Crimes by Moonlight

Riding High by Carolyn Hart

I hovered above my beloved hometown of Adelaide, Oklahoma, enjoying a late summer evening and the sparkle of lights on the terrace of the country club. Women in summer frocks and men in dressy sportswear mingled at a party. I wished I could plunge down and have a glass of wine and some Brie and crackers, and chat up that good-looking young man illustrating his golf swing.

Hovering? It’s easy for me. No, I don’t have a personalized jet pack. The reality is both less and more startling.

I’m Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, a green-eyed, freckle-faced redhead, who loves laughter, good times, gorgeous clothes, and adventure.

You did note the modifying late? In short, I am a ghost.

Shh. That’s just between us. My supervisor at the Department of Good Intentions refuses to describe those temporarily on Earth as ghosts. Wiggins is vehement that we are Heavenly agents assisting those in trouble. In his view, ghosts have quite a shady reputation on Earth. You know, clanking chains, pulsating protoplasm, dank drafts even when all the windows are closed.

Ghost or emissary, I loved coming back to Earth to be of help. I should perhaps be frank-I’m known for frankness, too-and admit I’d had a few challenges attempting to become one of Wiggins’s regulars. Wiggins is a dear fellow but set in his ways. On Earth, he’d been a stationmaster. Since his idea of Heaven was a well-run train station, the Department of Good Intentions resided in just such a station, and emissaries were dispatched to earth on the glorious coal-burning Rescue Express, charged with providing a helping hand but-great emphasis here-circumspectly. Wiggins impressed upon all emissaries the necessity of observing the Department’s Precepts for Earthly Visitation:

1. Avoid public notice.

2. No consorting with other departed spirits.

3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.

4. Become visible only when absolutely essential.

5. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.

6. Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.

7. Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, “Time will tell.”

8. Remember always that you are on the Earth, not of the Earth.

I suppose that all seems simple to you. Certainly the strictures are straightforward. I cannot say emphatically enough how great an effort I have always made to observe these rules.

However, I am chagrined to reveal that on previous earthly visits I careened from one contravention of the Precepts to another.

Not this time.

I would put that in capital letters (NOT THIS TIME!) except I don’t want to appear proud. Pride is not becoming to a Heavenly emissary. Boasting would indicate that I was too much of the Earth. Please don’t take umbrage. We all know that earthly creatures exhibit pride, greed, avarice, anger, and all manner of unworthy behavior.

So, of course, I am not proud.

I FOLLOWED THE RULES THIS TIME.

Oh. Quickly. Make that lower case.

However, I feel I am entitled to admit to pleasure. This time I didn’t break a single Precept. Not one. I came to Earth, assisted my charge, and was now awaiting the arrival of the Rescue Express for my return to Heaven. Admittedly, my path had been smoothed by Ogden, a rail-thin seventeen-year-old with a shock of black hair, thick glasses, and an affinity for electronic gadgets. We’d saved his father from a false accusation of embezzlement, and I hadn’t had to appear once. Ogden, with assistance from me, had traced the peculations to a squinty-eyed accountant with a penchant for ponies. Of course, Ogden was unaware of my participation. His electronic sophistication made it easy to use a false identity to send him txt msgs that exposed the thief.

I’d learned more than I ever wanted to know about the new electronic world from Ogden, all about a computer pen that turned handwriting into a computer file, a card that wirelessly downloaded photos from his digital camera, and even a robotic pet-Willie-who talked and responded to Ogden’s mood. In the trap I helped him set, he’d filmed the entire matter on a small video camera with sound. That had been my suggestion, txtd of course. I’d first become familiar with the cameras through my association with the Adelaide Police Department. I quite missed not having appeared this time as Officer M. Loy (a tribute to famed film star Myrna Loy, the better of half of Nick and Nora with William Powell). All uniformed officers carried such cameras. A picture with words is worth its weight in gold in a courtroom. All in all, my mission had been a resounding success.

Thanks to Ogden, my good behavior should convince Wiggins to remove me from probationary status.

“Yee-hah.”

Upturned faces from the revelers on the terrace brought home to me that I had shouted aloud. Oh dear, a clear violation of Precept One.

