Free Ghost at Work by Carolyn Hart

sounded aggrieved. “What can I tell ’em, Doc?”
    â€œDOA.” A chortle.
    There was no answering smile. “Yeah. And?”
    The doctor pulled a tubular flashlight from his pocket, trained it on the small crusted circular wound in Murdoch’s left temple. A fine red line had trickled and dried from the wound to his cheekbone. “It isn’t official until I do the autopsy, but you can say preliminary examination suggests he was shot to death by a small-caliber weapon.” He turned the grayish face to one side. “No sign of an exit wound. Probably means it was a twenty-two and the bullet lodged in the skull. That’s all I can tell you for now, Chief.”
    The chief snapped his gum. “Killed here?”
    The doctor shrugged. “Can’t say. No rigor yet, so he probably died within the last couple of hours, which means there won’t be any lividity. The blood pattern on the cheek would be more consistent with the body lying on its left side, not the back. Might have died here, but he could have been moved.”
    Another heavy sigh. “On TV the doc can tell you he was sitting up when he was shot and he fell down on his left side, and from the way the blood settled, he was moved twice.”
    The young doctor bounced to his feet. “Go watch TV. It’s always good for a laugh.” He jerked a thumb at the corpse. “Send him along.” He was thudding toward his car when the chief called after him. “Suicide?”
    The doctor stopped, looked around. “Thought you didn’t find a gun.”
    â€œRight.” The chief moved out of the way as the slender man who had taken pictures stepped past him. Now he held a sketch pad. I craned to look. The camera rested on one of the mausoleum steps. I’d have liked to get a close look at his camera. Bobby Mac loved to film the family, but our camera had been huge in comparison.
    The chief unwrapped another stick of gum. “The squeal came from a kid. Maybe he heisted the gun. Cool souvenir.”
    The doctor was skeptical. “I played tennis with Daryl. He cheated on line calls.” A cool glance at the dead man. “Anyway, he was right-handed. It’s a challenge for a right-handed person to shoot himself in the left side of the head.” He trotted back to Daryl, squatted on his heels. “Doesn’t look like the slug went in on a slant. I’ll check it out.” He came to his feet, headed for his car. He called over his shoulder, “Since you didn’t find a gun, it’s probably homicide.”
    I wafted back to my branch, rocked by what I’d learned. My initial assumption may have been absolutely wrong. I’d decided Murdoch had died elsewhere because there was no blood and mess on Kathleen’s porch. That may not have been the case. He may have been shot on the rectory porch, the bullet remaining in his skull.
    If Murdoch was shot on the porch, it suggested the unpleasant possibility that the murderer accompanied Murdoch to the rectory and shot him there for the express purpose of ensnaring Kathleen. The rectory seemed an unlikely place for a spontaneous quarrel and attack.
    Did Kathleen have a bitter enemy? Or was she simply an attractive candidate for suspect number one?
    The doctor strolled toward his car, whistling through his teeth. The slender man continued to sketch on his pad. Every so often, Anita, one of the first police personnel to arrive, called out information to her fellow patrol officer. “…four feet nine inches south of the steps…” I was impressed by the meticulous record that was being made.
    However, this record was irrelevant. Oh dear. What had I wrought? Words danced in my mind. It was almost as if Wiggins were at my elbow, reciting: impulsive, rash…
    Well, what was done was done and I had to focus on what I should do to rectify my possible error. At this point, only I—and, of course, Kathleen—knew the