Chapter THIRTEEN
Deedee, who had turned up her nose at the vases Ma Maggie and Belinda had provided, arranged wildflowers in a fruit jar and tied a red-checked bow at the top. I had to admit it looked kind of pretty.
Now she set the jar in the middle of the serving table and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “I think Marge and Burdette need to keep an eye on that little Hartley,” she said, looking around to see if they were nearby. “First he took Belinda’s purse, and then told an out-and-out lie. They should be grateful the woman didn’t die.”
“We’re all grateful for that,” I said. “The child is three years old, Deedee. I seem to remember your throwing a green apple at me when you were a lot older than that. It gave me a black eye.”
“You nearly ruined my favorite doll,” my cousin said. “I saw you dunk her in the birdbath. Her hair never looked the same.”
“I was baptizing her,” I said. Actually, it had been Marge’s idea but I didn’t say so. Marge was already on Deedee’s black list, it seemed.
Deedee adjusted the bow and gave it a fluff, as if dismissing the subject. “Still, they need to take that child in hand. I think they actually believed him.”
“I believe him, too,” I said.
This was met with silence that weighed a ton. I put plastic dinnerware in a napkin-covered basket and waved a fly from a bowl of watermelon rind preserves. Josie and Darby, along with some of their cousins, tried to snitch cookies from the dessert table and I chased them off, as well. “We’ll eat in about ten minutes. You don’t want to ruin your dinner!”
Of course, they did. A meal of desserts would suit them fine, but I had to say it anyway, as my mother had, and her mother before her.
Behind us, cousins, aunts and uncles sipped drinks and chatted in lawn chairs in the shade of oak trees that had been there so long even the oldest could remember playing beneath them. Our uncle’s neighbor, Judge Kidd (I was almost a teenager before I learned his real name wasn’t Goat), offered fifty dollars to anyone who would ride Shortcake—an obvious dig at Uncle Ernest, who ignored him. Belinda, ensconced in a lounge chair, was being tended by Uncle Ernest on one side and Ma Maggie and Aunt Leona on the other. Burdette, Parker and some of the others had made themselves comfortable on the porch while Uncle Lum wandered through the crowd taking pictures with the new camera Aunt Leona said cost entirely too much.
Now Deedee moved up to stand beside me. “You’re joking, of course.” She spoke in a low voice, as if someone might be listening over her shoulder.
“No, I’m not.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying that. There’s no way that handbag could’ve been accidently dropped behind those bushes. How else could it have gotten there?” My cousin let out a sigh heavy as a rain cloud and reached past me to begin uncovering the dishes. “Surely you don’t believe somebody took that bag on purpose? Just which of our relatives do you think would do a thing like that?”
I didn’t answer but I had one in mind.
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“Did you happen to notice who was conspicuously absent during all that panic about Belinda?” I asked Marge as we helped ourselves to Cousin Emma’s sweet potato bread and Great-aunt Gertrude’s bread and butter pickles.
We carried our plates to a spot of shade a little away from the rest and sat on the grass. Long shadows scalloped the lawn and there was just enough breeze to keep it from being hot.
She nodded. “I assume you mean Violet. Says she was in the kitchen the whole time and didn’t realize what was going on.” Marge bit into a drumstick and licked her fingers.
“I know she’s always been a little dipsy, but she wouldn’t deliberately hurt anyone. I know she wouldn’t . . . would she?”
“Is this a private party or can anybody join in?” Grady stood beside us with a plate heaped with more food than anybody had a right to eat.
“Pull up a patch of grass and sit down,” I told him. “We were just talking about Violet.”
Grady started in on his potato salad. “What about her?”
I reminded him about Violet’s catty little incident earlier. “She was just plain nasty to Belinda. I’ve never seen her behave like that.”
“Cousin Violet’s clannish, Kate,” Grady said. “She’s never cottoned to outsiders. Haven’t you noticed that?”
“Not being an ‘outsider,’ I guess I’ve never paid much attention to it,” I told him.
“Maybe she thinks Uncle Ernest is going to marry Belinda,” Marge suggested.
“So?” I shrugged.
“I’m not supposed to know this,” Marge said, “but I overheard Ma Maggie and Uncle Ernest talking about it one day. Violet’s parents died when she was fairly young and our great-grandparents helped raise her. I think there’s some kind of provision for her—financially, I mean. Uncle Ernest takes care of it, sees that she has enough to get by on.”
