Aunt Caroline hadn’t had time to write a note, point a finger when the murderer appeared at her door. But somehow she’d managed to stall him in her kitchen long enough to leave a clue. I remembered now that Delia had questioned her plans to serve a fattening dessert when everyone was dieting.
When Fronie Temple appeared at my door a few minutes later I was almost glad to see her. At least she hadn’t brought one of her inedible concoctions.
“Heard you had another visitor last night, and thought you might need a hand putting things straight. I feel just awful about this, Mary George. Wish there were something more I could do.” My landlady stood in the doorway fingering her bright purple necklace and waited to be asked in. “Sorry to hear about that fire at your homeplace—don’t hold your breath till they find out who did it. I swear, I think I could dig up every one of those azaleas in front of city hall and cart them off in a wheelbarrow in broad open daylight, and those lazy police wouldn’t notice a thing!”
“Miss Fronie,” I began, ushering her inside. “Tell me what you know about Kent Coffey.”
“I know he’s gone. Left in the middle of the night owing two months rent.” She stood in my living room looking about, shaking her head. “And to think I trusted that young man, gave him the benefit of the doubt. Why, I even recommended him to paint your aunt Caroline’s portrait for the choir room. Reckon he’s gone off with that too.”
She looked so old, so tired and forlorn that I went over and put my arms around her. I was going to tell her about the portrait when the phone rang in my bedroom.
“I hear that movie-star-looking fellow upstairs from you has given them the slip,” Delia Sims said. “Bet you ten to one he set that fire, Mary George. After that box you got at the post office, I reckon.” She paused. “Didn’t find it, did he?”
“Don’t worry, the Bible’s safe,” I whispered, glancing through the door at Fronie preening in the mirror over my living room sofa. “Look, I have lots to tell you, but I can’t talk now. Why don’t you ride with me over to Hunters’ Oak tomorrow? I have a date with a rich uncle.”
“You have a date with who? What are you talking about?”
“I still have a relative living in Hunters’ Oak,” I said. “My father’s uncle, Benjamin Franklin Murphy. He’s filthy rich, has no other kin, and is almost as old as that fruitcake you and Aunt Caroline used to pass back and forth every Christmas. And he’s asked me to come for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll call and ask if I can bring a friend.”
“Oh, my goodness, Mary George! Do you suppose that’s what all this is about? Caroline must’ve known, or at least suspected … Dear God! Caroline—my poor Caroline! Now I suppose whoever killed her will be after you!”
I made a face. I didn’t need reminding. “After tomorrow, it will be too late, but I would like somebody to keep me company on the drive over. And frankly, I’m not sure how to get there. You will go with me, won’t you?”
“Well, of course. If Uncle Ben’s as rich as you say, he shouldn’t mind an extra person for dinner. What time do you want to leave?”
“I’ve asked for half a day off, so why don’t we plan on leaving around noon and stopping somewhere for lunch?”
“Suits me,” Delia said. “But where are you staying tonight? Didn’t you tell me they broke your kitchen window? Anyone could get in.”
“Doc sent somebody over to replace that. I’ll be fine right here, and Hairy’s with me; I promise to lock up tight.” With Kent Coffey out of the picture, I felt a little less threatened. If the man were to return, he’d have to face not only Hairy and me but a belligerent landlady as well. “I’ll meet you here around noon,” I said.
“Meanwhile, chew on this, Mary George,” my neighbor said. “If your uncle doesn’t have other heirs, who would inherit after you?”
Some distant relative I’d never heard of? A cutthroat “cause” of some kind? I couldn’t imagine who would go to such lengths to eliminate the competition, and I certainly didn’t want to meet up with them. But then, I reminded myself, probably I already had.
The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that Kent Coffey had murdered my aunt, set fire to Uncle Henry’s garage, and, not finding what he was looking for in my apartment, fled before the police could investigate further.
“I hope you plan to notify the police about your missing tenant,” I told Fronie, “because if you don’t, I will. I think Kent Coffey is guilty of a lot more than running arrears in his rent.”
