Ghost in Trouble (7 page)

I checked her bedroom door. It was locked. However, I propped a chair beneath the handle. It never hurt to take precautions.

I disappeared and whirled through the wall into the hallway. I began to explore, seeking a suitable guest bedroom. Who would ever have thought I would spend a night at The Castle?

I had some difficulty in making a choice, finally opting for a truly dramatic guest room with white walls, white rugs, and a spacious four-poster bed with a white spread. White is such a nice background for a redhead.

Of course, I could better appreciate the contrast if I appeared. I swirled into being. White shorty pajamas were perfect…

“Oh, dear. Harumph.” A hurried clearing of his throat announced Wiggins's arrival. “Bailey Ruth, please.” There was a touch of embarrassment in his voice, but I didn't miss the underlying stern tone.

Quick to observe the proprieties, I changed to a sky blue blouse and white linen trousers with the most fetching white sandals. I took a deep breath and looked in the direction of his voice. I wished he would appear. I suddenly empathized with Kay Clark. Dealing with an unseen presence was unnerving.

Moreover, I knew I was a ghost in trouble, fighting for my mission.

I
t is better to give than to receive. Especially if trouble is on the way. Before Wiggins could scold, I beamed and clapped my hands in appreciation. “How nice of you to come. I'm sure you want to know the latest developments.”

“I know the latest.” His voice had a curious strangling sound. “Appearing, always appearing.”

I suspected an accusatory forefinger was at this moment pointed at me. I increased the wattage of my smile, clearly a woman confident of her actions. “Everything is working out splendidly!”

“Working out?” There was a note of uncertainty and possibly a flicker of hope.

I almost felt a moment of compunction. Really, men are such lambs, always responding readily to concrete statements.

“Definitely.” I was tempted to break into “Everything's Coming Up Roses,” but decided not to push my luck. “Kay thinks I'm
imaginary. So, should I need to appear, no harm done. She won't believe I'm there.”

I continued to beam in the approximate direction of his voice. I wished he weren't so averse to being visible. “Of course, tomorrow—today actually—I'll try again to convince Kay to leave the investigating to me. The wisest course would be for her to leave Adelaide.”

“That will be wonderful.” Relief buoyed his voice. “Your mission will be done. The Express can pick you up this afternoon.”

Perhaps I was too clever by half. My high-wattage smile felt fixed. “I'll do my best to persuade her to depart, but there are ramifications.” My face grew grave.

“Oh?”

I spoke quickly. “Others may be at risk. Kay is my primary responsibility, but I need to discover the reason for Jack's murder.” I gave my husky voice a portentous vibrato. “Until then, no one at The Castle may be safe.”

“Unfortunately”—Wiggins sounded somber—“I have a similar feeling. In the department, we are not privy to the innermost thoughts of those on earth. Only God knows. However, when I checked your file, I felt most uneasy. Though possibly your predilections might be the source of my discomfort. And”—his voice was dour—“I find it discouraging that you arrived at your post unaware you were here to protect Kay Kendall Clark. I most specifically”—great emphasis—“advised that you were perhaps unsuitable considering your attitude toward Kay. You assured me”—now there was a put-upon note to his voice—“that you were absolutely capable of discharging your duties. That moment in the garden when each recognized the other was not a scene I like to dwell upon.”

I refused to be daunted. “All missions have their ups and downs. Why, you yourself when last in Tumbulgum”—at the
conclusion of my previous visit to earth, Wiggins had admitted a deviation from the Precepts when he had been forced to intervene in a mission in that remote Australian community—“realized that despite the best of intentions, at times one does what one has to do. In this instance, I will emphatically carry out my duties with a brave heart and a clear conscience.”

“Well put.” He was hearty.

Dear Wiggins. So easily deflected from the matter at hand.

I looked soulful. I caught a quick glimpse in the mirror. Perhaps the world lost a great actress. Truly, I appeared as noble as Portia in the famous painting by Millais.

“Bailey Ruth, do your best.”

