by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis
So that’s how I happened to be in town that bright May morning, strolling up Spruce Street toward the Goldilocks Hair, Nail and Tanning Salon on Main. I was looking a little ragged around the edges, and plus I heard the new police chief was kind of particular about the hair length of his employees, for which I don’t blame him one bit—let’s face it, it’s hard to be taken seriously by the bad guys when you’re a cop with babydoll curls—and I wanted to make a good impression. So I’d made an appointment with Rainey for a cut and blow-dry at ten, which would get me out of there in plenty of time for my interview with Chief Royden at 11:30. I figured I’d dazzle him with my personality and charm for twenty or thirty minutes, pick up a couple of Lunch Specials to-go at Mama’s All You Can Eat Café for Jess and me, and be home in time for Judge Judy at one o’clock. I hoped Cindy had remembered to put in a good word for me.
I parked the pickup down on Spruce because we hadn’t gotten around to fixing that broken taillight from where I’d backed into Mama’s chicken coop last winter trying to keep from squashing her butterfly bush, and I didn’t think it would look right, you know, for somebody that was trying to get a job in the police department to park right out in front with a broken taillight.
I didn’t mind the walk. It gave me a chance to see how the Abercrombies’ purple petunias were doing on the square this year, and whether Egg Egbert had gotten that sagging front porch of his fixed or not—it was a shame, really, the way he was letting his mama’s place run down—and wave to nutty old Millicent Hart, who was probably sprinkling stolen fertilizer pellets around her daughter’s roses, and …
I slowed my step, the way a cat does when it smells something curious in the air, as I came over the rise and spotted Miss Lorna Bingham’s house. It was a sweet little cottage with green awnings and a picket fence, and, at this moment, an odd-looking white car parked in front of it. Well, if you want to know the truth, the only odd thing about the car was that I didn’t recognize it. But in Mossy Creek, you don’t just walk on by when you see a strange car parked in a neighbor’s driveway—especially if there happens to be a strange person prowling through the hydrangea bushes and peeking through the windows at the same time.
I know Miss Lorna. I clean her house the first Thursday of every month. She’s a sweet little old thing with diabetes and arthritis bad enough to keep her in a wheelchair, but most times she’s just as sharp as a tack in spite of it. I’d met her daughter from Atlanta and her sister from Gainesville, and it was too early for Meals on Wheels to be delivering–besides which, I knew all of them, too. So what do you suppose, I couldn’t help asking myself in a real cautious-like way, is that woman in the navy blue pantsuit doing prowling around Miss Lorna’s house?
There was only one way to find out. I swung open the gate and called out, “Hello, there! You need some help?”
The woman had pulled up an old paint can, had overturned it, and had climbed up on it to give herself a better view into Miss Lorna’s kitchen. She had her face pressed to Miss Lorna’s window with her hands cupped around it to shield her eyes, and when I hollered out, she turned around too fast, flapped her arms for a minute like she was trying to take off in a headwind, and then the paint can went out from under her, and she sprawled back on her nether-end into the hydrangea bushes.
Now there are a couple of things anybody who goes to apply for a job in law enforcement ought to know, if you ask me: a) that almost all rental cars are white and b) how to recognize a wig. Now, it was entirely possible that some big-time criminal from Atlanta had rented a car, put on a salt-and-pepper wig and a blue pantsuit, and had driven all the way up here to do some harm to Miss Lorna. Since the wig in question was now sitting noticeably askew, and since I had happened to notice as I passed that the car had Bigelow County plates, I felt pretty confident I wouldn’t be shot down like a dog if I rushed to help the woman in the bushes. On the other hand, it doesn’t pay to be too friendly until you get all the facts, which might be the third thing anybody who wants to get a job in law enforcement might want to know.
So I hauled the woman to her feet, helped her crawl out of the hydrangea bushes, and waited until she’d straightened her wig before I demanded, in as nice a voice as I could, “What are you doing looking in Miss Lorna’s windows?”