However, libations were flowing and, after that short, startled pause, voices lifted again in intense conversation, punctuated by occasional guffaws.

No harm done.

The Rescue Express would be here soon, and I would report my outstanding conduct to Wiggins. Yet I felt restless and vaguely dissatisfied. I’d succeeded with my mission, but I’d never really felt I’d been here, hands on.

Because, of course, I hadn’t.

I’d not appeared in person. I hadn’t swirled into being, donning lovely clothes simply for the sheer delight of them. I hadn’t talked to anyone. I’d never had a chance to pop here and there. No car chases. No confrontations. No challenges.

To be quite honest (always a desirable intent for emissaries), this perfect mission had been bor-ing.

BOR-ing.

Without volition-I assure you I didn’t deliberately flaunt Precept One again-I groaned aloud. “I’d been BOOMS.”

Fortunately the sound of my voice was lost in a rattle of castanets. Still, what I had spoken aloud appalled me. Was I succumbing to the assault of txt msgs on the English language?

What a dreadful prospect for a former English teacher. Obviously, the solution was to clear out the electronic cobwebs, immerse myself in the real world as opposed to the virtual reality that reminded me of Plato’s shadows on the wall.

Truth to tell, I’m a gregarious sort. I like for things to be lively. My husband Bobby Mac (the late Robert McNeil Raeburn) said I added more fizz than champagne to any occasion. Believe me, Bobby Mac and I on Earth had fizzed as brightly as July Fourth sparklers. In Heaven… Oh yes. Precept Seven. I will only say you have much to look forward to.

I swooped nearer the terrace. The party was bright with a Latin theme, serapes for tablecloths, the terrace bordered by luminarias, colorful maracas for party favors, and, of course, the best in Latin music. What harm would it do if I joined the revelers? I deserved a little recreation.

I landed behind a potted palm and swirled into being in a floral tunic and skirt, red plumeria vibrant against a black background. I chose slingback sandals until I spotted a cunning pair of black crocheted shoes and switched.

In no time at all, I was dancing a samba with the attractive fellow whose pink nose indicated too much golf under a July Oklahoma sun. “… and my lie was right at the edge of the sand trap…”

I made admiring murmurs and thrilled to the music. I soon realized many of the guests were from out of town, present for a members-guest golf tournament. That eased my concern about a hostess wondering who in the world I might be. I was soon in demand as a partner. I will confess that I dance rather well. (Stating an accurate observation in no way indicates pride.) I sambaed, rhumbaed, tangoed, and cha-chaed.

It was such a joy to once again be with people. I knew my time was almost up. The Express was scheduled for midnight, and I intended to be high in the sky, ready to swing aboard. I still had an hour to play.

Would it be safe to say that Fate intervened? Was it written in the stars that I should drop into this evening’s party? Or had Wiggins considered possibilities and felt no need to dispatch another agent in the expectation that when en route to the Express and with time on my hands, I couldn’t possibly resist the temptation of a party? Was Wiggins that crafty?

I pictured Wiggins, stiff dark cap riding high on brown hair, broad, open face still youthful despite a walrus mustache and muttonchop whiskers, white shirt high-collared, gray flannel trousers sturdily upheld by broad suspenders. Yes, he had a turn-of-the-century formality about him (the early twentieth century), but Wiggins often surprised me with a glint of humor.

Certainly I was on the most innocent of errands when I strolled to the ladies’ lounge to check on my hair. Red hair is distinctive, and I was afraid that last vigorous tango had left me looking as if I’d stepped out into an Oklahoma wind. (It isn’t vain to want to appear at your best.)

Moreover, a quick glance in the mirror would remind me to be thankful that I always appeared as I had been at twenty-seven, even though I’d been considerably older when I departed the earth. It is one of Heaven’s thoughtful aspects that we are seen as we were at our best. I found twenty-seven splendid. There are many other cheerful surprises in Heaven, such as the way that joy can be seen in colors. For example, imagine an incandescent violet with… Oh. Sorry. Precept Seven again. One of these days you will see for yourself.