I stood straight as a soldier with a battlefield commission. Until I was sure he was gone. Then I gave a whoosh of relief. In any event, I'd better work fast and hope Kay Clark turned out to be as stubborn as I thought she was. It was essential that I speak with her privately in the morning. I thought for a moment, then popped to the kitchen. I turned on a light, found a notepad near the telephone, and composed a message. I left the note on the kitchen table. Upstairs in Kay's room, I used a sheet from her notepad, wrote quickly:
Breakfast will arrive at eight o'clock. Await further instructions.
I propped the note on the lavatory in Kay's bathroom and returned to the guest room.

Possibly I fell asleep even more quickly than Kay. A clear conscience affords that luxury.

 

My eyes popped wide.
I'd had only a few hours' sleep, but I was eager to get a glimpse of the inhabitants of the house. When they are alone, many people's demeanors differ profoundly from that exhibited when in the company of others. Also, I needed to check on the not-quite-hidden tools.

With no fear of observation while in the bedroom, I chose to be visible. In the luxurious bathroom, I was enchanted by the huge white marble shower designed without a curtain or glass door. Absolutely Heavenly. As the water pelted, I recalled the household members as they gathered on the porch last night:

Stepping out of the shower, I enjoyed the fleecy softness of the towel. Once dry, I disappeared and chose my clothing. Before departing, I materialized long enough to glance in the bedroom mirror, an extravagant, full-length affair with a white limestone frame. My copper-bright hair shone. An azure blouse complemented white slacks and sandals. My green eyes sparkled, my freckled face was eager. I was ready.

I checked to be sure there was no evidence the room had been used. I'd made the bed, of course. The bathroom had a plentiful supply of towels, so one less would not be noticed. I folded my damp towel. I'd drop by The Castle laundry room on my way out.

I disappeared and stepped into the hall, making sure no one was about to observe the floating towel. I gently closed the bedroom door and thought: laundry room. To move an object required me to traverse the distance rather than immediately arriving. I floated—floating is such fun—down the hallway to an inconspicuous door. I opened it to find the interior stairs meant for the domestic staff. A dim light midway down revealed a narrow passageway and steep steps. I found three narrow doors at the bottom of the stairs. Dimly, I heard a dog barking excitedly.

The first door opened. “Walter, what's wrong with you? What's on the stairs?”

A yipping bundle of golden fur scrambled up the steps, nails clicking, in a wriggling frenzy of excitement.

“Shh.” I reached down to pet.

The dog lunged, yanking the towel from my other hand.

I grabbed one end, held tight.

A joyous growl sounded. The dog pulled, his claws scrabbling on the uncarpeted stairs. What could be more fun than tug-of-war first thing in the morning?

“Walter, what are you doing?” Margo sounded exasperated. She stood at the foot of the steps, glaring upward. “Hush. You'll wake everyone up.” The door evidently opened into the kitchen. The scent of coffee and bacon beckoned me. I let go of the towel.

Walter slid down several steps, dragging the towel with him.

“Give me that towel.” Margo bent, but the dog bolted past her into the kitchen, the towel dragging behind him.

I sighed. Now there would be the Mystery of the Damp Towel on the Service Stairs. Wiggins felt strongly about unex
plained incidents that might prompt speculation of otherworldly intervention.

Looking on the bright side—I hoped Wiggins would do so as well—now that I wasn't burdened with the towel, I was free to carry out my plans.

I had a decision to make. Although Kay's refusal to involve the police likely put her in greater danger, I understood her reasoning. As long as those with whom she spoke—with the exception of the murderer—remained unaware that Jack Hume had been pushed, they likely would answer whatever questions Kay asked.

However, if the tools I'd so cleverly placed in the drawer in the oak cabinet were discovered, it was inevitable that the police would be summoned and a thorough investigation begun on the sabotage of the vase.

I am rarely indecisive. Did I play Kay's game? Or did I try to involve the police in hopes of protecting her? If the former, I must move quickly, retrieve the tools, place them in the tool room.

I popped to the main hallway. Shadowy openings at either side near the front door led to the living and dining area. I looked at the massive cabinet.

The second drawer was closed. I reached out, pulled.

The tools were gone.

I'd expected the first person through the hallway this morning to see the glint of the crowbar in the light from the wall sconce and immediately raise the alarm. The police would be summoned.

Someone had indeed walked past and been attracted by the silvery glint, but no alarm had been raised.

Either a murderer had walked this way or someone willing to protect a killer.

