St. Mildred’s brimmed with activity. I stood on the rectory roof and nudged the lumpy head cover with the toe of my shoe. Any of the women scurrying into or out of the church could easily have tucked a gun in a purse and marched into the cemetery without anyone paying any attention.
I had made every effort to honor the Precepts despite Wiggins’s perception of chaos. I pushed away the memory of my interlude with the very appealing detective sergeant and the tussle with the gunnysack above the lake. Did I dare appear again in another guise to take the gun to the cemetery? Time was wasting. That gun needed to be placed where the police could find it. It seemed amazing that I’d begun the morning with that intent, and here it was, almost noon, and the gun remained atop the rectory.
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Moreover, I was hungry. I felt buffeted from my morning, my encounters with Wiggins, the shock of that anonymous call implicating Kathleen, my scramble to warn her before the chief caught her by surprise, my last-second heroics to snatch the nightgown from the cleaning lady, my samba-energized cleaning of the porch, and the challenges of dispatching the tarp. Nonetheless, I was determined to dispose of the gun before pausing for lunch.
My gaze skimmed the parking lot and the backyard. Three women, chattering cheerfully, were walking toward the church, their backs to me. Just below me, the Halloween decorations were much less ominous in bright sunshine than they’d been on my arrival last night, although it seemed to me that the huge spider’s reddish eyes had an eerie glow and the bat was amazingly lifelike.
In an instant I was hovering beside the bat. The papier-mâché creature wasn’t the almost cuddly, small furry creature I associated with barn lofts. This bat had a good six-inch wingspan. It was definitely big enough. I loosened the wires that held it to a dangling rope. With a quick glance around, I tossed the rope up around the tree limb.
With my help, the bat flapped its wings and rose to the roof. I doubted my bat was particularly batlike, but it would serve well enough. I took the gun out of the head cover, placed it on the back of the bat, where it was hidden from view below. Wiggins would applaud the ingenuity that made it unnecessary for me to appear at this moment.
The bat and gun and I sailed into the cemetery without incident.
I went directly to the mausoleum, which was included within the yellow tape erected by the police to proclaim a crime scene. A moment later, the gun was tucked between Hannah Pritchard’s tomb and the interior wall.
Sunlight spilled into the mausoleum. I wafted to the greyhound, smoothed the top of his head, would have sworn I heard a throaty yip, felt the warmth of skin. At Hannah’s tomb, I stroked the cat whiskers.
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I definitely felt lucky. Now all I needed to do was make an anonymous call to the police, inform them that the gun that had been used to shoot Daryl Murdoch was hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum.
My face furrowed in a frown. Making phone calls was definitely more challenging now than it had been when I’d lived in Adelaide.
Obviously, there were means of tracing where calls originated. I needed a telephone that wasn’t linked to the rectory or the church.
I was stymied for a moment. I didn’t have time to zoom around Adelaide seeking a telephone. I needed a place where there were plenty of telephones and possibly one I could use without notice.
The library.
The solution came so swiftly I knew it was meant to be. Bobby Mac’s sister Julianna had been a librarian for thirty years. Her passion was Latin. Julianna’s thrill upon arriving in Heaven was meeting the poet Horace. As she had murmured to me: Sic itur ad astra.
As always, she kindly translated: “Thus one goes to the stars,” or more eloquently, “Such is the way to immortality.” I smiled and murmured Julianna’s favorite from Horace: Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero! It was my credo at this moment.
I definitely intended to seize this hour and not trust some later day.
I was puzzled for a moment when I found myself in a rotunda with the state flag of Oklahoma in a bright mosaic on the floor. This wasn’t the old red-brick Carnegie library on Second Street, but I approved of the lovely new building, nonetheless.
Three witches huddled around a cauldron. Bunches of red tissue simulated a bed of burning coals. Twists of silver tissue poked upward from the cauldron as coils of steam. To one side, a witch with a beaked nose held a decorated placard announcing: story time for little spooks 10 a.m. saturday. On the other side, a witch with bright red eyes held another sign: friends’ monster slime dinner 7
p.m. friday, come as you aren’t!
Two bulbous-bodied cardboard tarantulas balanced on a giant 137
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black web that stretched over the door to the reading room. I stepped inside and a plastic skeleton extended a hand as a sepulchral voice intoned, “Welcome to thrills and chills.” Books filled rows of metal shelving, but a goodly portion of the near room was filled with the television-like machines. Patrons hunched at the keyboards. Colorful images flashed on the screens.
I looked covetously at the telephone on the main information desk. However, it was far too public for me to use. I wafted upstairs in a flash and through a locked door marked staff.
A narrow hallway led past four cubicles separated by partitions.
Puffy paper pumpkins hung from the ceiling. Each cubicle held a desk and a chair with one of those machines with a keyboard and screen. Three were occupied. Telephones rang, chairs squeaked, voices rose in a hum.
I slipped into the unoccupied cubicle. The in-box held a green skull that glowed with phosphorescent paint. I admired the studio portrait of a little girl about seven. The desktop was neat, papers stacked, pens at the ready. I opened drawers until I found a directory.
The first time I dialed, I got an automatic recording: “Dial nine for outside calls.” I started over.
The call was answered on the second ring. “Adelaide Police.” I spoke softly. “I have information about the murder of Daryl—”
”Excuse me, ma’am. You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you.” I gripped the receiver, tried again. “I have information—”
”Louder, please.”
This time I spoke loud and fast. “The gun used to shoot Daryl Murdoch is hidden in the Pritchard mausoleum at the cemetery.” A chair on the other side of the partition squeaked. A round face framed by spiky black curls appeared over the edge of the partition.
“Hey, Callie, what’s—”
No more words came. A look of eager curiosity was replaced by the beginnings of a puzzled frown. “Callie?” She looked up and 138
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down, seeking what evidently wasn’t there. “How come the phone’s up in the air?”
“Let me connect you . . .” I slammed the phone into the receiver.
Abruptly the face disappeared. Feet thudded as the questioner bounded out into the aisle. She moved to the cubicle’s entryway, peering inside. “Callie, where are you?” She looked up and down the aisle. “Where did you go?”
The phone on the desk rang.
As I zoomed out of her way, I knocked against the skull. It rolled from the in-box and bounced on the desk.
The puzzled librarian clutched at the partition.
The phone continued to peal.
Reluctantly, the librarian edged into the cubicle. Leaning away from the shiny skull, she yanked up the receiver. “Adelaide Library.” Her voice was uneven, breathless. “How may I help you?” She warily watched the skull.
“Yeah. I heard part of it.” She twined the cord around one finger.
“No. It wasn’t me. I don’t know who called you. I mean, I heard it, but nobody’s here.” Her face folded in a frown. “I don’t know a thing about a gun. Well, sure, send somebody over if you want to. But I can tell you now that nobody here knows a thing. And there’s this skull that bounced . . .”