Ghost at Work

by Carolyn Hart

  “Kathleen?” I called softly. No answer. I’d not expected one. That high rasp of the wheelbarrow when I was inside the mausoleum must have signaled her departure.

  Murdoch was lying on his back near the first step. The tarp was gone as well as the wheelbarrow. I hoped Kathleen shook the tarp well and put it in its customary place and returned the wheelbarrow to the shed. Perhaps I’d better check with her before I departed, though I doubted she would be pleased to see me. Or not see me.

  Now I felt a need to make amends to Daryl Murdoch. I placed the flashlight on the top step. The beam illuminated him and perhaps five feet or so beyond. I folded his hands on his chest and straightened his legs. He looked quite peaceful, though I wondered how pleasant his face had been in life. But I mustn’t make assumptions just because Kathleen didn’t like him. There was a lovely bouquet of artificial chrysanthemums in a nearby vase. I selected a bright yellow bloom and placed it in his hands, then said a prayer to speed him on his way and for his family’s comfort.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. I lifted my head, listened. At least two sirens rose and fell. The wail increased in volume. I smiled. The boys were good citizens despite their Halloween prank. I must move quickly.

  I dropped to one knee beside the body. The ground was cold. I shivered as the frosty wind whistled around me. I was reaching for his wallet when a ding-dong bell sounded very near. I stared at the body. The sound, which reminded me of long-ago cartoon music, emanated from his jacket pocket. How odd.

  I reached in the pocket and brought out a small hard plastic oblong not much larger than a fancy compact. The musical tones sounded three more times, then cut off. How curious. I shrugged, replaced the object, and focused on my task. Once I had the wallet out of his pocket, I flipped through it. His driver’s license gave his address as 1906 Laurel Lane, not an address I knew.

  The sirens were loud enough now to wake the dead. The quip was irresistible. Red lights flashed. One police car, then a second jolted to a stop on the paved road about fifty yards south of the mausoleum. Car doors opened, interior lights flashing.

  A woman’s voice shouted, “Police. Don’t move. Put your hands up. Police.” A low murmur ensued and two dark shapes moved cautiously toward the mausoleum, flashlights sweeping back and forth.

  I replaced the wallet. As I stood, one of the lights swept near me and I saw the track of the wheelbarrow in soft dirt near the path. Heavens, I should have checked the area first. Now there was no time to lose or the police might track the wheelbarrow back to the rectory. I scooped up Marvin’s flashlight. I had no choice but to turn it on.

  The police officers both called out. “Halt, there. Police.”

  I swooped to a nearby grave, plucked a large evergreen wreath from the marker, returned to that revealing trail. I took a good look, turned off the light. One of the perks of being a ghost was the ability to propel myself high, low, or in between. I moved a few inches above the ground—picture a glider—pulling the bristly wreath over the track of the barrow.

  A stunningly brilliant light swept toward me, illuminating the wreath and the flashlight I’d borrowed from Marvin. Both were several inches above the ground. I came to my feet, the flashlight and wreath rising, too, and flung them into the darkness.

  In the stark light from her huge flashlight, a slender young woman stared in disbelief as the flashlight spun out of sight behind a clump of shrubbery. The wreath plopped into a puddle. “Jake, did you see that?” Her pleasant contralto voice was matter-of-fact, but her blue eyes were startled.

  A stocky young man growled, “Who’s the joker? You kids better—Oh hey, Anita, look. By God, that call was for real.” He, too, held an oversize flashlight and his bright beam centered on the body. “Hey, that looks like Daryl Murdoch.”

  Her light joined his. “He looks dead.” Her voice sounded strange. “We’ve got to get the EMT. Call the dispatcher. I’ll check for a pulse.” She crossed to Murdoch, taking care to walk on the paved area in front of the mausoleum. She knelt, turned that blazing light down, and lifted Daryl’s wrist.

  Jake held a small plastic oblong to his face, spoke fast. “Car Seven. Officer Harmon. Suspected murder victim, St. Mildred’s cemetery. Send ambulance and fire truck. Notify the M.E. Contact the chief and Detective Sergeant Price.” As he spoke, brown eyes darted in every direction.

