Merry, Merry Ghost (2 page)

Better and better. “Whatever the project requires, I am ready.”

“Undoubtedly you have a qualification.” His tone was reluctant, as if an admission wrung under duress.

“However, you lack the calm and reserve of a Heavenly emissary. You are”—he ticked off the offenses one by one—“inquisitive, impulsive, rash—”

I completed the litany. “—forthright and daring.”

We looked at each other, I with fading hope, Wiggins sorrowfully.

I was tempted to change back into a blouse and shorts and waft to Bobby Mac and the
Serendipity
, riding in crystal clear blue waters for another eternal day. Yet Wiggins had thought of me for a mission. There had to be a reason. “My special qualification?”

His florid face relaxed into warmth and delight. “Bailey Ruth, you always loved Christmas.”

Christmas…Oh dear Heaven, Christmas was the most special season of the year. Cold and gray outside?

When I listened to the jingle of the Salvation Army kettle, I felt warm as toast. Jammed among sharp-elbowed shoppers in a suffocatingly hot store? That cashmere sweater was perfect for Aunt Mamie. A broken oven and twenty-three expected for Christmas dinner? Bobby Mac pulled out the grill, bundled up against a forty-degree north wind, and that day’s rib eye steaks were ever after celebrated in family history.

My eyes sparkled as I recalled some of my favorite things:

Sugar cookies shaped like stars and iced in red.

Main Street ablaze with green and red lights and plenty of tinsel.

Strings of holly.

Carolers on a crisp starlit night.

Cutting down our very own Scotch pine out in the country.

Bobby Mac holding Rob in one arm, Dil in the other, and small hands reaching up to place a wobbly star atop the tree.

Presents wrapped in bright red and gold foil.

Crimson poinsettias massed behind the altar and on the ledges by the stained-glass windows and in the narthex.

The exquisite peace and hope of Mother and Child in the manger.

I was swept by that wonderful feeling of the season when workaday cares recede and we glimpse a world bright with love. “Ooh, Christmas.” Every Christmas Eve, Bobby Mac (a robust tenor) and I (an energetic soprano) entertained Rob and Dil with our duet of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” as we pulled a sled laden with gifts into the living room. A two-foot-tall stuffed reindeer with a shiny red nose was harnessed to the sled.

I came to my feet, quickly attired in my best Mrs. Claus suit and floppy red Santa hat, and belted out my most spirited version of “Rudolph.” Tap was popular when I was young, and the wooden floor of the station a perfect venue…four slap ball changes, four shuffle hop steps, a shuffle off to Buffalo…Sweeping off my Santa hat, I ended with a flap cramp roll and a graceful bow.

Flushed with success, I lifted my gaze to Wiggins.

He sat, brown eyes wide, expression bemused.

Had the man never seen a hoofer before? Had I blown any chance for adven—to be of service? Had my impetuous nature once again landed me in trouble?

His lips curved in a broad smile. His eyes shone. “That takes me back. Indeed it does. I saw Bojangles in Chicago in 1909. I never miss any of his shows.”

I made a mental note to check the jazz schedule for Bill Robinson’s next starlit performance. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a show with the Milky Way as spots.

“Only you, Bailey Ruth, would remember Christmas with a tap dance.” Wiggins’s tone was admiring.

I think.

Abruptly, he gave a decided nod. “That’s why your dossier kept reappearing.” He reached out, pulled a candy-cane-striped folder close to him, flipped it open.

I craned to see. There was my picture, a sea breeze stirring my flaming hair as the
Serendipity
breasted swells.

Wiggins patted the top sheet. “You have the true spirit of Christmas and that is what I need here, despite your impetuous nature.” He turned and thumbed through a stack of folders in various colors. He opened a black one.

I didn’t dwell on his qualifying phrase. Christmas spirit I could supply in plenty.

His face was grave when he faced me. “This situation”—he tapped the folder—“is murky. Your previous task was clear-cut: a lovely damsel visited with a body on her back porch. Of course, I didn’t expect the action you took…” Some of his enthusiasm seemed to drain away. He gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know if the department should take a chance again. But”—hope lifted his voice—“possibly in this instance nothing will be required of you except calm overseeing.” He nodded decisively and repeated with vigor, “Calm overseeing,” as if I might have trouble hearing.

I decided not to be offended.

