Ghost at Work

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Chief Cobb pressed a key and the message from the medical examiner disappeared. He swung a meaty hand toward his telephone, punched a couple of buttons, and leaned back in his chair.

I bent nearer the luminous screen. One ping. A line announced: One message in your mailbox.

Suddenly a dour voice sounded. “Lab.” As I turned toward the sound, I accidentally touched the chief’s shoulder.

Chief Cobb’s head jerked. Looking puzzled, he lifted a hand and brushed his shoulder. He peered behind him.

I eased away.

The chief shrugged and spoke in the general direction of his telephone. “Sam here. What you got on the Murdoch slug?”

“Slammed into bone.” A gloomy voice, turgid as a silt-laden river, emanated from the squat rectangular plastic box beneath the telephone.

Conversing over a telephone without picking up the receiver. Another wonder.

The chief wrinkled his nose. “Too damaged to make an ID?”

“Yeah.”

“Twenty-two?”

“Yeah.”

Cobb’s eyes slitted. “You got anything helpful, Felix?”

“Some dust balls on the back of his suit coat. No dust balls in cemeteries.” A hoarse chuckle. “At least, not aboveground.”

“Dust balls?” Cobb glanced toward a register near the ceiling.

Little clumps of dirt wavered between vents.

“Yeah. Like when you clean up an attic or closet. House dirt.”

“Anything special about it?”

“Nope. Ordinary, everyday dirt fluff. Got some cat fur in it. He either wallowed around on a floor somewhere just before he got wasted or the body was moved to the cemetery. Look for a dusty floor and a black cat.”

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I pictured the rectory back porch. Certainly there could have been dust on the tarp. Perhaps it was a favorite spot for Spoofer to nap.

“Yeah.” Chief Cobb grasped a pencil and drew a woolly blob.

“Thanks, Felix.” He reached forward, poked a button. His face was thoughtful as he turned to his desk. He pulled a notebook near.

I looked over his shoulder.

He wrote, Dust???

A brisk tattoo sounded on the hall door.

The chief called out, “Come in.”

A ruggedly handsome man in a baggy red sweater and gray slacks moved toward the chief’s desk like a fresh-launched torpedo.

A cotton-top blond with slate-blue eyes, he was a shade under six feet tall and loose-jointed, with large hands and feet. His craggy face looked intense and intelligent. I liked him instinctively.

Cobb gestured toward a chair. “What you got, Hal?“ Hal pulled the chair back, dropped into it. He pulled a notebook from his pocket, opened it, talked fast as if he had much to say and too little time. “Daryl Murdoch’s son, Kirby, moved out two weeks ago. Senior at Adelaide High. Swim team. Math whiz. Waits tables at Garcia’s. He’s been camping out and going to friends’ houses to shower. His girlfriend is Lily Mendoza. His dad didn’t want him to date Lily. Next-door neighbor Wilbur Schmidt said all hell broke loose a couple of weeks ago, Kirby and Daryl yelling at each other.

Kirby slammed out of the house and took his stuff.

“I talked to a friend of Kirby’s, Hack Thurston. Kept it low-key, asked the usual, how long he’d known him, school, hobbies, et cetera.

Turns out Kirby likes to target-practice with a twenty-two revolver out on the river bottom near Schooner Creek on his day off. Gets Thursdays off. Murder occurred Thursday afternoon. Checked Murdoch house this morning. No one home. Officer Leland is hunting for him.”

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Hal nodded. “I surveyed the crime scene again, including the Pritchard mausoleum. Somebody tried to prize loose that marble greyhound. I checked the crowbar we found under a bush. It had traces of marble dust. We could figure some kids—the first tip call came from a kid, right?—were in the mausoleum and maybe Murdoch saw some lights there and went to investigate and it ended up him getting shot.”

The chief drummed the fingers of one hand on his desktop. “So some kids out to heist a marble dog from the cemetery just happened to have a twenty-two with them, and when Murdoch showed up, they shot him instead of running like hell? I don’t think so. No, I got a gut feeling it’s a lot closer to the church. Look at the lab report.” He shoved it across the desk to the detective. “I don’t think Murdoch went to the cemetery and got shot. I think he was shot somewhere else and dumped there.”

Hal swiftly read the report. He immediately understood the significance of the dust balls. “Murdoch’s car is in the parking lot of the church. Probably means he got that far alive. So where does that leave us? From the dust, I’d say he was shot inside. Maybe the church?” The chief looked thoughtful. “Maybe. I’ll need more before I can get a search warrant. And”—he rubbed his nose—“do they keep a cat in the church?”

The young detective shrugged. “I wouldn’t think so. How about the preacher’s house?”

Chief Cobb’s eyes glinted. “We got a tip the gun was on the back porch of the rectory.” He frowned. “I can hear the judge right now.

‘What’s this? Warrant to search the rectory at St. Mildred’s? Because of a dust ball?’ ”

The younger detective’s mouth turned down in a grimace. “You got that right. You better have evidence on a silver platter before you take that one before the judge.”

Cobb looked determined. “Get the crime van and check out Mur-108

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doch’s car from top to bottom. We better be sure there’s no cat fur in it before I try for a warrant. Also check the Murdoch house for a black cat. When that’s out of the way, maybe it will be time to try for a search warrant.”

Hal bounded to his feet. “On my way.” I toyed with the idea of getting to Daryl’s car and placing some dust balls and cat fur inside. But perhaps creating fake evidence wasn’t exactly what Wiggins had in mind. However, I was truly worried. It was beginning to look as though our removal of the body from the rectory hadn’t solved Kathleen’s problem.

The chief swung back to his machine and clicked on a message with a red exclamation point in the margin.

To: Chief Cobb

From: Dispatcher

Subject: Crime Stoppers Call re Daryl Murdoch Call received from pay phone outside Wal-Mart, 1023 Snodgrass, at 9:07 A.M. Text follows:

“Crime Stoppers. Ask Kathleen Abbott about the red nightgown and her visit to Daryl Murdoch’s cabin on Pontotoc Road Wednesday night.”

Anonymous caller spoke in a husky whisper. Unable to determine sex of speaker. Tape has been turned over to laboratory for analysis.

As a ghost, thankfully I wasn’t subject to physical manifestations of distress such as palpitations or difficulty breathing. Nonetheless, I was shaken by the realization that Kathleen’s involvement in Daryl’s murder must have been the calculated objective of his murderer. Of that, there could now be no doubt. Daryl’s demise on the back porch obviously had been planned from the start. Last night, a call brought 109

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the police to the rectory back porch in search of the gun. Now an anonymous call threatened to embroil her further. How had anyone known about the red nightgown?

No wonder I was still here.

Chief Cobb leaned back in his chair, lips pursed in a sound-less whistle. He reached toward the phone. His hand dropped. He snagged a stenographer’s-size notebook, flipped to a fresh page. At the top, he wrote Kath—

A sudden knock sounded, and the door to a connecting office swung open.

Colleen’s voice rose. “Excuse me, Mayor Lumpkin, Chief Cobb is in conference.”

“Come now, my dear. We all know these little fictions.” A heavyset blonde appeared in the doorway. Pudgy, crimson-nailed fingers laden with rings clutched the doorframe. Red, green, and gold stones glittered. “I have a little bone to pick with Sam.” She swept inside.

Unseen by the visitor, a plump brunette with a pleasant face looked at the chief and turned her hands up in mute apology.

The intruder closed the door, strode majestically across the room.

She was flamboyant in a vivid purple blouse and ankle-length purple skirt with orange geometric forms. The scarf at her throat was in matching orange. The skirt rippled as she walked. Orange boots tapped on the tiled floor.

Chief Cobb came to his feet, face stolid, eyes glinting with irritation. “Good morning, Neva.”

She ignored the lack of an invitation to sit down and pulled the straight chair around to the side of his desk. With a brilliant smile, she gestured to him as she gracefully settled into the chair. “You are such a gentleman, Sam. Take your seat.” It was a command.

The chief backed to his chair, sat. He placed his hands on his knees as if ready to spring up in an instant. “I’m on my way out.” She gave him another smile, but her eyes were cold. “I am well 110

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aware that you”—she placed a special emphasis on the pronoun—

“are devoted to protecting our liberties. I’m sure you agree that a foremost duty of your law enforcement personnel is to share that commitment.”

The chief made no move in his chair, but I realized he was suddenly alert and wary.

The mayor toyed with the end of her scarf. “Your department should be committed to impartial law enforcement. Justice must be blindfolded or”—she looked as though she awaited applause—“there is no justice at all. I am here this morning to discuss this essential component of our liberties.” Her voice dropped, a public servant confronting a momentous truth. “Personal liberties are at the heart of our nation. That is why I had no choice but to break through the defense of your secretary. I know you must have quiet time to execute your duties, but you should instruct Colleen that treating other city officials—”

The mayor reminded me strongly of the high school principal who’d booted me from the faculty. I might not have been tempted to do what I did had it not been for her ill-natured expression and pursed lips. How like a pig’s snout.

A box of paper clips sat near the in-box on the chief’s desk. I palmed a handful of clips and skimmed just above the floor, coming up behind the mayor.

“—as interlopers is hardly appropriate.” I delicately pulled back the rim of her blouse and dribbled several clips on her dowager’s hump.

She shuddered with the grace of an ice floe cracking.

Chief Cobb looked at her sharply. “Neva?” A meaty hand yanked at the back of her blouse. Her head jerked around.

I expected the pointy little clips were now lodged near her waist.

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other wary glance behind her, she waggled a chiding finger, zircon flashing. “You will recall”—her gaze was stern though her eyes slid uneasily from one side to the other—“that I spoke to you last week about Officer Leland and her unfortunate compulsion to persecute an outstanding citizen.”

Chief Cobb looked ever more stolid. “Yes.” The mayor glowed with righteous indignation. “I know for a fact that Officer Leland ignored your instructions. You did instruct her?” The last was a sharp, flat demand.

I flung the rest of the paper clips high in the air. As they floated down, many landing in her beehive hairdo, I untied her scarf and tugged.

She came to her feet, holding on and gazing desperately about.

“What’s going on here? Where did those paper clips come from?” She gave the chief a suspicious glare.

I flapped the scarf.

The chief stood. To him, she appeared to be shaking the scarf in the air and lunging forward and back.

I let go.

She lost her balance and crashed down on her chair. Shakily, breathing fast, she pulled the scarf around her neck and tied it, all the while looking sharply in every direction.

“Neva.” He eyed her with concern. “Could I have Colleen get you a cup of tea?”

She shook her head, sputtered, “When did you speak with Officer Leland?” She lifted a hand to brush at the paper clips in her hair.

“Last week.” His tone was irritated. “We straightened everything out. As Officer Leland made clear, Daryl Murdoch never contested the tickets. They were based on infractions of the speed limit and driving regulations. She admitted his attitude irritated her, and that’s why she paid special attention to his driving. I told her she had to avoid the appearance of particularized enforcement and she agreed.” Cobb moved impatiently. “Neva, it hardly matters—” 112

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”Hardly matters?” The mayor’s voice was shrill. She darted puzzled looks at the paper clips in her fingers. “Daryl Murdoch is a leading citizen, a strong supporter of good government, and a personal friend of mine.”

In politics, as Bobby Mac often said, friendship is just another word for money. I wondered how much Daryl Murdoch had contributed to the mayor’s last campaign.

Cobb frowned. “In view of what’s happened—”

”Let me finish, please.” A flush turned the mayor’s sallow cheeks apple red. “I promised Daryl that your officer’s witless pursuit of him would end. Yet”—she leaned forward, one hand chopping as fast as a sous chef ’s knife—“I personally saw her stop his car yesterday afternoon, lights flashing, everything but a siren.” The chief’s dark brows bunched in a frown. “Yesterday? What time?” The mayor looked triumphant. “Right after five o’clock. I was leaving our lot. I stopped and watched. She came up to his window and leaned down in a most menacing fashion.” I nodded. That explained the picture in Daryl’s cell. Had he taken it intending to show his friend the mayor? It was too bad I didn’t have the cell with me. I would poke it into the thickest portion of her beehive hairdo. I looked about for something that might work.

“Five o’clock.” Chief Cobb’s spoke in a considering tone. “Probably not close enough in time to be helpful.”

“Helpful?” The mayor glared, all pretense of civility gone. “How can it be helpful when a police officer disregards her superior’s instructions?” And, of course, made the mayor look ineffectual.

“Too bad she didn’t follow him this time. It might have saved his life. But I’ll talk to her, see if she picked up anything useful. Now . . .” He stood.

“Saved . . .” The mayor’s mouth gaped, revealing two gold crowns.

“You miss the morning news?” His tone was bland.

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and The Oklahoman, the Oklahoma City paper that was distributed statewide. The Clarion, Adelaide’s only newspaper, was published in the afternoon.

The mayor lifted her rounded chin. “I avoid television in the morn-ings. I focus on the positive. The world pummels us with negative images, turning our citizens fearful and defensive. As a concerned citizen and a devoted public servant”—she raised a clenched fist—“I demand to know why—”

“Yeah. Like you said in your last campaign, Neva. How did you put it? Embrace the positive, shed the draining chains of negativity.

I’d sure agree that skipping the morning news gives you a head start.

But you missed out today. Somebody shot Daryl Murdoch last night.

His body was found in St. Mildred’s cemetery.”

“His body?” The mayor’s mouth gaped like a hungry fish.

I edged an adorable thumb-size porcelain dog toward the edge of the chief ’s desk, my eyes fastened on that tempting mound of bleached hair.

A massive hand clamped on my wrist.

I shrieked.

“Shhh.” A warning growl.

The mayor’s chair tumbled backward. She stood and stared at the small porcelain figure that was still cupped in my palm, clearly hovering an inch above the chief’s desk.

The chief bounded to his feet, but he was looking at the mayor, not at his desk.

I opened my fingers and the little dog slid to the desktop.

Trembling, Mayor Lumpkin swung about and bolted heavily from the room.

Chief Cobb leaned forward, punched the intercom. “Colleen, you’d better let the mayor’s husband know that she”—he paused—

“isn’t feeling well. Have the technicians check out the heating system.

It made a strange noise. Kind of shrill. Then a whooshing sound.” 114

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He grabbed a notebook and pen. As he walked toward the door, he righted the chair and swept the room with a final, puzzled glance.

The minute the door closed, I heard a deep-throated rumble, not so distant this time and definitely not thunder. “Bailey Ruth.” If Wiggins had been visible, I feared his face might have that high red flush that used to be called apoplectic.

“Precept Six.” His voice rose almost to a shout. “Precept Six. ‘Make every effort—’ ”

My head swiveled as I followed the sound of his voice. Wiggins was pacing back and forth in front of me. Perhaps if I offered a cold compress . . .

“—not to alarm earthly creatures.’ And what have you just done?”

Nervously I picked up the little porcelain dog.

“There you go again.” He was breathing heavily.

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” I protested, sure of that fact. I was still here. I hadn’t moved—

“That dog! Put it down. Its levitation astounded that poor woman.”

Served her right in my view, but, of course, I kept this thought to myself. I carefully eased the little dog to the desktop.

“Once again you have transgressed the Precepts. Moreover, you are Reverting!” His tone put the accusation on the level of gravest malfeasance.

“Reverting.” I sighed. Yes, I’d been tempted and succumbed, unable to resist unnerving the pompous mayor.

“Oh.” The exclamation was deep and mournful. I pictured Wiggins with his head in his hands. “This is what I feared, an emissary using our special gift to no good purpose.” I knew my duty. “I’m sorry, Wiggins.” Then I lifted my chin. I can’t stay down for long, and Mayor Lumpkin was odious. “Chief Cobb has better things to do this morning than deal with her.” 115

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“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins was obviously forcing himself to speak temperately. “I will accept your well-meant effort to free the chief from an unwarranted interruption—”

I should have felt remorse at deceiving Wiggins, but my back was against the wall. I mustn’t be dispatched back to Heaven until I’d rescued Kathleen. Her straits remained dire.

“—yet I must object to your methods. We won’t discuss the paper clips or that episode with the scarf, but I cannot countenance that dog hanging in the air by itself. You must refrain from moving objects about with no apparent means of locomotion. What do you suppose that woman is going to tell everyone?” Since Wiggins couldn’t see me, I didn’t try to stop the mischievous curl of my lips, though I hoped my reply was suitably grave. “Wiggins, don’t be upset. She won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh.” It was almost a moan. Suddenly there was a pounding rat-a-tat on the desktop.

My eyes widened. Was Wiggins pounding on the chief’s desktop?

“Chief—” Colleen stood in the doorway.

Abruptly it was quiet. Wiggins and I didn’t move.

Colleen stepped inside, looked behind the door. “Chief?” Her eyes cut to the desk. She shook her head and turned away. The door closed.

The chief ’s chair scraped back. A subdued voice muttered, “Revert.

That’s always the fear. I thought I’d left it all behind me, losing my temper, giving in to anger.”

I sidled nearer the desk, perched on the edge. “Wiggins, certainly you had provocation.”

“The man in charge”—his voice was as heavy as lumps of coal dropping into a boxcar—“must always serve as an example. That’s what leadership is all about.”

Oh dear. It wouldn’t do for Wiggins to lose his spirit. “Wiggins, I could not be more proud of you. Here you are, taking time from your station to help out a new emissary. Why, having you here has 116

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been”—how many demerits was I acquiring and what was the penalty for a bold-faced lie?—“Heaven-sent.” Fingers drummed on the desk. I glanced toward the door. It would be unfortunate if Colleen returned. Gradually, the tattoo softened, finally stopped. “Do you think so?”

“Definitely.” I moved behind the desk, reached down, and patted his shoulder. “I am inspired. Encouraged. You can return to the Department of Good Intentions confident you have communicated effectively. I shall take up my task and the Precepts shall be ever on my mind.” There was something about talking to Wiggins that stuffed my mouth full of syllables.

With that, I was gone. I hoped I hadn’t left him in a slough of depression, but duty called.

The rectory kitchen was dark and quiet. I didn’t bother to call out.

Obviously, Kathleen hadn’t returned from her errands yet. Perhaps if I concentrated on Kathleen while picturing a bubbling pot on an unattended stove, she would feel uneasy and be drawn home. Was ESP counter to the Precepts? Possibly, but I was desperate.

I was pacing back and forth when the chief’s car pulled into the drive. The church, of course, was very close to downtown. At this moment it was way too close. As he walked up the path to the back porch, Kathleen’s cream-colored Ford station wagon rattled past the kitchen window.

If he reached Kathleen before I did . . .

In an instant I flowed into the front passenger seat of her car. There was no time for a greeting. “Don’t look panicked, but we have a crisis.” The car jolted to a stop. Her head whipped toward the passenger seat, eyes wide. Her fingers clenched on the steering wheel.

I talked fast. “Somebody called the police, told them to ask you about the red nightgown—”

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Kathleen hunched her shoulders.

“—and your visit to Daryl’s cabin Wednesday night.” She watched the chief’s approach as if he were a giant squid wield-ing a blazing hatchet.

I was exasperated. “Don’t look like that. You might as well hold out your wrists for handcuffs. Smile, Kathleen.” Her lips stretched into a travesty of a smile.

The chief was perhaps ten feet away from the car.

So much to tell. So little time. Such an unpromising confeder-ate. “Tell him you went to the cabin because Daryl called and asked you to come and help him plan a surprise thank-you party for the church secretary. You don’t know anything about a red nightgown.

You talked about gifts but—”

The chief rapped in the window.

Kathleen rolled it down. “Chief Cobb.” Her voice was high and thin.

I reached over and pinched her smartly on the arm.

She flashed a startled look in my direction.

The chief followed her gaze to stare, bewildered, at nothing.

“I thought I heard—” Kathleen looked flustered.

I’ve always been a good mimic. I was locally famous for perform-ing a dialogue between Lucille and Ethel—I did both parts—that left our friends in stitches. Of course they might have already had one or two of Bobby Mac’s bourbons on the rocks.