  “No pulse.” Anita rose, reached for her gun. “Somebody was here. We’d better check around.”

  “Wait a minute. You get a look at the perp?” Jake stared at the wreath in the puddle.

  “No.” She shook her head. The wind stirred her short honeycomb-blond hair. “Did you?”

  Jake peered at the tombstones, his bony face wary, eyes searching. “I don’t see how they got away without making a sound, especially without any light. They must be hunkered down, crouching behind something.” He reached for his gun.

  She glanced at the tombstones, some large, some weathered and crumbling. Everything beyond the radius of the flashlights lay in dense darkness. “Listen up, Jake. No shooting unless somebody shoots at us. I know we got a body, but that call came from a kid. He said they’d found a dead man, not killed somebody. The corpse felt cool. He’s been dead for a while. I don’t think it was the perp we almost caught.”

  I thought her declaration a trifle extravagant. I definitely had not almost been caught.

  “Call dispatch back. Better let them know we think the victim is Daryl Murdoch.” She stood and once again swung the light in a slow careful circle. Light streaked over graves and stones, probing the shadows beneath towering sycamores.

  Jake held a plastic oblong similar to the one I’d found in Murdoch’s pocket, spoke into it. I wafted to him and peered over his shoulder, close enough to smell a piney aftershave scent.

  “Dispatch.” Jake tried to sound cool, but excitement lifted his voice. “The DOA in the cemetery next to St. Mildred’s looks like Daryl Murdoch, the businessman. Somebody got away just as we arrived. We’re looking around.”

  I scooted in front of him. He was talking—somehow—into that object. Curiosity overcame caution. I reached out, seized the shining metal object so similar in size to a compact though oblong, not circular. I stared at the hinged lid, which contained a small screen and a lower surface with numbers on it, then held it up to my ear as Jake had done.

  I heard a brisk voice. “Chief says to secure the scene. He and Detective Sergeant Price and the crime lab are en route.”

  I realized I held a small radio of some kind. How amazing!

  Jake’s young face creased in astonishment. He stared at the now silent object hovering a half foot from him.

  I placed the object in his hand.

  He jumped as though it radiated static electricity, then once again held it to his ear. “Damn.” He punched one of the numbers. “Yeah, dispatch. We got cut off.” His breathing was rapid. “Sure. I’m right here. We won’t touch a thing.” He clicked a button, then swung his flashlight in a circle. “Anita?”

  Leaves crackled. She came from behind the mausoleum. “Nada. Have you looked that way?” She speared a beam of light behind him.

  Jake turned. “Just got off the horn. I’ll look around.”

  As she waited, she swept her light back and forth near the mausoleum.

  In a moment Jake returned. “I don’t see anything out there. We need more light to check everything. Anyway, the chief’s on his way.” He glanced at the metal object he still held in one hand. “Hey, Anita. Funny thing about my phone…”

  Phone! I had expected changes from my day to now, but I never thought I would see a phone without wires that worked in the middle of a cemetery. Why, Bobby Mac would have been in hog heaven out on one of his drilling rigs with a phone.

  “Phone?” She stared down at the dead man, her attractive face pulled into a puzzled frown.

  “Yeah. It kind of got away from me.” His tone was bewildered. “And it hung in the air like for a minute.”

  She turned toward
him and I knew she was recalling the wreath and flashlight that I heaved away. She opened her mouth, closed it.

  He hunched his shoulders. “Kind of strange.”

  “Yeah.” Her tone was thoughtful. “Kind of.”

  He shivered. “Spooky place for a guy to get killed. What do you suppose he was doing here?”

  Anita scanned the ground. “Don’t know. I guess the chief’ll find out.”

  Jake looked nervously toward the mausoleum, spoke loudly. “Bet there’s a hell of a story behind it. Isn’t he the guy you liked to hassle?”

  Anita folded her arms. “I enforce traffic laws. So far as I’m concerned, that isn’t hassling. Murdoch thought the rules didn’t apply to him. He drove like he was special. I tried to teach him he wasn’t special.” Her young face was stern. She stared down at the body without a glimmer of pity.

  Jake’s bark of laughter sounded odd in the cemetery. “So you gave him enough tickets to—” Sirens sounded. “Here they come.” His relief was obvious.

