Merry, Merry Ghost by Carolyn Hart

worldly attitudes, to see Wiggins succumb to the wiles of rationalization. I hoped he never realized he was flouting Precept Eight (Remember always that you are on the earth, not of the earth…) and actually reverting to earthly thinking.
    Colors swirled and there he was, stiff-brimmed cap riding high on his thick thatch of reddish-brown hair, ruddy complexion, handlebar mustache, a heavy black coat open to reveal his starched high-collar shirt, suspenders, and gray flannel trousers. He definitely had the look of another century, but how reassuring to have him here in person.
    “I’m glad to see you.” I truly was. Wiggins might find me a challenge, but I loved his old-fashioned courtesy and serious demeanor. “Let’s walk around the cemetery. It’s beautiful even in winter and the Christmas wreaths are lovely.” He could kick a mound of leaves with his snub-toed black shoe, draw in that dark woody scent, and remember long-ago winter walks in the woods.
    We stepped out into the sunlight and followed a graveled path toward a rise. The sunlight emphasized the rich chestnut sheen of his hair and mustache. We walked in companionable silence, Wiggins smiling and breathing deeply of the frosty air.
    “Ah.” Abruptly, his smile fled. He tugged at his mustache, his expression concerned. “If Susan Flynn plans to redo her will, it is highly advisable to explore the reactions of those who would have been her beneficiaries.”
    How nice to be vindicated. However, I minded my manners. Self-satisfaction wasn’t an attractive quality even though my pursuit of the parish directory now appeared to be justified.
    He nodded in approval. “It is well that she intends to make proper provision for Keith. And”—his voice was kind—“his arrival has brought her happiness. She has known very little happiness these past few years.”
    “I’m sorry Mitchell was killed in combat.” Susan Flynn had confronted the horror of knowing that her son, strong, young, and vital with many years that should have been his, instead died from wounds far away from home. “No mother ever stops grieving the loss of a child.” Mitch had died a hero, his little boy said. Bravery would ever be honored, but medals are no balm to a grieving heart.
    Wiggins turned to face me, his brown eyes full of sadness. “Not one child. Two.”
    I came to a stop, stricken by the enormity of his quiet words.
    His honest, open, frank face was full of compassion. “Young people—and old—make mistakes. Mitchell was his mother’s darling, handsome, vigorous, daring, brave. Unfortunately, he was equally reckless, defiant, and hot-tempered. The weather was icy that December night. Adelaide’s hills began to glaze before the party was over. Mitchell and the girl he’d brought to a party quarreled. Mitchell slammed out of the house. His sister Ellen ran after him and managed to jump into the passenger seat before he gunned out of the drive. He lost control on Indian Hill Road.”
    I remembered a twisting road with a steep drop.
    “The car made a full turn and slammed into an evergreen. Mitchell’s door opened. He hadn’t fastened his seat belt so he was thrown clear, landed in a snowbank. The tree splintered and the car fell.”
    “Ellen?”
    Wiggins shook his head. “Ellen’s seat belt was fastened. They found the crumpled car at the bottom of the drop. Ellen was dead from massive injuries.” Wiggins reached down, picked up a clump of leaves, and the dank smell rose on the cold air. “The road was treacherous that night. The police report concluded that the wreck was a result of weather conditions.”
    “Was Mitchell driving too fast?” Was he too furious from the quarrel to think? Had he pushed on the gas pedal when he should have slowed? A few times I recalled being swept by such a rush of anger that later I scarcely knew what I had said or done.
    Dried leaves drifted down as Wiggins opened his hand. “His father thought so. Thomas Flynn adored his