Ghost to the Rescue (26 page)

I hesitated, then said lightly, “Abby is a lovely name for a daughter.” Then I moved fast, weaving my way across the terrace, plunging into the lobby. The little girl and her mother were gone, likely
finally checked into a room. It was almost eleven. I had only minutes to spare. Most of the attendees were now settled in the auditorium or meeting rooms. I found the anteroom to the ladies' restroom empty, and I disappeared.

The mayor's color choice was unfortunate. The bright red, tight-fitting suit added extra heft to her two-hundred-plus pounds. Her thick coronet braids were quite perfect and her makeup recently applied. Her expression oozed satisfaction. She stood with one hand on the dais in City Hall's largest conference room. Detective Howie Harris was at her elbow, carrying a stack of printed sheets. Today he sported a pink-and-yellow bow tie, white shirt, and tan trousers. Very dressy for Howie.

Newspaper photographers and TV video crews jockeyed for space near the platform. Print reporters sat on the front row with laptops open. Shaggy-haired Joan Crandall leaned against a near wall, a jaundiced gaze on the mayor. She clutched a sheaf of copy paper and a thick-leaded pencil.

The bell in the tower tolled eleven o'clock, Mayor Lumpkin took a deep breath, surveyed the room. “True to my vows to the voters of Ade—”

The hall door swung in. Sam Cobb stepped inside, held the door for Maureen Matthews, who still wore dark glasses, and Deirdre Davenport, who looked years younger than the night I arrived at Silver Lake Lodge. Deirdre gazed about with interest.

Sam boomed, “Sorry to be late, Your Honor. I have some good citizens here who helped solve the murders at Silver Lake Lodge. Goddard Professors Matthews and Davenport assisted the Adelaide
police in our investigation. We are also grateful for the outstanding work of Detective Sergeant Hal Price—”

Crisp and fresh, smiling, Hal came through the door.

“—and Detective Judy Weitz.” Judy followed, looking pleased. “We've been at the station, our good citizens helping us flesh out the case against the accused.”

As if marionettes on a string, the reporters, both TV and print, came to their feet, surged toward the door. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Video cameras were held high.

“Chief, who's the accused?”

“What's the charge?”

“Can you lay out some evidence?”

Sam was shepherding his charges toward the dais.

Mayor Lumpkin, her makeup now splotchy, watched grimly.

Sam genially waved Maureen, Deirdre, Hal, and Judy to the side of the platform, stumped up to join the mayor. He looked out at the press. “In case some of you have deadlines to meet, I'll lay out the facts first. Cliff Granger, a speaker at the conference and the literary agent for Jay Knox, has been arrested on charges of first-degree murder in the deaths of Jay Knox and Harry Toomey. We have proof that Knox was blackmailing Granger, which led Granger to kill Knox. Granger was observed at the crime scene by Harry Toomey. Instead of contacting police, Toomey attempted to blackmail Granger. Granger devised a trap for Toomey and killed him last night. Granger's attempt to implicate Professor Davenport failed because Professor Davenport's innocence had been confirmed by independent sources. Professor Davenport agreed to be publicly known as a suspect in order to facilitate our investigation. Professor Matthews made it possible for us to tape Granger as he made incriminating
statements. I know”—Sam turned to the mayor—“Mayor Lumpkin takes great pleasure in recognizing contributions to the safety of Adelaide and will join me in recommending that Professors Matthews and Davenport be awarded Adelaide's highest honor, the Order of the Righteous Citizen.”

Cameras flashed. Reporters surged forward.

I carried with me an indelible memory of the mayor's face, an interesting mélange of colors—red, pink, and purple. Howie Harris slunk toward the door. I wondered if he carried printouts of his bio, suitable for passing out if he had been named to replace Sam.

I was alert for the clack of wheels on rails, the puff of coal smoke, the mournful summons of the whistle. But not quite
yet.

D
eirdre burst into the hotel room. When I first saw her the night of my arrival, her frizzy brown hair was in need of a brush, her long face forlorn, sad, worried. Now her eyes were alight with joy, her face eager. She pulled her cell from her pocket, swiped. “Katie, everything's great. The police arrested the murderer, a man named Cliff Granger. You can tell everyone there that the police did a great job. And I was glad to help them. Maureen Matthews—you know, she's one of the professors in the English Department—she and I are being given awards for assisting the police. . . . Right. . . . And when you get home, I'll introduce you to some of my new friends. . . . His name's Hal and he's a detective sergeant and I've told him all about you and he's eager to meet you. . . . Two blue ribbons? Honey, that's swell. . . . Okay. . . . Love you, too.”

Smiling, I swirled into being beside her.

