“That reminds me of what happened when I was trying to teach my son to drive,” he said. “He’d practice backing down the driveway—up and down, up and down, and half the time he’d sideswipe his mama’s pansy bed. Finally I got out of the car and stood in the yard to try and guide him past the trouble spot.” Doc Nichols laughed. “And darned if he didn’t run right over my toe! Couldn’t walk for a week.”
“You must have been a patient dad. I had to learn in driver’s ed. Aunt Caroline didn’t drive, you know.”
“I know.” The doc refilled his cup. “That was a sad thing, that accident. They say it was months before she’d even ride in a car.”
“She wouldn’t talk about it,” I said. “I never knew exactly what happened.”
“Car stalled on the railroad tracks. She barely escaped with her life.” He frowned into his cup. “I was about ten or eleven at the time, but I’ll never forget when it happened. Junior Witherspoon was in my class at school.”
“Junior Witherspoon?”
“The boy who died in the accident. Well, his name was Albert, but everybody called him Junior. He was Delia Sims’s little brother.”
I guess he noticed my face, how I clutched the doorframe for support. “My God, Sport, I thought you knew that much!”
I shook my head. “Tell me about it,” I said.
“There’s really not that much more to tell. Caroline was about seventeen, maybe eighteen, and hadn’t been driving long. Happened just before Christmas. She and Delia had been in town doing a little shopping, and of course Junior had to come along. I don’t remember all the details, but it seems the other two were ready to leave before Delia, so she told them to go on without her, she’d walk home when she finished. It’s not that far, you know.”
Doc set down his mug and looked at me. “You sure you want to hear this, Sport?” I nodded. I had to hear it now.
“There was no signal at the crossing, and Caroline didn’t see the train. She’d started across when she heard it, and I guess she panicked when the car stalled. She tried to get Junior to jump, but he froze. The people in the car behind them saw what happened. They said Caroline ran screaming to the passenger side, tried to open the door. They snatched her away just before the train hit.”
I had heard Delia mention a brother who died, but I never knew how. Neither she nor my aunt ever discussed the accident in front of me. Everyone sort of tiptoed around the subject—it was something that happened long ago, and because of it, Aunt Caroline never drove. It was just one of my aunt’s peculiar little quirks, and I never thought it was important. Until now.
Poor Aunt Caroline! What an awful thing to have to live with. And poor Delia. Once in a while I had noticed, or rather, suspected, a strained moment between the two friends, but then nobody’s compatible 100 percent of the time. Now I wondered if the resentment went deeper, festered, until …
Enough of that! This is Delia you’re thinking about, Mary George Murphy. I could never suspect our neighbor of hurting her best friend. But then I never thought Aunt Caroline would end up at the bottom of the back stairs with her neck snapped.
We had a couple of emergencies during our regular lunch hour that day, so I didn’t get a break until later in the afternoon. As soon as I got a chance, I gave Delia a call.
She sounded pleased, welcoming, and that made me feel even more of a heel. “Mary George! You haven’t opened that post office box, have you?”
“Not yet. Listen, is it okay if I come by for a minute after work? There’s something I need to ask you.”
“Well, of course, silly. I’d invite you to stay for supper, but I’ve been asked to fill in at bridge.” She didn’t even sound curious. “If I’m in the shower when you get here, just come on in. I’ll leave the back door unlocked.”
I drove straight to Delia’s as soon as I could get away. Hairy would be wanting his supper and needing to go out, but surely a few minutes more wouldn’t hurt. I had to hear about that accident from Delia herself.
No one answered when I knocked on the back door, so I opened it and stuck my head inside. “Delia?” I called, but there was still no reply.
“Delia, it’s me, Mary George!” In the kitchen four cats cried at my feet and tried to trick me into feeding them again, but I knew my neighbor had already given her “babies” their dinner. I scooped up the big orange tabby and walked into the living room to wait. Down the hall I heard the steady droning of the shower and hoped Delia wouldn’t be long.
I glanced through an antiques magazine, read some recipes in Southern Living, and when the phone rang in the kitchen it jolted me from my communion with deep-dish chocolate delight. Thinking it might be Delia’s bridge hostess calling about a change of plans, I was on my way to get it when the answering machine clicked on.
“Delia, it looks like things are going to work out! It wouldn’t do for you know who to find out about this, so the less said, the better. Remember, this is just between the two of us. I’ll be in touch soon.”
I dropped the cat and hurried out the door, closing it quietly behind me.
The caller was Sam Maguire.
Why in the world was Sam calling Delia? And, supposing I was the “you know who” he was referring to, (and who else?) just what was it I shouldn’t find out? I had mentioned to Sam that I thought Delia would make a perfect bookkeeper for Summerwood if we could arrange for her to live on the grounds, but we needed to refine the plan before presenting it to her. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Delia if it didn’t work out. No, it couldn’t be that.
Sam had made it obvious he wouldn’t be able to reach a phone from his “remote” camping area, yet here he was calling my neighbor when he should’ve been frying fish over his supper campfire. There must be a reasonable explanation, the rational side of me whispered calmly. But the doubting part of me shoved her roughly aside, sneering: Are all men incapable of telling the truth?
