Angel at Troublesome Creek

by Ballard, Mignon F.

  “Are you talking about Normandy as in France? Just how old do you think I am?” I glanced at my reflection in the toaster and wiped a smudge from my cheek. I knew I wasn’t looking my best, but still—

  “I know exactly how old you are, you’re twenty-six. They fill us in on background information before we come. That’s how I knew about your aunt’s storing tea bags in the garlic jar.”

  Poor Aunt Caroline. The coroner said it looked as though she’d fallen from the top of the attic stairs. But what in the world was she doing up there? She always got out of breath climbing those steep steps, and I had made her promise she wouldn’t go up there alone. I didn’t think my aunt would go back on her word. The delicate hankie Augusta had given me earlier was in a damp wad in my pants pocket, but I used it anyway.

  When I looked up, Augusta was beside me. She smelled of fresh strawberries and mint, and the touch of her small hand made me feel lighter somehow. “I know how terrible you must feel about your aunt,” she said. “But you will heal, I promise. It just takes time.”

  “She wasn’t really my aunt,” I explained, “but she was all I had, and I loved her. She and Uncle Henry took me in when I was barely eight; except for my parents, they were the only people who ever really cared about me … unless you count this one little boy back at Summerwood Acres.” Sam. I remembered how he’d comforted me when I first came to Summerwood and was so afraid of the dark. “Night is just day painted over, Mary G.,” Sam reasoned. And I’ve never forgotten it. “He probably wouldn’t remember me now,” I said.

  Augusta consulted a small notebook she’d taken from her seemingly bottomless handbag, and apparently finding nothing there, put it back with a click of the catch. “We don’t know that,” she said, “so we’ll just have to find out, won’t we? But first, I think you should decide what you’re going to do.”

  “Do?” I hadn’t thought further than jumping off the kitchen stool in the back hall with a rope around my neck. And I don’t care what Augusta Goodnight says, that rope seemed sturdy enough at the time!

  “With your life. You have to have someplace to live, work—unless, of course, you’re independently wealthy. Did I overlook that in my notes?”

  I would’ve laughed had I been so inclined. Not only was I not wealthy, Aunt Caroline had left several outstanding debts. Large debts. Already creditors were breathing down my neck, and there was barely enough to pay funeral expenses. “I guess the first thing to do is try and sell this place,” I said. The big old house on Snapfinger Road was drafty and in need of repairs, but it was the only real home I’d known since Daddy took a notion to pass on a hill and made an orphan of me. I frowned. “And I guess the furniture must be worth something. Delia would know.”

  “Delia? The black-market sugar neighbor who made that heavenly fudge cake?”

  “She used to have an antique shop,” I said. “And why do you keep carrying on about sugar? Sugar isn’t rationed. Obviously you didn’t get the message up there in your strawberry patch—or wherever—but World War Two has been over for fifty years.”

  Augusta sat so hard her little hat slid clear to the middle of her nose. “Now you’re joshing me,” she said.

  “I’m not in a joshing mood.”

  “Fifty years! My goodness … We did win, didn’t we? Tell me we won.

  I nodded. “At a price.” I thought of the losses on D day, and there was a monument here in the park to all the local servicemen who died in that war. Too many. And of course I’d read about Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

  “We have no way to measure time in heaven,” Augusta said. “No watches, no calendars—not even a sundial. Don’t need them.” She smiled. “Does this mean you can have all the sugar you want? And cheese and coffee? And gasoline—what about gasoline?”

  “That too.” I watched the woman’s face for any sign she was faking. She was either a very good actress or a genuine loony.

  “In that case,” Augusta said, “could I please have another piece of that cake?”

  “Be my guest. In fact, I’ll have one with you.” I hated to acknowledge it, but I was getting hungry. It was the first sign of an appetite since my whole life began to plunge into the basement.

  I uncovered the cake and looked at it closely. I could’ve sworn I’d served a larger portion than what appeared to be missing, but the chocolate cake looked as if it had hardly been touched.

  Augusta swung her foot as she watched me cut two generous wedges and fill glasses with milk. “Do you think we might drop by the shoe store this afternoon? I’d really like to get rid of these clodhoppers.”

