Martha Kate laughed. "She's no spring chicken, but at last count Mamie must've been about a hundred and two."
"And she was a member of the Mystic Six?" I had started to get up, but sat again. "But that was back in 1916 or '17. How could—?"
"Young people didn't attend what we call high school as many years as we do now. Mamie was probably around fifteen when all this happened. Certainly not much older." Our hostess rose. "I have her address and phone number if you'd like it, and I'd advise you to call first. At a hundred and two, it's best to plan ahead.
"And for goodness' sakes," she added as we were leaving, "don't let Mamie talk you into playing bridge! She cheats."
"No," Gatlin said as we hurried to the car.
"No what?"
"No, I can't go to Charlotte with you to track down this Mamie whoever. I'm expecting estimates from two contractors in the morning.
"What's this?" In the car, Gatlin drew out the tiny pajamas Augusta had made that had become wedged behind the passenger seat.
"Pajamas. They're for a baby," I said.
"Well, I can see that, Minda!" Gatlin held them to the light. "What beautiful craftsmanship! They look handmade. Where on earth did you find them?"
"A friend," I said. And earth had nothing to do with it. "I meant to drop them off yesterday. Family lives in that little house next to the water tower. The father lost his job."
"Do you know them?" Gatlin folded the pajamas on her lap.
"Not really. I just heard they could use some help," I said, wishing she'd drop the subject.
"So you're just going to knock on the door and give this woman those pajamas? That's a generous thing to do, Minda, but kind of a touchy situation, don't you think? How do you plan to handle it?"
I hadn't thought of that.
And Augusta Goodnight wasn't any help at all. "It was your idea," I said. "You could at least tell me what to say to her. I don't even know the family's name."
"Foster. The baby's mother is Maureen Foster."
"But what am I supposed to say?"
Augusta only smiled. "You'll think of something," she said.
The weather was brisk but not too cold when I started out the next morning, and since I needed the exercise after indulging in Augusta's culinary delights, I decided to ride my bike the three or more miles to the small cottage near the water tower. The bicycle had been a birthday present from Jarvis a few months before he died, and since that time I'd kept it in the family garage behind my grandmother's old home. I'd had to inflate the tires a bit, but other than that, it seemed in good shape, and I liked to think he rode along with me as I whizzed past familiar houses on Phinizy Street and on through the heart of town.
Angel Heights was like many villages that grew up willy-nilly around a crossroads over a period of two centuries, and it still hadn't decided where it wanted to go. I kind of liked it that way. Most of the houses (including ours) in the older part of town were built in the early 1900s and were as individual as their owners. A hideous brick Gothic with square pillars and heavy-lidded windows sat next to a sprawling yellow shingled house that had grown in every direction. Simple cottages nudged prestigious colonials, and scruffy, weed-choked yards thumbed noses at manicured lawns next door.
What was left of Minerva Academy, screened from the street by large oaks and surrounded by a shoulder-high stone wall, slept in the pale November sun, and a few blocks down the street the group of retired men Vesta referred to as the Old Farts Fraternity gathered for their usual breakfast of biscuits and gravy at the Heavenly Grill. I waved at Dr. Hank (who should know better) as he crossed the street to join them and picked up speed outside of town. Tonight my muscles would holler for help, but I knew the exertion was what I needed—even the last curving pull to the top. Panting, I watched a couple of cars zoom past.
Augusta had agreed to go to Charlotte with me as soon as I completed my mission to the Fosters, and I was in a hurry to meet the last living member of the Mystic Six. You don't dally when keeping an appointment with somebody Mamie's age, and for the life of me I couldn't understand why Augusta was so hell-bent—oops, I mean heaven-bent—on my delivering her handcrafted baby gift first thing.
