Hark! The Herald Angel Screamed: An Augusta Goodnight Mystery (with Heavenly Recipes) (2 page)

Too late I glanced at the words on the hymnal in the rack in front of me:
Presbyterian Hymns
. We were in the wrong church!

Beside me Jo Nell leaned forward in the pew as if she couldn’t believe her ears while the minister extolled the many virtues of the late Lizzie Frye. A faithful wife, loving mother, and dedicated church worker, she was especially noted for her generosity with homemade pepper jelly and watermelon rind pickles.

“We’ve gotta get out of here!” Jo Nell whispered to me from behind her program.

I made a face and shook my head. It was too late now. We couldn’t just get up and walk out in the middle of a funeral service. Besides, someone else was stepping up to the pulpit to eulogize the departed. It turned out to be her daughter who was followed by another. Fortunately she had only two. Lizzie seemed like such a likable, down-to-earth sort of person, I was sorry I hadn’t known her. Apparently so was Jo Nell as she sniffed a couple of times during the recessional hymn and blotted her eyes with a lace-trimmed hankie.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to the family gathered outside as we filed from the church. And I
was
sorry, but I was also in a hurry. If we could just get away in time maybe Jo Nell and I could still get to poor Cousin Mercer’s funeral before they put him in the ground.

Jo Nell, however, felt it her duty to extend her sympathy to each and every one, and when one of the family members responded with a hug, my cousin broke into tears. “Gone but not forgotten,” she sobbed as I led her away. “She’s going to be missed.”

“And so are we if we don’t make it to the right funeral,” I told her. “Save some of those tears for Mercer, will you?”

As it turned out, we
were
on the right road but had been going in the wrong direction—which was entirely my cousin’s fault, but I wasn’t going there.

Capers Chapel, we were told, was about five miles down the road in the direction we had come and we got there just as the mourners lined up to follow the hearse to the cemetery. Jo Nell and I fell in behind them.

“No need to say anything about the extra memorial rites,” I said later as we gathered around the grave site. “Maybe they’ll think we’ve been here all along.”

Nodding, Jo Nell agreed. “I guess what they don’t know won’t hurt them,” she said. “I just hope we can get home before dark. I don’t want to get lost out here again.”

Of course Cousin Grayson and his wife Angela insisted that we come to the house after the service and I was glad for a chance to visit with my relatives inside where it was warm. It was the last week in November and sunlight was fading fast as we walked back to our cars from the cemetery. I hadn’t seen Grayson and Angela (“my sweet angel,” he calls her) since they were in Stone’s Throw for my husband’s funeral over four years earlier, but I was in such a zombie state at the time I barely remember their being there. Charlie was killed in a traffic accident while on a business trip and the shock of it turned my heart and my life inside out and upside down for a long time after that.

Augusta has helped me come to terms with losing Charlie as well as with several other of life’s major bumps—such as murder—in what was once our peaceful little town. I must admit I had my doubts when she first showed up on my doorstep in her voluminous emerald cape, but there was something so right about her, something so good, I soon invited her into my life. I haven’t regretted it. Augusta Goodnight is a guardian angel—
my
guardian angel she tells me, but sometimes she seems to end up watching out for most of my friends as well. It was a
pity she wasn’t around that day, I thought, to steer us to the right funeral.

“Come and sit with me and tell me all about that grandson of yours. How old is he now?” Grayson’s daughter, Nellie Virginia, said as we helped ourselves to the buffet on the dining room table. It seemed as if their friends and neighbors had brought enough food for the whole town and I was having trouble deciding between baked ham and fried chicken. I took some of both. Jo Nell’s “Joyed-It” cake, I noticed, was going fast.

Nellie Virginia will be forty-seven in March—ten years younger than I am, and I always thought of her as a little sister following me like a shadow at family reunions. With little encouragement it didn’t take me long to light into my favorite subject, my six-year-old grandson, Teddy. But when Nellie Virginia’s eyes began to glaze over, I knew it was time to change the subject or shut up.

“Sorry,” I said. “I should give people a buzzer or something so they can let me know my time’s up.”

My cousin laughed. “One of these days I’ll probably be the same.” She glanced at her young son Vance Tate, who was in deep conversation with Grayson, his grandfather, at the far end of the room. “And from the way things look, I might not have too long to wait.”

I had been introduced earlier to Vance’s girlfriend, Jamie, a willowy blonde, who now stood sipping wine with Angela and several of her friends in the living room.

“Oh? Is a wedding imminent? Vance was hardly more than a child when he came with you to Roger’s wedding. Has it really been that long?” It was hard to believe our son and his wife Jessica would soon be celebrating their tenth anniversary.

“Believe it or not he’ll be graduating from law school in June.” She glanced at her son with a secret smile. “And it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he gave Jamie a ring for Christmas.”

Jo Nell joined us with her plate piled high and began buttering a couple of what had to be homemade yeast rolls. “I know I shouldn’t have rice casserole and candied sweet potatoes, too, but I just couldn’t resist,” she said, digging into the latter.

