An Angel to Die For

by Mignon F. Ballard

  I carefully rebundled the things that had belonged to my sister and tucked them into a dresser drawer in what had been Maggie’s room, concealing them under a tissue-wrapped parcel so my mother wouldn’t see them.

  “What’s that?” Augusta wanted to know, indicating the package swathed in crinkly white paper. Her eyes glowed with anticipation. “Is it something that belonged to Maggie?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “After Maggie left, Dad gave most of her clothes to charity. Mom used this chest of drawers for storage mostly, although she did keep some of my sister’s things from childhood. It might be something Maggie wore in a ballet recital or her flag girl uniform from the year she stuck it out with the junior high band.” It seemed as if Mom was forever sewing things for Maggie to wear only once or twice.

  I shrugged. “It won’t hurt to look,” I said to Augusta, aware that she was fairly ready to explode with curiosity.

  It took me a minute or two to recognize the sheer white dress trimmed in scallops of lace that Augusta held before me. Tiny pearl buttons strung together by nylon thread cascaded in loops and swirls from bodice and waist. A dainty tiara was covered in more of the same.

  “My goodness,” Augusta said. I had never known her to be at a loss for words. “My goodness,” she said again.

  I giggled. “I can see you haven’t a clue as to what this is,” I said.

  If Augusta Goodnight had wings, she would’ve fluttered them in vexation. She was annoyed, I could tell. Only slightly, but still annoyed. “Well . . .” she said.

  “Mom made it for me when I was in the second grade,” I explained. “I played the Tooth Fairy. See all the little buttons? They’re supposed to be teeth. See, the Tooth Fairy collects them.”

  “I see,” Augusta said. But I could see she didn’t. “It must’ve taken your mother hours to do all this. It’s really a work of art.”

  I remembered only slightly my mother’s labors over the frilly dress. I was seven. What did I care? But I did remember the pride I felt in wearing it, and in bravely speaking my small part on a stage that seemed bigger than the whole state of Georgia.

  My best friend, Bunny Feldman, had sulked for a week because she had to be a tube of toothpaste and wear a bulky cardboard box. I smiled.

  “What is it?” Augusta wanted to know. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” I lied, and smiled again.

  “We’re almost out of milk,” I said to Augusta that afternoon. “If I don’t hear from Ola Cress soon, I’m going to have to run some errands and risk missing her call. Besides,” I added, “I’m running out of things to do.”

  “You might give me a violin lesson,” she suggested. “Or you could start updating your . . . what is it you call that thing you need to apply for a job?”

  “Résumé,” I said. “You’re right. I’ve put that off far too long.”

  I had been at my computer for less than an hour when Ola Cress phoned.

  She spoke scarcely above a whisper and I found myself almost shimmying through the phone lines to hear her. “Mr. Humphreys gave me your number,” she began. “I understand you spoke with him recently.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You received my letter then?”

  She made some sort of sound that I took to be affirmative.

  “Maggie Dobson was my sister,” I said. And I want my nephew back! I want him back now! Don’t you dare play games with me, you batty old woman!

  I am not by nature a patient person, and I had to mentally gag myself to keep from demanding news of Joey, where he was, how he was, and, for God’s sake . . . when did she intend to let me see him. Careful, Prentice. Tread lightly. She hung up on you the last time, remember? My breathing dragged as if there were no room in me for air, and my mouth tasted like it had a sock stuffed in it as I waited for her to speak.

  And then I felt Augusta’s cool touch on my shoulder and remembered to think blue.

  “Maggie was the only sister I had,” I said calmly. “My mother and I are devastated at losing her. There’s been an estrangement between Maggie and my parents since she left several years ago, and I imagine you were the closest person to family she had. I want to thank you for that, and for your kindness to my sister.”

  “Oh.” I heard a quick intake of breath on the other end of the line. At least she was alive. “Maggie was . . . I was fond of your sister,” Ola Cress said. “Any real happiness I’ve had was because of Maggie and that sweet baby, and I’ll live the rest of my life regretting how she died.”