“—my cell phone.” I sounded just like Kathleen.

Kathleen looked haunted.

“Oh.” Cobb nodded. “If you have a few minutes, Mrs. Abbott, I’d like to visit with you about Mr. Murdoch.” He stepped back, an obvious invitation for her to get out of her car.

I gave her another pinch.

Kathleen’s hand jerked to the handle. She opened the door, scrambled out to stand beside the car.

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When she made no move to invite him into the rectory, Chief Cobb studied her, his eyes cool and thoughtful. “From information received—”

I was impressed at how official that sounded. It had simply been an anonymous phone call. I wondered if he was being quite fair.

“—we understand you spent time at Mr. Murdoch’s cabin on Pontotoc Road.”

Kathleen was obviously surprised. “That’s not true.” I gave her an approving pat on the shoulder. This time she didn’t flinch. Good girl.

Cobb’s stare was hard, his eyes suspicious. “Do you deny having been there Wednesday night?”

Kathleen looked blank for an instant, not too long but long enough to convey the recall of an unimportant memory. Perhaps Bayroo’s acting talent was inherited.

“Wednesday night? Oh, that.” Her tone was casual. “He asked me to drop by and help him plan a special surprise for the church secretary. Daryl was senior warden, you know.”

“How long did you stay?” He pushed one hand into a pocket, tumbled coins in a muted jingle.

Kathleen looked confident. “Only a few minutes.”

“Why did he ask you to come to his cabin?” Cobb’s gaze was searching, his suspicions not totally allayed.

She turned her hands up. “I don’t know. He didn’t explain. I suppose he had something planned there and it was more convenient for him.”

“Not very convenient for you. All the way to Chickasaw Lake.”

“Chief Cobb.” Her tone was dry. “The rector’s wife exists to make life more convenient for the members of the vestry.” He wasn’t done. “What about the red nightgown?” Kathleen’s eyes widened in classic puzzlement. Ingrid Bergman couldn’t have done it better. “I don’t know anything about a red nightgown.”

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“You and Daryl never talked about a nightgown?” Her laughter almost sounded genuine. “No. In fact, I’ve never talked to him about anything but church matters or OU football or the chances for the Adelaide Bobcats to win another state championship.”

She could not have mentioned safer topics of conversation at any Oklahoma gathering. Football, both college and high school, was sure to be discussed in almost any social setting from a honky-tonk bar to the parish hall.

He inclined his head. “Appreciate your help, Mrs. Abbott.“ He glanced toward the church. “Might as well visit with your husband while I’m here.” But as he turned away, he stopped and stared at the black cat strolling toward Kathleen.

Spoofer came closer, green eyes lifted to gaze at the chief.

Cobb pointed. “Your cat?”

“Yes.” Kathleen reached down, stroked black fur that glistened reddish in the sun.

Cobb squinted. “He ever go in the church?” Kathleen looked surprised. “Oh no. The vestry wouldn’t approve.” Cobb gestured toward the rectory. “I saw him in your house last night.”

Kathleen’s glance at the chief was puzzled. “Yes.” Cobb nodded, gave Kathleen one final unsmiling look, and walked toward the church.

Kathleen stared after him. Spoofer twined at her ankles, but she paid no attention. When the police chief was almost at the church door, Kathleen whirled toward her car.

I caught her by the elbow, hissed in her ear, “You just got home.

Go inside.”

If Chief Cobb had looked back, he might have seen Kathleen walking on a tilt toward the back porch because she was trying to veer to her car and I was tugging mightily toward the house.

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I won.

In the kitchen, she looked wildly about, glared at a spot near the door. “I’ve got to get to that cabin. My fingerprints are all over that gift package. I threw the gown and box and paper in the fireplace and ran out. I don’t know if everything burned.” I poured coffee into my flamingo mug. “I’m over here.” She whirled toward the table. “Can’t you ever do anything but drink coffee?”

It was hard to believe she’d begrudge a cup of coffee. Before I could point out that even a ghost, certainly one as active as I had been so far today, welcomed a brief moment of relaxation, she had clapped her hands to her head.

“I can’t waste time talking to nobody. I’ve got to get to that cabin before—”

I upended the rest of the mug. “Kathleen, please. Don’t you have any confidence in me? I was able to prepare you for the chief’s questions. Now I’m going to the cabin.” I glanced toward the back porch.

I decided that she’d had as much stress as she could manage. I didn’t think it was a propitious moment to tell her about the dust ball with Spoofer’s fur on Daryl’s suit jacket. I’d surely have time to sweep the porch and get rid of the tarp after I dealt with the red nightgown. “Everything will be fine.” I put the mug in the sink, aware that her eyes followed its progress through the air as if it were utterly repellent.

I was ready to depart for the cabin to check on the status of the gift box and gown when I looked through the kitchen window.

Chief Cobb still faced toward the church, but he wasn’t moving.

He stood with his cell phone to his ear. Ah, he must have had a ring before he went inside. A moment later, he turned, thrusting the cell phone into his pocket, and strode toward his car.

He moved like a man with a purpose.

I felt a tingle of excitement. Something had happened.

Kathleen was pacing near the table. “Bailey Ruth, have you left?

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Are you there yet? Oh, dear Heaven, how can I talk to somebody who isn’t—”

”I’m here.” I was ready to leave, but I had a suspicion that Kathleen might be poised to put herself in a big jam. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere near Daryl’s cabin.” Kathleen’s face might not have been an open book, but I had no trouble reading it. Consternation was succeeded by guilt. Obviously, she’d intended to make a foray there as soon as I was safely absent.

I hadn’t raised two redheaded children without discovering all there was to know about guile, deceit, and general foolhardiness.

I walked to the table, pulled out a chair.

Kathleen stared at the moving chair, then flung out her hands in defeat. “All right, Bailey Ruth. You win. I promise. Hurry. You’ve got to get there before the chief. If the police find that box, my life is ruined.”

”They won’t. Trust me, sweetie.” I didn’t see an iota of trust in the forlorn face turned toward me, so, of course, I didn’t tell her I was going to make a slight detour. As long as the chief was otherwise occupied, the red gown in Daryl’s cabin was not a threat to Kathleen.

I wavered for an instant. I could go to the cabin and attend to the red nightgown, or I could follow the chief, be in on the latest develop-ments. However, I was sure that it was essential that I keep tabs on the progress of the chief’s investigation. Certainly I wasn’t succumb-ing to the siren song of curiosity.

Certainly not.

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Judith Murdoch fingered the faux pearls at the neck of her blue sweater. “Are we in danger? Maybe Kirby and I shouldn’t stay here.”

Chief Cobb shook his head. “I don’t see a threat to you or your son. You weren’t home.” He gestured at the ransacked room. ”Whoever broke in probably made sure you were gone.” Kirby stood protectively near his mother, his thin, dark face furrowed in a worried frown. “Everything was fine this morning. We were only gone about an hour. We went over to the cabin—” The cabin! I almost willed myself there, but a break-in at the Murdoch house had to be significant.

“—to get it ready for some cousins who’re driving up from Dallas this afternoon. We left the back door unlocked for the cleaning ladies.” Chief Cobb stood in the doorway and surveyed the shambles an intruder had left behind in Daryl Murdoch’s study. Drawers from the mahogany desk had been emptied and flung aside. A cabinet behind the desk hung on wrenched hinges, the paneling scraped and gashed, files pulled out, papers tossed. Books had been yanked from shelves, thrown into uneven mounds.

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The chief crossed the room, pulled aside heavy red drapes. Splintered glass in a French door marked the means of entry. The door stood ajar. He glanced toward Judith. “Alarm?” She stared at the broken pane and mound of glass. “We only set the alarm at night.”

“Always set the alarm when you leave the house.” The chief’s admonition was automatic. He gestured at the mess. “Can you tell if anything is missing?”

She spread her hands helplessly. “I wouldn’t have any idea. This was Daryl’s room.” Off limits to her was the unspoken message.

“A technician is on the way to dust for prints. Don’t touch anything until we’re finished. Have you checked the rest of the house?” He nodded toward the hallway.

Kirby looked embarrassed. “I wanted to look around, but Mom made me stay with her.”

The chief nodded in approval. “Smart move. I’ll take a look.“ A rap on the partially open French door brought a gasp from Judith.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Murdoch. I asked Officer Leland to make a survey of the premises.” He looked inquiring. “Officer?” Officer Leland was careful not to touch the door. She looked crisp and competent, her French-blue uniform fresh and unwrinkled. “No one home on either side, sir. No trace of an intruder except for what appears to be a fresh footprint in a patch of mud near a path into the woods. The print isn’t distinct. It looks as though a man—that’s from the size of the print—was running and slid on a mound of leaves. It is possible that the intruder parked in the wooded area behind the house. Of course the print could have no connection to the break-in.”

“Put tape up. Show the technician, then search the woods for fresh tire prints.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Leland turned away.

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Chief Cobb looked at Judith. “Let’s check the rest of the house, see if anything else has been disturbed.” I zoomed ahead of them. Everything looked to be in perfect order.

I doubted there was more for me to learn at the Murdoch house. It was time to honor my promise to Kathleen and deal with the red nightgown.

Years ago Pontotoc Road was on the outskirts of town. It circled Chickasaw Lake. Most of the original cabins were fairly ramshackle, masculine retreats for poker and fishing and booze. Now the road was paved, but it still dipped and curved through thick woods and up- and downhill.

Oklahoma weather was as coquettish as I remembered. The morning’s cold wind and lowering clouds were gone. The sky was a soft fall blue, and the air was warming. The high temperature would likely edge near seventy this afternoon. I wished away my lamb’s-wool coat. Bradford-pear leaves glowed bright as Burgundy shot through with sunlight. Red-and-gold maple leaves fluttered in the gentle breeze. A sturdy sycamore shed tawny leaves that were heaped, sculpted by the wind, near the Murdoch cabin’s front steps.

The drive ended in a turnaround near the cabin. A small green pickup was parked near the steps. It likely belonged to the cleaning ladies. I expected that was where Daryl had parked Wednesday evening. Kathleen likely pulled in behind his car. The drive didn’t circle behind the cabin. Parking must always be a problem, cars straggling along the drive back to the road.

When Kathleen fled, she’d jumped into her car, locked the doors, made a tight turn, and sped up the drive to the road. She’d made no mention of another car. There were no offshoot lanes from the drive.

Where had the other car parked?

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I knew there had been another car or some means of transportation. Someone else must have been present that evening to know about the red nightgown.

I heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner within the cabin. Soon I would go inside and see about the nightgown, but it was essential to understand what had happened here Wednesday night.

Had Daryl told someone about the episode of the red nightgown?

Sexual bullies don’t relish looking foolish. It was not a moment for him to recount with pride to his buddies, Kathleen tossing the nightgown into the fire and slamming out of the cabin. Therefore, someone saw Kathleen unwrap that present, fling it to destruction, and flee. The front windows were uncurtained, the interior shutters folded back, affording a clear view within. I glanced up the drive.

The house wasn’t visible from the road.

I pictured the cabin in the gloom of approaching night, Daryl inside, the fire burning. Kathleen arrived, tense and upset, and somewhere outside someone watched.

I stepped close to the window on the right. A buxom woman in a red T-shirt and jeans flapped a spread onto a twin bed.

I moved to the first window on the other side of the porch. The window was raised about an inch. A wiry cleaning woman in a flower-patterned housedress pushed a sweeper close enough to the window that we would have looked eye to eye had I been there. The machine’s shrill whine rose to a shriek.

I looked past her, saw the cream sofa where Kathleen had sat.

A leather recliner faced the sofa. A sagging easy chair was near the fireplace. From here an observer would have seen everything that transpired.

I glanced down. Sycamore leaves bunched up in a puffy mound.

Shoes would leave no mark. If someone had watched through this window Wednesday night, I would find no trace here.

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cessation of sound startled me. I looked into the room and realized the cleaning lady was bending toward the fireplace.

At once I was beside her, but I watched helplessly as she gingerly lifted up the singed remnants of the red silk nightgown and the gift box and wrapping paper. She lifted her voice. “Jenny, you won’t never believe what I found. Come look at this. Don’t you know there’s a tale behind this here.”

Kathleen was my charge and here was evidence that would link her to a murder and tarnish her reputation forever. If I had come directly from the rectory as I had promised, Kathleen would not be in jeopardy. It was my old sin of curiosity. With a dash of impulsiveness.

Good intentions may indeed pave the road to hell, but if-onlys point the way to the slippery slope to despair.

I stared at the dangling remnants of the red silk gown. Kathleen’s future hung in the balance.

The Precepts warned against alarming earthly creatures and certainly Wiggins found any such activity reprehensible, but I had no choice. In a flash, I shot to the kitchen, opened my mouth, and yelled.

As my shrill shout rose and fell, I felt a moment of pride. The sound was unnerving. I didn’t know I had it in me.

“Mabel, what’s wrong?” The strangled call came from the bedroom. “Are you hurt?”

In the living room, Mabel shouted, “Somebody’s gettin’ killed in the kitchen. Hurry, Jenny. Run. Get out the front door.” I screamed again, as loudly as possible, pulling breath all the way from my toes.

Pounding steps sounded in the living room. I moved back to the fireplace in time to glimpse heavyset Jenny plunging through the front door. Doors slammed. The pickup roared to life, tires squealing as it took off.

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gown, flaring up a brisk blaze. I made sure the cardboard box and paper burned as well as the nightgown, every last scrap. When the flames began to die down, I took a poker and stirred the ashes, mashed them into nothingness.

My heart was pounding. I’d almost been a day late and a dollar short. I was ready to depart, pleased with my quick thinking, when I heard that unmistakable rumble. I didn’t hesitate. “Hello, Wiggins.

You’ll be glad to know everything’s dandy. The red nightgown—I’m sure you know all about it—is destroyed and Kathleen is safe.” If not a gold star, surely I deserved a silver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see about the cat fur.”

I reached the roof of the rectory. It was a good five minutes before I heaved a sigh of relief. I had no invisible companion, rumbling with displeasure. Apparently Wiggins was cutting me some slack. At least for the moment, I was captain of my fate. However, I wished St.

Mildred’s was not quite such an active church. A half-dozen cars were parked in the lot. Women streamed in and out. All were, I’m sure, doing good works, but at the moment they hampered my movements. Moreover, not fifty yards away, the back of the crime van was wide open and I noticed a technician jump out, carrying a blue plastic hand vacuum.

Standing to one side of a silver Lincoln Continental was the energetic young police detective. He bent to peer inside. “Hey, Artie, don’t think this’ll take long. Looks like Murdoch kept it clean.” They wouldn’t, I was sure, find a trace of cat fur. I had to hurry. I clapped my hands in satisfaction. If I couldn’t work unseen, why, no problem. It was time to be in the world, however briefly. Surely Wiggins would approve this circumspect appearance.

I landed on the rectory back porch and appeared. My elegant pantsuit was not quite the attire for housecleaning. I topped it with a 128

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blue smock appropriate for the Altar Guild. Possibly it was an excess of caution, but I added a matching turban. If anyone noticed a helpful member of the Altar Guild busy at the rectory, it would be better if red hair wasn’t part of her description. I smoothed the edges of the turban to be sure no red-gold sprigs peeped from beneath.

I always enjoyed housework. There’s such a sense of accomplish-ment when everything is tidy. Heaven doesn’t need dusting. The only tidying that remains is to continue growing in goodness, and goodness knows, for most of us there is always room for improvement.

I felt a moment’s unease. Had my return to earth encouraged my tendency to be inquisitive, rash, impulsive, and forthright?

“Undoubtedly.” Wiggins sounded resigned.

Although my breath caught, I was almost getting used to his sudden utterances. I was terribly aware that he was once again here and I was in deep Dutch.

“However”—even his rumble was subdued—“there are times when appearing will cause less turmoil than not appearing. Try hard”—his tone was plaintive—“to remain out of sight. If I’d realized you were quite so noticeable . . .” His voice faded.

I started to reply, then felt certain he’d once again departed. Obviously he agreed that I must address the pressing matter of a dusty porch and a tarp that must never be subjected to a police microscope.

Did I have carte blanche?

I hurried inside and grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet in the kitchen. I took only a moment to glance in the mirror over the sink. Good. The turban was a success. I had a brief memory, thanks to Turner Classic Movies, of Carmen Miranda and a turban piled high with a tower of pomegranates, mangoes, and bananas and presto, gleaming plastic fruit appeared. Smiling, I returned to the porch and set to work, humming “Trite Samhita,” and sweeping in triple time. I loved to samba. Occasionally I added a conga step for flair.

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shed a great deal of black fur, but soon the porch was shiny bright. I was especially thorough around, behind, and beneath the corner of the porch where the tarp lay. I carried the trash sack out to the garbage pail. All four doors of the Lincoln were open. Dark gray legs protruded from the floor of the back seat. The blond detective stood with hands on his hips, watching. I observed him with pleasure.

Bobby Mac understood when I admired a manly physique because I always saved the last dance for him.

As I returned the broom and dustpan to the closet in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and laughed aloud. Although it looked top-heavy, my turban was quite comfortable. I patted a bright yellow banana, gave a little back tap, and samba’d onto the porch.

All that remained was to dispose of the tarp. A coil of cord, likely left over from a clothesline, hung from a hook. I cut a six-foot length.

In one corner, I found a stack of gunnysacks. I shoved the rolled-up tarp in the gunnysack, added three stacked pottery pots for ballast, and flicked out the length of cord.

A knock sounded on the porch screen door.

I broke off humming and, clutching the open gunnysack, turned to look.

Standing on the steps was the handsome detective, the sun turning his cotton top snow white. He held out an open wallet. “Detective Sergeant Hal Price. I’m looking for the sexton. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

I stared at him, my mouth agape. Before I could think—there I went again, impulsive to the bone—I clasped the sack to the bosom of the smock and made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a shriek.

“Pardon me, miss.” His drawl was contrite and his eyes, for a brief instant, admiring, until professional coolness returned. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He spoke gently as if to a shying filly.

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“Detective Sergeant?” I clung to the gunnysack, which bulged awkwardly over the pots, and was furious at myself. He didn’t know what I held. He had no idea. I forced my grip to relax, rested the sack casually on the floor. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s fine.” His smile was electric.

On the one hand, I was flattered. On the other, I was uneasy. I didn’t want to be remembered, but there is that spark when a man admires a woman that can’t be disguised. Detective Sergeant Price wasn’t going to forget our encounter. If I were old, he’d have been polite, kept a mental record as a good detective should, but there would not have been this crackle of electricity between us.

“Can I help you?” I tried to sound cool, not quite unfriendly, but definitely not encouraging.

He glanced at my left hand, saw the gold band, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “I’m looking for the sexton and at the church they told me he might be at the shed by the rectory. Can you direct me?” I pointed at the flagstone path. “Follow the path past the old well and go around those weeping willows and you’ll find the shed.” He stood a moment longer, then nodded. “Thank you. And you are . . .”

Attracted he might be. A detective he remained.

“Helen Troy.” The moment I spoke, I regretted the name. But what can you do when a man makes his interest so plain? It happens, you know, an encounter, and each of you knows that had the time been different, circumstances altered, memories could have been made.

He nodded and turned away.

At the bend in the path, he looked back.

A very attractive man. As soon as he was out of sight, I yanked up the sack and raced to the kitchen. I tightly rolled the cord around and around the sack and tied it in my best sailor’s knot.

I waited several minutes. Detective Sergeant Price didn’t reappear.

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I eased out the kitchen door. Women continued to come and go in the church parking lot, but none veered toward the rectory. I strolled to the pines and slipped behind them.

I was torn. Violating the Precepts seemed to result in an automatic visit from Wiggins, but I was in a hurry. The sooner I dumped the tarp, the better, and I still needed to deal with the gun. I could zoom to the lake faster than I could walk. Surely Wiggins would applaud swift execution of my duties.

