The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders

by Mignon F. Ballard

  Blythe obviously had been working on cross-stitch, as a half-finished design of a vase of flowers waited on one end of the sofa. “For my niece,” she explained. “She’s getting married in May.”

  I helped her bring in the tea tray and sat at the other end. We had to move an array of framed photographs to make room for the refreshments, and Blythe spoke to each one as though the person were present.

  “Excuse me, Uncle Henry, I’m going to put you over here on the end table with Cousin Ella for a while…Aunt Mae, I’ll leave the twins with you…”

  I almost expected some long-dead ancestor to plop down beside me and ask me to pass the sugar.

  Willene managed a smile. “Don’t mind her,” she said. “She talks that way all the time.”

  Blythe nodded. “They keep me company,” she said, offering me a cup of tea. She called my attention to an oval portrait in a silver filigree frame. A pretty girl of about twelve sat with a chubby toddler on her lap. “That’s me with my little sister,” Blythe explained. “She didn’t want to sit still for the photographer.”

  I smiled, thinking of what a wiggleworm Teddy had been at that age. Blythe Cornelius had been a striking-looking child with her straight nose and firm chin, and she had grown into a handsome woman.

  I finished my banana bread and set my cup aside, fumbling about in my mind for a way to bring up the subject of Carla Martinez. As it turned out, I didn’t have to because Willene led into it for me.

  “I suppose you’ve heard the police have let Clay Hornsby go,” she said, folding her paper napkin and laying it aside as though Blythe might want to use it again. “One of the cooks in the cafeteria told me he was here at the college when that other girl was killed, too. Sure sounds peculiar to me. I don’t mind telling you, I’m afraid to go out alone.”

  “A lot of us were here when that happened, Willene.” Blythe slipped a large magnifying glass around her neck and took up her cross-stitch, frowning as she poked the needle in and out. “Claymore Hornsby’s a first-class jackass, but he wouldn’t hurt you or anyone else. Besides, both the victims were college girls.”

  “And there may have been a third,” I said, and told them about Carla Martinez.

  “But that was an accident, wasn’t it?” Blythe paused in mid-stitch. “An awful thing! I remember how shocked we all were. But murder? I don’t think they ever considered it anything other than an accident. I was led to believe she went up there on a dare, or maybe even to meet someone.”

  “Did you know the girl?” I asked, trying to find a spot for my empty plate.

  “Stop that, Mabel!” Blythe gently untangled the gray cat from a network of thread. “No, not well, and I was out of town when it happened. I think that was the weekend my cousin Joyce’s baby was baptized. They were living in Birmingham then.”

  “What about Clay Hornsby?” Willene asked.

  “Clay took old Amos Crockett’s place when he died a few years back. He wasn’t even here then,” Blythe said. “I don’t know why anyone would think that girl’s death is related to the other two. That Tree House is dark enough in the daylight. The girl had no business there at that time of night. She probably slipped and fell.” Blythe gave her needle a final jerk and bit off the thread.

  “Blythe, where are your scissors? You’ll ruin your teeth doing that.” Willene sounded just like Miss Harriet Middleton, who taught me home economics in the ninth grade.

  “Must’ve mislaid them. Can’t find ’em anywhere, and my thimble’s gone, too.” Blythe shook her head. “Reckon I’m getting addlepated. Could’ve sworn I left them right here on this end table.” She shrugged. “Guess they’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  “I’d better be getting on home,” Willene said, brushing a crumb from her lap. “And I don’t care what you say, I’d feel a lot safer if they kept that man locked up.” She set her cup aside and stood, and since she seemed to be waiting for me to say something, I looked at my watch and announced that it was time for me to go, too. Augusta, I noticed, had already taken her leave.

  “I know you’ll think I’m the biggest baby in the world,” Willene said as we stepped outside, “but would you walk with me as far as my door? It’s getting kind of late, and I don’t like to cross this campus alone.”

