Ghost to the Rescue (2 page)

“Can I be inspiring?” I crossed my legs. “Why, inspiration is part of my nature.” There was the time I inspired a mass walkout from a city council meeting, but perhaps that wasn't quite what Wiggins had in mind.

He brightened. “To serve as a muse is a high calling though not the usual task set for an emissary. Think of the muses, Calliope, Clio,
Euterpe . . .” He rattled off the names of the nine muses. “Keep them in mind.”

The Teletype suddenly clattered. He swung about, grabbed a pad, made hurried notes.

Outside came the deep-throated wail of the Rescue Express nearing the station. The clack of the wheels sounded louder and louder. The acrid smell of coal smoke tickled my nose, elixir to a spirit ready to rumble. I came to my feet, held out my hand. “Quick. I'll go.”

Wiggins glanced out the window, knew time was short. He pushed up from his chair, strode to the slotted wooden container near the ticket widow, grabbed a red ticket, gave it a stamp.

I ran out the door, ticket in one hand, a sheet of paper with Wiggins's notes in the other. As I climbed aboard, Wiggins shouted, “She is seeking inspiration . . . her plight is desperate . . . bank account . . . Do your best . . .”

I stood in the swaying vestibule—on my way to Adelaide, on my way to Adelaide—and tried to decipher Wiggins's back-slanted scrawl:
Deirdre Davenport . . . single mother of two . . . bank account almost empty . . . writes clever mysteries . . . hasn't sold her last two books . . . must have a job . . . applied for a faculty position at Goddard . . . decision to be announced tomorrow. . . .

I settled unseen on the chair by the desk in a modest hotel room. The joints squeaked as the chair swiveled.

A young woman flicked a puzzled look toward the chair, then gave a little shrug. I liked her at once. Probably mid-thirties. Old enough to have lived and learned and lost. Frizzy brown hair needed
a trim but was the color of highly polished mahogany. She had an air of leashed vitality, a woman with too many ideas to consider and tasks to accomplish and destinations to seek to think about herself and haircuts. Her long, expressive face puffed in exasperation with a touch of bitterness. She sat cross-legged on a saggy sofa, a laptop balanced on her knees. A cell phone rested on a coffee table.

A young thin voice talked fast. “. . . not started yet?”

Obviously, the phone was in speaker mode.

“Not yet, honey.” Her tone was cheerful, but her expression was forlorn.

“Mom, don't you need to sell a book pretty soon?” The boy's voice was high and scared.

“Don't worry, Joey. I've had rough patches before. One of these days I'll be able to start.”

“Look, Mom, I've been thinking about your book. I just finished the new book about Elvis Cole. You know—”

Now her smile was wide. “Robert Crais's PI.”

“He is so cool.” The young voice was awestruck. “Why don't you write a book like that?”

“I would if I could, but that's not the kind of book I write. My readers want lots of fun.”

“Mom”—he sounded solemn—“you used to be happy all the time and you couldn't wait to get to work, but now—”

Deirdre's angular face drooped. But her voice was brisk. “Hey, Joey, I'm fine. I'll start a new book this weekend.”

“You will? That's great.” His voice lifted in relief. Then, a pause. “Can I come home early? Dad's girlfriend wears perfume that makes me cough and I heard her making fun of my glasses. Please.”

“Baby, I'd come get you if I could. But I have to stay here this weekend. Try to have fun. Your dad loves you.”

“Yeah.” The boy's voice sagged. “Sure. Then why'd they go out and leave me here by myself?”

Her lips quivered and I knew she kept her voice bright with an effort. “Joey, you can handle it. Look, I'll drive down Monday and pick you up.”

“Monday.” It must have sounded long distant to him. “Okay. See you then.”

The call ended.

She came to her feet, face crumpling, hands clenched. She took one deep breath, another, another. “Come on, Deirdre. You told Joey to handle it. You handle it. You don't have any choice.”

I liked the sound of her name,
Deer-druh
. I liked the way she lifted her chin. I liked her staccato speech.

