The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders (25 page)

Augusta had been silent for most of the drive, and from time to time I noticed her studying the dark landscape beyond her window. “From what you've told me, there doesn't seem to be any particular order in the way Blythe Cornelius chose her victims,” she said finally. “The first, Kenneth Philbeck, had been only fifteen and the youngest. Then some time passed before Carla Martinez was killed, and later, Rachel Isaacs and D. C. Hunter. Now she seems to be intent on finding Leslie. Why now?”

I remembered Nettie's visit to her niece's dormitory after her first quilting class at Sarah Bedford. Ellis and I had found her having tea in Blythe's apartment, and she had told Blythe Cornelius about Leslie's mother living there.

I lurched to avoid a possum in the road, wondering if that particular species had made a suicide pact to throw themselves in front of vehicles, and frowned, carefully watching the road ahead as I thought of that afternoon. “Blythe had been interested in Leslie's mother's name,” I said, relating the incident to Augusta. “She even encouraged the girl to point her out in an old yearbook. Maggie Talbot didn't have any living children by her first husband, Doug Dixon, so Blythe was probably not aware that she had remarried and produced a daughter
until Nettie told her!

“And now it seems like Leslie's health might prevent her from returning to school for a while—”

“And so Blythe feels compelled to accomplish her bizarre mission at all costs,” Augusta added.

And that was what frightened me the most. This woman didn't care about her own future; she didn't care about the people who got in her way. She meant to find the last of the Jabberwock children, and she meant to kill her.

The closer we got to Miss Corrie's, the heavier the lump in my stomach became, until it felt like I'd swallowed one of those “fallen rocks” by the side of the road. With any luck, I thought, the sheriff had already apprehended Blythe Cornelius and she was safely locked away. But luck doesn't always jump in my lap, so I wasn't going to be surprised at anything we found.

Earlier I had turned off my car heater. Even as cold as it was—and it was close to freezing here in the mountains—my forehead was clammy with perspiration, while Augusta, wrapped in a blanket, shivered beside me. I held onto the steering wheel the way a drowning person must grip a lifeline and searched for landmarks on the narrow gravel road.

“There's a small white church in the bend of the road just before we turn off,” I said to Augusta. “Help me keep an eye out for it.”

“I think we just passed it on the right,” she said, pulling the blanket closer about her.

“Then the road to her house should be just up ahead.” Concentrating on the dark shapes of rocks and underbrush on either side of the road, I went right past the faded red sign that marked Miss Corrie's turnoff. “Now's the time to start praying,” I said, searching for a place to turn around in the narrow winding road. “If we meet another car out here, we're dead meat—or at least I am!”

Minutes later, having accomplished this, I swerved left at the wooden sign, hoping I wouldn't go into the ditch on either side. In the darkness it was almost impossible to see the rugged weed-grown trail that wound up the hillside. “If Blythe Cornelius found Corrie Walraven's house on her first try—and at night, to boot—she must be kin to Daniel Boone,” I said.

Augusta must have noticed the anxiety in my voice because she reached out and touched my arm. “We're almost there,” she said in her soothing lullaby voice.

Still, it seemed we should have been there by now and I was beginning to wonder if we had taken a wrong turn when I saw the welcoming beam of a flashlight approaching and a familiar voice called my name. Nettie!

“I've never been as glad to see anybody in all my life!” I yelled as the two of us hugged each other in the wavering yellow light. The man who held it was in uniform and looked as though he'd like for us to quit dancing around in the road and get inside where it was warm. He had a point.

Augusta, I noticed, had already gone ahead and Nettie rode with me while the man with the light led the way. Ed Tillman had called the sheriff's department there, my neighbor told me, and they told her I was on my way. “Where is she?” I asked as we bumped to a stop in Miss Corrie's slate-and-clay yard. “Is Leslie all right?” When I opened my door, I saw Nettie was crying.

“Oh, Lucy Nan, I wish I knew! We left home so quickly this morning, we forgot to pack a lot of things we needed, so early this afternoon I drove back to Sparta to do a little emergency shopping. Couldn't have been gone more than an hour or so, but when I got back here they were both gone…and oh, dear God, I don't know what to think!”

