Ghost at Work by Carolyn Hart Page A

family. Now—”
    The phone rang.
    Kathleen popped up and grabbed the little phone. She glanced at the tiny window and smiled. She was genuinely pretty when she looked happy. She answered with a lilt. “Bill.” As she listened, the smile fled. “Sure. I know. Of course. Try to grab something to eat.” Her shoulders sagged. She walked back to the chair, dropped into it. “Sure. See you.” She clicked off the phone, set it on the table. “Whenever.” She buried her face in her hands. Her body sagged in sad resignation.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I would have liked to give her a hug, but I didn’t want to see her cringe.
    She dropped her hands, pulled a Kleenex from her pocket, swiped away tears. “I wouldn’t cry except everything’s so awful. And I can’t even tell him—”
    I scooted forward in my chair. “Who’s Bill?”
    â€œHow can you know all about Grandmother and not know who Bill is?” Her eyes glinted with suspicion.
    I took a deep breath and launched into my narrative. I tried to be cogent, though she looked bewildered about Wiggins and the Rescue Express, but finally she seemed to understand.
    Huge brown eyes stared at me. “You’re a ghost.”
    â€œShh.” I looked warily around. Wiggins would not be pleased. In fact, I had the strangest feeling that he was quite near, his walrus mustache quivering in indignation. That was absurd. I mustn’t get nervy. Perhaps Kathleen’s uneasiness was affecting me.
    Kathleen hunched in her chair, her eyes huge. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Huh-uh.”
    â€œI am an emissary.” That was Wiggins’s line, and I was stuck with it.
    â€œIf you’re dead and you’re here”—Kathleen thumped the table—“you are a ghost.”
    â€œAll right, ghost it is.” I spoke soothingly. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m a ghost or emissary.” Why did I feel a sudden chill? “The point is that I am here to rescue you from an almighty mess.”
    Kathleen rubbed her face with the tissue. “Mess. That’s what it is. A great big mess. Your Wiggins had it right when he said I was in dire straits. I am definitely in dire straits even if it sounds like an episode from The Perils of Pauline .”
    I clapped my hands. “Mama loved Pearl White. Mama said she had the most expressive eyes and great grace and style. Mama showed us pictures. I loved the hairstyles then, those soft puffy curls. Pauline was so daring. I hope I can do half as well.”
    Kathleen closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, shook her head. “Spoofer and The Perils of Pauline and a body on the back porch.” Her smile was strained, though she tried to be gracious. “I appreciate your good intentions, Bailey Ruth, but maybe…” She looked yearningly at the back door. “Maybe you can go on back to wherever you came from now. Everything will be all right now that Daryl’s gone.” She pressed fingers against her cheeks. “Except somebody brought him here. That scares me. What if they know—” She broke off, her expression distraught.
    I began to suspect my task wasn’t done. What could be known about Kathleen and a man whose body had been dumped on her back porch? “Know what?” I didn’t have two red-haired children to no avail. Anybody who can survive the teenage travails of two redheads can worm the truth out of anyone. I fixed a commanding eye on Kathleen.
    I saw the desire to jump and run, and I saw her shoulders slump. I doubt she quite articulated her thought, but, clearly, wherever she went, I could go and no doubt would.
    She drew a ragged breath. “—about me and Daryl Murdoch at his lake cabin Wednesday. Or about Raoul. What if Daryl wrote something down? It would be just like him. I don’t care what I say, nobody will ever believe nothing happened. Bill would