Shadow Of An Angel Part 8

Thirty miles and fourteen knock-knock jokes later, I climbed in the back to read the latest selection of library books she'd brought along. Faye arranged them in order of preference and made room for me beside her, s.h.i.+fting her oversize stuffed Tigger to the corner of the seat. It wasn't until she progressed to her "busy" book and a new pack of crayons that I had a chance to tell Gatlin about Sylvia Smith.

Content with her treasures, Faye seemed not to notice when, after a bathroom stop, I abandoned her for the front seat. "Remember Otto's special friend?" I said to Gatlin in what I hoped was an undertone.

She glanced at me and mouthed the woman's name.

"Right. She was at the cemetery Friday putting flowers on his grave."

"Better late than never," Gatlin said. "She never made it to the funeral. Didn't even sign the register."

I looked back at Faye, who was carefully connecting the dots. "Asked him for forgiveness. Said she was sorry," I murmured.

"Sorry for what?" Gatlin turned off the expressway onto Columbia's Two Notch Road.

"Beats me," I said, and told her how I'd come to overhear Sylvie Smith's one-sided conversation.

"She's an odd one, all right. Are you sure she didn't see you?"

I wasn't, but I didn't want to think about it. "I found where the nondescript lady's buried."

"'Scuse me?... Faye, don't be peeling the paper from those new crayons!"

(How did she know?) "Guess I forgot to tell you there's a recipe for nondescripts in one of our great-great-grandmother's old cookbooks, and it was contributed by a Mrs. Carlton Dennis. The recipes were compiled by a group of ladies at about the time Lucy was still a child."

Gatlin slowed for a traffic light. "Can you read that street sign? It's not Sandhill Avenue, is it?" I told her it wasn't.

"So," she continued, "you think this woman might have been Number... Which one served the refreshments?"

"Five, I think. It's the only lead we have. The Dennises are buried in that lot below ours. The one with the big lily stone."

"Ugh!" Gatlin made a face. "What about the daughter?" "The only others were some people named Carstairs. Her name was Susan, and I guess she could've been a daughter. There was a Dennis Carstairs buried there, too."

"Carstairs. The man who used to sub some when I was in high school was named Carstairs. Worked at the newspaper for a while, I think."

"Gordon Carstairs?" I said.

"That's the one. Don't you remember him? Filled in some for Mrs. Whitmire."

I shook my head. "I wasn't that lucky. Gerty never missed a day. Is he still around?"

"As far as I know. Lives out on Old Mill Road in that little log cabin with the big oak tree out front. Kind of a quaint-looking place."

I remembered the house and always thought it looked like an ill.u.s.tration from a fairy tale. I was about to ask my cousin if she'd go with me to see him when we pulled up in front of Lydia Bowen's. It looked deserted.

"See if there's a light inside," Gatlin said. "Doesn't look like anybody's home."

"Maybe they're in the back. I'll check." I left the others in the car and rang the bell of the small brick bungalow. The house was like many of its neighbors, built probably in the 1930s, on a wide, tree-shaded street. Except for a few brown oak leaves that had drifted onto her porch, Lydia's place seemed neat and cared for. Pansies bloomed in a hanging basket, and the nandina bushes by the front steps were filled with cl.u.s.ters of bright red berries. I looked through the living room window to see a cozy arrangement of slipcovered chairs grouped about a table piled with books. One book lay open facedown, as if the reader meant to return shortly. But n.o.body came to the door, and I couldn't see a light inside.

I turned to Gatlin and shrugged. "Where could they be?"

"If you're looking for Mrs. Bowen, she's gone somewhere with a group from her church." I turned to see a man who looked to be in his thirties approaching from the yard next door with a huge gray cat on a leash. The cat growled at me and didn't look at all happy.

"Do you know if anyone was with her?" I asked, explaining our errand. "We haven't heard from Mildred since she left home, and we're a little concerned. She hasn't been well."

