by Ann B. Ross
“Yes’m, my ears get cold.”
“Okay, when did you . . . Oh, I remember! You unwrapped it when we parked in the fire lane. It was right before we got out of the car. Did you leave it in here?” I brushed my hand across the front seat where he’d been sitting, then felt around the floorboard.
“No’m, I ’member having it after that. It got hung up on a bush one time when we was goin’ down that hill. It mighta got outta kilter then, ’cause I ’member stumblin’ on the long end when I went down them steps.”
“Okay, what did you do with it when you stumbled? Did you wrap it back around your neck?”
“Yes’m, I kinda think I did. I wouldna left it, I know that.”
So then I asked the question whose answer I feared to hear. “When the deputy picked you up on the highway, did you still have it?”
There was a long silence from the backseat. “No’m, I guess I didn’t ’cause my ears was about to freeze off.”
Oh, me. I leaned my head against the steering wheel, feeling another testy interview with Detective Ellis coming on.
Then I sat up, stiffening my spine and accepting my fate. “That means, Lamar, that you lost it at the house or when you went back up the hill or on the access road when you were running to the highway. And, that being the case, I can tell you exactly where it is now.”
“Where?” Lamar asked eagerly. “I sure do need it.”
“You won’t get it anytime soon. The deputies would’ve searched every inch of that place after the alarms went off. So if you lost it anywhere around there, you can bet they have it. And they’ll be looking for the owner.”
Another long silence ensued as he processed that information. Then he said, “That don’t sound too good.”
Well, no, it didn’t.
“How long had you had the scarf, Lamar?” I asked, wondering if the distinctive plaid design and filthy condition would immediately identify its owner, especially since its owner made frequent use of the sheriff’s department’s taxi service.
“I ain’t had it a whole year yet!” he said, suddenly realizing, it seemed, the value of what he’d lost. “Best thing I ever found at the mission, and now it’s gone. I don’t know what I’m gonna wrap up in, an’ it’s gettin’ on to wintertime when I’ll need it worser’n I do now.”
“We’ll find you something else. Don’t worry about it.” What was done was done, I thought with a despairing sigh, and I had to accept it. Our fate, in the form of a recycled Burberry scarf, was now in the hands of the sheriff’s forensic evidence team.
I edged the car back into the street and drove to the mission on Railroad Avenue. “Here we are,” I said, drawing up near the door. A single light burned over the door, indicating, I hoped, that beds were still available. I turned toward the backseat. “Look, Lamar, I’d never encourage anyone to tell an untruth, so if anybody asks, you must answer. But keep in mind that you don’t have to add anything extra.”
He opened the door, put one foot out of the car, and turned to me. “Yes, ma’am, but don’t you worry. Them boys don’t half believe anything I say, anyway.”
“Well then, thank you for all your help tonight. I couldn’t have done it without you.” Although by that time, I was wishing I had.
Chapter 37
By the time I got home, I was no longer concerned about entering an empty house. I was too tired to care. If anybody was waiting to get me, they could just have me.
That thought didn’t keep me from turning on lights as I went through each room, looking behind the sofa and into the hall closet—the pantry, too—and making sure all the doors were locked. Trudging up the stairs, I firmly put out of my mind all the possible future ramifications of the night’s activities. There was nothing I could do to forestall any of them. All I wanted was a bath and a bed.
And when I’d gotten both, I lay in bed, all but asleep with only two questions running through my mind—could fingerprints be detected on Scottish wool, and how in the world was I going to get through a whole day in Roberta’s company?
Maybe Sam would be home early and save me. If he left Raleigh about sunup, he’d be home by noon or so. That would give me a good excuse to forgo Mr. Darcy, but it wouldn’t help Coleman. He’d have to put up with Roberta’s visits all afternoon.
Then I began thinking, as I turned over in bed, about the matter of fingerprints on Lamar’s scarf. I wasn’t concerned about Lamar’s prints—obviously they’d be on it. But mine would be, too. I’d picked up the dirty thing with an eye to putting it in the washing machine and had refrained only after reading the label.
It occurred to me that if I’d ignored the cleaning instructions and washed it anyway, I wouldn’t be worried about fingerprints now. Of course, Lamar might’ve ended up with a Burberry handkerchief instead of a scarf, but his loss could’ve been rectified by the purchase of a hat with earflaps.
Then with a sudden eye-opening thought, it came to me that cloth might not be the ideal conveyer of print evidence. I mean, imprints of fingertips might not adhere to cloth as they would to more solid surfaces, so the investigators would have nothing to work with. But what did I know? Still, it was something to be devoutly wished, and I fell asleep with that hopeful thought.
• • •
I woke that Sunday morning so stiff and sore I could barely crawl out of bed. Hunched over and shambling along, I made it to the shower stall and stood under a hot spray until things loosened up enough to return me to a semblance of normality. Then I took two aspirins.
And all along, a cloud of dread hovered over my head. I don’t want to do it. How can I get out of it? Think of a good excuse not to do it. Maybe I could get sick.
I sighed, giving in to the inevitable, as I finished dressing and headed for the telephone to put my plan of giving Coleman a full day’s peace into action.
