Hark! The Herald Angel Screamed: An Augusta Goodnight Mystery (with Heavenly Recipes)

by Mignon F. Ballard

  “I suppose it began at Willowbrook when that vagrant fell from the balcony,” I said, “but I don’t see how that could possibly have anything to do with Idonia.”

  Augusta went to the kitchen and returned with a small plate of gingersnaps. Now she broke one in two, gave part of it to Clementine and ate the other.

  “Now, why did you do that, Augusta?” I asked. “You’re always telling me not to feed her and you’ve gone and broken your own rule. Clementine will be begging all night.”

  Augusta laughed. “No, she won’t, will you, Clementine? Be a good girl now and lie down.”

  The dog did as she was told without so much as a beseeching look.

  Augusta took another cookie and passed the plate to me. Clementine put a paw over her eyes and whimpered but she didn’t move. Augusta ignored her.

  “I’m afraid your friend, however innocent, has been caught up in a dangerous web of wickedness and deceit,” she said.

  “Idonia had nothing to do with whatever’s going on!” I said. “And now Opal Henshaw’s death has everybody scared. I’m worried, Augusta. I’m beginning to think this Melrose DuBois isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. Idonia admitted she saw him leaving the church tonight before Opal fell from the balcony … and frankly, we’re not all that sure Opal’s death was an accident.” I told Augusta where the missing cane was found.

  “Still,” she said, “we have to consider the possibility that Mr. DuBois might have had other reasons for being there. Perhaps he only wanted to hear the choir rehearse.”

  “Then why didn’t he stay? And why did he pretend he didn’t see Idonia when she called to him?” I shook my head. “No, I think there’s something fishy going on there, and I’m afraid poor Idonia’s going to be the one who pays for it.”

  “You said the police were there tonight. Did she mention this to them?”

  “You see … that’s another thing. She admitted that she didn’t, and now she’s all upset for keeping quiet about it,” I said.

  Augusta cupped her wineglass in both hands. “There must have been other people about as well,” she said.

  “Zee said she saw Preacher Dave cleaning in one of the Sunday school rooms, but that’s not unusual. He often works there at night and had been helping Opal with the decorations earlier. Chief Harris was talking with him when we left.”

  “Preacher Dave … his daughter wore an identical locket in that photograph on the Tanseys’ piano …” Augusta sat quietly for a while, wondering, no doubt how Miss Jane Marple or Hercule Poirot would approach the situation. “Do you think the authorities believe Opal Henshaw’s death was deliberate?”

  “It looks that way,” I told her. “And so do I.”

  “It would help,” she said, “if we knew more about the man who was killed out at Oakcreek.”

  “Huh?” Maybe I had missed something.

  “Your family home. Isn’t that what you call it?”

  I laughed. “I think you mean Willowbrook. And I agree it all seems to stem from what happened there. The police aren’t talking, but I’ll see if I can’t get Weigelia to find out if Kemper knows any more about it.”

  “Do you know where the Tanseys lived before they came here?” Augusta asked.

  “No, but I can find out,” I said. “The deacons are in charge of buildings and grounds so I’m sure they did some kind of background check before they hired Preacher Dave to fill in for Luther. Claudia’s husband Brian is on the Board of Deacons. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.” I yawned. “Right now I’m going to bed … and you might as well go ahead and give Clementine that other gingersnap you have in your hand. I know you’re going to do it as soon as I leave the room.”

  Augusta only smiled.

  “Lucy Nan, tell me it isn’t true about Opal falling from the balcony!” Claudia called the next morning before I had a chance to finish my first cup of coffee. “You were at choir rehearsal last night, weren’t you? I heard Ellis was the one who found her.”

  “The answer is yes to all of that,” I said. “Are you still at home? I was going to call Brian later to ask if he might have any information on where the Tanseys lived before they came here.”

