{"product_id":"ghost-times-two-isbn-9780425283745","title":"Ghost Times Two","description":"\u003cb\u003eCarolyn Hart—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eGhost to the Rescue\u003c\/i\u003e—returns with a new Bailey Ruth Ghost Novel in which one woman shatters the glass ceiling...with a little help from beyond.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eBailey Ruth Raeburn’s latest mission is to guide the spirit of a deceased young man named Jimmy to the next life. But Jimmy is determined to watch over his still-living girlfriend, Megan. 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.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e 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 must uncover a killer before the love of Jimmy’s life is ordered to spend a lifetime behind bars…“Bailey Ruth is someone you’d like to have known in life and would love to have watching your back from Heaven...The mystery is light hearted, fun, and as always, a good read.”—Kings River Life Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Charming...this cleverly plotted tale will keep readers guessing until the end.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e More Praise for Carolyn Hart, Winner of Multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards and 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\u003e bestselling 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\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\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Sure to charm even ardent materialists.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cp\u003eAn accomplished master of mystery, \u003cb\u003eCarolyn Hart\u003c\/b\u003e 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 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eChapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eagerly I scanned the telegram: Come soonest. Spectral scandal      brewing. Wiggins\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A summons from Wiggins. What could be more Heavenly?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As for the Department of Good Intentions, come with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e . . . decorum, modesty, restraint . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Of course.\" I resisted the impulse to stand stiffly and salute.      There is something about Wiggins . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He stopped and looked down at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ¤\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He cleared his throat. \"Harrumph.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Honestly, that's what Wiggins often says, harrumph.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ghost,\" he blurted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This did not sound promising.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"True love,\" he said, his voice gentle, \"never ends.\" A huge sigh.      \"You know how I feel about Precept Two.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn't see a connection between true love and Precept Two, but I      certainly was well aware of his feelings about Precept Two. I      hastened to reassure him, my voice earnest, one hand squarely      above my heart. \"Far be it from me to ever willingly\"-strong      emphasis on willingly-\"consort with another departed spirit.\" I      saw the modifier as my escape hatch. Of course, I wouldn't      willingly collaborate with a departed spirit, but circumstances      had been known to alter cases. In effect, a ghost will do what a      ghost has to do. To underscore my total dedication to the      Precepts, the rules for emissaries on a mission to earth, I stood      straight and tall, recited the Precepts in my husky, carrying      voice:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Precepts for Earthly Visitation\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     1.    Avoid public notice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     2.    Do not consort with other departed spirits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     3.    Work behind the scenes without making your presence      known.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     4.    Become visible only when absolutely necessary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     5.    Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who      appear to oppose you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     6.    Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     7.    Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply      smile and say, \"Time will tell.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     8.    Remember always that you are on the earth, not of the      earth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ¤\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I hoped my dramatic rendition and stalwart posture evoked an image      of that hardy horseman galloping from Ghent to Aix. In the spirit      of things, I swirled from the dull green dress to a cream      turtleneck, tan jodhpurs, and glistening leather riding boots.      What a relief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wiggins's mustache drooped. \"I'm afraid\"-his voice sounded as      though it emanated from a deep well-\"the Precepts-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could scarcely hear him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His eyes stared as if into a gray distance. \"-do not apply here.      It grieves me to realize that my Precepts, so thoughtfully      fashioned, so attuned to every temptation, are to no avail in this      instance.\" Another heavy sigh. \"That's why I summoned you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I feared his admission was not a compliment. I decided to look on      the bright side. Wiggins needed me. Yee-hah! \"Wiggins\"-I tried to      keep the eagerness out of my voice-\"I will do whatever the      department commands.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He jammed a fist into the opposite palm. \"That's the spirit.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For an instant, I was almost sure there was a twinkle in his      spaniel brown eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He strode decisively to the slotted rack on the wall near the      ticket window, snatched a red ticket, gave it a stamp, and hurried      toward me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A clang of wheels against steel and a throaty whistle of a proud      coal-puffing engine announced the imminent arrival of the Rescue      Express, thundering down the line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Quick.\" He thrust the ticket at me. \"Do what you can. He's an      irrepressible young scamp. He simply must face up to Heaven. No      matter how much-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The scent of coal smoke. Whoo-whoo. I turned and dashed for the      platform, thronged now with travelers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wiggins's voice carried over the rumbles and roars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"-he loves her.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ¤\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Once IÕd asked Wiggins why he didnÕt send me to Paris. HeÕd      inquired, HowÕs your French? I havenÕt given up hope that someday      he may dispatch me to Greenwich Village (IÕve read about it and I      can quote Dorothy Parker) or Vancouver (Bobby Mac and I holidayed      there once) or even Tumbulgum (Wiggins left me blessedly      unsupervised while dealing with a crisis in that tiny remote      outpost in Australia). Until then, between us, I adore returning      to Adelaide, where I grew up, fell in love, married, raised a      family (daughter, Dil, and son, Rob), worked (English teacher      until I flunked a football player and became secretary to the      Chamber and oh, what I knew about everyone in town), and lived      happily until our last voyage in the Serendipity. Adelaide is more      prosperous than during my time, but it is still Adelaide, a      beautiful small town in the rolling hills of south central      Oklahoma. I know Adelaide inside and out and upside and down. I      blinked against a glare from lake water as I swung off the      caboose. A late-afternoon sun was bright as new copper in the      western sky. I know the hot heavy heat of Oklahoma summers. The      wise hunker down in air-conditioned offices, homes, or cars. They      do not choose to stand in boiling heat on the old wooden pier in      AdelaideÕs White Deer Park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shaded my eyes and saw the exception to the rule. At the end of      the pier, a tall young man, his posture forlorn, stared toward      shore. His droopy seersucker suit clung to him, damp with sweat.      He held up his right arm, looked down at a wristwatch, the age-old      gesture of someone waiting. Why would anyone arrange a meeting on      the pier with the temperature nudging a hundred?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A red Dodge squealed into the graveled lot near the pier, slid to      a stop next to a very old yellow Thunderbird. The driver's door      slammed. A small young woman bolted forward. Her high heels      clattered on the steps to the pier. She hurried toward him on the      wooden deck, almost running. I liked her rose linen suit, a      three-button front jacket, and a short straight skirt with tiny      bows embroidered above the side slits. Very high pink heels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Civilian Conservation Corps dammed a stream to form a lake in      the '30s. (1930s.) The young men built a pier into the lake, used      local stone to create an amphitheater on a natural slope. The      outdoor venue provided a site for plays and concerts and on sunny      days a fun place for children to clamber. Last one up is a      monkey's tail. A carousel offered sweet tinny music. On the      carousel, a majestic dark brown wooden buffalo, Oklahoma proud,      was the prized perch. A muscular catfish, of course with whiskers,      was next most popular.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I felt a catch at my heart as the young woman ran toward the end      of the pier. How many times had Bobby Mac and I come to the park      and walked hand in hand in the moonlight to the end of the pier? I      remembered a spring evening in 1942. Bobby Mac was in uniform and      I held tight to him. I was a high school senior, wildly in love. I      wanted us to marry before he left, but Bobby Mac, cocky as always,      said he'd come marching home as long as I was there waiting for      him. He shipped out with the 45th Division to North Africa and on      to Italy and Germany. He came home from the war as he'd promised.      I was waiting as I'd promised. In June of '46 in a sunset ceremony      at the amphitheater, I became Mrs. Robert MacNeil Raeburn. We've      been hand in hand ever since.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299821605093,"sku":"NP9780425283745","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780425283745.jpg?v=1767728063","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/ghost-times-two-isbn-9780425283745","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}