Ghost Times Two (Bailey Ruth Ghost Mysteries, 4, Band 4) - Hardcover

Hart, Carolyn

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0425283739 ISBN 13: 9780425283738

Verlag: BERKLEY BOOKS, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

Carolyn Hart—New York Times bestselling author of Ghost to the Rescue—returns with a new Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel in which one woman shatters the glass ceiling...with a little help from beyond.

Bailey Ruth Raeburn’s latest mission is to guide the happy-go-lucky spirit of a deceased young man named Jimmy to the next life. But Jimmy is determined to watch over his still-living girlfriend, Megan, whom he wants to be happy even without him—which is easier said than done.

As if being haunted by her late boyfriend wasn’t enough, Megan is dealing with an arrogant, manipulative senior partner who threatens to fire Megan’s vulnerable secretary if Megan accepts a partnership at another law firm. She’s in an impossible bind.

Since Jimmy refuses to move on while Megan is being blackmailed, Bailey Ruth agrees to help him. But after the partner turns up dead and Megan is found at the crime scene, Bailey Ruth and Jimmy have to find a way to uncover a killer before the love of Jimmy’s life is ordered to spend a lifetime behind bars...

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty-five novels of mystery and suspense including the Bailey Ruth Ghost novels and the Death on Demand Mysteries. Her books have won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. She has also been honored with the Amelia Award for significant contributions to the traditional mystery from Malice Domestic and was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Hart lives in Oklahoma City, where she enjoys mysteries, walking in the park, and cats. She and her husband, Phil, serve as staff—cat owners will understand—to brother and sister brown tabbies.

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Chapter 1

Abright yellow sheet, eight inches wide, six and one-half inches deep, sprouted in my right hand. Excitement propelled me from a hammock strung between two thirty-foot-tall palms. I luxuriated in the warmth of soft white sand beneath my bare feet. Out in tranquil translucent water Bobby Mac completed a cast from the deck of the Serendipity, our cabin cruiser. Perfect beauty on a perfect day.

If that sounds idyllic, Heaven provides every pleasure. Whatever vista we most enjoy, there we are. Steep slopes with fresh snow, a bustling visit to a Heavenly Harrods (oh my, that royal blue body-sculpted sleeveless knit dress), reverie in dappled shade beneath live oak trees. Or perhaps it is conversation you enjoy; Dorothy Parker's wit is always pointed and poignant, Abigail Adams's pithy comments intrigue, Socrates provides gentle queries.

Eagerly I scanned the telegram: Come soonest. Spectral scandal brewing. Wiggins

I waggled the telegram to catch my husband's attention. Braced against the pull of a fish, Bobby Mac shouted, "Wiggins? Good for you. Have fun."

A summons from Wiggins. What could be more Heavenly?

Telegram in the age of digital connections? Heavenly? Dorothy Parker? Abigail Adams? Socrates? Wiggins? Perhaps I should explain. If we haven't met before, I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma. Late as in deceased. Late as in dearly departed. Late ever since Bobby Mac and I went down to the depths when a storm struck the Gulf and sank the Serendipity. If contemplating spirits and Heaven makes you uneasy, it isn't my intention to distress you. Unequivocally real are a pump jack's rhythmic chug as it pulls oil to the surface, a moose on a hillside, bacteria in a petri dish. Equally real are gossamer thoughts, the caress of a breeze, the memory of a kiss. From there, the imaginative understand there are dimensions beyond the material world.

That's where I come in. Or from. I am pleased to inform you that I have the honor to serve as an emissary from Heaven's Department of Good Intentions, returning to earth to help someone in trouble.

Do I sense amusement? A dismissal of the possibility of Heaven? Pause, please. Recall an instant when joy suffused you. Perhaps you heard a haunting melody or someone you loved stepped into the room or dawn splashed the sky with red and orange. You've experienced moments of transcendent glory that can never be described or explained. For a quivering, unforgettable instant, you knew beauty in your soul. Well, my dears, that is Heaven.

As for the Department of Good Intentions, come with me.

Travel in Heaven is as quick as the thought. I wished to be at the Department of Good Intentions. I was there. I walked up a wide path toward a small redbrick country train station, circa 1910. Wiggins, who runs the department, was a stationmaster in life and chose a train station to dispatch Heavenly emissaries to earth.

