Merry, Merry Ghost (14 page)

The bear, promptly named Big Bob by Tucker, sported a Santa hat and a red muffler decorated with candy canes.

I glided past the sleeping child and patted Big Bob’s soft plush fur as I set out to make my rounds.

Gina held a book. Her irregular features were drawn in a worried frown. She stared without seeing at the printed lines.

Jake’s plump face was puckered with unhappiness. She tossed and turned, misery evident even in her sleep.

Everyone was in their place. I smothered a yawn. As soon as I checked on Susan, I would settle on the chaise longue, ready to drift into sleep, remembering the friendly welcome from a stranger at the Christmas party and Keith’s excitement as he and Leon placed the star on the tip-top of the tree. I suspected memories of the afternoon would weave happy dreams as well for Susan Flynn tonight. However, I feared that the dreams of those to whom she had spoken after dinner would not be so sweet. I would be glad when Susan had signed the new will. Until then, I could not assume Keith was safe.

I entered Susan’s bedroom. A soft golden light spread near one corner of the ceiling. I was puzzled. The chandelier was dark. The only other light came from the Tiffany lamp on the nightstand. That was a small pool of white light…

A cold hand seemed to squeeze my heart.

The light from the Tiffany lamp illuminated the still figure lying on her left side in the bed.

Forever still.

“Oh.” I spoke aloud, a soft cry filled with sadness.

Suddenly, the limp right arm jerked upward and flopped.

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Susan lived. I zoomed to the bed. I bumped into someone and stepped on something. “Oh!”

“Ouch.” Susan Flynn’s voice was sharp and vigorous. “You’re standing on my foot.”

I jumped to one side.

“You kicked me.” The cultivated voice was aggrieved. “I don’t see anyone. Where are you? What’s happening? Why am I standing here and yet there I am on the bed? What’s wrong with me?” The arm was yanked this way and that. “Wake up.” Again the arm rose and fell.

“Susan, I’m here, but you can’t see me. If I can’t see you…” My words trailed away.

Susan was struggling against death, but there was nothing she could do.

I took a shaky breath. I’d signed up at the Department of Good Intentions to return to earth to help the living.

I was, in fact, prohibited from contact with departed spirits (Precept Two). I’d dismissed that instruction from my mind. The idea that I would consort with a departed spirit was laughable.

I wasn’t laughing.

The golden glow near the ceiling shone with a compelling radiance.

“That light up there, it’s warm and beckoning.” Susan sounded farther away. The golden glow was pulling at her, urging her to come. “I must wake up. I have to take care of Keith.”

I should keep quiet, yet I felt compelled to console Susan. “Susan, I’m terribly sorry.” Was Wiggins frowning mightily in Tumbulgum? But I had to speak out. She was struggling to stay in the world, a struggle doomed to failure. I could help her realize that her time on earth was done.

Everything seemed out of order. Why did Susan have to die this night of all nights? “Susan, you’re dead.”

“Dead?” Her clear, resonant voice was stricken.

The side of the bed dipped and I knew she sat beside that still figure. A hand was lifted and held.

I reached out, found her arm. “I wish it weren’t so, I truly do. I hate for you to be dead.” That didn’t sound right. I didn’t want to discourage Susan. As soon as she let go of the world, she would find herself in a much better place, as Sydney Carton remarked so long ago.

She pulled away and scrambled to her feet. “I am
not
dead. I can see everything. I can talk and move about and I feel wonderful. Except I’m standing here”—she stamped a foot not far from the bed—“and I can’t make myself get out of bed. Besides”—her tone was reasonable as if making a rational point to herself—“I can’t be talking to someone who isn’t here.”

“I’m here.” At least I was present until orders were issued in Tumbulgum.

“Where are you? Who are you?” Her voice was thin and frightened.

For once I wished that Wiggins would arrive, gruff and irritable, fuming at my mistakes. He could tell me what to do. If I followed the rules (Precept Two), I would maintain silence, leave Susan to face eternity on her own.

I would not!

I cut my eyes around the room, quailing at my audacity. However, that bodacious thought should assure Wiggins’s arrival.

Not a sound. Not a sign.

Wiggins had always been quick to arrive when I departed from an emissary’s approved role. Of course, Tumbulgum was far distant and I supposed he couldn’t be in two places at once. Time zones and all that. He might find them confusing since there was no time in Heaven.