“Roberta?” I said when she answered. “It’s Julia. I hope I’m not calling too early, but I wondered if you’d like to have breakfast with me. We could go on to church together afterward.”
“Oooh, that sounds delightful,” Roberta said with an eagerness that put me to shame. “But, you know, I was going to take some banana nut bread to Coleman this morning. I’d hate for him to miss that.”
“I expect Binkie and little Gracie are taking care of his breakfast, don’t you think?”
“I guess so, but I am so torn. I’d love to have breakfast with you, Julia, but I don’t want him to go without.”
“I promise you, he won’t.”
“Well, if we do it, what about Sunday school?”
I declare, I didn’t think it would be so hard to do something nice.
“I say we bypass it. I want to have enough time for you to give me the background of Pride and Prejudice so I can appreciate it as it deserves.”
“Oh, Julia, that’s exactly what I was thinking. You are such a perceptive reader and I know how you love good literature. That decides it, I would love to share breakfast and that most wonderful eighteenth century with you!”
Telling her that I would pick her up and that we’d go to the country club grill, I hung up, feeling virtuous after working so hard to do a good deed for Coleman’s benefit. And, come to think of it, for Roberta’s benefit, too—she didn’t need to be displaying such a juvenile infatuation so publicly. I mean, she was a librarian, for goodness sakes.
Still, I dreaded being tied up all day for I had counted on being able to corner Pastor Ledbetter after church—the only time and place it looked as if I’d be able to catch him. So it wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate Roberta’s company, it was just that I wasn’t looking forward to being in it all day.
After having a quick cup of coffee, I prepared to leave the house. I didn’t fear missing a call from Sam—he’d know I’d be at church—but it would’ve been comforting to know that he was on his way home. Especially when I walked out to the
car and felt the damp cold from dark, low-hanging clouds. Abbotsville might not be in the direct path of the oncoming storm, but we might well be on the sidelines of it.
• • •
Roberta started talking as soon as she got in the car, and she talked through her scanty breakfast of oatmeal and fruit and continued talking until we got out of the car in the church parking lot. I learned more than I ever wanted to know about comedies of manners, making good marriages, and the perils of having too many daughters in the eighteenth century.
Entering the church a minute or two late, I quickly settled into my usual pew with Roberta attached to my side. With a quick glance around, I determined that the Pickens family, including Lloyd, had not made it to church. Maybe the weather was too raw for the little girls with their bad colds, or maybe they were enjoying a leisurely breakfast. I caught sight of LuAnne sitting across the aisle—she was almost hidden beside Leonard, who would make about three of her. And Callie and some of her brood of children were near the front, but I didn’t see Emma Sue. Her usual place was in the second row of pews next to the aisle on the far side. That way she could be seen by the congregation to be in attendance, as well as being conveniently positioned to offer smiles, frowns, and nods as called for by the various points made by the pastor.
But what I was really interested in was who was going to occupy the pulpit that morning. Somebody was waiting, for I could see black-robe-clad knees jutting out from the chair behind the podium. Who those knees belonged to was the question.
Finally, after the assistant pastor, Rob Timmons, read the Scripture passages and drew attention to the notices in the bulletin and led us in two hymns and the responsive reading, those knees stood up and I was at last able to set my eyes on Pastor Ledbetter.
I squinched them up and glared at him, thinking to myself, You won’t get away from me this time. Not once, not once, though, throughout the entire sermon did he look at my side of the sanctuary. His gaze swept the far side of the congregation and the middle of it, then back again—just as an orator should do to keep the attention of his listeners—but it was as if the side where I sat were blocked from his view.
I didn’t care. I understood it. He couldn’t meet my eyes, but I kept them fixed on him. He knew he was in for it, and I intended to set him straight before he could get away from me again.
I was so wrapped up in what I aimed to say to him that I almost missed what he was saying to us—something I often did, as my mind tended to wander during the hour of the Sunday morning service. You won’t believe what the man preached on. As soon as his words began to penetrate, I almost got up and walked out.
Taking his text from several verses in the Book of Proverbs, the pastor warned us of the dire consequences of letting our tongues run loose. “He that refraineth his lips is wise,” he began, then went on for twenty minutes or so on the perils of talking too much, talking out of school, and telling everything one knows, risking disbelief in one’s listeners because they get tired of hearing you go on and on, and risking the loss of one’s witness as well, because people avoid gossipy chatterboxes like the plague.
And finally, he summed up by citing another proverb. “Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise; and he that shuteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding,” he intoned, and made particular note that the word man actually meant “person,” man or woman. With that, he darted a quick glance in my direction, and if I hadn’t already figured out to whom he was addressing his sermon about not telling everything one knows, I would’ve caught on then.
I was infuriated, absolutely beside myself, squirming in the pew to keep from springing to my feet and making a public spectacle of myself. Even Roberta, whose mind wanders worse than mine, looked concerned and, whispering, asked if I needed to go to the bathroom.
Even a fool, he’d said, appears wise when he—or she—keeps his—or her—mouth shut. That was what he thought of me, a fool who would be deemed wise only if I kept silent. As far as I was concerned, he’d stopped preaching and gone to meddling. He had just made it personal, calling my character and my intellect into question.
