Shadow of an Angle

by Mignon F. Ballard

  "Then it should've come to you. Her granddaughter didn't mail it back?"

  She closed her eyes, and I could see I was tiring her, but my guilt was laced with purpose. This woman was my last link to something that happened over seventy-five years ago.

  "Didn't think to ask her. It's not something I like to remember," she said.

  Ignoring Tess's warning look, I knelt beside Mamie's chair and spoke as firmly and as evenly as I could. I didn't want her to miss my meaning. "Mrs. Estes, what is it about that quilt? Why did you pass it from one to the other?"

  Her mouth turned up in a halfway smile. "Hot potato," she said.

  I remembered a party game we played as children where we passed an object from one to the other until the music stopped. If you were caught holding the "potato," you had to drop out of the circle.

  "You mean nobody wanted to keep it?" I asked. "It was Annie Rose's quilt," she said, and began to cut out Christmas angels in the dough. I could see she wasn't going to tell me any more.

  I was surprised to see by the kitchen clock that it was after twelve noon, and apologized for staying so long. "I didn't mean to intrude on your lunch hour," I said, rising to go. "And I can't tell you how much I appreciate your taking the time to see me."

  "Bosh! We don't go by a schedule here," Tess said, wiping her hands on a blue-striped dish towel. "We eat what and when we want, don't we, Mother Estes?"

  The old woman grunted something that sounded in the affirmative. "Why don't you and your friend stay for lunch?" Mamie said to me. "Maybe we can play some bridge."

  "My friend?" I glanced at Tess, who shrugged.

  "That pretty thing over there! She looks just like an angel." Mamie finished a row of angel cookies and smiled at a point near the kitchen doorway.

  I thanked her and stammered excuses, then stooped to kiss her cheek as I said goodbye.

  "Guess it's time to take a break from Christmas baking," Tess whispered as she walked with me to the door. "She's got angels on the mind!"

  "She saw you, didn't she?" I asked Augusta once we reached the car.

  Augusta held up a crisp molasses Santa and smiled. "Not only that, but she slipped me a cookie!"

  "You certainly don't seem disappointed about the quilt," I said. "Mamie Estes was number six, Augusta. We've run out of members. It looks like none of these people knows what happened to it, and I don't know where else to look."

  "What did I tell you about determination?" Augusta said.

  "But can't you see we've reached a dead end?"

  Augusta's necklace winked violet-gold-plum in the sunlight as she ran the stones through her fingers. "We've only come in a circle, Arminda. Now we have to find out which one isn't telling the truth."

  Chapter Seventeen

  I'm pretty sure I know which one," I said.

  Augusta didn't say anything.

  "It has to be Flora's granddaughter. Remember how she reacted when I mentioned the emblem on Flora's gravestone? Downright hostile!"

  "Peggy O'Connor. She obviously didn't want to admit her grandmother had any connection to that group. Why, I wonder." Augusta watched traffic whiz past at a busy intersection. "Where do all these people come from? And where are they going in such a hurry?"

  "To lunch if they're lucky," I said. "Want to stop somewhere for a bite?"

  Augusta said she wouldn't mind if we did, so I picked up some pizza to go, and we ate it in a roadside park. It had been sunny and mild when we started out, but now the air had turned brisk, and a chilling wind sent paper napkins tumbling across the grass. I watched openmouthed as Augusta stood and held out her hand. The napkins did a bobbing little ghost dance and sailed into the nearest trash can.

  "I so dislike litter," she said. Then took her time searching for a piece with pepperoni before taking a dainty bite.

  "Do you think Mamie's daughter-in-law, Tess, knows why the quilt was so important?" she asked.

  "She seemed to be aware that the subject was disagreeable to Mamie, but she'd seen it, of course, said it looked innocent enough to her. Like folk art, Tess said. I don't think Mamie talked much about it. Tess said she didn't remember her ever using it on a bed or anything."

