Ghost on the Case (A Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel, Band 8) - Hardcover

Hart, Carolyn

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0451488563 ISBN 13: 9780451488565

Verlag: Berkley, 2017

Inhaltsangabe

Bailey Ruth Raeburn is back, racing against the Heavenly clock in an all-new mystery from the New York Times bestselling author of Ghost Times Two.
 
Bailey Ruth finds herself comforting a distraught sister when she’s sent to Adelaide, Oklahoma, on her latest mission. Susan Gilbert receives a $100,000 ransom demand for her younger sibling. When the caller wants Susan to pay a visit to her wealthy boss and take the cash from his safe, Bailey Ruth follows Susan to the home. But she finds herself in a quandary, knowing that robbery is hardly a Heavenly pursuit.
 
While Susan waits to hear back from the kidnappers, Bailey Ruth attempts to piece together how the criminals targeted Susan and how they know about her boss’s money. At a luncheon the previous week, Susan’s boss asked her to open the safe so all the attendees knew it was filled with cash. Could one of the rich man’s closest confidants be behind the abduction?
 
Bailey Ruth is positive she can use her detective skills to figure out which luncheon guest arranged the kidnapping. But an unexpected twist in the case soon has Bailey Ruth seeking a murderer who has plans to send more victims to the great beyond...

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the New York Times bestselling author of sixty 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 enjoys mysteries, walking in the park, and cats.

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Chapter 1

Imagine a maple leaf tinged with red and gold drifting in air buoyant as a salty sea. That effortless lightness is as near as I can come to sharing my feeling on another lovely day in Paradise.

Do I see a startled stare? Think what you wish, but Heaven is as real as the sound of a melody or the joy of effort or the welling of love when you see your special other. There is the reality of atoms and there is the reality of spirit.

I simply wish to explain this particular moment. A brief introduction is in order.

I, Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma, am not in hog heaven, as we used to say in Adelaide when enjoying a succulent baby back rib or holding a winning hand at bridge, but in God's Heaven. Not, I am quick to say, because of merit. Heavens no. But when our cabin cruiser sank in the Gulf during a storm and Bobby Mac and I made our way here, we were welcomed with open arms.

I shaded my eyes as I strolled on a sandy beach with Mimi, our nippy wirehaired terrier, and gentlemanly Sleuth, a gleaming black Lab. Mr. Easy, our golden retriever, bounded into the surf. Ahead an umbrella shaded two beach chairs. Bobby Mac, my tarpon-seeking husband, was out in the bay in Serendipity, our cabin cruiser. Curled next to my chair were Spoofer One and Two and Three and Four. We always called our cats Spoofer. Now they have various nicknames, Mama Spoo, Spoof, S. G. (Spoofer Grande), and S. P. (Spoofer Primus). The cats, instinctively attuned to our thoughts, knew my destination and arrived to relax comfortably until I reached them.

I detect skepticism. I am aware that some on earth darkly say, "Don't expect to see your dogs and cats in Heaven." I can state declaratively (I once taught English) that this claim is false and cruel. Dogs, cats, llamas, goats, parakeets, animal friends of whatever persuasion, are here. Saint Francis wouldn't have it any other way. As he prayed, "Praised be You my Lord with all Your creatures." And talk about creatures! I saw Saint Francis recently with a goldfinch on one shoulder, a rabbit hopping nearby, and- Oh, I forgot. According to the Precepts for Earthly Visitation, I'm not supposed to share everything I know about Heaven.

Perhaps my realization that I was being a bit too forthcoming about my surroundings accounts for my summons from Wiggins. It is my honor to work for Heaven's Department of Good Intentions, and Paul Wiggins is my supervisor. Wiggins, as he prefers to be addressed, dispatches emissaries from Heaven to help those in trouble, and each emissary is charged to reticence about Heavenly ways. After all, each soul's day will come when all will be known.

Or perhaps the paperback book tucked in my beach bag caught Wiggins's attention. I enjoy Dickens and Trollope and Galsworthy, Emily Bront‘, Pearl Buck, and Theodore Dreiser, all suitable to peruse in an English class. But beach reading? Give me a good Erle Stanley Gardner, Brett Halliday, or Donald Hamilton while I wiggle my toes in the sand. The '30s, '40s, and '50s were the heyday of the private-eye novel with a fifth of rye (preferred by John J. Malone) in the bottom desk drawer and a come-hither blonde in the shadows (present in ninety-nine point nine percent of tough-guy books).

