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I passed Julia Child’s kitchen and breathed deeply. The aromas were Heavenly. Julia still loves butter. I was in a rambling mood on another golden day in paradise. As my thoughts flitted, so did my presence. Heaven makes joyful pursuits quite easy. If I envision a place or activity, I am there, everything from white water rafting to a romantic tango in the moonlight. When I murmured, “Come dance with me,” to Bobby Mac, we moved in unison to the pulsing music, his hand warm against my back. I savored the beat and Bobby Mac and my filmy dress of sea green chiffon. Bobby Mac was gorgeous in a white Guayabera shirt and black trousers, quite a change from his usual cream polo and khaki shorts when fishing from Serendipity or his blue work shirt and Levis when out on an oil rig. As we say in Adelaide, he cleans up real nice.

Do I sense bewilderment? Heaven? Julia Child’s kitchen? A tango in the moonlight? Adelaide? Oh yes, all of that and more. If we haven’t met before, I’ll introduce myself. I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, OK. Bobby Mac and I arrived in Heaven when our cabin cruiser, the faithful Serendipity, sank during a storm in the Gulf. Bobby Mac has been my man ever since high school when he was a darkly handsome senior and I was a redheaded sophomore. We lived a happy life, which has only been better since arriving in Heaven

Heaven is, I assure you, quite Heavenly. Everything good, everything honorable, everything beautiful is here. Earth, as we all know, is beset with sin and strife, which is why I sometimes yearn to return.

Not that I wish to dabble in sin.

Heaven forbid. Instead, I like to lend a helping hand to those in trouble. I remember well that I received boosts, some surprising, some unaccountable, that got me past rough patches in my life. That’s why, delightful as Heaven is, I revel in returning to earth as a special emissary from the Department of Good Intentions.

I’ve been honored to serve as an emissary three times. However, eager as I was to serve once again, my steps slowed.

Just around the curve of a golden-hued cloud, a small train station nestled against a green hill. The station served as the headquarters of the Department under the kindly direction of Wiggins, who had been a stationmaster on earth.

I sighed and stopped. I didn’t quite have the courage to swing around the cloud and see the small red-brick station with silver rails that ran into the sky.

I studied the intervening cloud, made glorious by incandescent streaks of gold and rose. Have I ever described the majestic puffs of cloud that delineate a change from one destination to another? I’m not talking about cool, damp particles of mist. Heaven’s clouds are silky soft, as luxurious to touch as fluff from a cottonwood. I always loved cottonwoods and they were everywhere in Oklahoma . . .

I reined in my thoughts. Cottonwoods were all well and good and I’m sure it is of interest to realize there was nothing chilling and wet should you plunge into a glorious white column, but there was a time and place for cottonwoods. I was pondering clouds to avoid an approach to the Department even though Wiggins would welcome me warmly. Wiggins has a smile as reassuring as the dancing flames in a winter fireplace, but he is rather a stickler for following rules. His emissaries have a list of strict do’s and don’ts. Truth to tell, and Heaven always expects truth, I’m not awfully good at rules. Some might say I am a bit impetuous. Oh, all right. I think fast, move fast, and sometimes I leave rules in my dust.

Perhaps the format of Wiggins’s rules best reveals his precise nature. The list, printed in gold letters on glorious parchment, is entitled:

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Precepts for Earthly Visitation

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I like to sing. I quickly donned tap shows and belted out the list to an eight-count be-bop tune.

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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 . . .

###

Oops. Scratch all that about Heavenly clouds.

###

. . . simply smile and say, “Time will tell.”

8. Remember always that you are on the earth, not of the earth. ###

My impromptu dance ended. What would Wiggins think? I laughed aloud. He would appreciate my accurate, though musical, rendition of the Precepts. Slowly, my smile slipped away. In my previous jaunts to earth, how many Precepts had I broken?

A few.

I clicked a tap, actually eight taps. Okay. All of the Precepts.

How often?

Possibly fairly often.

