Augusta was smashing cooked pumpkin through a sieve with a big wooden spoon, but she paused in her cooking to take a small notepad from her huge tapestry handbag. "At least we now know three of them," she said, with a quick flourish of her pen. "Lucy, Annie Rose, and Irene's mother, Pauline."
"But what about the others?"
Even as I waited for her answer, I knew there wasn't going to be one. "You know something, don't you? You were there! If you know about the Mystic Six, why don't you tell me?"
The angel gathered her sparkling necklace into a handful of stars and turned to face me, the wooden spoon dripping jack-o'-lantern orange. "There are things you don't understand, Arminda. Things I don't even know myself. Pauline Watts practically lived here—a dark-haired girl with dimples—always reading novels…. But don't ask me about the others, because I just don't know."
Chapter Seven
Minda?" I could tell by my cousin's voice something was wrong.
"Gatlin? What is it? Vesta hasn't had a wreck, has she?" I pictured the dangerous intersection near Calhoun Street, where I knew our grandmother was meeting for lunch. Vesta drove like she was racing the devil and had the speeding tickets to prove it. If she hadn't taught the local police chief in Sunday school, she'd be under the jail by now.
"No, no, nothing like that. It's Mildred. She's not answering her phone, and I'm kinda concerned is all. You know how she's been since Otto—"
"Maybe she's not there." I looked at the kitchen clock; it was almost two in the afternoon. "Even Mildred has to eat. She probably went to the store."
"Minda, she could've walked to the next county and been back by now! I've been calling all morning."
"I'll meet you there," I told her. A nasty little tongue of fear flickered inside me, but I wasn't having any part of that.
"I'm sure she's okay," I said. "But how do we get in? I don't have a key."
"I do," Gatlin said. "Actually, it's Vesta's. She left it with me that night Mildred insisted on going back there. Said I might need it sometime."
"Mildred may be in trouble. I hope her angel's on duty," I told Augusta as I grabbed my coat. "She does have one, doesn't she?"
Augusta was washing the kitchen windows with something that smelled like new grass and looked like spring water. She didn't turn around. "Of course she does, Arminda, but I don't have my directory handy just now."
"Huh!" I said. Sometimes I couldn't tell if Augusta was joking, but I wouldn't be surprised if she really did carry an angel directory in that great big bag of hers.
The front of Papa's Armchair looked dark and deserted, and a blind was drawn in the doorway, so I parked behind Gatlin's ten-year-old red Pontiac at the back entrance to the rooms Mildred and Otto had called home. Gatlin already had her key in the lock by the time I got out of my car.
"I've rung the bell three times and knocked until my knuckles are raw," my cousin said. "I'm going in."
"Maybe we ought to call somebody first," I said. "What if something's happened? You don't know what we'll find in there."
But it was too late. Gatlin swung the door wide and stepped boldly inside the dark, narrow hallway with me crowding her footsteps, only to be met by a pink apparition.
I'd like to say I imagined it, but I'm almost sure I screamed. The apparition made a funny growling noise, snatched a lamp off the hall table, and shook it at us.
"Look out, it's got a lamp!" I yelled just as the pink figure and the lamphit the floor together.
"Minda, for heaven's sake, it's Mildred!" Gatlin ran to hover over the dazed-looking woman who sat, still muttering, in the hallway while I rescued the lamp.
"What's going on?" Mildred spoke in a hoarse, hesitating whisper. "I don't understand…and…oh, my head hurts so…"
Mildred Parsons was not a heavy person, but even with our support she walked like an adolescent in her first pair of heels, and it took the two of us several minutes to help her to a chair. If I hadn't known about Mildred's strict Methodist principles, I'd have suspected she'd been into the booze.
I whispered to Gatlin over Mildred's head. "Maybe we'd better get her in bed."
