Merry, Merry Ghost

Johnny leapt toward the end of the hallway, shoved open the exit. A shrill bell clanged.

Wiggins’s growled “To the roof” was audible only to me.

Clumps of snow from a recent storm looked dingy against the black-tarred roof. I settled on a parapet in the sun with a nice view of the street as a police cruiser squealed to a stop, red light whirling, siren wailing. A similar wail sounded from the alley, joining the continuing clamor from Lulu’s exit alarm.

Shivering, I wished for my white cashmere jacket. I felt its warm embrace. I was tempted to pop back into Lulu’s and see whether the coat had disappeared. Perhaps Wiggins could enlighten me as to the properties of imagined articles. However, this might not be a propitious moment for such a discussion.

“Bailey Ruth.” The voice came from across the roof near a turbine vent. Wiggins sounded cross.

“Come sit in the sun, Wiggins,” I called out with cheer as if we were old friends pausing for a moment to enjoy a sparkling winter day. “I’m sitting on the parapet overlooking the street.” I bent, picked up a vagrant red maple leaf, still lovely though brittle, and placed it atop the wide brick railing.

In a moment, a heavy sigh sounded beside me.

I offered the maple leaf. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

His hand brushed mine as he took the leaf. “Quite a brilliant red. Just”—he wasn’t being complimentary—“like your hair.”

“How is everything in Tumbulgum?” As Mother told me long ago, it’s only good manners to discuss matters of interest to everyone.

“Almost”—his tone was as cold as the patches of crusted snow—“as difficult as in Adelaide.”

“Where is Tumbulgum?” I truly did want to know.

“Lovely place. In New South Wales in Australia. On the Tweed River, near the junction of the Tweed and the… Actually, the location of Tumbulgum isn’t relevant. You do realize that your latest appearance will cause the police to focus attention on the appearances and”—great emphasis—“disappearances of a redheaded woman. If there is anything to be avoided, anything worse than violating Precepts One through Six, it is the prospect of creating a perception of…”

I waited. The term ghost was anathema to Wiggins, though I saw no reason to pretend that a potato wasn’t a tuber.

“…otherworldliness.” The admission was grudging. “I see no way”—his voice dropped in discouragement—“to effectively combat the beginnings of what may turn out to be a legend in Adelaide.”

“Wiggins”—I was firm—“I will see that this doesn’t happen.” Whether they realize it or not, men appreciate firmness. When a woman takes charge—graciously, of course—it offers emancipation.

“Is there something you can do?” He sounded like a man desperate to cling to a glimmer of hope.

Short of transporting Johnny Cain, Peg Flynn, the church secretary, and the always suspicious Chief Cobb and Detective Sergeant Price to a remote desert island, I rather doubted I could wipe away the collective memory of a redhead they sometimes saw and sometimes didn’t. However, I am always willing to give my best effort.

“Wiggins, of course.” I spoke with utter confidence. “I’ll keep on top of things. You hurry right back to Tumbulgum. Everything will be fine here. I’m off to see about it.”

The sirens no longer shrilled. The alarm was silent. In the street, Detective Sergeant Price stood beside a police cruiser. He gestured to the north. Peg nodded.

“Be of good cheer, Wiggins. ‘Waltzing Matilda,’ and all that.” Too late, I clapped my hand to my lips. Possibly that wasn’t the most tactful song to mention since the refrain is sung by the ghost of the swagman who haunts the billabong. Once again, I’d spoken before I thought. I didn’t wait for a reply and zoomed down to join Peg and Keith.

Faintly, I heard Wiggins’s plaintive cry. “Do your best. Try to remember the Precepts. Work in the background without attracting notice…”

Wiggins could count on me.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Chief Cobb’s moderate-sized office seemed crowded. Peg and Johnny sat at the circular table near the wall with the old-fashioned blackboard. A gawky woman with spiky violet hair and metallic gray eyes frowned in concentration at the sketch pad on the table. Her hand, the fingers long and graceful, moved with quick surety. Detective Sergeant Price stood behind her chair, his eyes thoughtful.

As red curls and a thin freckled face came clearer on the sketch pad, Chief Cobb watched with the curious expression of a man who doesn’t trust what he sees.

Behind the chief’s desk, Keith made whooshing noises as he pushed the swivel chair around and around.

A burly police officer with a Saint Bernard face opened the hall door. “Mrs. Norton is here. From St. Mildred’s.”

The church secretary bustled inside, her bony face eager. She pulled off a scarf, tucked it in the pocket of her red lamb’s wool coat, handed the coat grandly to Detective Sergeant Price. Her green wool dress was as shapeless as a gunny sack. “Have you caught that woman? She was certainly up to no good.”

I found her vindictive attitude hard to fathom. Did she dislike redheads on principle? I wouldn’t stoop to suggesting possible jealousy on the part of a faded brunette with sprigs of gray. After all, the hijacking of a church directory surely didn’t qualify as high crime. I would have pegged it a misdemeanor.

Chief Cobb took the coat and added it to the several on the coat tree. “The artist will appreciate any help you can offer.”

I looked over the artist’s shoulder. Hmm. My cheekbones were perhaps a little more prominent.