I’m delusional. I hear voices and no one’s here. I imagine this woman and I talk to her and then she disappears and now that hideous voice—” Hideous? Not a generous description, but I had to be charitable.
I’d always thought my voice rather attractive, a trifle husky perhaps, but cheerful. I debated reappearing. However, I wanted to follow the Precepts. I must study them as soon as possible, but it seemed to me that I was truly encouraged to remain invisible.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
I decided instead to have a frank talk. “Kathleen, let’s straighten things out.”
She looked wildly around. “Where are you? Come out! You’re driving me crazy.”
“Deep breath, Kathleen,” I barked. “Suck it in, let it out. One, two, three, four . . .” I tried to sound as authoritative as the tartar who’d directed the ladies’ morning exercise class at the Y when I was in my exercise years, the earnest years of push-pull-shove-away-dessert until the realization came that chocolate made me happy and happiness was a virtue.
Kathleen breathed in, breathed out. Then, with an anguished cry, she flailed her hands, jumped to her feet, and backed toward the doorway into the kitchen.
“Stop right there.” I tried to remember how Humphrey Bogart cowed opposition. I’d watched
It isn’t appropriate for me to be present in the flesh at the moment”—
she could mull that over—“and we don’t have time to waste. I’m going to help you move him. Let’s take him to the cemetery.” The cemetery was on the other side of the church from the rectory. As I recalled, a graveled path through oaks and willows curved from the backyard of the rectory behind the church to the cemetery.
“Now, are you in or out?”
She cowered by the door, frozen in a crouch. “In.” It was scarcely a breath.
I flowed past her, grabbed the tarp, pulled it briskly across the floor.
Kathleen watched the moving canvas with the same horror she would have accorded the progress of a cobra.
I tried to distract her. “Hop to it. We’ll ease him onto the tarp.” I spread the canvas out beside him. “Take—oh, wait.” Forensic mat-20
G h o s t at Wo r k
ters had never been a consuming interest of mine, but I dimly recalled that cloth could hold fingerprints. Of course it depended upon the coarseness and weave of the material, but it would be best if Kathleen had no close contact with the deceased. “Fingerprints. Hmm.”
“Fingerprints.” She was struggling not to hyperventilate.
“Deep breaths. In. Out.” The advice was a bit perfunctory. Perhaps I could scare up some backbone pills for Kathleen. Fingerprints
. . . Ah. I spotted a pair of gardening gloves lying on the counter near a sink. I picked them up, moved toward her. “Better put these on.” She scrambled backward.
Before I could toss the gloves to her, a girl’s voice called from inside. “Mom . . . hey, Mom, where are you?” Kathleen clutched at her throat, tried to speak, couldn’t make a sound.
Footsteps clattered in the kitchen. A girl’s voice carried through the open back door. “I’ve got to ask Mom first. Maybe she’s over at the church. Come on, Lucinda.”
I swooped to the body and pulled the tarp over him.
The screen door banged open. “Hey, Mom, what are you doing out here in the dark?” A flick and a hundred- and-fifty-watt bulb blazed above us, throwing the furnishings of the porch into sharp relief, the counter with an old- fashioned sink, a rattan table and three chairs, a shiny galvanized tub, two bags of apples, a pair of muddy work boots, a mound of pumpkins, several large bulging black trash bags, stacked newspapers, a heap of old coats.
And the shiny black tip of a shoe peeking from beneath the tarp.
Kathleen saw the shoe, wavered on her feet, moved in front of the body. “Bayroo, stop there.” Kathleen’s voice was scratchy.
Bayroo. What a curious name.
A skinny red-haired girl, all arms and legs like a wobbly colt, balanced on one foot, throwing her arms wide. “Mom, you won’t believe it.” She was a bundle of excitement, energy, and vibrant personality.
Ca ro ly n H a rt
I felt an instant liking for her and an immediate sense of compan-ionship. I was enchanted by her golden red curls and green eyes and the intelligent, questing look on her narrow face. She was eleven or possibly twelve, almost ready to slip into her teen years, angular now where she would soon be slender. And lovely.
Behind her, a plump girl with dark hair in braids, gold-rimmed glasses, and prominent braces echoed, “You won’t believe it, Mrs.
Abbott!” She bounced up and down in excitement.
Kathleen’s daughter clapped her hands. “Mom, Travis Calhoun’s here in town! We actually saw him at Wal-Mart and he’s staying with his aunt Margaret. You know, Mrs. Calhoun up the street. I invited him to come to the Spook Bash Saturday and asked him if he’d judge the painted pumpkins and told him how great it would be for everyone who’s worked so hard for the bash to raise money for the food pantry and, Mom”—it was an unashamed squeal —“he said he’d come. Isn’t that great?”
“Great. Wonderful. Lucinda, why don’t you stay for supper with Bayroo. The stew’s ready. There are oatmeal cookies in the cookie jar.” Kathleen waved a shaking hand toward the kitchen.
