Miss Julia Weathers the Storm

by Ann B. Ross

  The fact of the matter, though, was that it had all happened so fast that I hadn’t known what was occurring until it had already occurred and was over with. My only consolation was that there’d really been no time for any kind of reaction. That, however, didn’t keep me from thinking of what I would’ve done if there had been.

  —

  Saturday morning dawned gray and threatening, but with windy conditions that gave hope to us waterlogged humans that the clouds might soon be swept away. Along with the hope of seeing the sun again, my spirits were further lifted by the thought of Mr. Pickens taking control of the nagging problem of a black car with black windows and its thieving occupants. Even better, Coleman would be back from his camping trip Sunday night, which meant that we’d have the full weight of official law enforcement working for us. Between the two of them, something would get done, although in the current situation, I’d put my money on Mr. Pickens. As a private investigator, he wasn’t hampered by probable causes, warrants, and court orders, or by a sheriff who could fire him, as Coleman was.

  “Sam,” I said as we finished breakfast, “I think I’ll go see Thurlow this morning. Take him some fruit or something. Anything to stay busy, instead of sitting around here wondering if something else will happen. And, besides,” I went on as if expecting an argument, “we shouldn’t let a bunch of heathens dictate our lives. And if they try to steal anything else . . . well, just let them try.”

  Lillian hobbled over to the table with the coffeepot. “What you think you gonna do if they do?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve gone over it so many times in my head that I’m prepared for all contingencies. I’m keeping the car doors locked, for one thing. And for another, it’s not raining so they won’t surprise me again. Sam, you want to go with me? I’m sure Thurlow would rather see you than me, anyway.”

  “No, I’m meeting roofers at Lillian’s house this morning,” Sam said, smiling at her. “They’ve lost so many workdays that they’re willing to work on a Saturday. You may have a roof over your head by tonight, Lillian.” Then, turning to me, he said, “So I’ll pass on Thurlow unless you’d feel better with me along.”

  “When it comes to Thurlow, I always feel better with someone else along.” I smiled and patted Sam’s arm—he knew that Thurlow had made amorous advances to me during my widowhood. To no avail, I quickly add, for I wouldn’t have had him if he’d been the last man on earth. “But no,” I went on, “I’ll just look in on him as a neighborly gesture and figure it’s my good deed for the day.”

  “Okay, then,” Sam said, getting to his feet. “I have a few things I need to tend to here. But if you see that car, I don’t want you following it. Just turn around and come home. I’ll be around all day.”

  —

  It wasn’t until I’d driven through town and halfway to Thurlow’s long-term care facility that it struck me what Sam was up to. It wasn’t like him to stay around the house all day—he liked to be up and doing, seeing people, mixing and mingling. Oh, he could spend hours working on that legal history of his, but he’d still make time to be out and about.

  So why not today as well? Because—it suddenly hit me like a bolt out of the blue—because he’d seen that it hadn’t been shells the thieves had been after, but possibly Latisha. They’d gotten only a sack of sandy shells, but what if the dark figure had been intent on getting her? Maybe the seat belt had saved her. Maybe my reaction had been quicker than he’d expected or than I had thought.

  When it dawned on me that Latisha could’ve been the object of the car invasion, I almost slammed on the brakes in the middle of the boulevard. Snatching her certainly made more sense than stealing seashells.

  But did it? I declare, I didn’t know, but the very thought of losing that little girl put me in a state of agitation, and I almost turned around for home. Why in the world would they want Latisha? She was precious to us, but what did she mean to a bunch of strangers who apparently spent their time dropping piles of hundred-dollar bills up and down the coastline? But then again, none of it made any sense at all.

  Chapter 43

  By the time I’d turned in under the Pine Grove Rehabilitation Center sign, the sprinkles of rain had stopped but not the drips from the trees. Getting out of the car and struggling with an umbrella, my purse, and the fruit basket, I decided that Thurlow didn’t need a visit from me, and that I could certainly do without one with him. I would leave my fruit basket at the reception desk and get back home to discuss with Sam my sudden understanding of what we could be facing.

