by Ann B. Ross
“Now, Miss Julia,” she said, pushing herself to her feet, “I want you to stop worrying about this. I’m looking after your interests, and I assure you that no one seriously considers you a suspect. The only thing,” she said, then hesitated before continuing. “Well, they’re trying to figure out how you got blood on your hand. You didn’t get it from the puddle under her head—that hadn’t been disturbed. There was a smear or two in some droplets on the floor, but not enough to account for the transfer on the counter. See, Miss Julia, there was a clear, unmistakable bloody print of your palm on the edge of the counter above the dishwasher.”
“I explained that!” I cried. “I reached up over Connie to hold on to the counter to pull myself upright. It was the only way I could get up.”
“I know, and so do they. It’s just that they can’t figure out where or how you’d gotten blood on your hand before you reached up and smeared it on the counter.”
“Well, Lord, I don’t know. Maybe I put my hand down to steady myself while I was squatting beside her. Oh, my goodness, Binkie, I was in such a state, there’s no telling what I did. I didn’t even know I had blood on my hand until I got to the car.”
“Well, that’s one of the issues that they’ll turn over to the SBI. The only other question that nags the investigators is why you visited Ms. Clayborn the day she died—that’s never been answered to their satisfaction. Especially since they know from all the ladies they interviewed that you disliked her. That being the case, it doesn’t seem reasonable to them that you would go to see her. Of course,” Binkie said, with what she thought was a conspiratorial smile, “they don’t understand the social etiquette that requires a lady to be courteous and gracious even, maybe especially, to someone she simply can’t stand.”
Uh-huh, I thought, and how do I make them understand the ins and outs of social etiquette when being gracious had been the last thing on my mind when I visited Connie Clayborn?
A piercing scream from the library made Binkie jump to her feet. “I’d better see what’s happening,” she said, hurrying to the door. “They may be killing each other.”
A poor choice of words, I thought, given the circumstances, and continued to sit and think over what Binkie had said. But mostly to think of what she hadn’t. For instance, she hadn’t asked any details about that runner or skier or whatever he was, and she’d very effectively veered away from discussing the Ledbetters’ possible complicity. And she hadn’t even asked how I knew about a back entrance to the Clayborn house or how I knew about a computer going off and on—clear evidence, it seemed to me, of an unknown—and not even looked-for—agent of Connie’s death. And that scarf so unfortunately found at or near the scene? She’d not asked one question about that, either.
Why hadn’t she? Maybe it was because she knew more than she wanted to let on at this stage of the investigation, especially about my bloody palm print on the granite countertop. But, more likely, I reluctantly decided, it was because she hadn’t believed me. She thought that I was dreaming up wild and crazy scenarios because of my nerves.
Well, Ms. Binkie Enloe Bates, we’ll just see about that.
Chapter 44
Inquest, I thought, and braved the pillow fight in the library to find the dictionary. On my way back to the living room, I heard the clatter of a snowplow and looked out the window to see a truck strewing sand or salt or both on the street. That was an encouraging sign that the weather might be improving. So I sat down and looked up the definition of inquest: a judicial inquiry of some matter, usually before a jury.
I closed the book and leaned my head back against the chair. The inquiry conducted by Detective Ellis alone had been bad enough, and it hadn’t been improved by the presence of either Lieutenant Peavey or Binkie. To think I might now have to endure a public inquiry as to my actions, motives, and thoughts was enough to chill my bones.
I got up and checked the thermostat. Then I went to the front window and saw that a light snow was falling. My hope for better weather might have been premature. I shivered and thought how nice it was to have everybody safe and warm inside, but how much longer I could put up with a fully occupied house was another matter. And how much longer I could stay cooped up without freedom of movement was an even bigger matter. How tantalizing it was to know that the Ledbetters were only a few, though highly treacherous, steps away.