I could think of a lot of necessities the family might need more, I grumbled as I pulled up into the Fosters' lawn and propped my bike on its stand. Few houses populated the two-lane asphalt road leading past the tower, and only a couple of cars had passed me along the way, so I didn't bother to lock up my bike. Besides, all I wanted to do was drop off the pajamas and get on with it, and I still didn't have a clue how I'd explain my visit.
But Maureen Foster didn't seem to be at home when I knocked timidly on her door. Relieved, I placed the tissue-wrapped bundle just inside the screen door and turned to leave, eager to be on my way to Charlotte and Mamie Estes.
"Can I help you?"
A young woman stood in the half-open doorway.
"Uh-yes, I brought…" I stooped to pick up the package at my feet, waiting for divine inspiration. Nothing happened.
"Did Louise send you?" Maureen Foster—or I supposed that's who she was—held out a hand for the pajamas. She was small and slender, with bright brown eyes, wore her sleek dark hair cut close, and carried a chubby baby low on her hip.
I gave her the pajamas. "Louise," I said. I felt like I was taking part in a spy-farce and Louise must be the password.
"Is this all of it?" The woman shifted the baby a little higher and frowned at the parcel I'd given her. "I hope you've brought more than this."
"Excuse me?" I didn't expect her to fall into a fit of ecstasy over a small pair of pajamas, but this woman wrote the book on rudeness!
"You didn't bring the quilting scraps from Louise? She said she'd send some over today." As she spoke, Maureen slowly unwrapped the bundle and let the paper fall to the floor. "Oh." The baby-size pajamas dangled from her hand. "Why, these are a work of art! Did you—?"
I shook my head. "A friend sent them. She—that is, we thought your little boy might like them."
I closed my eyes. Might like them? Babies don't like pajamas! Babies like milk andbeing rocked, silly! "I meant, we hoped he could wear them."
She held the door wider to let me inside. "You brought these for Tommy? They look like a perfect fit. Thank you!" She stepped aside to lead me into a small living room. "Please, sit down—that is, if you can find a space. Did you say your friend made these?"
I nodded, looking about me. Every surface was covered in quilts, or fabric on its way to becoming quilts. "She sews like an angel," I said. "And so do you, it seems."
Maureen placed Tommy in his bouncy seat, and, removing a stack of what seemed to be Christmas pillow covers, sat on a small chair across from me. "Right now I'm behind in my orders," she said. "Louise Starr sells my things at her shop, Starr Bright, in Charlotte, and this close to the holidays, the demand gets ahead of the supply."
She smiled and offered tea, which I accepted. "Hope you like herbal," she explained. "I'm nursing. You must think I'm bonkers," Maureen said, pouring boiling water into a pot. "Louise sends me quilting scraps whenever she can get her hands on them, and I'm running low on red calico for a couple of crazy quilts I promised. I thought you were dropping them by for her." She smiled and stooped to offer a toy to Tommy. "I'm glad to get the pajamas. He's outgrown most of his others. Thanks."
I smiled back at Tommy, who gave me a toothless grin. "You're welcome."
I noticed how gracefully she accepted the gift—with no questions asked. Her baby needed the pajamas, and I supplied them. If only life could be as simple as that.
Later, over peppermint tea and introductions, Maureen told me her husband, whom she called R. T., had worked for a builder in California, but the cost of living was high there and the climate didn't agree with her, so they moved south to be closer to her family.
"That was soon after Tommy was born," she said. "But the company my husband went to work for here went out of business over a month ago, and he ha
sn't been able to find permanent work."
I told her I'd ask around and see if I could come up with any leads. "And I hope your quilting scraps arrive soon," I called as I was leaving.
"Now I know why I didn't hear you drive up," Maureen said, watching from the porch. "We'll have to bike together sometime. R. T. can baby-sit, and maybe you'll show me the good paths."
"I'd like that," I said, and rode away pleased that my stubborn angel had insisted I become acquainted with Maureen Foster. But I didn't think it was only because Tommy needed pajamas or I needed a biking buddy. Augusta Goodnight had something else up her heavenly sleeve.
