Part 11 (1/2)

”I didn't know where you were,” I said, my relief in seeing her obvious in my voice. ”The bread smells great. Is that for supper?”

Her hair had come loose as she danced, and now Augusta caught the coppery ma.s.s in one fleeting motion and fastened it behind her head. ”It's for Pluma's niece. You said you were going to see her.”

It had been a tiring day. ”Tomorrow,” I said. ”It'll keep until tomorrow.”

Augusta paused at the foot of the steps and looked up at me. She didn't answer. She didn't have to.

”Are you telling me to hurry?” I said.

Augusta nodded. ”Time and Mrs. Hopkins wait for no one.”

”Huh?”

The angel smiled. ”Mrs. Hopkins was a cow. So called because the family who owned her said she reminded them of a neighbor by that name. Mrs. Hopkins woke them, bellowing to be milked at five every morning, and that was an expression they used.” Augusta moved past me into the house, and a crisp, earthy scent trailed after her. It smelled of apples and pumpkins and sun-dried gra.s.s. ”That was in another time, of course. I wasn't with them long.”

I followed her inside. ”Don't leave me yet, Augusta. Please. I can't do this without you,” I said.

”Don't worry,” she said. ”It's not time yet. I'll let you know when it is.”

”Augusta, do you know what's happened to Mildred? Because if you do, I wish you'd tell me. Vesta's really worried, and so am I.”

She shook her head. ”I think Mildred's searching as we are. I can only hope, as you do, that no harm comes to her.”

”But you think she's still alive?”

”Arminda, I don't know. We'll have to wait and see.” My guardian angel opened the refrigerator and quickly closed it. ”I'm afraid I didn't prepare anything for supper. Why don't we order pizza?”

Now, on the way to see Martha Kate Hawkins, pepperoni sat heavily in my stomach and Pluma Griffin's message to my great-grandmother weighed on my mind: I won't forget! I won't forget!

Augusta claimed never to have met her, but said the name sounded vaguely familiar. I guess if I'd been responsible for as many people as Augusta over the centuries, I'd forget a few names, too.

October House, the a.s.sisted living center where Martha Kate lived, was festive with pumpkins and fall foliage. A foursome quarreled at cards by the gas fire in the parlor, and somebody was playing ”I Could Have Danced All Night” on the piano at the far end of the room. I had called ahead, so Mrs. Hawkins was waiting for us, and even managed a gracious thank you when we saddled her with Lucy's copy of The Heart Sings a Blessing The Heart Sings a Blessing.

”Well, my goodness,” she said. ”This does go back a long way, doesn't it?” She stuck it under her arm. ”Do you think people really read stuff like this?”

I knew then if Pluma Griffin's kin knew anything to help us, she would give it to us straight.

She led us to a small sitting area where comfortable chairs were arranged around a marble-topped coffee table. ”It's still not too late to get coffee-but not the real thing, I'm afraid. Would you like some?” Pluma Griffin's niece hesitated before joining us in the flame-st.i.tched coral chairs. She wasn't very tall-probably not much over five two-but she was trim and straight. I remembered her as being pleasant but efficient when I visited Dr. Hank's office during my growing up years.

I thanked her but declined-and got straight to the point. ”We've become intrigued by a group of women our great-grandmother used to belong to,” I began, ignoring the eye-rolling from Gatlin at my use of the p.r.o.noun we we. ”From what we've learned, there were six of them, and after finding this book, Vesta thinks your aunt Pluma may have been one of them.”

Martha Kate Griffin took time to remove a dead leaf from the African violet on the table in front of us before she answered. ”Why, yes, that would be the Mystic Six,” she said, leaning back in her chair. ”Did you know they pa.s.sed a quilt among them? I always thought it had some kind of story behind it, but Aunt Pluma never said. She willed her pretty little pin to me. Look, I had it made into a ring.” And our hostess held out a fragile finger bearing the encircled flower and star.

Chapter Fourteen.

Do you know what happened to the quilt?” Gatlin asked after admiring the woman's ring. ”I remember seeing it once or twice when I was little, but I've forgotten what it looked like. Vesta said it had something to do with the academy.”

