Too Late for Angels

by Mignon F. Ballard

  “What? You mean the mud on her shoes?”

  “Nancy called it crawdad clay because the crawdads liked to burrow there. It seems Florence planned to be prepared for cold weather,” she said, examining them, “so she traded these for your boots—which means she knew she’d be going outside.”

  “I set her shoes beside the bed,” Lucy said, “so she could find them when she woke up. The boots were in the closet along with that coat of mine she took. I’m almost sure somebody telephoned her while Nettie and I were cleaning up the trash on the street.”

  Augusta took several sheets of newspaper from a stack on the back porch and folded the shoes into a neat package.

  “I suppose we should take these to the police,” Lucy said. “They knew Florence was wearing my coat because of the receipt in the pocket, but they wouldn’t have had any way of knowing her boots belonged to me. Do you think the shoes could be important?”

  “They might. It wouldn’t hurt to give them a call.”

  Tomorrow, Lucy thought later as she stowed away the shoes on the top shelf of her hall closet. It had been a long and rather tiring day and now she just wanted to relax with a bowl of whatever it was that smelled so good that Augusta had simmering on the stove. And thank heavens for the angel’s company! The knowledge that someone had died wearing her coat and boots made Lucy Nan Pilgrim want to look over her shoulder.

  The two of them were just finishing supper when the phone rang and Lucy almost tripped over her feet in her rush to answer it. She had left another message with her daughter earlier that day and hoped it was Julie returning her call. It had been several weeks since they had spoken, and if there was such a thing as heartstrings, Lucy felt that Julie was snipping hers one by one.

  “Lucy Nan, I hope I’m not calling you too late,” her cousin Jo Nell bellowed, “but if you have that sandwich-spread recipe handy, I’d sure like to have it for my garden club meeting next week.”

  Grimacing, Lucy held the receiver away from her ear. “What sandwich spread?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Suddenly she just wanted to cry.

  “Why, that yummy concoction you served to The Thursdays the other day. I can scribble it down right now if you’ve got a minute.”

  What had Augusta put in that sandwich spread? Lucy wished she’d paid closer attention. “Jo Nell, can I get back to you on that tomorrow? I can’t put my hands on it right now.”

  “Well, of course…are you all right? You sound funny. You didn’t take a cold from being out in that awful weather today, did you? I’ll swear that wind howls across Cemetery Hill like it’s trying to raise the dead! I went on home as soon as I could—no use risking pneumonia!”

  “It was cold, but I’m fine,” Lucy said, rolling her eyes at Augusta. “Had some hot tea as soon as I got home.” She took the phone into the sitting room and made herself comfortable. “Did you notice Boyd Henry at the graveside service?” she asked her cousin. “He stayed way off to himself. I saw him under that old magnolia in the Dunlaps’ lot looking like he was about to blow away with his big umbrella.”

  “Boyd Henry—he’s kind of a loner,” Jo Nell said. “He was a good many years ahead of us in school, still, I don’t remember him playing with the others much. Guess he didn’t have time with his after-school jobs and violin lessons. Always was a hard worker, though.”

  “Nettie says he sold snow cones,” Lucy said.

  “That’s right, he did! I’d almost forgotten that. Had a little cart on wheels. Boyd Henry’s daddy died when he was fairly young, and his mother had a hard time making ends meet. I expect that little snow cone business helped buy the groceries.”

  “I wonder if he sold one to Florence the day she disappeared,” Lucy said, “but I’m sure someone thought to question him about that.”

  “From what I’ve heard, I doubt if Eva Calhoun—that’s Florence’s mama—would let her have one,” Jo Nell said. “She was so afraid that child would get a germ! I was too young at the time to remember much about Florence, but Mama said the poor little thing had to wash her hands practically every time she touched anything, and wore fancy little dresses all the time. Can you imagine her mother letting Florence dribble cherry syrup on one of those?”

  Lucy admitted that she couldn’t, but that still didn’t explain why Boyd Henry was so reluctant to mingle at the graveside.

  “What did you think of Florence’s Leonard?” Jo Nell wanted to know. “Didn’t seem too broken up, if you ask me.”

