Ghost Wanted (3 page)

M
y first stop was the college's main administration building. Locked doors, of course, posed no obstacle. I dropped into an office and found a campus directory. I perched on the edge of a desk and made a phone call.

“Campus Security.” The male voice was alert. It was late to be calling—the round clock on the wall showed twelve minutes after eleven—so I made my voice calm and cheerful. “Sorry to bother you, but I just got off work and wanted to call and leave a thank-you for that nice security officer at the library. I think his name is Ben . . .” I paused expectantly.

“Yes, ma'am. Ben Douglas.”

I burbled on. “He found my billfold. I lost it in the parking lot, and he was kind enough to bring it to me. Please tell him”—I hesitated for only an instant—“that Theresa Lisieux sends him her thanks.” It was necessary to give a name, and I decided to honor Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, who was always cheerful and happy to be of service no matter how menial the task. In case Wiggins was listening, this clearly indicated that my mind and heart were in the right place. I hung up.

The personnel files were in a chilly room connected to the Human Resources office on the second floor. Four rows of metal filing cabinets looked daunting. I turned on the lights, humming as I figured out the filing system. I was pleased that paper files existed. No doubt the files were also available digitally. I was no expert, but it appeared to me that current earthly residents take unseemly pride in how
everything
is online yet continue to create reams of paper that fill filing cabinets in every office.

I carried Ben Douglas's slim file to a worktable. I verified his address on Willow Street. I read swiftly. Native of Adelaide. Sixty-eight years old. Graduate of Adelaide High School. Entered the Army as a private. Stationed in Da Nang in Vietnam. Lost an arm in a firefight with the Vietcong. Returned to Adelaide. Entered Goddard College. Degree in business. Worked as an insurance claims adjustor. Widower. Retired three years ago, hired as a part-time security guard.

I was walking toward the cabinet to return the folder when a deep voice shouted, “Hands up. Security. Hands up.”

Startled, I looked around.

A burly young man with a heavy build and a slender brunette, both in Campus Security uniforms, stood just inside the door, walkie-talkies in one hand, the others near holstered guns. They stood frozen, staring at the folder suspended waist-high in the air.

“Oh my goodness.” I looked down at the folder in my hand. I, of course, wasn't visible, so the folder appeared to be stationary some four feet from the floor. I hoped Wiggins would understand that I was between the devil and the deep blue sea. I let go of the folder.

Two sets of eyes followed the green folder's plunge downward. The folder landed with a light splat, opening to let the contents escape.

“That folder. How'd it do that?” The man's voice was perhaps a bit higher in register than normal.

“I don't know.” The young woman's voice was a little uneven. “I guess some woman's in here and was holding it and somehow we didn't see her. A woman's voice said, ‘Oh my goodness.' She has to be here. Nobody went past us. Hey, Al, you look up and down the rows of cabinets. She's either hiding somewhere or she'll have to come this way.” She placed her hand on her holster. “We'll take her into custody. She's trespassing and mucking around with files. I'll be here at the door. No way she can get out.”

He nodded and moved fast, his footsteps thudding on the tile floor. It took no more than a minute, and he was back, big face creased in a frown. “Nobody there.”

“We heard a woman's voice. Right?” There was a pugnacious edge to her voice.

“Yeah.”

“Louis said a woman called from HR.” She jerked her head toward the adjoining office. “We came through the door and that folder was in the air and some woman said, ‘Oh my goodness.'”

I was mortified. I should have remembered caller ID. My jolly phone call came from a building closed and locked for the night.

“No woman in here.” He took a deep breath. “Hey, Betty, what about that folder? It was hanging in the air.”

She flicked a glance at the folder, agape on the tiled floor. “Somebody must have left the folder out. Maybe it was on top of a cabinet and something made it fall down.” She looked uneasily at the shadowy rows between the cabinets.

“Yeah.” He was hearty. “Air current or something. Everything looks all right.”

From the way his eyes darted around the room, paused at every shadowy corner, I was reminded of a favorite cartoon. A rangy black cat stared fixedly at a shadowy corner while his owner looked at him uneasily. The caption read: “I'd tell you what I see but it would scare you silly.”

The young woman raised a dark eyebrow. “Nobody here but us.”

His face squeezed in thought. “Why was the light on?”

She shrugged. “Somebody forgot it.”

He thought for a moment. “Nah. Rusty patrols by here on foot. He would've seen the light in the windows, checked it out. Besides, where's the woman who called from here?”

“Somebody was working late.”

“Louis checked the name. Nobody named Luhsoo on the staff.”

I smothered a laugh.

They both stiffened.

Honestly, what happened next wasn't my fault.

A hand gripped my arm.

Anyone would be startled. “Eeek.” I'll admit my voice rose to a squeal.

Al jumped, then swung toward her, glowering. “That's not funny, Betty.”

She glared at him. “I didn't make that noise.”

“Who the hell squeaked then? A leprechaun?” Heavy irony.

Now it was Wiggins whose sharply indrawn breath could be heard. Hell should not be lightly invoked.

Eyes wide, the security officers looked at each other, turned, ran.

The sound of their running steps faded.

“I would remonstrate.” Wiggins's normally cheerful voice was lugubrious. “Precepts One, Three, and Six. However, I made matters worse.”

I was stricken with remorse. Dear Wiggins. Always so serious, so well-meaning, so by the book. I broke into a refrain of “Look for the Silver Lining.” I loved Judy Garland's version, but my own soprano wasn't half bad. I added a little soft shoe, and the slight shushing sounds added cheer to the surroundings. I hoped. “It's nice to see young people who can move so quickly.”

A reluctant chuckle. “Did anyone ever tell you that you are irrepressible?”

“A few times.” I kept my tone modest.