  I could tell in the silence that followed the woman was obviously struggling for composure. “If I could go back and change what happened that day, it would be me in that car,” she announced. “I should be the one who was killed by that train!”

  “Why do you say that? Sonny Gaines was driving, wasn’t he? Surely you weren’t there!”

  “I should’ve kept him away from her. I tried, but it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry, so sorry . . .”

  A baby cried in the background, and I knew it wasn’t just any baby. It was my nephew, my mother’s first grandchild, my sister’s own little boy. “That’s Joey, isn’t it?” I whispered.

  “Yes. He’s rolling over now, but he hasn’t figured out how to get back on his tummy again.” There was pride in her voice. “Aggravates him something fierce . . . here, sweetie, Aunt Ola’s coming.”

  “I’d love to see him,” I said. “Do you think we might arrange a—”

  “Look, I know I have no right to Joey, but it seemed my only choice at the time. I suppose you know about Sonny’s father?”

  “I’ve heard,” I said. “Does he have any idea where you are?”

  “I don’t think so; not yet, anyway, but I’ve had to stay a jump ahead. He has friends, family. You can’t trust anybody.” Her voice trembled. “I’d rather die than let that man have this baby.”

  “My goodness, let’s hope it won’t come to that!” I tried to lighten things up a little, but Ola Cress sounded almost beyond comforting, and that scared me even more. “Could we meet somewhere? Wherever it’s convenient for you.” Scrub your floors, mow your lawn, peel you a grape . . .?

  “Are you sure those people aren’t watching you?” Ola Cress asked.

  “What people?”

  “Sonny Gaines’s family. Wouldn’t put it past them to follow you, and that wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.”

  I couldn’t think of an answer to that because I didn’t know one. We would have to meet in some place with a lot of people around, a place that would be confusing to a man like Pershing Gaines.

  “I think I have an idea,” I said. “Do you like to shop?”

  Now all I had to worry about was getting there without one of the Gaines clan on my trail.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Where’s this place we’re going?” Augusta wanted to know. The weather had turned springlike again and she had shed her multi-layers of fabric for a little green belted job with a swirly skirt. Now she topped her glowing locks with a crocheted raffia hat that could only be called “pert” and gave Noodles a good-bye nuzzle before gliding into the front seat beside me.

  “Fawn Park Mall. Ola says it’s a big new shopping complex this side of Chattanooga. She wants us to meet her there at the fountain.”

  “Fawn Park? Will there be deer?” Augusta blew Noodles a fleeting kiss as the cat, sprawled in what was left of my mother’s pansy bed, watched us drive away.

  “It’s just a fancy name,” I explained. “I doubt if there’ve been deer around in years. Ola said to wait for her by the fountain near the concessions area. If she doesn’t show up by one o’clock, I’m to call Tisdale Humphreys about an alternative meeting place.”

  Augusta gave an angelic snort. “For goodness sakes, why go to that extent? Couldn’t the woman just tell you her second choice of a place to meet?”

  “It’s all very mysterious. Ola Cress teeters between eccentric and just plain nutty, and she’s scared to death of Pershing Gaines. I’d call
her neurotic if I weren’t so afraid of him too. I’m almost sure he’s the man who phoned the other night, and he might’ve been prowling around our property. Remember that purple hat the deputy found? Suzie Wright said it looked like the one that man was wearing the other day—the one who ran off into the woods.”

  “And you think it was Pershing Gaines?” Augusta glanced behind us as if she thought he might be on our bumper already.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just know I feel threatened by him. Heck, I feel threatened by just about everybody—especially since that dead woman turned up in our shed. I can understand why Ola Cress isn’t taking any chances.”

  “How long will it take us to drive there?”

  “Less than two hours probably, if we don’t hit any major traffic snags.”

  She pulled needles and embroidery thread from her huge tapestry bag and began stitching on something that looked like a pastoral scene. Her fingers, like hummingbird wings, moved almost too quickly to see. “And how will you know her?” she asked.

