Shadow of an Angle (23 page)

"Oh, I'm sure they will be," I said, trying to ignore the glances Irene and Vesta exchanged. Everybody in Angel Heights knew that Gertrude Whitmire didn't bake, but bought sweets on sale from the bakery, kept them in her freezer, and when needed, passed them off as her own.

I lifted the napkin and touched a muffin. It was still cold. "Looks good," I said. "Thank you both. When I gain another five pounds, I'll let you take me shopping for my new wardrobe."

Irene walked to the fireplace and stood looking down at the flames. "I don't see how anybody can even think of food with all that's been going on around here. I've just about lost my appetite."

"I've lived here all my life," my grandmother said, "and until recently I've never felt unsafe, rarely locked a door— but now I'm constantly looking behind me." She looked up at me. "I never thought I'd say this, Minda, but I wish you wouldn't stay here in this old house alone. There's room at my place, you know."

Irene saved me from answering. "I'd think you'd be nervous, too, Gertrude," she said, "living out there so far from town—especially after that maniac tried to run you down. Aren't you afraid he'll come back?"

"He hasn't so far, and I'm hoping that was an isolated incident." Gertrude picked up a sofa pillow and plopped it in her lap. "But I've had my alarm system updated, and then Hugh checks on me regularly." She gave the pillow a squeeze. "Surely they'll find out who's responsible and put an end to all these atrocities soon!"

"Yes, soon. I do hope poor Sylvie will be all right," Irene said. "Why in the world would anybody want to do such a thing?"

"Looks to me like she interrupted a burglary," Vesta said. "Her purse was taken, but they found it in a Dumpster later with the money still inside. It had to be somebody from around here—somebody who knew Hank and Edna would be out of town for the night. Hank wouldn't miss that medical convention in Charleston—goes every year."

"Doesn't seem like we're safe anywhere," Gertrude said. "Look what happened to Mildred, and she lives right in the middle of town!"

Irene left the fireside to sit beside Gertrude. "Did they ever find out what they were looking for, Vesta? I heard somebody just about tore that bookshop apart. They didn't bother any of Mildred's things, did they?" She shuddered. "I mean, they didn't actually break into where she
lives
?"

"I don't think so," my grandmother told her. "If they did, we didn't notice it. You know how Mildred is; she doesn't care for a lot of extras, and probably wouldn't wear expensive jewelry if she had it. I can't imagine what a burglar would hope to find, and I doubt if she knows either, but the idea is appalling. Mildred is a very private person, and I've always respected that."

"I'll bet I know what they were looking for," I said to Vesta later in the kitchen. Augusta had brewed a pot of coffee with a reach-out-and-grab-you nut-brown smell, and the two of us were arranging cups on a tray.

"You mean Otto's old zebra?" my grandmother whispered. "What do you suppose Mildred keeps in there she doesn't want the rest of us to know about?"

"Why don't you ask her?" I said. But Vesta was busy pouring cream into a pitcher and either didn't hear me or pretended not to. I think it was the latter.

"Gatlin tells me she's thinking of making a tearoom of Hank's old building if she can find someone to do the work," Irene said as coffee was served.

Vesta nodded. "Someone's supposed to look at the building today, now that it's empty. Hank finally had all those old records in there destroyed. Should've done it years ago."

I noticed that she didn't look directly at Irene as she spoke.

"And does Mildred plan to stay there with all that remodeling going on?" Gertrude asked.

"I don't think she'd miss it," I told her. "In fact, she's looking forward to it."

Gertrude nodded. "Probably feels a lot safer with all the hustle and bustle about."

Irene gathered her coat about her and rose to leave. "As safe as any of us can feel until we find the bad apple among us," she said.

"An apt description if I ever heard one," Augusta said as she stood at the window watching the three women leave in their separate cars.

"What do you mean?" I asked. I knew she had been eavesdropping when Vesta and the others were here. Even though I didn't see her, there had been a strong "Augusta current" in the air.