  I made a face at the woman’s hideous footwear. “Good idea. But just how long do you plan to stay?”

  “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!” Augusta raised her glass and drank. “As long as necessary, I guess, or until my mission’s accomplished.”

  “And what, pray tell, might that be?”

  She patted her milk mustache with her napkin and smiled. “I don’t suppose Bud Abbott and that tubby little Costello man are still making those amusing pictures? And what about that skinny young singer … Frank something or other? Oh, the girls used to swoon over him! ‘The Voice,’ they called him. Sang sweet enough to bring tears to a glass eye.”

  “Afraid not,” I said. “And you didn’t answer my question. Wasn’t your mission accomplished when you kept me from hanging myself?”

  “That wasn’t my mission at all. I thought I explained that. If you had really meant to kill yourself, I wouldn’t have been able to stop you.”

  “Then what?”

  “Time will tell. Maybe it has something to do with the way your aunt died. Or the way you choose to live—or should I say exist? For heaven’s sake, Mary George, don’t you want to find out what happened here?”

  “Of course I do, but I can’t imagine why anybody would want to hurt Aunt Caroline. She was the sweetest, kindest person I’ve ever known.”

  Augusta nodded. “And that’s exactly why we’d want to put things right. Now, when was the last time you spoke with her?”

  “Must’ve been a couple of weeks ago. I usually call … called every week, but with that mess at the office, and then Todd, I let it get by me … . Didn’t want her to worry.” I stared at the lump of cake on my plate and pushed it away. I wasn’t so hungry after all. Come to think of it, it was a week ago today my chicken-livered fiancé had left his sorry-to-hurt-you message on my answering machine. One week ago. And they had buried my aunt only yesterday.

  “Do you remember what she said?” Augusta went to the window where she held aside the blue-flowered curtain to watch passing traffic. “My goodness!” she said, her eyes widening.

  “Nothing special,” I answered. “She was expecting her bridge club this week—today, in fact, and said she was giving the living room a thorough cleaning.” That was when Aunt Caroline had found that old picture of Sam and me at the Easter-egg hunt. I smiled, remembering how my aunt always covered her dress in a huge red striped apron and tied her curly gray hair in a rag before attacking the enemy: dirt.

  “And she’d been to see Dr. Kiker; he’s our family doctor.”

  Augusta dropped the curtain and whirled about. “Ah!” she said. “So your aunt was in poor health?”

  “Nothing that couldn’t be controlled. High blood pressure—sometimes she had dizzy spells. That’s why I didn’t want her in the attic, but she was on medication.” I swallowed to keep my voice from shaking. “My aunt was only in her midsixties, she should’ve had a lot of years left. Dr. Kiker thinks she must’ve forgotten to take her medicine and had one of her swimmy-headed turns, but I think he’s full of beans!” I stood abruptly, scraped my plate in the sink, and switched on the garbage disposal.

  I heard the legs of a chair skidding across the floor behind me, and then a soft thud, followed by Augusta’s frightened shriek. “What on earth are you doing under the table?” I asked.

  “Get down!” Augusta yelled. “We’re being blitzed!”

&nb
sp; “It’s only a garbage disposal.” I reached out to her. “Come on, I’ll show you how it works.”

  But Augusta held back. “Does it always come on like gangbusters? I thought we were being attacked.” The woman straightened her pert hat, which didn’t seem to have suffered from her dive under the table, and smoothed the frilly collar of her blouse. Angel or not, she really was quite vain. “I don’t suppose you’ve looked up there yet?” Augusta said.

  “Where?”

  “In the attic. Look, maybe somebody gave your aunt a push, maybe not, but there must have been a reason she was taking a chance on those stairs. Something important. Maybe we can find out what it was.” Augusta waited for me by the kitchen door. “Well? Come on, then.”

  And bossy too, I thought as I followed her up the narrow stairs.

  It didn’t take long to figure out somebody had been there before us.

  I hadn’t been in the attic since the week after Christmas when I came here to put away tree decorations, and at first I thought it looked much as I’d left it.

