Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

  “Oh, my word, DSS is Madge’s bailiwick. I wouldn’t want her to know anything about this—she might accuse us of trespassing on her territory.”

  Sam laughed. “She just might, at that. But don’t worry. I’ll be most circumspect.”

  “Just so you’re cautious about who you ask and what you say. I wouldn’t want to embarrass the boy or his family. If he has one.”

  Chapter 37

  Try as I might to get into it, the Christmas spirit kept eluding me. Sacks, shopping bags, and boxes were piled up in the guest room waiting to be wrapped and placed under the tree, and I just turned my head whenever I passed it on my way downstairs.

  Too many worries and concerns were tumbling around in my head to be waylaid by mundane chores. One after the other, they flashed through my mind—Hazel Marie, Mr. Pickens, Helen, Thurlow, Freddie Pruitt, and, most of all, Madge and her nonprofit group, which was supposed to be an asset to homeless boys but so far had done nothing but put the entire area in the loss column.

  Even now, it was denuding the neighborhood—first the Pickerells, then the Osbornes, and maybe soon the Winsteads, all seemed to be bailing out. Who could be buying those houses? A holding company? And what could a holding company want with them? Soon the only occupants left on that sizable city block would be the Pickenses and a pseudo–foster family in the Cochran house.

  So would this secret holding company fix up the other houses and rent them out or resell them for a higher price? Because, let’s face it, there would have to be money made in some form or fashion. Neither people nor companies just buy up houses out of the goodness of their hearts and do nothing with them. There had to be some deep, dark game plan behind it all.

  And then I had it. No, not the game plan, but the thread that would unravel everything—the Cochran house. That’s what had started it all and that’s what held the key. The presence of a group home in the middle of the block devalued all the other houses—nobody wanted to live next to it. Yet even with that knowledge, somebody was luring the neighbors into selling—letting them think that they were getting out while the getting was good—before the Cochran house was occupied by a swarm of teenage boys. Only J. D. Pickens was refusing to succumb, and how long would that last?

  But wait. Even if he finally gave in and sold Sam’s old house, how would this secret group get rid of Madge and her group? That house would still be a sore thumb to whoever owned the rest of the block. But if—and by this time, my mind was running at high speed—if someone had deliberately and with malice aforethought donated that house to the Homes For Teens group in order to devalue the other houses, could it then be undonated?

  That’s what I had to find out—who actually owned the Cochran house. I’d never get a straight answer from Madge, so I might as well give up on her. The Register of Deeds at the county courthouse! Or would it be at city hall? I didn’t know, but Sam would and so would Binkie.

  And if some deed book on some shelf somewhere indicated that the board of the Homes for Teens was the legitimate owner, that same board might be in line for a truckload of money after they’d played their part in getting rid of J. D. Pickens and his family. And after that? Who knew what was planned next?

  But it seemed as plain as day that somebody wanted that entire block stripped clean of single-family residences. And if that was the case, Madge was in for a rude awakening because after she’d done her job—unbeknownst to her, perhaps—of running off the neighbors, she’d be gotten rid of, too.

  I flew—well, as fast as I could manage—up the stairs to the sunroom, where Sam had his office. With a tap on the door, I opened it and went in.

  “Sam, sorry to bother you, but could you go to the courthouse for me?”

  He looked at me from over his glasses. “Right now?”

  “Yes. Well, as soon as you can. Listen, I think we need to find out exactly who owns the Cochran house. I’m wondering if that holding company bought the Cochran house, then donated it to Madge’s group, and if so, it wouldn’t still be listed as the owner, would it? Wouldn’t it now be listed as owned by Madge and her board?”

  Sam nodded. “If it’s been donated, with a free and clear title, to Madge’s group, then, yes, they’d be listed as owners.”

  “But,” I said, leaning over his desk in my eagerness, “what if it’s still in the name of the holding company? Don’t you see, Sam? If that company still owns it, that means they can evict Madge anytime they want to—which would be right after the Winsteads and the Pickenses sell out.”

  “So,” Sam said, snatching off his reading glasses, “you’re thinking there’s a devious reason behind situating a group home where it is?”

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense, and I’m ready to raise the roof about it. Whether or not Madge has been in on it from the start, I don’t know. I’m inclined to think that she hasn’t, but who knows? But if she hasn’t, the only profit that nonprofit is going to bring her is a lesson learned the hard way.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sam said, rubbing his hand across his mouth as he thought about it. “And getting a variance on the zoning would be the icing on the cake. To Pickens, it would mean his final move had been cut off, and he’d have to live next door to a group home and go through years of courtroom wrangling, or sell out.” Sam stacked some papers and put them aside. He stood up, then, before turning, suddenly stopped short. “Zoning variance,” he said, almost under his breath, but looking as if a lightbulb had lit up in his head. “Julia, depending on the kind of variance they get—if the commissioners grant one—anything and everything could go up on that block.”

  “You mean,” I asked, beginning to understand, “something worse than a group home?”

  “It’s possible. I hate to think in terms of a conspiracy, but depending on how the variance is worded, it could open up a whole new can of worms.” He came around the desk then, and put his hand on my arm. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. There’s one fly in the ointment for them—neighborhood approval is required for a variance, and no way in the world will Pickens give his approval.”