  “Know her? Well, I . . . I guess I hadn’t thought of that.” I had no idea what Ola Cress looked like, had never even seen a picture of her. “I’ll just have to hope she recognizes me,” I said. “I haven’t changed that much since the snapshot was made.” The photo of Maggie and me I had mailed to Ola had been taken several years earlier. “And I imagine she’ll have little Joey with her,” I added. My heart leapfrogged at the prospect. I could hardly wait to see him!

  But I did wait. And wait. While Augusta window-shopped, I sat on a bench by the fountain and watched the water splash, widen into circles and disappear. Toddlers threw coins into the sparkling blue basin, mothers pushed strollers about. Babies laughed and cooed and cried, but none of them was Joey.

  Joey would be about seven months old, and from his earlier picture, round-faced and fair. He wouldn’t know me, but I would know him. Some inherent instinct would tell me he was ours and I would love him immediately.

  For about the tenth time I looked at my watch. Almost half an hour had passed. If no one approached me within the next fifteen minutes, I would telephone Tisdale Humphreys.

  I found myself examining the face of almost every baby who might be Joey’s age. Too old, too young, too dark, too slender . . . uh-oh . . . dressed in pink frills, obviously a girl. I noticed a father or two, but usually the babies were accompanied by mothers, grandmothers, or sometimes both. I smiled, thinking how much fun it would be for Mom and me to go on an outing with Joey, of all the things we’d do, and when the woman suddenly sat beside me on the bench, it jarred me into reality.

  “You must be Prentice Dobson.” She was not at all what I expected. Why, Ola Cress was pretty, and much younger than I’d thought. Surely not more than fifty! She wore her straight dark hair, streaked with gray, in a stylish cut that accented high cheekbones. A bright scarf, splashed with sunflowers, embellished her buttercup-yellow pants suit. Jaunty porcelain daffodils dangled from her ears.

  I started to rise, then looked about. She hadn’t brought the child. Of course she wouldn’t—couldn’t take the chance. One of us might be followed. “Could we go somewhere?” I said. “I think we need to talk.”

  The woman smiled. “I’m so glad you see it that way.” She nodded in the direction of the concessions area. “If you’ll grab us a table, I’ll get a couple of coffees, okay?”

  I nodded numbly and followed.

  “How is he?” I asked as she sat across from me, steaming cups in hand. I could wait no longer. “Is he happy? Healthy?”

  The woman tore open an envelope of artificial sweetener and sprinkled it into her cup a few grains at a time. “You’re asking me?” She stirred it before looking up at me.

  “Well, yes. Who else would know? He is all right, isn’t he?”

  I never knew fear could hurt, but when she didn’t answer, my entire body ached and I thought I was going to be sick right there. “Joey,” I said. “Where is he now?”

  She stiffened and leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table in front of her. “I believe we need to get some things straight,” she said. I noticed her well-manicured nails polished with a slight pink gloss, her emerald-cut diamond that probably cost as much or more than my car.

  This woman was not Ola Cress.

  There was one quick way to know for sure. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.” I spoke softly, remembering to breathe slowly and think blue. “I was almost ready to phone our mutual friend.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Our mutual friend?”

  “The person we agreed upon earlier,” I said. “You know.”

  Her silence answered me. She didn’t know. “Who are you?” I started to rise; coffee spilled onto my wrist, the front of my blouse.

  “I thought you knew. My nephew said . . . I assumed he’d been in touch, and you didn’t seem surprised to see me.” The woman held out a hand, palm down, as if to delay my leaving. “I’m Sonny’s aunt, Julia—”

  “How did you know where to find me?” I pretended not to notice her hand.

  I didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and walked out quickly, losing myself in the crowded mall. Sonny Gaines’s aunt had followed me here.

  Thank heavens Augusta waited in the car. I didn’t have time to look for her now. “You heard?” I said, and she nodded. “We have to get out of here before she can follow, then find a telephone fast.”

