“I wish I’d never come to this reunion,” I said. “My parents are in England, my husband’s on the other side of the country and now everything here seems to be falling apart. Even Violet, usually the best-natured one of the lot, has taken a nasty turn.” I told Augusta about my cousin’s recent hostility toward Belinda Donahue.
“But you are here.” Augusta looked at me with her steady, turquoise gaze and ran the bright stones of her necklace through her fingers. “You can’t choose your family, but you can choose how you interact with them, and just now I think they could use your support.”
I was going to tell her I had trouble enough trying to be strong for my daughter and myself without bearing somebody else’s burdens. Besides, hadn’t she, herself, warned me to be careful? What did she expect of me?
Penelope chose that moment to twirl our way in a rust-streaked rose taffeta cape and green fringed scarf she had dragged from the trunk. Her simple calico dress in a patchwork of brown and gold made an odd contrast to the once-elegant garments.
Augusta and I both dived to rescue a ceramic umbrella stand that tottered as Penelope whirled by.
“Look what I found! I wonder who it belonged to.” The piece of jewelry Penelope held was tarnished almost black and appeared to be a bracelet of some kind.
“Where did you find it?” Augusta steadied the stand, now layered with dust, and held out a hand for the trinket.
“In the trunk. It must have been wrapped in this scarf because it fell out when I put it around me. The scarf was all wadded up in the bottom.” Penelope’s eyes grew even wider. “I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”
“Not as long as you put everything back the way you found it,” Augusta said, holding the bracelet to the light.
“It doesn’t look like anything valuable,” I said. “It’s an ID bracelet—silver, I think.”
“ID?” Augusta passed it along to me.
“Identification—only this looks a little small for that.” I looked at it closer, trying to make out the name engraved on the front. “Must be an anklet. You still see them once in a while, but I think they used to be popular years ago. Mom has one in her jewelry box.” I rubbed a finger over the tarnish. “Can you make out the name?”
Together we studied it closely while Penelope dug for more treasure. “Starts with a V,” Augusta said finally. “V-a-l-e-r . . . something.”
“Valerie.” We had removed enough tarnish to see the lettering now. “That was the name of the girl who was supposed to have drowned in the river before I was even born,” I said. “What is her anklet doing in Uncle Ernest’s attic?”
Augusta weighed the anklet in her hand and studied it for a minute. “I’m not sure,” she said, “but I think the best thing to do right now is to see what else might be in that trunk, then put this back where Penelope found it.”
Shaking each garment carefully, we searched through the trunk’s contents of dresses spotted with age, crumpled shoes that looked as though they might have been worn in the 1930s and even a dance program that had belonged to my great-grandmother dated April 18, 1922. I coughed as I tried to fan away the suffocating musty smell. “I don’t see a thing in here that might be related to that jewelry,” I said. “It doesn’t fit with the rest of this stuff. Looks like somebody put it in here at a later time.”
“And wrapped it in that scarf so it wouldn’t be easily found.” Augusta had a question in her eyes, but I didn’t have the answer.
She tucked the anklet back inside the folds of the shawl and we replaced all the contents as neatly as we could—including the taffeta cape, which Penelope reluctantly surrendered.
I was trying to find room for the last item, a smushed cloche hat with a drooping feather, when we heard screaming from the lawn below.
From the attic window I could see in the distance a figure running toward the house but the heavy leaves of the oak were partially blocking my view, and I shifted to get a better position. It was a woman, small and blonde, and she seemed to be batting at the air as she ran. Belinda Donahue. Soon others were hurrying toward her from every direction. Burdette raced from the front of the house, then Marge and Grady, carrying a huge picnic hamper between them, dropped it and ran to meet her, trailed by Aunt Leona clutching what looked like a pitcher of tea. Uncle Ernest followed, skinny legs tottering at this unaccustomed pace. But it was Casey who reached her first.
Snatching a cloth from one of the tables, the caretaker first flapped it at Belinda, then wrapped her in it, squirming and kicking, and picked her up in his arms.
