Ghost in Trouble (2 page)

I beamed at Wiggins. “The Castle is amazing. It has a ballroom and a balcony and terraces. A terrazzo-paved avenue framed by Italian cypress leads from the lower terrace to the site where the Millie number one was drilled.” At Wiggins's puzzled look, I smiled. “The oil well in the garden. I think J. J. had a sense of humor. Honestly, to frame a pump jack and tank battery between rows of Italian cypress!”

Wiggins continued to look bewildered. I gave him a crash course in oil terminology, explaining how when a well was completed—and the Millie No. 1 was a fabulous well, pumping three hundred barrels a day—the rig was replaced with a pump jack. The big silver tank held the recovered oil. “J. J. said
a pump jack and tank battery were better than sculpture any day. Of course, every big windstorm knocked over the cypress, but J. J. had new ones planted the next day. Does The Castle still belong to the Humes?”

I had a vivid memory of J. J.'s darkly handsome grandson Everett. My daddy referred to Everett as a good-for-nothing lout. But oh, how he could dance. I had once been tempted…But that was long ago. Bobby Mac had simply picked me up from the dance floor (actually high school gym) and carried me out the door. What a guy. My attraction to the brooding Everett dissolved in the mists of memory, overwhelmed by images of Bobby Mac. Especially that wonderful summer we'd tramped through Europe…As I recalled, Everett came to no good end.

“…and so the current family included J. J. IV, known as Jack.” Suddenly I realized I'd missed a goodly portion of Wiggins's reply.

“…and Diane, his brother's widow, is no match for Kay Clark. Diane seems to believe everything she's told. Not a sensible course in life. Diane lacks sophistication. She has a sweet nature.” Wiggins sighed. “It is sad that those with kindly hearts often are vulnerable to manipulation. Although I will admit that Kay's scheme is clever. However, duplicity is reprehensible even if in a good cause.” A reproving sniff. “As for the Humes…oh well, free will.”

“Free will,” I repeated with an air of complete understanding.

“But, given all of those facts, are you willing to do your best?” His gaze was searching.

“Of course.” I didn't want Wiggins to know I had no idea of the facts or my duties. Once I arrived, I'd quickly discern what I needed to know. Look, listen, act—that was my motto. I shot a quick glance at Wiggins. Had he picked up on my thought? It might suggest impulsiveness. “I will proceed with caution.”

Wiggins looked pleased, as well he might, since my lack of caution had always been one of his concerns.

I felt ennobled. This time I would be a model emissary. “Behind the scenes.”

Wiggins's obvious relief was almost pitiable. “Bailey Ruth, I should have known I could count on you.” His voice was admiring. “Such a refined spirit.”

How lovely to think of myself as a refined spirit. And soon to be a traveling spirit. I was ready to go, but I didn't want to hurry Wiggins. Perhaps he would think of me as not only boring but far above earthly temptations.

“Although an emissary such as you, endowed with both beauty and charm”—he gave me a gallant nod though his eyes were worried—“is perhaps in more danger of reverting to worldly ways. Not,” he added hastily, “that I would expect you of all people to forget Heavenly attitudes.” It would have been nice had his voice contained more assurance.

“Reversion.” I dismissed the possibility with a casual wave of pink-tipped fingers. Wiggins worried a good deal that one of his emissaries, when on the earth, would revert to earthly attitudes, that is, succumb to anger, jealousy, suspicion, or any of the other undesirable passions. That possibility was the least of my worries. Why would I revert?

“All right.” He was businesslike. “We fear for Kay Clark's safety—”

A staccato
dot dot dot
sounded from the telegraph sender on his desk.

Wiggins's eyes widened. He bent near, tapped a rapid response.

The sender's
clack clack
was frenzied.

Frowning darkly, Wiggins pulled down his eyeshade, wrote with a dark-leaded pencil on a pad. The instant he finished, he pushed back his chair, gestured to me.

“You must leave immediately. An emergency. I hope you arrive in time.” He dashed to the ticket window, grabbed a white slip of cardboard, stamped it.

I took it, saw the bright red marking—
AD
ELAIDE—and ran for the platform. The Rescue Express was thundering on the rails. I grabbed a handrail and swung aboard, eager for my journey. Over the mournful yet exuberant peal of the train whistle, I heard Wiggins shout, “Save Kay Clark if you can!”

