Miss Julia Lays Down the Law

by Ann B. Ross

  “What’s in it, Lillian? More about the investigation? I hope to goodness they’ve left my name out of it.”

  “That lady’s death notice in it, an’ it’s the worst one I ever see. It don’t say a thing about her that folks want to know, like where she come from an’ what she do in her life. They oughta be ’shamed to put such a say-nothing notice in the paper.”

  I opened the newspaper and turned to the obituary page. My eyes were drawn to a small paragraph at the bottom. It read:

  Constance “Connie” Clayborn, 51, the only daughter of the late Harriett and Thomas Warren, died unexpectedly at her home on Tuesday, November 12. She is survived by her husband, Stanford H. Clayborn, of the home. Arrangements for a private interment will be made by the Holloway Funeral Home and Crematorium in Trenton, New Jersey.

  “Why, this doesn’t say anything,” I said.

  “That’s what I been sayin’,” Lillian said. “People want to know more’n that, an’ I don’t know why they leave out so much.”

  “Well, Lillian, maybe it tells us more than you’d think. First of all, I expect her grieving husband did this for the paper. I mean, who else would have written it? Her parents aren’t around, and apparently she had no children. But, my goodness, it doesn’t even mention that she was a Vassar graduate, and she was so proud of that. I agree with you, Lillian. I’d like to know more than this.”

  “Yes’m, an’ it don’t even say she survived by her lovin’ husband, an’ everybody say that whether they the lovin’ kind or not. And it don’t say where to send flowers, either.”

  “You’re right, and it doesn’t name a favorite charity of the deceased for people to donate to, either.”

  “Yes’m, an’ it don’t say nothin’ ’bout a visitation time. People kinda ’spect that so they can view the body.”

  “Not me, Lillian. I’ve already seen it.”

  “Well, but what about a memorial service? It don’t say a word about havin’ one of them, an’ that’s what peoples do when they have the burial somewhere else.”

  “Maybe Mr. Clayborn felt they hadn’t lived here long enough to have a good attendance. Of course, he doesn’t know small Southern towns—we would’ve all turned out for a service. Then again,” I said, sighing, “they weren’t churchgoing people, so I guess he didn’t see the need. I declare, Lillian, how in the world do people live through pain and grief without the comfort of faith?”

  “Yes’m, they’s got to be something more an’ better’n this world, but lotsa people live like this one’s all they is. It’s pitiful, is what it is.”

  “I feel so sorry for them both.”

  Lillian walked over and put a plate of scrambled eggs and grits in front of me. “Quit readin’ the paper now, an’ eat ’fore it gets cold. But I tell you what’s a fact. If I didn’t know my sweet Jesus be waitin’ for me on the other side, I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “Me, either, Lillian,” I said, my heart heavy for Connie and, I’ll admit, for her husband as well—in spite of his propensity for running around half-naked at night.

  Chapter 28

  “Lillian,” I said, putting aside the paper and rising from the table, “I really appreciate your staying with me, but Sam will be home late today. You must have things to do at home, so why don’t you and Latisha go on? There’s no need to stay here all day and the night, too.”

  “You be all right by yourself? What if Mr. Sam don’t get home?”

  “I’ll have Lloyd, so I won’t be alone. You run on, I’ll be all right.”

  “Well, if you sure. I do need to get some washin’ done, an’ go to the grocery store, an’ get Latisha ready for Sunday school, an’ fix supper for Miss Lula. That’s my neighbor I been helpin’ out. So soon’s I get this kitchen clean, I’ll pick up Latisha at Miss Hazel Marie’s an’ go on. I been wantin’ to see them baby girls, myself.”

  “Then I’ll see you Monday morning.” And thanking her again, I walked across the hall to the new library and began to consider my next moves. For one thing, Mr. Pickens had come to mind. I mean, here I had a private investigator at hand, so why hadn’t I thought to use him? I wasn’t sure how much attention Detective Ellis was giving to Connie’s husband, especially since the detective didn’t know that Connie’s husband was occupying his evenings by running around my house. The thing for me to do was to take up the slack by employing Mr. Pickens for a stakeout on Polk Street. He could watch for the runner and at least identify him so I’d know for sure who I was dealing with.

