Ghost at Work (3 page)

And the shiny black tip of a shoe peeking from beneath the tarp.

Kathleen saw the shoe, wavered on her feet, moved in front of the body. “Bayroo, stop there.” Kathleen's voice was scratchy.

Bayroo. What a curious name.

A skinny red-haired girl, all arms and legs like a wobbly colt, balanced on one foot, throwing her arms wide. “Mom, you won't believe it.” She was a bundle of excitement, energy, and vibrant personality.

I felt an instant liking for her and an immediate sense of companionship. I was enchanted by her golden red curls and green eyes and the intelligent, questing look on her narrow face. She was eleven or possibly twelve, almost ready to slip into her teen years, angular now where she would soon be slender. And lovely.

Behind her, a plump girl with dark hair in braids, gold-rimmed glasses, and prominent braces echoed, “You won't believe it, Mrs. Abbott!” She bounced up and down in excitement.

Kathleen's daughter clapped her hands. “Mom, Travis Calhoun's here in town! We actually saw him at Wal-Mart and he's staying with his aunt Margaret. You know, Mrs. Calhoun up the street. I invited him to come to the Spook Bash Saturday and asked him if he'd judge the painted pumpkins and told him how great it would be for everyone who's worked so hard for the bash to raise money for the food pantry and, Mom”—it was an unashamed squeal—“he said he'd come. Isn't that great?”

“Great. Wonderful. Lucinda, why don't you stay for supper with Bayroo. The stew's ready. There are oatmeal cookies in the cookie jar.” Kathleen waved a shaking hand toward the kitchen.

“Mom.” Meals were for ordinary times. “Travis Calhoun! Besides, we're going over to Lucinda's for pizza. The committee's meeting and will they be excited when they hear about Travis!”

“Golly, they won't believe what happened!” Lucinda's voice rose in a squeal. “Bayroo is so brave. We would have missed him if she hadn't hidden and then she heard noises and got scared but—”

Bayroo reached out and clapped a hand over Lucinda's lips.

Kathleen kept glancing down at the tarp, then away. “That's wonderful, honey.” She gestured toward the screen door. “You'd better hurry over to Lucinda's if the committee's coming.”

Lucinda was staring toward me. She couldn't see me, of course. What could she possibly…Oh. I still held the gloves. I released my grip. The gloves floated gracefully toward the floor.

Lucinda tugged on the red-haired girl's arm. “Bayroo,” she hissed.

“Anyway, Mom, Lucinda and I are going over to her house—”

“Bayroo.” Lucinda's whisper was piercing. “Where did those gloves come from? They were like, up here.” She held a hand to her chest. “Now they're down there. How were they up in the air all by themselves?” She pointed at the gloves just as they reached the floor.

Bayroo turned toward me. Our eyes met. She smiled, a quick, engaging, hello-we-haven't-met, I'd-like-to-be-friends smile.

Oh dear. Bayroo saw me. I couldn't explain it. Sometimes the young have eyes to see what no one else sees. Bayroo saw me. Lucinda did not.

Bayroo asked quickly, “Mom, who's—”

I held a finger to my lips, shook my head, then smiled and turned my hands as if I were shooing chickens.

Bayroo's lips parted in surprise, then she grinned and gave me a tiny conspiratorial nod. She removed Lucinda's arm. “Oh, those gloves.” Her tone dismissed levitating gloves as unworthy of notice. “It happens sometimes when the fan's turned on.” She gestured toward the ceiling fan.

Lucinda looked up at the still blades, her face serious and thoughtful. “The fan isn't turned on.”

‘Well, I guess it was. C'mon, Lucinda. We've got to hurry. We can tell everyone about Travis. Mom, I'll do my homework later.” With that, the girls turned toward the back door, Bayroo in the lead.

Lucinda's head swung back for a last puzzled glance at the ceiling fan and her left foot caught the tip of the dead man's shoe. She staggered forward. “Whoops.”