“And she thinks Belinda would put an end to that?” I took a swig of iced tea and made a face. Aunt Leona must’ve made it.
Grady frowned. “You know what I think? I think you two have blown this all out of proportion. Our Violet wouldn’t do that. I doubt if she even knew Belinda was allergic to bee stings.”
“Our Violet knows more than you think,” Marge told him, casting threatening looks at her son. “Darby Cranford! Don’t you dare eat another cookie until you’ve finished your dinner!”
“Mean ol’ Marge!” Grady elbowed her and she threatened him with the ice from her glass of tea. I laughed, watching them. It reminded me of the good times we had when we were growing up together, and for a little while, I was feeling better about things until Grady said he’d seen a policeman back again talking to Uncle Ernest that afternoon.
“I saw them when I got back from the store just after noon,” I said. “You mean they’ve been here since then?”
He nodded. “Two of them, actually. They were talking over by that scuppernong arbor near the toolshed. Didn’t stay long. It was right before everybody started to get here.”
We finished our lunch in silence. Uncle Ernest, currently engaged in finishing off a piece of lemon chess pie, seemed to have relaxed a little. Now and then he leaned over to say something to Belinda, and later I saw him making the rounds to speak with some of the visiting relatives. Everyone laughed when Judge Kidd, a longtime widower, teased Belinda about keeping company with Uncle Ernest when she could have him for the taking. “When that old fool breaks his neck on that crazy hoss, just remember I’m only a couple of miles down the road,” he said.
“Coming from somebody who couldn’t stay on a mule, those are mighty powerful words,” Uncle Ernest said, referring to an incident during their boyhood. And chuckling, the two men went off together for another drink of bourbon.
Cousin Violet had made herself in charge of refreshing everyone’s drink and now made her way through the crowd with a pitcher of lemonade in one hand and iced tea in the other, although I knew some of the guests were drinking something stronger. I watched her stop at Belinda’s chair and say something to her. Belinda smiled and offered her glass for Violet to refill.
Grady was eyeing her, too. “I see Belinda’s chicken bog has made a big hit,” he said. “Dad had two helpings.”
I wondered if Violet had noticed.
Ma Maggie and I were getting ready to serve the peach ice cream when Burdette called to me from the porch. “Kate! Somebody wants you on the phone.”
Uncle Ernest had never gotten around to accepting cordless phones—said he couldn’t hear as well on them—so I had to run all the way to the house to answer.
“This is Lieutenant Vickers. Our dispatcher said you asked me to call.”
“Yes, I just learned they’re investigating the death of Beverly Briscoe, who was killed in Pensylvania last winter, and I remembered something that might be important enough to pass along.” I told him what Beverly had said to me last December about the “weird” neighbor who made her uncomfortable. “It could be nothing,” I said, “but if there is something to it, I wouldn’t want them to overlook the possibility he might have been involved.”
“You were right to report that, ma’am, but the victim’s mother had mentioned earlier that her daughter felt uneasy about this neighbor. When the investigators there looked into it, though, they discovered the man had been away on a business trip for several days at the time Ms. Briscoe was killed.”
I thanked him and hung up, wondering, if not that man, then who would have a reason to take the life of a seemingly harmless person like Beverly.
It wasn’t until after I got off the phone that I wondered if I should have told him about the anklet we found in that old trunk.
While I was inside, I decided I might as well drag out the croquet set, and was disappointed to find that Augusta and Penelope were no longer in the attic. From the window there I could see some of the adults and older children choosing sides for softball. Josie and Jon, I noticed, were picked to play on Burdette’s team, while Darby and Cynthia were chosen by Grady. A teenage cousin from South Carolina had lined up the smaller children for a relay race, and far down in the meadow where Belinda had been stung by yellow jackets, a young girl sat alone in tall daisies and Queen Anne’s lace.
Why had no one warned her? The last thing we needed was another accident. I shouted from the window for someone to hurry and bring her back, but of course, no one could hear me. Then on closer look, I recognized the girl. It was Penelope, and she seemed to be making a necklace of daisies for the large brown rabbit in her lap. Ears laid back, the rabbit nestled snugly while two smaller ones played about her feet. Again, I was reminded of my wedding day and the yellow-clad bridesmaids with their frothy bouquets, and the image of it mocked me.