  Anita turned toward the road, walked swiftly toward a tall man in a brown suit. He swung a huge flashlight from side to side.

  I was tempted to remain. I’d never seen the beginning of a crime investigation, but I knew there wasn’t much to be learned here. I hoped relocating the body didn’t pose a special problem for the authorities. Still, the detectives might as well start from this false location as from the equally false location on the back porch of the rectory.

  I wondered if my task was done. If so, it had been a rather short adventure. I hastily recast my thoughts. I was not adventuring, definitely not. A rather short mission was a much more appropriate description.

  If I would soon be boarding the Rescue Express for my return to Heaven, there were two stops I couldn’t resist making.

  Broad windows on either side of a huge limestone fireplace overlooked a patio bordered by Bradford pears. Dancing flames crackled in the fireplace. Comfortable sofas and easy chairs, a game table, two walls of bookshelves, and shining pegged wooden planks created a warm and lovely room.

  However, I was startled when I saw the woman sitting near the fire. For an instant I felt confused. I was here, so how could I be there? She was speaking into one of those curious telephones. Even her voice seemed like mine “…be glad to help with the chili supper except Mike and I will be out of town that weekend…”

  Of course. Dil and Mike. I remembered their wedding as if it were only yesterday. She was always young in my memory and now as she talked and laughed, occasionally smoothing back a golden red curl, I realized she was on the sassy side of forty-five. I hoped she hadn’t minded becoming so much like her mother.

  I wafted near, bent, touched my lips to her hair.

  Dil broke off. In a moment she spoke again. “Sorry, Ellen, I missed what you said. Oh, do I sound odd? No, nothing’s wrong. I had the strangest feeling my mom was here. No.” Her eyes moved to a picture of me and Bobby Mac on the Serendipity. “No, she died a long time ago. You would have liked her…”

  The thump of the small black ball caroming around the walls combined with hoarse grunts and the scrape of athletic shoes on the floor.

  Rob’s thatch of flaming red hair had thinned. He was a little portly but he’d always been built like his dad. His dark eyes slitted in concentration. Muscles tensed as he swung.

  My face creased in concern. Rob (Robert MacNeill Raeburn III) was truly a dear boy and a kind man, but he couldn’t help himself when he engaged in a sport. He revved up his motor and gave it his all.

  The score was called. I was never too quick about numbers but I gathered the handball game was tied, Rob was serving, and if he prevailed, the match would be over.

  His face was frightfully red.

  In a flash, I darted into the court, timed my swing and scooped up a ball a scant inch from the floor, and drilled it into the corner, barely escaping Rob’s tardy lunge.

  Rob blinked, glanced at his hand, which had missed by half a foot. “Game.”

  His opponent blinked, too, then shrugged. “Good shot, Rob.” He stared at the corner. “Kind of miraculous, actually.” He shrugged again, grinned. “Spot you to a brew.”

  I decided it would only be proper to check on Kathleen. She was my responsibility until I felt she was no longer in peril. That done, I might immediately be on my way back to Heaven if my assignment was completed. Should there be more for me to do, I must return to earthly ways and have a moment’s respite. After all, when on earth even though not of the earth, I was affected by temporal realities. I’d had a momentary lift from my glimpse of Dil and Rob, but I was tired, hungry, and thirsty from the excitements of my arrival at the rectory and that challenging trip to the cemetery.

  I wondered if Lulu’s was still on Main Street next door to the bank. Lulu’s was a single storefront wide and twenty feet deep, with a counter that ran the length of the grill and room for a half-dozen booths. Onion burgers were her specialty, topped by grated longhorn cheese and chili. Mmm. A burger and fries with a frosty root beer would lift my spirit.

  But, duty first.

  CHAPTER 4

  A cuckoo clock warbled the quarter hour. No wonder I was hungry. Bobby Mac expected his supper at six-thirty sharp and it was past seven. He groused when we had to go out to dinner. As far as he was concerned, dinner at eight was more than late, it was an offense to the natural order. Bobby Mac was big on the natural order. I grinned and hoped the tarpon was giving him a majestic battle. I wouldn’t tell him I’d given Rob’s handball a slight bit of assistance. Men are so sticky about rules.

