Free Hark! The Herald Angel Screamed: An Augusta Goodnight Mystery (with Heavenly Recipes) by Mignon F. Ballard

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