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the time we got here, there was no trace of the car and the rider was too upset to give us a good description. I don’t suppose either of you”—I looked inquiring—“happened to be outside around five o’clock Thursday evening? It was cold and windy.” The older woman clapped her hands. “I’ll bet it was Irene Chatham. She’s a hazard behind the wheel. I get off work at four-thirty and I get home about a quarter to five. She almost hit me coming out of her drive.” She pointed at Irene’s house. ”I’ll bet she ran right through that stop sign.”
I got the particulars, the make and year and color of her car, then tucked the bag of food under one arm, took Jack’s rope, and off we went. I hoped it didn’t occur to the bungalow’s residents to wonder why Officer Loy was afoot. I didn’t look back.
We’d gone only a few steps when I heard that familiar rumble.
“Precepts—”
I finished for Wiggins, “Three and Four.” Jack gave an eager snuffle, came up on his back legs, his front paws in the air.
“Good fellow.” Wiggins spoke with delight.
Jack’s chin went up and I knew Wiggins was stroking his throat.
Jack dropped down.
A genial harrumph. “Although becoming visible is best avoided, you handled this chap’s rescue very nicely. The official notice was well done. There will be no cause for the observers to suspect that anything unusual has occurred. However”—a heavy sigh—“the episode last night at the police station was highly irregular. Awkward.
A blot upon the bright shield of the department.” I was puzzled. “The police department? I thought the policeman did as well as could be expected.”
”Not a blot on the police department.” Now Wiggins was roused. “A blot on the fine reputation of the Department of Good Intentions.”
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“Wiggins.” I handed him the leash. “If I’ve failed, I’ll resign at once.“ The leash was back in my hand immediately. Just as I expected, Wiggins would never desert Jack and I was taking him to a new and good home. I had a sudden picture of Wiggins as a little boy, minus the walrus mustache, a hound eagerly licking his face as he laughed in delight.
“Don’t be hasty, Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was a bit farther away. “In the face of adversity, you protected Kathleen last night.
Moreover, Kathleen is growing in courage. Keep up the good work.”
Jack’s head turned, and I knew he was watching Wiggins depart.
I tugged on the leash. “Jack, old buddy, let’s go faster.” He answered with a little woof.
When we reached the church, Jack and I moved from tree to tree because there were a half-dozen cars parked behind the rectory and more cars and pickups in the church parking lot. Teenage boys were hefting bales of hay and monster pumpkins. Girls giggled and held the door to the parish hall. I was glad Kathleen was occupied with setting up for the Spook Bash.
As soon as Jack and I were safely on the porch, I disappeared. In the kitchen, I found some plastic bowls, filled one with water, the other with a small portion of kibble, brought them to the porch. Jack noisily drank, then devoured the food. He looked up expectantly.
I smoothed the top of his head. “I know you’re still hungry. But we’d better start off slow.”
Jack stared for a moment more, then wagged his tail, as if to say, Sure thing, and began to explore the porch. I stepped back into the kitchen and printed on the message blackboard: Stray dog in need of a good home. Name: Jack. Will bring good fortune. BR
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I was sure of the latter. If it weren’t for Jack, I wouldn’t know one important fact: Irene Chatham had lied when she claimed to be home from 5 to 7 p.m. Thursday evening. In fact, she’d screeched from her driveway in a tearing hurry at about a quarter to five. I was almost sure I knew where she was going, but I needed proof. I suspected that Murdoch had called Irene from his office, intending to force a showdown with her and the rector, and Murdoch’s secretary was aware of that call. She was the kind of secretary who always knew what the boss was doing.
I found the telephone directory. In only a moment I had the address for Daryl Murdoch’s secretary. I checked the parish directory.
Patricia Haskins was also a communicant of St. Mildred’s. I found that very interesting, but not, given my speculations, surprising.
The stucco apartment building was built around a patio with a pool and benches. I checked the mailboxes near the office. A neatly printed card in 307 read: Patricia Haskins.
I reappeared when I stood outside her door. The wooden shutters were closed in the front window. I knocked. No answer. I looked around, saw no one, disappeared, and wafted inside.
The living room was exquisitely clean, the walls pale blue, the overstuffed furniture in soft white faux leather. A tiger-striped cat on a cushion near the kitchen lifted his head, studied me with enigmatic golden eyes. I had no doubt he saw me.
I knelt, smoothed silky fur. “Nobody home?” The cat yawned, revealing two sharp incisors and a pink tongue.
I popped up, made a circuit of the living room. No dust. No muss.
No casual disarray. One wall of bookshelves held biographies, books on bridge, and Book-Of-The-Month club titles. On another wall were three framed Edward Hopper prints.
A small walnut desk sat in one corner. I found her checkbook 224
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in the right-hand drawer and a box of checks as well as stubs neatly bound with rubber bands. I hunted for an engagement calendar, found an address book. There was an entry for Irene Chatham. It was a link, but this was a small town. I needed more.
The bedroom yielded nothing of interest but a collection of family pictures in neat rows atop a bookcase and on a dresser. It was cheerful to see that the rather formal Mrs. Haskins was also a mother and grandmother. In a Christmas scene, her eyes soft, her smile beatific, she was reaching out to touch the dark curls of a chubby little girl.
The kitchen was immaculate. A neat white cardboard bakery box was open. It held three dozen sugar cookies shaped like pumpkins with big chocolate eyes and curlicues of orange frosting. I edged one out, ate it neatly. I was turning to go when I saw the large wall calendar with notations in several squares. And yes, she’d marked this Saturday:
8 A.M., PICK UP TWILA, OKC
4–8 P.M. MADAME RUBY-ANN/SPOOK BASH
I understood the first entry only too well. Patricia had picked up a friend and gone up to Oklahoma City, probably for a couple of hours of shopping and lunch. The second entry gave me hope that she planned to return in time to attend St. Mildred’s Spook Bash this afternoon. But who was Madame Ruby-Ann?
I planned to attend the Spook Bash. I wanted to see Bayroo’s new friend. Now I had another excellent reason to be present. I was counting on Patricia Haskins telling me the name of someone who’d called Daryl or whom Daryl had called to set up a meeting at St.
Mildred’s.
I wondered if Chief Cobb had picked up on Patricia’s careful reply when he’d asked whether anyone else might have known Daryl’s destination . . .
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The chief sat at a circular table near his desk. He frowned, wrote swiftly on a legal pad. Folders surrounded him. A cordless telephone was within reach.
The chief ’s desk was pushed out from the wall and a bulky figure squatted behind the computer that had suffered unfortunate trauma last night. I was disappointed to see that the screen was still black.
The oblong box next to the screen had been opened. The interior looked like so much honeycomb to me. I moved around the desk.