Ghost at Work (7 page)

“Yes. The red one.” Kathleen managed a smile. It was strained, but it was a smile. “It will be perfect for Miriam. I hadn't had a chance to wrap it. There are paper and ribbons in the bottom drawer of the chest in the closet. Please wrap it. I'll take care of the cake and coffee and you can bring it in and we'll present it to Miriam.”

Kathleen sounded frantic. Almost feverish. Perhaps I should remove my dishes from the table. It wouldn't take a moment to wash up, put everything in order. I was surprised that a few dishes on the table upset her. There are women who must always have their kitchens in perfect order, especially when there are guests. I wouldn't
have thought Kathleen was that particular. I was at the sink when the kitchen door closed. Suddenly Kathleen was beside me. In fact, she bumped into me, recoiled, then grabbed the soup bowl, hissing, “You‘ve got to stop doing things like this.”

I relinquished the bowl. “My dear, you are under too much stress. I was simply cleaning up—”

“What if Elise looked toward the table and saw a piece of cornbread move through the air and disappear? What if she saw the bowl and plate flying across the kitchen all by themselves?” Kathleen shot a hunted glance toward the door. “What if she comes back and hears me talking to no one?” She moved closer to the sink, automatically rinsed my dishes and silverware.

Oh. How could I have forgotten? However, it is difficult to remember I'm not here when I am. “I'm sorry.” I must be more careful. That reminded me of my perilous journey with the phone. “Kathleen, you'll be pleased to know I was able to retrieve Daryl's phone.” Considering her present discomfiture, I thought it best not to mention that moment above the church parking lot.

“Where—”

The hall door swung in. Elise bustled toward the table, a tomato-red pincushion shaped like a teapot in one hand, pink wrapping paper, scissors, and tape in the other. My tête-à-tête with Kathleen would have to wait.

Elise deftly wrapped the pincushion, chattering all the while. “I thought tonight's discussion of Saint Philip Neri was excellent. I agree with his insistence that rigorism keeps Heaven empty.”

When Elise fluttered paper, I used the crackling sound as cover and leaned near Kathleen to whisper, “We'll talk in the morning. The phone's safe for now.”

I wished my whispers didn't have such a galvanizing effect on Kathleen. Her eyes flared, her mouth opened, her hands opened and closed spasmodically.

As she used the scissors to curl a strip of ribbon, Elise turned toward Kathleen. “And I love Saint Teresa's—” Elise broke off, staring. The scissors snapped shut, cutting the ribbon in half. “Are you all right?”

“Just”—Kathleen gulped for breath—“scalded my hand.”

“Cutting the cake?” Elise looked toward the cake stand with its cover in place.

“The cake knife.” Kathleen whirled and moved to a drawer.

Elise looked at the stack of plates on the corner of the counter. The plates contained no cake. “Why did you put the knife up? You haven't cut the cake yet.”

“It was so hot. The water, you know.” Kathleen yanked open a cutlery drawer, drew out a serrated knife.

Elise unwound another long strip of ribbon. “You'd better check the hot water heater. It's extremely dangerous…”

I passed through the swinging door into the hall. Literally and with pleasure. It was such a bore to have to open and shut doors. I wanted to take a peek around the rectory before I slipped upstairs to my lovely guest room. My duties were done for the moment. Kathleen seemed to be safe. The police investigation was under way. In the morning, I would confer with Kathleen. For now, I was free to relax and consider my rather breathtaking day.

I was mindful that it behooved me to commit the Precepts to memory. Surely Wiggins understood that the opportunity for thoughtful consideration had so far eluded me due to circumstances utterly beyond my control. I pushed away the memory of his doleful voice. Hopefully, he had returned to the Department of Good Intentions. Perhaps another gh—emissary might benefit from consultation. I would redouble my efforts to remain unnoticed.

In the hallway, I gave a sigh of sheer delight. I might have been transported as an eight-year-old to my Grandmother Shaw's stately home in Fort Worth. Since my time the rectory had been restored to
its Victorian glory. An ornately carved walnut Renaissance Revival étagère held a collection of Bristol glass, three vases, a mortar and pestle, and a fan holder. A pink porcelain clock on a center shelf was gilded with bronze. The hallway was papered in Delft blue with a golden medallion pattern.