She clapped her hands on her hips, stared across the room at her image in the mirror. “Handle it, babe. So you owe money everywhere in town. So you spent next month's house payment to send Katie to camp. So you haven't sold your last two books and you've got two hundred and forty dollars in your checking account and you're maxed out on two credit cards. Think positively. That's what you tell the kids.
Jay will pick you for the job. Jay will pick you for the job
.”

She whirled, flung herself onto the sofa, grabbed the laptop, glared at it. “You're about as cold as the grave scene in
Doctor Zhivago
. I told Joey I'd start a book this weekend. Sure, and in my spare time I'll pop a plan for world peace and write a treatise on the mating habits of piranhas. I try to write and nothing happens. Is it crazy to talk to yourself? But there's nobody else I can talk to. Wesley likes
being single and he has a girlfriend with too much perfume. I can't tell Joey and Katie that I'm broke and desperate, but they know I'm stressed. It's like I have coyotes running circles in my head. Bills, Jay, the kids, whether I make the cut, get the job. I can hear Jay now, his voice smooth as honey: ‘My decision is momentous for our faculty, our students, the state's writing community.' Oh yeah, pompous ass. Momentous for me and Harry, too. Trust Jay to insist that he's still struggling with his choice. Too bad he's got carte blanche. Maybe nobody else on the faculty cares.”

She looked down at the laptop, her face creased in a tight, frustrated frown.

Without warning, the door swung in. A man stepped inside, closed the door firmly behind him. Six feet tall, he was well built, knew it. His T-shirt was tight. Faded jeans hung low on his hips. He was barefoot. He leaned back against the door with all the assurance of a tousle-haired Hollywood bad boy and that was the look on his face—suggestively seductive brown eyes, lips parted in a sleepy smile. “Hey, Deirdre.” He carried two champagne glasses and a magnum. “Time for a little celebration.” His dark eyes ignored her face, grazed slowly down her body, lingered on her long bare legs. “Nice.”

She came to her feet, stood quite stiff and still. “How did you get in?”

“The kid at the front desk doesn't know who's in room 206. I told him I was Jay Knox”—emphasis on his last name—“and I locked myself out. So here I am. And here you are.” He drawled the last sentence.

“The clerk should have asked for an ID.” My tone was hot. I clapped a hand over my lips, but it was too late. My husky voice could always be heard in the last row.

He gave her a sleepy smile. “I like the new voice. Deeper than usual. Kind of throaty. Sexy. As for ID, I may have mentioned my uncle. Useful that he owns this place.” He spoke with easy assurance, accustomed to the deference a small town accords certain families.

Knox? Like pieces slotting into a puzzle, I remembered Jeremiah Knox, the long-ago beloved dean of arts and sciences at Goddard. His wife, Jenny, was a volunteer for children, reading, the arts. Whatever needed to be done, Jenny Knox was ready to help. I had a hazy memory they'd had several children. This would be a grandson. He was handsome in the Knox manner, sandy-haired, broad face, generous mouth, but there was a hint of dissolution in the curl of those full lips. Even the best oak tree can spawn rotten acorns.

“Yeah, I like that voice. Say something else, Deirdre.”

Deirdre knew she hadn't spoken. She looked back and forth, turned to glance behind her.

Jay's laugh was easy. “It's okay, sweetie. Nobody here but you and me. I like it that way.” He started toward her.

She said sharply, “Jay, I'm not dressed—”

Actually, Deirdre was more fully dressed than women today appear at swimming pools, and was quite attractive in an azalea pink cotton sateen shirt tunic and adorable light feathery mukluks. Of course, the tunic only reached her upper thighs, and she had long, well-shaped legs.

“—and you need to leave.” Her tone was flat, her gaze cold.

“Less is more.” He placed the champagne bottle and glasses on the coffee table in front of the sofa, but he never took his eyes off of her. He took one step, another. She stood her ground. “Jay, I'm asking you to leave. Now.”