“On balance, you might be perfect for this visit. You love Christmas and you have a youthful heart. I was especially touched that you spun stories for Dil and Rob about Santa’s workshop and who might need a particular toy. You helped them feel the spirit of giving. Whatever happens, you can beam love on a dear little boy, an orphan whose future is uncertain.” Wiggins’s tone fell to a puzzled mutter. “Surely Keith’s protector has the best of intentions. She is kind and caring.” He pulled a map close, marked a path in red, muttered, “Adelaide obviously is her goal. However, no contact has been made at the house.”

“The house?” I figuratively rolled up my sleeves. This time around Wiggins could give me the background, prepare me for my task. I pushed away the uneasy sense that no matter how prepared I might have been on my previous mission, I would have been tempted to flout the Precepts if I felt the need. This time, however, I would be on my best behavior.

For starters, I would avoid appearing. The rich swirl of colors that preceded my transformation from spirit to earthbound creature had an unfortunate effect on viewers.

I would remember that carrying discrete objects while not in the flesh was equally unnerving to them.

I would be particularly careful not to speak aloud when I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t concerned about the Precept prohibiting consorting with another departed spirit. Whatever my mission, it couldn’t possibly involve a departed spirit. It would be easy to observe this stricture.

However, I felt a qualm. Other of the Precepts could easily pose a challenge. The life of a spirit is fraught with opportunities to transgress—however unintentionally—the Precepts.

I came back to the moment—perhaps I did have a penchant for Zen—to realize that Wiggins had been discoursing.

“…though the decorations are up, and I will admit they are spectacular, the heart of Christmas left Pritchard House when Susan Flynn received word of her son’s death. So much sadness.”

“Pritchard House?” I pictured a grand home high on Chickasaw Ridge. Only one house in Adelaide was redbrick with two huge bay windows on the first floor, half timbered and stuccoed and balconied in English Tudor with Gothic accents on the second story.

Wiggins tapped my folder. “I assume you know the Pritchards.”

“Everyone in Adelaide knows the Pritchards.” Growing up in Adelaide, I could count on these verities: My family loved me, the sun rose in the east, St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church was our spiritual home, the wind blew mostly from the south, and two families served as Adelaide’s small-town aristocracy, the Pritchards and the Humes.

Paul Pritchard, cool-eyed and remote, came west from Boston in 1912 to establish Adelaide’s first bank. The Pritchards were formal, reserved, elegant, and supportive of the community, often hosting charity teas in their Chickasaw Ridge home. The Humes—ah well—the Humes were another story altogether, boisterous, sensation seeking, sometimes scandalous. Their drink of choice had a bit more punch than tea.

“The Pritchards did everything perfectly.”

Wiggins slowly shook his head. “Dear Bailey Ruth, don’t be blinded by worldly success and social position.”

I flicked the fluffy ball on the tail of my Santa hat over my shoulder. Woe be to me if Wiggins decided I was naïve. I added hastily, “In their support of St. Mildred’s.” Paul and his wife Jane had been founding members of St. Mildred’s, and subsequent generations continued generous financial support to the church. “Hannah and Maurice Pritchard furnished the money for the chapel and cloister.” I’d been in awe of Hannah on earth, but here in Heaven she was in one of my book clubs and I thoroughly enjoyed her gentle wit.

Wiggins’s smile was avuncular. “How appropriate that your first thought would be of St. Mildred’s. I commend you.”

My face flamed. That is a redhead’s hazard, scarlet cheeks when attempting a fib.

Fortunately Wiggins was looking at his folders. Again he appeared uneasy. “It’s worrisome that I am not certain of Keith’s arrival at Pritchard House. Yet I see no other purpose for the trip. The car appears to be en route to Adelaide. In any event, time is fleeting for Susan.”

I blinked in surprise.

Wiggins is perceptive. “In the natural order, we know when to expect new arrivals. Susan suffers from congestive heart failure but she isn’t due here until June 15. Yet”—his brow furrowed—“I am definitely worried. Call it a hunch.” His tone suggested the word was not one he commonly used. Possibly
hunch
wasn’t au courant until much after Wiggins’s time on earth. Could he have picked it up from an emissary?

Indeed, he looked embarrassed at his suggestion and said defensively, “I’ve been doing this over the course of many years as understood in earthly time—”

Time does not exist in Heaven, but I am no more able to explain this verity than to expound on Zen.

