I saw the stack. Success was to be mine. I hurried forward.
The door slammed. A click. I rushed to the door and twisted the knob. Locked!
Locked doors posed no difficulty for me, but I wanted the directory. I could waft right out into the hall but I would have to open the door to take the directory and I had no key to unlock the door once I stood in the hall.
I disappeared. In a flash, I was back in the secretary’s office.
Hands shaking, she punched numbers. “Police? Come at once to St. Mildred’s. I’ve detained a suspicious woman. She came to the church and tried to get a parish directory. I saw the story in this afternoon’s Gazette.” She yanked up the newspaper, held it with a shaky hand.
I read over her shoulder.
BEWARE CHRISTMAS SCAMS
Police Chief Sam Cobb reported today that a statewide alert has been issued by the OSBI regarding fraudulent activities common during the holiday season.
Calls purporting to come from charitable groups should be checked by the recipient. Chief Cobb advises against providing any personal information, including Social Security numbers or back account numbers, over the telephone.
A favorite scam reported in Dallas and Oklahoma City involves a well-dressed woman claiming to have monies that will be paid over as soon as the person contacted provides a checking account number.
Chief Cobb said in another ploy, a woman arrives at a home to pick up a promised donation for a church or charity. The woman exhibits familiarity with the family using information gained from newspaper society pages or church directories.
Chief Cobb…
The church secretary carried the phone and poked her head out in the hallway to keep an eye on the closet door. “This woman was certainly well dressed and charming, but I didn’t believe a word she said. She claimed to know people in the parish, but I think she just wanted to get the directory so she’d know what people looked like and their addresses. I locked her in a storeroom. When I let her out, I’ll explain the door slipped and I had to find a better key and she can’t prove otherwise, and besides if there wasn’t something funny about her, why hasn’t she banged on the door and shouted for help? She hasn’t made a sound. Please hurry. Maybe an officer can say she was observed speeding and he can ask for identification.”
I gave Lucy a cool glance. At least she apparently found me charming.
Within a few minutes, a stocky, middle-aged police officer arrived. “Sergeant Linton, ma’am.” He looked concerned. “You say you have a woman locked up here in the church?”
“I’ve got the key. I saw that story in the Gazette and I knew she was a fraud.” She was shaking with excitement. “She hasn’t even called out and asked for help.” Her tone was portentous. “That’s a sure sign she isn’t on the up-and-up. When I open the door, I’ll explain that lock slips sometimes and I’m so sorry and I went to get a key and it took a moment for me to find it.”
They walked swiftly down the hall.
I picked up the directory next to the secretary’s phone. At the window, I pushed up the sash and looked outside. I didn’t see a soul. I unhooked the screen and tossed out the directory. I put the latches back in place and zoomed outside.
“…no way she could have gotten out of that storeroom.” The secretary hurried into the office with the policeman behind her. The icy rush of air from the window had already chilled the office. She jolted to a stop. “That window was closed. And look, my directory on my desk is gone. Somehow she got out of the closet and came in here and she’s gone out the window. With my directory.”
I grabbed the directory and rose in the air.
Sergeant Linton was at the window in two strides. “No one’s out there. Not a soul.”
The secretary joined him, peered through the screen. “Look up there.” She pointed above the bare limbs of a sycamore. “There goes my directory.” Her voice was a screech. “Up there. Way up there.”
I shot a defiant glance Heavenward. I knew I shouldn’t, but sometimes people just ask for trouble. With a cheerful smile, I made a circle eight and swooped by the office window. I flipped open the pages and flapped the directory with the vigor of a mallard duck heading for a pond. I shot upward.
Faint cries rose from below. The policeman’s voice was deep and gruff. “Wind gust. Happen anytime. Downdraft. Updraft.”
The secretary’s voice was shrill with an undertone of panic. “How did the directory get up there? Why does it look like it’s flying?”
I made one more flamboyant swoop.
CHAPTER FIVE
I dropped into the cemetery that adjoined St. Mildred’s. I needed a moment to regain my usual calm demeanor. Perhaps Wiggins would take exception to that self-description. Possibly I am not often the epitome of calmness. But I am always upbeat. I did a couple of shuffle steps as I coasted to a stop inside the cemetery gate and sang a verse of “When the Saints Come Marching In.”
In the past, I had always found respite from worldly cares among the cemetery’s old granite stones and newer bronze markers. I strolled past the Hoyt family plot and stopped to admire a scroll inscribed with Spenser’s poignant lines: Sleepe after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas, / Ease after Warre, Death after Life Doth greatly please.
Winter-bare limbs creaked in the ever-present Oklahoma wind. Bradford pears, sweet gums, sycamores, and maples dotted the gentle landscape. In summer, the foliage added comforting swaths of shade in the blazing sunshine. I loved the cemetery equally in every season. Peace surrounded me.
I felt a twinge of remorse over my dramatic departure from the church secretary’s office with the directory. I thought of Precept Five. Once again I had transgressed.
Hey, I’d do better next time.
Of course I would.
I looked down. The directory, firmly gripped in my hand, apparently moved of its own accord a few feet above the ground.
I swirled into being. My suede coat kept me warm from the chill wind. I wiggled my fingers in soft suede gloves. I felt justified in appearing. Clearly I should avoid the possibility of an airborne parish directory disturbing a visitor to the cemetery.
I walked briskly, admiring Christmas wreaths on many of the graves. The ECW hosted a wreath-making coffee the first Saturday in December in the parish hall. I always added holly berries and frosted pinecones to mine. We placed fresh, fragrant wreaths at the graves of those who no longer had family in Adelaide to remember them.
I hurried up the marble steps of the Pritchard mausoleum. Whenever I visited the cemetery, I always stepped inside to stroke the marble greyhound at the head of Maurice Pritchard’s tomb and slide my fingers on the stiff whiskers of the marble Abyssinian at the head of Hannah Pritchard’s tomb. Paying tribute to Maurice and Hannah’s dog and cat is an old Adelaide custom purported to bring good fortune.
I loved the feel of the cold marble beneath my fingers. “Here’s for luck.” Repeated homage had turned the greyhound’s head shiny and added a gloss to the cat’s whiskers.
A deep voice boomed. “Precept Five.”
Air whooshed from my lungs. “Wiggins!”
“Precept Five.” In a rat-a-tat clip, Wiggins quoted: “‘Do not succumb to the earthly temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.’” A heavy sigh. “I am exceedingly disappointed, Bailey Ruth. I overlooked your appearance in Wal-Mart. No harm done. But this latest contretemps—”
Contretemps…What a cosmopolitan word choice for a rural train station agent. Perhaps Wiggins might share some of the uplifting experiences he’d enjoyed as the director of the Department of Good Intentions that had no doubt expanded his vocabulary. I’ll bet he’d been to Paris. I pushed away a pang of jealousy. After all, those in charge received perks not available to foot soldiers. Certainly I was happy to bloom where I’d been planted, as dear St. Thérèse of Lisieux sweetly advised. Moreover, much as I would have thrilled to be helpful in Paris, I loved returning to Adelaide.