“Detective Sergeant?” I clung to the gunnysack, which bulged awkwardly over the pots, and was furious at myself. He didn’t know what I held. He had no idea. I forced my grip to relax, rested the sack casually on the floor. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine.” His smile was electric.
On the one hand, I was flattered. On the other, I was uneasy. I didn’t want to be remembered, but there is that spark when a man admires a woman that can’t be disguised. Detective Sergeant Price wasn’t going to forget our encounter. If I were old, he’d have been polite, kept a mental record as a good detective should, but there would not have been this crackle of electricity between us.
“Can I help you?” I tried to sound cool, not quite unfriendly, but definitely not encouraging.
He glanced at my left hand, saw the gold band, and gave a tiny shake of his head. “I’m looking for the sexton and at the church they told me he might be at the shed by the rectory. Can you direct me?” I pointed at the flagstone path. “Follow the path past the old well and go around those weeping willows and you’ll find the shed.” He stood a moment longer, then nodded. “Thank you. And you are . . .”
Attracted he might be. A detective he remained.
“Helen Troy.” The moment I spoke, I regretted the name. But what can you do when a man makes his interest so plain? It happens, you know, an encounter, and each of you knows that had the time been different, circumstances altered, memories could have been made.
He nodded and turned away.
At the bend in the path, he looked back.
A very attractive man. As soon as he was out of sight, I yanked up the sack and raced to the kitchen. I tightly rolled the cord around and around the sack and tied it in my best sailor’s knot.
I waited several minutes. Detective Sergeant Price didn’t reappear.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
I eased out the kitchen door. Women continued to come and go in the church parking lot, but none veered toward the rectory. I strolled to the pines and slipped behind them.
I was torn. Violating the Precepts seemed to result in an automatic visit from Wiggins, but I was in a hurry. The sooner I dumped the tarp, the better, and I still needed to deal with the gun. I could zoom to the lake faster than I could walk. Surely Wiggins would applaud swift execution of my duties.
I disappeared and zoomed. The gunnysack, of course, dangled in the air. I darted from tree to tree so the sack appeared in midair only briefly. The sense of isolation and peace increased the deeper I traveled into the nature preserve. When I sighted the sparkling blue water of the lake, I felt as relieved as any ten-year-old hearing that old familiar cry, “Ollie, ollie, oxen’s free.” Of course I had no idea at the time we were shouting what was likely a phonetic imitation of the German
Perhaps it was this thoughtful pondering that distracted my attention from my surroundings. I rode a breeze out toward the middle of the lake, imagining the surprise on Wiggins’s face when—
Abruptly, the bag was tugged from my hand.
Startled, I made a grab for it. Had a crow intercepted me?
“Precept Six, Bailey Ruth, Precept Six.” Wiggins’s tone was imploring.
I loosened my hold.
The lumpy gunnysack plummeted down.
I was exasperated. After all, he’d yanked the bag from me. “Wiggins, I thought you had it.”
“A gentleman never struggles with a lady.” Clearly, in his heart he found this custom a grave hindrance.
Water plumed upward as the sack splashed into the lake.
G h o s t at Wo r k
A hoarse shout sounded below. “Lord Amighty, look!” An old man with a straggly white beard stood at the end of the dock, pointing his bamboo fishing pole at the ripples in the water. He wore a puffy jacket over bib overalls.
A lean woman with sharp features turned from a bait cooler.
“What’s the matter with you, Pa?”
He waggled the pole. “Something big poked out of that water. Bigger than any fish. I’m going to get the boat and go out there and see.” If he poked his pole down, snagged the gunnysack, and hauled it out, he’d be sure to tell his cronies at the feed store. If word got back to Detective Sergeant Price, as it very well might in a small town, he would remember the turbaned lady with the gunnysack on the rectory porch.
The fisherman lumbered toward the end of the dock. His boat wasn’t in sight. That gave me a minute, perhaps two.
“Wiggins, that sack mustn’t be found. There’s no time to spare.” At all costs, I must forestall a discussion. If Wiggins wouldn’t play up, well, I looked down, it would be a long fall. “Quick, I’m going to reappear. Hold me up. I need my turban.” Below us, oars slapped through water.
I became visible. Just as I began to tumble down, strong hands gripped my arms, held me up. I snatched the turban from my head.
My hair cascaded free. I threw the turban high. In a flash, I disappeared. I reached out to catch the turban. I didn’t take time to ponder what I would have done had it disappeared, but I tucked away the knowledge that imagined items, once visible but separate from me, remained in existence.
I pulled free from Wiggins’s grasp.
