Too Late for Angels

by Mignon F. Ballard

  Lucy was still laughing as they approached Ellis’s house and saw Lollie Pate’s white van with its teacup logo pull up in front. Lollie waved to them as she got out, then took a square cardboard box from the back of the truck. “Would you mind taking this in for me?” she asked. “I left one of the college students in charge of the shop and I really should get back.”

  “I guess I could balance the tray on top,” Lucy said. “It won’t smash anything, will it?”

  “It’s just cookies—tea cakes. I thought Ellis might be able to use some.”

  “Lollie, you’re not leaving, are you?” Ellis called to them from the porch as Lollie turned to go. “Do come in for a minute, won’t you? Leonard’s gone to the church but he should be back any second. You have time for a glass of sherry, don’t you? Or maybe some Russian tea to warm you up.” She shivered. “I’m afraid it’s going to rain again.”

  “Oh dear, I hope not!” Lollie said, her hands going to her perfectly-coiffed blond hair. “I just did my hair and it won’t do to get it wet.” She glanced at the sky and then at her watch. “Well, maybe for a minute. I told Becky I wouldn’t be long—she’s part-time, you know. Only been with me a few weeks.”

  “Ellis, these flowers are perfectly beautiful!” Lucy said of the arrangement on the dining room table as they made their way to the kitchen. A large blue bowl of yellow roses, white Lisianthus and tiny blue asters was centered on the oval walnut table that had belonged to Ellis’s parents, as had the house. The spacious room was now painted a deep gold with molding in a lighter shade of the same color; floor-length windows, covered only in yards of a sheer ivory fabric, let in the light. Lucy remembered the time when, as children, she and Ellis had spilled cherry Kool-Aid on this very same Oriental rug, then scrubbed frantically at it for over an hour before it blended in with the design. She had enjoyed many happy meals in this room, but this was not to be one of them, Lucy thought.

  “Poag Hemphill sent that arrangement,” Ellis told her as she found a platter for the tea cakes. “Lollie, these look delicious…Can you imagine being that thoughtful with his own wife lying somewhere in a morgue?”

  Ellis gave Lucy a knife for the quiches, then poured sherry into small glasses and arranged them on a tray. “Be generous with your portions, Lucy Nan. We aren’t expecting many for lunch. I invited Poag when I called to thank him, but he declined, of course—not surprising, under the circumstances.”

  “Calpernia’s death is going to go hard on him, I’m afraid,” Lucy said. “They did so many things together. Was it last year she directed some of the faculty in that funny Womanless Wedding? Poag played the mother of the bride—wore grapefruit in his bra! I laughed so hard, my stomach hurt.”

  “I think it was year before last,” Ellis said. “He stole the show, didn’t he? Crying and carrying on. I’ll swear, he sounded just like my cousin Sadie!”

  Lucy laughed. “He’s a talented man, all right,” she said, passing the sherry around. “And it was thoughtful of him to send flowers, especially since he didn’t even know Florence.”

  “I don’t imagine there are that many people left who remember Florence Calhoun,” Lollie said, accepting a glass. “How sad.”

  “Did you invite Boyd Henry?” Nettie asked. “He lived across the street.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Ellis said, “but he’s volunteering at Bellawood today.” She shrugged. “You’d think he could take some time to pay his respects to an old neighbor, wouldn’t you? Isn’t he about Florence’s age?”

  “Boyd Henry was a few of years ahead of me in school,” Nettie said. “He would’ve been about twelve when Florence disappeared. I remember he used to sell snow cones—had a cart and everything.” She laughed. “I was so jealous!”

  “Nettie tells me Zee has taken on a houseguest,” Lucy mentioned to Ellis as they moved into the living room. Her cousin Jo Nell and a few others had joined them, and since Leonard Fenwick hadn’t put in an appearance, she assumed he was still at the church.

  “You mean that young director? Knowing Zee, I’m not surprised. I just hope she knows what she’s doing.” Ellis placed the tray of drinks on the coffee table and passed a dish of cheese straws. “Yours,” she whispered aside to Lucy. “I froze what was left from the drop-in.”