  "Then I suppose you'll have to make another trip to Georgia," Augusta said. "There must be some way to make Flora's granddaughter realize the seriousness of the situation."

  "You mean we, don't you? I don't want to have to face that horrible woman alone. Acts like she has a pole up her ass!"

  Augusta let that one pass with an almost imperceptible twitch of her eyelid. "It might be nice if your cousin kept you company this time. I should think she'd want to know what's going on. After all, Otto was her kin, too, and he did remember her in his will."

  "If you mean Gatlin, I wouldn't count on it. She's all wrapped up in her own world right now."

  "Do I detect a faint hint of resentment here?" Augusta sipped coffee from a paper cup.

  I shrugged. "I know she's busy and worried about money and the bookshop and all, but she doesn't seem too curious, either. I hate to drag her into this, Augusta. I haven't told her about finding the pin. I'm not sure she'd want to know. After all, Otto's murder might not have had anything to do with the Mystic Six, and Gatlin doesn't seem to think the quilt is important to what's been going on."

  Augusta gathered up the debris from our lunch and tossed it into the trash. "We're not absolutely sure that it is," she said, "that's why it's necessary to learn just what Annie Rose's pin was doing on that bathroom floor."

  "I think it must've fallen out of Otto's pocket when he pulled out his handkerchief." I said. "The police found a handkerchief in his hand…. But why would Otto be carrying around a pin that belonged to somebody who died before any of us were even born?"

  Augusta hurried to the car and wrapped herself in her downy cape until only her face peeked out. "Perhaps you and Gatlin should take time to talk," she suggested.

  "About what?"

  "Arminda, why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?"

  "I miss her," I said. No use trying to keep things from Augusta. "Gatlin's always been there for me, and when Jarvis died she was wonderful. Now she doesn't seem to have time anymore. I'm lonely, Augusta. I don't have anybody."

  Two sea-blue eyes looked at me over a puff of silvery cloud. The warmth from them zapped me about mid chest.

  "I know I have you, Augusta, but you aren't here to stay. You said so yourself. One day you'll leave me, too—just like Jarvis and Mama."

  I hated how I sounded. Childish and selfish. And jealous. I was jealous of my own cousin, my best friend, because she had a family to come home to at night and I didn't. I didn't like myself at all.

  My head began to throb, and Augusta touched it with the tips of her fingers, leaving my temples cool and refreshed. "It's been a rough few days, Arminda Grace Hobbs, but you've endured it well. And I, for one, think you have true grits."

  I giggled all the way home

  The light on my answering machine blinked red at me from the table in the hallway, and I almost knocked over a lamp in my rush to push the PLAY button. Maybe the police had found out who had meant to send me tumbling off Water Tower Hill, or it could be Vesta calling to say the errant Mildred had returned at last.

  "Arminda, Harrison Ivey. Sorry I missed your call this morning. Just thought I'd check and see how you were…." The young doctor hesitated, as if searching for words. "…Well…I'm glad you suffered no long-lasting effects from your fall. But if you need to get in touch, you can reach me here at the clinic or at home. Just leave a message, and I'll get back to you." And he left his home telephone number.

  Augusta stood at the foot of the stairs, listening to every word, and if angels could smirk, her expression would come close. "It does one good to know there are still such caring physicians," she said. "I wonder if he makes house calls."

  "For goodness' sake, Augusta, he's only being thorough."

  "Of course he is. But aren't you going to call him back?
"

  "What for? There's nothing wrong with me. My head's just fine."

  "I wasn't thinking about your head," she said, and with a flounce of her skirt, she left me standing there.

  But Harrison Ivey wasn't my priority just then, and when Augusta disappeared into the attic—to prowl around, she said, and see what might turn up—I did the same downstairs.

  The day was gray and misty and did little to lift my spirits. I wandered from room to room trying to shrug off the feeling of something missing, something left undone. Augusta had prevented me from falling into a void in the physical sense, but I would have to be responsible for taking care of the other.

