Too Late for Angels

by Mignon F. Ballard

  “Is that the folly over there?” Augusta pointed to something up ahead.

  “Where?” Lucy couldn’t see anything.

  “There where the road curves. Surely you see it.” The angel shaded her eyes.

  “Augusta, that’s just a dead tree. How could you mistake it for a tower?” Lucy said. Was something wrong with Augusta’s eyes?

  “Of course! Now that we’re closer, I can see,” Augusta said with a slight laugh.

  At that point, Clementine, who had been trotting along beside them, growled low in her throat and dashed off in the direction of the cottage, ignoring their commands to return.

  “Come back here, you rotten dog!” Lucy yelled, starting after her. The puppy was probably chasing a raccoon or a squirrel, she thought, but Clementine was already lost to her in the woods surrounding the cabin.

  “Wait.” Augusta spoke softly beside her. “We don’t know what—or who—could be up there. It’s best to hold back a bit.”

  Lucy agreed. After all, Augusta was her guardian angel, and she was content to walk slowly alongside her until they came to the small house set back from the road where Clementine raced back and forth barking in the clearing.

  “She senses something,” Augusta said, clapping her hands. “Enough, Clementine! Come here!”

  Lucy sensed it, too. Someone was watching them; she knew it. Suddenly she wanted to run, to hide. When the puppy raced toward them, responding to Augusta’s call, Lucy felt as if an iceberg melted in her stomach. Grabbing up the squirming dog, she held her close as they hurried to the car, but Augusta paused to bend down and scoop up a glob of mud, cradling it in her hand.

  “Are you crazy? What are you doing?” Lucy turned back to wait for her.

  Augusta stared at the clay in her hand. “Nancy Estridge,” she said.

  “Nancy-schmancy! We don’t have time to make mud pies. Come on, Augusta! Hurry! Something’s not right here.” Lucy must have blinked because the next time she looked, the angel was waiting at the car holding the door open for Clementine.

  “How did you do that?” Lucy slid behind the wheel and locked the doors before turning the key in the ignition.

  “You said you were in a hurry.” Augusta didn’t smile, but she looked as if she wanted to.

  Lucy watched her deposit the blob of clay on a scrap of paper. “What’s that for?” she asked.

  Augusta wiped her dainty fingers on a tissue and glanced back at the cottage as they drove away. “Something is most definitely wrong here,” she said. “If I’m not mistaken, this is the same type of clay we saw on that woman’s shoes—the woman claiming to be Florence Calhoun.”

  Lucy had forgotten all about the shoes, which she supposed were still on a shelf in her hall closet where she had left them earlier. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow I’ll take them to the police. “And what does Nancy Estridge—whoever she is—have to do with it?” Lucy asked.

  “Nancy Estridge was one of my earlier charges. Goodness, it doesn’t seem so long ago, but she lived in a log building much like that one and carried her water from a spring. When darkness came, she had only a lantern for light.” Augusta reached behind her to trail her fingers along the puppy’s nose and smiled when Clementine licked her hand. “I have a problem remembering time, but it must have been many years ago.”

  “Before the invention of the electric light, I imagine,” Lucy said, wondering where this was going.

  Augusta nodded. “Nancy lived with her two children—no more than babies, really—and she had to take care of her family as her husband had been killed in a war. She did it by making pottery—rather crude vessels at first, and then she became quite adept at what she did. Some of her pieces were lovely, and the clay was much like what we saw here—grayish-white with an occasional streak of blue. It came from the bank of a creek near her cottage, and from what I learned, is not all that common.”

  “Kaolin. I’ve read somewhere that some kinds of clay contain kaolin. Porcelain is made from the pure white kind.” Lucy frowned. “Do you think the smudges we saw on Florence’s shoes are the same as what you found here?”

  “I wouldn’t want to spring to conclusions,” Augusta said, “but it’s certainly a possibility.”

  Lucy turned onto the main road, glad for once to merge into traffic. If the clay on Florence’s shoes turned out to match the other, she must have been at the Folly before she was killed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “That silly puppy was probably barking at Poag,” Ellis said when Lucy telephoned her later that night. “I mean it is his cabin and I expect the poor man came out there for some peace and quiet after all this mess. Could’ve been out in the yard for some reason or other when the dog got his scent.”

