Miss Julia Takes the Wheel

by Ann B. Ross

  “Oh, my word, what is it?” My first thought was that others had seen the same thing that Lloyd had seen, and that, if it was this widespread, it had to be something truly serious.

  “Well, I don’t really b’lieve this ’cause Miz Allen, she a real nice lady, but I hear from two different people that she the one that jus’ about kill Mr. Allen.”

  “Oh, Lillian,” I said, leaning my head on my hand, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry. “That is so farfetched. Who in the world would start such a rumor? No, he had a heart attack, plain and simple. Although,” I went on somewhat hesitantly, “and this is just between you and me, he apparently had it after a particularly intense and active marital interlude.”

  Lillian frowned. “A what?”

  Hearing Sam’s footsteps on the stairs, I leaned over and whispered, “In the bed, Lillian, and it was Mildred herself who started that rumor. She thought she’d killed him because of it.”

  Lillian’s mouth had fallen open, but she quickly regained her equilibrium and nodded solemnly at the news. “Uh-huh, I hear that happen more’n people think. They jus’ don’t tell nobody ’cause they shamed at carryin’ on like that. I mean, at they age since it’s usually ole people it happens to. But any time you hear ’bout a heart attack an’ it’s some ole somebody, you can’t help but think about it.”

  “Well, no, I never have,” I said, thinking now of a few acquaintances who’d been diagnosed with heart trouble. “But from now on, I guess I will.”

  Sam came in then, walking upright with no sign of an excruciating pain in his back. He smiled a greeting to both Lillian and me and walked over to stand close to my chair. He put a hand on my shoulder.

  “How was your trip to the country?” he asked. “Lloyd do all right?”

  “Yes,” I said and proceeded to give a few details, ending with the declaration that I was just about through running a taxi service, as well as having had enough of being a driving instructor. Our close call with a farm truck loaded with firewood had replayed in my mind and left me shaken by images of what could’ve happened.

  “I don’t think,” I said, “that I’m suited to teaching someone how to drive.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, moving his hand across my shoulders. “You suit me just fine.”

  Have you ever noticed how a simple touch of the hand by someone you love can calm and reassure an unsettled mind? Just the nearness of Sam could put the world right for me. And he was never stingy with hand-holding, back pats, and soft touches, or merely standing close enough to feel him breathe. Wesley Lloyd Springer, my late, unlamented first husband, on the other hand, had revealed how little he thought of me by his body language—he ignored me in public and kept his distance in private.

  I leaned my head against Sam as he stood by my chair. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better. Are you being careful? Not lifting anything or bending over?”

  “I’m being careful. I don’t want another episode like the one I had. But,” he went on, “I don’t worry about it because I still have those wonder pills that Dr. Crawford prescribed.”

  No, you don’t, I thought, because I had that little vial hidden away until I could safely dispose of it. And if Sam had another episode, he would most certainly get taken to another physician.

  Chapter 34

  *

  “Julia?” LuAnne Conover asked when I answered the telephone the following morning.

  “Yes, how are you, LuAnne? How’s the new job going?”

  “It’s slow right now, which is why I have time to call. It’s either feast or famine around here—there’re times when bodies are lined up in the back hall and other times when everybody sits around waiting for somebody to die. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. But they’re all in the break room now, drinking coffee and eating cookies. And of course I have to stay at the front desk and answer the phone.”

  “Well,” I said, hoping to divert her from further complaints, “I’m glad you have time to call. Maybe somebody will bring you a cookie.”

  “Not likely.”

  “Anyway,” I went on, “I’ve missed having lunch with you, but I probably wouldn’t have had time to go out myself. I tell you, LuAnne, I have made that trip to visit Horace so many times that I don’t want to leave the house for anything else.”

  “How’s Horace doing?”

  “Apparently quite well. He’s getting physical therapy, so he’s up and walking around. Mildred, of course, is still deeply concerned. She’s making plans for his care when he gets home, but I don’t know how much she’s told him about them.”