“To tell you the truth, the thought did cross my mind,” Fronie said. “After all, we never had any trouble like this before. But he seemed such a sweet young man, so thoughtful, don’t you know? What on earth do you suppose came over him? Do you think he could be on dope, or something like that?”
I said I didn’t care what Kent Coffey was on as long as he was on his way far from here, but I did call my friend Pat Callaghan at the police station and pass along my suspicions and a description of Kent’s car.
The next morning Pat phoned just as I was getting out of the shower to report that they hadn’t yet found a trace of Kent or his car, but that Bonita Moody was being dismissed from the hospital and would be staying for a few weeks with a relative.
“Good—as long as it’s not around here,” I said, hoping she would be safe.
“Couldn’t tell you if I knew, which I don’t,” Pat said. “But it’s somewhere out of state, I think.”
I wondered if Augusta had gone along as well, and was beginning to feel completely abandoned when Delia phoned to see if I’d survived the night.
“Oh, goody,” she said when I answered. “I’d be most disappointed to learn you hadn’t made it after you promised to buy my lunch today.”
I laughed. “Then I hope you like barbecue. Doc told me about this great place near Albemarle if you can hold off that long.”
“I’ll be on your doorstep before noon,” she said.
But she wasn’t. When I reached home at a little after twelve that day I found a note on my door written on the back of an envelope.
Tried to call you at work, but line was busy. Got a call from realtor—somebody from out of town made an offer on my house and they want to meet for lunch. Sorry—I hate this, but won’t be able to go with you. Call when you get back!
Delia
The phone was ringing as I let myself inside and I hurried to answer. I hadn’t been aware that Delia had made a decision about selling her house. Maybe she’d changed her mind about going with me. I dreaded driving across the state alone, and I was terrified of meeting tyrannical Uncle Ben.
“Mary G.!” Sam said. “Boy, am I glad I caught you. They told me at the vet’s you were on your way to—what’s the name of that place again?”
“Hunters’ Oak,” I said. “And where are you? Didn’t know they had telephones at Lake Catchacold—or wherever it is you went.”
“The truth is, we didn’t catch much of anything and I came back a day early. I’m at a gas station just on the other side of Charlotte … and do I detect maybe the faintest hint of resentment? What’s the matter, Mary G.?”
“I was there when you left that message at Delia’s,” I said. Now, why did I tell him that?
“Oh. Well, damn, Mary G.! Now you’ve ruined it. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Ruined what?” I looked at my watch. “Look, I’ve got to hurry. If I’m late, Uncle Ben might not leave me his millions.”
“Ruined my surprise. Remember our buddy Cindy? Used to help in the kitchen at Summerwood? I’ve found her, Mary George. She’s cooking at this resort in the north Georgia mountains—says they’re all a bunch of old farts, and wants to get out. I think I may have talked her into coming to the camp, or at least giving it a try, and she’s going to stay with Delia until we can work something out … .
“Uncle Ben? What millions?” Sam did the backstep all over his tongue.
“I’ll have to tell you later. I’m on my way to meet him right now, and it takes
several hours to get there.” But I just had to know. “How did you ever find Cindy?”
“Mr. Mac told me about her. Seems they kept in touch. And I was in the area anyway, so I stopped in for a visit. Told her about you … and that’s not all, Mary G. I think we might be able to—”
“Sam, really, I’ve got to go.”
“Okay. Look, I know where Hunters’ Oak is. Why don’t I meet you for lunch somewhere? We’ll leave my car and ride together. That is, if you’d like the company.”
I’d like the company very much and told him so. “Delia stood me up,” I said, and told him about her note. “So I guess you’ll have to do.”
We agreed to meet at the barbecue restaurant in Albemarle. If only it were closer! I thought. I changed into a sea green sundress with full skirt and modest jacket I hoped would meet with my elderly uncle’s approval, then fed Hairy and let him out for a quick run; Doc had promised to stop and check on him after work. I was on my way to the car when Fronie appeared as suddenly as if she’d been dreamed up by a genie with bad fashion sense.