“Roberta,” I whispered as we stood for the closing hymn, “I want to ask the pastor about Emma Sue, but there’s no sense in you waiting around here. Why don’t you run on over to my house and wait for me there? Then we’ll go on to your house.” I handed the door keys to her. “Just make yourself at home.”
She nodded and whispered back, “Okay, I need to go to the bathroom anyway.”
So I impatiently bided my time during the final prayer, the doxology, and the recessional. Then, dodging and sidling between others as they rose from the pews and congregated in the aisles, I edged my way down the central aisle and out into the narthex, where I intended to plant myself behind Pastor Ledbetter until he’d shaken the hand of every parishioner who was lining up to get out the door. I would wait till the last one was gone, then I’d have it out with him. He wouldn’t escape me this time.
But he already had. Instead of Pastor Ledbetter shaking hands with church members swarming at the door, it was Rob Timmons, smiling and accepting compliments on the way he’d moved the service along by making short work of announcements, hymns, and the benediction, keeping it all within the allotted hour and fifteen minutes and not a minute longer. Presbyterians are known to appreciate timeliness.
Chapter 38
I dashed down the front staircase from the narthex to the basement, which housed the Fellowship Hall, the pastor’s office, the kitchen, and the robing room of the choir. Stopping briefly to rattle the locked door of the pastor’s office, I hurried on to the room where the choir members were divesting themselves.
“Have you seen the pastor?” I asked the first tenor I came to. “Did he come down with you?”
“Uh, well, I think so. You might ask one of the basses. They’re the last in the recessional, so they might’ve seen him.”
That made sense, for at the close of the services, Pastor Ledbetter always followed the choir down the center aisle of the sanctuary, hymnbook in hand and singing lustily, as the congregation stood, watching and feebly mouthing the words until the choir dispersed in the narthex. Then it was every member for him- or herself.
Dodging the swirls of maroon polyester as the choir quickly disrobed, I accosted the tallest bass. “Jim, did the pastor follow you down here?”
“Yes, he came down the stairs right behind me.”
“Where did he go? I really need to speak to him.”
“Marsha?” Jim said, turning to the lead soprano. “Did you see where Mr. Ledbetter went?”
“Straight out the back door. He handed me his robe to hang up for him. Said he had to get home to Emma Sue.”
I flew out of the choir room, pushed through the back door, and surveyed the parking lot. The preacher’s space was empty.
Foiled again! And not only that but I couldn’t even follow him—Roberta was waiting. I stood there, mortally tempted to abandon her and make my apologies later.
But turning aside, I sighed. Maybe it isn’t meant to be today, I thought, trying to take comfort in my Presbyterian predestinarian views. I drew my coat closed, huddled down against the cold, and proceeded across the parking lot toward my house. Church members were hurrying to their cars, doors opening and closing as motors roared to life and cars pulled out onto Polk Street. I waved to several as I went on my way, but no one, including me, was eager to stand around and talk. I was distraught to have missed the pastor again, angry that he was so obviously avoiding me, and finally resigned to my fate of watching television all afternoon. One good thing, though, I now knew where to find him, closed-up house or not.
As I crossed Polk Street, I tried to console myself by planning to take advantage of the captive afternoon to think through my next moves. Surely, the hours of boredom ahead could be put to good use. For one thing, I now knew that the fire lane—the a
ccess road—made the gatekeeper’s record of visitors of little value in narrowing down the list of suspects. Anybody could’ve gotten to Connie’s house with no one the wiser, as indeed Lamar and I had done until I learned the hard way that the house was wired from one end to the other.
But, and at that point I stopped on the steps of my front porch. Going over in my mind what we had done, I recalled why Lamar and I had ventured down the hillside and up to the side of the house in the first place—we had seen something strange going on inside the house. I pictured that eerie, bluish block of light glowing in the dark without illuminating anything in the back room. We had seen it come on and go out, then come on again—had it been a sleeping and waking up again computer screen like the one Lloyd had? I knew that his needed a tap on a key to rouse it from slumber, which meant that someone had been in the house doing the tapping. Which also meant that all the while that we were creeping closer and closer, someone had been watching us.
But, I thought again as I went up another step and stopped again, if someone had gotten into the house before us, why hadn’t that someone set off the alarms?
My breath caught in my throat—only one person would know how to set the alarms and how to turn them off, and only one person would know how to get out of the house and away while Lamar and I floundered on the bouncing cover of the swimming pool and scrambled back up the hillside—Connie’s husband, owner of the house and keeper of its keys.
“Roberta?” I called as I opened the front door and went inside. “It’s me.”
“Oh, there you are,” she said, coming into the hall from the library. “I just love your home, Julia. It’s so warm and comfortable, and you have some beautiful pieces. The Hepplewhite sideboard in the dining room is magnificent. Where did you get it?” Roberta had a tendency to ask inappropriate questions.
“Thank you, Roberta. It was Wesley Lloyd Springer’s mother’s sideboard, which at one time I thought of getting rid of. I’m glad I didn’t.” There was no need to share with Roberta my past fury toward my first husband. “Are you ready to go?”
