by Carolyn Hart
When Kathleen fled, she’d jumped into her car, locked the doors, made a tight turn, and sped up the drive to the road. She’d made no mention of another car. There were no offshoot lanes from the drive.
Where had the other car parked?
I knew there had been another car or some means of transportation. Someone else must have been present that evening to know about the red nightgown.
I heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner within the cabin. Soon I would go inside and see about the nightgown, but it was essential to understand what had happened here Wednesday night.
Had Daryl told someone about the episode of the red nightgown? Sexual bullies don’t relish looking foolish. It was not a moment for him to recount with pride to his buddies, Kathleen tossing the nightgown into the fire and slamming out of the cabin. Therefore, someone saw Kathleen unwrap that present, fling it to destruction, and flee. The front windows were uncurtained, the interior shutters folded back, affording a clear view within. I glanced up the drive. The house wasn’t visible from the road.
I pictured the cabin in the gloom of approaching night, Daryl inside, the fire burning. Kathleen arrived, tense and upset, and somewhere outside someone watched.
I stepped close to the window on the right. A buxom woman in a red T-shirt and jeans flapped a spread onto a twin bed.
I moved to the first window on the other side of the porch. The window was raised about an inch. A wiry cleaning woman in a flower-patterned housedress pushed a sweeper close enough to the window that we would have looked eye to eye had I been there. The machine’s shrill whine rose to a shriek.
I looked past her, saw the cream sofa where Kathleen had sat. A leather recliner faced the sofa. A sagging easy chair was near the fireplace. From here an observer would have seen everything that transpired.
I glanced down. Sycamore leaves bunched up in a puffy mound. Shoes would leave no mark. If someone had watched through this window Wednesday night, I would find no trace here.
I wasn’t following the progress of the vacuum cleaner. The sudden cessation of sound startled me. I looked into the room and realized the cleaning lady was bending toward the fireplace.
At once I was beside her, but I watched helplessly as she gingerly lifted up the singed remnants of the red silk nightgown and the gift box and wrapping paper. She lifted her voice. “Jenny, you won’t never believe what I found. Come look at this. Don’t you know there’s a tale behind this here.”
Kathleen was my charge and here was evidence that would link her to a murder and tarnish her reputation forever. If I had come directly from the rectory as I had promised, Kathleen would not be in jeopardy. It was my old sin of curiosity. With a dash of impulsiveness. Good intentions may indeed pave the road to hell, but if-onlys point the way to the slippery slope to despair.
I stared at the dangling remnants of the red silk gown. Kathleen’s future hung in the balance.
The Precepts warned against alarming earthly creatures and certainly Wiggins found any such activity reprehensible, but I had no choice. In a flash, I shot to the kitchen, opened my mouth, and yelled. As my shrill shout rose and fell, I felt a moment of pride. The sound was unnerving. I didn’t know I had it in me.
“Mabel, what’s wrong?” The strangled call came from the bedroom. “Are you hurt?”
In the living room, Mabel shouted, “Somebody’s gettin’ killed in the kitchen. Hurry, Jenny. Run. Get out the front door.”
I screamed again, as loudly as possible, pulling breath all the way from my toes.
Pounding steps sounded in the living room. I moved back to the fireplace in time to glimpse heavyset Jenny plunging through the front door. Doors slammed. The pickup roared to life, tires squealing as it took off.
I didn’t waste a minute. The police would be here soon. I found a box of matches on the mantel. I set fire to various portions of the gown, flaring up a brisk blaze. I made sure the cardboard box and paper burned as well as the nightgown, every last scrap. When the flames began to die down, I took a poker and stirred the ashes, mashed them into nothingness.
My heart was pounding. I’d almost been a day late and a dollar short. I was ready to depart, pleased with my quick thinking, when I heard that unmistakable rumble. I didn’t hesitate. “Hello, Wiggins. You’ll be glad to know everything’s dandy. The red nightgown—I’m sure you know all about it—is destroyed and Kathleen is safe.” If not a gold star, surely I deserved a silver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see about the cat fur.”
