by Ann B. Ross
* * *
—
“There you are,” Lillian said as I walked into the kitchen. “I tole Mrs. Allen you be back real soon, so you better go ahead an’ call her. She say she really need to talk to you.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake,” I said, “talk to me is all she’s done for the past hour. What does she want now?”
That was a rhetorical question, but Lillian answered it anyway. “She don’t tell me what she want, but she call two times already. I got supper waitin’ on you, an’ Mr. Sam settin’ in there waitin’ on you, too. Go on ahead an’ call her back so you can eat in peace.”
Fearing that Horace had had a relapse, I used the kitchen phone to return her calls. “Mildred? Is everything all right? What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Oh, Julia, I’m so glad you called. I have just had the most wonderful idea, and I want to know what you think.”
“Okay,” I said, exercising great patience as I watched Lillian put a bowl of beef stew and a plate of cornbread on the table. “What is it?”
“Well!” Mildred said as if with a roll of drums. “You recall your Mr. Pickens praising Horace’s Boxster car? He just went on and on about what a fine car it is, expressing, it seemed to me, a great desire to own one himself. So, here’s what I’m thinking—he could buy that very car! What do you think of that?
“See,” she went on before I could answer, “I could sell it to him and have it out of the garage before Horace gets home and gets tempted to drive it again. And he’d know that Mr. Pickens would give it a good home. Don’t you think that a Lincoln Town Car would be much more appealing if that little sports car wasn’t sitting right next to it?”
“I don’t know, Mildred,” I said, as Sam came in from the library with a welcoming smile. “But I’m not sure that Horace would be happy about losing his car.”
Then I thought of how thrilled Lloyd would be to have a little red sports car in their garage. And I had no doubt that Mr. Pickens would be equally so, but of course I could not speak for him. But even if Sam wanted to fulfill his promise to Lloyd by buying the car, that Porsche was too much car for a fifteen-year-old, as well as for a private investigator who didn’t need to draw attention to himself.
“Well, of course Horace won’t be happy about it,” Mildred said, “but I have to do what is best for him. Once a man has a heart attack, there’re any number of things he has to learn to do without. And shifting through all six gears—well, I guess it’s only five, because one would be reverse—that’s just one of them and might not even be the worst.”
“Well, that’s true. But, Mildred, I don’t know what Mr. Pickens would do about your offer. You’ll have to talk to him yourself. I just think that Horace would be devastated to find his beloved car gone and a huge sedate Lincoln parked in its place. You really should talk to him about it before you do anything.”
“Well,” Mildred said, disappointment obvious in her voice, “I don’t need to talk to him because I already know what he’ll say. But, see, I was kind of hoping that if Mr. Pickens didn’t want it, you’d buy that car for Lloyd. I’ll give you a good price, and it’d be perfect for him.”
“It’s crossed my mind,” I admitted, “but it’s too much too soon. Besides, Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens wouldn’t want him to have such an expensive car. Talk to Mr. Pickens if you want to, but not about getting it for Lloyd. They want to keep his feet on the ground.”
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “you know what I always say: Spend it if you have it, and enjoy what you get with it. And, Julia, I know I’ve told you this before, but you are undoubtedly the tightest wealthy woman I know.”
I laughed, because, compared to her, she was right.
Chapter 37
*
LuAnne called early Saturday morning, suggesting that we go out to lunch. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages,” she said, “and with me working every day, I only have weekends free. Tell Sam that Saturdays are the only time we can stay in touch.”
“Saturdays are fine with me,” I said, although our friends rarely made social plans on that day. But with Sam up and out early to meet his buddies at the Bluebird café for breakfast, I didn’t hesitate. “I’ve missed you, LuAnne, and I’d love to have lunch. Where do you want to go?”
* * *
—
We met at 11:30 at the Tête-à-Tête Tearoom, and with no fanfare at all, LuAnne ordered iced tea—sweetened with lemon—instead of a glass of wine. I made no comment, although I was pleased that she wasn’t drowning her sorrows. Perhaps, I thought, she no longer had sorrows to drown, now that she held an important position at the Good Shepherd Funeral Home.
“This was such a good idea,” I said, as the waitress left with our orders. “Tell me how things are going with you. You still like the condo?”
“I love it,” LuAnne said. “My only problem is worrying about Helen wanting it back. Have you seen her lately? How’s she getting along with Thurlow?”
“No, I haven’t seen or heard from her, and that’s to my shame. So many things have happened lately that I’ve hardly kept up with myself.” And I proceeded to tell her about the little house on Rosewood, the work that Pickens and Son were doing on it, Sam’s painful back episode, Horace Allen’s recovery, and my daily drives with Mildred. Oh, and also about Lloyd’s new used car and my nagging worry that he was too young to drive.
LuAnne laughed. “Get used to it, Julia. He’s growing up. That’s what you want them to do, but it’s hard when they actually do it.”
“Well, but tell me about you. How’s the job? You still like it?”
“I do, I really do. Everybody’s real nice, and I’m finally learning the ropes. But I’ll tell you, Julia, I’m learning more than that.” LuAnne leaned closer and lowered her voice. “You wouldn’t believe what some people do when they bury somebody close to them.”
