Ghost Blows a Kiss, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Carolyn Hart
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Also by Carolyn Hart
Bailey Ruth Ghost mysteries
GHOST AT WORK
MERRY, MERRY GHOST
GHOST IN TROUBLE
GHOST GONE WILD
GHOST WANTED
GHOST TO THE RESCUE
GHOST TIMES TWO
GHOST ON THE CASE
GHOST UPS HER GAME
Death on Demand series
LAUGHED ‘TIL HE DIED
DEAD BY MIDNIGHT
DEATH COMES SILENTLY
DEAD, WHITE, AND BLUE
DEATH AT THE DOOR
DON’T GO HOME
WALKING ON MY GRAVE
Henrie O series
DEAD MAN’S ISLAND
SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN
DEATH IN LOVERS’ LANE
DEATH IN PARADISE
DEATH ON THE RIVER WALK
RESORT TO MURDER
SET SAIL FOR MURDER
GHOST BLOWS A KISS
Carolyn Hart
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Carolyn Hart, 2021
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Carolyn Hart to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9048-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-789-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0528-5 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
To Lisa Seidman who laughs with Bailey Ruth.
ONE
I cherish Emily Dickinson’s If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain. As a high-school English teacher, I weekly assigned an essay on the meaning of the quote I printed on the blackboard, everything from Erma Bombeck’s It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else, to Plautus’s Consider the little mouse, how sagacious an animal it is which never entrusts its life to one hole only.
Sudsy warm water swirled around my ankles (think Galveston in August) as I enjoyed another lovely day in Paradise, strolling in saltwater and picturing a sagacious mouse. In an academic robe? Or perhaps twirling his whiskers.
‘That’s a boy!’ Bobby Mac’s robust shout urged our black Lab Sleuth to retrieve the ball bobbing in the surf. Bobby Mac is as dark-haired and vigorous now as when we met in high school. My husband never met a wave he didn’t challenge, a tarpon he didn’t chase, or a dog he didn’t love. And yes, our dogs and cats are with us in Heaven.
Heaven? Do I hear polite laughter? Or perhaps your glance is dismissive. Rest assured, as you will assuredly rest one day, Heaven exists. Those who deny that reality also scoff at the possibility of our faithful earthly companions joining us. St Francis points out that Heaven would not be Heavenly without all of God’s creatures. Edith Wharton’s sweet observation danced in my mind: My little dog – a heartbeat at my feet.
Heaven? St Francis? Dogs? Cats? Oh yes, and parrots, donkeys, goldfish, and rabbits. I sense bewilderment. Perhaps I should present my credentials. I am the late, as in Dearly Departed, Bailey Ruth Raeburn of Adelaide, Oklahoma, a lovely small town nestled in the rolling hills of south central Oklahoma. Bobby Mac and I arrived in Heaven precipitously when he ignored lowering black clouds to pursue a tarpon in the Gulf of Mexico. A summer storm sank Serendipity, our cruiser. We were on the shady side of fifty when we met St Peter. Age, of course, is up to you in Heaven. Twenty-seven was a happy year for me and that’s how I Appear, flaming red hair, a skinny face, green eyes, lots of freckles, five feet five inches of curiosity, energy, and, I hope, fun. As e. e. cummings wrote: The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.
One moment I was barefoot in sudsy foam. The next I clutched a telegram in one eager hand. The message was a summons, oh happy day, from Wiggins, who supervises Heaven’s Department of Good Intentions. The department is housed in a replica of a train station circa 1910, when Paul Wiggins was a stationmaster. Now he dispatches Heavenly emissaries on the Rescue Express to help those in trouble on earth.
I adore Wiggins, though he is a stickler for rules. Yes, there are definite rules (Precepts) for emissaries. I am abashed to admit I sometimes have a problem with rules. I quickly murmured the Precepts aloud, hoping to reassure Wiggins that this time I would honor each and every one. I would. Yes. I would.
Precepts for Earthly Visitation
1. Avoid public notice.
2. No consorting with other departed spirits.
3. Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.
4. Become visible only when absolutely necessary.
5. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you.
6. Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.
7. Information about Heaven is not yours to impart …
I will posit here that I am not willfully ignoring Precept Seven. I am simply establishing my bona fides. Wiggins would surely approve. He is thoughtful, kind, and very proper. He believes in Rules and Regulations. I recalled the last time I recited the Precepts to him. Wiggins sorrowfully pointed out that implementation, not recitation, was the goal.
Wiggins is very much a man of his time. He has firm ideas of maidenly decorum and circumspection. Decorum and circumspection do not describe me. I am impulsive, outspoken (I booted the high-school football captain from my class. You have to live in Oklahoma to understand the enormity of that offense) and I am perhaps a tad reckless. I do try to honor the Precepts. I always intend to honor the Precepts, but the results, to be generous, are mixed, so the telegram in my hand was a thrill. Wiggins was calling on me despite any misgivings he might (oh, all right, surely does) harbor.