  I put on my all-weather jacket with a hood that had survived since college and set out walking for town and Papa's Armchair. It was time for my cousin and me to talk.

  I found her sitting at Mildred's desk in the back of the shop with an apple in one hand and a calculator in the other, and if her face drooped any lower, she'd be under the rug.

  I nodded toward the apple. "What's the matter? Find half a worm?"

  "Worse than that. I can't even afford half a workman at the prices these contractors charge. I've called just about everybody in the area who would even consider the job, and the three who bothered to give me an estimate are out of the ballpark as far as we're concerned."

  I sat on the stool across from her. "Exactly what do you need to have done?"

  "For starters, an opening in the connecting wall between the bookshop and the tearoom, restrooms installed and a counter to divide the kitchen space from the eating area." Gatlin clicked off the calculator and tossed it aside. "Dave and I can do the rest ourselves."

  "I can help," I told her. "I took a course in wallpapering one time."

  My cousin laughed. "But can you knock one down?"

  "No, but I might know of somebody who could." I told her about Maureen Foster's husband, R. T. "The contractor he was working for went out of business, and he's looking for a job. From what his wife told me, I think he'd like to go out on his own."

  "Do you know if he's any good?" Gatlin asked.

  "I wouldn't be surprised," I said. "At least it won't hurt to give him a call." If Augusta had anything to do with this setup, the man came with credentials of the highest order.

  I gave my cousin the number and waited while she explained to Maureen Foster exactly what she had in mind. But after a few minutes I found her looking at me strangely.

  "Why, yes, she's fine," Gatlin said. "No, she didn't say anything about it…and when was this?" Looks as dark as swamp mud came my way. "Thank you for telling me," she added, speaking to Maureen but glaring still at me. "We thought it would be safe to let her out of her padded cell for a while, but I can see we're going to have to double the security."

  I was glad Maureen had a sense of humor. I was beginning to lose mine. "You don't believe somebody tried to send me down the hillside by the short route?"

  "Of course I do, silly! What's hard for me to believe is why you didn't tell me."

  "You have enough to worry about with starting this business and a family to take care of."

  "Dear God, Minda, you are my family! Didn't you think I'd care?" Gatlin jumped up from her seat and grabbed both my hands.

  "It's just that—well, I didn't think you'd take it seriously. I've been trying to discover what the Mystic Six and the quilt they made had to do with what happened to Otto. I think it might be connected to the way Annie Rose died. You sort of blew me off, Gatlin."

  "I'm sorry." She gave my hand a squeeze. "I didn't mean to. I guess I just don't understand why you think there's a connection."

  "That's because I didn't tell you everything," I said, and told her about finding the flower-star pin in the bathroom stall next to Otto's. "I was afraid it might put you in some kind of danger if you knew. Guess I should have told you sooner. It's scary without you, Gatlin. Damn it! Dave, Lizzie, and Faye will just have to share!"

  "My shoulders are pretty wide," she said, but I couldn't miss the troubled look in her eyes.

  "Hey, guess what? I have shoulders, too," I said.

  Over coffee at the Heavenly Grill, I told Gatlin about my suspicions concerning the group of young women who made a quilt nobody wanted, and the not-so-heavenly happenings in present-day Angel Heights.

  "Obviously somebody thinks you're getting too close to the truth," she said. "Do you think they know you found that pin? You've got to be more careful, Minda. Why don't you stay with us until we get to the bottom of this?"

  I thought of the "rock" in her pullout sofa and graciously declined. "I'm fine, really. Keeping the doors locked, and the police are good about checking the house. (Naturally I didn't mention Augusta.) Promise me you won't say anything to Vesta."

  Gatlin nodded and frowned at me. "Tell me about the quilt. Why do you think it has something to do with the way Annie Rose died?"

  I told her about my visit to Mamie Estes. "She said it was Annie Rose's quilt. Said she didn't ever want to see it again, and her daughter-in-law told me Mamie never talked about it, kept it put away.