I wondered if Augusta was nearby and hoped she hadn’t gone very far.
“Did anybody remember to take Casey some supper?” I asked my grandmother later as she helped me set up the wickets for croquet. “I feel awful about the way Uncle Ernest talked to him.”
With a worn mallet she pounded in a stake to mark the end of the court. “Marge and Leona went down there with a plate a while ago but he wasn’t there—or else he didn’t come to the door. I’m afraid Ernest’s not himself lately, which isn’t surprising, what with Ella’s falling and that skeleton turning up right next door.”
“How is Ella?”
“Ernest said she was about the same when he went over early this morning,” she told me.
“I just hope he doesn’t learn about Violet’s little fit in the kitchen today,” I said, “but I’m afraid Belinda’s bound to tell him.”
“Maybe not. Belinda’s a pretty good sort, and we all know Violet can get on her high horse sometimes. I always felt Violet was always more resentful than she let on that she and Hodges never married, although she seemed satisfied at the time with the relationship they had. I just don’t pay much attention to her when she acts like that, and I hope Belinda won’t, either. Why, Violet’s probably forgotten it already.”
But I wondered if Belinda had.
“How do you think her purse ended up behind those bushes?” I asked.
“Why, that rascal Hartley took it, or one of the other children,” she said, “although I’d put my money on Hartley. All he wanted was her makeup to smear on poor old Amos. I just thank the good Lord we found it in time!”
I knew from experience not to argue. “Ma Maggie, has there ever been anyone in our family named Valerie?”
She frowned. “Valerie. No, not that I can recall. Why?”
I told her about finding the anklet in the trunk.
“My gracious, child, what were you doing up there on a hot day like this?”
“I went to get the croquet set and just got curious. Who do you think it might have belonged to?”
“Could have been left here by one of your mother’s friends, or Jane’s,” she said, speaking of Marge’s mother. “They used to bring friends out here to pick blackberries or eat watermelon—Ernest had a good patch of melons back beyond the orchard—but I honestly can’t remember anyone named Valerie.”
We chose our colors for a match against Deedee and Great-aunt Gertrude’s daughter, Dorothy, a shy, rather plain woman who taught domestic science at the high school over in Dobson. Ma Maggie always had to have red and I chose blue—which is how I felt. Several people had asked about Ned and I was tired of making excuses. Not getting an answer at my parents’ house, he had called, I learned, soon after we arrived to make sure we reached there safely. Aunt Leona, who had answered the phone, said my husband was late for a meeting and didn’t have time to talk. We hadn’t heard from him since, and even though I knew we had both agreed to this separation, the hurt of being ignored, and probably unloved, as well, gnawed at me so much I felt I should be bleeding inside.
“Have you heard if the police believe Ella was pushed?” I whispered to my grandmother as Deedee took her stroke.
“You know as much as I do about that, but they seemed to take it seriously about the cat being confined inside that box.” Ma Maggie’s face grew stormy. “I’d like to get my hands on whoever did it. What a mean, rotten trick to play!”
“You think it was meant to be a joke?”
“I doubt if whoever did it intended for Ella to fall down that embankment,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I just can’t bring myself to believe that!”
“But who—”
“I don’t want to jump the gun and accuse anyone falsely, but the two Trotter boys live less than a mile from us and they’ve been in trouble with the law more than once. I know Ernest has run them off at least twice when they tried to take a shortcut to the river.”
“Did you mention that to the police?” I asked.
“No, but I think Ernest did, and if they’re guilty, I hope they put them under the jail!” And my grandmother studied her red ball and gave it a good whack with the mallet, sending Deedee’s green one out of the field of play.
It was near dusk by the time we finished our fourth game (Ma Maggie and I won three of them), and crickets had begun to sing their evening song. The softball game was still going on in the meadow Casey had mowed earlier and Deedee and I wandered over to watch. Great-aunt Gertrude and her daughters and some of the South Carolina cousins left for home but most had stayed to either watch or take part in the game, now tied in the eighth inning.
Marge waved to me from her position as shortstop and I found an empty chair beside Uncle Ernest, who fanned mosquitoes away from Hartley, sleeping in his lap. Beside them, Judge Kidd rambled on about the cruddy job the town council was doing while my uncle either grunted in agreement or made a peculiar sucking sound, which I knew was a preamble to an argument.
The judge grinned when he saw me and I guessed what was coming.
