An Angel to Die For (11 page)

As I started back to the house I heard something that made my heart drop like a rock. It sounded like a dentist’s drill at high speed hitting bone, or a prehistoric creature from a science fiction film. Was Noodles stuck in the drainpipe again? Silly cat! It wouldn’t be the first time. I ran toward the awful caterwauling that was now reaching a crescendo. Who or whatever was making that noise must be in horrible pain.

Inside, Noodles cringed underneath the sitting-room sofa with only one black ear and a pink nose protruding. The sound vibrated all around me until even my teeth screamed for mercy. And it was coming from upstairs.

“Augusta?” Surely this must be a beastly demon sent to overpower my guardian angel, and they were locked in some kind of otherworldly battle between good and
evil. What could I do? Probably nothing, but I had to try. I raced up the steps, scared to death of what I might see, but prepared to face the devil himself.

Augusta stood by a floor lamp in my parents’ room with a music stand in front of her and my father’s fiddle tucked under her chin.

She looked up and smiled at me. “I hope your mother won’t mind, but I found this in the hall closet when I was looking for curtain rods, and I’ve always wanted to learn how to play.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her how hopeless that seemed. “Lessons might be a good idea,” I suggested, trying not to shudder at the thought.

“You can see why that would be awkward in my position. Requires personal contact. Line dancing I learned from a video . . . and what a wonderful gadget that is!” Augusta whirled about and performed a sample step. “But this . . . I don’t suppose you—?”

“Oh, no! That was Dad’s fiddle. Used to play for square dances.” Dad had tried to teach me to play, but I lost interest after a while and never pursued it. I wished now I had at least made more of an effort.

Augusta again tucked the instrument under her chin. “I thought if I could just practice enough, I might have a chance for the Heavenly Orchestra. We have some great composers up there, you know. Why Beethoven just finished another symphony. Number 473, I believe.”

I hoped Beethoven was still deaf if he had to hear Augusta audition. I’m afraid I snatched the instrument
from her. “I’ll just show you a few scales,” I said, stepping in front of the stand. “Where on earth did you find this music? I’d forgotten all about it!” There were sheafs of music on the stand, songs I’d learned to play years ago, and before I knew it, I had fiddled away almost two hours.

When Augusta called me to supper, it was after seven o’clock and nearly dark. It made me feel a little safer to know policemen stood watch over that troublesome area on the other side of the hill behind us. Augusta and I ate our supper of baked potatoes and salad in front of the fire while Noodles stretched out in Dad’s chair, and it was the first time I’d consciously relaxed since I learned Uncle Faris had vacated the premises. I had eaten two of Augusta’s blissfully delightful brownies for dessert, and was about a nod away from dozing off when the ringing of the telephone jerked me awake.

“Prentice? Are you okay? Any more bodies turn up out there?” Dottie Ives wanted to know. “Look, Rob’s been on my case again, and I’m beginning to feel like
Dear Abby!
Didn’t you get his message?”

“Well, yes, sort of, but I haven’t had a chance to get back to him . . . Dottie, I’ve learned I have a nephew! Maggie had a little boy!” I told her about my trip to Tennessee and the phone calls that led to it.

“Maggie? Oh, Prentice, that’s grand! But don’t you have any idea where he is?”

“Not yet, but we’re tracking down every possible lead. Right now all we can do is wait.”

“Wait for what? How can you bear it? You must be going nuts not knowing where that baby is.”

“Don’t remind me. But you can see why I’ve had to put Rob on hold,” I said.

“Absolutely! But do give him a call when you get a chance. I’m running out of excuses.” Dottie laughed. “Guess I’d never qualify for a job on the psychic hotline. I thought you’d be bored to death by now, just sitting by the fireside watching smoke roll up the chimney.”

“I could use a little boredom right now,” I said.

“Don’t tell me they’ve found another body!”

