Ghost Wanted Read Free Page A

stay out of the way when he reached the central landing. It startles earthly creatures if they bump into an emissary. The concept of an invisible entity with substance may be as puzzling to the reader as my difficulty with time and Heaven. Take my advice—don’t trouble yourself trying to understand the inexplicable.
    The newcomer stopped on the landing. His arm swung up and the flashlight beam illuminated a portrait in a fine gilt frame. “No problems tonight, Miz Lorraine.” There was a defensive edge to the gruff tone, as if he were making an apology of some sort. “I do my best. I can’t be here and there and everywhere at the same time. I’m sorry as can be I mentioned you to that student reporter. But when there were roses everywhere, I thought maybe you were doing something special. Everybody on campus knows you loved giving out roses. I’m sick about those headlines in the student newspaper—”
    I recognized both the portrait and the name. The beautiful woman in the portrait with sleek blonde hair and gray blue eyes was Lorraine Marlow, and she had been dead long before the
Serendipity
went down in the Gulf. I’d often admired this regal portrait on the landing of the central staircase in the college library. I felt a prickle of unease. The man with the flashlight addressed the portrait in a familiar way. I was sure this was not the first time he’d spoken to her.
    â€œâ€”and I’ll keep looking every night ’til I find out who’s behind the trouble. I shouldn’t have shot my mouth off to that reporter. I wish I’d never talked to him. I thought Joe Cooper was a good man, been to Afghanistan and come home to go to school and make something of himself. But he’s disappointed me.”
    My eyes had adjusted to the dark. The speaker was bear-shaped in a dark cotton jacket, dark trousers, and work boots. The left sleeve of the jacket was pinned to the shoulder. I wondered how he had lost that arm. He moved uncomfortably from one foot to another. “Miz Lorraine, I’m doing my best to get to the bottom of it, but there’s so many ways in and out of the library. If only I hadn’t talked about you. I can’t believe what he wrote. I’m going to tell him what I think about him.”
    â€œEverything will work out. Joe’s a nice young man.” The voice was high and clear with a bell-like tone, a kind voice, yet definitely that of a woman accustomed to deference.
    I looked wildly about. But there was only the man with the flashlight looking up at the portrait.
    â€œMiz Lorraine, did you see what he wrote? About the rose in his office?”
    â€œI did leave that particular rose.” The light musical voice sounded happy. “I’m glad. I was there when he talked to that young woman. They are meant for each other. But like so many of the young, they think careers are more important. But I had nothing to do with the other roses.”
    I looked up at the portrait, managed a silent swallow. I had no doubt the woman’s voice belonged to Lorraine Marlow, who had been dead for many years.
    â€œHe didn’t deserve a rose.” The deeper voice was resentful, angry. “Not when he’s acted the way he has, writing you up in the same way he wrote up the gargoyle and that book.”
    â€œDear Ben.” There was laughter and affection in her voice. “Everyone deserves a rose. Love is all that matters. Anyway, none of this is your fault.”
    I scarcely breathed as I listened. The beautiful high voice, full of light and grace and kindness, was encouraging. Nonetheless, I was listening to a disembodied voice with no visible speaker and I knew without doubt I was at the right place at the right time. I had found Wiggins’s damsel in distress.
    In my excitement, I blurted out, “You must be
she
!”
    Wiggins was upset because
she
was in trouble. He’d let slip that he’d always