Too Late for Angels

by Mignon F. Ballard

  “Maybe we can get her to take a shower, offer a change of clothes,” Lucy whispered as they approached the door of Julie’s old room.

  She could feel Ellis’s hand on her shoulder as she opened the door. Would the mysterious Shirley turn out to be Ellis’s long-lost cousin Florence?

  But they would have to wait to find out because the woman who called herself Shirley was no longer there.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m having a glass of wine,” Lucy said after they had searched the house from basement to attic and hollered themselves hoarse. Ellis had even telephoned Nettie to see if the woman had wandered next door.

  Ellis swirled chardonnay in her glass. “Where on earth could she have gone?”

  “Beats me, but it must have happened when I was outside cleaning up the spilled garbage,” Lucy said. “Her pocketbook’s missing and it was right here in the kitchen. She had to have slipped out the back way or I would’ve seen her.”

  “Must’ve had more on the ball than we thought,” Ellis said. “Just needed a place to sleep for a while, I guess. Sure put one over on you.”

  “Then she had to be some good actress, and she knew all about poor little Florence and Papa Zeke.” Lucy made a face. She didn’t like being made a fool of and if she ever had an opportunity to see this Shirley again, she would tell her so in no uncertain terms.

  But of course that would never happen because somebody from the police department called a few minutes later to tell them a woman had been found in the parking lot behind the Methodist Church with a sales receipt bearing Lucy Pilgrim’s signature crumpled in her coat pocket. She was discovered at the bottom of a steep flight of steps with her neck broken. Her handbag was found a few feet away, but her money and rings were missing.

  Chapter Three

  Lucy noticed her hair first. She had seen hair that color in vintage paintings: rich as honey, but lighter, with a soft metallic luster she imagined old gold would have. The woman who stood on the porch wore a long cape of deep emerald with a lining of shimmering plum that seemed to change like a holograph in the cold morning sun.

  “I came about the room,” she said, and her voice was so calm and reassuring after the disaster of the day before that Lucy had a strange impulse to unload all her troubles at her feet.

  “You are Lucy Nan Pilgrim?” She took a torn fragment of newspaper from her worn tapestry bag. “And this is one-oh-eight Heritage Avenue? Oh, I do hope the room’s not taken! Living here would be such a convenience—not that it matters, of course.” And with a slight shiver she drew her cape more closely about her.

  “Oh…sorry, you must be freezing. Please come in.” As Lucy stood aside to let her pass, she detected the unmistakable scent of strawberries. Strange for this time of year, but then there’s no accounting for some people’s taste in cologne, she thought.

  “Thank you. There is a bit of a chill in the air. I just can’t seem to get adjusted to cold weather since—well, I do hope the room is adequately heated.”

  The very nerve! As if she’d be automatically accepted as a boarder. “If you wear long underwear, a toboggan cap and fur-lined mittens, you should be fine,” Lucy said without the slightest change of expression.

  The woman’s laughter not only surprised her, but for a moment Lucy Nan Pilgrim forgot she was even annoyed.

  “Then I suppose I’d better put in an order to L.L.Beet,” her visitor said, extending a slender pink hand. “Augusta Goodnight—and I’ve come to stay for a while—that is, if you’ll have me.”

  Lucy had walked around all morning feeling as though she were dragging a gigantic black sack of troubles with every step. Now, no matter how hard she fought it, she felt the corners of her mouth begin to turn up in a smile that just wouldn’t stop. “Bean,” she said, allowing a tiny laugh to slide out with the word.

  “I beg your pardon? Your name is Bean?” The woman seemed confused.

  “No, no. The catalog company! It’s L.L.Bean.”

  “Oh, well, I knew it was some kind of vegetable.” With a smooth twist of her wrist, Augusta threw aside her cape and swirled it over the back of the Windsor chair without even looking to see where it landed.

  “I suppose you’d like to see the room,” Lucy said. “Actually, it’s quite comfortable. My husband used it as an office for years.” Turning the room into a guest room had forced Lucy finally to clear it of Charlie’s old army-surplus desk and years’ accumulation of papers.