By the time I raced downstairs he had carried her to the porch where, still partially shrouded, she struggled to raise herself to a sitting position on the wicker settee. I saw three or four red welts on her face and at least two on her arm as she reached out to Uncle Ernest.
“My purse . . . oh, hurry, please!” Belinda’s voice was thin and raspy and she seemed to be pointing to the living room. “The kit—it’s in my purse . . .”
Uncle Ernest slid in behind her and propped her against his chest. “Her kit—she’s highly allergic to bee stings! She needs her kit now!”
Ma Maggie leaned over her. “Where is it, Belinda? Where did you leave it?”
“In there—table by door. Please hurry.” Belinda’s face was pale and she seemed to be having trouble breathing while Marge rushed inside to look for the kit.
Great-aunt Gertrude, red-faced and puffing, pushed her way through the crowd. “Somebody do something!” she shouted. “Call an ambulance! Call nine-one-one! Does anybody know CPR?”
Three or four people tried to crowd in the door after Marge, while Leona, who I suppose was trying to be helpful, wormed her way through them to bring Belinda a glass of water.
“She can’t swallow,” Uncle Ernest told her. “Her throat’s closing up!”
“I think I might have some Benadryl out in the car,” Burdette said, taking the steps two at a time.
Marge came back outside just then, looking as if she might be having trouble breathing herself. “It’s not there,” she told Belinda. “Are you sure that’s where you put it?”
Belinda answered with a definite nod of her head. The fear in her eyes was contagious. I felt like a chicken running in a circle. Something terrible was happening, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
“We’ve looked everywhere,” Grady told her, and Uncle Lum nodded. “I checked the kitchen, dining room—even the downstairs bedroom. What color is her handbag?”
“Blue,” Ma Maggie said. “Straw with yellow flowers. I saw it when she came in.”
The children, attracted by all the excitement, gathered on the steps.
“Have any of you seen a blue straw purse with yellow flowers?” I asked them. “Think! This is an emergency.”
Josie spoke up. “I think I saw something like that a while ago. Hartley was playing with it.”
“Where is Hartley?” Marge said. “I left him playing with Amos under the pecan tree not five minutes ago.”
Except for Uncle Ernest and Ma Maggie, who remained to try to calm Belinda, everybody—including me—scattered, calling Hartley’s name.
“He couldn’t have gone far!” Marge raced past me, panting. “Said he was going to make Amos look pretty.”
“Hartley!” I yelled again, then pointed as a little face emerged from the bushes by the side of the house. “There he is!”
“Where is the blue pocketbook, Hartley?” Marge said, stooping beside him, and I could tell she was struggling to stay calm. “The one you were playing with. We need it now. What have you done with it?”
Hartley, who had started to cry, pointed to the shrubbery behind him. “It’s in there—in the cave—just where I found it.”
Burdette, who had had some emergency medical training, quickly injected the antidote of epinephrine, and when Belinda felt a little stronger, Ma Maggie took her inside to tend to her stings. Uncle Ernest had tried to persuade her to go to the hospital, but Belinda waved him away, sayi
ng they wouldn’t do anything that hadn’t already been done. The rest of us gathered on and around the porch, looking as if we’d raced ten miles in the hot sun. Casey, whom I had noticed standing at a distance during the frantic moments before, turned and started to walk away.
Uncle Ernest, seeing him, braced himself against the stone porch column and called out, “Hey! Just a minute there!”
He meant to thank Casey, I thought, for his quick actions in helping Belinda. I was wrong.
“Just a damn minute!” my uncle bellowed. “I told you Belinda was allergic to bee stings. You were supposed to get rid of those yellow jacket nests.”
“I didn’t know it was there,” Casey mumbled, shaking his head. “Thought I got them all. I really feel terrible about this.”
“You damn well should,” Uncle Ernest said. “The woman could’ve died—almost did.”
“He was just trying to help,” Grady told him. “Belinda asked him where she could find some wildflowers. There’s Queen Anne’s lace and daisies all over the place in that field down there.”
“And a nest full of yellow jackets.” Still glaring, my uncle shook his head.
