unnerving.

  Moreover, I knew I was a ghost in trouble, fighting for my mission.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It is better to give than to receive. Especially if trouble is on the way. Before Wiggins could scold, I beamed and clapped my hands in appreciation. “How nice of you to come. I’m sure you want to know the latest developments.”

  “I know the latest.” His voice had a curious strangling sound. “Appearing, always appearing.”

  I suspected an accusatory forefinger was at this moment pointed at me. I increased the wattage of my smile, clearly a woman confident of her actions. “Everything is working out splendidly!”

  “Working out?” There was a note of uncertainty and possibly a flicker of hope.

  I almost felt a moment of compunction. Really, men are such lambs, always responding readily to concrete statements.

  “Definitely.” I was tempted to break into “Everything’s Coming Up Roses,” but decided not to push my luck. “Kay thinks I’m imaginary. So, should I need to appear, no harm done. She won’t believe I’m there.”

  I continued to beam in the approximate direction of his voice. I wished he weren’t so averse to being visible. “Of course, tomorrow—today actually—I’ll try again to convince Kay to leave the investigating to me. The wisest course would be for her to leave Adelaide.”

  “That will be wonderful.” Relief buoyed his voice. “Your mission will be done. The Express can pick you up this afternoon.”

  Perhaps I was too clever by half. My high-wattage smile felt fixed. “I’ll do my best to persuade her to depart, but there are ramifications.” My face grew grave.

  “Oh?”

  I spoke quickly. “Others may be at risk. Kay is my primary responsibility, but I need to discover the reason for Jack’s murder.” I gave my husky voice a portentous vibrato. “Until then, no one at The Castle may be safe.”

  “Unfortunately”—Wiggins sounded somber—“I have a similar feeling. In the department, we are not privy to the innermost thoughts of those on earth. Only God knows. However, when I checked your file, I felt most uneasy. Though possibly your predilections might be the source of my discomfort. And”—his voice was dour—“I find it discouraging that you arrived at your post unaware you were here to protect Kay Kendall Clark. I most specifically”—great emphasis—“advised that you were perhaps unsuitable considering your attitude toward Kay. You assured me”—now there was a put-upon note to his voice—“that you were absolutely capable of discharging your duties. That moment in the garden when each recognized the other was not a scene I like to dwell upon.”

  I refused to be daunted. “All missions have their ups and downs. Why, you yourself when last in Tumbulgum”—at the conclusion of my previous visit to earth, Wiggins had admitted a deviation from the Precepts when he had been forced to intervene in a mission in that remote Australian community—“realized that despite the best of intentions, at times one does what one has to do. In this instance, I will emphatically carry out my duties with a brave heart and a clear conscience.”

  “Well put.” He was hearty.

  Dear Wiggins. So easily deflected from the matter at hand.

  I looked soulful. I caught a quick glimpse in the mirror. Perhaps the world lost a great actress. Truly, I appeared as noble as Portia in the famous painting by Millais.

  “Bailey Ruth, do your best.”

  I stood straight as a soldier with a battlefield commission. Until I was sure he was gone. Then I gave a whoosh of relief. In any event, I’d better work fast and hope Kay Clark turned out to be as stubborn as I thought she was. It was essential that I speak with her privately in the morning. I thought for a moment, then popped to the kitchen. I turned on a light, found a notepad near the telephone, and composed a message. I left the note on the kitchen table. Upstairs in Kay’s room, I used a sheet from her notepad, wrote quickly: Breakfast will arrive at eight o’clock. Await further instructions. I propped the note on the lavatory in Kay’s bathroom and returned to the guest room.

  Possibly I fell asleep even more quickly than Kay. A clear conscience affords that luxury.

  My eyes popped wide. I’d had only a few hours’ sleep, but I was eager to get a glimpse of the inhabitants of the house. When they are alone, many people’s demeanors differ profoundly from that exhibited when in the company of others. Also, I needed to check on the not-quite-hidden tools.

