The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders (23 page)

Augusta and I celebrated this bit of good news with orange-cranberry scones and some of her apricot tea, which usually puts me right to sleep, but my thoughts kept wandering next door, where I knew Leslie and her aunt were spending an uneasy night. Kemper had appointed burly Bo Griffin, a rookie policeman who weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds and was well over six feet tall, to sleep on Nettie's living room sofa. Still, it was after two before I finally nodded off.

“They're on their way,” Augusta said the next morning at breakfast, looking as concerned as I felt. Nettie and her niece had planned to leave before light, with Bo riding “shotgun” for good measure, and I looked out the window to find both vehicles gone.

“I'm glad they got an early start,” I said. “She'll be safer at Miss Corrie's, and Bo's right behind them…”
But he didn't plan to stay. What if something happens after he leaves?

As usual, Augusta sensed my apprehension. “Would you feel better if I paid Miss Corrie a little visit—just to check things out?”

“That would be wonderful, Augusta! You must be a mind reader.”

“Not at all, but I am in tune with the universe, and like you, I'd like to see the child secure in her new surroundings.” Augusta poured a second cup of coffee. “Now please pass the strawberry jam.”

Leslie had been worried about her class assignments and needed a couple of reference books to complete her term paper, so I promised her I'd take the morning off at Bellawood and get to Sarah Bedford early to take care of those things for her.

On our way home from the mountains a few days before, we'd stopped at one of those knickknack shops where I bought what looked like (but wasn't) an antique frame for Willene Benson. If I had time that morning, I planned to drop by the cafeteria and surprise her with it, but it would seem more like a gift if I wrapped it, so I scrambled in my closet for paper and took the brass scrolled frame from its wrappings. I had been in a hurry when I chose it, and now hoped it wouldn't be disappointing.

“I do hope Willene will like this. What do you think, Augusta?” I held the frame for the angel to see.

She set her coffee cup aside to examine it closely. “I believe I've seen this picture before.”

“Probably. They put the same picture in a lot of them.” I looked at the frame again. It appeared to be acceptable—even pretty—but the print did seem vaguely familiar. “You're right,” I said (although Augusta usually is). “I've seen this photograph somewhere else—and recently, too.”

Augusta nodded. “Lucy Nan, I believe it's the same one Blythe Cornelius has on her living room wall.”

“Why would Blythe hang a print of an old photograph in her apartment and tell everybody it's her family?” I asked. But even Augusta had no answer.

I repeated the question to Joy Ellen later as we prepared for class. We hoped to finish quilting today, even though Nettie wouldn't be there to help. She had accompanied Leslie to a facility that specialized in eating disorders, I explained.

“Lucy, are you
sure
it's the same one? After all, those old family pictures look pretty much alike.”

“Yes, I'm sure. There's that big tree to one side, and a little barefooted boy wearing what looks like a baseball cap on the front row.” I got out the box of sewing supplies and put in on a nearby table. “And if that picture's a commercial print, what about the others? All those relatives she calls by name?” I remembered the family portraits on the walls of the restaurant where Ben and I had dessert. Did Blythe
purchase
her family at estate sales?

I had spent most of the morning chasing down Leslie's professors and getting her class assignments, reminding them about her eating problems and saying she hoped to be back after Thanksgiving. The reference books were on a shelf in Leslie's dorm room, and as I passed Blythe's apartment, it was all I could do to keep from knocking on her door to see if I could get another peek at the family photograph.

Blythe hurried out a few steps behind me as I left Emma Harris. She was on her way to her office, she said, and I explained to her about the books. “Leslie's had a little bit of a setback,” I explained. “But they think she'll be able to come back to class after the holidays. I'm on my way to mail these to her now.” I felt almost guilty for lying to her. Why, Blythe Cornelius loved these girls as she would her own. Didn't she?

I looked across at Celeste as we worked on the quilt later that morning. Sue Starnes had moved into the seat beside her and was helping with the stitching. Although neither of them knew about the recent developments concerning Leslie, I thought Sue probably would learn it from Captain Hardy when she finished her shift for the day.

The room grew silent as we sewed, with only an occasional banging of the radiators to remind us of the present. Was Blythe Cornelius pretending to be somebody else? I had been relieved when Sally Wooten produced snapshots proving another person had put Blythe's thimble and sewing scissors in the pocket of that blood-spattered apron. Now I wondered who would've done such a thing. And why?

Had somebody been trying to tell us something? Someone who might have been too afraid to make an accusation? And I thought of the only recent victim who had no connection with the Mad Jabberwocks. Londus Clack. Shy, hardworking Londus who sang hymns with a recording bear.

I glanced at my watch. Another ten minutes of class. Would I still find it there?

Londus Clack had wanted to tell me something the night of the fall festival. The next morning he was dead. If he knew time was running out, there was a chance he might have put something on tape.

