Shadow of an Angle

by Mignon F. Ballard

  "Do you remember what she said?"

  "I don't think I'll ever forget it. She drew herself up and clutched my sleeve. 'No! No! You mustn't tell! Mustn't ever tell! Promise me…'"

  Mildred shivered and clasped her hands together. " 'Tell what?' I asked. I had no idea why she was so worked up or what it was she wanted me not to tell."

  She paused, and a slight frown wrinkled her brow. "'Lucy must never know about me!' Mama said, and her eyes locked into mine, wouldn't let me go. 'Oh, my dear Lucy! I'm sorry… so sorry! You must give me your word, Mildred. Don't tell. Please don't tell!' "

  "Did you ever know what she meant?" I asked.

  "Not really. Not until I'd lived here in Angel Heights for a while. A long while." Mildred dipped a cookie into her tea and nibbled at the edges.

  "So why did you come here?"

  "After my mother died, things seemed to go from sour to just plain rancid. Jake, my older brother—or I thought he was my brother—and his wife, Estelle, were living with us at the time with their daughter, who was then about seventeen. You see Ben, the man I knew as my father, had died a few years before, and after Mama passed away, the house went to Jake." Mildred took a deep breath and drew herself up. "Estelle made it clear I wasn't welcome there—resented me, I guess.

  "Angel Heights was the last place my mother mentioned, and of course her friend Lucy lived here. Since I had no family of my own—except for Jake, who let that silly Estelle tell him how to put on his drawers in the morning—I decided to find out for myself why Mama got so hysterical about my mentioning her to Lucy. There was nothing to hold me in Brookbend, and she'd made me beneficiary of a small insurance policy, so I quit my job as bookkeeper for a greenhouse there and came here to Angel Heights." She smiled. "That was before you were even born, and I only meant to stay long enough to see if I could learn why this woman, Lucy Westbrook, was so important to my mother."

  "And did you?"

  "Not until just before Lucy died, and I began to suspect who my mother really was," Mildred told me. "I asked her once if she'd gone to school with anyone named Ann Waters, and she claimed she'd never heard of her. She hadn't, of course. I know that now."

  "Do you think she knew who you were? That you were her sister's daughter?"

  "Oh, no! I'm sure she didn't. Lucy was convinced her sister drowned, never questioned it. It wasn't a subject she discussed—nor did she like anyone else bringing it up."

  Mildred stood and rinsed her cup in the sink. "I probably wouldn't have stayed here if it hadn't been for Otto," she said, still with her back to me. "He was nine years old then, and his mother had more or less deserted him—gone back home to Texas without so much as a by your leave!" She wiped her hands on the dish towel and turned to face me with a sound that was first cousin to a snort.

  "When I first came here to Angel Heights, it didn't take long to learn Lucy's married name was Alexander and to find out where she lived, and I dropped by the house on some pretext or other. Told her I was new in town—which of course I was—and asked if she needed any sewing done. I'm a fairly good seamstress, you know. I'd brought my portable sewing machine from home and had taken a room at Bessie Overton's. You don't remember her—dead now, but she used to take in tourists."

  "So, did she?" I asked.

  "Did she what?"

  "Want any sewing done?"

  "Well, of course she did," Mildred said. "Lucy was a clotheshorse from the word go. Invited me right in, and that's when I learned about the boy. She said they were looking for a housekeeper—somebody to keep an eye on Otto. I could see that she didn't want to be bothered with the child, and Vesta was busy with her own interests. Your grandfather was still alive then, and they stayed on the go a lot."

  "And you took the job. Didn't they ask for references?"

  "I told them up front I didn't have experience in that area except for the time I spent with Jake's daughter, Julia, when she was a child, but I learned from my mother how to take care of a house and cook. The greenhouse where I'd worked before gave them a reference, and that seemed to satisfy them." Mildred shrugged. "Guess they were desperate. I meant to stay only a few months—a year at the most—until I could decide where I wanted to go from there, but of course by then I knew I couldn't leave Otto."

  Somehow it always came back to Otto.

  "Does my grandmother know what really happened to your mother?" I asked.

  "Good heavens, no! She never knew her, of course, but Vesta's always enjoyed telling about her beautiful aunt, Annie Rose, who died so young and so tragically in the Saluda River. It makes a good story."

  "She's never seen the pin with your mother's initials on the back?"

  "No one has—except for Otto, and I never showed it to him. It was one of the few things left to me by my mother, and I kept it in a special place. Not special enough, I guess, to keep hidden from Otto.

  "Lucy had a pin just like it," she added. "I found it just after she died, and that was what convinced me the two were sisters. That and some pictures I came across in the family album."

  "Mildred…," I began, and then hesitated. How do you ask a question like this? I took a deep breath and plunged in. "Mildred, do you have any idea who your father was?"

  She stood at the window looking out on the backyard already layered in the gloom of late afternoon. "Does it matter? Whoever he was, he's long dead now."

  "Do you think it had anything to do with Otto's death?"

  Mildred turned, and I was surprised to hear her laugh. "You mean the fact that I'm illegitimate—or would've been if my mother hadn't married when she did?" She shook her head. "People don't kill for that kind of thing in this day and time, Arminda."

