Kay broke off. Her eyes widened. “Is he back?”
I felt a wisp of whisker as Wiggins leaned close to whisper in my ear: “I must talk to you.” I obligingly bent nearer.
Kay pushed to her feet. “Do you have any idea how spooky it is to see you listening to someone who isn’t here? Look, I’ve gotten used to you. I mean, you’re here and it’s all kind of crazy, but familiarity breeds a certain relaxed feeling. So that’s okay. More than one of you makes me feel like I’m a certifiable nut.” She darted a haunted look around the room. “For all I know, there are a bunch of you. Maybe that grade school teacher who always made me stand out in the hall. Maybe that married city editor who thought he was God’s gift to single girl reporters. Maybe—”
“Kay, we’re here to help. There are only the two of us.”
She folded her arms, stood as if braced against a high wind. “Let’s go back to one of you. One. Uno. Wahid. Eins. Please.”
It wasn’t my place to instruct Wiggins, but Kay was truly distressed. “Wiggins, possibly this is a moment to remember Precept Six.”
“I wouldn’t have to alarm earthly denizens if I could ever find you by yourself.” Wiggins sounded plaintive as he swirled into being. “You’re here and there and everywhere and always with someone.” He turned toward Kay, his expression earnest. “I beg your forgiveness for my intrusion. Outstanding emissaries”—he shot me a disapproving glance—“neither appear nor”—great emphasis—“converse unseen with earthly creatures. Bailey Ruth means well.” There was a singular lack of conviction in his voice. “But she’s communicated with you and with the police chief, though at least she hasn’t appeared in his presence.” His brows beetled as he shot me a demanding glance.
I beamed at Wiggins. “Only as Francie de Sales and, of course, that doesn’t count.”
Wiggins heaved a despondent sigh and looked morose. “That is a sore point which will require further consideration on my part at the appropriate time.”
Uh-oh.
I’d been happy as a bobbing red balloon and now it was as though my energy were seeping away, along with my self-esteem. I couldn’t help noticing in the mirror the transformation of my bright, vivid, eager face with glowing green eyes and spatter of freckles and lips poised to smile into a drooping, wan, forlorn visage.
“Oh.” Wiggins tugged in dismay at his thick walrus mustache. “Now, Bailey Ruth, that isn’t to say you haven’t done good work.” His reddish face brightened. “Excellent work, in many respects. In fact, that is what brings me here. You have completed your task. Kay Clark”—he nodded at her respectfully—“is safe from harm. The proper authorities are investigating the murder of Jack Hume. Sadly, Ronald Phillips followed the wrong path, but”—and he gazed at me with approval—“you made every effort to keep him from harm. And you did so”—and here I’m afraid his voice reflected surprise—“without violating most of the Precepts.”
I wished he didn’t sound as if he found that almost incomprehensible.
“Therefore, I am relieved I am finally able to inform you that the Rescue Express is en route.”
In the distance, I heard the throaty, I’m-on-my-way, almost-there cry of an approaching train.
“Oh, no.” My cry was heartfelt. “I can’t leave now.”
Wiggins looked startled. He pulled a watch on a chain from the pocket of a vest. “The train is almost here. When an emissary’s task is successfully completed, the pickup time is set. I’ve been trying”—he sounded aggrieved—“to alert you for quite some time now.”
Another mournful whistle sounded, louder, nearer. Soon I would hear the clack of iron wheels on silver rails stretching into the sky.
“Wiggins, just as you arrived, everything became clear to me. I know what happened and only I can bring the murderer of Jack Hume and Ronald and Laverne Phillips to justice.” I spoke rapidly, laying out my reasons. “There isn’t a shred of proof. The only solution is for me to obtain fingerprints and see if there is a match. It is imperative that the fingerprints be secretly retrieved. The police can’t do that. But”—and I tried to keep pride from my voice—“I know I can succeed.” I appealed to his sense of honor. “Surely the Department of Good Intentions won’t walk away and leave a calculating murderer free.”
Kay watched with her eyes wide, lips parted.
The train whistle shrieked.
Kay clearly heard nothing.
Did I smell coal smoke?
Wiggins tipped his stationmaster cap to the back of his head. “A conundrum, to be sure.” He gazed at me in perplexity. “I fail to understand why nothing proceeds in an orderly fashion when you are involved.”
I do believe it was the first time I was ever described as a conundrum. Possibly the word was intended to be flattering?
He looked almost overcome. “Your methods, Bailey Ruth, your methods! At the very least, you plan upon breaking and entering.”
I disappeared, reappeared.
“Oh, I know. You won’t need to break inside. But still, I am uneasy.”
The thunderous roar of the express rattled the room.
“Wiggins!”
He threw up his hands. “…against my better judgment…and yet good must be served…” He began to swirl away. “The Rescue Express will be here at ten P.M. No sooner. And,” he announced, “no later.”
I picked up a half-empty Coke can from a side table in the den. I didn’t worry about leaving fingerprints. That wasn’t a problem when I was invisible.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
My heart lurched. The can hung in the air. Swiftly, I flowed behind a sofa. The footsteps continued past the doorway and I heard the distant slam of a door. Still, I was careful. I slithered along the floor to the hall and on to the kitchen. As I poured the soda into the sink, the soft gurgle sounded in my ears as loud as Niagara.
I now faced the difficult challenge of transporting the can safely without blemish to the police station. I would likely have to appear at one point or another since a can of Coke wafting through the air, brilliantly visible against a bright blue sky, might provoke unfortunate attention.
I needed a plastic bag. When I appeared, I wanted to be sure I didn’t add my fingerprints or muss those on the can. I opened a cabinet and the hinges squeaked. The kitchen door opened.
Just in time, I placed the Coke behind a trash can.
The footsteps didn’t pause, though I scarcely heard them over the thud of my heart. When the room was empty, I opened other cabinets and on the fourth try found a container of gallon-size plastic bags. I unzipped a bag and dropped in the can. I opened the back door and stepped outside. I swooped as fast as possible to take cover within the dangling fronds of a willow.
I appeared and with one hurried glance over my shoulder walked fast. As soon as I was out of sight of the house, I waited until a pickup truck rattled past. I disappeared and joined a large German shepherd intelligently riding on a folded moving pad on the hot aluminum flatbed. I scratched behind his ears and rode until we reached downtown. A block from the police station, I zoomed up thirty feet. I hoped no eagle-eyed passersby would note the traveling can in the plastic bag. I reached the station without any startled cries from below.
I knew from past experience—I had a fleeting memory of a chilly October night and a rope ladder—that Chief Cobb’s office windows opened and closed, unlike some in more modern buildings. I pressed against the window shaded by a cottonwood.
Chief Cobb sat at his battered oak desk, his back to the windows. He was in his shirtsleeves, his suit jacket hanging from a coat tree.