The Angel Whispered Danger

by Mignon F. Ballard

  “Some people prefer unsweetened tea.” Aunt Leona didn’t look up as she sliced cantaloupe into a large blue bowl. “In fact, I think we have entirely—”

  “Has anybody heard about Ella?” I asked, finding space for my purchases on the counter.

  “Some better, I believe,” Leona said, “but still in intensive care. Uncle Ernest says she seems to be coming out of it, but she’s still not coherent.”

  “We passed a police car when we turned in the driveway,” I said, looking for a pot for the eggs. “Any news about . . .” I glanced at Josie. “. . . about what they found yesterday?”

  “Oh, I know all about the skeleton, Mom.” My daughter filled the pan with water at the sink and carefully put the eggs in one by one.

  “They just wanted to talk to Ernest,” my grandmother said. “Don’t know what they expected him to tell them.”

  “Must’ve told them something because they spoke for a good while.” Violet searched for just the right cookie on the platter she’d brought and ate a chocolate one. “I saw them talking with that man Casey, too, although I don’t know why they’d bother with him. Been here less than a year.”

  Ma Maggie frowned. “What on earth’s he doing around Rose’s old garden? Looks like he’s been digging out there.”

  “Kate asked him to get rid of some of the weeds—thank goodness!” Leona said. “Looks like a jungle out there! Breeding place for chiggers, and probably snakes, too. He said a lot of those old roses needed fertilizer, too, and a couple of them had black spot real bad, but he thought he might be able to save them.”

  My grandmother’s face went stiff. “And what did you say?”

  Leona shrugged. “I said, ‘Go to it,’ of course. I know he tries, but Uncle Ernest is getting too old to take care of that plot like he used to, and besides, why hire a caretaker if you’re not going to let him take care of things?”

  “Ernest won’t like it,” Ma Maggie said. And she was right. Later, when I took my turn with the ice-cream churn out on the back porch, I heard Uncle Ernest telling Casey he wasn’t to bother with that part of the yard anymore. He didn’t yell or sound mean or anything, but my uncle spoke with a tightness in his voice that signaled red.

  I wondered what was out there in that old garden he didn’t want anybody to find.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Belinda Donahue noticed the difference right away when she showed up later that afternoon with a huge pot of something so heavy it took both Uncle Lum and Grady to carry it from the car.

  “Why, I’ve never even noticed this pretty little garden back here before,” she said, pausing to sniff a yellow-pink blossom. “Was there a fence or something around it?”

  “Just straggly old trees and waist-high weeds,” Aunt Leona said, following her into the kitchen. “What’s in the pot?”

  “Chicken bog. It’s an old South Carolina recipe. My mother came from there, you know.”

  “Ours, too,” Cousin Violet said, lifting the lid. “Or at least our grandmother did. Charleston, wasn’t it, Maggie?”

  My grandmother was on her hands and knees rattling things in the kitchen cabinets. “Now, where in the world do you suppose Ella put that big green glass fruit bowl?” She frowned at Violet over her shoulder. “What was that about Charleston?”

  “Our grandmother, Nannie Jane! Wasn’t she from South Carolina? Remember how Nannie used to make chicken bog?”

  Violet glared at what she saw in the pot. “Why, this has tomatoes in it! I never in my life heard of putting tomatoes in chicken bog. Chicken and rice—maybe a little onion—cooked in seasoned chicken stock. Now that’s chicken bog!”

  “Smells fine to me.” Uncle Lum inhaled deeply and winked at Belinda, who looked as though she might be counting under her breath. “Don’t believe I’ve ever met a chicken bog I didn’t like.”

  “And what do you know about it, Columbus Roundtree?” Violet clanged the lid on the pot and poked him with a magenta-nailed finger.

  “Oh, I reckon I know a little bit—for an old fart.”

  Aunt Leona almost dropped a bowl of slaw. “For heaven’s sakes, Lum, do you really have to be so crude?”

  But Grady laughed. “If Dad’s an old fart, what does that make you, Mom?”