“I’m sorry. It’s a big place and I haven’t had time to get to that area yet. I thought the flowers down there would look sort of pretty for the picnic and all.” Casey looked as though he might cry. I felt sorry for him.
“Hell, man, I didn’t hire you to think,” Uncle Ernest said.
I had heard about enough. “Maybe you didn’t notice it, Uncle Ernest, but if Casey hadn’t wrapped Belinda in that tablecloth and rushed her to the house, it might’ve been worse than it was.”
His only answer was a grunt, but at least he turned and went into the house, slamming the screen door behind him. Casey shook his head and walked away.
“I’m sorry!” I called after him, and Burdette, who with the rest of us had witnessed the scene, hurried after him to apologize, I hoped, for our uncle’s behavior.
Marge jumped to her feet. “I’m going to have a word or two with Hartley Cranford,” she muttered.
Hartley, playing in the yard with the others, saw her coming and started to run away, but his mother, who had longer legs than he did, soon caught up with him and marched him to the porch.
“I thought you knew better than to take something that doesn’t belong to you,” she began in a voice that scared even me. “Can you tell me why you took Ms. Donahue’s purse off the table?”
“I didn’t.” Tears spilled down Hartley’s cheeks and I wanted to comfort him but didn’t dare.
“Then how did you come by it?” his mother persisted. “Tell me the truth now, Hartley. It didn’t get behind those bushes by itself.”
“But it was there! I found it back in the cave under some leaves. I was just going to make Amos look pretty, Mama.”
Burdette, who had returned in time to hear the last of this, lifted his son to his knee. “Hartley, this is very important now, son. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me the truth. Did you take Ms. Donahue’s purse off the table?”
Hartley smeared away a tear. “I am telling the truth. I’ll show you where I found it.”
Several of us followed as Hartley led us to his little “cave” behind the bushes around the side of the house. “It was right here,” he said, stomping on a pile of leaves. “I saw part of it sticking out.”
Darby and Jon, followed by Josie and some of the other children, raced up just then tugging an embarrassed Amos by the collar. “Wait till you see this!” Jon called out, laughing. “Amos has been to the beauty parlor.”
Pink lipstick had been smeared all around the dog’s mouth and the sight of it brought a welcome laugh.
“I really don’t think that’s his color,” Grady said as the dog tried to slink away. “Poor Amos! I think I can get most of that off with soap and water, but you might have a rosy smile for a while.”
“I guess I’ll be buying Belinda a new lipstick,” Marge said, smiling for the first time in a while.
“Do you think Hartley’s telling the truth?” I whispered as we walked back to the house together.
My cousin nodded solemnly. “Hartley might try to get away with fibbing to me,” she said, “but he would never lie to his daddy.”
“I can’t believe somebody would deliberately take that purse and hide it, knowing Belinda was allergic to bee stings. How would they know she was going to wade into a nest of yellow jackets?”
“Beats me,” Marge admitted, “but as I said before, it didn’t get there by itself.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Deedee, who had turned up her nose at the vases Ma Maggie and Belinda had provided, arranged wildflowers in a fruit jar and tied a red-checked bow at the top. I had to admit it looked kind of pretty.
Now she set the jar in the middle of the serving table and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “I think Marge and Burdette need to keep an eye on that little Hartley,” she said, looking around to see if they were nearby. “First he took Belinda’s purse, and then told an out-and-out lie. They should be grateful the woman didn’t die.”
“We’re all grateful for that,” I said. “The child is three years old, Deedee. I seem to remember your throwing a green apple at me when you were a lot older than that. It gave me a black eye.”
“You nearly ruined my favorite doll,” my cousin said. “I saw you dunk her in the birdbath. Her hair never looked the same.”
“I was baptizing her,” I said. Actually, it had been Marge’s idea but I didn’t say so. Marge was already on Deedee’s black list, it seemed.
Deedee adjusted the bow and gave it a fluff, as if dismissing the subject. “Still, they need to take that child in hand. I think they actually believed him.”
“I believe him, too,” I said.