“As we speak, police are staking out the family cemetery to see if they can catch whoever’s playing some kind of grisly game with Uncle Faris’s coffin. It looks like somebody’s hollowed out another grave up on the hillside, but we don’t know who they’re planning to plant in that one.”

“You lie.”

“Well, sometimes, but not about this, and I don’t want to leave home until we hear from Ola Cress.”

“You keep saying
we
. Is somebody there with you?”

I glanced at Augusta who was reading my old copy of
Tom Sawyer
and laughing now and then. “No, of course not. It’s only a figure of speech.”

“I can’t believe that woman just disappeared with Maggie’s child! She must be crazy.”

“Please don’t say that! I don’t think she realizes who I am,” I explained. “I mailed her a letter this morning and we—I—hope to hear something soon.”

My friend said one of her favorite words, which you
won’t find in a church newsletter. “Prentice, it’s unreal how calm you are,” Dottie said. “Are you sure you’re all right? You sound different somehow.”

I smiled. I was different. I didn’t even want to think how the old Prentice would’ve reacted in the same situation. The Prentice before Augusta. “I’m fine,” I said. “And I’ll let you know what happens. Honest.”

“Let me know nothing! I’m coming to Liberty Bend!”

“No, really, Dottie, I’m perfectly okay. There’s no need to worry.”

“Worry my ass! I just don’t like the idea of something happening to my future business partner.”

I laughed. “Future what?”

“You heard me. I’ve been thinking about it, Prentice. We could start our own public relations firm! Why not? We both have the background for it, and I have a few contacts. Just think about it, okay?”

I promised her I’d give it some thought, and she promised to stay where she was unless I hollered for help. Right now the only things I wanted to do were find my sister’s baby and learn the police had arrested the person who had invaded our property and our lives.

Well, maybe one more thing. Immediately on hanging up, I replayed Rob’s message on my answering machine and his voice had the same effect as hot buttered rum. My middle went all warm and mushy, and throwing all reservations aside, I dialed his number.

L
et him be out on assignment
, I thought as I placed the call.
Please Rob, don’t answer!
I would leave a message, and then the ball would be in his court again. It was Saturday here in the States, and in England as well if I calculated right. Most people didn’t go in to work on Saturdays, especially at this strange hour, but Rob McCullough wasn’t most people and he didn’t work at just any job. I wanted to hear his voice so much I could almost taste the words, and yet I had to force myself not to hang up the phone. What kind of wishy-washy dishrag had I become?

“Rob? I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Prentice? Is that you? I was about to walk out the door, but something just told me to hang around! How’s that for a lucky hunch?”

“So, how’ve you been?” I asked.
Prentice, Prentice, what a brilliant thing to say!

“Missing you. Honey, it’s great to hear your voice.”

“Yours too.” Silence. What was the matter with me?

“But I want to do more than hear you. Prentice, I want to see you, need to see you.” Rob hesitated. Was he waiting for me to speak? “I heard about Maggie. What a god-awful thing to happen! Why didn’t you call me?”

“It happened so fast. There was nothing we could do, nothing anyone could do. I guess I’m not dealing with it very well, but I’m trying.”

“I understand. Believe me, I’ve been there, and I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” Rob paused and I could imagine him hunched over with pencil and paper, doodling as we spoke. He kept a pad by the phone and decorated the margins with pastoral scenes that could have come from a child’s storybook: a barn, a tree, a rabbit, a squirrel with a nut in its paws, a road winding over a bridge. Maybe you were meant to be an illustrator, I used to tell him, but he only laughed. Now I pictured him in a London apartment, much like the one he’d had in Atlanta, filled with serviceable but comfortable furniture, every surface covered in books, papers, and coffee cups. If a person stood still in there long enough, I warned him, he might disappear forever.

“Dottie told me about
Martha’s Journal
, Prentice, and I’m sorry. I can only imagine what you’ve gone through lately. And look, here’s the thing—I know how you
loved what you were doing, but before you get involved in anything else, why not make a trip over here?”

