The Angel Whispered Danger (9 page)

“Mi-mi-mi!” he rasped off-key, then made a face. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

The three scampered out the door shrieking, with my daughter in the lead. She didn’t look back.

Marge again gathered up the shoes and followed, pausing in the doorway. “Look, you don’t have to stay here, you know. Uncle Ernest and the others should be back at any minute. Why don’t you come along with us—for tonight at least? It’ll give us a chance to talk.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “There’s leftover peach cobbler, and I hid some ice cream behind the frozen broccoli.”

I laughed. “Hey, don’t tempt me, but Leona would freak out if she came downstairs and found everybody gone, and frankly I wouldn’t feel so good about leaving her.” I followed her out to the porch. “I would like to talk, though. Maybe we can sneak away tomorrow and snatch a few minutes alone.”

“Fat chance,” my cousin said, “but we’ll work on it.”

I tested locks on all the doors as soon as Marge and the others left, then called my parents’ answering machine to see if they’d left a message informing me of my “aunthood,” although I felt certain they would telephone us at Bramblewood if Sara’s baby had come. My mother would never settle on leaving such an important announcement on a machine, and I knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she described in great detail my new little niece or nephew.

And my parents weren’t the only ones who hadn’t phoned. I knew I shouldn’t hope, but it seemed that whenever I was at my most vulnerable, an annoying little smiley face would spring out from deep inside of me and sing sunshiny lyrics like “He’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when he comes.” I quickly squashed the saccharine intruder. My husband wouldn’t be coming around this mountain any time soon—if ever—and he wasn’t going to telephone, either.

Uncle Lum had called earlier to tell us that he and Grady had finally convinced Uncle Ernest to go home and get some sleep and that the three of them were stopping for a bite of supper on the way.

Amos settled himself on the rug in front of the door and promptly went to sleep, and I wandered around the empty house picking up paper cups and napkins that had been overlooked when we collected our after-supper litter. My aunt Leona would be sacked out by now in the bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall—too far away to hear me yell if the flashlight-bearing prowler in blue decided to return. And I knew she slept with earplugs because we’d all heard her complain of Uncle Lum’s snoring. The old house creaked for no good reason except that it was night, and that’s what old houses usually do then. At least, that’s what I told myself. I looked at the clock on the mantel. Marge and company had been gone over half an hour. Surely Grady and my uncles would be home soon.

There was nothing of interest on Uncle Ernest’s bookshelves. (No surprise there!) And if I turned on the television, I might not be able to hear if anyone
was
trying to force his way inside. It occurred to me that maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, and I was checking the newspaper for the schedule when I heard the cat meowing from the kitchen.

Poor Dagwood! In the frenzy of the day, I doubted if anyone had thought to feed him. I was on my way to remedy that and had one hand on the swinging door when I heard the whir of the can opener and realized somebody had gotten there before me!

Uncle Ernest had a key, of course, but Amos hadn’t barked and I hadn’t heard anyone drive up. I stopped where I was and tried to ease the door shut before whoever was in there saw me. It squeaked, of course. Too late now.

“Aren’t you coming in? I thought I’d put on a pot of coffee—or tea, if you prefer.” Augusta stood at the sink; the wreath of daisies, still fresh, in her hair, and it made me sad to see them. My bridesmaids had carried Shasta daisies, and Ned used to remember anniversaries with an arrangement of the sunshiny flowers.

“Such an efficient little machine,” Augusta said, nodding toward the electric can opener. “Zips open a tin in no time.”

The open “tin” she referred to sat on the countertop and so did the cat. Penelope perched beside it dangling long legs while she stroked Dagwood’s gingery back.

“You nearly scared me to death!” I said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered letting a person know when to expect you?”

“We thought you might be lonely, and perhaps even a bit apprehensive after the afternoon’s shocking misfortune.” Augusta filled my uncle’s dented metal pot with water and measured in coffee. She seemed to know where everything was kept.

