The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders (20 page)

The chicken stew was better than good, and so were the homemade biscuits and spiced apples Ellis served with it. Oh, sure, she takes shortcuts now and then just like the rest of us, but sometimes I find myself looking at my old friend as she shoves a loaf of bread into the oven with one hand and whips up her elegant apricot pound cake with the other, and I wonder where this domestic person came from. She wasn't in the skinny, flat-chested sixth grader who gave Elroy Rippey, the boy next door, a bloody lip for making fun of her braces. And I don't remember seeing her in the lanky high school freshman who refused to take home economics and planned a career in archaeology. She must've sneaked out when nobody was looking.

And Bennett Saxon couldn't be happier. I watched as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and kissed her cheek on his way out the door.

“Hmm…you smell like strawberries,” he said as he gave me a good-bye hug.

Witnessing the husbandly affection, I'll admit I had an awkward “Charlie moment,” when sadness settles like a huge rock in my midriff and I long for my husband of twenty-nine years. But I can't allow it to linger. “Looks like you've outdone yourself on the gruel,” I said to my hostess as she poured water in our glasses.

We didn't linger over dessert, as all of us were eager to find out more about the Mad Jabberwocks. “You go first,” Ellis said, shoving a notepad in my hand. “I'm too nervous.”

My hand shook as I dialed the Greenville number.

Sylvia (Bates) Prater laughed when I reminded her about the snapshot in the
Lantern.
“We were going to change the world! Well, maybe it's not too late.” She and another “Jabberwock” had graduated that year, she told me, but they promised to stay in touch with the five who remained at Sarah Bedford. “We did pretty well for a while,” she said. “But you know how it is. I married a minister and we've moved from pillar to post. Vera went with a newspaper in Charleston, and the last I heard, she was still there.”

“What about the other five?” I asked. “Did they all return to Sarah Bedford the next fall?”

“Oh, yes, and I kept up with them for several years. Eva Jean Eaton married a Philbeck and lives in some little town in North Carolina—Elkin, I think, unless she's moved…and I still exchange Christmas cards with Audrey Wallace—Tate her name is now. I'm ashamed to say I haven't seen either of them in almost twenty years.”

Eva Philbeck, I remembered, was the other name Ellis had been given to call. “I think I still have Vera Leonard's home phone number if you want it, or you might try her at the newspaper.” Sylvia Prater paused. “Are you with the alumnae bulletin? Is this for a feature story or something? I'm surprised anybody even remembers the Mad Jabberwocks.”

She sounded so cheerful I hated to give her the bad news, but I thought she should know. I told her about the verses. “Two girls have been murdered in the last few years—maybe more.”

“Dear God, I read something about that in the paper but I didn't realize it was anything like that. What can that possibly have to do with us? Seven girls who happened to live in the same dorm! We might've been a bit irreverent, and if we'd come along a few years earlier we might have been hippies, but we were too chicken to rebel.”

There was silence on the line, during which time I think Sylvia Prater tried to convince herself the murders had nothing to do with seven girls who, over thirty years ago, longed to defy convention.

“Because of the verses, we believe there's a connection with the group you belonged to,” I said, “and it's essential that I get in touch with the rest of them.”

“Oh, everybody knows that silly old poem,” she told me. But she gave me the names of the members.

Augusta, Ellis, and I sat at the Saxons' kitchen table with the list in front of us. Sylvia and her friend Vera Leonard still lived in South Carolina; unless Eva Philbeck had moved, she was probably in North Carolina, and Audrey Wallace Tate owned a dance studio in upstate New York. That left Irene Friedman, Dorothy Cobb, and Maggie Talbot unaccounted for. Augusta found their class pictures in the yearbook: the two solemn seniors in black drape and pearls; a couple of straight-haired juniors with confident faces, and three sophomores who didn't look old enough to be out of high school.

As students at Sarah Bedford they had thumbed their noses as much as they dared. Now, was one or more of them demanding attention in a shocking and horrifying way?

Eva Jean Philbeck was on her way out the door when we reached her at her home in Elkin. She still coached drama at the high school there, she explained, and they were rehearsing for their holiday production. I told her I was interested in the Mad Jabberwocks, but I didn't tell her why.

“Oh my goodness…you're talking about another time altogether. It's been so long since I've heard from any of those girls: Dorothy, Irene…Audrey lives somewhere up north, I think, and Maggie died several years ago.”

For a few seconds she didn't speak, and the silence weighed a ton. “Is anything wrong? Why are you asking about the Jabberwocks?”

