Shadow Of An Angel Part 14

"Arminda, Harrison Ivey. Sorry I missed your call this morning. Just thought I'd check and see how you were...." The young doctor hesitated, as if searching for words. "...Well...I'm glad you suffered no long-lasting effects from your fall. But if you need to get in touch, you can reach me here at the clinic or at home. Just leave a message, and I'll get back to you." And he left his home telephone number.

Augusta stood at the foot of the stairs, listening to every word, and if angels could smirk, her expression would come close. "It does one good to know there are still such caring physicians," she said. "I wonder if he makes house calls."

"For goodness' sake, Augusta, he's only being thorough."

"Of course he is. But aren't you going to call him back?"

"What for? There's nothing wrong with me. My head's just fine."

"I wasn't thinking about your head," she said, and with a flounce of her skirt, she left me standing there.

But Harrison Ivey wasn't my priority just then, and when Augusta disappeared into the attic-to prowl around, she said, and see what might turn up-I did the same downstairs.

The day was gray and misty and did little to lift my spirits. I wandered from room to room trying to shrug off the feeling of something missing, something left undone. Augusta had prevented me from falling into a void in the physical sense, but I would have to be responsible for taking care of the other.

I put on my all-weather jacket with a hood that had survived since college and set out walking for town and Papa's Armchair. It was time for my cousin and me to talk.

I found her sitting at Mildred's desk in the back of the shop with an apple in one hand and a calculator in the other, and if her face drooped any lower, she'd be under the rug.

I nodded toward the apple. "What's the matter? Find half a worm?"

"Worse than that. I can't even afford half a workman at the prices these contractors charge. I've called just about everybody in the area who would even consider the job, and the three who bothered to give me an estimate are out of the ballpark as far as we're concerned."

I sat on the stool across from her. "Exactly what do you need to have done?"

"For starters, an opening in the connecting wall between the bookshop and the tearoom, restrooms installed and a counter to divide the kitchen s.p.a.ce from the eating area." Gatlin clicked off the calculator and tossed it aside. "Dave and I can do the rest ourselves."

"I can help," I told her. "I took a course in wallpapering one time."

My cousin laughed. "But can you knock one down?"

"No, but I might know of somebody who could." I told her about Maureen Foster's husband, R. T. "The contractor he was working for went out of business, and he's looking for a job. From what his wife told me, I think he'd like to go out on his own."

"Do you know if he's any good?" Gatlin asked.

"I wouldn't be surprised," I said. "At least it won't hurt to give him a call." If Augusta had anything to do with this setup, the man came with credentials of the highest order.

I gave my cousin the number and waited while she explained to Maureen Foster exactly what she had in mind. But after a few minutes I found her looking at me strangely.

"Why, yes, she's fine," Gatlin said. "No, she didn't say anything about it...and when was this?" Looks as dark as swamp mud came my way. "Thank you for telling me," she added, speaking to Maureen but glaring still at me. "We thought it would be safe to let her out of her padded cell for a while, but I can see we're going to have to double the security."

I was glad Maureen had a sense of humor. I was beginning to lose mine. "You don't believe somebody tried to send me down the hillside by the short route?"

"Of course I do, silly! What's hard for me to believe is why you didn't tell me."

"You have enough to worry about with starting this business and a family to take care of."

"Dear G.o.d, Minda, you are my family! Didn't you think I'd care?" Gatlin jumped up from her seat and grabbed both my hands.

"It's just that-well, I didn't think you'd take it seriously. I've been trying to discover what the Mystic Six and the quilt they made had to do with what happened to Otto. I think it might be connected to the way Annie Rose died. You sort of blew me off, Gatlin."

"I'm sorry." She gave my hand a squeeze. "I didn't mean to. I guess I just don't understand why you think there's a connection."

"That's because I didn't tell you everything," I said, and told her about finding the flower-star pin in the bathroom stall next to Otto's. "I was afraid it might put you in some kind of danger if you knew. Guess I should have told you sooner. It's scary without you, Gatlin. d.a.m.n it! Dave, Lizzie, and Faye will just have to share!"

"My shoulders are pretty wide," she said, but I couldn't miss the troubled look in her eyes.

"Hey, guess what? I have shoulders, too," I said.

Over coffee at the Heavenly Grill, I told Gatlin about my suspicions concerning the group of young women who made a quilt n.o.body wanted, and the not-so-heavenly happenings in present-day Angel Heights.

"Obviously somebody thinks you're getting too close to the truth," she said. "Do you think they know you found that pin? You've got to be more careful, Minda. Why don't you stay with us until we get to the bottom of this?"

I thought of the "rock" in her pullout sofa and graciously declined. "I'm fine, really. Keeping the doors locked, and the police are good about checking the house. (Naturally I didn't mention Augusta.) Promise me you won't say anything to Vesta."

Gatlin nodded and frowned at me. "Tell me about the quilt. Why do you think it has something to do with the way Annie Rose died?"

I told her about my visit to Mamie Estes. "She said it was Annie Rose's quilt. Said she didn't ever want to see it again, and her daughter-in-law told me Mamie never talked about it, kept it put away.

