captor was Adelaide police officer Anita Leland. Leland, who perished in the blaze, is considered the prime suspect in the murder of well-known Adelaide businessman Daryl Murdoch, whose body was found Thursday evening in the cemetery adjoining St. Mildred’s Church. Irene Chatham, a church member, is credited with setting officers on the right track. Earlier tonight, Chatham spoke with reporters.” A film clip showed Irene, vivacious and voluble, lank gray hair stirred by the breeze, clutching her brown cardigan against the night chill, standing on the side steps at St. Mildred’s: “So glad I was able to help. Just the most fortunate circumstance.” Her cheeks glowed bright pink. “I’d been to the church Thursday evening, some things to check for the Altar Guild, and I saw Daryl Murdoch and that police officer and I had no idea until tonight that . . .” I was smiling as I appeared. I chose my purple velour. After all, it was one of the final times I would enjoy it.
Irene froze, sat stiff as a cardboard skeleton. “You’re here.” Her voice shook. “You’re not here. You’re here.”
Ca ro ly n H a rt
I settled beside her on the sofa. “Just for a moment.” I took a shaking hand between mine, held it tight. “You saved Bayroo. You were very brave.”
Her eyes blinked. Some of the fear seeped away. “That’s what everybody’s been saying and it makes me think, maybe things work out the way they should. I mean, if I hadn’t taken the money from the collection plate, he wouldn’t have caught me and got those awful pictures. I still don’t know where those pictures are, and if anyone ever sees them they’ll know I’m a thief even though Father Bill said I could pay the money back.”
I was emphatic. “The pictures were destroyed.” As Irene said, maybe things happen for a purpose. I had been upset when Kathleen flung the cell phone into the lake. Now I was glad.
“Destroyed?” Her lips were tremulous. “I don’t have to be afraid?”
“You don’t have to be afraid.” I gave her hand a final squeeze, stood. “Everyone’s proud of you.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “You saved Bayroo. I’m sure of that. I know what everyone’s saying, that she was clever and managed to get free, but I know you were there and you asked her not to tell.”
“I was there only because you made it possible.” I was fading away.
“You’re going, aren’t you?” Irene called after me. “I’m going to pay the money back, and I won’t ever gamble again.”
I zoomed to Daryl Murdoch’s office. Once inside, I turned on
G h o s t at Wo r k
the light. After all, I don’t see in the dark and I had to find Walter Carey’s confession. I’d promised him it would be destroyed if he had nothing to do with his former partner’s murder.
I lifted the rug, picked up the envelope, and, once again, faced that pesky law of physics, the impossibility of wafting a concrete object—the letter—through walls with the ease I enjoyed.
It was a minor impediment. I opened the office door, stepped into the secretary’s anteroom. I found Walter Carey’s address—619 Cherry Street—in the directory on Patricia’s desk. Now all I had to do was deliver this material. Walter would be exceedingly relieved and my duties would be nearing completion. I opened the door to the hall.
The cacophony almost startled me into my skin. Flashing lights joined the wails and rings. Heart thudding, I was at the end of the hall. I yanked on the door, almost fainted when it refused to open.
I scrambled to release the lock, yanked the door open, and flew outside.
“Halt or I’ll shoot!” The shout was harsh. “Stop! Police.” A patrol officer stood at the base of the steps, gun aimed at the door.
I rose into the sky. When I looked down, the officer was staring upward for a last glimpse of the letter rising above him. His head swiveled to the open door through which no one had emerged.
I listened hard. Was that the shriek of the Express in the distance?
Fortunately, Cherry Street was only a few blocks from downtown.
I circled the Carey house. Light splashed out on a stone terrace from a room at the back. I looked through the window.
Walter Carey was writing steadily on a legal pad. He stopped to raise his arms above his head, stretch, massage a spot on his back.
A distant
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He looked toward the terrace, frowned.
I tapped again. I became visible, once again choosing the purple velour outfit. My image was indistinct in the glass.
Walter unlocked the French door. His lips parted. No sound came.
I thrust the envelope at him. “Here it is. The confession. You did a good job tonight. With the Scouts.” His fingers closed on the paper, held it tight. He managed an odd, lopsided smile. “You get around, don’t you?” I smiled in return. “Sometimes. Good-bye, Walter. Good luck.” And I disappeared.
Only a few minutes remained. I must take my return ticket and board the Express. But there was one more stop I had to make.
Father Bill was stirring dark chocolate into hot milk. A tray held three mugs and a plate full of oatmeal cookies.
Upstairs, in Bayroo’s room, Kathleen sat beside her bed. Bayroo’s Titian hair, shining clean, tumbled over the shoulders of her soft white nightgown. Propped up against a bolster, Spoofer curled against her side, purring with a