“Rob . . . I do want to see you but—”

“If you’re worried about your mother, bring her along. I have a friend who’s a travel agent, and I can get a good price on the tickets. My treat. I want to do this for you, and it would probably be good for your mom to get away for a while.”

“It’s not that, Rob. Some things have come up, things I have to take care of before I do anything else.”

Silence. He was frowning now, I knew it, as his pencil moved rapidly across the page: the brook would overflow its banks and wash away the bridge; the playful squirrel would froth at the mouth and bite the rabbit.

“I just found out my sister had a baby,” I said. “A little boy.”

“Maggie? No kidding? Where is he?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know. I’m doing my best to find him.”

“My God, Prentice! Don’t you have any idea who has him? Where he might be?”

“Yes, and I’m working on it. It’s too complicated to go into over the phone right now, but I hope to hear something soon.”

“Good, good. You will let me know, won’t you?” Rob said. “Leave a message if I’m not here.”

I noticed he didn’t offer to come over and help.

Aunt Zorah arrived without notice the next morning in that ancient green trucklike machine she calls a car and announced herself with a token “you-hoo” before making herself at home.

“I’m hiding from Be-trice,” she confessed, “and if you have any compassion at all, you won’t let on I’m here. She’s about to drive me crazy wanting to know what’s going on out here, and if I’ve found out what happened to Faris—as if I’d tell her if I knew!” My aunt stomped into the kitchen and tossed her pocketbook on a chair. She hadn’t had breakfast, she said, so the two of us sat in the kitchen and finished off the batch of waffles Augusta had stirred up earlier. Augusta disappeared upstairs. I just hoped she wouldn’t decide to practice the violin again.

“These are the best waffles I ever put in my mouth,” Aunt Zorah said. “You’ll have to give me the recipe. And where on earth did you get that heavenly strawberry syrup? Don’t tell me it came from anywhere in Liberty Bend, because I’ve never seen it in the stores.”

Since our little town had only two grocery stores, I knew not to argue with her. And I suspected the syrup didn’t come from anywhere on earth. “Made right here in this kitchen,” I bragged. “Ready for another?”

She held up an empty plate. “You’ve certainly been hiding your culinary talents,” my aunt said. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It runs in the family, you know.”

I almost choked on a big gulp of coffee.

After breakfast my aunt pulled on brown rubber boots I’m sure she must’ve worn in high school for a tramp around the yard. “Told your mother I’d keep an eye on her azaleas,” she said. “And that dwarf gardenia by the front walk oughtta be covered up if it gets down to freezing.”

“If you want to walk over to the cemetery, I’ll go with you,” I told her. I didn’t want her coming upon that grim scene alone.

But she waved me away. “Maybe later.”

I gave her a couple of old sheets to cover the plants and watched from the living-room window as she puttered about the lawn.

“That’s thoughtful of her,” Augusta said, pulling aside the curtain to look. I didn’t answer. As well read as my aunt was, she knew p-turkey squat about gardening, and I was almost sure Aunt Zorah would have been the last person my mother would ask to look after her plants, especially since she knew I was perfectly capable of doing it myself.

Later in the morning Deputy Weber called to tell me they had kept their vigil in vain the night before, but were going to try again tonight. “Just wanted to let you know in case you happened to run across one of our men—although you shouldn’t if they stay out of sight the way they’re supposed to. And I guess you know not to say anything about this to anyone else.”

I didn’t mention Aunt Zorah was there because I wasn’t going to tell her. Maybe it’s all those years of having to be quiet in the library, but she could out-talk
a preacher at an August camp meeting. My own daddy said it of her and I know it’s true.

Later that morning we did walk over to the family graveyard and I stood off by myself for a few minutes while Aunt Zorah examined her late husband’s former resting place. She didn’t say much, just wandered around and looked at the ground like she expected to find Faris Haskell’s footprints there.