"No, no!" Mildred croaked weakly. "Just let me sit a minute—and water—a glass of water…"
"Easy now…sipit slowly." In the tiny living room Gatlin held the glass to Mildred's lips while I shoved a footstool under her feet and covered her with a throw. The throw had a smirky-looking cat on it and read IF YOU CAN'T SAY ANYTHING NICE ABOUT PEOPLE, COME AND SIT NEXT TO ME. This woman I had known all my life was surprising me at every turn.
Gatlin and I watched anxiously as she drank most of the water, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes for minutes that seemed longer than an off-key wedding solo. I was about to grab her wrist for a pulse when Mildred opened her eyes and announced that somebody had "slipped her a Mickey."
"A what?" Gatlin grinned and jabbed me with her elbow. "You've been watching too many of those old movies, Mildred. You must've eaten something that disagreed with you, or picked up a virus somewhere."
"Don't tell me what I picked up! I reckon I know what I picked up—I picked up a drink with some kind of dope in it!" Mildred sat a little straighter and then winced with the effort. "What time is it? I feel like I've been asleep a thousand years."
"It's close to three in the afternoon, and whatever you picked up, you need to see a doctor," I told her. "How long have you been sick?"
"Since I got home last night. Hardly made it to bed before my head started swimming. Sick as a dog and up half the night." She rubbed her eyes and pulled the coverlet closer about her.
"Got home from where?" Gatlin wanted to know.
"UMW. Wouldn't have gone, but we're in the middle of planning for the Christmas Bazaar, and I'm in charge of the quilt raffle this year."
"Did you eat anything there?" I asked, touching her forehead to check for fever. It felt clammy.
"A couple of pieces of Scotch shortbread and coffee. We met at Janice Palmer's, and she always serves that." Mildred put a trembling hand to her mouth. "Don't think I'll be wanting any more for a while."
"Who else was there? Maybe somebody else got sick," I said, although I couldn't imagine those refreshments causing an upset as severe as Mildred's.
"The usual—except for Gertrude Whitmire. She hardly ever comes. And Edna Smith. Vesta, too, but she came in late, so I'm not sure if she ate anything."
"What about supper? Did you have anything to eat before the meeting?" Gatlin reached for the phone as she spoke.
Mildred made a face. "Just some of Edna's vegetable soup and corn bread. But it couldn't have been that."
I wedged a pillow behind her. "Why not?"
"Because she had some with me. Said she didn't like to think of me eating alone." Mildred reached out for Gatlin. "Look now, who're you calling?"
"The Better Health Clinic. Somebody should take a look at you, Mildred. You might have food poisoning."
"I'm eighty-three years old. I don't have time to spend the rest of my days in their waiting room, thank you. Besides, what could they do? If this was going to kill me, I'd already be dead—and believe me, there were times last night I wanted to be!" Mildred reluctantly accepted the cold cloth I applied to her forehead. "I told you—somebody slipped something into my coffee—something to knock me out."
"They could check your stomach contents," Gatlin reasoned. "See if there's anything toxic—"
"What stomach contents?" Mildred looked a little green and turned away.
"Or the soup. We'll have them analyze what's left of the soup," I suggested.
"Too late. We ate it all, and I'm afraid I rinsed out the jar." Mildred attempted a smile. "Edna does make good soup….
You might call, though, and see if she's all right. Wouldn't hurt to see about Vesta, too."
"She was fine when she came by this morning," I told them. "But I'll try to track her down."
Willene Christenbury, who had hosted the luncheon for the Historical Society's renovation co
mmittee, told me my grandmother had left about thirty minutes before for a fitting at Phoebe's Alterations. "Said she was going to have that long black coat cut down to jacket size," Willene said. The coat was at least twenty years old, and I could tell by Willene's tone of voice that she wondered why Vesta would bother. I could have told her why. Vesta Maxwell got her penny's worth out of every thread she wore. My grandmother had never forgotten the Great Depression.
"She didn't seem sick or anything, did she?" I asked. "Mildred seems to have come down with something, and we aren't sure if it's a virus or something she ate."
