Ghost in Trouble (2010)

I didn’t speak. I suppose my cold gaze told her my opinion.

“I was nineteen years old. He was twenty-seven. I came here”—she pointed up at The Castle—“to interview his father, J. J. III, about a rumor that Hume Oil was for sale. I met Jack in the main hallway as I was leaving.” There might have been a quick sheen of tears in her eyes. “I was so young. I didn’t know how much love hurt. I didn’t know…” She gave an impatient shake of her head. “He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen.” She spoke without emphasis, stating a fact. “Being near him made everything sharper, brighter, faster. Did I chase him? No. Suddenly he was everywhere I went. I left town, went to Dallas. He came after me.” Her face was suddenly sad. “Every time he walked into a room, it was like the Fourth of July, but I would have gotten away if Virginia hadn’t died.” Her eyes probed mine. “Did the ladies of the town blame me for her death and Sallie’s, too?” Her gaze was somber. “Why do I ask? Sure, everybody blamed me and Jack.” She shook her head. “Jack and I didn’t create Virginia’s demons. He tried to help her. His dad tried. Did you know Jack’s dad had insisted on Virginia and Sallie coming to live at The Castle? He’d been down to see them in Houston. He wasn’t anybody’s fool. He was crazy about the baby. That’s the only reason Jack was in Adelaide that summer. He spent very little time here after Hume Oil moved its headquarters to Houston. Of course, his dad still called the shots from Adelaide. But that one summer, Jack was here. He got away as often as he could. He was in Dallas the night of the accident.”

I remembered his absence. “We’d all heard that he was in Dallas. With you.” Everyone had talked, of course… running after that girl…poor little Virginia…his fault…was it really an accident?…

“He was with me.” Kay spoke as if from a far distance, as if she were observing shadowy figures dimly seen in a dusky lane. “I told him I wouldn’t see him again. And then the call came. Virginia’s car went into the lake on a bright, sunny, beautiful afternoon.” There was pity and sadness in Kay’s dark eyes. “Virginia was drunk. As usual.”

“Virginia?” I remembered sweet slender Virginia and her beguiling blue eyes and gentle smile. My shock must have been evident in my face.

“Did you know her headaches and the days she spent in bed were because of vodka?” The honesty in Kay’s voice was unmistakable.

I didn’t want to believe Kay, but I’d lived long enough to understand that people we think we know well often hide destructive secrets.

Kay spoke quietly. “Hardly anyone knew. Jack. His dad. His sister. I don’t think Virginia’s mother knew, or perhaps she refused to see. Virginia was always pretty and kind, a sweet, good-natured, pathetic drunk.”

I looked at Kay and saw beyond the mature woman who faced me now. I saw the girl of nineteen, beautiful and accused. I remembered myself that night, angry, my voice hard. “Why didn’t you say anything the night I came to see you?”

Her dark brows drew down in a fierce frown. “Did I owe you an explanation? And how could I talk about Virginia? The family was trying to help her.”

I made many mistakes during my lifetime. Here was another, even if lately realized. “I’m sorry.” I wished my words could make a difference, but nothing I said now would erase that night.

Her face twisted in a sardonic smile. “I’ll save your apology for a therapy session. Apparently, my subconscious likes you better than I do. But that encounter with you was the least of my concerns after Virginia and Sallie died. I had too much else to deal with then. Jack was devastated. He blamed himself for the accident. He said he should have put Virginia in a hospital and made sure that she wouldn’t be out alone with Sallie. But he never expected what happened. Of course”—and now her tone was bitter—“the generous ladies of Adelaide had the answer, Virginia drove into the lake because of Jack and me. The reality? Virginia drove into the lake because she was too drunk to drive and she made a wrong turn on the way to the park with Sallie.”

The photograph in the Gazette had been heartbreaking, water spilling out of the convertible as the winch pulled the white car to the surface of the lake.

Kay’s thin hands tightened into fists. “Virginia didn’t commit suicide. She would never have hurt Sallie. Jack didn’t matter to her. She shut him out after Sallie was born, but she adored Sallie. So did Jack. When Virginia and Sallie died, Jack was lost. It was the only time I ever knew him to be lost. Until—” She drew a sharp breath. “Why should I tell you any of this? You aren’t here, and I’ve got plenty to deal with.”

“Skulduggery.” I spoke firmly.

She came back from the past, gave me a disdainful stare. “I would never have expected you to be quaint, Bailey Ruth.”

I felt a flicker of outrage. Kay Clark might not be a scarlet woman who had tried to steal another woman’s husband, but she was definitely infuriating. The night I’d made a plea for Virginia, Kay hadn’t revealed the truth. I realized now she’d been hurt by the town’s suspicions, but she had refused to defend herself. Was she driven by pride? Or was she a woman who would always go her own way without any thought to the effect of her actions on those around her? Now she was doing everything in her power to send me packing.

I was tempted to disappear and let her deal with whatever forces she had unleashed.

…on the earth, not of the earth…

Did I hear the whistle of the Rescue Express in the distance?

I spoke quickly. “When I was sent here to help you, I was told there was skulduggery afoot. If you prefer more up-to-date language, let me put it this way. You are in a big mess, and unless you want your attacker”—I nodded at the remnants of the vase—“to get away with murder—yours—you need to listen to me. I was dispatched to save you and I’m going to do it.” Whether she liked it or not. I felt pugnacious as all get out. Kay affected me that way.

“You save me?” She flicked me a glance of disdain. “I don’t need your help. Thanks, but I know what I’m doing. I don’t need a guardian angel.”

“Stop.” I held up a commanding hand. “I am not an angel. Heavens, no. Angels are a separate order of being. I’m an emissary.”

She shrugged. “Angel, emissary, what difference does it make?”

This was not the time to argue theology. I lost patience and snapped, “In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I am a ghost.” Wiggins had to understand that sometimes language must be clear.

“Ghost?” She raised an inquiring eyebrow. “I guess you are a ghost of times past, that’s for sure. Whether