Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel

by Ann B. Ross

  “I guess he like them parkin’ lots.”

  “Sounds like he likes more than that.” I tightened my mouth at the thought. “Well, one thing’s for sure—we have to get Hazel Marie glamorized without telling her why. Thank goodness she’s willing to go to Velma on Monday—and not a moment too soon, either.” Pausing to consider the situation, I then said, “I don’t understand that man. You’d think he’d be grateful for what he has and not go running after something else. You know what they say, though—a tiger doesn’t change his stripes. Or is it a zebra?”

  “Well, but Miss Julia,” she said plaintively as she ignored my rhetorical question, “look like he be more careful if he foolin’ around. I mean, he got a office in Asheville, where nobody ’round here see who come an’ go. Why he pickin’ parkin’ lots to meet up with them women? Anybody could see him. We seen him, so he not hidin’ anything from anybody.”

  “Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe he wants to get caught. Maybe he wants Hazel Marie to run him off so he won’t feel guilty about breaking up the marriage.” I put my head on the table in despair. “No, I can’t believe that, but I don’t know what else to believe. What should we do, Lillian?”

  “They’s one thing we ought not do, an’ that’s tell Miss Hazel Marie. An’ I know you say you wish somebody tell you when Mr. Springer was cattin’ around, but I say we don’t know enough to be tellin’ anybody anything.”

  “I’m in total agreement with that,” I assured her. “We could’ve misread what we saw, so the thing to do is keep our eyes open for further mischief on his part. If he keeps on meeting strange women, we might have to have a little talk with him.”

  “Uh-uh, not me. If it come down to that, somebody else gonna have to do the talkin’.”

  “We’ll worry about it later,” I said. “What we have to do now is make sure Hazel Marie doesn’t find out. I don’t think she could handle anything else, as frail as she is now. But Lillian,” I went on as another worrisome thought hit me, “what if Lloyd happens to see him parked way off somewhere with one of those big-haired women? You know how that boy rides his bicycle all over town. He’d know Mr. Pickens’s car as soon as he saw it, no matter where it was.”

  “Oh, Law, that would be bad.” Lillian stopped and thought for a minute, then she said, “Why don’t you kinda talk ’round Robin Hood’s barn an’ let Mr. Pickens know he got to be more careful where he park?”

  “You mean hint around that his secret’s out? I might could do that if I catch him in the right mood. Recently, though, I’ve only seen him going and coming—and he’s usually the one who’s going. Which puts a whole new light on what he’s been doing.”

  I suddenly smacked the table with the flat of my hand and came to my feet. “Lillian, I’m not going to put up with whatever he’s into. I’m already doing my level best to keep him happy. He wants Brother Vern out? I’m arranging that. He wants James on his feet? Who got Granny Wiggins over there with her Epsom salts? Me, that’s who. And who’s been directing cooking lessons so Hazel Marie can feed him better than he deserves, and who’s talked Velma into working on her day off so Hazel Marie can get beautified? Me, again. And for whose benefit has all that been done? I’ll tell you—for Mr. Pickens’s benefit, that’s who. And does he appreciate it? No, apparently he does not. Now we find out that he’s willing to throw away a loving wife, two healthy babies, and a fine house. To say nothing of Lloyd, who worships the ground the man walks on.” My mouth was so tight by this time that I could hardly get the words out. “I tell you, I am not going to stand for it.”

  Lillian didn’t seem quite as exercised as I was. She looked up at me and said, “What you thinkin’ ’bout doin’?”

  I paced to the counter and back. “I’m going to give him a few more days. Just until Velma gets through with Hazel Marie and we get Brother Vern moved out. And if I don’t see a marked improvement by then, well, we’ll have a come-to-Jesus meeting. So, Lillian, you tell me if you see him anywhere in town with anybody—I don’t care what color her hair is, I want to know about it. I’m going to straighten him out if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “It jus’ might be,” Lillian murmured.

  “Might be what?”

