by Carolyn Hart
I opened my eyes. Lying on the kitchen table was a two-by-four-foot weathered wooden plaque. Mounted on it was an arrow. The shaft was a bright teal.
I clapped my hands. “Thank you, Wiggins.” I looked out the window. Three police cars turned into the far end of the church lot. Not a minute too soon, but miracles always seem to happen that way.
I looked critically at the plaque. Wiggins had done a fine job, but I felt it needed a tad more pizzazz. I rummaged in the craft drawer and found a large gold sticker that had an official appearance. I added it beneath the arrow. I used a red marker and inscribed in looping script:
Authenticated By Hackworth Antiques, St. Louis, Mo
In the same ornate handwriting, I wrote on a plain sheet of stationery:
Genuine arrow once owned by Daniel Boone
For good measure, I added a seal to the bottom of the sheet. I turned the board over, taped the sheet to the back.
As I started down the back steps of the rectory, I realized, with an unhappy memory of the upright dog leash, that the arrow could not arrive apparently self-propelled. I’d half appeared when I looked down and saw slate-blue trousers. This was no time for Officer Loy to surface. A quick transformation into my purple velour and I hurried toward Kathleen.
“Mrs. Abbott?” I looked at Kathleen inquiringly.
Kathleen looked past me and gasped.
I turned and came face-to-face with Detective Sergeant Price. It was too late to wish for a scarf.
We looked at each other across time and space. I saw strength and honor in his eyes and more.
I don’t know what he saw in mine.
I took a step back and gave him an impersonal smile, a smile that I hoped was cool and distant and yanked up the drawbridge between us. I rushed into speech. “Isn’t this a lovely event? I can’t resist church sales. You never know what you are going to find.” I swerved toward Kathleen. “Hello, Mrs. Abbott. You probably don’t remember me. Helen Troy. I’ve just transferred my membership from All Souls’ in the city. I’m making friends with some of the church ladies and I was so glad to help out yesterday with a little sweeping at the rectory, but you weren’t home. I found this adorable teal arrow at the collectible sale and they said you could tell me about this donation. Is it really”—my voice was hushed—“an authentic Daniel Boone arrow?” I turned the board over, handed it to her.
Sergeant Price came a step nearer, staring at my undeniably flaming-red hair.
Kathleen balanced the board in one hand, then the other, looked at the front, peered at the back. Now it held her fingerprints.
I was pleased with myself. I felt as buoyed as a poker player drawing an inside straight. That moment of pride lasted until I looked across the church parking lot and saw Chief Cobb heading toward us. Purposefully.
Kathleen sounded buoyant. “Teal arrow. Yes, indeed, here’s the teal arrow. We certainly hope it’s genuine, but I don’t know who donated it. Someone left it propped up against the back steps of the rectory Thursday night.”
“I see. Perhaps I’ll not take a chance on it, then. But thank you.” I began to back away.
Detective Sergeant Price moved toward me. “Mrs. Troy, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”
“Oh, my son Billy’s waiting for me at the fortune-teller booth. I’m really in quite a hurry.” I swung on my heel and headed for the church. I sped in front of a large family. Redheads.
“Wait. Wait, please.” The detective dodged around a group of Cub Scouts.
I used a group of teenage boys as a screen and ran for the church. On the church steps, I risked a backward glance.
Detective Sergeant Price stood by Chief Cobb and Officer Leland, pointing, then they started toward me, moving fast.
I yanked open the door, plunged inside. The hallway was crowded. A half-dozen children giggled and pushed as they hurried toward the parish hall.
The door opened. I saw Officer Leland’s slate-blue sleeve.
I disappeared.
CHAPTER 16
Chief Cobb gestured up the hallway. “Let’s find her. I’ll check the main hall, you two take a look in classrooms, offices.” He raised his voice. “Coming through.” The authoritative tone parted the mass of children.
I hovered near the ceiling of the parish hall. The lights had been dimmed on the north end. Flashing orange, red, green, and yellow spots played across the ceiling and walls. Somber organ music evoked specters tiptoeing through a graveyard. Occasional high screams and banshee wails shrilled from a tent. A crooked sign on the front of the tent identified it as SPOOK HOUSE. ENTER AT YOUR PERIL. 5 TICKETS.
