Part 18 (2/2)
”I don't have the quilt, and I don't know where it is.”
”Do you know anyone who might help us find it?” Why was this woman being such an impossible, rigid a.s.s?
”I'm sorry,” she said, and hung up.
It was dark when I drove Mildred back to her place a few minutes later, and I think both of us felt as dismal as the damp November night. Regardless of her protests, I insisted on going inside to carry in her groceries, but I really wanted to be sure everything was all right. Gatlin, I noticed, had left a light burning in the front of the shop, and we found a note from her under the connecting door to let Mildred know that R. T. Foster would be by in the morning to take a look at the bookstore and its adjoining building.
Mildred brightened when she read it. ”I do hope this works out for Gatlin. It's been difficult for them financially, I know, and if there's one good thing that's come from Otto's death, it's that Gatlin will have a chance to do something with this place.”
”You knew then-about the will?”
”Of course I knew! Otto and I discussed it before he made it out, and I was the one who suggested he name Gatlin. After all, she should be next in line.” Mildred smiled. ”Good heavens, Minda! You didn't think it would upset me that he didn't leave his share to me, did you?” She shook her head. ”I wasn't supposed to outlive him. Besides, the amount Vesta sets aside for me each month more than takes care of my needs.”
Now it was my time to smile. ”We thought... that is, we knew Otto would have wanted you to have something.”
”Yes, I imagine he would if he'd thought of it-but he didn't.” Mildred lowered her voice to a hoa.r.s.e whisper. ”There's no need in saying anything about this to your grandmother, Arminda. Just let her go on believing that I think Otto provided for me. She's glad to share, and I'm glad to accept it-so let's just keep this between the two of us.”
I agreed. Annie Rose, I thought, would be glad as well.
Driving home, I thought of what Mildred had said about her mother's mentioning Augusta, and knew then what Augusta's unfinished business here had been. As far as I was concerned, it was still unfinished. The angel claimed not to know any more than she had told me about what happened to the Mystic Six after Annie Rose supposedly drowned, but still I wondered if she was keeping something back.
Augusta had kept out of sight during my visit at the Nut House with Mildred, yet I could sense her presence there, and even though she wasn't beside me in the car, I thought I got a whiff of her ”angel essence.” Tonight it was a combination of strawberries and mint.
Coming from town, I usually drove straight down River Street and turned left on Phinizy, but now I found myself going out of my way. What now, Augusta? What now, Augusta? I thought. I thought. I'm really tired, and it's been a long day. I'm really tired, and it's been a long day.
Hank and Edna Smith's rambling Dutch barn of a house stood on a corner two blocks over, and with all that had happened, I supposed the time had come to speak openly with Sylvie. If she knew something about Otto that might help us clear away some of the clutter, we needed to know it now.
The house was dark except for a light burning in the kitchen, and Sylvia's car was parked in the driveway with the door behind the driver's seat open.
Good! This would solve my problem of dropping by without first calling-always a no-no in Vesta's book. I pulled up to the curb and waited for Sylvie to come out, explanations ready on my tongue. Just happened to be in the neighborhood and saw your car... and did you kill my cousin Otto? Just happened to be in the neighborhood and saw your car... and did you kill my cousin Otto? Well, that certainly wouldn't do! I'd have to think of a better way to wade in than that. I decided on honesty. Well, that certainly wouldn't do! I'd have to think of a better way to wade in than that. I decided on honesty. Something's very wrong here, Sylvia, and it seemed to have started with Otto. Do you know if he was involved in anything that might have led to his murder? Something's very wrong here, Sylvia, and it seemed to have started with Otto. Do you know if he was involved in anything that might have led to his murder? When I'd overheard her at the cemetery, she had told Otto-dead though he was at the time-how sorry she was. Sorry for what? When I'd overheard her at the cemetery, she had told Otto-dead though he was at the time-how sorry she was. Sorry for what?
I sat there for almost ten minutes waiting and wondering why Sylvia Smith didn't come back outside and finish carrying in her luggage or her groceries, or whatever she had left in the car. I could see the empty backseat in the light of the open car door, but there didn't appear to be anyone or anything inside. Maybe Sylvie had forgotten to close it, in which case, the light would eventually drain the battery.
Okay. I would close her car door and go home-deed done. I really didn't want to confront Sylvia alone in her house without either of her parents there. For all I knew, she was the one who had tried to dump me down the stairwell from three floors up.
Except for a bag of groceries on the floor, the car was empty as I had suspected, but curiosity-or something else-drove me to glance in the kitchen doorway which had been left partially open, and what I saw was a foot.
The foot wasn't in a normal position such as standing, walking, or sitting. It was splayed out on the floor with a leg attached. Sylvie Smith's leg.
She was breathing-thank G.o.d-but her face was pale, and blood matted her pale hair and puddled on the blue vinyl floor. I touched her wrist and found a weak pulse; her eyelids fluttered.
”Help is coming, Sylvie,” I told her. ”You're going to be all right.” I didn't know that at all, but that's what they always tell people in situations like this and I hoped it might help. I called 911 from the kitchen phone and begged them to hurry, praying the whole time that Sylvia wouldn't die right there because I didn't know what else to do other than kneel on the floor beside her and let her know she wasn't alone.
A paper sack filled with what smelled like hamburgers was on the floor beside her, and she still wore a jacket and gloves I looked about for a pocketbook of some kind but didn't see one. Had Sylvie surprised a burglar? I opened her coat to check for a bullet wound or any sign of bleeding there, but the only injury appeared to be to her head.
