The Angel Whispered Danger

by Mignon F. Ballard

  “Violet thinks she knows who’s behind all this,” I told Augusta. “I don’t know whether to take her seriously or not. She’s as flaky as a bowl of cereal, but I’m so confused, I’m ready to grasp at anything.”

  Augusta sat in the rocking chair next to mine slowly sipping her coffee. “What does she say?”

  “Only that she’s worried about us and has an idea who might be responsible.”

  I let peppermint steam waft into my face. “Augusta, you know I even suspected Grady, and I’m still not sure he’s not mixed up in what happened to Beverly. He was there, you know. He as good as admitted it.”

  “He was there when she died?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, but he’s been there. He told me about her apartment, and earlier Grady said he hadn’t seen Beverly in years.” I sipped my tea and felt its warmth relax me. “Do you think there might be a connection between Beverly’s death and Ella’s?”

  Augusta swung one gold-sandaled foot and trailed amethyst and sapphire stones through her long fingers. “I think it might have begun with the young couple who came through here on a raft,” she said. “Back when Ella first arrived. There has to be a connection somehow.”

  “You mean because of the anklet we found in the attic? Valerie was one of the names that girl used.”

  She nodded. “Possibly. That’s one reason, but not enough.” Augusta sighed. “I’m afraid your cousin Violet is right. We do need to get to the bottom of this before someone else gets hurt.”

  “Grady admitted to accidently killing his father, and he may or may not have had anything to do with the way Beverly died—although I don’t even want to think about that—but he wasn’t even born when those two came through here on the raft,” I said. “And that skeleton they dug up in Remeth churchyard is older than he is.”

  “But not older than your uncle Ernest,” Augusta said.

  “You don’t think Uncle Ernest had anything to do with it, do you?”

  The steam from Augusta’s coffee curled around her face. “I think he might have an idea who did.” She looked at me over her cup. “I’m afraid your uncle’s life might be in danger, Kate.”

  “I still can’t see how Beverly’s death could have anything to do with something that happened almost forty years ago,” I said.

  “If we only knew what your uncle was digging for in that rose garden.” Augusta stopped rocking for a minute and held out her arms as Ella’s cat Dagwood jumped into her lap. “Ah, there you are, my sweet! Poor kitty’s probably wondering what happened to Ella.”

  “I’m afraid we’ve ignored him with all that’s been going on,” I said, reaching over to scratch between Dagwood’s ears.

  Augusta laughed as she snuggled the cat under her chin. “Cats don’t mind being ignored,” she said. “They’ll let us know when they want attention—and right now, Dagwood wants attention.”

  “Augusta, you don’t suppose Ella and Valerie are the same?”

  “Somehow I thought Ella was here first . . . your grandmother would know.”

  “I know it was a long time ago, but I just can’t see Ella ever being a wild hippie child.” I smiled, picturing the dour elderly woman in headband and love beads.

  Augusta spoke over the cat’s loud purring. “If I remember right, it didn’t seem as if your uncle actually found anything in that rose garden the other night.”

  “The storm came up and drove us all inside. If he found something, he didn’t have a chance to hide it—unless it’s in the toolshed. Of course, he could’ve put it somewhere else since.”

  I took the last sip of my tea and felt myself sliding lower in my chair. I hoped I could stay awake long enough to make it to the sofa, but I must have drifted off because I felt Augusta’s hand on my arm and heard her gently calling my name.

  “Tomorrow I want you to find out what seemed to startle Josie when she wandered into the woods,” she said. “Then take her to your cousin Marge’s where she’ll be safe.”

  Not wanting to let my daughter out of my sight until she was at least thirty-five, I started to protest, but Augusta held up a slender hand.