  “The last thing you do.” Lillian rose from the table, sighing as she did. “I don’t know, Miss Julia, if you oughta ’front him like that. No tellin’ what he do, he think we been spyin’ on him.”

  “But that’s the thing! We haven’t been spying on him. He’s doing it right out in the open, in plain sight of everybody. What can he expect but to be seen? And eventually to have somebody report him to Hazel Marie? It would just kill her, Lillian, so if he has his eye on somebody else he can just be man enough to tell her to her face. I am not going to have this whole town talking and whispering behind her back while she thinks everything is just fine.”

  “Uh-huh,” Lillian said as she pulled a skillet out of a cabinet and set it on the stove. “Give it a few more days, that be the best thing. It could be we got it all wrong.” She turned to look at me. “I thought you said you had to get to the bank ’fore it close.”

  “Oh, yes, I do. I’m glad you reminded me. And,” I said, reaching for my coat, “I told James I’d mail his letters on my way. I’d better get going.”

  In my hurry, I snatched up my coat and knocked the pile of letters off the table. “Oh, my,” I said as five or six envelopes spread out across the floor. “That’s what always happens when you’re in a hurry.”

  I stooped down and gathered up the envelopes, noticing as I did some of the addresses. Still leaning over because it was getting harder every day to straighten up my back, I said, “Lillian, come look at this.”

  Finally regaining my posture, I put the envelopes on the counter for Lillian to see. “I know it’s a federal crime to interfere with the mail, but I think it’s okay if we just happen to see the addresses. Have you ever heard of any of these?”

  Lillian looked them over carefully, turning some toward her to better read them. “I know about this one: US Wounded Soldiers. I seen it on TV.”

  “You’re thinking of Wounded Warriors, aren’t you? That’s certainly a legitimate charity. But what about this one? Homeless of America? Or this one: Vet-Meds. Is that medicine for veterans or for veterinarians?” I shuffled through the envelopes again. “They’re all going to places like Omaha and Delaware and Newark. He doesn’t know anybody that far off.”

  “What that James writin’ to all them folks for?”

  “I don’t think he’s writing to them. See, they’re all preprinted and self-addressed envelopes—the kind you get in the mail that makes it easy for you to respond in some way.” I glanced over all the envelopes, intrigued now by the addressees. “They all look like charitable organizations of some kind, but I’ve never heard of any of them. The names are all just a little off. And look at this one.” I peered at the address: Lotería Internacional de España. “Looks like international something-or-other in, I think, Spain. It’s going to Madrid, and that’s in Spain.”

  “He don’t know nobody in Spain, I can tell you that.”

  “Well,” I said gathering up the envelopes, “I better go and get them in the mail. We can only commend him if he’s donating to worthy causes, although some of them, well, maybe all of them, seem a little iffy to me.”

  Chapter 31

  I opened my mouth several times that evening to tell Sam what Lillian and I had seen Mr. Pickens doing, but each time I ended up closing it again. I’ll tell you this, though: When I thought of how that unstable man was reverting to his premarital ways, I could hardly hold it in. I wanted to tell Sam so bad I could taste it.

  With great effort, though, I held my peace because I knew what Sam’s response would be. He’d tell me to stay out of it, that it wasn’t our business to interfere and that most likely I was worrying for nothing. And eventually he’d work it around so that I’d feel constra
ined to promise to leave well enough alone.

  I knew I couldn’t leave well enough alone because the situation wasn’t well enough to be left alone. That left me with the possibility of breaking a promise to Sam, so all I could do was avoid making a promise in the first place. Sooner or later, though, I would tell him because I didn’t like keeping anything from him and only did it when it was best for him not to know.

  So, because I couldn’t just sit there saying nothing, which would be unlike me, I came up with another subject that held far less peril.

  “I mailed some letters for James this afternoon,” I said, picking up my needlepoint. “I couldn’t help but see who they were addressed to and, Sam, they were all to what looked like charities of some kind.”

  “There’re all kinds out there,” Sam said placidly as he scanned the newspaper.

