Ghost in Trouble (3 page)

She blinked again, as if she might will away my presence. “This is crazy. You are definitely dead. You've been dead for years. You and Bobby Mac went down in the Gulf.” Kay glanced at the broken vase and debris-littered ground. “There's the vase. Or what's left of it.” She looked down at the gun in her hand. “The gun's real.”

“Much too real. Put that pistol in your pocket.” I'd developed quite a firm voice when I taught high school English.

Numbly, she dropped the gun into her pocket and glared at me. “I feel like I'm standing here. Maybe I'm not. If you're dead, I must be dead.” Her eyes narrowed. “You can't be here, and besides, you'd be ancient and you look younger than I do.”

“Of course I look younger.” I did not say this pridefully. I simply stated a fact. “That's one of the joys of Heaven.” I hoped Wiggins didn't feel I was revealing too much. However, I had to convince Kay that she was alive, and I was, well, dead. “Age doesn't matter in Heaven. Those who died too young find full flower. Those worn by illness or despair once again move with ease and grace. They are at their best and brightest. That is the criterion, to be your best and brightest whenever in life that may have occurred. Your choice. One of my happiest years was twenty-seven. That's the me you see.”

There wasn't a handy alabaster pillar to reflect me, but I was
confident the crimson tunic and gold trousers were a perfect foil for flaming red hair. I would emphasize that I was merely taking an innocent pleasure in the lovely fabric. Heaven knows I eschew vanity.

“If I'm alive, you are not standing there.” She tugged at an earlobe. “So why do I hear you?”

“Watch closely.” I disappeared. I counted to five, reappeared. For good measure—really the change wasn't intended to be spiteful—I transformed the tunic to emerald green and the trousers to brilliant white. White sandals, too, of course.

Kay blinked several times. She touched fingers to her temple. She took an experimental hop. “I'm not hurt, so how can I be dead? Besides”—her tone was dismissive—“if Heaven is like the terrace of The Castle, I want my money back.” She shot me a look of undisguised distaste. “Obviously you are a figment of my imagination. Although why I'd draw you of all people out of my subconscious is one for my psychologist.” She paused, gave a gurgle of laughter. “Now that I think of it, maybe you're part of the baggage I've carried since I slammed out of the mayor's office, jumped in my car, and left Adelaide in my rearview mirror. Did you know the mayor made a pass at me? I suppose he'd heard the rumors about Jack and thought I'd be a nifty entry in his black book. I saw you on the way out. Your face had a decided prune look. You and all the other virtuous ladies of the town had decided I was a vixen. Actually, I doubt you and your friends were quite so ladylike in your terminology. I can't wait to tell my psychologist. She's always insisted that almost everyone has ghastly repressed memories except for me and I might be better off if I started repressing stuff. Finally, I have a repressed memory for her. But it's weird that you popped to the top of my mind just because I had a close call. Okay.” She blew out a breath of relief. “I'm alive and I'm nuts, but that's fine. Anyway, since you're imaginary, I'm not going to
waste any more time with you. I've got things to do.” She started for the steps.

I grabbed her elbow. “What do I have to do to get your attention?”

She jerked her arm away, her face strained. “Those felt like real fingers.”

“Kay Clark, listen to me.” I shook my head in exasperation. “You haven't changed since you were working on the
Adelaide Gazette
and hell-for-leather to break up Jack Hume's marriage.” Poor Virginia Hume. Sweet, gentle, kind, shy. What chance did the wren have when a macaw strutted onstage?

Kay's thin face was abruptly still. Her eyes were deep pools of sadness. And anger.

I didn't evade her gaze. Despite the passage of many years, we both remembered our last encounter. I had been, if possible, even more impulsive then than now. Virginia was the only daughter of Madge Crenshaw, my best friend. It was past ten on a hot summer night when Madge called, crying out her anger and despair over Virginia's unhappiness. “…that awful girl's chasing Jack. I tried to talk to him but he slammed out of the house. Virginia's heartbroken.”

The minute I hung up the phone, I snatched my car keys and raced out of the house. I drove straight to Kay Kendall's apartment and knocked on the door.

She'd faced me, young and beautiful and defiant.

When I finished, she'd stood straight and tall, her face deathly pale. Her lips had trembled. I'd scarcely heard her low voice. “…you don't know…you don't know!” The door slammed shut.