I disappeared and zoomed. The gunnysack, of course, dangled in the air. I darted from tree to tree so the sack appeared in midair only briefly. The sense of isolation and peace increased the deeper I traveled into the nature preserve. When I sighted the sparkling blue water of the lake, I felt as relieved as any ten-year-old hearing that old familiar cry, “Ollie, ollie, oxen’s free.” Of course I had no idea at the time we were shouting what was likely a phonetic imitation of the German Alle, alle, auch sind frei. I hoped I might have occasion to share this moment later with Wiggins, and he would have an appreciation of my intellectual turn of mind.

Perhaps it was this thoughtful pondering that distracted my attention from my surroundings. I rode a breeze out toward the middle of the lake, imagining the surprise on Wiggins’s face when—

Abruptly, the bag was tugged from my hand.

Startled, I made a grab for it. Had a crow intercepted me?

“Precept Six, Bailey Ruth, Precept Six.” Wiggins’s tone was imploring.

I loosened my hold.

The lumpy gunnysack plummeted down.

I was exasperated. After all, he’d yanked the bag from me. “Wiggins, I thought you had it.”

“A gentleman never struggles with a lady.” Clearly, in his heart he found this custom a grave hindrance.

Water plumed upward as the sack splashed into the lake.

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A hoarse shout sounded below. “Lord Amighty, look!” An old man with a straggly white beard stood at the end of the dock, pointing his bamboo fishing pole at the ripples in the water. He wore a puffy jacket over bib overalls.

A lean woman with sharp features turned from a bait cooler.

“What’s the matter with you, Pa?”

He waggled the pole. “Something big poked out of that water. Bigger than any fish. I’m going to get the boat and go out there and see.” If he poked his pole down, snagged the gunnysack, and hauled it out, he’d be sure to tell his cronies at the feed store. If word got back to Detective Sergeant Price, as it very well might in a small town, he would remember the turbaned lady with the gunnysack on the rectory porch.

The fisherman lumbered toward the end of the dock. His boat wasn’t in sight. That gave me a minute, perhaps two.

“Wiggins, that sack mustn’t be found. There’s no time to spare.” At all costs, I must forestall a discussion. If Wiggins wouldn’t play up, well, I looked down, it would be a long fall. “Quick, I’m going to reappear. Hold me up. I need my turban.” Below us, oars slapped through water.

I became visible. Just as I began to tumble down, strong hands gripped my arms, held me up. I snatched the turban from my head.

My hair cascaded free. I threw the turban high. In a flash, I disappeared. I reached out to catch the turban. I didn’t take time to ponder what I would have done had it disappeared, but I tucked away the knowledge that imagined items, once visible but separate from me, remained in existence.

I pulled free from Wiggins’s grasp.

“Precept Six.” Wiggins’s despairing call followed me as I plunged down and poked the turban into the water, only the top of the artificial fruit protruding near the spot where the gunnysack had disappeared.

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The boat came around a clump of reeds.

I eased the turban to the surface.

The woman leaned over the side. “Pa, it looks like a bunch of bananas.”

He rowed with vigor, and the boat moved nearer.

“Hold up,” she cried. “I can get it.” She bent perilously far out, reaching.

I gave the turban a little push and it came easily into her hands.

Her weathered face softened. “Why, it’s the prettiest thing I ever did see. I’ll dry it out and it’ll be good as new.” He frowned. “How’d that get out here, Effie?” Effie didn’t know or care. She carefully laid her treasure on the bottom of the boat. “Some old crow got it and decided it wasn’t no use to him and dropped it down just for me, Pa.” He grunted and swung the boat around, heading back for the dock. He gave a final questioning look over his shoulder.

I shook the icy lake water from my fingers. I didn’t bother to look about. Not that I would have seen Wiggins. I knew he was near. I wished I wasn’t picturing him glowering, with arms folded.

“Precepts Three, Four, and Six flouted.” His voice was gruff.

Did I hear the faraway whistle of the Rescue Express, dispatched to retrieve an errant emissary?

Silence.

Had Wiggins left? Or was he affording me quiet time in which I might ponder working behind the scenes without making my presence known, becoming visible only when absolutely essential, and refraining from alarming earthly creatures? Or, in the case of Detective Sergeant Price, attracting them.

A rumble sounded near enough that I cringed.

“Unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate.” A heavy sigh. “However, though I am loath to endorse the concept of the ends justifying the 134

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means, it would be equally reprehensible to refuse to admit that sometimes desperate measures may be demanded.” That was good enough for me. “Thank you, Wiggins. I knew you’d be pleased.”

“However, it appears”—a pause—“an unfortunate choice of words.” His displeasure was evident. “It is clear,” he rumbled, “that you are far too attractive.”

“Oh, Wiggins.” If I could have seen him, I would have flashed him a wink. “Men like women. Women like men. Don’t you remember?”

Suddenly a deep burst of laughter erupted nearby. “Oh, I remember. I certainly remember. But”—he was once again stern—“it is simply a reminder that you really must not appear, Bailey Ruth.”

“I’ll do my best.” That might be ambiguous, but I meant it well.

“Now I hate to hurry away, but I simply must deal with the gun.“ If a shout followed me, I honestly didn’t hear it.

St. Mildred’s brimmed with activity. I stood on the rectory roof and nudged the lumpy head cover with the toe of my shoe. Any of the women scurrying into or out of the church could easily have tucked a gun in a purse and marched into the cemetery without anyone paying any attention.

I had made every effort to honor the Precepts despite Wiggins’s perception of chaos. I pushed away the memory of my interlude with the very appealing detective sergeant and the tussle with the gunnysack above the lake. Did I dare appear again in another guise to take the gun to the cemetery? Time was wasting. That gun needed to be placed where the police could find it. It seemed amazing that I’d begun the morning with that intent, and here it was, almost noon, and the gun remained atop the rectory.

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Moreover, I was hungry. I felt buffeted from my morning, my encounters with Wiggins, the shock of that anonymous call implicating Kathleen, my scramble to warn her before the chief caught her by surprise, my last-second heroics to snatch the nightgown from the cleaning lady, my samba-energized cleaning of the porch, and the challenges of dispatching the tarp. Nonetheless, I was determined to dispose of the gun before pausing for lunch.

My gaze skimmed the parking lot and the backyard. Three women, chattering cheerfully, were walking toward the church, their backs to me. Just below me, the Halloween decorations were much less ominous in bright sunshine than they’d been on my arrival last night, although it seemed to me that the huge spider’s reddish eyes had an eerie glow and the bat was amazingly lifelike.

In an instant I was hovering beside the bat. The papier-mâché creature wasn’t the almost cuddly, small furry creature I associated with barn lofts. This bat had a good six-inch wingspan. It was definitely big enough. I loosened the wires that held it to a dangling rope. With a quick glance around, I tossed the rope up around the tree limb.

With my help, the bat flapped its wings and rose to the roof. I doubted my bat was particularly batlike, but it would serve well enough. I took the gun out of the head cover, placed it on the back of the bat, where it was hidden from view below. Wiggins would applaud the ingenuity that made it unnecessary for me to appear at this moment.

The bat and gun and I sailed into the cemetery without incident.

I went directly to the mausoleum, which was included within the yellow tape erected by the police to proclaim a crime scene. A moment later, the gun was tucked between Hannah Pritchard’s tomb and the interior wall.

Sunlight spilled into the mausoleum. I wafted to the greyhound, smoothed the top of his head, would have sworn I heard a throaty yip, felt the warmth of skin. At Hannah’s tomb, I stroked the cat whiskers.

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I definitely felt lucky. Now all I needed to do was make an anonymous call to the police, inform them that the gun that had been used to shoot Daryl Murdoch was hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum.

My face furrowed in a frown. Making phone calls was definitely more challenging now than it had been when I’d lived in Adelaide.

Obviously, there were means of tracing where calls originated. I needed a telephone that wasn’t linked to the rectory or the church.

I was stymied for a moment. I didn’t have time to zoom around Adelaide seeking a telephone. I needed a place where there were plenty of telephones and possibly one I could use without notice.

The library.

The solution came so swiftly I knew it was meant to be. Bobby Mac’s sister Julianna had been a librarian for thirty years. Her passion was Latin. Julianna’s thrill upon arriving in Heaven was meeting the poet Horace. As she had murmured to me: Sic itur ad astra.

As always, she kindly translated: “Thus one goes to the stars,” or more eloquently, “Such is the way to immortality.” I smiled and murmured Julianna’s favorite from Horace: Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero! It was my credo at this moment.

I definitely intended to seize this hour and not trust some later day.

I was puzzled for a moment when I found myself in a rotunda with the state flag of Oklahoma in a bright mosaic on the floor. This wasn’t the old red-brick Carnegie library on Second Street, but I approved of the lovely new building, nonetheless.

Three witches huddled around a cauldron. Bunches of red tissue simulated a bed of burning coals. Twists of silver tissue poked upward from the cauldron as coils of steam. To one side, a witch with a beaked nose held a decorated placard announcing: story time for little spooks 10 a.m. saturday. On the other side, a witch with bright red eyes held another sign: friends’ monster slime dinner 7

p.m. friday, come as you aren’t!

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black web that stretched over the door to the reading room. I stepped inside and a plastic skeleton extended a hand as a sepulchral voice intoned, “Welcome to thrills and chills.” Books filled rows of metal shelving, but a goodly portion of the near room was filled with the television-like machines. Patrons hunched at the keyboards. Colorful images flashed on the screens.

I looked covetously at the telephone on the main information desk. However, it was far too public for me to use. I wafted upstairs in a flash and through a locked door marked staff.

A narrow hallway led past four cubicles separated by partitions.

Puffy paper pumpkins hung from the ceiling. Each cubicle held a desk and a chair with one of those machines with a keyboard and screen. Three were occupied. Telephones rang, chairs squeaked, voices rose in a hum.

I slipped into the unoccupied cubicle. The in-box held a green skull that glowed with phosphorescent paint. I admired the studio portrait of a little girl about seven. The desktop was neat, papers stacked, pens at the ready. I opened drawers until I found a directory.

The first time I dialed, I got an automatic recording: “Dial nine for outside calls.” I started over.

The call was answered on the second ring. “Adelaide Police.” I spoke softly. “I have information about the murder of Daryl—”

”Excuse me, ma’am. You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.” I gripped the receiver, tried again. “I have information—”

”Louder, please.”

This time I spoke loud and fast. “The gun used to shoot Daryl Murdoch is hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum at the cemetery.” A chair on the other side of the partition squeaked. A round face framed by spiky black curls appeared over the edge of the partition.

“Hey, Callie, what’s—”

No more words came. A look of eager curiosity was replaced by the beginnings of a puzzled frown. “Callie?” She looked up and 138

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down, seeking what evidently wasn’t there. “How come the phone’s up in the air?”

“Let me connect you . . .” I slammed the phone into the receiver.

Abruptly the face disappeared. Feet thudded as the questioner bounded out into the aisle. She moved to the cubicle’s entryway, peering inside. “Callie, where are you?” She looked up and down the aisle. “Where did you go?”

The phone on the desk rang.

As I zoomed out of her way, I knocked against the skull. It rolled from the in-box and bounced on the desk.

The puzzled librarian clutched at the partition.

The phone continued to peal.

Reluctantly, the librarian edged into the cubicle. Leaning away from the shiny skull, she yanked up the receiver. “Adelaide Library.” Her voice was uneven, breathless. “How may I help you?” She warily watched the skull.

“Yeah. I heard part of it.” She twined the cord around one finger.

“No. It wasn’t me. I don’t know who called you. I mean, I heard it, but nobody’s here.” Her face folded in a frown. “I don’t know a thing about a gun. Well, sure, send somebody over if you want to. But I can tell you now that nobody here knows a thing. And there’s this skull that bounced . . .”

Kathleen spread mustard on thick slices of homemade white bread.

She added lettuce, bread-and-butter pickles, and ham. I counted three sandwiches on the stoneware platter. One for me, possibly? She lifted a bowl of potato salad from the refrigerator.

I always like to help my hostess. “Would you like for me to set the table?”

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She turned again. “Bill and me. But—” She glanced out the back window. “If you’re hungry, I suppose you could eat first.” It wasn’t the most gracious invitation I’d ever received, but it would do.

I opened the cabinet, picked out three plates, each in a different color, one of the charms of Fiesta pottery. I selected azure blue for Bill, pine green for Kathleen, sandstone red for me.

As I placed them on the table, she glanced through the window into the backyard and the path from the church, then demanded anxiously, “What about the nightgown?”

”Not a trace remains.” I didn’t think it was necessary to explain that the gown’s destruction had been a near thing.

She leaned against the counter, holding the potato salad. “Thank you, Bailey Ruth.”

“My pleasure.” I took the bowl from her, carried it to the table, then lifted the platter of sandwiches.

Kathleen watched its progress through the air. “What frightens me is that I’m beginning to think that platters and bowls traveling through the air untouched by human hand is normal.” I would have been insulted, but she was stressed. I didn’t bother to answer. It took only a moment more to add silverware and napkins.

She delved again into the refrigerator, added a plate of deviled eggs bright with a dash of paprika, and cut celery stalks stuffed with pimiento cheese.

I pulled out my chair. “Since Father Bill’s coming, you don’t mind if I start?” I took a sandwich, scooped up a generous amount of potato salad, plucked a deviled egg and stalk of stuffed celery. The ham was delicious, the bread fresh and yeasty. The potato salad was my favorite, made with mustard, not drenched in mayonnaise. I murmured grace and lifted my sandwich.

“He’s supposed to be here at noon.” She sounded weary. She plunked ice cubes into glasses, brought them and a pitcher of iced tea.

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I knew I was home in Oklahoma, where iced tea is the drink of choice year-round.

“Who knows if he’ll come? Bill never does.” She poured tea for us. “Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.”

I wondered if she realized how forlorn she sounded.

Soon enough it would be time for me to demand information from Kathleen, but as my mama always insisted, “Mealtime is a time for happy faces.” Deferring to the Precepts, I couldn’t offer a smiling face to Kathleen, but I could focus on happy matters. “Will you help out at Bayroo’s Halloween party this afternoon?” Kathleen’s smile was immediate. “It’s going to be so much fun. I baked meringue in the shape of hearts and made an X on them with red licorice for ‘ X marks the spot.’ And . . .” I listened and murmured and smiled as she described the party plans. I forced myself to eat sedately, though, truth to tell, I was ravenous from my morning’s exertions and could have devoured two sandwiches in the time I spent daintily consuming one. “Bayroo says she always wears a pirate costume.”

Kathleen laughed. “With a gold eye patch, not a black one. Bayroo says her pirate is stylish.”

We were absorbed in lunch and conversation. The sudden opening of the back door shocked us to silence. Kathleen looked in panic at my plate, with its obvious remnants of a meal at a place where no one sat.

I didn’t hesitate, stealthily moving the plate and glass below the surface of the table. I put them on the floor, then reached up to grab the silverware and napkin, and dropped down again. However, a meal service is not a normal feature of a kitchen floor. I looked swiftly about. There was a space between the refrigerator and the counter. The area between wasn’t visible from the table.

Two black-trousered legs stood between me and my goal.

“Kathleen.” Father Bill’s voice was grim.

I shot up to look.

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A bleak frown combined with his clerical collar and dark suit made Kathleen’s husband appear somber. He stopped, hands clenched at his sides. He should have been handsome, his shock of sandy hair cut short to disguise a tendency to curl, deep-set dark blue eyes, straight nose, stalwart chin with a cleft. Instead he looked haggard and worried.

“Bill?” Kathleen took a step toward him. “What’s wrong?” He took a deep breath. “The police chief came to see me. He told me you went to Daryl Murdoch’s cabin Wednesday night.” Father Bill jammed his hands into his jacket pockets.

Kathleen stood as if her bones had turned to stone.

Father Bill tried to smile. “That was some story you came up with.

I know he didn’t plan a gift for Mamie. He wanted me to fire her.

But I told the chief surprises were right up Daryl’s alley. That was certainly true. And the uglier the better.” He looked even grimmer.

“I know what happened. You went because of me, didn’t you? Daryl said he had to talk to you about me.” Father Bill seemed to have no awareness of his surroundings. Now was the moment. Hovering just above the floor, I moved behind him with my plate and napkin and silverware. There was barely room to squeeze past.

Kathleen’s eyes widened. Her gaze followed the table service moving a few inches above the floor. She looked stricken.

Father Bill’s face softened. “That’s what I thought.” He moved toward her in a rush, pulled her into his arms, looked down into her face. “You shouldn’t have gone there. Did he try to get you to tell him? What did you say?”

I reached the refrigerator.

Kathleen gave him a quick look, then her eyes veered down, drawn as if by a magnet to the retreating table setting.

I tucked everything out of sight.

She closed her eyes in relief.

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“Kathleen.” His voice was suddenly soft. “Don’t be upset. You’re wonderful.” He gently took her chin, lifted her face. Her eyes opened and their gazes met. “It must have been horrible for you, the police chief demanding to know what you talked about and you trying to protect me. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Sorry about everything. But you’re my wonderful brave girl, going to that cabin, staring him down. It was just like Daryl”—his voice was hard—“to try and pry information out of you.”

“He was awful.” Kathleen’s eyes were dark with memory. “But I didn’t say anything about you.”

He loosed his grip, began to pace. “Of course not. I wouldn’t tell you anything about—well, that’s the problem, I can’t tell anyone.

That makes me suspect number one to the police.” Kathleen’s hand clutched at her throat. “You? Bill, I don’t understand.”

He faced her. “It’s simple enough. Daryl and I had a shouting match yesterday morning. Somebody must have heard and told the police. The chief wants to know what happened and why. I can’t tell him. I don’t know what Daryl may have said to anyone else on the vestry. If Daryl hinted at financial laxity, well, I may not be rector here much longer. An audit will show everything’s absolutely as it should be, but if that kind of suspicion is raised, I’m done for. Everybody will think I was going to do something illegal and Daryl called my hand. If anyone has to be above suspicion, it’s a priest.” Kathleen was distraught. “No one can ever say that about you. You’re the most honest man in the world, the most honorable, the kindest, the best.” If she’d had a sword, she would have brandished it.

Suddenly Bill’s face re-formed, alight with laughter. “That’s my girl.”

She was distraught. “It’s crazy for them to suspect you.” He forced a smile. “Don’t worry. Things usually come right. And if they don’t, we’ll have done our best. Now”—he was brisk—“can 143

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you pack up some of that nice lunch for me? I’m late getting out to the Carson ranch. Juanita’s having a bad day.” Kathleen shivered. “There can’t be anything worse than losing a child. Tell her I put a flower on Josie’s grave yesterday.” It took her only a moment to put together a lunch, fill a thermos with coffee.

Bill took the brown bag, bent, kissed her lightly on the lips, but Kathleen held tight, kissed him with a desperate intensity.

Slowly they moved apart. He reached out to touch her cheek. “It’s okay, honey.” But when he reached the door, he looked back. “I hate it that you had to lie for me. If the chief comes back to you, tell him the truth, Daryl inveigled you to go to the cabin so he could quiz you about me, but you didn’t know a thing. And you don’t. Because”—

his frown was ferocious—“I didn’t like some of the chief ’s questions.

He seemed to think you and Daryl . . . Well, I set him straight there.

I told him you didn’t even like the man, and much more to the point, you’re my wife and you would never dishonor your vows.” Suddenly he was serious again. “I love you, Kathleen.”

“Oh, Bill.” She was in his arms. They clung to each other. Their lips met in a passionate kiss.

I left. Some moments are not meant to be shared.

When Father Bill came outside, striding toward his car, I returned to the kitchen.

Tears were streaming down Kathleen’s face. She stumbled to the table, sank into a chair, sobbing.

I brought a box of tissues, placed it at her elbow.

“. . . feel so awful . . . what would he think if he knew . . . and I went to Raoul’s apartment . . . oh, Bill . . . I’ve got to tell him the truth . . .”

