Read Online Hark! The Herald Angel Screamed: An Augusta Goodnight Mystery (with Heavenly Recipes) by Mignon F. Ballard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mignon F. Ballard
Ads: Link
hallelujah. Instead, I put on a huge pot of coffee. Weigelia loves it almost as much as Augusta, only she fills her cup about halfway with cream.
I was hurrying through my breakfast of cereal and orange juice that morning when it occurred to me that Augusta was trying to get my attention. “Did you say something?” I asked, rinsing my bowl at the sink. I didn’t want to be in Weigelia’s way when she started working her miracles on my kitchen floor.
“Only two or three times,” Augusta said. “You must have been a million miles away. Is something on your mind?”
“It’s that blasted song!” I admitted. “That little snatch of melody we heard at Willowbrook yesterday. I can’t get it out of my head and it’s about to drive me crazy.”
“The violin music?” Augusta tapped her slender fingers on the table. “Why don’t you ask someone who might be familiar with the piece—perhaps someone at the college. Didn’t you tell me there was a group who played—”
“The Fiddlesticks! Of course! Our postmaster, Albert Grady, plays the violin and so does his wife, Miranda. I have to buy Christmas stamps anyway, and today would be as good a time as any.” And I bent to kiss her angelic cheek. “Augusta, you’re a genius! Now, what was it you wanted to say?”
Augusta flushed, which meant she was pleased. Although she tells me vanity is folly, I’ve seen her admire her own reflection too many times to take her seriously. “I asked what you had in mind to serve for your caroling party tomorrow,” she said. “I saw a recipe for individual meat pies in the newspaper the other day, and—”
“Perfect!” I said. “We’ll probably be chilled when we return so I thought I’d have some kind of hot soup … “
“Hmm … that butternut squash soup would be good … with a bit of ginger and nutmeg and a dash of sherry, of course. We had it last Christmas, remember?”
“Good but troublesome. Too much stewing and brewing!” I told her.
“I don’t mind stewing and brewing,” she said in what I thought was just a hint of self-righteousness. (I didn’t say so, of course.)
And so we decided on the menu—or Augusta decided on it. Not that I minded one bit. “Naturally, The Thursdays will bring finger foods,” I said. And I could guess what most of them would be. Ellis would bring a chafing dish with her famous hot clam dip; Jo Nell, sweet-and-sour meatballs; Zee, chicken salad puffs; Claudia usually brought marinated mushrooms; Nettie made a wonderful cheese ball; and I could count on Idonia to furnish fresh fruit.
“Of course, we’ll have sweets coming out of our ears,” I said, thinking of all the Christmas cakes and cookies everyone would bring.
Augusta’s eyes grew wide. “Out of your ears?” she gasped, and I laughed so, I hardly had breath to explain that it was merely an expression.
I was still laughing when I heard Weigelia’s car pull up behind the house. Besides going to the post office, I had several other errands to run and I asked Augusta if she’d like to go with me as she usually preferred to be out of the house while Weigelia cleaned. “Sometimes I have a feeling she suspects I’m here,” she once told me, “and I don’t like to take any chances.”
But this time she had other plans. “Ellis has decided she wants plum pudding for Christmas dinner,” she explained, “and I promised to help her make it. If you’re going by the library, however, I’m almost out of something to read.” Augusta has been on a mystery kick for the past few months and has already worked her way to the M–P section in the Stone’s Throw Library. I promised to see what I could do.
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
I was hurrying through my breakfast of cereal and orange juice that morning when it occurred to me that Augusta was trying to get my attention. “Did you say something?” I asked, rinsing my bowl at the sink. I didn’t want to be in Weigelia’s way when she started working her miracles on my kitchen floor.
“Only two or three times,” Augusta said. “You must have been a million miles away. Is something on your mind?”
“It’s that blasted song!” I admitted. “That little snatch of melody we heard at Willowbrook yesterday. I can’t get it out of my head and it’s about to drive me crazy.”
“The violin music?” Augusta tapped her slender fingers on the table. “Why don’t you ask someone who might be familiar with the piece—perhaps someone at the college. Didn’t you tell me there was a group who played—”
“The Fiddlesticks! Of course! Our postmaster, Albert Grady, plays the violin and so does his wife, Miranda. I have to buy Christmas stamps anyway, and today would be as good a time as any.” And I bent to kiss her angelic cheek. “Augusta, you’re a genius! Now, what was it you wanted to say?”
Augusta flushed, which meant she was pleased. Although she tells me vanity is folly, I’ve seen her admire her own reflection too many times to take her seriously. “I asked what you had in mind to serve for your caroling party tomorrow,” she said. “I saw a recipe for individual meat pies in the newspaper the other day, and—”
“Perfect!” I said. “We’ll probably be chilled when we return so I thought I’d have some kind of hot soup … “
“Hmm … that butternut squash soup would be good … with a bit of ginger and nutmeg and a dash of sherry, of course. We had it last Christmas, remember?”
“Good but troublesome. Too much stewing and brewing!” I told her.
“I don’t mind stewing and brewing,” she said in what I thought was just a hint of self-righteousness. (I didn’t say so, of course.)
And so we decided on the menu—or Augusta decided on it. Not that I minded one bit. “Naturally, The Thursdays will bring finger foods,” I said. And I could guess what most of them would be. Ellis would bring a chafing dish with her famous hot clam dip; Jo Nell, sweet-and-sour meatballs; Zee, chicken salad puffs; Claudia usually brought marinated mushrooms; Nettie made a wonderful cheese ball; and I could count on Idonia to furnish fresh fruit.
“Of course, we’ll have sweets coming out of our ears,” I said, thinking of all the Christmas cakes and cookies everyone would bring.
Augusta’s eyes grew wide. “Out of your ears?” she gasped, and I laughed so, I hardly had breath to explain that it was merely an expression.
I was still laughing when I heard Weigelia’s car pull up behind the house. Besides going to the post office, I had several other errands to run and I asked Augusta if she’d like to go with me as she usually preferred to be out of the house while Weigelia cleaned. “Sometimes I have a feeling she suspects I’m here,” she once told me, “and I don’t like to take any chances.”
But this time she had other plans. “Ellis has decided she wants plum pudding for Christmas dinner,” she explained, “and I promised to help her make it. If you’re going by the library, however, I’m almost out of something to read.” Augusta has been on a mystery kick for the past few months and has already worked her way to the M–P section in the Stone’s Throw Library. I promised to see what I could do.
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
Similar Books
