Ghost Wanted (4 page)

I zoomed up. Now the papers and I were near the ceiling.

Joe Cooper was a little over six feet tall, husky. His dark hair was mussed, he needed a shave, he had a nose that probably got busted in a football game, his gray sweatshirt had a hole in one sleeve, his Levi's were pale with age, his sneakers grimy and worn. But he looked smart, tough, and utterly determined to grab the papers.

He stumbled into the desk, looked up, clamped his hands to his temples. “Nightmare. I'm having a nightmare. Hovering
Bugle
s. I've been working too hard. I'll go back to my beddy-bye. Such as it is. No wonder I'm having bad dreams. I get stood up last night, tonight my roomie boots me so he can woo his girl, I sack out on my bedroll in the corner of my office and think lousy thoughts about a girl with big dark eyes who acted happy as a mouse in a cheese barrel when I ask her to meet me, maybe get a scoop on gossip at the library, but she never shows.” He stood big as a fullback, shoulders hunched, and glared up at the papers. “I'm stupid to still be thinking about her. Hell, Wednesday night's history. She's history. Why should I be mooning around about her tonight?”

He stood between me and the door to the newsroom. If I swooped down to leave, he would grab the papers and probably, from the sound of his voice, crumple them in those big hands.

I was beginning to agree with Wiggins. Maybe this was an ill-starred venture. Immediately, I was stern with myself. That was a defeatist attitude. I was Bailey Ruth Raeburn and I could manage. I would manage.

Joe folded one big hand, gave himself a light punch in the jaw. “Ouch. Okay, I'm awake. Fact is fact. The papers are up there. Come on down, papers.” His tone was coaxing. “Come down from the ceiling. This will be a little secret between you and me. Trust me, Ethel, I'll never tell anybody the
Bugle
levitates. You know what? I'll never make fun of anybody who claims Ethel made them do it. Never again.”

I laughed. My son, Rob, majored in journalism and now has his own public relations firm. I remembered the insouciance and caustic humor of his friends, who would have delighted in citing Ethel as the source of any mishaps, major or minor.

The big guy stiffened. I might even say he looked haunted.

“Sorry, Joe.” I truly was contrite.

His bony face squeezed in concentration.

“I'm not laughing at you. But no one's ever accused me of being a madam.”

He looked up. He looked down. He looked left. He looked right. He whirled, peered through the door at the dark newsroom. “Okay, smart-ass. I've heard about ventriloquists. Come on out, wherever you are.”

I eased toward the door. Maybe if I moved really fast.

His head whipped around. Perhaps he saw the movement of the papers in his peripheral vision.

I rose higher, papers firmly in hand.

He watched the papers with a peculiar expression. He blinked four times. “They're up there. They can't be up there. This is crazy. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I need to think things through. I'll work for a while, finish that feature about the dig on the Mackenzie ranch. Interesting. If you like bones. I got a feeling in my bones that something will break tomorrow on the funny business at the library. Maybe there'll be a body in the library. That'd top today's big news. The
Bugle
will be out right on schedule at two p.m. tomorrow. Even without a body, I'll have a lead story with an update on the investigation. Tomorrow is Friday. Yeah, I got everything straight—except for the papers up by the ceiling.”

This was one of those moments that Wiggins simply hasn't encountered. It was time to invoke Precept Six: “Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.” Even if I could evade Joe's outstretched hands and escape with the
Bugle
s, I shouldn't leave him bewildered and uneasy. I landed behind his desk and swirled into being. I hoped I appeared nonthreatening in a varicolored turtleneck, gray slacks, and gray alligator flats. The socks were in multicolored stripes for a gay note.

He took a deep breath. “Were you crouched behind the desk? Who the hell are you? How'd you make those papers stay up by the ceiling?” He slowly approached the desk, stepped into a circle of light.

I liked his face, long and bony with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, that crooked nose, and a strong chin. He looked intelligent, abrasive, and alert despite uncombed thick curly black hair, eyes still blinking away sleep, and beard-stubbled cheeks.

“Ethel made me do it.” I couldn't resist.

He looked startled, then he laughed. “Okay. Let's start over. I'm Joe Cooper.” He held out a blunt-fingered hand.