I reached the roof of the rectory. It was a good five minutes before I heaved a sigh of relief. I had no invisible companion, rumbling with displeasure. Apparently Wiggins was cutting me some slack. At least for the moment, I was captain of my fate. However, I wished St. Mildred’s was not quite such an active church. A half-dozen cars were parked in the lot. Women streamed in and out. All were, I’m sure, doing good works, but at the moment they hampered my movements. Moreover, not fifty yards away, the back of the crime van was wide open and I noticed a technician jump out, carrying a blue plastic hand vacuum.
Standing to one side of a silver Lincoln Continental was the energetic young police detective. He bent to peer inside. “Hey, Artie, don’t think this’ll take long. Looks like Murdoch kept it clean.”
They wouldn’t, I was sure, find a trace of cat fur. I had to hurry. I clapped my hands in satisfaction. If I couldn’t work unseen, why, no problem. It was time to be in the world, however briefly. Surely Wiggins would approve this circumspect appearance.
I landed on the rectory back porch and appeared. My elegant pantsuit was not quite the attire for housecleaning. I topped it with a blue smock appropriate for the Altar Guild. Possibly it was an excess of caution, but I added a matching turban. If anyone noticed a helpful member of the Altar Guild busy at the rectory, it would be better if red hair wasn’t part of her description. I smoothed the edges of the turban to be sure no red-gold sprigs peeped from beneath.
I always enjoyed housework. There’s such a sense of accomplishment when everything is tidy. Heaven doesn’t need dusting. The only tidying that remains is to continue growing in goodness, and goodness knows, for most of us there is always room for improvement.
I felt a moment’s unease. Had my return to earth encouraged my tendency to be inquisitive, rash, impulsive, and forthright?
“Undoubtedly.” Wiggins sounded resigned.
Although my breath caught, I was almost getting used to his sudden utterances. I was terribly aware that he was once again here and I was in deep Dutch.
“However”—even his rumble was subdued—“there are times when appearing will cause less turmoil than not appearing. Try hard”—his tone was plaintive—“to remain out of sight. If I’d realized you were quite so noticeable…” His voice faded.
I started to reply, then felt certain he’d once again departed. Obviously he agreed that I must address the pressing matter of a dusty porch and a tarp that must never be subjected to a police microscope. Did I have carte blanche?
I hurried inside and grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet in the kitchen. I took only a moment to glance in the mirror over the sink. Good. The turban was a success. I had a brief memory, thanks to Turner Classic Movies, of Carmen Miranda and a turban piled high with a tower of pomegranates, mangoes, and bananas and presto, gleaming plastic fruit appeared. Smiling, I returned to the porch and set to work, humming “Trite Samhita,” and sweeping in triple time. I loved to samba. Occasionally I added a conga step for flair.
I dumped several full dustpans into a trash sack. Spoofer certainly shed a great deal of black fur, but soon the porch was shiny bright. I was especially thorough around, behind, and beneath the corner of the porch where the tarp lay. I carried the trash sack out to the garbage pail. All four doors of the Lincoln were open. Dark gray legs protruded from the floor of the back seat. The blond detective stood with hands on his hips, watching. I observed him with pleasure. Bobby Mac understood when I admired a manly physique because I always
saved the last dance for him.
As I returned the broom and dustpan to the closet in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and laughed aloud. Although it looked top-heavy, my turban was quite comfortable. I patted a bright yellow banana, gave a little back tap, and samba’d onto the porch.
All that remained was to dispose of the tarp. A coil of cord, likely left over from a clothesline, hung from a hook. I cut a six-foot length. In one corner, I found a stack of gunnysacks. I shoved the rolled-up tarp in the gunnysack, added three stacked pottery pots for ballast, and flicked out the length of cord.
A knock sounded on the porch screen door.
I broke off humming and, clutching the open gunnysack, turned to look.
Standing on the steps was the handsome detective, the sun turning his cotton top snow white. He held out an open wallet. “Detective Sergeant Hal Price. I’m looking for the sexton. Can you tell me where I might find him?”