He reached her, stood too close. “Come on, Deirdre. You're no kid.
The night's young. We can have fun.” He reached out with both hands, gripped her arms, pulling her close.

“Let go.” Deirdre's voice rose.

He gave a hot, low laugh. “Loosen up, lady. Maybe I forgot to mention all the duties in your job description. That is, if you get the job. How bad do you want the job, Deirdre?”

She strained backward. “Let me go.”

I was at the door. I yanked it open as, colors swirling, I appeared—but, of course, I was already inside the room.

Jay stood with his back to me, hands clamped on Deirdre's arms.

Deirdre stared past Jay at me. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. She tried to speak but no words came.

I looked over my shoulder as if speaking to someone in the hall. “I'll take a rain check on a drink. I promised Deirdre I'd drop by. She offered to help me”—I was at a momentary loss, but after all, as Wiggins recalled, I had taught high school English—“with the transition from chapter four to five. She's so generous to new writers.” By the time I closed the door and moved toward Deirdre and Jay, he was standing a few feet away, facing me, a startled look on his face.

“Professor Knox,” I burbled as I hurried forward, gazing at Jay in delight. “I've heard so much about you.” This was usually safe, though I knew only enough about him to write a single-word description:
Jerk
.

Deirdre blinked several times, perhaps trying to erase the memory of colors moving and coalescing.

I glanced at the mirror. Surely she approved of my ivory cotton-knit tunic with the most elegant medallion trim at the neckline and six to eight inches of an intricate design at the hem. Black leggings and black strap sandals with faux stones were a perfect foil for the ivory. And, of course, for red hair.

I held out my hand to Jay, loved the flash from the large faux ruby ring that echoed the red stones on the sandals. “I'm”—I hesitated for an instant. St. Jude was the patron of impossible dilemmas, and that seemed a good appraisal of Deirdre's status—“Judy Hope.” Surely Wiggins would be impressed.

I glanced at Deirdre.

Her expression was glazed, but she came through. “Judy”—she managed a strained smile—“I'm glad you were able to . . . drop by.” She was torn between sincere gratitude for her deliverance and mind-stretching incredulity at my arrival.

“I'm so eager to talk about the transition.” I hoped this would help her get past her wooden speech.

“Transition,” she repeated as if the word had no meaning, her gaze still focused on me. “Oh. Oh yes, of course. Transition! We had a good discussion about leading into a new chapter. I know we can make some progress.” She turned to Jay. “I know you'll forgive Judy and me if we get right to work.” She hurried to the coffee table, grabbed the champagne bottle by the neck and the glasses in her other hand, thrust them at him. “I'll see you in the morning.”

He took the bottle, tucked it under his arm, the glasses in his left hand. He moved in an easy slouch, gave her a steady stare when he reached the door. “Tonight. Cabin five.” He spoke casually, but the message in his eyes was clear:
You want the job? Show
up.

I
'd like to say Deirdre was delighted when the door closed behind him.

Instead, she stared at me and slowly backed away, a step at a time. “You . . . weren't there.” Her voice was shaky. “The doorway was empty. Nothing. And then”—she waved her hands—“colors shimmered. There you were. You can't be here, but you are. I see you. I must be crazy.” She clasped long slender fingers to each temple.

“You're not crazy at all. I wasn't there. Then I was.” I was glad to reassure her.

She gave a ragged laugh. “That's swell. Not there. Then here.” She stumbled to the sofa, sank down in one corner. “It's stress. I'm trying to come up with a book. Maybe you're part of a book.” There was a desperate hope in her voice. “Yes. A book. There's this cute redhead—”

I smiled. What a dear girl.

“—who is Johnny-on-the-spot when Jay's acting like an ass.” She stopped, looked grim. “It was worse than that. I'm afraid if you hadn't come . . . But you did. Look, did you ask for a key at the desk and maybe the light was funny when you came in . . . ?” Her words straggled to an end.

“It's better not to worry about things we can't change.”