  I said I’d be glad to. It was on the way to where I’d parked my car, but it wasn’t even dark yet, and I didn’t think we needed to worry about somebody jumping out at us with a sickle. Poor Willene reminded me of a child playing “Ain’t no bugger bears out tonight,” anticipating monsters behind every tree.

  It was hard to believe Willene Benson’s quarters had ever been a garage. Set snugly behind Main Hall, the worn brick had faded to pink, and long windows with dark green shutters flanked a polished oak door. A profusion of purple pansies nodded above twin window boxes.

  Willene hesitated at the door. “I’m such a scaredy-cat, would you mind waiting while I look around inside? It will only take a minute.”

  I could hear her telephone ringing as she searched for her key, and by the time she had unlocked the door it had rung at least five times. She seemed in no hurry to answer.

  I stood in her neat but shabby living room while Willene crept timidly through each room, ignoring the shrill noise. Was the woman deaf? “Aren’t you going to answer the phone?” I asked when I couldn’t stand it any longer.

  She didn’t answer but her face was vanilla-white, and there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. Willene Benson was afraid to answer her telephone.

  “Are you all right?” I steadied her with my arm and led her to a faded green sofa. Thank God the phone finally had stopped ringing.

  “I—I think so…yes…I’m fine, really.” She looked up at me and attempted a smile. “I’m afraid all this has just upset me. I’m sure I’ll feel better after a good night’s rest.”

  This was none of my business, but I’ve never let that stop me before. “Willene,” I said, “have you considered getting caller ID? When somebody calls, their number appears on your phone, so you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. In other words, it screens your calls.”

  She sighed. “Administration has been after me to get one of those answering machines, but I’ve been putting it off. Seems people would know that if I don’t answer, I’m not here!” Willene laughed halfheartedly at her attempt at a joke. “The management people keep reminding me there are times when it’s important for them to be able to leave a message, so I suppose I’ll have to break down and get one just so they’ll leave me alone.”

  She seemed calmer now, so I began to take my leave.

  “Does that thing really work?” she asked, accompanying me to the door.

  “What thing?”

  “That caller ID thing. Can you really tell who’s calling?”

  I assured her that you could. “Why don’t you talk to the phone company?” I said. “They can tell you more about it than I can.”

  “Why, yes, I believe I will…and thank you, Lucy, for being patient with me. I’m not…well, I wasn’t always this way.”

  I waited outside while she double-latched the door and then waved to me from the window. Dusky shadows were blending as I crossed the courtyard to the parking lot and Augusta was nowhere in sight. I walked a little faster.

  I barely had time to pick up shrimp from the market, shower, and change before Ben was due for dinner, so I didn’t waste any time getting home. I sensed Augusta wasn’t there as soon as I walked in the door. Whenever she’s present, there’s a certain awareness that makes colors seem brighter and troubles seem lighter, and I wondered where she could be, then smiled when I saw the note on the kitchen table. Augusta’s elegant handwriting resembles something you might find in an old manuscript, and it seemed oddly out of place on the back of a grocery list: Gone to help Ellis with her needlework. Don’t eat all the apple cobbler! Augusta

  Apple cobbler? What apple cobbler? I certainly hadn’t had time to bake—but Augusta had, and there it sat on the counter bas
king in all its warm, spicy goodness. Ben would be delirious with joy, as it was his favorite. Augusta was aware of that, of course, which is why she made it. She would never admit it, but I suspect Augusta has a bit of a crush on Benjamin Maxwell!

  I knew Ellis’s husband was due to attend a session meeting at our church that night, which would allow Augusta time to help her with her embroidery project, but I also had an idea the angel deliberately made herself sparse so Ben and I could have the house to ourselves. Maybe that’s part of being an angel.

  Later, the two of us sat at the kitchen table eating Cajun spiced shrimp with corn on the cob and washing it down with beer. Messy eating, but Ben is the kind of person you can relax and be messy with, which is one of the reasons I like him—plus he makes me laugh.

