Ghost at Work

by Carolyn Hart

  In the world, not of the world…

  I decided instead to have a frank talk. “Kathleen, let’s straighten things out.”

  She looked wildly around. “Where are you? Come out! You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Deep breath, Kathleen,” I barked. “Suck it in, let it out. One, two, three, four…” I tried to sound as authoritative as the tartar who’d directed the ladies’ morning exercise class at the Y when I was in my exercise years, the earnest years of push-pull-shove-away-dessert until the realization came that chocolate made me happy and happiness was a virtue.

  Kathleen breathed in, breathed out. Then, with an anguished cry, she flailed her hands, jumped to her feet, and backed toward the doorway into the kitchen.

  “Stop right there.” I tried to remember how Humphrey Bogart cowed opposition. I’d watched Casablanca, my all-time favorite movie, not too long ago. “Get a grip, sweetheart.” Maybe I’d missed my calling. I had a knack for this. “I’m here, but you can’t see me right now. It isn’t appropriate for me to be present in the flesh at the moment”—she could mull that over—“and we don’t have time to waste. I’m going to help you move him. Let’s take him to the cemetery.”

  The cemetery was on the other side of the church from the rectory. As I recalled, a graveled path through oaks and willows curved from the backyard of the rectory behind the church to the cemetery. “Now, are you in or out?”

  She cowered by the door, frozen in a crouch. “In.” It was scarcely a breath.

  I flowed past her, grabbed the tarp, pulled it briskly across the floor.

  Kathleen watched the moving canvas with the same horror she would have accorded the progress of a cobra.

  I tried to distract her. “Hop to it. We’ll ease him onto the tarp.” I spread the canvas out beside him. “Take—oh, wait.” Forensic matters had never been a consuming interest of mine, but I dimly recalled that cloth could hold fingerprints. Of course it depended upon the coarseness and weave of the material, but it would be best if Kathleen had no close contact with the deceased. “Fingerprints. Hmm.”

  “Fingerprints.” She was struggling not to hyperventilate.

  “Deep breaths. In. Out.” The advice was a bit perfunctory. Perhaps I could scare up some backbone pills for Kathleen. Fingerprints…Ah. I spotted a pair of gardening gloves lying on the counter near a sink. I picked them up, moved toward her. “Better put these on.”

  She scrambled backward.

  Before I could toss the gloves to her, a girl’s voice called from inside. “Mom…hey, Mom, where are you?”

  Kathleen clutched at her throat, tried to speak, couldn’t make a sound.

  Footsteps clattered in the kitchen. A girl’s voice carried through the open back door. “I’ve got to ask Mom first. Maybe she’s over at the church. Come on, Lucinda.”

  I swooped to the body and pulled the tarp over him.

  The screen door banged open. “Hey, Mom, what are you doing out here in the dark?” A flick and a hundred-and-fifty-watt bulb blazed above us, throwing the furnishings of the porch into sharp relief, the counter with an old-fashioned sink, a rattan table and three chairs, a shiny galvanized tub, two bags of apples, a pair of muddy work boots, a mound of pumpkins, several large bulging black trash bags, stacked newspapers, a heap of old coats.

  And the shiny black tip of a shoe peeking from beneath the tarp.

  Kathleen saw the shoe, wavered on her feet, moved in front of the body. “Bayroo, stop there.” Kathleen’s voice was scratchy.

  Bayroo. What a curious name.

  A skinny red-haired girl, all arms and legs like a wobbly colt, balanced on one foot, throwing her arms wide. “Mom, you won’t believe it.” She was a bundle of excitement, energy, and vibrant personality.

  I felt an instant liking for her and an immediate sense of companionship. I was enchanted by her golden red curls and green eyes and the intelligent, questing look on her narrow face. She was eleven or possibly twelve, almost ready to slip into her teen years, angular now where she would soon be slender. And lovely.

  Behind her, a plump girl with dark hair in braids, gold-rimmed glasses, and prominent braces echoed, “You won’t believe it, Mrs. Abbott!” She bounced up and down in excitement.

  Kathleen’s daughter clapped her hands. “Mom, Travis Calhoun’s here in town! We actually saw him at Wal-Mart and he’s staying with his aunt Margaret. You know, Mrs. Calhoun up the street. I invited him to come to the Spook Bash Saturday and asked him if he’d judge the painted pumpkins and told him how great it would be for everyone who’s worked so hard for the bash to raise money for the food pantry and, Mom”—it was an unashamed squeal—“he said he’d come. Isn’t that great?”

