Seems like it was on a quilt or something. Vesta would know. Or Mildred."
But Mildred would have to wait. As soon as my cousin left that afternoon, I scrambled through the soiled clothing I'd brought back from Gatlin's, and there it was in the pocket of my jeans—smaller than a dime and as dainty as the ladies in the Mystic Six had surely been.
How could a long-ago society of young women be related to my cousin's recent murder?
I tucked the trinket away and decided to keep it a secret for now. If Otto had been killed for that pin, I didn't want to be next.
Mildred didn't seem to understand what I was talking about when I phoned that afternoon. "What kind of flower?" she wanted to know. "And you say it had a star in it?"
"Gatlin thinks she's seen a quilt with that pattern, and I thought you might remember it," I said. After all, she was the person who had cleaned all the nooks and crannies at the Nut House for the last thirty years or so. If anyone would know where something was, Mildred would.
"I'm sorry, Minda, but I don't remember seeing anything like that," she said. And maybe it was because of all that had happened in the last few days, but I had a feeling she wasn't telling the truth.
I found my grandmother in an agitated state when I dropped by her place later for supper. "I'll never eat all this funeral food," she'd said when she invited me. Not an appetizing thought, but I went anyway.
"What's wrong?" I said when I saw her setting the table for four. I knew only two of us would be eating.
"I believe they're going to have to change the name of this town to Devil Heights," Vesta said. "Gatlin called a few minutes ago to tell me somebody tried to run down Gertrude Whitmire while she was out walking this morning."
"Is Mrs. Whitmire all right?"
"I think so. I phoned to see how she was, and she said she was pretty well scratched up—scraped her knees and got a few bruises when she tried to jump out of the way. I'm afraid it messed up her ankle, too. Had an ice pack on it when I called."
"Where did it happen?" I asked.
"You know where she lives, way out in the middle of nowhere, and the house sits back from the road. I've been telling Gertrude she needs to move closer to town.
"Anyway, she'd started on her daily walk—does three or four miles every morning—and just as she came out of her driveway, she says a car careened around that curve there and headed straight for her!"
"She must've been terrified! How did she get out of the way?"
"Gertrude said she thought the idiot would see her and swerve, and when she finally realized it wasn't going to, she sort of rolled backwards into the ditch."
I tried not to think of that.
"And listen to this, Arminda," my grandmother added. "While Gertrude was climbing out of the ditch, she saw the same car turning around to make another pass! "
"I'd probably drop dead from fright," I said.
Vesta put the extra place settings away. "No, you wouldn't, and neither did Gert. She knew if she tried to escape down the driveway, the car would follow and run her down, so she cut across the woods to a neighbor's. Only trouble is, the closest neighbor lives about a half mile away and is deaf as a post." Vesta shook her head. "Ben Thrasher. His daughter's been trying to get him to wear a hearing aid for years."
"Can she identify the car?" I said.
"Gertrude said it was sort of a tan color. Maybe a Toyota or a Honda—or it could've been a Saturn."
"That really narrows it down," I said.
There were times back in high school when I wished Gert would come down with acute laryngitis, but I never considered turning the poor woman into road kill. "Why would anybody want to do that?" I said. "…Unless they think she knows something about Otto's murder?"
"Don't see how she could," my grandmother said, "but it's another reason for Gertrude to move closer to town."
"Isn't there a Mr. Whitmire?"
"Oh, Arminda, he's been gone for years."
"Oh," I said. "I didn't know." Gertrude Whitmire
But Mildred would have to wait. As soon as my cousin left that afternoon, I scrambled through the soiled clothing I'd brought back from Gatlin's, and there it was in the pocket of my jeans—smaller than a dime and as dainty as the ladies in the Mystic Six had surely been.
How could a long-ago society of young women be related to my cousin's recent murder?
I tucked the trinket away and decided to keep it a secret for now. If Otto had been killed for that pin, I didn't want to be next.
Mildred didn't seem to understand what I was talking about when I phoned that afternoon. "What kind of flower?" she wanted to know. "And you say it had a star in it?"
"Gatlin thinks she's seen a quilt with that pattern, and I thought you might remember it," I said. After all, she was the person who had cleaned all the nooks and crannies at the Nut House for the last thirty years or so. If anyone would know where something was, Mildred would.
"I'm sorry, Minda, but I don't remember seeing anything like that," she said. And maybe it was because of all that had happened in the last few days, but I had a feeling she wasn't telling the truth.
I found my grandmother in an agitated state when I dropped by her place later for supper. "I'll never eat all this funeral food," she'd said when she invited me. Not an appetizing thought, but I went anyway.
"What's wrong?" I said when I saw her setting the table for four. I knew only two of us would be eating.
"I believe they're going to have to change the name of this town to Devil Heights," Vesta said. "Gatlin called a few minutes ago to tell me somebody tried to run down Gertrude Whitmire while she was out walking this morning."
"Is Mrs. Whitmire all right?"
"I think so. I phoned to see how she was, and she said she was pretty well scratched up—scraped her knees and got a few bruises when she tried to jump out of the way. I'm afraid it messed up her ankle, too. Had an ice pack on it when I called."
"Where did it happen?" I asked.
"You know where she lives, way out in the middle of nowhere, and the house sits back from the road. I've been telling Gertrude she needs to move closer to town.
"Anyway, she'd started on her daily walk—does three or four miles every morning—and just as she came out of her driveway, she says a car careened around that curve there and headed straight for her!"
"She must've been terrified! How did she get out of the way?"
"Gertrude said she thought the idiot would see her and swerve, and when she finally realized it wasn't going to, she sort of rolled backwards into the ditch."
I tried not to think of that.
"And listen to this, Arminda," my grandmother added. "While Gertrude was climbing out of the ditch, she saw the same car turning around to make another pass! "
"I'd probably drop dead from fright," I said.
Vesta put the extra place settings away. "No, you wouldn't, and neither did Gert. She knew if she tried to escape down the driveway, the car would follow and run her down, so she cut across the woods to a neighbor's. Only trouble is, the closest neighbor lives about a half mile away and is deaf as a post." Vesta shook her head. "Ben Thrasher. His daughter's been trying to get him to wear a hearing aid for years."
"Can she identify the car?" I said.
"Gertrude said it was sort of a tan color. Maybe a Toyota or a Honda—or it could've been a Saturn."
"That really narrows it down," I said.
There were times back in high school when I wished Gert would come down with acute laryngitis, but I never considered turning the poor woman into road kill. "Why would anybody want to do that?" I said. "…Unless they think she knows something about Otto's murder?"
"Don't see how she could," my grandmother said, "but it's another reason for Gertrude to move closer to town."
"Isn't there a Mr. Whitmire?"
"Oh, Arminda, he's been gone for years."
"Oh," I said. "I didn't know." Gertrude Whitmire
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