Wiggins cleared his throat. “However, it appears this venture is ill-starred. I should not have sent—”

I felt a wave of panic. Did I hear the faint whistle of the Rescue Express? Was I to be yanked off the earth without achieving anything? “Wiggins”—now I was serious—“I must stay. Lorraine needs me.”

I sensed an abrupt change in his attitude. Normally confident Wiggins was embarrassed, uncertain.

“I put my own feelings before my duty to the department.” His voice was woeful. “Since there isn't any time in Heaven—”

There he went again. For some reason, the concept reassured him.

“—I thought if she stayed and brought happiness . . . well, the world needs happiness, don't you agree?”

Just for an instant I felt the weight of earth's sorrow and anger and despair. “Dear Heaven, yes.” The oppressive pressure lifted. “Of course I agree. Happiness matters.”

“I always thought so.” His tone was plaintive.

“I talked to Lorraine tonight.” Without a word from him, I knew Wiggins was listening with every fiber of his being. I smiled. “Lorraine has a lovely voice. She spoke of you.”

Lightness and happiness flowed around me in warming waves.

Oh, Wiggins, I understand.
Love knows no barriers, not time nor space nor distance nor life nor death.

“She was always kind and good.” His deep voice was soft. “She wanted love to flower whenever it could. But during the last few days, peculiar things have happened at the library, and some people—the credulous ones—are saying it must be a ghost, that the Rose Lady has turned mean. I know those with intelligence would not seriously cast blame for odd incidents on a ghost.” From his tone, you would have thought such creatures nonexistent. “But there are those who believe the moon landing was a hoax and unicorns inhabit forests. I didn't want dark deeds associated with Lorraine. I wanted to restore her good name.” A weary sigh. “But the department has to focus on truly evil acts. That was my mistake.”

“Wiggins”—I picked my words carefully—“Heaven teaches us to listen to our hearts. What does your heart tell you?”

“My heart?”

I could scarcely hear the words.

“My heart?” The tone was louder, stronger. “My heart tells me she deserves to be protected. She is the kindest, most beautiful, gentlest creature I've ever known. Lorraine was never selfish or cold or heartless. Yet that is how she will now be remembered by some because of those stories in the student newspaper. I hope she will come home to Heaven, but her spirit will be forever forlorn if she is blamed—”

Running steps sounded in the hallway.

The whistle of the Rescue Express rose in a mournful wail.

“Let me stay, Wiggins. I will prove Lorraine is innocent.” Brave words, since I had no clue what dastardly deeds were being attributed to her, but I was intent upon avoiding a swift return on the Express.

“Can you? Will you?” His voice was fading.

The scent of coal smoke lessened, disappeared. The distant clack of wheels indicated I had managed a reprieve.

A covey of security officers burst into the file room.

The rumble of the Rescue Express was scarcely audible, and then the sound was gone. I was still here. Saving a ghost's good name would be a first for me. It seemed odd that Lorraine fled from me. Perhaps I could gain her confidence when she realized I was her champion. Now I must find out what kind of troubles were being blamed on her.

The security officers had left the lights on in the HR office. As they thudded up and down among rows of filing cabinets in the adjoining room, I flipped through a campus directory, found the location of the student newspaper office, blew the officers an unseen kiss, and departed.

The Communications Department was housed in an old frame building atop the highest hill on campus. I landed in the newsroom and smiled, remembering the building's history. Built in the early 1900s, the shabby edifice called Old Ethel had originally been a boarding house, though it was well known that boarders simply came for the night and the owner was a madam named Ethel. After a raid, Ethel left town and the building was unused for years. The college purchased the boarding house and land in the 1930s. The rambling building served as a residence hall until the 1960s, when the Journalism Department took it over. The lower floor housed the
Bugle
. Efforts to change the building's name met stiff resistance from journalism students who delighted in the ramshackle house's bawdy history. The newsroom featured a mural of a buxom woman in a low-cut cardinal red gown. Reporters called her Ethel and included her in ribald exchanges.

Computer monitors glowed eerily in the darkened newsroom. I supposed the terminals required passwords. If need be I could return tomorrow, hover over a reporter's shoulder, and discover a password, but I wanted information now. I also hoped to learn about Joe Cooper, the
Bugle
editor whose actions disappointed the night watchman. I wandered to the end of the newsroom. Enough light slanted through a nearby window to illuminate worn letters on the door to a small office:
Bugle Editor
.

I turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. My eyes adjusted to dimness. Though the room was shadowy, I saw a goosenecked desk light on a desk. I started across the small room, stumbled over something lumpy on the floor, recovered my balance, and moved to the desk. Remembering the near hysteria that lighted windows appeared to evoke on the campus, I punched the button at the lamp's base and turned the flexible shaft to focus the beam on a highly untidy desk.

“What a mess.” I began to root about. Almost immediately I uncovered a desk nameplate:
Joe Cooper
. I moved papers and uncovered a stack of tabloid-sized
Bugle
s. I picked up several, moved nearer the light, and—

“Okay.” The voice was male, a male striving for bluster. “I had two drinks. That was all. Two drinks. Okay, scotch on the rocks, but I'm a big, strapping guy.”

I looked across the desk into a shadowy corner of the office. A young man in wrinkled clothes stood by a rumpled sleeping bag.

He rubbed his eyes with balled-up fists, then stared at me. “I'm a big guy. I can handle two drinks. That's why I know I didn't turn on the light. That's why I know I don't see anybody anywhere, even if I heard a woman's voice. That's why I know I'm not slopping through the stuff on my desk. It doesn't tell me why
Bugle
s are hovering above my desk. Hovering
Bugle
s has to be a figment of my imagination. I sound like an English major. But that's what it has to be, a figment.” He lunged toward the desk, big hand outstretched.