I saw the realization in her eyes that the light in the doorway had been fine. She'd seen colors and the colors were me appearing and that was not an experience she understood.

I was brisk. “Everything works out for the best. I was able to come and intervene in what had the makings of an unfortunate event.”

“Very unfortunate.” Her voice was thin. She gave me a long, careful look.

I resisted fluffing my hair. A quick glance in the mirror reassured me. I looked as nice as could be.

“Judy Hope,” she said experimentally. “You aren't wearing a name tag.”

“Should I be?” I was truly curious.

“Are you here for the writers' conference?”

I beamed at her. “I'm here for you. I want to help you with your stress. What's the problem?”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, opened them.

I smiled again.

Her breath was a little quick. “Judy Hope. Okay. As they say, when somebody gives you a gift, say thank you, even if you don't have a clue about why. Thank you. You arrived in time to save me from a fate I wouldn't wish on any job seeker—”

“Job seeker?”

“If you're here to help me, you missed out on the basics. Problem? I guess I can sum it up in two words. Money and sex. I need a job. Specifically, I applied for a new opening in the English Department at Goddard. . . .” She looked at me questioningly.

“Goddard College, the pride of Adelaide.”

“Okay. Anyway, it's a job to teach creative writing. Who gets picked is up to Jay Knox. You just met him. I should get the job. I've actually sold books. Harry Toomey, the other finalist, wrote a thriller, which he self-published. The book has a slick cover on the outside, but the prose is plodding—
clump
,
clump
,
clump
. The words have the zing of stale soda. Jay looked me right in the eye and pointed out that self-pub's the wave, the new force in publishing, and has a lot of appeal. That's true if you want to suck in people who pour their hearts into a book and pay somebody to print it and think that's publishing. For anyone who wants to build a career as a novelist, it's a dead end nine times out of ten.”

“You believe it's exploitive?”

“I do. And what really makes me sad is when a self-pub book's really good and could reach readers but the author doesn't know how to make the right connections. There are always exceptions, but, trust me, Harry isn't one of them. Oh, you don't care about any of this. Anyway, I'm the headliner tomorrow at eleven at the annual Goddard College Writers' Conference.” Her voice indicated a quote: “‘Knock 'em Dead with a Killer Beginning.' And Jay will announce the new faculty member tomorrow.” Her eyes were intense. “I have to get the job. I'm out of options, out of money, and I can't ever seem to get a new book started.”

I said gently, “If you've done it before, why not this time? What's wrong?”

“If I knew, I'd fix it. I try to write and I can't even come up with yada yada yada. I think I have an idea and you know what happens? I set it up: the protagonist is a nice girl, her boyfriend's dumped her, she comes home to the small town, going to open a bakery or a pottery store or maybe a cat hotel. Cats are big. We've got a cat. His name's Cassius, so now you know what he looks like. She can have a cat hotel, the cats tell her things. But that night somebody throws a rock through her window. She hurries to the window.”

I leaned forward, expectant.

She brushed back frizzy curls. “She looks out and there's this ghostly form and she hurries downstairs and out on the porch . . .”

“Yes?”

“That's the problem. Nothing happens! I don't know who she is or what she looks like. I don't know why anybody cares if she's back in town. I keep trying and nothing happens. It's like I have a dead squid for a brain.” She lifted long, thin fingers, gently massaged her temples. “I write—used to write—light, funny books about zany characters. Before my brain turned to Jell-O and the neurons stopped connecting. I'm absolutely desperate. I thought maybe if I meditated, that would help. I let my mind empty out and I focused on one idea:
I need inspiration. I need inspiration. I need inspiration.
”

I clapped my hands together. “That's why I'm here.”

“But I need a hilarious character, like something out of Janet Evanovich or Parnell Hall.”

I was a bit short on hilarity at the moment, but perhaps practicality would be helpful. “If the job at the college doesn't work out, you can look for another job.”