Willene laughed. "I didn't see her turning down a second piece of lemon chess pie. Seemed fine when she left here."
Edna Smith sounded hearty enough, as well. "I can't imagine what it could be," she said when I phoned her about Mildred. "I ate the same things she did, and we only had light refreshments at UMW. Sounds like she's picked up a nasty germ somewhere. Tell you what—Hank left early this morning to go hunting, but I'm looking for him any minute. Soon as he gets back, I'll send him over to take a look."
"He isn't going to find anything," Mildred said when I told her. "Whatever stuff was in me is gone now."
Gatlin brought ginger ale and soda crackers and persuaded Mildred to take some liquid. "What makes you think somebody put something in your drink, Mildred? It could be a virus, you know."
"Then why am I the only one who got sick? And it made me feel like a zombie, like I'd been given some kind of drug. Remember when I had that gall bladder operation? It was like that. Felt just like I did when I came to—only worse!"
"But why?" I smiled. "You don't have a stash of priceless gems somewhere, do you? What would they want?"
She bit into a cracker. "There are things that might be worth more than that to certain people."
"Like what?" Gatlin asked. But Mildred wasn't talking.
"I have to pick up Faye from a birthday party, and Lizzie will come home from Scouts at any minute," Gatlin said, glancing at her watch. I nodded in reply to her questioning look. Now that we were reasonably sure Mildred wasn't going to bow out on us, I felt capable enough to stay until Hank Smith could get there.
The ginger ale and crackers seemed to have revived her some, for now Mildred began to fuss about her appearance. "I want to wash my face, brush my teeth…andfor heaven's sake, let me change out of this gown." She clasped a small, age-speckled hand to her bony chest as if to cover it. "Why, Hank Smith could see everything I've got!"
It was a family joke that Mildred pinned handkerchiefs to the underside of her clothing so that no one would suspect she had a crease in that area. I could have told her she might save herself the trouble.
Gatlin stood, arms folded, in front of her. "Consider it done," she said, but I could tell by her voice something was up. It was. "But first," my cousin continued, "you'll have to answer a question—just one!" She held upa warning finger to Mildred's silent protest. "And you have to promise to tell the truth."
"For goodness' sake, have you no shame? Bullying an old woman, and as sick as I am, too!…Oh, goon, then. What is it you want?" Apparently Mildred could see she was on the losing end of this one.
"Why didn't you tell us Otto had a girlfriend?" Gatlin asked.
"There was nothing to that." Mildred should never play poker. It was clear she was holding something back.
"That's not what I heard," I told her. "And what would it matter if he did? Otto was a grown man. He had a right to some kind of love life."
"Maybe so, but there are those who might not agree with you."
"Mildred, we know he was seeing Sylvie Smith. Why are you being so mysterious?" Gatlin looked around for her bag as a prelude to leaving.
"I got the idea her parents disapproved," she said. "Our Otto wasn't good enough for their precious Sylvia."
"What makes you think that?" Gatlin asked.
"You mean other than the fact that Edna told me she thought Sylvie was making a big mistake to put off going back to London?" Mildred looked almost as upset as she did that time I actually dried my hands on her freshly ironed guest towel.
"That doesn't mean she disapproved of Otto." Gatlin kissed our patient on the cheek and started out the door. "You behave now, and do as Minda says or I'll come back and bite you. I'll be home soon if you need me."
The last was directed to me, but I hoped I wouldn't have to take advantage of it.
"Was Otto still seeing Sylvie when he died?" I asked as I brushed Mildred's thinning hair. She seemed stronger now, but I was afraid she might be too weak to walk down the hall to the bathroom, so we had done the best we could with a washrag and a basin of water.
"Hard to say, since he never brought her here." Mildred fastened the top button of her clean flannel gown, gave it a final pat, and held out her arms for her robe. "He had something on his mind, though. I kind a thought it might've had something to do with that woman, but Otto didn't talk to me about things like that."
"Maybe they had a quarrel or something," I said. "Her mother would know, wouldn't she? Did Edna ever mention it?"