Bayroo held the screen door open. “Don't kick the dummy. He's going to sit on top of the magic maze at the Spook Bash. C'mon, Lucinda, let's hurry. They're not going to believe…”

As their voices faded, lost in the soughing of the branches and the keening of the wind, Kathleen reached out to cling to the counter. “What am I going to do?”

“Buck up.” I was getting exasperated, although I did understand how draining the girls' arrival had been. Even I had felt an icy qualm when Lucinda stumbled over the tip of the dead man's shoe.

Kathleen jumped. “Please. Don't talk.”

I didn't bother to answer, merely scooped up the gloves and thrust them toward her.

Kathleen shuddered, but pulled them on.

“All right. I'm here.” I tugged at his shoulder. “You take his ankles.”

As her face stretched in a gargoyle grimace, Kathleen gingerly grabbed the dead man's ankles with her gloved hands, shuddered again, and pulled.

“One, two, three.”

Daryl Murdoch slid onto the tarp. In the sharp light from the overhead bulb, I could see there was no muss on the wooden flooring. Decidedly, he had met his fate elsewhere. Perhaps when we knew that, we would know who shot him.

The thought bobbed in my mind and I realized I was concerned about justice. I felt no scruples about removing the murdered man from the rectory's back porch. After all, someone had brought him there with no good intentions. Other thoughts bobbed. What connection did Kathleen have with the dead man? Why had the murderer assumed Kathleen would be implicated if Daryl Murdoch were found here? There was much I needed to know to complete my mission. I hoped I was off to a good start. If I did well, I wouldn't be on probation. I would be officially attached to the Department of Good Intentions. Perhaps I'd be awarded a ribbon or badge.

As we passed the switch near the door to the kitchen, Kathleen turned off the overhead light.

“Hustle.” I tugged on the tarp.

Kathleen again gave that odd little moan from deep in her throat, but she hurried forward.

As we maneuvered the tarp across the porch floor toward the ramp, Kathleen muttered, “It's shock. That's all. I'm in shock. That's why I'm strong enough to move him. Adrenaline. Memory lapses. I'm doing things and I don't remember them. That's what's happening.” She looked almost cheerful as the tarp slid down the ramp. Then she saw the wheelbarrow. “How did I get it out of the shed? The shed's locked. Maybe it was unlocked. That's it. I just don't remember…”

Poor dear. She would have to come to grips with reality—me—sooner or later. Later would suffice. I concentrated on easing our burden from the ramp into the wheelbarrow. Daryl's feet dangled over the back.

Kathleen, looking squeamish, pulled a corner of the tarp down to cover his shoes.

I was glad to see she was thinking ahead. “Good job.”

“In case we see—” She stopped, shook her head, grabbed the handles. “I have to stop talking to myself,” she muttered. “I am not carrying on a conversation with anyone. I am not.”

She stopped after a few feet, struggling to catch her breath. “I never knew a wheelbarrow was so heavy.”

I doubted she'd ever moved one before. Especially not a wheelbarrow laden with a body. I slipped in front of Kathleen and placed my hands in front of hers. Fortunately, I didn't have to worry about muscle strain. The wheelbarrow moved with noticeably more speed, though still lurching and squealing. The flagstone path ended.

It was harder going through the grass. Kathleen breathed in quick gasps. We reached the edge of the rectory yard and stood in the shadow of a pine. The always-present, ever-vigorous Oklahoma wind whipped the branches, buffeted us.

Even with my warm wool jacket, I was cold. I was exhilarated. In Heaven you choose your surroundings, the ultimate in climate control. Bobby Mac and I love the seashore. Other climes are also available. Amundsen, for example, spends most of his time on an
ice cap. Sarah Bernhardt exults on a stage with the velvet curtains parting. To each his own. Yet now I was in the world and must cope with weather.

I wasn't surprised at the bite of the wind, the plummeting temperature. Halloween in Oklahoma was often synonymous with the arrival of a blue norther. It may have been seventy-five degrees earlier in the day, but if Halloween was imminent, so was cold weather. Weather in Oklahoma is an adventure, in the twenties one day, nudging seventy the next.