  “There’s no need. I’m sure it will be fine.” Her visitor slung the handles of her huge handbag over the newel in the hallway and rubbed her hands together. “I would love a cup of coffee, though, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I’ve brought along some of my strawberry muffins.”

  Lucy tried her best not to gape when she saw the cloth-covered basket she was almost certain hadn’t been there before. “I…I think there’s still some in the pot,” she managed to say, and found herself following the stranger into her own kitchen.

  “There’s just no place like a kitchen to get acquainted,” the newcomer announced as she whisked the cloth from her steaming basket of muffins. “I remember when in many homes it was the only room that was heated, and the family sat together around the fire. I’ve always considered it the heart of the home.”

  Lucy, who was reaching for cups in the cabinet by the sink, found herself holding her breath. This woman was certainly younger than she was! Have I accidently pushed some kind of freak button? she wondered. Yesterday her long-lost visitor from never-never land had turned up dead in a parking lot. This one seemed to be from outer space, yet there was something so right about her, something good, and it wasn’t just the beautiful hair and miraculous muffins. Now she found sugar and cream and watched as Augusta poured coffee. “About the room,” Lucy began, and that was when the policeman came to the door.

  Ed Tillman had gone all the way from kindergarten with Lucy’s son, Roger, and knew his way around her house probably as well as he did his own, but it had been a long time since his last visit. When Lucy looked up and saw him on the back porch she almost expected to find him tossing a baseball in the air.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Augusta, and went to see what he wanted.

  “Didn’t want to mess up your front hall,” Ed said with a grin, wiping his feet on the mat. “I hate to take up your time like this, but if you could clear up a few more things about yesterday…”

  “Of course, if I can.” Lucy kissed his cheek lightly. “Come in, Ed, how about some coffee? And I’d like you to meet…”

  Lucy turned to introduce her visitor but Augusta Goodnight was gone. Her muffins, however, still filled the kitchen with their spicy strawberry scent.

  That was strange—but then lately, what wasn’t? Maybe she’s in the bathroom, she thought, yet she hadn’t heard her leave the room.

  Ed declined the coffee but accepted a muffin, then followed it with another. “The woman who came to your house yesterday,” he began. “About what time was it when you first noticed she was gone?”

  “Probably after eight,” Lucy told him. “Somebody knocked over my trash cans next to the street and it was getting dark when Nettie and I finally got the mess cleaned up. Ellis was with me when we found she was gone—she might remember the time.”

  “You didn’t notice anyone else near the house then? Was your back door unlocked?”

  “Are you suggesting somebody might have wandered in here and taken her? Dear God, Ed, I had enough trouble sleeping last night without your reminding me of that!”

  He tried to smile. “Sorry, but we’re trying to find out what she was doing in that parking lot. She didn’t happen to mention meeting anyone, did she?”

  “She was a pathetic old woman who thought she was still five years old. She was looking for her mother, for Pete’s sake! Nothing she said made any sense. I told your detective that last night.” Lucy took a sip of coffee and found it cold. The taste made her faintly nauseated. “Whoever she was, she didn’t deserve
to die like that. I can’t imagine why anybody would do such a cruel thing!”

  Ed nodded, not speaking, as he made notes on a small pad. As he grew older, Lucy noticed, Ed looked more and more like his dad, which was a good thing, she thought, because his mom always reminded her of some kind of cartoon character, only she hadn’t been able to decide which one.

  “Did you find out who she was?” she asked. “She seemed to think she had lived here as a child, talked about Papa Zeke—he was Ellis Saxon’s granddaddy, you know. Do you think she might really be Florence Calhoun, the little girl who disappeared over sixty years ago?”

  “We’re still looking into that,” Ed said, pushing back his chair. “We’ll probably be calling on you again until we get to the bottom of this. Hope you’ll bear with us.”

  “But you’re still not going to tell me anything, are you?”

  “You keep your doors locked, now. Promise?” Ed said.

  Lucy could tell by the look on his face that Ed Tillman knew more than he was letting on.