“You mean the way they grieve?”
She straightened up as the waitress placed our plates before us. We thanked her, passed each other the salt and pepper shakers, then picked up our forks.
“I guess,” she said. “But some are so obviously grieving that it touches me, and I find that I’m grieving, too—when I don’t even know the deceased.”
“That’s because you’re a caring and sensitive person, LuAnne,” I said.
“Well, I try. Um, this is good,” she said, sampling her salad. “But some people have strange ideas of what to do when they bury somebody. You’d be surprised at what they bring in to bury with their loved ones—letters, books, pictures of children, and mementos of all kinds—as if they’d be interested in having those things with them.”
“I’ve always thought that was sweet—loving, even. Although it never occurred to me to bury anything with Wesley Lloyd.”
“Not even his wedding band?”
“He never wore it anyway. I found it among his tie tacks a couple of weeks later.”
“Well, you knew why by then, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but the funny thing about it was that I’d never noticed that he wasn’t wearing it. I guess that’s a commentary on the state of our marriage in the first place.”
“Wedding bands, engagement rings, and jewelry in general can really create problems, though,” LuAnne said. “Why, we had one elderly lady in our care who was wearing beautiful rings. Now, what we do, Julia, in case you don’t know, is to leave their rings and bracelets, and watches—whatever they’re wearing when they come in—we leave them on for the visitation. Then right before the casket is closed, we remove the jewelry and give it to the chief mourner—husband, child, whoever. But this one time, the woman’s daughter gave us explicit directions to leave her mother’s wedding band and engagement ring on. She said her mother had never taken them off, and she wanted them left on for eternity. Well, that was all well and good, except the other daughter came in right beh
ind her with power of attorney and demanded the rings. We had to give them to her, but you can’t help but wonder about that family.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “I hope the first daughter never found out what her sister had done, which means the sister can never wear them. Which kind of takes the joy out of having good jewelry.”
“Well, you remember me telling you about Connie McMurray and her husband? Well, there’s somebody even weirder than her. Do you know Dr. Dooley?”
“Who?”
“Dooley, Dawley, something like that.”
“You mean Dalbee?” I asked. “He’s not a doctor. He’s a chiropractor. Wesley Lloyd used to go to him for a crick in his neck. And that tells you something about both of them.”
“Well, whatever,” LuAnne said. “Anyway, one of the morticians told me that when his wife died—the doctor’s wife, I mean, not the mortician’s—he didn’t call any of the funeral homes. He just wrapped her up in a blanket and put her in the back of his old beat-up station wagon and drove her to Chapel Hill.”
“For heaven’s sake, what for? Why take her two hundred miles to another hospital if she was already dead?”
“Not to the hospital, Julia—to the medical school. He donated her to the anatomy lab.”
“Oh, my word, LuAnne, surely not.”
“Surely, he did. Can you imagine what she looked like after those medical students got through with her?”
Feeling slightly ill, I put down my fork. “No, and I don’t want to. But to top it off, he probably felt proud of himself for donating to a good cause instead of giving her a decent burial. Think of the money he saved! I declare, LuAnne, I don’t know what to think about some people.”
“Me, either,” LuAnne said, “but I’ll tell you this. My eyes have certainly been opened since I’ve been working in that place. And one thing I’m going to do is to write out exactly what I want done when I pass over, and I mean all the way down to the color of flowers that go on my casket. It’ll be on file right there in the office so that things will be done just as I want them to be. And, Julia, in case you don’t know it, we provide that service for everybody, and you should take advantage of it, too. It’s call preplanning.”
That sounded a little redundant to me, but both planning and preplanning a funeral service, especially my own, was the last thing I was in the mood for, so I thanked LuAnne for the advice and told her I’d think about it.
“Well,” she said, “don’t think too long. You never know when you might need it.”
With those words lingering in my mind, I was finally able to make tentative plans for lunch the following Saturday, then to take my leave. I had been happy for LuAnne when she’d gotten the job at one of the most respected businesses in Abbotsville, but now it seemed to have cast a funereal pall across her mind. I didn’t enjoy visiting with her quite as much as I once had.
I had deliberately not brought Lauren Crawford up to LuAnne during lunch, not wanting to stir her interest by showing too much myself. But Lauren was on my mind as I walked to my car, and I determined to ask Hazel Marie if she knew of any problems the Crawfords might be having. I felt sure that if LuAnne had known anything further about Lauren’s visit to the mortuary, she would’ve mentioned it. But with what she’d already told me, coupled with the possibility that it might have been Lauren whom Lloyd had seen driving out of an unpaved lane in the forested hinterlands of the county, I felt justified in my concern for that young woman. Even if she hadn’t bothered to return my dinner invitation.
Chapter 38
*
After the Sunday service, I went along with the congregation as we followed the choir out through the narthex and began to disperse along the sidewalks. Wanting to speak to Hazel Marie, I stood to the side to wait for her. She’d been sitting with the twins a few rows over from us, but I’d been unable to catch her eye—she’d been too busy keeping the little girls quietly entertained during the service. I gave her high marks for even being there, as I did any mother of small children.