Gatlin turned her coffee mug in her hands. "What about the others?"

"You were there when we spoke with Martha Kate, Pluma Griffin's niece, when she told us Mamie Estes was still alive," I reminded her. "And you know about Irene Bradshaw's mother. Aunt Pauline, Vesta called her. You'll have to admit Irene acted kinda spooky about your buying Dr. Hank's building. Maybe there's something in there she doesn't want us to find."

I was surprised to see Gatlin smiling as she shook her head.

"What's so funny?"

"Vesta finally told me why Irene wanted Hank's side of the building left alone." She leaned forward over the table and lowered her voice. "She thinks Bonnie's medical records are in there."

"So?"

"According to our grandmother, Bonnie Bradshaw was what they referred to as 'hot to trot.' In other words, she slept around. Rumor has it she had an abortion when she was in college, and Dr. Hank took care of it." Gatlin shrugged. "Oh, it was all on the up and up. A legal abortion. Bonnie claimed she was raped, and Dr. Hank cleared the way for it, only Vesta says n.o.body believed it."

"I didn't know Queen Victoria was still on the throne," I said. "All this must've happened close to twenty years ago. Why would Irene even give a fig? Why would anybody?"

"Because of the judge," Gatlin said. "Bonnie's husband, Robinson Sherwood. Strict Baptist upbringing, and you can bet your Sunday shoes he doesn't know about the abortion. Bonnie's never been able to conceive, and I don't know this for sure, but I've heard it's probably due to a pelvic infection from her earlier flings. Vesta says they've applied for adoption, and if this got out, it might ruin their chances for that as well as cause a rift in the marriage."

"But even if the records are still there, they'll be destroyed. Besides, it sounds like a lot of people already know it. It's old news, Gatlin. If Bonnie's husband hasn't heard it by now, I doubt he ever will. Poor, silly Irene! I can't believe she'd worry about something as unlikely as that." And then I remembered that it had been Irene Bradshaw who had given Mildred the over-the-counter anti-acid pills the night she got so sick.

"What about that woman in Georgia?" Gatlin asked. "Flora...somebody's granddaughter."

"It all comes back to her," I said. "Mamie says Flora had the quilt when she died, and her gravestone is engraved with that six-petaled flower with the star in the center-just like the pin they wore, but Peggy-that's her granddaughter-denies knowing anything about it. Got right testy about it."

Gatlin sighed and shoved her cup aside. "Spooky."

"I know. I dread facing the witch again, but it looks like I don't have a choice."

As we left, I noticed Sylvie Smith in line behind us waiting to pay her bill. I nodded, but she didn't seem to recognize me. Edna, who was putting on her coat, waved when she saw us. How long had they been there?

I opened the restaurant door to a blast of cold air as we stepped outside.

"First I think we should check out the place where it all began," my cousin said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Minerva Academy," Gatlin said.

Chapter Eighteen.

Now?" I looked at my watch. It was almost four o'clock, and the sky was that dirty dryer lint color that on rainy November afternoons, suddenly wraps you in gray. Daylight was almost gone.

"What better time? My two are spending the afternoon at Vesta's," Gatlin said. "I'll have to make it kind a fast, though. I need to pick up some things for the church Thanksgiving basket on the way home. Monday's the last day, and Vesta will have my head if I forget."

The idea of going back inside that building made me wish I'd stayed at home. I dragged my feet. "But-"

"Mrs. Whitmire should still be there if we hurry," Gatlin said, grabbing my arm. "Come on, get the lead out, Minda!"

The grounds of the old academy had been preserved pretty much as I imagine they were a hundred years ago, and it was easy to visualize young girls in long dresses strolling arm in arm along the curving paths. I always considered that period in history an innocent time, and in my mind, the schoolgirls are usually whispering, laughing over some benign secret. Even though the huge oaks had shed most of their leaves, the campus was shadowed by tall hollies cl.u.s.tered along the paths; wind ruffled the spreading cedar that almost concealed the arched entrance.

A light shone from the hallway, and I could see someone moving about in the dimly lit parlor. Holley Hall had been built of dark red brick that had become even darker with time, and the mock Gothic arches along the porch seemed too heavy for the building. A wisteria vine, now bare of leaves, twisted to the third story, where Otto had sometimes worked in the school's library, and above that squatted a cupola that was said at one time to have housed a bell.

"My goodness, you startled me! I was just getting ready to close up for the day." Gertrude Whitmire switched on a lamp beside her desk and dumped her tan leather purse into a drawer. "I didn't expect visitors this late on such a dreary afternoon, but there's still time to look around, if you like. Is there something you girls would especially like to see?"

I'd seen enough of that place to last me a lifetime, but I wouldn't mind having another look at our great grandmother's hand-st.i.tched alma mater, and said so.

"Of course, Arminda. I believe you know where to find it," our hostess said.

"Is it all right if we look around upstairs?" Gatlin asked. "I'd like to see where Otto spent so much of his time. I promise not to bother anything."

"You're welcome to browse as much as you like," Gertrude Whitmire said. "I hope you won't mind if I don't give you a guided tour. I'm afraid my ankle's still a bit swollen, and I'm trying to avoid stairs if I can."

