The Angel Whispered Danger

by Mignon F. Ballard

  Aunt Leona passed me a dripping plate. “Well . . . Violet says a lot of things. Of course, she was right this time, but did she really think it was Casey?”

  “Says she did, and that’s why she came up with the idea to throw that out about evidence being hidden in the toolshed,” I said. I stacked the plate with the rest and tackled the silverware. “I had no idea Casey was a woman, but for a while I thought he might be the hippie, Shamrock, come back to look for valuables—money or something—he hid here years ago.”

  Marge hesitated with her broom in midsweep. “It just occurred to me we’re not suspects anymore! We can go anywhere we like.”

  “Oh, bosh, Marjorie! We never were suspects,” Aunt Leona told her. “I don’t think the police even seriously considered Ernest. How could anyone think he’d have a hand in killing somebody?”

  I didn’t want to admit the thought had crossed my mind.

  For the first time in weeks, my husband, daughter and myself spent the night alone together as a family. The next day we planned to leave for home, and home had a different meaning now. A sweet word. Somebody should write a song about it.

  The three of us grilled hamburgers in my parents’ backyard while Josie and I caught Ned up on the events of the last few days, including the birth of my nephew. I watched his face when I told him about the new baby and saw a flicker of something akin to regret, but it didn’t linger. “We’ll probably all fight over holding him when they come for Christmas,” he said, laughing.

  The mosquitoes soon drove us inside, and after Josie went to bed, Ned and I sat quietly together with a glass of wine in the family room. “We can try again, you know,” I told him, touching my glass to his.

  “Try? Oh, you mean—” My husband laughed. “How about tonight?” He drew me to him. “Kate, I won’t pretend that having another child wouldn’t be wonderful, but if it doesn’t ever happen, I’ll still be happy. You and Josie are the most important people in the world to me.”

  “You’re different.” I pulled away to look at him. “What changed you? Why did you decide to come home?”

  “I told you. We rearranged the schedule, and—”

  I stroked his hand. “And what else?”

  My husband sighed. “I really don’t know how to describe it,” he said, “but I had the strangest experience—almost surreal, I guess you could say.”

  Ned sat up to face me. “I was on the elevator hurrying to some meeting or other, and not in the best of moods because I’d spilled coffee on my shirt at breakfast and had to rush back to the room and change. There was no one on the elevator but me until this woman got on. She didn’t say anything—just smiled—and I honestly don’t remember much of anything else except that I thought about you and Josie—the home we had together, and it dawned on me that I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life!”

  “What did she look like?” I asked.

  “The woman on the elevator?” He frowned. “Fair—not plump by any means, but not skinny, either, and she had the most beautiful hair! It almost glowed. Must’ve been going to some kind of costume affair because she wore this floaty thing—all purple and gold—and a necklace that reached almost to her waist.”

  “And that’s when you decided to come home?”

  “Right. And the funniest thing, Kate—she smelled like strawberries.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Uncle Ernest says he’s going to make this place into nature preserves,” Josie announced the next day. We had returned to Bramblewood for a late breakfast and to tell everyone good-bye, and those of us who remained gathered on the shady front porch, Lum and Leona having left earlier.

  “Nature what? Is he gonna make strawberry or peach?” her cousin Darby teased.

  “I think she means reserve,” Burdette said, “but preserve should apply, as well, as I believe he intends to keep it as it is.”

  “Sounds okay to me,” I said. “But how did this come about?”

  “Told me he wanted to have a place for people—especially young people, he said—to not only observe, but to be at home with nature.” Burdette shrugged and shook his head. “Kate, have you noticed a young girl around here lately? About twelve or thirteen, Uncle Ernest thinks. He says she always has some kind of wild animal with her, like a rabbit or a fawn, and that she was the one riding Shortcake the other night. Uncle Ernest swears she came to warn him.”

  “I’m glad she did—whoever she was,” Ma Maggie said. “The lab found a lethal amount of a barbiturate in Ernest’s Chocolate Comfort. The sheriff said it was a sedative called Nembutal, and if he had gotten enough of it, it would have killed him.”

  “What if we hadn’t reached him in time?” Grady, who was carrying luggage to his car, stopped on the top step to listen.

  “But, Burdette, there wasn’t anyone riding Shortcake.” Violet looked at Grady and me to back her up. “Are my old eyes finally giving out on me, or is Ernest caving in under the strain? Did either of you see a rider?”

