He’d had no answer to that.
Now, as I hurried through the station waiting room to his office, I could scarcely contain my excitement. I passed under the lintel with the sign marked STATION AGENT. There was no door. Heaven has no need for doors. No one is shut in. Or out.
The office was just as I remembered. From his golden oak desk positioned in the big bay window, Wiggins could look out and see the platform and shining silver tracks. He sat in his desk chair, head bent, green eyeshade hiding the upper portion of his face, finger rapidly tapping the telegraph key.
I didn’t want to interrupt. I edged inside, waited behind him. Was I ready? I’d dressed more formally than usual in a pale blue springlike tweed suit. Not a heavy tweed. Indeed, a rather ethereal tweed as befitted a vivacious though equally ethereal redhead. A rose floral pin added a softening note and rose leather sandals afforded a jaunty air. I felt a moment of unease. Too jaunty? Quickly the artificial flower and sandals changed into a matching blue. My nose wrinkled. Boring, but perhaps it would be best if Wiggins thought me a trifle boring.
I patted one of the jacket’s patch pockets. Wiggins’s telegram crinkled. In my other hand, I held a roll of parchment which contained the Precepts. Unlike my first visit to the department, I now knew the Precepts well, but I hoped bringing the parchment roll might impress Wiggins. While he was engaged, I unrolled the parchment and admired the ornate gold gothic letters:
PRECEPTS FOR EARTHLY VISITATION
Avoid public notice.
No consorting with other departed spirits.
Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.
Become visible only when absolutely essential.
Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.
Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.
Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, “Time will tell.”
Remember always that you are on the earth, not of the earth.
This time I would remember each and every Precept. This time…
“Wiggins, I’m here.” I intended to sound cool and casual, but my voice, eager, bubbly, and excited, gave me away.
Wiggins’s wooden chair swung about. He came to his feet, large face breaking into a warm smile. Shining chestnut curls poked from beneath the green eyeshade. His walrus mustache gleamed in Heaven’s golden glow. He was unmistakably of his time, high-collared white shirt stiff with starch. Arm garters between his elbows and shoulders puffed the upper sleeves. Substantial suspenders and a wide black belt held up heavy gray wool trousers. Black leather high-top shoes glistened with polish. His golden brown eyes glowed. “Bailey Ruth. Good of you to respond. I knew you would. Your intentions are always of the best.”
There was an unmistakable emphasis on intentions.
I dismissed a suspicion that he sounded like a man trying to convince himself.
“In any event”—he looked harried—“matters may soon be out of control. We are very concerned. I feel that a woman’s delicate touch is needed. And there isn’t anyone else available who knows Adelaide.”
I decided to overlook the implication that he’d scraped the bottom of the volunteer barrel.
He waved me to a seat beside his desk and settled in his chair. His face furrowed. “Before we get into the particulars, let’s discuss the Precepts. The last two times you were dispatched in such a rush, you hadn’t had time to study them. I’m sure that accounted for”—he cleared his throat—“a rather wholesale departure from the directives.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick folder. When he opened it, I recognized the untidy mass of paper that had comprised my initial report. He skimmed through it, murmuring aloud about the flying crowbar in the mausoleum, impersonation of a police officer, liberation of the tan-and-black hound…His face drew down in a frown as he reminded himself about my Christmas visit at a historic Adelaide home. “…serious breach of Precept Two…and Precepts Three and Four…” He looked discouraged. “Your efforts are well meant but”—he shook his head—“so often you don’t stop and think.”
Actually, I often did stop and think, but possibly I should not share that truth with Wiggins. I scooted to the edge of the hard wooden bench. “Wiggins, this time I will have everything under control.” I placed one hand on my heart, looked deep into his golden brown eyes, and quoted the Precepts verbatim. From memory. In the sixth grade I’d won a prize for reciting “Thanatopsis.” The Precepts were a snap in comparison. If I do say so myself, I spoke with resolution and beautifully clear diction and concluded, “Now that I am aware of my obligations, you can count on me. I shall be the most tactful, behind-the-scenes, unobtrusive emissary ever!”
A flicker of a smile touched his face. His eyes softened. “A willing heart counts for much. That’s what Heaven is all about.”
I maintained a look of selflessness or as near as I could manage, selflessness not being a customary attitude for an energetic, exuberant redhead who loves to tango, reel in a fish, or cherish a romantic moment in the moonlight.
Slowly, he nodded. “Very well.” He slapped my folder shut, reached for a slim file on his desktop. “Kay Clark intends to stir things up. That can be dangerous.” His tone was grave. “Foolhardy. She has returned to Adelaide after an absence of many years. She is still as willful and headstrong and reckless—”
I watched a flush mount in his cheeks. I’d never seen Wiggins so exercised.
“—as ever. Of course, free will complicates everything.” He looked at me doubtfully.
“Free will.” I gave him a bright smile.
He looked pained.
Possibly that wasn’t the response he’d hoped for. Quickly, I achieved an expression of thoughtful inquiry and folded my hands prayerfully. “Free will.” My tone was musing, almost rueful. I tried to imply that I spent much of my time engrossed in this fascinating topic. Actually, I’d never given free will a thought.
“Ah, well.” His tone was long-suffering. “We can only work with the materials we have at hand. But there is that complicating factor…” He flipped through sheets, muttering to himself. “Oh, my.” He shut the folder. “I’m in a quandary. Perhaps another volunteer would be a better choice.”
“Wiggins, please pick me. You know how much I love Adelaide. I can handle anything. I promise.”
Wiggins leaned back in his chair, stared at me. “Very well. Let me give you a brief history. The family circumstance is exceedingly complicated and the situation is exceedingly volatile. You’ll be spending most of your time at The Castle.”
“The Castle!” I felt a quiver of delight. The Castle was Adelaide’s showplace, built by J. J. Hume, an oil baron. Bobby Mac found oil, too, but he was a wildcatter, not a multimillionaire. The Castle, a Mission-style mansion with a series of descending terraces, sat high on Spotted Owl Ridge. The spectacular centerpiece was an active pump jack in the middle of the garden. As J. J. had told his wife, “Roses are fine, but nothing smells as sweet as fresh crude.”
I’d attended charity balls and civic functions there. Every small town has its aristocracy. In Adelaide, the Pritchards and the Humes fulfilled those roles in strikingly different fashion. The Pritchards were aloof, elegant, and the great patrons of St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church. The Humes…Suffice it to say that J. J. was a hard-drinking, rabble-rousing iconoclast, though his long-suffering wife, Millie, was a stalwart Baptist who loved her Sunday school class and spent much of her life murmuring, “J. J. didn’t mean…”