  And for another thing, I, myself, intended to stake out Pastor Ledbetter until I cornered him at the church, his home, or wherever I could find him. And when I did, I was going to let him know what was what. I intended to tell, not ask, but tell him that my promise was henceforth null and void, and that he’d better prepare himself for a few official interviews by Detective Ellis. And for all I knew, by Lieutenant Peavey, too.

  And then—I stopped with a gasp. Why in the world had I not thought of this! My breath caught in my throat as I realized how dense I’d been. Lieutenant Peavey had tracked me down because the gatekeeper had kept a list of the license plate numbers of all visitors to Grand View Estates. So if either the pastor or Emma Sue had been there before me—as I’d been fearing—his or her tag number would’ve been in the hands of the law at the same time mine had gotten there.

  Now, whether or not—given the Ledbetters’ apparent ability to avoid people they didn’t want to see—Detective Ellis had ever been able to follow up on that information was another question altogether. But that was his problem, not mine. My problem was partially solved—I could stop fearing that one Ledbetter or the other had taken matters into his or her own hands and gone to Connie’s before me. Neither could’ve gotten past the gatekeeper without being noted and reported.

  I’d always heard of feeling as if a load had been lifted, and now I knew what it was like. My horrible suspicions were allayed, and all I had to be concerned with was my own status in the eyes of the law for withholding the reason I’d paid a visit to Connie. If she had had no visitors other than me that day, then I could still be in their sights. Well, and so would her husband—he’d certainly been there as well.

  • • •

  I waited until Lillian told me she was leaving, then gave her time to pick up Latisha and visit with Hazel Marie before I lifted the telephone.

  “Hazel Marie?” I said when she answered. “How’re you feeling today?”

  “Much better, Miss Julia. I may even live, especially since the girls are all but well. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m making it. And Sam should be back tonight, so I’m looking forward to that. We’ve missed you at the sewing group, Hazel Marie. I hope you’ll be there next week.”

  “I don’t know if I can or not. I’ll see if Granny Wiggins can babysit. J.D. left this morning on a case, and who knows when he’ll be back.”

  My renewed spirits grew old in a hurry. “He’s gone?”

  “Yes, he’s in Louisville, I think. He never knows where a case will take him. But let me know when the group will meet and I’ll try to make it. Oh, and by the way,” Hazel Marie said, “since Mr. Sam’s on his way back, I’d like to have Lloyd home tonight. I just feel safer with all of us here together when J.D.’s gone. Will that be all right with you?”

  “Oh, of course, Hazel Marie. I just appreciate having had him for the last couple of nights.”

  After a few more minutes of idle chatter, I hung up and wondered how I’d get through the night if Sam didn’t get home. Being without either Lillian or Lloyd for the short run or Mr. Pickens for the long run, I was suddenly on my own. Instead of having things worked out, all I’d succeeded in doing was to work myself into having no help at all. And if Sam didn’t get home, it was going to be a long, lonely night for me.

  • • •

  Well, there was one thing I co
uld do on my own, so I put on a coat, took up my pocketbook, locked the house, and went to the car. If Pastor Ledbetter was in Abbotsville, I intended to find him.

  The first thing I did, of course, was to check the church parking lot across the street. As it was Saturday, the pastor’s car would be easily visible in the lot, if it was there. But it wasn’t, nor was anybody else’s.

  So I drove to the Ledbetter house, slowing down as I passed to see if there were any signs of life. No car in the driveway, no lights on in the house, the garage doors down, and the curtains closed. I drove to the end of the block, turned around, and went past the house again. And that time I saw a rolled newspaper still in its plastic sleeve lying to the side of the front door.

  As I drove on past, I deduced that the uncollected paper meant the Ledbetters had not returned from Winston-Salem, or it meant that the pastor had left home early and Emma Sue was still too depressed to care about the news. For all I knew, she was inside the house, curled up in bed with the covers over her head, while the pastor visited the sick and ailing in the hospital.