She wore a polyester pants suit of a large floral design in neon pink, some sort of zebra-striped turbanlike head covering, and carried a picnic hamper the size of Alabama.
“Mary George, I hope this isn’t an intrusion, but Delia told me she wasn’t going to be able to ride over to Hunters’ Oak with you, and I wondered if you’d mind if I went along?” My landlady lifted the basket as she spoke. It looked heavy. Real heavy. “Thought you might like a little something to eat along the way. Made some of my poppyseed muffins fresh today.”
Right. And the ones you brought Aunt Caroline were stale! I remembered. “I’m sorry, Miss Fronie,” I said. “But I’m meeting a friend for lunch, and I really don’t know how long I’ll be. It might be late.”
“That’s all right, honey. I just want a ride to see some kinfolks over there. My first husband was from Hunters’ Oak, you know, and I never get a chance to visit. They’re always gettin’ on to me about that.”
Fronie swung the hamper onto the backseat and slammed the door. “Oh, well, I’ll just bring this along. You never know when we might get hungry.”
I stood speechless with my hand on the door handle. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say, “Bug off, you frumpy old bag! Can’t you see I want to be alone with my sweetie?” But Aunt Caroline’s gentle ghost would haunt me.
Fronie was walking around to the passenger side when I saw the paper in my seat. What was the missing page from my aunt’s cookbook doing on the seat of my car! I snatched it up and stuffed it into my handbag along with the old family Bible Doc had been guarding for me. I wasn’t going to let that handbag out of my sight.
“Okay, let’s go,” I said as Fronie Temple plopped onto the seat beside me. “I told Sam I’d meet him in Albemarle in an hour, so we’ll have to take the quickest route.”
“Then you’d better take the Bethel Church Road. They’re doing construction work on the expressway and the right lane’s closed for miles. Althea Jernigan said she just about wet her pants before she could get to a rest stop the other day.” Fronie strained to get the seat belt around her bulging middle. I sighed and followed her directions, turning onto the two-lane road past Bethel Church. Did Fronie mean to spend the night with her relatives? I hoped so. At least Sam and I would be alone on the return trip. I had promised Doc I’d be at work in the morning, and I knew we’d be late getting home, but I didn’t care.
And if I hadn’t been aggravated with my landlady, I would have been in high spirits, although it had been a demanding morning. We’d seen one frantic pet owner after another until finally, about midmorning, there had been a brief lull. Doc had managed to grab a doughnut and a quick cup of coffee and was on his way to check on a post-op puppy when he stopped halfway across the room and looked at me.
“The glass.” That was all he said, just “The glass.”
I kind of smiled and shook my head. Doc works much too hard. “Yes?” I said.
“That broken window in your kitchen. If it had been broken from the outside, the glass would’ve been in your sink.”
“What?” I stopped to answer the phone, and David Angel, the Baptist minister, came in just then with his pet ferret, and that was the end of that. Now it came back to me.
Beside me Fronie Temple leaned back, closed her eyes, and hummed, sounding sort of like a cat in the mood for more than holding hands. To discourage her, I turned on the car radio just in time to hear the end of the news.
“ … And this just in from Watauga County. The state patrol has discovered a white Honda Civic with a North Carolina license plate that apparently went off the road in the mountains near Blowing Rock. The driver is still trapped inside. Rescue workers are attempting …”
I glanced at Fronie but she didn’t seem to have heard it.
Kent Coffey drove a white Honda Civic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I looked at the clock on the dashboard. “I’m afraid we’re going to be late. How far is it to the turnoff?”
“A good little ways,” Fronie said. “But I know a short cut just a few miles down the road. It comes out about the same place and doesn’t wind around so much. Might save some time.” She studied herself in the visor mirror and concentrated on centering her funny-looking hat. It looked as if it came straight from the forties.