I wished we'd thought to bring a flashlight. We wheeled onto the graveled path, which added a crackling sound to the screech of the wheel. The path curved around a stand of pines. Ahead were blazing lights. I admired the brightly lit paved parking lot behind the church. My goodness, that was a change. A half-dozen cars were parked near the side entrance.

Kathleen stopped. To reach the west gate to the cemetery required crossing the far end of the lot. The wheelbarrow and, of course, Kathleen would be in full view of anyone leaving the church or looking out of the parish hall.

Despite the circumstances, I took pleasure in a swift survey of my beloved St. Mildred's, a graceful church built of limestone. A latticed wall and limestone arches enclosed a cloister between the church and the L-shaped wing with the Sunday school rooms and church offices. The parish hall was between the church and the wing.

Kathleen crouched.

I divined her intent just in time and pushed down the handles of the barrow as she was pulling up, preparatory to dumping our burden.

I was firm. “We can't leave him here.”

She jumped back from the barrow, pointed at the starkly illuminated parking lot. “Don't you see?” She shuddered. “Of course you don't see. You aren't here.”

I stamped my foot.

She looked down at the stick that crunched.

“Quickly, Kathleen.” He who hesitates…

She pushed back a lock of dark hair, looked fearfully toward the church. “If anyone looks out, they'll see us. Me.”

“We'll run.” It was a straight shot.

She dropped her hands from the shafts. “He can stay here.” Her sigh of relief rivaled the whoosh of the wind in the pines. She turned to go.

I grabbed her arm, hung on, rocked back on my heels for leverage. “Don't be silly. The barrow might be traced back to the rectory. Look, we're really close. You take one shaft, I'll take the other and run like…” I remembered to be of the world, not in the world. After all, one doesn't want to trifle with Hell. “…fast.” I firmly fastened her hands on the right shaft. “Go.”

We pelted across the blacktop, the barrow rocking from side to side, wheel rasping, Daryl's shoes thumping. I'm sure it seemed a lifetime to Kathleen, but in only a few seconds we plunged through the open gate into the cemetery, leaving behind the light. The gently rolling, heavily treed cemetery was dark as a root cellar.

Kathleen stumbled to a stop. “I can't see a thing.”

I have excellent night vision and saw that the graveled path picked up again. “Straight ahead, then veer around the clump of willows.” I gave Kathleen an encouraging pat, ignored her recoil. “We'll leave him near the Pritchard mausoleum.” It was a showpiece of the cemetery, white marble with Corinthian columns. The marble tombs within were crowned with a sculpture of a greyhound on Maurice's tomb and an Abyssinian cat on Hannah's. He loved dog races and she loved cats and they were rich enough to indulge their whims.

Locals who visit the cemetery make it a point to swing by the mausoleum and stop to pat the greyhound's head and stroke the cat's
whiskers for luck. The custom assured that Mr. Murdoch's remains would be found tomorrow. He was due that courtesy, not that cold wind and darkness were a trouble to him now.

The barrow wheel continued its grating screech. We came around the curve, brushed by the dangling tendrils of a weeping willow. The Pritchard mausoleum stood only feet away on a small rise. There was a clinking sound. A darting beam of a light danced within the mausoleum.

T
he wheelbarrow squealed as Kathleen jolted to a stop.

“What's that screeching noise?” A young voice quavered.

“Buzzy, somebody's out there.”

“Haven't you ever heard an owl?” Buzzy's equally youthful, but more forceful voice dripped disdain. “That's why they're called screech owls.”

“Yeah. Well, I don't like it here.” The words came in uneven spurts, likely a product of struggling breaths. “This is a lousy idea. Everybody around is dead. Let's get out of here.”

I wafted inside the mausoleum.

A tall skinny boy pulled at the crowbar jammed beneath the edge of the greyhound's pedestal. “What's the matter, Marvin. You scared?” Plaster crackled, drifted down toward the floor.