  “If you’re talking about that Jay Walter Winchell, I heard Calpernia was going to back out of their agreement,” Jo Nell said. “She found out he’d put a lot of stuff on his résumé that wasn’t true at all.”

  “That’s Jay Warren-Winslow,” Nettie told her. “And where’d you hear all this?”

  “Bernice Okey—you all know Bernice, been living next door to me for close on thirty years—her youngest daughter Diane was in one of Calpernia’s classes at the college and Diane says everybody at Sarah Bedford knows about it.” Jo Nell sniffed the sherry in her glass and took a testing sip. “The man’s not what he was cracked up to be.”

  “Do they really think he might have deliberately pushed her from that tower?” Lollie asked, eyes wide. “I assumed she just fell. The mortar was crumbling, wasn’t it? Why, you couldn’t drag me up there! That old thing isn’t safe.” She paused to look around. “You don’t suppose she jumped, do you? Let’s face it, Calpernia’s always been a little moody. Maybe she was depressed.”

  “If Calpernia Hemphill meant to do away with herself, she wouldn’t have done it that way,” Ellis told them. “She was terrified of heights.”

  “It does seem extreme to me that this fellow—this Jay Whatever—would kill Calpernia just to keep her quiet about his falsified résumé,” Lucy said.

  “I suppose if he thought it would ruin his career…” someone said. “Sometimes ambition can be a dangerous thing.”

  A car door slammed out front and everyone turned at the sound of male voices on the porch. “Good! Here’re Leonard and Pete,” Ellis said, referring to Pete Whittaker, the Presbyterian minister. “They’ve been at the church discussing last-minute funeral arrangements.”

  Leonard Fenwick was not at all what Lucy had expected. Tall and tan with a distinguished-looking shock of graying hair, he looked to be a good ten years younger than his wife. Wearing tan slacks and a dark green polo shirt with some kind of club logo on the pocket, he carried a raincoat folded neatly over his arm. When he shook hands with her, Lucy noticed (how could she help it?) he wore a diamond-encrusted ring on the third finger of his right hand. His wedding-ring finger was bare.

  “Do I have time to change before lunch?” he asked Ellis, and was told that of course he did. As soon as introductions were made, he lingered for a few minutes of polite chatter before going upstairs, leaving the rest of them to wonder among themselves about Florence’s mysterious past.

  “I suppose all this about your wife’s other identity has come as quite a shock,” Lucy said later as the two of them served themselves buffet-style in the dining room. “Did Florence—I mean Shirley—ever say anything about her earlier years? Did she remember anything?”

  Leonard Fenwick helped himself from a large bowl of salad greens, carefully avoiding the cherry tomatoes, Lucy noticed. Now he nodded solemnly. “There were clues, but of course it didn’t register with me then. When we were first married, she spoke now and then of a woman named Martha, who she seemed to remember as a cook or a nursemaid, but the Rhineharts—that’s the couple who raised her—said they never had domestic help.”

  “What were they like, the Rhineharts?” Ellis appeared beside them to find a spot for a platter of stuffed eggs a neighbor had brought. “Did Florence really believe they were her uncle and aunt?”

  “As far as I know, she did,” he said. “Called them Aunt Alma and Uncle Fred. She was fond of them, I think, but I got the idea they were extremely overprotective, which isn’t surprising, I guess, since they lost their first child. They wouldn’t hear of Shirley going away to school, but she did talk them into letting her attend a local branch of the university.” Leonard bypassed the asparagus casserole for a Waldorf salad
and moved to one of the card tables Ellis had scattered about. Lucy followed.

  “I don’t think Shirley was ever much of a student,” he said, shaking out his napkin. “She dropped out after her sophomore year and went to work for a local department store—still lived at home, though. Her parents didn’t want her to leave, and frankly, I don’t think Shirley had the confidence to go out on her own. I always thought she depended on them too much.”

  Ellis and her husband Bennett soon joined them and for a while no one spoke except to say, “Please pass the salt,” or “This salad dressing is delicious.” Finally Bennett Saxon gave his fork a rest. “I don’t think you ever told us how you and your wife met,” he said, addressing Leonard.

