Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble: A Novel

by Ann B. Ross

  Almost too tired to talk as Sam drove my car toward the house, I wasn’t too tired to think. And what I was thinking was how much I hoped that the night was not yet over for Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens. And how bereft I would feel if I learned later that all my efforts to set his sights firmly on his wife had been for naught.

  Chapter 37

  “I hope James isn’t getting sick,” I said, as Sam turned onto Polk Street. “The last thing we need is a case of flu infecting everybody in the house. A cold would be about as bad.”

  “He didn’t have any obvious symptoms when I looked in on him,” Sam said, heading into the driveway. “I was going to check on him again before we left, but his lights were out. I figured it was best to let him sleep.”

  “Sleep is what I’m planning to do. I told Lillian to take her time coming in tomorrow. Do you know that she fried some bacon and put it in the refrigerator for their breakfast in the morning? She showed Lloyd how to unwrap the tinfoil and put it in the oven for a few minutes while those frozen biscuits that Hazel Marie buys are baking. That will be a help to Hazel Marie and may even be an example to Mr. Pickens to do more than open a box of cereal.” I sniffed. “I just have no patience for a man who can’t feed himself.”

  Sam grinned at me as he unlocked the front door. “Are you referring to Pickens or Brother Vern? Or to me?”

  I smiled back, although I was almost too tired to do it. “Not you. But if the shoe fits . . .”

  By this time we were in the house, and while Sam checked around, I made my way toward the stairs. Following me up, he said, “Don’t be too hard on Pickens, Julia. He has his hands full.”

  Preparing to undress, I just nodded, not wanting to disabuse my kind husband of his good opinion of a friend. So I kept my suspicions to myself, but from what Lillian and I had witnessed, I pretty well knew just how full Mr. Pickens’s hands were.

  The phone rang as I stepped into the kitchen Tuesday morning. Smiling a greeting to Lillian, I answered it on my way to the coffeepot.

  “Julia,” Emma Sue Ledbetter said in a rush, “I only have a minute, but this is my day to go to Hazel Marie’s. Are you planning to be there?”

  “Yes, I go whenever there’s a demonstration to help with the babies. Why? You need me to do something?”

  “Well, yes, I do. I need you to stay home.” Emma Sue was nothing if not blunt. “I’ve already talked to Hazel Marie and she has that granny woman coming for the babies, so I’d just as soon you not be there.”

  “All right,” I said slowly, wondering why I wasn’t wanted while at the same time relishing the thought of a day at home. “May I ask why?”

  “Well, you know I have to put my recipe together in between committee meetings, the first of which I’m almost late for already. So I’ll have to run in, get everything out, and throw it all together. I’m not going to be able to visit. And if you’re there, I know you’ll want to talk and I won’t have time for it.”

  I declare, I couldn’t come up with a response to that to save my life, because I wasn’t the one who liked to talk.

  At my silence, Emma Sue hurried on. “Oh, I might as well be honest with you, Julia. I can’t stand to have somebody watching me in the kitchen. I get so flustered that I mess up whatever I’m doing. I don’t know how I’m going to handle having Hazel Marie standing over me watching every move I make. So you can come on if you’ll keep her in the living room.”

  “Emma Sue,” I said, drawing a deep breath, “that would defeat the whole purpose. I will stay home, but Hazel Marie has to be in the kitchen watching you. But don’t be bothered by that. If you mess up, she won’t know the difference.”

  After a few more words of encouragement in spite of my urge to cut her down to size, I was able to end the call without returning tit for tat—and felt quite virtuous for it, too.

  “Sound like you need some breakfast, ” Lillian said, putting a plate on the table.

  “I certainly need something, or my eyes will be rolling so far back in my head they’ll get stuck there.” I started toward the table, then had a thought. “I’ll be right back. I need to look at something.”

  “These eggs gonna be cold.”

  “I won’t be but a minute.” And off I hurried to retrieve the recipe that Emma Sue had given me with the promise that she would prepare it with Hazel Marie.