I was wary, ready to dissolve and swoop away with my prizes, but I grasped his hand and we shook. “Theresa Lisieux.” I anglicized Saint Thérèse's baptismal name. “I'm a visitor to Adelaide.”

He made a gentlemanly gesture with his hand toward the ratty chair behind the desk. “Sit down and tell me about it.”

I gave him what I hoped was a beguiling smile. “You're trained to ask questions and get the whole story. It will be easier on both of us if I keep it brief. I had no intention of causing you any distress tonight. My sole objective was to get copies of this week's
Bugle
. If I recall, the newspaper is free to students and visitors?”

He nodded.

“In that case, perhaps we can wish each other well, and I'll take the papers and go.”

He folded his arms. “You got one thing right: I ask questions. Why didn't you drop by and ask for copies in the daytime?”

“I needed them tonight.” This was going to be difficult. I tried for another smile, but his stare remained demanding. “I need to know about the odd episodes at the library.”

“You got a big bet riding on the answers? I can give it to you quick: A resident spook has turned nasty. What's it to you?”

He spoke so derisively of spooks. . . .

This conversation wasn't productive. I had to distract him and make my escape. “That's very—” I broke off, widened my eyes, came to my feet. “Oh, there's someone out there.”

He turned, yanked open the door, and charged into the newsroom. Lights flickered on, illuminating the area.

I disappeared.
Bugle
s in hand, I zoomed out of his office and sped across the newsroom near the ceiling.

Joe looked up and stopped, staring with an expression of utter shock.

I came down for an instant to open the door into the hall, heard his thudding feet. Encumbered by the
Bugle
s, I couldn't simply think where I wanted to go and be there immediately. The physical world can be rather constraining. I didn't want to struggle with the front door. Joe could easily reach me before I managed to open the door. I flowed up the staircase. Though it was dark, I saw the pale oblong of windows at the hall's end. At the windows, I moved quickly to unloose a latch. The window moved grudgingly, but it moved. I pushed it up, thankful for an old building with sash windows, and the
Bugle
s and I were off into the night. Joe Cooper would be bewildered when he found no one upstairs. He might be puzzled by the open window but would assume someone had left it open earlier. I tried not to think about his feelings in regard to airborne
Bugle
s. Perhaps he would decide he'd had a bad dream and avoid two drinks before bedtime in the future.

Now for a spot where I could read in peace and not disturb the occupants. I saw a glimmer of distant lights through the woods. Of course! I should easily be able to settle into an empty cranny at Lorraine Marlow's old home.

Rose Bower was a showplace of Adelaide, a forty-room limestone mansion fashioned after the great houses of England in the mid-1700s. The estate was on the other side of woods that bordered Goddard College. Rose Bower included fifty acres of woodlands and extensive formal gardens. The great iron gates were closed and locked. Occasional lampposts scarcely penetrated the darkness. A large circular window with stained glass glowed above the arched entrance. How appropriate. Such windows in Gothic architecture are called rose windows.

After a quick look about, I placed my prized handful of
Bugle
s on the sill of a window to the right of the entrance. Once inside, I moved to the window. It was hermetically sealed and wouldn't budge.

Hoping the main door wasn't rigged with an alarm, I drew back the bolt and, after a quick breath, yanked it. The silence remained unbroken, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I stepped out, scooped up the
Bugle
s, and hurried inside. I locked the door.

A golden light from a hanging lamp illuminated stairs that curved from the entry lobby to the second floor. The lower floor was used for entertaining. The upstairs bedrooms were available for important university guests. The second-floor hall was illuminated with wall sconces. Each bedroom door contained a nameplate:
Red Room
,
Scholar's Room
,
Retreat Room 
. . . Oh, I liked that one. I put the
Bugle
s on the hall floor, wafted inside, flicked on the light.

I don't know who had the greater shock, me upon perceiving the sturdy lump beneath the bedspread or the occupant who moved uneasily then came bolt upright, staring up at the chandelier.

I turned off the light, regained the hall, and grabbed the
Bugle
s. I zoomed to the ceiling.

