G h o s t at Wo r k
I definitely felt lucky. Now all I needed to do was make an anonymous call to the police, inform them that the gun that had been used to shoot Daryl Murdoch was hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum.
My face furrowed in a frown. Making phone calls was definitely more challenging now than it had been when I’d lived in Adelaide.
Obviously, there were means of tracing where calls originated. I needed a telephone that wasn’t linked to the rectory or the church.
I was stymied for a moment. I didn’t have time to zoom around Adelaide seeking a telephone. I needed a place where there were plenty of telephones and possibly one I could use without notice.
The library.
The solution came so swiftly I knew it was meant to be. Bobby Mac’s sister Julianna had been a librarian for thirty years. Her passion was Latin. Julianna’s thrill upon arriving in Heaven was meeting the poet Horace. As she had murmured to me:
As always, she kindly translated: “Thus one goes to the stars,” or more eloquently, “Such is the way to immortality.” I smiled and murmured Julianna’s favorite from Horace:
I definitely intended to seize this hour and not trust some later day.
I was puzzled for a moment when I found myself in a rotunda with the state flag of Oklahoma in a bright mosaic on the floor. This wasn’t the old red-brick Carnegie library on Second Street, but I approved of the lovely new building, nonetheless.
Three witches huddled around a cauldron. Bunches of red tissue simulated a bed of burning coals. Twists of silver tissue poked upward from the cauldron as coils of steam. To one side, a witch with a beaked nose held a decorated placard announcing: story time for little spooks 10 a.m. saturday. On the other side, a witch with bright red eyes held another sign: friends’ monster slime dinner 7
p.m. friday, come as you aren’t!
Two bulbous-bodied cardboard tarantulas balanced on a giant
Ca ro ly n H a rt
black web that stretched over the door to the reading room. I stepped inside and a plastic skeleton extended a hand as a sepulchral voice intoned, “Welcome to thrills and chills.” Books filled rows of metal shelving, but a goodly portion of the near room was filled with the television-like machines. Patrons hunched at the keyboards. Colorful images flashed on the screens.
I looked covetously at the telephone on the main information desk. However, it was far too public for me to use. I wafted upstairs in a flash and through a locked door marked staff.
A narrow hallway led past four cubicles separated by partitions.
Puffy paper pumpkins hung from the ceiling. Each cubicle held a desk and a chair with one of those machines with a keyboard and screen. Three were occupied. Telephones rang, chairs squeaked, voices rose in a hum.
I slipped into the unoccupied cubicle. The in-box held a green skull that glowed with phosphorescent paint. I admired the studio portrait of a little girl about seven. The desktop was neat, papers stacked, pens at the ready. I opened drawers until I found a directory.
The first time I dialed, I got an automatic recording: “Dial nine for outside calls.” I started over.
The call was answered on the second ring. “Adelaide Police.” I spoke softly. “I have information about the murder of Daryl—”
”Excuse me, ma’am. You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.” I gripped the receiver, tried again. “I have information—”
”Louder, please.”
This time I spoke loud and fast. “The gun used to shoot Daryl Murdoch is hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum at the cemetery.” A chair on the other side of the partition squeaked. A round face framed by spiky black curls appeared over the edge of the partition.
“Hey, Callie, what’s—”
No more words came. A look of eager curiosity was replaced by the beginnings of a puzzled frown. “Callie?” She looked up and
G h o s t at Wo r k
down, seeking what evidently wasn’t there. “How come the phone’s up in the air?”
“Let me connect you . . .” I slammed the phone into the receiver.
Abruptly the face disappeared. Feet thudded as the questioner bounded out into the aisle. She moved to the cubicle’s entryway, peering inside. “Callie, where are you?” She looked up and down the aisle. “Where did you go?”
The phone on the desk rang.
As I zoomed out of her way, I knocked against the skull. It rolled from the in-box and bounced on the desk.
The puzzled librarian clutched at the partition.
The phone continued to peal.
Reluctantly, the librarian edged into the cubicle. Leaning away from the shiny skull, she yanked up the receiver. “Adelaide Library.” Her voice was uneven, breathless. “How may I help you?” She warily watched the skull.
“Yeah. I heard part of it.” She twined the cord around one finger.