  “Actually it was at a company Christmas party at Grimball and Carnes,” Leonard said. “That’s the department store I mentioned. I was in accounting and Shirley was in housewares.” He sprinkled artificial sweetener into his coffee and stirred until Lucy was afraid he’d wear the bottom out of the cup.

  “So you’ve both worked there since then?” Ellis asked.

  He held up a hand and smiled. “Oh, no! I left several years ago to open my own accounting firm, but Shirley stayed until she retired.”

  “How long has she been sick?” Lucy asked.

  “To tell the truth, I didn’t notice it at first,” he said. “She’s always been forgetful—had to remind her to screw on her head in the mornings!” Leonard smiled. “And maybe a little dotty, too, but then it got worse. Much worse. She’s been under a doctor’s care for three or four years now and in assisted living for two.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Bennett said. “It must have been difficult for both of you.”

  “ ‘Difficult’ isn’t the word!” Leonard broke open a roll. “Shirley didn’t have the greatest insurance coverage and Medicare will only pay so much. The expenses are about to drain me dry.”

  His knife clattered across the plate and Leonard Fenwick wadded his napkin into a ball. “I’m sorry…I don’t know what got into me…I hope you’ll overlook that. It’s just that I’ve been worried so not knowing where Shirley was—how she was. God only knows when was the last time I got a good night’s sleep!”

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” Ellis assured him. “Please don’t give it another thought. I’m curious, though,” she added, “as to how your wife knew to come here. After all these years, what made her want to come home?”

  “It always bothered her that she couldn’t visit her parents’ graves,” Leonard said. “The Rhineharts told her they died in a plane crash at sea. I suppose she was still looking for something—anything that had to do with her past…” His eyes wandered. “Would anyone else like dessert?”

  Laying his napkin aside, he excused himself from the table to look over the array of cakes and pies on the buffet.

  Lucy, whose eyes had filled with tears at the story of poor Shirley/Florence’s sad plight, met Ellis’s stunned gaze across the table. “Doesn’t look like he’s lost his appetite,” she said.

  “Well, his financial woes are over as far as poor little Florence is concerned,” Ellis said to the man’s departing back. “I hope he’s satisfied.”

  “You two shouldn’t be so hasty to judge,” Bennett began in his see-how-impartial-I-am voice. “After all, we don’t know what the man’s been through.”

  “Bah!” Ellis said, making a face.

  Later, at the cemetery, Lucy huddled under the canopy with Nettie as the woman they knew as Florence Calhoun Fenwick was laid to rest beside her parents in the family plot. Leonard, in a dark gray suit, sat beside Ellis and Bennett, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as if he waited for a race to begin. Now and then, Lucy noticed, he took out a handkerchief to wipe his glasses—probably because of the rain, she supposed.

  The day was cold and suitably drab. Rain had commenced to fall as they walked up the winding path to the hillside plot, and the wind blew icy needles into the small group of mourners as Pete Whittaker began his eulogy. The minister was halfway through the Twenty-third Psalm when Ellis caught Lucy’s eye and directed her attention to a lone figure standing under a dripping magnolia several yards away. Lucy squinted through the drizzle to see Augusta shivering behind a lichen-covered stone, looking thoroughly uncomfortable and not the least bit angelic. When she saw she had Lucy’s attention, the angel stepped aside.

  Behind her, half-hidden by a huge black umbrella and a billowing nandina bush, stood Boyd Henry Goodwin.

  Why hadn’t he joined the others? Lucy wondered. As soon as the service was over, she paid her brief respects to Leonard Fenwick and hurried in search of Boyd Henry. But the elusive Mr. Goodwin had disappeared.

  Chapter Seven

  “That’s the second time Jessica’s phoned me today!” Lucy said, hanging up the receiver.

  “Jessica who?” Augusta backed up to the sitting room fireplace, steaming cup in hand. She had made tea as soon as they got back from Florence Fenwick’s graveside service and the warming scent of honey and ginger was especially welcoming on a dreary afternoon.

  “Jessica Pilgrim, my daughter-in-law—Roger’s wife,” Lucy explained. “I’m to bring my grandson Teddy back to the house for lunch after the class trip to Bellawood this week, and Jessica’s afraid I might feed the child a grain of sugar—or, heaven forbid—a hamburger!”

  “Does he have a medical condition or a weight problem?” Augusta asked.