A gentle breeze stirred my red curls. I knew my freckle-spattered face was alight with happiness. I looked my best in a brightly patterned sarong blouse and white Bermuda shorts. My pace slowed. Wiggins is a fine man, but rather formal. I learned his first name in my most recent visit to earth, but I would never presume to address him as Paul. Wiggins he is and Wiggins he remains, a man of his time in a high-collared white shirt, heavy gray flannel trousers supported by both suspenders and a wide black belt, sturdy black leather shoes. Arm garters puff his shirtsleeves between shoulder and elbow. He wears a stiff dark cap unless seated at his desk, where he dons a green eyeshade. Wiggins is always warm and welcoming, but he has a somewhat unrealistic view-at least to me-of the qualities he expects from the agents he dispatches. He envisions emissaries who excel in decorum and restraint and, of course, modesty in dress.

I do not excel in decorum, restraint, or modesty in dress. Oh fudge. To be absolutely honest-a Heavenly requisite-I have been known to belt out "Come On-a My House" in a loud soprano while tap-dancing in a dŽcolletŽ spangle-spattered midthigh red chiffon cocktail dress. Heaven encourages us to be the best we ever were, and I am partial to a rollicking twenty-seven, which was a very good year for me. I'm a flaming redhead, narrow face with curious green eyes, freckles, and a willingness to smile.

I looked at my reflection in a crystal column. Were the cerise and crimson in my sarong blouse too much? Wiggins doesn't understand how the right outfit makes a woman feel on top of the world, which can be quite an aid in a tough situation on earth. I like dramatic colors. I adore short skirts. (Who doesn't have good legs at twenty-seven?) Shoes can be a glorious adventure. I looked down at red leather sandals adorned with delicate white shells.

. . . decorum, modesty, restraint . . .

With a sigh, I watched my image transform in the crystal. As with traveling from one point to another, a change in appearance occurs immediately. Instead of the brightly patterned sarong blouse and Annapolis white shorts (who's cuter than a sailor in bell-bottom whites?), a long, bilious green dress drooped over dull green moccasins. I shuddered. There was a limit. Modest white sandals replaced the moccasins.

I clutched the long skirt, held it aloft, couldn't resist a ruffled white petticoat, and rushed up the path and the steps to the station. I hurried through the waiting room. Travelers of all descriptions occupied the wooden benches: a bearded monk with a staff; a young woman in a WWI Red Cross nurse uniform; a Roman matron; a cowboy in a Stetson, white shirt, black vest, stiff denim trousers, and boots; a flapper in a beaded dress; a farmer in a heavy flannel shirt, coveralls, and earth-stained work boots; a broad-faced, heavyset financier in a Savile Row suit and homburg, hands folded atop a malacca cane.

I passed through the door marked Station Agent. Wiggins sat at a sturdy golden oak desk that faced the platform. Through a broad window, he could see shining tracks that wound into the sky. A telegraph sounder rested to the left of a heavy manila folder.

At the sound of my steps, Wiggins swung around in his swivel chair, came to his feet. "Bailey Ruth." He removed his green eyeshade. He strode toward me, reddish hair thick and unruly, walrus mustache magnificent, broad face smiling, hands outstretched. "You came at once."

"Of course." I resisted the impulse to stand stiffly and salute. There is something about Wiggins . . .

He stopped and looked down at me.

I saw the usual register of emotions he displayed upon my arrival, whether responding to a summons or volunteering my assistance, affection mixed with apprehension, admiration diluted by wariness.



He cleared his throat. "Harrumph."

Honestly, that's what Wiggins often says, harrumph.

I resisted the impulse to serenade him with "(Ghost) Riders in the Sky." Wiggins takes great pride in the Rescue Express and abhors the term ghost. Wiggins insists that those he dispatches are Heavenly emissaries. That's all very well and good, but I know a cabbage when I see a cabbage, a love song when the violins play, and cashmere when I touch it. A spirit returning to earth, even if well intentioned, is a ghost.

"Ghost," he blurted.

Startled, I blurted in return, "Ghost?" Was he reading my mind? That simply isn't done in Heaven. Private thoughts, though hopefully sacred and not profane, are private thoughts.

He began to pace, broad face furrowed in frustration. "Not acceptable. Irresponsible." A rueful smile tugged at his generous mouth. "I can't say I don't understand." He swung toward me. "That's why I sent for you."

This did not sound promising.

"True love," he said, his voice gentle, "never ends." A huge sigh. "You know how I feel about...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: BERKLEY BOOKS
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2016
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0425283739
• ISBN 13: 9780425283738
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 304
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar