Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
* * *
Shadow of an Angel
Mignon F. Ballard
* * *
St. Martin's Minotaur
New York
www.eBookYes.com
SHADOW OF AN ANGEL.
Copyright © 2002 by Mignon F. Ballard. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address
St. Martin's Press
175 Fifth Avenue
New York
N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
ISBN 0-312-70472-0
For our five loves:
Sam, Helen, Anna, Frances, and Will
(and not an angel in the lot!)
ALSO BY
Mignon F. Ballard
AUGUSTA GOODNIGHT MYSTERIES
An Angel to Die For
Angel at Troublesome Creek
The War in Sallie's Station
Minerva Cries Murder
Final Curtain
The Widow's Woods
Deadly Promise
Cry at Dusk
Raven Rock
Aunt Matilda's Ghost
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Laura Langlie, whom I'm fortunate to have as an agent and friend; my husband, Gene, for his sustaining love and valuable help over the years; St. Martin's' Hope Dellon and Kris Kamikawa, for helping to make Augusta "fly," and my patient family for loving me anyway.
—M.F.B.
Cast of Characters
Minda (Arminda) Hobbs: young and recently widowed, she returns to the family home seeking peace of mind.
Otto Alexander: the ne'er-do-well cousin she finds dead instead
Augusta Good night: Minda's guardian angel "temp"
Gatlin Norwood: Minda's friend and cousin
Dave Norwod: Gatlin's husband and football couch at Angel Heights High
Lizzy and Faye: their children
Vesta Alexander: grandmother to Minda and Gatlin
Mildred Parsons: family housekeeper who raised Otto
Fitzhugh Holley: noted professor at Minerva Academy who died heroically in a long ago fire, and author of a long ago fire, and author of a popular series of children's books
Hugh Talbot: his grandson who heads the museum at Minerva Academy
Gertrude Whitmire: Hugh's sister and retired history teacher
Hank Smigh: local doctor and friend of the family
Edna Smith: his wife
Sylvie Smith: their daughter, rumored to have been seeing Otto
Irene Bradshaw: Vesta's longtime neighbor
Pauline Satts: Irene's mother and Lucy Westbrook's friend
Annie Rose Westbrook: Lucy's younger sister, who drowned in the Saluda River in 1916
Chief McBride: Angel Height's chief of police
Rusty Echols: his nephew and second in command
Lydia Bowen: Mildred's friend
Mrs. Grimes: school principal who hasn't a clue
Maureen Foster: quilter who does
R.T. Foster: Muareen's husband
Gordon Carstairs: local historian
Peggy O-Connor: who is guarding an old secret
Chapter One
Things got off to a rotten start when I found Cousin Otto dead in the ladies' room.
Of course, at first I didn't know it was Cousin Otto, and I certainly didn't know he was dead! All I could see were those big brown shoes in the stall next to mine when I bent to retrieve a roll of bathroom paper making a pathway across the floor. (Apparently the people responsible for the upkeep of historic Holley Hall had never thought to replace the broken tissue spindle.)
My neighbor's shoes were at least size twelve, scuffed at the toes, and obviously not on intimate terms with a buffing brush. I peeked again. Blue nylon socks stretched beneath creased khaki trousers. Had I wandered into the men's room by mistake? Gasping, I drew up my feet before I remembered seeing the tampon dispenser on the wall when I came in. Unless nature had taken a drastic turn, I was in the right place.
The man next door was terribly still. Did he know I knew? He was mortified, naturally. Maybe if I stayed where I was for a few minutes, it would give him a chance to escape.
It was then I noticed the small gold earring—or it looked like an earring—wedged in the corner of my stall. Whoever had dropped it would probably be glad to have it back, and I snatched up the trinket and put it in my shirt pocket, intending to turn it in to the academy's hostess later.
Surely by now the man to my left would realize he'd made a really big "oops!" and vamoose. I sat, afraid to breathe. Go on, I urged under my breath. Get out!
Nothing. Well, I couldn't wait forever. To heck with him!
It wasn't until I was washing my hands that I noticed the reflection in the mirror. Beneath the side of the stall toward the sink, the knuckles of a large hand—a man's hand—hung, barely brushing the floor. I've heard of being embarrassed to death, but this was going to the extreme.
Forgetting decorum, I pounded on the stall. "Are you all right? Do you need help?
"Listen, we all make mistakes," I persisted. "I'll leave if you like, but please answer me. Is anything wrong? Are you sick?"
Still no answer. Beneath the stall's door I saw the feet in the same slightly turned in position, the arm dangled in a most unnatural way. Not a good sign.