This was met with silence that weighed a ton. I put plastic dinnerware in a napkin-covered basket and waved a fly from a bowl of watermelon rind preserves. Josie and Darby, along with some of their cousins, tried to snitch cookies from the dessert table and I chased them off, as well. “We’ll eat in about ten minutes. You don’t want to ruin your dinner!”
Of course, they did. A meal of desserts would suit them fine, but I had to say it anyway, as my mother had, and her mother before her.
Behind us, cousins, aunts and uncles sipped drinks and chatted in lawn chairs in the shade of oak trees that had been there so long even the oldest could remember playing beneath them. Our uncle’s neighbor, Judge Kidd (I was almost a teenager before I learned his real name wasn’t Goat), offered fifty dollars to anyone who would ride Shortcake—an obvious dig at Uncle Ernest, who ignored him. Belinda, ensconced in a lounge chair, was being tended by Uncle Ernest on one side and Ma Maggie and Aunt Leona on the other. Burdette, Parker and some of the others had made themselves comfortable on the porch while Uncle Lum wandered through the crowd taking pictures with the new camera Aunt Leona said cost entirely too much.
Now Deedee moved up to stand beside me. “You’re joking, of course.” She spoke in a low voice, as if someone might be listening over her shoulder.
“No, I’m not.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying that. There’s no way that handbag could’ve been accidently dropped behind those bushes. How else could it have gotten there?” My cousin let out a sigh heavy as a rain cloud and reached past me to begin uncovering the dishes. “Surely you don’t believe somebody took that bag on purpose? Just which of our relatives do you think would do a thing like that?”
I didn’t answer but I had one in mind.
“Did you happen to notice who was conspicuously absent during all that panic about Belinda?” I asked Marge as we helped ourselves to Cousin Emma’s sweet potato bread and Great-aunt Gertrude’s bread and butter pickles.
We carried our plates to a spot of shade a little away from the rest and sat on the grass. Long shadows scalloped the lawn and there was just enough breeze to keep it from being hot.
She nodded. “I assume you mean Violet. Sa
ys she was in the kitchen the whole time and didn’t realize what was going on.” Marge bit into a drumstick and licked her fingers.
“I know she’s always been a little dipsy, but she wouldn’t deliberately hurt anyone. I know she wouldn’t . . . would she?”
“Is this a private party or can anybody join in?” Grady stood beside us with a plate heaped with more food than anybody had a right to eat.
“Pull up a patch of grass and sit down,” I told him. “We were just talking about Violet.”
Grady started in on his potato salad. “What about her?”
I reminded him about Violet’s catty little incident earlier. “She was just plain nasty to Belinda. I’ve never seen her behave like that.”
“Cousin Violet’s clannish, Kate,” Grady said. “She’s never cottoned to outsiders. Haven’t you noticed that?”
“Not being an ‘outsider,’ I guess I’ve never paid much attention to it,” I told him.
“Maybe she thinks Uncle Ernest is going to marry Belinda,” Marge suggested.
“So?” I shrugged.
“I’m not supposed to know this,” Marge said, “but I overheard Ma Maggie and Uncle Ernest talking about it one day. Violet’s parents died when she was fairly young and our great-grandparents helped raise her. I think there’s some kind of provision for her—financially, I mean. Uncle Ernest takes care of it, sees that she has enough to get by on.”
“And she thinks Belinda would put an end to that?” I took a swig of iced tea and made a face. Aunt Leona must’ve made it.
Grady frowned. “You know what I think? I think you two have blown this all out of proportion. Our Violet wouldn’t do that. I doubt if she even knew Belinda was allergic to bee stings.”
“Our Violet knows more than you think,” Marge told him, casting threatening looks at her son. “Darby Cranford! Don’t you dare eat another cookie until you’ve finished your dinner!”
“Mean ol’ Marge!” Grady elbowed her and she threatened him with the ice from her glass of tea. I laughed, watching them. It reminded me of the good times we had when we were growing up together, and for a little while, I was feeling better about things until Grady said he’d seen a policeman back again talking to Uncle Ernest that afternoon.
The Angel Whispered Danger Page 11