I immediately transformed my appearance. Gone was the cream hibiscus-patterned swimsuit, replaced by a green silk top, ankle-length gray skirt and respectable two-inch black heels. I suppressed a slight shudder, but Wiggins equates fashion with frivolity. I almost added oversized horn-rim glasses, but I have my limits. I checked the message: Great peril. No time to lose. Come posthaste. I waggled the yellow sheet at Bobby Mac, who understood at once.
I arrived immediately at the replica of Wiggins’s train station. In Heaven you simply wish to be there and you are. Travelers thronged on the platform. A languorous blonde in a magnificent 1940s evening gown, a gorgeous shade of lavender, gave me a sweet smile as I brushed past. A seventeenth-century English Cavalier sporting a scarlet feather in his black felt hat looked at me, his dark brown eyes admiring. I flashed an appreciative smile. Some verities are constant, whether in the sixteenth or twenty-first century. Men admire women. As Shakespeare elegantly wrote: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see …
Suddenly Wiggins was at my side as thundering wheels and a deep-throated whoo announced the arrival of the Rescue Express. A stiff blue hat with a small black brim perched on Wiggins’s thick reddish hair. A walrus mustache adorned his florid face. He wore his usual high-collared white shirt with arm garters between elbow and shoulder. A thick black belt, aided by suspenders, supported heavy gray flannel trousers. His sturdy black leather shoes glistened with polish. But he lacked his usual aura of orderliness. ‘Jump right aboard.’ He took my elbow and helped me up the steps. ‘No time for a ticket. Imminent peril. Dark water. Do your best.’
I knew my destination. I always arriv
I was scarcely aboard when the Express roared from the station. Clutching a handgrip, I looked back at the platform. Wiggins called out, ‘The water is cold and deep. I’m afraid—’
The Express lifted into space. Wheels clacked on the track. I felt a sense of urgency. I didn’t step into a compartment, but stood at the doorway, willing us speed. Faster. Faster. No time to lose.
I was familiar with the breathtaking swoop to earth, but this time stars whirled past in a blur. It seemed only an instant and the conductor was at my elbow. ‘Next stop, Adelaide.’
The Express whooshed to a halt.
I moved to the door. Imminent peril. I must hurry and this time I would follow the Precepts. An emissary has the ability to be present or not. Wiggins expects behind-the-scenes efforts. In past adven—missions, perhaps I Appeared sometimes. Oh, well, to be honest (a Heavenly virtue), I was rather more on the scene than not. In my defense, sometimes I was sure my physical presence was imperative to put someone at ease or to further the mission. But this time I would be the perfect invisible emissary. I felt a pang of regret. I love gorgeous clothes. Wearing a stylish outfit I can’t see is like champagne without fizz. This time I would sacrifice my delight in fashion and remain unseen. I would make Wiggins proud. I would simply take pleasure in knowing my clothes were gorgeous without seeing them. No sacrifice was too great. To boost my spirit, I switched from the prim costume donned for Wiggins’s benefit to a paisley blouse with swirls of red and blue and sil—
‘No time to dawdle.’ The conductor’s tone was urgent.
I swung down the steps into darkness and shivered as a north wind gusted. I immediately changed into a snug navy cashmere pullover, gray wool slacks, and knee-high navy boots. A navy wool jacket was a perfect buffer for the wind. I added amethyst buttons for a colorful accent. I wasn’t visible, but I knew the brilliant color was there.
The Express pulled away, cinders sparking, wheels rumbling. The scent of coal smoke faded. I stood on a path amid a cluster of trees. A crescent moon was scarcely visible through leafless limbs that creaked in the wind.
‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ A shrill bark shredded the night silence.
Thankfully an emissary can move immediately from one place to another. I thought Dog.
‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ A canine shriek.
In an instant I hovered above a pond in a clearing at the base of a hill. The woods were behind me. Lighted windows glowed in a house atop the hill. Garden lights framed steps in a stone stairway leading down from a terrace, but the only illumination at the pond was a single lamppost next to the wooden dock.
‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ A small dog trembled at the edge of a wooden floating dock. ‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’
A dimly visible figure thrashed in the water a good six feet from the dock.
The dog teetered on the edge of the dock, ‘Yip. Yip. Yip.’ The frenzied barks bristled with irritation and bravado. With a final high yip, the dog jumped into the water, untended leash trailing behind. Quickly a small head popped up. As the dog swam, the struggling figure slipped beneath the surface. The dog never hesitated, went down in pursuit.
I hovered just over that spot, ready to plunge into the pond. The surface rippled. The dog’s head emerged. I was close enough to see the dog tugging a coat sleeve, straining to pull the burden to shore.
