Angel at Troublesome Creek (3 page)

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Authors: Mignon F. Ballard

BOOK: Angel at Troublesome Creek
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“Maybe she was interrupted while she was up here,” I said. “The phone rang, or somebody came to the door. That might be why she left it this way. She meant to come back.”
“But wouldn’t she have left the lid to the trunk open? And what about that box of music? That’s no way to go through sheet music.”
Augusta had a point. Whoever had been here hadn’t exactly turned the place upside down, but there were signs enough to tell me all wasn’t right.
Augusta whisked dainty hands together and flicked invisible dust from her sleeve. “A bit grimy up here, isn’t it?” She frowned at the small window curtained with cobwebs. “Rather gray and glum.”
I grinned. “Grisly, grimy, glumpy bats …”
“I beg your pardon?” Augusta arched a perfect brow.
“‘Grisly, grimy, glumpy bats, brewed and stewed in lizard fat!’” I giggled. “It’s a verse we made up at Summerwood. Now, what made me think of that?” Sam again. He could still make me laugh after almost twenty years.
It had rained earlier and the attic was steamy. I pushed a clinging strand of hair from my face and fanned myself with a program from a long-ago concert. If only I knew what I was looking for! “Why don’t you check that end of the attic and see what turns up?” I said. “I’ll look over here.”
“Roger,” Augusta Goodnight said.
 
 
I lasted about an hour. My shirt stuck to my back, my eyes itched from the dust, and I had tied an old bandana around my head to keep from looking like Medusa. If anyone had been here searching for something, I didn’t know what it could have been.
Augusta, knee-deep in dusty cartons and humming sweetly, looked immaculate. “You’re not planning to go out like that, are you?” she asked, glancing at me over her shoulder.
“Was I supposed to be going somewhere?”
“The shoe store. Remember? You did say you’d drive me to get some shoes this afternoon.” Augusta eyed me critically. “I hope you’re not going dressed like Rosie the Riveter.”
Who on earth was Rosie the Riveter? I decided to let that pass. Had this curious person adopted me or something? How was I going to get rid of her? “I had planned to shower and change if it’s quite all right with you,” I told her. “Unless, of course, you’re in some particular hurry.”
Apparently sarcasm was lost on the woman. “I’ve waited fifty years to dump these dreadful shoes,” she said. “Another few minutes won’t hurt.”
But when I got out of the shower, Augusta Goodnight was gone.
 