  Having to park some little distance from the low brick building with its extended wings, I trudged toward the entrance, carrying the heavy basket and hoping that Thurlow would appreciate my efforts. He probably wouldn’t, but I didn’t plan to stay long enough to hear what he thought.

  Just as I approached the double doors, they swung open and out stepped Helen Stroud and Mr. Ernest Sitton, Esquire, the steely-eyed lawyer from Delmont, deep in conversation. Helen looked up, saw me, and stopped short, a flash of consternation crossing her face as she tucked a manilla folder under her arm. Cool, calm, and collected, Helen seemed at a sudden loss by coming face-to-face with me.

  Quickly reverting, though, to her usual calm expression, she said, “Julia. How nice to see you. Are you visiting Thurlow? I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.”

  “No, just dropping this basket off for him. And it’s nice to see you, too, Helen.” Then, turning to Mr. Sitton, who had been a very present help to me in executing Miss Mattie Freeman’s will, I said, “And to see you, too, Mr. Sitton. I hope you’re well.”

  “Well, indeed, Mrs. Murdoch.” The short, paunchy lawyer would’ve lifted his hat if he’d worn one. “I hope you, too, are well. But my business is done here, so if you ladies will excuse me, I’ll be on my way.” And off he went, carrying a bulky leather briefcase at his side. That left Helen and me standing together, awkwardly avoiding the other’s eyes.

  “Well,” I said, sidestepping toward the door, “I’ll just leave this and be on my way, too.”

  Without a word, Helen turned away and I, feeling slightly snubbed, went inside, wrote a quick note to Thurlow, and left the basket to be delivered whenever someone got around to doing it. Then I sailed back outside, determined not to let Helen’s slight deter me from what was important. Which was to get home and make sure that Latisha was safe and that Sam and I were on the same page where she was concerned.

  As I approached my car, I saw Helen waiting beside it. Before I could speak, she said, “Julia, I owe you an apology. Forgive me, but I was unprepared to see anybody I knew quite so soon.” She looked away, then down at the folder in her hands. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’d just completed negotiating a complicated contract, and, well, I was not expecting to see you. Or anyone.”

  “It’s perfectly all right, Helen,” I said, although it really hadn’t been. “You don’t owe me an apology at all. I completely understand.”

  “No. No, you don’t, but maybe you will.” Helen drew in her breath again, then, straightening her shoulders as if she’d decided to tell all, she said, “Everybody will know sooner or later, so I might as well tell you now. I’m moving into Thurlow’s house to take care of him.” She paused, glanced away, then back at me. “There’ll be talk, I know, but it is entirely a business arrangement. He needs somebody, and I need the job.”

  She looked directly into my eyes as if to stare me down if I expressed shock or dismay. I did neither, although I felt both. “Well, Helen,” I managed to say without stumbling, “that sounds like a beneficial arrangement for you both. Thurlow is fortunate that you’re willing to take him on. I hope that it will be so for you, as well.”

  The twitch of a smile appeared at the corner of her mouth, even though Helen rarely gave any outward expression of her feelings. With a quick nod of her head, she said, “That’s exactly why Ernest Sitton was here.”

&
nbsp; Then with a wave of her hand, she turned and headed for her car, leaving me somewhat stunned at the implication. Had she married Thurlow? No, surely lawyers didn’t have that authority. Had she legally committed herself in some way? That’s the way it had sounded.

  But, no, if Helen was smart—and she was—it would be the other way around. It would’ve been Thurlow who’d been legally committed. I laughed, then, as I realized the double meaning of the term, because not a few of us had long thought that Thurlow was a mental case.

  But then, as I slid under the wheel and closed the car door, I realized that Helen’s last remark had been in response to my comment that Thurlow, in having her help, would be fortunate. And her remark about Mr. Sitton told me that he had been there to ensure that she would be equally so.

  Hmm, now that was an interesting thought.