  “Um-m, well, Mildred sort of does what she wants to do anyway. But, listen, that wasn’t why I called. I’ve just witnessed the strangest thing.”

  “Oh?” I said. “What was it?”

  “Did you ever know Cornelia McMurray? I think she was known as Connie, but I never met her. Just heard a lot about her.”

  “Everybody’s heard about her,” I said, laughing a little, “but I can’t say that I know her. We were introduced years ago at some charity function—can’t remember now exactly what it was. She looked normal enough, as I recall, but of course I’d heard the stories. Why? Has she passed?”

  “Not that I know of, and I guess I’d know if she had. But, Julia, what is wrong with that woman?”

  “Crazy as a loon from all I hear. Why? What’ve you heard?”

  “It’s not what I’ve heard, it’s what I’ve seen. Did you know Dr. McMurray, her husband?”

  “Knew of him, but I was never sure if he was a real doctor or not. He did something with feet, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, podiatry, which means he wasn’t a real doctor. I mean, he hadn’t gone to medical school. Just to foot school, I guess, although I’ve heard that he had a certificate on his office wall that claimed he’d earned a degree in podiatry. That doesn’t really count, does it?”

  “I wouldn’t count it, but it seems that everybody and his brother are allowed to practice medicine these days, so who knows?”

  “But he went to Harvard, didn’t he?” LuAnne asked. “That’s the one thing I remember everybody saying anytime his name came up.”

  “Ha! That’s the one thing that Connie made sure everybody knew. Why, LuAnne, I remember people calling him Dr. Harvard behind his back, because somebody finally found out that he hadn’t gone to school there at all. He’d just grown up in Harvard, Nebraska, and that’s where she’d gotten it. Nobody ever called her on it, though, because she really wasn’t responsible. People just smiled and let her ramble on.”

  “But why in the world would he let her mislead people—patients, especially? You’d think any kind of doctor would be concerned about that.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not sure that he gave much thought to what his patients thought. I remember hearing that he was as rough as a cob, and that if you had foot trouble, you’d be better off going barefoot than going to him.”

  “I know,” LuAnne said. “Miss Mattie Freeman told me one time that she’d gone to him about a toenail fungus that she couldn’t get rid of. She said he took one look, and said, ‘Oh, we’ll fix that right now,’ and took a forceps and ripped that toenail off. She said she nearly died right there, and would’ve gotten up and walked out if she’d been able to walk.”

  Squinching up my toes, I shuddered at the thought. “Yes, I’ve heard that he didn’t have much of a bedside manner or much of a practice, either. Maybe that’s why.” I paused, thinking of some of the tales I’d heard about Dr. McMurray. “Isn’t he dead? I thought he died years ago. Why’re you thinking of him?”

  “Because she comes every year on the anniversary of his passing to sit alone in the Lilac room. In remembrance, I guess. And she was here yesterday.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Me, either. But I’ll tell you one thing, you’ll never catch me doing
something like that for Leonard. I’d like to forget him.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said, but LuAnne had just put an image in my mind of Connie McMurray’s sitting alone year after year communing with her long-dead husband, and it was something I could’ve done without. Then she proceeded to add something, in its own way, just as worrisome.

  “Well, that reminds me,” LuAnne said, apropos of nothing, which was the way LuAnne’s mind worked. One topic led to another in a perfectly logical way that she understood, but nobody else did. “Have you seen Lauren Crawford lately?”

  “Why, no, I haven’t. Why?”

  “Oh, I just thought that you were sort of looking after her—you know, introducing her around, taking her under your wing—that sort of thing.”

  “Sue asked me to have them for dinner, so I did. And introduced them to Binkie and Coleman, and the Pickenses, but that’s all. It was Hazel Marie’s idea to invite her to your fashion class or whatever it was. I thought then that Lauren might finally be coming out of her shell, but she’s not been very responsive to Hazel Marie since then. I can’t figure her out, LuAnne. She’s a beautiful woman. Or at least she could be. Why?” I asked again. “Have you seen her?”

