Shadow of an Angle

by Mignon F. Ballard

  A light shone from the hallway, and I could see someone moving about in the dimly lit parlor. Holley Hall had been built of dark red brick that had become even darker with time, and the mock Gothic arches along the porch seemed too heavy for the building. A wisteria vine, now bare of leaves, twisted to the third story, where Otto had sometimes worked in the school's library, and above that squatted a cupola that was said at one time to have housed a bell.

  "My goodness, you startled me! I was just getting ready to close up for the day." Gertrude Whitmire switched on a lamp beside her desk and dumped her tan leather purse into a drawer. "I didn't expect visitors this late on such a dreary afternoon, but there's still time to look around, if you like. Is there something you girls would especially like to see?"

  I'd seen enough of that place to last me a lifetime, but I wouldn't mind having another look at our great grandmother's hand-stitched alma mater, and said so.

  "Of course, Arminda. I believe you know where to find it," our hostess said.

  "Is it all right if we look around upstairs?" Gatlin asked. "I'd like to see where Otto spent so much of his time. I promise not to bother anything."

  "You're welcome to browse as much as you like," Gertrude Whitmire said. "I hope you won't mind if I don't give you a guided tour. I'm afraid my ankle's still a bit swollen, and I'm trying to avoid stairs if I can."

  The bruise on Gertrude's cheek had yellowed, and the scrapes on her hands hadn't quite healed. The cane, I noticed, leaned against the desk within easy reach.

  "I'll be up in a minute!" I called as Gatlin started up the heavy oak staircase.

  The door to the parlor was closed, but a light still burned on a table by the window. The room was damp and stuffy, and I pulled my jacket closer about me and hurried to where I knew the needlework hung on the other side of the fireplace, hoping to find something I might have missed. From all I'd learned, the Mystic Six had been a tightly knit group, and it looked as if the secret or secrets they harbored would die with Mamie Estes—unless Lucy Westbrook had stitched a message somewhere on the sampler.

  But only a pale rectangle marked the place where it had hung.

  "It's gone! It's not here!"

  I don't know how long I stood there staring at the spot where the framed needlework had hung, as if I could make it reappear.

  "Did you say something, Arminda?" Mrs. Whitmire paused in the doorway, magazine in hand, and I had the distinct notion I had disturbed her reading.

  "The alma mater. It's not here."

  "What do you mean, it's not there?" Even hobbling, the woman almost bulldozed me in her haste to cross the room. "Why, I can't imagine where it would be. I could almost swear I dusted that frame this morning…or maybe it was yesterday… well, sometime this week."

  "Maybe your brother had it reframed," I suggested, hoping I was right.

  "Hugh? I doubt it. That costs money, and there was nothing wrong with the frame it was in. But you know, there was a woman here yesterday who seemed unusually interested. I wonder…" Gertrude Whitmire twitched a window drapery, glanced behind a chair as if she thought someone might have hidden it there, and then—apparently seeing my disappointed expression—put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sure it will turn up. Someone might have accidently broken it, and I expect Hugh has put it away somewhere. You'd be surprised at how some parents let their children run wild in here!"

  "That woman," I said. "The one who was here…Doyou remember what she looked like? Maybe she signed the guest register."

  Gertrude frowned, hesitating. "You know, she might have. Why don't you take a look? The register's on that stand in the hallway."

  I riffled hurriedly through its pages, but the last visitors to sign the book had been there over a week before.

  "Would you say she was sort of fiftish—neat, with graying blond hair?" I asked.

  Gertrude considered that. "Well, yes, now that you mention it, she did look something like that. Is she someone you know, Arminda?"

  "I'm not sure," I told her, wondering if Peggy O'Connor had been here before me.

  Upstairs I found Gatlin examining old photographs and yellowed mementos from the early days of the academy on a glass-enclosed table in the center of the library. She turned when I came in. "Can you believe this, Minda? The class of 1913 had only eight members. When did Lucy graduate?"