  “Maybe, but I didn’t see his car and he usually parks on that graveled area out front. Besides, Poag would’ve come out and spoken to us. You know how he is.”

  “Are you sure this person was actually in the cottage?” Ellis asked.

  Lucy thought for a minute. “No, could’ve been behind it or in the woods somewhere, but I’m sure we were being watched.”

  “You were being watched,” Ellis said. “Remember, most people don’t see Augusta. Do you think somebody deliberately followed you there?”

  “Nobody knew I was going except you…and Opal.”

  “Oh, well! You might as well holler it from the street corners,” Ellis said. “She’s told everybody in town by now.”

  “And come to think of it, I did mention it to Nettie. She knew I was scrounging up decorations for the festival this week.”

  Ellis groaned. “Say no more. It’ll probably be on the evening news tonight.”

  “Speaking of news, I have a tidbit to share,” Lucy said, and told her about her upcoming evening out with Ben.

  “Ben Maxwell? Really? I’ve always thought he was good-looking in a rugged sort of way, but can he talk? The man scarcely said two words to us when he was working on our hutch.”

  “Does it matter? He’s taking me to dinner and a concert and his eyes are the color of my Michaelmas daisies.”

  “Hmm…what kind of concert?” Ellis wanted to know. But Lucy hadn’t thought to ask.

  “You’re going out with who?” Roger asked when he came by the house the next day.

  “Benjamin Maxwell. I’m sure you’ve heard of him, Roger. He made that beautiful walnut desk in the dean’s office at Sarah Bedford.”

  “Oh, that Ben Maxwell! Do you think you might get a special price on a drop leaf table? Jessica’s been asking for one for years.”

  Lucy laughed. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s only dinner and a concert.” With soothing words and a generous slice of Augusta’s apple pie, Lucy had managed to convince her son that the body in the swimming pool and her recent break-in had absolutely no connection and that she wasn’t in danger of being abducted by villains with evil intent.

  He did give her strict orders upon leaving, however. “I want you to promise you’ll call me immediately if you have even the faintest suspicion of anything wrong!” Roger kissed her cheek. “You know you’re welcome at our house anytime, Mom!”

  “I know,” she said, and resting her cheek on his shoulder, Lucy held her son a little tighter than usual. At least one of her children cared.

  “You aren’t wearing the green frock?” Augusta wanted to know when Lucy came downstairs the next evening.”

  “A little too fussy, don’t you think?” She had tried on the green dress the night before and decided in favor of her plum-colored pantsuit with an ivory silk overblouse. Lucy had become fond of anything you didn’t have to tuck in.

  “Ah, but it brings out the color in your eyes and your silver shoes would look elegant with it.” Augusta glanced at her own shimmery gold slippers and did a quick pirouette.

  “Augusta, I’m just going to a concert at Sarah Bedford—not Carnegie Hall.” Lucy sighed. “I think this looks all right.”

  “You’re right, it does. It looks all right,” A
ugusta said.

  Lucy looked at the clock. She just had time enough to change. “What if he shows up in khakis and a sport shirt?”

  “He won’t,” Augusta assured her.

  And he didn’t. In fact, Lucy thought, Ben Maxwell cleaned up real well.

  “Would you like to come in for a few minutes?” she asked, shoving Clementine away with her foot.

  “I’d like to,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but I made dinner reservations for six-thirty.” He hesitated at the door, wearing a nubby tweed sport coat with a burgundy tie and gray pants. The tie, she noticed, had tiny horses on it. “Do you ride?” she asked.

  He laughed. “No, but my sister does. She gave this to me last Christmas. In fact, she’s given me all four of my ties, I think.”

  Clementine by this time was slobbering all over his shoe. “Then I guess we’d better be off,” Lucy said, only pausing long enough for him to help her with her coat. She thought he could’ve at least told her how beautiful she looked and how the dress brought out the green in her eyes, especially after she’d burned her forehead with the curling iron and gone to the trouble to change. As they left, she glanced back to see Augusta, sitting on the stairs, raise her hand in a three-fingered wave.

