“Precept Six.” Wiggins’s despairing call followed me as I plunged down and poked the turban into the water, only the top of the artificial fruit protruding near the spot where the gunnysack had disappeared.
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The boat came around a clump of reeds.
I eased the turban to the surface.
The woman leaned over the side. “Pa, it looks like a bunch of bananas.”
He rowed with vigor, and the boat moved nearer.
“Hold up,” she cried. “I can get it.” She bent perilously far out, reaching.
I gave the turban a little push and it came easily into her hands.
Her weathered face softened. “Why, it’s the prettiest thing I ever did see. I’ll dry it out and it’ll be good as new.” He frowned. “How’d that get out here, Effie?” Effie didn’t know or care. She carefully laid her treasure on the bottom of the boat. “Some old crow got it and decided it wasn’t no use to him and dropped it down just for me, Pa.” He grunted and swung the boat around, heading back for the dock. He gave a final questioning look over his shoulder.
I shook the icy lake water from my fingers. I didn’t bother to look about. Not that I would have seen Wiggins. I knew he was near. I wished I wasn’t picturing him glowering, with arms folded.
“Precepts Three, Four, and Six flouted.” His voice was gruff.
Did I hear the faraway whistle of the Rescue Express, dispatched to retrieve an errant emissary?
Silence.
Had Wiggins left? Or was he affording me quiet time in which I might ponder working behind the scenes without making my presence known, becoming visible only when absolutely essential, and refraining from alarming earthly creatures? Or, in the case of Detective Sergeant Price, attracting them.
A rumble sounded near enough that I cringed.
“Unfortunate. Extremely unfortunate.” A heavy sigh. “However, though I am loath to endorse the concept of the ends justifying the
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means, it would be equally reprehensible to refuse to admit that sometimes desperate measures may be demanded.” That was good enough for me. “Thank you, Wiggins. I knew you’d be pleased.”
“However, it appears”—a pause—“an unfortunate choice of words.” His displeasure was evident. “It is clear,” he rumbled, “that you are far too attractive.”
“Oh, Wiggins.” If I could have seen him, I would have flashed him a wink. “Men like women. Women like men. Don’t you remember?”
Suddenly a deep burst of laughter erupted nearby. “Oh, I remember. I certainly remember. But”—he was once again stern—“it is simply a reminder that you really must not appear, Bailey Ruth.”
“I’ll do my best.” That might be ambiguous, but I meant it well.
“Now I hate to hurry away, but I simply must deal with the gun.“ If a shout followed me, I honestly didn’t hear it.
I had made every effort to honor the Precepts despite Wiggins’s perception of chaos. I pushed away the memory of my interlude with the very appealing detective sergeant and the tussle with the gunnysack above the lake. Did I dare appear again in another guise to take the gun to the cemetery? Time was wasting. That gun needed to be placed where the police could find it. It seemed amazing that I’d begun the morning with that intent, and here it was, almost noon, and the gun remained atop the rectory.
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Moreover, I was hungry. I felt buffeted from my morning, my encounters with Wiggins, the shock of that anonymous call implicating Kathleen, my scramble to warn her before the chief caught her by surprise, my last- second heroics to snatch the nightgown from the cleaning lady, my samba-energized cleaning of the porch, and the challenges of dispatching the tarp. Nonetheless, I was determined to dispose of the gun before pausing for lunch.
My gaze skimmed the parking lot and the backyard. Three women, chattering cheerfully, were walking toward the church, their backs to me. Just below me, the Halloween decorations were much less ominous in bright sunshine than they’d been on my arrival last night, although it seemed to me that the huge spider’s reddish eyes had an eerie glow and the bat was amazingly lifelike.
In an instant I was hovering beside the bat. The papier-mache creature wasn’t the almost cuddly, small furry creature I associated with barn lofts. This bat had a good six-inch wingspan. It was definitely big enough. I loosened the wires that held it to a dangling rope. With a quick glance around, I tossed the rope up around the tree limb.
With my help, the bat flapped its wings and rose to the roof. I doubted my bat was particularly batlike, but it would serve well enough. I took the gun out of the head cover, placed it on the back of the bat, where it was hidden from view below. Wiggins would applaud the ingenuity that made it unnecessary for me to appear at this moment.
The bat and gun and I sailed into the cemetery without incident.
I went directly to the mausoleum, which was included within the yellow tape erected by the police to proclaim a crime scene. A moment later, the gun was tucked between Hannah Pritchard’s tomb and the interior wall.
Sunlight spilled into the mausoleum. I wafted to the greyhound, smoothed the top of his head, would have sworn I heard a throaty yip, felt the warmth of skin. At Hannah’s tomb, I stroked the cat whiskers.
