Merry, Merry Ghost

CHAPTER FIVE

I dropped into the cemetery that adjoined St. Mildred’s. I needed a moment to regain my usual calm demeanor. Perhaps Wiggins would take exception to that self-description. Possibly I am not often the epitome of calmness. But I am always upbeat. I did a couple of shuffle steps as I coasted to a stop inside the cemetery gate and sang a verse of “When the Saints Come Marching In.”

In the past, I had always found respite from worldly cares among the cemetery’s old granite stones and newer bronze markers. I strolled past the Hoyt family plot and stopped to admire a scroll inscribed with Spenser’s poignant lines: Sleepe after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas, / Ease after Warre, Death after Life Doth greatly please.

Winter-bare limbs creaked in the ever-present Oklahoma wind. Bradford pears, sweet gums, sycamores, and maples dotted the gentle landscape. In summer, the foliage added comforting swaths of shade in the blazing sunshine. I loved the cemetery equally in every season. Peace surrounded me.

I felt a twinge of remorse over my dramatic departure from the church secretary’s office with the directory. I thought of Precept Five. Once again I had transgressed.

Hey, I’d do better next time.

Of course I would.

I looked down. The directory, firmly gripped in my hand, apparently moved of its own accord a few feet above the ground.

I swirled into being. My suede coat kept me warm from the chill wind. I wiggled my fingers in soft suede gloves. I felt justified in appearing. Clearly I should avoid the possibility of an airborne parish directory disturbing a visitor to the cemetery.

I walked briskly, admiring Christmas wreaths on many of the graves. The ECW hosted a wreath-making coffee the first Saturday in December in the parish hall. I always added holly berries and frosted pinecones to mine. We placed fresh, fragrant wreaths at the graves of those who no longer had family in Adelaide to remember them.

I hurried up the marble steps of the Pritchard mausoleum. Whenever I visited the cemetery, I always stepped inside to stroke the marble greyhound at the head of Maurice Pritchard’s tomb and slide my fingers on the stiff whiskers of the marble Abyssinian at the head of Hannah Pritchard’s tomb. Paying tribute to Maurice and Hannah’s dog and cat is an old Adelaide custom purported to bring good fortune.

I loved the feel of the cold marble beneath my fingers. “Here’s for luck.” Repeated homage had turned the greyhound’s head shiny and added a gloss to the cat’s whiskers.

A deep voice boomed. “Precept Five.”

Air whooshed from my lungs. “Wiggins!”

“Precept Five.” In a rat-a-tat clip, Wiggins quoted: “‘Do not succumb to the earthly temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.’” A heavy sigh. “I am exceedingly disappointed, Bailey Ruth. I overlooked your appearance in Wal-Mart. No harm done. But this latest contretemps—”

Contretemps…What a cosmopolitan word choice for a rural train station agent. Perhaps Wiggins might share some of the uplifting experiences he’d enjoyed as the director of the Department of Good Intentions that had no doubt expanded his vocabulary. I’ll bet he’d been to Paris. I pushed away a pang of jealousy. After all, those in charge received perks not available to foot soldiers. Certainly I was happy to bloom where I’d been planted, as dear St. Thérèse of Lisieux sweetly advised. Moreover, much as I would have thrilled to be helpful in Paris, I loved returning to Adelaide.

I sensed Wiggins was quite near. Just before a summer storm, purple-black clouds banked up against the horizon. When the storm unleashed sheets of rain and the fury of the wind, thunder rattled louder than a cannon and lightning sizzled. The senses reeled from the impact.

I felt a similar explosion was imminent.

“—reveals without any doubt that you are not now and will likely never be suited to serve as an emissary from the department.”

I expected any instant to have a return ticket on the Rescue Express thrust in my hand. Tears burned my eyes. My lips trembled. I’d tried my best to fulfill my duties and now I undoubtedly faced an unceremonious return to Heaven. I felt buffeted by embarrassment, discouragement, and frustration.

So I blurted out the truth.

“I don’t like being invisible all the time. In Heaven, I’m me. You know me.” He had a file inches thick on Bailey Ruth Raeburn. “I want to be a part of things and talk to people and laugh and have a good time. I understand that solitude is good for the soul.” I’d read that somewhere. “Everyone can profit from moments spent in quiet contemplation.” Contemplating what? Being in the moment? I’d better not go there. Quiet contemplation sounded as appealing as sitting on an ice floe. There was never a moment I’d spent that wasn’t better if it was shared. Sailing with Bobby Mac. Laughing with family and friends. Grieving with those in trouble. Dancing cheek to cheek. “I need to be with people. When I’m not here, I feel separated from everyone.”