  I considered turning around and going to the door. I could ring the doorbell until it irritated Emma Sue so much that she would drag herself out of bed to put a stop to it. Maybe I should call first, but of course I’d not brought my cell phone with me.

  So I drove to the hospital and, ignoring the signs that limited parking to doctors and the clergy, drove in, through, and out of the various lots, looking for Pastor Ledbetter’s large car. It would be easily recognizable if it were there—there were no other ten-year-old yellow Mercedeses in town. I didn’t find it there, and I didn’t find it when I cruised the lots open to the general public.

  Maybe they hadn’t returned from Winston-Salem. Maybe Emma Sue had been admitted to the hospital there. She could be lying on a bed in a psychiatric ward a hundred miles away, for all I knew. Of course, I was assuming the worst, as I usually did, although it was entirely possible that Emma Sue’s condition hadn’t been caused by Connie’s criticism at all. She could be suffering from low blood sugar, for one thing, or some strange clinical condition, for another.

  I couldn’t think where else to look for Pastor Ledbetter, not knowing his favorite hangouts if he had any, like the Bluebird Cafe or the bagel place, nor did I know where he got his hair cut or his shoes resoled.

  So I went home, planning to phone Emma Sue and sit while it rang for as long as it took. And if I got her answering machine, I would tell Emma Sue in no uncertain terms that if she was there she’d better talk to me before I was morally compelled to tell Detective Ellis all I knew. If that didn’t get her out of bed, I’d know she wasn’t home.

  Once more I surveyed the church parking lot as I neared my driveway. Then on impulse, I continued on, turning left on Summit and circling the block on which the church was built. Several cars were parked on both sides of Taft Street—the one that ran parallel to Polk.

  And there it was. Pastor Ledbetter’s car nestled in a space half a block from the front of the church. I should’ve thought of that! Hadn’t he avoided me once before by going up through the sanctuary and out the double front doors? It made perfect sense that he would go inside the same way, thereby giving the impression that he was not at the church.

  Now to get inside, myself.

  Chapter 29

  I left the car in my own driveway and walked across the street. The back door to the church was a common entrance because it was the most convenient to the parking area. Not only did church members use it on a regular basis but so did Norma Cantrell, the janitor, the occasional vagrant, and anybody who needed help from the pastor’s discretionary fund. For the convenience of members, the door was unlocked during Sunday services, but it didn’t stay that way during the week. It was kept locked to prevent just anybody from walking in at will. There was a loud buzzing doorbell for the purpose of summoning help.

  And I used it. I knew Pastor Ledbetter was in there—his car parked partially hidden out front proved that. But did he answer it? No, he did not.

  Looking through the glass panes in the door, I felt a chill run down my back. The last time I’d looked through the glass panes of a door, I’d seen what I never wanted to see again. This time, though, I saw no shoes and no movement anywhere inside. What could he be doing? Nobody could concentrate on writing a sermon with the racket the doorbell was making. Because I didn’t let up on it. In fact, my finger was about to give out from pressing on the bell. You’d think nobody could ignore the urgency of it. What if there was a fire? What if someone desperately needed help? What if that someone was suffering a spiritual crisis? How could he ignore it?

  Well, I thought as I finally turned away, maybe he’d slipped out the front again and was gone. I didn’t believe it.

  So I walked with purpose back across the street, got in my car, and drove back to Taft Street. There was no sign of the pastor, but his car was still there. And, fortunately, so were two empty parking spaces three cars behind the yellow Mercedes.

  I avoid parallel parking whenever I can, but with two spaces right together I was able to drive straight in and had to back up only twice to fit nicely into one of them.

  Turning off the ignition, I made myself comfortable, thankful that the day was clear and moderately warm. I settled in to await the appearance of the pastor. Then it occurred to me that someone might walk by and ask what I was doing just sitting there. They might even wonder if I’d lost my way home, and then word would get out that I was showing signs of dementia—the instant accusation for every misunderstood word or action at the first emergence of gray hair on one’s head. I didn’t care. I was going to sit there until the pastor showed himself, and, unless he walked home, he would have to come to his car sooner or later.