W
hen I’d gotten the news about Aunt Caroline’s death, I had thrown a few essentials into an overnight bag—just enough to get me through the funeral. I hadn’t yet decided to do away with myself, but life hadn’t been all that great for me lately, and I didn’t look forward to more of the same. I couldn’t plan far enough ahead to pack.
Now, going through the closet in my old room, I found a rose-splashed cotton print I’d almost forgotten. I had left it there in September along with other lightweight clothing, and although it was only the beginning of May, it was plenty warm enough to wear it in Troublesome Creek, North Carolina. I wiggled bare clean toes into a pair of old sandals and sat on the bed to fasten them. I had chosen the daisy-sprigged bedspread with curtains to match when I was in high school, and my one-eyed teddy bear, a gift from Uncle Henry, sagged forlornly on the pillow. I gave him a fond squeeze. An hour or so ago I had thought I’d never enter this room again, never do the ordinary things like deciding what to wear. Now it seemed I would, at least for a little while longer, but how would I manage to get along without Aunt Caroline? She was always there when I needed her: steady and wise and comforting. Yet, except in the case of Todd Burkholder, she never offered advice unless I asked for it. If I could, I would ask for it now. What was I supposed to do? Where should I begin?
A list of course. Aunt Caroline always began with a list.
I was searching my desk drawer for pencil and paper when I came across the frog. Well, it’s really not a frog, but a rock shaped like one. A “good-luck frog,” my friend Sam had called it when he gave it to me the night before he left Summerwood. Painted green with brown spots and gold eyes that looked slightly crossed, it would keep me from being lonesome, Sam said. Only it didn’t. When Sam told me good-bye that night at Summerwood, I knew I had lost my best friend. He was the first person near my age who showed me any kindness when my parents died, and the only one I could trust.
I set the frog on my dresser while I brushed my clean brown hair that smelled of Aunt Caroline’s apricot herbal shampoo. Feeling oddly relaxed, I fastened it back from my face and added a dab of lipstick, a slight smear of blush. I really needed a haircut, but haircuts cost money, and I didn’t even have a job anymore.
A wren fidgeted in the camellia bush outside my window, but the house seemed hollow in its silence. Had this strange woman walked away, first helping herself to the family silver? Was she waiting for me behind the folding door to the dining room with Aunt Caroline’s butcher knife? I walked through the empty rooms calling her name and was surprised at how disappointed I was when Augusta Goodnight didn’t answer. Whoever she was, the woman had probably moved on to the next naive person who would supply her with chocolate cake and coffee. And a good laugh.
The living room looked as it always had—worn but comfortable, only my aunt wasn’t in it. I ran a finger through the dust on the piano. If she could see it, Aunt Caroline would have a fit and fall in it! I grabbed a few tissues from the box on the end table and wiped it sort of clean. The mystery my aunt had been reading, one of Carolyn Hart’s latest, was beside her chair with an envelope marking the place. I looked at the handwriting and saw that it was a note from me—to let my aunt know I’d be here for Mother’s Day. I hadn’t told her yet about that sewage sludge Todd Burkholder, or about the problems at work. And now I was glad.
I wish I could feel comforted in this place where Aunt Caroline had waited for me after school, tried patiently to teach me to play the piano, read aloud from
Heidi
and
Pinocchio
on rainy afternoons. It was the only home I could remember, but all I could feel was hurt. There was no one left for me. Uncle Henry and Aunt Caroline were gone, and the friends I’d known in school here had either moved away or started families of their own. I was alone. Losing my parents so early had made it hard for me to relate to others my own age, and I guess it carried over into adulthood. I was afraid to reach out, afraid to risk being hurt. Again.
I wasn’t going to cry. Delia Sims. I would go over and talk with our neighbor. Augusta had advised me to get an appraisal on the furniture. At least she’d said one thing that made sense. I grabbed my keys and locked the door behind me—wondering if it would keep out angels—then headed across the street. That was when I noticed the frilly do-nothing hat atop the bright blob of hair atop the head in the passenger window of my car.
“What took you so long?” Augusta Goodnight wanted to know. “I’ve been sitting here so long, Kilroy came and went, then came back with his grandchildren.”
“Kilroy?” I frowned at her, then laughed. I hadn’t meant to laugh. Talk about annoying … meddlesome … add presumptuous to that! Who did she think she was?
“The shoes,” Augusta reminded me. “We were going to shop for shoes.” Then, “You look nice in that dress.”
“Thank you.” I got in beside her. Maybe I could dump her at the shoe store and scram.
But that was not to be. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen as much traffic!” Augusta held to her hat as though she thought it might blow away. “Where do all these cars come from?” It was hard for her to believe some families had two or three vehicles in the garage.
And
the gas to run them on. “And they’re all going so fast! My, when I was here last, they wouldn’t allow you to drive over thirty-five miles an hour.”
We drove past the gray stone church where my aunt had belonged, and her parents and grandparents before her. Farther down the street the red-brick middle school, abandoned now for a state-of-the-art building, seemed to mock us with its silence; weeds shoved through cracks in the cement walk, letters were missing from the sign out front. When my aunt subbed for the chorus teacher during my student days here, she’d pretended not to know me and I was secretly relieved. She knew how easily embarrassed kids are at that age, but it shamed me now to think of it.
I pulled into a parking space right in front of Hobgood’s Bootery, just off the main street of town. “If you don’t see anything you like in here,” I said, “we’ll have to go to the mall.”