  Returning to the kitchen, I thrust the recipe into Lillian’s hands. “Look at this, Lillian. Emma Sue said she didn’t want me watching her because I’d talk too much and make her mess up. Now tell me, how can she mess up when all she has to do is open half a dozen cans?”

  Lillian studied the recipe, then said, “Well, I guess some people could. But this look pretty good, so I might try it myself. Now set down an’ eat your eggs.”

  So I did, then went into our new library to finish copying the recipes into the book that I would give to Hazel Marie. I was quite pleased with the book. It had an attractive cover with plastic rings on one side that allowed the book to lie flat. I thought that would be most convenient for a cook who needed to constantly refer to the instructions.

  But I didn’t do more than look at it, deciding instead to read the newspaper and fiddle with the crossword puzzle first. By the time an hour or so had passed, I sighed, then spread the recipes out on the desk to begin copying, having convinced myself that I hadn’t wanted to go to Hazel Marie’s anyway. It was quite pleasant to have a whole day empty of chores and demands stretching out before me.

  After lunch, I went back to the recipe book and began copying one of Binkie’s mother’s recipes. Then the thought of Mr. Pickens flashed in my mind—probably because I recalled Binkie or Coleman saying something about Mr. Pickens using a grill, assuming that he would be the one to do that kind of cooking. That’s the way one thought leads to another, none of which has anything to do with what you’re doing.

  Mr. Pickens, I thought, and laid down my freshly sharpened pencil. Wonder where he is and what he’s doing? As I leaned back in my chair, the wondering kept on flashing in my mind. I wondered how Hazel Marie looked this morning—was her hair still halfway styled or was it tangled all over her head? Had she had time to put on makeup? Was she in one of those sloppy running suits again? Had Mr. Pickens taken one look in the light of day and galloped off to work? Or to pick up one of those women he liked to ride around with?

  I couldn’t stand it. I got up and went to the kitchen. “Lillian,” I said, “stop what you’re doing and talk to me. I’m about to lose my mind worrying about those two.”

  “Who? Miz Ledbetter an’ Miss Hazel Marie?” She turned from the sink and dried her hands. “They be all right without you.”

  “No, no. I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about Mr. Pickens and Hazel Marie. I haven’t had a chance to tell you that I saw him again yesterday afternoon, and this time he was with a black-headed woman—the one, I expect, that you saw him with.” I stopped as a sudden thought struck me. “Unless he’s found a second brunette, and now has three girlfriends.”

  “Set down,” Lillian ordered as she took two cups from a cupboard. “You gettin’ upset when you don’t really know what he doin’. Now listen,” she went on, putting a cup of coffee before me, “I been knowin’ men for a long time, an’ some of ’em—none of ’em worth a lick—think they can handle two or three women at a time. But they can’t, ’cause I don’t care how much of a man he think he is, one or two of them women start feelin’ like they bein’ left out an’ they don’t like it. That’s when trouble start boilin’ up. An’ another place trouble gonna start is when a man try to handle three women and a wife. Mark my words, the fur start to fly then.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about! I’ve only seen Hazel Marie really mad one time and, believe me, the fur was flying then. There’s no telling what she’d do if she caught him with one of those women. Oh, Lillian, what is he doing?”

 
“Well,” Lillian said, much too calmly, “irregardless of what I just said about high-struttin’ men, I jus’ don’t b’lieve Mr. Pickens doin’ any of that. He into something we don’t know nothin’ about, jus’ like we don’t know nothin’ about them women. So, if it keep troublin’ you, which, knowin’ you, I ’spect it will, why don’t you find out what he doin’, an’ when you find out it’s not what you think he doin’, you can put it to rest.”

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do,” I snapped, vexed that she was not being completely sympathetic to my concerns. I picked up my coffee cup, noticed it was empty, and set it back down. “How would you suggest I go about it?”

  Lillian rose from the table, picked up our empty cups, and walked toward the sink, indicating that she had other things to do. “They’s not much you can do,” she said, “’cept keep your eyes open an’ try to keep track of how many women get in his car. An’ I’d be prayin’ about it, too, if I was you. ’Less you want to straight out ask him what he doin’.”