I suspected that if I told her the truth, that would be the end of it. There was something in her voice that warned me. If only I could see her, talk with her face-to-face. “I'm working with a history class at Sarah Bedford,” I told her, “and in looking through some old annuals we came across a photograph of the Jabberwocks. My friend thought it would make an interesting feature for the alumnae bulletin.” There, that wasn't lying. Not really. “I've spoken with Sylvia Prater,” I said.

“Sylvia
who?
Oh, Sylvia
Bates.
She was a year ahead of me, you know.”

And what did that matter? I wondered. But it seemed important to Eva Jean Philbeck.

Joy Ellen and I had planned a field trip to visit Miss Corrie Walraven, the soap-making lady who lived in the mountains above Elkin. Would it be convenient, I asked, to meet somewhere? I promised not to take more than a few minutes of her time.

“Well…this is a busy time of year for me. I can't guarantee you I'll be free.”

“Why don't I just call when I'm in the area?” I suggested. “And if you have a few minutes to spare, maybe we can get together.”

Ellis stood at my elbow. “Well, what'd she say?” she asked when I hung up the phone. “Is she going to meet with you?”

“She doesn't want to. That's obvious, but I don't think she knew how to avoid it. Seems I shook her up. She wasn't expecting this.”

Ellis shrugged. “That's not surprising. After all, it's been over thirty years.”

“But don't you think it's strange that as close as these girls seemed to be, they didn't care enough to keep in touch?”

“Maybe there's something they want to forget,” Augusta said.

Paula Shoemaker sat demurely at the quilting frame making dainty stitches. “Looks like they'll have to rule out the manuscript motive if they want to get a conviction on Horny Hornsby,” she said.

Joy Ellen shook her head and laughed. “Why, Paula! Whatever would your great-great grandma say if she could hear the way you talk? Do you think your ancestors carried on like that at their quilting bees?”

“Isn't that why they had them?” Debra Hodges spoke up. “I mean, that is where they shared all their gossip, isn't it?”

“What gossip?” Celeste edged nearer. “Did I miss something?”

Paula smoothed a pucker. “Well, you know Ernestine, the cleaning woman who comes to Emma Harris?”

Celeste nodded. “The one who ‘threw out' almost half those chocolate chip cookies Weigelia made for me. I know very well she ate 'em. What happened? Hope she got a stomachache!”

“She said the manuscript Monica found behind the trophy case wasn't there when she cleaned in the lounge a couple of days earlier. Told Aunt Shug a pen rolled under there when she was mopping, and it looked like a good one, so she got down on her hands and knees to poke it out and there was nothing back there except dust. That policeman came and questioned her yesterday—that one with the red hair—and Ernestine told him she would've noticed something as big as a box back there.”

“So where
did
Monica find it?” Debra asked.

“Brought it herself, I'll bet,” Miriam said.

“Why would she pretend to find the manuscript, then let herself get caught taking it?” Debra looked at her classmates' faces and flushed. “Oh. You mean she meant to—She
planned
it that way so it would look like D.C. had hidden it there and that
she, Monica,
was looking for it to save her sorry husband's hide. What a rotten thing to do!”

“Oh, I don't know,” Paula said. “I call it sweet revenge. Or it would've been if it had worked. The case against the creep would have been stronger if the police thought D.C. was using that manuscript for blackmail.”

“Now they'll probably let him go. Too bad Ernestine had to pick that week to mop under there,” Troll said. “But what was Monica doing upstairs in D.C.'s room that night?”

“I suppose she thought if she made enough noise someone would follow her,” I said. “And we did.”

“He still had a motive,” Celeste said, pulling her stitches tight. “And I'll feel a lot safer if that man stays in jail where he belongs.”

I thought about the afternoon Ellis and I saw Monica Hornsby in the old shed on back campus. She must have been looking for a place to leave the manuscript then, but since the shed had already been carefully searched, decided on the dormitory.

“Hey! Guess who's back on campus?” Miriam said. “That little mousy nutritionist. The one whose ex-husband was arrested for stalking. I saw her bringing some things into her apartment yesterday, so he must be gone for good.”

Debra tugged at her thread. “I heard they warned him not to get within fifty miles of her—but what if he does? She'll always have that hanging over her, won't she? Some night when she least expects it, he might just step out and—”

“Will somebody please pass the thread?” I said. “Is anybody going someplace exciting for Thanksgiving?” I had seen the look on Celeste Mungo's face and it sickened me to know that one person, just by copying a verse from a poem, could be responsible for practically scaring somebody to death.

Jo Nell had asked me to deliver an old end table she'd had in her attic for Willene to refinish for her living room, so I took it by there after class and found her hemming curtains for her kitchen. The curtains were yellow ruffled and not at all like Willene. In fact, Willene didn't even seem like Willene. Maybe it was her chic new hairstyle or soft, flattering blouse. Or maybe it was the gun she kept handy.