 

In the workshop, the
spaces for the crowbar, hammer, and chisel remained empty. The tools could be in the pond or hidden in dense vegetation. I'd been outwitted. I had no idea when the tools had been taken. Yet I felt almost certain they must have been discovered early this morning. Who had been up early?

I left the workshop and rose in the air to survey the surroundings.

Evelyn Hume walked down the stairs from the terrace. Her fingertips slid smoothly down the stone balustrade. Her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a bun. She looked cool and attractive in a gray chambray blouse and slacks. As I watched, she reached the terrace, turned, and walked without hesitation to the cul-de-sac.

I dropped down beside her, near enough to see the grim set of her face. The thick lenses of her glasses magnified her milky eyes.

Despite the bright morning sun, the cul-de-sac was dim, shadowed by the tall, thick evergreens on three sides. There was light enough to see that the vase had been blue porcelain. Light enough also to recognize the great force of the vase's impact. The vase had shattered into large pieces, spilling clods of dark rich dirt. There was still the scent of gardenias, though the blossoms were already browned and wilted.

It was only as Evelyn moved slowly forward, her steps cautious, that her poor vision became apparent. As the toe of her right shoe encountered debris, she stooped to pick up a shard of pottery. Her lined face was brooding, intent.

She held the broken piece for a moment, then dropped it. As she turned away, she reached out, touched a prickly evergreen. As soon as her shoe grated on the flagstones, she swung to her right, walked unerringly toward the marble stairway.

Had she come to the cul-de-sac to confirm the fall of the vase? Did she find it hard to believe that a huge porcelain vase, securely
in place for many years, would topple of its own accord? Or was her early-morning inspection more sinister in intent? Was she a thwarted murderer hoping that there would be no suspicion raised about the vase's fall?

I watched as she climbed the steps. After one initial brush with her hand at the base of the steps, she climbed with confidence. I didn't know why she had visited the cul-de-sac. However, it was obvious now that poor vision was no obstacle to Evelyn Hume's going anywhere she chose. Would she have noticed the not-quite-hidden tools? The old Spanish cabinet was on the way to the front door. Did she customarily reach out to touch the cabinet to confirm her distance from the door? Had her hand encountered the cold steel tip of the crowbar?

I didn't know.

However, Evelyn Hume's poor vision was no proof of her innocence. She could easily have walked up behind her brother on the balcony, pushed him to his death, and slipped away in the darkness, just as her hand might have gripped the crowbar that tipped the vase last night.

I glanced up at the balcony. A silent observer watched as Evelyn reached the terrace and moved purposefully toward a side door.

I landed a few feet from Ronald Phillips. His silver hair was stiff from hair spray and his Vandyke perfectly trimmed. He was natty in a blue polo and blue-and-white-striped seersucker trousers. Ronald was too much of a dandy to be attractive to me. Nor did I care for the cunning look on his face. He reminded me of a ferret. As Evelyn disappeared, he moved swiftly and lightly, his steps making little sound, to a French door.

I followed him through a ballroom to the main stairway and down to the second floor. He turned left and walked swiftly to the end of the hallway and opened a door.

Laverne sat at a desk midway across the room. She watched as he stepped inside. There was no warmth in her gaze. A lamp revealed a face with all imperfections concealed by makeup. She, too, was fully dressed. Despite the heat, she was garbed all in black, a rayon blouse, polished cotton slacks, leather sandals. “Where have you been?”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Here and there.” He had a light tenor voice. “Evelyn's worried. She was down there nosing around the broken vase.”

Laverne's narrow face was abruptly expressionless. “Where were you last night?”

He smoothed his beard. “Out for a cigarette. It's damn stupid I can't smoke in here.”

“You know how Diane feels about smoking.” Laverne's tone suggested this was a familiar reply to an oft-stated grievance.

His face twisted in a sneer. “This place has absorbed plenty of cigarette smoke. And enough whiskey to supply a whorehouse.” His smile was wolfish. “I've got more stuff for James's spirit to talk about, thanks to the historical society. The ladies there think I'm wonderful. I take them Godiva chocolates. They can't wait to help me find stuff. Yesterday I looked at microfilms about James and Diane's wedding. I even got some pix. Did you know Jack was part of the wedding party when James and Diane got married?”