"That's just it." Gatlin kicked off her shoes and curled up in the chair. "Papa's Armchair belongs to Vesta—always has. Otto had part interest, but Vesta's the one who got him started; she's the one who put up money for the building."
"But surely Vesta will see that Mildred's taken care of," I said. "And I expect Otto's share of the shop will go to her."
Gatlin shrugged. "If there's anything left to share. Otto wasn't much of a businessman, I'm afraid." My cousin glanced at the closed door of the bedroom she shared with David and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Minda, I'm thinking…"
"What?" I leaned forward. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking I'd like to buy Otto's share. I still have the few thousand Dad left me, and I don't earn squat filling in as an office temp. It might be rough going at first, but I'm sure I can make something of it."
"Have you spoken to Vesta about it?" I asked.
"Not yet, but she knows I've been thinking about making a change. I like to be here for the children as much as I can, but it's getting next to impossible to live off a high school coach's salary." Gatlin frowned. "We've always had food on the table, but Minda, we have two kids to educate, and David's already working part time at the recreation center. There just aren't enough hours in the day!"
I smiled as a loud snore came the master bedroom. David had crashed earlier after serving as greeter for the evening to friends who dropped by. The night before, his team had lost their last game of the year to their arch rivals in the next town, and his somber mood suited the occasion. The Angels, Gatlin confided, hadn't had many occasions to celebrate this season.
But I wasn't completely carried away with the idea of the bookshop, and I guess it showed on my face.
"What's wrong? Hey, don't let the noise scare you, Minda. That's really not a bull elephant in there, it's just my husband sleeping on his back!"
I laughed, glad to see a spark of her usual good humor. "It's just that—well—I'm not sure how much money a used bookshop will bring in."
"Right. But there's an empty store next door, and if I can get it, it would be a great place for a coffee shop—soup and sandwiches—things like that. You must've noticed there aren't many places to eat here in Angel Heights, and I could combine the two." My cousin stretched her dainty feet and yawned. "In fact, I had already mentioned it to Otto, and he seemed to think it was a good idea. Said he'd look into it, but you know how Otto is—was. I don't know if he ever did."
I added our empty wineglasses to the tray. "Not a bad idea. You can count on me for your first customer."
My cousin had that same sly look on her face I remembered from the time she gave me a push and sent me solo on my first bike. "Actually I had something else in mind."
I knew it! "I don't want to hear it," I told her.
"Assuming this all works out, I'll need help in the bookshop while I'm getting things brewing next door. I was hoping you'd remember all those times I let you sit between Harold Sturgis and me when he took me to the movies, and be grateful enough to help out." Gatlin hung her head and rolled her eyes heavenward.
"You begged me to sit between you! You didn't even like Harold Sturgis!" I reminded her.
She shrugged. "But I liked going to the movies, and he always bought us popcorn, remember?"
"Poor Harold. It took him forever to catch on. But I can't help you, Gatlin. I'm supposed to start teaching after Christmas."
"Bah! That's almost two months away. And you might like this better. Besides, what else are you going to do with your time?"
She was right, of course. Gatlin's almost always right, and in her case, I don't even mind. Later, I stretched out on the pullout sofa in their small upstairs guest room and hardly noticed the huge boulder I've accused them of hiding under the mattress. I dreamed I was standing on a stool at my mother's kitchen table while she measured strawberries and sugar into a big pot on the stove. And now and then she would smile at me and pop a sweet berry into my mouth. When her hand brushed my face, I felt the warmth of her touch like lifeblood flowing into me. And then I noticed the woman standing behind her. It was the same woman who had been at the old home place earlier. Augusta Goodnight, and for some reason I didn't question her presence there.
When I woke the next morning, it occurred to me I hadn't thought about Jarvis for at least eight hours. It had rained briefly during the night, but now the sky was clearing and I could see a patch of blue big enough to make a pair of Dutchman's britches—which my grandmother claims means fair weather ahead. A sweet gum leaf the color of cranberries sashayed past my window, and something with a sweet spicy smell drifted up from the kitchen. I was with the people who loved me most, people I loved, and I felt the cold hurt inside me begin to dissolve just a little.
And then I remembered Otto. Poor Otto. Even with all his problems, he had a life worth living. What a shame he'd put an early end to it by pickling his liver!
But when the phone rang a few minutes later, we learned that although my cousin's drinking was self-destructive, it had nothing to do with the way he died.
Otto Alexander had been murdered.
Chapter Three
Suffocated," my grandmother Vesta said. "The coroner said Otto was suffocated, probably with the plastic bag they found in the bathroom trash."
Since it was Sunday, Gatlin and I had left her two daughters with their dad and hurried to our grandmother's after hearing the coroner's appalling announcement. Now we huddled in Vesta's high-rise living room and tried to make sense out of this turn of events.
"It would have prints on it, wouldn't it?" I asked.
"Ordinarily, but if this is what they used, apparently whoever did it wore gloves." Vesta lowered her voice as she spoke, and glanced at Mildred Parsons, who sat at one end of the sofa, feet primly together, a vinyl-bound scrapbook on her lap.