All right. Insist upon truth. Precepts flouted morning, noon and night.

I glanced at a bright shaft of crystal opposite the column of cloud and saw myself at twenty-seven, coppery red hair in springy curls, curious green eyes, a spatter of freckles on a narrow face. Five foot five on a tall day. Slender, ready to move, to dance, climb, run, play. Twenty-seven had been a very good year for me on earth and that was how I chose to appear in Heaven. Everyone in Heaven was the best they’d ever been.

I grinned.

My reflection grinned back.

I should be ruing each and every transgression of the Precepts, but, despite what might be perceived (I think uncharitably) as a wholesale flouting of the rules, I believed I’d done the Department proud in my three previous adven- missions to earth.

I wanted to go back. I loved the challenge of doing my best for a troubled creature.

Okay, more truth.

Lending a helping hand was Heavenly, but protecting the innocent made me a very happy ghost. There were also side benefits. I had dearly loved my hometown of Adelaide, rasping cicadas in summer, fall leaves that rivaled flame, majestic eagles in a winter sky, the scent of dark rich dirt in a spring furrow.

I squared my shoulders. Onward to the Department. Wiggins’s telegram had been enigmatic: Possible assignment. If you qualify. I was puzzled. The message didn’t sound quite like Wiggins. What qualification was needed? I glanced again at my reflection. Hmm. Perhaps the azure blouse was a little too flattering. There. More of a gray tone. Gray is such a steady color. Boring, but steady. I changed the bright floral print of sateen slacks to a subdued hound’s tooth check. Instead of tap shoes, blue sandals. I refused to wear gray shoes. There was a limit to my sartorial sacrifices. Besides, men don’t notice shoes. Except for Jimmy Choo.

In the distance, I heard the deep-throated wooo-wooo of the Rescue Express, the marvelous silver train that carried emissaries to earth. If I hurried . . . But I didn’t yet have a mission. I had to face reality. Wiggins had thought of me, but he wasn’t sure. Well, I must convince him that I was perfect for the task, whatever it might be. needed me,

Galloping hooves sounded. The ground quivered beneath my blue-sandaled feet. An ebony horse thundered around the pillar of cloud, pawed to a stop scant feet away. The slender rider sat straight in the saddle, impeccably attired from her black hat and navy coat to her tan breeches and black boots.

Her face, once seen, was not to be forgotten - high forehead, arctic blue eyes, narrow nose, pointed cheekbones, a decisive mouth, cleft chin. She gazed down imperiously, gestured with her crop. “There’s just time to catch the Rescue Express. I have your ticket. You are Bailey Ruth Raeburn, aren’t you?” Her tone was impatient.

“Oh, yes. Who-“

”Are you game? Or not?” She flung the words in a challenge as sharp a whip crack.

No one ever said I wouldn’t take a dare. There was the time Billy Snodgrass shouted, “Bet you a box of Double Bubble you won’t jump off the dock.” The dock in question was in the nature preserve next to St. Mildred’s. Of course I jumped, even though it was January and there was skim of ice across the lake. I’d arrived home drenched, blue from cold, and only alive because a bundled-up fisherman angling for striper waded out far enough that I could catch the end of his rod. “Bailey Ruth, honey,” Mama sighed, “look before you leap.”

Truly, I always intended to do that very thing, but the horse stamped a hoof, the rider reached out for my hand. “I’ll get you there.”

Perhaps this was the qualification I must meet, a willingness to dare. Of course I would. I swung up and settled behind the saddle and clung to her waist.

The horse rose through the air and we sped from Heaven’s golden light into a star-spangled night and there, not far ahead, was the plunging Express.

Words streamed to me. “. . . he’s always been such a fool . . . but there are those who love him . . . try to save him from himself . . .”

“Who?’ I shouted, but the cry was lost in the rush of space.

With a mighty stride, the horse gained on the whooshing Express, came level for an instant with the caboose.

