Possibly that wasn’t the response he’d hoped for. Quickly, I achieved an expression of thoughtful inquiry and folded my hands prayerfully. “Free will.” My tone was musing, almost rueful. I tried to imply that I spent much of my time engrossed in this fascinating topic. Actually, I’d never given free will a thought.
“Ah, well.” His tone was long-suffering. “We can only work with the materials we have at hand. But there is that complicating factor…” He flipped through sheets, muttering to himself. “Oh, my.” He shut the folder. “I’m in a quandary. Perhaps another volunteer would be a better choice.”
“Wiggins, please pick me. You know how much I love Adelaide. I can handle anything. I promise.”
Wiggins leaned back in his chair, stared at me. “Very well. Let me give you a brief history. The family circumstance is exceedingly complicated and the situation is exceedingly volatile. You’ll be spending most of your time at The Castle.”
“The Castle!” I felt a quiver of delight. The Castle was Adelaide’s showplace, built by J. J. Hume, an oil baron. Bobby Mac found oil, too, but he was a wildcatter, not a multimillionaire. The Castle, a Mission-style mansion with a series of descending terraces, sat high on Spotted Owl Ridge. The spectacular centerpiece was an active pump jack in the middle of the garden. As J. J. had told his wife, “Roses are fine, but nothing smells as sweet as fresh crude.”
I’d attended charity balls and civic functions there. Every small town has its aristocracy. In Adelaide, the Pritchards and the Humes fulfilled those roles in strikingly different fashion. The Pritchards were aloof, elegant, and the great patrons of St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church. The Humes…Suffice it to say that J. J. was a hard-drinking, rabble-rousing iconoclast, though his long-suffering wife, Millie, was a stalwart Baptist who loved her Sunday school class and spent much of her life murmuring, “J. J. didn’t mean…”
I beamed at Wiggins. “The Castle is amazing. It has a ballroom and a balcony and terraces. A terrazzo-paved avenue framed by Italian cypress leads from the lower terrace to the site where the Millie number one was drilled.” At Wiggins’s puzzled look, I smiled. “The oil well in the garden. I think J. J. had a sense of humor. Honestly, to frame a pump jack and tank battery between rows of Italian cypress!”
Wiggins continued to look bewildered. I gave him a crash course in oil terminology, explaining how when a well was completed—and the Millie No. 1 was a fabulous well, pumping three hundred barrels a day—the rig was replaced with a pump jack. The big silver tank held the recovered oil. “J. J. said a pump jack and tank battery were better than sculpture any day. Of course, every big windstorm knocked over the cypress, but J. J. had new ones planted the next day. Does The Castle still belong to the Humes?”
I had a vivid memory of J. J.’s darkly handsome grandson Everett. My daddy referred to Everett as a good-for- nothing lout. But oh, how he could dance. I had once been tempted…But that was long ago. Bobby Mac had simply picked me up from the dance floor (actually high school gym) and carried me out the door. What a guy. My attraction to the brooding Everett dissolved in the mists of memory, overwhelmed by images of Bobby Mac. Especially that wonderful summer we’d tramped through Europe…As I recalled, Everett came to no good end.
“…and so the current family included J. J. IV, known as Jack.” Suddenly I realized I’d missed a goodly portion of Wiggins’s reply.
“…and Diane, his brother’s widow, is no match for Kay Clark. Diane seems to believe everything she’s told. Not a sensible course in life. Diane lacks sophistication. She has a sweet nature.” Wiggins sighed. “It is sad that those with kindly hearts often are vulnerable to manipulation. Although I will admit that Kay’s scheme is clever. However, duplicity is reprehensible even if in a good cause.” A reproving sniff. “As for the Humes…oh well, free will.”
“Free will,” I repeated with an air of complete understanding.
“But, given all of those facts, are you willing to do your best?” His gaze was searching.
“Of course.” I didn’t want Wiggins to know I had no idea of the facts or my duties. Once I arrived, I’d quickly discern what I needed to know. Look, listen, act—that was my motto. I shot a quick glance at Wiggins. Had he picked up on my thought? It might suggest impulsiveness. “I will proceed with caution.”
Wiggins looked pleased, as well he might, since my lack of caution had always been one of his concerns.
I felt ennobled. This time I would be a model emissary. “Behind the scenes.”
Wiggins’s obvious relief was almost pitiable. “Bailey Ruth, I should have known I could count on you.” His voice was admiring. “Such a refined spirit.”
How lovely to think of myself as a refined spirit. And soon to be a traveling spirit. I was ready to go, but I didn’t want to hurry Wiggins. Perhaps he would think of me as not only boring but far above earthly temptations.
“Although an emissary such as you, endowed with both beauty and charm”—he gave me a gallant nod though his eyes were worried—“is perhaps in more danger of reverting to worldly ways. Not,” he added hastily, “that I would expect you of all people to forget Heavenly attitudes.” It would have been nice had his voice contained more assurance.
“Reversion.” I dismissed the possibility with a casual wave of pink-tipped fingers. Wiggins worried a good deal that one of his emissaries, when on the earth, would revert to earthly attitudes, that is, succumb to anger, jealousy, suspicion, or any of the other undesirable passions. That possibility was the least of my worries. Why would I revert?
“All right.” He was businesslike. “We fear for Kay Clark’s safety—”
A staccato
Wiggins’s eyes widened. He bent near, tapped a rapid response.
The sender’s
Frowning darkly, Wiggins pulled down his eyeshade, wrote with a dark-leaded pencil on a pad. The instant he finished, he pushed back his chair, gestured to me.
“You must leave immediately. An emergency. I hope you arrive in time.” He dashed to the ticket window, grabbed a white slip of cardboard, stamped it.
I took it, saw the bright red marking—ADELAIDE—and ran for the platform. The Rescue Express was thundering on the rails. I grabbed a handrail and swung aboard, eager for my journey. Over the mournful yet exuberant peal of the train whistle, I heard Wiggins shout, “Save Kay Clark if you can!”
I clung to a handrail as the express shot across the sky. I was on my way and the refrain sounded in time with the wheels.