As I crossed the hallway, a dark-haired woman in her thirties bolted toward the door of the ladies’ lounge. She gave a hunted look over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and strained. The hand reaching for the knob trembled. She yanked open the door and entered the lounge.

Quick footsteps sounded behind me.

I paused to admire a tapestry, one of those dun-colored, pretentious representations of an English hunting scene.

A plump blonde in a pink palazzo jumpsuit, her face creased in concern, opened the door. I saw the convulsive start of the dark-haired woman. As she turned, her low-cut beige blouse slipped from one shoulder, revealing a purplish-red bruise on her upper arm. She gasped and yanked the blouse up, hiding the mark. The door closed.

I disappeared. In an instant, I was in the mirrored anteroom with its comfortable tufted-satin hassocks. I still get a thrill when I move through a solid wall. It gives me such a sense of freedom.

One hand still clasped to her blouse, the brunette sank onto a hassock and gave a travesty of a smile. “Hi, Joan. I haven’t seen you in a long time.” Her voice was brittle. “I heard you and Jack went to Alaska. Did you have a good time?”

“What happened to your arm, Eleanor?”

“My arm? Oh.” A strained laugh. “Just one of those odd accidents. I’m fine.”

The blonde frowned. “You and Brad didn’t look like you were having fun tonight.”

It might have been a non sequitur. It wasn’t. She stared at the younger woman with anxious, worried eyes.

Eleanor fumbled with the clasp of her purse, lifted out a lipstick. Her hand shook. She stared at the tube, abruptly thrust it back into her purse. Did she fear that her hand was shaking too badly to be able even to dab color to her lips? She came to her feet, stared at Joan with hollow eyes. “Brad? Oh, it’s nothing to do with him. I’m afraid I’m getting a migraine. I’ll ask him to take me home.” She moved toward the door.

Joan stepped in front of her. “Are you sure? Look”-her tone was awkward-“if there’s anything we can do. If you’d like to come home with us-”

Eleanor gave a trill of ragged laughter. “I’m all right. I promise. It’s just…” She gripped Joan’s arm. “Please, don’t say anything to anyone. It would be dreadful for me. Please. You’ve got to promise me.”

“Don’t go with Brad. Come home with us. Or let me call the police.”

Eleanor dropped Joan’s arm. “The police? Oh, my God. Never. You don’t understand. Everything’s okay. I swear it is. I just can’t think straight when I have a headache. You’ve misunderstood. Brad would never… No. It isn’t like that at all.” She whirled away.

Joan took a step after her, but as the door closed, she stopped with a frown and shook her head. She’d tried to help, and her help had been refused. She had no real option. If she called the police, they would need more than her assumptions.

However, there might be another way to forestall abuse.

In an instant, I was walking alongside Eleanor. She moved steadily, managing strained smiles to acquaintances. I wondered if she realized that her distress was obvious.

Her steps grew slower as she approached the terrace, then, with a quick-drawn breath, chin held high, she curved around a cluster of tables.

An athletic young man stood near a splashing fountain. I was reminded of a young Van Johnson, a broad, freckled, all-American face topped by reddish gold hair. Instead of disingenuous charm and good humor, however, this face was set and hard, blue eyes burning with anger.

She stopped a few feet away. “I need to go home. I have a headache.”

“Is that what you’ve been telling everyone?”

She folded her arms, looked frightened.

“Dammit, stop that. If anyone sees you like that-”

Shoes clicked on the terrace. Joan strode up to them. She stopped and gave Brad an uncompromising look. “I’m sorry Eleanor isn’t feeling well. Perhaps it would be a good night for her to come home with us. I’ve had migraines. They’re hellish.”

Brad flushed. “She’ll be all right.”

The chunky blonde stared at him. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’m sure everything will be all right. Now.”

I had underestimated Joan. Her commanding stare warned him.

Brad flashed a black look at Eleanor. “If you’re ready.” His tone was clipped.

Eleanor avoided looking at Joan as they walked past.

MY first surprise was when they reached a Mercedes coupe and she clicked to unlock the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

He slid into the passenger seat and stared glumly forward as she expertly maneuvered the small car and whipped out of the parking lot.

She drove with the sunroof open, the warm summer air ruffling her hair. He turned his face away, stared out at the moonlit night.

