Shadow of an Angle

by Mignon F. Ballard

  "She be even madder if we lost you," I said. "Is that why you came back here, to return the zebra?"

  "Uh-huh. I wanted to, but I didn't know the way. And that lady with the big car kept driving by real slow. I was so afraid she'd see me, Minda! I hid behind a wall once, then got under a tree. I wanted to go home, but she kept going past, and I didn't know how to get there. I cried."

  I drew her close and kissed her. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry! But she's not going to find you now. How did you get here?"

  Faye sat up straighter and bounced in my lap. "Why, the pretty lady brought me here."

  "What pretty lady?" I asked.

  "I don't know her name, but I was sitting under this tree crying, and oh, I wanted my mama—but I wanted to get Mildred's zebra back first. The lady smelled nice, made me feel good—warmlike, you know. She showed me a shortcut here through people's backyards. I crawled under the desk so the bad people couldn't find me, and she covered me up real warm and cozy and told me to wait for you."

  "The man who was working here didn't see you?"

  "I was real quiet. I tiptoed. He didn't see the lady, either. Guess he was too busy."

  Still holding her close, I reached for the phone. "Everything's going to be all right now, and your mama and daddy are going to be so glad to hear you're safe and sound!"

  "Will Mildred be mad, do you think?"

  "Mildred will be so happy to see you, I'll bet she'll forget all about that silly zebra," I said.

  "But I haven't."

  I looked up to see Gertrude Whitmire standing in the office doorway, and she had a revolver in her hand. "I'll take that now," she said.

  "No!" Faye clutched the animal closer and grabbed me with a choking hold. "It's not yours, it's Mildred's."

  "Mrs. Whitmire, I don't think you realize what you're doing," I said. "You're not well, and you're frightening this child." And scaring the hell out of me! Cautiously, I reached again for the phone. "We can get you some help." I spoke as softly, as evenly as I could to reassure Faye and to keep Gert from completely freaking out. Somebody had to be calm—or pretend to be calm. I wanted to throw up.

  "I wouldn't touch that telephone." Gertrude stepped closer. Her eyes were abnormally bright. Scary bright. She wasn't Gertrude Whitmire, the longtime teacher students joked about but always respected. She was someone else, someone— something—cruel and loathsome, and I didn't know how to deal with her.

  Then, although I couldn't see her, I knew Augusta was there. Her essence was all around me, and I took a deep breath, feeling her presence, sensing her goodness.

  "Give her the zebra, Faye," I said. And the child silently put the stuffed animal into Gertrude's outstretched hand.

  Did Gert mean to kill us now that she had what she wanted? I couldn't let that happen. Slowly I eased Faye off my lap, meaning to shove her under the desk while I tried to disarm this madwoman. She was bigger, taller than I was, but I had youth on my side. And I had Augusta.

  I watched as she snatched up the zebra, clawed at the threadbare fabric, and the sleeve that had been concealing part of her weapon became dislodged. Gertrude's revolver was a hairbrush!

  Gertrude Whitmire was so intent on ripping apart the zebra, I had telephoned 911 before she knew what I was doing. The hairbrush slipped unnoticed to the floor. Putting Faye behind me, I braced myself for what this woman might do when she realized what had happened. I knew now it must have been Gertrude who attacked me on the bicycle and at the academy. This person was definitely out to get me, but what could she do now? Shoot me with a hairbrush?

  She picked it up and threw it at me instead, missing my head by inches.

  Faye peered from behind me. "Minda, what's wrong with that woman?" she asked, crying.

  "She's sick, Faye; she's not going to hurt us." I gave her a little shove. "But I want you to crawl under the desk again— just for a little while, okay?"

  "You've caused me more trouble than you're worth!" Gertrude Whitmire's words clattered like ice cubes dropped one at a time, and I watched Faye roll under the desk and out of her reach as the woman lunged at me, her hands at my throat.