  Knowing I didn’t have the courage for that, I wandered back to the library, wishing I had something to do to fill the day. Leaning back in a leather wingchair, I slipped into a light nap, wakening only when I heard Lloyd come in from school. Feeling too drowsy to get up, I smiled at the thought of the little silver bell Mildred used to summon Ida Lee. How nice, I thought, if I had one to tinkle for Lillian to bring a cup of coffee. Except she’d probably take it away from me if I had one.

  “Miss Julia?” Lloyd whispered from the door. “Are you asleep?”

  “Not at all,” I said, sitting up and trying to get my eyes open. “Come on in, Lloyd. I was just resting.”

  He edged into the room, then sat on the edge of a footstool. “Miss Julia?”

  “Yes, honey. What is it?”

  “I’m real worried about James.”

  I was fully awake by then, realizing how distressed the boy looked. “How sick is he? Does he need a doctor? I’ll call Dr. Hargrove right away.”

  “No’m, don’t do that. It’s not that kinda sick.” Lloyd sat with his back slumped over, his hands dangling between his knees. Then clasping his hands tightly together, he glanced up at me, then back down. “He just looks so pitiful and I feel so bad. He’s already talked to the bank and there’s nothing left. And it’s . . .” He ducked his head as his voice suddenly broke, startling me because I couldn’t tell if it was caused by emotion or by puberty. “. . . it’s all my fault.”

  Chapter 38

  “What? What’s all your fault?” It was the best I could do because I didn’t know which question to ask first. Had the bank failed? Had James spent all his money? Did James have any money to spend?

  Lloyd straightened his shoulders and lifted his head. “I guess I should’ve known better, but I didn’t, and you know how James believes anything anybody tells him, and I guess I do, too, but, Miss Julia, I promise I thought it was real. I mean, it looked real and the phone calls were real, and he was so happy. I wish I’d told somebody. Well, I wanted to, but they told James that he had to keep it confidential or he’d be disqualified, so I couldn’t. And now it’s too late.”

  “Lloyd,” I said, “start at the beginning, honey, and tell me what happened.”

  “Well, you know those forms James has been sending in?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said with a bite of sarcasm, recalling my effort to caution James. “But he told me he’d stopped doing that.”

  “He did. He stopped, but that was because he got an e-mail all the way from Spain . . .”

  “How could he get an e-mail? He doesn’t have a computer.”

  “We used my address, so it came to me and I was so excited when it came that I couldn’t wait to show it to him. I’m sorry for doing this, Miss Julia, but that was when I slipped out of the house and took it to him—you know, the night that something scared the fire out of us. But it came so late, because Spain is in a different time zone. Anyway, the e-mail notified him that he’d won their lottery and all he had to do was call the number they sent to confirm who he was.”

  “My word,” I murmured, putting together a number of occurrences, chiefly the real reason for Lloyd’s night flight to visit James. “Tell me this, then—how did James go about buying a lottery ticket in Spain of all places?”

  “Well, he didn’t! That’s what was so great about it. The news just came out of the blue, like—well, like James said, it was like it came straight from above.”

  I tried not to moan aloud, but it was hard not to. “So what happened then?”

  “Well, when he called the number, the man he talked to—a Mr. Stearnes—was real nice, and he didn’t even speak in Spanish, which I was afraid he would do. But he told James that the taxes had to be paid and put in a separate account before the money could be sent. But when James told him that he’d had an accident and couldn’t get to the bank, the man felt sorry for him and told him not to worry. All he had to do was fill out an official form stating his full name and account number and mail it in. Then they’d go ahead and take the taxes out and deposit his winnings in the same account.”

  “Wait à minute, Lloyd. Just how much did they say he’d won?”

  “You won’t believe this, Miss Julia, but it was one million, nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars, so, see, with that kind of money coming in, neither one of us thought a thing about going ahead and paying the taxes.”

