Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)(6)

I was quite sure that it wasn’t Heaven’s intent to facilitate crime. Perhaps that was the reason for my presence. I could at any time arrange the return of the shoe box. I felt a whoosh of relief. Of course I would protect the interests of the safe’s owner. Reassured, I watched as Susan returned to the hall door, turned the knob to pop the lock. In a flash she crossed the room to the exterior door. I was right behind her as she slipped into the night. I didn’t intend to let that shoe box out of my sight.





Chapter 2


Susan stood in the middle of her small living room, clutching the shoe box in a tight grip. Her memorable face with its high cheekbones and bold chin looked intense, obdurate. She’d removed—perhaps stolen was the correct verb—a cardboard container from a safe that clearly was not hers. I expected her to look for a hiding place, though there are few spots that can conceal a shoe box if a searcher is diligent. Would she go out into the night again, find a trowel in her garage, dig in the ground? She’d left her home in darkness and returned the same way, dousing the headlights when she turned onto her street. If she was concerned about a watchful neighbor, digging a hole—I glanced at a clock on a side table—at a quarter to midnight was not an option.

Her next move surprised me.

She walked swiftly to a card table in one corner. She moved aside a chess set, placed the box in the open space. Her entire body tensed as she lifted the lid. She held an indrawn breath.

I hovered above her right shoulder. My eyes widened.

She lifted out stacks of bills, each stack held by a rubber band. The top bill on each stack was a fifty. She fluffed the ends of one stack. All fifties.

I counted the stacks. The box held at least a hundred thousand dollars, perhaps closer to a hundred and fifty thousand. I gazed at her, trying to reconcile the reality of a thief with a woman whose face was generous, kind, serious.

The gloved hands moved swiftly, returning the bundled bills to the box, slapping the lid back in place. She glanced at the grandfather clock. Twelve minutes to midnight. She pressed fingers to her temples, then seemed to realize she still wore gloves. She stripped them off, flung them on the table.

An inexpensive chess set with plastic pieces, limp black leather gloves, and a shoe box crammed with bundles of fifty-dollar bills made an incongruous tableau. The chess set, if used, suggested intelligence. The cheapness of the set indicated a lack of money for extravagance, no ivory or brass here. The gloves were not needed for the weather, were chosen to aid in a crime. The shoe box held thousands of dollars that should not be on the table in this small house.

Susan stood by the table, arms tightly crossed. She stared at the clock. Nine minutes to midnight. She began to pace, six steps, turn, six steps back, six steps, turn, six steps back. The minute hand edged nearer and nearer twelve.

Two minutes to go.

Susan yanked the cell phone from her pocket, held it in her hand.

One minute to go.

Midnight.

She lifted the phone, one hand poised to swipe.

One minute after the hour.

Two minutes after the hour.

Her face quivered as she stared at the silent cell phone.

Three minutes after the hour.

With a shaking hand she swiped, touched Recent Calls, tapped. She held the phone to her ear. A minute passed. Another. She began to tremble. She looked wildly toward the table with the shoe box. She hunched her shoulders. With stiff fingers she tried the call again. Finally, the hand with the cell phone dropped to her side. Stumbling a little, she walked to the sofa, blindly sank down. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Oh God, what am I going to do?”

“There’s always something to do.” I spoke firmly.

Her head jerked up. Her gaze swung all around the room. Panic flared in her eyes.

I didn’t hesitate. Susan needed help. It was time to join her. I swirled into being. Appearing and disappearing are as easy as thinking Here and Gone or Visible and Invisible or Appear or— But you get the point. When I wish to be, I am. That isn’t to say the process can’t be disconcerting for the uninitiated. Lights swirl, rose and gold and ivory. The soft bands coalesce and here I am.

Susan shrank back against the sofa, her face slack.

I spoke rapidly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.”

“How did you get in?” She barely managed a whisper.

My smile was a bit chiding, but I hope kindly. “You strike me as a woman who knows what she sees. What did you see?”

“Colors swirling. Rose and gold and ivory and you were here.”

I nodded approvingly. “I’m from Heaven’s Department of Good Intentions. My mission is to assist you.”

She sat as if chipped from ice. Her face was starkly white.

I hurried to the sofa, sat down beside her, and put my hand on her arm. “Don’t be frightened.”

She jerked away. “This is crazy. I’m breaking down. Everything’s crazy. That call and now you. I don’t know who you are, but please leave. Right now. I have to— I have things I have to do.” She rose, a hostess ready to speed a departing guest.

I remained on the sofa. “Tell me about the call.” I used my firm voice, which quelled football players in the back of the class as we discussed Silas Marner.

She slowly sank down on the cushion. “A voice said fast, very fast: Don’t hang up if you want to see your sister alive. I felt like I was frozen and it hurt to breathe. The voice was kind of inhuman, high and thin and metallic.”