Did I dare take those steps? Yes, I had to. I had to have it out with Pastor Ledbetter and, more than that, I felt I should warn him that he’d better clear the air before he was called to testify at a public inquest. If he was motivated into all his evasive actions by concern that others would know that he couldn’t control his wife’s mood swings, he’d be hard-pressed to keep that to himself on a witness stand. And more even than that, I wanted to know what he had to say for himself.
If, for instance, he was motivated into all his strange behavior by something worse than concern about his pastoral reputation, then, warning or no warning from me, he was on his own. I couldn’t help him.
“Miss Julia?” Lillian stood at the door. “Miss Binkie and Miss Hazel Marie say they makin’ lunch for the chil’ren, so I’m gonna go rest my eyes for a while. They say if you want hot dogs, come on to the kitchen.”
I smiled and shook my head. “I think I’ll pass. But you’ve given me a good idea. After I call Sam, I may need to rest my eyes, too.”
• • •
Closing the bedroom door, I sat on the side of the bed and punched in Sam’s cell phone number.
“I hope you’re safe and warm in a hotel room,” I said when he answered. “And not on the road somewhere.”
He laughed. “I’m not on the road, believe me. It’s bad down here, but the forecast says we’ll get a few degrees above freezing this afternoon, so things are looking up. How is it up there?”
“The same, but we’ve heard nothing about a warm-up. But, Sam, don’t let a few degrees above freezing tempt you to start out. The temperature is likely to drop tonight, and the roads will be worse than ever.”
“I know,” he said, “but I tell you, Julia, I’ve had enough of this hotel living. There’re three others on the committee who’re stuck here like I am, so we’re going to try to play some bridge or poker or something to get through the afternoon. I miss you, honey, and I miss being home.”
Hearing a hint of loneliness in his voice, I forced a little laugh. “You’d probably run out and look for a hotel room if you were here. I have five children having the time of their lives at the top of their voices, and four women, including me, who’re just before going crazy with cabin fever. You’re lucky to be out of it.”
We laughed together, as he agreed that he might be in better circumstances than I. Then I gave him a rundown of who was here and how we’d slept the previous night, although I refrained from mentioning Lamar Owens. Once Sam was home, I would tell him all about Lamar and how helpful he’d been, although I might gloss over how and where he’d lost his scarf. In fact, if the scarf revealed no evidence of its handlers, I might just leave that out altogether. No need to bring up something that had no bearing on the case.
So after a few more personal comments to each other, we ended the call. I hung up with his warm voice still echoing in my head, thankful that he was safe, but wishing that the temperature would rise and the ice would melt so we could all get back to normal.
But since that wasn’t in the immediate offing, I got up and went to the closet. Finding nothing that I needed, I made a mental note to go shopping just as soon as I could get the car out. I stood by the hanging clothes for a few minutes, pondering what I’d seen through the open door of Lloyd’s room across the hall on my way to my bedroom.
Opening the door to the hall, I listened to the voices from the kitchen. Then I tiptoed across the hall and lifted Hazel Marie’s fur-lined, mid-calf-high, waterproof boots and tiptoed back to my room. Then I went to Sam’s closet.
“Miss Julia!” Lloyd’s voice came from the foot of the stairs. “You want some lunch?”
I hurried to lean over the banister. “No, honey. I’ll get something later. I’m going to rest for a while.”
“Okay, we’ll be in the library when we finish. And, Miss Julia, it’s up to thirty-two degrees outside, so the ice might start melting this afternoon. We can’t go outside yet, so Mama and Miss Binkie know some games we can play. We’ll try to be quiet.”
“Have fun, honey. You won’t bother me.”
I slipped back into my room, satisfied that the crew downstairs would be well occupied, but on edge because if I was going to do it, I had to do it before the melting began. I knew for a fact that if the weather improved, it wouldn’t be long before power was restored, and Pastor Ledbetter would be on the move again.