“Had a chance to ride that new hoss yet, Kate?” He moved his unlit cigar to the other side of his mouth and winked at me from beneath frosty brows.
“You first!” I said, laughing, although I wished he’d shut up about the subject.
“Got a derby winner for sure!” he bellowed, eyeing his friend. “If they’ll just forget that crazy rule they have about having to have a jockey.”
“We’ll just see who laughs last,” my uncle said. “I’m not in the old folks’ home yet.”
“Huh! Be lucky if you live that long!” Goat told him.
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Frogs cleared their throats in the woods behind us and I inhaled the watermelon smell of freshly cut grass—and something else. Strawberries. The scent was sweet but light, laced with the faint aroma of vanilla, and I knew Augusta was near. Naturally, I thought, she wouldn’t want to miss a ball game. After all, hadn’t she been taught by the great Connie Mack himself?
I smiled, knowing she was there, and watched Jon step up to bat and hit the ball into the outfield on the first pitch. Josie would be next.
Uncle Lum snapped pictures and team supporters cheered as Jon skidded safely into second, then Josie, flushed and determined-looking, tapped her bat on home base and waited for the pitch. She took a strike. And then another. I bit my lip, knowing how much it meant for her to succeed. But on the third pitch, she smacked the ball with a loud crack, sending it straight down the field past Cynthia, who was playing second base.
“Way to go, Josie!” I yelled, jumping to my feet as my daughter took off for first and Jon for third. By then Cynthia had retrieved the ball, and I drew in my breath as she pitched it wildly to the left, hitting Josie in the shoulder when she was about three feet from reaching first.
Doubling over, Josie grabbed her shoulder and I could see she was trying not to cry. It was all I could do to keep from running on the field and folding her in my arms, but I knew it might embarrass her, so I joined the others gathering around her and tried not to make a scene.
“Darby, you and Jon run to the house for ice!” Burdette shouted, leading Josie to the side of the field. “Now, let’s take a look at that shoulder.”
Josie’s face was red and her hair stuck to her forehead in wet ringlets. Somebody put a cup of ice water in my hand and I took it to her while Marge retrieved the Atlanta Braves baseball cap Josie’s dad had given her.
“You did that on purpose!” Josie yelled, glaring at Cynthia, who lingered in the background.
“I did not! I was trying to pitch to first.” Cynthia stepped closer.
“Then you need to learn how to pitch! Your aim was a mile off base,” Josie said, allowing me to sponge her face with a wet paper napkin.
“I’m sure Cynthia didn’t hit you intentionally,” I whispered. “Come on, let’s go to the house where it’s cooler.”
“Cynthia, tell Josie you’re sorry right now.” Parker Driscoll spoke sternly to his daughter.
“I will not.” Cynthia pulled away from Deedee, who had a hand on her shoulder. “And I know how to play softball as well as she does!”
“If you did, you would’ve thrown the ball to third so Jon wouldn’t make a run,” Josie told her.
“Here now, it’s over and done with and nobody meant any harm,” Burdette, the peacemaker, said calmly. “Now, let’s get some ice on that shoulder.”
Josie turned away from Cynthia and let Burdette administer the ice pack while she sipped her water.
“At least I don’t act like a tomboy like you—and I don’t care if I hit you or not!” Cynthia spouted, walking away.
“Cynthia!” Parker stood frozen, looking like he wished the earth would open up and swallow him.
“Oh, now, I’m sure she didn’t mean that,” Deedee said, starting after her daughter.
But Josie got there first. “Then I don’t care if I hit you!” she said, and slapped her cousin smack in the face.
“Josie McBride, you come right back here and apologize!” I shouted as Josie stalked away. Cynthia screamed and ran sobbing to her mother.
“I’m really sorry, Cynthia,” I said, and I picked up the ice pack and hurried after Josie, wishing awful things on my husband for not being there.
Marge caught up with me. “Kate, wait up a minute! Don’t be too hard on her.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I’m angrier about what happened to Josie than what she did to that crybaby Cynthia, but she still needs to apologize, and I want to get this ice on her shoulder.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to make a bruise.” Marge frowned and looked around. “Now, where in the world did she go?”
“Back to the house probably.” I walked faster.
But Darby raced to meet us before we got to the house. “Josie ran into the woods!” he called out to us. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. I’m afraid she’s run away!”