plunging through the front door. Doors slammed. The pickup roared to life, tires squealing as it took off.
I didn’t waste a minute. The police would be here soon. I found a box of matches on the mantel. I set fire to various portions of the
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gown, flaring up a brisk blaze. I made sure the cardboard box and paper burned as well as the nightgown, every last scrap. When the flames began to die down, I took a poker and stirred the ashes, mashed them into nothingness.
My heart was pounding. I’d almost been a day late and a dollar short. I was ready to depart, pleased with my quick thinking, when I heard that unmistakable rumble. I didn’t hesitate. “Hello, Wiggins.
You’ll be glad to know everything’s dandy. The red nightgown—I’m sure you know all about it—is destroyed and Kathleen is safe.” If not a gold star, surely I deserved a silver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see about the cat fur.”
Mildred’s was not quite such an active church. A half-dozen cars were parked in the lot. Women streamed in and out. All were, I’m sure, doing good works, but at the moment they hampered my movements. Moreover, not fifty yards away, the back of the crime van was wide open and I noticed a technician jump out, carrying a blue plastic hand vacuum.
Standing to one side of a silver Lincoln Continental was the energetic young police detective. He bent to peer inside. “Hey, Artie, don’t think this’ll take long. Looks like Murdoch kept it clean.” They wouldn’t, I was sure, find a trace of cat fur. I had to hurry. I clapped my hands in satisfaction. If I couldn’t work unseen, why, no problem. It was time to be in the world, however briefly. Surely Wiggins would approve this circumspect appearance.
I landed on the rectory back porch and appeared. My elegant pantsuit was not quite the attire for housecleaning. I topped it with a
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blue smock appropriate for the Altar Guild. Possibly it was an excess of caution, but I added a matching turban. If anyone noticed a helpful member of the Altar Guild busy at the rectory, it would be better if red hair wasn’t part of her description. I smoothed the edges of the turban to be sure no red-gold sprigs peeped from beneath.
I always enjoyed housework. There’s such a sense of accomplish-ment when everything is tidy. Heaven doesn’t need dusting. The only tidying that remains is to continue growing in goodness, and goodness knows, for most of us there is always room for improvement.
I felt a moment’s unease. Had my return to earth encouraged my tendency to be inquisitive, rash, impulsive, and forthright?
“Undoubtedly.” Wiggins sounded resigned.
Although my breath caught, I was almost getting used to his sudden utterances. I was terribly aware that he was once again here and I was in deep Dutch.
“However”—even his rumble was subdued—“there are times when appearing will cause less turmoil than not appearing. Try hard”—his tone was plaintive—“to remain out of sight. If I’d realized you were quite so noticeable . . .” His voice faded.
I started to reply, then felt certain he’d once again departed. Obviously he agreed that I must address the pressing matter of a dusty porch and a tarp that must never be subjected to a police microscope.
Did I have carte blanche?
I hurried inside and grabbed a broom and a dustpan from the closet in the kitchen. I took only a moment to glance in the mirror over the sink. Good. The turban was a success. I had a brief memory, thanks to Turner Classic Movies, of Carmen Miranda and a turban piled high with a tower of pomegranates, mangoes, and bananas and presto, gleaming plastic fruit appeared. Smiling, I returned to the porch and set to work, humming “Trite Samhita,” and sweeping in triple time. I loved to samba. Occasionally I added a conga step for flair.
I dumped several full dustpans into a trash sack. Spoofer certainly
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shed a great deal of black fur, but soon the porch was shiny bright. I was especially thorough around, behind, and beneath the corner of the porch where the tarp lay. I carried the trash sack out to the garbage pail. All four doors of the Lincoln were open. Dark gray legs protruded from the floor of the back seat. The blond detective stood with hands on his hips, watching. I observed him with pleasure.
Bobby Mac understood when I admired a manly physique because I always saved the last dance for him.
As I returned the broom and dustpan to the closet in the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and laughed aloud. Although it looked top-heavy, my turban was quite comfortable. I patted a bright yellow banana, gave a little back tap, and samba’d onto the porch.
All that remained was to dispose of the tarp. A coil of cord, likely left over from a clothesline, hung from a hook. I cut a six-foot length.
In one corner, I found a stack of gunnysacks. I shoved the rolled-up tarp in the gunnysack, added three stacked pottery pots for ballast, and flicked out the length of cord.
A knock sounded on the porch screen door.
I broke off humming and, clutching the open gunnysack, turned to look.
Standing on the steps was the handsome detective, the sun turning his cotton top snow white. He held out an open wallet. “Detective Sergeant Hal Price. I’m looking for the sexton. Can you tell me where I might find him?”
I stared at him, my mouth agape. Before I could think—there I went again, impulsive to the bone—I clasped the sack to the bosom of the smock and made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a shriek.
“Pardon me, miss.” His drawl was contrite and his eyes, for a brief instant, admiring, until professional coolness returned. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He spoke gently as if to a shying filly.
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