  Instinctively, I threw up my arms in a defensive maneuver I'd learned years before on the grammar school playground, and kicked herin the stomach. Kicked her hard.

  The breath went out of her with a whooshing sound, and she sank to the floor and moaned. Maybe she would be out of commission for a while.

  I held out my hand to Faye and pulled her into my lap, then grabbed tissues from Mildred's desk and wiped away her tears. "I'm going to call your mama now. Don't you want to talk to her? Tell her you're all right?"

  "Mrs. Whitmire, would you like me to call your brother?" I asked after Faye had spoken to both parents, who were on their way, she said. Faye had curled up in the armchair, and I wrapped the throw around her. Now I stood between the child and the woman who had threatened us—but not too closely. I didn't know what she might do.

  Gertrude had quieted now, but still sat on the floor, tugging persistently at the stuffed animal's puckered seams.

  "Would it help if your brother were here?" I asked again.

  "That Hugh? What for? He's already botched things up. If you and your family had stayed out of this, everything would've been all right."

  "You mean Otto would still be alive?"

  "He was going to tell everything. Everything! It would've ruined us! Otto left that message for Hugh, but I heard it first. Hugh wanted to take the easy way out—"

  "Like search the bookshop until he found what he was looking for?" I said.

  "That wasn't the way! I knew it wasn't the way, so I just took care of things myself. What Hugh didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Everybody thought I was at that church movie thing, but I sat near the back and left well before it was over."

  Gertrude laughed. "Otto had so much to drink, he didn't even know what was happening."

  "But I thought Otto had quit drinking."

  "Otto thought he had, too, until I put vodka in his orange juice. By the time he realized it, it was too late. He kept the juice in a little refrigerator off the library up there. Came in early that night and fiddled around some, had a few glasses while waiting for Hugh to come." Gert smiled and gave the zebra a punch. "But Hugh didn't come. I came. By that time he was drunk as a skunk. It doesn't take much, you know, if you haven't imbibed in a while."

  "And he didn't suspect?"

  "Not at first, and then he tried to hide. He joked about it, you know. Made light of my grandfather. Why, he said awful things! Guess he thought I wouldn't look for him in the ladies' room, or maybe he was so drunk and confused he wandered in the wrong room. Oh, it was so easy! The fool didn't even fasten the door of his stall!"

  Poor Otto! "But the door was fastened when—"

  "Oh, I did that afterward. Stood on a chair. Took a little stretching, but walking keeps me fit, you know."

  This woman had absolutely no conscience, no regret.

  "And then you came! As soon as I got rid of one nuisance, here came another! You and that Mildred dredging up old lies. You just couldn't let it go, could you?"

  "But why Sylvie Smith? What has she ever done?" I took a step away from her and reached for Faye's hand. The woman had long arms and a shifty look.

  "Sylvia happened along at an unfortunate time," she said, watching me.

  "What were you looking for there?" I asked.

  "You know." The look she gave me could split a redwood tree. "You know very well."

  But I didn't.

  Dave, Gatlin, and the police all arrived at about the same time a few minutes later, and after collecting Lizzie and Mildred, my cousins and I had a late lunch of hot dogs (at Faye's request), at the Heavenly Grill.

  Later, over ice cream, I told them what Gertrude had said. "I know she was the one who tried to flip me off my bike, then later meant to do me in at the academy," I said, "but how did she have time to get back there after dropping Gatlin off at the bookshop to get her car?"

/>   "I imagine she parked somewhere close by and walked back to the academy," Dave said.

  "If Hugh hadn't come when he did, I might have been part of the flooring!" I said, wishing I hadn't eaten all those fries. "Gertrude must have heard him coming and hidden in another room, then sneaked down the back stairs while he was 'unwinding' me. I guess she meant to make it look like a suicide… but she had groceries in her car, remember? How could she have had time to go to the store, then get back to the academy in time to pretend to be so shocked?"

