Ghost at Work by Carolyn Hart

that ends well.” I was willing to be charitable. “Did you put the wheelbarrow in the shed?”
    Kathleen shuddered. “I put it up and pushed the button inside to lock the door. I folded up the tarp and put it out there.” She bent her head toward the porch. “I’ll never use it again. Never—”
    â€œSteady.” I reached out to pat her arm, but she moved away.
    â€œAll right.” Her tone was resigned. “You know everything, so you must really be here.” She still faced me with her hands raised, palms out. Not a welcoming gesture. “If you’re here, who are you?”
    That was a reasonable question. A woman has every right to know the identity of a guest—especially an unexpected guest—in her kitchen. The difficulty was in knowing how much to say. Whip quick, I decided a long-winded explanation of my history and connection to Adelaide was surely unimportant. I matter-of-factly announced, “I’m Bailey Ruth Raeburn.”
    The effect was amazing. Kathleen’s eyes widened. She appeared to be having difficulty breathing.
    I put my hands on my hips, possibly in a confrontational manner. “For Heaven’s sake, what’s wrong with you now?”
    She struggled for breath. The words came in uneven spurts. “…crazy…has to be all in my mind…she’s dead…that’s Grandmother’s sister…” Then, angrily, “Why are you impersonating my grandmother’s sister?”
    I flung myself toward her, wrapped my arms around stiff shoulders. “You’re Kitty’s granddaughter? How wonderful.” Finally I loosed my embrace of her rigid body. “Kathleen, your grandmama would be mighty upset to know you were treating me this way.”
    â€œYou’re too young.” Her tone was accusing.
    What sweet words. “I’m me. As I was.” And will always be. Odd to think that on earth though wrinkles had come and a sprinkling of silver in my hair and an occasional pang that our time here was fleeting, I’d still, deep within, been fresh and new. Now that was the me Kathleen saw. I wondered how the world would be if no one judged anyone else on the basis of age. Perhaps I could write a letter to the editor…Oh, Wiggins would deplore a public statement. I’d have to mull this over, but for now Kathleen must be persuaded. “My dear, take my word for it. You see, Heaven has no calendar for anyone.”
    She squinted at me. “You do look like an old picture of Grandmother’s sister.” Kathleen looked wily. “How did you die?”
    â€œA storm in the Gulf. Bobby Mac and I went down in the Serendipity .”
    She folded her arms. “You could have looked that up somewhere.”
    â€œMy dear, you have such a suspicious nature. If you have any doubt about who I am, Kitty always had a cat named Spoofer. It didn’t matter whether that cat was black or white or tortoiseshell, that cat was Spoofer. I don’t know where anyone would look that up.”
    Kathleen swallowed, said jerkily, “Spoofer.”
    â€œThe last Spoofer”—I was emphatic—“was all black except she had white whiskers and a white throat and tummy and four white paws. And she bit.”
    Suddenly there was a thump. I looked on the table. A huge black cat walked majestically toward us, yellow eyes gleaming.
    Kathleen waved weakly. “Get down, Spoofer.”
    I laughed aloud.
    Kathleen didn’t join in. Instead she walked unsteadily to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sank into it.
    I followed, settling on the opposite side of the table. How dear of Wiggins to send me to help Kitty’s granddaughter. I hoped I was scheduled to stay for a while. Since I was still here, there must be more for me to do. Perhaps I was expected to offer reassurance, though so far my appearance had not appeared to afford Kathleen any pleasure. “We’re