“I hate you, Jo Nell,” I mumbled under my breath.

“That was such a lovely service,” Nellie Virginia said later over dessert. “I think Uncle Mercer would have approved, don’t you?”

Jo Nell, who had just taken a bite of pecan pie, suddenly went into a coughing fit and had to leave the table.

Nellie Virginia rose to follow her. “Is she all right?”

“I think she’ll be fine,” I assured her. “Emotional, you know.” Thank goodness she didn’t bring up the subject of Cousin Mercer’s service again.

After about an hour Jo Nell began looking at her watch every few minutes so I knew it was time to go. My cousin hates to be on the road long after dark.

“I suppose things are all right out at Willowbrook,” Grayson said as we prepared to leave. “I know I should get out there more than I do, but Preacher Dave does a pretty good job looking after things.”

My great-grandfather left Willowbrook to Mimmer’s brother Sonny, who didn’t want to live there and was glad to have her stay and look after the place. My mother and Jo Nell’s were both born there. When Sonny died a few years after Mimmer, Willowbrook went to his sons, Mercer and Grayson. Mercer never seemed interested in the property, but a couple of years ago our cousin Grayson decided he’d try his hand at long-distance farming. He bought a small herd of Hereford cattle, had several acres planted in pines, and hired Dave Tansey, a jackleg preacher, to keep an eye on things.

Preacher Dave and his wife Louella live in a cottage on the place with their grown son, Jeremiah. I’d never met his wife and son, but Preacher Dave had recently taken a job filling in for the
sexton at our church, Stone’s Throw Presbyterian, after Luther, our longtime maintenance man, fell and broke his hip replacing a lightbulb. He seems to be doing a pretty good job because Pete Whittaker, our minister, says Dave even polished the brass lamp in his study that Luther had ignored for years.

I was almost out the door before I remembered to ask about the tree. Our church has been cutting a large cedar tree from Willowbrook for about as long as I can remember. It goes up in the fellowship hall the first week in December, and “angel” gifts for needy families are collected underneath the tree to be distributed in time for Christmas.

“Of course you can cut a tree! Cut as many as you like. You don’t have to ask me,” Cousin Grayson said. “I wish my sweet angel here would let us have one,” he whispered loud enough for his wife to hear. “Nothing smells like Christmas like a real live evergreen, but she insists on putting up that artificial thing she ordered from some catalog.”

“He’s not the one who has to sweep up after it,” Angela said, giving her husband her long-suffering look. “But you know you’re always welcome to cut what you want.”

“Want to drive out to Willowbrook with me to pick one out next week?” I asked Jo Nell as we started home. “Preacher Dave said he’d cut it down and take it to the church if we’ll show him what we want. And we can get some greenery for the Advent wreath while we’re there so Opal won’t have an excuse to use that tacky plastic thing.”

Opal Henshaw has taken it upon herself to be the unofficial chairperson of the decorating committee at Stone’s Throw Presbyterian and everybody, including me, is too chicken to suggest somebody else.

“I don’t like going out to Willowbrook,” Jo Nell said, holding her hands to the heater. “Why not?”

“Makes me sad to see it empty and neglected like that. Mimmer loved that place so. I’m glad she can’t see it now. Besides, you know it’s haunted.”

“We’re just going to pick out a tree,” I reminded her. “We won’t be going inside. And you know very well all that talk about poor Celia is a lot of hooey.”

Almost 150 years ago young Celia Vance was supposed to have thrown herself from the balcony at Willowbrook after her fiancé was killed in the battle at Manassas Gap. Mimmer claimed you always knew when Celia was around because you began to hear music and smell gardenias. They were Celia’s favorite flowers, and according to our grandmother she was said to have been an accomplished violinist. Mimmer liked a good story.

“Hooey or not, you won’t catch me out there,” Jo Nell said. “Now, for heaven’s sake, Lucy Nan, don’t miss the turn up there and get us lost like you did coming over here.”

hat tree over there looks nice,” Augusta said.

“Too skinny.” Ellis Saxon frowned and shook her head. “You can see right through it.”

I stopped to untangle my sleeve from a blackberry briar. “Here’s a nice fat one—smells good, too.”

Ellis inspected it closely. “No way. Double trunk. Keep looking.”

The three of us were on a mission at Willowbrook to find the perfect Christmas tree for our church fellowship hall and so far nothing had met with Ellis’s approval.

With a few exceptions, my friend Ellis is the only person besides me who can see and speak with Augusta. As the angel explained when she first appeared at my front door at 101 Heritage Avenue, Ellis could use a little looking after as well. And didn’t
that
turn out to be true!

Augusta wrapped her voluminous green cape about her and shivered. She has never gotten over that treacherous winter with General Washington at Valley Forge. A host of heavenly help was on hand during those times, she tells me, but she has suffered from the cold ever since.

“Why don’t you wait for us in the car?” I suggested. “We shouldn’t be much longer.” But Augusta had already disappeared behind a clump of cedars until all I could see was the gleam of her candle-bright hair as she moved among the branches.