I stared at him, my mouth agape. Before I could think—there I went again, impulsive to the bone—I clasped the sack to the bosom of the smock and made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a shriek.
“Pardon me, miss.” His drawl was contrite and his eyes, for a brief instant, admiring, until professional coolness returned. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He spoke gently as if to a shying filly.
“Detective Sergeant?” I clung to the gunnysack, which bulged awkwardly over the pots, and was furious at myself. He didn’t know what I held. He had no idea. I forced my grip to relax, rested the sack casually on the floor. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine.” His smile was electric.
On the one hand, I was flattered. On the other, I was uneasy. I didn’t want to be remembered, but there is that spark when a man admires a woman that can’t be disguised. Detective Sergeant Price wasn’t going to forget our encounter. If I were old, he’d have been polite, kept a mental record as a good detective should, but there would not have been this crackle of electricity between us.
“Can I help you?” I tried to sound cool, not quite unfriendly, but definitely not encouraging.
He glanced at my left hand, saw the gold band, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “I’m looking for the sexton and at the church they told me he might be at the shed by the rectory. Can you direct me?”
I pointed at the flagstone path. “Follow the path past the old well and go around those weeping willows and you’ll find the shed.”
He stood a moment longer, then nodded. “Thank you. And you are…”
Attracted he might be. A detective he remained.
“Helen Troy.” The moment I spoke, I regretted the name. But what can you do when a man makes his interest so plain? It happens, you know, an encounter, and each of you knows that had the time been different, circumstances altered, memories could have been made.
He nodded and turned away.
At the bend in the path, he looked back.
A very attractive man. As soon as he was out of sight, I yanked up the sack and raced to the kitchen. I tightly rolled the cord around and around the sack and tied it in my best sailor’s knot.
I waited several minutes. Detective Sergeant Price didn’t reappear. I eased out the kitchen door. Women continued to come and go in the church parking lot, but none veered toward the rectory. I strolled to the pines and slipped behind them.
I was torn. Violating the Precepts seemed to result in an automatic visit from Wiggins, but I was in a hurry. The sooner I dumped the tarp, the better, and I still needed to deal with the gun. I could zoom to the lake faster than I could walk. Surely Wiggins would applaud swift execution of my duties.
I disappeared and zoomed. The gunnysack, of course, dangled in the air. I darted from tree to tree so the sack appeared in midair only briefly. The sense of isolation and peace increased the deeper I traveled into the nature preserve. When I sighted the sparkling blue water of the lake, I felt as relieved as any ten-year-old hearing that old familiar cry, “Ollie, ollie, oxen’s free.” Of course I had no idea at the time we were shouting what was likely a phonetic imitation of the German Alle, alle, auch sind frei. I hoped I might have occasion to share this moment later with Wiggins, and he would have an appreciation of my intellectual turn of mind.
Perhaps it was this thoughtful pondering that distracted my attention from my surroundings. I rode a breeze out toward the middle of the lake, imagining the surprise on Wiggins’s face when—
Abruptly, the bag was tugged from my hand.
Startled, I made a grab for it. Had a crow intercepted me?
“Precept Six, Bailey Ruth, Precept Six.” Wiggins’s tone was imploring.
I loosened my hold.
The lumpy gunnysack plummeted down.
I was exasperated. After all, he’d yanked the bag from me. “Wiggins, I thought you had it.”
“A gentleman never struggles with a lady.” Clearly, in his heart he found this custom a grave hindrance.
Water plumed upward as the sack splashed into the lake.
A hoarse shout sounded below. “Lord Amighty, look!” An old man with a straggly white beard stood at the end of the dock, pointing his bamboo fishing pole at the ripples in the water. He wore a puffy jacket over bib overalls.
A lean woman with sharp features turned from a bait cooler. “What’s the matter with you, Pa?”
He waggled the pole. “Something big poked out of that water. Bigger than any fish. I’m going to get the boat and go out there and see.”
If he poked his pole down, snagged the gunnysack, and hauled it out, he’d be sure to tell his cronies at the feed store. If word got back to Detective Sergeant Price, as it very well might in a small town, he would remember the turbaned lady with the gunnysack on the rectory porch.
