by Ashton Lee
Emma’s head was bowed, and she began tearing up. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I did it. And even though I’ll be givin’ it back, I know I’ll be punished for it when the time comes for me to meet my Maker. But . . . I was hopin’ maybe you could help me out, Miz Maura Beth—you bein’ such good friends with Miz Periwinkle and all. Maybe if you could return it for me and ask her to keep the police out of it and not press charges? I know what I did was wrong, but I just cain’t be away from my Leonard now. I cain’t go to jail. He’d be lost without me, and I don’t wanna put it all on my Cissy or some sitter, neither. I have to do my part at home.”
“But why on earth would you do something like that, Emma? I still can’t believe what you’re telling me.”
Emma continued to avert her eyes as the tears began to stream down her face. “I know it’s hard for you to believe. I thought it would come in handy to help pay for a sitter for Leonard if we needed us one down the line. It happened on my lunch hour that day, and I walked down to The Twinkle with my heart set on some vegetable soup or maybe just one a’ Miz Periwinkle’s salads, and then I saw the money on the tables just lyin’ around. There was nobody in the dining room, so I just snatched it up real quick and put it in my purse and walked as fast as I could back to the library. My heart was beatin’ a mile a minute. Of course, since I didn’t eat my lunch, my stomach growled all the rest of my shift that day. Served me right.”
An alarm had gone off in Maura Beth’s head and wouldn’t stop scrambling her brains with all the noise it was making. Something seemed completely out of kilter. “But why didn’t you say anything to me about this when I first got back from my honeymoon? We had that long talk about Leonard and how worried you were about his possible Alzheimer’s diagnosis. You let your hair down that day, and I was happy to listen to your concerns. It seems to me you could have reached out and asked for my help back then. Why did you wait all this time?”
“The guilt—it got to me. With the sheriff and everybody so concerned and upset about everything, I just couldn’t keep it bottled up no longer. Please—could you explain everything to Miz Periwinkle and keep me outta trouble? Maybe she could find it in her heart to forgive me—with Christmas comin’ up and all.”
Maura Beth was beginning to feel a headache creeping up on her. She wasn’t an expert in such matters, but she even wondered if she had now become an accessory to a crime after the fact. Stealing tips seemed more like a misdemeanor, of course, but in any case, where did she go from here? “I’m going to have to think it over, Emma. Maybe ask my husband for his advice first. I can’t make a decision like this on the spur of the moment.”
“I want you to take this money no matter what you decide,” Emma told her, still sniffling. “I don’t want stolen money in my house no more. It just eats at me so, I cain’t hardly sleep at night. Take it off my hands, please, Miz Maura Beth. Then maybe I can start to atone for my sins.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s the least I can do right now.” Maura Beth scooped up the bills, shaking her head in bewilderment. “One hundred and twenty dollars, just like Periwinkle said went missing. Well, for the time being, I can lock up the money in my bottom desk drawer for you, and then I’ll decide what to do about all this over the weekend.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. I guess I better get to my job. I still have one, don’t I?”
“Of course you do.”
“Even if I have to go to jail?”
Maura Beth dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “I think I can say with some confidence that that’s not going to happen. Trust me on that much. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Neither woman said anything as Emma nodded, rose, and headed toward the door. Then Maura Beth remembered, snapping her fingers.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Miz Marydell Crumpton is coming to work as one of our new front desk clerks. She starts Monday.”
The news turned Emma’s head, her expression one of complete disbelief. “You mean you hired one a’ the Crumpton sisters to do what Renette and I do? One a’ the Perry Street Crumpton sisters that have all that money and live in that fine old house with all the servants?”
“I did. And please keep in mind that Marydell is not her sister, Mamie. They’re like night and day.”
A smile broke across Emma’s face for the first time all morning. “That may be. But I hope Miz Marydell’s got her a boatload a’ patience and some sensible shoes to wear. She’s gonna need ’em both.”