The woman, who I guessed to be about fifty, married, from the look of the ring on her finger, and too lazy or too busy to do her own hair every morning, tugged at the hem of her navy polyester jacket, brushed a few dead hydrangea petals off her slacks, worried with the edges of her wig and managed to look insulted and important at the same time as she announced, huffing a little, “I am Clara Dawson from Happy Mountain Home Health Care. Mrs. Bingham is my patient. Who, may I ask, are you?”
“Sandy Crane,” I replied, friendly enough, and extended my hand. I used to be Sandy Bottoms before I married, no lie, which had nothing whatsoever to do with why I married Jess at eighteen. Well, not much, anyway.
The woman hesitated for a minute, then shook my hand. She had a weak, nervous, citified handshake.
“Listen,” she was saying, a little breathlessly. “Do you know the woman who lives here? Because I think—”
I said, still real friendly-like, “No, you’re not.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You’re not from Happy Mountain Home Health Care. Lisa Williams is Miss Lorna’s nurse, and she comes on Wednesday, not Tuesday. So why don’t you just tell me who you are and why you’re poking around Miss Lorna’s hydrangea bushes before I have to call the police?”
“What?” The woman went bugged eyed. “Aren’t you listening to me? I’ve been knocking on the door, and nobody answers, and this is 418 Spruce, isn’t it, Lorna Bingham? I’m going to have to call my supervisor—”
I said skeptically, “You got some kind of card or something from the Happy Mountain Home Health Care?”
“Lisa Williams is on vacation,” she told me a little huffily, and pulled out a laminated badge from her shoulder bag. “I drove all the way over here from Bigelow to take her cases, and I’m telling you, I’ve got a housebound patient in there who doesn’t answer the door. Something could be seriously wrong.”
I looked at the identification she handed me, and returned it without comment. Rats. I could have really made an impression on the chief if I’d’ve been able to turn over a felon to him on my way to my interview.
I said, “You probably didn’t knock loud enough. Miss Lorna is almost eighty, you know. Sometimes she has a little trouble hearing.”
“I think I should call the paramedics. Procedure is—”
I went to the door and banged on it, hard. “Miss Lorna! Miss Lorna, you in there?”
“She could have fallen, or had a stroke— Her record says she has high blood pressure, you know. Or she could be in a diabetic coma—”
I knocked again. “Miss Lorna, are you okay?”
The woman whipped out a cell phone from her bag and started punching out numbers. “The manual says I have to call the paramedics at the Mossy Creek Volunteer Fire Department.”
I glanced at her in annoyance, although the truth be told, I was getting a little worried myself. “I don’t see any need to do that until we know if something’s wrong. Those boys have to get all suited up, bring out the big truck …”
She said into the phone, “Hello? Hello, this is Clara Dawson from Happy Mountain Home Health Care, and I’m at 418 Spruce…”
I ran my hand over the top of the doorjamb until I found the key. I inserted it into the lock. “Miss Lorna? Are you in the tub? Because I’m coming in.”
I heard the woman say, “Yes, hurry.” And she flipped her little phone shut as she came over to me, looking all anxious and flustered. “What are you doing? You’re not opening the door, are you?”
I gave her a real patient look. “Unless you’ve got some other idea about how we can get in?”
“But I’m not allowed … That is, until the police or emergency personnel get here, we’re ab
solutely not to enter the premises …”
This woman’s palaver was getting real old, real fast. “Didn’t you just say she could be in a coma?”
“Well, yes, but—”
I opened the door. “Miss Lorna, you okay?”
“Don’t you take another step, Missy.”
The front door opened right into the main room of the house, which was done up in faded orange chintz and a kind of tea-colored wallpaper. The inside smelled of lavender room spray and talcum powder and, well, old people. I do my best to keep it fresh, but I can only do so much with what I’ve got.
The curtains were drawn over both windows, making it hard to see too much, but one thing you couldn’t miss: Miss Lorna Bingham, sitting in her wheelchair right square in the middle of the room with a 12 gauge shotgun pointed straight at the door. I halted on the spot.
“Miss Lorna, what in the world are you doing?”