  “Well, yes, I have, but I can’t tell you, Julia, because we’re not supposed to talk about anything that goes on here at the funeral home. Especially what goes on in the director’s office—that’s highly confidential. So don’t ask me. I could lose my job.”

  Well, I didn’t want that to happen, but of course LuAnne had just revealed that not only had she recently seen Lauren, but that she’d seen her there at the funeral home. All of which raised a number of questions in my mind—had there been a death in Lauren’s family? If so, I should ask Lillian to prepare a meal to take to the Crawfords. But perhaps Lauren had been there to make arrangements for some future event. Could someone be ill?

  At that thought, I was overcome with regret that I had not kept in closer touch. Of course, I had something against Dr. Crawford, he of the reckless dispensing of habit-forming drugs, which made me less than eager to nurture stronger ties. But sickness, ill health, impending loss could easily account for a slip of the pen when writing a prescription. There could be little worse than to have a loved one—or one’s own self—with a mortal illness in a strange town, far from family and friends.

  “Tell me this, then,” I said, “if you can. Is she all right?”

  “As far as I know,” LuAnne said, “she’s fine.” But it was said in such a carefully worded way that I knew LuAnne might not know, but, if pushed, she could make a fairly good guess.

  I didn’t push, deciding instead to try harder to befriend Lauren Crawford in case she was in serious need. Or maybe I’d just ask Hazel Marie if she knew why that young woman had made a visit to a funeral home.

  * * *

  —

  Later that day after an uneventful trip to The Safe Harbor during which I monitored Lloyd’s driving and listened to Mildred’s monologue, we dropped her off at her doorstep.

  As Lloyd waited at the end of her drive for two cars to pass, he said, “I know it’s late, but I sure would like a caramel cappuccino from McDonald’s. How’s that sound to you?”

  “Actually,” I said, knowing that he wanted to drive a little longer, “pretty good. Let’s go ruin our supper.”

  He grinned, then drove toward South Main, where the popular fast-food emporium catered to the town. Traffic had thinned out, so Lloyd turned easily into the parking lot, then eased the big car into the drive-thru lane behind a shiny new car. He stopped beside the menu board and lowered his window as a scratchy voice said, “Take your order?” Lloyd gave it, then followed instructions to drive to the first window.

  “I’ve only done this once before when J.D. was with me,” he said, holding the money I’d given him out the window. “It was real crowded and I really messed up. I didn’t get close enough and had to get out of the car to pay.”

  “Well,” I said, watching the car in front stop at the pickup window, “better that than getting too close.”

  He held his arm out the window, waiting for change, then turned, laughing, to give it to me. I don’t know what happened—maybe his foot slipped off the brake—but the Bonneville suddenly spurted forward, then banged into the car ahead of us. That car jerked forward from the impact as a sound of anguish issued from Lloyd’s throat.

  “Oh, no!” he groaned, almost sobbed.

  “It’s all right,” I said, although it was hardly that. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  Draping his arms over the steering wheel, Lloyd leaned his head on them and moaned. “Oh, me. I’ve hit somebody.”

  The somebody got out of the car, strode purposefully back to Lloyd’s open window, stooped over, and looked in at us.

  “We’re so sorry,” I quickly said, wanting to forestall an angry scene that would sear Lloyd’s soul. Then, seeing the face, I gasped, “Dr. Crawford! Oh, we are so sorry. It was my fault. I distracted him. Are you hurt? Is your car badly damaged? We’ll take care of it, don’t worry about that.”

  Dr. Crawford’s intense blue gaze went slowly from one to the other of us, taking us in. I cringed with embarrassment, even as I ached for Lloyd, wanting to shield him from any belittling words.

  But then Dr. Crawford smiled. “It can’t be too bad,” he said. “You weren’t going that fast. Come on, son, let’s pull out of the lane, then we’ll see what’s what.”