The flooring was now custom redwood, the entryway runner a fine Oriental in pale shades of rose and gold. One of the church patrons must have made possible the restoration of the rectory to Victorian glory. Clearly Kathleen and Father Bill wouldn't have the funds.

I heard the chirp of women's voices in the living room. I lingered by the étagère. I picked up one of the fans, flared it open. It reminded me of stories I'd heard from the era when my grandparents were young. Ah, those romantic days when a young woman might flick a wrist, flutter a fan, and send a seductive sidelong glance to a sideburned gentleman tipping a white straw hat.

I was caught up in my fancies when the front door rattled with a brusque knock. Quickly, mindful of Kathleen's concerns in the kitchen, I replaced the fan and slipped to one side of the étagère as a patrician woman stepped through the archway from the living room into the hall. Short-cut silver hair glistened in the shower of light from the chandelier. She was tall and slender, with a confident carriage.

The kitchen door swung out. Elise held it open as Kathleen entered with a serving tray.

“I'll get the door, Kathleen.” The newcomer spoke with a brisk assumption of authority. The directress of the Altar Guild no doubt. As to the manor born, she strode to the door, flicked on the porch light, and opened the door. “Hello, Sam.” There was the faintest edge of surprise in her voice.

The police chief squinted in the sudden glare. He straightened the baggy coat of his suit and cleared his throat. “H'lo, Rose. The reverend here?”

“Father Abbott isn't here.” Rose emphasized the title.

It was the old chasm between the evangelical brethren and the Episcopal congregation. The police chief, likely a stalwart Baptist, wasn't about to call any man Father.

“Come on in, Sam. We're just finishing our Thursday-night Bible study.” Rose held the door and turned toward Kathleen. “Chief Cobb is looking for Father Bill.”

The chief stepped inside, looking exceedingly masculine and large. His leathery complexion reflected years of too much sun. Another fisherman, I decided. Bobby Mac would have liked him. Cobb's gaze was steady. His broad mouth looked like it could curl into a big grin as well as straighten into toughness.

Fortunately, my gaze also encompassed Kathleen. I reached her just as the tray began to tip. I steadied it. This time I tried to keep my whisper gentle, but to the point. “Look lively. No one knows. Find out what he wants. Act normal.”

Elise's head swiveled back and forth, seeking the source of the soft murmur.

Kathleen thrust the tray toward Elise, walked to the door as if facing the guillotine. What was I going to do with her! I flowed alongside and breathed in her ear. “Relax. Smile.”

Kathleen looked up at the police chief. She managed a tight smile. “Bill's not here right now. He's at the hospital. I can give you his cell number.”

The chief's big head bent forward. He looked uncomfortable. “You can help me, Mrs. Abbott, same as him. Thing is, we've had a crime in the cemetery. The body of Daryl Murdoch—”

Shocked cries rose.

“—was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum.”

Rose stepped forward. “Sam, what happened?”

The chief was brisk. “He was found dead with a bullet wound.
We've been attempting to contact family members but haven't had any success.”

Rose looked at Elise. “Do you have Judith Murdoch's cell number?”

Elise pointed toward the living room. “I'll get my purse, check my address book.”

I perched on the hideously uncomfortable red plush chair next to the étagère.

I heard a click and looked down. Spoofer moved purposefully across the floor toward me. Some insist that cats' claws always retract and can't click on a hard surface. That is not true of all cats and Spoofer proved my point. He looked up at me, flowed through the air, and settled on my lap. I gave him a swift hug. Heaven knows that cats are God's most elegant creatures.

Chief Cobb nodded. “That would be helpful. However, I'm here because we got an anonymous call that a weapon was hidden on the back porch of the rectory. I know it's Halloween and crank calls can happen, but this one sure came fast. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to—”

I came to my feet. Spoofer twisted in surprise, but landed on his feet. He gave me a reproachful glance, but I wasn't there.

Once on the porch, I turned on the brilliant overhead light. Kathleen might be puzzled, but that didn't matter. I doubted I had much time and I must be able to see. The anonymous call proved how fast word travels in a small town. The murderer had heard that Daryl was found in the cemetery and knew immediately that the body had been moved. That must have caused consternation, but the murderer was resourceful and determined. Obviously, the gun was hidden somewhere on the porch. Had Kathleen called the police to report the murder, a search would have ensued and the gun would have been found. Now the murderer was taking Daryl's removal and
turning it to his or her advantage. Everyone with access to the rectory would be under suspicion if the gun was found here.