I grabbed a sleeve of the coat. Without a sound its wearer rolled to one side and was gone. I held one empty sleeve, the little dog gripped the other sleeve in his mouth. The weight of the soggy coat slowly pulled the dog down.
I let go of the empty sleeve and dived. As I arched below the surface, I gasped at the icy cold of the water. I stroked down, down, down, shed my clothes and boots for a wet suit, instantly felt warmer. Dark, so dark. I made sweeping motions with my arms. My right hand brushed the dog. I grabbed his ruff. My left hand touched an arm, a woman’s arm. I seized her and held tight. I tried to remember my son Rob’s lifeguard manual. Something about a vise grip. I maneuvered below and behind her, slid my left arm around her. My right hand held tight to the dog’s collar. I kicked the three of us to the surface. She thrashed weakly, trying to break free. I instructed in my back-of-the-classroom-ignore-me-and-you-are-expelled-forever voice, ‘Go limp. I’ve got you. Go limp. Go limp.’
Still kicking, I propelled us toward the dock. Only a few feet more. One foot, another. Breathe. Kick. We reached the end of the dock. I kept a firm grip on the wriggling dog and now quiescent woman. I clutched at the edge of the dock with my left hand but my arm still encircled her. I alley-ooped the dog, along with the heavy wet coat, tenacious beast, up and on to the dock.
Now I could focus on the near drowning victim. I held to the dock with my free right hand and pressed her close to the boards. ‘Breathe. One, two, three. In. Out. Deep down. In. Out.’
She leaned against me, rasping for air, shoulders heaving. She was thin and wiry, about my height, but skinnier.
Back-of-the-classroom voice. ‘Keep breathing. In. Out.’
Gradually the gasps eased and her breath came more evenly. ‘Brrr.’ She shivered. The water was cold. She was cold. I was cold. I maneuvered her closer to the dock. ‘Let’s get you out of the water.’ I placed her arms on the boards. ‘I’ll boost you up.’
She murmured, ‘Out.’
I felt her muscles tense.
‘One. Two. Three.’
She grabbed at the dock’s edge, made a huge effort as I shoved. She tumbled awkwardly up and over the side on to wooden slats.
I saw no reason to exert myself. I simply thought Dock and I was out. The wind cut like icy needles. I dismissed the wet suit and was instantly dry and warm in a long-sleeve blue-and-white-striped bateau sweater with graceful ribbing at the yoke, navy wool slacks, argyle wool socks, fleece-lined boots. I added a tassel necklace of navy and white beads with a few pink beads for dash. And the lovely navy wool jacket.
‘I’ll help you up.’ I reached down, gripped her arm.
She came unsteadily to her feet, twisted her head to look at her forearm where my fingers were firmly planted. She half turned to stare groggily at the pond, her face squeezed in befuddlement.
A few feet away the dog gave a low growl as he wrestled with the wet coat.
I let go of her and donned my jacket. Navy absolutely favors redheads. For a moment I was distracted, considering colors. Purple was always good. And cream. And jade. And … I brought myself to heel. Speaking of, the dog’s growls intensified. Perhaps he smelled some pond creature from the coat’s immersion in water.
The woman glanced again at her forearm, now free of my grasp. She shook her head as she struggled to understand the inexplicable. She scanned the dock and the pond, empty except for her. She was a pitiful sight in the scant light from the lamppost, hair plastered to her head, sopping turtleneck sweater and slacks clinging to her, short boots. She took a step nearer shore and squished. ‘Damn.’
The dog was burrowed under the coat, growls muffled. She swung toward him, moved stealthily, pounced and in a swift swoop grabbed him. The coat slithered over the edge into the water.
She watched the coat sink, then put the dog on the dock, holding tight to the leash. ‘What a night.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘Decent dogs come when you call. Or whistle. Not you. Oh no, you run. And run and run. Straight to that damn pond. I was afraid you were going off the dock and I got tangled on the leash and my head hurts and I don’t know what happened. Not the night for a swim.’ A shiver. ‘My coat’s down in scum and my favorite boots are a mess.’ Keeping a tight hold on the leash, she used her free hand to pull off one boot, empty more water. She put it on, did the same with the other boot. ‘My boots will never be the same.’ She looked down at the dog, bent, touched his fur. ‘How’d we both end up in the water? Anyway, Buddy, it’s all your fault. But I’ve got you now.’
She yanked at the leash and walked unsteadily across the dock to shore. She headed for the woods, still muttering to the dog. ‘How’d we get out? It was like someone helped us. But no one’s here.’ She reached the woods, looked back at the pond and the illuminated steps, then turned to stare at the lighted house at the top of the hill. ‘Where is she, Buddy?’
