I didn’t dwell on his qualifying phrase. Christmas spirit I could supply in plenty.
His face was grave when he faced me. “This situation”—he tapped the folder—“is murky. Your previous task was clear-cut: a lovely damsel visited with a body on her back porch. Of course, I didn’t expect the action you took…” Some of his enthusiasm seemed to drain away. He gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know if the department should take a chance again. But”—hope lifted his voice—“possibly in this instance nothing will be required of you except calm overseeing.” He nodded decisively and repeated with vigor, “Calm overseeing,” as if I might have trouble hearing.
I decided not to be offended.
“On balance, you might be perfect for this visit. You love Christmas and you have a youthful heart. I was especially touched that you spun stories for Dil and Rob about Santa’s workshop and who might need a particular toy. You helped them feel the spirit of giving. Whatever happens, you can beam love on a dear little boy, an orphan whose future is uncertain.” Wiggins’s tone fell to a puzzled mutter. “Surely Keith’s protector has the best of intentions. She is kind and caring.” He pulled a map close, marked a path in red, muttered, “Adelaide obviously is her goal. However, no contact has been made at the house.”
“The house?” I figuratively rolled up my sleeves. This time around Wiggins could give me the background, prepare me for my task. I pushed away the uneasy sense that no matter how prepared I might have been on my previous mission, I would have been tempted to flout the Precepts if I felt the need. This time, however, I would be on my best behavior.
For starters, I would avoid appearing. The rich swirl of colors that preceded my transformation from spirit to earthbound creature had an unfortunate effect on viewers.
I would remember that carrying discrete objects while not in the flesh was equally unnerving to them.
I would be particularly careful not to speak aloud when I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t concerned about the Precept prohibiting consorting with another departed spirit. Whatever my mission, it couldn’t possibly involve a departed spirit. It would be easy to observe this stricture.
However, I felt a qualm. Other of the Precepts could easily pose a challenge. The life of a spirit is fraught with opportunities to transgress—however unintentionally—the Precepts.
I came back to the moment—perhaps I did have a penchant for Zen—to realize that Wiggins had been discoursing.
“…though the decorations are up, and I will admit they are spectacular, the heart of Christmas left Pritchard House when Susan Flynn received word of her son’s death. So much sadness.”
“Pritchard House?” I pictured a grand home high on Chickasaw Ridge. Only one house in Adelaide was redbrick with two huge bay windows on the first floor, half timbered and stuccoed and balconied in English Tudor with Gothic accents on the second story.
Wiggins tapped my folder. “I assume you know the Pritchards.”
“Everyone in Adelaide knows the Pritchards.” Growing up in Adelaide, I could count on these verities: My family loved me, the sun rose in the east, St. Mildred’s Episcopal Church was our spiritual home, the wind blew mostly from the south, and two families served as Adelaide’s small-town aristocracy, the Pritchards and the Humes.
Paul Pritchard, cool-eyed and remote, came west from Boston in 1912 to establish Adelaide’s first bank. The Pritchards were formal, reserved, elegant, and supportive of the community, often hosting charity teas in their Chickasaw Ridge home. The Humes—ah well—the Humes were another story altogether, boisterous, sensation seeking, sometimes scandalous. Their drink of choice had a bit more punch than tea.
“The Pritchards did everything perfectly.”
Wiggins slowly shook his head. “Dear Bailey Ruth, don’t be blinded by worldly success and social position.”
I flicked the fluffy ball on the tail of my Santa hat over my shoulder. Woe be to me if Wiggins decided I was naïve. I added hastily, “In their support of St. Mildred’s.” Paul and his wife Jane had been founding members of St. Mildred’s, and subsequent generations continued generous financial support to the church. “Hannah and Maurice Pritchard furnished the money for the chapel and cloister.” I’d been in awe of Hannah on earth, but here in Heaven she was in one of my book clubs and I thoroughly enjoyed her gentle wit.
Wiggins’s smile was avuncular. “How appropriate that your first thought would be of St. Mildred’s. I commend you.”
My face flamed. That is a redhead’s hazard, scarlet cheeks when attempting a fib.
Fortunately Wiggins was looking at his folders. Again he appeared uneasy. “It’s worrisome that I am not certain of Keith’s arrival at Pritchard House. Yet I see no other purpose for the trip. The car appears to be en route to Adelaide. In any event, time is fleeting for Susan.”
I blinked in surprise.
Wiggins is perceptive. “In the natural order, we know when to expect new arrivals. Susan suffers from congestive heart failure but she isn’t due here until June 15. Yet”—his brow furrowed—“I am definitely worried. Call it a hunch.” His tone suggested the word was not one he commonly used. Possibly hunch wasn’t au courant until much after Wiggins’s time on earth. Could he have picked it up from an emissary? Indeed, he looked embarrassed at his suggestion and said defensively, “I’ve been doing this over the course of many years as understood in earthly time—”
Time does not exist in Heaven, but I am no more able to explain this verity than to expound on Zen.
“—and sometimes I have a feeling of impending danger, almost as if a darkening cloud is blotting out the sun. That’s why I think—”
A frantic clack clack clack, sharp as Rudolph’s hooves on a Mission-style roof, erupted from the telegraph sounder on Wiggins’s desk.
Wiggins quickly removed his stiff cap, clamped on a green eyeshade, and grabbed a sheet. He wrote furiously, murmuring, “Oh dear, what can this mean? Steps must be taken!”
The clacking reached a peak, abruptly subsided.
Wiggins tapped a response and came to his feet, all in one hurried motion. He gestured to me as he grabbed a bright red ticket from a slotted rack. “No time to stamp. Red signals emergency. The conductor will understand. I’ll pull down the signal arm for an unscheduled stop of the Rescue Express. Run, Bailey Ruth.”
In an instant, I was racing toward the platform, ticket in hand, Wiggins pounding behind me. What a grand turn of events. I tried to hide my excitement. Wiggins would frown upon overt delight in being dispatched to earth. That might underscore his concern that I had, in my previous adven-mission, found it difficult to remember that emissaries are on the earth but not of the earth. This Precept evoked an emotional response from Wiggins, who deplored the possibility of an emissary reverting to earthly attitudes instead of exhibiting Heavenly virtues. This time would be different. I would most nobly remember at all times that I was on but not of. I would make Wiggins proud.
Despite my effort to remain suitably grave—hard to do when running full tilt—I felt my lips curving in delight. I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, was once again ticketed for the Rescue Express. Watch my dust!
As the train screeched to a stop and a porter reached out to pull me aboard, Wiggins looked unhappily at the folder he clutched. “…no time for you to study the reports…find out everything about those who surround Susan Flynn…won’t do for you to take the folder…existing matter would be a burden since of course this time you will not appear. I’m sure you won’t.”
I thought his tone rather pitiful.
“…shocking turn of events…I should have sent you sooner…such an unexpected act…protect that dear little boy…”