  At the restaurant, Ben made a joke out of straining to read in the dark as he studied the menu by candlelight. “Everything on here looks good to me,” he told Lucy. “I passed through Greenville on my way back from a visit with my son in Atlanta today and stopped to hike that trail to Caesar’s Head. Sure worked up an appetite! I’d forgotten how steep it was—but what a view!”

  “My husband and I hiked that when the children were younger,” Lucy said. “Charlie had to carry Julie most of the way and I remember wishing I had somebody to carry me—but you’re right. Those falls are worth the climb.”

  She gave her order of shrimp and grits and turned back to him. “Is hiking a habit or was that a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

  Ben gave the waitress his menu, deciding on the pork tenderloin with sweet potatoes. “A little of both, I guess. There’s something of the vagabond in me—must’ve been a gypsy in my other life. Whenever I see a trail, I want to know where it leads, and that one’s right in our area yet I’d never had a chance to explore it.” He sipped his Scotch and water and turned the glass in his hand. “Do you still enjoy hiking?”

  Lucy laughed. “I haven’t done much since Charlie died, but I think the trails are calling to me.”

  “Let me know when you’re ready to answer,” Ben said, lifting his glass to hers. Their fingers touched as they toasted and neither seemed in a hurry to move away.

  “Frankly, I guess you could say I’ve been at loose ends lately,” Lucy admitted. She told him of Bud Fincher’s retirement and the subsequent loss of her job. “I didn’t make much money but it gave me a purpose, especially after Charlie died,” she said. “And soon after that, the student I tutored in the adult literacy program got her certificate and is now studying for her GED.”

  “That’s wonderful! I’ve thought seriously of doing that myself but somehow just never got around to signing up for the course,” he said. “Tell me about it. It must be very rewarding.”

  Lucy smiled. “It’s never too late, you know. My student and I came to be good friends.”

  Ben Maxwell waited until they had ordered dessert to mention Boyd Henry’s death. “I’m sure this must be a sensitive subject, but I did want you to know how sorry I am that you and your friend were subjected to such a terrible experience,” he said.

  “It was a lot more terrible for Boyd Henry than it was for us.” Now why did I say that? Lucy thought, and in her confusion spooned entirely too much sugar into her coffee. “I just hope they won’t waste time finding who did it.”

  He met her eyes with a steady gaze. “Do you think the police are wasting their time?”

  She sipped her coffee. “I’m afraid I do, yes.”

  “Why?”

  Lucy told him of her concerns for Ellis. “It seems as if somebody wanted to throw suspicion on her by drowning Boyd Henry in her pool. Meanwhile, whoever did it is going free.” Lucy spoke softly. Although the restaurant was in a neighboring town, people from Stone’s Throw came there often and the seating was fairly close. Tonight, however, she didn’t recognize anyone she knew at the candlelit tables around them.

  Dessert came: chocolate mousse for her and a brownie topped with ice cream for him. “I’m a fool about ice cream,” he admitted, and Lucy, who shared that same passion, almost forgave him for not complimenting her on her dress.

  “Have they considered that Boyd Henry’s death might have been accidental?” he asked as they waited for the bill.

  “I think they’re waiting for the autopsy,” Lucy said. “I wish it would be that simple.”

  “Well, they’ll sure miss him out at Bellawood. That fellow practically ran the place.” Ben smiled. “Peculiar old gent, but I liked him.”

  “Did you notice any difference in Boyd Henry’s behavior during the last week or so?” Lucy asked. “I don’t suppose you saw him talking with anybody for an unusual length of time.”

  Ben shook his head. “I really wasn’t around him that much, but from what I could tell, Boyd Henry Goodwin didn’t get involved in long conversations.”

