Part 5 (1/2)

”Oh, it wasn't anything serious. I think both of them were lonely, that's all.” My grandmother peered into a kitchen cabinet and found it stocked; then she disappeared into the pantry. ”Don't tell me you made all those strawberry preserves,” she said, holding a jar to the light.

”Okay, I won't. And please take some. They're absolutely divine.” I could see Augusta hovering in the background, and smiled when she rolled her eyes.

”Irene Bradshaw thinks otherwise,” I said, referring to Otto's relations.h.i.+p with Sylvia Smith.

”Irene Bradshaw? When did you run into her?” Vesta wiped the jar of preserves with a dishcloth and put it into her purse.

”This morning. She was out back picking up pecans. Told me Otto was the reason Sylvie didn't go back to London.”

”You know how Irene exaggerates! I'm sure Mildred would've mentioned it, and Edna Smith-Sylvie's own mother-never said a word,” Vesta spoke with that ”final say so” tone in her voice. ”I saw the two of them together on occasion, but I'm sure it was nothing more than a friendly relations.h.i.+p. Why, I don't even remember Sylvie being at the funeral.”

Vesta stood in the doorway to the dining room. ”My gracious, I'd almost forgotten this old table! We used to do our homework on it.” She ran her fingers over the scarred oak surface. ”If only this old thing could talk.”

And maybe it did, I thought. ”Irene told me her mother and yours were friends,” I said. ”Went to the academy together; I think she might've been a member of that club they had. Irene remembers the quilt they made. Said her mother would keep it for a year or so, then pa.s.s it along to somebody else.”

”Of course-Aunt Pauline. Irene's mother used to bring us chocolate drops when she came to visit. Naturally she was a favorite of ours-not really an aunt, but we called her that. She and Mama were always close. I believe she died a few years before Mama did.”

Vesta frowned. ”Whatever happened to that quilt, I wonder? Guess it stayed with whoever had it last. Of course all those 'girls' are gone now. No telling who ended up with it. Funny, I don't remember my mother ever really using that quilt.”

”Do you remember who they were?”

”My goodness, Minda, that was a long time ago! Frankly, I never paid much attention to it.”

What about the nondescripts?” I asked. ”Do you know who made them? They were mentioned in the minutes of their meeting as being served as part of the refreshments.”

”Hmm...I think Mama served something like that once or twice, but pies were her specialty. I remember a sliced sweet potato pie with whiskey in it that would make your head spin!” My grandmother laughed and gave my shoulders a squeeze. ”A lot of good food was eaten in this room, Minda.”

Now she sniffed and inhaled deeply as we moved into the living room. ”Ahh...I thought I smelled wood smoke! How ambitious of you, Minda! You've a fire going in the fireplace already! After your granddad died, I just didn't have the heart or the energy to take the trouble to build one, but I do love the smell, and this is certainly the day for it. Do we need to order more wood? Must be getting low.”

”I'll check and see,” I said, having no idea. Augusta had a bright blaze going when I came downstairs that morning. ”Don't worry; I'll take care of it. You do have time for a cup of hot tea, don't you? I have some ginger-apricot you just have to try!”

She glanced at her watch. ”Why not? I don't have to be anywhere until noon. The renovation committee of the Historical Society is meeting for lunch to discuss our plans for the Bradshaw place. Something tells me we'll need more than tea to tackle that one!”

The living room furniture my grandmother had left behind was worn but comfortable. Vesta sat nursing her tea in the club chair that had been her husband's, now slip covered in a faded blue floral print, and I pulled the squishy leather ottoman closer to the fire. I heard a drawer open and shut in the kitchen and the clatter of a pan on the stove and knew Augusta had begun to prepare her savory peanut-pumpkin soup. It was a favorite of George Was.h.i.+ngton Carver's, she'd told me.

”In fact, he gave me the recipe. And everyone seems to be nuts nuts about it!” And Augusta had smiled at her own awful joke. about it!” And Augusta had smiled at her own awful joke.

But Vesta chatted on, pausing now and then to um um and and ah ah over her tea and never heard a thing. over her tea and never heard a thing.

It wasn't until she had left for her meeting that I realized my grandmother hadn't taken the extra blankets she claimed she needed.

”I seem to have developed a sudden appet.i.te for pizza,” Augusta said after my grandmother left.

It sounded good to me. ”I'll pick one up. Care to go along?”

She folded her huge, gaudy ap.r.o.n over a chair. ”I believe I will.”

”I thought angels liked fancy things like ambrosia,” I said. (Augusta, thank goodness, seemed to favor barbecue and pizza.) ”There are restaurants in Columbia and Charlotte that offer more elegant fare.”

But Augusta was already halfway to the car. ”I've never been concerned about keeping up with the...what are those people's names?”

”Joneses,” I said, and headed for the Heavenly Grill.

I got a pepperoni with extra cheese and two orders of lemon icebox pie to go, and pulled into the driveway at the Nut House, looking forward to eating it.

”There's a man at the back of the house,” Augusta said. ”Wonder what he's doing there.”

A man in a brown overcoat was peering into the kitchen window. I wasn't sure, but it looked as though he might have been trying to open it.

I slammed the car door to get his attention. Hugh Talbot!

He hurried down the back steps to meet me. His legs were short, I noticed, and he puffed as he walked. ”Arminda! I was afraid you weren't at home.”

Balancing the pie on top of the pizza box, I made my way inside.

”Mr. Talbot! I didn't expect you.” What was I supposed to say? ”Won't you join me for pizza?”

Please say no!

I saw Augusta in mock prayer behind him and knew she was asking the same thing.

”No, no, thank you. I just wanted to see how you were after the strain of the last few days. I'm sure it must have been difficult for you.”

”It hasn't been easy, but I believe we'll see things through. I don't suppose you've had any word from the police?”

He shook his head. ”They're checking everybody who has a record, but nothing was stolen, so it doesn't look like a robbery.”

”And how is Mrs. Whitmire?”

”Hobblin' and grumblin'.” He smiled. ”She'll be all right.”

”Are you sure you can't stay?” I asked as he turned to leave, but he said he had stopped by for only a minute.

But why the back door instead of the front, I wondered. And I hadn't seen a sign of a car.

What was Hugh Talbot after?

”I wish we knew the rest of the Mystic Six,” I said after we'd finished off the pizza and pie.

Augusta was smas.h.i.+ng cooked pumpkin through a sieve with a big wooden spoon, but she paused in her cooking to take a small notepad from her huge tapestry handbag. ”At least we now know three of them,” she said, with a quick flourish of her pen. ”Lucy, Annie Rose, and Irene's mother, Pauline.”

”But what about the others?”

Even as I waited for her answer, I knew there wasn't going to be one. ”You know something, don't you? You were there there! If you know about the Mystic Six, why don't you tell me?”

The angel gathered her sparkling necklace into a handful of stars and turned to face me, the wooden spoon dripping jack-o'-lantern orange. ”There are things you don't understand, Arminda. Things I don't even know myself. Pauline Watts practically lived here-a dark-haired girl with dimples-always reading novels.... But don't ask me about the others, because I just don't know.”