  That done, we all got out and I made the introductions, reminding the doctor that he’d met Lloyd’s parents at my house. The three of us stood between the cars and surveyed the two crumpled bumpers. The one on Lloyd’s car was barely noticeable—it blended with several other dents—but the one on Dr. Crawford’s silver Lexus was crushed to a fare-thee-well. I’d always heard that they don’t build cars the way they used to, and here was the proof.

  Lloyd’s face went as white as a sheet when he saw the damage. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

  Deciding to move things along—people driving by were craning to see what had happened—I said, “Dr. Crawford, you may want to call the police and get an accident report, but that’s only if you want our insurance companies involved. If you’d rather not, we will certainly take care of this. In fact, if you’ll take it to Tillman’s Body Shop—they’re the best in town—they’ll fix it like new and send me the bill. And while it’s in the shop, they’ll arrange a rental car for you, which we’ll also take care of. We don’t want you inconvenienced in any way at all.”

  “Oh,” Don Crawford said with a wave of his hand, “don’t worry about it. Nobody was hurt and that’s the main thing.” Then, glancing at the sick-looking expression on Lloyd’s face, he went on. “I don’t think we need to involve the police for a little bump like this. The damage isn’t that bad, and there’s no need to put an accident on the boy’s record.”

  With great relief and a rush of gratitude, I said, “Thank you, thank you. Rest assured that we will make it right. Lloyd, did you hear that? Dr. Crawford doesn’t want to make a report, so your license is safe.”

  Still looking as if he were about to throw up, Lloyd thanked the doctor, shook his hand, and slunk back to the Bonneville. He got in on the passenger side.

  Before joining him, I turned to Dr. Crawford. “I expect you know that he’s just learning to drive, and this has about done him in. You have every right to be angry, yet you’ve been nothing but kind and understanding. I appreciate it more than I can say.”

  “No problem,” Don Crawford said. “We all have fender benders now and then, so there’s no reason to get bent out of shape about them. Besides, he’s young and his dignity should be preserved.” Dr. Crawford shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, “What’s a crushed bumper in the grand scheme of things?”

  My estimation of Dr. Don Crawford soared as I walked back to the passeng
er side of the Bonneville.

  Looking in at Lloyd, I said, “You’re in my seat.”

  He shook his head. “I’m letting you drive home.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not. I don’t want to drive.” I opened the door and motioned for him to get out. “It’s all a part of learning, Lloyd. I don’t know a soul who’s never had an accident. Just be thankful that you chose a nice person to run into. Now, come on and get back on this horse.”

  He gave me a sickly grin, climbed out, and went around the car to slide behind the wheel again.

  “I may never go to a McDonald’s drive-thru again,” he said.

  “Well, I hope you will. We never did get our caramel cappuccinos.”

  Lloyd managed a smile as he drove slowly and carefully to his house while I contended with a mixture of feelings toward Dr. Crawford with gratitude winning out.

  Yet in spite of the doctor’s more than decent reaction to the accident, I could not entirely discount his seemingly careless treatment of both Sam and Horace in their times of need. How in the world do you account for a man like that?

  Chapter 35

  *

  Thursday evening Sam and I met Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens at the country club for dinner, something that we tried to do about once a month. It was a way to catch up with one another and to stay in touch, especially where Lloyd was concerned since we each had a hand in raising him. Sam and I enjoyed the occasional evening out in place of our usual routine of reading the newspaper and bemoaning the state of affairs. Hazel Marie said that a peaceful dinner in quiet surroundings with adult conversation was a welcome change from wiping up spills at the table. Mr. Pickens said he liked the rib-eye steak.

  Considering their busy schedules, I was grateful that they made time for us and seemed to enjoy it. As we studied the menu, I pushed the Crawfords to the back of my mind—this was neither the time nor the place to bring up my concerns about either or both of them. I had, in fact, resisted the impulse to call Hazel Marie earlier and share what I’d learned from LuAnne. But actually I had learned very little, just enough to worry me and more than enough to upset Hazel Marie.