Angel at Troublesome Creek

by Ballard, Mignon F.

  I wish I could feel comforted in this place where Aunt Caroline had waited for me after school, tried patiently to teach me to play the piano, read aloud from Heidi and Pinocchio on rainy afternoons. It was the only home I could remember, but all I could feel was hurt. There was no one left for me. Uncle Henry and Aunt Caroline were gone, and the friends I’d known in school here had either moved away or started families of their own. I was alone. Losing my parents so early had made it hard for me to relate to others my own age, and I guess it carried over into adulthood. I was afraid to reach out, afraid to risk being hurt. Again.

  I wasn’t going to cry. Delia Sims. I would go over and talk with our neighbor. Augusta had advised me to get an appraisal on the furniture. At least she’d said one thing that made sense. I grabbed my keys and locked the door behind me—wondering if it would keep out angels—then headed across the street. That was when I noticed the frilly do-nothing hat atop the bright blob of hair atop the head in the passenger window of my car.

  “What took you so long?” Augusta Goodnight wanted to know. “I’ve been sitting here so long, Kilroy came and went, then came back with his grandchildren.”

  “Kilroy?” I frowned at her, then laughed. I hadn’t meant to laugh. Talk about annoying … meddlesome … add presumptuous to that! Who did she think she was?

  “The shoes,” Augusta reminded me. “We were going to shop for shoes.” Then, “You look nice in that dress.”

  “Thank you.” I got in beside her. Maybe I could dump her at the shoe store and scram.

  But that was not to be. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen as much traffic!” Augusta held to her hat as though she thought it might blow away. “Where do all these cars come from?” It was hard for her to believe some families had two or three vehicles in the garage. And the gas to run them on. “And they’re all going so fast! My, when I was here last, they wouldn’t allow you to drive over thirty-five miles an hour.”

  We drove past the gray stone church where my aunt had belonged, and her parents and grandparents before her. Farther down the street the red-brick middle school, abandoned now for a state-of-the-art building, seemed to mock us with its silence; weeds shoved through cracks in the cement walk, letters were missing from the sign out front. When my aunt subbed for the chorus teacher during my student days here, she’d pretended not to know me and I was secretly relieved. She knew how easily embarrassed kids are at that age, but it shamed me now to think of it.

  I pulled into a parking space right in front of Hobgood’s Bootery, just off the main street of town. “If you don’t see anything you like in here,” I said, “we’ll have to go to the mall.”

  “The what?” Augusta made a face as she got out of the car. “Looks like I’ll need some stockings too. This one has a ladder clear to my toes.” She studied the display in the window and pointed to a pair of shoes. “I’ll take those gold ones right there in a six double-A if they have them. Can’t remember my stocking size.”

  “Never mind, we can guess,” I said, heading for the entrance. “Well, come on, let’s get it over with.”

  But Augusta shook her head. “You go on in, I’ll wait.” She gave me ten dollars from her handbag. “Will this be enough?”

  “For a down payment maybe.” Was she kidding? “Look at the price in the window. You have expensive taste.”

  “Sixty dollars for a pair of shoes! My heavens, do I look like Rockefeller?” Augusta positively swooned. “See what you can do for forty—and not a cent more!”

  Chick Hobgood, the shop’s proprietor and this afternoon’s only clerk, hurried to offer his hand and his sympathy. “Your aunt and I went to school together, you know. She was only a couple of grades ahead of me.” He shook his head. “Her accident was a shock to us all.”

  I wanted to tell him my aunt’s death was no accident and ask if he knew of any enemies she might have, but this wasn’t the time. Instead I thanked him and selected some panty hose and a pair of shoes on sale that were as close as I could find to the ones in the window.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do with the house, Mary George?” he asked, making change.

  “Guess I’ll have to sell it.”

  Mr. Hobgood smiled at me. “Didn’t suppose you’d want to move back home now.” He seemed disappointed.