I clung to a handrail as the express shot across the sky. I was on my way and the refrain sounded in time with the wheels.

…
on my way…on my way…on my way…

F
rogs wheezed, barked, and trumpeted in a dimly seen pond. I took a breath of pure happiness. Not that I don't appreciate the scents of Heaven, but the rich smell of a hot summer night in Oklahoma brought glorious memories: hayrides, marshmallow roasts, and Bobby Mac's embrace. The ever-present breeze wafted a hint of fresh-cut grass, water, and magnolia blossoms. Over everything, I delighted in the sweet fragrance of gardenias blooming in cloisonné vases that sat next to a marble bench in a small cul-de-sac facing the pond. Aromatic evergreens on either side and at the back formed the cul-de-sac. Cream-colored lighting in clear glass torches rimmed the pond. The cul-de-sac was shadowy, but not in deep gloom. The spot was well screened from the terrace though overlooked by a balcony.

In a rush of happiness, I forgot my mission for an instant. Truly, I was inattentive for a very short span of time, though we all know
how life can change in a twinkling. I had no thought whatsoever about Kay Clark. I was too absorbed in the perfume of my favorite flower. The Castle's hothouse gardenias were famous in Adelaide. In warm weather, gardenias also grew in tall vases along the terraces and on the parapets of the third-floor balcony.

I had a vague sense of surprise that I had been dispatched suddenly. Certainly everything appeared quiet and peaceful at The Castle. Lights high in rustling trees and at the top of the terrace steps shed some radiance, but the huge house lay dark and silent except for occasional dim lights on the balcony. I knew it must be late, that hour of the night when foxes prowl, coyotes howl, and cats slip through darkness unseen.

Quick steps sounded.

I watched with interest as a woman hurried toward broad steps that led down to the terrace. She neared a lamppost and was briefly illuminated. I was captivated by her haircut. Her dark locks were so perfectly messy with artfully tousled midlength bangs and layered strands razored at the ends.

I brushed back a curl and wondered if I might try that style. I admired her outfit as well, a lime green Irish linen jacket with deep square pockets and linen slacks. Her green sandals were a perfect match. She didn't slow as she left the pool of light behind her. She crossed the dim terrace, evidently seeing well in the moonlight. The slap of her steps silenced the frogs.

I replaced my tweed suit with a white blouse and turquoise paisley cropped pants. White woven straw flats seemed a good choice for summer. Certainly I wasn't motivated by an earthly pang of envy. Even though I wasn't visible, I liked to be properly dressed.

She came directly to the cul-de-sac, but she didn't sit on the bench. She frowned and turned to look toward the dark house. Hands on her hips, she was a model of impatience. The frogs resumed their boisterous chorus.

In a moment, she glanced at her wrist. I assumed she wore a watch with a luminous dial. She tossed her head impatiently. A very nice effect with that tousled look. She glanced out into the garden on the other side of the pond, then up at the house, as if looking for someone. Evidently she had expected to be met.

I looked, too, but there was no movement in the garden or on the terrace below the steps from the house. I was curious that she remained near the bench. I assumed the cul-de-sac was the place designated for an assignation. Was I about to witness a romantic interlude? I shook my head. There was nothing of sensual anticipation in her rapid pacing. Instead, she exuded brisk determination.

Suddenly I heard an odd crackling.

The sound was ominous, out of the ordinary, frightening.

I looked up and for an instant froze in horror. An enormous vase directly above the cul-de-sac teetered on its pedestal on the third-floor balcony. The vase tilted, then hurtled down toward the impatient woman, so near to me, so near to death.

With no time for thought and little room to maneuver, I zipped into the cul-de-sac, whirled, and shoved her, shouting, “Jump!” I pushed with all my strength. We tumbled together out of the cul-de-sac.

The vase struck with enormous force where she had stood. The sound of her cry was lost almost immediately in the thunderous crash. Shards of porcelain and clumps of earth flew in every direction. A huge chunk of vase struck the marble bench. Clumps of dirt pelted us. The sweet scent of gardenias cloyed the air.

She landed on the flagstones well in front of the main portion of the fractured vase. I felt certain she'd escaped injury except for scratches to her hands and knees from her tumble forward. She struggled to her feet and turned to stare at the wreckage.