There was no door between us tonight, but there were memories and heartbreak. Her eyes held mine. “All my fault?”

I didn't speak. I suppose my cold gaze told her my opinion.

“I was nineteen years old. He was twenty-seven. I came here”—
she pointed up at The Castle—“to interview his father, J. J. III, about a rumor that Hume Oil was for sale. I met Jack in the main hallway as I was leaving.” There might have been a quick sheen of tears in her eyes. “I was so young. I didn't know how much love hurt. I didn't know…” She gave an impatient shake of her head. “He was the handsomest man I'd ever seen.” She spoke without emphasis, stating a fact. “Being near him made everything sharper, brighter, faster. Did I chase him? No. Suddenly he was everywhere I went. I left town, went to Dallas. He came after me.” Her face was suddenly sad. “Every time he walked into a room, it was like the Fourth of July, but I would have gotten away if Virginia hadn't died.” Her eyes probed mine. “Did the ladies of the town blame me for her death and Sallie's, too?” Her gaze was somber. “Why do I ask? Sure, everybody blamed me and Jack.” She shook her head. “Jack and I didn't create Virginia's demons. He tried to help her. His dad tried. Did you know Jack's dad had insisted on Virginia and Sallie coming to live at The Castle? He'd been down to see them in Houston. He wasn't anybody's fool. He was crazy about the baby. That's the only reason Jack was in Adelaide that summer. He spent very little time here after Hume Oil moved its headquarters to Houston. Of course, his dad still called the shots from Adelaide. But that one summer, Jack was here. He got away as often as he could. He was in Dallas the night of the accident.”

I remembered his absence. “We'd all heard that he was in Dallas. With you.” Everyone had talked, of course…
running after that girl…poor little Virginia…his fault…was it really an accident?…

“He was with me.” Kay spoke as if from a far distance, as if she were observing shadowy figures dimly seen in a dusky lane. “I told him I wouldn't see him again. And then the call came. Virginia's car went into the lake on a bright, sunny, beautiful afternoon.” There was pity and sadness in Kay's dark eyes. “Virginia was drunk. As usual.”

“Virginia?” I remembered sweet slender Virginia and her beguiling blue eyes and gentle smile. My shock must have been evident in my face.

“Did you know her headaches and the days she spent in bed were because of vodka?” The honesty in Kay's voice was unmistakable.

I didn't want to believe Kay, but I'd lived long enough to understand that people we think we know well often hide destructive secrets.

Kay spoke quietly. “Hardly anyone knew. Jack. His dad. His sister. I don't think Virginia's mother knew, or perhaps she refused to see. Virginia was always pretty and kind, a sweet, good-natured, pathetic drunk.”

I looked at Kay and saw beyond the mature woman who faced me now. I saw the girl of nineteen, beautiful and accused. I remembered myself that night, angry, my voice hard. “Why didn't you say anything the night I came to see you?”

Her dark brows drew down in a fierce frown. “Did I owe you an explanation? And how could I talk about Virginia? The family was trying to help her.”

I made many mistakes during my lifetime. Here was another, even if lately realized. “I'm sorry.” I wished my words could make a difference, but nothing I said now would erase that night.

Her face twisted in a sardonic smile. “I'll save your apology for a therapy session. Apparently, my subconscious likes you better than I do. But that encounter with you was the least of my concerns after Virginia and Sallie died. I had too much else to deal with then. Jack was devastated. He blamed himself for the accident. He said he should have put Virginia in a hospital and made sure that she wouldn't be out alone with Sallie. But he never expected what happened. Of course”—and now her tone was bitter—“the generous ladies of Adelaide had the answer, Virginia
drove into the lake because of Jack and me. The reality? Virginia drove into the lake because she was too drunk to drive and she made a wrong turn on the way to the park with Sallie.”

The photograph in the
Gazette
had been heartbreaking, water spilling out of the convertible as the winch pulled the white car to the surface of the lake.

Kay's thin hands tightened into fists. “Virginia didn't commit suicide. She would never have hurt Sallie. Jack didn't matter to her. She shut him out after Sallie was born, but she adored Sallie. So did Jack. When Virginia and Sallie died, Jack was lost. It was the only time I ever knew him to be lost. Until—” She drew a sharp breath. “Why should I tell you any of this? You aren't here, and I've got plenty to deal with.”