  Except for the ceramic dog. The cookie jar with the chipped ear that always sat by the kitchen window. Aunt Caroline kept it filled with molasses crisps and snicker doodles, and I had broken the lid when I was about nine. But after I left home to take that job in Charlotte, my aunt didn’t bake much anymore, and the ceramic dog was banished to the attic.

  Now it sat in the middle of the floor in a box that once held the coffee maker I gave my aunt for her birthday. Gently I touched the top of its glossy head. Most of these things could be disposed of at a yard sale, but this I meant to keep. Just behind it to the left, a fold of yellowed lace cascaded from the trunk Aunt Caroline’s mother had taken to college. It looked as though someone had dropped the lid in a hurry, leaving the contents in a tumble, and when I opened it, that’s exactly what I found. Fringed shawls and satin slippers, lace-trimmed dainties, and the quaint cloche hats I’d loved to dress up in were tossed about as if somebody had wadded them up and thrown them there. The musty smell stung my nose.

  “Would you look at this! I used to have a pair just like them!” Augusta snatched up a wrinkled pair of kid gloves the color of weak tea. Digging into the jumble she found a shimmering Champagne-colored dress with beaded flounces, which she held to the light. “Looks just about my size. This flapper style makes your hips look trim, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t answer. I had moved on to a box of sheet music my aunt used to play at weddings. Somebody had stuffed it there in a hodgepodge with dog-eared edges, and I didn’t think it had been Aunt Caroline.

  “Somebody’s been up here,” I said, but Augusta was too occupied with other things to pay attention. Now she twirled about the attic flapping an ostrich plume fan and humming an unfamiliar tune. “Aunt Caroline wouldn’t have left her mother’s trunk in such a mess,” I said as she floated by, “and what’s this?” Inside a garment bag thrown over an upturned chair, I found the wedding dress my aunt usually kept in the big oak wardrobe at the far end of the attic.

  “I know it’s out of style,” Aunt Caroline had said, “but if you ever want to wear it, you know it would make me happy.” I had tried it on when I was twelve and could barely get it buttoned. It couldn’t be larger than a size six—probably perfect for Todd’s new sexpot girlfriend. It would make me happy, I thought, if I could just fit into it.

  I smoothed the rumpled dress and hung it back in the wardrobe, looking about to see if anything else was out of place, then turned to find Augusta Goodnight standing beside me. I hadn’t even heard her cross the room—which in those heavy shoes was something of an accomplishment.

  “Seems as though somebody was looking for something,” Augusta said. “Do you think it could be the same person responsible for your aunt’s death?”

  “But what would they be looking for? She didn’t have anything valuable, and she was still wearing her watch and rings when they found her.” I moved a stack of old textbooks from a rickety ladder-back chair and sat, past worrying over dust and white pants. What kind of person would want to hurt Aunt Caroline? I didn’t want it to be true. Surely my aunt’s death had been an accident!

  “Maybe she was interrupted while she was up here,” I said. “The phone rang, or somebody came to the door. That might be why she left it this way. She meant to come back.”

  “But wouldn’t she have left the lid to the trunk open? And what about that box of music? That’s no way to go through sheet music.”

  Augusta had a point. Whoever had been here hadn’t exactly turned the place upside down, but there were signs enough to tell me all wasn’t right.

  Augusta whisked dainty hands together and flicked invisible dust from her sleeve. “A bit grimy up here, isn’t it?” She frowned at the small window curtained with cobwebs. “Rather gray and glum.”

  I grinned. “Grisly, grimy, glumpy bats …”

  “I beg your pardon?” Augusta arched a perfect brow.

  “‘Grisly, grimy, glumpy bats, brewed and stewed in lizard fat!’” I giggled. “It’s a verse we made up at Summerwood. Now, what made me think of that?” Sam again. He could still make me laugh after almost twenty years.

  It had rained earlier and the attic was steamy. I pushed a clinging strand of hair from my face and fanned myself with a program from a long-ago concert. If only I knew what I was looking for! “Why don’t you check that end of the attic and see what turns up?” I said. “I’ll look over here.”

  “Roger,” Augusta Goodnight said.

