Ghost Wanted

by Carolyn Hart

  He nodded and moved fast, his footsteps thudding on the tile floor. It took no more than a minute, and he was back, big face creased in a frown. “Nobody there.”

  “We heard a woman’s voice. Right?” There was a pugnacious edge to her voice.

  “Yeah.”

  “Louis said a woman called from HR.” She jerked her head toward the adjoining office. “We came through the door and that folder was in the air and some woman said, ‘Oh my goodness.’”

  I was mortified. I should have remembered caller ID. My jolly phone call came from a building closed and locked for the night.

  “No woman in here.” He took a deep breath. “Hey, Betty, what about that folder? It was hanging in the air.”

  She flicked a glance at the folder, agape on the tiled floor. “Somebody must have left the folder out. Maybe it was on top of a cabinet and something made it fall down.” She looked uneasily at the shadowy rows between the cabinets.

  “Yeah.” He was hearty. “Air current or something. Everything looks all right.”

  From the way his eyes darted around the room, paused at every shadowy corner, I was reminded of a favorite cartoon. A rangy black cat stared fixedly at a shadowy corner while his owner looked at him uneasily. The caption read: “I’d tell you what I see but it would scare you silly.”

  The young woman raised a dark eyebrow. “Nobody here but us.”

  His face squeezed in thought. “Why was the light on?”

  She shrugged. “Somebody forgot it.”

  He thought for a moment. “Nah. Rusty patrols by here on foot. He would’ve seen the light in the windows, checked it out. Besides, where’s the woman who called from here?”

  “Somebody was working late.”

  “Louis checked the name. Nobody named Luhsoo on the staff.”

  I smothered a laugh.

  They both stiffened.

  Honestly, what happened next wasn’t my fault.

  A hand gripped my arm.

  Anyone would be startled. “Eeek.” I’ll admit my voice rose to a squeal.

  Al jumped, then swung toward her, glowering. “That’s not funny, Betty.”

  She glared at him. “I didn’t make that noise.”

  “Who the hell squeaked then? A leprechaun?” Heavy irony.

  Now it was Wiggins whose sharply indrawn breath could be heard. Hell should not be lightly invoked.

  Eyes wide, the security officers looked at each other, turned, ran.

  The sound of their running steps faded.

  “I would remonstrate.” Wiggins’s normally cheerful voice was lugubrious. “Precepts One, Three, and Six. However, I made matters worse.”

  I was stricken with remorse. Dear Wiggins. Always so serious, so well-meaning, so by the book. I broke into a refrain of “Look for the Silver Lining.” I loved Judy Garland’s version, but my own soprano wasn’t half bad. I added a little soft shoe, and the slight shushing sounds added cheer to the surroundings. I hoped. “It’s nice to see young people who can move so quickly.”

  A reluctant chuckle. “Did anyone ever tell you that you are irrepressible?”

  “A few times.” I kept my tone modest.

  Wiggins cleared his throat. “However, it appears this venture is ill-starred. I should not have sent—”

  I felt a wave of panic. Did I hear the faint whistle of the Rescue Express? Was I to be yanked off the earth without achieving anything? “Wiggins”—now I was serious—“I must stay. Lorraine needs me.”

  I sensed an abrupt change in his attitude. Normally confident Wiggins was embarrassed, uncertain.

  “I put my own feelings before my duty to the department.” His voice was woeful. “Since there isn’t any time in Heaven—”

  There he went again. For some reason, the concept reassured him.

  “—I thought if she stayed and brought happiness . . . well, the world needs happiness, don’t you agree?”

  Just for an instant I felt the weight of earth’s sorrow and anger and despair. “Dear Heaven, yes.” The oppressive pressure lifted. “Of course I agree. Happiness matters.”

  “I always thought so.” His tone was plaintive.

  “I talked to Lorraine tonight.” Without a word from him, I knew Wiggins was listening with every fiber of his being. I smiled. “Lorraine has a lovely voice. She spoke of you.”

  Lightness and happiness flowed around me in warming waves.