  “Don’t worry, Kathryn, she’ll be fine. Now, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take Violet up on her offer. It’s all we have right now, and the fact that everyone thinks she’s . . . well . . . a little odd should be a definite advantage. Meanwhile, I’ll look in that toolshed tonight to see if your uncle hid something there, but frankly, I don’t expect to find it.” She moved behind my rocking chair and gave it a little tip so that I had to grab the arms to keep from falling out. “Now, go on inside and get some sleep. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  Josie woke with a suspicious rash and a tremendous appetite. The rash looked like poison ivy and her appetite was for French toast with sourwood honey. I doctored the former with calamine lotion and served up the latter with bacon and a big glass of orange juice. The swelling on her ankle seemed to have gone down some but it was still sore, she said.

  “Josie,” I began as she finished her second piece of French toast, “do you remember what made you go so far into the woods when you ran away the other day? Did something frighten you?”

  Josie put down her fork. “I was mad. Mad at that hateful Cynthia! Every time I think about her it makes me even madder. Wish I’d slapped her twice!”

  “I had an idea you might’ve been a tiny bit upset,” I said, meaning to get back to that matter later. “But did you really mean to run so far?”

  “I heard somebody.”

  “In the woods, you mean?”

  Josie nodded. “There’s a trail over there—way on the other side of that field where Uncle Ernest used to plant corn. There was somebody in there.”

  “Are you sure it was a person? It might have been a deer or a squirrel or something.”

  “No, I heard them talking. Sounded like there were two of them,” she said.

  “Could you hear what they said? Was it men or women speaking?”

  Josie shrugged. “They were too far away. Just sounded like mumbling. I thought it might be those mean boys down the road and I didn’t want them to see me.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “I just wish you’d run the other way.”

  Uncle Lum followed his nose into the kitchen. “I don’t think there’s anything that smells any better than bacon cooking. You wouldn’t have a few extra pieces of that lying about, would you?”

  “Sure do, and I can fry up more. How about some French toast to go with it?”

  “Oh, yes, please! But could you make it fast before Leona gets up?” My uncle helped himself to a mug of coffee and set himself a place at the table.

  While bacon sizzled in the pan, I settled my daughter on the living room sofa with a Nancy Drew book that had probably belonged to my mother and left her happily turning pages.

  “Uncle Lum,” I said, setting French toast, golden brown and crusty, in front of him. “Do you remember when Ella first came?”

  I had to repeat my question because my uncle was too happy to reply for a minute or two. I waited until he had washed down his first piece of toast with coffee and asked him again.

  “Been close to forty years,” he said. “Poor Ella, she hasn’t had much of a life, I’m afraid. Didn’t seem to bother her, though.”

  “Do you remember if it was before or after that hippie couple disappeared on the river?”

  He stopped eating long enough to look up at me. “Now, why would you want to know that?”

  I smiled. “Just curious.”

  Uncle Lum reared back in his chair and laughed. “I get it! You’re thinking Ella might be that missing hippie girl who was wanted by the law. Well, you can forget it. Ella was already here when that happened. Uncle Ernest had fixed up that little guesthouse for her—the one Casey’s in now.” He frowned. “Don’t reckon we’ll ever find out what happened to those two.”

  “Do you remember anybody around here named Valerie?” I asked, sliding two more piece
s of bacon onto his plate.

  They didn’t last long. “Can’t say that I do. Doesn’t ring a bell.” My uncle finished his breakfast and rinsed away the evidence in the sink, smiling all the while.

  Uncle Ernest declined my offer of a more robust breakfast in favor of his usual soft-boiled egg. Somber and silent, he seemed to want to be alone, so I left him while I folded away Josie’s cot and took our pillows and blankets upstairs. I was just getting ready to come down when Violet stuck her head out of my bedroom where she’d spent the night. “Has Ernest left yet?” she wanted to know.

  I looked over the railing to see my uncle leaving by the front door and knew he was going to take care of Ella’s funeral plans. “He has now,” I said.