They spoke not a single word.

In only a few minutes (Adelaide is a small town), she pulled into a circular drive in front of a big house with a bloated appearance and a plethora of superfluous spires on the steep roof.

When the car stopped, he threw open the door and walked toward the front steps, ignoring his wife.

She followed him into the marbled entryway and dropped her evening bag on a side table. Her reflection in a huge beveled mirror was at odds with her appearance at the party. She looked cool, amused, and confident.

A double staircase embraced a fountain and clumps of greenery. He was halfway up the left stairs, shoulders hunched, fists clenched.

“You haven’t asked,” she lifted her voice to be heard over the splash of the fountain, “if I had a good time at the party.”

He stopped, his back rigid. Slowly, he turned and looked down at her. “You’re a bitch.”

She continued to smile. “Sticks and stones… Come down. We’re going to talk.”

He remained midway up the stairs. “I want out.”

“Not in this lifetime.” Her tone was relaxed.

“I’ve got proof about you and Roger.” The muscles ridged in his face.

She shrugged. “A private detective? I’ve always wondered if they get a kick out of wondering what goes on behind the closed doors. I don’t care if you have a picture of us in bed; it isn’t going to do you any good. And here’s my hole card: you’re running for reelection next year. Do you think anybody will vote for a judge who beats on his wife? Shall I tell you what good work I managed at the party this evening?”

He gripped the handrail as if forcing himself to remain there. “I’m surprised someone hasn’t killed you, Eleanor.”

Her peal of laughter was derisive. “You’re too good a boy to commit murder, Brad.”

She stood with her head uplifted, quite beautiful and arrogant and terrible. I didn’t know what had brought their marriage to this stage, but there was no mistaking her intent. She had publicly played the part of a fearful woman trying to hide spousal abuse. He could proclaim his innocence, but whispers and sidelong looks and disbelief would dog him forever.

“I’ll tell everyone you’re lying.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Be my guest. No one will believe you. I’ve already made a good start on that. You’d better come down. I will explain”-and now her face was formidable, her voice cold-“exactly what I want and why you will be happy to cooperate.”

She didn’t wait to see if he complied. She turned to her left, flicked on a light, and walked into a comfortable den.

He started down the stairs, and I felt a pang of sorrow. He had a lost, bewildered look, a man facing ruin with no way out.

I dismissed thoughts of Precept Three. Though I would be happy to work behind the scenes, this time I had to make my presence known. There was only one chance to outwit Brad’s unscrupulous adversary.

I popped next to him on the stairs, gripped his arm, and whispered, “Keep her talking. I’ll video everything she says.”

He froze.

The clink of ice sounded from the den.

Brad stood rigid.

“You’d better get down here.” Her raised voice had a metallic edge. “I might have to call a friend for help. Big, bad old Brad. I don’t think you want me to do that.”

I tugged at his arm. “Do what I say.”

His head jerked from side to side.

Honestly, some men are so difficult to lead. With a little huff of exasperation, I swirled into being, admiring, as I did so, the crisp French blue of the Adelaide police uniform. Very flattering to a redhead. (A simple factual comment.)

He leaned back against the banister.

I jerked a thumb. “I’m here to help. Get down there and talk to her.” I tapped the small video camera anchored to my belt. “Every word will be recorded. Don’t give me a thought.” I disappeared.

The click of shoes on parquet flooring announced her impatient arrival in the doorway. “What’s keeping you?”

He rubbed his head as if it hurt, then made an odd, helpless gesture. “I’m coming.” He started down the stairs, but he darted several quick glances behind him.

Of course, there was no one there.

She waited, arms folded. “Who are you looking for?” She, too, gazed up the stairs, her face uneasy.

“I don’t know.” His voice was thin. “I thought I heard something.”

“Maybe you wish you did. You’d like an audience, wouldn’t you? Sorry not to oblige.”

Slowly, his expression befuddled, he followed her into the den.

She finished making her drink. “What’s your pleasure?” she asked.

