The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders

by Mignon F. Ballard

  The very thought of that pale creepy-looking man made me furious all over again. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “I doubt it,” Jo Nell said. “That judge put the fear of God into him this time. Fined him, too. Hit him in the pocketbook, where it hurts.”

  “I don’t know why she ever married that man,” Zee said. “Common as pig tracks and about as ugly as homemade lye soap. ’Course mine weren’t anything to brag about either. Married twice and, except for our Melanie, of course, all I have to show for it is a season pass to the Charlotte Knights games and a passable recipe for chicken bog.”

  Zee searched the fruit bowl for a stray grape. “If Riley Herman does come back,” she announced, “Willene swears she’ll shoot him—and durned if I don’t believe her!”

  Jo Nell, who had been searching a top cabinet for the food grinder I needed, almost toppled off the step stool. “Shoot him with what?”

  “Why, a gun, of course,” Zee told her. “She bought one somewhere and doesn’t know a thing about using it. Talk about your loose cannon! I told her as long as she’s staying with me she’d have to put that thing where she couldn’t get to it. We put it on top of that big old oak wardrobe in the upstairs hall, and that’s where it is now—or it better be.” Zee slammed her hand on the table. “If I ever get mad enough to kill somebody, I’ll just let ’em have it with Mama’s old cast-iron skillet.”

  Idonia looked at Claudia and me and laughed. “You mean by cooking in it or hitting them with it?”

  “Go ahead and laugh if you want to,” Zee said. “But poor Willene’s not as spineless as she seems.”

  “Then I guess she’ll be moving back to the campus now,” Claudia said.

  “Soon as she gets her courage up she says.” Zee sighed. “Reckon I better lay in a fresh supply of fruit.”

  Having found the grinder, Jo Nell joined us at the kitchen table where she patted her lap for Bojo. The little dog jumped into it, then climbed her bosom to lick her face. I turned away.

  “You must hear just about everything that goes on over at the campus, Lucy Nan,” Zee said. “What’s the consensus of opinion? Do they think the professor did it?”

  “At one time or another, I think they’ve suspected just about everybody except the pope,” I said. “And they aren’t all too sure about him. Now they say D.C. had been dating her roommate’s boyfriend.”

  Claudia frowned. “Who’s that?”

  “Her roommate? Sally Wooten.”

  “No, the boyfriend,” she said.

  “Tommy Jack…somebody. Coaches football,” I told her.

  “Evans,” Idonia said. “Tommy Jack Evans. Named after his uncle. You know, Jo Nell, the one who married the—”

  “I know who he is, Idonia. We don’t need his family history,” my cousin told her, “and if memory serves me right he was seeing that other girl, too.”

  “What other girl? I asked.

  “Why, the girl from Florida—the one who drowned in the Old Lake—remember?” Jo Nell scratched Bojo’s fat pink stomach. “There was something about him in the paper soon after she was killed.”

  Claudia massaged her fingers in thought. “I remember that. But he said they’d never dated, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t think he exactly denied it,” Jo Nell said. “Claimed they were just casual friends. I think they met at a horse show or something. Both of them liked to ride.”

  “Sure gets around, doesn’t he? I wonder if he’s involved in all this.” I looked at my watch and stood. I had to make my haul at the grocery store for bell peppers, cabbage, onions, and about a vat of vinegar, and I knew it would take at least five minutes to work my way to the door.

  Zee followed me to the living room. “You’d think the police would remember a thing like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe they know more than we give them credit for,” Jo Nell said, trailing along behind us. “Those two girls were as different as apples and oranges. Now, Rachel Isaacs—I remember reading about her in the paper—seemed like such a nice young woman, smart, too.” She drew in her breath. “But that D. C. Hunter—her picture was plastered all over The Messenger. Didn’t have on enough clothes to pad a crutch.”

  Zee threw a flaming-pink sweater over her shoulders. “That history teacher you work with—seems she oughtta be able to tell them something,” she said.

  “Joy Ellen Harper? Why is that?”