  “Actually I am looking for another job.” Now, what made me tell him that? I took the change and watched him put my purchases in a bag with the familiar red lettering. Aunt Caroline had bought my first pair of heels in this same store.

  He held on to the sack so long I thought I might have to pry it from him. “You might not be interested in this,” he said, finally letting go, “but I hear Doc Nichols is looking for a receptionist. Last one quit after she had her baby.”

  “Doc Nichols?” I couldn’t remember any doctor named Nichols.

  Chick Hobgood laughed. “Animal doctor. Clarence Nichols is a veterinarian. Clinic’s over on Elderberry Road—you know, where the old post office used to be.”

  I knew, and I thanked him. I would keep it in mind, I said.

  It wasn’t until I showed Augusta the shoes that I realized in my hurry I’d grabbed the wrong size. “Wait a minute—these are five triple-A’s.” I started to put them back in the bag. “Sorry. I’ll run in and swap them, won’t take a minute.”

  But Augusta already had them out of the box and on her feet. “Never mind, they’ll do just fine,” she said, holding them out in front of her.

  “But they’ll hurt your feet. Augusta, there’s no way you can wear those shoes. Here, let me—”

  “Honestly, there’s plenty of room, see?” She easily slipped one off and on, her smile as pleased as a child’s.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t regret the choice. Some people push vanity to the limits!

  But Augusta loved the shoes, marveled over the panty hose—“What? No garters?”—and hummed her exasperating tune all the way home. She disappeared to try on the hose as soon as we stepped inside, while I phoned my neighbor to thank her for the cake and ask about the furniture.

  Not only had my aunt and Delia Sims grown up together but they’d been best friends and neighbors for years. When Aunt Caroline was president of the Women’s Club, Delia was her vice president, and when Delia headed the Presbyterian Women, my aunt faithfully took the minutes.

  “Oh, honey, I wish you didn’t have to go through this right now.” Delia spoke with a catch in her voice. “Some of your aunt’s things you might want to keep. I wouldn’t rush into anything just yet.”

  “Miss Delia, I really don’t have any choice.” It was hard to admit what an awful fix I was in, even to someone I knew as well as our neighbor, but I explained the situation without going into all the grim details.

  There was silence on the line, and then a couple of dainty sniffs. “Well, bless your heart,” Miss Delia said. “I’ll just come over there this very afternoon and we’ll go through that house. Give me a minute or so to feed these hungry kitties of mine, and I’ll be right there.” And before I could answer, my neighbor had hung up.

  This very afternoon … I’ll be right there. As in now. I raced from room to room flapping at the dustiest places with a towel, and quickly rinsed the dishes in the sink. Someone had brought poppyseed muffins on a dainty, rose-patterned platter. I’d nibbled one for breakfast the day before and found it stale. Now I dumped the rest of the muffins down the disposal and quickly washed the plate, adding it to the stack to be returned. Now for the bathroom! Had I left dirty clothes on the floor after my shower? Probably, and my bedroom was a mess. And where was Augusta Goodnight? Waiting in the car again? Well, she could just wait!

  In the waste basket in my bedroom I found two seamed stockings with runs, two worn circles of elastic, and a pair of very ugly shoes. But no Augusta Goodnight. I felt slightly used. I had fed this strange creature, chauffeured her about, and now I’d been abandoned. Well, good riddance! In the front hall I heard Miss Delia’s soft littl
e owl call, “Ouu-oo?” and hurried to greet her.

  Having shed her clumsy shoes, the woman calling herself Augusta apparently had taken off again just as I began to wonder if I really could help bring my aunt’s killer to justice. Somebody had to, didn’t they? And now it looked as though I’d have to do it myself. Angel, my foot! Still, I found myself humming that annoying song of Augusta’s while Delia prowled the dining room.

  “My goodness, that old song brings back memories!” Delia Sims pulled her head from inside the dark oak sideboard. “Haven’t heard that old thing in years. Where in the world did you hear it?”

