Ghost in Trouble (2010)

Ronald Phillips—He, too, seemed to be playing a role, the husband of a great woman. I wondered what was behind his unctuous manner and perfectly styled silver hair and beard.

Stepping out of the shower, I enjoyed the fleecy softness of the towel. Once dry, I disappeared and chose my clothing. Before departing, I materialized long enough to glance in the bedroom mirror, an extravagant, full-length affair with a white limestone frame. My copper-bright hair shone. An azure blouse complemented white slacks and sandals. My green eyes sparkled, my freckled face was eager. I was ready.

I checked to be sure there was no evidence the room had been used. I’d made the bed, of course. The bathroom had a plentiful supply of towels, so one less would not be noticed. I folded my damp towel. I’d drop by The Castle laundry room on my way out.

I disappeared and stepped into the hall, making sure no one was about to observe the floating towel. I gently closed the bedroom door and thought: laundry room. To move an object required me to traverse the distance rather than immediately arriving. I floated—floating is such fun—down the hallway to an inconspicuous door. I opened it to find the interior stairs meant for the domestic staff. A dim light midway down revealed a narrow passageway and steep steps. I found three narrow doors at the bottom of the stairs. Dimly, I heard a dog barking excitedly.

The first door opened. “Walter, what’s wrong with you? What’s on the stairs?”

A yipping bundle of golden fur scrambled up the steps, nails clicking, in a wriggling frenzy of excitement.

“Shh.” I reached down to pet.

The dog lunged, yanking the towel from my other hand.

I grabbed one end, held tight.

A joyous growl sounded. The dog pulled, his claws scrabbling on the uncarpeted stairs. What could be more fun than tug-of-war first thing in the morning?

“Walter, what are you doing?” Margo sounded exasperated. She stood at the foot of the steps, glaring upward. “Hush. You’ll wake everyone up.” The door evidently opened into the kitchen. The scent of coffee and bacon beckoned me. I let go of the towel.

Walter slid down several steps, dragging the towel with him.

“Give me that towel.” Margo bent, but the dog bolted past her into the kitchen, the towel dragging behind him.

I sighed. Now there would be the Mystery of the Damp Towel on the Service Stairs. Wiggins felt strongly about unexplained incidents that might prompt speculation of otherworldly intervention.

Looking on the bright side—I hoped Wiggins would do so as well—now that I wasn’t burdened with the towel, I was free to carry out my plans.

I had a decision to make. Although Kay’s refusal to involve the police likely put her in greater danger, I understood her reasoning. As long as those with whom she spoke—with the exception of the murderer—remained unaware that Jack Hume had been pushed, they likely would answer whatever questions Kay asked.

However, if the tools I’d so cleverly placed in the drawer in the oak cabinet were discovered, it was inevitable that the police would be summoned and a thorough investigation begun on the sabotage of the vase.

I am rarely indecisive. Did I play Kay’s game? Or did I try to involve the police in hopes of protecting her? If the former, I must move quickly, retrieve the tools, place them in the tool room.

I popped to the main hallway. Shadowy openings at either side near the front door led to the living and dining area. I looked at the massive cabinet.

The second drawer was closed. I reached out, pulled.

The tools were gone.

I’d expected the first person through the hallway this morning to see the glint of the crowbar in the light from the wall sconce and immediately raise the alarm. The police would be summoned.

Someone had indeed walked past and been attracted by the silvery glint, but no alarm had been raised.

Either a murderer had walked this way or someone willing to protect a killer.

In the workshop, the spaces for the crowbar, hammer, and chisel remained empty. The tools could be in the pond or hidden in dense vegetation. I’d been outwitted. I had no idea when the tools had been taken. Yet I felt almost certain they must have been discovered early this morning. Who had been up early?

I left the workshop and rose in the air to survey the surroundings.

Evelyn Hume walked down the stairs from the terrace. Her fingertips slid smoothly down the stone balustrade. Her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back in a bun. She looked cool and attractive in a gray chambray blouse and slacks. As I watched, she reached the terrace, turned, and walked without hesitation to the cul-de-sac.

I dropped down beside her, near enough to see the grim set of her face. The thick lenses of her glasses magnified her milky eyes.

Despite the bright morning sun, the cul-de-sac was dim, shadowed by the tall, thick evergreens on three sides. There was light enough to see that the vase had been blue porcelain. Light enough also to recognize the great force of the vase’s impact. The vase had shattered into large pieces, spilling clods of dark rich dirt. There was still the scent of gardenias, though the blossoms were already browned and wilted.

It was only as Evelyn moved slowly forward, her steps cautious, that her poor vision became apparent. As the toe of her right shoe encountered debris, she stooped to pick up a shard of pottery. Her lined face was brooding, intent.

She held the broken piece for a moment, then dropped it. As she turned away, she reached out, touched a prickly evergreen. As soon as her shoe grated on the flagstones, she swung to her right, walked unerringly toward the marble stairway.

Had she come to the cul-de-sac to confirm the fall of the vase? Did she find it hard to believe that a huge