  Ben comes from this little crossroads town called Sweet Gum Valley, which is even smaller than Stone’s Throw, and he probably makes up most of those tales, but that’s part of who he is. And more and more, I’m kind of liking who he is!

  When we first began seeing each other, I thought the man was about to launch a serious discussion when he managed to weave in one of his stories, which, if I remember correctly, involved a nineteenth-century farmer going into town to see his first train come through. Fearing the horse would be frightened, he tied the animal to a tree and got between the traces of his buggy to keep it from rolling away. “When he saw that train,” Ben told me, “that fellow took off running, dragging that buggy behind him and turned up in a cloud of dust ten miles down the road!” Now I know more or less what to expect and can sometimes even predict when he’s getting ready to “hark back to Sweet Gum Valley,” as he says.

  When we had finished dinner, Ben took our empty plates to the sink and poured more coffee for both of us. “I’d sure like some of that apple cobbler,” he said, eyeing the dessert, “but I’d die before I’d ask for it.”

  As we lingered at the table after dessert, I told him about the eerie feeling I’d had that day after leaving Willene Benson, and how terrified she had seemed. “These murders are gnawing away at all of us,” I said. “It’s frustrating as well as frightening! I feel like I should be doing something.”

  The first thing I noticed about Ben Maxwell was his eyes: expressive, intelligent, and blue enough to bore holes through you—as they were doing then. A large, russet-bearded man who looks as if he should be wearing a kilt, he reached for my hand across the table. “Why do you think you have to find all the answers, Lucy Nan? It’s not your job, and as you should know by now, it could be dangerous.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I told him, still holding on to his work-callused hand. Ben is a furniture craftsman—a fine one, and his fingers are blunt and strong. “I have to see these people on a regular basis and this thing has turned the whole campus upside down. And now I’ve learned there may have been an earlier murder. A freshman died from what everyone supposed was a fall from the Tree House nine years ago at about this same time of year.”

  “And what makes you think it wasn’t a fall?” he asked.

  “From all I’ve heard about her, she didn’t seem the type to even be up there,” I said. I didn’t mention the mysterious letters the last two victims were rumored to have received.

  Now Ben shook his head solemnly and I sensed he had a “harking” spell coming on. Turns out I was right. “Honey, you’ve gotta learn to relax, just let go…like old T. G. Talley.”

  I laughed. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s T. G. Talley?”

  “T. G. Talley was this old fellow who belonged to the Rising Star Baptist Church way out on the edge of town…” Here Ben paused for dramatic effect and a long swallow of coffee. “When anything was bothering old T.G., he’d stand up in church and pray about it. ‘Lord,’ he’d say, ‘this here’s T. G. Talley from Sweet Gum Valley speaking…’”

  I must have been laughing to myself when I thought about Ben’s wild story during the Senior Citizen Singers Fall Fa-la-la Exhibition at the Baptist Church the next day because Opal Henshaw gave me a dirty look from the alto section. After the concert I went to dinner with Nettie and we had to stand in line at the Full Plate Cafeteria, whose sign advertises “All you care to eat!” I usually don’t care to eat there at all, but Nettie likes it because she can get liver and onions. I try not look at her while she’s eating it.

  Naturally I had to give a report on Leslie, so I told her I had delivered the cookies, and hoped she wouldn’t ask about her niece’s scholastic accomplishments.

  “Leslie went through some difficulties when her daddy remarried,” Nettie told me as we moved through the serving line. She studied the desserts and added a piece of coconut cream pie to her tray. “And she’s skinny as a string, but I reckon it’s just getting adjusted to living away from home.”

  “That and not eating.” I told her how Leslie had only nibbled at her lunch.

  “Her daddy always treated her like a grown-up and expected her to act like one,” Nettie said. “Leslie was only six when her mother died, and this new wife’s never had children. The poor little thing never had much of a childhood, and frankly, I think they’ve pushed her too hard. Her daddy’s worried about her, and so am I…and now another girl at Sarah Bedford’s been killed. It’s a wonder to me they aren’t all nervous wrecks over there!” Dishes rattled as Nettie plunked down her tray. “I don’t care what that Franklin Roosevelt said—there are a lot of things worse worrying about than just being scared!”