I regret to say she was swearing in a clipped, angry tone. I
zoomed to her side. “Oh, my goodness. Thank Heaven you're all right.” I was too excited to remember silence was my goal.

Her head jerked around as she sought the speaker.

I clapped cautionary fingers to my lips. From this point forward, I must remember to be unheard as well as unseen. However, despite my vocal lapse, I was confident Wiggins was pleased. I had arrived in time to save a life. Wiggins had warned of skulduggery, so I was sure the vase hadn't tumbled of its own accord.

The vase! Who engineered its fall? I zoomed upward and hovered above the empty pedestal. There were the occasional lights along the parapet, but none offered much illumination. I saw no one, heard nothing.

I didn't know which direction to take. I listened hard and heard the unmistakable click of a closing door. Quickly, I moved from one French window to another, trying the handles. All were locked. But a fleeing person would obviously click the lock once inside.

All was not lost. The woman on the terrace clearly had expected to be joined by someone. Perhaps I had now fulfilled my mission. Perhaps I had been sent simply to save her life and now Kay Clark would be forewarned and could take appropriate action. I confess I felt a quick sense of disappointment. It wasn't that I was reluctant to return to Heaven, but Heaven knew I just arrived.

However, I didn't hear the whistle of the Rescue Express.

I zoomed back to the ground. I stopped beside a weeping willow not far from where she stood.

The near victim looked at the empty parapet, the remnants of the vase, the mounds of dirt, the cracked marble seat. She exuded determination, which seemed an odd response to near annihilation. Moreover, nothing in the way she stood indicated distress. Indeed, there was a cocky lift to her shoulders. She kicked a dirt
clod. “I'll be double damned.” Her husky voice was brusque and, oddly, not so much shocked as satisfied.

“I sincerely hope not.” Once again, I clapped fingers to my lips. Surely Wiggins would forgive my exclamation. Damnation is no joking matter in Heaven.

She swung toward the sound of my voice. “Who's there?” She took a step nearer the weeping willow. She was partially in the shadow of the evergreens and partially in a swath of moonlight. She reached into a deep pocket and yanked out a small but deadly looking revolver, holding it steady in an unwavering hand. Moonlight glinted on the gun. Her left hand dipped into the opposite pocket and retrieved a flashlight. She switched it on.

The stark beam was shocking after the dimness.

Me and my big, open mouth. That was how I got off to a bad start in my first visit to Adelaide. I'd spoken aloud and then had felt it necessary to appear to calm the situation. The effect had been unfortunate. Earthbound creatures are sadly unimaginative. If you come and go, that is, appear and disappear, the conclusion is immediate that you are a ghost. It is to no avail to speak of a Heavenly visitor as an emissary. The earthbound cling to stereotypes, believing that ghosts are horrid specters rattling chains and exuding a chill that turns hearts to ice.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Take me. I'm a redhead who likes to have fun. I am, if I say so myself, cheerful, energetic, and friendly. However, Precept Four was clear. I glanced Heavenward and gave a thumbs-up. I was determined to remain unseen. Precept Four was clear as could be. Moreover, this woman obviously was in no need of reassurance.

She took two steps toward the willow. The fronds drifted in the breeze. The flashlight beam whipped back and forth. She held the small pistol with apparent competence. “I have a good ear. Come out with your hands up or I'll shoot.”

She aimed directly at me. That wasn't a problem, but I felt she was much too ready to wield a weapon. Public safety was paramount. I felt a pang of dismay. Had that pompous thought actually entered my mind? Maybe there was a basis to Wiggins's continuing worries about reversion.

She raised her hand, straightened her arm.

“Don't shoot.” I spoke crisply. “I pushed you out of the way. Why attack your rescuer?”

“Who are you? Why are you hiding?” Her tone was equally crisp. “Did you know the vase was going to fall? Or do you claim to have ESP? Whatever, you are a little too handy on the spot to be innocent.” Her disdain was obvious. “Come out or I'll shoot. One, two, three—”

I became visible. I spared an instant's thought to be glad I'd changed out of the tweed suit. Certainly I didn't want to appear unfashionable in front of a woman who obviously had style even if at the moment she lacked charm.

She took a stumbling step back, deeper into the shadow of the evergreens.