Whatever the reason, I faced up to a daunting truth: Wiggins wasn’t coming.

I was on my own.

I’d never felt so alone.

“I don’t understand.” Susan was frantic. The limp arm was shaken harder. “Wake up, wake up!”

I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. For good or ill, I refused to abandon Susan now. I swirled into being.

A gasp sounded.

I saw my reflection in the mirror of Susan’s dresser: flame-bright curls, hopeful freckled face, anxious green eyes. I hoped I appeared suitably subdued, a black cashmere sweater, single-strand pearl necklace, gray slacks, and black boots. Nothing flashy. Of course, redheads always look good in black, but that is simply a fact, nothing I’d taken into consideration.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Susan’s voice was frantic.

If I revealed the truth, she would be startled, but we had to deal with the facts. “I’m a ghost.” To heck with Wiggins’s preference for
emissary
. Facts are facts. “I was dispatched to keep watch over Keith. I arrived on the front porch just as Peg opened the door…” I talked fast, concluding with a description of the after-dinner gathering this evening in the living room.

There was no response.

I took a deep breath, brushed back a vagrant curl. The easy part was over, if announcing one’s arrival in a ghostly state can be considered easy. Now for the hard part. “You see”—and my voice was gentle—“you died tonight. Now it’s time for you to leave.”

“I can’t.” Yet her voice was fainter. Was she slipping away?

“You must.” I wanted to reassure her. “I’ll be here to guard Keith.”

“I don’t believe this. You aren’t here. I’m not sitting here on the bed beside me. None of this is happening.

It’s a dream.”

“You aren’t dreaming.” I spoke with finality, then rushed ahead. “Don’t be frightened. Heaven is waiting for you. You’ll be with Mitch and Ellen and Tom.”

“Oh.” Her voice was soft. “That will be wonderful.” There was longing and hope in her voice. Then, sharp and decisive, she announced, “Not yet. Not until I take care of Keith.”

A sharp pinch stung my arm. “Ouch.” I stepped farther from the bed.

“You weren’t here. Now you are.” Her voice wobbled. “I’m here, but I can’t see me, and I’m floating and on the bed—” She broke off.

“Susan, don’t be upset.” How useless bromides are when someone is caught up in intense emotion. Of course she was upset, and an unknown redhead appearing next to the bed where her body lay was surely not calming. How could I reassure her? I tried again. “Look at it this way. Dying changes everything.” In fact, I was puzzled. Clearly Susan was dead. She shouldn’t be tethered to earth. “I don’t know why you’re still here.

It’s time for you to leave.” I gestured toward the golden glow above us.

“No.” The word was abrupt and determined.

“No?” Oh dear. If ever I needed a helping hand, it was now. Where was Wiggins? Oh, of course.

Tumbulgum.

“I haven’t made provision for Keith. If I die now, he will receive nothing. There will be no one to care for him. I must take care of Keith.” She stifled a sob.

Abruptly I understood what was happening. Sometimes a spirit in great travail is bound to earth in mourning until past wrongs are righted, grievances settled. “I see.” I began to pace.

A dead hand was lifted, shaken. “Wake up!”

“Susan, there’s no going back.” I was firm.

The bed creaked as she rose. “Then how can you be here?”

We were getting into dangerous territory. “I’m here on temporary duty.” After all, I was an official emissary.

Strong fingers gripped my arm. “I’m not asking to stay long. Just long enough to take care of Keith. If you can be here, why can’t I?”

Oh. And oh. And oh. “I suppose…” I broke off. Wiggins would forever bar me from future missions. I would be regarded as the Benedict Arnold of the Department of Good Intentions.

“Is there a way?” Her grip tightened. “If there is, I beg you to tell me.” The pressure of her fingers made clear her urgency and despair and determination.

Down the hallway, a dear little boy slept cuddled next to his bear. Peg would take care of him, but he should receive his heritage and his grandmother should have peace.

I pushed away all thoughts of Precept Two and Wiggins. If this were to be my last adven-mission, I would do what I felt should be done, no matter what. “We can try.” I was in uncharted territory. “I’m not sure if it will work.” I pointed at myself. “Watch. If I decide to disappear…” My reflection in the mirror vanished. “Now, I’m going to become visible.” Once again, I swirled into being. “
Think
yourself visible.”

The pressure on my arm ceased.

“Picture yourself in an emerald green turtleneck and cream slacks and green boots.” I held my breath.

