New York Times bestselling author Carolyn Hart’s ghostly gumshoe Bailey Ruth Raeburn is frequently amusing…but this is the first time she’s been a muse.
When you wish upon a star, you get…Bailey Ruth? You do if you’re a little girl whose mom needs help and you touch the soft heart of Supervisor Wiggins at Heaven’s Department of Good Intentions. Granted it’s not the usual task of an emissary, but then again Bailey Ruth is not your usual emissary. So Wiggins dispatches the spunky spirit to her old hometown of Adelaide, Oklahoma, to help a single mother and struggling writer find some creative solutions to her problems.
Deidre Davenport is just about broke, trying to support her two children, and has her hopes pinned on getting a faculty job with the Goddard College English department. Jay Knox, who is in charge of the writer’s conference she’s participating in, will decide who gets the job, but he’s more interested in her body than her body of work.
Not long after his advances are rejected, Knox turns up dead—and Deirdre’s fingerprints are found on the murder weapon. Bailey Ruth knows Deirdre is innocent, and that the professor’s lewd behavior is bound to have rubbed others the wrong way. Now she must find out who really knocked off Knox...if Deirdre and her family are ever going to have a happy ending.
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Berkley Prime Crime titles by Carolyn Hart
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
Katie Davenport looked up at the stars. Would it make a difference if she asked? After all, she was thirteen, not a little kid anymore, looking up at the night sky and thinking that bright star was listening to her. But still . . . “Star light, star bright, / First star I see tonight, / I wish I may, I wish I might, / Have this wish I wish tonight. Please help my mom.” Katie squeezed her eyes shut. “Star light, star bright . . .”
Paul Wiggins pushed back the stiff cap atop his reddish brown hair. He was a man of his time: thick muttonchop whiskers, a luxuriant walrus mustache, starched high-collared white cotton shirt, heavy flannel trousers supported by suspenders, and a sturdy black leather belt. He turned from the broad window with its commanding view of the rail station platform and silver tracks. A folder rested on the corner of his yellow oak desk. He was rather sure the folder had not been there until this instant.
The folder’s presence reminded him of the power of hopes and wishes that wing their way across starry night skies. He picked up the folder, smiled at a boisterous cover of unicorns, shooting stars, soccer balls, and laptops. He lifted the flap. A dossier contained a photograph of an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with frizzy brown hair and an expressive face. Ah yes, Deirdre Davenport, single mom, struggling author, job seeker. He scanned the facts. Deirdre Davenport was in a tough spot, though not the kind of trouble usually dealt with by members of his department. Still, heartfelt pleas mattered to him. “Star light, star bright . . .”
Slowly, he nodded. He knew the perfect person to send to the rescue.
I welcomed the gentle slap of a swell, quite different from towering waves that crashed over and sank the Serendipity on our ill-fated fishing trip in the Gulf. A steady backstroke carried me through warm salty water toward a beach similar to Padre Island. I took a breath of salt-scented air, then abruptly, as if galvanized, I picked up speed.
I had a sudden bright picture of Wiggins in my mind. Wiggins, the chief of the Department of Good Intentions, dispatched emissaries to earth to aid those in trouble. In my mind, I heard the sounder on his desk amplifying the clack of the Teletype. I reached shallow water and stood. True to my thought, a telegram sprouted in my hand. Breathlessly, I read the message:Your advice and counsel sought. Come at once if possible.
Wiggins is old-fashioned. The fact that telegrams have been supplanted on earth by texts and e-mails is of no interest to him. He sent telegrams when he was a stationmaster in the early nineteen hundreds. He sends telegrams now.
I moved fast, the sudsy, warm water splashing as I went. On the beach my ethereal form appeared in a fetching summer blouse and skirt. No need for towels and such. I simply thought as I wished to be and there I was, red curls shiny as a new copper penny. I waved to gain Bobby Mac’s attention.
He looked across the water and waved in return.
I gestured toward the sky, pulled air deep into my lungs, and managed a creditable imitation of a deep train whistle.
Bobby Mac understood at once, gave me a jaunty farewell salute.
I waved a kiss to my husband. What a man. Bobby Mac is still as dark-haired and handsome as the high school senior who stopped a skinny redheaded sophomore in the hall one day, and said—blunt, forthright, and determined—“We’re going to the prom.” We’ve been going together ever since, good days and bad, happy days and sad. Someday, when we have more time, I’ll tell you the secrets of a happy marriage. Number one? We laughed together. We’re still laughing.
Right now, I had other fish to fry. One of Heaven’s many delights is the ability to go anywhere in an instant. Think, and there you are. I hurried up the steps of a turn-of-the-century redbrick train station. There was no door. As I’ve explained before, Heaven doesn’t run to doors. No one is shut in or shut out.
Heaven?
Do I see an incredulous expression? Hear a cackle of amusement at such naïveté?
It isn’t my role to convince skeptics that Heaven exists, despite my firsthand experience.
Oh yeah? comes a sardonic reply. So who are you and who stamped your ticket to the Pearly Gates?
In a quick thumbnail, I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma. That’s right, late as indearly departed, though that sounds a little too solemn for me. I prefer happy voyager. That was my attitude on earth as well. As for Bobby Mac, when he wasn’t hunting for oil, he was fishing, and he never met a tarpon he wouldn’t chase. That quest led to our arrival in Heaven when a storm in the Gulf sank theSerendipity. We were on the shady side of fifty when we arrived, but another of Heaven’s delights is the ability to enjoy your very best age. Twenty-seven was a very good year for me, and that’s how I now appear both here and when on earth. I’m a redhead with a spattering of freckles. Green eyes. Slender. Five foot five. A few revelations (not Revelations; that material is more suitable for saints, especially Teresa of Avila, who is as charming as she is erudite; and yes, I do know her. So there!): I love to laugh. I really, really try to follow the Precepts. (More about that later.) I have a taste for fashion.
Fashion. I’d made a quick choice on the beach. I wanted to look just so for my arrival here. I felt like June, the month of daffodils and daisies and dandelions. Yes, dandelions. I love their delicate toppings of fluff. Those feathery crowns inspired my choice of a gossamer-fine pale blue knit top over a white linen tank and white midcalf cotton pants and white wedgies that added an inch to my height. Admittedly, the colors favor a redhead, but I don’t think it’s vain to wish to appear one’s best.
I hurried inside the station.
Wiggins gazed through the window at silver tracks winding into the sky, his genial countenance thoughtful. A thumb and forefinger tugged at his bristly mustache.
“Wiggins!” I caroled.
He looked around, smiled. “Bailey Ruth. It’s good of you to come.” He glanced at a gaily decorated folder on his desk, then at me, started to speak, stopped.
I sensed he was having second thoughts about his summons. Perhaps my costume was too frivolous. Wiggins admires restraint, i.e., he is fond of plain, unadorned—let me be utterly frank—hideously unattractive clothing as an indication of modesty and docility. As Bobby Mac would agree, perhaps too vehemently, docile has never been in my job description. However, Wiggins clearly must perceive a problem calling for my expertise. If, however, my lovely costume was off-putting, I would—nobly—sacrifice for the cause.
With an inward sigh, I transformed my appearance: a prim dull green cotton blouse, a straight khaki skirt, flat black loafers, my tangled red curls drawn back in a bun. My face is rather thin. I hoped I didn’t look like a redheaded ferret. I felt my nose wriggle. Perhaps I’m too suggestible.
Wiggins’s expression remained thoughtful, preoccupied.
The problem, then, wasn’t my appearance.
I thankfully...
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