  “Good grief, no! The child’s so skinny, if he were to turn sideways you wouldn’t be able to see him. I’m all for carrots and raisins, but Jessica goes too far. Anything that tastes good is junk food—including my cookies.”

  Augusta put her cup on the mantel, held her hands to the blaze, and sighed with pleasure. The orchid stones of her necklace reflected the light from the fire, and steam rose from her filmy dress of silvery turquoise.

  “Aren’t you getting a little close to the flames?” Lucy asked, curling up in her favorite armchair. The room felt warm and toasty after she had shed her damp coat and shoes. “I do believe you’re the most cold-natured person I know!”

  “I expect it’s because of that winter at Valley Forge,” Augusta said. “Those poor men—feet bleeding from the cold! It chills me just thinking about it.”

  “I assume you mean George Washington’s men,” Lucy said. “Are you telling me you were there?”

  Augusta gave what Lucy considered a smug little smile and settled down with her sewing. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” she said. “But of course I wasn’t there alone. We just about had to empty the heavens to pull that one off!”

  “At any rate, I’m glad you showed up at the cemetery today,” Lucy told her, wondering if Augusta didn’t sometimes exaggerate maybe just a tiny bit. “If I hadn’t seen you standing there, I wouldn’t have noticed Boyd Henry Goodwin. Wonder why he didn’t join the rest of us? And where do you suppose he went so quickly?”

  “Home, if he had any sense,” Augusta said. “This kind of weather isn’t conducive to lingering, but I do feel the poor man is troubled about something.” Her slender fingers darted above the cloth making dainty stitches with thread like sunrise gold. “Didn’t you tell me he lived on this street when Florence was a child?”

  “Still does. Right there on the corner. Nettie said he used to sell snow cones in the neighborhood. They’re made from shaved ice and flavoring,” she explained. “Children love them.”

  Augusta silently examined her needlework. “Then perhaps he sold one to Florence the day she disappeared,” she said.

  “But wouldn’t he have said something? If Boyd Henry saw Florence that day, surely he would’ve told somebody,” Lucy said.

  “Not necessarily—not if there was a reason he shouldn’t. It would be a good idea, I think, to seek this fellow out.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem since he volunteers at Bellawood and I’ll be going there with Teddy’s kindergarten class the day after tomorrow,” Lucy said. “I can’t imagine
Boyd Henry Goodwin hiding any deep dark secrets, though. He’s the shyest man I ever saw. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose!”

  Augusta said she didn’t see why anybody would want to say boo to a goose, as it seemed most unkind to her. She set her sewing aside and went to stir up the fire. “I hope you’re going to have nicer weather than this for your outing Friday,” she said. “Maybe it will clear up by then.”

  “Even if it does, it’ll be muddy in the cotton patch. I’d better go upstairs while I’m thinking about it and round up my old boots. I know they’re in a closet somewhere.”

  Augusta was thumbing through a magazine when Lucy came back downstairs a few minutes later. “There seem to be some good recipes in here,” she said, looking up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to try my hand at this Harvest Stew.”

  “Sounds good to me—go for it!” Lucy hesitated in the doorway. “By the way, you haven’t seen my boots, have you? I could’ve sworn I left them in that closet in Julie’s room.

  “I haven’t worn boots since I learned line dancing,” Augusta said. “I passed mine along to Penelope.” With magazine in hand, she started for the kitchen. “What did they look like?”

  Lucy shrugged. “Big, brown and grungy, but they’re warm, and they keep my feet dry—more or less…

  “…Augusta, I have an awful feeling!”

  “About what?” Augusta tied a voluminous apron splashed with bright blue cornflowers around her middle and disappeared into the pantry.

  “I think Shirley/Florence took my boots and left these behind!” Lucy held up a worn pair of gray leather oxfords spotted with dirty white clay. “I’m sure these were the shoes she was wearing when she came.”

  Augusta deposited her apronful of potatoes and onions in the sink and held out her hands for the shoes. “Nancy Estridge,” she said.

  “Say what? Who’re you talking about?”

  Augusta smiled. “Someone I used to know on an earlier visit—long gone now, I suppose. She called this crawdad clay.”