Ghost on the Case (Bailey Ruth #8)
Carolyn Hart
Chapter 1
Imagine a maple leaf tinged with red and gold drifting in air buoyant as a salty sea. That effortless lightness is as near as I can come to sharing my feeling on another lovely day in Paradise.
Do I see a startled stare? Think what you wish, but Heaven is as real as the sound of a melody or the joy of effort or the welling of love when you see your special other. There is the reality of atoms and there is the reality of spirit.
I simply wish to explain this particular moment. A brief introduction is in order.
I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma, am not in hog heaven, as we used to say in Adelaide when enjoying a succulent baby back rib or holding a winning hand at bridge, but in God’s Heaven. Not, I am quick to say, because of merit. Heavens no. But when our cabin cruiser sank in the Gulf during a storm and Bobby Mac and I made our way here, we were welcomed with open arms.
I shaded my eyes as I strolled on a sandy beach with Mimi, our nippy wirehaired terrier, and gentlemanly Sleuth, a gleaming black Lab. Mr. Easy, our golden retriever, bounded into the surf. Ahead an umbrella shaded two beach chairs. Bobby Mac, my tarpon-seeking husband, was out in the bay in Serendipity, our cabin cruiser. Curled next to my chair were Spoofer One and Two and Three and Four. We always called our cats Spoofer. Now they have various nicknames, Mama Spoo, Spoof, S. G. (Spoofer Grande), and S. P. (Spoofer Primus). The cats, instinctively attuned to our thoughts, knew my destination and arrived to relax comfortably until I reached them.
I detect skepticism. I am aware that some on earth darkly say, “Don’t expect to see your dogs and cats in Heaven.” I can state declaratively (I once taught English) that this claim is false and cruel. Dogs, cats, llamas, goats, parakeets, animal friends of whatever persuasion, are here. Saint Francis wouldn’t have it any other way. As he prayed, “Praised be You my Lord with all Your creatures.” And talk about creatures! I saw Saint Francis recently with a goldfinch on one shoulder, a rabbit hopping nearby, and— Oh, I forgot. According to the Precepts for Earthly Visitation, I’m not supposed to share everything I know about Heaven.
Perhaps my realization that I was being a bit too forthcoming about my surroundings accounts for my summons from Wiggins. It is my honor to work for Heaven’s Department of Good Intentions, and Paul Wiggins is my supervisor. Wiggins, as he prefers to be addressed, dispatches emissaries from Heaven to help those in trouble, and each emissary is charged to reticence about Heavenly ways. After all, each soul’s day will come when all will be known.
Or perhaps the paperback book tucked in my beach bag caught Wiggins’s attention. I enjoy Dickens and Trollope and Galsworthy, Emily Bront?, Pearl Buck, and Theodore Dreiser, all suitable to peruse in an English class. But beach reading? Give me a good Erle Stanley Gardner, Brett Halliday, or Donald Hamilton while I wiggle my toes in the sand. The ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s were the heyday of the private-eye novel with a fifth of rye (preferred by John J. Malone) in the bottom desk drawer and a come-hither blonde in the shadows (present in ninety-nine point nine percent of tough-guy books).
In any event, one moment I was heading for a lazy day with a fast-paced hard-boiled novel and the next I was reading a telegram from Wiggins. Wiggins is a man of his time. Telegrams heralded important news in the early twentieth century. Black letters streamed on a flimsy yellow sheet: In a dilemma. Little choice. Please hasten for consultation.
“Yoo-hoo.” Not dignified but I was ecstatic. My shout reached Bobby Mac. He looked toward the shore. His midnight black hair gleamed in the sun. He is stocky and powerful, as handsome now as when he was a senior and I was a sophomore and he told me firmly that he was taking me to the prom. We’ve been dancing together ever since. His hand lifted in a generous farewell wave that said: That’s my gal. Go do your stuff. Nobody takes care of business like you do. What a man. Always on my side. And vice versa. That’s the secret to a happy marriage.
One of Heaven’s charms is the ability to go from here to there as quick as a thought. Picture your destination, you are there. I quickly changed from a one-piece swimsuit, the Esther Williams style is my preference, and fetching Hawaiian cover-up and white sandals, to a suitable costume to visit the Department of Good Intentions. Wiggins admires modesty. I keep up with earth’s fashions. Wiggins would be most approving of the new style of longer skirts. I could dress appropriately and yet feel quite swanky. A blue box-top blouse with cute cap sleeves and an almost ankle-length slim knit skirt made me feel like a model. Tall heels with a beaded strap and open toes were a perfect match. Choose your costume. Dress is our choice and is subject to any whim. If I am in an elegant Bergdorf black dress mood, presto. If I prefer a subdued tweed suit and a silk blouse with pearls and sensible heels, presto. Paradise affords joy for fashionistas.
The heels rat-a-tatted as I hurried up the steps. On earth Wiggins ran a country train station. He had re-created his station to serve as the departure point for the gleaming Rescue Express that rumbles on silver rails to carry emissaries to earth.
I burst through the waiting room and into his office, which overlooks the platform. Wiggins strode toward me, big hand outstretched. Wiggins’s florid face looked perplexed. His reddish brows were drawn in a worried frown. His walrus mustache seemed to quiver with uncertainty. “Bailey Ruth.” He came to a full stop. On his desk the telegraph sounder clattered.