  The auditorium at Sarah Bedford was crowded, as many of the students attended tonight’s performance, a rhythm-and-blues concert by a popular group. Ben and Lucy found that their seats were directly in front of Lollie Pate, who kept up a one-sided conversation until the house lights dimmed:

  I declare, my feet are killing me! I’ll bet I didn’t get to sit down five minutes all day…and how is Ellis? Poor girl, what a dreadful thing to discover! And I hear you were there, too, Lucy…I wonder if they’ve made any progress in finding out who’s responsible…seems all we’ve done lately is go to funerals…

  Lucy, noticing Poag Hemphill across the aisle, put a finger to her lips hoping to shut the woman up, but it did no good.

  Didya know they’re dedicating this concert tonight in memory of Calpernia? Everybody seems to think it was an accident…sure makes sense to me…Now, aren’t you going to introduce me to this handsome fellow you’re with?

  Lollie looked lovely, Lucy had to admit, in a simple black dress and pearls that set off her fair hair, worn tonight in an elegant chignon, and Ben managed a private wink in Lucy’s direction while enduring her flow of chatter. When a member of the faculty came out on the stage to introduce the musicians, Lucy had more than one reason to applaud.

  Later, during intermission, Lucy sighted Zee and Jay Warren-Winslow at the rear of the auditorium as they weaved their way through the mesh of bodies to what her husband Charlie had referred to as the “yack and yawn” area. This was where people congregated to stretch their legs, sip wine and hug acquaintances they only saw once or twice a year. The line to concessions was so long Ben and Lucy gave up on the drinks, but Lucy was glad to stand for a while as long as she could avoid Lollie.

  Zee, standing with her young tenant by the water cooler, seemed relieved when Lucy and Ben approached them. “How are you, sugar?” she asked, enfolding Lucy in bony arms. “I tried to call you yesterday but you were out and I didn’t want to leave a message—hate those blasted machines! Anyway, I’m relieved to see you’re okay. God, will this shit never end?” She kissed her cheek, whispering, “Who’s the hunk? Have you been keeping something from me?

  “Oh, you’re the one who made that beautiful hutch for Ellis! What a fine piece of furniture!” she said when Lucy introduced Ben to the two of them. Lucy was searching for something acceptable to say about Jay when she noticed Poag Hemphill approaching.

  “Oh, crap!” the young director uttered under his breath.

  But Poag, although he wasn’t smiling, seemed genial enough, and after dutifully kissing both women and speaking to Ben, whom he knew through some work Ben had done for the college, turned and offered his hand to Jay. “I must apologize for the way Ca
lpernia’s sister spoke to you at the service the other day. I don’t believe you had anything to do with what happened to Calpernia, Jay, and I feel I had to let you know. I can’t imagine what she was doing in that tower unless it was to get a better view of the surrounding area, but whatever her decision concerning you and the facility she planned out there, it had nothing to do with the way she died. I’m convinced of that, and I believe the police are coming around to that theory as well.”

  For a few seconds Jay seemed too stunned to respond, and then, with trembling lips, he managed to stammer his thanks.

  Lucy thought he was going to cry, and although she didn’t especially care for the man, she had a compelling desire to gather him into her arms. Instead she reached for his hand, patted it, and told him she was glad for him. If Poag thought Jay was innocent, it was good enough for her. “By the way,” she said, turning to Poag, “I hope you don’t mind, but I helped myself to some cornstalks out at the Folly yesterday. You weren’t at the cottage by any chance, were you? I thought I saw someone there.”

  He shook his head, frowning. “I haven’t been out there lately, but it could’ve been Ted Driscoll, the fellow who farms that plot—and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing some of his cornstalks.”

  Lucy had never met Ted Driscoll, but she couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t make an appearance. Surely he must have seen her.

  Ben took advantage of a lull in the conversation to tease Lucy about dognapping a puppy from Bellawood. “She says the dog was a stowaway on the bus, but I think she plotted the whole thing!”

  Everyone laughed, and Lucy spent the next few minutes telling them about Clementine until the lights blinked to summon them back to the performance. As they started inside, she noticed that Poag didn’t follow them but instead slipped out a side door. He and Calpernia usually attended these events together, and Lucy imagined how difficult if must be for him, especially since tonight’s performance was in memory of his wife.