"There's a man in the ladies' room," I announced to Gertrude Whitmire, who was at the reception desk that day. "I'm afraid something's wrong with him; he's not moving."
She skewered me with her sharp blue eyes. This woman had taught history to generations—including mine. Wordy Gerty, we called her. She was history, and I knew she suffered no shilly-shallying.
"What do you mean, he's not moving?" She was on her feet and halfway down the hallway before I caught up with her.
"In that last stall," I directed. "I can't get him to answer."
The metal door trembled under the pressure of her pounding. "Who's in there?" the woman demanded in a voice loud enough to bring even the comatose to attention, but there was no reply.
"Stall's locked," she informed me. "You'll have to crawl under."
"Me? I can't do that!"
I had come to Angel Heights, the home of my fore bearers, to seek spiritual renewal in a peaceful retreat after my husband's sudden death and, I hoped, to smooth an uneasy relationship with my grandmother. This was not what I had in mind.
"Yes, you can. You'll have to." Gertrude Whitmire patted her ample hips as if to explain why I would be the better choice.
Still I shook my head. I didn't care how many years she'd been "yes, ma'amed" at Angel Heights High. I was not crawling under that awful booth.
"If we can find something for me to stand on, maybe I can reach over," I said, wilting under her look of utter disgust.
Soon afterward a chair appeared, and I came face-to-face with Cousin Otto. My relative is never one to turn down a drink, no matter how early in the day, and I thought he'd probably tied one on at lunchtime and wandered into the ladies' room by mistake. He smelled of liquor and urine, and I almost gagged until I finally got the door unlatched. My first instinct was to block Gertrude Whitmire's view so she couldn't see who it was. How dare this disgusting man embarrass the family this way!
Too late. "Is that Otto? It is, isn't it?" The woman wedged her head over my shoulder, almost nudging me into Cousin Otto's lap. His head sagged to one side, and he clutched what looked like a balled up handkerchief.
"Ye gods!" Gertrude Whitmire's breath was hot on my neck and smelled of the chocolates she kept hidden in her desk. "Well, Arminda, you were asking for your cousin. Seems as if we've found him."
This was my grandmother's fault. If Vesta had stayed at home just this once to pass along the key to the home place, I wouldn't be squashed in this toilet practically sitting on Cousin Otto.
"I'll probably be on the golf course when you get here," my grandmother had told me, "but you can get a key to the Nut House from Otto. He volunteers over at Holley Hall every other Saturday—if he's sober, that is."
Vesta liked to refer to our family home as the Nut House because it stands in a pecan grove, she said, but I suspected this was only part of the reason.
Failing to find my grandmother at home in her newly acquired condominium, I had dutifully inquired after my cousin at the town's one historic site.
Gertrude Whitmire hadn't seen him, she'd told me earlier, but directed me to the upstairs library, where she said he usually spent his time. Finding that room empty, I had taken advantage of the facilities, planning to stroll about the grounds until my cousin returned from what was obviously a late lunch.
"So, what do we do now?" I quickly shut the door and backed away from the pathetic tableau, stepping on my own feet and Gertrude's, as well.
"Get him out of here, of course, and as soon as possible. We can't have people in here gawking. It's a wonder some tourist hasn't stumbled in here already."
The only museum-goers I had seen that day were an elderly couple chuckling over a class picture in the hallway and a handful of young boys tussling over a football on the lawn. On a sunny Saturday in early November, it seemed, people had better things to do than poke about the musty remains of what once had been a school for young women.
Gertrude lowered her head, bull-like, and stepped forward, determined to do her duty, no matter how distasteful. "I suppose it's up to us, Arminda, to see that your cousin gets home to sleep it off." She emphasized, I noticed, the fact that Otto was my relative and left me no choice but to follow suit.
But as soon as I touched Otto Alexander's cold, stiff hand, I knew my cousin would be a long time sleeping this one off. I think I screamed, but my cry was cut short by a look from Gertrude that had the same effect as a splash of icy well water.
Later, in the building's austere parlor, we waited for the coroner by a gas fire that wasn't much warmer. Above the marble mantel, a dark portrait of Fitzhugh Holley, long-ago head of Minerva Academy and Angel Heights's contribution to kiddie lit, smiled down at me as if amused by the situation.
His grandson wasn't. Hugh Talbot, florid and fiftyish, bore little resemblance to his ancestor in the portrait. In the likeness over the fireplace, blue eyes gleamed behind rimless spectacles, and lips turned up in a slight smile, as if the subject of the painting might be dreaming up additional antics for his lovable storybook characters, Callie Cat and Doggie Dan. He wore his sandy mustache neatly trimmed above a firm, beardless chin. The portrait had been painted from a photograph, Cousin Otto once pointed out. The professor died in his thirties while saving one of his students from a fire. A pity, I thought. So young and so handsome—like my own Jarvis.