The rider twisted, thrust a small scrap of cardboard in my hand. “Here’s your ticket.” A strong arm gripped my elbow and I was swept out into emptiness.

I grasped the railing and pulled myself aboard the Rescue Express.

The stallion and rider were gone. The immensity of space held me in thrall, billions of stars in shining galaxies dwarfed the Express, made the line of cars seem as small as a miniature train amid swirling flakes in a paperweight.

The door swung open. “Wot’s this ‘ere?” A conductor in a dark blue uniform and a braided cap peered out. “Wot’s ‘appening ‘ere.”

I was enthralled by his cockney accent. I wanted to know his story, who he had been and when he came to Heaven and whether he’d ever worked on the Flying Scotsman. One time Bobby Mac and I . . . But that’s another story.

Sandy eyebrows drew down in disapproval. “‘ighly irregular, that’s wot it is.”

“Everything’s fine.” I always look on the bright side, though I was a little unsettled. Dramatic departures aren’t unusual from Wiggins’s station - an earthling in dire straits can necessitate haste - but we always chatted about my upcoming visit and reviewed my occasional trespasses of the Precepts.

Honestly, do we have to be so insistent upon accuracy? Cross out occasional. Substitute, I regret to say, wholesale. But this time would be different. I hadn’t had a chance to reassure Wiggins. I felt flattered. Wiggins hadn’t considered it necessary to brief me, though I would have thought that his assistant - and I wondered who she was and how long she’d been on his staff - would have given me some idea of who I was expected to assist and why.

The conductor shook his head. “It will run us late, but I’ll ‘ave to pull the emergency stop.” He pulled open the door and stood halfway inside the car, reaching out to his right. “No travelers permitted without proper papers-“

”Here.” I thrust the ticket at him.

He took the ticket, poked out his jaw, his face settling in pugnacious lines.

I had my first misgiving.

I recalled with clarity my previous tickets to Adelaide, soft white with the destination stamped in bright red.

The conductor held between thumb and forefinger a jade green ticket with yellow letters. He peered nearsightedly. “This ’ere’s torn, so how can we know where to stop? Ponta Delgada? Pontefract? Pontevedra? Pontiac?” He rattled names fast a nineteen-forties typist in a secretarial pool, took a deep breath, “Pontine. Po-

I interrupted. “Pontotoc.” I spoke with authority.

He glowered. “There’s no such stop.”

“It isn’t a city, it’s a county. Pontotoc.” I tried for charm. “I always go home to Adelaide, Oklahoma. That’s in Pontotoc County.” I forbore to mention Pontotoc County, Mississippi. After all, Wiggins knew my stomping ground.

The conductor held the torn ticket close to his face, laboriously spelled, “P - O - N - T -. Could be.” He was grudging. “Well, ‘tis almost a proper ticket. We can give it a try.” He lowered his arm. He stood straight, his eyes gleaming. “If there’s a spot of trouble down there, the Rescue Express will ‘one in sharp as a magnetic needle. She’s a gallant old girl, the Rescue Express.” His pride in the trusty train was evident.

“Oh, there’s trouble, all right.” The rider astride the horse had been clear enough. Some fellow who was ‘always such a fool’ needed to be saved. I slid inside the car and gazed about in admiration. As Mama always said, praise a man’s prized possession and he’ll treat you like a queen. “Such splendid furnishings.” I pointed at red velvet cushions in comfortably curved wicker chairs. “Everything is perfect. And I know,” my gaze up at him radiated soulful conviction, “that you’ll get all of us to our destinations in good order.” Most of the seats were taken. My fellow passengers looked up to smile a welcome. Dress ranged from a Roman toga to colonial breeches to a French foreign Legion uniform to a late nineteenth-century gray fawn gown.

A pink flush touched the conductor’s sallow cheeks. “Nice of you to say so and ‘ere,” he gestured toward a chair, “you’ll be comfortable.” He gave me a conspiratorial nod. “I’ll pop up to the engineer, add your destination.”