I poked her in the shoulder. “Do you want the chief to arrest him?”

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“It could.” I hated to make her day harder, but it was time to face facts. “The chief is already suspicious of Bill. If you suddenly tell the truth about your visit to Daryl, the red nightgown’s enough to convince the chief that Bill had plenty of reason to shoot Daryl. Don’t change your story.” I handed her some tissues. I retrieved my plate and table setting from their hiding place, settled back at the table.

She swiped at her face. “What if the chief finds out Daryl wanted to fire Mamie? Somebody will know. Somebody,” she said bitterly,

“always knows in Adelaide.”

That was small-town truth baldly stated. Someone always knew.

“That’s news to you. All you can report is what Daryl said, so he must have changed his mind.” I was sorry Kathleen had lost her appetite. Stress seemed to increase mine. I enjoyed every mouthful.

Kathleen clasped her hands. “All right. We talked about a present for Mamie. She loves to eat at fancy restaurants. I said I was going up to Oklahoma City next week to shop and I could pick up a gift certificate at Mantel’s. She adores Bricktown.” I bustled to the sink with our plates. This time Kathleen didn’t even complain about the airborne dishes. “Good. Now”—my crisp tone was a call to order—“it’s time to talk turkey.” 145

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If possible, Kathleen looked even more stricken. “You’re going to be here for Thanksgiving?”

Clearly I was not affording her comfort during a difficult time. It’s lonely work to save someone who views you as just one more problem. I resisted the temptation to share my favorite turkey recipe.

Instead I took pity on her obvious despair. “I expect to finish my task before then. That, of course, depends upon you.”

“Me? What can I do?” She wadded damp tissues into a ball.

“Provide information no one else possesses.” I’d never spoken truer words.

Her look of astonishment was genuine.

“Kathleen.” I was patient. “An anonymous caller informed the police that you were at Daryl’s cabin Wednesday night and”—here I spaced my words for emphasis—“you were holding . . . a . . . red . . .

nightgown.”

She waited without a flicker of comprehension.

“What does that tell us?” I remembered my long-ago teaching days and Moby-Dick and the student who couldn’t see why everybody made such a big fuss about a whale.

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Her face crinkled with effort. “Daryl told someone?”

“Very unlikely.” I hadn’t known Daryl Murdoch, but nothing I’d learned about him suggested a man who would reveal an episode that made him look foolish and, possibly worse, ridiculous.

She nibbled at her lower lip, knowing the answer, reluctant to voice a chilling truth. “Someone saw me open that box.” Her eyes rounded in scared realization. “Someone was watching through a window.”

“Try to remember everything about the cabin and the woods around it. When you arrived, it was getting dark. Did you see another car?”

“No.” She was definite. “There was only one car, Daryl’s silver Lincoln. Lights were on in the cabin. I could see inside, so the blinds weren’t closed. Anybody could have seen us.”

“The cabin is off the road. You didn’t see another car. Yet someone watched through a window.” I considered why a stealthy approach, which had included hiding either a car or bicycle, might have been made to that cabin. “I think your arrival gave Daryl one more day to live.”

“One more day to live?” Her voice was faint.

“A visitor with innocent intent doesn’t lurk outside and spy. The murderer stood there, gun in hand. When you opened the gift and quarreled with Daryl, the plan changed. Instead of shooting Daryl there and then, the decision was made to lure him to the rectory. The murderer’s plan was for his body to be found on your back porch and your fingerprints in his cabin. Part of the gift box survived the fire until I burned every scrap. You would have been suspect number one.” Kathleen’s eyes were huge. “That means the murderer knows me.

Bailey Ruth, what am I going to do?”

I wafted up and retrieved the notepad from the top of the china cabinet.

Kathleen was too dazed to object to the airborne notebook and pen.

I sat down opposite her. “You won’t be safe—and Father Bill won’t be safe—until Chief Cobb solves the crime.” 147

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Kathleen frowned. “No one could honestly suspect Bill.” I looked at Kathleen’s tear-streaked face. Was she too fragile to take any more shocks? Or could she be tough? “My dear.” I spoke gently. “Father Bill may end up as the prime suspect. He and Daryl quarreled Thursday morning. Daryl was shot Thursday afternoon on the back porch of the rectory—”

Kathleen gripped the edge of the table. “No one knows that.”

“The murderer does, and Chief Cobb has his suspicions.” I described the cat-fur-laden dust balls on Daryl’s suit jacket and the chief’s plan to get a search warrant. “. . . but I’ve swept up the porch and gotten rid of the tarp.”

Kathleen looked down as Spoofer strolled across the kitchen floor.

“That’s why the chief looked hard at Spoofer, isn’t it?” Abruptly, she sat up straighter in her chair. “I’ll tell the police about finding Daryl’s body.”

“Absolutely not.” I was firm. “That would only increase the chief ’s suspicions of Father Bill.”

A flush colored his cheeks. “There has to be something I can do.

It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t gone to Raoul’s apartment, Daryl wouldn’t have been murdered here.”

Kathleen was right, of course. Daryl would have been shot in his cabin as the murderer first intended. Mea culpas didn’t matter now.

She looked ready to jump up and rush out, wanting to do battle for her Bill.

“There’s a lot you can do.”

Her face was eager.

“Daryl’s cell phone.”

She sagged back in her chair. “I’m pretty sure it’s ruined, Bailey Ruth. Besides, I don’t see how finding it would help.”

“We don’t need to find it.” I was impatient. “Look at it, Kathleen.

Why did he save your picture?”

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look at my picture and say there was a motive for his murder. So maybe the other pictures—”

I patted her hand. “Exactly.” I flipped open the notebook. “Let’s take the photos in order. Why would Daryl keep a picture of Georgia Hamilton’s signature?” I’d scarcely had a glimpse before Kathleen erased it. “Do you have any idea what kind of document it was?” Kathleen looked thoughtful. “A contract of some kind. The thing that sticks in my mind is that the date wasn’t recent and I wondered why he’d have a picture of it now.”

A legal document? “Who was her lawyer?”

“Bob Shelton. Shelton, Shelton, and Shelton. He’s the middle one.

But there can’t be anything there. Bob was the best senior warden we ever had, and he’s honest to the core.” I wrote down Bob Shelton. “If he’s an honest man, he’ll be glad to help us.”

I felt we were making progress. “Who is the blond man?”

“Walter Carey.” Kathleen brushed back a tangle of dark hair, her gaze intent. “His wife’s in my bridge group. Harriet’s a sweetheart.

Things have been tough for them lately. She’s gone back to work and I know she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.” I didn’t have to tell Kathleen how disturbing that photo had been. If ever a man looked defeated, it was Walter Carey. “We’ll hope he turns out to be innocent, for his family’s sake, but we have to find out why Daryl took that picture. If you know why, you must tell me.”

“Nobody knows exactly what happened, but Walter and Daryl quarreled. No one knows why. Maybe Walter wasn’t bringing in enough money. He hasn’t looked prosperous for a couple of years, while Daryl’s cars got fancier and his clothes more expensive. The partnership broke up a week or so ago. Walter’s opened an office in a seedy little strip shopping center on the edge of town.” She looked in my direction. “There could be something there, Bailey Ruth. I heard 149

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Daryl kept all the clients.” She stopped, looked surprised. “Georgia Hamilton was one of Daryl’s clients.” And Daryl carried a picture of a contract with her signature in his cell phone.

Kathleen sniffed. “Georgia thought Daryl hung the moon. I guess maybe he was pretty good at what he did.” She shrugged. “But Georgia was Daryl’s client, not Walter’s. I guess that wouldn’t have anything to do with Walter. Anyway, about Walter, people have been gossiping—” In a small town, gossip is the second favorite sport after football.

“—and some of them say there has to be something wrong with Walter and maybe he’s been drinking too much. That may be true.

He had way too much to drink last week at a party at the country club. Harriet’s upset. She said Daryl didn’t have to be so insulting.”

“Insulting?” There can be bad feelings when a partnership breaks up, but what would be insulting?

Kathleen looked grim. “Daryl had the locks changed at the office. All of them, interior and exterior. They said Daryl had Butler’s Locksmiths there the same day Walter moved his things out. And that’s . . .” I wasn’t listening. Images popped in my kind: Walter’s despair, a locksmith at work, Chief Cobb surveying Daryl’s trashed den. I slapped shut the notebook. “Got to go. Hope I’m not too late.” I heard Kathleen’s startled cry, was almost away, then whipped back to the table to zoom the notebook and pen to their hiding place.

I called down, “Remember, don’t change your story. Stay calm. And stay away from the people who were pictured in his phone.” It could be dangerous for Kathleen to nose around. “Now I’m off. Back soon.” Daryl Murdoch’s secretary replaced the telephone receiver with a bang and swiveled to her machine. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and words appeared on the screen. She had short, crisp white hair, a long face, lips that pursed as she thought, and a decisive air.

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The phone rang. She picked up the receiver with a grim frown.

“Murdoch and—Murdoch Investments, Patricia Haskins speaking . . .

Oh, thanks, Wanda.” Her voice and face softened. “I’ve already had my coffee break. I’m staying in the office.” She listened, then glanced at the clock.

It was ten minutes after two.

“I intend to put in a full day.” Her tone was prim. “Mr. Murdoch left quite a bit of work for me to update. I was here at eight o’clock as usual and I’ll leave at five. I want everything to be in good order for Mr. Murdoch’s clients. I’ve made progress, but”—and now she sounded huffy—“it would be easier if the phone didn’t keep ringing.

Oh no, not you, Wanda. I’ve had a bunch of calls, the press and the police and some people who don’t have any manners and think I’ll tell them things I don’t even know about when it’s not my place to talk about Mr. Murdoch. Worst of all, during the lunch hour, there were five calls where someone hung up when I answered. I don’t know what the world is coming to. The caller ID said ‘Unknown.’

Unknown and Unwanted.” She sniffed in disgust.

As I wafted through the closed door behind her desk, I made a special note of her name: Patricia Haskins. Hired to do a job, she intended to do it whether anyone knew or not. She could as easily have painted her nails or closed the office early for a long and leisurely lunch.

I suspected that her old-fashioned sense of duty had spared this office a thorough ransacking. Unless I was very much mistaken, the lunch-hour calls had been made to determine whether the office was empty.

I left the secretary at work and sped through a closed door into Daryl’s elegant and surprising office. Nothing was out of place. I felt a whoosh of relief. I had arrived before Walter Carey with the keys I suspected that he’d stolen from Daryl’s desk this morning. I felt certain Daryl’s study must have contained an extra set of keys to the office.

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I’d tell Bobby Mac all about Daryl’s office, red leather sofas, a rich burgundy desk, each wall a different shade of red, from carmine to rose to crimson to a purplish hue. The ridged and serviceable carpet was brilliant fire-engine red. A blue seascape above the faux fireplace was a striking contrast. The office was different, dramatic, and undoubtedly expensive.

The desktop was clear except for two folders. The in-box held several papers. The out-box was empty. A row of red lacquered wooden filing cabinets sat against an interior wall.

I started with the files, opening the cabinet marked g–i. I flipped past Grindstaff, Grimsley, Gunderson . . . I skipped faster. Hadley, Hall, Hasty . . . I backed up. Ah, here it was: Georgia Hamilton.

I plucked the file from the cabinet, settled into the luxurious comfort of the red leather sofa.

My eyes widened as I read the neat printing on the outside of an envelope appended to some kind of legal document: Enclosed within is Walter Carey’s admission of guilt in obtaining Georgia Hamilton’s signature to the sale of mineral rights to the Hamilton ranch with the intention of skimming a portion of income.

The simple sentence was followed by a legal description of the property. I opened the envelope, slipped out a piece of white stationery. This, too, was handwritten.

On April 16, 2005, knowing that Daryl Murdoch was out of town, I took a mineral deed to Georgia Hamilton and told her I was there on Daryl’s behalf. I told her the mineral deed was an oil-and-gas lease covering the mineral rights to Hamilton ranch for a one-eighth royalty. Actually, it was a deed by which she sold all of the mineral rights to Horizon Development Corporation.

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I knew she was unable to read the contract because of macular degeneration. As the agent for Horizon Development, I leased the rights to Monarch Drilling for a three-sixteenths royalty. I kept half the bonus money that Monarch paid up front for the lease, and sent half to Mrs. Hamilton. When royalty income came in, I sent her a portion. I created fake royalty reports which I mailed to Mrs. Hamilton in an envelope with the letterhead of Murdoch and Carey.

Walter Carey

A second sheet contained the brusque notation: All mineral rights held by Horizon Development to the Hamilton Ranch reverted to Georgia Hamilton on October 18, 2007.

Walter Carey

Authorized Agent Horizon Development My eyebrows rose. Not at the confession. I knew there had been chicanery and any Oklahoman knows that mineral rights can spell big money if the land overlies an oil-and-gas deposit.

The dates shocked me.

I was on the earth in the twenty-first century, quite a long time after Bobby Mac and I started out on our last big fishing trip. My, how time had flown, but of course there is no time in Heaven. In the everlasting communion of all souls and all saints, I enjoyed the presence of souls from all ages without the limitations of the temporal world. Still, the twenty-first century . . .

No wonder so many inventions were unfamiliar.

I wondered how Daryl had discovered his partner’s double-dealing.

Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton spoke to him of the oil-and-gas lease she thought she’d signed. Daryl knew he hadn’t arranged for either the 153

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lease or sale of the mineral rights. It probably didn’t take him long to discover the truth about Horizon Development, resulting in a confrontation with Walter and that cell-phone photo of a man in despair.

I returned the confession and the rights reversion to the envelope, but I didn’t clip it to the document. I closed the folder, placed it in the g–i drawer. I still held the envelope.

A check of the windows revealed that they were solidly implanted within their frames. I couldn’t raise a window, loosen a screen, and tuck the envelope there for later retrieval. The windows, walls, and door afforded no difficulty for my passage, but the envelope simply couldn’t—

Patricia’s brisk voice caught me by surprise.

I looked toward the door. It was opening. “. . . no one’s been here, Chief Cobb, but I’m happy to show you.” The envelope dangled in the air. I dropped to the floor, the envelope darting down. I slid the envelope beneath the edge of an Oriental rug atop the red carpet.

“. . . told Mrs. Murdoch I would check the office to make sure everything was all right.”

Patricia Haskins drew herself up. “Is there any reason why the office should not be in good order?”

Chief Cobb was quick to reassure her. “Mrs. Murdoch said you would have everything well in hand, but there was an unauthorized entry at the home this morning and I wanted to be certain nothing had been disturbed here.” He scanned the office. His face gave no hint of his attitude toward the bordello-red room.

“Oh.” The secretary drew in a quick breath. “My goodness, that’s shocking. No, everything’s as it should be.” She looked about the room with pride.

Chief Cobb walked around the desk, looked down at the folders.

He gestured toward them. “Is there any particular reason why these two folders are out?”

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“He was scheduled to meet with these clients today.” She opened the first folder. “Mr. Murdoch had drawn up a list of underperform-ing stocks with a recommendation to sell in order to offset capital-gains taxes.” She flipped open the second. “Mrs. Flint was a new client. Here’s the financial plan he’d worked out.” She sighed. “I suppose I might as well put them up.”

I stared at Chief Cobb’s right foot. The tip of his black shoe was perhaps an inch from the edge of the rug.

If I eased out one end of the envelope, then tapped on his shoe, he would look down, see the end of the envelope protruding. The chief would pick it up and Walter Carey would be exposed as a crook.

I touched the fringe on the rug.

“. . . any change in his demeanor in recent days, Mrs. Haskins? I know you are very perceptive and possibly you can help us more than anyone else to determine Mr. Murdoch’s state of mind.” The chief’s tone was warm and admiring. Obviously, he wasn’t above using flat-tery to encourage confidences.

Mrs. Haskins preened. “Well, when you put it like that. But”—

she looked disappointed—“I’m afraid Mr. Murdoch was just as he always was. In fact, he’d seemed in a very good humor recently.” That didn’t raise my general opinion of Daryl, considering his activities.

Mrs. Haskins brightened. “The only thing—” I scooted my fingers beneath the rug.

“—a little out of the ordinary was last night. Right after work.

Oh.” She clapped a hand to her lips, but her eyes were excited. “I suppose he died not long after he left here. Do you suppose . . . I hope not . . . but I saw his son.” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “Kirby’s been a real trial to Mr. Murdoch, taking up with a girl the family didn’t care for. I was getting into my car when Kirby drove into the parking lot, his tires screeching. Mr. Murdoch was turning left into the street. That lady policewoman stopped him. Left turns are 155

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prohibited there. It’s the middle of the block, you see, and they’ve had so many accidents there.”

Chief Cobb looked impatient. “Mr. Murdoch started to turn left?”

“He pulled out and the police car came up behind him. The officer got out and talked to him for a minute, then she went off. I suppose she warned him. Anyway, he turned right. Now that I think of it, his son’s car came out and turned right, too.” Her eyes were huge.

“Do you suppose . . .”

Chief Cobb was bland. “That may turn out to be helpful. Perhaps his son can give us some idea of the direction his father took. Did you know where Mr. Murdoch was going?”

”Why, yes.” She was the all-knowing, competent secretary. “He had a meeting set up at St. Mildred’s.” She frowned. “He was found in the church by the cemetery, wasn’t he? I wonder why he went there?”

“We don’t know that he did.” The chief’s tone was judicious.

Clearly, Chief Cobb wanted to know why dust balls with cat fur had been found on Daryl’s suit coat. The chief gave the secretary an encouraging look. “It’s helpful to know he intended to go to the church. Would anyone else have known?” Some knowledge flickered in the secretary’s eyes, but her face was smooth and bland as she spoke. “I suppose that’s possible.” Not only possible, but, I was sure, quite certain. Her indirect answer was truthful as far as it went. I wished I could tug on Chief Cobb’s sleeve, remind him that truth isn’t always complete, but he was glancing at his watch, moving toward the door.

I slid my hand away from the rug. Walter’s confession was safe enough where I’d put it. I have no sympathy for swindlers, but I should afford Walter Carey a chance to explain his actions. If I was not very much mistaken, Walter would slip into this office tonight with his stolen keys.

I intended to be here.

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. . . .

The cuckoo clock warbled two-thirty. I stood in the middle of the rectory kitchen, hands on my hips. I hadn’t asked Kathleen to await my return and, to be reasonable, she had no idea how long I would be gone, but I couldn’t help feeling thwarted. I felt some urgency in deciding whether the individuals pictured or recorded on Daryl’s cell phone should be revealed to Chief Cobb.

I retrieved my notebook and jotted down the information about Walter Carey and the Hamilton ranch mineral rights. I felt calmer.

After all, I now knew everything but the identities of the Altar Guild member who had stolen from the collection plate and the woman who had begged Daryl to call her.

“A church member . . .” I popped to my feet, opened drawers near the telephone, found the church pictorial directory. In a moment I had the Altar Guild member’s name: Irene Chatham. Perhaps it was just as well that Kathleen wasn’t here. She would have been reluctant to tell me. I added Irene Chatham’s name to my list.

I still faced the challenge of identifying the woman with the desperate voice. But just as someone saw Kathleen enter the young professor’s apartment and repeated that information, I was confident that the Adelaide gossip mill knew all about Daryl’s extramarital adventures. All I had to do was find a source of information.

I pulled my chair nearer the table. I like making lists. It was time—

The back door banged open. Bayroo plunged into the kitchen.

“Hi.” Her voice was pleased.

I looked up with delight. It was lovely to feel warm and welcome and that’s how I felt every time Bayroo looked at me. And saw me.

Her wide grin was as warming as a hug. “I’ve had the swellest day ever. Is Mom here?” She shrugged out of her backpack, tossed it into a wicker rocking chair, pulled off her pink jacket, and tossed it on a rung of the coat tree. “I can’t wait to tell her about our party.” 157

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“She’s not home—”

Bayroo’s eager smile faded.

