by Donna McLean
The Official Ladies Garden Club agreed on this point.
* * *
“Yoo hoo, I’m here!” Tilda MacArdan called out from just inside the kitchen of the McGrady mansion. She placed a bag of groceries on the marble countertop and glanced around the room. It was already spic and span, she thought, the result of each helpful lady of Sparrow Falls being determined that the next helpful lady would not find one speck of dust left behind her! Tilda chuckled. Competition could sometimes be a good thing.
She walked across the kitchen and started to go into the foyer. A friendly hello greeted her from the top of the staircase.
“Good morning, Ms. Tilda.” Morwenna’s warm, lilting voice echoed across the large hall. She floated down the staircase with grace, and smiled. Sunlight streamed in through the windows behind her, illuminating dust motes that floated drowsily in the air, and a peaceful presence seemed to fill the room.
“’Morning, Morwenna. How is the patient today?”
“Not quite his usual self, but doing well under the circumstances.”
“Talking much?” Tilda asked with kind concern for her old friend.
The story keeper nodded, and her long raven locks swayed with the gentle movement of her head. “Yes, we had rather a long talk, as a matter of fact.”
Tilda studied the woman thoughtfully, then glanced up the staircase. Morwenna had such a calming way about her, Tilda reflected silently, that people tended to tell her things they wouldn’t tell anyone else. Morwenna reached the foyer and Tilda put a foot upon the first step when the door at the top suddenly opened and a worried face appeared.
Mr. Frederick started when he saw Tilda. “Oh, hello, Ms. MacArdan. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I’m here all right! Let me see what the rascal wants today,” she said merrily and scurried up a few more steps.
Mr. Frederick closed the door behind him and started down the staircase. “He’s sleeping now. If you and Morwenna would like to sit down for a little while, you may enjoy using the yellow parlor. Please pardon me, but I must attend to a pressing matter at the office.” He rushed past the ladies and into the library, closing the door behind him, then opening it with an abrupt jerk. His distinguished gray head appeared briefly. “Thank you for coming, Ms. MacArdan.” The door closed again.
Tilda turned to Morwenna. “Well, would you care to sit and visit for a minute? I was going to make some scratch biscuits and gravy, but no sense in doing it while Mr. McGrady is sleeping. Biscuits are best served hot.”
They strolled to the lovely old parlor and sat down in matching velvet armchairs pulled up close to a large carved marble fireplace. There was no fire, the early spring days being nicely warm; and the floral curtains at the long windows had been pulled wide to allow sunshine to permeate the room with natural light. The parlor had been decorated by one of the gracious ladies of the house many years before. Victorian wallpaper still clung to the walls in a pretty scrolling design of yellow rosebuds and green vines over a pale yellow diamond background. The mirrors and picture frames were all of gold, and each painting was an oversized still-life of flowers or fruit arrangements, popular at the time, continuing the yellow theme around the entire room.
“That Mr. Frederick is a hardworking man,” Tilda commented.
“Yes, he certainly is,” Morwenna replied.
Tilda could see the closed door of the library from where she sat. She fastened her gaze upon it, wondering, and said absently, “Hard to tell what that one is feeling, sometimes. I mean, is he upset about Hannah? Is he worried? I’m sure he is. Doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, and that’s a fact.”
Morwenna bent her dark head. “The Fredericks were like that. His parents and grandparents. There were no other children.”
“Reckon that’s part of it. He’s always been so serious. He never played and cut up like the other young boys.” The spry little lady thought back a few years. “I can barely remember old Mr. Frederick. Seems to me they were a lot alike, though. Tall, kind of skinny. Very quiet. Not saying much, but when they did, it was always polite. Perfect manners, well brought up folks, I reckon.”
“Yes, they were.”
As though summoned, the library door swung open with a jerk and Mr. Richard Frederick hurried out, his briefcase clasped in one hand and some stamped envelopes stuck beneath his arm. “Good day, ladies. Stay as long as you wish, and make yourselves comfortable, please.” The tall lawyer rushed through the room and then the women heard the front door slam behind the man.