  I glanced at my watch and wished I’d thought to bring a snack or the newspaper or a book. A stakeout is not the most constructive way to spend one’s time.

  • • •

  Fast becoming bored with checking my watch every two minutes, I began to wonder if Pastor Ledbetter would stay in the church all afternoon. If he did, I was in big trouble. My kidneys were already giving notice that they were ticking along quite normally, even though there was no relief in sight. Plenty of bushes were around, but it was broad daylight so they were out. Plenty of houses, too, occupied by people I knew, but how would I explain knocking on a door and asking for the use of a bathroom when everybody knew I lived only a block and a half away? I’d really be accused of dementia then.

  I gasped as a car pulled up beside me and stopped. Glancing through two car windows, I saw a man put his arm across the back of the seat, turn to look out the rear window, then back his car into the space behind me. That car slipped into the space as slick as you please—no backing up and pulling forward, it just nestled in there like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Watching through the mirrors, I saw a middle-aged man get out, slam the door, and walk purposefully down the sidewalk, swinging a briefcase. Selling insurance, I thought, and breathed easier because he was headed away from the church. He’d paid no attention to me, may not even have noticed I was there.

  So I continued to sit and watch, squirming occasionally as I wondered how long I’d be able to hold off the increasing pressure. Images of my bathroom danced in my head.

  Then the front door of the church opened. I sat up in a hurry, staring hard through the windshield. For a minute or so, no one appeared. Then a black-clad figure slid through the door, closed and seemed to lock it, then disappeared again.

  I squinched up my eyes, wondering where he’d gone. Then he reappeared from behind one of the columns on the front of the church. Looking right, then left, the pastor—for it was him—quickly came down the few steps, turned hurriedly, and fast-walked to his yellow car.

  Fearing he would see me, I flung myself across the console, then thought, Why in the world? Here, I’d been waiting a solid hour or more, and the
re he was. Why didn’t I get out and accost him on the street?

  I don’t know why I hid—it was just an unthinking reaction to his appearance. Maybe I didn’t want to be accused of spying on him. But I was completely within my rights to pursue him, given his efforts to avoid me, yet I felt guilty for doing it. Although I intended to give the pastor a piece of my mind, I am averse to creating a public spectacle. To confront him on the sidewalk and have it out with him where any number of people could watch and listen was simply not my way. I wanted to corner him inside somewhere so I could freely vent everything I had against him, demand to know why he was making himself scarce, and tell him in no uncertain terms that I was going to make a clean breast of everything I knew to Detective Ellis. One just doesn’t do all that in public.

  Well, no more hiding. I’d follow him until he was cornered in a place more suitable for the showdown I intended to have. But by the time I regained my resolve to face him down and had sat up, he was in his car and cranking it.

  I turned on my ignition, put the car into reverse, and backed into the car behind me—not hard, but enough to let me know that I was not in an extralong parking space. Ramming the gear into drive, I pulled up and nudged the car in front. Pastor Ledbetter’s car eased onto the street and drove off, while I cut my wheel to the right and reversed until I felt a tiny bump. Then I turned the wheels to the left and pulled forward to another tiny bump. After a few more tiny bumps, front and rear, I was finally able to pull out into the street.

  Perhaps I should’ve stopped and checked for any damage, but the nudges hadn’t been hard—just little bumps. Which is why cars have bumpers, isn’t it?

  There was no sign of the yellow Mercedes, but I’d seen it cross Summit, heading toward Main Street. So that’s the way I went, looking left and right at each intersection, and didn’t see even a flash of yellow. Around and around I went, looking and watching until I could stand it no longer. I headed back down Polk Street, pulled into my own driveway, and ran inside to the bathroom. Even though I’d lost the pastor and, for all I knew, he was on the run, it was a great relief because some things are more urgent than others.