I undressed, wishing for long underwear, which I didn’t have, but pulling on two heavy sweaters instead. Then, rummaging through Sam’s hanging clothes, I brought out a pair of wool pants that he rarely wore. Pulling them on, I almost despaired at the fit. They didn’t. I had to clasp a fist full of wool at my waist to hold them up, and even with that, there was an awful lot of material hanging down in the seat. Well, I didn’t intend to turn my back on anybody, so I didn’t worry about it.
Instead, I found one of my belts and, pulling the trousers up to my chest, fastened it around my waist and hoped that would hold them.
But there was a lot of leg material puddling around my feet—Sam was taller than I—so I pulled on Hazel Marie’s boots and stuffed the extra material inside them. Looking in the full-length mirror—which was probably an unwise thing to do—I decided that I looked like an out-of-uniform paratrooper going AWOL from an airborne unit.
Heavy coat, Sam’s huge fur-lined gloves, a wool scarf—not a Burberry—wrapped around my head and neck, and Sam’s fishing hat on top, I was ready to brave the elements and corner Pastor Ledbetter before the ice melted.
My intent was to slip downstairs and out the front door while everybody was in the kitchen eating lunch. I had my hand on the bedroom doorknob when I heard the crunching and crackling of tires on ice and snow and, hopefully, sand. Hurrying to the front window, I looked down at a patrol car sliding to the curb, the chains on its tires notwithstanding. Coleman got out, a heavy sack in his arms, and proceeded to sprinkle Ice Melt on my front walk and steps. Then he rang the doorbell.
A stampede ensued downstairs as all the children ran through the hall to see who was there.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Gracie sang out, and there was a hubbub of voices welcoming him.
I cracked the door to the hall so I could listen, then quickly closed it as I heard Lillian come out of her room and go downstairs.
With the children talking excitedly, telling Coleman about their night on the floor, I could see my plan of slipping out fading away.
Then I heard Coleman say, “No, we had a big lunch, thanks anyway, Lillian. I have to be back on duty at six, and all I’d like is a couple of hours of sleep in a warm place. Honey,” he went on as I pictured him turning to Binkie, “there’s not a generator available between here and Atlanta, so you’re here for another night if Miss Julia won’t mind.”
Hazel Marie broke in. “Of course she won’t mind. But, Coleman, you must be dead on your feet. Come on upstairs and I’ll change the sheets in Lloyd’s room. It’s the quietest room in the house.”
“No, don’t change sheets for me. All I want is a place to stretch out.”
Quickly shutting my door as I heard them all start up the stairs, I hurried to turn down my bed, thump my fist in the pillow, and hightail it to the bathroom. I wouldn’t put it past someone to stick their head in my room to tell me that Coleman would be sleeping across the hall.
They did attempt to moderate their voices as they passed my door, somebody whispering, “Be real quiet. Miss Julia’s sleeping.”
Well, no, I wasn’t. I was burning up in two sweaters, wool pants, coat, scarf, hat, boots, and gloves in the bathroom. So I shed the top layer and waited for the noisy parade to go back downstairs and leave Coleman and me to our peaceful naps.
Chapter 45
As the upstairs quieted down with the retreat of the stampede, I redressed and peeked out into the hall. Coleman’s door was closed, and the only sounds were drifting up from the distant kitchen. I eased my door closed—as if I were sleeping soundly behind it—and walked softly to the stairs. Down I went, almost holding my breath, and slithered in Hazel Marie’s rubber-soled boots to the front door.
Closing it as quietly behind me as I could, I stood on the porch and surveyed the snow-covered yard, Coleman’s car at the curb, and the lowering clouds that darkened the afternoon. Then I approached the three steps to the yard, decided that the Ice Melt had yet to do its job, and sat down on the edge of the porch. Fearing broken bones and who-knows-what-else, I didn’t dare attempt to walk down the steps, so I scooted in a seated position from one step to the other until I could safely stand. Holding on to the snow-covered boxwoods that lined the porch, I gingerly put one foot in front of the other, smushing through the snow layer onto the crackling surface of ice underneath, then decided that the better part of valor was to get down on my hands and knees. It was dangerous going, but I was intent on crossing my side yard, pushing through the boundary plantings and popping out onto Mildred’s side yard, then progressing across her yard to finally come face-to-face with Pastor Ledbetter.