The door was unlocked, Nettie said, and she thought Miss Corrie might have taken Leslie for a walk, but when they didn't return after an hour, she telephoned the county police. Not long after that, Ed Tillman contacted the sheriff there about Blythe Cornelius.

“And you haven't heard anything since?” I asked as we walked inside together.

“Nothing, except for Henry. That's Miss Corrie's ‘baby' brother—funny old man—he told me not to worry, that his sister wouldn't let any harm come to Leslie, and not to answer the phone. And then he left, just took off in that old beat-up truck of his, and he hasn't come back. The sheriff's been out here off and on all night, and they've put out an ABC—or whatever—on Blythe Cornelius.” Nettie took my arm as we warmed ourselves by Miss Corrie's wood-burning stove where, I noticed, Augusta was already established. “Lucy Nan, do you really believe Blythe is behind all this? She seemed genuinely fond of those girls. And to think Leslie was
right there in the building
with her all that time!”

“Yes, I believe it,” I said, and told her about Leslie's phone call to Joy Ellen. “She must have called while you were out shopping—when she realized Blythe had been lying about seeing D. C. Hunter the night before she disappeared.”

Nettie frowned. “Do you suppose that's why Corrie took her away?”

“Probably,” I said, to reassure myself as well as Nettie, “and maybe it's just as well that she did.” I told her about Blythe locking me in the closet, but I didn't tell her how she learned about Leslie's identity. I never would. “Blythe took only two things from my handbag—Corrie's address and my cell phone. I'm surprised she hasn't tried to call.”

“I expect she has,” Nettie said. “Corrie's phone has rung several times, but Henry told me not to answer it, so I didn't.” She nodded toward the lanky policeman. “James here stays in touch with everyone through his radio.”

James had taken up residence in the kitchen, where he cracked and ate pecans and stayed in contact with his partner at the county sheriff's department. He was there for the night, he assured us, and later, when Nettie was out of hearing range, confided that Blythe's tan Buick had been sighted in the area.

“Where?” I whispered. “How long ago was this?”

He concentrated on picking a nut meat from its shell, then got up and loped to the window, squinting into the darkness. “Couple of times, 'bout ten minutes apart, but by the time we got there she was gone. Must know we're on her tail, though. Last sighting was less than an hour ago.”

“Then Leslie and Miss Corrie couldn't be with her. They disappeared long before Blythe had time to get up here.” But where were they? And if they were safe, why didn't they let us know?

“You don't think she's found them, do you?” I spoke softly so Nettie wouldn't hear. “I mean, Blythe doesn't know the area, except maybe how to get here, and she must know you're watching the house.”

He nodded, and I could see he was avoiding my gaze. “Well, I reckon she could've called the girl on her cell phone—looks like she took it with her—told her some story or other to get her to meet her somewhere.”

But knowing what Leslie did, I didn't think she would agree to that. In the darkness outside the window a cold wind rattled the bare branches of a sourwood tree by the back porch. Surely the two women had taken shelter from the bone-chilling weather. “Does Miss Corrie have a car?” I asked.

“No,” James said, “but her brother Henry does, and it's not here.”

And neither was Henry.

Later, when Nettie disappeared into the kitchen to make hot chocolate to go with our “supper” of applesauce cake, Augusta reminded me that I hadn't yet spoken with Eva Jean Philbeck to warn her about Blythe Cornelius.

I was relieved to find her at home. “Blythe Cornelius…Blythe Cornelius…” I could almost hear the whirring of her mind. Then a gasp. “No, it can't be! There was a woman by that name—I think it was Cornelius—in one of my classes when I took a few courses in summer school back in…”

“When? When was it?”

“It was the summer before Ken's accident. Blythe and I took a computer course together. I'd been wanting to learn and she was working on a business degree. She seemed lonely. She was a widow, she said, and sometimes we'd have lunch together, or go for coffee or something. She told me she didn't have any family, and I think she just wanted somebody to talk to.” Eva Jean's voice quivered. “I think I must have talked too much.”

“Why?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“I told her about the Mad Jabberwocks. Oh, Lucy, I must have started it all!”

