G h o s t at Wo r k
I waved my hand. “Simply in a manner of speaking. Now, I’ve arrived to lend you a hand. I gather you don’t wish to call the police?”
“I can’t call the police.” Her voice was desperate. “I’ll be in terrible trouble if he’s found here.”
I looked down at the body, a man in his forties who had likely been rather attractive when alive, thick brown hair, a trim mustache, regular features. “Why?”
“Because—” She choked back a sob. “Oh, I don’t have time to explain. The women’s Thursday-night Bible study is here tonight.” She gestured frantically toward the backyard and the drive. “They’ll park there and come in this way. Any minute now somebody may drop in to bring a dessert or leave a note for Bill. Oh,” she moaned,
“what am I going to do?”
I understood. Parishioners consider the rectory to be an extension of their own living room. “That would be awkward.” I glanced outside. Mercifully, no one was approaching, but Kathleen was right.
We might be joined at any moment.
“Awkward?” Her voice rose in despair. “They’ll put me in jail.”
“We can’t let that happen. Let’s move him.” I didn’t consider this to be a rash suggestion. My mission was to help Kathleen Abbott.
Clearly, if the presence of a murdered man on the screened-in back porch of the rectory put her in jeopardy, he had to go.
“Move him?” She stared at me in horror. “How? Where?” I pointed out the back door. “Outside, of course.” I looked at the body, wished the light were better. He was tallish, around six feet.
In the dim glow from the porch light, one hand was oddly distinct.
Manicured nails. Bobby Mac had no use for men with manicured nails. The dead man’s navy woolen sweater was expensive and so were his black loafers. Slacks of fine worsted wool. I frowned as I studied him. “He wasn’t killed here.”
“He wasn’t?” Her gaze was suddenly sharp and suspicious. “How do you know?”
Ca ro ly n H a rt
I patted her arm, tried not to notice that she jumped at the touch.
Was my hand cold? “You didn’t grow up in Adelaide.” She plunged fingers through her hair, tangling the curls. “This is crazy. First you say he wasn’t killed here, then you want to talk about where I grew up.” Her voice was rising. “That’s part of my problem here. Everybody knows I’m from Chicago and they say I’m nice but awfully worldly for a rector’s wife.” I understood. Episcopal Church Women (ECW) do have opinions and the vestry expects so much of a rector’s wife. “Chicago is lovely.
Bobby Mac and I went to Wrigley every chance we got. Don’t worry about being from Chicago. But you don’t know anything about hunting. I’ve heard almost as many hunting stories as fish tales. I’m one Adelaide girl who knows about guns and”—I looked down, made a careful effort to phrase my sentence with delicacy—“people who’ve been shot.” A tracery of blood streaked from the crusted circular entry wound, but no blood or tissue surrounded his head. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Mr. . . .” I looked at her encouragingly.
“Murdoch. Daryl Murdoch.” She spoke the name with concentrated loathing.
“. . . Murdoch was shot somewhere else and brought here.”
“Oh.” She looked startled. “You mean somebody brought him here?” Her voice wavered. “That’s dreadful. That means somebody knew I’d be in trouble if he was found here. Somebody knows—” She broke off, apparently stricken by the enormity of the murderer’s knowledge.
“First things first.” It was time to get to the matter at hand. “Is the toolshed still behind the weeping willow?”
“Yes, but it’s locked, and the sexton keeps the keys.” Once again her gaze was suspicious. “How do you know about the toolshed?”
“My dear”—and I spoke with a lilt—“there isn’t much I don’t know about St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church and the church property.” I’d been directress of the Altar Guild three times. “Back in a
G h o s t at Wo r k
flash.” With that—and I suppose I should have prepared her for it but didn’t—I disappeared. I didn’t intend to startle her. I felt apologetic when I heard her gasp.
I was too elated with my discovery of ghostly movement to spare time for Kathleen’s travail. I went from there—the back porch—to here—the shed—in an instant. I had no need to tramp through the backyard. How exciting! In the future I would think of a destination and a graceful zoom later, there I would be. And, of course, no door was a barrier to me.
Inside the shed, I turned on the light and found the wheelbarrow.
It was no problem to unlock the door from the inside. I wheeled out the barrow, turned off the light, but left the door ajar. I was glad for the golden glow of the porch light because it was truly dark now, the trees and bushes black shapes in the night.
I trundled the barrow up the flagstone walk, frowning because the front wheel squealed like a banshee, not the happiest of sounds when planning to transport a body.
I parked the barrow next to a ramp at the end of the porch. That was an addition since my days. How useful. When I once again stood by the body, I thought for a moment that Kathleen had left and then I saw a kneeling figure feverishly unrolling a tarp.
“Excellent, Kathleen. Couldn’t be better.” We definitely needed a means of pulling him to the ramp.
She rocked back on her heels. “I’ve lost my mind.” Her voice was ragged with despair. “That’s all there is to it.