I almost called after him. Pontotoc County covered a lot of ground. Then I shrugged. The conductor promised to drop me at a spot of trouble. I’d have to find my way from there.

###

The moon hung cool and remote, spilling a creamy sheen across a neighborhood of mostly frame houses. Within the city limits, Adelaide has pockets of homes built in the nineteen-thirties that are semi-rural with spacious lots. Though the air was nippy, tree branches were thick with leaves. Probably it was early to mid to October. Directly below me a house blazed with lights. Most of the other homes were dark with only an occasional gleam in a window. Rumbling thumps came from the lighted house.

I felt a little chilly so I changed to a crisp rose blouse, charcoal gray worsted wool slacks, and a wine-colored cardigan. Fashion was such a pleasure. As soon as I pictured the clothes, my costume changed. I added matching rose colored leather flats.

The conductor had promised to drop me at a spot with trouble so I assumed the two-story house directly beneath me was my destination. There didn’t seem to be any cause for alarm. If there was trouble here, it wasn’t apparent. Feeling uncertain, I dropped to the front walk and cautiously approached. Wide open uncurtained windows spilled light onto a porch and front steps. From the windows and open front door, guitar music blasted. I suspected neighbors were grateful for the distances between houses. I supposed it was music. Everyone to their own taste, of course.

In the graveled driveway, a low-slung sports car glistened cherry red in the sharp bright light of an outdoor lantern. Nearby sat a butter-yellow motor scooter, which looked like the scooters Bobby Mac and I once rode up and down the hills of Bermuda. I floated to the front porch. The music was deafening. Execrable. However, Heaven also loves those who confuse thumps and twangs with melodies.

I drifted inside. The living room had a masculine appeal, comfortable leather furniture, obviously new and expensive, plain wooden floors, bright posters on the walls, a game table, and on a golden desk an iPad. I kept au courant with earthly matters and was now quite adept at computers and iPhones and all manner of electronic advances. I glanced from the table to a rather scruffy young man and wondered how he afforded such a luxury.

The windows lacked curtains. Wooden shutters were ajar. The single occupant perched on a wooden stool in front of a drum set. Lanky and lean, he drummed with abandon, locks of dark hair falling forward, bony face rapt in concentration as he added oomph to rock guitar blasting from the stereo. His foot slammed the bass drum foot pedal so hard, I feared an explosion. Whaba whaba whaba whump. Thutter thutter thutter crump.

I folded my arms and felt a sharp stab of impatience.

He did not appear to be in trouble except for the damage he might be inflicting on his hearing.

Could the destination for my ticket actually have been to a destination unknown to me? Had Wiggins realized that I was quite willing to go far afield? However, I’d expressed a preference for Paris, not Ponta Delgada, charming as it sounded.

Well, fuss and feathers, here I was and not a calamity in sight. I studied his face, noting the dark fuzz that indicated a casual attitude toward shaving. The features were a bit too irregular to qualify as handsome, the forehead a trifle large, the nose too narrow, sharp cheekbones, and a pointed chin with a decided cleft, but he possessed a definite appeal. Perhaps a hint of a likeable rebel? Perhaps an air of I’m-gonna-have-fun? He was young, early to mid-twenties. His broad mouth was stretched in a satisfied smile. He was clearly quite pleased with himself.

With a final horrendous tattoo, the assault on the drum set mercifully ended. “Yee-hah!” As he reached to turn off the stereo, he gave a boisterous shout and flung the sticks across the room, where they ricocheted off a high leather padded stool at the counter of a wet bar. The unmistakable rebel yell was as warm a welcome home as a hug.

“Yee-hah!”

I clapped a hand over my mouth.

His head jerked up. He looked around the room, then dropped to the wooden floor and in two strides he was at the front door. He flipped on the porch light, looked out. Finally, shaking his head, he turned back into the room. Slowly bewilderment eased from his face.

I began to relax. Human beings are so transparent. They don’t tolerate the inexplicable well. In automatic defense, he would satisfy himself that the feminine yell had a perfectly ordinary explanation. An exuberant shout from a passing car. A high pitched creak from old wood.