"You don't have to whisper around me, Vesta," Mildred said in a louder-than-usual voice. "I suspected Otto's death was no accident. He had stopped drinking, you know. He promised. Drank mostly orange juice—always kept some around." She drew herself upas well as anyone can who is only a little over five feet tall. "I can assure you that Otto hasn't had any alcohol in almost three months."
I didn't look at Gatlin, but I knew if she wasn't rolling her eyes, she was thinking about it.
"I know some people didn't like Otto," Mildred went on, "didn't understand him. But that was no reason to—" Her lip trembled, and impatiently, she shook off my grandmother's hand. "Otto had a brilliant mind, and I don't think any of you appreciated that. He could've done anything—might have. He didn't deserve to die!"
"Of course not." Gatlin moved closer to sit beside Mildred. "I can't imagine why anyone would do such a horrible thing. Somebody must have broken into the academy intending to burglarize it and found Otto there alone."
"I don't know what they planned to steal," Vesta said. "There's nothing of any value."
Mildred shook her head. "No, I think somebody meant to kill him, and they did it when they knew I'd be away from home. Everyone knows that's Movies 'n' Munchies night."
"But who?" I asked. "And why?"
Mildred shoved her bifocals aside and blotted her eyes with a yellowed lace handkerchief. "I don't know," she said, slamming her small fist onto the album she held in her lap. "But I mean to find out if it's the last thing I do."
"Mildred!" My grandmother set her coffee cup on her new glass-topped cocktail table, and dark liquid sloshed into the saucer. "We're all shocked and saddened about what happened to Otto, but I think we'd best let the police handle things like that."
"Oh, butt out, Vesta," Mildred Parsons said. And tucking her scrapbook under her arm, she marched into the adjoining bedroom and shut the door.
Vesta looked like she'd swallowed something cold that hurt going down, and I thought she'd keel over right then and there, but my grandmother surprised me. "Mildred's not herself," she explained, shaking her head. "After all, Otto is all she had."
In a way,
I guess she was right. And the four of us were all that remained to mourn Otto Alexander. My cousin's mother had died while he was still a young man, and his father, Edward, a few years later.
Gatlin's own mom, who had taken a job in California after her husband's death, was saving her vacation days to come for Christmas.
"I'm afraid Mildred's gone round the bend," Gatlin whispered to me after the funeral the next day. In spite of Otto's lack of close friends, the Methodist Church had been packed, and the Lucy Alexander Circle (named for my great-grandmother, and the one to which Vesta belonged) had outdone themselves preparing our dinner. Again we gathered at Gatlin's, and a trio of the ladies lingered to wash up the dishes and put away the remainder of the meal while friends consoled the two older women in the living room.
My cousin and I were clearing the dining room table when Gertrude Whitmire bustled in. "You girls let me take care of that," she said, snatching a cake-smeared plate from my hand.
"You seem to be holding up well, Arminda. A shame you had to see that. I had no idea Otto was—"
"I'm all right," I said. "I hope you've been able to get some rest."
Gertrude looked tired around the eyes, and the tension showed in her face. She and her brother had arrived earlier with a sliced ham and paper plates, but Hugh didn't have much to say, and he left soon after.
"I'll rest when they find out who did this," she said. "Do you have any idea what Otto was doing there that night? Saturday was his usual day in the library."
"I can't imagine. Maybe he wanted to catch upon something.
"Here, let me get a tray for this," I said, noticing Gertrude's hand trembling. Gatlin, I saw, was quickly removing everything breakable from the table.
"Wordy Gerty's kinda shook up," my cousin said later.
Although a cold November wind stripped brown leaves from the water oak in Gatlin's yard, the two of us escaped the crowded house and sat for a few minutes on the back steps watching the children's rope swing sway eerily in the dusk.
"Wouldn't you be? I'd be terrified to go back in that place again!" I pulled up the collar of my coat and wished for warmer shoes. "You don't really think Mildred means it about finding the murderer, do you?"
"Don't ask me. I've never seen her this way. Okay, it's a given Otto was murdered, but I can't believe it was planned." Gatlin warmed her hands around a mug of hot spiced punch and let the steam waft into her face.
"Then what do you think happened?" I paused to pet Napoleon, who had been chasing a squirrel through the leaves.
"He either stumbled upon a would-be burglary or irritated somebody to the point they couldn't take it any longer. Otto could be unbearable at times, always looking down his nose at people, and he had that annoying laugh."
"Gatlin, people don't get murdered because of an annoying laugh," I said. "And if it wasn't planned, why did the plastic bag have no prints?"
She shrugged and offered me a sipof her drink. "We don't know if that was what he actually used."
"You say he. Do you think it was a man?" I slipped the dog a bite of cheese I'd sneaked out for him.
Gatlin pretended not to notice. "No idea, but I'd place my bet on a woman. Cousin Otto was an awful chauvinist. I don't see how Mildred put up with him!"
"Mildred made him that way," I said. "Her world revolved around Otto. I can't imagine what she'll do now."
I was about to find out.
