Merry, Merry Ghost (24 page)

We go back a long way.”

“I wish I could have been more help. If I’d had any idea when I stopped that car that something funny was going on, I’d have for sure tried to do something. It makes me sick to think that maybe if I’d kept following the car, I could have made a difference.” His face creased in a puzzled frown.

Keith sucked noisily on his cherry limeade.

I took a last bite of my hamburger, circumspectly opened my accommodating purse, and retrieved the ten. If I quietly caught the waitress’s eye and received my check, I could slip away without notice, no harm done.

Johnny clearly had eyes for no one but Peg.

As the waitress neared, I quietly said, “Miss?”

She stopped. “Apple pie today?”

Lulu always melted a strip of cheddar on the flaky crust. I was tempted, but I didn’t want to push my luck.

“No thanks. I’m ready for my check.”

She lifted the pad from her pocket. “You three together?”

I shook my head quickly. Fortunately, Johnny still talked. “…and the funny thing is, the car was headed out to the highway. I didn’t see it come back until it came over Persimmon Hill like a bat out of hell. When it stopped, there was just the redheaded woman in the car.”

The waitress slapped my check on the counter. “You got gorgeous red hair. I wish my hair was as red as yours. But yours is natural. You can always tell.” She nodded sagely.

As if on a cue, Peg and Johnny turned toward me. Peg’s gaze sharpened. Johnny’s eyes widened. His mouth opened.

I put the ten-dollar bill on the check, twirled on the stool to step down to the old wooden floor. “Thank you.”

I turned away, heading straight for the door that led to a small hallway and the restrooms.

Johnny Cain called after me. “Miss, please, wait a minute. Miss…” He started after me.

I opened the door, stepped into the hallway, swiftly shut the door behind me, and disappeared.

The door swung in. Johnny stepped into the narrow corridor. At the far end was a door marked
Exit
. A sign warned
Alarm Sounds When Door Opened
. To the left was an unmarked closed door. Both restrooms were to his right. He should have arrived before I reached the women’s restroom. Instead, the hall was empty. He shook his head, approached the restrooms. Hesitantly, he knocked on the door marked
Ladies
.

“Almost out.” The voice was harried.

Johnny stepped back a few paces. He pulled a cell from his pocket, punched a number. “Detective Price.

Johnny Cain…Sir, I’ve sighted the redhead who was in the car with Susan Flynn. She’s in the ladies’ room at Lulu’s…I’m in the hallway…Right. Yes, sir.”

“Reprehensible.” Wiggins’s roar startled both Johnny and me.

Johnny looked toward the men’s room.

“Shh.”

Johnny’s head jerked up, seeking the source of the sibilant sound.

“Precept One.” It was a piercing stage whisper.

I was astonished the hallway didn’t wobble from the force of Wiggins’s displeasure. He was too upset to remember his own rules.

Johnny turned the knob to the men’s room. The door swung in. It was unoccupied.

The door to the women’s restroom opened. A harried young mother shepherded out twin toddlers, scuffling with each other. “Stop it, Derek. Quit that, Dan.” She gripped their hands, looked around. “So she was in such a hurry she didn’t even wait.”

Johnny leapt toward the end of the hallway, shoved open the exit. A shrill bell clanged.

Wiggins’s growled “To the roof” was audible only to me.

Clumps of snow from a recent storm looked dingy against the black-tarred roof. I settled on a parapet in the sun with a nice view of the street as a police cruiser squealed to a stop, red light whirling, siren wailing. A similar wail sounded from the alley, joining the continuing clamor from Lulu’s exit alarm.

Shivering, I wished for my white cashmere jacket. I felt its warm embrace. I was tempted to pop back into Lulu’s and see whether the coat had disappeared. Perhaps Wiggins could enlighten me as to the properties of imagined articles. However, this might not be a propitious moment for such a discussion.

“Bailey Ruth.” The voice came from across the roof near a turbine vent. Wiggins sounded cross.

“Come sit in the sun, Wiggins,” I called out with cheer as if we were old friends pausing for a moment to enjoy a sparkling winter day. “I’m sitting on the parapet overlooking the street.” I bent, picked up a vagrant red maple leaf, still lovely though brittle, and placed it atop the wide brick railing.

In a moment, a heavy sigh sounded beside me.

I offered the maple leaf. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

His hand brushed mine as he took the leaf. “Quite a brilliant red. Just”—he wasn’t being complimentary

—“like your hair.”