The bruise on Gertrude's cheek had yellowed, and the sc.r.a.pes on her hands hadn't quite healed. The cane, I noticed, leaned against the desk within easy reach.

"I'll be up in a minute!" I called as Gatlin started up the heavy oak staircase.

The door to the parlor was closed, but a light still burned on a table by the window. The room was damp and stuffy, and I pulled my jacket closer about me and hurried to where I knew the needlework hung on the other side of the fireplace, hoping to find something I might have missed. From all I'd learned, the Mystic Six had been a tightly knit group, and it looked as if the secret or secrets they harbored would die with Mamie Estes-unless Lucy Westbrook had st.i.tched a message somewhere on the sampler.

But only a pale rectangle marked the place where it had hung.

"It's gone! It's not here!"

I don't know how long I stood there staring at the spot where the framed needlework had hung, as if I could make it reappear.

"Did you say something, Arminda?" Mrs. Whitmire paused in the doorway, magazine in hand, and I had the distinct notion I had disturbed her reading.

"The alma mater. It's not here."

"What do you mean, it's not there?" Even hobbling, the woman almost bulldozed me in her haste to cross the room. "Why, I can't imagine where it would be. I could almost swear I dusted that frame this morning...or maybe it was yesterday... well, sometime this week."

"Maybe your brother had it reframed," I suggested, hoping I was right.

"Hugh? I doubt it. That costs money, and there was nothing wrong with the frame it was in. But you know, there was a woman here yesterday who seemed unusually interested. I wonder..." Gertrude Whitmire twitched a window drapery, glanced behind a chair as if she thought someone might have hidden it there, and then-apparently seeing my disappointed expression-put a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sure it will turn up. Someone might have accidently broken it, and I expect Hugh has put it away somewhere. You'd be surprised at how some parents let their children run wild in here!"

"That woman," I said. "The one who was here...Doyou remember what she looked like? Maybe she signed the guest register."

Gertrude frowned, hesitating. "You know, she might have. Why don't you take a look? The register's on that stand in the hallway."

I riffled hurriedly through its pages, but the last visitors to sign the book had been there over a week before.

"Would you say she was sort of fiftish-neat, with graying blond hair?" I asked.

Gertrude considered that. "Well, yes, now that you mention it, she did look something like that. Is she someone you know, Arminda?"

"I'm not sure," I told her, wondering if Peggy O'Connor had been here before me.

Upstairs I found Gatlin examining old photographs and yellowed mementos from the early days of the academy on a gla.s.s-enclosed table in the center of the library. She turned when I came in. "Can you believe this, Minda? The cla.s.s of 1913 had only eight members. When did Lucy graduate?"

"Several years after that I think. Vesta said she and some of the others stayed on as teachers' a.s.sistants and took advanced courses for college credit."

"I'm shocked. I thought Great-grandma already knew everything!" Gatlin made a face. "Here's a first edition of those little animal books the professor wrote."

I told her about the missing alma mater, and we looked to see if Hugh Talbot had put it away somewhere in the library. I wasn't surprised when we didn't find it. "Do you think Wordy Gerty would mind if we looked through some of these old yearbooks?" I asked.

"Can't. The case is locked. We can ask, though. Maybe she'll let us have the key."

"Want me to ask?"

"That's okay. Besides, she kind a likes me. I was one of her better students." My cousin flung out her arms and twirled in what she must've considered a boastful dance. "Also, I have to go to the bathroom. Need to come?"

"Are you kidding? I'd tie my legs in a knot before I'd go in that room again!" In fact, I wasn't too comfortable waiting upstairs alone and wished I'd told Augusta where I'd be.

I was glad when I heard Gatlin's quick, light steps on the stairs. "Gert says make it snappy," she said, holding up a small key. "She has a meeting tonight and has to run by the grocery store on the way home."

The yearbooks were greenish brown and the binding was nothing but string. The t.i.tle, The Planet The Planet, and a likeness of something that looked like Saturn were embossed in gold on the cover. We each took one and placed them carefully on a table by the window. Mine opened to a pressed flower-a rose, I think-and I wondered who put it there. I was surprised to see that a lot of the posed photographs weren't all that different from the ones you find in annuals today-except, of course for the clothing.

A group of young women in dark bloomers and middy blouses posed with tennis rackets. Members of the Equestrian Club-ten in number-sat sidesaddle on their mounts.

"Here's our Lucy," Gatlin pointed out. "Cla.s.s president, of course. She must've been a senior that year...and would you look at her list of credits! There's hardly room for them all: editor of the school paper, member of the student council, Minerva Singers, lab a.s.sistant... blah, blah, blah! Was there anything she couldn't do?"

"Doesn't sound like she did such a bang-up job of looking out for her younger sister," I said, and was immediately sorry for saying it.

Lucy Westbrook's pretty young face smiled out at us from an oval in the center of the page. Her hair looked as if it might have been the same auburn as my mother's and Gatlin's, and her eyes were large and dark, but her mouth and the set of her chin could have been my own. "I didn't mean that," I whispered aloud more to myself than to her picture.