  “Yes, but I’d never heard of any of the ones he was mailing to. Some seemed familiar but on a closer look, they weren’t quite right.” I glanced up at him. “Not that I was being nosy. I just couldn’t help but see, and neither could Lillian.”

  “He’s probably sending small donations,” Sam said, then smiled. “Which means they’ll put him on a list, then sell the list, so he’ll get requests for more donations. I expect he’ll get tired of it pretty soon.”

  “Well, I don’t know. He’s doing an awful lot of mailing. Lloyd went to the post office for him at least twice that I know of and each time he had a stack of envelopes to mail. And you know, Sam, that even legitimate charities don’t stop after getting one donation. They’ll keep on at you.” I let my needlepoint drop to my lap. “Besides, why would he be donating to a charity in Spain?”

  That got Sam’s attention. He lowered the newspaper and looked at me. “In Spain? You sure it wasn’t Nigeria? That’s a different kettle of fish. Those international things are scams from the word Go. I’ll talk to him this weekend and warn him off. They prey on the elderly, you know.”

  “He’s not that old,” I said primly, knowing that James was younger than I was. “But do talk to him. I’d hate for him to be sending his money to unworthy causes.” I smiled. “I started to say his hard-earned money, but that wouldn’t be quite right, would it? Would you like a snack before we go to bed?”

  “No,” Sam said, a gleam in his eye. “I’d rather just go to bed.” So we did.

  The following morning—Saturday, it was—I stayed home. No cooking lesson was scheduled so Hazel Marie wasn’t expecting me, and I didn’t want to go anyway. I assumed Mr. Pickens wouldn’t be working, although he often did on weekends. But I didn’t want to run the risk of having to be civil to him and not be able to.

  Instead, I spent the morning on the telephone, checking in first with Mildred, who reassured me that the soup kitchen was on track.

  “We’ve rented that place you found, Julia,” she said, “and I’ve been busy phoning around to have the utilities turned on. Oh, I tell you, it’s invigorating to have something so worthwhile to occupy my time.”

  “And Brother Vern?” I asked. “What’s he doing to help?”

  “He’s in charge of renting tables and chairs. He wanted to buy them, but I said renting was cheaper—until we see how well things go, at least.”

  “That’s good, Mildred. You need to keep an eye on him.” Then, not wanting her to have any more second thoughts, I added, “Well, you’d have to for anybody—you know how easy it is to spend somebody else’s money.”

  “Do I ever. Anyway, he’s already hired a cook and two workers, so that’s a good start. They’re all busy cleaning the place and he says it’s beginning to sparkle. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know.”

  “Uh, Mildred,” I said, trying to tread carefully, “I thought he was going to run it with volunteers.”

  “Oh, there’ll be volunteers, all right. But first he has to have something they can volunteer for. You know, serving soup and so forth. But cleaning is hard work, so he happened to meet these people who needed jobs, so they’re on the payroll—at least temporarily. He can’t do it all himself—I mean with his health issues—and the sooner it gets done, the sooner he can open the doors.”

  “When does he plan to move in?”

  “Well, that’s a problem,” Mildred said as my heart sank. “I climbed those stairs, which wasn’t easy for me, and looked around. Those rooms really need refurbishing. I can’t expect him to live there the way it is, so I’ve called in Miss Parker—you know, the interior designer you used? She’s going to fix up that apartment so that it’s fit to live in.”

  “Mildred . . .” I started to issue another cautionary statement, but she didn’t give me a chance.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Julia, but don’t. I know what I’m doing and I’ve given Miss Parker a very tight budget. She’s to make it livable, and that’s all. In fact, I told her no special or custom orders. She has to buy everything off the rack, so to speak. And, besides, it’s giving me something to do.” She sighed. “Isn’t it wonderful when you find something that’s enjoyable as well as being a help to your fellow man?”

  I gave up after that, realizing that the more comfortable Mildred made the apartment for Brother Vern, the more likely he was to move in and stay there.