  “I’m just getting ready to leave, but Brian’s in the shower. I’ll tell him to give you a call.” Claudia works several days a week in the dean’s office at Sarah Bedford, our local college. “Oh, Lord, Lucy Nan! Do you think this has anything to do with what happened to Idonia and the locket the Tanseys’ daughter wore in that picture? And I know I should feel awful about the things I said about Opal Henshaw, but I can’t help it. I just plain didn’t like her!”

  “I don’t guess we’re supposed to like everybody, Claudia. And let’s face it, Opal didn’t make it easy.”

  “Have you talked with Idonia this morning?” Claudia asked. “I called a little while ago to see if she was okay, and she wouldn’t give me the time of day. Sounded pretty upset.”

  I didn’t doubt it. “I’ll check on her later,” I said. “And don’t forget to ask Brian to give me a call.”

  I was putting away the breakfast dishes when Brian phoned a little later. “That was quite a shock about Opal Henshaw,” he began. “Police have been questioning Preacher Dave, I hear, and I understand he’s kind of upset.”

  “I can see why,” I said. “This has shaken everybody up. Brian, weren’t you on the committee that hired him when Luther fell and broke his hip? Do you happen to remember where the Tanseys lived before?”

  “You’ll have to ask your cousin about that, Lucy Nan. The family was already living out there on his property when he came with us. I do remember he gave us a written recommendation, though, from some little place in Georgia.”

  “Do you know where it was?”

  “No, but it’s in the files. I can look it up, or you can ask Frances.”

  Frances Smith was secretary of the diaconate and one of the few people I knew who wouldn’t be embarrassed if she were hit by a bus and strangers came to poke about in her refrigerator.

  “Sure,” Frances said, when I phoned her at home a few minutes later. “I remember exactly where Preacher’s from because it’s such a peculiar name for a town. He comes from a little place in Georgia called Soso—worked for a lumberyard there.” She paused. “I suppose you were at the church last night when they found poor Opal. Preacher Dave’s all torn up about it. Blames himself for not going up in the balcony to help her, and from what I hear, that idiot Elmer Harris isn’t making him feel any better grilling him like he did.”

  I agreed with Frances’s opinion of Stone’s Throw’s police chief, but I didn’t think it was out of line to question anyone who might have been in the church when Opal was killed. “He was probably in another part of the building when that happened,” I said. “Preacher Dave shouldn’t feel guilty about something he couldn’t help.”

  Unless he had reason, I thought.

  Augusta began looking up Soso in the encyclopedia as soon as I got off the phone. “I wonder why they named it Soso,” I said, looking over her shoulder. “Guess they decided it wasn’t all that great, but it wasn’t too bad, either—just soso.”

  “Here it is, right below Milledgeville. Is that very far from here?” Augusta held a finger in place on the map.

  “If we started early we could probably make it in a day,” I said. “I’ll ask Roger to drop by and let Clementine out while we’re gone, but first I want to see if Weigelia’s learned any more from Kemper.”

  But Weigelia Jones was more interested in what she could learn from me.

  “What about that Henshaw woman they say fell from you-all’s balcony?” she bellowed. “Sounds like somebody done pushed her to me!”

  I told her I suspected pretty much the same thing and had she managed to learn from Kemper any more about the dead man we found out at Willowbrook.

  “I believe I’m gonna be staying away from any balconies,” she said. “Getting to be downright dangerous if you ask me—bodies falling all over the place! Why you
so bent on knowing ‘bout that man?”

  “I have my reasons,” I said. “Just tell me, Weigelia. Do they know what he was doing there or not?”

  “Not,” she said. “Kemper did say somebody had seen him on a motorcycle when he stopped at a convenience store somewhere in North Carolina the day before he was killed, but ain’t no motorcycle turned up around here.” She frowned. “That’s all I know. Besides, I don’t think I’d tell you if I did know anything more. And don’t you and those Thursdays you run around with go poking your noses where you got no business! It would just plumb ruin my Christmas if I had to go to your funeral this week!”

  I thanked her for her thoughtful concern and promised to remain upright and breathing.

  It was a little after nine before Augusta and I got on our way, and we had been on the road for about an hour before I remembered I had meant to go by and check on Idonia.