I left Joy Ellen to gather up the quilting supplies and hurried across the chilly quad to Main Hall. It was a gray day, and the statue of Thaddeus G. Winterhalter, the school's first president, looked stiff and uncomfortable standing out in the cold with his bald head exposed to the elements. Of course he looked that way in hot weather, too. Students walked all hunched over, bending into the wind, hugging their books in front of them. I was glad for the excuse to rush, so my fast pace wouldn't seem unusual. Dark clouds hung low, and yellow lights shone in the windows of Main Hall as I hurried up the marble steps.

I passed the registrar's office where Violet Ambrose, assistant to the head honcho, sneered over her spectacles at a couple of demanding students. A little farther down the hall a fax machine spit
Z
's against a background of ringing telephones. Black scuff marks marred the once polished lobby floor, and the bronze bust of John C. Calhoun, one of South Carolina's most famous statesmen, needed dusting. Londus Clack, who only wanted to remain in the background, was noticeable by his absence.

The janitor's cleaning supplies were kept in a closet on a side hall and I prayed that the door wouldn't be locked. Earlier that day I had seen a lackadaisical maid pushing a dirty mop outside the dean's office on the first floor. She didn't look like the type who would be conscientious about securing the tools of her trade.

She wasn't. The key was still in the lock. I stepped inside and felt for the chain on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, kicking aside a bucket somebody had left in the middle of the floor. The room smelled like a soured mop. I looked for the bear. It was a big brown bear wearing a red jacket, and Londus might have taken it home, but I was counting on the fact that the janitor considered the closet his secret recording booth. It was far enough away from offices and classrooms so that no one could hear him rehearsing and seemed a logical place to conceal his “singing partner.”

The bulb was dim and did little to illuminate the dark corners, and I wished I had brought along a flashlight as I stumbled over a box of what appeared to be containers of hand soap. I dropped my shoulder bag to the floor and edged to the back of the closet, fumbling among cans and bottles that crammed the shelves. The bear sat at the very end, smushed against the wall behind a huge carton of toilet paper. I had my hand on its fuzzy foot when a shadow crossed the open door, and I whirled about just in time to see someone lunge for my handbag and run, slamming the door behind them. The key turned in the lock.

It must have been a full minute before I recovered my senses enough to holler, and then I yelled all those ridiculous things I guess most people yell in situations like that: “Stop! Wait! Come back!” As if the thief were going to turn around and say, “Oh, I'm so very sorry! I'm afraid I've made a mistake. I'll be happy to return your handbag and let you out of the closet.” This was getting to be a habit. The thing was, in the brief seconds before the door slammed, I saw the person who took my bag. And it was Blythe Cornelius.

Still, for a minute I thought it might be a joke and waited for her to come back and say, “Fooled you, didn't I?” But Blythe Cornelius didn't seem to be the type for practical jokes. And if she hadn't noticed I was in there, she should certainly know it by now. In addition to the yelling, I had found a metal candle holder which I bashed at regular intervals against the upturned bucket.

Nobody came. The maintenance supply closet was too far removed from the administrative offices, although there were classrooms—now empty for the day—farther down the corridor. Directly across the hall was the backstage area of the vast auditorium, consisting of dressing rooms, wardrobe, and a couple of small lounges sometimes used as meeting rooms. I leaned against the heavy door and listened to the great organ bellow something that had to be Bach. I could scream and make noise all night, and nobody would hear. Why, oh, why did I insist that Augusta desert me for Miss Corrie's cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains? And why hadn't I told Joy Ellen or
somebody
where I was going?

Because they probably wouldn't believe me, that's why. Especially if I confided my growing suspicions about Blythe. Yet it was all beginning to make sense. Blythe Cornelius could hardly see past the end of her nose. Without her reading glasses—and sometimes even with them—she had a problem making out letters. I had seen her bend a recipe card in order to read the ingredients, just as my near-blind postman mutilated envelopes. Blythe had misread the name over Celeste's mailbox, thinking it belonged to Leslie Monroe.

The organist across the hall paused and I grabbed the opportunity to get in some serious clanging, but the respite was brief. I had to think of another way to get attention.

I made my way back to the bear. At least Blythe didn't know about the bear! The tape was still inside its stomach and I sat on the bucket with the stuffed animal in my lap and pushed a button to make it play, wondering if Londus's niece really did give it to him, or if he had bought it for himself.

“Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the new born king!”
The janitor's sweet but whangy tenor came over the tape and a salty tear oozed down my throat. Oh, Lord, Londus had been getting ready for Christmas!

There was a brief pause, then the sound of a door opening and Blythe's familiar voice.

“Londus, what in the world are you doing in here? What's this?”

“Oh, it's just a toy, ma'am. Got it for my niece for Christmas. Thought I'd hide it in here for a while. Reckon they'd mind?”

“I suppose not. Londus, why did you put my things in that dreadful apron pocket? I know it was you who did it, but for the life of me I can't imagine why.”

There was a long silence here and I thought it was the end of the tape, but Londus finally answered.

“I seen you coming outta them woods, ma'am. It was real early that Saturday morning—the day that girl disappeared. And I seen what you did.”

“Oh? And what was that?”

“Well…you went and put that bloody old apron in the bottom of the hamper there so nobody would think nothing about it when they found it. Only they did. Miz Willene, she knew that wasn't no chicken blood on thar.