  Could this Augusta Goodnight who seemed so interested in renting a room have something to do with the brutal death of the woman who called herself Shirley? And where was she now? Lucy started to mention her doubts to Ed as she walked with him to the door, but thought better of it. What a fool she would seem if her seraphic-looking visitor turned out to be as harmless as she seemed. In fact, Augusta made Lucy think of the grandmother she called Mimmer, who had died soon after Lucy married. Mimmer’s gentleness and strength had brought the family through the Depression, several wars, plus numerous calamities, and her wacky sense of humor sprang forth at the most unexpected moments. Lucy smiled, thinking of the Sunday when she was about ten. She had been sitting next to her grandmother in the sedate congregation of Stone’s Throw Presbyterian Church during the singing of the old hymn “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name.” But where the stanza read Let angels prostrate fall, Lucy had belted out prostate instead! Her grandmother, unable to control her amusement, had rushed laughing from the sanctuary with a bulletin held over her face.

  But this woman was not her warm, witty grandmother. She was a stranger who could be ransacking the house this very minute or even waiting behind the door with a butcher knife. Lucy stepped outside to call Ed back when she happened to glance behind her into the kitchen—and there her visitor sat, just as pretty as you please, helping herself to a strawberry muffin.

  “Where were you?” Lucy asked, whirling about.

  “Why, right here.” She edged the basket toward Lucy. “These are better while they’re hot.”

  “But you weren’t here. You were gone—and now you’re back again! How do you do that?”

  Augusta Goodnight smiled. “It comes with the territory. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll tell you about it?”

  Still, Lucy kept her distance. “You’re not a reporter, are you?” She had already had several annoying phone calls from the press.

  “Now, what makes you think I’m a reporter?” She frowned slightly as she examined the dainty cup and saucer in front of her. “This pattern seems familiar. I believe Constance Ledbetter had the same one. She let her spoiled cats get up on the table, though, and they broke nearly every piece in the set.”

  Lucy didn’t give a rat’s ass about Constance Ledbetter, whoever she was, or her cats, and said so. “You must know we had a murder here in Stone’s Throw yesterday. The victim was wearing my coat when she was killed and spent her last hours sleeping in this house.”

  Augusta’s eyes grew darker and she shoved her cup away from her, sloshing coffee into the saucer. “No, I didn’t know, and now it’s too late. I’m sorry—so sorry. This is not a good way to begin.”

  Her eyes, Lucy noticed, that had been the same shade of green as the frothy dress she wore, were now the smoky color of Whisper Lake at twilight. A long necklace of dazzling stones winked violet and indigo against fabric that looked as if it had been hand-painted in watercolor.

  “Too late for what? And just what were you planning to begin?” she said, gripping her hands to keep them from trembling.

  Augusta seemed not to hear her. “This woman who was killed,” she asked, “do you know who she was?”

  “We’re—they’re not sure yet.” Lucy closed her eyes and felt tears welling under her lids. “She was like a child…it was horrible! She was wearing my coat—must’ve taken it from the closet in Julie’s room—and it had a sales receipt in the pocket. When the police called, it took me a while to realize who they were talking about. Somebody shoved her down those steep steps just for what little money she had and those fake rings. Poor soul! And this happened right after Calpernia Hemphill fell from that stupid tower! Bless her heart, I suppose she couldn’t help being such a complete ass.” What a rotten thing to say—and with Calpernia lying dead as a doornail! Shame on you, Lucy Nan Pilgrim!

  Augusta leaned closer and the fragrance of her made Lucy think of the honeysuckle that had climbed the fence behind Mimmer’s house. Once she had tried to collect the nectar in a tiny tea-set cup. Now Augusta reached out and touched her hands and the trembling went away.

  “Who are you?” Lucy asked. “And what are you doing here?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about,” Augusta said. “I’m a guardian angel, Lucy Nan Pilgrim, and it looks as though I’ve come not a minute too soon.”