Marvin held the flashlight trained on Maurice's tomb. “Who, me? No way. But this is a stupid bet, and if anybody finds us we'll end up in jail and Mom will yank my car keys for the rest of my life. Anyway, that dog's probably too heavy to move even if we get him free.”

I flew into action. I don't know how many times I'd brought flowers to graves and I always stopped at the Pritchard mausoleum to smooth
the dog's head and run my fingers over the cat's whiskers. I was furious. Halloween fun was one thing, say draping the statues with plastic leis, even a touch of washable paint. But defacing a tomb…

I grabbed the crowbar away from Buzzy and flung it out into the darkness, where it clattered down the steps.

Buzzy stared at his empty hands. “How'd you do that, Marvin?”

Marvin, eyes wide as saucers, tried to speak, couldn't.

Outside, the wheelbarrow screeched. Where was Kathleen going?

Marvin's head jerked, seeking the source of the shrill whine. “Something's out there. And something weird's going on in here.” He began to edge toward the exit.

“That wasn't funny, Marvin.” Buzzy's straight dark brows drew down in a frown. “Go get the crowbar. I can't get the dog loose without it.”

I marched over to Marvin, yanked the flashlight from his hand, twirled it in a circle. Light swung disco-quick around the walls of the mausoleum.

Marvin yelped, flung himself toward the entrance. Buzzy outran him.

I followed, sweeping the flashlight high and low. That turned out to be a mistake. I intended to scare them sufficiently to discourage a return, but the light swept over Daryl Murdoch lying on his back a few feet from the steps into the mausoleum.

Marvin flailed his hands in panic, then broke into a lumbering run, trying to catch up with Buzzy.

I turned off the flashlight and it was dark.

Excited shouts, the thud of running feet, and grunts marked the teenagers' progress as they careened around headstones. When silence once again cloaked the cemetery, I turned on the light.

“Kathleen?” I called softly. No answer. I'd not expected one. That high rasp of the wheelbarrow when I was inside the mausoleum must have signaled her departure.

Murdoch was lying on his back near the first step. The tarp was gone as well as the wheelbarrow. I hoped Kathleen shook the tarp well and put it in its customary place and returned the wheelbarrow to the shed. Perhaps I'd better check with her before I departed, though I doubted she would be pleased to see me. Or not see me.

Now I felt a need to make amends to Daryl Murdoch. I placed the flashlight on the top step. The beam illuminated him and perhaps five feet or so beyond. I folded his hands on his chest and straightened his legs. He looked quite peaceful, though I wondered how pleasant his face had been in life. But I mustn't make assumptions just because Kathleen didn't like him. There was a lovely bouquet of artificial chrysanthemums in a nearby vase. I selected a bright yellow bloom and placed it in his hands, then said a prayer to speed him on his way and for his family's comfort.

Sirens wailed in the distance. I lifted my head, listened. At least two sirens rose and fell. The wail increased in volume. I smiled. The boys were good citizens despite their Halloween prank. I must move quickly.

I dropped to one knee beside the body. The ground was cold. I shivered as the frosty wind whistled around me. I was reaching for his wallet when a ding-dong bell sounded very near. I stared at the body. The sound, which reminded me of long-ago cartoon music, emanated from his jacket pocket. How odd.

I reached in the pocket and brought out a small hard plastic oblong not much larger than a fancy compact. The musical tones sounded three more times, then cut off. How curious. I shrugged, replaced the object, and focused on my task. Once I had the wallet out of his pocket, I flipped through it. His driver's license gave his address as 1906 Laurel Lane, not an address I knew.

The sirens were loud enough now to wake the dead. The quip was irresistible. Red lights flashed. One police car, then a second jolted to a stop on the paved road about fifty yards south of the mausoleum. Car doors opened, interior lights flashing.

A woman's voice shouted, “Police. Don't move. Put your hands up. Police.” A low murmur ensued and two dark shapes moved cautiously toward the mausoleum, flashlights sweeping back and forth.