"Bad apple.
Rotten
apple would be even more fitting." She frowned. "Did the police find any evidence at the Smiths' that might help in their investigation?"

"The vase, of course," I said, "and they dusted for prints. They didn't find a forced entrance, but Vesta says Edna and Hank just about always left a side door unlocked."

"I wonder if whoever it was found what they were looking for," Augusta said. "Do you think Sylvia has something of Otto's? Could that be what they were after?"

"Only Sylvia could tell us that," I said. "And she's not talking right now."

I stood at the window beside her. "You brought me there, didn't you? You wanted me to find her."

"Find who?"

"Sylvie. I didn't plan to go there. It's like I was led."

Augusta spoke softly. "She needed help, Arminda."

"And so did Annie Rose," I said. "You helped her stage that drowning. You were the one who sent her to Brookbend."

"The drowning would have been a reality if I hadn't convinced her not to take her own and her unborn baby's life," Augusta said. "Annie Rose was planning to put an end to her life and her child's, as well."

"But why Brookbend?"

"I knew the Parsons there. Had been assigned to Ben's mother, Ella, for a while. Ella was dying, and she accepted that, but she worried about her widowed son and the child, Jake, who had no one to care for them. They were good people, and they agreed to take her in. Annie Rose left her shawl beside the river and found a ride to the next town, then took a train for Brookbend, where Ben and his mother waited." She smiled. "He came to love her, you know, and she, him."

"Do you know who Mildred's father was?" I asked, but Augusta shook her head.

"She never told me. Wouldn't talk about it at all."

I was going to ask Augusta what she thought we should do next when the telephone rang and answered my question for me.

It was Peggy O'Connor calling to tell me she had thought about what Mildred and I had said and had a change of heart.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
hat's wonderful!" I said, oozing gooey relief all the way to Cornelia, Georgia, via Ma Bell. "And I promise we'll take good care of your quilt and return it promptly. In fact, if you'd rather, we could examine it there."

"But I told you, I don't have the quilt. I sold it."

"Sold it? Then who—?"

"There was always something depressing about that old quilt," Peggy O'Connorsaid. "Gram never told me what it was, but I know she felt that way about it, too. After she died, I got in touch with a collector, thinking, of course, that my grandmother was the last member to go. I felt just terrible when you told me about Mamie Estes, and I've torn this house apart looking for the receipt, but I must've thrown it away because I can't find it anywhere. If I could only remember the name of the person who bought it, I'd be glad to buy it back and deliver it to Mrs. Estes myself."

I smiled at the thought of the pristine O'Connor household being "torn apart."

"Mamie Estes doesn't want it," I assured her. "I think she was as glad to be rid of it as you were, but I believe you're right in your feelings about it. That quilt could hold the key to a grim secret—one someone doesn't want us to learn."

"It has something to do with that society they belonged to, doesn't it?"

I could hear Peggy O'Connor tapping the receiver with a well-manicured nail. "My grandmother wouldn't talk much about it, but it had a serious influence on her life. Did you know she wore that pin until the day she died? I had her buried in it."

I remembered how she'd carried on when I'd questioned her about Flora's unusual grave marker. You'd have thought I'd insulted her ancestry all the way back to Adam. This, however, was not the time to remind her, I decided.

"Look, I'm…sorry…for the way I acted… when you were here that day." The woman drew out each word like it was stuck to her tongue with superglue. "It's just that the elderly lady who called earlier …"

"Mildred?" I offered.

"Right. Well, when she sent that snapshot to Gram all those years ago, it nearly frightened her to death. Withdrew into herself for days and wouldn't even talk about it. I didn't know what was going on—still don't—but it made me uneasy somehow."

I told her I didn't blame her—which I didn't—and that I was sorry for troubling her—which I wasn't. "I don't suppose you remember where this person lived? The one who bought the quilt?"