Tilda said conversationally, “Folks like that are often hard to read, though.”
Morwenna nodded again. “Yes, inscrutable at times. It is said, however, that still waters run deep.”
Tilda tilted her head and looked at the story keeper, whose mysterious smile told the little lady absolutely nothing. Ms. Tilda’s hazel eyes brightened.
“You know, I remember somebody else who was kind of like that. Now what was her name? She passed on back when I was just a girl. McAdams? McAlister, no, that would be some of Peggy’s people. It wasn’t one of the McAlisters, but it was something like that—”
“Constance McAndrews,” Morwenna said promptly. She waited for recognition to dawn.
“Yes, that is it! Mrs. Constance McAndrews. Why, I haven’t thought of her in many long years.” Tilda sat up straight in the chair and her eyes sparkled. “Mama used to take me over to visit her when I was very, very little. I can’t even remember how old. I always loved to go there, though, because Mrs. McAndrews was like something straight out of a storybook. She had long blond hair that was a little bit gray, and she piled it up high on top of her head, and she always wore long dresses, all the way to the ground, all the time! Now that was back when most ladies, like my mama, wore their dresses a few inches below the knee.”
“But not Mrs. McAndrews?” Morwenna questioned.
Tilda folded her hands around a knee. She leant back in the chair. Her voice grew dreamy. “No, not Mrs. McAndrews. She wore a beautiful necklace made out of, of all things, black beads! That doesn’t sound like it would be purty, but it was, it really was! I remember once I asked her about that necklace, and she held it up so that it sparkled in the light, and she said it was made of jet. Well, I didn’t know jet was a jewel. I thought it was made out of airplane parts! Believed that for years and years, you know how youngun’s are, they can believe all sorts of impossible things without it troubling them at all. Anyway, Constance McAndrews hardly ever said a word, but when she did speak, her voice was very soft and very refined. Cultured. She seemed to me to be from some faraway place, because she didn’t talk like the folks around here. I can still hear that voice.”
The lady paused as though listening, and Morwenna waited.
“Well, we would go visiting and my mama would do most of the talking. Now that’s the truth! Every once in a while Constance McAndrews would say something. And do you know, I always had the feeling she was keeping secrets. Wonderful secrets, not bad ones. That she could have told us exciting stories of an exciting life that she once led, but she didn’t want to share those stories with anybody. She wanted to remain mysterious, I guess. An unusual lady. . .” Tilda’s voice trailed off and her face grew thoughtful. “I always wondered whatever became of her. Seems to me she up and left town one day, all of a sudden like, and nobody ever explained what happened but it must have been something good, because I don’t recall anybody being sad over her being gone. Ever hear anything about it, Morwenna?”
The story keeper smiled and nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do know what became of Constance McAndrews. Would you like to hear her story, Tilda?”
The face of the spry senior citizen lit up like a child’s face at story time. “Yes, I would love to know!”
“It was very simple, really. A simple misunderstanding. Constance McAndrews had been a beautiful young girl at the time, and she won the hearts of many young men, but cared only for one. His name was James Archer McAndrews, and h
e was the son of a wealthy merchant from Pennsylvania. The two young people courted and married, and came to North Carolina to establish the son’s side of the business here, where the McAndrews family had some distant kin. It seemed that the newlyweds had made a good start on a perfect life. They built a beautiful home and planted a lovely flower garden. James brought a special pink camellia bush just for his young wife and planted it tenderly, in her favorite sunny spot in the garden. Then the business fell on hard times, and it became necessary for James to return to Pennsylvania.”
