Chapter EIGHTEEN
“There’s nothing you or anyone can do,” Uncle Ernest told Aunt Leona when she and Uncle Lum offered to meet him at the hospital.
“He’s on his way home,” my aunt said, hanging up the phone. “Said he’d make arrangements in the morning. Poor man must be exhausted.”
We all were, and since I would be sleeping on the living room sofa, I offered Violet my bed so she wouldn’t have to drive home so late at night.
“I don’t suppose Ella mentioned anything else about who might have attacked her,” Violet said.
“Uncle Ernest said she slipped away peacefully without regaining consciousness,” my aunt told her.
“I doubt if she knew,” Uncle Lum said. “And even if she did, we’ll never find out now.”
Cousin Violet squeezed my hand as she left to go upstairs. “Talk to you in the morning,” she whispered.
Grady stumbled past me sleepily, mumbled good night, then followed his parents upstairs, and I found an extra pillow and a light blanket for the sofa and checked to see if Josie was still asleep. My daughter hadn’t moved from the position she’d been in earlier and I risked a light kiss on her cheek as I adjusted her covers. I decided to try calling Ned before I went to bed, and braced myself for his response. My husband was going to be angry that I hadn’t gotten in touch with him sooner.
But I reached the hotel desk only to be told that Ned McBride had checked out earlier. And no, he said, Mr. McBride had left no word as to where he might be reached.
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I thought I would drop off to sleep the minute my head hit the pillow. Wrong! I listened to every breath my daughter took, then heard Uncle Ernest drive up, come through the back way and go quietly to his room, wondering the whole time why Ned had left the seminar in California before it was due to be over. Had they rescheduled his speech? And wasn’t he supposed to have been on some sort of panel, as well, I thought. If my husband had heard about Josie’s being lost, he would certainly have telephoned somebody at Bramblewood, but no one here had heard from him. So where was he?
I was turning over my pillow for the third time when I caught a whiff of a most delightful aroma coming from the kitchen and knew Augusta must be there.
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“Tea or coffee?” she asked, lifting dark, moist brownies onto a leaf-patterned plate. “I thought we might take these out on the porch. It’s cooler there now and everyone else seems to have gone to bed.”
Penelope, in a daisy-sprigged shift of simple design with eyelet trim at the neck, pinched off the corner of a steaming cake and popped it into her mouth.
“Why, Penelope!” Augusta pretended to be shocked, but she smiled when she said it. We loaded a tray with the brownies, plus milk for Penelope, peppermint tea for me and dark, rich coffee for Augusta, and made our way to the porch, quietly skirting Amos sleeping by Josie’s cot.
“Thank you, Penelope, for looking after Josie last night,” I said as soon as we were settled. “I’m so glad you were with her. You probably saved her life.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, and I could see the young angel’s smile even in the dark.
The brownies were as good as they looked and smelled, and tasted of dark chocolate and strawberry jam. I ate two of them and licked my fingers after every bite. I waited until Penelope had fallen asleep on the settee before I spoke.
“Violet thinks she knows who’s behind all this,” I told Augusta. “I don’t know whether to take her seriously or not. She’s as flaky as a bowl of cereal, but I’m so confused, I’m ready to grasp at anything.”
Augusta sat in the rocking chair next to mine slowly sipping her coffee. “What does she say?”
“Only that she’s worried about us and has an idea who might be responsible.”
I let peppermint steam waft into my face. “Augusta, you know I even suspected Grady, and I’m still not sure he’s not mixed up in what happened to Beverly. He was there, you know. He as good as admitted it.”
“He was there when she died?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, but he’s been there. He told me about her apartment, and earlier Grady said he hadn’t seen Beverly in years.” I sipped my tea and felt its warmth relax me. “Do you think there might be a connection between Beverly’s death and Ella’s?”
Augusta swung one gold-sandaled foot and trailed amethyst and sapphire stones through her long fingers. “I think it might have begun with the young couple who came through here on a raft,” she said. “Back when Ella first arrived. There has to be a connection somehow.”
“You mean because of the anklet we found in the attic? Valerie was one of the names that girl used.”
She nodded. “Possibly. That’s one reason, but not enough.” Augusta sighed. “I’m afraid your cousin Violet is right. We do need to get to the bottom of this before someone else gets hurt.”
“Grady admitted to accidently killing his father, and he may or may not have had anything to do with the way Beverly died—although I don’t even want to think about that—but he wasn’t even born when those two came through here on the raft,” I said. “And that skeleton they dug up in Remeth churchyard is older than he is.”
“But not older than your uncle Ernest,” Augusta said.
“You don’t think Uncle Ernest had anything to do with it, do you?”
The steam from Augusta’s coffee curled around her face. “I think he might have an idea who did.” She looked at me over her cup. “I’m afraid your uncle’s life might be in danger, Kate.”
“I still can’t see how Beverly’s death could have anything to do with something that happened almost forty years ago,” I said.
“If we only knew what your uncle was digging for in that rose garden.” Augusta stopped rocking for a minute and held out her arms as Ella’s cat Dagwood jumped into her lap. “Ah, there you are, my sweet! Poor kitty’s probably wondering what happened to Ella.”
“I’m afraid we’ve ignored him with all that’s been going on,” I said, reaching over to scratch between Dagwood’s ears.
Augusta laughed as she snuggled the cat under her chin. “Cats don’t mind being ignored,” she said. “They’ll let us know when they want attention—and right now, Dagwood wants attention.”
“Augusta, you don’t suppose Ella and Valerie are the same?”
“Somehow I thought Ella was here first . . . your grandmother would know.”
“I know it was a long time ago, but I just can’t see Ella ever being a wild hippie child.” I smiled, picturing the dour elderly woman in headband and love beads.