"Somewhere up in the mountains. Dahlonega maybe, or it could've been Toccoa, even Gainesville. She advertised in a catalog, came here and saw it—bought it right off. Said she entered them in shows—kind of like artwork, I think.

"Anyway, I'm sorry I can't help more. Got to thinking about what you said, about it being important. And a little voice just whispered to me to tell you what I knew. Maybe it was Gram's."

I thanked her and hung up, making a face as I did. I wish Gram had whispered sooner. Heck, I wish the old woman had hollered!

"Well, I suppose that's that." Mildred spoke in Eeyore-like tones. "Only the good Lord knows where that quilt is now."

"Not necessarily," I said. "I think I know somebody else who might help us find it, or at least lead us in the right direction." And I told her about Maureen Foster.

Maureen wasn't familiar with the quilt we were looking for, but she referred me to Louise Starr, the woman who ran the gift shop she sold to in Charlotte, who in turn directed me to Alpha Styles.

Alpha Styles owned a folklore museum up near Blowing Rock in the North Carolina mountains, and it must've been blowing that day because she bellowed at me over the telephone as if she were trying to speak over a howling wind.

"HATTIE CARNES!" the woman told me.

"Hattie Carnes. Yes. And where—?"

"HATTIE BROUGHT THAT QUILT IN A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO. I'VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT! SHE LET ME SHOW IT FOR A SEASON, BUT WOULDN'T SELL IT FOR LOVE NOR MONEY. I TRIED, BUT I COULD TELL I WAS JUST HOLLERIN' INTO THE WIND."

Which in her case must have been a familiar experience, I thought as I held the receiver away from my ear. Hattie Carnes, I learned, lived in the foothills near Lenoir. She had a phone, Alpha said, but rarely answered it. I took a chance and drove up there anyway, hoping to find her at home. Mildred went with me, and at the last minute, my grandmother decided she, too, would go along for the ride.

For once, I was in luck. A hound dog—friendly, thank goodness—greeted us in the yard, and the whole place, I thought, had a serene feeling about it. Hattie's home, a two story frame building with a low-columned porch extending across the front, had at one time been a tavern, Alpha had told me, and was supposed to be one of the oldest buildings in the area. It had never had a coat of paint as far as I could tell, but the weathered gray house looked down on the road below from a screen of stately cedars, much as a revered matriarch might peer from an upstairs suite. We could smell corn bread baking as soon as we got out of the car, and I heard the sharp sound of pounding coming from somewhere out back.

Hattie Carnes was cracking black walnuts with a rock on the back steps and didn't seem surprised to see us. She wasn't as old as the home she lived in, but she couldn't be too far behind, and she didn't look a whole lot bigger than Gatlin's Lizzie.

"You'd think with a family as big as mine, somebody would learn to make black walnut cake besides me," she said, wielding a rock about as large as her own head. "All of 'em gotta have it, but you don't see 'em standing in line to crack these nuts, do you?"

I said I sure didn't and offered to help, but she said she thought she had enough, and kicked the shells off the steps with a dainty, boot-clad foot, picked up a large, chipped coffee cup full of nut meats, and invited us into her kitchen.

I introduced myself, Vesta, and Mildred while our hostess took two huge pans of corn bread from a stove that must have dated back to the 1930s. I guess she saw me staring because she gave it a fond little pat. "Tappan gas range— belonged to my mama. My girls want to buy me a new one, but nothing cooks like this!"

I glanced at Mildred. We were going to have a hard time convincing Hattie to let go of anything!

She shooed us to the long oak table and served us apple pie and coffee, ignoring our protests. "I've got twenty-seven folks coming for Thanksgiving, been cooking all day, and this will give me a minute to sit," she said. "My feet will say thank you, and so will I."

The corn bread, we learned, was for the dressing; Hattie had light bread rolls rising in the refrigerator, she told us, and three kinds of pie in the freezer.

"We came to ask you about a quilt," I said, after I washed down the last bite of pie with coffee that could raise the dead.

"I know," she said. "The Burning Building."