  “Guess it makes her an old fartress,” his father said, ducking out the door.

  Ma Maggie gave both of them a withering look as she sighed and rose to her feet. “Belinda, if you don’t mind, would you give me a hand with the cloths for the picnic tables? I think Ella keeps them in that wicker chest in the laundry room.”

  “I know where they are, Maggie. I’ll get them,” Violet offered, distancing herself from the offending chicken bog. But my grandmother, obviously upset by Violet’s rudeness, ignored her.

  Belinda, clearly distressed by the turn of events, didn’t seem to know which way to go. “Why don’t I gather some of those gorgeous roses?” she said with a forced brightness in her voice. “We can use them on the tables.”

  My cousin Violet crossed her arms. “Those are Rose’s flowers. Ernest never lets anyone cut them.”

  “Then it’s time he did,” Leona said, with a hand on Belinda’s arm. “Come on; I’ll help you round up some vases.”

  The telephone rang just then and I was relieved when Grady, who had rushed to answer it, said it was for me.

  “I’m afraid we’ve run into a blank wall,” a man’s voice said.

  “What?” I was so distressed by Violet’s scene in the kitchen, the person might as well have been speaking Greek.

  “Charles Hollingsworth. About those two who were supposed to have drowned here back in the sixties . . . Ron Vickers at the police department tracked down the brother of the young man. Took some doing, but with computers it’s a whole lot easier than it used to be.”

  “So, what did you find out?”

  “Not much,” he said. “Quincy Puckett’s brother still lives in Ohio; says his parents died several years ago, still hoping the guy would turn up, but he never did.”

  “What about the girl?” I asked.

  “The Puckett fellow didn’t know much about her. Said she was somebody his brother took up with after he left home. Her real name, though, was Valerie Dutton, and she came from some little town outside of Baltimore.”

  “Would anybody there know what happened to her?” I wanted that skeleton to belong to one of those people. And I wanted to let Uncle Ernest off the hook.

  “I doubt it,” Charles Hollingsworth said. “Not after all this time. Her family left there a year or so after that happened. She had two or three sisters, I think, but they’re all scattered now. Don’t even know if any of them are still alive—much less where to find them.”

  “So I guess that’s that.” I gripped the receiver as if I could squeeze some hope from it. “Do you think it could’ve been one of them they unearthed over at Remeth?”

  “Could’ve been,” he said. “I asked if the skeleton belonged to a man or a woman, but didn’t get to first base. Police are being closemouthed about that.” He paused. “Curious. And then there’s that peculiar thing about the Briscoe girl. She was about your age, wasn’t she?”

  “Beverly? We were close friends all through school, but sort’ve grew apart when we went away to college.” I didn’t mention that Grady’s anguish over their breaking up was partially responsible for that. “What do you mean peculiar? You’re talking about her accident, I suppose?” I asked, curious as to why he used that particular adjective.

  “That’s what we all assumed it was, but the police seem to think differently now. Looks like somebody might’ve tampered with the brakes.”

  “Not Beverly . . . but this happened way back in—when was it? February? Why are they just now suspecting she might have been . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

  “Kate.” I could hear him breathe. “Beverly’s car missed the curve at a—well, an extremely steep precipice. The car fell—”

  “Oh.” I leaned against t
he wall in the small alcove where the telephone sat on a recessed shelf. I didn’t want to hear any more. “Does anyone else know this?” Does Grady? If not, I didn’t want to be the one to tell him.

  “I doubt it. They just got the report from the police up there. Naturally they’re investigating anyone she might’ve been in touch with, family, close friends . . .”

  “Do they have any idea who might be responsible?” I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to kill Beverly. She had always been a little on the shy side, and during our school days was a serious student, active in the Latin Club, Junior Science Society—things like that. In fact, my mother had encouraged our friendship because she thought Beverly would be a steadying influence on me.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he was saying, and I nodded, as if he could see me over the phone. I felt as if we were losing Beverly twice.

