I settled into one of the easy chairs. Hmm. Not the most comfortable of resting places. I plucked a downy pillow from the bed, placed it on the seat, sank comfortably down, and unfurled the shining parchment scroll that appeared as I thought of it.
PR ECEPTS 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.”
I understood. What I knew wasn’t to be shared. Heavenly realities are confined to those in residence.
8. Remember always that you are on the earth, not . . .
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“Got it.” Oops. I’d spoken aloud. I must remember that in my present situation silence was golden, always a difficult concept for me. And, I think, for most redheads.
It was deflating to realize, as Wiggins had pointed out, that I’d already broken four of the eight Precepts. I’d do better tomorrow. I patted a Sphinx head for emphasis.
A high squeal in the hallway heralded the arrival of Bayroo and Lucinda on the second floor. I refurled the parchment and, out of mind, it disappeared. Now I could have dinner.
I thought and, presto, I was in the kitchen. Perhaps someday Wiggins would explain the dynamics to me. I moved toward the stove and felt bitter disappointment. No pot. Had Kathleen forgotten that she’d invited me to dinner? The cuckoo chimed the quarter hour.
Oh, it was almost nine o’clock. The engaging author of The Egg and I, Betty MacDonald, proclaimed that to dine at nine was divine. I was in fundamental disagreement. Seven is Heaven, but I would admit that delay had definitely enhanced my appetite.
A kitchen is a kitchen. In only a moment I had plucked the covered bowl from the refrigerator and poured a substantial portion of stew into a saucepan. It was a bit of trial and error, but I managed to turn on the stove top. Fortunately, the cornbread was still in the skillet. I cut a generous wedge, added a chunk of butter. I carried a bowl of steaming stew and a small plate with cornbread to the table.
It is more cheerful to say grace with a full table, but I nodded my head and murmured a favorite . . . “Bless this food to my use and me to your service . . .” The first spoonful was grand. Kathleen was a good cook. The stew was savory and the cornbread a twin of Kitty’s recipe. In fact, I was certain it was Kitty’s recipe, with buttermilk and a dollop of bacon grease. I enjoyed every mouthful, though my thoughts swirled uneasily.
If murder had occurred on the rectory back porch, where was Kathleen at the time? I don’t have a good head for puzzles. In school 66
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the very words thought problem made my head throb and my hands sweaty. Moreover, it was a matter of supreme indifference to me how long it took someone rowing four miles an hour to go six miles up-stream against a three-mile-an-hour current.
Unfortunately, what had happened and when and where to Daryl Murdoch was very near to being a thought problem. The examin-ing doctor said Daryl had been dead for a couple of hours. I worked backward, trying to estimate times. When I’d first arrived to find Kathleen discovering the body, it was dark and blustery from the heavy clouds, but there was a glow on the horizon from the setting sun. Kathleen and I discussed the situation and I located the wheelbarrow. That took at least fifteen minutes. I spooned a particularly delicious chunk of beef. I added another fifteen minutes to load him up and reach the mausoleum. How long had it taken for me to rout the boys and their crowbar? Five minutes, perhaps. I hadn’t remained long after they fled. Perhaps another five minutes. I arrived in the rectory kitchen at a quarter past seven. The times were approximate, but I figured that Kathleen found Daryl between six and six-thirty.
I was pleased with my calculations. Once I’d discovered what time he arrived at the rectory . . . Oh. That might be difficult. If he was shot on the porch, likely he was in the company of the murderer.
I doubted the murderer would cheerfully reveal times to me. If he was shot here—
The swinging door into the kitchen opened. As Kathleen stepped inside, she stopped, flat-footed. Her eyes widened. She executed an awkward turn to block the doorway. “Elise, I’ll see about the dishes.
Listen, there’s a special gift I think we should present to Miriam.” I listened with interest and scraped the last spoonful from my bowl. Kathleen sounded stressed. I was concerned for her. Tonight was not a good time for her to appear distraught. I would encourage her. Be of good cheer when others are near. Perhaps that could be her mantra. Everyone had had mantras in the sixties. Bobby Mac would 67
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stand at the top of the stairs and trumpet, “I am the tarpon man.” My mantra. I blushed. Perhaps that was better left to posterity.
A high sweet voice sounded puzzled. “Gift? I thought we were going to cut the cake.”
Cake? I looked around, saw a silver cake stand with a cover on the counter near the mixer. I wafted to it, lifted the lid. Burnt sugar, Kitty’s signature cake. I felt the same mixture of elation and delight I’d enjoyed as a girl when I received a new Nancy Drew. I resisted the impulse to edge just the tiniest taste of the delectable icing onto my finger.
“Upstairs.” Kathleen was gesturing wildly. “Please, Elise, go up to the sewing room. There’s—”
Silence stretched. I don’t want to claim that I am immediately empathetic. Yet I knew that poor dear Kathleen not only didn’t have a gift upstairs, but was frantically trying to think of some object for Elise to retrieve. I was at her side at once. I whispered into her ear.
“Pincushion.” The sewing room at the rectory always had a plethora of pincushions.
A jolt of electricity couldn’t have startled Kathleen more. She managed to convert a yelp into the cry, “Pincushion.” Elise stood with one hand on the doorjamb. Tall and thin, she stared at Kathleen with puzzled dark eyes. “Pincushion?”
“Yes. The red one.” Kathleen managed a smile. It was strained, but it was a smile. “It will be perfect for Miriam. I hadn’t had a chance to wrap it. There are paper and ribbons in the bottom drawer of the chest in the closet. Please wrap it. I’ll take care of the cake and coffee and you can bring it in and we’ll present it to Miriam.” Kathleen sounded frantic. Almost feverish. Perhaps I should remove my dishes from the table. It wouldn’t take a moment to wash up, put everything in order. I was surprised that a few dishes on the table upset her. There are women who must always have their kitchens in perfect order, especially when there are guests. I wouldn’t 68
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have thought Kathleen was that particular. I was at the sink when the kitchen door closed. Suddenly Kathleen was beside me. In fact, she bumped into me, recoiled, then grabbed the soup bowl, hissing,
“You‘ve got to stop doing things like this.” I relinquished the bowl. “My dear, you are under too much stress.
I was simply cleaning up—”
”What if Elise looked toward the table and saw a piece of cornbread move through the air and disappear? What if she saw the bowl and plate flying across the kitchen all by themselves?” Kathleen shot a hunted glance toward the door. “What if she comes back and hears me talking to no one?” She moved closer to the sink, automatically rinsed my dishes and silverware.