I replaced the wallet. As I stood, one of the lights swept near me and I saw the track of the wheelbarrow in soft dirt near the path. Heavens, I should have checked the area first. Now there was no time to lose or the police might track the wheelbarrow back to the rectory. I scooped up Marvin's flashlight. I had no choice but to turn it on.

The police officers both called out. “Halt, there. Police.”

I swooped to a nearby grave, plucked a large evergreen wreath from the marker, returned to that revealing trail. I took a good look, turned off the light. One of the perks of being a ghost was the ability to propel myself high, low, or in between. I moved a few inches above the ground—picture a glider—pulling the bristly wreath over the track of the barrow.

A stunningly brilliant light swept toward me, illuminating the wreath and the flashlight I'd borrowed from Marvin. Both were several inches above the ground. I came to my feet, the flashlight and wreath rising, too, and flung them into the darkness.

In the stark light from her huge flashlight, a slender young woman stared in disbelief as the flashlight spun out of sight behind a clump of shrubbery. The wreath plopped into a puddle. “Jake, did you see that?” Her pleasant contralto voice was matter-of-fact, but her blue eyes were startled.

A stocky young man growled, “Who's the joker? You kids better—Oh hey, Anita, look. By God, that call was for real.” He, too, held an oversize flashlight and his bright beam centered on the body. “Hey, that looks like Daryl Murdoch.”

Her light joined his. “He looks dead.” Her voice sounded strange. “We've got to get the EMT. Call the dispatcher. I'll check for a pulse.” She crossed to Murdoch, taking care to walk on the paved area in
front of the mausoleum. She knelt, turned that blazing light down, and lifted Daryl's wrist.

Jake held a small plastic oblong to his face, spoke fast. “Car Seven. Officer Harmon. Suspected murder victim, St. Mildred's cemetery. Send ambulance and fire truck. Notify the M.E. Contact the chief and Detective Sergeant Price.” As he spoke, brown eyes darted in every direction.

“No pulse.” Anita rose, reached for her gun. “Somebody was here. We'd better check around.”

“Wait a minute. You get a look at the perp?” Jake stared at the wreath in the puddle.

“No.” She shook her head. The wind stirred her short honeycomb-blond hair. “Did you?”

Jake peered at the tombstones, his bony face wary, eyes searching. “I don't see how they got away without making a sound, especially without any light. They must be hunkered down, crouching behind something.” He reached for his gun.

She glanced at the tombstones, some large, some weathered and crumbling. Everything beyond the radius of the flashlights lay in dense darkness. “Listen up, Jake. No shooting unless somebody shoots at us. I know we got a body, but that call came from a kid. He said they'd found a dead man, not killed somebody. The corpse felt cool. He's been dead for a while. I don't think it was the perp we almost caught.”

I thought her declaration a trifle extravagant. I definitely had not almost been caught.

“Call dispatch back. Better let them know we think the victim is Daryl Murdoch.” She stood and once again swung the light in a slow careful circle. Light streaked over graves and stones, probing the shadows beneath towering sycamores.

Jake held a plastic oblong similar to the one I'd found in Mur
doch's pocket, spoke into it. I wafted to him and peered over his shoulder, close enough to smell a piney aftershave scent.

“Dispatch.” Jake tried to sound cool, but excitement lifted his voice. “The DOA in the cemetery next to St. Mildred's looks like Daryl Murdoch, the businessman. Somebody got away just as we arrived. We're looking around.”

I scooted in front of him. He was talking—somehow—into that object. Curiosity overcame caution. I reached out, seized the shining metal object so similar in size to a compact though oblong, not circular. I stared at the hinged lid, which contained a small screen and a lower surface with numbers on it, then held it up to my ear as Jake had done.

I heard a brisk voice. “Chief says to secure the scene. He and Detective Sergeant Price and the crime lab are en route.”

I realized I held a small radio of some kind. How amazing!