Maura Beth spent the rest of the day trying her best to focus on the evening review and potluck for The Member of the Wedding. After all, she and Emma had posters to place around the lobby—one each of Julie Harris as Frankie Addams and Ethel Waters as Berenice Sadie Brown from the 1952 film, and a third of the author herself—the sad-eyed but wildly Southern Carson McCullers. They also had to position and drape the buffet table just so and make doubly sure there were enough paper plates, punch cups, and silverware to go around for the potluck—always the big draw.
But Emma’s startling confession continued to weigh heavily upon Maura Beth. At times she thought she might explode, especially being in such close proximity to Emma. She could imagine herself shaking the woman and scolding her like a naughty schoolgirl: “What on earth were you thinking, Emma? Are you planning to stand up on Sunday and tell all your fellow churchgoers about this? Do you think they’ll believe it any more than I do?”
On breaks from all the decorating, Maura Beth only half-heartedly reviewed the critical notes she’d made while rereading the novel. Her heart wasn’t in her upcoming critical role of moderator—and even peacekeeper at times. What she really wanted to do was call up Jeremy, but she decided it wasn’t the sort of thing to discuss while he was in the teacher’s lounge and unable to speak freely. She wouldn’t even be able to talk to him about it during the book club meeting with so many people milling around, and she didn’t plan to leave the library in the interim. It would just have to wait until they both got home late that night. Jeremy would give her his best advice; then she would know exactly the right thing to do.
At some point she realized she needed to draw up new schedules for front desk duty now that Marydell Crumpton was coming onboard on Monday. It would be a great relief not to have to spell someone quite so often when lunch hours rolled around. So she pulled out the old work schedule from her desk drawer and scanned it quickly. She decided she would continue to let Emma and Renette—and now Marydell—take the early lunch slot from eleven to twelve, while she would again reserve the noon-to-one slot for herself.
But as she was filling out the new schedule, something began to gnaw at her, simmering just below the surface of her consciousness. It was trying hard to push through but couldn’t quite make it to the top. Was there anything more annoying than having a name, or date, or something else of crucial importance on the tip of your tongue and being totally unable to retrieve it? To be sure, a flash of it would entice her now and then, making her think the rest of it would soon emerge and unburden her, but the clever little tidbit always ran away and hid every time she wrinkled up her forehead. Once, she even stuck her tongue out at the schedule she was manipulating so diligently. Somehow, she knew the answer was looking up at her from the paper below. Perhaps whatever it was that was taunting her would return when she wasn’t trying so hard to wrestle it to the ground. She would probably be in the middle of something totally unrelated, and then one of those gasps of revelation would come out of her like a hiccup. Wasn’t that always the way?
7
The Downside of Shelling Peas
The phone call from Periwinkle about an hour before the review and potluck was no big surprise to Maura Beth. They were all not very far removed from Ardenia Bedloe’s funeral and the raw, churning emotions that went with it.
“Parker’s just not up to comin’,” Periwinkle began. “And I’m not sure I am, either. I hope you’ll understand, girl.”
Maura Beth was properly consoling and d
id not make a big deal out of it. “Oh, I do. Friday’s one of your biggest nights at The Twinkle anyway. Of course, we’ll miss you, and Mr. Place, too. Both of you always add so much to our discussions. It makes the club the melting pot it really is.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that part. I try my best to contribute. But I do appreciate you understanding how we feel right now. We’re both just gonna have to pass this time around.”
Then Maura Beth realized how much Emma’s confession was affecting her perspective on the very mention of The Twinkle itself. The image of those stolen tips had suddenly heated things up on the front burner of her brain. It was very difficult keeping secrets from her best girlfriend in all of Greater Cherico. Almost as a reflex action, a question popped out of Maura Beth’s mouth.
“Those security cameras working okay for you?”
Periwinkle sounded a bit caught off guard. “Uh . . . oh, that. Yes, we’ve had no problems so far. They’d better work—as expensive as they were.”
“So, no more stolen tips to report, I hope?”