A majestic orange tabby strolled into the living room.

I smiled and reached down to pet the huge creature. I gazed at the cat’s large, splayed paws. Surely those were almost thumbs! I was startled into exclaiming, “Why, look at your claws-“ Again my fingers pressed against my lips.

The cat flopped to the floor and rolled over on his back.

The young man blinked. “Hey, Champ, you got a lady cat stashed around here somewhere?” His tone was falsely genial and a bit over loud.

I darted to a rattan sofa and sank down. In my haste, I forgot the uncarpeted floor. The light sofa lurched and slid backwards about an inch, making a distinct scraping sound.

The cat rolled to his feet and padded toward me. Before I could move, he jumped and landed on my lap. Unfortunately, that positioned him with an several-inch expanse of space between his fur and the sofa.

“Here, Champ.” I whispered. I gingerly pushed the cat toward the empty center of the sofa.

Sharp claws tightened on my upper thighs.

I managed - almost - to suppress a gasp of pain.

“Hey, Champ.” The young man walked nearer. “How you doing that, chum?” There was a mixture of disbelief and determined heartiness in his voice. “Cats can’t levitate.”

Desperate situations require desperate measures. I firmly gripped the cat, flowed to my feet and pressed him into his owner’s arms. I skittered sideways fast, knocking over a can of Schlitz that had been, in my view, carelessly left sitting on the floor by the sofa. Of course I hadn’t noticed the beer. I’d been watching the cat.

The cat growled deep in his throat.

Beer spewed, foaming.

“Okay, buddy, time to go out. I am not getting this.” His nice tenor voice definitely sounded strained. “I guess you made those funny noises. Maybe you’ve got a mouse stuck in your throat. Funny, but I thought you weren’t actually on the cushion. You looked like your were floating. Cats can’t float. I guess I didn’t see you right.” This was a mutter. “You didn’t need to knock over my beer.” Carrying the squirming tom, he hurried to the front door. He placed the cat on the porch and shut the door firmly.

I floated to the wet bar and perched on the counter. I needed to catch my breath.

He walked behind the counter, opened a small fridge, pulled out a new can of beer.

I watched with narrowed eyes. If anybody needed a beer, I did.

He flipped back the tab, lifted the can, drank about half. He heaved a sigh of contentment as he strolled back around the counter. He stopped to look into the mirror behind the wet bar. He gave himself an approving nod. “Nick, old buddy, you got ‘em on the run.” He threw back his head and brayed with laughter.

I shook my head in dismay. I’m all in favor of good humor, but there was a tone of uncharitableness in his proud pronouncement.

He held the can high in a self toast. “So they’re on me like June bugs.” His voice was defiant, but there was a lost look in his dark blue eyes. “Hey, that’s okay with me.”

The sound was small but alien, hard to define, something between a rasp and a rattle. Even before I swung toward the front of the house, I somehow knew that I’d found the trouble I’d been looking for.

The blue-black barrel of a rifle poked through a hole gouged in the screen of an open window not fifteen feet distant. The barrel moved toward the lanky young man holding his can of beer.

With a shout - and I am pleased to say I thought quickly and screamed, “Police!” at the top of my lungs - I flung myself forward and barreled into him.

Caught completely by surprise, though he was tall and rangy, he toppled backward, crashing heavily to the floor. Beer spewed in an arc and the can fell and rolled across the uncarpeted wood.

A loud crack and a vase atop a bookcase shattered.

I continued to scream.”Police! Police! Nine-one-one!” Not even the most determined of killers would hang around to find out the meaning of frenzied female shouts.

The screen contained a ragged hole but the rifle barrel was gone. I was about to pop outside to discover the shooter’s identity when I realized the young man who had happily played the drums and taken such a satisfied gulp of beer lay unmoving.

Oh yes, there was trouble in Pontotoc County. view abbreviated excerpt only...

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