Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(2)

“I’m here,” I said brightly. “Ready to go.”

He did not appear reassured. His frown deepened. “I need a skilled detective. C. Auguste Dupin. Sherlock Holmes. Allan Pinkerton.”

I was familiar with the authors Wiggins enjoyed. Obviously Wiggins sought ratiocination. Well, I can ratiocinate with the best of them. My turn for a full stop. Heaven compels honesty. Perhaps my claim was an exaggeration. Okay. I’m no equal to his heroes. But I didn’t spend all my time as an English teacher reading Ivanhoe and A Tale of Two Cities (though my heart will always belong to Charles Darnay). A copy of Brett Halliday’s Bodies Are Where You Find Them sprouted in my hand, a red-haired man leaning forward to support the body of a blonde on the cover. The all-cap title in stark black letters ran down the right side of the cover.

I thrust the book at Wiggins. “I’ve read them all.” It pleased me that Mike Shayne, the Miami PI, was a redhead. I considered that a good omen. I fluffed my own shining red curls. For the record, I’m five foot five of energy and enthusiasm with curious green eyes in a skinny freckled face. Since in Heaven we can be what we wish to be, I chose myself at twenty-seven. It was a very good year.

Wiggins held the paperback in his hand, looked down. Clearly he found the cover a trifle shocking.

I hastened to explain. “Mike Shayne outfoxed the bad guys. Simple. Direct. No b—” I started to say bull but feared Wiggins might find the term unladylike. “—boring diversions. Give Shayne a problem and he waded right in. He figured out who was pulling the strings, tracked down the bad guys. What he did, I can do.”

The telegraph sounder clacked louder. Wiggins shoved his rounded stiff blue cap with its black brim to the back of a thick shock of russet hair and strode to his desk, looked down. When he faced me, his kind face held despair. “Susan loves her little sister. She’ll risk everything. I don’t see any way out. An impossible situation. But”—his gaze was imploring—“you always do your best.”

I stood a little taller, was tempted to salute.

In two long steps he was at the cabinet with tickets in slots. He reached up, grabbed a red ticket.

A rumble of wheels announced the arrival of the Rescue Express. The deep-throated whoo was a clarion call. The telegraph sounder clattered at a frantic pace.

Wiggins hurried to his desk, stamped the ticket, held it out for me.

I grabbed the red piece of cardboard.

A final shout as I headed for the platform, “Try to remain invisible.”

“I will.” I meant every word of the brave declaration. This time I would make every effort to be unseen, which is the preferred mode of Wiggins’s emissaries. Emissaries have the ability to appear in earthly form. We arrive, of course, unseen. However, if we wish to be present, we simply think Appear. When it is better to be unseen, we think Disappear. There was one time, I remember my sense of panic, when I lost my ability to disappear. That was a challenge. Being able to appear and disappear is terrific. I suppressed a squiggle of eagerness. I sometimes—oh well, let me be frank—I often feel that I can better assist my charge if I am actually on the earth. This time I would try hard to curb that instinct.

I clutched the red piece of cardboard. I didn’t need to look at my destination. I was on my way to Adelaide, my old hometown in the rolling hills of east central Oklahoma. On the platform, I rushed to climb aboard, welcomed the conductor’s boost. As the Rescue Express began to roll, I didn’t try to suppress my excitement. Wiggins was sending me into an Impossible Situation that required the skills—and toughness?—of a private eye. Move over Mike Shayne. Bailey Ruth Raeburn is on the case.

? ? ?

She was perhaps my height, about five foot five. Ebony black hair framed a face with character, deep-set intelligent eyes, high cheekbones, determined chin. She wasn’t conventionally pretty. Hers was an interesting face, shapely black brows, a high forehead, rather thin nose, a generous mouth. She looked like a tennis player or golfer with an aura of easy movement, of quickness. I liked her indigo wool sweater with alternating lines of gold and rose in a zigzag pattern above black wool slacks and indigo leather flats. She stood stiffly in the center of a small living room, a very ordinary room not suited for high drama. A leather shoulder bag was tossed on the seat of a worn wooden rocking chair. Two easy chairs, one with plaid upholstery, the other a nondescript tan, were unoccupied. Library books were scattered on a coffee table, a biography of Douglas MacArthur, Lives of the Poets by Samuel Johnson, a thriller by Hank Phillippi Ryan, a collection of e. e. cummings poetry. An inexpensive grandfather clock near the front door ticked loudly.

A comfortable room except for the stricken young woman, her face the color of putty, the hand holding a cell phone shaking. “Please”—her voice was uneven, scarcely more than a whisper—“you won’t hurt her?” The cell phone was pressed against her face. “Where is she? . . . A hundred . . .” Her left hand rose to her throat. “I don’t have that kind of money. I don’t have a key. I can’t—” She began to shiver. “I can’t do that.”

She moved unsteadily to the sofa, dropped down, braced herself against the armrest, the phone still hard against her face. A voice was speaking to her, a voice was telling her something that drained her youthful body of strength. “I can’t—” Her shoulders drew tight as if in defense. “Tonight? He’s having a party. How—” She broke off. Perhaps her caller had interrupted, told her to listen, told her she had no choice.