  Lucy wasn’t as shocked by what the woman said as she was by the fact that it didn’t surprise her. Augusta Goodnight sat looking at her in all seriousness. A stray lock of her bright hair had tumbled onto her forehead and she absently shoved it back into place, then folded her hands in her lap, almost losing them in the depths of her wide, floppy sleeves. As Lucy watched, the glittering necklace began to change from deep blue to lavender to gold. She could hardly take her eyes from it. Now a faint suggestion of a smile began to play at the corners of Augusta’s mouth.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Lucy said.

  The woman raised an elegant eyebrow. “Enjoying what?”

  “You know very well what. All this angel crap—your disappearing act, the instant muffins, and that awesome necklace. Where on earth did you get it?”

  Augusta fingered the stones which now couldn’t decide if they wanted to be turquoise or amethyst. “I didn’t,” she said, “get them on earth, I mean, and it really isn’t necessary to use such vulgar language.”

  Lucy frowned. “Just what do you want from me?”

  “It’s not really what I want from you, but what I can do for you while I’m here—if you’ll allow me to, of course.” Augusta rose and poured coffee again for both of them. It had a comforting cinnamon smell, although Lucy didn’t remember using spices in the brewing.

  “So, we’re back to the guardian angel thing. What makes you think I need a guardian angel?”

  “Everyone needs a guardian angel,” Augusta said. “Yours—her name is Sharon, by the way—just happened to have been transferred to another field.”

  “No kidding. I hope it wasn’t a demotion.”

  “Certainly not! Actually, she was given a position in the weather department as a regulator of seasons. Someone has to do it, you see, so we don’t have snow in July or too much rain during harvest time.”

  “Then somebody up there must be sleeping on the job,” Lucy said, and reminded her of the catastrophic floods and droughts that seemed to plague the earth from time to time.

  “All we can do is try,” Augusta said. “And now that Sharon’s on the job, let’s hope things will improve.”

  “Why have I never seen this Sharon?”

  “Most people don’t,” Augusta said, “unless, of course, there’s a specific need.”

  “And I have a specific need?” Lucy smiled. “And what might that be?”

  “I believe you did experience a feeling of loneliness, did you not? A longing for someone to talk to. And as you told me earlier, two women were found dead yesterday right here in Rolling Stone.”

  �
��That’s Stone’s Throw,” Lucy told her. “You’d think an angel could at least get the name of the town right. Besides, what happened to those women had nothing to do with me. Calpernia Hemphill’s death was probably an accident. She liked her booze, you know. As for what happened to poor Shirley/Florence—or whoever she was—I’m sure the police will take care of that. After all, what else can happen, for heaven’s sake?”

  Augusta pulled a purple-flowered apron from her large handbag and tied it around her waist, then took the dishes to the sink to wash. “For heaven’s sake,” she said, smiling. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

  Chapter Four

  Zee St. Clair balanced a plate on her skinny knees and dabbed her lips with a napkin. The napkin was paper and had a picture of a scarecrow on it. Wouldn’t Mimmer just flip if she knew? Lucy smiled thinking about it.

  “These chess tarts are wonderful, Lucy Nan,” Zee said, “and I haven’t tasted sandwiches this good since Mama used to make them. I don’t know how you found the time or the energy to do all this with all that’s been going on.”

  “I tried to tell her that,” Nettie McGinnis said, helping herself to the salted nuts. “The world won’t end if The Thursdays postpone their meeting, I told her…but of course she wouldn’t listen!” She shook her head at Lucy as her hostess passed the tray of sandwiches. “Oh, no, I couldn’t…well, maybe just one more! What’s in these, Lucy Nan? I don’t remember your making them before.”

  “Let’s see…raisins, nuts, a little of this and a little of that.” Lucy had no idea what else, as Augusta had made the cooked sandwich filling with much chopping and stirring the night before and now sat sedately in the corner by the piano observing the meeting of The Thursday Morning Literary Society That Now Meets on Monday Afternoons. It didn’t surprise Lucy that no one seemed to notice she was there.

  “I didn’t do all the work,” Lucy admitted with a sly glance at Augusta. “The tarts are from Do-Lollie’s. She brought them by this morning. Besides, I’d rather be doing something than just sitting here worrying about things.”