  “Great. Wonderful. Lucinda, why don’t you stay for supper with Bayroo. The stew’s ready. There are oatmeal cookies in the cookie jar.” Kathleen waved a shaking hand toward the kitchen.

  “Mom.” Meals were for ordinary times. “Travis Calhoun! Besides, we’re going over to Lucinda’s for pizza. The committee’s meeting and will they be excited when they hear about Travis!”

  “Golly, they won’t believe what happened!” Lucinda’s voice rose in a squeal. “Bayroo is so brave. We would have missed him if she hadn’t hidden and then she heard noises and got scared but—”

  Bayroo reached out and clapped a hand over Lucinda’s lips.

  Kathleen kept glancing down at the tarp, then away. “That’s wonderful, honey.” She gestured toward the screen door. “You’d better hurry over to Lucinda’s if the committee’s coming.”

  Lucinda was staring toward me. She couldn’t see me, of course. What could she possibly…Oh. I still held the gloves. I released my grip. The gloves floated gracefully toward the floor.

  Lucinda tugged on the red-haired girl’s arm. “Bayroo,” she hissed.

  “Anyway, Mom, Lucinda and I are going over to her house—”

  “Bayroo.” Lucinda’s whisper was piercing. “Where did those gloves come from? They were like, up here.” She held a hand to her chest. “Now they’re down there. How were they up in the air all by themselves?” She pointed at the gloves just as they reached the floor.

  Bayroo turned toward me. Our eyes met. She smiled, a quick, engaging, hello-we-haven’t-met, I’d-like-to-be-friends smile.

  Oh dear. Bayroo saw me. I couldn’t explain it. Sometimes the young have eyes to see what no one else sees. Bayroo saw me. Lucinda did not.

  Bayroo asked quickly, “Mom, who’s—”

  I held a finger to my lips, shook my head, then smiled and turned my hands as if I were shooing chickens.

  Bayroo’s lips parted in surprise, then she grinned and gave me a tiny conspiratorial nod. She removed Lucinda’s arm. “Oh, those gloves.” Her tone dismissed levitating gloves as unworthy of notice. “It happens sometimes when the fan’s turned on.” She gestured toward the ceiling fan.

  Lucinda looked up at the still blades, her face serious and thoughtful. “The fan isn’t turned on.”

  ‘Well, I guess it was. C’mon, Lucinda. We’ve got to hurry. We can tell everyone about Travis. Mom, I’ll do my homework later.” With that, the girls turned toward the back door, Bayroo in the lead.

  Lucinda’s head swung back for a last puzzled glance at the ceiling fan and her left foot caught the tip of the dead man’s shoe. She staggered forward. “Whoops.”

  Bayroo held the screen door open. “Don’t kick the dummy. He’s going to sit on top of the magic maze at the Spook Bash. C’mon, Lucinda, let’s hurry. They’re not going to believe…”

  As their voices faded, lost in the soughing of the branches and the keening of the wind, Kathleen reached out to cling to the counter. “What am I going to do?”

  “Buck up.” I was getting exasperated, although I did understand how draining the girls’ arrival had been. Even I had felt an icy qualm when Lucinda stumbled over the tip of the dead man’s shoe.

  Kathleen jumped. “Please. Don’t talk.”

  I didn’t bother to
answer, merely scooped up the gloves and thrust them toward her.

  Kathleen shuddered, but pulled them on.

  “All right. I’m here.” I tugged at his shoulder. “You take his ankles.”

  As her face stretched in a gargoyle grimace, Kathleen gingerly grabbed the dead man’s ankles with her gloved hands, shuddered again, and pulled.

  “One, two, three.”

  Daryl Murdoch slid onto the tarp. In the sharp light from the overhead bulb, I could see there was no muss on the wooden flooring. Decidedly, he had met his fate elsewhere. Perhaps when we knew that, we would know who shot him.

  The thought bobbed in my mind and I realized I was concerned about justice. I felt no scruples about removing the murdered man from the rectory’s back porch. After all, someone had brought him there with no good intentions. Other thoughts bobbed. What connection did Kathleen have with the dead man? Why had the murderer assumed Kathleen would be implicated if Daryl Murdoch were found here? There was much I needed to know to complete my mission. I hoped I was off to a good start. If I did well, I wouldn’t be on probation. I would be officially attached to the Department of Good Intentions. Perhaps I’d be awarded a ribbon or badge.