I moved behind her, dropped down behind a brown leather sofa, and appeared. I unhooked the video cam from my belt and turned it on. I placed it on the floor, moved several feet away, and disappeared. The camera remained where I had placed it. Wiggins had never fully explained the physics of appearing along with whatever accessories I might need. I had learned that an accessory separated from my person remained in existence. Voilà, I now had the instrument for Eleanor’s undoing.

I lifted the video cam and propped it near a vase, the lens aimed toward Eleanor.

Brad ignored her question. He stood stiffly near a potted palm, arms folded. “I’ll tell everyone you’re lying. You know I’ve never struck you.”

She bent forward a little, pulled down the edge of her blouse, revealing a reddish purple splotch. “How do you like it?”

He strode forward, face incredulous.

I nodded in unseen approval. Now he, too, was within camera range.

He lifted a shaking hand. “Where did that come from?”

She tore off a length of paper toweling from the minibar, held it beneath a gushing faucet. “Now you see it.” She lifted the damp toweling, swiped at the splotch. “Now you don’t. The wonders of makeup, Brad. Of course”-and her tone was careless as she pulled her blouse up to cover the now unblemished skin-“what matters is that Joan Grainger got a very good look at my awful bruise in the ladies’ lounge at the club this evening. She was quite sympathetic. Of course I told her, my voice shaking, that I was perfectly all right when she offered to put me up tonight.”

“She thinks I hit you?” His shock was obvious.

“Afraid so.” She swirled the ice cubes in an amber drink, took a sip.

“You can’t do this to me.”

“Yes, I can. Tonight I laid the groundwork for some very ugly gossip that I’m an abused wife. Joan saw the bruise. Now, here’s the deal. Joan keeps her mouth shut. That’s why I picked her. Joan never says anything bad about anyone. Your secret is safe with her. She will check in with me, make sure I’m all right. If you play up, I’ll convince her the bruise was from a fall and I appeared distraught tonight because, poor little me, I had the onset of one of my dreadful migraines.”

“Play up? What do you mean?”

“No divorce. You’ve got evidence on me, but you will never use it. I like being the judge’s wife. I like the fact that you are rich enough that I can do what I like, travel, shop, entertain. You will strive to be the gentleman you are, pleasant in public, out of my way in private.”

“If I refuse?” His voice was grim.

“That would be a grave mistake. You see, most of the women I know are not as reticent as Joan. Tomorrow night I’m playing bridge with some ladies whose mouths never shut, and gossip is their life-blood. I can create quite a spectacular bruise for them. So”-she took another drink-“it’s up to you, Brad. If you file for a divorce, I’ll convince everyone who matters in Adelaide that you use me for a punching bag.”

“That’s extortion.” His voice was harsh.

“How lovely to have a lawyer in the family. Extortion has an ugly sound. Let’s say it’s quid pro quo. You do as I say, or I set you up as a wife beater.” She lifted the glass in a toast. “Here’s to us, Brad.”

In the faraway distance, I heard the unmistakable wail of the Rescue Express. Within minutes, I must be done.

I eased the camera below the side table and moved behind her to French doors that likely opened onto a terrace. The camera appeared to be floating in the air. I waggled it, catching Brad’s attention. The evident shock in his face appeared to her to be the result of her taunt.

I swirled into being, camera held high.

He appeared frozen.

I reached behind me, opened the French door.

She heard the creak of the opening door and jerked about. Her eyes widened in shock.

I suppose a police officer approaching with a stern expression was unnerving.

Brad shook his head in disbelief, but there was a sudden aching hope in his blue eyes.

I held up the video camera. “Extortion is an offense punishable by a sentence of up to four years in prison and a substantial fine.”

“You have no right to be here.” She was struggling to breathe. “You can’t come into someone’s home and tape them-”

I interrupted, “I have a full videotape and recording of your attempt at extortion.”

“-without their permission.”

“I am here at the invitation of your husband”-I looked warningly at Brad-“who had reason to believe he might be subject to threats. Therefore”-my smile was bright-“I am lawfully present and”-I tapped the video cam-“the evidence contained here is admissible in court.” Again I looked at Brad. “As any judge would explain.”

The train whistle sounded again. Of course, only I could hear. Would the Express leave without me?