Kathleen and I hadn't made a search. We'd simply noted there was no gun near the body. Now I looked carefully. The porch ran the length of the house. The counter and sink were handy to the kitchen door. I knelt to peer underneath, noted with approval that the pipes were wrapped for winter. I poked a hand in a dark corner, not an exercise I would have undertaken had it been a hand of flesh. Brown recluse spiders do not take kindly to trespassers.

I scrambled past the sink and counter, ran my hand behind the rolled-up tarp. Nothing. The gun was not behind the stack of garden pots or tucked in a mélange of rubber boots or nestling in the drawers of a dilapidated desk or wedged among the pumpkins. I sped to the other end of the porch.

Voices sounded and the kitchen door swung out. “Sure appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott.” The chief looked back at the gaggle of women surrounding the kitchen door. “Ladies, if you'll stay in the kitchen, I'd appreciate it. This will only take a minute.” He tugged a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, then turned to his left, the portion of the porch I'd already checked.

I don't know what I would have done if he'd turned toward me. Another pinch? Three bulging black garbage sacks were clumped against the south wall. I loosed a tie to peer inside the first one. Unfortunately, I might as well have picked one up and spilled out the contents. The cans banged and clanged. I was almost startled into my skin. I tried frantically to quiet the surging metal. Heaven knows I applaud conservation, but the collection of empty soda-pop cans might be my undoing.

Chief Cobb swung around. “Nobody's supposed to touch—” He broke off.

Of course nobody had.

He gazed at the south end of the porch, the quivering sack and cascading cans, his face puzzled.

Kathleen bent down, picked up Spoofer, who was edging past her ankle. She held up the wriggling, offended cat. “He hates it when garbage bags are closed.”

Elise bent forward. “But the cat wasn't—”

Kathleen's voice rose, drowning out Elise. “He probably heard a mouse. That's what it was. Mice. Come on, Spoofer.” She hurried across the porch, opened the door, and put him out. She turned back toward the kitchen door, one hand behind her, waggling frantically.

I understood it was some kind of warning to me, but I didn't have time to figure it out. The chief was moving purposefully along the counter, stopping to check beneath with a flashlight he'd pulled from his suit coat. Not, of course, the Maglite he'd used in his search for the missing telephone.

I tiptoed past the trash bags. A gym bag rested next to a bag of golf clubs. I knelt by the sleek plastic bag, edged the zipper open. Empty. I lifted it up. Nothing underneath.

A piercing voice demanded, “I don't think it's mice. Kathleen, do you have a rat? I swear that gym bag moved. It would take a rat.”

There was a hurried shuffle as the Bible study group members moved away from the kitchen door.

Kathleen gave an unconvincing laugh. “Things have been moving about out on the porch. Maybe that's it.” She was backing closer to the bags of cans, trying to interpose herself between me and the women. Abruptly, she pointed toward the chief. “Look, he's found something!”

I hoped her ploy was successful. In any event, I took advantage of the momentary distraction to plunge my hand into the golf bag. I tried not to rattle anything, but the clubs clattered together. Heads swiveled in my direction. I tried to still the quiver of the clubs. I
pushed my hand deeper and felt the barrel of a small gun. My fingers closed around it.

Kathleen surged toward the screen door. “Someone's out there. I heard someone outside. Oh dear, should we check? Oh, Chief, you said there'd been a crime. Do you suppose the criminal's come back?”

High gasps and startled cries rose from the churchwomen.

Chief Cobb moved fast for a big man. He was at the screen door and pushing it wide. The beam of his flashlight crisscrossed the yard. He plunged down the steps.

While everyone's attention was focused on the chief, I yanked the gun out. It seemed incredibly small to me, scarcely larger than the palm of my hand. However, had anyone glanced in this direction, the gun would have been instantly visible, apparently dangling in space. Quickly, I dropped my hand behind the golf bag. This could only be a temporary respite. Somehow I had to remove the gun from the porch before the chief completed his circuit of the backyard.