  “Good,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”

  I allowed my cousin to pull me into the room and close the door behind us, while all the time she spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones. I could tell she was enjoying it. “Now, this has to be between just the two of us,” she said, sitting me firmly on the side of the bed. “I think I know who’s behind all this, but I can’t be sure—not yet, anyway. I do know one thing, though: We have to get your uncle Ernest out of this house or his life won’t be worth a plugged nickel.”

  I frowned. Augusta had said almost the same thing. “How do we do that?” I asked.

  “I’m working on that,” Violet said, and told me her plan.

  “Who do you think it is?” It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she suspected the ghost of the long-dead Yankee soldier or the spirit of that skeleton they dug up in Remeth cemetery, but my cousin wasn’t ready to reveal the identity of who she thought the murderer might be.

  I sat there for a few minutes thinking about what Violet had said. Her plan to reveal the guilty party scared me half to death, but it frightened me even more that most of it made sense.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “What’s going on?” Marge wanted to know when I dropped off Josie that morning.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You know very well what I mean. Something’s going on. You know I’m always glad to have Josie here, but yesterday nobody could pry her away from you with a crowbar, now you’re willing to leave her with me. Why?”

  “Just take care of her, please,” I said. “I can’t explain, but she’s better off here.”

  Marge folded her arms and stepped closer. “This doesn’t have anything to do with her running away, does it?”

  I shook my head. “No, really.”

  “Or with Ned. He hasn’t called, has he?”

  I told her about phoning the hotel to learn my husband had checked out. “You’re sure he didn’t call while we were gone?” I asked.

  My cousin looked like she wanted to cry. “Kate, if he had, we would’ve told you.” She put an arm around me. “He must not have heard about Josie, or you know he’d be frantic. Uncle Ernest did a pretty good job of keeping the news mongers out—although it did make the local news.

  “I’m sure you’ll hear from him today,” she said as we walked to my car together. But Ned McBride wasn’t my main concern just then. If I could just make it safely through the next twenty-four hours, maybe I could begin to put my own life back in order. But right now, he would have to get in line.

  Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why we hadn’t heard from Ned. Had he taken sick? Been fired from his job? All kinds of scary notions went through my head—except the scariest one: He just didn’t care enough to call. But surely that couldn’t be true!

  When I got back to Bramblewood, Ma Maggie was there to greet me with happy news. My mom was on the phone to tell us Sara had delivered a healthy baby boy in London a few hours before. They had named him Andrew Joseph after our dad and his dad, and we all crowded around the telephone taking time about congratulating the new parents and grandparents. Much to my relief, kin on this side of the ocean silently agreed not to mention the scare of Josie’s overnight adventure.

  After I phoned Josie to tell her about her new little cousin, I escaped from Violet’s watchful eye long enough to wander into the rose garden. Uncle Ernest had not yet returned from town, but Lum and Leona were still here and my grandmother seemed to have settled in for the day. Deedee, I was told, would be along later.

  The day had turned cloudy and there was a heaviness in the air. I felt vulnerable in the garden, as if I were being watched, and I didn’t like it. In spite of my guardian angel, whom I knew must be somewhere near, I sensed an inert danger. Trouble was simmering, and Violet and I had the stick to stir it.

  I had received no sign from Augusta that day, so I assumed she hadn’t turned up anything interesting in the toolshed. And at first the garden seemed as it had before, except that someone had filled in the hole Uncle Ernest dug earlier. In earlier years, my uncle had taken excellent care of the roses, and even though he had neglected the garden somewhat recently, the bushes were in full bloom. There were several varieties ranging in color from white to deepest red and they smelled the way I’d want to smell if I could only bottle the scent. I inhaled the aroma of sweet summer and thought of how much Uncle Ernest must have loved his young wife to have kept up her garden in this way.