“How is everything in Tumbulgum?” As Mother told me long ago, it’s only good manners to discuss matters of interest to everyone.

“Almost”—his tone was as cold as the patches of crusted snow—“as difficult as in Adelaide.”

“Where is Tumbulgum?” I truly did want to know.

“Lovely place. In New South Wales in Australia. On the Tweed River, near the junction of the Tweed and the…Actually, the location of Tumbulgum isn’t relevant. You do realize that your latest appearance will cause the police to focus attention on the appearances and”—great emphasis—“
disappearances
of a redheaded woman. If there is anything to be avoided, anything worse than violating Precepts One through Six, it is the prospect of creating a perception of…”

I waited. The term
ghost
was anathema to Wiggins, though I saw no reason to pretend that a potato wasn’t a tuber.

“…otherworldliness.” The admission was grudging. “I see no way”—his voice dropped in discouragement

—“to effectively combat the beginnings of what may turn out to be a legend in Adelaide.”

“Wiggins”—I was firm—“I will see that this doesn’t happen.” Whether they realize it or not, men appreciate firmness. When a woman takes charge—graciously, of course—it offers emancipation.

“Is there something you can do?” He sounded like a man desperate to cling to a glimmer of hope.

Short of transporting Johnny Cain, Peg Flynn, the church secretary, and the always suspicious Chief Cobb and Detective Sergeant Price to a remote desert island, I rather doubted I could wipe away the collective memory of a redhead they sometimes saw and sometimes didn’t. However, I am always willing to give my best effort.

“Wiggins, of course.” I spoke with utter confidence. “I’ll keep on top of things. You hurry right back to Tumbulgum. Everything will be fine here. I’m off to see about it.”

The sirens no longer shrilled. The alarm was silent. In the street, Detective Sergeant Price stood beside a police cruiser. He gestured to the north. Peg nodded.

“Be of good cheer, Wiggins. ‘Waltzing Matilda,’ and all that.” Too late, I clapped my hand to my lips.

Possibly that wasn’t the most tactful song to mention since the refrain is sung by the ghost of the swagman who haunts the billabong. Once again, I’d spoken before I thought. I didn’t wait for a reply and zoomed down to join Peg and Keith.

Faintly, I heard Wiggins’s plaintive cry. “Do your best. Try to remember the Precepts. Work in the background without attracting notice…”

Wiggins could count on me.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

C
hief Cobb’s moderate-sized office seemed crowded. Peg and Johnny sat at the circular table near the wall with the old-fashioned blackboard. A gawky woman with spiky violet hair and metallic gray eyes frowned in concentration at the sketch pad on the table. Her hand, the fingers long and graceful, moved with quick surety. Detective Sergeant Price stood behind her chair, his eyes thoughtful.

As red curls and a thin freckled face came clearer on the sketch pad, Chief Cobb watched with the curious expression of a man who doesn’t trust what he sees.

Behind the chief’s desk, Keith made whooshing noises as he pushed the swivel chair around and around.

A burly police officer with a Saint Bernard face opened the hall door. “Mrs. Norton is here. From St.

Mildred’s.”

The church secretary bustled inside, her bony face eager. She pulled off a scarf, tucked it in the pocket of her red lamb’s wool coat, handed the coat grandly to Detective Sergeant Price. Her green wool dress was as shapeless as a gunny sack. “Have you caught that woman? She was certainly up to no good.”

I found her vindictive attitude hard to fathom. Did she dislike redheads on principle? I wouldn’t stoop to suggesting possible jealousy on the part of a faded brunette with sprigs of gray. After all, the hijacking of a church directory surely didn’t qualify as high crime. I would have pegged it a misdemeanor.

Chief Cobb took the coat and added it to the several on the coat tree. “The artist will appreciate any help you can offer.”

I looked over the artist’s shoulder. Hmm. My cheekbones were perhaps a little more prominent.

Detective Sergeant Price shook his head. “She’s a lot better-looking than that if she’s who I think she is. Kind of a haunting beauty. Her face is thinner—”

The artist erased, reformed my cheekbones.

“—and the chin is delicate. Freckles across her nose.” For an instant, he might not have been in the winter-stuffy room. His eyes had a faraway look. “I like freckles.”

Johnny hunched forward. “Green eyes like a cat’s, really bright.”