Children of all ages painted pumpkins lined up on trestle tables. Thumpy music blared from one corner where sheet-draped children bent and swayed and hopped and chanted in an odd combination of dance and calisthenics. Lights blazed over a small stage at the south end of the hall. Almost everyone was in costume except for Sunday school volunteers in orange T-shirts.
A long line stretched from Madame Ruby-Ann’s tent out into the hall. I dropped inside. An orange turban, dance-hall makeup, and flaming cerise robe transformed Patricia Haskins into a fortuneteller. She bent near a crystal ball, touching it lightly with her fingers. Eyes closed, she crooned to a wide-eyed teenage girl in a peasant costume, “Beware the dark stranger. Turn aside, reach out to the blond Galahad. The familiar may seem ordinary, boring, pedestrian, but the crystal never lies. Your future belongs to a young man whom you’ve overlooked. He awaits you.” A shudder. Her hands fell away. She pressed a palm to her head. “The crystal demands much. Make way for my next appointment.”
The girl looked dreamy. “Is the blond boy’s name Jeff?”
Mrs. Haskins picked up a small fan, opened it, hiding her face. “Jeff, Jeff, I think it is Jeff.”
I materialized in my Officer Loy uniform directly behind the girl. “Did I hear you say you were ready for me?”
“Oooohh. Jeff.” The girl bounced to her feet. “I can’t wait to tell Amy.”
“Go the most direct way,” I urged. “Duck out over here.” I held up a side of the tent.
Madame Ruby-Ann frowned. “Wait a minute. Why send her out that way?”
I’d learned a thing or two when I worked in the mayor’s office. If a question isn’t welcome, ignore it. “Mrs. Haskins, I’ll be quick and to the point. You weren’t altogether frank when you spoke to Chief Cobb yesterday. You are, in fact, withholding important information.” I stalked, which was difficult in the limited space, to the card table and bent down to place my hands on either side. “Someone contacted Mr. Murdoch just before he left his office. Who was it?”
Fingers laden with costume jewelry toyed with the fringe on the brocade cloth covering the card table. “That call didn’t have anything to do with what happened to him. Irene Chatham’s in the Altar Guild and she probably called to check something with him.”
“Did you overhear their conversation?”
“Only a little. I opened Mr. Murdoch’s door and heard him say, ‘I’ll be at the church in fifteen minutes.’ So I suppose”—Patricia’s tone was defiant—“that even though technically it’s true that Irene was aware he was going to the church, she could never be a suspect. She’s terrified of guns. Anyway, you can go ask. She’s in charge of the hip-hop ghosts.”
“Hip-hop?” This was new to me.
“Kids love hip-hop. The nice kind,” she explained hastily. “No dirty lyrics or gang stuff. They do a musical review at the far end of the parish hall. They’re dressed in sheets with white paint on their faces. They have a great time.”
I ducked out of the tent.
A growl greeted me. “No more appearing, Bailey Ruth. I have reached the limits of my patience.”
A volunteer in an orange T-shirt stared at me. “What did you say, Officer?”
No one stood near us and I knew she was trying to locate that deep, undoubtedly masculine, and obviously irate voice.
Wiggins might soon embroil us in more public notice
than he would wish.
“I heard that, too. An echo, I suppose.” Wiggins could mull that over. “Perhaps sound bounces off the ceiling.” I looked up. “Heavens, aren’t the chandeliers interesting? They’re very unusual. Different colors. I particularly like the red one.” I pointed up to the chandelier in the center of the parish hall.
The volunteer slowly nodded, managed an uncertain smile, and moved away.
As soon as she walked around the fortune-teller’s tent, I disappeared and wafted up to the red chandelier. I perched on the rim. It was easier than it sounds. Three massive wooden chandeliers shaped like wheels hung from the parish-hall ceiling. There was plenty of room to sit on the outer rim.
I felt a sudden lurch.
“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins was adamant. “No more appearing. It simply won’t do. Now, I’ll admit that was good work with the dog and I understand you felt it essential to speak with several people. But, enough is enough.”