Actually, I gave myself high marks for being there as well. Having deeply disapproved of the church’s support of an illegally located nonprofit in town, I had taken a sabbatical from regular attendance for several months. At one point, I had explained to our new pastor that I wasn’t against doing good works, just against doing them at a place that damaged others. Unfortunately, the new pastor was so progressive that he’d already helped a number of members progress right off the church rolls. When I’d suggested that he limit his sermon topics to the basics of our faith, rather than focusing on cultural fads like sensitivity training, complete with a safe room in the church basement for any poor soul who couldn’t cope with the nerve-wracking pace of life in Abbotsville, he’d had the nerve to smile condescendingly and say, “Well, you do know, don’t you, that faith without works is dead?” “Yes,” I’d snapped back, so hot that I could barely speak, “I’m familiar with the Epistle of James, and I also know that works without faith is just another government agency.”
I was still thinking of moving my letter. I just couldn’t figure out where to move it to.
While standing around waiting, I spoke to several members of the congregation as they passed on their way to parked cars, and finally saw Hazel Marie emerge from the church. I waved to her, then walked over to greet the little girls and to ask Hazel Marie if she had time to talk that afternoon.
“Why don’t you come over?” she asked. “The girls will go down for their naps right after lunch—a perfect time if it works for you.”
“That’ll be fine. Unless,” I said, “you want to take a nap, too.”
Hazel Marie smiled and shook her head. “No, a nap just keeps me awake at night. Come on over when you finish lunch. I’d love to see you.”
Then, as if she’d suddenly recognized a reason for my visiting, she said, “Oh, I hope it’s nothing really important. I mean, we could talk right now if it is. Is it about Lloyd? Is Mr. Sam’s back acting up again?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Really, Hazel Marie, it’s nothing to worry about. I just want to discuss something with you. Maybe get your advice.”
She smiled at that. “Well, I hope it’s not important, because my advice isn’t worth much.”
“It is to me,” I said, then leaned close to whisper, “Lauren Crawford.”
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows went up. “Come on over as soon as you can.” Then taking the hands of the little girls, she said, “Let’s go, girls. Come on, hold my hand. Can you tell Miss Julia bye-bye?”
With waves of their tiny hands, the little girls were led off by their mother, and I, too, turned to go home, hoping that Sam would have started to warm up whatever leftovers were in the refrigerator. He had left the church by way of the back entrance, having decided that he didn’t want to stand around outside while I waited for Hazel Marie. Fearing that his back was beginning to act up again, I hurried down the sidewalk, crossed Polk Street, and went into the house.
“Honey,” I called, “I’m home.”
I heard him laugh as I walked down the hall and into the kitchen.
“About time,” he said, pulling out a chair from the table. “Come sit down. I’m about to starve.”
“Um-m, a cold lunch,” I said, surveying the dishes he’d put on the table. “I thought there might be some beef stew left.”
“Nope, just ham and potato salad, but plenty of both. Did you catch Hazel Marie?”
“Yes, and unless you have plans, I’m going over to talk with her in a little while. But, Sam, I need to talk to you first. I’m afraid that just by asking about somebody I might be starting something—you know how talk gets around in this town. Here,” I said, reaching for the mayonnaise, “let me fix your sandwich.” Which I then proceeded to do for both of us.
“Lettuce and tomatoes? Onion?”
“All the way,” he said, nodding. “So talk
to me. What’s going on?”
I handed the plate garnished with potato chips and pickles to him, and said, “Lauren Crawford. I may be reading too much into a couple of things I’ve heard, but you’ve expressed some concern about her, so I’d like to know what you think.”
I went on to tell him about Lauren’s visit to the Good Shepherd Funeral Home for reasons probably known by LuAnne but left undisclosed. Then I told him about the possible sighting of Lauren driving her husband’s car in an area where I could think of no reason she should’ve been.
“Of course,” I concluded, “it was most likely Dr. Crawford since he’s apparently looking to buy some undeveloped property. Still, Lloyd wasn’t sure who it was.”
“I hope he was keeping his eyes on the road,” Sam said, cocking his at me.
“Oh, he was. That’s why he didn’t get a good look. Anyway,” I went on, “I want to ask Hazel Marie if she’s had any contact with Lauren lately. I’m especially concerned about the funeral home visit. I keep wondering if there’s been a death in Lauren’s family—they’re all in California, you know. So she could’ve been asking about receiving a body from somewhere else so they could have a service here. But wait,” I said, my eyes widening, “that doesn’t make sense. Why would she bury somebody here when she, herself, will be moving away in a couple of months?
“I declare, I don’t know what to think,” I said with a sigh, “but if something has happened, we need to help if we can. Or offer to help. We owe that much at least to the Hargroves.”
“Well,” Sam said, “you’re right about that, but except for coming right out and asking them, I’m not sure what we can do. So talk to Hazel Marie if you want, but I wouldn’t get too involved with somebody else’s problems. It could be misinterpreted and resented.” Sam stopped to let that sink in, then he said, “I’ll tell you this, though, that is a sad young woman.”