“—but why don’t you tell me?” It is lonely to come home to an empty house.

Her freckled face once again glowed. “Okay. I’m starving. Won’t you have a snack with me?”

“I’d love that.” I flipped my notebook shut.

She hesitated, then asked quickly, “I don’t know what to call you. I know you are my great-grandmother’s sister, so should I say great-aunt?”

I laughed. “That sounds like a very distant relative. Why don’t you call me Auntie Grand?”

“Auntie Grand.” She listened as she spoke, then flashed me a smile. “Yes. You are Auntie Grand.”

In a moment we had a feast on the table. Mugs with steaming-hot chocolate and graham crackers topped with melted chocolate and marshmallows.

Bayroo licked away a chocolate mustache. “We had a monster style show and everybody voted. My costume came in third. We had candied apples with black licorice stuck to the sides, dangling like jellyfish tentacles. “ She grinned and gave a mock shudder. “Mrs.

Gordon showed a vampire movie in social studies and told us all about Bram Stoker. It was the most fun day ever. But tomorrow will be even better!” She wiped a smear of marshmallow from her chin.

“The Spook Bash is going to be the most exciting party in the history of Adelaide. You remember how I told you last night that we met Travis Calhoun—”

When Bayroo had shared her news last night on the rectory back porch, I’d been much more attuned to the proximity of Lucinda to the exposed tip of Daryl Murdoch’s black leather shoe.

“—and he said he would come. Well, his aunt’s a teacher and she came by homeroom and told me Travis was really excited to be in-158

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vited. It’s all because I asked him and I was the one who saw him.

Lucinda was scared to stay in the preserve. She was a scaredy-cat and went to the other end of the block and watched his aunt’s house from Mrs. Berry’s yard and I had to come and tell her after I actually talked to him. I did it all by myself and we would never have been able to run into him, you know, like it was a real accident, if I hadn’t hidden behind the big cottonwood in the preserve and watched for him.” Bayroo’s eyes shone. A quick frown tugged at her eyebrows.

“You won’t tell Mom, will you?”

“Of course not.” I munched another bite. “It sounds exciting. Who is Travis Calhoun?”

Her sandy eyebrows shot up. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted.

“How could you not . . . Oh, sure. I guess you don’t watch a lot of TV

or go to the movies where you are. Anyway, he’s really famous.” She twined a strand of red-gold hair in her fingers. “Travis played Huck Finn on Broadway. He has freckles, too.” She gave an impish smile.

“Maybe that’s why he liked me. He made movies when he was a little kid and now he’s fifteen and he’s the star of Show Me the Way on TV.

Oh, you’d love his show. He got killed in a car wreck and now he’s an angel and he comes back and he helps kids who are getting in scrapes.”

I almost explained that in theological terms, Travis’s character was a ghost. Angels are supernatural creatures and messengers of God. But it didn’t really matter.

“My dad says he’s a ghost, not an angel, and I guess you know that.

But it is way cool and when the show starts he wears these big golden wings and I told Dad it’s dramatic license.” She nodded wisely.

Obviously, I didn’t need to worry about Bayroo’s religious instruction. Or her perception. “Where does he live?”

“In Hollywood.” She breathed the name in awe. “In Beverly Hills.

I saw a story about him in People. He lives in this big mansion that has a red-tiled roof and gardens and a swimming pool, of course. A 159

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chauffeur drives him to the studio in a Bentley.” She looked at me.

“That’s a really fancy car. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” A mansion in Beverly Hills. “What about his family?” Some of the sparkle left her eyes. “His mom died when he was little, like maybe four or five. He lives with his dad, who’s a big Hollywood director, and his stepmother. She’s a movie star. He usually comes here and stays with his aunt on holidays because his dad and stepmom have lots of places to go and things to do. This time he’s here for his birthday. I’ve already talked to the music teacher and she’s going to bring the sixth-grade chorus and we’re going to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him and I want to give him a special present.” Her face fell. “But what could I give somebody like Travis Calhoun?” I pointed at the oven. “Do you like to cook?” Bayroo nodded.

“I’ll bet no one ever makes him a homemade birthday cake.” Fancy cakes are fine, but nothing ever tastes as good as homemade.

“Why don’t you call his aunt’s house and ask him what his favorite cake is?”

She looked dubious. “That’s no big deal.”

“Try it and see.”

Bayroo looked deep into my eyes. I don’t know what she saw, perhaps a mother’s memory of a child’s face at a family birthday table. Each of mine had a favorite cake—lemon for Rob, burnt sugar for Dil.

Bayroo opened the directory, turned the pages until she found a number. She picked up the cordless telephone, shot me an anguished look.

I nodded firmly. “Courage.”

She punched numbers. “H’lo.” Her voice was high and quivery.

“This is Bayroo Abbott. I invited Travis to the Spook Bash and . . .

Hello. Hi, Travis.” She took a deep breath and the words tumbled out. “I’d like to bake a cake for your birthday and I wondered what your favorite is, you know, the kind of cake you like best, but maybe 160

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you’ve already—white? With chocolate icing. That’s my favorite, too. I make it from scratch, the icing, too. I’ll bring it to your aunt’s house in the morning but I can just leave it on the porch . . . Are you sure? That’d be great!” She hung up and whirled toward me. “He’s really excited.” Her voice was amazed. “I can take it over and he said maybe I’d come in and we’d have a piece together. Gosh, I’d better get to work. I’ll go up and print out my recipe.” Print out a recipe?

Bayroo dashed from the kitchen. I followed as she raced up the stairs.

She darted through the third door on the right. I scarcely had time to appreciate the fresh brightness of Bayroo’s room—one wall painted blue with a cresting white wave, bookcases crammed with books and hand-painted buffalo and sports trophies and dolls, and movie posters—when she thumped into a swivel chair and turned on a machine the twin of the one in the chief’s office and those at use in the library and in each of the library staff cubicles.

She turned it on and the screen glowed. I looked over her shoulder. “What is it and what does it have to do with a recipe?”

“What is what?” She was clicking and moving the oblong on the pad next to the keyboard.

I reached out and touched the screen. “This! I see them everywhere.”

“It’s a computer, Auntie Grand.”

“Computer.” Another new word for me. “How does it work?” Bayroo found what she sought, clicked again, and paper oozed from the machine on the floor.

By the time we reached the kitchen, Bayroo clutching the recipe and explaining computers, I was overborne with information about word processing (a fancy name for typing), e-mails, programs, print-ers, passwords, files, and mouses.

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confounded. The next time . . . Should I go there now? But I wasn’t ready to impart the information I’d gained from Daryl’s cell phone.

I had yet to talk to Irene Chatham. I sighed.

“. . . I use butter. It makes all the difference—” She broke off.

“What’s wrong, Auntie Grand?”

I managed a smile. Dear, empathetic Bayroo. I suppose I looked gloomier than the nature-preserve lake on a January day. “I have a problem, sweetie, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Go ahead with your baking.” I tapped my pen on my notebook. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t see any way to accomplish my task.

“Maybe I can help.” She came and stood by me, hands planted on her slender hips. “I know a lot about Adelaide. What do you need to know?”

I had no idea if she was aware of the senior warden’s demise. In any event, she was much too young to embroil, even peripherally, in a murder investigation. Certainly I couldn’t tell Bayroo why I needed to talk to people. But perhaps if I articulated my difficulty, a solution would occur to me.

I stood and gave her a hug. “You are a help just being my friend.

Let’s get everything out for your cake and I’ll explain.” She pulled up a kitchen chair next to a counter. “You sit here, Auntie Grand. I can do it all by myself. I told Travis I’d make it.” She bustled about the kitchen, retrieving a mixing bowl and measuring cups and spoons and cake tins. A moment later, she’d assembled her ingredients. She propped her recipe sheet on a stand.

I remembered my cooking days. I had a Betty Crocker cookbook that was dog-eared and stained. I settled on the chair. “I have some questions I need to ask some people.” She nodded and poured cake flour into the measuring cup.

“But”—I shook my head—“even if I could go and see them, they can’t see me. And even if they could”—after all, I could appear if it was essential—“I can’t see why they’d talk to me.” 162

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Bayroo looked thoughtful. “I can see you.”

“I know. Other people can’t.”

She cut butter into the flour-and-sugar mixture. “Way cool. But I thought you could do something special and actually be here.”

“Oh yes, indeed.” Much to Wiggins’s consternation. “I could be here if this were a big city. But in Adelaide, everyone would want to know about that redheaded stranger. You know how small towns are. If someone from the church saw me, they might walk down the corridor outside the parish hall and look at the paintings of the former directresses of the Altar Guild. That would never do.”

“Oh.” She was thoughtful. “I don’t think they’d recognize you.

You’re a lot younger now.” She said it easily, as if it made all the sense in the world. She shook her head, looked solemn. “But if anybody did recognize you, I guess, like Mom always says, the fat would be in the fire.”

Kathleen had learned that old saying from her grandmother, my sister, Kitty.

Bayroo waggled the mixing spoon at me. “I know what to do. You can’t be here as yourself, but you can be here as somebody else. You know, a disguise.”

“A disguise?” I pictured a trilby hat and oversize spectacles.

“Sure.” She stirred. “Like a nurse or secretary or census taker or social worker.”

It was an interesting suggestion, but Walter Carey, Irene Chatham, Isaac Franklin, Kirby Murdoch, Kirby’s girlfriend Lily, and the unknown woman wouldn’t be likely to answer questions from a stranger unless they thought I had official status.

Official status . . .

“Bayroo.” I sang her name. “You are brilliant. A disguise!” It was as if a door had opened. “Have fun with your cake. I’ll see you later.”

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Partitions separated six cubicles. Each held a computer. Voices rose and fell around us. Brisk footsteps and ringing telephones contributed to an atmosphere of intense activity.

Patrol Officer A. Leland’s desk took up half the space in her cubicle. She hunched in her chair, apparently oblivious to her surroundings, and stared at an open notebook, her expression empty.

I doubted her eyes saw the writing.

Today her honey-colored hair was drawn back in a bun. A few curls escaped to soften the severity of the style. If she loosened her hair, let it frame her narrow face, and added a bit more makeup, she would be pretty. Her eyes were deep blue, her features fine—wide-spaced eyes, straight nose, gently rounded chin.

The police uniform was flattering to her fair skin, the long-sleeved shirt French blue, the trousers French blue with a navy stripe down each leg. The shirt bore an Adelaide police patch on each shoulder and a metal name tag—a. leland—and badge over the left breast pocket. The leather shoes were black, as were the socks.

It had been a sacrifice to shed my elegant pantsuit, but I knew it was necessary. I envisioned my new outfit, found the shirt a bit scratchy. I G h o s t at Wo r k

needed a name for my tag. I couldn’t appear as Officer B. R. Raeburn.

Perhaps A. Great for Alexandra the Great? J. Arc for . . . No. That was not a happy ending and too presumptuous. N. Bly for Nellie Bly?

If Wiggins had seen fit to send me to France, that might have been an option. There had to be the perfect name, a woman I’d admired . . .

I smiled. I would be M. Loy. I’d always tuned in for her Nick and Nora Charles movies on TV, although it seemed to me that she spent most of her time holding Asta the terrier on her lap and watching as William Powell detected. But Myrna Loy had style and that was enough for me.

Patrol Officer M. Loy was now ready to embark on her investigation. I debated adding a holster for a gun, decided that wasn’t necessary. After all, I wouldn’t be passing in review to make sure I met department regulations. I simply needed to appear official to those whom I wished to question.

The phone on Officer Leland’s desk rang.

She picked up the receiver. “Officer Leland.” She listened, her shoulders tightening. “Yes, Chief.” A quick breath. “I stopped Mr.

Murdoch at shortly after five p.m. yesterday. He was making an illegal left turn onto Main Street. Since you’d spoken to me”—she cleared her throat—“I didn’t give him a ticket, just a warning.” She picked up a pencil, rolled it around and around in her fingers. “No, I didn’t follow him. He drove off, heading east. That’s all I know. Yes, sir.” She put down the receiver, looking drained.

She reached out to pick up a silver picture frame. She placed it on the edge of her desk, stared at the photograph of a young woman with soft brown hair, bright blue eyes, a devil-may-care smile, and a defiant tilt to her head. I saw a resemblance to Officer Leland, but she was a pallid version of the vibrant creature in the photograph.

Officer Leland’s face crumpled for an instant, her hands gripping the sides of the silver frame. Slowly her face changed, from grief to stern resolve. She grabbed up the receiver, held it for a long 165

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moment until a buzz sounded. She replaced the receiver, her hand resting on it, then, with a deep breath, yanked it up, dialed.

“Chief, may I see you for a moment? There’s something I have to tell you . . . Thank you.” When she pushed up from her chair, it seemed to take a great effort, slightly built as she was. She walked down the narrow corridor between the partition-separated cubicles.

Each foot might have been weighted with chains.

Whatever difficulty she faced, her problems were far afield from my tasks. I steeled myself against the sense that here, too, was someone in deep trouble. I couldn’t take on everyone’s problems. I was charged with aiding Kathleen and already I’d widened my concern to include Father Bill. I couldn’t add Officer Leland to my list.

She paused at the doorway, gripped the knob, and opened the door. She squared her shoulders and stepped into the hall as if marching to her doom.

It was time for me to depart. I was now equipped to find out whether I needed to bring to Chief Cobb’s attention any of those pictured or recorded on the dead man’s cell phone. That was my clear-cut objective. But that burdened young woman . . . All right.

I’d find out why she was upset, but I wouldn’t tarry long. I wafted to the chief ’s office.

Chief Cobb was standing by a long rectangular table. File folders were ranged around the perimeter. Each bore a large square white label. All pertained to the Murdoch investigation. Chief Cobb’s thick iron-gray brows knotted in a frown. Lines of fatigue creased his square face. He picked up a report.

I looked over his shoulder.

Persons of Interest:

Kirby Murdoch, son of victim. Estrangement over girlfriend.

Target practice on the river bottom Thursday afternoon. Cannot produce gun. Claims it was stolen from his car.

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The Rev. Wm. Abbott—Quarreled with victim Thursday morning, refuses to reveal cause. Was his wife involved with Murdoch?

Story of her visit to Murdoch’s cabin not credible.

Kathleen Abbott—A vestry member is worried that Mrs. Abbott is A brisk knock sounded.

He replaced the report on the table, turned.

Officer Leland stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She was pale, but composed.

“What can I do for you, Anita?” His voice was formal, but the look in his eyes startled me, a mixture of gravity and longing.

Anita stood stiff and still. She looked young and vulnerable. She didn’t meet his gaze.

Yet each was intensely aware of the other even though both were making every effort to pretend it wasn’t so. They were linked by that magic sensitivity that spells desire and uncertainty and hope.

She moved to the end of the table, stood with her hands in tight fists.

“I may have information that could be important in the Murdoch case.” He frowned. “You followed him yesterday?”

“Oh no.” The denial was swift. “It isn’t that. It’s . . . I have to go back a long way to explain. You remember two years ago when you came out to my brother-in-law’s farm, the night he shot himself.”

“I remember.” His steady gaze was filled with pity.

“You were kind.” Her eyes mourned. “You tried to help us. Then, when Vee ran away, you did your best to find her.” His jaw tightened. “She shouldn’t have left you to deal with it.” Anita’s shoulders sagged. “She never could face up to things.

Never. I don’t think she’s still alive, you know. I keep thinking someday word will come, but every time it’s like this last trip. The description matches—young woman, unidentified, found dead. But it isn’t Vee. Anyway”—she made a sudden impatient gesture—“I don’t know if you ever knew the man Vee was involved with.” 167

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He rubbed one cheek. “It didn’t need to be part of the record. When a man shoots himself, leaves a note, that’s all an investigation needs.”

“I know. But now I have to tell you.” She flexed her fingers, shook them. “She was having an affair with Daryl Murdoch.” Chief Cobb looked startled. “Murdoch?”

“Vee should have known better.” Anita spoke in a monotone. “She was always wild, even when she was a kid, taking chances, thinking she was special, and when somebody like him went after her, I guess she thought she’d have a chance to marry a rich man and she told Carl she was leaving him. When he shot himself, she called Murdoch and he hung up on her. Like everything else in her life, when things got rough, she quit. She took all the money in the house and left town.”

“Is that why you followed him around?” His voice was sharp.

Anita stared down at the tips of her shoes, her face working. “The first time I stopped him, I didn’t know who it was. He couldn’t believe I was actually going to give him a ticket. The second time I knew his car. I guess I liked stopping him. He didn’t know I was Vee’s sister. No reason why he should have. After that, I kept an eye out for him.” She lifted her face. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t see why he shouldn’t have to follow the rules. So”—her gaze was defiant—“I followed him around and that’s what I have to tell you about. It might be important. He always has a girlfriend. He’s been seeing a woman who lives on Olive Street for about a year now. Cynthia Brown, 623 Olive. But he hadn’t gone there for about a week.” She reached up, touched her name badge. “If you want to fire me, I’ll understand.” Tears filmed her eyes. “I hate to disappoint you, Chief.

I tried hard to be a good officer. You’re the reason why I changed my major to criminal justice. I’ve never forgotten the night Carl died . . .

I wanted to be able to help people the way you helped me.”

“Speed laws are supposed to be enforced.” His voice was gentle.

“Your surveillance of Murdoch may turn out to be key to solving the case.”

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She reached up, wiped her eyes with the back of a hand. “I had to tell you even if it meant my job.”

“Your job’s okay.” His tone was abstracted. He turned away, paced along the table. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s an opening in the security office at the college.”

Anita watched him with a stricken look. “I see.” He stood, staring down at the folders. “If you’re interested, I’ll give you a top recommendation. Then, if that works out, maybe some Saturday . . .” He swung to face her. “Maybe we could go up to Oklahoma City, have lunch at Bricktown, take a ride on the canal, maybe drop by Bass Pro.” His gaze was hopeful.

Her eyes lighted. “That sounds wonderful.” The words came on a ragged breath. “I’ll apply Monday.” I smiled. My presence hadn’t been necessary. Everything looked positive for the widowed chief and the young woman he had inspired.

I was glad to see the beginnings of happiness. Moreover, I now had the last piece of information I needed. Unless I was very much mistaken, the woman who had desperately wanted Daryl Murdoch to call her lived at 623 Olive Street.

It was time for Officer M. Loy to begin her investigation.

Olive Street was four blocks north of Main. Most of the small frame houses were in various stages of disrepair, window screens missing, front porches sagging, paint peeling. Weeds choked the abandoned train tracks that intersected Olive near number 623.

The middle front step to 623 had buckled in the center. The window shades were down. No light glimmered in front. I circled the house. Light shone from a high kitchen window. I looked inside, drew my breath in sharply.

A young woman with a mass of dark curls and a round face sat at a battered kitchen table. Slowly she raised a gun to her temple. Tears 169

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streamed down a face blotched from crying. She gulped and sniffed, her eyes dull with misery.

There was no time to knock, no time to arrive in customary fashion. I was at her side at once. Reaching out, I gripped her arm, forced the gun to one side. I willed myself present, saw my image, unfamiliar in the blue uniform, in a cracked mirror over the sink.

“No.” I spoke sternly.

Her hand sagged. The gun clattered to the floor.

Now I knew that my detour through Chief Cobb’s office had not been on behalf of Anita Leland. I relinquished my grip, reached down to pick up the gun. I broke it open, spilled out the shells in my hand. Bobby Mac taught me how to handle a gun a long time ago.

She stared at me. “How did you get in?” She brushed back dark curls. “You’re the police?”

I pulled out a chair, sat opposite her. “That doesn’t matter. I’m here to help you.” I smiled. “Tell me, Cynthia.”

“No one can help me.”

“God will help.”

She stared at me uncertainly. “You sound as if you know.” She shook her head almost angrily. “What can you know? You aren’t any older than I am.”

I wished suddenly I could shout it aloud: Don’t judge anyone by age, not the young and not the old. It’s who they are and what they’ve done and what they know in their hearts that matters, always and forever.

