I hovered near the ceiling of the parish hall. The lights had been dimmed on the north end. Flashing orange, red, green, and yellow spots played across the ceiling and walls. Somber organ music evoked specters tiptoeing through a graveyard. Occasional high screams and banshee wails shrilled from a tent. A crooked sign on the front of the tent identified it as spook house. enter at your peril. 5 tickets.
Children of all ages painted pumpkins lined up on trestle tables.
Thumpy music blared from one corner where sheet-draped children bent and swayed and hopped and chanted in an odd combination of dance and calisthenics. Lights blazed over a small stage at the south end of the hall. Almost everyone was in costume except for Sunday school volunteers in orange T-shirts.
A long line stretched from Madame Ruby-Ann’s tent out into the hall. I dropped inside. An orange turban, dance-hall makeup, and flaming cerise robe transformed Patricia Haskins into a fortune-Ca ro ly n H a rt
teller. She bent near a crystal ball, touching it lightly with her fingers.
Eyes closed, she crooned to a wide-eyed teenage girl in a peasant costume, “Beware the dark stranger. Turn aside, reach out to the blond Galahad. The familiar may seem ordinary, boring, pedestrian, but the crystal never lies. Your future belongs to a young man whom you’ve overlooked. He awaits you.” A shudder. Her hands fell away.
She pressed a palm to her head. “The crystal demands much. Make way for my next appointment.”
The girl looked dreamy. “Is the blond boy’s name Jeff?” Mrs. Haskins picked up a small fan, opened it, hiding her face.
“Jeff, Jeff, I think it is Jeff.”
I materialized in my Officer Loy uniform directly behind the girl.
“Did I hear you say you were ready for me?”
“Oooohh. Jeff.” The girl bounced to her feet. “I can’t wait to tell Amy.”
“Go the most direct way,” I urged. “Duck out over here.” I held up a side of the tent.
Madame Ruby-Ann frowned. “Wait a minute. Why send her out that way?”
I’d learned a thing or two when I worked in the mayor’s office.
If a question isn’t welcome, ignore it. “Mrs. Haskins, I’ll be quick and to the point. You weren’t altogether frank when you spoke to Chief Cobb yesterday. You are, in fact, withholding important information.” I stalked, which was difficult in the limited space, to the card table and bent down to place my hands on either side. “Someone contacted Mr. Murdoch just before he left his office. Who was it?” Fingers laden with costume jewelry toyed with the fringe on the brocade cloth covering the card table. “That call didn’t have anything to do with what happened to him. Irene Chatham’s in the Altar Guild and she probably called to check something with him.”
“Did you overhear their conversation?”
“Only a little. I opened Mr. Murdoch’s door and heard him say, 244
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‘I’ll be at the church in fifteen minutes.’ So I suppose”—Patricia’s tone was defiant—“that even though technically it’s true that Irene was aware he was going to the church, she could never be a suspect.
She’s terrified of guns. Anyway, you can go ask. She’s in charge of the hip-hop ghosts.”
“Hip-hop?” This was new to me.
“Kids love hip-hop. The nice kind,” she explained hastily. “No dirty lyrics or gang stuff. They do a musical review at the far end of the parish hall. They’re dressed in sheets with white paint on their faces. They have a great time.”
I ducked out of the tent.
A growl greeted me. “No more appearing, Bailey Ruth. I have reached the limits of my patience.”
A volunteer in an orange T-shirt stared at me. “What did you say, Officer?”
No one stood near us and I knew she was trying to locate that deep, undoubtedly masculine, and obviously irate voice.
Wiggins might soon embroil us in more public notice than he would wish.
“I heard that, too. An echo, I suppose.” Wiggins could mull that over. “Perhaps sound bounces off the ceiling.” I looked up. “Heavens, aren’t the chandeliers interesting? They’re very unusual. Different colors. I particularly like the red one.” I pointed up to the chandelier in the center of the parish hall.
The volunteer slowly nodded, managed an uncertain smile, and moved away.
As soon as she walked around the fortune-teller’s tent, I disappeared and wafted up to the red chandelier. I perched on the rim. It was easier than it sounds. Three massive wooden chandeliers shaped like wheels hung from the parish-hall ceiling. There was plenty of room to sit on the outer rim.
I felt a sudden lurch.
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“Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins was adamant. “No more appearing. It simply won’t do. Now, I’ll admit that was good work with the dog and I understand you felt it essential to speak with several people.
But, enough is enough.”
It was time for an end around, as Bobby Mac always advised when nose to nose in an altercation. “Wiggins, look at the children.
Isn’t that adorable?”
Irene Chatham, her lugubrious face transformed by a bright smile, energetically led a troupe of sheet-clad, starkly white-faced kids in an energetic—and to me most peculiar—performance. She, too, wore a sheet, which flapped as she moved. Madame Ruby-Ann called it a dance, so I supposed it was.
Irene lunged to her right, one arm extended, and chanted in concert with the dancers, “Shake a leg,” a lunge to the left. “Watch the ghosties flop. Witches’ brew can’t get you,” a lunge to the right.
“Shake a leg. Halloween’s hot, school’s not. Hey baby, hey baby, hey baby . . .”
“My goodness, how active,” Wiggins observed. “I suppose you’re waiting for a moment to confer with Kathleen. Remember, Bailey Ruth, work quietly in the background.” The chandelier rocked as he left.
I’d made no reply to Wiggins. I could not later be accused of per-fidy because I knew full well I would appear again. I was determined to confront Irene. At the moment the presence of Chief Cobb kept me aloft. He was in the center of the room, face grim, looking, looking, looking.
I drifted down, stood a few feet from Irene.
Chief Cobb gave a final searching glance at this end of the hall. He shook his head, moved toward Detective Sergeant Price, who stood near the pumpkin-painting station. The hip-hop dance concluded and the ghosties ran toward a lemonade stand. Irene turned off the music. She swiped at her flushed face.
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I dropped down beside her, hoped I was hidden by the milling crowd, and appeared in my French-blue uniform, fresh, crisp, and stern-faced. “Mrs. Chatham.”
Irene’s mouth opened, rounded in an “oh” of dismay. She took a step back, one hand grasping at her neck, panic flickering in her brown eyes.
I folded my arms, hoped my posture was intimidating. “From information received, we are aware that you spoke with Mr. Murdoch shortly before five p.m. Thursday. You met him at the church. It will be necessary for you to describe what happened or I’ll have to take you to the station.” My eyes were cold, my voice gruff.
She gulped, desperate as a goldfish out of water.
I lifted one hand to shake a finger at her, then stopped, feeling my own sweep of panic. Chief Cobb came around a corner of the Mysterious Maze and saw me. His face twisted in a scowl. He plunged into the swirling crowd, elbowing his way.
“Mrs. Chatham, you were seen. What happened?” I wished I could grip her scrawny shoulders and shake.
“I didn’t meet him. I swear I didn’t. When I saw—” She stopped, clapped shaking fingers to her mouth. “I didn’t stay. I don’t know anything and I’ve got to get the next number started.” She whirled around, shouted, “Middle school hip-hop. Time.” Chief Cobb was momentarily slowed by two burly high school boys maneuvering a dolly piled with cases of Cokes.