  "Those groceries were for the church Thanksgiving collection," Gatlin said. "She probably already had them in the trunk. It wouldn't take a minute to move them up front to look like she'd been shopping. I'll bet if you looked at the date on the receipt, it would prove it."

  "Too late now," I said. "But I still don't see how she could've called you on the phone pretending to be your neighbor."

  Gatlin frowned. "I think I know. If you'll remember, she went into the bathroom while I was actually talking to the 'neighbor.' I think she called the academy on her cell phone, summoned me downstairs, and then disappeared into the ladies' room to continue the conversation. She didn't come out until I was off the phone."

  Mildred, who had been silent, finished her coffee and looked at me. "I really don't believe Gertrude cared for you, Arminda."

  I laughed along with everybody else. "I don't think she liked you much, either. And to think I felt sorry for her because her husband died."

  "He didn't die," Gatlin said. "Amos Whitmire ran off several years back with a topless dancer from Atlanta. Poor Gert hasn't been the same since."

  "I don't guess we'll ever know what she put in your coffee that night," I said to Mildred.

  "I don't think I want to know," Mildred said. "But she sure turned the bookstore upside down! We were getting just too close to something that made Gertrude Whitmire most uncomfortable."

  "But didn't somebody try to run over Mrs. Whitmire with a car?" Lizzie asked. "She hurt her ankle real bad, remember?"

  "Gertrude Whitmire said somebody had tried to run her down," her mother said. "She probably got all those cuts and scratches staging her fake accident."

  "So everyone would think she was a victim," Dave said. "Looks like the wordy one will be put away for a long time. Wonder how long this has been coming on."

  "I don't know, but I hope they put her someplace where she can't hurt anybody else. Do you think she knows about the quilt?" Gatlin asked.

  "I'm not sure," Mildred said. "Perhaps not. But Otto must have told her about the group of girls and their pin, as well as the letter from Flora. I think she knew what her grandfather had done, and I'm certain she felt threatened by me, as well."

  "I can't help but feel there's something else," I said as Mildred paid the bill. She insisted on it being her treat. "Hugh never would say what it was, but he was looking for something other than that letter. I'm sure of it."

  Vesta came rushing up as we were leaving the restaurant and demanded a full account. "Why didn't you get in touch with me? Had to go to three stores to find that stone-ground cornmeal I like, and had no idea what was going on! You can imagine my shock to come home and find my own great-grandchild missing!"

  I told her it was a little difficult to get in touch with somebody when you didn't know where they were, but she was so busy hugging and kissing Faye, she didn't even hear me.

  The day had turned to dusk by the time we all ended up back at Gatlin's. Vesta heated spiced apple cider while Dave built a fire in the fireplace, and we all sat around, not saying a whole lot, but thankful to be together. The frenzied panic of the morning seemed a bad dream.

  I was getting sleepy just sitting there with Napoleon's head in my lap when Chief McBride came to the door. "I've brought you some company," he said, ushering in Dr. Hank.

  Of course, we all wanted to know how Sylvie was and were told her condition had been upgraded and they thought she might even be able to go home soon.

  "That's one reason I'm here," the doctor told us. "She thought you might like to have this. It was in Sylvia's safety deposit box, but I believe it belongs to you."

  "What in the world is it?" Vesta asked.

  "Something Otto asked her to keep," the chief said. "He must've realized he was in danger and gave it to her for safekeeping."

  "Sylvie thought it was a rare manuscript that Otto planned to sell," Dr. Hank said. "He was a good friend and had helped her purchase such things for her library collection in London, so she agreed to keep it for him, not knowing, of course, what it was.

  "But when Otto was killed," he continued, "Sylvie says she became frightened and suspected that somebody might have been after the manuscript. That's when she rented the safety deposit box. She planned to leave it there until whoever killed Otto was safely in jail." He gave the portfolio to my grandmother.