  “After all, it was the middle of the night, and dark as pitch.” I spoke up before Grady could answer. “I can see why he might have thought there was somebody on the horse.”

  Violet wasn’t buying it. “But the girl—now, how do you reckon he came up with that idea? A young girl who plays with wild animals! Huh! Most of ’em play with things they have no business playing with, if you ask me!”

  But nobody had, of course.

  “Said he thought it was one of Josie’s friends, or somebody visiting a neighbor,” Burdette said, beginning to look concerned. “And you say none of you have seen her?”

  “I’ve seen her!” Josie said. “She was with me when I was lost in the woods. I think she’s an angel.”

  At that, Ned, who was standing near Josie, scooped our daughter up in his arms and kissed her. Josie, I noticed, didn’t even protest. “She sounds heaven-sent to me,” he said.

  “Whoever she is, Uncle Ernest thinks she’d be perfect to help with the children when he carries out his plans for the nature reserve,” Burdette said.

  “Then I believe he’d better find someone else,” I told him. “I think she’s from out of town.”

  “Where is Uncle Ernest?” Marge looked about. “I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

  “Said he was going to ride Shortcake,” Darby told us. “I wanted to come, too, but he said he wanted to surprise everybody.”

  “It will surprise me if he doesn’t kill himself!” my grandmother said. “What in the world is he thinking of—a man his age? Somebody should go and stop him.”

  “I’m afraid we’re too late.” Ned called our attention to the figure approaching in the distance.

  “By golly, it is Uncle Ernest!” Marge said. She nudged Ma Maggie. “Still alive and seems to be doing fine.”

  We all stood and applauded as Uncle Ernest trotted past, waving his hat like Teddy Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill. I expected him to dismount and join us, but he kept on riding.

  “Where are you going?” Darby shouted.

  Our uncle waved his hat again. “Be back in a while—got to see a man about a will!” And with that he circled the orchard, picked up speed and galloped back the way he had come.

  “Where’s that old fool going now?” Violet said, staring after him.

  “Why, to prove himself to Goat, of course,” Ma Maggie told her. “They had a bet, you know.”

  Burdette looked out at the giant oaks, the daisy-flecked meadow beyond. “All this beauty—it’s a good thing he’s doing, a mighty good thing.” He shook his head. “And to think that Rose Dutton took at least two lives—and tried to take more—because she wanted it all for herself. I wonder what she would have done with it.”

  “Sheriff Yeager thinks a couple of developers were in the wings,” Ma Maggie said. “One of them has admitted Rose had been in touch with him: of course, he didn’t know all the circumstances, but it seems she had big things in mind—a resort, hotels, you name it.”

  “That coul
d’ve been who you heard talking the day Ella was injured,” Grady said to Violet. “Remember? You said you heard a man talking somewhere down in the woods.”

  “And Josie heard someone, too.” I turned to my daughter. “The day you got lost.”

  Josie nodded. “I was afraid of them. I didn’t know who it was so I was trying to get away.”

  “You probably had good reason,” Marge said. “Sounds as if it might have been Casey and some potential developer looking over the property.” My cousin made a face. “It’s a good thing Casey didn’t see you.”

  I didn’t even like to think of what might have happened if Rose thought Josie had overheard her plans to develop Bramblewood.

  “I should have told the police about that anklet I found,” I said to my grandmother. “Remember? I asked if you knew anyone named Valerie?”

  She nodded. “It must have belonged to Rose . . . but how would you have known?”

  “Where did you find it?” Ned asked.

  “In a trunk in the attic. I was looking for something else and it was wrapped in a scarf or something. I’m sure Rose hid it there. The police knew one of Waning Crescent’s names was Valerie and it wouldn’t do to have anyone find it.”

  Marge pulled Hartley into her lap, kissed him and let him go to play in the yard with the others. “But Uncle Ernest knew!” she said. “All this time he’s known who she was.”

  “But he didn’t know what happened to Shamrock,” I said.

  “The man had been struck with a heavy object,” Burdette told us. “Bo Crane, who works for The Bulletin, said it would come out in this week’s paper. They think he was hit from behind.”

  “By our charming Waning Crescent Rose!” Marge cuddled Dagwood in her lap.

  “That’s what they think,” Burdette said. “They don’t have a confession yet, but it certainly seems likely.”

  “Just think, if the garden club hadn’t cleaned off Remeth churchyard, he’d still be buried there,” Grady said. “Wonder what happened between those two.”