The man, who said his name was Albert Reinhardt, didn't know about Mildred, but was collecting Lydia Bowen's mail and newspapers until she returned. "Left a couple of days ago and said she'd be back by the middle of next week," he said, scooping up the cat, who was h.e.l.l-bent on digging up Lydia's chrysanthemums. "Some kind of church retreat, I think....

Stop that right now, Herman!" He deposited the squirming, hissing feline on the ground, and I thanked him and jumped into the car before Herman decided to go for me.

"What now?" Gatlin wanted to know.

"I guess we wait. Lydia's gone on some sort of Methodist retreat, and it looks like Mildred went with her."

"Sounds like just her kind of thing, but you'd think she'd at least let us know." Gatlin frowned as she eased back onto the street. "After all, she's eighty-three and just out of the hospital. What if she gets sick?"

"I'm sure Lydia would get in touch with us. Don't know what else we can do. But maybe-"

"I'm hungry!" Faye announced from the backseat. "Tigger wants some ice cream."

"Tell Tigger he can have some ice cream after he eats his lunch," her mother told her, grinning at me. "What do you think His Highness would like?"

Faye made a big issue of whispering to the stuffed animal and c.o.c.ked her head as if listening to his reply. "Hot dogs," she said. "And fries."

"Doesn't Tigger ever get tired of hot dogs?" Gatlin asked, searching for a fast-food place.

Her daughter considered this. "Well, sometimes he likes pizza."

I don't know what it is about riding in a car that makes me hungry, but just then I would've been glad to settle for either.

Content after having eaten her fill of junk food, Faye fell asleep in the backseat clutching the bedraggled Tigger, giving Gatlin and me a chance to discuss more openly what might have happened to Great-grandmother Lucy's round-robin quilt.

"You seem to be more interested in that quilt than Vesta ever was," Gatlin said. "Mind telling me why you think it's so important?"

"Because it was made by the Mystic Six," I said. "I think they made it for a reason, and if we can locate the quilt, we might be able to find out what that reason was and learn who the other three members were."

"Most quilts were made for a reason, silly-to keep people warm. What's so different about this one?"

"For one thing, they pa.s.sed it around, and from what Vesta says, it sounds like it told some kind of story." AndI have a heavenly hunch it might tell us something about Otto's murder AndI have a heavenly hunch it might tell us something about Otto's murder, I wanted to add. "Don't tell me you aren't curious."

"Yeah, I'm curious. I'm curious to know what's going on with you, Arminda Grace Hobbs."

"Whatdaya mean?" I looked out the window as we drove through the little town of Chester, South Carolina, where streets were Sunday silent except for a squall of little boys skateboarding along the sidewalks, followed by a big brown dog. "Don't you love that old house?" I said, admiring a large Victorian set back from the street. "Must cost a fortune to paint, though."

"You're different," my cousin persisted, ignoring my tactic. "Can't put my finger on it, but it's like you know something I don't."

"There's a first time for everything," I said, making a face. "Do you think it'll be too late to pay a visit to Gordon Carstairs when we get home?"

Gatlin had promised to help Lizzie with a homework project, so she dropped me off at home and I gave Gordon Carstairs a call.

"By all means, do come by," he said. "I've been working all day and would welcome the respite."

I almost expected to be greeted by Goldilocks when I knocked on the door of the rustic cabin, but I was met by one of the bears instead-or that was the appearance he gave. Gordon Carstairs was a stocky, heavyset man with a head full of iron-gray curls and a beard to match. Bifocals slid halfway down his large nose, and an unlit cigar protruded from a corner of his mouth. It jiggled as he spoke. "Trying to quit- rotten habit," he said, removing the gnawed brown stub. "You must be Vesta's granddaughter-you have the Maxwell look, all right. Come on in and excuse all this hodgepodge. If I ever get through with this project, maybe I'll be able to clear a path through here...."He winked. "But I doubt it."

Mr. Carstairs had told me when I called earlier that he was working on a history of the county, and from the look of things, he must have started with Adam and Eve. "Here, have a seat," he said, removing a sheaf of papers from an orange plaid sofa, and for the first time I noticed the sleeping dog at my feet. "Scoot over now, Colonel," he said, scratching the animal between the ears. "Make a little room for our guest.