“You don't understand.” She sounded exhausted. “If I make Jay
mad, he'll make sure I don't get a job anywhere in town. One of his sisters works at the Chamber of Commerce, another runs a charitable foundation, a brother's the assistant managing editor at the
Gazette
, his aunt heads up human resources at the hospital. Anywhere I'd try to get a job, there would be a Knox. They're all wonderful people, but they have one blind spot and you just met him—handsome, spoiled, ‘whatever I want I get' Jay. He's the baby of the family and nobody in the family or in town ever admits Jay's a louse because the Knoxes are wonderful. End of story. I don't have enough money to move anywhere.” She ended on a defeated sigh.

I'd definitely chosen the right name. I hoped St. Jude was at my shoulder. Deirdre's back was against the wall, no money coming in, bills to pay, expenses to meet. It was easy to say,
Look for another job
. But obviously, in her mind, the Knox family had plenty of clout. As for well-paying jobs, those are on a lot of wish lists. It's easy to get huffy and say to take any job, but if the pay doesn't match the bills, where are you?

Speaking of jobs, mine was clear. “Every problem has a solution.” I hoped I didn't sound like my well-meaning high school geometry teacher who lost that cheery certainty before I exited his class.

I plopped onto the sofa beside her.

Deirdre stiffened, pressed hard against the side of the sofa. She glanced toward the closed door, no doubt recreating in her mind the riveting moment when I appeared.

I waved a hand in dismissal, admired the pale rose of my nails. Possibly, the ivory blouse demanded carmine.

Deirdre stared at my fingernails, now brilliantly red, and blurted out, “Maybe I didn't know how easy I had it. I'm broke. Jay
wants to trade the job for sex. But that's real. Sleazy but real and I'm a big girl. But you!” She reached out tentatively, touched my arm, yanked her hand away as if her fingers burned. “You are really there. Or”—she drew a ragged breath—“if I'm imagining you, I ought to be in a sideshow. Come one, come all! Look at the woman who sees people who aren't there!”

I patted her knee. “Deirdre, take a deep breath. You're fine.”

She jerked like she'd encountered a jellyfish, drew herself together as if ready to bound from the sofa.

“Please,” I urged, “sit back and relax. I'm here to help you and I'm as real as can be.”

She stared with saucer-shaped eyes, but, even though her muscles were rigid, she remained seated.

I had to be accurate. “For the moment.”

“
For the moment.
If I'm really quiet, will you go away?”

I was patient. “Deirdre, let me help you.”

She gave me a forlorn gaze. “You're the rescue squad? Who are you? Where did you come from? How did you get here? How soon will you leave?”

I was afraid I smelled a whiff of coal smoke. Surely Wiggins understood this woman was in dire need of a champion. And in dire need of reassurance. I was crisp. “I'm Bailey Ruth Raeburn. I used to live in Adelaide. When I was alive.”

“Alive?” Her voice cracked.

“Before I went to Heaven.”

She made a despairing sound. “If I wrote it all down . . . it wouldn't sell. Nobody would believe me.” A quick breath. “You told Jay you were Judy Hope.”

I smiled modestly. “I'm not making any claims, but St. Jude is the patron of”—actually
impossible
was his specialty, but she might find that discouraging—“people in difficult situations. And Hope is a key virtue.”

“Bailey Ruth. Judy. What do I call you?” A frantic head shake. “What am I saying? How can I have a conversation with somebody who isn't real?”

“I am real for the moment.” I felt this was a profound insight. “As for names, if we meet in public, call me Judy. When we're alone, I'm Bailey Ruth.”

“Judy. Bailey Ruth.” She still sat as rigid as a post.

“Let me put your mind at rest. . . .” I described the Department of Good Intentions and Wiggins and his concern that she was stressed and that's why I was there. “Wiggins speaks highly of you.”

She continued to sit as stiff as a starched crinoline.

“Pretend you're in Miss Silver's drawing room and her wonderful calm demeanor assures you that everything is going to be all right.” My voice was soothing.

She looked at me blankly. “Who's Miss Silver?”