“Step back, step back.” Clara Dawson bustled past me. “Let me at my patient—”
“You come any closer,” said Miss Lorna, “and I’ll blow you to Kingdom Come.”
It was about that time that Clara noticed the 12 gauge and screamed, flinging her hands over her head.
I heard the Rescue Unit’s siren cranking up at the firehouse two blocks away, and I took a couple of steps deeper into the room, squinting a little in the gloom. “Miss Lorna, what are you doing with that gun?”
“I’m defending my property against burglars, that’s what!” she declared, jerking the barrel toward Clara Dawson. Clara made a little whimpering sound and raised her hands higher.
“That’s not a burglar, that’s your home health care nurse! Now you give me that gun before somebody gets hurt.”
“I’m not doing it!” Now she swung the barrel toward me. “And she’s not my nurse. Lisa’s my nurse!”
“Lisa’s on vacation. This is the new nurse.”
But by now the siren sound was so close that I had to shout, and she cocked her head and yelled, “Huh? What’d you say?”
“I say,” I screamed, “this is your new nurse, Mrs.—”
The sirens wound down abruptly in front of the house.
“Dawson,” I shouted, because it was too late to find my regular speaking voice by then.
“Well, I don’t care if she is a friend of yours,” Miss Lorna shouted back, “she tried to break into my house, and I’m going to shoot her dead if she don’t get out of here right now!”
There was a clattering on the steps and two paramedics burst through the open door, portable gurney, medical bags and oxygen in tow. They stopped even with me when they saw Miss Lorna’s gun.
The lead man glanced at me. “Hey, Sandy,” he said.
“Hey, Boo.” Boo is my brother, older by three years, and if you think it was bad for me being named Sandy Bottoms, think about how you’d’ve liked to have been Boo Bottoms back in high school. I nodded to his partner. “Hey, Andy.”
“What’s going on?” Boo wanted to know.
I was about to explain when Miss Lorna demanded, “Are you the police?”
“No ma’am,” said Andy, moving toward her. “We’re just here to take care of you. Now why don’t you let me just take your blood pressure—”
“You’re not taking anything from me, young man! You back up now!” She jerked the gun at him. “Back up!”
Andy looked at me. “What’s she mad about? A woman in her condition, she shouldn’t get mad like that. Has she been taking her insulin? Could be an insulin reaction.”
I said, “She’s just defending herself, Andy. She thought this woman was breaking into her house.”
Boo looked suspiciously at Clara, who stood trembling with her arms in the air. “Well, was she?”
I shrugged. “She says she’s a nurse.”
“For heaven’s sake will somebody do something?” Clara shrieked.
Andy said, “Somebody ought to get the gun.”
Boo looked at Miss Lorna, her chin set and the rifle held high, and then at Andy. He hesitated. “You want me to call the police?”
The mantle clock began its wheezing strike of the hour, and I knew I couldn’t hang around here much longer. Rainey just hated it when you were late, and the one thing you don’t want is to put a pair of scissors in the hands of a stressed-out hair stylist in a bad mood on the day of the most important interview of your life.
Meanwhile, Andy looked at Boo, Boo looked at Andy, Miss Dawson looked at both of them, and none of us was getting any younger. I said, “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
And I marched over and snatched the gun from Miss Lorna’s hands.
Andy and Boo rushed over with their official looking blood pressure cuff and important medical equipment, Clara Dawson collapsed into the nearest chair, fanning herself, and I checked the chamber of the shotgun. It was loaded.
“Miss Lorna, are you crazy?” I scolded her. “You could have hurt somebody! What are you doing with a gun like this in the house, anyway? How’d you get it loaded?”
“I always keep it loaded,” she replied proudly. “My daddy was in the war.”
I emptied the gun of shells and pocketed them. “Well, you ought to be more careful is all I can say. Boo, is she going to be all right?”
“Blood pressure’s a little high, that’s all. Miss Lorna, did you take your medicine today?”
My watch said five after ten. Blast. I’d forgotten that mantle clock was slow.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got to go. I’m late for a hair appointment.”