No one would listen. The world would go on its merry way, adoring youth for the wrong reason, ignoring those in the winter season.

Instead, I looked deep into her eyes.

She looked into mine.

Slowly her face changed.

I’ve known sorrow and fear, loss and trouble, sat at the bedside of the dying, tried to help the lost, struggled to find my own way. Bobby Mac and I were happy, but no life is untouched by heartbreak and 170

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pain. That was part of me and that was what I offered to Cynthia.

“Your eyes . . . They’re like my mother’s eyes. Oh, if only she hadn’t died. She would have kept him from hurting me. He’ll hurt me so bad I’d wish I was dead, so I might as well do it myself.” I took her hand, felt its clammy coldness. “Who will hurt you?”

“My dad. He’s hurt me a lot and if he finds out I’m pregnant—” She clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Daryl Murdoch?”

The emptiness of her face told its own story. “I told him about the baby and he didn’t care. He said I should have been more careful.”

“When did you tell him?”

She massaged her head as if it hurt. “I called him and he didn’t call back. I went to his office yesterday. I told him when he came out to his car. He pushed me away and left. Now he’s dead. I saw it on the morning news. He’s dead and there’s no one to help me, no one at all.”

“Yes, there will be help. Go to Father Bill at St. Mildred’s Church.

Do you know where that is?”

She nodded, her hand clinging to mine.

“Tell him you need help to go away to a safe place to have your baby. You can go and stay. They’ll help you find a job, and when the baby comes, they’ll find a home. Will you do that?”

“Yes.” The word was a sigh.

But I had to ask. “Did you follow Daryl when he left his office last night?”

“No.” Her eyes flared in alarm. “I didn’t shoot him.” I felt cold. “How did you know he was shot?”

“It was on TV this morning. I didn’t do it. I swear.” I picked up the gun. “Where did you get this?” It was a .22

pistol.

“I stole it from my dad’s house. He has lots of guns.”

“I’ll take it with me.” I kept the shells in my hand, tucked the gun in my waistband.

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She shivered. “I don’t want it.” Her look was young and earnest.

“I won’t do that again. I’ll go to the church in the morning.” I looked around the cold kitchen, spotted a gas stove, found matches, lit the flame. “When did you last eat?” I moved to the refrigerator.

“I don’t know.” Her voice was dull.

I fried bacon and scrambled eggs with milk, seasoning salt, a half teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce, and a dash of brown sugar. I fixed toast and poured a glass of milk.

I placed the plate in front of her. She pushed the eggs with her fork, finally took a bite, then with a look of surprise and gratitude eagerly ate. “These eggs are good. I didn’t know I was so hungry.” I debated what to do, then made up my mind. “This won’t be the only visit you’ll have from the police.” Chief Cobb would be sure to explore what he’d learned from Anita.

Cynthia put down her fork, her young face once again frightened and vulnerable.

I chose my words carefully. “Don’t mention my visit here. We’ll pretend it didn’t happen. Tell them you wanted to see Daryl, so you went to his office last night, but he’d already left. Don’t say anything about the baby.”

Her eyes crinkled in puzzlement. “Why are you helping me?” Honest truth is sometimes best. “Because you are alone.” And lost. And frightened.

“All right.” Her eyes were luminous. “Thank you. I hope”—she looked anxious—“you don’t get in trouble.” I was already in trouble. Wiggins was likely despairing of me at this very moment. “Everything will work out.” That was surely the most positive of thinking. I had no reason to think anything would work out and I seemed to go from bad to worse when it came to meddling with Chief Cobb’s investigation. “There’s nothing you can do to help the police.” Officer Leland had stopped Daryl as he turned 172

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out of the lot, leaving Cynthia behind. Certainly he was alive and well then. “So it’s better not to say anything more than you have to.” She drank a gulp of milk. “All right.” I left her finishing her light supper, looking worn but at peace. I hoped I’d done the right thing to encourage her to refrain from telling the chief that she’d seen Daryl Thursday evening, but I couldn’t help wondering. She’d said her father’s house had many guns. Had I carried one of those guns to the Pritchard mausoleum for the police to find?

Once outside, I took my latest acquisition out of my pocket, disappeared, and wafted to the top of an old oak. I tucked the gun in the crook between a branch and the trunk, too far above ground to be noticeable. Then I zoomed down to the street, found a manhole cover, and dropped the shells inside.

Daylight was fading fast, the shadows deep and dark on Olive Street. I didn’t expect Walter Carey to slip into his former partner’s office until darkness fell, so I didn’t feel rushed. Instead of going directly to Murdoch Investments, I strolled toward Main.

I wasn’t surprised when I heard that rumble nearby. “Although becoming visible is never desirable, in some instances it is acceptable.” We moved along in silence, then a soft harrumph. “That dear girl.

Good work, Bailey Ruth.”

Wiggins left as quickly as he’d arrived.

I was smiling when I reached Main Street. I took a moment to look up and down. The Bijou marquee was dark and the front looked boarded over. The corner where our drugstore sat now advertised cornucopia tea shop, natural foods. What other kinds were there?

Then I saw the red neon of Lulu’s. In a flash, I arrived in the narrow entrance to the café. I suppose it was impulsive of me, but I hadn’t had a Lulu hamburger and fries in, well, it was a lifetime ago.

I was greeted by a delectable scent of hot grease.

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Every stool at the counter was occupied as well as the four booths.

Lulu’s hadn’t changed a whit in all these years and it was packing in the customers as offices and stores closed. A tall blond waitress and a lanky teenage boy served the counter and the booths. She was quick and efficient. He was more lackadaisical.

It took me only a moment to figure out the system. To-go orders in sacks were placed on a tray near the cash register to await pickup.

When the boy put down his order pad to fix a chocolate soda at the fountain, I tipped over a menu to cover the pad and quickly scrib-bled a to-go order for Myrna: cheeseburger with onions, mustard, and pickles, and fries. When everyone seemed occupied, I pinned the order up for the cook.

I wafted through a door marked employees, found the fuse box.

When my sack was ready, I peered closely at the menu, and almost let out a yelp when I saw the prices. How could a hamburger and fries cost four dollars and fifty cents! However . . . I imagined a five-dollar bill, a shocking sum, and hovered over the tray with the to-go orders.

When no one was near the cash register and everyone behind the counter was fully occupied, I took the check from the sack, slid it and the five-dollar bill slowly toward the cash register, then wafted to the fuse box and flipped a series of switches. The power went off. The café went dark and voices called out.

I felt my way out into the dining area. There was enough light coming through the plateglass window from streetlamps to make it easy to reach the front counter. I grabbed my sack and hurried to the front door. Unfortunately, since I’d had no need to open the door upon my arrival, I hadn’t realized a bell sounded.

The bell tinkled. A flashlight beam swept toward the front, spotlighting my white sack as it moved briskly through the air.

“Wait a minute.” The waitress’s shout was angry and determined.

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out onto the sidewalk, heavy flashlight in hand. She started to yell, then froze as the sack, dangling from my unseen hand, sped up the sidewalk.

I looked back.

She backed toward the door to Lulu’s, her face slack with disbelief.

I reached the corner, swerved out of her sight. I was terribly aware that I had violated Precepts One and Six, but certainly it was inad-vertent. I clutched my sack tighter, felt warmth through the paper, and darted from shadow to shadow, not wishing to cause any further distress.

“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was as emphatic as the stamp of a jackboot.

I wobbled on the top step of Murdoch Investments. “Did you serve in the military, Wiggins?”

“The Rough Riders, San Juan Hill, July first, 1898.” His pride was evident.

“Wiggins, that’s wonderful. I can’t wait to hear—”

“Bailey Ruth.” Exasperation warred with an evident delight in recalling his days with Teddy. “This is not the moment.” I sensed movement and curled my arm around that Heavenly scented sack. I had no intention of yielding my hamburger to Wiggins. “I need sustenance, Wiggins. I have a big evening facing me.” I determinedly kept my tone light. I wouldn’t be guilty of whining.

Nonetheless, facts are facts. “And there’s no getting around the fact that when I carry an actual physical object, I can’t pop from here to there in an unobtrusive fashion.”

“There is food at the rectory.” The reproof was clear.

“Wiggins, that was my first thought.” How many fibs was I piling up on my record? Would they even let me back in Heaven without a stint in Purgatory? “But even if I popped there and back again, there wasn’t enough time. I must take up my post inside”—I bent my head 175

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toward the building—“before darkness falls.” Twilight was settling around us.

“I see.” A pause. “Bailey Ruth, you always seem to have an answer.

It’s quite confounding. And I do have other emissaries to oversee.

Very well, carry on.”

Thus justified, my fingers tight on my sack, I oozed to the rear of the office building. I placed the sack on the top step and wafted inside. In only a moment I had opened the back door, retrieved my supper, and locked the door. A moment later I was inside Daryl Murdoch’s office. I drew the drapes, then turned on a lamp near one end of the red leather sofa.

In a small refrigerator behind a curving bar, I found a Dr Pepper.

That thrill could only have been topped by discovering a Grapette.

Not, of course, that I was particular.

I spread out my feast on a tiled table in one corner and offered a very thankful grace. I enjoyed every mouthful. The onions were sau-téed in a tasty brown tangle and the fries fresh, crisp, and salty. The taste of Dr Pepper brought memories of lazy summer picnics and fishing trips with Bobby Mac. However, I didn’t linger and cleaned up quickly, depositing the sack in the kitchenette wastebasket.

I turned off the lamp and opened the drapes. The glow from a streetlamp seeped inside, providing some light. I stretched out on Daryl’s exceedingly comfortable and luxurious leather couch and promptly began to worry about the notations in the chief ’s notebook concerning Father Bill and Kathleen. I wished I’d had a chance to read the rest of his comments before Anita arrived in his office. Perhaps I—

The door to Daryl’s office swung slowly in.

Even though I was expecting a visitor, my throat felt tight. I swung upright, pushed to my feet, willed myself present.

A dark form slipped across the room. The drapes were drawn. A click and light spilled over the end of the room from the lamp. Walter 176

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Carey never glanced toward me. He went straight to the filing cabinets, pulled out the g–i drawer.

“Are you looking for your confession?” My voice sounded over loud in the stillness of the night-shrouded office.

He froze, one hand gripping the steel side of the drawer. Slowly, still holding to the drawer as if for support, he turned and stared at me. His lips parted. His haggard face was pasty white.

“It isn’t in there.” I looked into eyes glazed with shock. “It’s in a safe place.”

He took a step toward me. “How did you know?”

“When Daryl’s study was the only room searched this morning and I was told that he changed the locks after you moved out of the offices, the answer seemed obvious. The intruder—you—wanted his keys. And here you are. There’s one thing that puzzles me.” He stood with his chin sunk on his chest, shoulders slumped, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

“What happened to the money you stole from Georgia Hamilton? I understand you and your wife are having financial problems, have had for some time. She’s gone back to work.” He lifted his head. “I wasn’t really stealing. I borrowed the money.

Just for a while.”

“ ‘Borrowed.’ ” My tone was judicious.

He flushed. “I was paying everything back. I swear to God. Pretty soon I was going to make up a contract with Mrs. Hamilton buying back the mineral rights and then she would receive the royalty reports directly from Monarch. I was within twenty thousand of making up what I’d borrowed.” His voice shook with intensity. “I told Daryl. He didn’t care. Damn him to hell.”

“All right. Let’s not call it stealing. Certainly it was fraud.

Why?”

He stared down at the tips of his shoes, his face weary. “The stock market went to hell—” “The Beer Barrel Polka” interrupted. He 177

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yanked a cell phone from his pocket, frowned. His glance at me was apologetic. “It’s my wife. She’ll worry if I don’t answer.”

“Answer by all means.” I glanced down at the rug. He stood within a foot of where the confession was hidden.

“Yeah? . . . Catching up on some work . . . Father Bill’s wife?” He sounded puzzled.

I was suddenly attentive.

“No, she’s mistaken. I wasn’t near the church last night. It must have been somebody else’s car . . .”

Oh dear. Kathleen had ignored my warning and set out to investigate on her own. I was delighted at her initiative and concerned for her safety. If I had any idea where she was or what she was likely to do next, I’d go there. But for now, I must discover what I could from Walter.

“. . . I doubt it means anything. She’s probably just curious. Like everybody else in Adelaide.” His tone was bitter. “Don’t worry, honey.

No. I can’t come home yet.” His look at me was pensive. “I’ll call if . . .” A deep breath. “If anything delays me. Yeah. Love you.” He clicked off the phone, slid it in his pocket.

“The stock market,” I prompted. I understood stock-market drops. Apparently the twenty-first century was no different from the twentieth. What goes up must come down, which many investors learn to their sorrow. He assumed I was aware of some recent financial debacle.

“I’d put the money into too many tech stocks.” He didn’t explain, apparently assuming I would understand. “I fudged things, made them look better. I guess I didn’t want to admit I’d made some big mistakes. But I made good on everything. I was paying Mrs. Hamilton back and I’d even added money for interest.”

“So you stole for pride, not gain.” Men won’t ask for directions and they never want to admit to mistakes. “How did Daryl find out?” He almost managed a sardonic smile. “Mrs. Hamilton may be 178

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in her nineties, but she’s a sharp old dame. A couple of weeks ago, Daryl dropped by to see her and she told him how pleased she was about the oil development on the ranch and how smart he’d been to set it up and how much she’d enjoyed having a chat with me when I brought her the papers to sign. He didn’t ante to her, but he knew damn well he hadn’t handled any leases. He found the recorded deed to Horizon Development at the courthouse and figured out what had happened. That’s when he kicked me out of the office, all high-and-mighty even though I know he’s cut corners. He was holier than a prayer book when he called me into his office, but not too holy to stop from blackmailing me.”

“Blackmail?”

“He had me over a barrel. He kept my share of the partnership. As long as he had that confession, I had to agree to anything he wanted.” He shoved the file drawer shut, faced me. There was no fight in him.

His shoulders slumped, his hands hung loosely at his side.

“You had to make sure he didn’t turn you in.” The confession resting beneath the Oriental rug was surely reason enough for murder.

“How did you lure him—” I broke off. I’d almost said to the rectory.

Walter’s head jerked up. “Wait a minute. I didn’t take him to the cemetery. You think I shot him? That’s crazy. I hated him, that’s for sure, but I knew he wouldn’t use the confession. He wouldn’t want Georgia Hamilton to know she’d been cheated.” I folded my arms, looked at him skeptically. “If you knew he wouldn’t use it, why did you let him have money that belonged to you?”

“I couldn’t take the chance.” He looked at me earnestly. “But I swear I didn’t shoot him. You’ve got to believe me.” I didn’t have to believe him. But I did. I saw a man who had gambled and lost, but there wasn’t an iota of threat in him. And he’d said

“take him to the cemetery.” Or was that simply a clever murderer taking advantage of the mysterious transfer of Daryl’s body?

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How could I know? But whatever the truth in regard to Daryl’s murder, surely I wasn’t going to gloss over Walter’s chicanery. The thought didn’t catch up with my swift impulse to reassure him. “If you didn’t shoot him, there’s no reason for the financial problems to be aired.”

His stare was incredulous. “You mean nobody will ever know?”

“If you didn’t shoot him,” I spoke firmly, “the matter is closed.

When Chief Cobb contacts you, say that you and Daryl disagreed over the future of the business. As for what you’ve lost, you might consider it a penalty for dishonesty.”

“What about the confession? As long as it exists, I can never feel safe.” He still looked hopeless.

“I’ll take care of that.” One way or another.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” He was suddenly suspicious.

I was about to ignore another Precept, but circumstances alter cases. “You might consider me your conscience.” I disappeared.

Walter’s face went slack. His head swiveled slowly around the room. He breathed in short, tight gasps.

I had his attention. I made my voice crisp. “Swear you will never again mishandle any financial matter.” Once again, he looked around the room, seeking the source of the voice. But there was no place where a slender red-haired policewoman could be hidden. He stared at the closed door.

He knew the door hadn’t opened. He knew there was no other exit.

Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand. “I swear.” 180

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Ipopped to the rectory. A lamp shone in the kitchen and another in the front hall, but no one was home. Where was Kathleen?

Why couldn’t she follow instructions? Perhaps I now had some inkling of Wiggins’s distress when I improvised. How could I blame Kathleen? She was trying to save the man she loved, but I wished I were at her side.

I popped back to the parking lot outside Daryl’s office. The starry night was crisp and cold. I looked Heavenward. If there were a cosmic scoreboard, it might read home team 14, visitors 0. So far I’d yielded all the points to Daryl’s mistress and his ex-partner. I’d set out to discover whether Cynthia Brown or Walter Carey had motives for murder. The obvious answer was yes.

My original plan had been to provide Chief Cobb with any information he might find relevant. I didn’t doubt the chief would find Walter and Cynthia legitimate suspects—if he knew.

Whether he ever knew was up to me.

Had I been too impulsive? Was Wiggins even now scratch-ing through my name as a future emissary from the Department of Good Intentions? I welcomed the cool fresh breeze and waited.

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Wiggins didn’t come. Perhaps once again he was willing to accept a good result or, at the least, wait and see the outcome. Perhaps another emissary, hopefully one far distant, was embroiled in difficulties.

Impulsive or not, I needed to keep going, as fast as I could. The night was young. There were others to seek out. I’d never wallowed in introspection when I was of the earth. This was no time to start.

I stood in the parking lot outside Daryl’s office. I found a stall with his name painted in red: reserved for daryl murdoch. He’d brushed aside a desperate girl, driven to the exit onto Main Street, and been stopped in an illegal turn by Officer Leland. About this time his son arrived.

I remembered the high young voice, cracking in anger, that had been recorded on Daryl’s cell phone: I can’t believe what you did . . . I just found out from Lily . . . You’ll pay for this. I swear you will.

What had Daryl done?

The small sign in the front yard was tasteful: the green door. I recognized the old Victorian house. In my day, it had belonged to Ed and Corrine Baldwin. Now it housed a dinner restaurant. I stood on the porch and looked through sparkling glass panes. Old-fashioned teardrop crystal bulbs in a chandelier shed a soft light over a half-dozen circular tables with damask cloths and rose china. Small tap-dancing skeletons flanked centerpieces of orange mums.

A slender young woman was serving orange sorbet in tall crystal glasses at a near table. A scarecrow hung in the doorway to the entry hall.

It might be awkward for Lily Mendoza if a police officer arrived demanding to see her. I didn’t want to jeopardize her job. I thought for a moment, nodded. I glanced around the floor of the living room, noted styles of purses. When I wished myself present, I held a small blue leather bag.

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I opened the front door and stepped into the nineteenth century.

Panels of gleaming mahogany covered the lower walls. Heavily patterned wallpaper in a rich shade of burgundy rose above the wainscoting.

Geometric tiles glimmered in the pale light from hanging stained-glass lanterns. Ferns trailed from a huge wicker basket. A gimlet-eyed parrot peered from a brass birdcage. As I entered, it gave a piercing squawk and spoke in a rough throaty voice, “Ahoy, matey. Avast. Begone.” A waitress, who looked trim and athletic despite being dressed in a hoop dress with a daisy pattern, pushed through a door at the end of the hallway, carrying a tray with two entrées. She paused when she reached me, glanced at my uniform, but asked politely, “Do you have a reservation?”

I shook my head, held up the purse. “I’m here with a lost purse.

May I speak to Lily Mendoza?”

“Lily doesn’t work here anymore. Mrs. Talley”—a pause—“let her go.”

Let her go? Why? “When?”

The girl’s gamin face squeezed into a frown. “Yesterday. Anyway, if you want to take the purse to her, she has an apartment in the old Blue Sky motel near the railroad tracks.” She moved toward the living room.

I kept pace. “Where’s Mrs. Talley?”

The girl gestured down the hallway. “In her office.” She moved swiftly into the dining room.