  Lucy remembered Bennett Saxon’s advice and said maybe the poor man was just overwhelmed by it all, but she didn’t believe it for a minute.

  The clock in the hall was striking nine when Lucy got off the telephone. She had only spoken briefly with her cousin, but what if Julie had tried to call? “Oh, the hell with it!” she muttered aloud. “She isn’t going to call because she doesn’t care!” She plopped down as hard as she could into the most uncomfortable chair in the sitting room, which happened to be the green-striped one they had inherited from Charlie’s mother. The springs made a peculiar noise and sagged even lower.

  Augusta settled across from her with a bowl of nuts and began to crack them one by one, filling a fruit jar with the shelled pecans. She didn’t speak.

  “Oh, go on!” Lucy said finally. “Just say it. I know what you’re thinking!”

  Augusta’s eyes flew open wide. “How can you do that? Will you show me how?”

  “Do what?”

  “Know what I’m thinking.”

  Lucy groaned. “My own daughter hates me and it’s all my fault! I’ve as good as shoved her out of my life.” She told her about Julie’s relationship with her current boyfriend. “For the life of me, I can’t see the attraction!” she said. “I can hardly bear to be in the same room with him.”

  “Have you tried?” Augusta asked, nibbling a nut.

  “I’ve haven’t had much of a chance. Well, she’s made her choice. I wash my hands of it!” Lucy picked up a pillow and squeezed it, wishing it were Buddy Boy’s neck. Her heart hurt. It hurt all the way up to her head and down to her toes.

  “Are you sure you want to burn your bridges to spite your face?” Augusta asked.

  When the telephone rang at a little before eight the next morning, Lucy didn’t dare to hope it might be Julie, which was a good thing because it was Idonia Mae Culpepper and she sounded as if she had been running. Lucy knew that couldn’t be true because as far as she knew, Idonia had never run anywhere in her life.

  “LucyNanhaveyouheardfromZee?” she asked, seemingly all in one breath.

  “Zee?” Lucy repeated, since it was the only word she had understood.

  “Zee, yes! Zee Saint Clair. She was supposed to fill in with my bridge group last night, but she never showed up.”

  “She probably just forgot. Did you call?” Lucy yawned. She hadn’t had her second cup of coffee yet.

  “Well, of course I called. And called. And called. She’s not picking up. It’s not like Zee to forget something like that. I’m worried, Lucy Nan. You know she has that director living in her guest cottage—the one they think killed Calpernia Hemphill. For all we know he might have cut her into little pieces and—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Idonia! Maybe she went out to eat or something. Have you tried to phone her this morning?”

  “Well, not yet, but I’m going to. I didn’t want to wake her.”

  “I didn’t notice it bothering you to wake me,” Lucy told her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I?”

  “No, but you might’ve. Actually I’ve already had my breakfast.” Pancakes so light they could float, with the most divine strawberry syrup. “Why don’t you wait a little while and try her again?”

  “And if I can’t reach her then, will you go with me?”

  “Go where?” Lucy glanced in the kitchen where Augusta, drying the breakfast dishes, paused to admire her reflection in the bottom of a stainless-steel frying pan.

  “To Zee’s
, of course. You surely don’t expect me to go by myself, do you?”

  And that was why, an hour later, Lucy found herself turning into the long tree-shaded driveway of Zee St. Clair’s Victorian home, with Idonia sitting white-knuckled beside her. Except to comment that she hoped they weren’t too late, Idonia hadn’t said a word during the brief drive over. Now she leaned forward and shaded her eyes from the morning sun. “It’s awfully quiet,” Idonia said. “Don’t you think it’s unusually quiet, Lucy Nan?”

  Lucy replied with a noncommittal grunt. Of course it was quiet! What did Idonia expect at nine-thirty in the morning?

  “And look at all these trees! I don’t know why Zee wants to live so far from the street. Why, anybody could come back here and burglarize her house or worse and no one would be the wiser.” Idonia dropped her voice, as if anyone could hear. “I wonder if she’s home. I don’t see her car…

  “…Zee really needs to cut back those rhododendrons. Look at that—they’re just taking over her front walk.”