“Isn’t that correct, Judge?” My tone was sharp. I was desperate to depart.

His sandy lashes blinked, then he responded firmly, “That’s right.” He looked at his wife. “There is no doubt this evidence would be presented and accepted at the hearing where you would be arraigned.”

I nodded approval. “In that event, I will proceed to file my report, and a summons will be issued.” I had no idea as to police procedure at this level. Certainly Brad, as a judge, would know, but I was counting on him to remember that I wasn’t here. Was he clever enough to understand?

Did I smell coal smoke?

“Officer, I might be willing to drop the matter.”

I frowned. “Your Honor, a crime has been committed. Extortion, as I don’t need to remind you, is a felony.”

“However”-he spoke quietly-“it is my prerogative to settle the matter without the filing of charges.” He turned toward his wife. “Eleanor, it’s up to you.”

I folded my arms and looked as menacing as a five-foot-five-inch redhead can manage.

“You got me, didn’t you? I never expected you to be clever, Brad.” She stared at him as if he were a stranger. “What do you want?”

“First, call Joan. You are to sound cheerful and upbeat. Here’s what I want you to tell her…”

The Rescue Express wailed, the high, wavering cry much nearer.

In a moment, Eleanor was on the telephone. “Joan,” she sounded at ease, “I’m afraid I gave you a wrong impression tonight… That bruise had nothing to do with Brad. I got whacked by that automatic door at the grocery. You know the one I mean. You take your life in your hands when you go through that door. Tonight I was upset because I knew I was going to ask Brad for a divorce… Actually, it isn’t because of him. I’ve met a guy, and I was worried about how Brad would take it, but he’s being the perfect gentlemen.” Her eyes burned as she looked toward him.

Brad gave a thumbs-up.

The whistle sounded overhead.

“Anyway, it always helps to talk things out. I’m off to Dallas tonight. Everything’s working out… Right… I’ll keep in touch.” She clicked off the phone. “Satisfied?”

“Yes. In exchange, I’ll make a fair settlement with you. Now. Pack a suitcase and go.”

She flicked a furious look at the video cam in my hand. “What will happen to the video?”

“It is police property. It will be in my custody.”

She looked sick. Obviously, if the camera was at the police station, there was no way she could ever hope to be free of the threat of exposure.

She whirled and ran to the hall and pounded up the stairs.

Quick as a flash, I darted to Brad, thrust the camera at him. “She can’t be trusted. Put this in a vault. Sorry, I have to go.”

With that, I disappeared and zoomed out of the house and up into the sky and there, almost beyond my grasp, was the rail to the caboose.

Oh. And oh. I couldn’t quite reach it!

What would happen to a missing emissary? Would I be adrift, become one of those ghosts aimlessly walking about in their haunts of old?

“Here we go.” Wiggins’s shout was robust, and there he was, reaching out from the red caboose, his strong hand grabbing mine and pulling me aboard.

When I stood beside him, breathing in gasps, he turned to me and folded his arms in mock disapproval, but his eyes were twinkling almost as bright as the stars we passed.

“That was a near thing, Bailey Ruth. You cut it rather fine. However, your mission was flawlessly executed.” He smiled in approval. “As for your delay in coming aboard”-his tone was casual-“that’s neither here nor there. Sometimes, as far as official reports go and your status as an emissary, least said, soonest mended.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.”

“However-”

I should have known I wasn’t quite home free.

“I have a question.”

I steeled myself.

His ruddy face folded in puzzlement. “BOOMS?”

I laughed in relief. “Things have changed on earth, Wiggins. Young people send each other text messages on their cell phones, and they use a great many abbreviations. BOOMS means bored out of my skull.”

“BOOMS,” he repeated with delight. “I’ll remember that. BOOMS! Not”-and his tone was kindly-“a state you were long willing to endure. Bully for you, Bailey Ruth.”

Bully for me. Ah, every age has its style.

“Thank you, Wiggins.” I almost told him what a fine fellow he was, then decided that might be presumptuous. But I was too ebullient not to celebrate. “Wiggins, we have a bit of time before we get to Heaven.” I reached out and took his hand. “Have you ever cha-chaed?”