"So there you are!" Vesta opened the back door and streaked the dark steps with yellow light. "I wish you'd come in here and talk some sense into Mildred. She insists on going back to those rooms behind the bookstore tonight!"
After a period of weepy withdrawal, Mildred Parsons seemed to have undergone some kind of metamorphosis from a shy and shadowy background figure to an outspoken woman of purpose. It remained for the rest of us to try to figure out what that purpose was.
Gatlin went first. "Mildred, if you don't want to go back to Vesta's, you can stay with us until you decide what to do."
"I've already decided what to do. I'm going home and get to the bottom of this." Mildred tucked her worn black purse under her arm and looked around for her coat and her funny old hat with the pink feather.
"Did you take the tranquilizer Hank gave you?" Vesta asked. "You still have them, don't you?"
"I think the rest of you need a tranquilizer a lot more than I do." Mildred snapped open her purse, fished out an almost full bottle, and rattled the pills in my grandmother's face. "Here, you take them."
Vesta flopped, puppet like, into a chair and let her long arms dangle. Tall, angular, and ever active, she had always been the strong one in our family. Now the spunk seemed to be seeping from her, and I didn't like it. "The doctor didn't prescribe the tranquilizers for me, Mildred, but right now I think I could use a few!"
"What you could use is some sleep," I said, putting my arms around her. "You go on home now and get some rest. Gatlin and I will take care of Mildred."
I whispered the latter, but Mildred overheard me. "I'll take care of myself if you'll just get me back to my own place," she said.
And I did.
One of the ladies from the Lucy Alexander Circle promised to see my grandmother safely home, and I left Gatlin to look after Faye, her youngest, who was coming down with a cold.
I was sorry for Mildred; I knew how she felt, but I wanted to shake her for heaping misery on top of anguish. Didn't she know Vesta was grieving, too? Didn't she care? And then I remembered how I had reacted when Jarvis died. I had turned from friends, rejected family, and steeped myself in bitterness until I reached the point where even I couldn't stand to be around me.
"Mildred, I know what it's like to lose someone you love," I said as we drove through the dimly lit streets of downtown Angel Heights. "Believe me, I know how lost and helpless you feel. I hope you'll let us help you." My words sounded oddly familiar, as if I were quoting someone else. The woman, of course! The one with painted toenails and shimmering hair. She had said almost the same thing to me.
Mildred spoke with a tinge of her former shyness, and I could barely see her face in the darkness. "I'm sorry about your husband, Minda. That was an awful thing! And your sweet mother—I loved her, you know. Next to Otto, she was my favorite." She paused. "And I'm glad to see you and your grandmother are trying to work things out."
She turned away from me as we drove past Phinizy Street, where she had lived a good part of her life, and I had to make an effort to hear her. "I know I'm making things difficult, and I regret that, really. But if I have to become a hateful old woman to see things through, then so be it!"
"I'm sure the police are just as eager as you are to find out who killed Otto," I said, slowing as we neared the center of town. "The chief told Gatlin they were checking on everyone with a criminal record who might be in the area, and I know they dusted for prints."
"Well, I could tell them they're wasting their time! Gertrude Whitmire told me herself she found the front door unlocked when she arrived at the academy Saturday morning, and there was no sign of a forced entry."
"Hugh was there that morning. He probably unlocked it," I said.
"No, no! Hugh didn't get there until later. Gertrude assumed Otto was working in the library upstairs, so she didn't think much about it. Whoever killed Otto was already in the building that night, or else he let them in."
Mildred seemed convinced she was right and I was too tired and it was too late to argue. Instead of parking in the narrow alley behind Papa's Armchair, I found a space in front of the shopand waited while Mildred groped for her key. The windows of the small store were dark, and the place gave me the creeps—especially after what had happened to Otto. "I wish you'd stay with me at the home place, at least for tonight," I said as I helped her out of the car. "Don't you think it would be better to come back in the daylight? I really don't like leaving you here."
But Mildred didn't answer. I might as well have been talking to the wooden sign creaking over our heads. She fumbled for a
minute with the lock, and I pushed open the heavy door with peeling green paint, then quickly stepped inside and switched on the light.
Mildred stood blinking in the fluorescent glare. "Someone's been here," she said.
"What do you mean?" I looked around. Everything seemed in order to me.
She frowned and looked about her. "I'm not sure, but something's not right." Mildred disappeared between rows of shelves that towered above her, and I trailed after, afraid to let her out of my sight. What if someone waited there? I watched while she nudged a book into place, shifted another to a different shelf. Insignificant things. What did they matter?
"I knew it! Here, look." Mildred stood in the doorway of the tiny back office. "Somebody's been in this desk."
Papers were scattered on the desktop, and a drawer had been opened a couple of inches, but other than that, it appeared undisturbed. "Otto might've left it that way," I said, smothering a yawn.
"But this isn't Otto's desk. He keeps his files and computer in our living quarters in the back. This is the desk I use for household accounts and to write up the minutes of the UMW, things like that.
"United Methodist Women. I'm secretary," she explained, seeing my blank expression. "And just look at that mess! I would never leave a desk like this."
Shadow of an Angle Page 3
