Hark! The Herald Angel Screamed: An Augusta Goodnight Mystery (with Heavenly Recipes) (10 page)

Weigelia hadn’t even finished her first cup of coffee before I realized she knew something I didn’t. She hadn’t had much to say when she came in lugging that big old bucket with all the brushes and soaps she likes to use. (She turns up her nose at mine.) Today she wore the new Reeboks her sister Celeste gave her for her birthday and a long purple skirt that touched the top of her rolled-down socks. The “ten-gallon” red plastic handbag she carries had been duly deposited behind the pantry door along with her faithful green plaid coat.

“Okay,” I said. “What is it?”

“I guess you want me to do Julie’s room since she be comin’ for Christmas,” she said, pouring a second cup to go with her muffin.

“You might run the sweeper in there and flip the dust around a little.” I sat across from her and stared until she had to look at me.
She hates it when I do that. “It’s something about that man who died out at Willowbrook, isn’t it? You’ve been talking to Kemper, haven’t you?”

Weigelia’s cousin Kemper Mungo is a sergeant with the Stone’s Throw police and if anybody could worm information from him, it would be Weigelia Jones. Now it was up to me to get her to turn loose and tell.

It wasn’t easy. “You know Kemper ain’t supposed to be talking to me ‘bout things like that—and he sure don’t want me spreadin’ it around,” she informed me.

“And
you
know I’ll find out eventually. Besides,
The Messenger
is going to get wind of it sooner or later.”
The Messenger
is Stone’s Throw’s weekly newspaper, and when its editor, Josie Kiker, gets the scent of a story, she’s like a hungry dog going after a bone. “After all,” I reminded her, “Ellis and I did find the body. That should entitle us to something.”

Weigelia finished her coffee, and in slow motion, rose, rinsed her cup, and put it in the dishwasher. “They found out that man’s name,” she said finally.

“The dead man? Who was he?”

She tied an apron around her middle and took her sweet time about doing it. “Last name Clark, I think … wait just a minute … I wrote it down.”

I waited while Weigelia reached into her vast bosom for a scrap of paper and handed it to me. And then she laughed.
She
knew that
I
knew she was eventually going to tell me. The name
Dexter Clark
was printed in block letters on what had been the flap of an envelope. “Who’s this Dexter Clark when he’s at home?” she said.

I shrugged. “Beats me.”

“Kemper say he got a record: breaking and entering, drunk and disorderly—you name it.” She shook her head. “Not a very nice man.”

“Not nice at all,” I said, “but that kind of explains what he was doing at Willowbrook.”

Weigelia grabbed her polish and dust rag and headed for the living room. “What you mean?” she asked, pausing in the doorway.

“Breaking and entering, and being drunk and disorderly,” I explained.

According to Weigelia, the dead man didn’t have a permanent address so nobody seemed to know where he came from or what he was doing here—other than taking shelter. And if my cousin Grayson didn’t do something about securing Willowbrook, I was afraid he wouldn’t be the last casualty there.

The lines in the post office reached to the door and I waved to Clarence Allen, one of the clerks, who waited patiently on a customer. He nodded in return, eyes glazed. It was mid-December and people were still mailing packages. The postmaster’s door was closed and I knocked softly and called out to Albert. The Gradys are members of our church and I’ve always found him to be pleasant and even-tempered. However, as I said, it
was
the middle of December.

He looked up from his computer, glasses halfway down his nose. “Lucy Nan! How can I help you?” I noticed he didn’t ask me to sit.

“I realize this is a bad time,” I began, “but this tune is driving me crazy and I thought you might recognize it.” I told him about the mysterious melody we’d heard at Willowbrook and even went so far as to hum a few bars.

His expression was blank. “Well, it does sound familiar, but I have no idea what it is. I hope you’ve told the police about this, Lucy Nan. It all sounds peculiar to me, especially after that fellow was found dead out there.”

“My cousin thinks it’s probably a prank, but I thought if I could just find out the name of the song it might have something to do with what’s going on out there,” I told him.

Albert pushed up his glasses and sighed. “If anybody might be able to tell you it would be Miranda. She has perfect pitch, you know—never forgets a melody—although to tell you the truth, I think you ought to leave it to the police.”

“She still teaching at the middle school?”

He glanced at the clock. “Yes, but she has a free period in about an hour. Why don’t you drop by and ask her? She’ll probably be glad of a break.”

I thanked him, stood in line for my stamps, and phoned the school to let Miranda know I was coming. By the time I collected Augusta’s books at the library, I had five minutes to get to there.

Miranda is choral director at the school and I found her in the music room surrounded by stacks and stacks of sheet music. “We’re as ready as we’re going to be for our holiday concert tomorrow night,” she said when I came in. “Now, I have to decide what we need to work on for the spring!”

“Albert said you never forget a song and might be able to identify something for me,” I said, explaining the reason for my visit.