“The what?” Augusta made a face as she got out of the car. “Looks like I’ll need some stockings too. This one has a ladder clear to my toes.” She studied the display in the window and pointed to a pair of shoes. “I’ll take those gold ones right there in a six double-A if they have them. Can’t remember my stocking size.”
“Never mind, we can guess,” I said, heading for the entrance. “Well, come on, let’s get it over with.”
But Augusta shook her head. “You go on in, I’ll wait.” She gave me ten dollars from her handbag. “Will this be enough?”
“For a down payment maybe.” Was she kidding? “Look at the price in the window. You have expensive taste.”
“
Sixty dollars
for a pair of shoes! My heavens, do I look like Rockefeller?” Augusta positively swooned. “See what you can do for forty—and not a cent more!”
Chick Hobgood, the shop’s proprietor and this afternoon’s only clerk, hurried to offer his hand and his sympathy. “Your aunt and I went to school together, you know. She was only a couple of grades ahead of me.” He shook his head. “Her accident was a shock to us all.”
I wanted to tell him my aunt’s death was no accident and ask if he knew of any enemies she might have, but this wasn’t the time. Instead I thanked him and selected some panty hose and a pair of shoes on sale that were as close as I could find to the ones in the window.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do with the house, Mary George?” he asked, making change.
“Guess I’ll have to sell it.”
Mr. Hobgood smiled at me. “Didn’t suppose you’d want to move back home now.” He seemed disappointed.
“Actually I am looking for another job.” Now, what made me tell him that? I took the change and watched him put my purchases in a bag with the familiar red lettering. Aunt Caroline had bought my first pair of heels in this same store.
He held on to the sack so long I thought I might have to pry it from him. “You might not be interested in this,” he said, finally letting go, “but I hear Doc Nichols is looking for a receptionist. Last one quit after she had her baby.”
“Doc Nichols?” I couldn’t remember any doctor named Nichols.
Chick Hobgood laughed. “Animal doctor. Clarence Nichols is a veterinarian. Clinic’s over on Elderberry Road—you know, where the old post office used to be.”
I knew, and I thanked him. I would keep it in mind, I said.
It wasn’t until I showed Augusta the shoes that I realized in my hurry I’d grabbed the wrong size. “Wait a minute—these are five triple-A’s.” I started to put them back in the bag. “Sorry. I’ll run in and swap them, won’t take a minute.”
But Augusta already had them out of the box and on her feet. “Never mind, they’ll do just fine,” she said, holding them out in front of her.
“But they’ll hurt your feet. Augusta, there’s no way you can wear those shoes. Here, let me—”
“Honestly, there’s plenty of room, see?” She easily slipped one off and on, her smile as pleased as a child’s.
“Suit yourself,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t regret the choice. Some people push vanity to the limits!
But Augusta loved the shoes, marveled over the panty hose—“What? No garters?”—and hummed her exasperating tune all the way home. She disappeared to try on the hose as soon as we stepped inside, while I phoned my neighbor to thank her for the cake and ask about the furniture.
Not only had my aunt and Delia Sims grown up together but they’d been best friends and neighbors for years. When Aunt Caroline was president of the Women’s Club, Delia was her vice president, and when Delia headed the Presbyterian Women, my aunt faithfully took the minutes.
“Oh, honey, I wish you didn’t have to go through this right now.” Delia spoke with a catch in her voice. “Some of your aunt’s things you might want to keep. I wouldn’t rush into anything just yet.”
“Miss Delia, I really don’t have any choice.” It was hard to admit what an awful fix I was in, even to someone I knew as well as our neighbor, but I explained the situation without going into all the grim details.
There was silence on the line, and then a couple of dainty sniffs. “Well, bless your heart,” Miss Delia said. “I’ll just come over there this very afternoon and we’ll go through that house. Give me a minute or so to feed these hungry kitties of mine, and I’ll be right there.” And before I could answer, my neighbor had hung up.
This very afternoon … I’ll be right there
. As in now. I raced from room to room flapping at the dustiest places with a towel, and quickly rinsed the dishes in the sink. Someone had brought poppyseed muffins on a dainty, rose-patterned platter. I’d nibbled one for breakfast the day before and found it stale. Now I dumped the rest of the muffins down the disposal and quickly washed the plate, adding it to the stack to be returned. Now for the bathroom! Had I left dirty clothes on the floor after my shower? Probably, and my bedroom was a mess. And where was Augusta Goodnight? Waiting in the car again? Well, she could just wait!
In the waste basket in my bedroom I found two seamed stockings with runs, two worn circles of elastic, and a pair of very ugly shoes. But no Augusta Goodnight. I felt slightly used. I had fed this strange creature, chauffeured her about, and now I’d been abandoned. Well, good riddance! In the front hall I heard Miss Delia’s soft little owl call, “Ouu-oo?” and hurried to greet her.
Having shed her clumsy shoes, the woman calling herself Augusta apparently had taken off again just as I began to wonder if I really could help bring my aunt’s killer to justice.
Somebody
had to, didn’t they? And now it looked as though I’d have to do it myself. Angel, my foot! Still, I found myself humming that annoying song of Augusta’s while Delia prowled the dining room.
“My goodness, that old song brings back memories!” Delia Sims pulled her head from inside the dark oak sideboard. “Haven’t heard that old thing in years. Where in the world did you hear it?”
“That? I don’t know. It just kind of stuck in my head. Must’ve heard it on the radio.” I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see Augusta Goodnight standing behind me with a disapproving look. I could sense her discomfort when I lied. But she wasn’t there. “What’s the name of it?” I asked. “Do you remember?”
“Of course,” Delia said. “It was popular back in the forties during World War Two. It’s called ‘Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer.’”
I smiled and turned away. “That figures,” I whispered to no one at all.

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