Merry, Merry Ghost

me. A tiny smile tugged at his generous mouth. “Have you sung ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ for Keith?”

“I will. I promise.” I broke into a vigorous version.

Wiggins laughed aloud. “You do that. And keep a careful eye on him. You shouldn’t have to be here much longer.” That prospect seemed to bring him great cheer.

“Probably not.” I tried to sound pleased as well, but I was sorry to see my hours in Adelaide dwindling. Once Keith was firmly established in Pritchard House as Susan Flynn’s grandson, my task would be done. I hoped I could dawdle a bit. I wanted to hug close the sights and sounds of Christmas, smiling faces, children’s awe, twinkling lights, carols rising on a frosty night. Perhaps I’d be in Adelaide long enough to attend the children’s Christmas Eve service, the boys in bathrobes as shepherds, the girls with angel wings and halos.

A shadow touched Wiggins’s face. “Be sure and keep guard over—” He stopped as if jolted by a shock. “Oh my goodness! I must be off.” His eyes widened. “To Tumbulgum. An emissary seduced by…oh dear…never in my experience…shocking…”

Abruptly, he disappeared.

I tried to squash an uncharitable hope that the emissary was in a big fat pickle and would absorb Wiggins’s attention for a good long while. I had no idea where Tumbulgum was, but hopefully it was very, very remote. If so, perhaps when Wiggins once again considered my actions, a penchant for appearing would seem rather minor in comparison. Of course, we all know that taking pride in being less sinful than another doesn’t get your ticket punched. I would never do that. Certainly not. But I felt less constrained than before.

Tumbulgum. Hats off. Wherever you are. I was reprieved for yet a while. I would attend to my duties and enjoy the season. I gazed around the cemetery at the wreaths and poinsettias and caroled “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

Still humming, I hurried back to the Pritchard mausoleum, tucked the precious directory behind Hannah’s tomb, and disappeared.

Wade Farrell’s office was old-fashioned, three windows with faded red velvet drapes pulled wide for the pale December sunlight, a cotton braided oval rug with red and beige circles, a mahogany desk with ash inlays, legal bookcases full of golden beige law books. Face folded in thought, he wrote vigorously on a legal pad. He stopped and checked his watch. He punched the intercom. “Kim, I’ve finished the general revisions.” He clicked it off.

In a moment, his office door opened and a poised brunette with feather-cut hair stepped inside. Her oval face was remarkably pretty, but her brown eyes were cool and remote.

I nodded in approval at her zebra-striped silk chevron blouse and black pencil skirt made stylish by large black buttons on the left front.

He pushed the legal pad to the edge of the desk. “The Flynn will. I don’t know when you can get to it. It’s more important to pin down the facts about the little boy. Are you making any progress?”

“Faxes from all over. We have to get a money order in German.” Her voice was brisk and commanding. She looked intelligent, perhaps even a little intimidating.

“Try to get confirmation of the birth certificate and the name of the hospital and when and where Mitch Flynn was married. Work all night if necessary. Susan Flynn wants to know by tomorrow.”

She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Farrell tapped a pen on the bare desk. “Thanks for being a sport, Kim. I hope this isn’t ruining an evening for you.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “I didn’t have anything special planned.” She closed his office door behind her and walked to her desk. I followed her. She slid onto her seat, muttered, “The rich get richer, the poor get poorer; he’ll go home whenever he chooses, I get to work until the wee hours.” She reached for the phone, tapped a number. “Hey, Sue. I can’t come. I’ve got to spend the night trying to scare up information on an estate.” She swung her chair away from her computer, stared moodily toward a window.

I perched on the corner of her desk and leaned close to the computer and keypad. I’d become somewhat familiar with computers, programs, and passwords on my previous visit to Adelaide. Obviously her computer had previously been turned on and her password used so she was able to access files.

I reached over and used the mouse to close out the program. The screen went dark.

“…Did you ever see that old movie Nine to Five?”

I smothered a giggle. Dolly Parton’s song and role in that film were definitely Heavenly favorites of a certain generation of women.

“I’ll try to come late if I can.” She clicked off the phone and swiveled her chair to face the computer. She frowned at the dark screen, puzzled.

I watched carefully as she clicked buttons, moved her mouse, waited until instructions came up to enter her password. I’d been a first-rate typist, but I wasn’t quite sure I’d followed her fingers. I edged a finger under her hands and poked d. The message Invalid Password flashed.

She gave an irritated breath, typed again.

Was her password sable or cable?

Once I again I tapped d.

Her shoulders hunched. This time she picked each finger up and put it down with exaggerated care.

Ah, sable. I glanced at a short black cloth coat, much worn, that hung from the nearby coat tree. I doubted she had a sable coat at home.

She clicked Open, highlighted the FlynnEstate file. That was all I needed to know.

Thin white clouds streaked the afternoon sky. The backhoe operator swung the boom and dumped dirt from a two-foot hole in the front yard of Pritchard House. The excavation was located about ten