In any event, one moment I was heading for a lazy day with a fast-paced hard-boiled novel and the next I was reading a telegram from Wiggins. Wiggins is a man of his time. Telegrams heralded important news in the early twentieth century. Black letters streamed on a flimsy yellow sheet: In a dilemma. Little choice. Please hasten for consultation.

"Yoo-hoo." Not dignified but I was ecstatic. My shout reached Bobby Mac. He looked toward the shore. His midnight black hair gleamed in the sun. He is stocky and powerful, as handsome now as when he was a senior and I was a sophomore and he told me firmly that he was taking me to the prom. We've been dancing together ever since. His hand lifted in a generous farewell wave that said: That's my gal. Go do your stuff. Nobody takes care of business like you do. What a man. Always on my side. And vice versa. That's the secret to a happy marriage.

One of Heaven's charms is the ability to go from here to there as quick as a thought. Picture your destination, you are there. I quickly changed from a one-piece swimsuit, the Esther Williams style is my preference, and fetching Hawaiian cover-up and white sandals, to a suitable costume to visit the Department of Good Intentions. Wiggins admires modesty. I keep up with earth's fashions. Wiggins would be most approving of the new style of longer skirts. I could dress appropriately and yet feel quite swanky. A blue box-top blouse with cute cap sleeves and an almost ankle-length slim knit skirt made me feel like a model. Tall heels with a beaded strap and open toes were a perfect match. Choose your costume. Dress is our choice and is subject to any whim. If I am in an elegant Bergdorf black dress mood, presto. If I prefer a subdued tweed suit and a silk blouse with pearls and sensible heels, presto. Paradise affords joy for fashionistas.

The heels rat-a-tatted as I hurried up the steps. On earth Wiggins ran a country train station. He had re-created his station to serve as the departure point for the gleaming Rescue Express that rumbles on silver rails to carry emissaries to earth.

I burst through the waiting room and into his office, which overlooks the platform. Wiggins strode toward me, big hand outstretched. Wiggins's florid face looked perplexed. His reddish brows were drawn in a worried frown. His walrus mustache seemed to quiver with uncertainty. "Bailey Ruth." He came to a full stop. On his desk the telegraph sounder clattered.

"I'm here," I said brightly. "Ready to go."

He did not appear reassured. His frown deepened. "I need a skilled detective. C. Auguste Dupin. Sherlock Holmes. Allan Pinkerton."

I was familiar with the authors Wiggins enjoyed. Obviously Wiggins sought ratiocination. Well, I can ratiocinate with the best of them. My turn for a full stop. Heaven compels honesty. Perhaps my claim was an exaggeration. Okay. I'm no equal to his heroes. But I didn't spend all my time as an English teacher reading Ivanhoe and A Tale of Two Cities (though my heart will always belong to Charles Darnay). A copy of Brett Halliday's Bodies Are Where You Find Them sprouted in my hand, a red-haired man leaning forward to support the body of a blonde on the cover. The all-cap title in stark black letters ran down the right side of the cover.

I thrust the book at Wiggins. "I've read them all." It pleased me that Mike Shayne, the Miami PI, was a redhead. I considered that a good omen. I fluffed my own shining red curls. For the record, I'm five foot five of energy and enthusiasm with curious green eyes in a skinny freckled face. Since in Heaven we can be what we wish to be, I chose myself at twenty-seven. It was a very good year.

Wiggins held the paperback in his hand, looked down. Clearly he found the cover a trifle shocking.

I hastened to explain. "Mike Shayne outfoxed the bad guys. Simple. Direct. No b-" I started to say bull but feared Wiggins might find the term unladylike. "-boring diversions. Give Shayne a problem and he waded right in. He figured out who was pulling the strings, tracked down the bad guys. What he did, I can do."

...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Berkley
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2017
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0451488563
• ISBN 13: 9780451488565
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Auflage: 1
• Anzahl der Seiten: 272
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: ankabu; service@ankabu.de; ; Erdweg 17; Pöttmes; Bayern; Deutschland