I reminded myself that I was not, repeat not, taking pleasure in her discomfiture. Her reaction was understandable, since becoming visible is a striking phenomenon. Colors swirl and slowly take form. It's quite arresting. I regretted I hadn't chosen more dramatic tones. Turquoise flatters a redhead, but the gentle shade lacks emphasis. I changed colors in midswirl, and, voilà! I was clothed in a scarlet tunic and gold trousers. I added matching gold sandals and a multitude of gold chains. I was sure I was clearly visible in the light of the flash.

The hand with the gun sank to her side.

She had only herself to thank if my sudden appearance scared her.

Immediate upon the uncharitable thought came contrition.
I hoped Wiggins wasn't keeping count of these small errors on my part. As the colors swirled and resolved into me, I forced a conciliatory smile and moved toward her. Wiggins might not be pleased at my appearance, but surely he wanted me to prevent a shooting spree. What was it Wiggins had said about Kay Clark?…
willful and headstrong and reckless…

Without hesitation, she walked toward me.

I was impressed. She had to be shaken by my unorthodox arrival, yet she moved with determination to meet me. She stepped fully into the light from one of the torches as we came face-to-face.

I struggled to breathe. Despite the passage of years, I recognized her at once. Her oval face was elegant in its perfection and her beauty perhaps more striking in the mature woman than in the less polished late teen. Of all people…

Was this the circumstance which had concerned Wiggins, made him doubt my suitability to serve as an emissary?

She swore, her husky voice shocked and uncertain.

“You!” I sounded hoarse.

Kay took a step back. “I don't believe this.” Thankfully, the hand holding the gun remained at her side.

Now I understood Wiggins's reservations about sending
me
. He had spoken of Kay Clark. How could I have had any idea of her identity? If only I'd attended to Wiggins's words more carefully, but my thoughts had been distracted by memories of Bobby Mac and Montmartre. Still, I was indignant. “You're Kay Kendall.” I would never forget that face.

Kay Kendall—I suppose I'd have to remember that she was now Kay Clark—had been beautiful as a very young woman. She was beautiful as an older woman. What was she now? Nearing fifty, at least, but time had touched her lightly. Now there was the faintest of shadows beneath her eyes, an attenuation of her high cheekbones, giving her a poignant aura of vulnerability. Her face
was elegant and memorable, high forehead, straight nose, pointed chin with a tantalizing cleft, raven dark hair lightly flecked with silver, compelling dark brown eyes. Kay Kendall Clark was arresting, fascinating, unforgettable. Few could resist her magnetism; though, like moths drawn to a flame, those entranced by her might forever rue their encounter.

“Bailey Ruth Raeburn?” Kay's rich contralto voice rose in disbelief. “Oh, wait a minute. You're dead.” She blinked uncertainly. “I must have a concussion.”

“No such luck.” This time my fingers flew to my mouth in dismay. I must not quarrel with my charge. “You're fine. Besides, I didn't push you that hard.”

“You're dead!” Kay repeated accusingly.

“Yes.” And she was impossible. What was Wiggins thinking? Of course, it wasn't in my purview to judge whether Kay Clark, aka Kay Kendall, deserved to be rescued, apparently from a foolhardy scheme she had hatched.

Now I understood Wiggins's trepidation that I might revert, leave behind the Heavenly graces of charity and patience, succumb to anger, dislike, and disdain. To be utterly frank, I had decided opinions when I was on the earth. I was quick to make up my mind about people.

Oh, all right, I was a good hater, and that's a bad thing.

When we arrive in Heaven, one of our first duties is forgiveness. No grudges are permitted. I'd passed that test with flying colors.

Well, perhaps not with exceedingly high marks.

However, I passed. For those who might think less of me, consider this: How many on earth have grudges they gnaw with the pleasure dogs give to old bones? Well, then. They, too, may find that entry exam a challenge. Before crossing through the Heavenly portals, I forgave everyone.

But that was in Heaven.

To go back to earth and maintain such magnanimity was, I'm afraid, expecting a bit much.

I gave myself a mental shake. I desperately wanted to make this visit to earth a picture-perfect exercise as an emissary from the Department of Good Intentions. If so, I must suppress all negative feelings about Kay Clark and convince her I wished her well. “Kay…” I forced a smile which didn't feel genuine, but hey, I was making the effort. “I'm here to help you.”