  As we passed the switch near the door to the kitchen, Kathleen turned off the overhead light.

  “Hustle.” I tugged on the tarp.

  Kathleen again gave that odd little moan from deep in her throat, but she hurried forward.

  As we maneuvered the tarp across the porch floor toward the ramp, Kathleen muttered, “It’s shock. That’s all. I’m in shock. That’s why I’m strong enough to move him. Adrenaline. Memory lapses. I’m doing things and I don’t remember them. That’s what’s happening.” She looked almost cheerful as the tarp slid down the ramp. Then she saw the wheelbarrow. “How did I get it out of the shed? The shed’s locked. Maybe it was unlocked. That’s it. I just don’t remember…”

  Poor dear. She would have to come to grips with reality—me—sooner or later. Later would suffice. I concentrated on easing our burden from the ramp into the wheelbarrow. Daryl’s feet dangled over the back.

  Kathleen, looking squeamish, pulled a corner of the tarp down to cover his shoes.

  I was glad to see she was thinking ahead. “Good job.”

  “In case we see—” She stopped, shook her head, grabbed the handles. “I have to stop talking to myself,” she muttered. “I am not carrying on a conversation with anyone. I am not.”

  She stopped after a few feet, struggling to catch her breath. “I never knew a wheelbarrow was so heavy.”

  I doubted she’d ever moved one before. Especially not a wheelbarrow laden with a body. I slipped in front of Kathleen and placed my hands in front of hers. Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about muscle strain. The wheelbarrow moved with noticeably more speed, though still lurching and squealing. The flagstone path ended.

  It was harder going through the grass. Kathleen breathed in quick gasps. We reached the edge of the rectory yard and stood in the shadow of a pine. The always-present, ever-vigorous Oklahoma wind whipped the branches, buffeted us.

  Even with my warm wool jacket, I was cold. I was exhilarated. In Heaven you choose your surroundings, the ultimate in climate control. Bobby Mac and I love the seashore. Other climes are also available. Amundsen, for example, spends most of his time on an ice cap. Sarah Bernhardt exults on a stage with the velvet curtains parting. To each his own. Yet now I was in the world and must cope with weather.

  I wasn’t surprised at the bite of the wind, the plummeting temperature. Halloween in Oklahoma was often synonymous with the arrival of a blue norther. It may have been seventy-five degrees earlier in the day, but if Halloween was imminent, so was cold weather. Weather in Oklahoma is an adventure, in the twenties one day, nudging seventy the next.

  I wished we’d thought to bring a flashlight. We wheeled onto the graveled path, which added a crackling sound to the screech of the wheel. The path curved around a stand of pines. Ahead were blazing lights. I admired the brightly lit paved parking lot behind the church. My goodness, that was a change. A half-dozen cars were parked near the side entrance.

  Kathleen stopped. To reach the west gate to the cemetery required crossing the far end of the lot. The wheelbarrow and, of course, Kathleen would be in full view of anyone leaving the church or looking out of the parish hall.

  Despite the circumstances, I took pleasure in a swift survey of my beloved St. Mildred’s, a graceful church built of limestone. A latticed wall and limestone arches enclosed a cloister between the church and the L-shaped wing with the Sunday school rooms and church offices. The parish hall was between the church and the wing.

  Kathleen crouched.

  I divined her intent just in time and pushed down the handles of the barrow as she was pulling up, preparatory to dumping our burden.

  I was firm. “We can’t leave him here.”

  She jumped back from the barrow, pointed at the starkly illuminated parking lot. “Don’t you see?” She shuddered. “Of course you don’t see. You aren’t here.”

  I stamped my foot.

  She looked down at the stick that crunched.

  “Quickly, Kathleen.” He who hesitates…

  She pushed back a lock of dark hair, looked fearfully toward the church. “If anyone looks out, they’ll see us. Me.”

  “We’ll run.” It was a straight shot.

  She dropped her hands from the shafts. “He can stay here.” Her sigh of relief rivaled the whoosh of the wind in the pines. She turned to go.