  “She was adviser to both of them. Willene said Blythe Cornelius looked it up in the records.” With a warning look at Bojo, she bolted for the door. “Now don’t use too many of those hot peppers!” she said.

  What prompted Blythe to do that? I wondered as I searched for a parking place at Harris Teeter. And why hadn’t she mentioned it earlier? Odder still, why hadn’t Joy Ellen Harper?

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Yes, I was Rachel Isaacs’s adviser.” Joy Ellen closed the classroom door a little harder than usual and locked it behind her after our hands-on-history session the next day. “What is this, Lucy? You’re becoming a regular Nancy Drew.”

  “Sorry. Just trying to figure out what those two had in common, and somebody said you might remember something—anything.” (I wasn’t going to tell her who it was.) “Did you know that both Rachel and D.C. dated Tommy Jack Evans?”

  Joy Ellen shifted her satchel to her other hand and walked a little faster. “I knew Rachel had gone out with him some, but it wasn’t anything serious. She had sort of a steady boyfriend at some college in Florida and asked me if I thought he’d understand if she went riding with Tommy Jack now and then. They were both into horses, and Rachel was shy, plus she didn’t know a soul when she came here. Tommy Jack might have wanted it otherwise, but I doubt very seriously if their relationship ever got past the platonic stage.”

  Joy Ellen spoke to some girls who walked past, then turned back to me. “They say her boyfriend back home was devastated by her death.” She paused at the door to her office. “And that’s about all I know about it.”

  I could tell by the icicles dangling from her words that she resented my question, and I didn’t blame her. “Go ahead and bop me with that briefcase,” I said. “Make me memorize the dates when every pompous government official learned to write capital I. I’m a tactless clod and I deserve it, but I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Honest.”

  Joy Ellen leaned against her door and laughed. “Dammit, Lucy! You do know how to put a person in her place. Okay, I overreacted…didn’t realize just how uptight I’d become. Gosh, I can’t imagine why.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Just for the heck of it, though, why are you so curious?”

  “Do you have a few minutes? Buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I’d rather have a beer, but right now I’ll settle for anything that doesn’t bite back,” she said.

  We waded through the heavy smell of French fried onion rings to an empty booth in the commons snack shop, and I told her about Nettie and Weigelia and how I’d promised to keep an eye out for Leslie and Celeste. “I’m afraid Leslie’s problem is beyond me,” I added, “but if anything happened to either of them while I’m here, I’d feel partially responsible.”

  She stirred artificial sweetener into her coffee and sipped it slowly. “This is when I miss smoking,” she said, leaning back against the scarred pine booth. “You asked about D. C. Hunter…Most of our advisement is in an academic capacity, and she was originally assigned to me. I met with her once to make out her schedule, but nothing seemed to suit.” Joy Ellen traced a carved initial with her index finger. “I tried to work things out with her, but she missed her next appointment, and the next thing I knew she’d found another adviser. Louise Treadwell—you’ve met Louise—Drama Department? Said she doubted if God herself could please D. C. Hunter.”

  I laughed. “What about Tommy Jack? What’s he like?”

  “Likable enough, seems harmless.” She shrugged. “Must have something.”

  But he didn’t have Rachel Isaacs or D. C. Hunter. />
  My throat had begun to feel a little scratchy earlier in the day and it started to hurt in earnest as I walked to the parking lot after talking with Joy Ellen. My clothing smelled of old grease and I couldn’t wait to shower, change into something loose and comfortable, and drink some of Augusta’s hot spiced tea.

  During class that day two rural black women who kept the craft shop at Bellawood supplied with hand-woven split-oak baskets had brought material to show the girls how it was done. The next day they would return to get them started on their own. Sisters in their seventies, Willie Banks and Annie Carver had entertained us with such wonderful stories while they wove, tucked, and twisted the pliable slats of wood, I almost forgot about my worrisome throat. Now it was back with a vengeance.

  Since I was teaching at Sarah Bedford only on a temporary basis, I had been assigned to the student parking lot and I was approaching my car when I saw Sally Wooten and another girl getting out of a blue Mustang a few spaces in front of me with bags from a local mall. Suddenly a red Corvette screeched to a halt beside them and a tanned young man got out and called to Sally.