"She was probably the cause of it." Mildred made a face.
"Now, don't get me wrong… I've always liked Edna Smith. She's been a good friend to me, but I know for a fact Otto wasn't welcome in their home, and I can't help but hold that against her."
I laid the hairbrush aside. "How do you know?"
"Oh, just things he let slip—like once Sylvie had wanted to try her hand at cooking, have him over for dinner, but Edna decided to have the kitchen painted. And another time I think they had houseguests—relatives from out of town— and Otto said he felt like an intruder."
It sounded to me like Otto needed to lighten up, but it was a little late for that. "I don't remember seeing Sylvie at the funeral," I said.
"That's because she wasn't there. Doesn't that make you curious, Arminda? Even if they weren't on the best of terms when he died, you'd think she'd at least pay her respects."
"Maybe she was too broken up, couldn't handle it.
" Her look told me what she thought of that. "If I live to see another day, I intend to find that out. And how do we know Sylvia Smith didn't have something to do with the way Otto died? I wouldn't be surprised!"
"Mildred! You can't be serious. She and Otto might have come to a parting of the ways, but it didn't have to be terminal." Whatever bug had taken hold of Mildred had surely scrambled her brain, I thought. Before I could ask how she meant to go about investigating, the doorbell rang, and I hurried to admit Hank Smith, Sylvie's father.
"She seems some better," I whispered as we stood in the hallway, "but don't be surprised at what she might say. Mildred seems convinced somebody drugged her coffee at the UMW last night."
Hank Smith shook his head and smiled. "I don't suppose she gave you a reason?"
"Says they were after something," I said. "And she did sleep through most of the day. Whatever she had just about wiped her out, especially after losing Otto the way we did."
He gave my shoulder a sympathetic pat. "Given Mildred's age and emotional status, an illness of this sort might sometimes bring about delusions."
But I wasn't having delusions a few minutes later when, to give Mildred a little privacy with our family doctor, I unlocked the connecting door to the bookshop and found the room looking like somebody had picked it up and shaken it.
Chapter Eight
Looks like a stampede of elephants came through here,"the young policeman said, running a hand through unruly brown hair. He reminded me of Paddington Bear with his bright yellow slicker and rounded tummy. I later learned his name was Rusty Echols and he was Chief Mc Bride's nephew. Nepotism has never been a problem in Angel Heights. They just ignore it.
The lock to the front door had been forced, the chief told us later—although, according to him, a five-year-old could've done it. And as for fingerprints, the shop was covered in those of every book-lover in town.
On discovering the break-in, my first instinct
had been to gather the books that littered the floor like scattered building blocks and put them back where they belonged before Mildred could see them. Thank goodness my few commonsense brain cells banded together to remind me this was not a good thing. Not only would I be destroying evidence, but I also had no idea where anything went. We didn't even tell Mildred what had happened until after Hank Smith shipped her off to County General for an overnight stay—just in case, he said.
"I told you somebody slipped me a Mickey," she reminded us later from her hospital bed. "Wanted me out of the way so they could search Papa's Armchair."
"Search for what, Mildred?" my grandmother asked. "If you'll tell us what you think they're looking for, we'll put it in a safe place."
"Don't you worry, it is in a safe place. I've taken care of that." In her white hospital bed, Mildred looked like a washed-out rag doll in need of stuffing. Beside her, Vesta, although close in age, seemed almost robust except for the worry in her eyes and the weariness in her face.
Vesta stood, drawing herself up to her full five feet ten inches, and gave Mildred a heaping taste of her frustration and displeasure. "Mildred Parsons, need I remind you how Otto died? And he was probably killed for a reason—by somebody right here in this town. Do you think they would hesitate to do the same to you?"
Mildred looked back defiantly—or as defiantly as she could in her position. "But they didn't. Else I'd be dead now, wouldn't I? Well, I'm not, I'm here…and that young doctor who was in here earlier said I could go home tomorrow."
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