“Lucy! I'm so glad you could come by, and thank you for bringing the table. I know just where I'll put it.” The radiance from her toothy smile almost made my eyes water, but I was happy to see her more relaxed and less rabbitlike than before. “I thought I'd try a different kind of painting technique,” she said. “Sort of a marbled effect—maybe in a muted turquoise. And I've found just the rug for this room.

“I've never been able to do much in the way of decorating,” she confided, “since I wasn't sure how long it would be before…” Willene Benson smiled as she took me by the arm. “Well, let's hope those days are over. Now let me show you the wallpaper I've picked for the kitchen, and I'll need to get some pictures framed, too. These walls look so bare, don't they?” She laughed. “Maybe Blythe will lend me some of her relatives.”

I was in a hurry to get to the grocery store before the late-afternoon rush, but Willene seemed so happy to have company, I stayed for a glass of iced tea.

“Tell me about your history class,” she said as we sat in her tiny kitchen. “I hear you've been working on a quilt.”

I nodded. “Another few sessions should do it, and tomorrow we'll be going to Alleghany County in North Carolina way up in the Blue Ridge Mountains to learn how to make soap. Miss Corrie says it takes a while, so we're prepared to make a day of it.” I didn't tell her about the little side trip I had planned.

The unpaved road to Corrie Walraven's house near the little town of Sparta twisted through the Blue Ridge Mountains like a russet apple peeling. We had left in a caravan from Sarah Bedford at a little after nine, stopping in North Wilkesboro for an early lunch.

I had convinced Roger and Jessica that Teddy would benefit as much from our visit with Miss Corrie as he would from a day in the first grade, and fortunately his teacher agreed. Now he sat with Troll and Paula in the backseat, calling out inane jokes until the two students finally gave up on being polite and stopped laughing altogether.

Ellis, who had come along for our hoped-for meeting with Eva Jean Philbeck, sat in front with Augusta and me. I knew Augusta was there, although neither Ellis nor I could see her and I was glad. When you're in close quarters with other people, her presence becomes a bit distracting.

“Watch closely now, Teddy, and maybe you'll see a deer,” Ellis suggested.

“Or maybe even a bear,” I said, but Teddy was bored with looking out the window and the scenery didn't interest him. I remembered when, at his age, I'd felt the same, but now I saw the landscape in a state of basic beauty, unadorned and waiting for winter.

Most of the hardwoods were bare now, but a few faded amber and burgundy leaves mingled with the brown. Pine, spruce, and cedar greened the surrounding mountains in swirls and patches like a design on a giant quilt.

Teddy kicked the back of my seat. “Are we almost there yet?”

“Just about,” I said, “and quit kicking the back of my seat.”

“I'm hungry.”

“Again? We just ate. Ask Aunt Ellis if she'll give you a cookie.” I had come prepared with his favorite peanut butter kisses. I was beginning to wonder, however, if I had made a mistake by bringing along a six-year-old.

“There's a pretty waterfall near here, Teddy,” Ellis said, handing him a cookie. “Linville Falls—not too far away. Maybe we can see it on the way home if we have time.”

“Where did he fall?” Teddy giggled and repeated his joke. His seatmates ignored him.

“He fell into a dark cave with bears in it because he asked too many silly questions, and nobody's seen him since,” I told him. “Now, everybody needs to help me look for the wooden sign where we turn. Miss Corrie says it's red and says ‘Honey, Apples, and Cider.' Should be coming up soon.”

Just ahead of us in a cloud of orange dust I saw Kemper Mungo and his carload turn into a narrow lane, bumping over ruts and stones. The sign was on our right. Since Sue Starnes, Celeste's customary police escort, was off duty that day, Kemper had stepped in with a purpose.

Some people might call Corrie Walraven's house a shack, but it looked snug enough to me, and it was home to Miss Corrie and her brother Henry. The unpainted house with its rust-streaked tin roof had weathered to a rain-washed gray, and it stood in a bare-swept yard between a great gnarled oak and the prettiest blue spruce I've ever seen.

Somebody hollered “Welcome!” as we pulled into the yard, and two barking hounds, three flapping chickens, and Miss Corrie hurried to greet us.

I recognized Corrie Walraven from my childhood storybooks. She was the little old woman who went to market to buy a fat pig. Or maybe she was the one who chased the runaway johnnycake. She wore a knitted shawl over her crisp blue cotton dress, and an apron, made from bleached sacking, I learned later, covered the front of it.