  I could see that she wasn’t pleased to see him, but he didn’t seem discouraged. “I was hoping you’d show up if I waited long enough,” he said, hurrying to catch up with her. His smile was meant to be disarming, but it wasn’t working with Sally. She didn’t even slow down to accommodate him. “You’re wasting your time,” she said.

  “Look, Sally, I made a mistake. I’m sorry. D.C. never meant anything to me—not like you do, honey. You know that.”

  The other girl started to leave, but Sally put a hand on her arm. “No, I don’t know that, Tommy Jack, and D.C. isn’t here to say otherwise, is she?”

  Tommy Jack Evans looked like somebody in an ad for aftershave, one with a macho name like Essence of Trail Ride or Eau de Chest Hair. Blond, tan, and good-looking, he exuded sex appeal.

  “You’re not being fair. At least give me a chance.” He tugged at his hair and looked forlorn. Sally hesitated, and it was all he needed. “Everybody thinks D.C. dumped me when she started seeing that professor, but that’s not true.” Tommy Jack shook his head and grinned. “How do I put this delicately? Your roommate was the one who came on to me. I was flattered…Oh, hell, I enjoyed it! But it was a fling, and it was over almost as soon as it started. Sally, I was the one who stopped seeing her. I swear it!” The coach shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t think she cared—guess Hornsby was ready and waiting even then.” The man’s voice took on an almost childlike quality and he paused. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to see you, to try and explain.” He smiled and took one step closer. “Look, doll…”

  That was a mistake. I thought Sally Wooten was going to move back, but she remained where she was, coolly regarding him, and for a minute it looked as if she might even yawn. When she spoke, her voice was low and calm. “Tommy Jack, I really don’t give a shit. Bug off!”

  When Sally turned and walked away, leaving the bronzed coach standing there with a bewildered look on his face, I wanted to cheer and turn cartwheels. But it was far too cold, and my throat was screaming for tea. Besides, I don’t know how.

  “My goodness, you look a little beneath the elements,” Augusta informed me when I got home.

  I rasped in answer that, yes, I did feel somewhat under the weather, and would dearly love some of her tea. The whole house reeked of vinegar, onions, and horseradish, and my eyes began to water as soon as I stepped inside. Pint jars of chow-chow, glistening and green, marched in a neat row down the center of the table. I knew what I would be giving my friends for Christmas.

  Augusta’s face was flushed from the heat, but her hand was cool as she touched my forehead. “Spiced lemonade is what you need, and I’ll boil up a syrup of thyme and honey. I suppose you have camphorated oil.”

  “I suppose I don’t,” I said. I hadn’t seen any of that since my grandmother died. “Just let me get a shower and I think I’ll live,” I told her.

  She nodded. “The steam should do you good, and I imagine that menthol rub will work almost as well…I’ll cut up those old flannel pajamas I found in the rag bag.”

  I escaped to the shower, leaving her to assemble her antiquated medical supplies. It was a good thing I didn’t have appendicitis, I thought, or she’d have me stretched out on the kitchen table while she sterilized the butcher knife.

  “It’s a shame you can’t demonstrate all these herbal cures to my class,” I told her later as I sipped hot spiced lemonade while ensconced on the sitting room sofa with pillows at my head and Clementine at my feet. Augusta warmed flannel cloths at the fireplace before placing them on my grease-coated chest, which smelled of menthol and eucalyptus and made me feel sleepy and snug.

  The clanking of a spoon against glass woke me about two hours later and I sat up groggily to see Augusta waiting, spoon in hand. I made a face. “What’s that?”

  “A tonic of thyme, honey, and lemon juice. It will help you feel better and it’s pleasant to the taste.” She poured the thick liquid into a spoon.

  “Augusta, I have decongestants, antihistamines, all that kind of stuff from the drugstore. That isn’t going to do me any good.”

  “You might be surprised. A couple of spoonfuls now and two more at bedtime, and you’ll feel better in the morning,” Augusta insisted as I begrudgingly opened my mouth. The taste reminded me of a fragrant summer garden and felt so smooth going down she didn’t have to convince me to take another.