Periwinkle’s hearty laugh quickly dissolved the awkwardness of the moment. “Oh, girl, you woudda heard from me long before now if somethin’ like that had happened again. And I b’lieve we woudda had us an arrest, too. Nothin’ says guilty like bein’ caught on camera.”
“You’re so right. Maybe the worry is all over for you,” Maura Beth added, carefully testing the waters. “If whoever did this knows about the cameras, surely they wouldn’t even think of trying it again.”
Maura Beth clearly detected the concern in Periwinkle’s sigh. “But that’s not the point, girl. I want justice to be done. I can’t let go until this is solved. There’s no way anyone who works for me did this, so the culprit’s still out there somewhere. Sure, I made up Lalie’s tips to her, but as I said before, it’s the principle of the thing. I mean, people can’t just come into my restaurant on their lunch hour or whenever and think they can get away with somethin’ like that. You know what I mean?”
And that was when Maura Beth had her “Aha!” moment. That little gasp of recognition she had been pursuing did indeed float up out of her and register audibly over the line. “Of course I do,” she managed. But what she needed most was to hang up and work it all out in her head. So she quickly made her manners to get on with it. Why, she even realized just how Miss Marple felt when she had stumbled onto a revelation of some sort! “Please give Mr. Place my best and tell him I’m still thinking about him. Jeremy is, too. I’m sure we’ll see you both soon.”
After the call had ended, Maura Beth took a deep breath, pulled out the new front desk schedule she had just made, and nodded her head as everything finally fell into place. Nice detective work, she was telling herself. Now she wouldn’t even have to tell Jeremy about Emma’s confession. She no longer needed his advice about anything. She would be able to handle it by herself.
Maura Beth glanced at her watch. Emma wasn’t going to be at the potluck and review—she had already left for home to go look after her beloved Leonard; so the matter would just have to be put on hold for now. Even though she could hardly wait to get a rational explanation from Emma. Could there even be one?
At the moment, the potluck buffet table offering up shrimp, chicken, veggies of all sorts, two kinds of fruit pies, and chocolate pudding with slivered almonds seemed to have inspired a curious debate among some of those seated in the lobby semicircle and already digging in with gusto. The crux of the matter was whether or not shelling peas was the true mark of a good Southern cook, and it was Mamie Crumpton who was insisting that there could be no doubt that the answer was a decided yes.
“After all,” she was saying in that officious way of hers, as if her folding chair were her throne, “cooking from scratch is time-honored. Pouring things out of cans is simply common. Removing lids is the lazy way to cook.”
“So you’re saying you take the time to shell your peas?” Becca Brachle responded, after swallowing some of the very peas with fresh dill and caramelized onions that she herself had contributed to the evening’s fare. “I just don’t have the time these days with my pregnancy and everything. I know it would work on my last nerve. Except that even when I wasn’t expecting, I didn’t bother to do it. Matter-of-fact, I made the dish we’re eating tonight using a package of frozen peas, and I think they worked out just as well. I really don’t think you can taste the difference.”
“Oh, they’re delicious. Everything you make is, Miss Becca Broccoli,” Connie told her.
Mamie produced a smile that was obviously forced and all too brief. “Well, our cook, Jellica, does all our veggies from scratch. We have this little garden in the backyard beyond the gazebo that she tends for us, and she brings in the most delicious tomatoes and okra and beans and peas every year—everything you can imagine. Fresh and from scratch is the way to go.”
The new, aggressive Marydell Crumpton entered the fray with a smirk on her face. “But you have to admit that Jellica doesn’t do our meat from scratch. I have yet to see her wring a chicken’s neck on our behalf. She’s more than happy to buy it frozen from James Hannigan at The Cherico Market.”
Mamie flashed on her sister. “I am totally unimpressed with your graphic descriptions and grasp of the obvious, Sister dear. That will be enough out of you in front of everyone and God.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Marydell told her, refusing to be intimidated. “And furthermore, I’ll have plenty to say about The Member of the Wedding as we move along.”