  —

  I drove home with a jumble of thoughts running through my head. What had Helen gotten herself into? And was it any of my business what she was doing? No, of course not, but I couldn’t help but wonder. Thurlow Jones was the most disreputable and deliberately infuriating man in Abbotsville, as well as possibly the most wealthy. As was highly likely since he rarely spent a cent. Just look at that house of his—a large, two-storied brick edifice along classical lines centered on a weed-covered city block. Shutters falling off, peeling paint from dry rot on the trim, and overgrown trees blocking the sunlight. And I should know from my few visits over the years how dark, dank, and unkempt the interior was.

  I couldn’t imagine meticulous Helen living in such squalor, and I haven’t even mentioned Thurlow himself. If his house was in bad shape, he was in worse, and proud of it. He enjoyed scandalizing the locals with the way he looked and with what came out of his mouth. The man knew no bounds.

  Well, I thought with a grim smile, with both legs broken he’d know a few bounds now. All Helen would have to do would be to stay out of arm’s reach—Thurlow was known to pinch unsuspecting females.

  With a jolt, the thought of Latisha flashed through my mind, and I switched from fretting about Helen to worrying about Lillian’s great-grandchild. I’d read and heard about stolen children, so the thought of that little girl in the hands of strangers made my stomach turn over.

  —

  “Lillian,” I said as I came through the kitchen door, “you won’t believe . . .” Taking in the newspaper-covered card table, laden with a pile of shells and the glue gun, and an empty chair in the corner, my heart skipped a beat. “Where’s Latisha?”

  Lillian turned from the sink. “She in the liberry. Mr. Sam took her to see how the roofers comin’ along, an’ look like we can sleep in our own beds tonight. Right now, he teachin’ her how to play checkers.”

  “Oh,” I said, my adrenaline level dropping considerably. I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table, and sat down to recover. “Well, good.”

  “Yes’m, an’ she jus’ got crowned or kinged or something. You mighta heard her ’way down the street. But what won’t I believe?”

  “Well,” I said, leaning forward, “you know you told me about Helen visiting Thurlow so often? Well, I just found out that she was doing more than visiting.” And, with a sense of excitement and wonder, I went on to tell her what I’d learned in the parking lot of the Pine Grove Rehabilitation Center.

  “That don’t surprise me,” Lillian said, so complacently that I had to tamp down my own response to the news.

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No’m, lotsa people do that.”

  “But do what? That’s what I don’t understand. I mean, why would she need a lawyer if she’s just taking a job?”

  “Miss Julia,” Lillian said, coming to the table to sit beside me and instruct me in the niceties of long-term care of the elderly and the bedridden, “it us’ally happen inside a fam’ly when somebody’s a widow-lady or never married. She the one that take over the ole person—sellin’ her own house if she got one, an’ movin’ in lock, stock, an’ barrel with the ole person, an’ promisin’ to stay till death do them part. At which time, the widow-lady or ole maid, she get ev’rything the ole person have. Tit for tat, don’t you know? An’ the rest of the fam’ly, they know she deserve it ’cause they didn’t have to put up with bedpans, an’ doctors, an’ givin’ medicines, an’ cookin’, an’ feedin’, an’ all a ole person have to complain about.”

  Lillian paused, then she said, “But it don’t have to be fam’ly. It can be anybody that need more’n Social Security. So Miss Helen, she a smart lady. I ’spect she know what she gettin’ into, an’ I ’spect she fix it so it be worth it in the end.”

  “Well, they Lord,” I said, sprawling back against my chair at the enormity of what Helen had committed herself to, as well as at the enormity of what Thurlow had promised to her. And not just promised, apparently, because who would trust him to honor a promise?

  That’s what lawyer Ernest Sitton had been doing—legally holding Thurlow, dead or alive, to his promise. My guess was that Thurlow had made a new will that favored Helen, and if so, I hoped it was air tight. As far as I knew, Thurlow had no living relatives, but in other cases one or two had been known to pop out of the woodwork when a death occurred.

