Flight of the Stone Angel by Carol O'Connell Page A

there was much going on between them. He smiled and inclined his head to acknowledge his admiration for her dark science of human behavior. She smiled back, approving his good sense in following her advice, however slow he might have been to catch on.
    By the time their meal was done and they were working on the second round of coffee, Charles’s mood had changed radically. The food had done wonders for his state of mind. In fact, he was feeling slightly euphoric.
    Augusta eyed him over the rim of her cup. Her expression could only be described as good-natured evil. “I bet you’re feeling better now.”
    “Miles better. Your cooking has worked a miracle.”
    She nodded. “That’s the Saint-John’s-wort talking.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Hypericum perforatum.” She pointed to one of the small herb gardens along the windowsills. “It’s that pretty little yellow flower. I gave it to my mother to treat her depression. ‘Course she died. But I seem to be having better luck with you.”
    “You drugged my food?”
    “Oh, not much. That silly looking grin on your face will wear off in a little while. Now that side effect comes from one of my hybrids.”
    “You drugged me?”
    “Time to call Henry,” she said, pushing her chair away from the table and politely ignoring the fact that he was repeating himself.
    Charles’s smile would not leave his face, but it had grown a bit tense as he followed her out of the kitchen and into another doorway off the hall.
    This larger room was a century removed from the modern kitchen. Diffused light softly illuminated hand-colored Audubon prints on every wall. On a round table with delicate wood inlays and intricately carved legs, her sketchbook lay open at the foot of a rare white owl. Around the room, a score of other birds fixed him with their bright eyes, their bodies frozen in that tense moment before the flight, or the attack. They were all artful compliments to the craftsmanship of Augusta’s taxidermist.
    So she had followed Audubon’s custom of using dead models for the drawings.
    The ceiling was low, creating the atmosphere of a cottage. The tables and odd pieces were a mix of periods and styles; all were in fabulous condition. It was a cluttered but comfortable room with a narrow bed built into the window alcove. Against one wall, an armoire was flanked by two French Régence bookcases, and volumes with ornithology titles were stacked on every surface. Apparently, this single room served as her living quarters. Why had she retired into this small portion of a mansion?
    He had no sooner sat down on the couch than the cat joined him on the brocade and forced him to move off the center cushion by advancing on him only an inch or two – with her lips curled back over a mouthful of pointed teeth. She arranged herself on the vacated cushion and continued to stare at him in silent contempt.
    Augusta was speaking into a telephone which he could date to the first decade of the century. “I counted twelve taps. Tap again if I got that right, Henry.” She turned to Charles. “Is twelve noon all right with you?”
    “Yes.” He was looking at a narrow staircase leading up to the main floor above them.
    “Well, fine. Thank you, Henry.” She set the antique phone receiver back on its cradle. “He’ll meet you at the house. Now the large key will unlock the front door, and the smaller one will let you into the attic where I stored Cass’s personal things.”
    Charles waved his hand to include the entire room. “This is an amazing collection of antiques. I love your house.”
    “But there’s forty-odd rooms you haven’t seen. Would you like a tour of the place?”
    “Oh, yes, please.”
    And now he noticed the neighboring cushion was cat-free. He turned to see the animal stealing up the staircase. Clever creature; she had anticipated them. She was waiting, purring, when they reached the top of the stairs. Augusta stood on the landing and hissed in the cat’s own language.