Kathleen, looking squeamish, pulled a corner of the tarp down to cover his shoes.
I was glad to see she was thinking ahead. “Good job.”
“In case we see—” She stopped, shook her head, grabbed the handles. “I have to stop talking to myself,” she muttered. “I am not carrying on a conversation with anyone. I am not.” She stopped after a few feet, struggling to catch her breath. “I never knew a wheelbarrow was so heavy.” I doubted she’d ever moved one before. Especially not a wheelbarrow laden with a body. I slipped in front of Kathleen and placed my hands in front of hers. Fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about muscle strain. The wheelbarrow moved with noticeably more speed, though still lurching and squealing. The flagstone path ended.
It was harder going through the grass. Kathleen breathed in quick gasps. We reached the edge of the rectory yard and stood in the shadow of a pine. The always-present, ever-vigorous Oklahoma wind whipped the branches, buffeted us.
Even with my warm wool jacket, I was cold. I was exhilarated.
In Heaven you choose your surroundings, the ultimate in climate control. Bobby Mac and I love the seashore. Other climes are also available. Amundsen, for example, spends most of his time on an
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ice cap. Sarah Bernhardt exults on a stage with the velvet curtains parting. To each his own. Yet now I was in the world and must cope with weather.
I wasn’t surprised at the bite of the wind, the plummeting temperature. Halloween in Oklahoma was often synonymous with the arrival of a blue norther. It may have been seventy-five degrees earlier in the day, but if Halloween was imminent, so was cold weather.
Weather in Oklahoma is an adventure, in the twenties one day, nudging seventy the next.
I wished we’d thought to bring a flashlight. We wheeled onto the graveled path, which added a crackling sound to the screech of the wheel. The path curved around a stand of pines. Ahead were blazing lights. I admired the brightly lit paved parking lot behind the church.
My goodness, that was a change. A half-dozen cars were parked near the side entrance.
Kathleen stopped. To reach the west gate to the cemetery required crossing the far end of the lot. The wheelbarrow and, of course, Kathleen would be in full view of anyone leaving the church or looking out of the parish hall.
Despite the circumstances, I took pleasure in a swift survey of my beloved St. Mildred’s, a graceful church built of limestone. A latticed wall and limestone arches enclosed a cloister between the church and the L-shaped wing with the Sunday school rooms and church offices. The parish hall was between the church and the wing.
Kathleen crouched.
I divined her intent just in time and pushed down the handles of the barrow as she was pulling up, preparatory to dumping our burden.
I was firm. “We can’t leave him here.” She jumped back from the barrow, pointed at the starkly illuminated parking lot. “Don’t you see?” She shuddered. “Of course you don’t see. You aren’t here.”
G h o s t at Wo r k
I stamped my foot.
She looked down at the stick that crunched.
“Quickly, Kathleen.” He who hesitates . . .
She pushed back a lock of dark hair, looked fearfully toward the church. “If anyone looks out, they’ll see us. Me.”
“We’ll run.” It was a straight shot.
She dropped her hands from the shafts. “He can stay here.” Her sigh of relief rivaled the whoosh of the wind in the pines. She turned to go.
I grabbed her arm, hung on, rocked back on my heels for lever-age. “Don’t be silly. The barrow might be traced back to the rectory.
Look, we’re really close. You take one shaft, I’ll take the other and run like . . .” I remembered to be of the world, not in the world. After all, one doesn’t want to trifle with Hell. “. . . fast.” I firmly fastened her hands on the right shaft. “Go.”
We pelted across the blacktop, the barrow rocking from side to side, wheel rasping, Daryl’s shoes thumping. I’m sure it seemed a lifetime to Kathleen, but in only a few seconds we plunged through the open gate into the cemetery, leaving behind the light. The gently rolling, heavily treed cemetery was dark as a root cellar.
Kathleen stumbled to a stop. “I can’t see a thing.” I have excellent night vision and saw that the graveled path picked up again. “Straight ahead, then veer around the clump of willows.” I gave Kathleen an encouraging pat, ignored her recoil. “We’ll leave him near the Pritchard mausoleum.” It was a showpiece of the cemetery, white marble with Corinthian columns. The marble tombs within were crowned with a sculpture of a greyhound on Maurice’s tomb and an Abyssinian cat on Hannah’s. He loved dog races and she loved cats and they were rich enough to indulge their whims.
Locals who visit the cemetery make it a point to swing by the mausoleum and stop to pat the greyhound’s head and stroke the cat’s
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whiskers for luck. The custom assured that Mr. Murdoch’s remains would be found tomorrow. He was due that courtesy, not that cold wind and darkness were a trouble to him now.
The barrow wheel continued its grating screech. We came around the curve, brushed by the dangling tendrils of a weeping willow. The Pritchard mausoleum stood only feet away on a small rise. There was a clinking sound. A darting beam of a light danced within the mausoleum.
C H A P T E R 3