  “Oh, goodness, I wish I’d known that,” I said, wondering what other little twists of the law I didn’t know. “It would’ve saved me a whole lot of worrying time. So,” I went on to be sure I fully understood the requirements, “as long as one neighbor withholds his approval, the commissioners can’t grant a variance?”

  “Wel-l-l, we’ll see. If one entity—that holding company—owns everything on the block except the Pickens property, that might outweigh his disapproval. It could depend on what their intentions are. If they’re planning something that the commissioners see as a benefit to the town, who knows what they’ll do. It comes down to this, honey, how much money and how much time it would take to carry the fight through the courts, and it’d be Pickens who’d be left to do it by himself.”

  “No, we’d help.”

  “I know, but it could be a long, drawn-out process. It’s even possible that in the long run, we’d be glad Madge Taylor is so determined to stay there.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, thinking that I’d better sit myself down. “That means that Mr. Pickens and Madge would be on the same side—both fighting a takeover. He’d certainly have to change his tune if that’s the way it turns out. Sam, we have to find out who’s doing what. And why.”

  “I think so, too. I should be able to find who the owner is online if the deed has been registered. Which it ought to have been by now. But, no, I’m going myself to the courthouse and see it in writing.”

  “Well, while you’re there, find out who’s in that holding company, too.”

  “That may take some time. The names will be registered with the North Carolina secretary of state, which may mean a trip to Raleigh—I’m not sure that’s accessible online.”

  “Going to Raleigh—if that’s what it takes—may be worth it,” I said, wanting him to say that he
didn’t mind going.

  Instead, he shook his head. “Can’t for a couple of days at least. The Rotary Club has asked me to do a slide program of my trip on Thursday.”

  “What a nice compliment to you, Sam. I’m sure it’ll be wonderful and most informative.” But I was disappointed. I badly wanted to find out who was behind the block takeover, and to find out as soon as possible.

  But then a few lightbulbs began going off in my head. “Listen, Sam, whoever is doing this has really played their cards right. I’ve had the feeling all along that the commissioners would be hard-pressed to turn down a variance for something as worthy as a home for homeless children. I’m convinced that they’ll grant it because if they don’t, the members of those seven churches will rake them over the coals—and that’s a lot of voters to displease. Why, they might even protest in the streets, and how would that look?”

  Sam grinned. “Not too good when they’re asking for votes. But,” he went on, “instead of granting a variance for that one house, the commissioners could know something that we don’t. Depending on who’s playing those cards you mentioned, they could simply rezone the entire block to permit not only a group home but who-knows-what-else.”

  * * *

  —

  Well, that possibility certainly didn’t settle my nerves. Too antsy to even think of wrapping gifts, I tried to wait patiently for Sam to return with enlightening news of exactly who was behind the ruination of Hazel Marie’s happy home. I started to call her, just to have something to do, but decided not to. Anything I could tell her about our current suspicions would only add to her worries. Better to wait until we knew something definite.

  So I wandered around the house, going in and out of the kitchen so many times that Lillian finally said, “You need to find yourself something to do.”

  “I know it,” I said, coming to rest on a chair at the kitchen table. “My mother used to say, ‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,’ and I guess . . .” Interrrupted by the ringing of the phone, I jumped up to answer it, hoping Sam was calling with news too big to hold in.

  Instead it was LuAnne, who at least gave me something else to think of.

  “Julia?” she said, sounding just a little unsure of herself, or of me—I didn’t know which.

  “Yes, of course it’s me. What’s going on, LuAnne? Is everything all right?”

  “Oh,” she said, as if she suddenly realized she had something to say. “I’m sorry, I just have a lot on my mind. But I called to see if you’d be interested in joining a prayer group—you know, with Christmas approaching and all. I mean, it would be good for us to center our minds on what’s important at this time of the year. You know, so we won’t get bogged down with all the commercialization and so forth.”

  “Well, I don’t know. There’s so much to do, and . . .”

  “That’s exactly the wrong attitude,” LuAnne said, much more firmly. “What’s more important than taking a few minutes to engage in prayer?”

  “I guess if you put it that way . . .”

  “I certainly do. Now, listen, we’re going to meet at the church in the bride’s room next to the chapel. Just a few of us, and there’re comfortable chairs there, and it’s quiet and conducive. Nobody’ll bother us, so we’re going to meet at ten o’clock tomorrow for thirty minutes or so. No lessons or anything, just prayer requests and silent prayer, then somebody will give a closing prayer, and that’ll be it. But it’ll help us put first things first—which we tend to forget in all the rushing around getting ready for Christmas. I think it’ll make a difference for the entire season. Say you’ll come, Julia. Will you?”

  “Well, yes, of course I will. I’m really not all that busy, and anybody can find time for prayer. Or ought to, anyway. Who all will be there?”

  “Oh, just a few, whoever can get away—to start with, anyway.”

  “One thing, though,” I said. “I don’t want to have the closing prayer. I’d worry about what I was going to say all the time I was supposed to be praying silently.”