  “You brought that funny little folding telephone along, didn’t you?” Augusta said. “I happen to have a Thermos of hot chocolate, and my strawberry muffins are still warm. Why don’t we stop up there on the other side of that bridge and you can call her?”

  Augusta is fascinated by the tiny size of cell phones but I can’t get her to use one to call me. She says her fingers are too big. “My old friend Mr. Bell would be amazed if he could see what has come of his fascinating invention!” she’d exclaimed when she first saw one.

  “You mean Alexander Graham Bell?” I said.

  “The very same.”

  “You knew Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone?”

  “And why ever not? That gentleman had his problems the same as everyone else. More than his share, in fact.” Augusta got almost testy.

  “You’ve never mentioned that before,” I reminded her.

  “I don’t like to brag,” she said.

  This morning the idea of hot chocolate and muffins sounded tempting and it had been a long time since breakfast. I parked under a large pine tree in a grassy area beside the road and punched in Idonia’s number while Augusta poured steaming chocolate into two Christmas mugs. It smelled wonderful!

  The phone rang four times before she answered, and Idonia’s voice sounded muffled.

  “Are you all right?” I said. “I’m worried about you, Idonia. Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Not much,” she said. Or at least I think that’s what she said.

  “Is Nathan still there?”

  “Had to leave for some kind of meeting,” she said. “No reason for him to stay anyway.”

  I took a sip of chocolate. And then another. “I don’t guess you’ve spoken with the police.”

  That was met with silence. “Idonia,” I said, “why don’t you just phone Melrose and talk with him about this instead of letting it worry you this way? I’m sure he must’ve had a reason for being at the church last night.”

  “Can’t. He’s gone.” If a voice were a color, Idonia’s would’ve been black.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I don’t know, Lucy Nan. The police were here asking about him earlier. Somebody told them they saw him leaving the church last night. They couldn’t find him at Opal’s and Al Evans said he hasn’t seen him since yesterday.”

  This didn’t sound good. “I’m going to call Ellis,” I told her, “so don’t do anything until you hear from her. And, Idonia? Lock your doors!”

  “We might have to turn around and go back home,” I said as I explained the situation to Augusta. “I don’t like leaving Idonia alone, and if I can’t reach Ellis or one of the other Thursdays, we’ll have to leave Soso for another day.”

  But Ellis picked up on the first ring. “North Pole,” she said. I could hear carols playing in the background.

  “You sound awfully chipper after your gruesome discovery last night. What are you doing?”

  “I know. I’m awful, aren’t I? But everybody’s coming here for Christmas and I’m getting ready to make Susan’s favorite cookies … I found the prettiest little Christmas dress for Beth, and that game she’s been asking for … and, oh, blast it, Lucy Nan, don’t ask me not to be merry! I’m not letting Opal Henshaw ruin the holidays for me!”

  I laughed. Ellis’s granddaughter, Beth, was almost seven and her daughter, Susan, was expecting her second child, a boy, the first of the year. “Do you think you might share some of that Christmas cheer with Idonia?” I told her about Melrose’s conspicuous absence.

  “That little jerk! Don’t worry, I’ll get her over here if I have to drag her, and I’ll call Zee and Jo Nell, too. Good excuse to bring out the wine.”

  “You know Idonia doesn’t drink wine,” I reminded her.

  “Well, maybe it’s time she started.” The music in the background shifted into secular with “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

  “Say, what are you and Augusta up to anyway? Where are you, Lucy Nan?”

  “Tell you when we get back,” I said, and helped myself to a muffin.

  “Idonia will be in good hands with The Thursdays,” I told Augusta, but we’d better get a move on if we plan to get to Soso and back in one day.”

  She packed the remaining muffins away. “I do hope we’re not just running around in pursuit of wild ducks,” she said.

  ugusta drew in her breath sharply as we drove through a small country crossroads before turning onto Interstate 26. “Dear heavens, what is that?” she asked, staring at a large looming figure in one of the yards to our right.