I held the parish directory up high. I wished I knew where Wiggins lurked. Had that last sigh come from behind me? Above me? I made a full turn, waving the directory like a knight’s banner. The directory was incontrovertible evidence of my transgressions against the Precepts, but if I was on the verge of dismissal, I was going out in style. “Here’s the directory and I think you should be proud of the efforts I made to obtain a copy. If I don’t know how to find the people around Susan Flynn, how can I discover whether they want to harm Keith?” I might as well make my attitude clear. If I stayed on the job—faint hope—I had to be out and about and discover the good and the bad about those who surrounded Susan. If I was going to be on the earth, I’d do my best not to be of the earth (a nod to Precept Eight), but if circumstances required, I fully intended to swirl into being. “I have to find out about Jake and Peg and Tucker and Gina and Harrison and Charlotte if I’m to be on guard for Keith. That means sometimes I may have to be here, just like I am in Heaven.”

“Heaven”—his voice was stern and seemed to come from the foot of Maurice’s tomb—“is not here. Precepts One, Three, and Four.”

I stamped my foot. Wiggins was being dense. “I can’t spook around never talking to anyone.”

The silence was absolute. Had I crossed Wiggins’s Rubicon? If he decried the term ghost, how did he feel about spook?

“Wiggins”—I talked fast as the beat of hummingbird wings—“the directory is essential.” I felt my cheeks turn pink, a redhead’s unmistakable response to stress. Standing in the pale warmth of afternoon sunlight shining through the mausoleum’s entrance, my curls stirred by a chill wind, I opened the directory. I flipped to Susan Flynn’s picture, then my eyes settled on the photograph above her. I thumped the directory. “Look at this. Now I know who Jake is. She’s Jacqueline Flynn. I didn’t know her last name. But that makes sense. Her husband was Susan’s husband’s brother. She was at the house when Keith came.” And none too pleased when Gina suggested the will might be changed. “Here’s the listing for her daughter, Margaret. That’s Peg. So I’m making a start.”

“I will admit”—his tone was grudging—“that your actions were well-intentioned.”

I tried to pinpoint Wiggins’s voice. Was he standing near the greyhound now? “Susan told her lawyer to get proof about Keith.” I flipped to the first pages of the directory. I didn’t have to go far. Wade Farrell was on the vestry. I found the F’s. “Wade and Cindy Farrell, 1106 Arrowhead Drive. He’s Susan Flynn’s lawyer.” Was Wiggins listening? Was he still here? “I’m sure I can find out a huge amount from Susan Flynn’s files in his office. As soon as she has proof that Keith is her grandson, she will have the lawyer draw up a new will.”

“A new will?” The sharp voice was right at my shoulder.

I jumped. “Wiggins, you scare me to death. Well, of course, not actually.” But my laugh was hollow. “Don’t hover about and shout. Won’t you please join me?”

“Appear?” His voice rose in shock.

I wasn’t asking him to embrace a cobra. “For a moment. What harm can it do?”

A deep breath was drawn. “I would rather enjoy being on earth in winter.” His tone was wistful. He cleared his throat. “After all, a leader must make every effort to support his representatives. I regret that I startled you when I spoke. If my appearance will make you more comfortable, why certainly it’s a small sacrifice on my part.”

“Thank you, Wiggins.” My lips quivered in amusement, but I managed not to smile. How reassuring for a minion such as I, subject to impatience and irritation and all sorts of worldly attitudes, to see Wiggins succumb to the wiles of rationalization. I hoped he never realized he was flouting Precept Eight (Remember always that you are on the earth, not of the earth…) and actually reverting to earthly thinking.

Colors swirled and there he was, stiff-brimmed cap riding high on his thick thatch of reddish-brown hair, ruddy complexion, handlebar mustache, a heavy black coat open to reveal his starched high-collar shirt, suspenders, and gray flannel trousers. He definitely had the look of another century, but how reassuring to have him here in person.

“I’m glad to see you.” I truly was. Wiggins might find me a challenge, but I loved his old-fashioned courtesy and serious demeanor. “Let’s walk around the cemetery. It’s beautiful even in winter and the Christmas wreaths are lovely.” He could kick a mound of leaves with his snub-toed black shoe, draw in that dark woody scent, and remember long-ago winter walks in the woods.