  Lucy drove slowly, trying to avoid the potholes in Zee’s gravel drive. She didn’t want to frighten Idonia even more by mentioning that Zee’s copy of the morning newspaper was still in its tube at the street.

  Her friend’s garage door was shut and if Zee was at home, her car was probably inside, Lucy thought. It was not until she turned into the parking area behind the house that she saw the bright blue Toyota parked in front of the small guest cottage.

  “That must be his car! He’s here!” Idonia clutched at the dashboard. “Oh, dear God, what do you suppose he’s done to Zee?”

  “Idonia, if the man had done anything to Zee, he’d be miles away by now.” Lucy switched off the engine and opened her door.

  Idonia snatched at her sleeve. “Where are you going?”

  “Why, to check on Zee, of course. Isn’t that why we’re here?” Lucy marched boldly up to the back door, hoping she wouldn’t look inside to find Zee lying stone-cold dead on the linoleum. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She looked back to find Idonia following at a safe distance and was about ready to chicken out and go home when she heard voices inside.

  Hearing their footsteps, Zee St. Clair, clad in a slinky, hot-pink lounging thingy, met them at the door.

  “Well, you’re just in time for breakfast! I’ll put on another pot. Come in and meet Jay.”

  A young man turned from the stove where he was frying bacon and waved a spatula at them. “How do you like your eggs?” he asked.

  He wore cutoff jeans and a baggy shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Jay Warren-Winslow was of slight build with a nondescript brownish beard, but he had a nice smile and the greenest eyes Lucy had ever seen. And as for Zee St. Clair, she looked happier than a pig in the sunshine.

  Chapter Eight

  “Well,” Idonia said, “I never.”

  Lucy giggled. “Maybe not, but it sure looks like Zee has!”

  “Why, Lucy Nan Pilgrim! Surely you don’t think Zee and that Jay person have been behaving in an inappropriate manner! She’s old enough to be his mother.”

  The two were driving home after what Lucy considered a most uncomfortable visit in the St. Clair kitchen, during which they sat at the table sipping coffee strong enough to get up and walk, and tried to avoid looking one another in the eye.

  Lucy thought Zee would behave in an inappropriate manner in a New York minute under the right circumstances, but she wasn’t sure that was the case—not yet, anyway. “To tell the truth, I think Zee’s just enjoying the moment,” she said. “She might be caught up in the idea of it, but I’ll bet she’d run for dear life if that man took her seriously.” She slowed as they drove past the red brick school where children chased one another during their mid-morning break. “I haven’t seen Zee wear that hot-pink number since we used to drink whiskey sours by Ellis’s pool. Remember? I had a yellow flowered one-piece job kinda like it—zipped up the back—a real problem when you had to go to the bathroom in a hurry.” Lucy smiled, remembering happier times when Charlie was still alive and her friends entertained one another at dinner parties. She had given the yellow lounging pajamas away years ago when they got too tight to meet across the back. When was the last time she had entertained on such a scale? Surely it hadn’t been as long ago as it seemed.

  Zee had been most apologetic about forgetting about Idonia’s bridge club. Jay had taken her to this quaint little restaurant in Charlotte, she’d said, and the bridge club just went completely out of her head. Lucy hoped her brains weren’t leaking out as well.

  “It might be perfectly harmless,” Idonia said, “but it just doesn’t look right, and Zee doesn’t even seem to care. I still don’t feel good about that man staying there. You heard what Jo Nell said: He padded his résumé with a bunch of lies and Calpernia found out about it. Ask your own son. Roger teaches in the history department, doesn’t he? I heard it was common knowledge on campus at Sarah Bedford.” Idonia sniffed. “It’ll be a cold day in Hades before I ask Zee Saint Clair to fill in again. Can you believe that flimsy excuse she gave?”

  “That she went out to dinner and forgot? Absolutely! Wouldn’t you?”

  Idonia was quiet for a minute. “No,” she said finally. “I don’t think I would. That Jay Warren-Winslow—his eyes are too close together to suit me. What do you reckon he’s up to?”