“I thought you was a fine lady, Miz Blythe, but all this killin…it's wrong, a sin agin the Lord. And them poor little girls…well, they don't know what I know, and they won't listen to me, but I'm looking after them the best I can. I don't want nothing else bad happenin' here.”

Blythe Cornelius sighed.
“Oh, Londus! You know I would never do anything to hurt my girls. I only went for a short walk to clear my mind after sitting up with a sick student all night. I found that apron at the edge of the woods. A dog must've dragged it there.”
Her voice was sweet now, patronizing.
“You do believe me, don't you, Londus…well…don't you?”

“I don't know, ma'am. I reckon.”

“Well, I hope you won't mention this to anyone else. Nobody will believe you, and it will just make you look like a fool. You wouldn't want to lose your job, now, would you? Especially right before the holidays.”

“No 'me, I reckon not…”

I heard the sound of a door closing and then Londus Clack's mumbled pronouncement:
“Just like a time bomb tickin' away…that woman is flat-out lyin'.”

I turned off the tape after realizing there was nothing more and sat for a minute holding the bear to my chest. The tape was evidence and I had to make sure nothing happened to it. But what if Blythe came back for it—and me?

It was almost five o'clock, and since I wasn't expected anywhere that day, who would know I was missing? Augusta was with Leslie, and Blythe had taken my cell phone along with my purse. How long would it take somebody to get around to looking in a supply closet in the Main Hall at Sarah Bedford? My stomach growled. Although it wasn't close to suppertime, I had lunched hurriedly on cheese and crackers, and just the thought of missing a meal made me feel deprived. I thought hungrily of the package of peanuts in my handbag. Why would Blythe want my purse? Certainly not for the money, of which I had little—so why?

When I thought of it, the realization almost made me sick. Blythe Cornelius wanted to know where to find Leslie,
and her address was in my handbag!
I had as good as given it to her when I told her earlier that I was mailing Leslie her assignments and books. Immediately after leaving Blythe, I had gone to a mailing service near the campus and sent the items to Leslie in care of Miss Corrie.
The receipt was in my handbag.

I had to get out of that closet! If only Augusta were there. Obsessed with her sick mission, Blythe Cornelius had locked me in to give her time to reach Leslie. The woman had killed those girls one by one, probably marking them off a list after the deed was done. And then she had killed Londus because he was too naive and too honest to keep his mouth shut. I remembered Blythe explaining her scraped hand the night I found Londus Clack's body. She had hit it on the doorjamb, she said, yet I had been behind the door when she ran through before colliding with Monica Hornsby and Blythe hadn't come close to the doorjamb. I thought of the shoes she'd been wearing that night, although it hadn't registered with me at the time. The soles of the woman's sturdy gray oxfords had been still damp from the night grass. Blythe had fallen on the flagstone walk in her rush to get away after she'd killed that poor sweet man and left him hanging there. I was almost sure of it.

I took the tape out of the bear's stomach and hid it at the rear of the closet behind a bottle of glass cleaner; I then put the bear back where I had found him. Now the organist was playing something from Handel's
Messiah
. Appropriate. I would probably be in here until Christmas. I screamed a few times—just for the heck of it—and started looking for some other means of making my presence known.

What would Augusta do in my situation? I closed my eyes and pictured her there, sensing her calm presence. I could almost smell her strawberry essence, hear her humming her favorite song, “Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer”—always slightly out of tune.

The people who worked in the offices would be leaving soon if they weren't already gone. The student at the organ would finish her repertoire and go to dinner, and the maid had ditched her smelly mop and bucket for the day. Earlier I had tried to poke the key out of the door and slide it inside on a piece of paper, but Blythe had taken it with her. So…if making noise wouldn't get me rescued, I'd have to try another way.

Use your senses, Lucy Nan
. Augusta's serene voice beside me was so convincing I looked around to see if she was there. She wasn't, but her message was clear.
Senses
.

Looking about, I found several bottles of bleach, but I didn't dare take a chance on breathing the fumes in a small enclosed place. The cleaning solution had a brisk, antiseptic odor, but it wasn't strong enough for my purposes. Finally I settled on a large two-gallon jug of oily red furniture polish that contained pine tar and smelled like the nastiest kind of cough medicine. Londus must have used it on wooden floors and furniture as well because I had noticed the odor in the halls at Emma Harris. There was at least a half-inch crack beneath the door and I poured the polish through the opening in a steady trickle, using a dust pan to divert the flow and keep it from coming back inside. The smell was overpowering, and I found a pile of relatively clean rags Londus had probably meant for dust cloths and tied one over my mouth and nose.

Kneeling, I poured the polish at an angle, hoping there would be enough slant in the floor so that it would drain into the front hall. God! Did all these people have clogged sinuses? The people in the next block should be able to get a good whiff of this stuff! I looked at my watch. Blythe had been gone almost an hour. She could be halfway to Miss Corrie's by now, and I couldn't do a thing to stop her! I drained the last of the polish and looked around for something else to pour.

I was on the third bottle of hand soap when I heard voices in the hall.