Ghost at Work _a Bailey Ruth Mystery

I landed beside her.

“Auntie Grand.” Her voice was faint. “I thought I heard a deep voice.”

I started to answer, then heard a faint cautionary rumble. Dear Wiggins, determined to the last that proper procedure be followed. I reached out until I found his hand and squeezed it in thankfulness.

“The fire’s making noises.” And it was. The old barn seemed to groan and cry. “Shh. We’d better be quiet.” I peered down at the uneven ground, seeking any trace of Anita. “Just in case.” Fire poked through the roof, a darting, angry tongue of red.

Suddenly a shout sounded from the loft. “I’m coming. I’ll get you out. I’m coming.”

Bayroo and I stared at the loft window. Smoke whirled and curled, orange and black and gray. A single light stabbed through the swirls.

“Where are you? I’ve got the key for the handcuffs—” A whooshing sound marked the collapse of the loft. The voice was lost in the burst of sound. Flames whirled skyward as the walls crumpled, turning the night sky crimson.

Stainless-steel handcuffs, soiled with dirt and oily smudges, lay on Chief Cobb’s desk. He jerked his head toward them. “The kid’s story has to be true. Those handcuffs prove every word. That and the scrapes on her arms. It beats everything how she got herself free. It sounds like a Houdini trick, working in the dark, using an ax shaft to 280

G h o s t at Wo r k

prize away the refrigerator handle, jumping out to catch the tree.” Detective Sergeant Price slumped in the chair across from the chief’s desk. “Anita.” He spoke the name in sadness, in grief, in farewell.

Cobb’s face was gray and drawn. He stared at the handcuffs.

“Right from the first, I should have looked at her. Anita told me about her sister, Vee, and Daryl. Anita knew all about Murdoch, where he went, his girlfriend. But I never thought . . .” His hand shook as he touched a folder on his desk. “I checked on the girl whose body she went out to California to see. This came in just a little while ago.” He read in an empty voice: “ ‘Re inquiry unidentified body found Huntington Beach, female approximately midtwenties, blond, DOA drug overdose, positive ID made: Virginia Leland Durham.’ ” Cobb pushed the folder away. “It was Vee. Anita lied to me.” The detective pushed back his chair. “Sam, can I take you home?”

Chief Cobb sounded remote. “I’ve got stuff to see about. I’ll go in a little while.”

The detective came around the desk. His voice was gruff, but firm. “Anita tried to save the kid, Sam.” Chief Cobb was stern. “Anita set that fire.”

“Yeah. But she came back, tried to save her.” He placed his hand for a moment on the chief’s shoulder, then walked away, his steps slow.

When the door closed, Sam Cobb folded his arms on his desk. He bent forward, rested his head. “Anita . . .” A log crackled in the fireplace. Kirby Murdoch poked and flames spurted. He was smiling.

His mother stood in the doorway to the den. Judith Murdoch still looked worn and weary, but peace had smoothed away the tight and 281

Ca ro ly n H a rt

anxious lines from her face. She looked toward the plaid sofa and the slender young woman with a tortoiseshell cat in her lap. “Lady Luck likes you, Lily.”

Lily Mendoza smoothed the angora cat’s fluffy fur. “That’s a great name.”

“She’s a great cat.” Kirby replaced the poker. He settled beside Lily and Lady Luck, smoothed his hand over the distinctive brown and yellow and black fur. “You know, Mom, that’s how I knew you’d buried the gun. Lady Luck was rolling in the fresh dirt, and when I went over, I thought it looked funny, and since somebody’d broken in, I thought maybe they’d hidden something and so I dug up my gun.”

Judith gasped. “What did you do with it?”

“I shinnied up the drainpipe and hid it on the roof. I’ll get it down tomorrow. But it won’t matter since the case is closed.” There was no light in the small bedroom at the home for unwed mothers, but moonlight flowed in a golden stream through a window.

Even breathing indicated that the occupant of the near bed was deep in sleep. I still wore Officer Loy’s uniform. I hesitated, decided that she could make her final appearance. I became visible and stepped quietly to Cynthia Brown’s bed.

“Cynthia, it’s Officer Loy. I wanted to see how everything is going for you.”

She struggled upright. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” She sounded drowsy, but relaxed. She reached out, took my hand. “Everybody’s been so nice to me. Father Bill helped me come here. They’re going to help me find a job and I can stay here and have my baby.

And then—” Her hand tightened on mine.

“And then?”

She took a deep, uncertain breath. “I don’t know. I haven’t de-282

G h o s t at Wo r k

cided. I could keep my baby, but they have families who want babies and will love them and be good to them. What do you think I should do?” Her voice was young and trusting.

“Do what is in your heart. God bless.” I bent down, lightly touched her cheek with my lips. “Sleep now.” I squeezed her hand, stepped away from the bed.

She sank back onto the pillow, and in a moment her eyes closed.

I smiled a farewell. Officer Loy faded away.

The frowsy living room blazed with light. Irene Chatham ate a maca-roon and watched, eyes wide, as the TV newswoman swept the beam of a huge flashlight across smoking rubble. “Nothing remains of the abandoned barn where an Adelaide child was held hostage tonight, barely escaping with her life. Her