I was shocked. “You call yourself a mystery writer and you don't know Miss Silver?”

Now she was ruffled. “I've had six books published.
Secret of the Scarlet Macaw
,
The Dragon Hissed
,
Dance of the Derelict
—”

I hastened to interrupt. “That's wonderful. But all mystery readers know Patricia Wentworth's Miss Silver.”

Her smile was quick and apologetic. “I'll look her up.” Then her wary expression returned. “But let's stick to the subject. You say you're going to help me. How?”

“Yes. It's really very simple. I intend to inspire you.” But first I needed to solve her job situation. Then she would relax and be able to write. “Tell me about you.”

She streaked fingers through her frizzy curls.

I wondered if she indeed resorted to old-fashioned permanents or if her hair naturally bristled.

“Okay.” She made a production of the word, a low
o
, and the emphasis on a higher-toned
kay
. “Life story of Frazzled Middle-Aged Multitasking Mother with Writer's Block for Woman Who Doesn't Exist but Here She Is. I'm—”

Her cell phone rang.

She shot me an apologetic look, yanked it. “My daughter. She's at camp. I'd better take it. . . . Hi, honey. I thought you'd be in bed by now. . . . Your voice sounds kind of muffled. . . . Oh, Katie, don't cry. . . . Of course it's not a problem. I wanted you to go to camp. I had money put back for that. Now, you get to sleep and don't worry about anything. Everything's fine here. . . . That's my girl. No more tears. Promise? . . . Good night, honey. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite.” She turned off the phone, looked at me. “They're camping out and she called me huddled inside her sleeping bag, sobbing because the camp costs so much and she knows I don't have the money and maybe she should just come home now and maybe they'd give us some money back.”

“Kids know when we're in trouble.”

“You got that right.” She looked bleak. “I'm panicked about money and now my kids are panicked.”

“So you need this job.”

“In spades. And I'm thirty-six. It isn't easy to get a job at my age, especially when you haven't worked for a long time. I was a reporter
on the
Gazette
, then I quit to stay home with the kids. My ex-husband walked out last year. I write mysteries but they only make enough money for a down payment on a car, like the Mazda he's now driving in Dallas, or to pick up three months of house payments. I haven't sold any books lately. The
Gazette
doesn't need me and the pay there is only okay if you're single. Now I'm a single mom without any savings. This great job opened up at Goddard and I applied. I'm qualified. Sort of. I don't have an advanced degree, just a BA, but I've been a reporter, had six books published. I can teach writing. Between us, you can't teach how to take an idea and turn it into a story that pulls in a reader like Poe's maelstrom.”

I nodded approvingly. One of my favorite short stories.

Deirdre managed a lopsided grin. “I can do what writing teachers do, talk about character and plot and development and transitions. The neat thing is, I'd be on the faculty and I love to talk about writing and I like kids and the pay's great and I'd have health insurance. But—”

I knew the answer. “Jay Knox makes the pick.”

“It's up to Jay. My fate's in the hands of a guy who wouldn't know work if he fell over it. All Jay's ever done is play and now he's playing at academia. I told you about his family. They're top-notch. Everybody likes and respects the Knoxes. He has a special in at Goddard because his grandfather was a wonderful dean. When they decided to emphasize a creative-writing curricula, Jay got the job. He has”—her tone was grudging—“had a couple of books published. Thrillers. But he got the job because he's a Knox. I've heard rumors about Jay. Happy hands with coeds, and willing ones get A's. A lot of people know he's a louse, but nobody wants to publicly accuse him. When I applied, he was a little too familiar but I thought I could handle
him. I thought he'd be careful about sexual harassment. The law is clear. No hanky-panky to make a secretary keep her job. Except when it happens. Some guys still figure you need the job too much to squawk or you're afraid nobody will believe you or you just don't want a hassle. Anyway, Jay made it pretty clear. I show up at cabin five tonight or he picks Harry.” She gave me a despairing look. “How can you possibly change his mind?”