We stepped out into the sunlight and followed a graveled path toward a rise. The sunlight emphasized the rich chestnut sheen of his hair and mustache. We walked in companionable silence, Wiggins smiling and breathing deeply of the frosty air.

“Ah.” Abruptly, his smile fled. He tugged at his mustache, his expression concerned. “If Susan Flynn plans to redo her will, it is highly advisable to explore the reactions of those who would have been her beneficiaries.”

How nice to be vindicated. However, I minded my manners. Self-satisfaction wasn’t an attractive quality even though my pursuit of the parish directory now appeared to be justified.

He nodded in approval. “It is well that she intends to make proper provision for Keith. And”—his voice was kind—“his arrival has brought her happiness. She has known very little happiness these past few years.”

“I’m sorry Mitchell was killed in combat.” Susan Flynn had confronted the horror of knowing that her son, strong, young, and vital with many years that should have been his, instead died from wounds far away from home. “No mother ever stops grieving the loss of a child.” Mitch had died a hero, his little boy said. Bravery would ever be honored, but medals are no balm to a grieving heart.

Wiggins turned to face me, his brown eyes full of sadness. “Not one child. Two.”

I came to a stop, stricken by the enormity of his quiet words.

His honest, open, frank face was full of compassion. “Young people—and old—make mistakes. Mitchell was his mother’s darling, handsome, vigorous, daring, brave. Unfortunately, he was equally reckless, defiant, and hot-tempered. The weather was icy that December night. Adelaide’s hills began to glaze before the party was over. Mitchell and the girl he’d brought to a party quarreled. Mitchell slammed out of the house. His sister Ellen ran after him and managed to jump into the passenger seat before he gunned out of the drive. He lost control on Indian Hill Road.”

I remembered a twisting road with a steep drop.

“The car made a full turn and slammed into an evergreen. Mitchell’s door opened. He hadn’t fastened his seat belt so he was thrown clear, landed in a snowbank. The tree splintered and the car fell.”

“Ellen?”

Wiggins shook his head. “Ellen’s seat belt was fastened. They found the crumpled car at the bottom of the drop. Ellen was dead from massive injuries.” Wiggins reached down, picked up a clump of leaves, and the dank smell rose on the cold air. “The road was treacherous that night. The police report concluded that the wreck was a result of weather conditions.”

“Was Mitchell driving too fast?” Was he too furious from the quarrel to think? Had he pushed on the gas pedal when he should have slowed? A few times I recalled being swept by such a rush of anger that later I scarcely knew what I had said or done.

Dried leaves drifted down as Wiggins opened his hand. “His father thought so. Thomas Flynn adored his daughter. He turned away from Mitchell, said he’d killed Ellen because of his damnable temper. He told Mitchell he never wanted to see him again.” Wiggins brushed his fingers against his overcoat. “And he didn’t. The day after Ellen’s funeral, Mitch disappeared. The Flynns did everything they could. Mitchell was sought as a missing person. They hired private detectives. They found no trace. Thomas Flynn died two years ago, a broken man. I think he grieved himself to death. Susan withdrew, had less and less contact with the outside. She has congestive heart failure, the result they say of a virus. How vulnerable to illness the body becomes when there is no will to live. From the day after Ellen’s funeral to the day military officers arrived to tell her that Mitchell died a hero in Ramadi, Susan Flynn had no inkling of where her son had gone and what he had done.”

I flung out my hands, outraged. “How could he do that to his mother?”

Wiggins looked past me, but he wasn’t seeing graves and winter-bare trees and, in the distance, the cross of St. Mildred’s. He was looking into a past filled with faces I’d never seen. “Mitchell bore the heaviest burden of all, anguish that is harder to bear than sorrow. Guilt crushed him. Guilt kept him from coming home until he came home for his final rest. He could never see past the guilt to understand the heartbreak his disappearance brought.”

“No wonder Keith’s arrival means so much to Susan.” I reached out and gripped the sleeve of Wiggins’s overcoat. “Thank you for letting me help.”

His genial face folded in a frown. “Bailey Ruth, I never doubt your desire to be of help.” His eyes glinted. “However, maneuvering the directory back and forth by the secretary’s window was reprehensible.”