Peg squinted in remembrance. “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I was upset.” She didn’t look toward Johnny. “She had a great smile, one of those I’ve-just-met-you-but-I-already-like-you-and-let’s-befriends smiles.”

The secretary’s nose wriggled. “Really curly bright red hair. You know, the vixen-vamp kind of hair.

Probably out of a bottle.”

I glared at her lank graying hair and snapped, “Women with boring hair always resent natural redheads.” Oh.

And oh. Once again I’d spoken aloud when I shouldn’t. I hoped Wiggins was safely in Tumbulgum.

The secretary’s head jerked toward Peg. “I beg your pardon.”

Peg clutched Johnny’s arm. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Someone did. A woman.” The church secretary glared at Peg.

Chief Cobb, Detective Sergeant Price, and Officer Cain had uncannily similar expressions of uneasiness. As if in concert, their eyes moved around the room.

Chief Cobb cleared his throat. “Mrs. Norton, the voice wasn’t at all similar to Miss Flynn’s voice. Much huskier. Forceful.”

Certainly I have always spoken with vigor. I hadn’t taught English and chaired meetings to sound meek. For an instant, I felt I heard a ghostly echo of boisterous laughter, Bobby Mac guffawing at the idea of a meek me. As he often told our kids, “You’ll get the best of your mother when elephants tap-dance.” Actually, there’s a traveling troupe of pachyderms I caught on their last Milky Way show who did a fine shuffle hop step.

“I heard what I heard.” The church secretary’s voice was icy.

“We more than likely had an errant transmission in here.” Chief Cobb waved a hand toward his computer.

“Sometimes we get communications that we aren’t expecting. Whatever we heard, the comment had no connection to you. We appreciate your contribution as a concerned citizen. Should the redheaded woman return to St. Mildred’s, please call us.” He retrieved the red wool coat, held it out for her. “Sergeant Mersky will take you back to the church.”

As the door closed behind Mrs. Norton, Detective Sergeant Price said firmly, “I think I know who she is. Not a chance that red was out of a bottle. Her hair glistens like copper in the summer sun.”

Who would have thought a homicide detective would be so poetic?

I sent a little telepathic message to Bobby Mac:
He’s adorable, but you are my man. Not to worry
. Bobby Mac always had an eye for good-looking women and understood when I admired a manly male. But we always danced the last dance together.

Cobb glanced at Price, his gaze speculative. “Right.” He turned to the artist. “Okay, Tammie, print up some copies for us.”

The artist made a change, smudged charcoal, added a stronger line to the jaw.

I nodded in approval. A very nice likeness indeed. However, my pleasure ebbed, it wouldn’t be helpful to have this image broadcast.

The artist returned the pastel pencils to their box and slipped the sketch pad and box into a portfolio. “Major crook?” Her voice was startlingly deep.

Cobb cleared his throat. “She may have information that would be useful in an investigation.”

The artist stood almost six feet tall. Although she was careless with makeup—too much eyeliner and an orange lip gloss that bordered on strange—I admired her silvery gray silk charmeuse cap-sleeve blouse and an ankle-length bias-cut jacquard skirt with swirls of raspberry, silver, and indigo and open silver sandals. I supposed she didn’t mind cold toes.

She walked to the door, then turned. For an instant, her posture froze. She looked at me.

I looked back at her.

Our eyes met.

Uh-oh.

Some children see what isn’t there. Rarely is that true of adults.

The artist slouched against the lintel. “Is she on the side of the angels?”

Detective Sergeant Price’s generous mouth twisted in an odd, lopsided grin. “I think so. I definitely think so.”

Tammie waggled her portfolio. “Who knows? She may be closer than you think.” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “I have a feeling she’ll be in touch.”

I nodded vigorously.

Her eyes, also silvery gray, watched me. “I’ll get the copies out as soon as possible.”

I shook my head with equal vigor.

“Of course”—her tone was casual—“we’ve been having some problems with the program. Sometimes when I try to make the transfer to digital, everything gets screwed up.” As she turned away, she gave me a decisive, amused wink.

The door closed behind her, and I started to breathe again.

Peg glanced at her watch. “Chief Cobb, I’d lost track of the time.” Her tone was anxious. “I’m due at Susan’s lawyer’s office at two and I need to take Keith home.”

Chief Cobb held up his hand. “If you can spare just a minute more, Miss Flynn.” He was genial, but his eyes were intent. “How did you happen to have lunch with the woman Officer Cain identifies as the driver of the car the night your aunt died?”