  “Good land!” I exclaimed, doing some fast arithmetic in my head. “Where did James get the money to pay taxes on that?”

  “Well, that’s why we thought Mr. Stearnes was so nice. He said a lot of people had that problem when they won big, so not to worry about it. He said they’d match whatever James had and he wouldn’t owe anything after that.”

  “So,” I said, closing my eyes in near despair at this tale of innocence or ignorance, I couldn’t decide which, “James gave him his account number.”

  “Yes’m, he did and mailed in the official form, and now his account’s empty, and James can’t pay his bills. And the worst of it all is the big prize didn’t come when they said it would and Mr. Stearnes’s phone is disconnected and we can’t reach anybody. And I don’t know what to think except I guess they were just after James’s money.”

  I nodded agreement, knowing that I had failed by not teaching Lloyd how to avoid people who would rob him blind. Of course he would learn from this experience, but that was of little help to James.

  “How much did James lose?” I asked.

  “Every last cent.”

  “No, I mean how much in all.”

  “He had sixteen hundred dollars and forty-eight cents saved up, and it’s all gone and his bank account is closed. That’s all he had to his name, Miss Julia, and I feel so bad because I didn’t see what they were doing.” Lloyd rubbed his eyes and sniffed. “I wish I’d talked to you or Mr. Sam, but James was so happy and he was already planning what to do with all that money. He was going to buy Mama a pretty necklace and buy J.D. a new car and get some toys for my sisters. And a big new fishing boat for Mr. Sam and he was going to put some money away for Latisha to go to college because he knew Miss Lillian would like that. And he was going to get you a fur coat because you’re always so cold, and he said, he said . . .” The words choked in his throat as he began wiping away the tears. In a strangled voice, Lloyd went on, “He was going to take me to Disney World, just me and him, and we’d go to the wax museum and ride in a glass-bottom boat and I don’t know what all. But I don’t care about any of that. All I care about is his life savings are all gone and I should’ve known better, and I kinda did. I started worrying about it after a while, but he was just so happy, I couldn’t . . .”

  “Lloyd,” I said, putting my hand on his heaving shoulder, “listen to me, honey. You mustn’t take all the responsibility on yourself. James is a grown man and you’re only a boy. Both of you were too trusting and unaware that there ar
e crooks who prey on honest people like you. They go after the elderly, too, and they’ve taken advantage of better-informed people than you and James. We’ll report this to, well, whoever we’re supposed to tell—Sam will know—and maybe they can be tracked down. But I’m afraid that James’s savings are gone for good. You’ve had a hard lesson, but both of you will be the better for it.”

  “I guess,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Anyway, James is going to start sending in those entry forms again, along with a donation—well, as soon as he gets a paycheck—because he thinks that gives him a better chance to win. He said he wouldn’t turn up his nose at a measly ten thousand dollars now.”

  I really did moan then. “Has he not learned anything?”

  “I don’t know, but I think I ought to do something to help him because he’s lost so much. I hate to tell Mama and J.D., ’cause I feel so bad about it, but do you think I could take some of my inheritance and give it to James?”

  They Lord, I thought, the child could reimburse James many times over from the estate that Wesley Lloyd Springer left, but what good would that do when James was bound and determined to keep on throwing money away?

  “You have a good heart, Lloyd, but your inheritance is invested for your future and can’t be touched.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I’d just thought of something more commensurate with Lloyd’s feelings of liability. “Why don’t you tell James that you feel responsible for, let’s say, half his loss, but only half because he has to take some responsibility, too. Tell him that you’ll work and do chores and maybe contribute some from your allowance to make up your half. It’ll take a long time, maybe months or a couple of years, but if he sees you adding a little here and a little there to his bank account, it might make him think twice about how he uses it.”

  For the first time Lloyd saw a glimmer of hope. “I can do that,” he said, looking up with determination. “I can bring in firewood and cut grass next summer and babysit and help Mama around the house.” Then he smiled, his tear-streaked face lighting up. “I better figure out how much I owe and how long it’ll take me to get it. I may be working for James the rest of my life.”