“—and sometimes I have a feeling of impending danger, almost as if a darkening cloud is blotting out the sun. That’s why I think—”

A frantic
clack clack clack
, sharp as Rudolph’s hooves on a Mission-style roof, erupted from the telegraph sounder on Wiggins’s desk.

Wiggins quickly removed his stiff cap, clamped on a green eyeshade, and grabbed a sheet. He wrote furiously, murmuring, “Oh dear, what can this mean? Steps must be taken!”

The clacking reached a peak, abruptly subsided.

Wiggins tapped a response and came to his feet, all in one hurried motion. He gestured to me as he grabbed a bright red ticket from a slotted rack. “No time to stamp. Red signals emergency. The conductor will understand. I’ll pull down the signal arm for an unscheduled stop of the Rescue Express. Run, Bailey Ruth.”

In an instant, I was racing toward the platform, ticket in hand, Wiggins pounding behind me. What a grand turn of events. I tried to hide my excitement. Wiggins would frown upon overt delight in being dispatched to earth. That might underscore his concern that I had, in my previous adven-mission, found it difficult to remember that emissaries are
on
the earth but not
of
the earth. This Precept evoked an emotional response from Wiggins, who deplored the possibility of an emissary reverting to earthly attitudes instead of exhibiting Heavenly virtues. This time would be different. I would most nobly remember at all times that I was
on
but not
of
. I would make Wiggins proud.

Despite my effort to remain suitably grave—hard to do when running full tilt—I felt my lips curving in delight. I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, was once again ticketed for the Rescue Express. Watch my dust!

As the train screeched to a stop and a porter reached out to pull me aboard, Wiggins looked unhappily at the folder he clutched. “…no time for you to study the reports…find out everything about those who surround Susan Flynn…won’t do for you to take the folder…existing matter would be a burden since of course this time you will not appear. I’m sure you won’t.”

I thought his tone rather pitiful.

“…shocking turn of events…I should have sent you sooner…such an unexpected act…protect that dear little boy…”

CHAP
TER TWO

S
tars glowed against the vastness of space, witness to the majesty of the universe. A streak of red and a fading whistle signaled the departure of the Rescue Express. Close at hand, darkness pooled from huge evergreens. Icy wind chilled me to the bone. Had I had bones. I imagined a white turtleneck sweater, charcoal slacks, knee-high black boots, and a chinchilla coat and cap. I immediately felt warmer as well as stylish. A woman wants to look her best when embarking on a new adven-mission.

As I zoomed around an evergreen, I gasped aloud, “Mercy me.” A cascading stream of emerald lights represented a waterfall. White lights outlined reindeer with front hooves lifted in a perpetual trot. Blue lights gleamed on a huge silver Christmas gift box with an iridescent red, blue, and green ribbon. A spotlight on the roof illuminated Santa’s sleigh, piled high with big boxes wrapped in gold and red and green foil paper.

Second-floor balconies were peppermint bright with red-and-white-striped ribbons wrapped around the railings. Near the front porch, a golden light illuminated a crèche with life-size wooden figures and real straw.

Long ago when Bobby Mac and I drove around Adelaide to show Rob and Dil the Christmas lights, strings of red bulbs outlined the roof and eaves of Pritchard House. We had thought the crimson bulbs glorious. But this magnificent display was beyond my experience. Faint strains rose in the frosty air. I suppose the music was somehow beamed from the house. I smiled and hummed along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

I wished suddenly that I could be with Rob and Dil, but Wiggins was very firm about the Precept prohibiting contact with family members. As he explained it, the living must not be preoccupied with the dead, but I wished them the merriest of Christmases from Mom and Dad. Dear Rob and Dil, it wouldn’t do any harm for me simply to glimpse them for a moment on this crisp night in December.

In an instant, I hovered over a pickup truck with the lights on and the tailgate down. Light glowed from the front porch of a comfortable old house. A sailboat trimmed with blue lights was on the front lawn.

I knew them at once. Carrying an awkwardly shaped bundle wrapped in a quilt, Rob was burly in a ski jacket but hatless. That boy never would cover his head. The sharp breeze stirred his thinning red hair now frosted with silver. Dil, always stylish, watched from a top step, clutching the lapels of her black-and-red plaid jacket.