“Fingerprints.” She was struggling not to hyperventilate.
“Deep breaths. In. Out.” The advice was a bit perfunctory. Perhaps I could scare up some backbone pills for Kathleen. Fingerprints
. . . Ah. I spotted a pair of gardening gloves lying on the counter near a sink. I picked them up, moved toward her. “Better put these on.” She scrambled backward.
Before I could toss the gloves to her, a girl’s voice called from inside. “Mom . . . hey, Mom, where are you?” Kathleen clutched at her throat, tried to speak, couldn’t make a sound.
Footsteps clattered in the kitchen. A girl’s voice carried through the open back door. “I’ve got to ask Mom first. Maybe she’s over at the church. Come on, Lucinda.”
I swooped to the body and pulled the tarp over him.
The screen door banged open. “Hey, Mom, what are you doing out here in the dark?” A flick and a hundred-and-fifty-watt bulb blazed above us, throwing the furnishings of the porch into sharp relief, the counter with an old-fashioned sink, a rattan table and three chairs, a shiny galvanized tub, two bags of apples, a pair of muddy work boots, a mound of pumpkins, several large bulging black trash bags, stacked newspapers, a heap of old coats.
And the shiny black tip of a shoe peeking from beneath the tarp.
Kathleen saw the shoe, wavered on her feet, moved in front of the body. “Bayroo, stop there.” Kathleen’s voice was scratchy.
Bayroo. What a curious name.
A skinny red-haired girl, all arms and legs like a wobbly colt, balanced on one foot, throwing her arms wide. “Mom, you won’t believe it.” She was a bundle of excitement, energy, and vibrant personality.
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I felt an instant liking for her and an immediate sense of compan-ionship. I was enchanted by her golden red curls and green eyes and the intelligent, questing look on her narrow face. She was eleven or possibly twelve, almost ready to slip into her teen years, angular now where she would soon be slender. And lovely.
Behind her, a plump girl with dark hair in braids, gold-rimmed glasses, and prominent braces echoed, “You won’t believe it, Mrs.
Abbott!” She bounced up and down in excitement.
Kathleen’s daughter clapped her hands. “Mom, Travis Calhoun’s here in town! We actually saw him at Wal-Mart and he’s staying with his aunt Margaret. You know, Mrs. Calhoun up the street. I invited him to come to the Spook Bash Saturday and asked him if he’d judge the painted pumpkins and told him how great it would be for everyone who’s worked so hard for the bash to raise money for the food pantry and, Mom”—it was an unashamed squeal—“he said he’d come. Isn’t that great?”
“Great. Wonderful. Lucinda, why don’t you stay for supper with Bayroo. The stew’s ready. There are oatmeal cookies in the cookie jar.” Kathleen waved a shaking hand toward the kitchen.
”Mom.” Meals were for ordinary times. “Travis Calhoun! Besides, we’re going over to Lucinda’s for pizza. The committee’s meeting and will they be excited when they hear about Travis!”
“Golly, they won’t believe what happened!” Lucinda’s voice rose in a squeal. “Bayroo is so brave. We would have missed him if she hadn’t hidden and then she heard noises and got scared but—” Bayroo reached out and clapped a hand over Lucinda’s lips.
Kathleen kept glancing down at the tarp, then away. “That’s wonderful, honey.” She gestured toward the screen door. “You’d better hurry over to Lucinda’s if the committee’s coming.” Lucinda was staring toward me. She couldn’t see me, of course.
What could she possibly . . . Oh. I still held the gloves. I released my grip. The gloves floated gracefully toward the floor.
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Lucinda tugged on the red-haired girl’s arm. ”Bayroo,” she hissed.
“Anyway, Mom, Lucinda and I are going over to her house—”
“Bayroo.” Lucinda’s whisper was piercing. “Where did those gloves come from? They were like, up here.” She held a hand to her chest. “Now they’re down there. How were they up in the air all by themselves?” She pointed at the gloves just as they reached the floor.
Bayroo turned toward me. Our eyes met. She smiled, a quick, engaging, hello-we-haven’t-met, I’d-like-to-be-friends smile.
Oh dear. Bayroo saw me. I couldn’t explain it. Sometimes the young have eyes to see what no one else sees. Bayroo saw me. Lucinda did not.
Bayroo asked quickly, “Mom, who’s—”
I held a finger to my lips, shook my head, then smiled and turned my hands as if I were shooing chickens.
Bayroo’s lips parted in surprise, then she grinned and gave me a tiny conspiratorial nod. She removed Lucinda’s arm. “Oh, those gloves.” Her tone dismissed levitating gloves as unworthy of notice.
“It happens sometimes when the fan’s turned on.” She gestured toward the ceiling fan.
Lucinda looked up at the still blades, her face serious and thoughtful. “The fan isn’t turned on.”
‘Well, I guess it was. C’mon, Lucinda. We’ve got to hurry. We can tell everyone about Travis. Mom, I’ll do my homework later.” With that, the girls turned toward the back door, Bayroo in the lead.
Lucinda’s head swung back for a last puzzled glance at the ceiling fan and her left foot caught the tip of the dead man’s shoe. She stag-gered forward. “Whoops.”
Bayroo held the screen door open. “Don’t kick the dummy. He’s going to sit on top of the magic maze at the Spook Bash. C’mon, Lucinda, let’s hurry. They’re not going to believe . . .” As their voices faded, lost in the soughing of the branches and the keening of the wind, Kathleen reached out to cling to the counter.
“What am I going to do?”
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“Buck up.” I was getting exasperated, although I did understand how draining the girls’ arrival had been. Even I had felt an icy qualm when Lucinda stumbled over the tip of the dead man’s shoe.
Kathleen jumped. “Please. Don’t talk.” I didn’t bother to answer, merely scooped up the gloves and thrust them toward her.
Kathleen shuddered, but pulled them on.
“All right. I’m here.” I tugged at his shoulder. “You take his ankles.”
As her face stretched in a gargoyle grimace, Kathleen gingerly grabbed the dead man’s ankles with her gloved hands, shuddered again, and pulled.
“One, two, three.”
Daryl Murdoch slid onto the tarp. In the sharp light from the overhead bulb, I could see there was no muss on the wooden flooring.
Decidedly, he had met his fate elsewhere. Perhaps when we knew that, we would know who shot him.
The thought bobbed in my mind and I realized I was concerned about justice. I felt no scruples about removing the murdered man from the rectory’s back porch. After all, someone had brought him there with no good intentions. Other thoughts bobbed. What connection did Kathleen have with the dead man? Why had the murderer assumed Kathleen would be implicated if Daryl Murdoch were found here? There was much I needed to know to complete my mission. I hoped I was off to a good start. If I did well, I wouldn’t be on probation. I would be officially attached to the Department of Good Intentions. Perhaps I’d be awarded a ribbon or badge.
As we passed the switch near the door to the kitchen, Kathleen turned off the overhead light.
“Hustle.” I tugged on the tarp.
Kathleen again gave that odd little moan from deep in her throat, but she hurried forward.
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G h o s t at Wo r k
As we maneuvered the tarp across the porch floor toward the ramp, Kathleen muttered, “It’s shock. That’s all. I’m in shock. That’s why I’m strong enough to move him. Adrenaline. Memory lapses. I’m doing things and I don’t remember them. That’s what’s happening.” She looked almost cheerful as the tarp slid down the ramp. Then she saw the wheelbarrow. “How did I get it out of the shed? The shed’s locked. Maybe it was unlocked. That’s it. I just don’t remember . . .” Poor dear. She would have to come to grips with reality—me—