My only concern—well, not the only one but the one of the moment—was that Lillian would look out the window and see something like Bigfoot scooting across our yard on all fours.
Reaching the boundary between my and Mildred’s yards, I poked my head out of the thick plantings of azaleas, forsythias, and laurels and, pulling myself up by a dogwood limb, finally got to my feet. Light streamed from the windows of Mildred’s house onto the undisturbed snow as I looked around to determine the best way to approach the house.
Her stately home sat on a slight rise, so I faced a slick climb to the front porch. The first step I took upended me, and, while it took a minute to determine that nothing was broken, I decided that I shouldn’t cross that wide expanse on my feet. So, just as I’d crossed my own yard, I crawled.
On hands and knees I went, reminding me of the pastor’s trek to the same place the night before. No tall skier came to offer help, thank goodness. I headed for the large living room window that looked out over the side yard—how often I had sat in one of the Louis something-or-other chairs and gazed out that selfsame window. It was my intent to get to it, then, using the sill to pull myself upright, to carefully make my way to the front door by clinging to the side of the house.
Finally reaching the boxwoods, which Mildred loved as I did, lining the foundation, I pushed through them to the side of the house. Then, using the windowsill as a handhold, I pulled myself to my feet. And looked straight into Emma Sue’s face.
Her mouth dropped open, then she shrieked loud enough to be heard on Main Street and jumped out of her chair—where she’d been watching the new-fallen snow, I guessed—and flew out of the room, screaming as she went.
I quickly—well, as quickly as I could—sidestepped toward the front, holding for dear life to the side of the house. I could hear the uproar inside as Emma Sue sounded the alarm. Mildred screamed, “What is it! What is it! Ida Lee! Call the police! Hurry!” And a lower voice, the pastor’s, undoubtedly, trying to calm a hysterical Emma Sue.
“Mildred!” I yelled, banging against the side of the house as I scrambled along. “It’s me! Don’t call the police, it’s me!” Then, hearing Mildred call for her shotgun, I shrieked, “And don’t shoot, either!”
That didn’t help, so, slipping and sliding on the packed ice next to the house, I finally reached her columned front porch. Which was also covered with ice. Down I went on hands and knees, crawling as fast as I could to the door to cancel the call f
or help from the cops.
Reaching the door, I stretched up to ring the doorbell, then banged on the door, yelling, “It’s me, Mildred! Let me in!”
The door swung open and there stood Mildred, the shotgun her daddy had given her in one hand. “What in the world? Julia? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me! Who did you think it was?” I scrambled for a handhold on the jamb to help me rise, but my energy was spent. “Help me up, Mildred. I can’t make it.”
Between her and Ida Lee—mostly Ida Lee—I was able to get to my feet. “My deep apologies for my unorthodox arrival,” I said in a regal manner, ignoring the astonishment on their faces. “But, really, Mildred, I didn’t expect to be greeted by a gun stuck in my face.”
“Well, I didn’t expect you to come calling in that getup, either,” Mildred sputtered. “I mean, you are unrecognizable!” And she started laughing and couldn’t stop.
Ida Lee, bless her heart, took the shotgun from Mildred’s hand before she lost complete control, propped it in a corner, then took my arm. “Come in, Mrs. Murdoch. We’re so glad to have you.” Ida Lee knew how to treat an unexpected guest, no matter how inappropriately dressed.
I stepped farther into the large foyer, then realized that Sam’s pants had suffered some slippage, so that the legs were now blousing around the tops of Hazel Marie’s boots. So I took off the boots and rolled up the pants. I did the adjusting while looking around for Emma Sue and Pastor Ledbetter. “Where are they?” I demanded. “I’ve not risked a broken leg, hip, or neck to have them slip away from me again.”