“Why don’t you hum a few bars and we’ll give it a try,” she said, sitting at the piano.

When I finished, she repeated the notes on the piano, adding even more of the melody. “That’s it!” I said. “Please tell me you know what it is!”

Miranda laughed. “Of course. It’s Romanian Rhapsody no. 1 by George Enescu. I played it in a concert once when I was in college. Beautful piece.”

I nodded. “It has a haunting quality, don’t you think? Maybe that’s why whoever’s doing this chose that particular song.” I told her the story about the family ghost and how some have even claimed to see a figure in a period gown.

She frowned. “And this was supposed to have happened when?”

“Sometime during the War Between the States,” I said. “Probably around 1863.”

“Then they need to go back and do their homework,” Miranda said. “Enescu wasn’t born for more than a decade after that!

“I don’t want to scare you, Lucy Nan,” she added, “but it sounds as if somebody might be trying to frighten people away. They could easily use a CD or a tape of the music to give the ghostly effect—but why? What’s going on out there they don’t want anyone to know about?”

I had been thinking the same thing, and the more I thought about it, the madder I got. In fact, I was practically seething by the time I pulled up behind the Stone’s Throw Police Department. The grocery store could wait!

Weigelia’s cousin Kemper wasn’t in but I was lucky enough to catch Captain Alonzo Hardy in an idle moment, and by the time he saw me coming, it was too late to run and hide.

“I want to know what’s going on at Willowbrook,” I demanded, telling him of our experience the day before. “First, a man is killed out there, and now this! Are you sure you searched that place thoroughly? And just who was the man we found?” I didn’t want to get Kemper in trouble by admitting I already knew the dead man’s name.

He sighed and motioned for me to sit, then proceeded to tell me what I already knew. “I’ve spoken with Dave Tansey and he’s promised to board up the more accessible windows and do more to discourage vagrants out there. That old house is practically an open invitation to trespassers, I’m afraid. As far as we could tell, this man who was killed hadn’t been drinking—fellow by the name of Dexter Clark. Had a record, though—petty stuff mostly. Didn’t seem to have a permanent address.” The captain picked up a pencil and rolled it between his palms. “No tellin’ how long
he’d been camping there. Reckon he knew a good thing when he saw it, and others, no doubt, have followed suit.”

“But the music—”

“Shoot, everybody around here knows that crazy old ghost tale! Somebody rigged that up to scare people away.” He tossed the pencil aside. “I’m telling you, we looked over every inch of that place, checked very nook and cranny where they might hide something like that, and came up with zilch!”

I told him Ben and Vance hadn’t had any better luck.

“Well, we’ll try to give it another look-see. Maybe we can surprise them, find out what this is all about … could be just some kids with nothing better to do, but if you’ll take my advice, Ms. Pilgrim, you’ll stay away from there.”

I told Augusta about our conversation that night as I helped her make the small meat pies for the party. I browned the ground beef and combined it with onion, spices, and other ingredients while Augusta made the pastry and cut circles for the pies. She planned to make the soup the next morning, she said, and we had decided to serve hot spiced punch when everyone returned from caroling.

“You mentioned that Louella Tansey was at home when your cousin arrived yesterday,” she reminded me. “Do you think it might have been her?”

“I don’t see how she could have gotten to the house before Vance and Jamie. They hadn’t been there more than a minute or so before we heard the violin. Besides, I’m sure we would’ve seen her. And she said Jeremiah had already left for work.”

Augusta’s hands flew as she spooned filling onto circles of pastry, folded them over, and crimped the edges. In what seemed only seconds, neat rows of pies lined the baking sheets ready to pop into the oven. I watched in silent amazement as she whisked
an egg together with a spoonful of water for the glaze. “Once this party is behind us, perhaps I can do a bit of investigating on my own,” she said, sliding the pastries into the refrigerator to be baked at the last minute.

“We really won’t have that much to do tomorrow,” I said. As usual, Weigelia had left the house spotless.

“What carols do you plan to sing?” Augusta gave her Christmas apron a jaunty flip and hung it in the pantry. She had made one for both of us, and hers was a patchwork creation of stars and bells in silver, lavender, and blue, while mine featured a similar pattern in red, green, and gold.

It would have been hard not to notice the wistfulness in her voice. “Oh, the usual songs, I guess. Why don’t
you
come, Augusta?”

“Do you think I might?” I am not exaggerating when I say her smile was radiant. “I wouldn’t sing, of course.”

“Of course you might! It’ll be fun! Weigelia’s coming, too.” Weigelia had offered to help with refreshments the next night, but I persuaded her we’d much rather have her company and her voice. Weigelia has this deep, rich contralto that sounds like the soul of an angel is breaking free from somewhere deep inside her. I guess it’s kind of like Augusta should sound, if only she could.

re they here yet?” Ellis whispered, standing in the doorway.