Suddenly heavy footsteps sounded behind me. Wiggins caught up, breathing fast. He thrust another ticket at me. “Your ticket’s torn.
That will never do. Here’s a proper one.” Clutching my new and perfect ticket, I clasped a strong hand and swung aboard.
A stentorian shout sounded from the platform. “The rector’s wife is in dire straits. Do your best for Kathleen Abbott.”
C H A P T E R 2
Brrr. I hadn’t been cold in a long time. A gusting wind fluttered autumn leaves from a big maple and a sweet gum.
Daylight was almost gone, though enough dusk remained to emphasize the stark shadows thrown by the evergreens that fringed one side of the yard. I was standing near a puddle, shivering and wishing for a nice warm coat . . . Oh. How nice. I smoothed the arm of a thick woolen jacket. It had been one of my favorites, red-and-black plaid. I remembered it well.
I looked at the back of a rambling two-story frame house with excited recognition. “Ohhh . . . ” My voice was soft. Wiggins could not have pleased me more. I’d been here many times. The sweeping backyard was one of the glories of the rectory. I’d enjoyed croquet and watermelon socials and volleyball games here, especially when we had that very athletic priest, Father Meadows. He had been quite hearty, with a penchant for mountain climbing, so he’d jumped at an invitation to lead a church in Colorado.
A dim light shone above the back steps to the screened-in porch. I moved forward eagerly. I came around the old stone well and stopped, breathless and shocked. My heart pounded.
G h o s t at Wo r k
Bulbous red eyes glowed in a huge rounded body with four great striped legs that arched to the ground. A moaning sound issued from the huge creature’s orange lips. A few feet away, a skeleton lounged in a lawn chair, bony hands holding a book, one leg folded over the other. A witch on a broomstick poked from the woodpile. Her dark cloak streamed in the wind.
Gradually my gasping breaths eased. Obviously, it was near Halloween. The monstrous spider was eerily realistic. I hoped this wasn’t Wiggins’s idea of a joke. Was there really a Kathleen Abbott in dire straits or had some Halloween mischief gotten out of hand?
I was uncertain whether to call out for Kathleen. Perhaps if I went inside, I’d find her. As I came nearer the rectory, I became aware of a dimly visible young woman standing rigidly on the back porch.
I wafted through the door. Her frozen posture was understandable. She gazed down at a dead man lying on the worn wooden planks, a dead man with a small bullet wound in his left temple.
“Oh my, oh my.” She wavered unsteadily on her feet, lifted a shaking hand to her lips. Frantically, she looked around. She stepped toward the back door, peered into the yard. She took another stumbling step forward. A series of unmistakable expressions flitted over her face—shock, apprehension, panic.
If she hadn’t been terrified, she would have been pretty. Curly dark hair framed a long face with deep-set brown eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a generous mouth.
I admired her cardigan, multicolored, with swaths of violet, purple, and blue in some kind of fuzzy material. Very attractive and the material was quite new to me, rather reminiscent of angora. She was trim in a black turtleneck and slim-fitting dark pants.
“He’s dead!” Her voice was a whisper. “What am I going to do?”
“Call the police.” I clapped my fingers to my mouth. I hadn’t intended to speak.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
“I can’t.” It was a moan. The moan turned into a strangled gasp.
She looked wildly about. “Who’s there? Where are you?” Skirting the body, she hurried to the back door, flung it open, clattered down the steps. In an instant she returned to the porch, dashed to the rectory back door, yanked it open, seeking the source of the voice.
I felt a pang of remorse, knowing I’d made a big mistake. Wiggins had worried that I might be impulsive. I supposed his worst fears were realized. But it had seemed natural to speak up. After all, the woman had her duty as a citizen. However, would I have been dispatched, especially in such a hurry, if the solution were as simple as picking up the phone and alerting the authorities?
She struggled for breath and looked as though she might faint. I had to do something, though I was afraid one of the Precepts dealt with appropriate moments to actually be of the world. From Wiggins’s dour discourse about ghosts (Heaven forbid), I suspected he favored as few manifestations as possible. If I’d had time to study the Precepts, I’d’ve known the protocol. Since I wasn’t sure, I had to use my best judgment.
I willed myself present.
Kathleen tottered back, a hand pressed to her lips.
“Don’t scream! I’m here to help.” I spoke gently but firmly as though to a frightened child. “You’re Kathleen Abbott, the rector’s wife?” Her yes was scarcely above a whisper.
“I was sent because you’re in trouble.”
“How did you know? Who are you?” Her voice wobbled.
“That doesn’t matter now. It’s rather complicated to explain.” I glanced at the dead man. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I just found him. How could you possibly know I needed help?” She looked past me as if fearful others might arrive.
“Where did you come from? You don’t belong in Adelaide.” I was indignant. “Of course I do! I grew up here, my dear, and I know where the bodies are buried.”
She made a choking sound and took a step back.
