But, duty first.
C H A P T E R 4
Acuckoo clock warbled the quarter hour. No wonder I was hungry. Bobby Mac expected his supper at six-thirty sharp and it was past seven. He groused when we had to go out to dinner. As far as he was concerned, dinner at eight was more than late, it was an offense to the natural order. Bobby Mac was big on the natural order. I grinned and hoped the tarpon was giving him a majestic battle. I wouldn’t tell him I’d given Rob’s handball a slight bit of assistance. Men are so sticky about rules.
I adored the new color scheme in the rectory kitchen, lots of orange and yellow and tomato red. A golden oak table overlooked the windows to the back porch. Chairs at either end and two on each side afforded plenty of space. I felt at home when I saw Fiesta din-nerware. Two azure plates topped by butter-yellow soup bowls sat on red woven cotton place mats. The napkins were white and red gingham.
I especially liked the vivid painting of the Grand Canyon on the wall where our rector’s wife had placed a shaggy macrame in tones of beige, brown, and gray.
The flooring was new, no longer wood planks that had a distressing Ca ro ly n H a rt
tendency to slope in one corner. Instead, beige tiles were interspersed with blocks of smaller red, yellow, and orange tiles in a pyramid pattern. Instead of avocado green, the refrigerator was a shiny steel color with two vertical doors, one small and one large. A pot bubbled on a flat surface with concentric rings where the stove had sat.
I wafted nearer, drawn both by the savory aroma and my interest in the gleaming surface with the coils. My, what a lot of controls. We had a gas stove. You turned it on, lit the flame, and cooked.
I found a hot pad, lifted the lid. Mmm. Brunswick stew. A light glowed in the oven. I opened the door, welcomed a rush of heat, and sighed in happiness at the old-fashioned heavy iron skillet with cornbread batter, one of my sister Kitty’s specialities.
Steps sounded from the central hallway. Slow steps. I heard a voice, but couldn’t distinguish words. Kathleen entered the kitchen.
She looked younger in the bright overhead light. Her dark curls were freshly brushed. She’d applied fresh makeup and changed into a berry-red turtleneck sweater and a long paisley skirt that swirled as she walked. Ah, she was talking into one of those new phones.
“. . . don’t know if the candles have arrived or not . . . Certainly the rector keeps track of orders, but he hasn’t mentioned it to me. I’ll let him know of your concern, Mrs. Harris.” Her voice was pleasant, but Kathleen surely wouldn’t want her face to freeze into a mask with those icy eyes and grim frown. “Certainly, Mrs. Harris. I know the ECW luncheon will be especially meaningful to everyone who is new to Adelaide. I will be there.” She whirled and stalked toward the stove.
Nimbly, I moved aside. She might be startled to bump into what seemed to be air. The thought caught me by surprise. I puzzled over the physics of it. I was invisible, but I knew I existed in space since I had no difficulty gripping the handles of the wheelbarrow, yet I was able to move through the solid medium of a door. Probably there was an equation that explained everything, but I’d never been good at math.
G h o s t at Wo r k
Kathleen held the phone over the stove and punched a button. A grating buzz sounded. She pulled the phone back. “That’s the timer!
Excuse me, I have to run. Thanks for calling.” She punched a button, apparently ending the call. She turned off the timer and, mercifully, the noise ended.
“Clever.” Oh dear, there I went again.
Kathleen stiffened. Her eyes shifted nervously around the kitchen.
I didn’t hesitate. Wiggins would have to understand. As I appeared, Kathleen’s mouth opened, but no words came. My arrival was reflected in the mirror over the sink, and I had some understanding of her distress. At first, I wasn’t there. Suddenly colors misted and swirled, resolving into me, red curls damp from the misty night, green eyes glistening with eagerness, a friendly smile on my face. The red-and-black plaid jacket looked as new as the day I’d bought it. It did look a trifle unseasonable hanging over seersucker.
Since the kitchen was toasty, I slipped out of the jacket, tossed it to a straight chair near the door. I nodded approval. I’ve always loved seersucker, though I would have to think about winter clothes if I was going to be here very long. I glanced again at Kathleen. Perhaps a white turtleneck and a crimson wool skirt and black pumps would be better.
Kathleen gasped. “How did you do that?” I checked the mirror. I must remember that the thought is mother to the deed. I managed not to preen. But honestly, and speaking without pride because we all know what pride goeth before, the combination was striking. I studied my reflection judiciously. Possibly a crimson scarf might add an accent.
Kathleen moaned and backed away, apparently an unfortunate habit of hers. She held up shaking hands. “You aren’t here. It’s all in my mind.”
It was time to set her straight. “I am here. At least, I am here for the moment. Don’t be frightened. I want to help you.” I couldn’t resist
Ca ro ly n H a rt
a small complaint. “I had rather thought you’d stay long enough to assist me in the cemetery.”
Her eyes were huge. “There was a light in the mausoleum and voices and I was scared. I didn’t think you were there.” I understood she might have felt abandoned. “Some boys on a Halloween prank. I couldn’t let them take Maurice’s greyhound.” She watched me uneasily. “You sound as though you knew him.
Maurice, not the dog.”
“Everyone knew Maurice and Hannah.” I wouldn’t claim intimacy. The Pritchards were one of the first families of Adelaide.
“Sure. Of course.” She spoke soothingly, as if to a child describing an encounter with Martians. “Right.”
I almost took issue, but time would prove my claim and Kathleen would offer a suitable apology for doubting