  “That? I don’t know. It just kind of stuck in my head. Must’ve heard it on the radio.” I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see Augusta Goodnight standing behind me with a disapproving look. I could sense her discomfort when I lied. But she wasn’t there. “What’s the name of it?” I asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Of course,” Delia said. “It was popular back in the forties during World War Two. It’s called ‘Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer.’”

  I smiled and turned away. “That figures,” I whispered to no one at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The letter came the next day. Less than forty-eight hours after my aunt’s funeral I received an envelope addressed to me in her round, hurried scrawl, and my body went rag-doll limp as I ripped it open. How wonderful to imagine that Aunt Caroline wasn’t dead! It had all been a ghastly mistake, and someone else was buried in that plot on the side of the hill behind Cleveland Avenue Presbyterian Church. After all, wasn’t she writing to me as always?

  Only the letter had been forwarded from my Charlotte address, and the postmark was over a week old. I took the tissue-thin pages into the living room so I couldn’t see the stairs where she fell, and read through a hot film of tears. The letter was dated four days before she died:

  Mary George, honey!

  Wish you’d stay at home once in a while! I’ve tried to phone three times.

  Guess what? Remember that old Bible you brought with you as a child? Well, I ran across it while dusting the bookshelves the other day—the day after I found that cute picture of you and the little boy at the Easter-egg hunt. (Sam, wasn’t it? You used to talk about him all the time). Anyway, the Bible had fallen behind that set of encyclopedias, and no telling how long it’s been there—which should give you an idea of how lax I’ve become about dusting, or about looking things up, for that matter!

  At any rate I think I’ve discovered something that might lead to exciting news—at least I hope it will. I’ll tell you about it when you come for Mother’s Day.

  Can hardly wait to see you! Am trying hard to lose weight, but just this once I’ll bake us something special. What about a strawberry shortcake? That was always your favorite.

  By the way, I’m holding off announcing your engagement in the paper here until I hear from you. It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. And Delia tells me several of the churches there in Charlotte have active singles groups!??!

  Much love as ever from your aunt Caroline

  I smiled. My aunt never did take to the idea of my marrying Todd. The one time I brought him home with me he came to the dinner table wearing a baseball cap, and to top it all, never wrote a proper thank-you note. Maybe I should’ve picked up on that. Good raising will always tell, Aunt Caroline said.

  I folded the pages into a tiny square and tucked them into my bra as I sat in her rocking chair, my hands on the worn arms where her hands had been. This was as close as I was ever going to get to the woman who raised me, and I felt hollow inside without her.

  Later, when Delia came over to help me sort my aunt’s belongings, I showed the letter to her as we wrapped Aunt Caroline’s fragile, fern-patterned china, her crystal stemware, and packed them in boxes. For me, my neighbor insisted, because my aunt would want me to use it, pass it on.

  But pass it on to whom? I thought, picturing (with relief) a baby with Todd Burkholder’s big ears, wearing a baseball cap.

  “Did Aunt Caroline ever mention that Bible to you?” I asked.

  Delia shook her head silently as she read the note, then wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron. “No, but then I was in Atlanta for over a week during Doreen’s surgery—had that by-pass thing. Doreen’s my only sister, only sibling, really. We lost our little brother when he was just a child.” She looked at the letter again. “I expect she ran across your Bible while I was away.”

  “Wonder what she meant by, ‘something that could lead to exciting news,’” I said. I couldn’t imagine anything exciting in my family background.

  “Why don’t you look and see? Where is the Bible? Maybe we can find out.” Delia ran a finger around the rim of a goblet. It made a clear, ringing sound.

  “That’s just it, I can’t find it. I’ve looked in her desk, the table by her bed, all the likely places.”

  “Must’ve put it somewhere for safekeeping,” Delia said. “It’s bound to turn up when we start going through the books.”

