{"product_id":"ghost-on-the-case-isbn-9780451488565","title":"Ghost on the Case","description":"\u003cb\u003eBailey Ruth Raeburn is back, racing against the Heavenly clock in an all-new mystery from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eGhost Times Two\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e 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. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 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? \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 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...\u003cb\u003ePraise for Carolyn Hart, Winner of Multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards, and Author of the Bailey Ruth Ghost Novels\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hart’s work is both utterly reliable and utterly unpredictable.”—Charlaine Harris, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One of the most popular practitioners of the traditional mystery.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Cleveland Plain Dealer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Bailey Ruth and Wiggins will delight readers who prefer their mysteries light and seasoned with wit and the supernatural…Hart’s vision of Heaven is a hoot.”—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Hart’s amusing and vivacious ghostly sleuth puts her invisibility, her gusto and her sharp mind to good use in her latest outing.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Sure to charm even ardent materialists.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)An accomplished master of mystery, Carolyn Hart is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling 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.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I simply wish to explain this particular moment. A brief      introduction is in order.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm here,\" I said brightly. \"Ready to go.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He did not appear reassured. His frown deepened. \"I need a skilled      detective. C. Auguste Dupin. Sherlock Holmes. Allan Pinkerton.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wiggins held the paperback in his hand, looked down. Clearly he      found the cover a trifle shocking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The telegraph sounder clacked louder. Wiggins shoved his rounded      stiff blue cap with its black brim to the back of a thick shock of      russet hair and strode to his desk, looked down. When he faced me,      his kind face held despair. \"Susan loves her little sister. She'll      risk everything. I don't see any way out. An impossible situation.      But\"-his gaze was imploring-\"you always do your best.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stood a little taller, was tempted to salute.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In two long steps he was at the cabinet with tickets in slots. He      reached up, grabbed a red ticket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A rumble of wheels announced the arrival of the Rescue Express.      The deep-throated whoo was a clarion call. The telegraph sounder      clattered at a frantic pace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wiggins hurried to his desk, stamped the ticket, held it out for      me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I grabbed the red piece of cardboard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A final shout as I headed for the platform, \"Try to remain      invisible.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I will.\" I meant every word of the brave declaration. This time I      would make every effort to be unseen, which is the preferred mode      of Wiggins's emissaries. Emissaries have the ability to appear in      earthly form. We arrive, of course, unseen. However, if we wish to      be present, we simply think Appear. When it is better to be      unseen, we think Disappear. There was one time, I remember my      sense of panic, when I lost my ability to disappear. That was a      challenge. Being able to appear and disappear is terrific. I      suppressed a squiggle of eagerness. I sometimes-oh well, let me be      frank-I often feel that I can better assist my charge if I am      actually on the earth. This time I would try hard to curb that      instinct.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I clutched the red piece of cardboard. I didn't need to look at my      destination. I was on my way to Adelaide, my old hometown in the      rolling hills of east central Oklahoma. On the platform, I rushed      to climb aboard, welcomed the conductor's boost. As the Rescue      Express began to roll, I didn't try to suppress my excitement.      Wiggins was sending me into an Impossible Situation that required      the skills-and toughness?-of a private eye. Move over Mike Shayne.      Bailey Ruth Raeburn is on the case.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was perhaps my height, about five foot five. Ebony black hair      framed a face with character, deep-set intelligent eyes, high      cheekbones, determined chin. She wasnÕt conventionally pretty.      Hers was an interesting face, shapely black brows, a high      forehead, rather thin nose, a generous mouth. She looked like a      tennis player or golfer with an aura of easy movement, of      quickness. I liked her indigo wool sweater with alternating lines      of gold and rose in a zigzag pattern above black wool slacks and      indigo leather flats. She stood stiffly in the center of a small      living room, a very ordinary room not suited for high drama. A      leather shoulder bag was tossed on the seat of a worn wooden      rocking chair. Two easy chairs, one with plaid upholstery, the      other a nondescript tan, were unoccupied. Library books were      scattered on a coffee table, a biography of Douglas MacArthur,      Lives of the Poets by Samuel Johnson, a thriller by Hank Phillippi      Ryan, a collection of e. e. cummings poetry. An inexpensive      grandfather clock near the front door ticked loudly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ¤\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A comfortable room except for the stricken young woman, her face      the color of putty, the hand holding a cell phone shaking.      \"Please\"-her voice was uneven, scarcely more than a whisper-\"you      won't hurt her?\" The cell phone was pressed against her face.      \"Where is she? . . . A hundred . . .\" Her left hand rose to her      throat. \"I don't have that kind of money. I don't have a key. I      can't-\" She began to shiver. \"I can't do that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She moved unsteadily to the sofa, dropped down, braced herself      against the armrest, the phone still hard against her face. A      voice was speaking to her, a voice was telling her something that      drained her youthful body of strength. \"I can't-\" Her shoulders      drew tight as if in defense. \"Tonight? He's having a party. How-\"      She broke off. Perhaps her caller had interrupted, told her to      listen, told her she had no choice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew when the call ended. Her hand, her still shaking hard, came      away from her face. She stared down at the cell phone, touched the      screen, touched again, likely calling a Favorite number. Her      trembling hand held the phone close. She listened, then her      shoulders slumped. Clearly her call had not been answered and she      was being invited to leave a message. Her voice frantic, she      cried, \"Sylvie, call me. Tell me you're all right. Please.\" A tap.      She stared down at the phone, as if willing her message to be      heard. She rose, slipped the phone into the pocket of her slacks.      She stood indecisively for a moment, then hurried across the room.      She stepped into a narrow hall, passed one room. She stopped at a      closed door to a second room. She turned the knob, reached for the      light switch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I blinked as the light revealed a strikingly different milieu.      Nothing shabby and worn here, though the furnishings were      inexpensive: bright white furniture, a dresser, a chest, a bed      with a red satin coverlet. A lop-eared teddy bear with a missing      eye sat in an angular metal chair on a fluorescent-bright orange      cushion. On the dresser every inch of space was crowded with      bottles of perfume and lotions. Heaps of clothes dotted the floor.      I had a feeling that the room's inhabitant arrived with armloads      of clean laundry and carelessly deposited them wherever, a mound      of jeans here, a tangle of panties and bras there, cotton tees      loosely strewn on a fuzzy throw rug. It might have been just a      messy bedroom except for the watercolors tacked to every bit of      free wall space. The work was amateurish, but oh, what a feast of      color, magenta, cobalt, royal blue. The paintings weren't simply      splashes of color but almost childlike evocations of sunrises,      parrots, maple leaves, a football jersey, a yellow brick road      rising to the sky, and a huge red question mark surrounded by      happy faces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Happy faces, a happy room. I didn't know the occupant, but the      casual disorderliness and vibrant watercolors suggested warmth and      originality and unquenchable eagerness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sylvie. Oh, Silly, Silly.\" The words were a cry of heartbreak      from the woman who clung to the doorframe. Her gaze swept the      careless, chaotic room. Then she drew in a sharp breath. She      darted to the dresser, reached out among the bottles of lotions      and sprays and jars of cream to pick up a bright red cell phone.      It took only a moment, and the message she'd left on this phone      played and she listened to her own voice, shaking with stress,      \"Sylvie, call me. Tell me you're all right. Please.\" Woodenly, she      replaced the phone on the dresser.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was at her shoulder when she picked up a note written in bright      red crayon: Will have lots (underlined three times) to tell you      tomorrow!!!!","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303392530661,"sku":"NP9780451488565","price":26.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451488565.jpg?v=1767728036","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/ghost-on-the-case-isbn-9780451488565","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}