“You run on. She’s going to be just fine, aren’t you Miss Lorna? Tell Rainey I said hey, and good luck on your interview.”
I waved my thanks on the way out of the house, and practically jogged the block and a half remaining to the Goldilocks Hair Salon. I suppose I should have stayed and made sure Miss Dawson recovered from her swoon, but, really, I didn’t have time.
Rainey was in a state. Her big blonde hair-do looked electrified. She always stuffed herself into a pink smock and tight jeans. She danced from one booted foot to another.
“Lor’, child, where’ve you been? I been calling and calling you. I figured you’d forgot, you’d be surprised how many people do that, you know, no consideration whatsoever for what it does to my schedule. Then I thought maybe you’d had a wreck on your way into town and was laying out in a ditch—”
“I’m only five minutes late, Rainey, and I’m really sorry—”
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters, but we’re going to have to hurry because I have a perm at ten-thirty, and you know how I just hate to rush. What a pretty sweater, but aren’t you going to burn up this afternoon? Supposed to get up to eighty. Just go on in the bathroom and put on this smock. What are you doing with that gun?”
I looked down in dismay. I had run all the way here with Miss Lorna’s shotgun in my hands. I was glad the chief hadn’t seen that. Talk about your bad impressions.
I stowed the gun in the corner behind the rolling cart, figuring I would return it after my interview, and told Rainey about the adventure at Miss Lorna’s house while I exchanged my lavender twin set for her pink poodle smock and she shampooed my hair and tsked a lot.
“Her mind’s goin’, if you ask me. That sugar diabetes’ll do that, you know. It’s a ever-lastin’ horror on the hair, too. Why, what little hair she’s got left won’t even take a rinse anymore. Now, what you need, honey, is a few highlights here and there, just around your face, you know, nothing dramatic, not so’s your husband will come to bed tonight and wonder who’s that sleepin’ on his sheets, but just to make your eyes look bigger, don’t you know. How much were you thinkin’ of takin’ off? About four inches ought to do it, right about here, up to your chin.”
She spun me around to face the mirror and cupped my wet hair with her hand at the chin line.
“Yes, that’s about right, but no highlights today. Jess wouldn’t like it, and I’ve got an interview with Chief Royden about Cindy Fuller’s job,
so I don’t really have time—”
“Plenty of time, don’t you worry a thing about it. I’ll just get the solution on and pop you under the dryer while I’m doin’ my perm.”
“No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
Rainey was digging around in a cabinet filled with chemical bottles in the back of the room. “You goin’ to take over Cindy’s job? Well, I just don’t think I’d like it. All that sittin’ around, nobody to talk to but the boys all day, and I just don’t see how Cindy can afford to quit work at all with no more than Lenny makes. But I guess it beats payin’ a baby-sitter for twins—and both of them girls, did you hear that? Lor’, is poor Cindy goin’ to have her hands full! Especially with her mama down in Florida, although I did hear she’s comin’ up to stay for a month when the babies come. Now, this is what I think—a nice honey-beige cellophane glaze on the bottom layers, to kind of give you some low lights, and then just comb through some Moonlight Mist over the top, make you look just like one of those supermodels. Were you thinkin’ of keepin’ the bangs?”
“I really don’t think—”
“I don’t either. I always say, the more of a girl’s face you can see, the better. Let’s just get some of this length off …” Snip, snip and several inches of hair fell to the floor. “And we’ll see what we’ve got here.”
“Now, Rainey, that’s fine, that looks good. Don’t get it too short.”
“Don’t you worry, you’re just gonna love it. That Moonlight Mist is just the sweetest baby-blonde you ever saw, and it’ll go just perfect with your eyes. You were a born blonde, weren’t you? See, that’s what happens when we get older. All that pollution in the air is what I think. Makes the hair darker.”
“My hair’s not all that dark.”
“Lor’, honey, live a little. Have an adventure once in a while. You know what I always say, if God had wanted us to look like this, He wouldn’t have made Miss Clairol.”