  With no fear of observation while in the bedroom, I chose to be visible. In the luxurious bathroom, I was enchanted by the huge white marble shower designed without a curtain or glass door. Absolutely Heavenly. As the water pelted, I recalled the household members as they gathered on the porch last night:

  Evelyn Hume—Tall, imposing, a commanding figure. Dark hair streaked with silver. A long face with a determined jaw. A deep, imperious voice.

  Diane Hume—Faded blonde. Dresden-fine features marred by a lost look in her blue eyes and anxious lines at her eyes and mouth.

  Jimmy Hume—Tall and well built. Bright blue eyes. Wiry, shortcut brown hair. Squarish face set in a dark frown.

  Margo Taylor—Frowsy auburn hair. Unsmiling. An aura of discontent.

  Shannon Taylor—Young and pretty, blue-eyed, brown hair with gold highlights, her expression withdrawn and sad.

  Laverne Phillips—Coronet braids. Dark eyes. Thin nose. Bony face. She tried to appear important, but came off as theatrical, a shopgirl pretending to be personage.

  Ronald Phillips—He, too, seemed to be playing a role, the husband of a great woman. I wondered what was behind his unctuous manner and perfectly styled silver hair and beard.

  Stepping out of the shower, I enjoyed the fleecy softness of the towel. Once dry, I disappeared and chose my clothing. Before departing, I materialized long enough to glance in the bedroom mirror, an extravagant, full-length affair with a white limestone frame. My copper-bright hair shone. An azure blouse complemented white slacks and sandals. My green eyes sparkled, my freckled face was eager. I was ready.

  I checked to be sure there was no evidence the room had been used. I’d made the bed, of course. The bathroom had a plentiful supply of towels, so one less would not be noticed. I folded my damp towel. I’d drop by The Castle laundry room on my way out.

  I disappeared and stepped into the hall, making sure no one was about to observe the floating towel. I gently closed the bedroom door and thought: laundry room. To move an object required me to traverse the distance rather than immediately arriving. I floated—floating is such fun—down the hallway to an inconspicuous door. I opened it to find the interior stairs meant for the domestic staff. A dim light midway down revealed a narrow passageway and steep steps. I found three narrow doors at the bottom of the stairs. Dimly, I heard a dog barking excitedly.

  The first door opened.
“Walter, what’s wrong with you? What’s on the stairs?”

  A yipping bundle of golden fur scrambled up the steps, nails clicking, in a wriggling frenzy of excitement.

  “Shh.” I reached down to pet.

  The dog lunged, yanking the towel from my other hand.

  I grabbed one end, held tight.

  A joyous growl sounded. The dog pulled, his claws scrabbling on the uncarpeted stairs. What could be more fun than tug-of-war first thing in the morning?

  “Walter, what are you doing?” Margo sounded exasperated. She stood at the foot of the steps, glaring upward. “Hush. You’ll wake everyone up.” The door evidently opened into the kitchen. The scent of coffee and bacon beckoned me. I let go of the towel.

  Walter slid down several steps, dragging the towel with him.

  “Give me that towel.” Margo bent, but the dog bolted past her into the kitchen, the towel dragging behind him.

  I sighed. Now there would be the Mystery of the Damp Towel on the Service Stairs. Wiggins felt strongly about unexplained incidents that might prompt speculation of otherworldly intervention.

  Looking on the bright side—I hoped Wiggins would do so as well—now that I wasn’t burdened with the towel, I was free to carry out my plans.

  I had a decision to make. Although Kay’s refusal to involve the police likely put her in greater danger, I understood her reasoning. As long as those with whom she spoke—with the exception of the murderer—remained unaware that Jack Hume had been pushed, they likely would answer whatever questions Kay asked.

  However, if the tools I’d so cleverly placed in the drawer in the oak cabinet were discovered, it was inevitable that the police would be summoned and a thorough investigation begun on the sabotage of the vase.

  I am rarely indecisive. Did I play Kay’s game? Or did I try to involve the police in hopes of protecting her? If the former, I must move quickly, retrieve the tools, place them in the tool room.

  I popped to the main hallway. Shadowy openings at either side near the front door led to the living and dining area. I looked at the massive cabinet.