  “Well,” I said to Lillian, “I can understand that, but how in the world will Helen manage until the end—his end, that is? I mean, Thurlow is just mean enough to live another twenty years out of spite. Even outlive her, for that matter.”

  “I ’spect Miss Helen already think of that.” Lillian smiled. “He gonna have to dig real deep in his pockets if he want to go home. Miss Helen not gonna put up with slipshod livin’ like he do.”

  Lillian was right about that, because one thing was for sure—there were no flies on Helen Stroud. But, my word, she would earn every penny. Knowing, though, as we all did, what she’d have to put up with, not one soul would begrudge her a cent.

  But, poor Helen; what dire straits she must’ve been in to tie herself to Thurlow Jones for as long as he lived—if that’s what she’d done. Even though he was apparently in poor physical condition now, he wouldn’t be easy to live with even if he improved enough to dance a few jigs. In fact, he’d be worse.

  “Well,” I said again, this time with a shudder, “I guess there’s no telling what one will do when one’s back is against the wall. But, I’ll tell you, Lillian, I would have to be at the very end of my rope to move in with the likes of Thurlow Jones. Think of living with him!”

  “Uh-huh, an’ think of livin’ with that Ronnie, too.”

  Chapter 44

  About midafternoon of that fairly dry Saturday I heard the phone ring, but it must’ve been for Lillian, or perhaps Sam, since I wasn’t called to answer it. That suited me fine since it would most likely have been LuAnne, and I had other, more pressing, matters on my mind.

  I’d not been able to talk privately with Sam even though he’d been home all day, spending the time with Latisha, entertaining her, taking her with him to check on the roof, or simply staying in the same room with her, wherever that happened to be. I understood what he was doing, but it was extremely worrisome to know that he felt he should keep such a close eye on her. Did he think it was even possible that those stalkers would attempt an invasion of our home?

  But why not? They’d not only attempted, they’d carried out an invasion of my car. To even consider that they might come storming inside our home made me check the locks on every door. And as that possibility raised its ugly head in my imagination, I put aside the thought of shopping or visiting or anything else and decided to stay fairly close myself.

  Wondering if Lillian had noticed the watchful eye Sam was keeping on Latisha, I went to the kitchen, only to meet her coming to find me.

  “Miss Julia, that James jus’ called, an’ he say he got a pot of green beans cookin’ an’ a salat already made in the Frigidaire, an’ corn already shucked, an’ chicken ready to fry, but Mr.
Pickens put him to work on something else, an’ he can’t cook supper. So he want me to come over and finish up.”

  “What’s going on over there? Hazel Marie invited us to eat dinner, not to cook it.”

  “It don’t matter. I tole him I was bringin’ banana puddin’ for dessert, an’ I already got that made.”

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. “What does Mr. Pickens have him doing that’s more important than making dinner? Especially since they invited four extra people to eat it. I know Mr. Pickens can be the contrariest man alive, but this is above and beyond.”

  “Well, James, he say Mr. Pickens get home ’bout a hour ago, an’ Miss Hazel Marie set him down an’ tole him ’bout that black car an’ ’bout how they almost get Latisha outta your car, an’ Mr. Pickens, he get out his shotgun, an’ set James down on a chair out on the front porch right in front of the front door. He tell him to lay that gun ’cross his lap an’ set there so anybody passin’ by jus’ keep on goin’ even if they had a mind to stop.”

  “My Lord,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Has Mr. Pickens lost his mind? I would no more put a shotgun in James’s hands than I’d fly.”

  “No’m,” Lillian said with a noticeable lack of concern, “he can’t shoot nobody. That gun’s not loaded. Mr. Pickens, he say James jus’ settin’ out there like a warnin’ sign, ’cause if anybody need shootin’, he gonna do it hisself.”

  —

  As Lillian began to gather the things she’d need to cook in a strange kitchen, I stewed over the nerve of James in expecting her to do it. Or, rather, the nerve of Mr. Pickens for assigning James to the porch, while assuming that somehow or another his own dinner would magically appear.

  Just as I was struck with an idea to relieve Lillian, the phone rang.