"Looks just like an officer I served under back in my army days," he explained with an affectionate glance at his pet. "We've been together a long time, haven't we, old friend?"

The dog, who looked to be a mixture of hound and German shepherd, replied with a yawn and a thump of his tail before resuming his nap. I didn't blame him. The room was close and much too warm, with a wood fire blazing in the big stone fireplace, but the heat didn't appear to bother my two companions.

I declined my host's offer of coffee but was glad to let him relieve me of my coat. If Gordon Carstairs knew enough about Angel Heights to compile a history of the area, he was the very one I wanted to talk with, and if I had to melt into a puddle to accomplish this, then so be it.

I thanked him for seeing me on such short notice and told him about finding the nondescript recipe in the Daisy Delights Daisy Delights cookbook. Gordon Carstairs nodded his head and smiled. "There were a number of clubs like that for the ladies here in Angel Heights. Daisy was just one of them. Another organization called themselves the Teaset, I believe, and then there were the Pathfinders-a more adventurous bunch- who went on hikes and such." cookbook. Gordon Carstairs nodded his head and smiled. "There were a number of clubs like that for the ladies here in Angel Heights. Daisy was just one of them. Another organization called themselves the Teaset, I believe, and then there were the Pathfinders-a more adventurous bunch- who went on hikes and such."

"I wonder if you've heard of a group called the Mystic Six? My great-grandmother belonged, and I think one of your relatives might have been a member."

"Oh? And who might that be?"

"I'm not sure if this is the right person or not, and I'm hoping you can help me." I told him about finding the minutes of the meeting and noting the refreshments they served. "There were six of them, and Vesta tells me they even had a pin-a daisy like flower with a star in the middle-the same design that's on the alma mater Lucy st.i.tched that's on the wall at the academy."

"Well, of course! I've noticed that many times-read it, too, but I guess I never thought much about the emblem." Gordon Carstairs frowned. "And I've seen it somewhere else, too.... Wish I could remember where."

"Maybe your mother had a pin like that?" She would have been about the right age if I guessed right.

But he shook his head. "My mother was from Virginia- lived there until she married, but my father was born and raised here."

I tried to remember the names on the stones in the cemetery. "Was Dennis Carstairs your father?"

He laughed. "Good heavens, no! Dennis was my first cousin, although he was about ten years older than I was. His papa, Robert Carstairs, was my uncle.... Now wait a minute! You must be talking about my cousin Flora. I seem to remember her wearing a pin like that, and she would've been about the right age, too. I think she left here soon after her parents died."

"Do you know what happened to her?" I asked. "Her mother was the one who contributed that recipe for nondescripts."

"Can't remember her coming here much, but her boy Chester was about my age, and he used to visit a lot. Stayed with Aunt Susan and Uncle Robert. Dennis-he was their son-didn't have much to do with him because he was so much older, so the two of us-Chester and I-we palled around together. Crazy about baseball, Chester was. I've often wondered if he might've made it in the big leagues...."Gordon reached down to rubColonel's tummy.

"Might have?"

"Chester was killed in the war-World War Two, and his young wife died of polio soon after. Cousin Flora and her husband raised their little girl; Peggy, her name was. They used to send me pictures."

"Oh," I said. I was running out of fingers to keep track. "Your cousin Flora-where did she live?"

Mr. Carstairs frowned. "Some little town in Georgia; I haven't been there in ages." He rose to put another log on the fire, and I wondered if I could remove any more clothing and still keep within the bounds of decency. I slid the scarf from around my neck and stuffed it into my pocket.

"We weren't really related, you know," he continued, wiping his hands on green corduroy pants that looked as if they'd been used for that purpose before. "Her daddy's sister, Susan Dennis, married my uncle Robert, but she was always like family to me. When Chester's daughter Peggy married, I went to the wedding there."

Where? Where? I wanted to plead; instead, I looked at him expectantly. The house smelled of dog and wood smoke, and something else-old grease, I think. I picked up a magazine and flipped through it, letting its pages fan my face. I wanted to plead; instead, I looked at him expectantly. The house smelled of dog and wood smoke, and something else-old grease, I think. I picked up a magazine and flipped through it, letting its pages fan my face.