  “You look like a rabbit ran over your grave. What’s wrong?” Marge came in from outside with a squirming Hartley under one arm and what looked like a change of clothing in the other. “Been here less than an hour and he’s already found every mud puddle on the place!”

  “It’s Beverly,” I whispered, following her into the bathroom where she began to strip and scrub her youngest. “They’re saying it might not have been an accident.” I told her what I had just heard from Charles Hollingsworth.

  “Dear God! Why would anybody do a thing like that? Does Grady know?” Ignoring his protests, Marge ran a washcloth over Hartley’s dirt-smeared face.

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. He and his dad were ganging up on Aunt Leona in the kitchen a while ago.”

  “About what?”

  “Not much of anything,” I said. “I think they were just trying to lighten things up a little.” And I told her of Violet’s irrational behavior.

  “What you reckon’s gotten into her? She scatted outside a while ago looking like she’d just laid a square egg!”

  “Maybe she’s jealous,” I said.

  Marge frowned. “Of Belinda?”

  “More like she just out and out resents her. Uncle Ernest has been without anybody all these years—just like Violet. No spouse, no children—only I never thought it bothered Uncle Ernest that much, once you got past the ‘Rose Memorial Garden.’”

  “I never thought it mattered to Violet, either. At least, not until now.” My cousin toweled her son dry, stuffed him into clean clothes and gave him a pat on the rear. “Try to stay out of the mud until after we eat!” she called as he ran outside, slamming the screen door behind him.

  Now she gathered Hartley’s soiled clothing into a bundle. “I’m still in shock about Beverly. Do they have any idea who did it?”

  “You know what I know,” I told her. “But, now that I think of it, when I saw Bev at Ellie Holcomb’s drop-in last Christmas, she did mention something about a weird neighbor.”

  “What do you mean, weird? What’d she say?”

  “Just that she’d be glad to be finished with the requirements for her degree and come back to North Carolina. I got the idea she didn’t like the place where she was living.”

  “How so?” Marge paused in the hallway and looked around, probably to be sure Grady wasn’t nearby.

  “It was a dinky little apartment stuck in the middle of nowhere, but Bev said it was all she could afford. She said she hardly saw any of the other tenants except for this one weird guy who kept asking her out.”

  Hearing Aunt Leona and Belinda Donahue talking as they clattered about in the kitchen, I lowered my voice. “You know how nice Beverly was—didn’t want to just come right out and tell the guy she wasn’t interested. She said she was running out of excuses.”

  “Kate, you should mention that to the police,” Marge said. “The man was probably harmless, but it could be important.”

  “You’re right. Maybe I should—”

  “What’s with all this whispering going on? Maybe you should what?” Grady came in from outside with an empty tray in his hands. “Ma Majesty is ready for the condiments now,” he said, heading for the kitchen.

  “Kate and I were just saying we should’ve thought of the croquet set,” Marge said. “Remember how we all used to play? I’ll bet that old thing is still in the attic.” She turned to me. “Do you have time to—”

  “I’ll look,” I said, eager to escape to somewhere peaceful and boring—even if it was 110 degrees up there.

  Marge gave me a look that meant, Call now! “Then I’ll give Grady a hand,” she said. “Where’s another tray?”

  As soon as they were gone, I hurried to leave a message with the dispatcher at the police station who promised to have Ron Vickers return my call. Frankly, I hoped Grady wouldn’t learn of it until after the picnic. Having a skeleton turn up next door, not to mention what happened to Ella, had made everyone jumpy. But I still had trouble believing somebody had deliberately sabotaged Beverly’s car.

  Only a dim bulb illuminated the enclosed stairs to the attic, and I didn’t even want to know the last time they had been swept. As children, Beverly and I had sometimes played dress-up here while Ma Maggie visited downstairs with her brother. Now I pictured my friend at eight or nine prancing about in a trailing dress with flounces, a floppy hat trimmed in faded pink flowers, and something caught in my throat. It wasn’t dust.