  "Several years after that I think. Vesta said she and some of the others stayed on as teachers' assistants and took advanced courses for college credit."

  "I'm shocked. I thought Great-grandma already knew everything!" Gatlin made a face. "Here's a first edition of those little animal books the professor wrote."

  I told her about the missing alma mater, and we looked to see if Hugh Talbot had put it away somewhere in the library. I wasn't surprised when we didn't find it. "Do you think Wordy Gerty would mind if we looked through some of these old yearbooks?" I asked.

  "Can't. The case is locked. We can ask, though. Maybe she'll let us have the key."

  "Want me to ask?"

  "That's okay. Besides, she kind a likes me. I was one of her better students." My cousin flung out her arms and twirled in what she must've considered a boastful dance. "Also, I have to go to the bathroom. Need to come?"

  "Are you kidding? I'd tie my legs in a knot before I'd go in that room again!" In fact, I wasn't too comfortable waiting upstairs alone and wished I'd told Augusta where I'd be.

  I was glad when I heard Gatlin's quick, light steps on the stairs. "Gert says make it snappy," she said, holding up a small key. "She has a meeting tonight and has to run by the grocery store on the way home."

  The yearbooks were greenish brown and the binding was nothing but string. The title, The Planet, and a likeness of something that looked like Saturn were embossed in gold on the cover. We each took one and placed them carefully on a table by the window. Mine opened to a pressed flower—a rose, I think—and I wondered who put it there. I was surprised to see that a lot of the posed photographs weren't all that different from the ones you find in annuals today—except, of course for the clothing.

  A group of young women in dark bloomers and middy blouses posed with tennis rackets. Members of the Equestrian Club—ten in number—sat sidesaddle on their mounts.

  "Here's our Lucy," Gatlin pointed out. "Class president, of course. She must've been a senior that year…and would you look at her list of credits! There's hardly room for them all: editor of the school paper, member of the student council, Minerva Singers, lab assistant… blah, blah, blah! Was there anything she couldn't do?"

  "Doesn't sound like she did such a bang-up job of looking out for her younger sister," I said, and was immediately sorry for saying it.

  Lucy Westbrook's pretty young face smiled out at us from an oval in the center of the page. Her hair looked as if it might have been the same auburn as my mother's and Gatlin's, and her eyes were large and dark, but her mouth and the set of her chin could have been my own. "I didn't mean that," I whispered aloud more to myself than to her picture.

  "I wonder if there's a copy of the school newspaper somewhere," I said. "Says here it was called the Minerva Minutes. Lucy was editor. Be interesting to see what she wrote."

  "I'll look again, but I didn't see anything like that in the case. Could be somewhere else…"

  I think my cousin continued speaking, but I didn't hear what she said because I had just found a picture of the young girl who died, and I couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but something practically jumped out and conked me on the noggin, shouting, Look at me! Annie Rose Westbrook reminded me of someone else, someone I knew: not my mother, or Gatlin, or even Vesta. It was in the tilt of her eyes, the tiniest hint of a widow's peak, and a smile that even now looked like a token gesture for the photographer. I felt as if I were looking at a younger version of Mildred Parsons.

  "Gatlin, look at this and tell me what you think!" I held up the book for my cousin, but she quieted me with a raised hand.

  "Wait a minute! Is that Gert call
ing?"

  I listened while Gatlin rose and went out to the landing. I could hear Gertrude Whitmire yelling from below.

  "Somebody wants me on the phone," Gatlin called from the doorway. "I can't imagine who!"

  I hurried after her downstairs to find Mrs. Whitmire standing beside her desk while speaking to someone on the phone.

  "Yes, she's coming. She's right here," she said. "Hold on just a minute.

  "Something about a dog," she whispered, handing the receiver to Gatlin.