And both Delia and Sam were determined, it seemed, to keep me from opening that box. Why?
Once home I clamped the leash to Hairy’s collar and gave it a little jerk as I started for town. After all, Hairy was male too, and hadn’t he run off to God knows where the minute the door was left open?
“Mary George! Wait up, what’s your hurry?” I’d heard footsteps behind me, but was so wrapped in my thoughts I didn’t pay much attention. Now I stopped to look back.
Breathing a little faster than usual, Kent caught up with me. “You look kind of flustered,” he said. “You all right, Mary George?”
I’d have to feel better to die, I thought, but I didn’t say so. And it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have company on my walk to the post office, although there was still plenty of daylight left and people waved as they passed. If Kent Coffey had wanted to do me harm, he’d had plenty of opportunities. Besides, he could hold the dog’s leash while I went inside the building. He didn’t have to know what was in the box.
“Is everything okay?” Kent repeated.
“I think I’ll soon be able to sit up and take some light nourishment,” I said.
“What?” Kent almost walked into a tree.
I laughed. “That’s just something Aunt Caroline used to say,” I explained, seeing his concern. “I was joking, Kent. I’m fine. Really.”
At least as far as I know. I patted the small key in my pocket. Soon I was going to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The day, which started out sultry but sunny, had darkened with my mood, and now it looked as if it might rain before we could get to the post office and back. Hairy didn’t care, he was just glad to be outside, and would have sniffed every tree and post along the way if I hadn’t kept a firm hand on his leash. Kent and I walked almost at a run, leaving no time for conversation, and I was glad. I wasn’t in the mood for casual chatter.
“Do you want to go inside?” I asked Kent when we reached the gray stone building on the corner, but he shook his head. “I just came along for the company,” he said, and with exaggerated pu
ffing and panting, leaned against the side of the building.
I laughed and handed over Hairy’s leash before I went inside. Kent really was a good sport. Maybe I had kissed him off too soon. Hadn’t he always been agreeable? Maybe too agreeable. I couldn’t manage to break that fragile thread of doubt. “I’ll just be a minute,” I said, searching my pocket for the key. “Gotta pick up my mail.”
Did he know why I was here? I’d like to think Kent’s eagerness to accompany me was strictly because of my sparkling wit, keen intelligence, and remarkable beauty, but some pious puritan voice inside said “Get real!” It had to be something else. Maybe the man just wanted exercise.
I stepped inside the small, stifling lobby, and it didn’t take long to see I was alone. The post office had been closed for over an hour and the inner doors were locked. With the key in my fist, I searched the boxes in the niche at the far end of the room. Number 284 was one of the larger ones on the bottom row. The whole time I stooped there to open the box, I sensed an imminent threat and resisted an impulse to look over my shoulder. Silly! Cut it out. You’re doing this to yourself! I thought. But my fingers fumbled with the lock until at last I drew out the brown-paper-wrapped package inside. I hadn’t realized how my hands were shaking.
The parcel, about the size of a cigar box, was addressed to me in Aunt Caroline’s familiar script, and seeing her handwriting again reminded me of the hurtful, empty place she left behind.
Treetops bobbed and whispered in the rising wind as I came outside, and warm air from the pavement rose around us like a sauna. Kent glanced at the package under my arm. “Starting your Christmas shopping early, or is it your birthday?”
“Neither.” I took the leash and darted for home. A raindrop fell. Perfect timing. “Friend of mine in Charlotte finally returned my book. I let her read my anthology by Southern woman writers—thought she’d never get it back to me.”
“Oh,” Kent said. He looked bored. I kept my arm over the local postmark.
“Want me to carry that?” he asked when the package slipped a little.
I clutched the bundle tighter and smiled, breaking into a run. “Race you!” I said.
We were about two-thirds soaked by the time we got home. “Aren’t you going to ask me in for a cup of hot something?” Kent wanted to know. “Okay,” I said with little enthusiasm, but he didn’t get the hint. “Just give me a minute and I’ll let you in the front.” But first I took Hairy in the back so I could towel him dry in the kitchen.
I hadn’t had dinner and no cup of anything was going to be enough for me. I looked in my freezer. “I can offer veggies and pasta in a lemon dill sauce or macaroni and beef,” I said to Kent, thumping my offerings on the counter. Maybe he’d go home.
He didn’t. Kent Coffey made a face and shrugged. “I’ll take the macaroni.”
“Then go wash your hands.” I waved him away. “Maybe I can find some soup to go with this.”
As soon as I heard the bathroom sink running I shoved my aunt’s package in the freezer and piled two bags of broccoli on top. By the time he returned I had our dinner in the microwave and had set two places at the table. “What took you so long?” I asked when he finally appeared in the kitchen. I knew very well what took him so long. He’d been poking about my living room, looking, no doubt for the mysterious package. I thought I knew now why Kent had followed me to the post office. He wanted whatever was in that package. The knowledge made me nervous, but I pretended innocence. It was safer that way.
Kent was quiet over dinner, and I don’t think it was just because of the food. I had the feeling he wanted to tell me something, but didn’t know how to go about it.