According to Maureen's kitchen clock, it was a little after ten-thirty when I left. If I hurried, I could change, collect Augusta, and be in Charlotte in time for lunch. I remembered a barbecue restaurant on the south side that had a drive-in window and was known for its Brunswick stew. Augusta told me she'd sampled the stew in three of the states she'd visited lately, and was eager to see how North Carolina held up.
The idea appealed to me, as well, and I pedaled a little faster, then slowed as I came to the downhill curve.
"Jump!" urged a voice in my ear. Augusta's voice.
"What?" Was I hearing things? What had Maureen put in that peppermint tea?
"Jump, Arminda! Now!"
And I pitched off the bicycle and rolled onto the shoulder of the road just as I saw the rope snap taut less than a foot in front of me. Clawing at air, I grabbed the first solid thing I touched, which happened to be a pine sapling, and clung to it, trying not to look down at the ravine that yawned below.
Chapter Fifteen
I closed my eyes and smelled pine, felt resin sticky in my hands.
"There's a root just above you to the right," Augusta said. "Grab it—hurry! Now put your left foot on that rock.… Can you feel it? Good! No, don't look down!"
I reached for the root just as the sapling broke with a loud crack, and the pine tree gave way in my other hand. Fear sliced through me, cold and sharp, as if I'd been stabbed with an icicle.
My foot found the rock about the same time my heart found its rhythm again, and I slowly pulled myself up to lie dizzy and breathless on a mat of dead-looking vines. Kudzu, I hoped, but with my luck, they were probably poison ivy. Augusta stood above me and had the grace to look at least a little worried.
"Playing it a little close, aren't we?" I said, still gasping. I dug my toes into the rocky soil and did my best to burrow into the earth. Earth is good. Falling to it is not.
"I suppose it was feel and go there for a minute, but you're going to be just fine." Now she reached down to give me a hand up. "Let's don't make a mountain out of a gopher hole."
The part of me that wasn't still trembling was grateful to be alive. Both parts were confused. "I guess you mean touch and go." I crawled painfully to my knees and noticed for the first time the bloodstained tear in my pants. "As for the gopher hole—"
"Never mind that!" Augusta skirted my bike where it lay beside the road and propelled me to the other side. "Somebody wanted to kill you, Arminda. We have to get you to safety before they try something else!"
I looked back to see the rope, now slack, still attached to a tree on the side of the road where I'd fallen. Somebody had waited until I was almost upon it and then pulled it taut with a sudden jerk. If Augusta hadn't warned me, I would almost certainly have gone over the side and into the rocky ravine. Thankfully I patted my helmet. I hated to wear one, but this time it—and Augusta—had saved me from a severe injury or worse.
"Thank you, Augusta. Didn't mean to seem ungrateful. I'm just glad you came along." However late.
I felt her hand on my shoulder, still rushing me. "It's my job, Minda, but please remember I don't always know what's going to happen."
And I'm not sure, but I think she winked at me. "Sometimes, like you, I just have to wing it," Augusta said.
"Did you see who it was?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder at brown leaves scattering across an empty road.
She looked a little sheepish. "I'm afraid I lingered longer than I meant to at the Fosters'. Maureen's quilts are lovely, aren't they? I believe she does them all by hand."
"I didn't know you were there," I said.
"I felt I might be needed. Your cousin was murdered, Minda. This is not a game we're playing, and you're going to have to be more careful. You humans think you're invincible, and I can only do so much!"
Her cheeks were bright pink, and a silken strand of hair fell over her forehead. Augusta shoved it out of the way and marched ahead of me. I had never seen her so annoyed.
When I heard a car coming, I darted into a clump of trees and underbrush, snagging my already-ruined clothing and scratching my cheek on briers, but I didn't recognize the car or the driver, and it passed without incident.
Maureen must have heard me limping up her drive, because she came outside to meet me. "Minda, my goodness, what happened? Is anything wrong?"
