Ghost Times Two (8 page)

I glanced longingly at the wastebasket. If Jimmy were here, he'd be pawing through it. I considered trying to filch some sheets but moving crumpled wads through the air and out the door without being noticed would be impossible. I would return tonight. The sheets might make interesting reading. Possibly there might be information that could be used to force—

I forbore to complete the thought. Wiggins would be appalled if an emissary used blackmail, no matter how well deserved. I dearly hoped Wiggins was not in an ESP mode in Tumbulgum.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and the tickle of Wiggins's mustache near my ear.

A breath of a whisper. “City Hall roof.”

Wiggins and I had conferred there several times in the past. The asphalt roof would be radiating heat. Quickly, I whispered, as lightly as he, “Cemetery? Jimmy's plot?”

“Excellent idea.” His whispered tone was approving.

In an instant, I was at the cemetery. Instead of hurrying to the shade of a Bradford pear, I stopped in front of Jimmy's grave. “Jimmy?”

No reply.

“You've lost track of him?” Wiggins was beside me.

That seemed rather unfair. “You're the man in charge. Surely you know where he is.” I felt a surge of relief. Wiggins could set me on Jimmy's trail.

Wiggins made a harrumphing sound. “James has yet to climb the stairs. Until he's welcomed, the connection is faint, and if the heart and mind are closed, the matter is fraught with challenges.”

I was stunned. I expected Wiggins to be omnipotent.

“I will find him, of course.” He wasn't quite defensive.

“You always know where I am.” I tried not to sound accusatory.

“You are an emissary. Of course I know where you are.” A sigh. “And I am painfully aware of your continuing struggle with the Precepts. I understand your intentions are of the best, an effort to reassure Megan, poor child, and to persuade James to find his way home to Heaven. It's unfortunate you've had no success.”

I heard the rumble of wheels on the tracks. The Rescue Express was coming near, too-roo, too-roo, too-roo.

“Wiggins, we have to think of Bridget.” I'd seen her photograph on Anita's desk.

“Sweet child.” His tone was soft. “Painfully thin now. Too weak to run and play. Megan will make it possible for her to get the best treatment.”

“Jimmy—James—may make things harder for Megan. Let me see if I can find him, persuade him not to interfere.”

Coal smoke tickled my nose. The rumble of wheels on the rails made it difficult to hear. But over the trombone wail of the whistle came a reluctant shout. “Twenty-four hours. Do your best. Try . . . Precepts . . .”

Silence.

Wiggins was gone. The air was sweet with the scent of fresh-cut grass. The only sound was the distant roar of a jet overhead.

Twenty-four hours.

I gazed around the quiet cemetery, tried one more time. “Jimmy?”

Had he returned to Doug Graham's house?

I arrived on the terrace. The inner tube, high on the water, drifted near the center of the pool. I stepped into the cabana. Mmm, nice. Comfortable easy chair, divan, one bamboo wall, a braided rug on the floor. Doors on one side revealed two small dressing areas, each with a bench and shower. A door near a wet bar opened to reveal a bright bedroom with a king-size bed. Fresh flowers sat in a bowl on a glass coffee table in front of a white wicker divan. If I wrote tabloid copy, the headline was obvious: “Love Nest.”

On the steps to the cabana, I shaded my eyes and followed a path that wound past the Bradford pears. The garage was built of fancy stone that matched the house's front facade. I passed through a closed door. Three empty bays.

The flagstone walk from the garage split into a walk that paralleled the drive, the other passed under a honeysuckle arbor to the terrace. I entered the house from the terrace, stopped next to a pool table to listen. A grandfather clock near a doorway ticked, but I heard nothing else. The house appeared to be empty. I made a cursory check of the lower floor, pausing in the doorway of a study to breathe a sigh of relief. Everything was tidy. “Jimmy?” I lifted my voice.

I strolled disconsolately through a hallway to the terrace room. I was out of ideas. Time was fleeting. The tick of the grandfather clock was an urgent reminder. I had twenty-four hours to convince Jimmy to climb the golden stairs. I'd not planned to be on the pier
at White Deer Park at six o'clock. Megan deserved that moment alone with Blaine.

But that's where I could be sure to find Jimmy.

When it's hotter than . . . Actually, not a good comparison. Adelaide's summer is slap-in-your-face hot but steaming with sweat is as lively a reminder of life as any I know. I was tempted to plunge into the lake, but duty called. I did change to a gossamer-thin aqua cotton top and shorts with an adorable print of dolphins at play and aqua sandals.

Megan's red Dodge slewed into the parking lot, jolted to a stop. She burst out of the car, turned, stopped.

I watched heartbreak happen.

Vigor drained away. Sadness and disappointment drew the youth from her face. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes. The pier stretched empty into the water, silent.

She looked at her watch.

The quarter hour chimed from the bells at St. Mildred's. I'd arrived precisely at six. The pier had been empty then as well.

She crossed dusty ground cracked from lack of rainfall and climbed to the pier. Her slow steps on the weathered planks sounded forlorn, defeated. She reached the end, looked out at water glittering in the late-afternoon sunlight.

A screech of tires.

She turned, eyes wide. Recognition was followed by relief mixed with apprehension.

An old yellow Thunderbird with back fins stopped next to her
Dodge. The door opened, and Blaine Smith was out of the car and striding toward the pier, one long arm lifted in greeting.