It was time for an end around, as Bobby Mac always advised when nose to nose in an altercation. “Wiggins, look at the children. Isn’t that adorable?”
Irene Chatham, her lugubrious face transformed by a bright smile, energetically led a troupe of sheet-clad, starkly white-faced kids in an energetic—and to me most peculiar—performance. She, too, wore a sheet, which flapped as she moved. Madame Ruby-Ann called it a dance, so I supposed it was.
Irene lunged to her right, one arm extended, and chanted in concert with the dancers, “Shake a leg,” a lunge to the left. “Watch the ghosties flop. Witches’ brew can’t get you,” a lunge to the right. “Shake a leg. Halloween’s hot, school’s not. Hey baby, hey baby, hey baby…”
“My goodness, how active,” Wiggins observed. “I suppose you’re waiting for a moment to confer with Kathleen. Remember, Bailey Ruth, work quietly in the background.”
The chandelier rocked as he left.
I’d made no reply to Wiggins. I could not later be accused of perfidy because I knew full well I would appear again. I was determined to confront Irene. At the moment the presence of Chief Cobb kept me aloft. He was in the center of the room, face grim, looking, looking, looking.
I drifted down, stood a few feet from Irene.
Chief Cobb gave a final searching glance at this end of the hall. He shook his head, moved toward Detective Sergeant Price, who stood near the pumpkin-painting station. The hip-hop dance concluded and the ghosties ran toward a lemonade stand. Irene turned off the music. She swiped at her flushed face.
I dropped down beside her, hoped I was hidden by the milling crowd, and appeared in my French-blue uniform, fresh, crisp, and stern-faced. “Mrs. Chatham.”
Irene’s mouth opened, rounded in an “oh” of dismay. She took a step back, one hand grasping at her neck, panic flickering in her brown eyes.
I folded my arms, hoped my posture was intimidating. “From information received, we are aware that you spoke with Mr. Murdoch shortly before five P.M. Thursday. You met him at the church. It will be necessary for you to describe what happened or I’ll have to take you to the station.” My eyes were cold, my voice gruff.
She gulped, desperate as a goldfish out of water.
I lifted one hand to shake a finger at her, then stopped, feeling my own sweep of panic. Chief Cobb came around a corner of the Mysterious Maze and saw me. His face twisted in a scowl. He plunged into the swirling crowd, elbowing his way.
“Mrs. Chatham, you were seen. What happened?” I wished I could grip her scrawny shoulders and shake.
“I didn’t meet him. I swear I didn’t. When I saw—” She stopped, clapped shaking fingers to her mouth. “I didn’t stay. I don’t know anything and I’ve got to get the next number started.” She whirled around, shouted, “Middle school hip-hop. Time.”
Chief Cobb was momentarily slowed by two burly high school boys maneuvering a dolly piled with cases of Cokes.
I had only seconds left. “What did you see? Quick?”
She flung out her arm, shooing the gathering ghosties into place. She bent, touched a button, and the throbbing beat blared. The children began their gyrations, shouting, “Boy say, boy say, boy…”
Chief Cobb loomed just past Irene, shouted, “Stop there, lady. I got you now.”
What could I do? An abrupt disappearance violated Precept One: Avoid public notice. And possibly Precept Five: Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you. However, I had no choice.
Chief Cobb ducked around a cotton-candy machine, hand outstretched.
I disappeared.
I didn’t move fast enough to evade Wiggins’s clipped order. “The chandelier.”
I sat on the chandelier and felt a bump as Wiggins joined me.
Below us, the chief grasped at air. His face creased in astonishment. His big head jerked from one side to the other, his eyes seeking an answer. There was an empty circle where I’d stood and talked to Irene. Irene, eyes huge, trembled, still mouthing in a hoarse whisper, “…brew can’t get you…”
Cobb plunged nearer, glared down at her.
She gasped.
“Where is she?” he shouted over the music.
She looked back and forth. “Who?”
“That…” He swallowed, forced out the words. “That cop. That redheaded cop.”
“I don’t know.” Her tone was numb. “She was here and she went away.”
Cobb’s hands clenched. “There isn’t any place to go.”
The beat continued and the ghosties pranced. “…hey say, hey say, watch the ghosties flop…”
Irene blinked. “Maybe she went behind the cotton-candy machine.”