It was, and I told her.
"I need to use your telephone to call the police," I said. I hadn't thought to bring my cell phone along.
Maureen had cleaned my cuts and abrasions and brewed another pot of tea by the time the police arrived, and I was glad for the tea and the sympathy. Augusta is long on tea, but she's sometimes short on the other.
This time Chief McBride himself showed up, and I led him to where my bike had skidded into a signpost by the side of the road. "I jumped when I saw the rope across the road," I said, standing well back from the edge of the ravine, "and if I hadn't grabbed a root, I'd have gone right over."
He knelt to examine the broken sapling, the warped front wheel of my bike. "Now, where was this rope?" he asked.
"Just ahead, tied to that tree on the right."
But of course, it was no longer there. "It went all the way across the road and into those trees on the other side!" I looked all around the tree, tramped about the ground, and then checked out the ditch on the opposite side. "It was right here! Somebody must have come back and taken it while I was at Maureen's."
Chief McBride shook his head. "Something spooked you for sure. Heck, you're doggone lucky to walk away with scrapes and scratches!" He lifted what was left of my bike into the trunk of his cruiser and leaned against the side of the car. "Do you know of anybody who would want to harm you?"
"Not really," I said, "but my cousin Otto probably didn't know of anybody who wanted to harm him, either." My knee stung like crazy, my head ached, and I still felt a little dazed. "Somebody strung a rope across that road and it was less than a foot from my face." I pointed to the wooded area across from us. "It looks like there's some kind of trail back in there that would be wide enough for a car."
The chief shook his head and frowned; then he opened the passenger door and bowed me into the front seat. (I was glad I didn't have to sit caged in the rear!) He was still frowning when he spoke to his nephew over the radio. "Rusty, better get out here," he said. "Meet me at the water tower soon as you can. Something's been going on up here, and we need to check it out. And hurry. I've a young lady here who might want Doc Ivey to take a look at this bump on her head."
But the two men found nothing when they investigated what looked like the remains of an old logging road a short time later. "Ground's too hard and dry for car tracks," the chief said, "but it does look like somebody might have been in there recently. I found a limb broken off and the grass has been trampled. Did you notice any cars?"
I started to shake my head, and then remembered the two cars that had passed me earlier.
"Don't suppose you'd remember a license number?" he asked.
"No, but one of them was a beige Honda—an Accord, I think." Just like the one that belonged to Flora Dennis's grand daughter, Peggy O'Connor!
"Would many people know this was here?" I asked his nephew, who volunteered to drive me back to town.
"Oh, sure. Not many who wouldn't. I used to hike up here all the time with the Boy Scouts. Kids still play up
here some." He grinned. "It's just far enough from town so your mama doesn't know what you're up to."
"Surely you don't think this might've been some kind of prank?"
His smile vanished. "No, I don't. Besides, this is a school day—but I'll check the attendance records just to be sure the absent ones are accounted for.
"Did anybody know you were riding up here today?"
"No, not that I know of. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing," I said.
"Then somebody must have followed you. Any idea why?"
"I think it has something to do with Otto's death," I said. "I think he knew something."
He frowned at me as we waited for the light to change. "About what?"
"I'm not sure, but I'd like to find out." I came close then to telling him about finding the pin in the ladies' room at Minerva Academy, but Augusta had warned me not to mention it. To anybody, she said.
"Looks like somebody thinks you might know something, too," Rusty Echols said. "I wouldn't go on any more bike rides if I were you—at least until we find out what's going on."
At the chief's insistence, I let Rusty Echols drop me by the local clinic and was relieved to learn Chief McBride had called ahead and asked them to take me right away. The young doctor who saw me was the same one who had admitted Mildred the week before, and it surprised me when he asked how she was. Doctors see so many patients now, I can't imagine how they keep track of them all.
Shadow of an Angle Page 13