"I don't think so," Vesta told her. "Ours is a family heirloom. It was made by a group of girls who attended an academy many years ago in the town where we live."

Hattie stirred more sugar into her coffee and tasted it. "The same. I call it the Burning Building."

How did she know we were coming? Did the woman have special powers or something?

"Alpha Styles called me," Hattie explained. "Told me what you wanted."

I had almost forgotten she had a telephone.

"I suppose she told you it's not for sale," Hattie added, offering more coffee all around.

I smiled and covered my cup. "If we could just see it, take a few pictures—"

Vesta spoke up. "It belongs in Minerva Academy," she said. "That quilt should be on display there. It was sewn by academy students; my own mother was one, and I think my aunt worked on it, too."

"Your mother?" Hattie Carnes had turned back to the stove with the coffeepot. Now she stood with it in her hand. "You say your mother worked on that quilt?"

I could tell she didn't believe my grandmother, thought she was just making up a tale to convince her to give up the quilt, but Vesta barreled on in her usual bull-headed manner.

"That's right. There should be a small insignia in one corner: a six-pointed star within a flower. It was a replica of the pin they wore."

Hattie set the pot on the stove. "And you brought the pin?"

"Well, no… but it's back at the house somewhere, I expect. Minda, you were asking about it, weren't you?" Vesta seemed to realize she had met her match. "I'm prepared to write you a check today, and I'm willing to meet your price."

But Hattie shook her head. "I've never cared for a lot of fluff and comfort in my life. Don't even own a television, and my car's almost twenty years old, but I do love old things— especially quilts. Quilts are my one indulgence, and I don't sell them for profit."

Vesta, for once, was speechless, and we sat in silence until Mildred snapped open her squishy black handbag and dug inside. "Here," she said, putting the tiny star-flower pin on the table. "This is the pin they wore."

Hattie Carnes reached for it, then stopped and looked to Mildred for permission. Only when Mildred nodded, did she pick up the pin to examine it. "Well, I'll be jiggered," she said. "It sure does look the same."

"It is the same," Vesta told her barely lifting an eyebrow. "It belonged to my mother."

"No," Mildred told her, accepting the pin back from Hattie. "It belonged to mine."

Vesta had already turned to Mildred, to ask, I'm sure, how she had come by Lucy's pin. Now she stared at her, her mouth working, but nothing came out. Then my grandmother glanced at me, hoping, I suppose, that I would clear this up somehow. After all, Mildred had been under a lot of strain since Otto's death. But I could only smile.

"Annie Rose didn't die…." Mildred struggled to speak.

"She had me instead."

She reached out to Vesta, who looked as if she might vault over the table to wrap long arms about her. My grandmother didn't ask any questions, and Mildred didn't give any answers because just then both women were crying, but I could tell that after the initial shock of Mildred's announcement, Vesta was completely at home with the news. Later, after everyone's emotions dwindled, Vesta held Mildred at arm's length and declared that although Mildred definitely had the Westbrook nose, her stubborn streak must've come from her father's side.

Hattie, although thoroughly mystified, seemed to relish every second of the drama before her and insisted on selling the quilt back to us for the price she had paid years before.

"But it would be worth much more than that now," Vesta argued. "Please let me make it worth your while."

"I've had over ten years of pleasure from that quilt," Hattie said. "And if that wasn't enough, what went on in my kitchen today more than made up for it!"

And the two cousins, Mildred and Vesta, sitting together in the backseat as we drove home that evening, talked nonstop, trying to piece their lives together, pausing only for barbecue sandwiches so big they fell apart in our hands, when we stopped in Lexington, North Carolina, for supper. Naturally I listened.

As far as I could tell, Mildred told my grandmother essentially the same story she had told me, and the two of them agreed that the quilt might possibly have something to do with what happened to Otto—and to Sylvie Smith, and what almost happened to me. But I still felt that Mildred was holding something back. I guess she was waiting to see what secrets the old quilt would unfold.