  "Oh, Lord—that bad Napoleon! Don't tell me he's gotten out again!" Gatlin reached for the phone. "Yes, this is Gatlin Norwood. Is there a problem with Napoleon? Hello…"She shrugged and frowned. "Oh, dear! I see. Is he still out there? Can you see him?" My cousin made a face and rolled her eyes. "Right. Of course. I'll get there as soon as I can.

  "That was Mabel Tidwell from across the street. Good grief, does the woman have built-in radar? Wonder how she tracked me down here…. Anyway, gotta go. Seems Napoleon's taken a liking to her azalea bed."

  "Uh-oh! Is he still there? Want me to help you chase him down?"

  "If I hurry, I think I can corner him. Mabel was watching from the window, trying to keep track of the silly beast. Poor woman just moved in this fall and already my dog's destroying her yard. Guess we won't be on her Christmas cookie list!"

  Gertrude stepped from the bathroom, purse tucked under her arm. "I hope it's nothing serious. Can I give you a ride somewhere?"

  "Thanks. I left my car at the bookshop, but you can drop me there if you don't mind." Gatlin sighed. "This is the second time this week! Looks like we'll have to build a higher fence."

  The older woman dug in her purse for keys and jangled them impatiently. "I really have to run if I'm going to make that meeting. Arminda, I'm sure you won't mind locking up?"

  I was sure I would, but how did you argue with the queen of routine?

  "Just be sure you lock that case before you leave and turn off the lights upstairs. You can leave the key in my desk, and the front door will lock behind you." Gertrude shifted her weight to favor her injured ankle, and I could see she was trying to hide her pain. "I wouldn't mind waiting, Arminda, but Gatlin doesn't have much time—"

  "No, it's all right. You go on. I'll only be a few minutes." Just long enough to see if I can find more in the academy yearbook about my long-dead aunt.

  I switched on every light within reach as soon as the door closed behind them and practically raced up the stairs to the third floor. The Planet lay where I had left it, and this time I went through it page by page from start to finish, making note of any mention of the girls who had belonged to the Mystic Six.

  Flora and Annie Rose, decked out in flowing white and trailing garlands, were featured as members of the May Court. Irene's mother, Pauline, with dark curls and dimples, presided over the French Club. Pluma Griffin and Mamie Trammell belonged to the Happy Hikers and the Watercolor Society, the latter of which, had Lucy for treasurer.

  I became so fascinated with the girls' various activities, I almost forgot what I came to look for. How did they have time to fit studies into their busy schedule?

  If the yearbook was anything to go by, these were six normal girls enjoying the privilege of a select private academy before marriage and family set them upon a plotted course for life. Except for the secretive group they belonged to and the "hot potato" quilt, I could see nothing unusual about them.

  Other than copies of The Planet, the glassed-in case held a couple of textbooks; a composition book open to an essay on "Choices," written in a graceful, flowing script; a small handbook listing the rules of the academy (I planned to come back to this one later); a maroon felt cap monogrammed with an M and the year 1915, and several class photographs taken in front of Holley Hall.

  The building settled about me as tired old houses seem to do at the end of the day. Don't you know it's time to go home? It seemed to say. I'm tired. Leave me alone!

  Somewhere below me a stair squeaked. Old timbers popped and groaned at the onset of evening, and I had to fight the instinct to crawl into a corner and hide. Only there was no place to hide, and imagination or not, I knew it was time to get out of Holley Hall.

  I heard the clock in the hallway downstairs strike five and hurried to put the yearbooks back into the case and lock it before leaving. And as much as I disliked the idea, I turned off the overhead light before pulling the door shut behind me. The lights I had left burning earlier should give me more than enough illumination from below.

  But the stairwell was as dark as the thoughts I was having, and the only light came from a street lamp somewhere outside. Too late I heard the muffled step behind me, then heavy fabric, musty and smothering, came down over my face and arms, and before I had time to struggle, pain ricocheted through my head. I felt myself pitching forward, and this time there was nothing to grab on to.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Instinct told me to go limp—which wasn't a problem, since I didn't have the strength to struggle, and every time I tried to move, the Fourth of July exploded in my head. Whatever had been thrown over me had been collecting dust for at least a hundred years, and I coughed and gasped for air, making the situation even worse. Somebody standing over me grunted as he tugged at the fabric, and I cried out as what felt like a foot came in contact with my back, rolling me into a close, suffocating shroud.

