“Appear?” His voice rose in shock.
I wasn’t asking him to embrace a cobra. “For a moment. What harm can it do?”
A deep breath was drawn. “I would rather enjoy being on earth in winter.” His tone was wistful. He cleared his throat. “After all, a leader must make every effort to support his representatives. I regret that I startled you when I spoke. If my appearance will make you more comfortable, why certainly it’s a small sacrifice on my part.”
“Thank you, Wiggins.” My lips quivered in amusement, but I managed not to smile. How reassuring for a minion such as I, subject to impatience and irritation and all sorts of worldly attitudes, to see Wiggins succumb to the wiles of rationalization. I hoped he never realized he was flouting Precept Eight (Remember always that you are
Colors swirled and there he was, stiff-brimmed cap riding high on his thick thatch of reddish-brown hair, ruddy complexion, handlebar mustache, a heavy black coat open to reveal his starched high-collar shirt, suspenders, and gray flannel trousers. He definitely had the look of another century, but how reassuring to have him here in person.
“I’m glad to see you.” I truly was. Wiggins might find me a challenge, but I loved his old-fashioned courtesy and serious demeanor. “Let’s walk around the cemetery. It’s beautiful even in winter and the Christmas wreaths are lovely.” He could kick a mound of leaves with his snub-toed black shoe, draw in that dark woody scent, and remember long-ago winter walks in the woods.
We stepped out into the sunlight and followed a graveled path toward a rise. The sunlight emphasized the rich chestnut sheen of his hair and mustache. We walked in companionable silence, Wiggins smiling and breathing deeply of the frosty air.
“Ah.” Abruptly, his smile fled. He tugged at his mustache, his expression concerned. “If Susan Flynn plans to redo her will, it is highly advisable to explore the reactions of those who would have been her beneficiaries.”
How nice to be vindicated. However, I minded my manners. Self-satisfaction wasn’t an attractive quality even though my pursuit of the parish directory now appeared to be justified.
He nodded in approval. “It is well that she intends to make proper provision for Keith. And”—his voice was kind—“his arrival has brought her happiness. She has known very little happiness these past few years.”
“I’m sorry Mitchell was killed in combat.” Susan Flynn had confronted the horror of knowing that her son, strong, young, and vital with many years that should have been his, instead died from wounds far away from home. “No mother ever stops grieving the loss of a child.” Mitch had died a hero, his little boy said. Bravery would ever be honored, but medals are no balm to a grieving heart.
Wiggins turned to face me, his brown eyes full of sadness. “Not one child. Two.”
I came to a stop, stricken by the enormity of his quiet words.
His honest, open, frank face was full of compassion. “Young people—and old—make mistakes. Mitchell was his mother’s darling, handsome, vigorous, daring, brave. Unfortunately, he was equally reckless, defiant, and hot- tempered. The weather was icy that December night. Adelaide’s hills began to glaze before the party was over. Mitchell and the girl he’d brought to a party quarreled. Mitchell slammed out of the house. His sister Ellen ran after him and managed to jump into the passenger seat before he gunned out of the drive. He lost control on Indian Hill Road.”
I remembered a twisting road with a steep drop.
“The car made a full turn and slammed into an evergreen. Mitchell’s door opened. He hadn’t fastened his seat belt so he was thrown clear, landed in a snowbank. The tree splintered and the car fell.”
“Ellen?”
Wiggins shook his head. “Ellen’s seat belt was fastened. They found the crumpled car at the bottom of the drop. Ellen was dead from massive injuries.” Wiggins reached down, picked up a clump of leaves, and the dank smell rose on the cold air. “The road was treacherous that night. The police report concluded that the wreck was a result of weather conditions.”
“Was Mitchell driving too fast?” Was he too furious from the quarrel to think? Had he pushed on the gas pedal when he should have slowed? A few times I recalled being swept by such a rush of anger that later I scarcely knew what I had said or done.
Dried leaves drifted down as Wiggins opened his hand. “His father thought so. Thomas Flynn adored his daughter. He turned away from Mitchell, said he’d killed Ellen because of his damnable temper. He told Mitchell he never wanted to see him again.” Wiggins brushed his fingers against his overcoat. “And he didn’t. The day after Ellen’s funeral, Mitch disappeared. The Flynns did everything they could. Mitchell was sought as a missing person. They hired private detectives. They found no trace. Thomas Flynn died two years ago, a broken man. I think he grieved himself to death. Susan withdrew, had less and less contact with the outside. She has congestive heart failure, the result they say of a virus. How vulnerable to illness the body becomes when there is no will to live. From the day after Ellen’s funeral to the day military officers arrived to tell her that Mitchell died a hero in Ramadi, Susan Flynn had no inkling of where her son had gone and what he had done.”
I flung out my hands, outraged. “How could he do that to his mother?”
Wiggins looked past me, but he wasn’t seeing graves and winter-bare trees and, in the distance, the cross of St. Mildred’s. He was looking into a past filled with faces I’d never seen. “Mitchell bore the heaviest burden of all, anguish that is harder to bear than sorrow. Guilt crushed him. Guilt kept him from coming home until he came home for his final rest. He could never see past the guilt to understand the heartbreak his disappearance brought.”
“No wonder Keith’s arrival means so much to Susan.” I reached out and gripped the sleeve of Wiggins’s overcoat. “Thank you for letting me help.”
His genial face folded in a frown. “Bailey Ruth, I never doubt your desire to be of help.” His eyes glinted. “However, maneuvering the directory back and forth by the secretary’s window was reprehensible.”
“Mea culpa.” I tried to sound contrite. Possibly the more formal Latin assumption of responsibility would please Wiggins. I hoped my look of regret touched his heart, which apparently was feeling pretty stony right this minute. “Wiggins, I will do my best to remain in the background, but Keith might be at risk. Surely I can stay until his grandmother has made provision for him.”
He put one hand in a pocket, jingled coins. Finally, he sighed. “Someone must be on the spot to look after Keith. And”—he didn’t sound overwhelmed with delight—“you are here. Very well. Remain on duty.” He looked at