“Mea culpa.” I tried to sound contrite. Possibly the more formal Latin assumption of responsibility would please Wiggins. I hoped my look of regret touched his heart, which apparently was feeling pretty stony right this minute. “Wiggins, I will do my best to remain in the background, but Keith might be at risk. Surely I can stay until his grandmother has made provision for him.”

He put one hand in a pocket, jingled coins. Finally, he sighed. “Someone must be on the spot to look after Keith. And”—he didn’t sound overwhelmed with delight—“you are here. Very well. Remain on duty.” He looked at me. A tiny smile tugged at his generous mouth. “Have you sung ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ for Keith?”

“I will. I promise.” I broke into a vigorous version.

Wiggins laughed aloud. “You do that. And keep a careful eye on him. You shouldn’t have to be here much longer.” That prospect seemed to bring him great cheer.

“Probably not.” I tried to sound pleased as well, but I was sorry to see my hours in Adelaide dwindling. Once Keith was firmly established in Pritchard House as Susan Flynn’s grandson, my task would be done. I hoped I could dawdle a bit. I wanted to hug close the sights and sounds of Christmas, smiling faces, children’s awe, twinkling lights, carols rising on a frosty night. Perhaps I’d be in Adelaide long enough to attend the children’s Christmas Eve service, the boys in bathrobes as shepherds, the girls with angel wings and halos.

A shadow touched Wiggins’s face. “Be sure and keep guard over—” He stopped as if jolted by a shock. “Oh my goodness! I must be off.” His eyes widened. “To Tumbulgum. An emissary seduced by…oh dear…never in my experience…shocking…”

Abruptly, he disappeared.

I tried to squash an uncharitable hope that the emissary was in a big fat pickle and would absorb Wiggins’s attention for a good long while. I had no idea where Tumbulgum was, but hopefully it was very, very remote. If so, perhaps when Wiggins once again considered my actions, a penchant for appearing would seem rather minor in comparison. Of course, we all know that taking pride in being less sinful than another doesn’t get your ticket punched. I would never do that. Certainly not. But I felt less constrained than before.

Tumbulgum. Hats off. Wherever you are. I was reprieved for yet a while. I would attend to my duties and enjoy the season. I gazed around the cemetery at the wreaths and poinsettias and caroled “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

Still humming, I hurried back to the Pritchard mausoleum, tucked the precious directory behind Hannah’s tomb, and disappeared.

Wade Farrell’s office was old-fashioned, three windows with faded red velvet drapes pulled wide for the pale December sunlight, a cotton braided oval rug with red and beige circles, a mahogany desk with ash inlays, legal bookcases full of golden beige law books. Face folded in thought, he wrote vigorously on a legal pad. He stopped and checked his watch. He punched the intercom. “Kim, I’ve finished the general revisions.” He clicked it off.

In a moment, his office door opened and a poised brunette with feather-cut hair stepped inside. Her oval face was remarkably pretty, but her brown eyes were cool and remote.

I nodded in approval at her zebra-striped silk chevron blouse and black pencil skirt made stylish by large black buttons on the left front.

He pushed the legal pad to the edge of the desk. “The Flynn will. I don’t know when you can get to it. It’s more important to pin down the facts about the little boy. Are you making any progress?”

“Faxes from all over. We have to get a money order in German.” Her voice was brisk and commanding. She looked intelligent, perhaps even a little intimidating.

“Try to get confirmation of the birth certificate and the name of the hospital and when and where Mitch Flynn was married. Work all night if necessary. Susan Flynn wants to know by tomorrow.”

She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Farrell tapped a pen on the bare desk. “Thanks for being a sport, Kim. I hope this isn’t ruining an evening for you.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “I didn’t have anything special planned.” She closed his office door behind her and walked to her desk. I followed her. She slid onto her seat, muttered, “The rich get richer, the poor get poorer; he’ll go home whenever he chooses, I get to work until the wee hours.” She reached for the phone, tapped a number. “Hey, Sue. I can’t come. I’ve got to spend the night trying to scare up information on an estate.” She swung her chair away from her computer, stared moodily toward a window.

I perched on the corner of her desk and leaned close to the computer and keypad. I’d become somewhat familiar with computers, programs, and passwords on my previous visit to Adelaide. Obviously her computer had previously been turned on and her password used so she was able to access files.

I reached over and used the mouse to close out the program. The screen went dark.

“…Did you ever see that old movie Nine to Five?”

I smothered a giggle. Dolly Parton’s song and role in that film were definitely Heavenly favorites of a certain generation of women.