“Ella! She’s not—”

“Still unconscious, and that’s probably for the best.” Her eyes grew sad. “Ella’s been terribly injured, Kate, but I don’t believe she’s suffering.”

“Do you think she was pushed?” I watched her face as she answered.

“I’m afraid I do.” Augusta took mugs from the cabinet and set them on the kitchen table, then pulled out two chairs, indicating that I was to sit. Her face grew troubled and I noticed that the necklace she wore, although it still sparkled, had turned from a dazzling purple to kind of a grayish blue.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” I said, and Augusta didn’t deny it.

“I wanted to be certain first. Kathryn, I think your friend Ella was led to believe her cat was down in that ravine.”

Dagwood, as if realizing he was being discussed, finished his food, and settled in Penelope’s lap to wash his paws. Penelope laughed, sounding faintly like distant wind chimes.

“How do you know he wasn’t?” I asked.

“Oh, the cat was down there all right, but he was inside a box.” Augusta rose to turn down the flame under the pot. Then she spoke softly to her charge. “Penelope, do wash out that tin please. It has a most dreadful odor.”

“A box? What kind of box?” I asked.

“A corrugated box, such as the kind you use for storing or shipping.” Augusta poured steaming coffee into mugs. It had a rich chocolate smell, although I hadn’t noticed her adding other flavoring. “Just think about it, Kathryn. If someone wanted to use a cat’s crying to lure Ella to the edge of a dangerous precipice, there is no way they could get the animal to stay in one place.” She smiled. “Cats have minds of their own, you know.”

I nodded, remembering how Josie used to try and dress her kitten in doll’s clothing and wheel it around in a tiny carriage.

“But how do you know it was in a box?” I asked, taking a swallow of the chocolate-laced brew.

Augusta sipped before speaking. “When Penelope and I found the cat in the meadow just before you heard Ella crying, the poor animal was frightened to death. Something had upset it, and later when you told me Ella had been looking for her pet, I started to think about it. I know enough about cats to realize it wouldn’t have stayed in one place long—unless it was being held against its will . . . but how?”

“So you think somebody deliberately took Ella’s cat from her rooms? But how can you be sure about the box?” I asked, refreshing my cup and Augusta’s.

“Because we went back and found it there—or at least Penelope did. It was concealed in a small hollow beneath the ledge and hidden by dense vines. It was obvious that the flaps had been sealed with some kind of heavy tape, and one end was shredded where the cat had clawed its way out,” Augusta said.

Penelope eyed longingly some leftover chocolate chip cookies Marge had left behind, and Augusta lifted an elegant brow at me. “Do you mind if she—”

“Oh, please help yourself,” I said. “And there’s cold milk in the refrigerator.”

“No more than two, Penelope . . . oh, all right, three. But wash your hands first.” Augusta gave me the kind of “weary mother” glance I’ve often exchanged with other parents. I guess being responsible for another person can be wearing—even on an angel.

“Is the box still there? What did you do with it?” I asked.

Dagwood curled around Augusta’s feet as she sipped her coffee and she leaned down now and then to stroke him. “Don’t worry, it’s in a safe place.”

“In the attic,” Penelope said, seeming rather proud of herself. “We put some old papers and notebooks in there and hid it in the back.”

“Good thinking!” I told her, and Penelope smiled so big she almost forgot to finish her last cookie.

“That must have been what the blue ghost with the flashlight was looking for!” I said.

“Blue ghost?” Augusta looked puzzled.

“A man dressed in blue. The children think it’s a ghost.”

“I’m afraid he was real enough,” Augusta said. “Probably waited until dark to go back and retrieve the box—only it wasn’t there.”

“I’m surprised somebody didn’t see it earlier when they came to take Ella to the hospital,” I said. “I guess we were so worried about getting her there, we didn’t do much looking around.”

Augusta whisked our empty mugs to the sink to wash. “And why would you?” she asked over her shoulder. “At the time, no one took what Ella said to heart. After all, why would anyone want to cause her harm?”