  I took a long pull on my sweetened iced tea. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my neighbor had been hanging out with Augusta.

  Coffee sloshed into the saucer as Nettie sat down her cup. “If Leslie were mine, I’d jerk her home so fast you couldn’t say scat. I hope you’re keeping your car locked, Lucy Nan. That campus isn’t safe anymore with that maniac going around slashing people with a sickle!”

  But the next day the findings of the autopsy confirmed what the police had suspected. D. C. Hunter had died from a blow to the head. Apparently somebody had waited at the top of those dark stairs, then lashed out with the rusty sickle, causing her to fall and hit her head on the stone floor. The girl had gashes on her face, hands, and upper body as if she had tried to protect herself.

  Chapter Eight

  The Dulcimer Man came to my class the next day. His name is Andy Collins, but most people just call him the Dulcimer Man. When Augusta heard about it, a look that can only be described as blissful reverie crossed her face. “Sophronia Lovelace,” she said, pausing in her spasmodic aerobic exercise—which that day involved running up and down the stairs.

  “I haven’t heard one played as sweetly since she strummed ‘Flow Gently, Sweet Afton’ during a musical evening back in 1898…or was it ’99?” she said in answer to my unspoken question.

  “Then by all means, come along,” I told her. And since so many others wanted to hear him, we held class in one of the larger lecture rooms in Main Hall, where the musician played and sang, then demonstrated how the instrument was made. Augusta was serenely transported.

  The Main Hall at Sarah Bedford has marble floors, mahogany banisters, and a ceiling that goes on forever. A large portrait of Sarah Bedford herself hangs in the place of honor above the staircase. It’s one of those paintings that looks as if the subject is stepping out of a cloud of mist—or else she’s just standing there while the house burns down around her.

  We stayed until our guest had left and the last listener straggled away, so the building was relatively empty when Augusta and I started to leave. We were at the top of the stairs when she stopped me with a touch of her hand. “Listen…” she said, her head to one side.

  I started to tell her I didn’t hear a thing when I realized someone was singing what sounded like an old hymn and it seemed to be coming from a room down the hallway to our right. “It must be Londus,” I said, “but is somebody with him?”

  Augusta put a finger to her lips as we inched closer. It soon became obvious that the janitor wasn’t singing alone, but was accomp
anied by a tinny mechanical voice that seemed to come from far away. The two of us stood outside the door labeled MAINTENANCE and eavesdropped shamelessly on the peculiar duet. Londus Clack was singing backup to himself!

  When the roll,

  When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

  When the roll,

  When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

  When the r-o-o-o-l-l is called up yon-der,

  When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there!

  Augusta, apparently having second thoughts about intruding, shook her head and turned away, beckoning me to follow. Having come this far, however, I resisted and held my hand to my mouth and my ear to the door until I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Londus?” I tapped lightly. “Londus, is that you?”

  Immediately the music stopped and the red-faced janitor opened the door. On a shelf behind him, between a can of floor wax and a bottle of glass cleaner, sat a huge stuffed teddy bear, the kind that has a tape player in its stomach.

  Mop in hand, Londus stepped quickly into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “I didn’t think nobody was here,” he said, wiping his pink face with a dingy handkerchief. “Singin’…well, it kinda makes the work go faster.”

  I agreed. “You sounded great—both of you—and I shouldn’t have interrupted. I’m sorry.”

  Londus grinned and shook his head. “Ah, well, that’s all right. One of my nieces gave me that old toy a few years back, said it would help me stay on key.” He laughed. “Reckon she thought I needed it.”

  He turned as if he meant to go and I walked along beside him. “Wait, please. If you have a minute, maybe you can help me…” How could I word this diplomatically?

  “You were here at Sarah Bedford when that girl fell from the Tree House, weren’t you?”

  Londus closed his eyes. “Lord, that were a long time ago.”