Merry, Merry Ghost

opportunities to transgress—however unintentionally—the Precepts.

I came back to the moment—perhaps I did have a penchant for Zen—to realize that Wiggins had been discoursing.

“…though the decorations are up, and I will admit they are spectacular, the heart of Christmas left Pritchard House when Susan Flynn received word of her son’s death. So much sadness.”

“Pritchard House?” I pictured a grand home high on Chickasaw Ridge. Only one house in Adelaide was redbrick with two huge bay windows on the first floor, half timbered and stuccoed and balconied in English Tudor with Gothic accents on the second story.

Wiggins tapped my folder. “I assume you know the Pritchards.”

“Everyone in Adelaide knows the Pritchards.” Growing up in Adelaide, I could count on these verities: My family loved me, the sun rose in the east, St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church was our spiritual home, the wind blew mostly from the south, and two families served as Adelaide’s small-town aristocracy, the Pritchards and the Humes.

Paul Pritchard, cool-eyed and remote, came west from Boston in 1912 to establish Adelaide’s first bank. The Pritchards were formal, reserved, elegant, and supportive of the community, often hosting charity teas in their Chickasaw Ridge home. The Humes—ah well—the Humes were another story altogether, boisterous, sensation seeking, sometimes scandalous. Their drink of choice had a bit more punch than tea.

“The Pritchards did everything perfectly.”

Wiggins slowly shook his head. “Dear Bailey Ruth, don’t be blinded by worldly success and social position.”

I flicked the fluffy ball on the tail of my Santa hat over my shoulder. Woe be to me if Wiggins decided I was naive. I added hastily, “In their support of St. Mildred’s.” Paul and his wife Jane had been founding members of St. Mildred’s, and subsequent generations continued generous financial support to the church. “Hannah and Maurice Pritchard furnished the money for the chapel and cloister.” I’d been in awe of Hannah on earth, but here in Heaven she was in one of my book clubs and I thoroughly enjoyed her gentle wit.

Wiggins’s smile was avuncular. “How appropriate that your first thought would be of St. Mildred’s. I commend you.”

My face flamed. That is a redhead’s hazard, scarlet cheeks when attempting a fib.

Fortunately Wiggins was looking at his folders. Again he appeared uneasy. “It’s worrisome that I am not certain of Keith’s arrival at Pritchard House. Yet I see no other purpose for the trip. The car appears to be en route to Adelaide. In any event, time is fleeting for Susan.”

I blinked in surprise.

Wiggins is perceptive. “In the natural order, we know when to expect new arrivals. Susan suffers from congestive heart failure but she isn’t due here until June 15. Yet”—his brow furrowed—“I am definitely worried. Call it a hunch.” His tone suggested the word was not one he commonly used. Possibly hunch wasn’t au courant until much after Wiggins’s time on earth. Could he have picked it up from an emissary? Indeed, he looked embarrassed at his suggestion and said defensively, “I’ve been doing this over the course of many years as understood in earthly time—”

Time does not exist in Heaven, but I am no more able to explain this verity than to expound on Zen.

“—and sometimes I have a feeling of impending danger, almost as if a darkening cloud is blotting out the sun. That’s why I think—”

A frantic clack clack clack, sharp as Rudolph’s hooves on a Mission-style roof, erupted from the telegraph sounder on Wiggins’s desk.

Wiggins quickly removed his stiff cap, clamped on a green eyeshade, and grabbed a sheet. He wrote furiously, murmuring, “Oh dear, what can this mean? Steps must be taken!”

The clacking reached a peak, abruptly subsided.

Wiggins tapped a response and came to his feet, all in one hurried motion. He gestured to me as he grabbed a bright red ticket from a slotted rack. “No time to stamp. Red signals emergency. The conductor will understand. I’ll pull down the signal arm for an unscheduled stop of the Rescue Express. Run, Bailey Ruth.”

In an instant, I was racing toward the platform, ticket in hand, Wiggins pounding behind me. What a grand turn of events. I tried to hide my excitement. Wiggins would frown upon overt delight in being dispatched to earth. That might underscore his concern that I had, in my previous adven-mission, found it difficult to remember that emissaries are on the earth but not of the earth. This Precept evoked an emotional response from Wiggins, who deplored the possibility of an emissary reverting to earthly attitudes instead of exhibiting Heavenly virtues. This time would be different. I would most nobly remember at all times that I was on but not of. I would make Wiggins proud.

Despite my effort to remain suitably grave—hard to do when running full tilt—I felt my lips curving in delight. I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, was once again ticketed for the Rescue Express. Watch my dust!

As the train screeched to a stop and a porter reached out to pull me aboard, Wiggins looked unhappily at the folder he clutched. “…no time for you to study the reports…find out everything about those who surround Susan Flynn…won’t do for you to take the folder…existing matter would be a burden since of course this time you will not appear. I’m sure you won’t.”

I thought his tone rather pitiful.

“…shocking turn of events…I should have sent you sooner…such an unexpected act…protect that dear little boy…”

CHAPTER TWO

Stars glowed against the vastness of space, witness to the majesty of the universe. A streak of red and a fading whistle signaled the departure of the Rescue Express. Close at hand, darkness pooled from huge evergreens. Icy wind chilled me to the bone. Had I had bones. I imagined a white turtleneck sweater, charcoal slacks, knee-high black boots, and a chinchilla coat and cap. I immediately felt warmer as well as stylish. A