Ghost at Work Read Free Page B

could read delaide, Oklahoma stamped in bright red. I jumped to my feet and raced toward the platform. The Rescue Express slid to a stop. A conductor leaned out to help me board.
    Suddenly heavy footsteps sounded behind me. Wiggins caught up, breathing fast. He thrust another ticket at me. “Your ticket’s torn. That will never do. Here’s a proper one.”
    Clutching my new and perfect ticket, I clasped a strong hand and swung aboard.
    A stentorian shout sounded from the platform. “The rector’s wife is in dire straits. Do your best for Kathleen Abbott.”

CHAPTER 2
    B rrr. I hadn’t been cold in a long time. A gusting wind fluttered autumn leaves from a big maple and a sweet gum. Daylight was almost gone, though enough dusk remained to emphasize the stark shadows thrown by the evergreens that fringed one side of the yard. I was standing near a puddle, shivering and wishing for a nice warm coat…Oh. How nice. I smoothed the arm of a thick woolen jacket. It had been one of my favorites, red-and-black plaid. I remembered it well.
    I looked at the back of a rambling two-story frame house with excited recognition. “Ohhh…” My voice was soft. Wiggins could not have pleased me more. I’d been here many times. The sweeping backyard was one of the glories of the rectory. I’d enjoyed croquet and watermelon socials and volleyball games here, especially when we had that very athletic priest, Father Meadows. He had been quite hearty, with a penchant for mountain climbing, so he’d jumped at an invitation to lead a church in Colorado.
    A dim light shone above the back steps to the screened-in porch. I moved forward eagerly. I came around the old stone well and stopped, breathless and shocked. My heart pounded.
    Bulbous red eyes glowed in a huge rounded body with four great striped legs that arched to the ground. A moaning sound issued from the huge creature’s orange lips. A few feet away, a skeleton lounged in a lawn chair, bony hands holding a book, one leg folded over the other. A witch on a broomstick poked from the woodpile. Her dark cloak streamed in the wind.
    Gradually my gasping breaths eased. Obviously, it was near Halloween. The monstrous spider was eerily realistic. I hoped this wasn’t Wiggins’s idea of a joke. Was there really a Kathleen Abbott in dire straits or had some Halloween mischief gotten out of hand?
    I was uncertain whether to call out for Kathleen. Perhaps if I went inside, I’d find her. As I came nearer the rectory, I became aware of a dimly visible young woman standing rigidly on the back porch.
    I wafted through the door. Her frozen posture was understandable. She gazed down at a dead man lying on the worn wooden planks, a dead man with a small bullet wound in his left temple.
    â€œOh my, oh my.” She wavered unsteadily on her feet, lifted a shaking hand to her lips. Frantically, she looked around. She stepped toward the back door, peered into the yard. She took another stumbling step forward. A series of unmistakable expressions flitted over her face—shock, apprehension, panic.
    If she hadn’t been terrified, she would have been pretty. Curly dark hair framed a long face with deep-set brown eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a generous mouth.
    I admired her cardigan, multicolored, with swaths of violet, purple, and blue in some kind of fuzzy material. Very attractive and the material was quite new to me, rather reminiscent of angora. She was trim in a black turtleneck and slim-fitting dark pants.
    â€œHe’s dead!” Her voice was a whisper. “What am I going to do?”
    â€œCall the police.” I clapped my fingers to my mouth. I hadn’t intended to speak.
    â€œI can’t.” It was a moan. The moan turned into a strangled gasp. She looked wildly about. “Who’s there? Where are you?” Skirting the body, she hurried to the back door, flung it open, clattered down the steps. In