  We zigzagged through a maze of streets before we felt at ease enough to phone Tisdale Humphreys from an out-of-the-way pizza restaurant. He was waiting for my call.

  “What took you so long?” he wanted to know. “Ola phoned more than an hour ago, said she was sure she was being followed.”

  “There must be more than one of them,” I said, and told him about Sonny’s aunt. “Probably a whole clan of them—human bloodhounds!” I shuddered at the notion and glanced at my watch. “We still have time to meet. Did Ola mention another place?”

  “I wrote down the address. Cousin of hers, I think. Just a minute, I know it’s somewhere on this desk . . .”

  While waiting, I read the messages scribbled on the wall by the phone and hoped my straitlaced angel wasn’t looking over my shoulder. It was much too warm in the restaurant, and the floor needed a thorough scrubbing. I looked at my watch again. Had our friend Mr. Humphreys forgotten all about me?

  “Sorry! Place is a shambles here. I’m having the upstairs hall repapered and you know what a mess that is!”

  I didn’t know and didn’t much care, but he was such a good sport I pretended to sympathize. The address he gave me was in a nearby town of Jasper. “Won’t take long to get there,” my friend assured me. “Ola says it’s small, so you shouldn’t have much trouble finding the house.”

  But we weren’t counting on the afternoon traffic and it was later than I anticipated when we finally crossed into the city limits of Jasper, Tennessee. Ola’s cousin, Lydia Bosworth, lived on the corner of Willow Trail and Academy in what Ola remembered as a small yellow cottage with a big stone chimney. I found the house with the big stone chimney, but now it was painted white. Obviously it had been a while since Ola’s last visit.

  I didn’t realize how long until I rang the doorbell and asked for Lydia Bosworth.

  “Who?” The frowning child who answered the door looked to be about ten and I could see that I was interrupting her dinner.

  “Lydia Bosworth. I was told I could find her here. Maybe your mother could help me,” I suggested.

  The girl shrugged. “Mom!” she yelled, revealing a mouthful of partly chewed sandwich. “You know anybody named Lydia—who’d you say?”

  “Bosworth.” I smiled at the child’s mother who hurried from the back of the house.

  “Lydia Bosworth? My goodness, I’m afraid she died a couple of years ago. We bought this house from her estate.” The woman reached out to touch my arm. “I’m really sorry. I hope this isn’t too much of a shock.”

  I shook my head and mumbled thanks, th
en walked numbly back to the street. What was I to do now? Was Ola Cress playing cruel games with me?

  And then as if the scene were being orchestrated from above, I heard the threatening rumble of thunder and looked up to see dark clouds gathering. And I sat on what used to be Ola’s cousin Lydia’s cold stone steps and cried.

  A raindrop splashed on my nose and somebody started blowing a car horn nearby. Couldn’t Augusta see I was upset? What was the matter with her? I darted a nasty look in the direction of my car, but Augusta sat patiently in the passenger seat working on her needlepoint.

  “Over here!” A skinny white arm waved to me from the window of a car parked across the street and the horn beeped timidly once again. “You are Prentice Dobson, aren’t you? Sorry about the mix-up. It’s been a long time since I was here.”

  Oh, God, I thought, this time please let it be Ola Cress!

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She appeared to be in her sixties, maybe older, and I guessed that ill health, hard work, and probably something more had contributed to her drawn, troubled look. Life had offered no free lunches to Ola Cress.

  The threatening storm had hastened nightfall and it was difficult to see well in the gloom, but the woman seemed harmless enough. Her hair, spiderweb gray, was pulled into a bun at the back, and the light from a passing car glinted off her bifocals.

  “I’m afraid we’re in for a storm,” she said as I drew nearer. “Better climb in before you get drenched.” And then she saw my face in the light of the open car door, and her expression stirred a memory. It was like that of a mother searching for a child in a crowd. I had seen it in my own mother’s face from the window of a bus or at the airport gate on returning from camp or college. But Ola was clearly unfulfilled when she saw me. “You’re not very like your sister, but I can tell you’re kin,” she said.