“The two exchanged many long letters and looked forward to the day when he would come back to Sparrow Falls. He told her, again and again, that he would return when the pink camellias bloomed, and to look for him then. Months passed, then a year, and suddenly the letters stopped coming. Constance wrote to James, but received no reply. She wrote to a friend in Pennsylvania and learned that the business had failed during a market crash and the stress had caused the father to pass away suddenly. To make matters worse, everyone assumed that James had returned to Constance, but she had not seen him! He had been gone for many months by that time, with no word of his whereabouts. There were no more letters.”
“After a few years, Constance gave up hope of finding James again. She continued to live quietly and alone in the big old house, having occasional visitors but keeping mainly to herself. Your mother was kind to her, Tilda, and one of the few people she considered a friend.”
Tilda said softly, “Yes, Mama had a kind heart toward those who were hurting. Papa did, too. I always wondered why a purty lady like Mrs. McAndrews never went anywhere and didn’t seem to have much company.”
“One day, Constance stood at the window, gazing over the flower garden. The pink camellias that James had planted for her many years before were just beginning to open. For some reason, on that day, Constance felt irresistibly drawn to go into the garden.”
“She opened the little iron gate and strolled down the brick pathway to the camellia bush. Its fragrance was faint, but noticeable, and the soft petals were just beginning to unfurl. She bent to smell the flower, and suddenly noticed something she had never seen before. A very tiny corner of an envelope, peeking out from beneath one of the white rocks that lined the flower bed!”
“Curious, Constance knelt to pick up the rock. Beneath it, in James’ handwriting, was an envelope with her name upon it. She lifted it with trembling hands, went back into the house, and sat down. Constance opened the letter and began to read, weeping silent tears. James had returned, she knew not when, and left the note for her to find, when the pink camellias began to bloom.”
“What did it say?” Tilda asked. Excitement mingled with foreboding.
“It said that he loved her very much, and missed her, too. It said that he had been too ashamed to return to her, many years ago, broke and with no prospects, no ability to support a wife and family. He had felt it best to disappear without a trace rather than take her out of her beautiful home, away from friends, and make her live in poverty, as he had had to do. James wrote that some of his wealth had been restored, enough to support a wife; and that if she still loved him, and could find it in her heart to forgive him, he would be waiting for her in Pennsylvania.”
Tilda clasped her hands together. A tear ran down her cheek. “And she did! She did go to him in Pennsylvania!”
Morwenna smiled her enigmatic smile.
The spry little lady said, in an awestruck voice, “Imagine that! One little piece of paper changed everything. Everything! From sadness to joy. From lonesomeness to love. A little piece of paper changed everything!”
“Yes,” Morwenna said simply, “yes, it did.”
* * *
Ms. Tilda and Mr. McGrady spent a nice afternoon together and the spry senior returned to her house when her shift was over, feeling much better about things in general. The cantankerous old gent was still sickly, but he appeared to be trying to regain his usual feisty manner. And although her friend, Hannah Smith, was still missing, Mr. McGrady did not seem terribly worried about the matter. This puzzled Tilda, but in an odd sort of way, it also seemed reassuring. She thought that although the man claimed that he didn’t know Hannah’s whereabouts, his casual unconcern might indicate that there was more to the disappearance than had been suspected. It would be just like Lach McGrady, she said to herself, to keep silent on something that was driving everybody else crazy! He was probably laughing himself to sleep at night over the tizzy the disappearance was causing all over town, knowing or suspecting what was up and stubbornly keeping it to himself!
The pleasant day was destined to end on a discordant note, however. Tilda took a glass of iced tea into the living room and sat down to watch the evening game shows, as she always did. The little lady patted the sofa next to her and Puddin’ promptly jumped into his usual spot, curled up and dozed off. And then the face of the local newscaster (broadcast all the way from Pineyham, the nearest television studio), appeared onscreen, and Tilda turned up the volume to hear the breaking news bulletin.
The remote control slipped from her hand and dropped to the floor, its clatter waking Puddin’ with a yelp.
“. . .on the banks of the Winding River. The purse and shoes have been definitely identified as belonging to Mrs. Hannah Smith, of Sparrow Falls, reported missing twelve days ago. A note was also found at the scene. Tune in this evening for updates on our regular eleven o’clock newscast.”