  "Hank, I'm sorry, but I have to ask," Vesta began. "What happened between Sylvie and Otto? Were they—engaged, or something?"

  "Not hardly. Just friends. Both of them loved books—especially old books, so they had that much in common. And Otto was helping Sylvie with a collection for the museum in London. To be honest, I doubt if Otto cared in that way about the opposite sex."

  "Oh." Vesta glanced at Mildred, who seemed to agree.

  "Have you seen what's in here?" Vesta turned to Dr. Hank, and he nodded, grinning.

  "Hell, Vesta, you know how curious I am."

  Inside were several composition books, yellowed with age, a sketchbook filled with drawings of the characters Doggie Dan and Callie Cat, all signed by Lucy West book, and a manuscript in the same handwriting, unsigned and wrapped in oiled paper.

  "Where did Otto find these?" Vesta asked.

  "In the attic, I suppose," Mildred told her. "Don't you remember how he combed that attic when we moved out of the old place?"

  My grandmother leafed through the papers almost reverently. "Why, these belonged to my mother. She drew these pictures herself…."

  "And wrote the stories, too," Gatlin said, glancing through one of the composition books.

  The folder had also contained a sheaf of letters Lucy had written to my great-grandfather before they married and the handwriting was the same as that on the other written materials.

  "I've seen this old manuscript before," Vesta said, holding the bound papers wrapped in oiled paper. "It was in the showcase at the academy, the one in the library. It's said to be an original manuscript of one of the first stories."

  "Looks like Otto helped himself to that one, too," I said.

  "And it looks like Fitzhugh Holley was a plagiarist," Mildred said. "Good gracious, couldn't the man do anything right?"

  "He had you," Vesta reminded her.

  The next day was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I had invited the whole family over for the holiday. Dave had promised to smoke the turkey, and Vesta was making rolls and dressing. Mildred agreed to bring sweet potatoes—the good kind with brown sugar and nuts on top, and Gatlin said she'd contribute a cranberry salad, so I really didn't have that much to do. Still, I should have stayed home baking, but there was something I couldn't get off my mind.

  "Why?" I asked Gatlin over the phone that morning. "Why in the world would Lucy let that horrible man take credit for her own creation?"

  My cousin was mincing ingredients for the salad: celery, pecans, oranges, cranberries, and I had to wait until she'd switched off the food processor. "I can't imagine, but she must've had a reason. Whatever it was, we know the truth now. Otto must have thought he'd struck gold when he found that sketchbook and Lucy's stories, then matched them with the handwriting on that manuscript."

  A production company, we learned, had expressed an interest in reprinting the old stories with the possibility of later introducing them as cartoons, and perhaps a line of children's clothing. The characters, although dated, still had a quaint appeal, and Hugh Talbot, when backed against the wall, had agreed not to contest the rights if it eventually came abo
ut.

  "What are you making for dessert tomorrow?" Gatlin asked.

  "Don't worry. It won't be pumpkin pie." (My cousin hated pumpkin pie.) "I'll let you know when I get back."

  "Get back from where?"

  "Mamie Estes's. If anybody would know why our great grandmother let that man put his name on her stories, it would be her."

  "But Minda, she's a hundred and two! What makes you think she'll remember?"

  "Some things you just don't forget," I said, and hoped I was right.

  As it turned out, I was. I hadn't even called ahead, but took along a jar of strawberry preserves Augusta had made earlier, and took my chances. Augusta went along for company, and seemed quieter than usual, I thought, during the drive to Charlotte. She didn't even tell me to slow down or to mind the other traffic.

  "I hope she's not asleep when we get there," I said as we turned into Mamie's street. And then I had a horrible thought. After all, the woman was 102! "Ohmygosh! What if she's—"

  "She's not."

  "Well, I guess you'd know," I said.

  Her daughter-in-law met me at the door. "Well, my goodness, look at you! Mamie said you'd be coming today! She's waiting for you in the sitting room. Please come in."