  I lasted about an hour. My shirt stuck to my back, my eyes itched from the dust, and I had tied an old bandana around my head to keep from looking like Medusa. If anyone had been here searching for something, I didn’t know what it could have been.

  Augusta, knee-deep in dusty cartons and humming sweetly, looked immaculate. “You’re not planning to go out like that, are you?” she asked, glancing at me over her shoulder.

  “Was I supposed to be going somewhere?”

  “The shoe store. Remember? You did say you’d drive me to get some shoes this afternoon.” Augusta eyed me critically. “I hope you’re not going dressed like Rosie the Riveter.”

  Who on earth was Rosie the Riveter? I decided to let that pass. Had this curious person adopted me or something? How was I going to get rid of her? “I had planned to shower and change if it’s quite all right with you,” I told her. “Unless, of course, you’re in some particular hurry.”

  Apparently sarcasm was lost on the woman. “I’ve waited fifty years to dump these dreadful shoes,” she said. “Another few minutes won’t hurt.”

  But when I got out of the shower, Augusta Goodnight was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I’d gotten the news about Aunt Caroline’s death, I had thrown a few essentials into an overnight bag—just enough to get me through the funeral. I hadn’t yet decided to do away with myself, but life hadn’t been all that great for me lately, and I didn’t look forward to more of the same. I couldn’t plan far enough ahead to pack.

  Now, going through the closet in my old room, I found a rose-splashed cotton print I’d almost forgotten. I had left it there in September along with other lightweight clothing, and although it was only the beginning of May, it was plenty warm enough to wear it in Troublesome Creek, North Carolina. I wiggled bare clean toes into a pair of old sandals and sat on the bed to fasten them. I had chosen the daisy-sprigged bedspread with curtains to match when I was in high school, and my one-eyed teddy bear, a gift from Uncle Henry, sagged forlornly on the pillow. I gave him a fond squeeze. An hour or so ago I had thought I’d never enter this room again, never do the ordinary things like deciding what to wear. Now it seemed I would, at least for a little while longer, but how would I manage to get along without Aunt Caroline? She was always there when I needed her: steady and wise and comforting. Yet, except in the case of Todd Burkholder, she never offered advice unless I asked for it. If I could, I would ask for it now. What was I supposed to do? Where should I begin?


  A list of course. Aunt Caroline always began with a list.

  I was searching my desk drawer for pencil and paper when I came across the frog. Well, it’s really not a frog, but a rock shaped like one. A “good-luck frog,” my friend Sam had called it when he gave it to me the night before he left Summerwood. Painted green with brown spots and gold eyes that looked slightly crossed, it would keep me from being lonesome, Sam said. Only it didn’t. When Sam told me good-bye that night at Summerwood, I knew I had lost my best friend. He was the first person near my age who showed me any kindness when my parents died, and the only one I could trust.

  I set the frog on my dresser while I brushed my clean brown hair that smelled of Aunt Caroline’s apricot herbal shampoo. Feeling oddly relaxed, I fastened it back from my face and added a dab of lipstick, a slight smear of blush. I really needed a haircut, but haircuts cost money, and I didn’t even have a job anymore.

  A wren fidgeted in the camellia bush outside my window, but the house seemed hollow in its silence. Had this strange woman walked away, first helping herself to the family silver? Was she waiting for me behind the folding door to the dining room with Aunt Caroline’s butcher knife? I walked through the empty rooms calling her name and was surprised at how disappointed I was when Augusta Goodnight didn’t answer. Whoever she was, the woman had probably moved on to the next naive person who would supply her with chocolate cake and coffee. And a good laugh.

  The living room looked as it always had—worn but comfortable, only my aunt wasn’t in it. I ran a finger through the dust on the piano. If she could see it, Aunt Caroline would have a fit and fall in it! I grabbed a few tissues from the box on the end table and wiped it sort of clean. The mystery my aunt had been reading, one of Carolyn Hart’s latest, was beside her chair with an envelope marking the place. I looked at the handwriting and saw that it was a note from me—to let my aunt know I’d be here for Mother’s Day. I hadn’t told her yet about that sewage sludge Todd Burkholder, or about the problems at work. And now I was glad.