  I sat by the telephone for a few minutes, cogitating on what I should do. I no longer felt the urgency of working on the recipe book and scheduling cooks to teach Hazel Marie. Why knock myself out doing things to benefit such a man as Mr. Pickens, who was proving to be a low-down, tom-catting scoundrel?

  I buried my face in my hands, just so torn up over the harsh words that were coming to mind. I liked Mr. Pickens. Even when he teased me and occasionally laughed at me, I liked him. And I was eternally grateful for his loving treatment of Lloyd. There were not many men who would so unhesitatingly take under their wing what Lillian would call a yard child.

  But why was he doing what he was obviously doing? I had never pegged him as a man who was so shallow as to look elsewhere just because his wife was burdened with children and couldn’t cook worth a flip and was too busy to have her roots colored.

  I sighed, then reached for the telephone. The only thing I knew to do was to continue on with the recipe book. Everyone would know something was wrong if I quit in midstream. There’d be questions if I did, especially from Hazel Marie. I couldn’t have that because I would have no answers. So I determined to keep on keeping on, and while I was at it I’d add up all I was doing for Mr. Pickens’s sake and, when the time came, I would put it to his account in no uncertain terms. Maybe that way, if he walked out on another wife, as he was wont to do, it wouldn’t break my heart.

  So I called Helen Stroud. I hadn’t seen much of Helen since her husband had been convicted and jailed for fraudulent use of money or some such thing, then was found dead in a toolshed, overcome, apparently, by the sight of his erstwhile wife in the company of Thurlow Jones—a sight that would undo the healthiest of men. Helen was still coming to church, although there was a period in which she visited several other churches in an effort to rehabilitate Thurlow—which apparently hadn’t worked. But she hadn’t come back to the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class, the class of which she’d been either president or teacher for as long as I’d known her.

  I couldn’t blame her. Every woman in that class knew everything about everybody and made sure everybody else knew it, too. If I’d been in Helen’s reduced circumstances, I’d have stayed away, too. She was working now, I’d heard, at another part-time job—she’d had several. She’d been a receptionist for a while at some nonprofit organization, then for an orthodontist, and after that she’d worked in a dress shop in Asheville. It wasn’t that she couldn’t keep a job—Helen was the most organized and efficient woman I knew. More likely it was because she was ill suited for a low-level job. And the last one hired was generally the first one fired. The economy, you know.

  “Helen?” I said when she
answered the phone, then went immediately into my song-and-dance about Hazel Marie’s plight and my plan to write a recipe book. When I ended by asking for a main dish recipe that she wouldn’t mind demonstrating in Hazel Marie’s kitchen, I was shamed by her abject gratitude for being included.

  “Anytime, Julia,” she said. “I would love to do that and at the same time see those babies and visit with you and Hazel Marie. Just tell me when you want me and I’ll be there.”

  “Well, Hazel Marie has something to do on Monday and Emma Sue will be there Tuesday. Any day after that will be fine.”

  “Then let’s do Wednesday morning. No, wait—I have a dental appointment then. And,” she went on, a bit sadly, I thought, “I’m working the rest of the week. I’m sorry, Julia, could I do it maybe the following week?”

  “Of course, I’ll check with you before then. But I’ll go ahead and put your recipe in the book.”

  “Could I have two?” Her eagerness only shamed me more because I was so aware of what a poor friend I’d been during her self-imposed exile from all the social activities of late.

  “I’d love to have two from you, but you’ll only have to show her how to do one.”

  “Oh, good, then I’ll give you the recipe for lasagna and for shrimp creole. Unless you already have them.”

  “No, I don’t. Which one will you demonstrate?”

  “The shrimp creole. It’s easier and doesn’t take as long to put together. Will that be all right?”

  “It’ll be perfect.”

  Helen Stroud’s Lasagna

  1/2 pound ground chuck

  1/4 cup fine bread crumbs

  2 tablespoons milk

  1 egg, slightly beaten

  2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese

  2 tablespoons parsley

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  1/8 teaspoon pepper

  2 tablespoons butter