  I fought to free my hands, but they were pinned to my sides, and I was being dragged like a bundle of dirty sheets over creaking wooden floors.

  And where was Augusta? No wonder she was a temporary guardian angel! She probably couldn't hold a permanent job.

  But she had warned me, hadn't she, about doing my part? About not allowing myself to become vulnerable. And what had I done? I had left the house without telling her and ended up in the very place where my cousin Otto met his end.

  The person push-pulling me grunted and panted, and thankfully stopped to rest now and then as he hauled me inch by inch across the floor. If only I could delay him until somebody came! Augusta had told me angels don't usually swoop down and rescue people, but this time I think God might allow just a little swoop. After all, this seemed to be a matter of life and death. My life. My death.

  If only I could see! I struggled to move my arms, tear the smothering cloth from my face, but I couldn't work them loose. My breathing came too fast, and my heart beat so loud I thought it would explode.

  Jarvis, how could you let this happen to me!

  But Jarvis was gone, dead, and it looked as if I might soon join him. I wasn't ready.

  This person was going to kill me, and Augusta wasn't going to fly down and snatch me up. The only one who could save me was me.

  Save your strength, Minda!

  The direction came from somewhere within me, and I let myself go lax. If only Gatlin would come back! Or Gertrude Whitmire. Anybody! My head struck something hard, and I yelled out. That would definitely leave a bruise—if I lived that long. I had been struck in the hallway, and if I wasn't completely turned around, we must be near the stairwell.

  The stairwell. Whoever had waited for me in the dark hall meant to pitch me over the railing!

  I couldn't free my arms, but I had enough leverage to bring my knees to my chin. I tucked in my head, doubled into a ball, and heaved myself toward what I hoped was the opposite direction. It might only delay at best, but I would snatch whatever time I could. By damn, I wasn't going to make this easy!

  The person who had been dragging me made some kind of hissing noise, and what must have been the toe of a shoe grazed my shin. I squirmed into a sitting position, inching backward until I was braced against the wall, and prepared myself for a fight.

  In silence I waited for the inevitable jerk or the prod of a heavy shoe, my muscles tensing in expectation. The quiet became more threatening than the sound of someone moving about, because I didn't know what to expect or when to expect it, and so I sat, almost afraid to breathe. What were they waiting for?


  My nose began to itch, and I couldn't free my hands to scratch it.

  Your nose does not itch, Arminda Hobbs! Think of something else… something pleasant… like that good-looking young doctor whose call you didn't return….

  A door opened, and heavy footsteps thumped in the hallway below, then hesitated on the stairs. Someone was coming. "Dear God in heaven, what's this?" A man spoke; his footsteps grew louder, closer.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and kicked out, wriggling from his grasp.

  "Hey! Watch it! I'm not going to hurt you."

  I heard him groan and strain as he stooped beside me. "How in the world did you get all trussed up like this? What's been going on here?"

  Now I recognized the voice. Hugh Talbot. You might know he'd try to blame me for almost becoming a victim in his precious academy.

  "Wait a minute now—they've got the blasted thing tied with a cord or something!"

  I stiffened as clumsy hands pushed and tugged at me, took long breaths as the dusty cloth loosened.

  I sat up and shook off the last of the mummy like wrappings: thick velvet draperies that looked as if they'd once been blue, and stared into the owlish eyes of Fitzhugh Talbot.

  They blinked at me. His hairpiece bristled like a worn hairbrush, and his face was a dusky gray. In fact, the whole place was gray because no one had turned on a light. "Arminda," he said, looking closer. "Is that you?"