Suddenly Susan was there, staring at the mirror in astonishment. She touched her cheek. “I look young. I feel wonderful. I could dance or run. My chest doesn’t ache. Oh my.” A lovely smile curved her lips. The skin of her oval face was unwrinkled, her complexion soft as magnolia petals, her hair glossy as ebony. Decisive dark brows arched over intelligent dark eyes. Her lips were a bright coral. She was beautiful, the beauty of classic features joined with good character.

I’d not been certain Susan would be able to appear. I
was
certain that I was in big trouble. I was not only consorting with a departed spirit, I was, in effect, encouraging mutiny. I looked Heavenward and murmured,

“Only a slight detour.”

She turned and gazed at me in awe. “Who are you?”

I explained the Department of Good Intentions as well as I could. I didn’t get into the Precepts. “…and I used to live in Adelaide. I’m Bailey Ruth Raeburn.”

She laughed, a quick, gay, lilting laugh. “Oh, of course. I thought you looked familiar. I saw you this afternoon at our tree party and that’s why I thought I knew you. You were directress of the Altar Guild the year I joined. Your portrait is in the hall outside the parish hall. You were famous.”

“Famous?” Was that in my dossier at the department?

Her appealing laugh sounded again. “Definitely. Every time a new directress of the Altar Guild was installed, this mantra was passed along: Remember Bailey Ruth and Proverbs. Whenever you encountered resistance, whether over linens or candles or service assignments, you smiled and exclaimed, ‘Sweetie, you are an angel to think of that, but we all must remember Proverbs 15:18.’ Since no one wanted to admit they had no idea what Proverbs 15:18 was, you swept right on with whatever you wished to do. Oh yes, Proverbs 15:18 rules the Altar Guild to this day:
The hotheaded provoke disputes, the equable allay dissension.”

“And”—I tried not to sound smug—“if anyone looked it up, she certainly wanted to be considered equable, not hotheaded.”

We looked at each other and laughed, laughter based on mutual experience and understanding.

Susan’s laughter stopped. She was abruptly somber. She glanced at the still form on the bed and flung out a hand. “All right, I’m dead. And I’m here. What do I do now?”

“You want to make provision for Keith. Well, that’s easy. Write out a will.” I glanced toward a rolltop desk in one corner. “You’ll need paper and a pen and an envelope.”

Susan’s eyes gleamed. “Of course. That’s all I need to do. A holographic will. Keith will be taken care of.”

Susan whirled and walked briskly to the worn oak desk. She pushed up the lid and settled in the wooden chair. She found notepaper embossed with her initials and began to write, her face furrowed in thought.

Occasionally she paused, scratched out a sentence, began again. Finally, she nodded in satisfaction. She handed me the sheet. “What do you think?”

I scanned the document, one page front and back. “Clear as can be.” Susan’s first concern had been a guardian for Keith. She instructed the court to ask Peg Flynn to serve. If Peg could not do so, Jane Ramsey was named. “I’m sure Peg will want to take care of him, but it’s good to have an alternative.” The major portion of the estate was left to Keith. Susan also made specific lump-sum bequests of two hundred thousand dollars to each of the previous heirs—Jake Flynn, Peg Flynn, Gina Satterlee, Tucker Satterlee, and Harrison Hammond—and ten thousand each to the cook and yardman.

I looked at Susan with approval. “Those are generous bequests for the previous heirs.”

Susan’s expression was rueful. “I hope they agree. They thought they would share in a much greater inheritance.” Susan glanced toward the door.

I wondered if she was remembering Jake’s awkward appearance in the doorway that morning.

Susan addressed an envelope to Wade Farrell.

As she added a stamp, I held out my hand. “I’ll mail it for you.” Late at night, I should have no difficulty carrying a truly airborne letter. Or I might remain visible and enjoy a crisp winter night walk. “Is the post office still at Cherokee and Chouteau?”

“Yes. But I haven’t signed the will yet. I want my signature witnessed.” Her glance at me was cool and intelligent. “A holographic will doesn’t need a witness, but I want one.” She carefully folded the sheet, slipped it into the envelope.

I looked at her in surprise.

Her smile was quick. “Tom was a lawyer. Wills and trusts and probate.” She gestured toward the bed. “I’ll be found in the morning. I want someone to be able to say they saw the will—and me—tonight and watched me sign it. I need someone I trust, someone who knows me well.” She ran an impatient hand through her hair.