Augusta had been on my mind all day and I wondered why. Usually I could sense when she might appear, catch a whiff of her strawberry scent, feel reassured by the awareness of her gentle presence, but Augusta wasn’t near. Maybe she had accomplished her mission and moved on to someone who needed her more. But you’d think she’d at least wait to tell me good-bye.
And right now I could use some heavenly direction because I had a dismal feeling we were going the wrong way. “Okay, which way now?” I asked Fronie when we came to the next intersection.
She glanced in both directions. “Right … I think.”
“You think? I thought you knew where we were going. We’ve been wandering around out here for an hour. Sam’s going to think I’ve stood him up.”
But I turned right and drove for another mile or so until I saw the sign. “Miss Fronie, we’re headed back toward Charlotte. This can’t be right! We must be miles out of the way.”
“I’m sorry, Mary George. Guess I told you wrong back there. We should’ve turned left. I sort of got turned around—just wait till you get to be my age, honey. Your mind goes on vacation and forgets to invite you along.”
At this rate I’d probably get to be her age before we reached that barbecue place in Albemarle, I thought as I looked for a place to turn around. I would have to call the restaurant at the next available telephone and tell Sam we were on the way.
But the next available phone was at a gas station—general store about three barns, five cornfields, and fifteen miles down the road, and I had to wait another ten minutes for the woman who was using it to inquire about every one of her eleven grandchildren. I looked at my watch as the woman shifted her handbag and her feet. It was 1:36. If the small store was air-conditioned, it wasn’t working today, and the ceiling fan over the produce stirred only hot air.
I watched flies buzzing around a box of peaches and felt a little weak in the stomach. The English muffin and apple juice I’d had for breakfast seemed like ancient history and I wiped the perspiration from my face with a tissue.
“Honey, your face is as red as those tomatoes,” Fronie said. “For heaven’s sake, go splash some water on it and get yourself a cold drink. Here—what’s that number? I’ll call that barbecue place.” And she planted herself behind the long-winded grandmother, who gave her a withering look.
I really did have to go to the bathroom, and the idea of a cold drink overruled anything else, including my need to speak with Sam—who was probably sitting in an air-conditioned restaurant drinking iced tea. I gave my landlady my credit card and the name of the barbecue place and headed for the back of the store. Sam would w
ait for me. He would order his sandwich and eat it while waiting for me to join him … and then he would probably order another.
I felt refreshed after washing my face, and took a long gulp of icy Coke before seeking out Fronie. I found her fanning herself beside the car.
“Spoke with the cashier at that restaurant, Mary George. She said your young man’s done left.”
“What? Left for where?” This wasn’t like Sam. “Are you sure? Did he leave a message?”
“Well, he did ask if you’d been there, she said. Maybe he called your place, left a message there.”
Of course! That’s what he would do. I drank the rest of my soft drink and went back inside to phone. Talking Grandma, thank goodness, had bought a basket of homegrown tomatoes and left. I called my apartment twice, thinking I must have dialed the wrong number, but the answering machine never picked up.
“Funny,” I said to Fronie as we got underway, “I don’t remember turning off my machine, but the phone just kept on ringing.”
“I expect you just forgot.” She patted my arm. “And don’t worry, your Sam will understand.” Fronie blotted a fresh layer of purple lipstick. “April Orchid,” she called it, although I’ve never seen orchids that color in April or any other month.
Just then I didn’t much care if Sam understood or not. I was a bit perturbed with Sam Maguire for leaving the way he did. It wouldn’t kill him to wait a little while longer. After all, how did he know I hadn’t had a flat or something? It just wasn’t like him.
And it wasn’t like Delia, either, to go off to lunch with a stranger—even if he did want to buy her house—after seeming so eager to make the trip to Hunters’ Oak. I knew she couldn’t afford to pass up a house sale, but couldn’t she have tried to reschedule the meeting?
If my aunt’s old friend was as concerned for me as I thought she was, Delia Sims certainly wouldn’t want me driving alone all the way to Hunters’ Oak with the coveted family Bible in my handbag.
Angel at Troublesome Creek Page 17
