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Informationen zum Autor Carolyn Hart Klappentext New York Times bestselling author Carolyn Hart treats readers to another visitation by ghostly gumshoe Bailey Ruth Raeburn as she lends a hand to an ethereal matchmaker who haunts a library... Bailey Ruth's supervisor, Wiggins, is worried about a dear old friend-the ghost of elegant Lorraine Marlow, who haunts Adelaide, Oklahoma's college library. Known as the Lady of the Roses, she plays matchmaker, using the fragrant flowers to pair up students. But someone's making mischief after hours, leaving roses strewn about the library and stealing a valuable book. Concerned with Lorraine's reputation among the living, Wiggins dispatches Bailey Ruth to investigate. Soon trouble begins to stack up. A campus security guard is shot by an intruder, and Bailey Ruth uncovers a catalog of evidence blaming a student for the crimes. But something isn't adding up, so with police preparing to make an arrest, the spirited detective must find the real culprit. Because when justice is overdue, it takes more than death to stop Bailey Ruth Raeburn... Leseprobe Chapter 1 Bobby Mac and I don’t spend every moment aboard our cabin cruiser, Serendipity , on jade green waters reminiscent of the Gulf. Heaven knows that where you wish to go, there you are. It might surprise you that a rough-and-tumble oilman like Bobby Mac knew his way around art museums on earth. His tastes—and mine—were eclectic, from Gustav Vigeland’s sculptures to Mary Cassatt’s Breakfast in Bed . It was Heavenly now to see one of our favorite artists at work. Sunlight-dappled water lilies in the pond. Bobby Mac and I stretched on a blanket, quiet as stone cherubs, watching Claude at work on a new painting. A telegram sprouted in my hand. My eyes widened. I will admit to a thrill of excitement. I waggled the stiff yellow sheet at Bobby Mac. He gave me a thumbs-up, as he always does. What a guy. We met in high school when he was a dark-haired, muscular senior and I was a skinny redheaded sophomore. We’ve been having fun ever since. I blew Bobby Mac a kiss and went at once to the Department of Good Intentions, arriving immediately. That’s the beauty of Heaven—here can immediately be there. It’s all in the spirit. Oh dear, you are already puzzled. Bobby Mac? Sunlight-dappled pond? Do I mean Giverny? Claude? Telegram? From there to here in a heartbeat? Perhaps I should begin with me. I am Bailey Ruth Raeburn, late of Adelaide, Oklahoma. Yes, late . As in dear departed . Dear departed has a lovely ring, though I’d be the first to agree that not everyone in Adelaide had adored me. There was the high school principal who hadn’t been pleased when I flunked the coach’s son. All endings lead to new beginnings, and I loved my years as the secretary at the Chamber of Commerce, which provided a front-row center seat for both public and private shenanigans. There was the time . . . Oh, sorry. I am easily distracted. Back to my departing . . . Bobby Mac Raeburn, the captain of my heart and of the Serendipity , steered us out into the Gulf of Mexico seeking a recalcitrant tarpon despite lowering clouds and a whipping wind on what would be a fateful day. For us. Suffice to say, after a valiant battle with the elements, the Serendipity was lost in the Gulf and Bobby Mac and I arrived in Heaven. Now the Serendipity , as bright and fresh as on the day she was launched, rocks in a tranquil Heavenly sea and provides a haven for me and Bobby Mac. Those who dismiss the idea of Heaven as balderdash will flee from my narrative. Isn’t balderdash a lovely word? I am in good company—of course, given my current location, that surely goes without saying—in choosing balderdash . No less than Thomas Babington Macaulay, the great nineteenth-century historian, once said, “I am almost ashamed to quote such nauseous ...