  During college, Beverly had spent summers away as a counselor at science camp, or interning with special programs in her field, and we rarely saw each other. Other than our brief conversation last Christmas, we hadn’t seen each other in years. Now, I wished I had made more of an effort to keep in touch. I hesitated at the top of the stairs, glad of an opportunity to compose myself before all the relatives descended on us. My hand was reaching for the doorknob when I heard a muffled thump, and it was coming from the attic!

  I did an abrupt about-face and started down, trying to creep as quietly as possible. If the person who had pushed Ella was hiding in the attic, I didn’t want to meet him. Or her?

  As luck would have it, I picked that particular time to sneeze.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Kate, is that you?”

  I had made it about halfway down the stairs on wobbly legs when the attic door opened above me and I turned to see Augusta standing there. “Penelope had a bit of an accident with a rocking chair,” she said. “Wasn’t as sturdy as it seemed, I’m afraid.”

  I was so relieved to see her there, I didn’t care if Penelope had broken every chair in the attic. “It’s okay,” I said, and sneezed again. “What are you doing up there?”

  Augusta stepped back to allow me to enter. “With all your relatives descending, it seemed as good a place to dangle as any.” She made room for me on a straight-backed bench I remembered seeing in my uncle’s upstairs hall.

  “Dangle?” I lifted a brow.

  “Dangle, yes. To be suspended, such as when you’re only destroying time.”

  I smiled. “You’re hanging, you mean; or hanging out.” I decided to pass on her version of killing time.

  Augusta let that go by with a nod. “I see another carload has arrived,” she said, moving to the open window. “And by the way, what are you doing up here? Hiding from kin?”

  “In a way,” I said. “Actually, I’m supposed to be looking for a croquet set.” I went over to stand beside her, surprised at how comfortable it was up here with a cross breeze between the two open windows. This part of the attic was shaded by a large white oak whose branches brushed the rooftop. Looking down I recognized bossy Great-aunt Geraldine and her two meek daughters, who had driven all the way from Surrey County and a slew of South Carolina cousins from my great-grandmother’s side.

  “I believe I saw a croquet set over there behind that old wardrobe,” Augusta said, making her way across the room. “I always loved that game. Did you know that if your ball hits someone else’s, you can put your foot on your ball and whack the other one into the next county!” She laughed as she gave her purple pleated skirt a
twitch; the loose tunic, printed in a pastel floral pattern, floated about her when she walked.

  “That’s not a very angelic way to behave,” I told her as I dragged out the old wooden set and wiped it off with a piece of torn blanket.

  “So, why did you really come up here, Kate?” Augusta seemed to be studying me as I looked about for the rusty wickets.

  I glanced at Penelope, happily rummaging through the contents of an old trunk set back under the eaves, and lowered my voice. “I feel like I’m sinking over my head in muddy water,” I said, and told her what I’d learned about Beverly’s death.

  “We don’t know if that had anything to do with what’s taking place here.” Augusta’s words were calming, but I wasn’t calmed. Her eyes, I noticed, held a not-so-sure expression.

  “And Uncle Ernest isn’t himself at all—why was he digging in the garden last night? He doesn’t like anyone to go in there, either. Jumped all over poor Casey this morning. Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if there’s something buried there.”

  “Do you think your uncle is hiding something?” Augusta trailed her finger along the surface of a streaky mirror.

  “What else are we to think? And I’m not so sure I want to know what it is.”

  “What do you think it is?” Augusta asked.

  “Something of Rose’s . . . or Rose herself—unless that was Rose they uncovered in the churchyard.” I shuddered. “What an awful thought! I can’t believe I’m saying it—and of Uncle Ernest, too, who’s never been anything but . . . well, Uncle Ernest. And the police were here this morning questioning him for the longest time.

  “Augusta, I don’t like this one bit. I’m worried. I’ll admit, he’s a bit peculiar, but I can’t imagine him being party to something grisly.”

  I gathered the wickets, most of which were made from bent coat hangers, and counted the croquet balls. It was amazing all eight of them were still there after fifty years or more. I knew I should go downstairs and set up the game, but I wasn’t in any hurry to join my family now congregating on the lawn.