  "How can you be sure Ben Parsons wasn't your natural father?"

  "Because I found my mother's marriage license to him. It was dated five months before I was born." Mildred crossed her arms and looked at me. "I'm sure she didn't know him before she came there. And her name on the license was Annie Rose Westbrook."

  I felt a shiver go through me. "Is that what you learned when you went there this last time?"

  She nodded. "I should've done this long ago, but Estelle said there was nothing of my mother's there, said they'd thrown out her things years ago. Hateful to the end, Estelle was, but Julia is more like her father. Wrote me a week or so before Otto died and said she was putting the old place on the market and had discovered some things of my mother's in the attic. Jake died not too long after I left there, and Estelle's been gone four or five years. Julia and her husband are moving into a smaller place."

  "Have you told anyone else about this?" I asked.

  Mildred sighed as she sat across from me. "Not yet. I just wish I'd known this sooner! Everyone who knew my mother is gone now, and I have so many questions to ask."

  I reminded her about Mamie Estes. "Her mind's still good for somebody as old as she is, and she remembers your mother."

  "Do you think she would talk with me? I wouldn't want to frighten her."

  "Why do you say that?" I said.

  "When Lucy died all those years ago, I felt I'd lost my last link, and then I remembered Flora Dennis." Mildred looked away, but I could still see the hurt on her face.

  "What about Flora?"

  "She used to correspond with Lucy, and I knew they'd gone to school together, so I thought perhaps she'd remember my mother, Annie Rose. I wrote to her telling her of Lucy's death and enclosed a copy of a photograph of Mama. It was made in our backyard in Brookbend when she was still a young woman, and I asked Flora if she remembered her."

  "Did you tell her it was a picture of Annie Rose?" I asked.

  "No, no. It was kind of a test, you see, to discover if my mother was really who I suspected, but Flora never answered my letter."

  "Maybe she was sick," I said. "Or just forgetful. I don't think she lived too long after that."

  "It was more than that, Arminda. When I didn't hear from her after a few weeks I became concerned that perhaps she hadn't
received my letter, and I telephoned there. When Flora answered the phone, I tried to explain who I was and what I wanted, but I couldn't get any response from her. The woman never said a word! After a few minutes, her granddaughter came to the phone and was most unpleasant to me. Accused me of trying to pull a cruel joke and warned me to never call there again. So of course I never did."

  "I can see why she reacted that way, Mildred. Flora thought your mother was dead—drowned. She never knew you existed, and now you were sending her a photograph of a dead woman."

  "I certainly didn't intend… I suppose I went about it in the wrong way. If only she'd have let me explain!"

  I told her how Peggy O'Connor had responded when I mentioned the emblem on her grandmother's gravestone. "Must be an emotional family," I said. "You'd have thought I'd dug up a body in the garden."

  "I don't know about a body," Mildred said, "but something mighty queer's going on with her, and I think I know what she's hiding."

  I looked at her, and she answered my unspoken question.

  "The quilt. I believe the O'Connor woman has the quilt, and for some reason she doesn't want us to see it."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Igroaned, thinking of another long drive to Georgia only to have a door slammed in my face. "Maybe if you go with me, Mildred, we can convince this woman we don't have some evil plot against her. We have to track down that quilt!"

  "She's had a few years to mellow since I spoke with her last." Mildred said, starting for the telephone in the hallway. "Let me speak with her first—won't hurt to give it a try."

  "Gatlin didn't have any better luck than I did," I told her. "You'll just be wasting your time."

  "Don't worry, I'll be diplomatic," she insisted, waiting by the phone.

  Diplomacy is not one of Mildred's greater traits, and I tried not to make a face. Still I dug up Peggy O'Connor's phone number from somewhere in the depths of my purse and stood by as she punched in the number and explained to the person who answered exactly who she was and what she wanted. Mildred looked at me as she spoke in her usual calm, no-nonsense voice, and her expression never changed.

  "Mrs. O'Connor, I'm eighty-three years old, have never had much of an imagination, and doubt if I ever will. I'm telling you the truth, and I hope you will believe me when I tell you that your grandmother's friend, Annie Rose Westbrook, didn't die as she believed in the Saluda River. I've only recently learned that Annie Rose was indeed my mother. She left Angel Heights when she was pregnant with me and never returned….

  "… Oh, but Mrs. O'Connor, it should concern you because that quilt your grandmother had…"

  Mildred came very close to rolling her eyes at me. "Yes, I'm sure your grandmother had it last because Mamie Estes mailed it to her. Mamie's a hundred and two but she still remembers your grandmother, and she's the last surviving member of that little group of friends—they even had a name for themselves, I hear."

  Mildred raised an eyebrow at me and I mouthed the answer she wanted. "The Mystic Six, I'm told," she told her, then, frowning, listened quietly to whatever was being said.

  "Please don't hang up, Mrs. O'Connor. I wish we could convince you of the importance—"

  I held out a hand for the receiver, and Mildred gave it to me with a world-weary sigh. If it had been Peggy O'Connor's neck, I would gladly have wrung it.