After she had composed herself Eva Jean told me how the subject had come about. “We were talking about college,” she said. “Blythe was putting herself through school and I told her how I admired her for it, and how we had kind of taken things for granted at Sarah Bedford. She seemed interested—asked me about going to school there, when I was there, things like that. Of course I thought she was just being polite. Her sister went to school at Sarah Bedford, she said. And I suppose I must have been feeling guilty because I told her about our silly little club and how I was afraid we were to blame for a girl's death. That always bothered me, you know—bothered me a lot—and Blythe was easy to talk to. You've met her, you know how she is.”

What willpower it must have taken for Blythe Cornelius to appear calm and friendly after Eva Jean's confession, I thought. A few months later she began her campaign of revenge, and the next year came to Sarah Bedford as Dean Holland's secretary and took rooms in Emma P. Harris Hall. I felt a flulike chill just thinking of it.

“How could she be sure these girls would be coming to Sarah Bedford?” I asked.

“There was no way she could be positive, but I must have mentioned that Audrey and Irene had planned to send their daughters there. A lot of alums send their children to Sarah Bedford. Ken would probably have gone there, too, if he'd been a girl. It
is
a good little school, you know, for all our bad-mouthing it.”

Or was. I hoped it could survive.

Later I dozed in the old cane-back rocking chair in Miss Corrie's tiny front parlor with one of her colorful handmade afghans over my lap. I had insisted that Nettie stretch out on the daybed, and although she swore she'd never sleep a wink, now and then I heard a soft little snore coming from beneath the faded patchwork quilt. The old house was cooling now, and once in a while a coal popped in the stove on the hearth. I was glad when the Walravens' big white cat, Aunt Mamie, leaped into my lap and curled up like a warm muff.

Captain Hardy had called earlier to get a report from James, and to tell me he was trying to come up with a law I was breaking so he could lock me away. “If we'd known what was on your mind,” he said, “we would've let you
stay
in that closet! If Blythe Cornelius hadn't been in such a hurry she would have silenced you the way she did Londus Clack. There's no telling what the woman might do if your paths cross again.

“Thought I'd better warn you,” he added. “We got a call a little while ago from Willene Benson—says her gun is missing. She got to worrying after you left there today and thought she'd better check. Thinks Blythe Cornelius must've taken it sometime before she got home this afternoon. Blythe has a key to her place, she said.”

When the young patrolman went outside to check the grounds, I told Augusta what I had learned. “The captain said they were keeping in close contact with the sheriff here, but it looks like Blythe has gone underground for the night.”

“Of course she might be anywhere,” Augusta reminded me. “There are plenty of places to hide in the mountains.”

“Thank you for that comforting thought,” I said.

Augusta warmed her hands at the stove. “What manner of person could hide her wickedness so well that she won not only the trust, but in some cases, the love of her intended victims?” Her eyes darkened to the same smoky twilight blue as the necklace she wore. “Poisoned with bitterness,” she said. “What a sad waste.”

After a good bit of backtracking, I told her, Captain Hardy said they had dredged up enough information on Blythe Cornelius to explain the reasons for her mad behavior. Carolyn Steele, the girl who fell while attempting what she thought was an initiation requirement, was Blythe's younger sister and only living relative. The two girls were orphaned at an early age, he said, and lived on a farm outside Columbia with an elderly aunt. After she died when Carolyn was ten, and Blythe, twenty, Blythe raised the child herself and saved for her education. Carolyn was all the family she had and she devoted herself to her.

“But she must have married,” Augusta whispered with a glance at my sleeping neighbor, “since the sisters didn't share the same last name.”

Several years after Carolyn's death, I explained, Blythe fell in love with Jack Cornelius, a carpenter, but they had been married only a short time when he was killed in an accident on a construction site. Lonely and bitter, when Blythe learned the truth about her sister's death, the canker of vengeance grew until it blotted out everything else.

“I suppose her pathetic need for a family led Blythe to invent one with other people's old photographs,” Augusta said.

I nodded. “Probably the only
real
family picture the woman owned was the one on her living room table, the photograph of the two sisters as children.”

And now she had a gun. There was no verse about firearms in the “Jabberwocky” poem, but now that she was this close to the end, I didn't think Blythe Cornelius would be a stickler for details.