  I adored the new color scheme in the rectory kitchen, lots of orange and yellow and tomato red. A golden oak table overlooked the windows to the back porch. Chairs at either end and two on each side afforded plenty of space. I felt at home when I saw Fiesta dinnerware. Two azure plates topped by butter-yellow soup bowls sat on red woven cotton place mats. The napkins were white and red gingham.

  I especially liked the vivid painting of the Grand Canyon on the wall where our rector’s wife had placed a shaggy macramé in tones of beige, brown, and gray.

  The flooring was new, no longer wood planks that had a distressing tendency to slope in one corner. Instead, beige tiles were interspersed with blocks of smaller red, yellow, and orange tiles in a pyramid pattern. Instead of avocado green, the refrigerator was a shiny steel color with two vertical doors, one small and one large. A pot bubbled on a flat surface with concentric rings where the stove had sat.

  I wafted nearer, drawn both by the savory aroma and my interest in the gleaming surface with the coils. My, what a lot of controls. We had a gas stove. You turned it on, lit the flame, and cooked.

  I found a hot pad, lifted the lid. Mmm. Brunswick stew. A light glowed in the oven. I opened the door, welcomed a rush of heat, and sighed in happiness at the old-fashioned heavy iron skillet with cornbread batter, one of my sister Kitty’s specialities.

  Steps sounded from the central hallway. Slow steps. I heard a voice, but couldn’t distinguish words. Kathleen entered the kitchen. She looked younger in the bright overhead light. Her dark curls were freshly brushed. She’d applied fresh makeup and changed into a berry-red turtleneck sweater and a long paisley skirt that swirled as she walked. Ah, she was talking into one of those new phones.

  “…don’t know if the candles have arrived or not…Certainly the rector keeps track of orders, but he hasn’t mentioned it to me. I’ll let him know of your concern, Mrs. Harris.” Her voice was pleasant, but Kathleen surely wouldn’t want her face to freeze into a mask with those icy eyes and grim frown. “Certainly, Mrs. Harris. I know the ECW luncheon will be especially meaningful to everyone who is new to Adelaide. I will be there.” She whirled and stalked toward the stove.

  Nimbly, I moved aside. She might be startled to bump into what seemed to be air. The thought caught me by surprise. I puzzled over the physics of it. I was invisible, but I knew I existed in space since I had no difficulty gripping the handles of the wheelbarrow,
yet I was able to move through the solid medium of a door. Probably there was an equation that explained everything, but I’d never been good at math.

  Kathleen held the phone over the stove and punched a button. A grating buzz sounded. She pulled the phone back. “That’s the timer! Excuse me, I have to run. Thanks for calling.” She punched a button, apparently ending the call. She turned off the timer and, mercifully, the noise ended.

  “Clever.” Oh dear, there I went again.

  Kathleen stiffened. Her eyes shifted nervously around the kitchen.

  I didn’t hesitate. Wiggins would have to understand. As I appeared, Kathleen’s mouth opened, but no words came. My arrival was reflected in the mirror over the sink, and I had some understanding of her distress. At first, I wasn’t there. Suddenly colors misted and swirled, resolving into me, red curls damp from the misty night, green eyes glistening with eagerness, a friendly smile on my face. The red-and-black plaid jacket looked as new as the day I’d bought it. It did look a trifle unseasonable hanging over seersucker.

  Since the kitchen was toasty, I slipped out of the jacket, tossed it to a straight chair near the door. I nodded approval. I’ve always loved seersucker, though I would have to think about winter clothes if I was going to be here very long. I glanced again at Kathleen. Perhaps a white turtleneck and a crimson wool skirt and black pumps would be better.

  Kathleen gasped. “How did you do that?”

  I checked the mirror. I must remember that the thought is mother to the deed. I managed not to preen. But honestly, and speaking without pride because we all know what pride goeth before, the combination was striking. I studied my reflection judiciously. Possibly a crimson scarf might add an accent.

  Kathleen moaned and backed away, apparently an unfortunate habit of hers. She held up shaking hands. “You aren’t here. It’s all in my mind.”