  Oh, Wiggins, I understand. Love knows no barriers, not time nor space nor distance nor life nor death.

  “She was always kind and good.” His deep voice was soft. “She wanted love to flower whenever it could. But during the last few days, peculiar things have happened at the library, and some people—the credulous ones—are saying it must be a ghost, that the Rose Lady has turned mean. I know those with intelligence would not seriously cast blame for odd incidents on a ghost.” From his tone, you would have thought such creatures nonexistent. “But there are those who believe the moon landing was a hoax and unicorns inhabit forests. I didn’t want dark deeds associated with Lorraine. I wanted to restore her good name.” A weary sigh. “But the department has to focus on truly evil acts. That was my mistake.”

  “Wiggins”—I picked my words carefully—“Heaven teaches us to listen to our hearts. What does your heart tell you?”

  “My heart?”

  I could scarcely hear the words.

  “My heart?” The tone was louder, stronger. “My heart tells me she deserves to be protected. She is the kindest, most beautiful, gentlest creature I’ve ever known. Lorraine was never selfish or cold or heartless. Yet that is how she will now be remembered by some because of those stories in the student newspaper. I hope she will come home to Heaven, but her spirit will be forever forlorn if she is blamed—”

  Running steps sounded in the hallway.

  The whistle of the Rescue Express rose in a mournful wail.

  “Let me stay, Wiggins. I will prove Lorraine is innocent.” Brave words, since I had no clue what dastardly deeds were being attributed to her, but I was intent upon avoiding a swift return on the Express.

  “Can you? Will you?” His voice was fading.

  The scent of coal smoke lessened, disappeared. The distant clack of wheels indicated I had managed a reprieve.

  A covey of security officers burst into the file room.

  The rumble of the Rescue Express was scarcely audible, and then the sound was gone. I was still here. Saving a ghost’s good name would be a first for me. It seemed odd that Lorraine fled from me. Perhaps I could gain her confidence when she realized I was her champion. Now I must find out what kind of troubles were being blamed on her.

  The security officers had left the lights on in the HR office. As they thudded up and down among rows of filing cabinets in the adjoining room, I flipped through a campus directory, found the location of the student newspaper office, blew the officers an unseen kiss, and departed.

  The Communications Department was housed in an old frame building atop the highest hill on campus. I landed in the newsroom and smiled, remembering the building’s history. Built in the early 1900s, the shabby edifice called Old Ethel had originally been a boarding house, though it was well known that boarders simply came for the night and the owner was a madam named Ethel. After a raid, Ethel left town and the building was unused for years. The college purchased the boarding house and land in the 1930s. The rambling building served as a residence hall until the 1960s, when the Journalism Department took it over. The lower floor housed the Bugle. Efforts to change the building’s name met stiff resistance from journalism students who delighted in the ramshackle house’s bawdy history. The newsroom featured a mural of a buxom woman in a low-cut cardinal red gown. Reporters called her Ethel and included her in ribald exchanges.

  Computer monitors glowed eerily in the darkened newsr
oom. I supposed the terminals required passwords. If need be I could return tomorrow, hover over a reporter’s shoulder, and discover a password, but I wanted information now. I also hoped to learn about Joe Cooper, the Bugle editor whose actions disappointed the night watchman. I wandered to the end of the newsroom. Enough light slanted through a nearby window to illuminate worn letters on the door to a small office: Bugle Editor.

  I turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. My eyes adjusted to dimness. Though the room was shadowy, I saw a goosenecked desk light on a desk. I started across the small room, stumbled over something lumpy on the floor, recovered my balance, and moved to the desk. Remembering the near hysteria that lighted windows appeared to evoke on the campus, I punched the button at the lamp’s base and turned the flexible shaft to focus the beam on a highly untidy desk.

  “What a mess.” I began to root about. Almost immediately I uncovered a desk nameplate: Joe Cooper. I moved papers and uncovered a stack of tabloid-sized Bugles. I picked up several, moved nearer the light, and—

  “Okay.” The voice was male, a male striving for bluster. “I had two drinks. That was all. Two drinks. Okay, scotch on the rocks, but I’m a big, strapping guy.”