Maura Beth had been watching the little drama unfold nearby, happily munching on the baked chicken that Connie McShay had prepared. She decided to fly by the seat of her pants and open up the book discussion right then and there.
“I’m just curious, Miz Crumpton. Did you get the idea for the shelled peas comment from the novel? If I’m not mistaken, I believe you mentioned it when the sheriff dropped by for his crime-prevention talk here at the library.”
That took the heat off Marydell for the time being, and Mamie said, “Well, of course I did. There was that long sequence where Berenice Sadie Brown was shelling peas and telling Frankie and little John Henry all about her Honey Camden Brown, I believe. I just thought the whole thing was very Southern with Berenice being the housekeeper, cook, and mother to those two children. Berenice was the ultimate help—just like our Jellica is.”
“Are we starting the review now?” Miss Voncille put in from the end of the row, sounding annoyed. “Locke and I haven’t finished eating yet. Don’t you have to get behind the podium first, Maura Beth?”
“Well, I thought we might go ahead since certain subjects have come up in the course of conversation,” Maura Beth said. “Just keep in mind that our outside-the-box theme this time was to relate Frankie’s experience to our own at that age. But by all means, those of you who’re still eating, please continue. Informality is always our trademark here at The Cherry Cola Book Club.”
“Well, I’m almost through,” Locke Linwood added. “But even if I weren’t, I do believe I can chew and listen at the same time.”
There was scattered laughter, and then Connie took Maura Beth’s cue and continued the book discussion. “I was touched by Frankie’s predicament. I mean, there she is—a twelve-year-old tomboy without a mother, and then a father who’s always at work. My goodness, twelve is a terrible age for anyone to be—much less someone who’s missing two parents. I remember how desperate I was to lose some weight when I was that age. I thought if I didn’t slim down, I wouldn’t fit in—I wouldn’t belong. My weight and I have always been at odds, to be honest with you. We’ve declared a truce at best—an uneasy one and—”
“Listen, I like you just the way you are, sweetie,” Douglas McShay interrupted, nudging his wife affectionately. “Always have.”
“That’s because you’re my wonderful husband.”
“And I’ve got thirty-eight years on my résumé to prove it, too.”
“What about you, Douglas? What was being
twelve like for you?” Maura Beth continued, smiling his way.
Douglas finished off the shrimp he’d been working on, looking thoughtful as he wiped his fingers on his napkin. “It was typical for a boy, I think. My interest in girls hadn’t kicked in all the way yet. I read Mad Magazine all the time and even thought I might like to write for it when I grew up. I still thought The Three Stooges ruled, and I made all the stupid noises and did all the crazy stunts they pulled off with my buddies. But mostly I remember looking into the bathroom mirror while insisting I needed to shave—and actually liking myself. I mean, what can I say? You can’t punish a guy for that, can you?”
Becca raised her hand as if asking a teacher for permission. “You were one of the lucky ones, then. In general I think girls worry about themselves more than boys do at that age. Your mirror comment was interesting, Douglas. I used to fret constantly about my looks. Would I be pretty enough? Would I be too tall? Would I—” Becca broke off and blushed. “Well, would I actually grow a pair of breasts that the boys would gawk at? Would I ever need a bra?”
There was an outburst of laughter and then Becca continued. “I loved Frankie’s description of herself as an unjoined person. I love that made-up word. Haven’t we all been there at one time or another?”
Nora Duddney, who had blossomed like an exquisite orchard only after joining the book club, responded immediately. “Frankie had it easy as far as I’m concerned. When I was her age, my parents were downright ashamed of me. I wasn’t making good grades, I was the very definition of antisocial, and as most of you know by now, it was all because my dyslexia went undiagnosed all those years. I was wandering in the desert all that time. At least Frankie could read and write the way she was supposed to. I felt like I was living on another planet. So I’d definitely agree that I wasn’t connected to anyone. The novel hit home with me. It’s real easy for me to dredge up all those old icky feelings with a snap of my fingers.”
