“My dear, you have such a suspicious nature. If you have any doubt about who I am, Kitty always had a cat named Spoofer. It didn’t matter whether that cat was black or white or tortoiseshell, that cat was Spoofer. I don’t know where anyone would look that up.” Kathleen swallowed, said jerkily, “Spoofer.” 43
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“The last Spoofer”—I was emphatic—“was all black except she had white whiskers and a white throat and tummy and four white paws. And she bit.”
Suddenly there was a thump. I looked on the table. A huge black cat walked majestically toward us, yellow eyes gleaming.
Kathleen waved weakly. “Get down, Spoofer.” I laughed aloud.
Kathleen didn’t join in. Instead she walked unsteadily to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sank into it.
I followed, settling on the opposite side of the table. How dear of Wiggins to send me to help Kitty’s granddaughter. I hoped I was scheduled to stay for a while. Since I was still here, there must be more for me to do. Perhaps I was expected to offer reassurance, though so far my appearance had not appeared to afford Kathleen any pleasure.
“We’re family. Now—”
The phone rang.
Kathleen popped up and grabbed the little phone. She glanced at the tiny window and smiled. She was genuinely pretty when she looked happy. She answered with a lilt. “Bill.” As she listened, the smile fled. “Sure. I know. Of course. Try to grab something to eat.” Her shoulders sagged. She walked back to the chair, dropped into it. “Sure. See you.” She clicked off the phone, set it on the table.
“Whenever.” She buried her face in her hands. Her body sagged in sad resignation.
“What’s wrong?” I would have liked to give her a hug, but I didn’t want to see her cringe.
She dropped her hands, pulled a Kleenex from her pocket, swiped away tears. “I wouldn’t cry except everything’s so awful. And I can’t even tell him—”
I scooted forward in my chair. “Who’s Bill?”
“How can you know all about Grandmother and not know who Bill is?” Her eyes glinted with suspicion.
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I took a deep breath and launched into my narrative. I tried to be cogent, though she looked bewildered about Wiggins and the Rescue Express, but finally she seemed to understand.
Huge brown eyes stared at me. “You’re a ghost.”
“Shh.” I looked warily around. Wiggins would not be pleased.
In fact, I had the strangest feeling that he was quite near, his walrus mustache quivering in indignation. That was absurd. I mustn’t get nervy. Perhaps Kathleen’s uneasiness was affecting me.
Kathleen hunched in her chair, her eyes huge. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Huh-uh.”
“I am an emissary.” That was Wiggins’s line, and I was stuck with it.
“If you’re dead and you’re here”—Kathleen thumped the table—
“you are a ghost.”
“All right, ghost it is.” I spoke soothingly. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m a ghost or emissary.” Why did I feel a sudden chill?
“The point is that I am here to rescue you from an almighty mess.” Kathleen rubbed her face with the tissue. “Mess. That’s what it is. A great big mess. Your Wiggins had it right when he said I was in dire straits. I am definitely in dire straits even if it sounds like an episode from The Perils of Pauline.” I clapped my hands. “Mama loved Pearl White. Mama said she had the most expressive eyes and great grace and style. Mama showed us pictures. I loved the hairstyles then, those soft puffy curls. Pauline was so daring. I hope I can do half as well.” Kathleen closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, shook her head. “Spoofer and The Perils of Pauline and a body on the back porch.” Her smile was strained, though she tried to be gracious. “I appreciate your good intentions, Bailey Ruth, but maybe . . .” She looked yearningly at the back door. “Maybe you can go on back to wherever you came from now. Everything will be all right now that Daryl’s gone.” She pressed fingers against her cheeks. “Except some-45
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body brought him here. That scares me. What if they know—” She broke off, her expression distraught.
I began to suspect my task wasn’t done. What could be known about Kathleen and a man whose body had been dumped on her back porch? “Know what?” I didn’t have two red-haired children to no avail. Anybody who can survive the teenage travails of two redheads can worm the truth out of anyone. I fixed a commanding eye on Kathleen.
I saw the desire to jump and run, and I saw her shoulders slump.
I doubt she quite articulated her thought, but, clearly, wherever she went, I could go and no doubt would.
She drew a ragged breath. “—about me and Daryl Murdoch at his lake cabin Wednesday. Or about Raoul. What if Daryl wrote something down? It would be just like him. I don’t care what I say, nobody will ever believe nothing happened. Bill would be so hurt. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with Raoul except it’s always the same old story.” She pointed at the phone. “Bill calls and he can’t come home for dinner. Tonight he’s at the hospital. Old Mr. Worsham is dying and he’s with the family. I understand. But if it isn’t the hospital, it’s a vestry meeting or the finance committee or a Lions Club dinner or somebody who needs counseling or . . .” Tears trickled down pale cheeks. “It’s always something for somebody and never for me. I know it’s wonderful he can be rector of such a fine old church—”
Of course. Bill was the rector of St. Mildred’s. That made everything clear.
“—but he never has a free minute. He spends more time with other people’s kids than he ever does with Bayroo—” I had to interrupt. “That’s such an interesting name. What is its origin?”
“Oh, that’s funny.” She was laughing and crying at the same time.
“Bayroo is Bailey Ruth. After you. She was born on your birthday, 46
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and when Grandmother heard she had red hair, she asked me please to name her after you. Bayroo couldn’t say Bailey Ruth when she was little, just the beginnings of both names. She’d say ‘Bai Ru,’ and we started calling her Bayroo.”
“And it stuck.” I tried not to sound too proud. No wonder I felt such empathy with Bayroo. And here was her mama, Kitty’s granddaughter, in about the direst straits possible. Obviously, I had my work cut out for me. “Bayroo looks like a happy girl.” Kathleen used both hands to wipe her cheeks. She sat up straight.
“So why am I such a mess?”
I was crisp. “Don’t take everything personally.” She flared right back. “I didn’t know ‘for better or worse’ meant always taking second place to the church. Bill’s wonderful. He’s good and kind and funny and sweet. That’s why I fell in love with him.
But he never takes time for himself and that means he never takes time for me.”
I looked at her kindly. “Which brings us, I expect, to Daryl and Raoul.” I fervently hoped there had not been a romantic entanglement with Daryl Murdoch. I remembered that Errol Flynn mustache. Surely Kathleen had better taste. As yet, I knew nothing about Raoul, though I had some suspicions.
Her mobile lips drooped. “I felt up to here”—she chopped the edge of her hand at her throat—“with the ECW and the Altar Guild and Winifred Harris, though I know she’s a nasty exception. Most of them are old dears who are as kind as can be. Sweet Mrs. Douglas keeps bringing me cherry pies. She knows I’m blue and she thinks a cherry pie solves everything. Sadie Marrs brings by the nicest clothes from her shop”—she touched her turtleneck—“in exactly my size and insists they were used in a style show so of course she can’t sell them and they are as good as new and of course they are new and she knows we don’t have a dime and she thinks pretty outfits will get Bill’s attention. Sometimes I think everybody in town knows I’m a 47