Augusta spoke over the cat’s loud purring. “If I remember right, it didn’t seem as if your uncle actually found anything in that rose garden the other night.”
“The storm came up and drove us all inside. If he found something, he didn’t have a chance to hide it—unless it’s in the toolshed. Of course, he could’ve put it somewhere else since.”
I took the last sip of my tea and felt myself sliding lower in my chair. I hoped I could stay awake long enough to make it to the sofa, but I must have drifted off because I felt Augusta’s hand on my arm and heard her gently calling my name.
“Tomorrow I want you to find out what seemed to startle Josie when she wandered into the woods,” she said. “Then take her to your cousin Marge’s where she’ll be safe.”
Not wanting to let my daughter out of my sight until she was at least thirty-five, I started to protest, but Augusta held up a slender hand.
“Don’t worry, Kathryn, she’ll be fine. Now, I’m afraid we’re going to have to take Violet up on her offer. It’s all we have right now, and the fact that everyone thinks she’s . . . well . . . a little odd should be a definite advantage. Meanwhile, I’ll look in that toolshed tonight to see if your uncle hid something there, but frankly, I don’t expect to find it.” She moved behind my rocking chair and gave it a little tip so that I had to grab the arms to keep from falling out. “Now, go on inside and get some sleep. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”
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Josie woke with a suspicious rash and a tremendous appetite. The rash looked like poison ivy and her appetite was for French toast with sourwood honey. I doctored the former with calamine lotion and served up the latter with bacon and a big glass of orange juice. The swelling on her ankle seemed to have gone down some but it was still sore, she said.
“Josie,” I began as she finished her second piece of French toast, “do you remember what made you go so far into the woods when you ran away the other day? Did something frighten you?”
Josie put down her fork. “I was mad. Mad at that hateful Cynthia! Every time I think about her it makes me even madder. Wish I’d slapped her twice!”
“I had an idea you might’ve been a tiny bit upset,” I said, meaning to get back to that matter later. “But did you really mean to run so far?”
“I heard somebody.”
“In the woods, you mean?”
Josie nodded. “There’s a trail over there—way on the other side of that field where Uncle Ernest used to plant corn. There was somebody in there.”
“Are you sure it was a person? It might have been a deer or a squirrel or something.”
“No, I heard them talking. Sounded like there were two of them,” she said.
“Could you hear what they said? Was it men or women speaking?”
Josie shrugged. “They were too far away. Just sounded like mumbling. I thought it might be those mean boys down the road and I didn’t want them to see me.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I just wish you’d run the other way.”
Uncle Lum followed his nose into the kitchen. “I don’t think there’s anything that smells any better than bacon cooking. You wouldn’t have a few extra pieces of that lying about, would you?”
“Sure do, and I can fry up more. How about some French toast to go with it?”
“Oh, yes, please! But could you make it fast before Leona gets up?” My uncle helped himself to a mug of coffee and set himself a place at the table.
While bacon sizzled in the pan, I settled my daughter on the living room sofa with a Nancy Drew book that had probably belonged to my mother and left her happily turning pages.
“Uncle Lum,” I said, setting French toast, golden brown and crusty, in front of him. “Do you remember when Ella first came?”
I had to repeat my question because my uncle was too happy to reply for a minute or two. I waited until he had washed down his first piece of toast with coffee and asked him again.
“Been close to forty years,” he said. “Poor Ella, she hasn’t had much of a life, I’m afraid. Didn’t seem to bother her, though.”
“Do you remember if it was before or after that hippie couple disappeared on the river?”
He stopped eating long enough to look up at me. “Now, why would you want to know that?”
I smiled. “Just curious.”
Uncle Lum reared back in his chair and laughed. “I get it! You’re thinking Ella might be that missing hippie girl who was wanted by the law. Well, you can forget it. Ella was already here when that happened. Uncle Ernest had fixed up that little guesthouse for her—the one Casey’s in now.” He frowned. “Don’t reckon we’ll ever find out what happened to those two.”
“Do you remember anybody around here named Valerie?” I asked, sliding two more pieces of bacon onto his plate.
They didn’t last long. “Can’t say that I do. Doesn’t ring a bell.” My uncle finished his breakfast and rinsed away the evidence in the sink, smiling all the while.
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Uncle Ernest declined my offer of a more robust breakfast in favor of his usual soft-boiled egg. Somber and silent, he seemed to want to be alone, so I left him while I folded away Josie’s cot and took our pillows and blankets upstairs. I was just getting ready to come down when Violet stuck her head out of my bedroom where she’d spent the night. “Has Ernest left yet?” she wanted to know.
I looked over the railing to see my uncle leaving by the front door and knew he was going to take care of Ella’s funeral plans. “He has now,” I said.
“Good,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”
I allowed my cousin to pull me into the room and close the door behind us, while all the time she spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones. I could tell she was enjoying it. “Now, this has to be between just the two of us,” she said, sitting me firmly on the side of the bed. “I think I know who’s behind all this, but I can’t be sure—not yet, anyway. I do know one thing, though: We have to get your uncle Ernest out of this house or his life won’t be worth a plugged nickel.”
I frowned. Augusta had said almost the same thing. “How do we do that?” I asked.
“I’m working on that,” Violet said, and told me her plan.
“Who do you think it is?” It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she suspected the ghost of the long-dead Yankee soldier or the spirit of that skeleton they dug up in Remeth cemetery, but my cousin wasn’t ready to reveal the identity of who she thought the murderer might be.
I sat there for a few minutes thinking about what Violet had said. Her plan to reveal the guilty party scared me half to death, but it frightened me even more that most of it made sense.