“I’ll try to come late if I can.” She clicked off the phone and swiveled her chair to face the computer. She frowned at the dark screen, puzzled.

I watched carefully as she clicked buttons, moved her mouse, waited until instructions came up to enter her password. I’d been a first-rate typist, but I wasn’t quite sure I’d followed her fingers. I edged a finger under her hands and poked d. The message Invalid Password flashed.

She gave an irritated breath, typed again.

Was her password sable or cable?

Once I again I tapped d.

Her shoulders hunched. This time she picked each finger up and put it down with exaggerated care.

Ah, sable. I glanced at a short black cloth coat, much worn, that hung from the nearby coat tree. I doubted she had a sable coat at home.

She clicked Open, highlighted the FlynnEstate file. That was all I needed to know.

Thin white clouds streaked the afternoon sky. The backhoe operator swung the boom and dumped dirt from a two-foot hole in the front yard of Pritchard House. The excavation was located about ten feet from the Christmas light displays.

On the front porch, Keith bounced in excitement, his cheeks pink from cold. “Can I help?”

Peg ruffled his blond hair. “Maybe I can get you a special ticket.” She shouted over the rattle of the motor. “Leon, can Keith ride with you?”

Gina hunched her shoulders against the sharp wind. “You’re going to spoil Keith big-time.” But her tone was amused. “Sorry you missed going out to the ranch for the tree. You’d think it would get old, but it never does. I always feel like a kid again. Tucker’s so proud of the tree, he’s about to bust.”

A whip-thin man with short silver hair and a weathered face twisted in the seat of the backhoe. He had the tough look of a man used to hard physical labor. He lifted a gloved hand in acknowledgment. “As soon as the tree’s in place.” He jumped from the cab and strode close to the hole.

Tucker watched from the driver’s seat of a tan Dodge Dakota. The cargo bed held a huge bluish-green Scotch pine.

“Ready,” Leon shouted.

Leaning out of the window, Tucker backed up slowly.

Leon waved him closer and closer. Just short of the excavation, he barked, “Stop.”

The wind ruffling her hair, Peg picked up Keith, balanced him on the porch railing. “Watch while they put the tree in the hole. Tomorrow, you can help decorate the tree. Everybody in the neighborhood comes and all the kids get to put on an ornament, then everyone has cocoa and s’mores and we sing Christmas carols.” She looked happy enough to bounce, too.

As she spoke, Leon steadied the tree as Tucker winched it over the excavation.

Excited children pressed nearer. Face stern, Leon made a chopping gesture with one gloved hand. “Back off, kids. We have to get her in place. The party’s not until tomorrow.”

Peg waved hello to several young mothers with children in strollers. A teenage girl held tight to a little boy’s hand.

As soon as the tree trunk disappeared over the edge of the hole, Tucker joined Leon. Grunting with effort, the two men positioned the tree. Using a pole, Tucker kept the pine upright.

Leon walked to the porch. He moved at a workman’s steady pace. He looked up at Keith on the railing and Peg beside him.

Peg’s smile was warm. “Keith, I want you to meet Leon. He was our best buddy when we were kids. He took us on hayrides and taught us to shoot and ride. He’ll build a great bonfire tomorrow and we can roast marshmallows.”

Leon’s tone was brusque but his eyes were soft. “Are you big enough to ride in my backhoe?”

Keith nodded, his face solemn.

Leon held up his arms. “Sure you are. You can push the dirt into the hole and make our tree steady as a rock. Tomorrow you’ll put the star on the very top. I’ve been setting up Christmas trees for your grandmother’s neighborhood party for a long time. I lifted up your daddy to top the tree when he was your age.” Leon swung Keith up to ride on his shoulders.

A door clicked on a second-floor balcony.

Peg and Gina looked up as Susan Flynn stepped outside. Susan’s silk robe wasn’t enough protection against the chill wind that ruffled her silver-streaked curls. Jake bustled out to join her, carrying a fleecy white cashmere shawl. “You’ll catch your death. Here, you’d better wrap up.”

Absently Susan took the shawl and drew it around her. She ignored Jake’s continued worried murmurs. Susan watched as Keith, sitting in Leon’s lap, Leon’s big hand over his, maneuvered the dirt, packing and tamping it around the massive Scotch pine. Susan’s eyes were shiny with tears. Peg clapped vigorously. Gina took a quick breath, turned, and stepped inside the house.