Ghost Wanted (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel, Band 5) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty-five novels of mystery and suspense including the Bailey Ruth Ghost Novels and the Death on Demand Mysteries. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. She has also been honored with the Amelia Award for significant contributions to the traditional mystery from Malice Domestic and was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City, where she enjoys mysteries, walking in the park, and cats. She and her husband, Phil, serve as staff—cat owners will understand—to brother and sister brown tabbies.

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Chapter 1

Bobby Mac and I don’t spend every moment aboard our cabin cruiser, Serendipity, on jade green waters reminiscent of the Gulf. Heaven knows that where you wish to go, there you are. It might surprise you that a rough-and-tumble oilman like Bobby Mac knew his way around art museums on earth. His tastes—and mine—were eclectic, from Gustav Vigeland’s sculptures to Mary Cassatt’s Breakfast in Bed. It was Heavenly now to see one of our favorite artists at work. Sunlight-dappled water lilies in the pond. Bobby Mac and I stretched on a blanket, quiet as stone cherubs, watching Claude at work on a new painting.

A telegram sprouted in my hand. My eyes widened. I will admit to a thrill of excitement. I waggled the stiff yellow sheet at Bobby Mac. He gave me a thumbs-up, as he always does. What a guy. We met in high school when he was a dark-haired, muscular senior and I was a skinny redheaded sophomore. We’ve been having fun ever since.

I blew Bobby Mac a kiss and went at once to the Department of Good Intentions, arriving immediately. That’s the beauty of Heaven—here can immediately be there. It’s all in the spirit.

Oh dear, you are already puzzled. Bobby Mac? Sunlight-dappled pond? Do I mean Giverny? Claude? Telegram? From there to here in a heartbeat?

Perhaps I should begin with me. I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma. Yes, late. As in dear departed. Dear departed has a lovely ring, though I’d be the first to agree that not everyone in Adelaide had adored me. There was the high school principal who hadn’t been pleased when I flunked the coach’s son. All endings lead to new beginnings, and I loved my years as the secretary at the Chamber of Commerce, which provided a front-row center seat for both public and private shenanigans. There was the time . . . Oh, sorry. I am easily distracted.

Back to my departing . . . Bobby Mac Raeburn, the captain of my heart and of the Serendipity, steered us out into the Gulf of Mexico seeking a recalcitrant tarpon despite lowering clouds and a whipping wind on what would be a fateful day. For us. Suffice to say, after a valiant battle with the elements, the Serendipity was lost in the Gulf and Bobby Mac and I arrived in Heaven. Now the Serendipity, as bright and fresh as on the day she was launched, rocks in a tranquil Heavenly sea and provides a haven for me and Bobby Mac.

Those who dismiss the idea of Heaven as balderdash will flee from my narrative. Isn’t balderdash a lovely word?

I am in good company—of course, given my current location, that surely goes without saying—in choosing balderdash. No less than Thomas Babington Macaulay, the great nineteenth-century historian, once said, “I am almost ashamed to quote such nauseous balderdash.”

Heaven is no more balderdash than I. However, to convince the skeptic is not my task at the moment. I remain confident that there is, however feeble, a spark of yearning within each earthly soul for all that is holy.

Don’t be put off by a mention of holiness. Heaven isn’t solemn. You enjoy laughter? Holiness does not preclude humor. Saint Teresa of Ávila combined a deep sense of ineffability with a laughing heart. As she once said, “Lord, if this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder that you have so few!” Laughter is always to be found. Just the other star-spangled night, Bobby Mac and I loved every minute of Danny Thomas’s new special, and Saint Jude was in the first row, cheering him on.

Claude Monet? He remains a genial fellow and doesn’t mind at all when admirers gather to watch the progress of another masterpiece.

As for the telegram from Wiggins—more about Wiggins in a moment—the dear fellow remains a man of his times, the early nineteen hundreds. I’m sure if I were associated with an up-to-date department, there would be e-mails and texts galore, but my heart belongs to Wiggins’s delightful Department of Good Intentions, which is housed in an old-fashioned train station, a replica of Wiggins’s earthly train station, where he served as stationmaster.

As for my swift arrival upon receipt of the telegram: There are no barriers in Heaven. From there to here is as quick as a thought. Have a yen for a swoop down a snowy mountain? Even better than Vail and no smashups. Or perhaps your taste runs to bird-watching. All God’s creatures have their place. Yes, all those companions we cherished through the years, tabby cats and Labs for us, are here, as loving as the day they departed earth. Sometimes, if you feel that you have a glimpse of Heaven when you see an eagle on the wing or the ineffable grace of a prowling panther or a swirl of monarch butterflies, you are quite right. All the beauty on earth that makes your breath catch and eyes mist is only a foretaste of Heavenly extravagance with color and motion and being. Just this morning I saw an Eastern Rosella, gloriously red and white and gold with touches of green and blue. Look them up the next time you’re in Australia.

I paused to admire Wiggins’s redbrick country station with its wooden platform. Shining silver tracks stretched into the sky. Immediately I was eager to swing aboard the Rescue Express, the train Wiggins dispatches to earth with emissaries to help those in trouble.

I paused near a crystal arch outside the station to gather my thoughts and consider my appearance. The telegram—I fished it from my pocket—seemed somewhat overwrought for steady, resolute Wiggins. I read it again: Bailey Ruth, Dastardly deeds in Adelaide. Come at once. Posthaste. Wiggins urged quiet, behind-the-scenes action by the department’s emissaries. After returning from my last jaunt to earth, he had said rather plaintively, “Becoming visible always leads to complications.” Yet surely my summons meant he appreciated my willingness to assess a situation and do what needed to be done, even if I broke a few rules along the way.

Wiggins is devoted to rules, i.e., the Precepts for Earthly Visitation. I know them now by heart and have no need to carry with me a roll of yellowed parchment with elegant inscriptions. I can recite the Precepts quickly if asked.

I cleared my throat, took a deep breath. I spoke clearly. With resonance. Any former English teacher can always be heard from the last row.

PRECEPTS FOR EARTHLY VISITATION

1. Avoid public notice.

2. Do not consort with other departed spirits.

3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.

4. Become visible only when absolutely necessary.

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.”

8. Remember always that you are on the earth, not of the earth.

A prefect rendition, if I did think so myself. If I had a moment, I would no doubt delight Wiggins by enunciating each and every Precept. The Precepts were now ingrained in my inner being. That is possibly an exaggeration. Truth to tell, and that is a Heavenly requirement, I often fail to adhere to the Precepts, which makes Wiggins doubt that I am qualified to be a Heavenly emissary. I know Wiggins never questions my intentions. As he’s often told me, “Bailey Ruth, you mean well, but . . .”

I hoped he understood that I not only had the best of intentions, I was admirably serious and devout.

Scratch the last.

I can’t claim saintliness.

Didn’t that...