  Now and then I saw evidence of an earlier digging, probably done the same night the rainstorm drove us inside, but at the far end of the garden I noticed an excision almost surgical in its neatness. No wonder we hadn’t noticed it before! The line was so fine, I almost passed it by, and if it weren’t for a small clod of raw red dirt, I don’t think I would have looked at it twice. On closer inspection, I found the rose bush there, a deep pink specimen, a little droopier than the others, and I soon knew why. Someone had excavated beneath it with a straight-sided shovel, removed whatever was in there and filled the cavity with clumps of rock and clay.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  I hadn’t heard footsteps behind me so I must have jumped when Grady spoke because he threw up his hands and stepped back. “Hey, Cuz, it’s just me! Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Didn’t hear you coming. After the last few days, I’m getting downright neurotic.” I plucked a rose and sniffed it, trying to appear normal.

  “So what’s with the bush here?” Grady knelt to examine the thin line in the dirt.

  Obviously he had been watching when I found what was underneath, so I showed him how the hole had been filled with little regard for the rose’s root system.

  My cousin frowned. “Wonder what was under here? Reckon Uncle Ernest knows? You said he was out here digging the other night.”

  “I’m not sure. It could’ve been done since, but whoever did it knew what he was doing, I almost didn’t notice it.”

  “What about Casey?” he said.

  “Casey’s a gardener. He’d know better than to shock the root system like that . . . look what it’s done to the bush. Besides, I heard Uncle Ernest tell him to stay away from the rose garden.”

  “How’s Josie?” Grady asked. “Her foot any better?”

  “Swelling’s down some, thanks. She has poison ivy, though.” I started walking back. We were only a few yards from the house; nothing could happen to me here, yet that feeling of unease persisted.

  Walking along beside me, Grady must have sensed it. He put out a hand to stop me. “Wait a minute, Kate. Something’s wrong. What is it?”

  I tried to laugh. “You mean other than we all spent the night roaming around the mountain and somebody pushed Ella into a ravine? Not to mention the skeleton they dug up next door and the yellow jackets that attacked Belinda.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to mention that.”

  When Grady grinned, he looked and sounded so much like his old self I had to laugh. But now he turned serious. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you, Kate?”

  “What? Don’t be silly! Of course not. What a thing to say!”

  “Yes, you are. I can tell. What’s the matter? You think I did in poor Ella?”

  We walked to a bench beneath t
he scuppernong arbor and he sat and put his head in his hands. “Just tell me what it is, will you? Please?”

  I sat beside him and pulled his hands away. “It’s just that . . . well, you said something the other day that made me wonder, that’s all.”

  “When? Said what? You mean when I told you about my . . . father?”

  “No, not that, although that did come as kind of a shock. You described Beverly’s apartment, Grady, when you said you’d never been there.” I glanced at the back porch. No one was there. And Augusta? She was probably somewhere shepherding Penelope.

  “I see.” My cousin linked his fingers together and stared at the earth between his feet. He didn’t speak again for a while.

  My mind went crazy. This is where the murderer says, And now no one need ever know . . . as he chokes the victim. I hoped my wandering husband would turn up sometime soon to take care of Josie in case Grady took a notion to do away with me. The idea was so ridiculous, I almost laughed.

  “You’re right, I was there,” Grady said finally. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. There didn’t seem to be any reason . . .”

  “You were there when Beverly died?”

  “No! No, I drove up there a few weeks before. Didn’t mention it to anybody—it was a spur of the moment thing, but Bev and I hadn’t seen each other in . . . well, years really. We’d talked over the phone for hours, and everything seemed to click between us—almost like it used to. I just needed to see her, to be with her, and Bev felt the same.” Grady pulled a leaf from the scuppernong vine and rolled it between his fingers.

  “So, how did it go?” I asked.

  He took a deep breath and dropped the leaf to the ground. “Okay, I guess. It was good to see her again. We went out to dinner, had some wine. She told me about her work and what she planned to do when she got her degree. We talked about old times . . .”

  “And?” I waited.

  “And . . . nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing?” I asked.

  “Just that. We had a pleasant time together, but that was all. There wasn’t any chemistry between us. It was gone—zilch!”