Harry thought long and hard. If Jake and his family could defeat MacLaren, and save a lost cause like Harry, imagine what they could do with a little help from the Federal Bureau of Investigation…
He made an appointment to discuss the matter with Mr. Roundtree. He had a feeling that after hearing what they could do, these Fangborn would suit his boss down to the ground.
Riding High by Carolyn Hart
I hovered above my beloved hometown of Adelaide, Oklahoma, enjoying a late summer evening and the sparkle of lights on the terrace of the country club. Women in summer frocks and men in dressy sportswear mingled at a party. I wished I could plunge down and have a glass of wine and some Brie and crackers, and chat up that good-looking young man illustrating his golf swing.
Hovering? It’s easy for me. No, I don’t have a personalized jet pack. The reality is both less and more startling.
I’m Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, a green-eyed, freckle-faced redhead, who loves laughter, good times, gorgeous clothes, and adventure.
You did note the modifying late? In short, I am a ghost.
Shh. That’s just between us. My supervisor at the Department of Good Intentions refuses to describe those temporarily on Earth as ghosts. Wiggins is vehement that we are Heavenly agents assisting those in trouble. In his view, ghosts have quite a shady reputation on Earth. You know, clanking chains, pulsating protoplasm, dank drafts even when all the windows are closed.
Ghost or emissary, I loved coming back to Earth to be of help. I should perhaps be frank-I’m known for frankness, too-and admit I’d had a few challenges attempting to become one of Wiggins’s regulars. Wiggins is a dear fellow but set in his ways. On Earth, he’d been a stationmaster. Since his idea of Heaven was a well-run train station, the Department of Good Intentions resided in just such a station, and emissaries were dispatched to earth on the glorious coal-burning Rescue Express, charged with providing a helping hand but-great emphasis here-circumspectly. Wiggins impressed upon all emissaries the necessity of observing the Department’s Precepts for Earthly Visitation:
1. Avoid public notice.
2. No consorting with other departed spirits.
3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.
4. Become visible only when absolutely essential.
5. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.
6. Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.
7. Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, “Time will tell.”
8. Remember always that you are on the Earth, not of the Earth.
I suppose that all seems simple to you. Certainly the strictures are straightforward. I cannot say emphatically enough how great an effort I have always made to observe these rules.
However, I am chagrined to reveal that on previous earthly visits I careened from one contravention of the Precepts to another.
Not this time.
I would put that in capital letters (NOT THIS TIME!) except I don’t want to appear proud. Pride is not becoming to a Heavenly emissary. Boasting would indicate that I was too much of the Earth. Please don’t take umbrage. We all know that earthly creatures exhibit pride, greed, avarice, anger, and all manner of unworthy behavior.
So, of course, I am not proud.
I FOLLOWED THE RULES THIS TIME.
Oh. Quickly. Make that lower case.
However, I feel I am entitled to admit to pleasure. This time I didn’t break a single Precept. Not one. I came to Earth, assisted my charge, and was now awaiting the arrival of the Rescue Express for my return to Heaven. Admittedly, my path had been smoothed by Ogden, a rail-thin seventeen-year-old with a shock of black hair, thick glasses, and an affinity for electronic gadgets. We’d saved his father from a false accusation of embezzlement, and I hadn’t had to appear once. Ogden, with assistance from me, had traced the peculations to a squinty-eyed accountant with a penchant for ponies. Of course, Ogden was unaware of my participation. His electronic sophistication made it easy to use a false identity to send him txt msgs that exposed the thief.
I’d learned more than I ever wanted to know about the new electronic world from Ogden, all about a computer pen that turned handwriting into a computer file, a card that wirelessly downloaded photos from his digital camera, and even a robotic pet-Willie-who talked and responded to Ogden’s mood. In the trap I helped him set, he’d filmed the entire matter on a small video camera with sound. That had been my suggestion, txtd of course. I’d first become familiar with the cameras through my association with the Adelaide Police Department. I quite missed not having appeared this time as Officer M. Loy (a tribute to famed film star Myrna Loy, the better of half of Nick and Nora with William Powell). All uniformed officers carried such cameras. A picture with words is worth its weight in gold in a courtroom. All in all, my mission had been a resounding success.
Thanks to Ogden, my good behavior should convince Wiggins to remove me from probationary status.
“Yee-hah.”
Upturned faces from the revelers on the terrace brought home to me that I had shouted aloud. Oh dear, a clear violation of Precept One.
However, libations were flowing and, after that short, startled pause, voices lifted again in intense conversation, punctuated by occasional guffaws.
No harm done.
The Rescue Express would be here soon, and I would report my outstanding conduct to Wiggins. Yet I felt restless and vaguely dissatisfied. I’d succeeded with my mission, but I’d never really felt I’d been here, hands on.
Because, of course, I hadn’t.
I’d not appeared in person. I hadn’t swirled into being, donning lovely clothes simply for the sheer delight of them. I hadn’t talked to anyone. I’d never had a chance to pop here and there. No car chases. No confrontations. No challenges.
To be quite honest (always a desirable intent for emissaries), this perfect mission had been bor-ing.
BOR-ing.
Without volition-I assure you I didn’t deliberately flaunt Precept One again-I groaned aloud. “I’d been BOOMS.”
Fortunately the sound of my voice was lost in a rattle of castanets. Still, what I had spoken aloud appalled me. Was I succumbing to the assault of txt msgs on the English language?
What a dreadful prospect for a former English teacher. Obviously, the solution was to clear out the electronic cobwebs, immerse myself in the real world as opposed to the virtual reality that reminded me of Plato’s shadows on the wall.
Truth to tell, I’m a gregarious sort. I like for things to be lively. My husband Bobby Mac (the late Robert McNeil Raeburn) said I added more fizz than champagne to any occasion. Believe me, Bobby Mac and I on Earth had fizzed as brightly as July Fourth sparklers. In Heaven… Oh yes. Precept Seven. I will only say you have much to look forward to.
I swooped nearer the terrace. The party was bright with a Latin theme, serapes for tablecloths, the terrace bordered by luminarias, colorful maracas for party favors, and, of course, the best in Latin music. What harm would it do if I joined the revelers? I deserved a little recreation.
I landed behind a potted palm and swirled into being in a floral tunic and skirt, red plumeria vibrant against a black background. I chose slingback sandals until I spotted a cunning pair of black crocheted shoes and switched.
In no time at all, I was dancing a samba with the attractive fellow whose pink nose indicated too much golf under a July Oklahoma sun. “… and my lie was right at the edge of the sand trap…”
I made admiring murmurs and thrilled to the music. I soon realized many of the guests were from out of town, present for a members-guest golf tournament. That eased my concern about a hostess wondering who in the world I might be. I was soon in demand as a partner. I will confess that I dance rather well. (Stating an accurate observation in no way indicates pride.) I sambaed, rhumbaed, tangoed, and cha-chaed.