  Gatlin turned her coffee mug in her hands. "What about the others?"

  "You were there when we spoke with Martha Kate, Pluma Griffin's niece, when she told us Mamie Estes was still alive," I reminded her. "And you know about Irene Bradshaw's mother. Aunt Pauline, Vesta called her. You'll have to admit Irene acted kinda spooky about your buying Dr. Hank's building. Maybe there's something in there she doesn't want us to find."

  I was surprised to see Gatlin smiling as she shook her head.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Vesta finally told me why Irene wanted Hank's side of the building left alone." She leaned forward over the table and lowered her voice. "She thinks Bonnie's medical records are in there."

  "So?"

  "According to our grandmother, Bonnie Bradshaw was what they referred to as 'hot to trot.' In other words, she slept around. Rumor has it she had an abortion when she was in college, and Dr. Hank took care of it." Gatlin shrugged. "Oh, it was all on the up and up. A legal abortion. Bonnie claimed she was raped, and Dr. Hank cleared the way for it, only Vesta says nobody believed it."

  "I didn't know Queen Victoria was still on the throne," I said. "All this must've happened close to twenty years ago. Why would Irene even give a fig? Why would anybody?"

  "Because of the judge," Gatlin said. "Bonnie's husband, Robinson Sherwood. Strict Baptist upbringing, and you can bet your Sunday shoes he doesn't know about the abortion. Bonnie's never been able to conceive, and I don't know this for sure, but I've heard it's probably due to a pelvic infection from her earlier flings. Vesta says they've applied for adoption, and if this got out, it might ruin their chances for that as well as cause a rift in the marriage."

  "But even if the records are still there, they'll be destroyed. Besides, it sounds like a lot of people already know it. It's old news, Gatlin. If Bonnie's husband hasn't heard it by now, I doubt he ever will. Poor, silly Irene! I can't believe she'd worry about something as unlikely as that." And then I remembered that it had been Irene Bradshaw who had given Mildred the over-the-counter anti-acid pills the night she got so sick.

  "What about that woman in Georgia?" Gatlin asked. "Flora…somebody's granddaughter."

  "It all comes back to her," I said. "Mamie says Flora had the quilt when she died, and her gravestone is engraved with that six-petaled flower with the star in the center—just like the pin they wore, but Peggy—that's her granddaughter—denies knowing anything about it. Got right testy about it."

  Gatlin sighed and shoved her cup aside. "Spooky."

  "I know. I dread facing the witch again, but it looks like I don't have a choice."

  As we left, I noticed Sylvie Smith in line behind us waiting to pay her bill. I nodded, but she didn't seem to recognize me. Edna, who was putting on her coat, waved when she saw us. How long had they been there?

  I opened the restaurant door to a blast of cold air as we stepped outside.

>   "First I think we should check out the place where it all began," my cousin said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean Minerva Academy," Gatlin said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Now?" I looked at my watch. It was almost four o'clock, and the sky was that dirty dryer lint color that on rainy November afternoons, suddenly wraps you in gray. Daylight was almost gone.

  "What better time? My two are spending the afternoon at Vesta's," Gatlin said. "I'll have to make it kind a fast, though. I need to pick up some things for the church Thanksgiving basket on the way home. Monday's the last day, and Vesta will have my head if I forget."

  The idea of going back inside that building made me wish I'd stayed at home. I dragged my feet. "But—"

  "Mrs. Whitmire should still be there if we hurry," Gatlin said, grabbing my arm. "Come on, get the lead out, Minda!"

  The grounds of the old academy had been preserved pretty much as I imagine they were a hundred years ago, and it was easy to visualize young girls in long dresses strolling arm in arm along the curving paths. I always considered that period in history an innocent time, and in my mind, the schoolgirls are usually whispering, laughing over some benign secret. Even though the huge oaks had shed most of their leaves, the campus was shadowed by tall hollies clustered along the paths; wind ruffled the spreading cedar that almost concealed the arched entrance.