”That seemed to be the theme of it, yes.” Martha Kate Griffin turned the dainty ring on her finger. ”It fascinated me when I was a girl because it incorporated a burning building. Aunt Pluma said it represented the old cla.s.sroom wing that was destroyed in a fire. Professor Holley died in it, they say.”

”Seems a strange reason to make a quilt,” I said, thinking Lucy and her friends must have been a morbid lot.

”People sometimes make quilts that tell a story,” our hostess reminded us. ”And in those days Minerva Academy was the focal point of just about everything that went on in Angel Heights. And not only did the fire deprive them of their center of culture, it also killed the very person who provided it.” She paused to smile and flutter her fingers at two women walking past. ”Fitzhugh Holley was sort of a celebrity in his own right, as well, from what I've heard. Wrote a little animal series for children. Something about a cat, I think. They were published, I believe, after he died.”

”Callie Cat and Doggie Dan,” Gatlin said. ”I've seen copies at Holley Hall-under gla.s.s, of course.” Gatlin said. ”I've seen copies at Holley Hall-under gla.s.s, of course.”

Martha Kate nodded. ”I believe they were on the quilt, too, and several figures-female figures, naturally, since the school was only for young women.”

”Your aunt-did she have the quilt when she died?” I asked. ”I'd really like to see it.”

”I didn't find it among her things. It's a shame really, as it should be on display at the academy. In fact, I asked Gertrude Whitmire about it once, thinking perhaps the quilt had been donated to the museum there, but she didn't seem to be aware it existed.”

I must have groaned, because Martha Kate turned to me in concern. ”Is anything wrong, Arminda?”

”It's just that we were hoping you might be the one who had it. I'm afraid we've come to the end of the trail, and no one seems to know where the quilt ended up,” I told her.

”Oh, I do hope it hasn't been destroyed! Young people now don't seem to value the old family heirlooms as they should....” Martha Kate smiled at Gatlin and me. ”Present company excepted, of course.

”Aunt Pluma must have been number six on your list-or were you unable to find descendants of the others?”

”We've tracked down all but one,” I said and then noticed Gatlin's grin. ”Sorry, didn't mean to make them sound like criminals or something, but it's taken a lot of detective work to get this far.”

Pluma's niece leaned forward as if she meant to share a secret. ”So, who have you spoken with so far?”

I counted on my fingers beginning with Lucy's daughter- my grandmother, Vesta. ”And Irene Bradshaw-her mother was Pauline Watts, and then Flora Dennis's granddaughter, Peggy O'Connor. We-I-drove all the way to Cornelia, Georgia, to find her. Your aunt Pluma would make number four. My great-grandmother's sister, Annie Rose, belonged, too, but she drowned in the Saluda when she was only sixteen.”

”There was something on the quilt about that, too, I believe.” Martha Kate frowned. ”A little strip of blue fabric representing a river, and a rose embroidered beside it. I remember Aunt Pluma telling me about your great-aunt. My goodness, she'd be your great-great-aunt, wouldn't she? Her death must have affected the others deeply.”

Now she turned to Gatlin, who seemed to be at least making an effort to keep up with the conversation. ”I'm sure you've asked your grandmother about all this?”

”Vesta couldn't tell us much,” Gatlin said. ”She said the women pa.s.sed the quilt among them, but she couldn't remember what happened to it.” My cousin looked at me and shrugged. ”And from what Minda tells me, the others weren't much help, either.”

”Then perhaps Mamie can tell you something,” the older woman said. ”The last I heard, her mind was sharper than my own.”

”Mamie? Was she a friend of your aunt's?” Gatlin s.h.i.+fted her coat from one arm to the other and tried to cover a yawn. It had been a long day, and my cousin was ready to leave. So was I. Almost.

”Mamie Estes was the one you missed. She's number six.” Martha Kate looked at both of us and smiled.

”Do you know if she left any descendants we might ask?” I said.

”Unless something's happened in the last couple of months, you can ask Mamie herself,” Martha Kate said. ”She lives in Charlotte with a daughter-in-law, and the last I heard was still reading a couple of books a week.”

”But she has to be at least a hundred and ten!” Gatlin said, letting her wrap slip to the floor.

Martha Kate laughed. ”She's no spring chicken, but at last count Mamie must've been about a hundred and two.”

”And she was a member of the Mystic Six?” I had started to get up, but sat again. ”But that was back in 1916 or '17. How could-?”