Deirdre gave me a thumbs-up, swiped the cell again. “Hey, Joey, I helped catch the murderer. . . . Very exciting. . . . Nope, it was another professor who actually trapped him, but we are both getting awards. . . . I should get there by late afternoon, and I think a friend may come with me. . . . His name's Hal. . . . You'll like him. . . . See you then. . . . Love you, too.” Deirdre wrapped her arms, whirled around the room to the window. “Hal said he'd come as soon as everything's all wrapped up. I'll make my speech and then he'll be here.”

I beamed at her. “Everything ends as it should.”

Deirdre's smile was incandescent, then it slipped away. Her long face softened. She stretched out her arms, hands open. “How can I thank you?”

“Why, I'll bet that now, with everything good again, you'll plunge into the new book.”

Deirdre said uncertainly, “Do you think so? Maybe if I have her go up to the attic instead of to the window . . .” Her voice trailed off.

I remembered long ago, my grandmother's old frame house on Third Street, following her up narrow steps to a landing and a small door. She'd bustled directly to a leather-bound trunk, lifted the lid . . .

Murmuring, I was at Deirdre's side.

Her eyes widened. “Oh. I like that.” She rushed across the room to the sofa, picked up her laptop, plopped down, lifted the lid. In a moment, face tight with concentration, she began to keyboard (as they say these days, though it was typing in my day and typing should be good enough for anybody!).

I came up behind her and looked over her shoulder.

Jane almost didn't go up into the attic, but Jane never ignored a duty. Jane might have been gorgeous—delicate features, dusky gray eyes, sleek black hair in a chignon—but her makeup was sparse, her gray cardigan slightly shapeless, her black slacks a little too large. Jane, in short, was kind, caring, honest, frumpy, tidy, serious, and seriously intense. She really wanted to go downstairs and fix a pot of tea and put the photos from the picnic in her scrapbook, not for the ephemeral album on her iPhone, but she'd promised Aunt Hortense she'd find her grandmother's lace tablecloth for the table with the punch bowl. Punch bowl . . .

Did she really want to marry Richard? He was suitable. That's what everyone said. Suitable. Jane sighed. She felt a quick pang, resolutely suppressed. She'd met Richard's old friend last night. His name was Clive. . . .

As she walked up the narrow steps, she had no idea that life would never be the same for her after she opened the old leather-bound trunk in search of the tablecloth. She knelt by the trunk, lifted the lid, saw a yellowed slender cardboard box. On the outside, it simply read:
June
.

June?

Jane opened the box. Yellowed tissue paper. For some reason, she gently lifted the tissue apart, and there was a beautiful baptismal gown, delicate white lace on the cuffs and the hem. She picked up a small card inscribed in spidery writing:
June's gown
.

Jane lifted out the lovely gown.

A shaft of light, rather like exploding sparklers on the Fourth of July, dazzled Jane. She blinked, came to her feet in alarm. Standing on the other side of the trunk was a lively image of herself, but so different . . . dark hair in a jagged, sleek cut, perfectly sculpted dark eyebrows like wings, eyes dancing with laughter, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“I thought you'd never come.”

The voice was Jane's own, but deeper, compelling. Oh, and the rich raspberry of a V-neck crepe dress and a necklace of silver and turquoise. Jane always wore brown or gray or black.

Jane scarcely breathed a faint, “Who are you?”

The vision placed her hands on her hips. “I'm June, your twin, and now I'm finally here. Oh, honey, are we going to have fun!”

Deirdre's fingers flew. A gurgle of laughter sounded as she paused, wrote again.

I smiled. “Have fun with Jane and June.”

Startled, Deirdre looked around. “You're leaving?”

I smiled at her. “I'm done. Hal will be here soon. Good-bye, Deirdre.” I disappeared.

The call was faint, receding. “Good-bye, good-bye. Thank you. . . .”

I clung to the railing on the caboose, watched the blue orb of Earth recede. The wheels clacked
going home, going home, going home
. The deep whoo of the whistle lifted my spirit.

Wiggins was suddenly there. He stood beside me, large hands placed on the railing, feet spread apart to maintain his balance as the Rescue Express sped upward.

I turned, looked up at his kind face, felt welcomed. Though perhaps he had come to hold me accountable for not following a Precept. Or two. Sigh. Or three.

He cleared his throat. “In the main, satisfactory. A few mishaps, but the results amaze me. And just in time. My, that was close.”

Silence.

Upward we climbed, the wind rushing past.

Another throat clearing. “I did have just one question.”

I braced. “Yes?”

“Jane. And June. How does their story end, Bailey Ruth?”

Jane? June? I pictured Deirdre hunched over her laptop, fingers racing. I hoped she remembered that Hal was coming. I beamed at Wiggins. “I have no idea. But I did see Deirdre's working title.”

He bent nearer.

“
Ghost to the
Rescue
.”

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