Jake's young face creased in astonishment. He stared at the now silent object hovering a half foot from him.

I placed the object in his hand.

He jumped as though it radiated static electricity, then once again held it to his ear. “Damn.” He punched one of the numbers. “Yeah, dispatch. We got cut off.” His breathing was rapid. “Sure. I'm right here. We won't touch a thing.” He clicked a button, then swung his flashlight in a circle. “Anita?”

Leaves crackled. She came from behind the mausoleum. “Nada. Have you looked that way?” She speared a beam of light behind him.

Jake turned. “Just got off the horn. I'll look around.”

As she waited, she swept her light back and forth near the mausoleum.

In a moment Jake returned. “I don't see anything out there. We need more light to check everything. Anyway, the chief's on his way.” He glanced at the metal object he still held in one hand. “Hey, Anita. Funny thing about my phone…”

Phone! I had expected changes from my day to now, but I never thought I would see a phone without wires that worked in the middle of a cemetery. Why, Bobby Mac would have been in hog heaven out on one of his drilling rigs with a phone.

“Phone?” She stared down at the dead man, her attractive face pulled into a puzzled frown.

“Yeah. It kind of got away from me.” His tone was bewildered. “And it hung in the air like for a minute.”

She turned toward him and I knew she was recalling the wreath and flashlight that I heaved away. She opened her mouth, closed it.

He hunched his shoulders. “Kind of strange.”

“Yeah.” Her tone was thoughtful. “Kind of.”

He shivered. “Spooky place for a guy to get killed. What do you suppose he was doing here?”

Anita scanned the ground. “Don't know. I guess the chief'll find out.”

Jake looked nervously toward the mausoleum, spoke loudly. “Bet there's a hell of a story behind it. Isn't he the guy you liked to hassle?”

Anita folded her arms. “I enforce traffic laws. So far as I'm concerned, that isn't hassling. Murdoch thought the rules didn't apply to him. He drove like he was special. I tried to teach him he wasn't special.” Her young face was stern. She stared down at the body without a glimmer of pity.

Jake's bark of laughter sounded odd in the cemetery. “So you gave him enough tickets to—” Sirens sounded. “Here they come.” His relief was obvious.

Anita turned toward the road, walked swiftly toward a tall man in a brown suit. He swung a huge flashlight from side to side.

I was tempted to remain. I'd never seen the beginning of a crime investigation, but I knew there wasn't much to be learned here. I hoped relocating the body didn't pose a special problem for the
authorities. Still, the detectives might as well start from this false location as from the equally false location on the back porch of the rectory.

I wondered if my task was done. If so, it had been a rather short adventure. I hastily recast my thoughts. I was not adventuring, definitely not. A rather short mission was a much more appropriate description.

If I would soon be boarding the Rescue Express for my return to Heaven, there were two stops I couldn't resist making.

 

Broad windows on either
side of a huge limestone fireplace overlooked a patio bordered by Bradford pears. Dancing flames crackled in the fireplace. Comfortable sofas and easy chairs, a game table, two walls of bookshelves, and shining pegged wooden planks created a warm and lovely room.

However, I was startled when I saw the woman sitting near the fire. For an instant I felt confused. I was here, so how could I be there? She was speaking into one of those curious telephones. Even her voice seemed like mine “…be glad to help with the chili supper except Mike and I will be out of town that weekend…”

Of course. Dil and Mike. I remembered their wedding as if it were only yesterday. She was always young in my memory and now as she talked and laughed, occasionally smoothing back a golden red curl, I realized she was on the sassy side of forty-five. I hoped she hadn't minded becoming so much like her mother.

I wafted near, bent, touched my lips to her hair.

Dil broke off. In a moment she spoke again. “Sorry, Ellen, I missed what you said. Oh, do I sound odd? No, nothing's wrong. I had the strangest feeling my mom was here. No.” Her eyes moved to a picture of me and Bobby Mac on the
Serendipity
. “No, she died a long time ago. You would have liked her…”