FOURTEEN
Delcie Needles stood behind the chairs of Tilda and Addie, who were sitting in Douglas Campbell’s office. The lanky woman glared at the policeman and said, “I do not believe for one minute that Hannah Smith killed herself. Not for one blessed minute!”
Tilda MacArdan added her two cents worth. “Douglas Winton, she never would have done any such thing. And especially not now. Not when Mr. McGrady is in such bad shape, and needs her so much!”
“She certainly didn’t seem the type to do something like this,” Addie agreed. “Every time I saw her she seemed very cheerful, even though she was worried about Mr. McGrady. Hannah didn’t appear to be the despondent type at all!”
“She was always cheerful and happy and calm, no matter what!” Delcie shouted, beating the back of a chair with her fists.
The frazzled policeman lifted his hands. “Ladies, please. Please! Calm down! I realize that you’re all upset—”
“I do not want my friend’s good name to be sullied!” Mrs. Needles roared.
Campbell hung his head and ran both hands through his short blond curls. He took a deep breath, exhaled, lifted his face and met their gazes with controlled defiance.
The women grew silent, and waited.
“Now,” he began through terse lips, “now. Let me explain to you once more. I agree that it does not make sense. I agree that we should continue to investigate. But there is a note. In Hannah Smith’s own handwriting. Found inside Hannah Smith’s own purse!”
“But that—“” Tilda protested.
Campbell lifted one hand all the way to the ceiling this time.
Tilda stopped speaking in mid-protest.
The officer resumed his speech. “We have verified that it is, indeed, Mrs. Smith’s own handwriting. And this note leads us to believe that, for some reason which we do not know, and may never know, she threw herself into the river.”
The women began to argue the point again, loudly.
The policeman only shook his head. “Ladies, I’m sorry. There is nothing more I can do at this time. Barring any evidence to the contrary, we have to accept the facts. Hannah Smith is dead.”
* * *
Three dejected faces stared at each other in the parking lot and mumbled that there must be something they could do.
Delcie Needles shook her head and got into her car. “Tilda, I will call you later, or you call me if anything occurs to you, anything at all. I am quite certain that someone has overlooked something. Those new police detectives, perhaps. The Ellis boy, the one who is fresh ou
t of college. He may have missed a vital clue that was right under his very nose!”
“On the riverbank?” Addie commented, incredulous. “I mean, extra footprints and things like that would be pretty obvious on a muddy riverbank.”
Delcie sucked her lips into a sour grimace, glared at the strawberry blond, and sped off in her large gray sedan.
Tilda tilted her head to one side like a curious little bird and watched the lady disappear into the distance. When the car was out of sight, Ms. MacArdan turned around without a word and marched back into the police station.
Addie McRae followed on her heels, curiosity overcoming her reluctance to face the irritated officer again.
Douglas Campbell was standing in front of the big calendar that hung on the wall. His broad back was to the door. He sensed, even before turning around, that the intrepid Tilda had returned. She always returned, he thought glumly, and glanced over his shoulder.
Sure enough, the spry little lady stood in the open doorway of his office, purse in hand, and the strawberry blond was right behind her.
Campbell sighed, decided that marking things off his calendar would have to wait, and placed the black marker back on its wee shelf.
“Have a seat, ladies. Again.”
Tilda plopped down in the same chair and Addie slipped into the one next to her. Ms. MacArdan said, “Douglas Winton, that note. It sounds suspicious to me.”
“Ma’am, we’ve been over that. It is definitely Hannah’s handwriting—”
“Not looks suspicious, Douglas. Sounds suspicious!”
The officer stopped talking and studied the face of the determined woman. He thought for a moment, then pulled the crime scene photos out of their folder. Campbell held the image of the note in such a way that they could not see anything, but he read it out loud, wondering if Ms. Tilda had caught something the investigators had missed, and realizing that she probably had.