Don't go there, Minda! The thought of Jarvis, whose zany sense of humor and boyish sweetness made me love him from the start, could send me back into that dark pit of self-pity, and I didn't want to go through that again.
"I just can't believe this!" Hugh Talbot repeated for the umpteenth time. "What in the world made Otto go into the ladies' room? What could he have been thinking?" He paced the room, watching for the arrival of the coroner. "Do you suppose he had a heart attack? It was probably his liver. All that alcohol, you know."
He patted his toupee, which was at least two shades darker than his graying reddish hair. A lonely tuft of his own hair stuck out over his forehead like a misplaced goatee. "I'm sorry, Minda," he added, as if in an afterthought. "I know this must be difficult for you after what you've been through and all, but this isn't going to be good for the academy—not good at all. And on the toilet, for heaven's sake! I don't suppose we could move him, could we?"
"Certainly not! You know better than that." Gertrude, Hugh's older sister, stood as if to block the doorway and prevent any foolish action on his part. "I put 'closed' signs on both entrances and gave the couple from Kentucky a rain check. Other than that, we'll have to leave things as they are." Despite her pretense at calmness, Gertrude Whitmire's breath came fast, and her face was almost as flushed as her brother's.
"Why don't you sit down for a minute?" I asked her. "Would you like some water?"
Gertrude shook her head at my offer, but she did sink, still protesting, into the Victorian chair nearest the door. Against the burgundy velvet, her face looked rather like an overripe plum.
Hugh hurried to her side and bent as if he meant to comfort her, but instead thumped the back of her chair. "What on earth's taking so long?" he asked of no one in particular. Then, striding to the mantel, Hugh declared to his grandfather's portrait that he had no idea how to explain this to Minerva's board of directors. "My God, this couldn't come at a worse time! And right before the holidays, too!" He frowned at me. "I suppose it would be in bad taste to host our usual Christmas gala."
"Now wait just a minute!" I said, facing him across the hearth. "My cousin didn't mean to die here! He was only in his forties, and I've never heard of any problems with his heart. I'm sure if he'd had a choice, he'd rather not have died at all." Otto wasn't my favorite relative, but I was tired of having his death referred to as a mere inconvenience. "And what's more, you both seem to have forgotten how many hours he gave to this place." Frankly, I had no idea how often my cousin volunteered at the academy, but it seemed the right thing to say.
Obviously it was.
"You're right, my dear." Gertrude sat upright in her throne like chair. "My brother isn't thinking, I'm afraid. Unfortunately he only cares about two things: Minerva Academy and the almighty dollar—although not necessarily in that order.
"That was extremely callous of you, Hugh. I think you've said enough."
The chastized one came forward and touched my shoulder with a hesitant hand. "My sister's right, of course. I wasn't thinking, and I apologize. I'm terribly sorry, Minda. Please forgive me, won't you?"
I said I would and meant it. Actually, I felt a little sorry for him.
"Has anyone called Vesta?" Hugh Talbot almost stumbled over the threadbare rug. "I'm afraid this will be a terrible shock to your grandmother… her only nephew going like this."
Gertrude seemed to be inspecting the dusty sunlight seeping across the floor. She spoke in a monotone. "They're sending someone to try to locate her on the golf course. It's Mildred I'm concerned about. She dotes on Otto so."
Mildred Parsons had kept house for my great-grandmother until she died, and then for Vesta. When my grandmother moved into a smaller place, Otto made room for Mildred in his quarters behind Papa's Armchair, the secondhand bookshop he owned. Otto was only a child when Mildred came to live with his family in Angel Heights, and Vesta always said Mildred paid more attention to him than his own mother had.
I glanced about me at the narrow, high
-ceilinged parlor, at the tall windows shrouded in faded green satin. The acrid smell of old books and musty furniture permeated the room; blue flames flared and vanished into one another behind the brass fender. Another world. Another time. What was I doing here? Did death trail me like a somber shadow? Less than two years ago, without any warning, my husband, Jarvis, had been killed by lightning while we picnicked in the country. A freak accident, they said. And now this.
I had come to Angel Heights, South Carolina, to escape the stirring memories of the home Jarvis and I had built together and lived in for less than a year. We had dreamed of it during our six years of marriage and planned to begin our family there. Now, after the Christmas holidays, I would step in and substitute for a teacher at Angel Heights Elementary School when she left to have her baby, and my grandmother had surprised me by offering the family home to me, still partially furnished, after she downsized to a condominium. But she was still miffed at me, I could tell, for finally accepting my dad's second wife.
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