  I grabbed her arm, hung on, rocked back on my heels for leverage. “Don’t be silly. The barrow might be traced back to the rectory. Look, we’re really close. You take one shaft, I’ll take the other and run like…” I remembered to be of the world, not in the world. After all, one doesn’t want to trifle with Hell. “…fast.” I firmly fastened her hands on the right shaft. “Go.”

  We pelted across the blacktop, the barrow rocking from side to side, wheel rasping, Daryl’s shoes thumping. I’m sure it seemed a lifetime to Kathleen, but in only a few seconds we plunged through the open gate into the cemetery, leaving behind the light. The gently rolling, heavily treed cemetery was dark as a root cellar.

  Kathleen stumbled to a stop. “I can’t see a thing.”

  I have excellent night vision and saw that the graveled path picked up again. “Straight ahead, then veer around the clump of willows.” I gave Kathleen an encouraging pat, ignored her recoil. “We’ll leave him near the Pritchard mausoleum.” It was a showpiece of the cemetery, white marble with Corinthian columns. The marble tombs within were crowned with a sculpture of a greyhound on Maurice’s tomb and an Abyssinian cat on Hannah’s. He loved dog races and she loved cats and they were rich enough to indulge their whims.

  Locals who visit the cemetery make it a point to swing by the mausoleum and stop to pat the greyhound’s head and stroke the cat’s whiskers for luck. The custom assured that Mr. Murdoch’s remains would be found tomorrow. He was due that courtesy, not that cold wind and darkness were a trouble to him now.

  The barrow wheel continued its grating screech. We came around the curve, brushed by the dangling tendrils of a weeping willow. The Pritchard mausoleum stood only feet away on a small rise. There was a clinking sound. A darting beam of a light danced within the mausoleum.

  CHAPTER 3

  The wheelbarrow squealed as Kathleen jolted to a stop.

  “What’s that screeching noise?” A young voice quavered.

  “Buzzy, somebody’s out there.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard an owl?” Buzzy’s equally youthful, but more forceful voice dripped disdain. “That’s why they’re called screech owls.”

  “Yeah. Well, I don’t like it here.” The words came in uneven spurts, likely a product of struggling breaths. “This is a lousy idea. Everybody around is dead. Let’s get out of here.”

  I wafted inside the mausoleum.

  A tall skinny boy pulled at the crowbar jammed benea
th the edge of the greyhound’s pedestal. “What’s the matter, Marvin. You scared?” Plaster crackled, drifted down toward the floor.

  Marvin held the flashlight trained on Maurice’s tomb. “Who, me? No way. But this is a stupid bet, and if anybody finds us we’ll end up in jail and Mom will yank my car keys for the rest of my life. Anyway, that dog’s probably too heavy to move even if we get him free.”

  I flew into action. I don’t know how many times I’d brought flowers to graves and I always stopped at the Pritchard mausoleum to smooth the dog’s head and run my fingers over the cat’s whiskers. I was furious. Halloween fun was one thing, say draping the statues with plastic leis, even a touch of washable paint. But defacing a tomb…

  I grabbed the crowbar away from Buzzy and flung it out into the darkness, where it clattered down the steps.

  Buzzy stared at his empty hands. “How’d you do that, Marvin?”

  Marvin, eyes wide as saucers, tried to speak, couldn’t.

  Outside, the wheelbarrow screeched. Where was Kathleen going?

  Marvin’s head jerked, seeking the source of the shrill whine. “Something’s out there. And something weird’s going on in here.” He began to edge toward the exit.

  “That wasn’t funny, Marvin.” Buzzy’s straight dark brows drew down in a frown. “Go get the crowbar. I can’t get the dog loose without it.”

  I marched over to Marvin, yanked the flashlight from his hand, twirled it in a circle. Light swung disco-quick around the walls of the mausoleum.

  Marvin yelped, flung himself toward the entrance. Buzzy outran him.

  I followed, sweeping the flashlight high and low. That turned out to be a mistake. I intended to scare them sufficiently to discourage a return, but the light swept over Daryl Murdoch lying on his back a few feet from the steps into the mausoleum.

  Marvin flailed his hands in panic, then broke into a lumbering run, trying to catch up with Buzzy.

  I turned off the flashlight and it was dark.

  Excited shouts, the thud of running feet, and grunts marked the teenagers’ progress as they careened around headstones. When silence once again cloaked the cemetery, I turned on the light.