Cobb took a few steps, peered behind the churning froth of pink sugar. Impatiently, he strode back. “What did she talk to you about?”
“I told her I didn’t know anything about anything.” Irene’s voice rose. “She threatened me, said she’d take me to the police station, and here I am, trying to help out at the church.” Her voice wavered in a sob. “I told her I was busy and couldn’t talk now.”
Cobb made a growl of frustration in his throat. “That woman’s going to jail just as soon as I get my hands on her. Impersonating a police officer is a serious crime.”
“Impersonating…” Irene had her goldfish look, eyes huge, mouth open.
“If she comes around again, call us.” Cobb frowned. “Who are you, ma’am?”
Irene murmured, “Chatham. Irene Chatham.”
His question came hard and fast. “Are you the one Daryl Murdoch accused of stealing from the collection plate?”
She grasped at her throat, eyes bulging. “That was a mistake. Absolutely a mistake. I just needed to make change. There’s not a word of truth to it.” Her lips folded in a tight line.
He was unimpressed. “When did the incident occur?”
Her face was mulish. “There was no incident.”
Cobb’s eyes narrowed. “Did Murdoch take his accusation to Father Abbott?”
She stared at him wide-eyed. “I wouldn’t have any knowledge about conversations between Mr. Murdoch and Father Bill.”
“That’s not an answer.” His look was scathing. “Are you the one Abbott’s protecting?”
Her hands clenched. “Ask Father Abbott.”
I was furious. She knew Father Bill would protect her.
Cobb stared at Irene. “Did that redheaded woman ask you about stealing?”
Irene’s eyes flickered away. “I didn’t understand what she wanted, but she was unpleasant. Now you say she’s a fake. The police department shouldn’t let people go around pretending they are officers and acting rudely.”
His face was grim. “I’ll be back in touch, Mrs. Chatham.” He turned on his heel, began a slow, measured survey of the hall.
I wasn’t done with Irene Chatham. She might think she’d seen the last of me, but she hadn’t. We’d have a tête-à-tête she wouldn’t forget as soon as she left the parish hall. If, of course, I managed to elude Wiggins.
Now the
rumble was deep and full-throated. “Bailey Ruth, I’ve reached the end of my patience. The Rescue Express is en route. You will board shortly.”
I held tight to the rim. “No.”
“No?” He was dumbfounded.
Was I the first emissary to mutiny? Was Purgatory my destination? I took a deep breath, tried to keep my voice steady. “I’ve not finished my job. And I have to say”—I felt the sting of tears down my cheeks and my voice wobbled—“I’ve never had anyone treat me this way. Give me a chance, Wiggins. Leave me alone. Stop looking over my shoulder every minute. I can handle everything by myself.”
“Oh.” He sounded chagrined, a kindhearted man daunted by the sniffles that indicate tears. “Possibly I have been too much here. After all, it’s your responsibility. Very well. Do your best.” He didn’t sound as if he had the faintest hope that I would manage with any success.
The chandelier swung.
I wiped my cheeks and felt liberated. No more Wiggins looking over my shoulder, frowning and grumping and harrumphing. I would be in charge. I would do very well by myself, thank you very much.
A drumroll sounded, da-dum, da-da, da-dum, da-da, da-dum. A trumpet blew. Lights blinked on and off.
At the base of the steps to the small stage, Marie Antoinette was impatiently adjusting a white-gold wig. A pirate—oh, it was Bayroo!—waved a sword aloft in time with the drums. She looked eager, excited, and, to Auntie Grand, absolutely lovely, Titian hair gleaming, fine features alive with delight. A sandy-haired boy in a blue pullover sweater and faded jeans grinned at her. Freckles splashed his angular face. He gave a thumbs-up. A towheaded Robin Hood thudded up the steps.
Father Bill joined Robin Hood on the stage. For once, Father Bill didn’t look pressed or weary. His smile was bright and glad and proud.
From the audience, a peasant girl yelled, “Go, Jeffie.”
Robin Hood flapped a big hand. He went to the mike, thunked it. “Sound on?” His voice reverberated. “Welcome to St. Mildred’s annual Spook Bash.”