“Kent, is something on your mind?” I asked later as I rinsed tomato soup from the pan.
He sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee, turning the mug in slow circles. “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I know something’s going on, and that you could get hurt. I like you, Mary George. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.”
“Is that a threat?” I squirted soap into the pan. I would squirt him too if he made a move in my direction.
“Just call it a warning.” Kent Coffey pushed his empty mug aside and stood. “I think you should get away from this place—and the sooner the better. Get out of here, Mary George.”
Soap bottle in hand, I watched him turn and walk out my back door. It was the second time that day a man had left me standing speechless. I didn’t waste any time locking the door behind him.
It wasn’t quite dark, but I went from window to window closing blinds, drawing curtains, shutting out whoever might be out there. Rain thudded on summer-baked soil and sprayed the windows, pine branches brushed the roof.
The package was as cold as a Popsicle when I took it from the freezer, then, with Hairy Brown curling on the floor beside me, tore it open behind my locked bedroom door.
I recognized the old Bible at once. The curling cover was the cheap black kind made to look like leather, and my grandfather’s name, Douglas Kincaid Murphy, was printed in tarnished gold on the front. My hopes began to fizzle. Obviously the value of this Bible wasn’t in its cost or appearance. I would have to look further than that.
I found the note from Aunt Caroline tucked just inside the cover, and it apparently was written in a rush because I could barely recognize the handwriting.
Mary George,
Please note family tree in front of Bible. Seems you have a living relative after all—but probably not for long, so time is of the essence! An uncle Ben (your father’s uncle) now lives in Hunters’ Oak where you were born. Saw a story about him in the Charlotte paper the other day. Seems he used to be quite an adventurer and was presumed dead at the time your parents were killed. (See enclosed article.) Anyway, he went on to make quite a lot of money in real estate, etc., never married, and has no heirs—yet! I recognized the family name and the town, put one and one together, and came up with a sizable amount.
Made a call to “Uncle Ben” and told him all about you, but naturally he wants to meet you, and also wants proof. Bring your birth certificate—you have a copy—and this Bible along, but hurry! The old fellow’s probably close to ninety and getting more senile by the minute. Oh—housekeeper’s a tyrant—name’s Milford. Watch out for him!
Now, listen, my dear girl, be on your guard as I’m afraid you have competition. There have been just too many questions, and I don’t feel completely at ease. Let’s hope it’s my imagination, but I’m renting this post office box for good measure, and if you’re reading this, you’ve received the key. Do get in touch with this old gent as soon as you can, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to go there alone.
Always,
Aunt C.
According to the enclosed article, dated several weeks before, Benjamin Franklin Murphy had fallen in love with Western Europe while serving with the Special Forces during World War II. After the war he returned to the States and struck out on his own to earn his fortune out West in ranching, land, oil, and stock investments. The writer portrayed my great uncle as sort of an eccentric who loved travel, theater, and the finer things in life, but kept pretty much to himself except for a select circle of friends. The last thirty years of his life had been spent in France and Italy, where he owned luxurious homes, and during this time he had broken ties with family and home. Now, apparently in his dotage, Ben Murphy had come home to Hunters’ Oak, North Carolina, to live his remaining years in the house where he’d been born, and was seeking legitimate heirs whom he felt might deserve financial help.
I wanted to jump up and down and holler. I could certainly use the money; it was the “deserving” part that stymied me. As I slowly refolded the article, another part of me came to life, a part that was buried so deep I hadn’t even known it was there. I remembered the big, white house in Hunters’ Oak where my grandmother had lived, remembered the peeling paint on the wide front porch,
and a rag doll named Lucinda. Dressed in blue calico, the doll sat under the huge Christmas tree in the room with the bay window. My grandma Ola had made her for me the Christmas I was four, just before she died. Except for my recent dream, I hadn’t thought of Grandma Ola or Lucinda in twenty years.
Somewhere outside a car door shut, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t been for Hairy Brown. The dog rose from the rug by my bed, ears alert, and padded to the window, a growl low in his throat. The rain had stopped, but water dripped from the eaves, making it difficult to hear. I switched off my lamp and tried to peep through the blinds.
Through the unpruned shrubbery that screened my view I saw Kent’s car parked closer than usual to the house, but that was all. The backyard was steeped in soggy silence, and I watched for a while from the window to see if anything moved, but all I saw was an occasional glimmer of a puddle in the light from Fronie’s kitchen.
“Good boy,” I said to Hairy. “It’s probably just Kent coming back from the Hound Dog with his supper after that awful meal I gave him, but if you hear anything else, you let me know.” I stroked him between the ears and turned on the light.
And that was when I noticed the red blinking light on my answering machine. Two blinks for two calls. Both were from Delia. I had been so eager to open Aunt Caroline’s mysterious package I hadn’t glanced at it when I got home.
“Where did you go?” Delia said in her first brief message. “Thought you were coming by. Call when you get home. If you don’t reach me here, I’m at Phoebe Martin’s. Talk to you later.”
The second was more urgent. “Now I’m worried. Tell me you didn’t open that box alone. Mary George, something’s not right. You get back to me now, I mean it!”
Angel at Troublesome Creek Page 15