I walked past a whatnot with a bust of Homer and a collection of Dresden shepherdesses. I gave a quick knock on the door, stepped inside a library that now served as an office, though the mahogany bookcases still held leather-bound volumes. Austen, Trollope, and Thackeray, no doubt. To my left was a blue Chinese vase as tall as I was. The red-and-blue Oriental rug was worn and frayed.

An angular woman with frizzy gray hair piled atop her head sat behind a massive walnut desk, staring at a glowing screen. The 183

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computer looked out of place in the carefully done Victorian room.

She heard my step, turned to see. Prominent collarbones detracted from her décolleté blue silk gown with puffy sleeves. She frowned, making her porcelain-white face querulous. ”Yes?”

“Good evening, Mrs. Talley. I’m here about Lily Mendoza and Daryl Murdoch.” I closed the door behind me.

She drew in a sharp breath, stood. “You don’t think Lily had anything to do with what happened to him?” She lifted a hand, clutched at the thick rope of amber beads.

“We have to check it out.” I looked stern.

She held tight to the necklace. “She was upset, but she wouldn’t do anything like that. She’s a sweet, sweet girl.” I frowned at her. “What did she say?” Mrs. Talley stared at the hollow bust of Homer. “I hated doing it.

But I didn’t have any choice. Daryl held the mortgage on the house and he’d given me a break on payments while I’m getting the Green Door up and running.” She swung toward me, her face haggard.

“We’re doing real well. I can make a go of it. I have to since Johnny died and there isn’t any money and I have to be home during the day with my mom—oh, you don’t care about all that. But you see my position. Daryl insisted I fire her, said he’d call all the payments due immediately if I didn’t.” She looked at me with shamed, sad eyes. “I told her I had to cut back on staff, but she knew that wasn’t it. She’d seen Daryl leave my office and I guess she figured it out. She said,

‘Mr. Murdoch made you, didn’t he?’ ” Mrs. Talley’s eyes glistened with tears. “She came up and hugged me and told me it was all right, I mustn’t worry. Don’t you see? She’s a good girl.” Blue Sky Apartments was a fancy name for a seedy former motel.

Units ran lengthwise behind the office with two shorter sections on either side. I found Lily’s apartment, number seventeen, by walking 184

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from door to door, checking the nameplates. An old Dodge with one flat tire listed in the drive on one side of the building. Through thin walls, a television blared. On the other side, a rocking horse and play-pen sat next to two motorcycles. A baby’s cry rose. Lily’s front curtain was drawn, but light seeped around the edges.

I knocked.

Through the thin door, I heard running steps. The door was flung open. For an instant her heart-shaped face was open and eager, dark eyes luminous. “Kir—”

I understood why Kirby Murdoch cared. She was lovely, dark-haired, slim, vibrant, but more than that, she had an aura of kindness as warming as a blazing fire on a snowy night.

“Miss Mendoza, I need to speak with you about the murder”—I let the word hang in the cold night air—“of Mr. Daryl Murdoch.” Her face was abruptly still and shuttered. “I don’t know anything about it.”

I forced myself to be brusque. “May I come in? Or would you rather go down to the station?”

She backed away, held the door for me.

The room had been provided with a small kitchenette. There was a small camp bed, a sofa with a red-and-black-checked throw, two chairs that had seen better days. A gooseneck lamp stood by a card table with a small computer. Textbooks were stacked on the floor.

She gestured toward the sofa, took one of the chairs, sat stiff and straight with her hands folded in her lap. She looked small in an oversize maroon sweatshirt with the emblem of Goddard College.

I looked at the books. “Are you in school?”

“I go part-time.”

“Are you putting yourself through school?”

“Yes.”

There was an admirable story here, a student without a family to help, making her own way, trying hard to build a better life. If Daryl 185

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Murdoch had been here, I would have told him he was a fool. I liked this girl, admired her, hoped she and Kirby would have the happiness they both deserved. But . . .

“You told Kirby his father got you fired. Kirby was furious. He called his father, threatened him, said he would pay for what he’d done.”

She didn’t say a word, stared at me with dread.

“He threatened his father, went to his office.“ Lily jumped up. “Kirby didn’t talk to him. He was too late. His father had left.”

“Kirby’s car was seen turning after his father’s.”

“Kirby didn’t follow him. I called Kirby, got him on his cell, told him to come here. He did. We were here. I promise.” Were they together at her apartment before—or after—Daryl Murdoch was shot?

Chief Cobb’s information indicated Kirby’s gun hadn’t been found. “Where did Kirby keep his gun?” She hesitated, reluctantly said, “In the trunk of his car.”

“Did you know it’s missing?” I watched her closely.

She lifted a hand to her throat. “It can’t be. Kirby went out for target practice Thursday afternoon.”

“Kirby claims someone stole it.”

Lily jumped to her feet. “If Kirby said it’s gone, it’s gone.” The gun was gone, but did it disappear before or after Daryl Murdoch died?

I smelled cake when I entered the rectory kitchen. I smiled. It was the first time I’d smiled in hours. Tramping around in the cold, finagling information, was draining. I lifted the plastic cover from the stand.

If Bayroo’s cake was as delicious as it looked and smelled, Travis Calhoun was going to be very happy. I wondered if I would be here to 186

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attend the Spook Bash tomorrow and see this famous young man.

Very likely yes. I didn’t seem to be making any headway in my task. Or tasks. I’d uncovered multiple motives for murder, but I was unwilling to implicate Cynthia Brown or Walter Carey or Lily Mendoza.

Maybe I wasn’t cut out for detecting. Was I naive? I bristled at the thought. I may have been a small-town girl, but I knew a Galahad from a Cardinal Richelieu. However, and I felt perplexed, perhaps I was too empathetic.

. . . impulsive . . .

I looked toward the ceiling. If Wiggins wanted my attention, he would have to be more direct. I didn’t dwell on the fact that I’d certainly been visible this evening, but now that I was at the rectory, I was properly invisible. Perhaps that would soothe Wiggins. In fact, he should be pleased at my progress.

Had I been hoodwinked by Cynthia or Walter or Lily? Possibly.

In the end, I might feel compelled to reveal to Chief Cobb what I’d learned about one or all of them.

I replaced the cake cover without filching even a tiny swipe of the rich chocolate icing. Perhaps I’d find a snack in the refrigerator.

The rectory was silent. Where was everyone? Especially Kathleen? It was a quarter to nine. The Abbotts were certainly a busy family. I supposed Father Bill was out on parish duty. I remembered that Bayroo was going to a skating party tonight. As for Kathleen, I felt uneasy. Obviously, she’d tried to stir things up with Walter Carey.

What else had she done?

The porch door slammed.

I was ready with a cheery greeting when the kitchen door opened and a black-robed witch stepped inside, carrying a scruffy broomstick. Her conical hat tilted forward. Sticky-looking strands of green hair protruded sideways. A squashy red boil disfigured the wrinkled, putty-colored face. A hand swept up, lifting the hat with at-187

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tached hair and mask. Kathleen dropped her purse onto the table and slipped out of the robe.

“What a stunning outfit.” Almost horrid enough to destroy my appetite. Almost.

Kathleen drew in a sharp breath. “Hello, Bailey Ruth. I didn’t know you were here. How could anyone know?” The last was a mutter. “Isn’t the mask neat?” She sounded more cheerful. “It’s fun to wear a mask.

No one can see you frown. Did you know it’s against the rules for a rector’s wife to frown?” She smoothed her ruffled hair. “I was at the Friends of the Library dinner. If I didn’t show up in costume, I’d be fined. That’s twenty-five bucks I can use to buy groceries. But”—her face lightened—“I got in some good work. Bud Schilling’s the junior warden. He’s got a houseful of kids and he’s always wanted the church to build a family center. I told him I knew there’d been some concern on the vestry about Daryl’s saying he was going to talk to Bill about a financial matter. I told Bud Judith Murdoch called me and she said she was sorry Daryl got mad at Bill because of the new plans Bill had for the family center.” Kathleen beamed.

“Clever.” I looked at Kathleen with new respect. The junior warden would tell the rest of the vestry. No one would ever bring up the matter with Judith Murdoch out of kindness. Kathleen had very likely rescued her husband’s career.

Kathleen’s smile faded. “How about you? Do you have anything important to give to the police?”

“Not yet.” I opened the refrigerator door, found some Cheddar cheese. “Walter Carey’s wife called him and told him you’d been to see her.”

Kathleen whirled toward the refrigerator. “How did you know?”

“I was there.” I was already at the cabinet. I opened it, lifted down a box of Ritz crackers.

“Do you eat all the time?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I know you told me to sit tight. I can’t. I’m scared to death for Bill. I had to 188

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do something. Harriet’s scared. That seems suspicious to me. Did you find out anything?”

“Possibly. I don’t think Walter’s the murderer. Nonetheless, Kathleen, you should leave it to me to investigate the people who were on the outs with Daryl. I’m already dead.” She shook her head sharply. “Bill’s in trouble. I have to find out everything I can. I wish I hadn’t thrown that phone in the lake. But I’ll get that information to the police chief someway. I’ve figured out why Bill won’t tell the chief anything. He’s probably protecting Irene Chatham. She’s—”

I interrupted. “The light-fingered member of the Altar Guild.” I enjoyed Kathleen’s look of awe, but felt compelled to reveal my source. “I checked the church pictorial directory.” Kathleen paced. “In between working at the church, I’ve looked everywhere for Irene.”

“She’s on my list, Kathleen.” My tone was reproving. Had I learned it from Wiggins?

Kathleen ignored me. “Every time I tried to talk to Isaac, he was surrounded by people wanting him to carry something or move something.”

I topped the crackers with cheese slices and carried my plate to the table.

She watched disapprovingly. “One of these days somebody’s going to walk in and see dishes up in the air and the fat will be in the fire.”

I smiled and enjoyed my snack. “That may be.” Food soothes me and my tone was equable. “Kathleen, sit down and relax. We’ll find out more tomorrow.”

She continued to pace. “Tomorrow I have to help get everything ready for the Spook Bash. I won’t have a free minute.” I felt great relief. I didn’t want Kathleen to stir up the quiescent tiger. “I’ll see to everything.”

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She’d paused by the cake stand, lifted it to look in surprise at Bayroo’s cake.

I explained about the birthday gift and her face softened in a smile. Then once again she looked worried. “I’m going to try again to catch Irene.” She walked toward the phone, but stopped to stare at a slate on a stand next to the telephone. A message was written in red chalk:

7:45 P.M. Urgent. Dad, call Isaac. He’s upset. Something about a wheelbarrow and the police. Gone to skate with Lucinda. Home about nine-thirty.

“Oh.” Kathleen looked faint.

I lost my appetite.

She ran for her car. I was already in the passenger seat, waiting.

The brick bungalow’s front shutters gleamed with recent paint in the porch light. Late-blooming pansies added color to the front flower bed. A red candle burned brightly in a toothy jack-o’-lantern on a front step. A skeleton in a pink tutu dangled from a planter hook in the porch ceiling. An engraved nameplate by the doorbell read isaac and evelyn franklin.

Kathleen rang the doorbell. She’d insisted that she be the one to talk to Isaac. I insisted I would accompany her, though unseen.

The door opened. Isaac Franklin was on the shady side of fifty, lined dark face, silvered hair, but he looked muscular and fit. The minute he saw Kathleen, his grim expression altered. “Come in, Mrs.

Kathleen. You come right in.”

Kathleen stepped inside. “Isaac, what’s this about your wheelbarrow?”

He folded his arms, frowned. “I don’t hold with taking a man’s 190

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work tools. Like I said, if a body can’t report mischief without stirring up a hornet’s nest, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” A plump pretty woman bustled to his side. She was stylish in a pale violet velvet top and slacks and white boots.

I especially liked the boots. I’d remember them and perhaps another time . . .

She took Isaac’s arm in a firm grip. “Papa, you can’t be on your high horse when there’s been a murder. Come in, Mrs. Kathleen, and Isaac can tell you what happened.”

Kathleen was offered the most comfortable chair in the den.

Evelyn put the TV on mute. Isaac joined his wife on the divan, clamped his hands above his knees. “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Kathleen, I never been so surprised. First thing this morning, I saw somebody had been fooling around in my shed. I don’t leave things any old which way. Everything has a place and everything is in its place. So when I found the wheelbarrow jammed up next to the shovels—” It had never occurred to me to quiz Kathleen about her return of the wheelbarrow to the shed. I understood her panic and haste, but that hurried dumping of the wheelbarrow might be her undoing.

“—I checked to see if anything was missing. I can tell you I know what’s where.” He looked puzzled. “I looked real good and nothing was missing. Everything else was there and where it should be, but, like I told that officer this afternoon, somebody’d had my wheelbarrow out and I know that for sure because there was some mud on the wheel and I’d just greased it good the other day and I don’t put anything away dirty.” He nodded three times for emphasis. “Somebody took my barrow out and did I don’t know what with it. I’d guess kids, but I don’t see how they got into my shed. It was locked up like always when I left yesterday afternoon and locked again this morning, but somehow somebody got that barrow out and put it back.

That seemed mighty odd to me. I went over to tell the rector, but he wasn’t in his office. When I came home for lunch, Evelyn told me 191

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she’d heard on TV about Mr. Murdoch being found shot in the cemetery. I called the police because it seemed to me they should know there was something odd going on around the church.” He glowered. “I didn’t take kindly to it when that officer asked me about how Mr. Murdoch and I had words outside the parish hall on Monday.

Turned out Mamie Pruitt couldn’t wait to tell the police about me and Mr. Murdoch, but I told that officer to go and talk to Father Bill.

Father Bill took my part just like he should. I got those groceries out of the pantry for the Carter family that live down the block from us.

Mr. Carter, he’s in the hospital, and Mrs. Carter, she lost her job, and there’s five kids and no food for the table. Father Bill said of course I could take food for folks in need, but that mean-hearted Murdoch didn’t want help going to anybody but people approved by some committee or other. And the policeman badgered me about keys. Who had keys except for me? Well, like I told him, there are keys here, there, and everywhere. The rector, he has keys to everything, and so do the senior warden and the junior warden and the Sunday school superintendent and the head of the Altar Guild. So it isn’t like I was the only one that has keys. Then he wanted to know where I was between five and seven last evening and I told him it wasn’t no business of his.” His eyes glowed with outrage.

Evelyn patted his stiff arm. “Now, Papa.” She turned bright eyes toward Kathleen. “Isaac was with me. He got home right on schedule at a quarter after five and we had a quick supper then we went over to our daughter Noreen’s and took care of Ikie and Sue so Noreen and Bobby could go to a show.”

Kathleen’s smile was reassuring. “I’m sure the officer didn’t intend to offend you when he asked where you were yesterday. They ask everybody who might have been in the area.”

“See, Papa?” Evelyn patted his arm.

Isaac still frowned. “I don’t hold with that policeman taking my barrow away. He gave me a receipt. I told him I needed my barrow 192

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with all the stuff I’ll be hauling away after Halloween’s over, pumpkins and bales of hay and what all. I need my barrow. Mrs. Kathleen, can you get me my barrow back?”

Kathleen hunched over the wheel of her car. “If the police link that wheelbarrow to Daryl, Bill will be arrested.” She turned toward me, though, of course, the passenger seat appeared empty. In the wash of a streetlamp through the window, her face looked pale and desperate.

I agreed. Father Bill was definitely at risk. I was very much afraid for him. If only we knew where the chief’s investigation was headed.

There might be a way to find out if I were clever enough to remember what Bayroo had told me about computers. “I’ll go to the police station and see if I can work the chief’s computer. Bayroo showed me this afternoon.”

Kathleen’s glance at me was pitying. “I don’t think so, Bailey Ruth.

You have to know the password and it takes some skill to find files.” Files? I didn’t want to ask Kathleen what that meant. I pictured a gray steel cabinet. “I know the password. Cougar.” Kathleen’s eyes narrowed. “If I could get in, I can find out what we need to know.” She pressed fingers tight against her temples for a moment. Her hands dropped. She asked quickly, “Where is his office?”

“City hall. Second floor.”

“Do the windows open?”

“I’ll find out.” Before she could exclaim, I was in the chief’s office.

The windows were old-fashioned, with sashes. Back in the passenger seat, I reported, “Three windows on the south side. They open.”

“That’s all I need. Here’s what we’ll do . . .” It was a good plan, a daring plan. I hoped it wasn’t a foolhardy plan, but Kathleen was already shoving the car into gear and speed-ing toward the rectory and the supplies we would need.

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. . . .

The chief ’s office was chilly. I remembered my days in the mayor’s office and the way he turned down the thermostat when he departed for the day. He never arrived until a good hour after the staff, so he wasn’t concerned in winter with how long it took for the offices to get warm. I’d arrived to a frosty workplace often enough that I learned to nudge the thermostat up as soon as he was out the door. Now I found the thermostat, pushed it to seventy. I turned on the light.

At the window, I lifted the sash and leaned out.

Kathleen stood in the deep shadow of an old cottonwood. In her witch’s robe, she was simply a darker splotch in the shadow.

I held out my hands. I missed the tennis ball on her first try. The second time I caught it. A cord was taped to the ball. Swiftly, I pulled hand over hand and the cord lifted the rope ladder she’d retrieved from the Boy Scout troop’s storeroom in the church. I placed the hooks over the sill.

Kathleen wasn’t even breathing hard when she climbed through the window to join me.

“Well done,” I praised.

“I did a rope course last summer.” She spoke softly. She glanced about, with one furtive look toward the door, and strode to the chief’s desk. She slipped into his chair. In a moment the screen was bright.

I pointed at a little picture on the screen. “That one.“ Kathleen clicked, found a file for Murdoch, and in a moment we were looking at a list that included interviews with Mrs. Murdoch, Kirby Murdoch, Kathleen Abbott, Father Bill Abbott, and Isaac Franklin.

Kathleen clicked on Isaac Franklin. It was essentially the same information she had gained tonight but there was an addendum: 194

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Det. Sgt. Price took custody Friday of the wheelbarrow from the shed behind St. Mildred’s rectory. Sgt. Price noted cedar needles in a clump of mud on the wheel rim. There are no cedars on church property. Cedars are plentiful in the cemetery, where the victim was found. Moreover, an inspection of the barrow revealed dust balls that might correspond to those found on the decedent’s suit coat. These discoveries suggest that the body was transported to the cemetery in the wheelbarrow from the vicinity of the church. Saturday morning a thorough search will be made of the church grounds and cemetery for any trace of the wheelbarrow’s passage.

Kathleen moaned. “What if the wheelbarrow left tracks when I brought it back?”

I patted her shoulder. “I’ll take care of it in the morning.” I’d be there at first light, but if I missed an impression, suspicion was going to be focused on Father Bill or Kathleen.

The little arrow darted up. The file went away. She opened the file on Father Bill.

Rev. Abbott refuses to reveal the reason for his quarrel on Thursday morning

A door banged open. Footsteps pounded across the floor toward Kathleen. A deep voice shouted, “Hands up.” Kathleen scrambled out of the chair and raced toward the window.

Holding his gun straight ahead, gripping it with both hands, a policeman thudded after her.

I shoved the chair with all my might. It slammed into him and he fell, the gun clattering to the floor.

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Grabbing the gun, I raced to the window, tossed it far into the night.

The policeman scrambled to his feet. He shoved the chair out of his way.

Kathleen reached the ground. I unhooked the rope ladder, dropped it down. I pulled down the window with a resounding smack.

The policeman stopped and gazed in disbelief at the closed window.

I swooped past him to the glowing screen. It would be disastrous if the chief knew we’d been into those files. I didn’t have time to figure out how to turn it off. I reached the back of the machine, saw a dizzying array of cords. Perhaps if I pulled out one . . . or several . . .

The machine made a noise like a fish swallowing.

But it would certainly be apparent that someone had meddled.

Quickly, I reinserted plugs.

Crackle. Hiss. There was an odd sound as if the machine quivered in its depths.