I shook my head. “And what’s worse, it had to have been somebody here. Surely even Uncle Ernest would’ve noticed a stranger making off with poor Ella’s cat.”

Augusta didn’t answer right away. I suppose she must have been thinking the same thing.

“Just who
was
here today?” she asked finally.

“Well . . . you’ve heard me mention Marge and her family; Josie’s staying with them. Marge’s mother is my aunt Jane, but they live in Alabama and couldn’t be here because her dad just had hernia surgery. And then there’s Deedee, who’s married to Parker Driscoll, and their daughter, Cynthia.”

Augusta reached in her bag for a hankie, which she presented to Penelope, who was licking chocolate from her fingers, then nodded in my direction, apparently impatient for me to get on with it. “And?” she said.

“Uncle Lum, Aunt Leona and their son, Grady . . .” I counted on my fingers. “Then Uncle Ernest, of course, and Ma Maggie and Violet . . . I think that’s all . . . no, wait! I forgot Belinda, only she didn’t show up until this afternoon.”

And then I had to explain to Augusta about Belinda Donahue and her connection to the family. “Violet says she and Ella didn’t get along,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean she shoved her over a ledge, and Uncle Ernest didn’t mention her being here earlier.”
Which didn’t mean a thing
, I thought. My uncle isn’t the chatty type.

“Burdette phoned the sheriff’s department after he and Parker chased the trespasser all the way to Remeth Cemetery,” I told her, “and they promised to come out and look around, but I doubt if they’ll find anything now.”

Augusta peered at her reflection in the kitchen window and tweaked a strand of straying hair, then flushed when she saw me watching. I don’t know why. If I had hair like Augusta’s, I’d carry a mirror in front of me.

She turned quickly from the window and came to stand beside my chair. “I think it would be a good idea tomorrow,” she said, “if you told these policemen about the box.”

But I almost forgot about that the next morning when members of the Belle Fleurs Garden Club turned up a skeleton in old Remeth churchyard. One that wasn’t supposed to be there.

We heard it first from Burdette. Leona and Lum hadn’t come downstairs yet, and Uncle Ernest had already left for the hospital. Grady and I had finished our cereal and were on our second cup of coffee when we heard somebody hollering outside. I jumped up, recognizing the voice at once. My cousin Burdette’s accustomed to projecting into the far corners of the sanctuary—with or without a microphone.
Something had happened to Josie, or to Marge or one of the boys!

By the time I reached the door, Burdette was already halfway up the front steps and his round face was as colorless as a slice of white bread. “Cell phone’s dead,” he said, charging past me. “Gotta use the phone.”

I stepped aside, too terrified to do anything but stammer, “W-what’s wrong?” Following him, I tugged at his elbow. “Burdette, is somebody hurt? Is Josie all right? Tell me! What’s going on?”

Burdette mopped his brow with a crumpled red bandanna and shook his head. “No, Josie’s fine, Kate. Everybody’s okay . . .” He stopped to catch his breath. “It’s just that we found—Well, we were trying to dig up this old wisteria vine in the churchyard over there, and we pulled up a skeleton with it!”

“Dear God!” I said, wishing I had skipped that second cup of coffee. “Can’t you just shove it back in and cover it up?”

“You found a
what
?” I turned to find Grady standing in the kitchen doorway.

“A skeleton.” Burdette punched in the emergency numbers and told the dispatcher what he’d just shared with Grady and me.

“Yes, ma’am, I know we can expect to find skeletons in a cemetery,” he said, “but this one was buried in a shallow grave with no marker, and it appears to have been wrapped in some sort of tarp . . .
tarp
, yes . . . one of those plastic covers you use to keep out the rain.”

I could see that Burdette, although usually calm, was beginning to lose his cool because his face was getting flushed. “No, ma’am, I don’t know how long it’s been there, but I suggest you get in touch with the people from forensics who might be able to find out . . . the police. Right. Whoever this person was didn’t wrap up in that tarp and climb in by himself. Or maybe it was herself. That’s another thing they’ll have to find out.”