  But it didn’t. Aunt Caroline had put away the Bible soon after I came to live here. It was old, she said, and the pages were thin. I was given a sturdier, modern translation that was still in the stand next to my bed in my two-room Charlotte apartment, or it was the last time I looked. I’ve sort of gotten out of the habit of reading it, I’m afraid.

  The old family edition I’d brought with me to Snapfinger Road had a place of honor on the bookshelf in the living room until, somehow or other, it must have slipped behind the row of bulky reference books.

  I didn’t find the Bible in the tall, glassed-in case in the back hall, or in any of the numerous stacks of “books to be read” that had accumulated around the house. I even checked my aunt’s “secret” places where she used to hide my Christmas gifts in a crevice behind her closet shelf, or buried in her lingerie drawer. Nothing. Again I searched the shelves in the living room. No luck there either.

  “Delia, have you noticed anybody unusual over here lately?” I asked as we emptied the kitchen cabinets.

  She examined a rusting sifter and tossed it aside. “What do you mean unusual?”

  “Somebody you didn’t know. Somebody who … well, maybe shouldn’t have been here.”

  “Well, other that the usual folks, Bonita Moody’s the only person I’ve seen on a regular basis. Now, she’s peculiar—but probably not in the way you mean.” Delia looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Mary George, why are you asking me this? Surely you don’t think somebody was responsible for Caroline’s death!”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just asking.” But I did know. I knew somebody had killed my aunt just as surely as I was standing there on her worn blue linoleum with a chipped brown pitcher in my hand, but I didn’t want to frighten Delia.

  I put the pitcher aside with the sifter. “Who’s Bonita Moody? What do you know about her?”

  “Not much to know. Late thirties maybe, cashier at the Triple Value—you know, that new mart where the feed store used to be. I’ve noticed her over here several times. Rabbity little thing. Acts like she’d wet her pants if you said boo.”

  “When was she usually here?” I asked.

  “Monday afternoons as a rule, about the middle of the day. Always parked in back. I’d see her turning in when I came out to get my mail.”

  “Did Aunt Caroline ever mention her?”

  Delia looked at me strangely. “I never asked, Mary George. Just figured she must’ve been helping with some of the heavy cleaning. Caroline wasn’t up to it with her blood pressure and all. ’Course, she’d never admit it to me. Your aunt didn’t tell me everything, you know.”

  Did I detect a bit of resentment there? “Do you remember if she was here the day Aunt Caroline died?” I asked.

  “That would be on a Tuesday, so I doubt it—no, wait! That was the day I took the kitties to the vet for their leukemia shots, and I saw her turning in as I backed out of the driveway. I remember wondering why she was
coming on a different day. You know, Mary George, I believe she was here.”

  “Did you see Aunt Caroline after she left?”

  Delia sat abruptly and propped her head in her hands. She reminded me of the illustrations in nursery rhyme books with her dainty Mother Goose face and white hair pulled back in a neat bun. And when she stood her head came barely to my chin. Now she looked like a little old child sitting there and it made my heart turn over. “I don’t remember … I honestly don’t remember! Mary George, is this important? Do you really think that woman had anything to do with Caroline’s fall?”

  I could see I was upsetting her, and I really felt awful about it, but I had to know. “I’m not sure she fell,” I said.

  I got one of those silent, sympathetic looks people reserve for friends who are going off the deep end. Yet I could tell she was holding something back.

  “Was there anyone else?” I asked softly.

  Delia shrugged. “Well, it’s been a while, but there was a man—young fellow. He was here several times back in the early spring. I teased Caroline about him once. Kind of embarrassed her, I think. I could tell she didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  She rose and began wrapping the last of the mismatched dinner plates. “Oh, dear, I don’t know. Several weeks at least. I just knew I’d never seen him before, haven’t seen him since.” She sighed. “Whoever he was, your aunt Caroline wasn’t telling.”

  I set my aunt’s cookbook aside to keep. One of these days I might even learn to use it. “She seemed to be looking forward to having her bridge club over,” I said. The group had been playing together for years.