  "Here's the thing," I said. "One person has been murdered here, and several—including me—were attacked. We believe the quilt may give us the key to the reason behind it. If you know anything about this, Mrs. O'Connor, your life may be in danger, as well. Won't you help us, please, before someone else is hurt?"

  For a few silent seconds I thought she had gone away, and then she cleared her throat. "I can't help you," she said.

  "Can't or won't?"

  "I don't have the quilt, and I don't know where it is."

  "Do you know anyone who might help us find it?" Why was this woman being such an impossible, rigid ass?

  "I'm sorry," she said, and hung up.

  It was dark when I drove Mildred back to her place a few minutes later, and I think both of us felt as dismal as the damp November night. Regardless of her protests, I insisted on going inside to carry in her groceries, but I really wanted to be sure everything was all right. Gatlin, I noticed, had left a light burning in the front of the shop, and we found a note from her under the connecting door to let Mildred know that R. T. Foster would be by in the morning to take a look at the bookstore and its adjoining building.

  Mildred brightened when she read it. "I do hope this works out for Gatlin. It's been difficult for them financially, I know, and if there's one good thing that's come from Otto's death, it's that Gatlin will have a chance to do something with this place."

  "You knew then—about the will?"

  "Of course I knew! Otto and I discussed it before he made it out, and I was the one who suggested he name Gatlin. After all, she should be next in line." Mildred smiled. "Good heavens, Minda! You didn't think it would upset me that he didn't leave his share to me, did you?" She shook her head. "I wasn't supposed to outlive him. Besides, the amount Vesta sets aside for me each month more than takes care of my needs."

  Now it was my time to smile. "We thought… that is, we knew Otto would have wanted you to have something."

  "Yes, I imagine he would if he'd thought of it—but he didn't." Mildred lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. "There's no need in saying anything about this to your grandmother, Arminda. Just let her go on believing that I think Otto provided for me. She's glad to share, and I'm glad to accept it—so let's just keep this between the two of us."

  I agreed. Annie Rose, I thought, would be glad as well.

  Driving home, I thought of what Mildred had said about her mother's mentioning Augusta, and knew then what Augusta's unfinished business here had been. As far as I was concerned, it was still unfinished. The angel claimed not to know any more than she had told me about what happened to the Mystic Six after Annie Rose supposedly drowned, but still I wondered if she was keeping something back.

  Augusta had kept out of sight during my visit at the Nut House with Mildred, yet I could sense her presence there, and even though she wasn't beside me in the car, I thought I got a whiff of her "angel essence." Tonight it was a combination of strawberries and mint.

  Coming from town, I usually drove straight down River Street and turned left on Phinizy, but now I found myself going out of my way. What now, Augusta? I thought. I'm really tired, and it's been a long day.

  Hank and Edna Smith's rambling Dutch barn of a house stood on a corner two blocks over, and with all that had happened, I supposed the time had come to speak openly with Sylvie. If she knew something about Otto that might help us clear away some of the clutter, we needed to know it now.

  The house was dark except for a light burning in the kitchen, and Sylvia's car was parked in the driveway with the door behind the driver's seat open.

  Good! This would solve my problem of dropping by without first calling—always a no-no in Vesta's book. I pulled up to the curb and waited for Sylvie to come out, explanations ready on my tongue. Just happened to be in the neighborhood and saw your car… and did you kill my cousin Otto? Well, that certainly wouldn't do! I'd have to think of a better way to wade in than that. I decided on honesty. Something's very wrong here, Sylvia, and it seemed to have started with Otto. Do you know if he was involved in anything that might have led to his murder? When I'd overheard her at the cemetery, she had told Otto—dead though he was at the time—how sorry she was. Sorry for what?

  I sat there for almost ten minutes waiting and wondering why Sylvia Smith didn't come back outside and finish carrying in her luggage or her groceries, or whatever she had left in the car. I could see the empty backseat in the light of the open car door, but there didn't appear to be anyone or anything inside. Maybe Sylvie had forgotten to close it, in which case, the light would eventually drain the battery.

  Okay. I would close her car
door and go home—deed done. I really didn't want to confront Sylvia alone in her house without either of her parents there. For all I knew, she was the one who had tried to dump me down the stairwell from three floors up.

  Except for a bag of groceries on the floor, the car was empty as I had suspected, but curiosity—or something else—drove me to glance in the kitchen doorway which had been left partially open, and what I saw was a foot.

  The foot wasn't in a normal position such as standing, walking, or sitting. It was splayed out on the floor with a leg attached. Sylvie Smith's leg.

  She was breathing—thank God—but her face was pale, and blood matted her pale hair and puddled on the blue vinyl floor. I touched her wrist and found a weak pulse; her eyelids fluttered.

  "Help is coming, Sylvie," I told her. "You're going to be all right." I didn't know that at all, but that's what they always tell people in situations like this and I hoped it might help. I called 911 from the kitchen phone and begged them to hurry, praying the whole time that Sylvia wouldn't die right there because I didn't know what else to do other than kneel on the floor beside her and let her know she wasn't alone.