GHOST
AT W RK
A Ba il ey Ru t h Myst e ry
Carolyn Hart
To Phil—“Side by Side” has been our song since that sunny summer of 1957
Contents
Chapter 1
Incandescent dashes of pink and gold spangled the fluffy white…
1
Chapter 2
Brrr. I hadn’t been cold in a long time. A…
14
Chapter 3
The wheelbarrow squealed as Kathleen jolted to a stop.
29
Chapter 4
A cuckoo clock warbled the quarter hour. No wonder I…
39
Chapter 5
I sat on the branch of a cottonwood and watched…
53
Chapter 6
I lightly touched the meshed grille as the police cruiser…
79
Chapter 7
I drifted deliciously between sleeping and waking, luxuriating in the… 90
Chapter 8
I knelt by the chimney on the rectory roof and…
101
Chapter 9
Judith Murdoch fingered the faux pearls at the neck of…
123
Chapter 10
If possible, Kathleen looked even more stricken. “You’re going to…
146
Chapter 11
Partitions separated six cubicles. Each held a computer. Voices rose… 164
Chapter 12
I popped to the rectory. A lamp shone in the…
181
Chapter 13
I tried to be quiet as a mouse.” Bayroo sat…
197
Chapter 14
Father Bill picked up a small Dresden shepherd, but his…
211
Chapter 15
The chief sat at a circular table near his desk.
226
Chapter 16
Chief Cobb gestured up the hallway. “Let’s find her. I’ll…
243
Chapter 17
Cries and shouts rose. “Jan, where are you?” “Wait for…
259
Chapter 18
My eyes adjusted to the almost impenetrable darkness. Slowly shapes… 272
Chapter 19
The Rescue Express thundered into the familiar red-brick station. I…
287
About the Author
Other Books by Carolyn Hart
Credits
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
C H A P T E R 1
Incandescent dashes of pink and gold spangled the fluffy white clouds that arched over the entrance to the Department of Good Intentions. The opening was wide and welcoming. Heaven doesn’t run to doors. No one is shut in. Or shut out.
If I entered, I was committing myself to an unknown adventure.
Possibly. Or possibly not. Perhaps I wouldn’t be considered a worthy candidate. My natural effervescence immediately bubbled, banishing that negative thought. Of course I was a worthy candidate. I love to go and do and hold out a helping hand. I was a superb candidate.
I hurried forward even though I didn’t know what to expect.
Unctuous solemnity? Goody Two-shoes stuffiness? Earnest exhortations? That hadn’t been my experience of Heaven. Surely the Department of Good Intentions was filled with kindred spirits eager to offer a boost up to those in need.
A wash of golden light spilled out, beckoning, encouraging, welcoming. I was drawn by the warmth, yet wary of the unknown. I had felt the same conflict of anticipation and reluctance when I was a kid at the swimming hole a few miles outside of Adelaide. I remembered the dammed-up pool with shivery delight, the water deep and Ca ro ly n H a rt
cold, shaded by majestic oaks. We clambered up the rope ladder to the top of a huge red rock, teetered on the sloping surface, scared yet eager, and took a flying leap. That plunge through air was as near to weightlessness as I ever knew. Until now, of course. The first jump was always the hardest. The shock of the icy water took your breath, turned your skin cold as ice. The thrill was worth the scare.
Could I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma, take the plunge now? Certainly, if I ever, within an eon or two, intended to offer my services, it was time and time past. Time and age do not exist in Heaven, but I had the sense that Bobby Mac and I had been here quite awhile. Our cabin cruiser went down in a sudden August storm in the Gulf of Mexico. I expected much had changed since we departed the earth. If I hoped to be helpful, possibly I should volunteer while I still had some memory of earthly ways.
Our arrival here had been precipitous, but, as Scripture warns, the householder knows not the appointed hour. Dark clouds had scud-ded toward us. Blinding rain pelted our struggling boat. Thunder crashed, lightning blazed. Serendipity, our small but sturdy cabin cruiser, capsized beneath a thirty-foot wave. I’d chosen our cruiser’s name. I always felt that I was in the right place at the right time, even then. Now, that’s a funny thing. I’d come close to being lost at sea when I was seven. I’d been visiting my California cousins and we’d taken the excursion boat to Catalina. Ever a daredevil, I’d scooted behind a lifeboat and hung over the edge. I lost my balance and tumbled overboard. Happily for me, a brawny seaman saw me fall and raced to the railing and climbed to the top to jump after me. I’d flailed to the surface, choked and stunned. The excursion boat faded in the distance. Happily, perhaps fatefully, the sailor kept me afloat, and not long after a sailboat ran near enough to find us. I doubt I would have survived on my own.
Maybe it was full circle that Bobby Mac and I were lost at sea. Of course, our daughter, Dil, was furious with her dad and even more 2
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furious with me for tagging along. There had been warnings of a coming storm, but Bobby Mac had lost a big tarpon the day before and he was determined to go after him again. That man was what they call a fishing fool. Still is, and he’s thrilled that the tarpon have never been bigger than here in Heaven. Dear Bobby Mac, built like a bull rider with coal-black hair, flashing dark eyes, and a rollicking grin. I smiled, grateful for love that had spanned our years together and flourished still. We two were as youthful in Heaven as on the day we’d met at Adelaide’s famous rodeo, Bobby Mac dust-streaked and swaggering after his event, but blessed as well in Heaven with the glorious depth of all we’d known and shared together, happiness, passion, sorrow, tears, and, always, laughter.
From my watery adventure off the coast of California to the Serendipity’s demise in the Gulf of Mexico, I was convinced I’d led a charmed life, thanks to the brave sailor on the excursion boat. Now I wanted to do my bit for someone in trouble. As I understood it, the Department of Good Intentions specialized in lending a hand to those in tight spots.
I strode under the arch of clouds, as much as an ethereal figure who isn’t terribly tall can stride. I’m not small, but then again I’m not large. Five foot five on a good day in slingback pumps. I glimpsed my reflection in a shining crystal wall, curly red hair, a skinny face with curious green eyes, lots of freckles. I remembered a Polaroid picture Bobby Mac had taken when I was twenty-seven at a church picnic.
That’s how I looked now! Heaven is full of wonderful surprises and perhaps one of the sweetest was knowing that others see me always at my best, my brightest, my happiest. Age doesn’t matter. There is no old, no young. The dear children who left the earth too soon are what they were meant to be in full flower and the aged who are worn and bent and frail at death once again blossom. It was such a thrill for me to see Mama in a flapper’s dress with a little tilted red hat and a glittery beaded dress and high heels, her beautiful face shining with 3
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love. In Heaven, your essence determines your appearance. You are the best you ever were and yet nothing is lost of your lifetime.
My image was crisp in the glittering crystal. I must admit I paused for an instant to admire—certainly not in a prideful manner because we all know what pride goeth before—my charming seersucker jacket and slacks and comfortable white sandals. Heaven is simply heaven-sent for fashion. Picture what you want to wear and you are wearing it. It’s that easy and never a concern about sizes. We are all a very good size, whatever it is.