  I laughed. “An inflatable snowman,” I said. “It’s made out of vinyl.”

  “Why?” Augusta continued to look over her shoulder as we passed.

  “It’s a Christmas decoration,” I explained. “See, here’s a big Santa on the lawn up ahead.”

  “My goodness.” Augusta sighed, and adjusting her cape about her shoulders, took needlework from her huge tapestry bag to begin working what can only be described as magic. I glanced at her from time to time to see what looked like a winter landscape emerging as she drew threads in glorious colors in and out of the fabric. I’ve never seen her use a pattern nor have to remove a stitch.

  I turned the radio to a station that featured semiclassical holiday music and Augusta turned up the heater. Almost every house we passed had some token of the season: wreaths on doors, swags along fences, mailboxes decorated with evergreens and red ribbon. If our trip to Soso had been for some other reason, I would have felt positively festive, but in spite of The Thursdays and all their TLC, I couldn’t help worrying about Idonia. Someone had deliberately shoved Opal from that balcony, and if they felt it necessary, I didn’t think they would hesitate to kill again.

  “Oh, dear,” Augusta moaned when we turned onto Interstate 85 at Spartanburg, South Carolina. It was as close to complaining as she would allow herself and I knew she preferred to observe the scenery from the smaller side roads but today we needed to reach our destination as quickly as possible.

  “They have good barbecue in Georgia,” I told her. “We’ll stop somewhere for lunch.”

  Augusta perked up considerably. “And Brunswick stew?”

  Barbecue and Brunswick stew are two of Augusta’s favorite things. “Of course,” I assured her. “Where do you think Brunswick stew got its start?”

  But it took longer than I had remembered to reach the state line and by the time we crossed Lake Hartwell into Georgia it was after one o’clock and my stomach was growling. “If you can wait until we turn off at Commerce,” I told Augusta, “there used to be a good place to eat between there and Athens.”

  She looked up briefly from her needlework. “I’m not the one with the noisy stomach,” she said.

  Less than an hour later I turned onto Highway 441 and hurriedly purchased our late lunch to go at a place called Pig in a Poke, eating my barbecue sandwich as I drove. The two of us rode in companionable silence as we passed the little towns of Madison and Eatonton before branching out onto the two-lane road that would eventually take us to Soso. On either side
of the road, winter-bare trees stretched dark limbs against a gray sky, and now and again a strong wind swept dry brown leaves across the road in front of us. In the pasture on our left, white-faced cattle huddled together, looking up to stare as we passed by. I glanced at my watch to find it was three-fourteen. Soon we would lose daylight and a storm was coming up.

  “Here! Turn left!” Augusta suddenly directed, pointing to a sign a few miles down the road. “Soso must be over this way.”

  “Don’t blink,” I said a few minutes later as we came into a smattering of stores and houses scattered along both sides of the road.

  “Why not?” Augusta asked.

  I laughed. “It’s just an expression. It means the place is so small, if you blink you might miss it.”

  Augusta didn’t answer. Her attention seemed to be fixed on something on the opposite side of the street and she turned to look back as we drove past.

  “What is it? Did you see any sign of the lumberyard?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s just that for a minute I thought—”

  “Thought what?”

  “It’s nothing, really.” Augusta waved her elegant hand. “Now what are we supposed to be looking for?”

  “We need to find the lumberyard. Sandy said Preacher Dave had a recommendation from a man named Martin Shackelford of Shackelfords’ Lumber.”

  “Perhaps we should ask—” Augusta suggested.

  “No need. Can’t you smell it?” The pungent scent of raw pine and sawdust grew stronger as we came to the end of the third block. “There it is, just down the road on the right.”

  “It appears to be closed,” Augusta said as we drew up in front of a head-high chain-link fence. “The gate’s locked.”

  I parked and got out of the car to see if I could find a sign of life, but the only living being I aroused was a mutt about half as big and ten times more ferocious-sounding than Clementine, which came bounding out, teeth barred. This dog was not in a good mood. I backed quickly away.