  I looked across the desk into a shadowy corner of the office. A young man in wrinkled clothes stood by a rumpled sleeping bag.

  He rubbed his eyes with balled-up fists, then stared at me. “I’m a big guy. I can handle two drinks. That’s why I know I didn’t turn on the light. That’s why I know I don’t see anybody anywhere, even if I heard a woman’s voice. That’s why I know I’m not slopping through the stuff on my desk. It doesn’t tell me why Bugles are hovering above my desk. Hovering Bugles has to be a figment of my imagination. I sound like an English major. But that’s what it has to be, a figment.” He lunged toward the desk, big hand outstretched.

  I zoomed up. Now the papers and I were near the ceiling.

  Joe Cooper was a little over six feet tall, husky. His dark hair was mussed, he needed a shave, he had a nose that probably got busted in a football game, his gray sweatshirt had a hole in one sleeve, his Levi’s were pale with age, his sneakers grimy and worn. But he looked smart, tough, and utterly determined to grab the papers.

  He stumbled into the desk, looked up, clamped his hands to his temples. “Nightmare. I’m having a nightmare. Hovering Bugles. I’ve been working too hard. I’ll go back to my beddy-bye. Such as it is. No wonder I’m having bad dreams. I get stood up last night, tonight my roomie boots me so he can woo his girl, I sack out on my bedroll in the corner of my office and think lousy thoughts about a girl with big dark eyes who acted happy as a mouse in a cheese barrel when I ask her to meet me, maybe get a scoop on gossip at the library, but she never shows.” He stood big as a fullback, shoulders hunched, and glared up at the papers. “I’m stupid to still be thinking about her. Hell, Wednesday night’s history. She’s history. Why should I be mooning around about her tonight?”

  He stood between me and the door to the newsroom. If I swooped down to leave, he would grab the papers and probably, from the sound of his voice, crumple them in those big hands.

  I was beginning to agree with Wiggins. Maybe this was an ill-starred venture. Immediately, I was stern with myself. That was a defeatist attitude. I was Bailey Ruth Raeburn and I could manage. I would manage.

  Joe folded one big hand, gave himself a light punch in the jaw. “Ouch. Okay, I’m awake. Fact is fact. The papers are up there. Come on down, papers.” His tone was coaxing. “Come down from the ceiling. This will be a little secret between you and me. Trust me, Ethel, I’ll never tell anybody the Bugle levitates. You know what? I’ll never make fun of anybody who claims Ethel made them do it. Never again.”

  I laughed. My son, Rob, majored in journalism and now has his own public relations firm. I remembered the insouciance and caustic humor of his friends, who would have delighted in citing Ethel as the source of any mishaps, major or minor.

  The big guy stiffened. I might even say he looked haunted.

  “Sorry, Joe.” I truly was contrite.

  His bony face squeezed in concentration.

  “I’m not laughing at you. But no one’s ever accused me of being a madam.”

  He looked up. He looked down. He looked left. He looked right. He whirled, peered through the door at the dark newsroom. “Okay, smart-ass. I’ve heard about ventriloquists. Come on out, wherever you are.”

  I eased toward the door. Maybe if I moved really fast.

  His head whipped around. Perhaps he saw the movement of the papers in his peripheral vision.

  I rose higher, papers firmly in hand.

  He watched the papers with a peculiar expression. He blinked four times. “They’re up there. They can’t be up there. This is crazy. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I need to think things through. I’ll work for a while, finish that feature about the dig on the Mackenzie ranch. Interesting. If you like bones. I got a feeling in my bones that something will break tomorrow on the funny business at the library. Maybe there’ll be a body in the library. That’d top today’s big news. The Bugle will be out right on schedule at two p.m. tomorrow. Even without a body, I’ll have a lead story with an update on the investigation. Tomorrow is Friday. Yeah, I got everything straight—except for the papers up by the ceiling.”