  “I know what you mean,” LuAnne said, seemingly with relief. “See you then. Ten o’clock tomorrow, don’t forget.”

  “I won’t, and thanks for thinking of me.” I hung up, still wondering—conducive to what?

  Chapter 38

  It had earlier crossed my mind to invite Mildred to go with me to the prayer group, but by the next morning I hadn’t gotten around to doing it and knew it was too late. Mildred didn’t like to be rushed around in the mornings and usually refused any invitation to anything before noon anyway.

  Still, I wished that I had—for the company, you know—and, at the same time, wished that I’d turned it down. I didn’t know who would be there, other than LuAnne, and it might well turn into a round-robin of passing along gossip by way of prayer requests, with only a minute or two of prayer. I now thought of a dozen excuses I could’ve used—presents to wrap, Lillian needed menus and shopping lists, Sam wanted me to do something with him, and on and on. LuAnne would’ve never known the difference, although the Lord would’ve. He, however, was more forgiving than she was.

  Actually, the real reason that I wasn’t eager to go was because of the news that Sam had brought back from the Register of Deeds office the previous afternoon. All I wanted to do was sit and ponder the impact of learning that Madge and her group of do-gooders were either renters or the beneficiaries of someone’s generosity. They certainly were not the owners of the Cochran house, for something called the Ridgetop Corporation held fast to the title. That meant that Madge and company had to be either benefiting from a gift—which I doubted because of the lack of public acclaim—or renting. How I would’ve loved to have seen the lease: How much was the monthly rent? Were the board members making the payments out of their own pockets? It was unlikely that they’d be getting state funds before any teenagers had actually been housed. And, normally, when you rent something, you pay both the first and last months?’ up front, which could amount to a tidy sum. Just where, I wondered, was the money coming from?

  I had no answers, so I put on my coat, told Lillian I wouldn’t be gone for more than an hour, and left the house thinking these thoughts and more. Surely, I assured myself, spending thirty minutes or so in prayer would be more beneficial than pacing the floor wondering what could be done about the Cochran house.

  Fighting a brisk wind as I crossed Polk Street and hurried toward the back entrance to the church, I determined to focus my thoughts entirely on laying my concerns before the Lord. Silently, of course, for I was not interested in a group discussion—a group anything, if you want to know the truth.

  I walked through the large, empty Fellowship Hall, where Wednesday night suppers were held, went past a few Sunday school rooms, and rode the elevator up to the chapel extension. As I walked toward the bride’s room, I saw LuAnne waiting for me at the door of the lovely room provided for last-minute touches to a bride’s veil and train before her grand entrance.

  “There you are!” LuAnne said, looking at her watch. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  “Why, LuAnne,” I said, “it’s not yet ten o’clock. I didn’t get the time wrong, did I?”

  “Oh, no. No, you didn’t. It’s just that everybody else got here early.” She reached for the doorknob, but before turning it—while I wondered why the door was closed in the first place—she said, “Now, Julia, remember that this is silent prayer and others have already started. So let’s just enter quietly, take a seat, and immediately bow our heads.”

  That suited me—my eyes were already heavy—so I followed her into the room, keeping my head down so as not to disturb anyone, and found a seat on the far side. With head bowed and eyes lowered, I nonetheless glanced at the others seated in a small circle around the room, and wondered what I was doing there.

  Perhaps, I thought to myself, this was the Lord working in mysterious ways His wonders to perform, f
or besides LuAnne, there were Lynette Rucker, Lorna McKenzie, Mary Nell Warner, Diane Jarret, whose rubber-soled shoes I recognized, and—of all people—Madge Taylor. Well, maybe after Madge had engaged in a period of prayer, she’d be willing to listen to reason—which would be one of those mysterious wonders.

  Still, I wondered why none of the “usual suspects,” as Mildred called Sue and Carrie and Helen and Rebecca and Emma Sue and the like, were meeting with us.

  With a sudden, grating clearing of her throat—interrupting my heavenward chain of thought—Madge told me.

  “Julia,” she said, leaning forward, “I hope you won’t think we’re ganging up on you, but there’re a number of us who’re deeply concerned about your lack of compassion, which I readily admit is totally unlike you. And I hope you’ll take it in the spirit in which it’s meant, because we all care enough to try to help you before you go off the deep end.”

  My head had jerked up when she’d said my name—I was stunned to be so addressed, and in public, too. Looking around at all the piously concerned faces, turned now toward me, I could only mumble a question. “Off the deep end of what?”

  “Your Christian witness,” Madge replied firmly.

  “Yes,” Lynette Rucker chimed in. “When we first moved here, you were held up as an example I would do well to follow. But—and I hate to say this—but it now seems that you’re headed down a track that has to be displeasing to our Lord.”

  I felt my face redden at being singled out—they were all watching me—and especially at being openly criticized by the preacher’s wife, who was not only half my age but unaware of her teetering position on the social ladder. Who did she think made possible that Prada bag in her lap?

  “And, Julia,” Lorna McKenzie said, catching her breath as her words dripped with solicitude, “you don’t know how it hurts our efforts to provide a home for little boys when you are so vocal in your opposition. It’s really most unbecoming of you. You really should—”