Megan hurried to meet him. She was grave and somber, her eyes filled with sadness.

They faced each other in the middle of the pier, a small young woman struggling to retain her composure and a big man whose face twisted in concern at her obvious distress.

“Sorry I'm late.” The sun turned his wiry straw-colored hair the color of summer wheat. His suit today was a worn green cotton, again with sleeves that didn't quite cover his large bony wrists. His open face reflected thankfulness she was here with an undercurrent of inquiry. He gazed at her searchingly.

She managed a laugh that held a hint of tears. “I was late, too. Lawyers always run behind. One more call, one more e-mail, one more text.” A quick breath. “Thank you for coming. I was afraid—” She broke off.

“I wouldn't come? I'll always come. If you want me.”

Megan tried to steel her face, but her lips quivered. “There's no good way to tell you. I can't come with you. I wish I could find a way to explain. I wanted to be in your firm”—now her voice was shaking—“more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.”

“If that's what you want, then why not?” He reached down, took her small hands in his large ones, held tight. “We'll grow the best firm Adelaide ever saw.” His deep lawyer's voice was hopeful.

“I can't.” She tried to pull free of his grasp.

Blaine held tight. “Why?”

Her heart-shaped face held misery. “I can't tell you. I spoke to Mr. Graham. I can't quit.” She pulled away.

Blaine shoved his hands in the pockets of his suit, hunched his
shoulders. “I know you've got a lot of student debt. I guess if he offered a lot more money, you'd be a fool to quit.”

She looked at him in dismay. “Do you think I'd promise to come with you, then be swayed by more money?”

“Money's—”

“It's not money.” She bit her lip. “There's nothing more to say. I wish it could have happened.” She started to pass him.

He reached out, gripped her arm. “He can't hold you if you want to leave.”

“I'm afraid he can.” Her voice was thin. “There's a reason I have agreed to stay. It isn't about me, Blaine. It would cause great distress for someone else. I wish it didn't have to be this way. But I have no choice.” That said, she seemed to find strength. “So, that's that. One of these days, you'll find a good associate and I hope”—her eyes glistened with tears—“that champagne will be wonderful.” She pulled away, turned, and ran.

He stared after her, puzzled, disappointed.

She reached her car, yanked open the door, slipped inside. The Dodge revved, backed up, jolted forward.

He stood, hot, sweaty, head lowered, on the pier. Slowly his expression changed. “
It isn't about me.
What the hell is it about?”

“Graham's bullying her. That jerk—”

I moved to my right, hand outswept. I found Jimmy, clapped my fingers over his lips, hissed, “Hush. Carousel.” My hiss held an echo of English Teacher Bailey Ruth Raeburn in a Jack Palance mood.

Blaine jerked to look at the shore. Not a single figure was visible, only a gaggle of geese, aloof, imperious, regal. His head swung out to survey the lake. No boat. No windsurfer. No one.

I gave a yank on Jimmy's arm, tugged in the direction of the carousel. He resisted, then moved with me. At the carousel, I led us to the gondola in front of the buffalo. On the pier, Blaine Smith was on his hands and knees, despite his suit, looking over the edge and underneath, seeking the source of the male voice.

“Jimmy, I know you don't want to see Megan upset, but—”

“I told you he was a jerk.”

“Graham?”

“Oh yeah. But that Blaine guy, too. How can he think Megan could be bought off?”

“What were you going to tell him?”

“I guess . . . I don't know.” He spoke in a mumble.

“That's the problem. There's no way to explain what happened without causing a terrible problem for Anita and her little girl. And Jimmy, the job isn't Megan's only difficulty. You are making her miserable.”

His silence emanated resistance.

I reached over, patted his arm. “You mean well, but sometimes meaning well isn't enough.”

“You're just trying to get me to climb up those stairs.”

The stairs hovered near the carousel, the golden light inviting, the white steps shining.

“You're ready now to climb the steps. Do you know how I can be sure?”

“What makes you think so?” His tone was truculent.

“You truly love Megan. I know that's so because you spoke up on the pier. You want Blaine to know that Megan's good and kind and doing something for someone else, no matter the cost to herself.”

“She ought to tell him.” A huff. “But he should know she's doing the right thing without being told.”

“Why didn't she tell Blaine?”

“Because she's Megan.” His voice was soft. “If she told him, it would be like she wanted him to help, but there isn't anything he can do that wouldn't endanger the kid.” A sigh. “The thing is, he's nuts about her. I get it. I am, too. He'd understand and keep quiet for the kid's sake. She should have told him.”

I touched my fingers to my lips, wafted an unseen kiss in his direction. “So I know you're ready to climb—” I broke off.

I was alone.

It's hard for me to remain quiet. Or sit still. Bobby Mac always said any physicist who wanted to understand perpetual motion should spend a day with me. Of course, I see myself as calm, cool, collected. He simply grins and says all good marriages are based on delusions.

Megan sat on her small plaid sofa in the small living room, Sweetie snuggled next to her. A throaty purr was the only sound in the silent room. Megan had changed into a charming white T-shirt with a daisy print, yellow chambray shorts, and white sandals. She held a tablet.

I looked over her shoulder. Hmm. A book by Ann Ross. I read over her shoulder and stifled a gurgle of laughter. I tamped it down soon enough that Megan, after one hunted look over her shoulder and a skittering gaze around the room, simply shook her head and focused again on the book.