“Skulduggery.” I spoke firmly.

She came back from the past, gave me a disdainful stare. “I would never have expected you to be quaint, Bailey Ruth.”

I felt a flicker of outrage. Kay Clark might not be a scarlet woman who had tried to steal another woman's husband, but she was definitely infuriating. The night I'd made a plea for Virginia, Kay hadn't revealed the truth. I realized now she'd been hurt by the town's suspicions, but she had refused to defend herself. Was she driven by pride? Or was she a woman who would always go her own way without any thought to the effect of her actions on those around her? Now she was doing everything in her power to send me packing.

I was tempted to disappear and let her deal with whatever forces she had unleashed.

…on
the earth, not
of
the earth…

Did I hear the whistle of the Rescue Express in the distance?

I spoke quickly. “When I was sent here to help you, I was told there was skulduggery afoot. If you prefer more up-to-date language, let me put it this way. You are in a big mess, and unless you
want your attacker”—I nodded at the remnants of the vase—“to get away with murder—yours—you need to listen to me. I was dispatched to save you and I'm going to do it.” Whether she liked it or not. I felt pugnacious as all get out. Kay affected me that way.

“You save me?” She flicked me a glance of disdain. “I don't need your help. Thanks, but I know what I'm doing. I don't need a guardian angel.”

“Stop.” I held up a commanding hand. “I am not an angel. Heavens, no. Angels are a separate order of being. I'm an emissary.”

She shrugged. “Angel, emissary, what difference does it make?”

This was not the time to argue theology. I lost patience and snapped, “In case you haven't figured it out by now, I am a ghost.” Wiggins had to understand that sometimes language must be clear.

“Ghost?” She raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I guess you are a ghost of times past, that's for sure. Whether you're here or not, angel, ghost, or devil, please whisk back to wherever you came from and leave me in peace. Now that I know I'm on the right track, I'll take it from here.”

I despised lack of clarity in speech when I was an English teacher.
Right track. It.
I wanted specificity.

“Take what where?”

She looked blank.

“You say you are on the right track and you will take
it
from here. Take what where?”

“You seem singularly uninformed for a so-called ghost.” She made a shooing gesture, as if I were a bothersome fly.

“It's a good thing”—I hoped I didn't sound waspish—“that Heaven doesn't hold grudges, or I would be gone. In a heartbeat. Look, we need to talk.” I gestured at the shattered vase. “Why is someone trying to kill you?”

Her smile fled as she stared at the debris. In the moonlight, her face looked suddenly older. She drew in a quick breath.

I patted her shoulder.

Kay stiffened. “You are not here.” The words were evenly spaced, but her voice was strident. “I haven't had that much to drink. Two glasses of champagne at dinner. That's nothing. I am perfectly sober. Maybe I need a drink. I've got to get my head on straight. Maybe if I talk the situation out, I'll know what to do next.” She flicked a quick glance toward me. “That must be why I'm imagining you. All right. My subconscious will be my guide.” She began to pace. “I found a note on my pillow. But not a billet-doux this time.” Her face softened. “Jack wrote lovely pillow notes. I still have them. This wasn't that kind of note, but I was thrilled. I knew I was getting somewhere.”

Kay reached into a pocket.

I was wary, prepared for the gun.

Kay lifted out a square of white cardboard, read aloud: “‘Be on the terrace at midnight in the cul-de-sac. I know what happened to Jack.'”

Interesting. I asked eagerly, “What happened to Jack?”

Kay lifted startled black eyebrows in surprise. “You don't know about Jack? My subconscious must have gone on vacation after calling you up. You can't be a good sounding board if you don't know what's happened.”

“I know you are engaged in a foolhardy and”—I jerked a thumb at the wreckage—“dangerous scheme.”

“Scheme.” She considered the word and gave an approving nod. “You better believe it, honey. I've got a scheme, and that pile of dirt”—she jerked her thumb—“proves I was right. I knew things were breaking my way when I got the note. I suspected something would happen.” She patted her pocket. “That's why
I brought a gun. But”—she looked up at the empty pedestal—“somebody outsmarted me.”