  “Maybe he wanted to turn himself in, or maybe they just had an argument,” I said. “We’ll probably never know.”

  “Rose knows,” Ma Maggie said. “She buried that poor boy’s body, but she didn’t have a chance to get rid of his backpack until later. When Ernest found her bathing in the river that morning, she was probably washing off the blood!”

  “Ma Maggie!” Marge and I shouted together.

  She didn’t even blink. “Well, it’s true. And I imagine she had that boy’s possessions hidden in the woods somewhere until she could plant them under a rose bush.”

  Cousin Violet made a rumbling noise low in her throat. “Rose’s garden! That place was almost sacred to Ernest. Wonder what will become of it now?”

  “I guess that will be up to Belinda,” Burdette said.

  “You’ll have to fill me in on that,” Grady said. “Right now, I have to be on the road so I can make it to work early tomorrow.” He grinned. “Selfish people, my bosses—they expect me to actually earn that paycheck.”

  I could tell by the look he gave me that Grady wanted me to walk with him, so I followed him to his car. “What do you think I should do?” he asked, when we were away from the others.

  “About what?”

  “About what happened to my father. Should I tell the police?”

  “It isn’t going to help your father,” I said. “It all depends on you. How would it make you feel?”

  “You’re no help.” He kissed my cheek and got behind the wheel.

  “I can’t tell you that, Grady. The only person who can decide that is you.”

  A part of me wanted to run after him as I watched my cousin drive away. “It’s over now. It wasn’t your fault. Forget it and be happy!” I wanted to tell him. But it was Grady’s nightmare to conquer.

  We had stayed much longer than we meant to and Ned had my car loaded and ready to go. He would follow me to the rental agency in the next town to turn in his Toyota, then join Josie and me for the drive home.

  Marge and Burdette had left with their boys soon after Grady, but my grandmother and Violet remained to see us off.

  “Tell Uncle Ernest we’ll see him Christmas,” I said, kissing the two of them for about the third time.

  “If he lives that long!” My grandmother kept an eye on the road. “If you happen to come across a horse without a rider, let us know.”

  “He’ll be fine,” I told her. “Shortcake just needed some TLC.” And who was better to give it than an angel?

  Still waving, I started down the long drive, then, signaling to Ned behind me, came to an abrupt stop.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” Josie wanted to know. “Did you forget something?”

  “Yes,” I said, getting out of the car.

  “Hold on a minute. I’ll be right back!” I shouted to my puzzled husband.

  Kicking off my shoes, I ran across the lawn, beneath the pecan trees, the gnarled oaks and through the apple orchard to where I knew they would be.

  “I couldn’t leave without seeing you,” I said, taking Augusta’s hands.

  She smiled. “I didn’t think you would.”

  Penelope smiled, too. “Look what Augusta taught me,” she said, and showed me how she could whistle through a blade of grass.

  “That’s terrific,” I told her. “But you’ve taught us all a lot more than that. Thank you, Penelope.” And I kissed her cheek. “Thank you both for everything.”

  Augusta sat in a carpet of flowers, the colors of which I had never seen before.

  “It is good-bye, isn’t it?” I asked, hoping she would deny it.

  “I have something for you,” she said, draping a garland of flowers around my neck. I noticed the colors were the same as the necklace she wore.

  “Is this a parting gift?” I asked.

  “You’ll always be a part of me,” she said.

  I sat beside her in the meadow grass. “I don’t want you to leave. Stay. Please stay.”

  Augusta Goodnight touched my face with a gentle hand. “Kathryn McBride, you already have everything you need.”

  And she was right.

  ALSO BY

  Mignon F. Ballard

  AUGUSTA GOODNIGHT MYSTERIES

  Shadow of an Angel

  An Angel to Die For

  Angel at Troublesome Creek

  The War in Sallie’s Station

  Minerva Cries Murder

  Final Curtain

  The Widow’s Woods

  Deadly Promise

  Cry at Dusk

  Raven Rock

  Aunt Matilda’s Ghost

  THE ANGEL WHISPERED DANGER. Copyright © 2003 by Mignon F. Ballard. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ballard, Mignon Franklin

  The angel whispered danger / Mignon F. Ballard.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-1-429-97055-6

  Date of eBook conversion: 07/17/2010

  1. Goodnight, Augusta (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Guardian angels—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.A466A865 2003

  813′—.54—dc21

  2003041401

  First Edition: July 2003

 

 

 
; " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share