The fisherman lumbered toward the end of the dock. His boat wasn’t in sight. That gave me a minute, perhaps two.
“Wiggins, that sack mustn’t be found. There’s no time to spare.” At all costs, I must forestall a discussion. If Wiggins wouldn’t play up, well, I looked down, it would be a long fall. “Quick, I’m going to reappear. Hold me up. I need my turban.”
Below us, oars slapped through water.
I became visible. Just as I began to tumble down, strong hands gripped my arms, held me up. I snatched the turban from my head. My hair cascaded free. I threw the turban high. In a flash, I disappeared. I reached out to catch the turban. I didn’t take time to ponder what I would have done had it disappeared, but I tucked away the knowledge that imagined items, once visible but separate from me, remained in existence.
I pulled free from Wiggins’s grasp.
“Precept Six.” Wiggins’s despairing call followed me as I plunged down and poked the turban into the water, only the top of the artificial fruit protruding near the spot where the gunnysack had disappeared.
The boat came around a clump of reeds.
I eased the turban to the surface.
The woman leaned over the side. “Pa, it looks like a bunch of bananas.”
He rowed with vigor, and the boat moved nearer.
“Hold up,” she cried. “I can get it.” She bent perilously far out, reaching.
I gave the turban a little push and it came easily into her hands.
Her weathered face softened. “Why, it’s the prettiest thing I ever did see. I’ll dry it out and it’ll be good as new.”
He frowned. “How’d that get out here, Effie?”
Effie didn’t know or care. She carefully laid her treasure on the bottom of the boat. “Some old crow got it and decided it wasn’t no use to him and dropped it down just for me, Pa.”
He grunted and swung the boat around, heading back for the dock. He gave a final questioning look over his shoulder.
I shook the icy lake water from my fingers. I didn’t bother to look about. Not that I would have seen Wiggins. I knew he was near. I wished I wasn’t picturing him glowering, with arms folded.
“Precepts Three, Four, and Six flouted.�
�� His voice was gruff.
Did I hear the faraway whistle of the Rescue Express, dispatched to retrieve an errant emissary?
Silence.
Had Wiggins left? Or was he affording me quiet time in which I might ponder working behind the scenes without making my presence known, becoming visible only when absolutely essential, and refraining from alarming earthly creatures? Or, in the case of Detective Sergeant Price, attracting them.
A rumble sounded near enough that I cringed.
“Unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate.” A heavy sigh. “However, though I am loath to endorse the concept of the ends justifying the means, it would be equally reprehensible to refuse to admit that sometimes desperate measures may be demanded.”
That was good enough for me. “Thank you, Wiggins. I knew you’d be pleased.”
“However, it appears”—a pause—“an unfortunate choice of words.” His displeasure was evident. “It is clear,” he rumbled, “that you are far too attractive.”
“Oh, Wiggins.” If I could have seen him, I would have flashed him a wink. “Men like women. Women like men. Don’t you remember?”
Suddenly a deep burst of laughter erupted nearby. “Oh, I remember. I certainly remember. But”—he was once again stern—“it is simply a reminder that you really must not appear, Bailey Ruth.”
“I’ll do my best.” That might be ambiguous, but I meant it well. “Now I hate to hurry away, but I simply must deal with the gun.”
If a shout followed me, I honestly didn’t hear it.
St. Mildred’s brimmed with activity. I stood on the rectory roof and nudged the lumpy head cover with the toe of my shoe. Any of the women scurrying into or out of the church could easily have tucked a gun in a purse and marched into the cemetery without anyone paying any attention.
I had made every effort to honor the Precepts despite Wiggins’s perception of chaos. I pushed away the memory of my interlude with the very appealing detective sergeant and the tussle with the gunnysack above the lake. Did I dare appear again in another guise to take the gun to the cemetery? Time was wasting. That gun needed to be placed where the police could find it. It seemed amazing that I’d begun the morning with that intent, and here it was, almost noon, and the gun remained atop the rectory.