He must have gotten my message. "Place where they lived had this statue of a big red apple right in the center of town ... had a girl's name... Amelia? No. Cornelia! The family lived in Cornelia."

"Do you think she still lives there?" "Did the last I knew. Sends me a Christmas card every year." He looked about and kind of groaned. "I'm sure I have that address here somewhere." Gordon went to a big rolltop desk in the corner, pulled out a cardboard box, and then shuffled through its contents. "Here it is: Peggy and Harold O'Connor. Still live on Garden Avenue-been there long as I can remember."

My host scribbled the information on a sc.r.a.p of paper and gave it to me as I gathered my wraps and headed for the door. "May I ask why you're so intent on learning about these six women? After all, they all died years ago. What's the fascination?"

I started to lie and tell him I was working on a family history, but he was too intelligent for that. "I'm digging for old secrets," I said, and I could see he understood.

It was dark when I stepped outside, and the cold zapped me in the face. It felt great. I was on my way down the steps when Gordon Carstairs called to me from the doorway. "I remember now where I've seen that flower-star design you described to me. It was on Cousin Flora's tombstone."

Chapter Eleven.

Irene Bradshaw stuck her head in the door of Papa's Armchair and squinted over her gla.s.ses. "Well, Gatlin, I hear you've become an heiress. What do you think you'll do with this place?"

"If we can ever get this inventory straightened out, I guess we'll stumble along from there." Gatlin filled another carton with age-stained volumes. "I don't know why Otto bothered with all this stuff. n.o.body reads them, and they just take up s.p.a.ce. There's not enough room in here to swing a cat."

"Swing a cat. Right." Irene stepped inside and closed the door behind her, pulling off her red beret. "Small, yes, but cozy, don't you think?"

"A little too cozy for me. Vesta and I are thinking of opening a tearoom-some place where people can get lunch-in that building next door if we can get Dr. Hank to let go of it." My cousin climbed a ladder and began handing books down to me. "And Minda's going to help us, aren't you, Minda?"

I gave her my "we'll see" expression, which she ignored.

"Of course, Vesta's not interested in making sandwiches and ladling up soup; she'll only be a silent partner," Gatlin continued, setting aside a book with a peeling binding, which she apparently meant to keep.

I couldn't imagine our grandmother being silent about anything, but I couldn't see her pocketing tips and wiping off tables, either.

"Vesta? No, that wouldn't be her cup of tea at all," Irene said, running her finger along the stacks.

I edged out of the way in case she got in an arm-grabbing mood.

"I guess I'd forgotten she and Otto were in this together." Irene pulled out a volume with a torn cover and turned it over in her hands without seeming to be aware of it. "But is there room next door for a restaurant? Looks like a tight squeeze to me."

"Not if we knock out that wall." Gatlin gestured behind her. "Make this all one big room."

Still Irene shook her head. "Hank would never sell that building. Why, where would he store his records?"

"Vesta says he made copies of his active patients' files when he sold the practice," Gatlin told her. "The rest of them are so out of date, most of the patients have either died or moved away."

Irene set the book aside. "Moved away ... I don't know. Have you discussed this with him yet?"

"I think Otto mentioned it, but no, I haven't had much of a chance to do anything since Otto died. Can't see why he'd object, though. It's not like he really needs the s.p.a.ce."

Gatlin turned away from our visitor and lifted an eyebrow at me. Irene Bradshaw wasn't usually this nosy. Why was she so curious about my cousin's plans for the shop?

"I'm afraid you'd be in for a lot of expense." Irene moved toward the door and then stopped, smas.h.i.+ng her beret into a wad. "Don't know when that old place has ever had any work done on it. Must've been built almost a hundred years ago, and there's no telling what condition the roof's in."

"What in the world was that all about?" I asked after the door closed behind her.

Gatlin made a face and shrugged. "Who knows? After what happened to Otto, nothing in this town surprises me anymore."