  “He says he just wants to show appreciation to Zee for taking him in,” Lucy said, “and I can understand that. I just hope Zee doesn’t make more of it. I’d hate to see her hurt.”

  “Maybe she’s looking for husband number three,” Idonia said. “After all, it’s been at least three years since she dumped the last one—but she’d better watch her step this time.”

  “Well, at least he knows how to cook.” Lucy waved to Ashley Butterfield, the organist at the Methodist Church, as she pulled out of the church parking lot. The day was crisp and sunny; flaming maple leaves framed a bright October sky, but the thought of that parking lot made her want to rush home and lock the doors behind her.

  Idonia must have been thinking the same thing. “I don’t know how Ashley can bear to park behind that church by herself, just like nothing’s happened.”

  “She has to practice for Sunday,” Lucy said. “Where else would she park? Besides, the staff’s there during the daytime, but I know what you mean. The place gives me the willies, too. I wish they’d hurry and find who did that to Florence.”

  “I thought you might’ve heard something,” Idonia said. As they neared her house, she began searching in her handbag for her house key. “Nettie says she’s still not sure that woman they buried was Florence. Wouldn’t that be awful, Lucy Nan, if it turns out they put some stranger in the Calhoun family plot?”

  “Who else could it be? She knew her way around the house all right, knew the name of the cook—even said her mama was a Thursday. Why would anybody pretend to be Florence Calhoun?”

  Idonia jangled her keys and snapped her handbag shut. “For the inheritance. Why else? Just think about it, Lucy Nan: The very house you’re living in would’ve come to Florence Calhoun!”

  Lucy did think about it. She remembered going to Papa Zeke’s funeral when she and Ellis were fifteen. She knew that because they had the visitation in the new fellowship hall of the Presbyterian Church, which had just been completed that year. At his father’s death, Ellis’s dad had inherited the family home along with additional property and investments—which came to a sizable amount—now in the possession of Ellis.

  “But that was so long ago!” Lucy turned into the driveway of Idonia’s modest brick ranch house where shaggy gold chrysanthemums billowed along the sunny front walk. “Ellis’s dad sold the house to the Methodist Church for a parsonage thirty years ago. Why now? Besides, if Shirley Fenwick was just pretending to be Florence, her husband would have to be in on the scheme as well, wouldn’t he?”

  “You got a look at him, didn’t you? Jo Nell says that man’s about as tender as a judge’s heart. We’ve not heard the last
of Leonard Fenwick!”

  If Leonard Fenwick had been involved in a plot to pass off his wife as the long-lost Florence Calhoun, did he also have a hand in her murder? Lucy wondered as she drove to the post office after dropping off Idonia. Ellis said the police had questioned some of that rough-looking bunch that hung out at the Red Horse Café—many of whom were no strangers to the inside of a jail—but so far nothing had come of it. Lucy could believe some of them might have been desperate enough to take what little money the poor woman had on her that night, and even the costume jewelry she wore. After all, in the dark, how were they to know the difference? But why did they think it necessary to kill her? Florence or no Florence, the woman didn’t deserve what had happened to her, and the thought of anyone deliberately pushing her down the steep steps, then leaving her to die in the cold, made Lucy rigid with anger.

  Leonard had said his wife had obviously planned her visit to Stone’s Throw in advance of the shopping trip with the group from the residence where she lived, yet she had no luggage when she arrived at Lucy’s front door. It would’ve been difficult to hide even a small suitcase from whomever accompanied them shopping, so it was possible she didn’t bring any extra clothing. But how in the world did the woman get here? She might have taken the bus, although the people at the bus station in town didn’t remember seeing her get off; perhaps someone gave her a ride. But who?

  Idonia’s question was still on her mind as Lucy parked in the lot beside the post office and gathered the letters she planned to mail. Wouldn’t it be awful if they put some stranger in the Calhoun family plot? Drat Idonia! Leave it to her to plague a person with a worrisome notion like that! But obviously the police felt certain the woman they buried was Florence; after all, she did have the identifying scar. As for the rest of them, they would just have to wait for the results of the DNA tests. Lucy realized the labs were sometimes slow to confirm the results of these samples, but she wished they would put a rush order on this one.