I beamed at Wiggins. “The Castle is amazing. It has a ballroom and a balcony and terraces. A terrazzo-paved avenue framed by Italian cypress leads from the lower terrace to the site where the Millie number one was drilled.” At Wiggins’s puzzled look, I smiled. “The oil well in the garden. I think J. J. had a sense of humor. Honestly, to frame a pump jack and tank battery between rows of Italian cypress!”
Wiggins continued to look bewildered. I gave him a crash course in oil terminology, explaining how when a well was completed—and the Millie No. 1 was a fabulous well, pumping three hundred barrels a day—the rig was replaced with a pump jack. The big silver tank held the recovered oil. “J. J. said a pump jack and tank battery were better than sculpture any day. Of course, every big windstorm knocked over the cypress, but J. J. had new ones planted the next day. Does The Castle still belong to the Humes?”
I had a vivid memory of J. J.’s darkly handsome grandson Everett. My daddy referred to Everett as a good-for-nothing lout. But oh, how he could dance. I had once been tempted…But that was long ago. Bobby Mac had simply picked me up from the dance floor (actually high school gym) and carried me out the door. What a guy. My attraction to the brooding Everett dissolved in the mists of memory, overwhelmed by images of Bobby Mac. Especially that wonderful summer we’d tramped through Europe…As I recalled, Everett came to no good end.
“…and so the current family included J. J. IV, known as Jack.” Suddenly I realized I’d missed a goodly portion of Wiggins’s reply.
“…and Diane, his brother’s widow, is no match for Kay Clark. Diane seems to believe everything she’s told. Not a sensible course in life. Diane lacks sophistication. She has a sweet nature.” Wiggins sighed. “It is sad that those with kindly hearts often are vulnerable to manipulation. Although I will admit that Kay’s scheme is clever. However, duplicity is reprehensible even if in a good cause.” A reproving sniff. “As for the Humes…oh well, free will.”
“Free will,” I repeated with an air of complete understanding.
“But, given all of those facts, are you willing to do your best?” His gaze was searching.
“Of course.” I didn’t want Wiggins to know I had no idea of the facts or my duties. Once I arrived, I’d quickly discern what I needed to know. Look, listen, act—that was my motto. I shot a quick glance at Wiggins. Had he picked up on my thought? It might suggest impulsiveness. “I will proceed with caution.”
Wiggins looked pleased, as well he might, since my lack of caution had always been one of his concerns.
I felt ennobled. This time I would be a model emissary. “Behind the scenes.”
Wiggins’s obvious relief was almost pitiable. “Bailey Ruth, I should have known I could count on you.” His voice was admiring. “Such a refined spirit.”
How lovely to think of myself as a refined spirit. And soon to be a traveling spirit. I was ready to go, but I didn’t want to hurry Wiggins. Perhaps he would think of me as not only boring but far above earthly temptations.
“Although an emissary such as you, endowed with both beauty and charm”—he gave me a gallant nod though his eyes were worried—“is perhaps in more danger of reverting to worldly ways. Not,” he added hastily, “that I would expect you of all people to forget Heavenly attitudes.” It would have been nice had his voice contained more assurance.
“Reversion.” I dismissed the possibility with a casual wave of pink-tipped fingers. Wiggins worried a good deal that one of his emissaries, when on the earth, would revert to earthly attitudes, that is, succumb to anger, jealousy, suspicion, or any of the other undesirable passions. That possibility was the least of my worries. Why would I revert?
“All right.” He was businesslike. “We fear for Kay Clark’s safety—”
A staccato dot dot dot sounded from the telegraph sender on his desk.
Wiggins’s eyes widened. He bent near, tapped a rapid response.
The sender’s clack clack was frenzied.
Frowning darkly, Wiggins pulled down his eyeshade, wrote with a dark-leaded pencil on a pad. The instant he finished, he pushed back his chair, gestured to me.
“You must leave immediately. An emergency. I hope you arrive in time.” He dashed to the ticket window, grabbed a white slip of cardboard, stamped it.
I took it, saw the bright red marking—ADELAIDE—and ran for the platform. The Rescue Express was thundering on the rails. I grabbed a handrail and swung aboard, eager for my journey. Over the mournful yet exuberant peal of the train whistle, I heard Wiggins shout, “Save Kay Clark if you can!”
I clung to a handrail as the express shot across the sky. I was on my way and the refrain sounded in time with the wheels.
…on my way…on my way…on my way…
CHAPTER TWO
Frogs wheezed, barked, and trumpeted in a dimly seen pond. I took a breath of pure happiness. Not that I don’t appreciate the scents of Heaven, but the rich smell of a hot summer night in Oklahoma brought glorious memories: hayrides, marshmallow roasts, and Bobby Mac’s embrace. The ever-present breeze wafted a hint of fresh-cut grass, water, and magnolia blossoms. Over everything, I delighted in the sweet fragrance of gardenias blooming in cloisonné vases that sat next to a marble bench in a small cul-de-sac facing the pond. Aromatic evergreens on either side and at the back formed the cul-de-sac. Cream-colored lighting in clear glass torches rimmed the pond. The cul-de-sac was shadowy, but not in deep gloom. The spot was well screened from the terrace though overlooked by a balcony.
In a rush of happiness, I forgot my mission for an instant. Truly, I was inattentive for a very short span of time, though we all know how life can change in a twinkling. I had no thought whatsoever about Kay Clark. I was too absorbed in the perfume of my favorite flower. The Castle’s hothouse gardenias were famous in Adelaide. In warm weather, gardenias also grew in tall vases along the terraces and on the parapets of the third-floor balcony.
I had a vague sense of surprise that I had been dispatched suddenly. Certainly everything appeared quiet and peaceful at The Castle. Lights high in rustling trees and at the top of the terrace steps shed some radiance, but the huge house lay dark and silent except for occasional dim lights on the balcony. I knew it must be late, that hour of the night when foxes prowl, coyotes howl, and cats slip through darkness unseen.
Quick steps sounded.
I watched with interest as a woman hurried toward broad steps that led down to the terrace. She neared a lamppost and was briefly illuminated. I was captivated by her haircut. Her dark locks were so perfectly messy with artfully tousled midlength bangs and layered strands razored at the ends.
I brushed back a curl and wondered if I might try that style. I admired her outfit as well, a lime green Irish linen jacket with deep square pockets and linen slacks. Her green sandals were a perfect match. She didn’t slow as she left the pool of light behind her. She crossed the dim terrace, evidently seeing well in the moonlight. The slap of her steps silenced the frogs.
I replaced my tweed suit with a white blouse and turquoise paisley cropped pants. White woven straw flats seemed a good choice for summer. Certainly I wasn’t motivated by an earthly pang of envy. Even though I wasn’t visible, I liked to be properly dressed.
She came directly to the cul-de-sac, but she didn’t sit on the bench. She frowned and turned to look toward the dark house. Hands on her hips, she was a model of impatience. The frogs resumed their boisterous chorus.