The policeman swung toward the computer. I applauded his brav-ery as he pelted around the desk, then jerked to a stop. He stared. At nothing, of course.

He looked at the small empty space between the back of the computer and the wall.

I wasn’t there. I stood staring at the computer. I felt true distress when I saw the black emptiness of the screen. I hoped the damage was not irreversible.

The policeman backed away from the empty space, then whirled and pounded toward the door.

I touched the black screen, but there was no flicker of color.

Perhaps I’d done enough for tonight.

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Itried to be quiet as a mouse.” Bayroo sat on the petit point ot-toman with her knees tucked under her chin. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. I brought breakfast.” She pointed at an enameled tray. “Blueberry muffins and oatmeal. Mom thought I fixed it for me and she didn’t see me add a mug of coffee and an extra bowl and plate. She’s really frazzled. The Spook Bash is today, and she’s already over at the church.” Bayroo grinned. “I’ve been thinking wake-up thoughts, like ‘Auntie Grand, it’s almost eight o’clock and I’m so excited I feel like I could fly if I tried.’ ” She jumped up, closed her eyes, scrunched her face. “Maybe if I hold my breath and flap my arms.” She lifted from the floor, thumped down. “I jumped,” she confessed, “but I still feel like flying.” Eight o’clock. Chief Cobb had ordered a search of the church grounds and the cemetery this morning. I swung upright in a panic, rushed to the window. No police cars were parked in the back drive or—I craned to see—the visible portion of the church parking lot.

Bayroo was at my side, her face concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s fine. But I have to go out soon.” I smiled and gave Ca ro ly n H a rt

her a good-morning hug, then held her at arm’s length. “My, you look nice.”

Her cheeks turned bright pink. “Do I look too special?” She fingered the top button on her crisp blue-striped blouse. Navy corduroy slacks were tucked into soft white boots.

I liked Bayroo’s white boots, just as I’d liked the ones I’d seen yesterday. They added a bright note to a cloudy fall day. “You look perfect. Casual but nice.”

She brushed back a swath of fiery-red hair. “I hope Travis doesn’t think I’m a carrottop like that awful Jason Womble. He sits behind me in math, and whenever he has to pass a paper or anything he says,

‘Here you are, Carrottop. Better watch out for monster rabbits.’ ” I laughed.

Bayroo didn’t join in. Her eyes flashed. “Jason’s mean.” I reached over, gently touched a flaming curl. “Next time tell him he’s color-blind. You aren’t a carrottop, you’re a Titian redhead, and there are paintings to prove it.”

“Titian?” She looked at me doubtfully.

“Titian,” I said firmly. “The famous Italian painter. He loved to paint models with red-gold hair just like yours. Check out an art book from the library, show Jason what’s what.”

“Titian. Oh, I’ll do it. Thank you, Auntie Grand.” She was at the table, lifting the covers from the cereal bowls. “I brought real cream.

Mom says her family always had real cream with oatmeal. And lots of brown sugar.”

We sat down and I continued the family tradition by spooning two tablespoons of brown sugar and pouring a generous splash of cream. “Thanks for bringing up breakfast.” It was an auspicious beginning to the day. Everything was certain to come right. I felt it in my bones. Or would have, had I had bones. In any event, being with Bayroo was a good start.

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I poked a chunk of butter into the warm center of the blueberry muffin.

Bayroo clapped her hands. “I love watching a muffin float in the air.”

I was starved. “Not for long.” I finished the muffin. “You look excited.”

Her thin face was eager but uncertain. “I have the cake ready to take to Travis’s house. He said I could come this morning and I want to go there more than anything. But what if he thinks I’m one of those irritating fans who won’t leave celebrities alone? I mean, I don’t really know him and he’s here to visit his aunt and maybe I should just put the cake on the porch with a note. Would that be better? Then he’ll know I really think he’s swell, but I’m not trying to horn in. I mean, he has to know Lucinda and I were hanging out around his aunt’s house. Lucinda was at the other end of the block and I was in the pine grove.” She looked at me earnestly. “Don’t tell Mom. We aren’t supposed to go in the preserve by ourselves—girls, I mean, especially after dark. But it wasn’t quite dark and I had to have somewhere where I could watch for him and Lucinda didn’t see him because he came from my direction.” She finished in a rush. “I don’t want him to think I’m a hanger-on.”

Bayroo had no inkling how beautiful she was, her red-gold hair shining in the sunlight, her freckled face kind and hopeful, bright and fresh in what were almost certainly her newest casual clothes.

“He’ll think you’re a nice new friend who wants his birthday to be special. It wouldn’t be at all friendly to leave the cake with a note.

You march right up to his aunt’s front door and knock on it.” I raised my hand in a fist, pretended to knock. “I promise you it’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re sure?” She looked at me as if to a fount of wisdom.

“Positive.” If only I were as positive of my course this morning.

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“Okay. I’ll do it. If I can hide in the preserve when it’s getting dark”—for an instant her eyes were wide with memory that surely wasn’t pleasant, then they shone again with happiness—“I can do anything.” She absently spooned her oatmeal in a dreamy reverie.

I finished my muffin, hurriedly drank coffee, delighting in the bitter undertone of chicory. It was time to go to work. I scarcely gave a thought to my costume. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate. I took a quick peek in one of the catalogs I’d brought from the sewing room and chose a royal-purple velour jacket and slacks with a rose silk blouse and purple scarf. And white boots. No one would see except Bayroo, but a woman has to feel at her best when she sets out to destroy evidence.

I went straight to the cemetery. Thursday night we’d followed a gravel path, then crossed the end of the paved church parking lot.

However, we’d trundled over a patch of dirt to reach the pavement near the mausoleum. Last night I’d used a pine bough to erase those tracks. Had I missed any?

The breeze was chilly though the sun shone brightly. I thought of a short white cashmere coat with oversize purple buttons and immediately felt much more comfortable as well as stylish.

Despite a bright blue sky, the cemetery was shadowy beneath the overhanging limbs of sycamores, maples, sweet gums, and Bradford pears. Some leaves still clung, but mounds of red and gold and purplish leaves were banked against headstones by the erratic wind.

Three big cedars lined the path near the mausoleum.

I found a wheelbarrow trail a few feet beyond the spot where we’d left Daryl. Quickly, I smoothed over the narrow furrow, my fingers brushing against cedar needles. I’d just satisfied myself that the area near the mausoleum was clear of wheel tracks when three police cars pulled up and stopped on the other side of the mausoleum.

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Hurriedly, I zoomed in ever-widening circles until I reached the fluttering yellow tape that marked the crime scene. So far so good.

Anita Leland and the young man who had helped secure the scene Thursday night led the way. “I’ll check inside the tape. Jake, start outside the tape, look between here and the church. Harry, go fifty yards east, then fifty west.” The search party fanned out, scanning the ground.

Stocky Jake began his search just past the breeze-stirred tape, head down, expression intent. I sped ahead of him. Jake and I spotted a deep gouge in a depression about twenty yards from the marked-off area. The track was on a straight line from the mausoleum to the church parking lot. “Yo,” he shouted. “Found it.” Immediately Anita and Harry joined him. Anita sighted a line leading to the church parking lot. “Okay, one of us on each side, move slowly, take your time . . .” She stuck small yellow flags on either side of tracks as they were found. The search party took on an Easter-egg-hunt atmosphere, excited shouts erupting as the unmistakable path of the careening barrow was discovered.

I hovered overhead, but there was no opportunity to erase the damning evidence. I’d not worried about the wheelbarrow when Kathleen assured me she’d returned it to the shed, but I hadn’t calculated the path she’d taken when she dashed away from the mausoleum. Unfortunately, Kathleen had ignored the gravel path and headed straight for the rectory backyard.

Anita’s fair face was flushed with excitement. She hurried across the parking lot. Perhaps most damning of all was the intermit-tent trail in the rectory backyard leading directly to the shed. Flags sprouted. Anita stood next to the shed and used her cell phone. “Send the crime van. We’ve got a fresh path, clear as can be.” I envisioned a grim sequence of events: the rectory wheelbarrow tagged in evidence, the wheelbarrow linked to the crime scene, further consideration of the unexplained dust ball laden with cat fur, Father Bill questioned again, now with greater suspicion.

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If Kathleen hadn’t flung Daryl’s cell phone into the lake, Chief Cobb would have many more suspects. Walter Carey committed fraud. Irene Chatham stole from the collection plate. Kirby was furious with his father over his treatment of Lily Mendoza. Cynthia Brown was pregnant and desperate. I suspected that Daryl’s secretary knew more than she had revealed about her boss’s departure for the church. But perhaps most significant, last night when I’d talked to Kirby’s lovely Lily, she’d been shocked that his gun was missing.

Where was Kirby’s gun? When had it gone missing?

The windowed alcove overlooked a backyard that would be spec-tacular in the spring, dogwood and redbuds surrounding a pond with water lilies. A breeze stirred autumn leaves that fluttered to the ground.

Judith Murdoch peered out the window. She wore a black blouse, dark gray slacks, black shoes. She stood stiff and straight.

A barefoot Kirby hunched over his plate at the breakfast-room table. His gray sweatshirt and pants were fuzzy and ragged. A stub-ble of beard shadowed his face. Uncombed hair bunched in tangles.

He held a mug of coffee, but the Danish on the plate before him was untouched. Red-rimmed eyes stared forlornly at his mother. “Mom, I want to talk to you about Thursday.”

Judith turned to face him. Fear flickered in her eyes, fear and grief and despair. “You were with Lily Thursday night.” He put down the mug. “Mom, I saw—”

She broke in, her voice harsh. ”Kirby, promise me you’ll tell the police you were with Lily.”

The doorbell rang.

Judith looked toward the hall, wavered on her feet.

Kirby pushed back his chair. “I’ll take care of it, Mom. I’ll take care of everything.” He was at her side, gripping her arm.

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The bell pealed again.

Kirby steered his mother to the window seat. “Sit down and rest.

I’ll see about it.” He gave a worried backward glance as he hurried into the hallway.

When the door opened, Chief Cobb’s deep voice easily carried to the breakfast room. “Good morning, Kirby. If you have a moment, I have some questions about your movements Thursday.” Judith pushed to her feet, rushed to the hall.

I followed and stood by the waist-tall Chinese vase near the entry to the living room.

Judith clasped her hands so tightly the fingers blanched. “He’s told you everything he knows. Can’t you leave us alone? We have family coming. We have to plan the funeral. There’s so much to do.” Kirby glanced from the frowning chief to his mother. “It’s okay, Mom. Go upstairs and rest. I’ll talk to the chief.” Kirby touched her arm. “Please.”

Judith glared at the chief. “Kirby doesn’t know anything about what happened to his father. Nothing.” Her voice was shrill.

The chief rocked back on his heels, his heavy face determined.

“Sorry to intrude, Mrs. Murdoch, but I have a duty to investigate your husband’s murder. He was shot with a twenty-two.” Cobb turned toward Kirby. “You were target-practicing with a twenty-two Thursday afternoon on the river bottom.” It was a statement, not a question.

Kirby jammed a hand through his tangled hair. “Yeah. I shoot most Thursdays. When I finished, I put the gun in the trunk of my car.”

“Where is the gun now?”

Kirby didn’t answer.

Chief Cobb pressed him. “Yesterday you said it must have been stolen from the trunk of your car.”

“Yeah.” He stared at the floor.

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I felt a chill. He was trying not to look at his mother. Kirby thought she’d taken the gun. Why did he suspect her?

The questions came fast.

“What time did you put it in the trunk?”

“About two-thirty.”

“Where was the car between two-thirty and five?”

“Parked in the lot next to my girlfriend’s apartment.”

“Locked?”

Kirby gnawed at his lower lip. He started to speak, stopped, finally spoke. “Yeah. It was locked.”

His mother drew in a sharp breath.

Chief Cobb was somber. “Where were you shortly after five p.m.

Thursday?”

Judith took two quick steps, stood between the chief and her son.

“He was with his girlfriend. He’s already told you.”

“He can tell me again. Here or downtown. This time he can tell me the truth. He was seen outside his father’s office shortly after five o’clock.” Chief Cobb’s gaze was cold. “Your choice, son.” Kirby swallowed. “Yeah, I was there.” Judith gave a strangled cry. “You can’t do this. I’ll call our lawyer.”

Chief Cobb’s eyes narrowed. “I’m seeking information, Mrs. Murdoch. I’m not making an accusation. It looks like you think your son had something to do with his father’s death. Are you afraid of what your son is going to say?”

Judith looked tortured. “You’re twisting my words.” Kirby jammed his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I went to Dad’s office because I had to talk to him.”

“You followed him out of the parking lot?” Kirby’s face ridged. He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I started after him.” He shot a desperate, grieved look at his mother, moved uneasily on his feet. “Dad drove to the church.” He put out the words with effort.

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“I waited until he parked. I caught him just outside the church. I told him what a louse he was for getting Lily fired from her job. It was a rotten thing to do. He said he’d make sure she never got another job.” Cobb waited.

Kirby shuddered, again stared at the floor. “We were yelling, and when I looked up we’d walked into the cemetery. I got madder and madder and he shoved me and I shot him.”

“What happened to the gun? Did you put it in the trunk and somebody stole it?” The chief looked sardonic.

“No. I threw it away in the cemetery.” Cobb pursed his lips. “Nobody stole it?”

“No. I threw it away.” Kirby’s expression was dogged.

Chief Cobb studied Kirby. “I am taking you into custody for questioning. We’ll go downtown and arrange for a lawyer to be present.” Judith threw out her hands. “He didn’t do it.” She was frantic, her voice rising. “He’s lying. He didn’t shoot his father. I did. Kirby didn’t follow his father.”

Chief Cobb turned on her. “How do you know that, Mrs.

Murdoch?”

Judith looked oddly calm when she spoke. “I was there. I was waiting in my car. I followed Daryl. He was alone in his car.” She looked at Kirby, her face stricken. “You saw me, didn’t you?”

“Mom, don’t.” Kirby’s voice was anguished.

Cobb looked at her intently. “Why did you follow him?” Judith’s face was bleak. “He’s been cheating on me for years. I finally had enough. I followed him to the church. I’d already gotten Kirby’s gun out of his car. He never locks his car. That was another lie. I drove by his girlfriend’s apartment and saw his car Thursday afternoon. That’s when I got the gun.” Chief Cobb folded his arms. He looked from one to the other. “I want to speak to each of you separately. Kirby, let’s step outside for a moment.” He nodded at Judith. “Please wait in the living room.” 205

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Judith clasped her hands. “Kirby didn’t shoot his father.” Kirby didn’t look toward Judith. “Mother didn’t do it. I swear. She doesn’t know how to shoot a gun. I did it.” Chief Cobb folded his arms. “I can take you both into custody, interview you separately. So take your choice. Here. Or downtown.” Kirby jerked a shaking hand toward the door. “Let’s go outside.” He turned away. The chief followed. Judith stood rigid, staring after them.

When the front door closed, I was at the chief ’s elbow.

Cobb gave Kirby a hard look. “Take it from the first. You got to the church. What happened?”

“I caught up with him outside the church. We started arguing. We were making a lot of noise. He grabbed my arm, pulled me toward the cemetery. We walked for a few minutes and we were yelling at each other and I pulled out my gun and shot him.”

“Which gate did you take into the cemetery?” Kirby looked wary. “How should I know? It was just a gate.” Cobb rubbed one cheek. “The main road curves to the south.

Were you near that curve?” The Pritchard mausoleum was a good hundred yards from that curve.

Kirby moved uneasily, but he managed a straight stare. “I guess.

Yeah. That sounds right.”

Cobb gestured as if he held a gun. “You pulled out the gun and shot him. Did the bullet hit him in the chest?” Kirby thought fast. He knew guns, especially knew .22s. To be deadly, a small-caliber bullet had to strike a vital area. “Yeah. His heart. Right on.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

Kirby hesitated an instant too long, then said quickly, “I went over to the nature preserve and threw it into the lake.” Cobb’s face furrowed in irritation. “You’ve got a new story every 206

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time. First, somebody stole the gun. Then you threw the gun away in the cemetery. Now you tossed it in the lake. You’re lying.

One way or another, you’re lying. You don’t know where the body was found. You don’t know where he was shot. Or maybe”—his gaze was cold—“you’re clever as hell and you know the answers but you’re lying your head off. Wait here.” He slammed into the house.

Kirby called after him, “Mom’s trying to protect me. She didn’t shoot him.”

Cobb strode into the living room.

Judith waited by the fireplace. The flames crackled but she shivered. “Kirby’s trying to protect me. I’m sorry.” She looked like she would collapse, then drew herself up. “I’m ready to go to jail.” The chief nodded. “Just a few facts, Mrs. Murdoch. Where were you standing when you shot your husband?” Her eyes flared. “I was”—she hesitated—“facing him. We’d quarreled. He came toward me. I pulled the gun out of my purse and shot him.”

“Where were you?”

“In the cemetery.”

“Where in the cemetery?” His gaze was sharp.

Judith clutched at her throat. “I don’t know exactly. I don’t remember where we were. I was too upset.”

“Did you enter by the south gate or the west gate?” I thought rapidly. Kathleen and I had used the wheelbarrow to enter through the north gate. The main gate was on the west side of the cemetery. There was also a gate to the south. I had the distinct sense Judith was desperately trying to guess the right answer. Logically, if she and Daryl had walked from the church, they would have entered through the west gate.

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“Where did you go?”

She shrugged, looked puzzled. “I don’t know. We were walking and talking. I wasn’t paying any attention. I don’t know exactly where we were. I can’t say exactly. I shot him and then I ran. I don’t know where I was.”

“You were facing him as you fired the gun.” Chief Cobb made it a statement.

“That’s right.” She watched him carefully.

“The bullet struck him in the chest.” Another statement.

She made no answer.

“Chest or face?”

“I didn’t look. I pressed the trigger and turned and ran away.” I shook my head. Judith obviously had never hunted, never listened to men who did. Hitting any target is difficult. Shooting blind was almost a guarantee of a wild shot.

Cobb’s expression was skeptical. “Where’s the gun?” Now she looked triumphant. “In the backyard. I buried it in the flower bed behind the third rosebush from the walk.” His eyes narrowed. His gaze became intent and speculative.

“Show me.”

She hurried to a patio door, flung it open. The chief was right behind her.

Cobb found the soft mound of dirt behind the third rosebush. He knelt and gingerly scraped away loose soil, piling dirt to one side. He scraped until the ground turned hard. He looked up at Judith, his face grim.

She bent forward, anxious and uncertain. “It was there. I buried it there.”

Cobb pushed up from the ground, grimacing as he straightened one knee. “If you did”—his tone was cold—“it doesn’t seem to be there now, Mrs. Murdoch.”

“Someone’s taken it.” She twisted her hands together.

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“Just like somebody took it from the trunk of your son’s car. Or didn’t take it, depending on who I ask.” He glared at Judith. “I’m telling you and you can tell your son that I intend to find out who killed your husband, with or without your help.” The patio door opened and Kirby came out.

Cobb looked at him. “Maybe you took the gun out of its hole.” Kirby said nothing, though he cut his eyes toward his mother.

Cobb brushed the dirt from his hands. “I’ll be in touch.” When he disappeared around the edge of the house, Kirby strode toward his mother. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I shot your dad. He didn’t believe me.” Kirby jammed a hand through his hair. “He didn’t believe me either.”

Judith’s face was ashen. “What did you tell him?” He blinked, holding back tears. “I didn’t tell him I saw your car when we came out of the parking lot. I never will.”

“You saw my car?” Suddenly her face looked years younger. “You saw me following your dad? So you turned away, didn’t you? Oh, Kirby, when I realized your dad was going to the church, I came home.”

“Then what happened to my gun? It should have been in my car.” Judith began to laugh and it turned into a sob. “I was so afraid when they said he was shot with a twenty-two. Friday morning I went out and looked and found it in your trunk. I picked it up and smelled it—”