  I was still kind of wobbly when Jessica brought Teddy by in his Batman costume for trick or treat, and for once I didn’t encourage them to stay. Later, feeling renewed over homemade chicken soup with celery and rice, I remembered the empty cake-mix box I’d found in the trash. “That rum cake you made the other day was wonderful,” I began. “Is that a new recipe?”

  Augusta was silent for a minute as she crumbled a cracker into her soup. “As you know, I dislike waste,” she said, holding a napkin to her face, “and that box had been in your pantry for months. I made a few changes, of course, but I didn’t expect it to taste the same—and it didn’t. I believe the rum covered the taste very well, however.”

  I told her it tasted fine to Ben and me and tried to get a glimpse of her face, which remained averted. Was the angel crying? “Augusta? I didn’t mean—”

  Something that sounded very much like laughter escaped from behind the napkin and I snatched it away to find her attempting to keep it from erupting full-scale. She couldn’t, and neither could I. “Did you really like it?” she asked finally as we both gasped for air.

  “I really did,” I managed to answer. “And so did Ben.”

  “Well, I hope you won’t buy any more,” she said, “because I can’t remember what else I put in there.”

  Augusta insisted on washing the dishes and I was glad to let her. She can clean up a kitchen faster than you can say “Jack Robinson,” as Mimmer used to say, but I kept her company with another cup of hot spiced lemonade.

  “Have they come any closer to finding out who’s behind all this evil at the college?” she asked, putting away the leftover soup.

  “They arrested that disgusting Hornsby man, but I don’t know if he had anything to do with killing Londus, and he wasn’t even here when Carla Martinez died,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t feel a whole lot safer with him locked away.”

  “I’m uneasy as well. There’s someone at Sarah Bedford who is moldering inside, someone who sees the world through tainted eyes.” Augusta towel-dried the stock pot until I thought she might wear a hole in it. “And it’s not going to end until we find them,” she said.

  I shuddered in spite of the hot drink. “It must have something to do with that crazy Jabberwocky verse—but what?”

  “That’s what we have to find out. Do you mind if I sit in on your class tomorrow?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “And you should feel right at home.” I told her about the basket-weaving sisters. “That is, if I’m no
t too sick to go to class.”

  But the next morning my sore throat was gone and Augusta—thank goodness—was angelic enough not to say “I told you so!”

  The basket-weaving ladies visited with the girls in the classroom while a few of us carried their supplies inside, and Joy Ellen laughed when I told her about Tommy Jack Evans’s comeuppance the day before. “Poor Tommy Jack! He really blew it this time, but you know what? He’s probably telling the truth.”

  She leaned closer as we walked. “We had another surprising development last night,” she whispered. “When the Drama Club met to assess their festival earnings, Shameka Dawson swore she’d taken that Frankenstein dummy down.”

  “Down where?” I asked.

  Joy Ellen shook her head at me. “From the Tree House. Shameka was in charge of putting it away, but she and her friends were in a huge hurry to get to a party at the university, so she just untied it and left it on the platform. After all, it was only some old stuffed clothes and a mask.”

  I remembered Augusta’s warning of the night before. “Do you think somebody put it back up?”

  She nodded. “Somebody who knew Londus couldn’t stand loose ends. They found a half-filled trash bag on the platform, too. Looks like whoever did it wasn’t taking any chances. Probably left a trail of litter on the Tree House steps to lure him up there.”

  So rested he by the Tumtum tree, and stood awhile in thought…

  Miriam Platt waited at the door to tell me the same thing. “Do you believe Professor Hornsby killed Londus, Miss Lucy?”

  I said I couldn’t think of a reason he would, unless the janitor “knew something on him.”

  “Sounds more like something his wife would do,” Miriam said. “She was the one who was sneaking around in the middle of the night.” Miriam helped me lift the basket of oak splits to a table. “I heard the police let her go, but they told her not to leave town. Looks like the professor’s gonna be in there awhile. Wonder if she’ll wait for him. I wouldn’t.”