Could the person who did this still be inside? Don't think of that, Minda! Just don't think at all! Don't think of that, Minda! Just don't think at all! I wanted to bolt out the door, run to my car, and drive away as fast as I could, but I couldn't leave her here. Sylvia s.h.i.+vered, and I remembered reading somewhere that you should keep people warm to prevent them from going into shock, so I took off my jacket and covered her, listening all the while for an approaching ambulance. And I ran out to meet it when it came. I wanted to bolt out the door, run to my car, and drive away as fast as I could, but I couldn't leave her here. Sylvia s.h.i.+vered, and I remembered reading somewhere that you should keep people warm to prevent them from going into shock, so I took off my jacket and covered her, listening all the while for an approaching ambulance. And I ran out to meet it when it came.
”What were you doing at Sylvie Smith's?” my grandmother wanted to know. She dropped by the home place the next day-along with just about everybody else in town-when she learned I'd been the one to find Sylvia.
I told her about seeing Sylvia's car in the driveway with the door open and how I only meant to do a small good deed before moving on.
”Thank goodness you did!” Gertrude Whitmire added, ”or else the poor girl would've probably bled to death right there on the kitchen floor!”
I suppressed a shudder, seeing again the gory gash in Sylvia's head. ”I hope I was in time,” I said. ”The last time I checked with the hospital, Sylvia was still in intensive care after an 'iffy' night.”
”Iffy, yes.” Irene squeezed my arm before I could dodge. ”I heard they found the weapon. Of course, they won't say that's what it is, but why else would a heavy oriental vase be lying out in the yard? And with blood on it, too!”
Vesta looked interested. ”Edna always kept sea oats in that vase. Sneaks them from the beach. I told her that was illegal.” She pulled off her gloves and sank into the chair that had belonged to her husband, nudging it a little closer to the fire. ”I left you some of that lemon cake you used to like back in the kitchen. Had one of my rare baking spells yesterday- don't know what came over me, but I hope it won't come again!”
”And I brought some of my carrot m.u.f.fins,” Gertrude said, setting a napkin-covered plate on the coffee table. ”Thought you could use something nouris.h.i.+ng after all you've been through. Hope they're up to par.”
”Oh, I'm sure they will be,” I said, trying to ignore the glances Irene and Vesta exchanged. Everybody in Angel Heights knew that Gertrude Whitmire didn't bake, but bought sweets on sale from the bakery, kept them in her freezer, and when needed, pa.s.sed them off as her own.
I lifted the napkin and touched a m.u.f.fin. It was still cold. ”Looks good,” I said. ”Thank you both. When I gain another five pounds, I'll let you take me shopping for my new wardrobe.”
Irene walked to the fireplace and stood looking down at the flames. ”I don't see how anybody can even think of food with all that's been going on around here. I've just about lost my appet.i.te.”
”I've lived here all my life,” my grandmother said, ”and until recently I've never felt unsafe, rarely locked a door- but now I'm constantly looking behind me.” She looked up at me. ”I never thought I'd say this, Minda, but I wish you wouldn't stay here in this old house alone. There's room at my place, you know.”
Irene saved me from answering. ”I'd think you'd be nervous, too, Gertrude,” she said, ”living out there so far from town-especially after that maniac tried to run you down. Aren't you afraid he'll come back?”
”He hasn't so far, and I'm hoping that was an isolated incident.” Gertrude picked up a sofa pillow and plopped it in her lap. ”But I've had my alarm system updated, and then Hugh checks on me regularly.” She gave the pillow a squeeze. ”Surely they'll find out who's responsible and put an end to all these atrocities soon!”
”Yes, soon. I do hope poor Sylvie will be all right,” Irene said. ”Why in the world would anybody want to do such a thing?”
”Looks to me like she interrupted a burglary,” Vesta said. ”Her purse was taken, but they found it in a Dumpster later with the money still inside. It had to be somebody from around here-somebody who knew Hank and Edna would be out of town for the night. Hank wouldn't miss that medical convention in Charleston-goes every year.”
”Doesn't seem like we're safe anywhere,” Gertrude said. ”Look what happened to Mildred, and she lives right in the middle of town!”
Irene left the fireside to sit beside Gertrude. ”Did they ever find out what they were looking for, Vesta? I heard somebody just about tore that bookshop apart. They didn't bother any of Mildred's things, did they?” She shuddered. ”I mean, they didn't actually break into where she lives lives?”
”I don't think so,” my grandmother told her. ”If they did, we didn't notice it. You know how Mildred is; she doesn't care for a lot of extras, and probably wouldn't wear expensive jewelry if she had it. I can't imagine what a burglar would hope to find, and I doubt if she knows either, but the idea is appalling. Mildred is a very private person, and I've always respected that.”
”I'll bet I know what they were looking for,” I said to Vesta later in the kitchen. Augusta had brewed a pot of coffee with a reach-out-and-grab-you nut-brown smell, and the two of us were arranging cups on a tray.
”You mean Otto's old zebra?” my grandmother whispered. ”What do you suppose Mildred keeps in there she doesn't want the rest of us to know about?”
”Why don't you ask her?” I said. But Vesta was busy pouring cream into a pitcher and either didn't hear me or pretended not to. I think it was the latter.
”Gatlin tells me she's thinking of making a tearoom of Hank's old building if she can find someone to do the work,” Irene said as coffee was served.
Vesta nodded. ”Someone's supposed to look at the building today, now that it's empty. Hank finally had all those old records in there destroyed. Should've done it years ago.”
I noticed that she didn't look directly at Irene as she spoke.
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