Once outside, I took my latest acquisition out of my pocket, disappeared, and wafted to the top of an old oak. I tucked the gun in the crook between a branch and the trunk, too far above ground to be noticeable. Then I zoomed down to the street, found a manhole cover, and dropped the shells inside.
Daylight was fading fast, the shadows deep and dark on Olive Street. I didn’t expect Walter Carey to slip into his former partner’s office until darkness fell, so I didn’t feel rushed. Instead of going directly to Murdoch Investments, I strolled toward Main.
I wasn’t surprised when I heard that rumble nearby. “Although becoming visible is never desirable, in some instances it is acceptable.” We moved along in silence, then a soft harrumph. “That dear girl.
Good work, Bailey Ruth.”
Wiggins left as quickly as he’d arrived.
I was smiling when I reached Main Street. I took a moment to look up and down. The Bijou marquee was dark and the front looked boarded over. The corner where our drugstore sat now advertised cornucopia tea shop, natural foods. What other kinds were there?
Then I saw the red neon of Lulu’s. In a flash, I arrived in the narrow entrance to the café. I suppose it was impulsive of me, but I hadn’t had a Lulu hamburger and fries in, well, it was a lifetime ago.
I was greeted by a delectable scent of hot grease.
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Every stool at the counter was occupied as well as the four booths.
Lulu’s hadn’t changed a whit in all these years and it was packing in the customers as offices and stores closed. A tall blond waitress and a lanky teenage boy served the counter and the booths. She was quick and efficient. He was more lackadaisical.
It took me only a moment to figure out the system. To-go orders in sacks were placed on a tray near the cash register to await pickup.
When the boy put down his order pad to fix a chocolate soda at the fountain, I tipped over a menu to cover the pad and quickly scrib-bled a to-go order for Myrna: cheeseburger with onions, mustard, and pickles, and fries. When everyone seemed occupied, I pinned the order up for the cook.
I wafted through a door marked employees, found the fuse box.
When my sack was ready, I peered closely at the menu, and almost let out a yelp when I saw the prices. How could a hamburger and fries cost four dollars and fifty cents! However . . . I imagined a five-dollar bill, a shocking sum, and hovered over the tray with the to-go orders.
When no one was near the cash register and everyone behind the counter was fully occupied, I took the check from the sack, slid it and the five-dollar bill slowly toward the cash register, then wafted to the fuse box and flipped a series of switches. The power went off. The café went dark and voices called out.
I felt my way out into the dining area. There was enough light coming through the plateglass window from streetlamps to make it easy to reach the front counter. I grabbed my sack and hurried to the front door. Unfortunately, since I’d had no need to open the door upon my arrival, I hadn’t realized a bell sounded.
The bell tinkled. A flashlight beam swept toward the front, spotlighting my white sack as it moved briskly through the air.
“Wait a minute.” The waitress’s shout was angry and determined.
“Hey you, stop.” As the lights came back on, the waitress plunged 174
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out onto the sidewalk, heavy flashlight in hand. She started to yell, then froze as the sack, dangling from my unseen hand, sped up the sidewalk.
I looked back.
She backed toward the door to Lulu’s, her face slack with disbelief.
I reached the corner, swerved out of her sight. I was terribly aware that I had violated Precepts One and Six, but certainly it was inad-vertent. I clutched my sack tighter, felt warmth through the paper, and darted from shadow to shadow, not wishing to cause any further distress.
“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was as emphatic as the stamp of a jackboot.
I wobbled on the top step of Murdoch Investments. “Did you serve in the military, Wiggins?”
“The Rough Riders, San Juan Hill, July first, 1898.” His pride was evident.
“Wiggins, that’s wonderful. I can’t wait to hear—”
“Bailey Ruth.” Exasperation warred with an evident delight in recalling his days with Teddy. “This is not the moment.” I sensed movement and curled my arm around that Heavenly scented sack. I had no intention of yielding my hamburger to Wiggins. “I need sustenance, Wiggins. I have a big evening facing me.” I determinedly kept my tone light. I wouldn’t be guilty of whining.
Nonetheless, facts are facts. “And there’s no getting around the fact that when I carry an actual physical object, I can’t pop from here to there in an unobtrusive fashion.”
“There is food at the rectory.” The reproof was clear.
“Wiggins, that was my first thought.” How many fibs was I piling up on my record? Would they even let me back in Heaven without a stint in Purgatory? “But even if I popped there and back again, there wasn’t enough time. I must take up my post inside”—I bent my head 175
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toward the building—“before darkness falls.” Twilight was settling around us.
“I see.” A pause. “Bailey Ruth, you always seem to have an answer.
It’s quite confounding. And I do have other emissaries to oversee.
Very well, carry on.”
Thus justified, my fingers tight on my sack, I oozed to the rear of the office building. I placed the sack on the top step and wafted inside. In only a moment I had opened the back door, retrieved my supper, and locked the door. A moment later I was inside Daryl Murdoch’s office. I drew the drapes, then turned on a lamp near one end of the red leather sofa.
In a small refrigerator behind a curving bar, I found a Dr Pepper.
That thrill could only have been topped by discovering a Grapette.
Not, of course, that I was particular.
I spread out my feast on a tiled table in one corner and offered a very thankful grace. I enjoyed every mouthful. The onions were sau-téed in a tasty brown tangle and the fries fresh, crisp, and salty. The taste of Dr Pepper brought memories of lazy summer picnics and fishing trips with Bobby Mac. However, I didn’t linger and cleaned up quickly, depositing the sack in the kitchenette wastebasket.
I turned off the lamp and opened the drapes. The glow from a streetlamp seeped inside, providing some light. I stretched out on Daryl’s exceedingly comfortable and luxurious leather couch and promptly began to worry about the notations in the chief ’s notebook concerning Father Bill and Kathleen. I wished I’d had a chance to read the rest of his comments before Anita arrived in his office. Perhaps I—
The door to Daryl’s office swung slowly in.
Even though I was expecting a visitor, my throat felt tight. I swung upright, pushed to my feet, willed myself present.
A dark form slipped across the room. The drapes were drawn. A click and light spilled over the end of the room from the lamp. Walter 176
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Carey never glanced toward me. He went straight to the filing cabinets, pulled out the g–i drawer.
“Are you looking for your confession?” My voice sounded over loud in the stillness of the night-shrouded office.
He froze, one hand gripping the steel side of the drawer. Slowly, still holding to the drawer as if for support, he turned and stared at me. His lips parted. His haggard face was pasty white.
“It isn’t in there.” I looked into eyes glazed with shock. “It’s in a safe place.”