  This was one of those moments that Wiggins simply hasn’t encountered. It was time to invoke Precept Six: “Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.” Even if I could evade Joe’s outstretched hands and escape with the Bugles, I shouldn’t leave him bewildered and uneasy. I landed behind his desk and swirled into being. I hoped I appeared nonthreatening in a varicolored turtleneck, gray slacks, and gray alligator flats. The socks were in multicolored stripes for a gay note.

  He took a deep breath. “Were you crouched behind the desk? Who the hell are you? How’d you make those papers stay up by the ceiling?” He slowly approached the desk, stepped into a circle of light.

  I liked his face, long and bony with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, that crooked nose, and a strong chin. He looked intelligent, abrasive, and alert despite uncombed thick curly black hair, eyes still blinking away sleep, and beard-stubbled cheeks.

  “Ethel made me do it.” I couldn’t resist.

  He looked startled, then he laughed. “Okay. Let’s start over. I’m Joe Cooper.” He held out a blunt-fingered hand.

  I was wary, ready to dissolve and swoop away with my prizes, but I grasped his hand and we shook. “Theresa Lisieux.” I anglicized Saint Thérèse’s baptismal name. “I’m a visitor to Adelaide.”

  He made a gentlemanly gesture with his hand toward the ratty chair behind the desk. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

  I gave him what I hoped was a beguiling smile. “You’re trained to ask questions and get the whole story. It will be easier on both of us if I keep it brief. I had no intention of causing you any distress tonight. My sole objective was to get copies of this week’s Bugle. If I recall, the newspaper is free to students and visitors?”

  He nodded.

  “In that case, perhaps we can wish each other well, and I’ll take the papers and go.”

  He folded his arms. “You got one thing right: I ask questions. Why didn’t you drop by and ask for copies in the daytime?”

  “I needed them tonight.” This was going to be difficult. I tried for another smile, but his stare remained demanding. “I need to know about the odd episodes at the library.”

  “You got a big bet riding on the answers? I can give it to you quick: A resident spook has turned nasty. What’s it to you?”

  He spoke so derisively of spooks. . . .

  This conversation wasn’t productive. I had to distract him and make my escape. “That’s very—” I broke off, widened my eyes, came to my feet. “Oh, there’s someone out there.”

  He turned, yanked open the door, and charged into the ne
wsroom. Lights flickered on, illuminating the area.

  I disappeared. Bugles in hand, I zoomed out of his office and sped across the newsroom near the ceiling.

  Joe looked up and stopped, staring with an expression of utter shock.

  I came down for an instant to open the door into the hall, heard his thudding feet. Encumbered by the Bugles, I couldn’t simply think where I wanted to go and be there immediately. The physical world can be rather constraining. I didn’t want to struggle with the front door. Joe could easily reach me before I managed to open the door. I flowed up the staircase. Though it was dark, I saw the pale oblong of windows at the hall’s end. At the windows, I moved quickly to unloose a latch. The window moved grudgingly, but it moved. I pushed it up, thankful for an old building with sash windows, and the Bugles and I were off into the night. Joe Cooper would be bewildered when he found no one upstairs. He might be puzzled by the open window but would assume someone had left it open earlier. I tried not to think about his feelings in regard to airborne Bugles. Perhaps he would decide he’d had a bad dream and avoid two drinks before bedtime in the future.

  Now for a spot where I could read in peace and not disturb the occupants. I saw a glimmer of distant lights through the woods. Of course! I should easily be able to settle into an empty cranny at Lorraine Marlow’s old home.

  Rose Bower was a showplace of Adelaide, a forty-room limestone mansion fashioned after the great houses of England in the mid-1700s. The estate was on the other side of woods that bordered Goddard College. Rose Bower included fifty acres of woodlands and extensive formal gardens. The great iron gates were closed and locked. Occasional lampposts scarcely penetrated the darkness. A large circular window with stained glass glowed above the arched entrance. How appropriate. Such windows in Gothic architecture are called rose windows.

  After a quick look about, I placed my prized handful of Bugles on the sill of a window to the right of the entrance. Once inside, I moved to the window. It was hermetically sealed and wouldn’t budge.