The door opened and light spilled into the corridor. A barefoot man in his fifties with a tangled mop of hair peered up and down the hall. Finally, he shrugged, gave a hitch to baggy tartan boxers, and turned into the room. Hopefully he was a visiting poet and would decide crossed wires accounted for the light.

The huge house remained utterly quiet. I didn't have a sense that Rose Bower was packed with guests, but obviously I had to be careful. Rather than blip into more rooms, I decided to depend upon instinct. I firmly believe the inner me is lucky.

I crossed the main hallway and peered at a nameplate:
Master Suite, Mr. and Mrs. Marlow
. A red-velvet swag hung between gold stanchions that stood on either side of the door, marking the suite off-limits. Certainly this wouldn't be occupied. I put the
Bugle
s right outside the door and flowed inside. It took only an instant to turn on the light, open the door, grab the papers, and shut the door.

Matching wing chairs faced a fireplace with incised wood carving and stucco relief that included matching Grecian urns and a garland of roses. Fluted Corinthian pillars framed another portrait of Lorraine, golden hair upswept, classic features in repose. Her loveliness had a remote quality. There was an aura of stateliness and dignity. Was there a hint of sadness in her gaze? A triple-strand pearl necklace matched the ivory of an elegant off-shoulder gown. Facing each other atop the mantel were two quite perfect Staffordshire figurines of dalmatians. I remembered now that two life-size marble dalmatians sat on either side of the drive.

A mahogany four-poster bed was on the far side of the spacious room. Lace flounces hung from the canopy and sides, curtaining the interior. The bed looked small compared to beds at the bed-and-breakfast where I'd stayed when last in Adelaide. The suite was large with a Victorian sofa, several Queen Anne–style chairs in a cream fabric with a vivid rose pattern, two mahogany chests, a dressing table, and a petit point–upholstered stool next to a harp. Whitmani ferns flourished in two blue ceramic vases. I supposed the staff kept ferns in the suite because Lorraine Marlow enjoyed ferns when she was alive.

I turned on a Tiffany lamp on the dressing table. The shade was gorgeous, with a gold and green pattern. I admired cut-glass perfume bottles that glittered like diamonds in the light. A hairbrush and hand mirror with ornate silver handles lay next to a pair of white gloves that looked as if they had been dropped there for only a moment. A hand-painted china tray continued the rose motif with huge blooms of many hues. The tray contained a china thimble, a book of Emily Dickinson poetry, and ticket stubs.

It was as if Lorraine Marlow had walked out of the room a short while ago and would soon return. Apparently Charles Marlow had kept his wife's personal items in place and nothing had been disturbed since her death. I picked up a crystal perfume bottle, lifted the stopper, and sniffed. Shalimar by Guerlain . . . Not that I ever used such expensive perfume, but on a visit to New York Bobby Mac and I had dropped into an exclusive perfume shop, and the scent was unforgettable.

I dabbed a bit behind each ear, gave a yawn, sniffed again before I stoppered the bottle. What a gala week Bobby Mac and I spent. We'd stayed at the Waldorf. I remembered the radiance of tulips when we'd walked hand in hand through Central Park. I smiled and swirled into being. On earth, I enjoy being
on
earth. The room was chilly enough that I chose a pink flannel nightgown. I put the
Bugle
s on the dressing table, looked into the mirror, and picked up the hairbrush. My curls were—

“Where did you come from?” Lorraine's light high voice inquired politely.

I dropped the hairbrush as though it were electrified.

“I knew you were here when the light came on and in a moment my perfume bottle rose in the air. It's a nice scent, isn't it?” The cultivated voice was quite pleasant.

I turned and looked toward the bed. The lace panels had been pulled back, revealing a folded-back sheet and coverlet though Lorraine wasn't visible. Obviously she had retired for the night. I'd made myself at home without a thought for her whereabouts. My face felt hot. She was, as Wiggins said, too gentle to censure me for intruding into her boudoir and pawing over her dressing table. I reached down to retrieve the brush and placed it on the dressing table.

“I don't mean to be inquisitive but tonight on the landing, when you spoke of Paul, I understood you are a spirit, just as I am. Yet now you are here. I see you.” A pause, then, admiringly, “You have quite lovely red hair. But please, how can you be here?” The high voice was amazed.