Miss Julia to the Rescue

by Ann B. Ross

  He shrugged to show it was all in a day’s work. “It was right on the side of the road, so I could hardly miss it. Then, well, I won’t go into how I narrowed it down, but I spent some time in bars and roadhouses, and picked up a few leads.”

  “We didn’t see any bars or roadhouses,” I said, “and we drove around the town a lot.”

  Mr. Pickens gave me a quick grin. “They’re there, all right. You have to have a nose for ’em. Anyway, I got a line on a sorry group that was trying to buy, lease, borrow or steal a couple of delivery trucks to move some merchandise, which, from the way they were going about it, I figured was stolen.” Mr. Pickens grimaced at the recollection, looking a little abashed. “I never found out exactly what they had or where they’d gotten it—probably broke into a warehouse somewhere. But they had whatever it was stashed in this old, run-down barn back in the mountains because the truck they’d carted it in on had given out. I followed a couple of them back from a bar one night and spent a miserable few hours in the bush watching them. I was just waiting till sunrise to find my way out and report to the sheriff, but they found me first. One of ’em came out to relieve himself and came right toward me. I couldn’t move because he’d know I was there, so I stayed still and he stumbled over me. I ran and he shot. Shot wild because it was still dark, but he got me. Why they didn’t track me down—because I was down—I don’t know. Probably scared them as much as it did me. The next thing I knew, I was in the hospital without a thing to my name. Not even my name. I lost a couple of days somewhere in there before somebody found me.”

  “Oh, J.D.,” Hazel Marie cried—literally, because tears were welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if they hadn’t found you. Why, you could still be lying out there on the cold ground to this day!”

  “Yeah,” Coleman said, “but you know, they must’ve tracked you down, because somebody searched you. Probably scared them even more when they saw your license, so they just took off.”

  “That’s what I figure, too,” Mr. Pickens said. “But I sure don’t come out of it looking too good. The doc said I probably hit my head falling after I got shot. Some hunters found me in a gully, and I guess I was lucky not to get shot again.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, Mr. Pickens,” I said, trying to put his mind at ease. “I think you did Sheriff McAfee a favor, because right before we left Mill Run the other night, Etta Mae saw a bunch of ATF men at the sheriff’s office getting ready to go on a raid. So, see, you did a good deed in spite of getting shot.”

  “ATF, huh?” Mr. Pickens got a thoughtful look on his face. “That could mean a lot of things. So, Coleman, maybe it’d be worth going ahead and making a call to the sheriff. I’d sure like to know if they picked up the Hanson kid.”

  I couldn’t blame him if it was that twenty-five thousand dollars that troubled his mind. The man deserved some compensation for the pain and suffering he’d endured. And the embarrassment of not only getting shot, but of where he’d gotten shot. It wasn’t as if he’d be able to show off his scars.

  Chapter 28

  As that previous day’s conversation ran through my mind, I stood before my closet trying to decide what to wear to a garden party I didn’t want to attend. I wished Hazel Marie were going with me, but she wasn’t ready to leave either the babies with a babysitter or Mr. Pickens with James. I knew she wouldn’t when Mildred put her on the list, but she’d been pleased to get an invitation—hand delivered by a chauffeur, mind you, because the Whitman woman had waited too late to post them.

  I decided on a voile frock—a flower print—because of the heat and a pair of white Naturalizer pumps because of their wide heels, which I hoped would keep me aboveground. Some of the younger women would wear sundresses, I was sure, because it was so warm, but when you reach a certain age and your skin reaches a certain level of wrinkled sag, you put aside anything that lacks adequate coverage.

  Then, on a whim, I took down several hatboxes that were high on a shelf. Why not? I asked myself. It had been so long since I’d worn a hat, but what better reason to wear one than an outdoor party on the hottest day of the year? I lifted the lids of several boxes and wondered why I hadn’t gotten rid of all the hats that I no longer wore. There was a time, I mused, when I would never have darkened the door of a church without obeying Paul’s admonition to cover my head. He’d not said anything about covering anything else, but I’d considered both hats and gloves essential to being appropriately dressed. I couldn’t recall when those two essentials had faded from use, but they had and now it was the odd woman who wore either or both to church.

  But why not gloves along with a hat for the garden party? I rummaged through a drawer until I found my short kid gloves wrapped in tissue paper. They were a little stiff from being unused for so long, but with some smoothing over my hands and fingers they looked quite nice, and I hoped the Whitman woman appreciated my efforts.

  As for a hat, I of course decided on a wide-brimmed one, quite suitable for such a party, even as I hoped there’d be an awning or a tent or a pergola or some form of shade. A large tree would do, if nothing else.

  I declare, though, the hammering and sawing that Adam Waites was doing upstairs was enough to give me a headache and make me more willing to leave the house in spite of not wanting to go. But the cabinets and bookshelves in the sunroom were coming along and the room was beginning to look like a working office. I hoped Sam would be pleased with it, even though if we had an overnight guest we’d have to set up a cot in a corner.

  No, I realized as my spirits dropped, overnight guests could use Lloyd’s room because he’d soon be gone. Thinking of what it would be like when he was no longer with us put a damper on the whole day, as if a cloud had suddenly covered the sun. I sat down to let the lonely feeling pass, reminding myself of my blessings even though the long list didn’t quite compensate for the loss of one item on it.

  The trick was to stay busy, I reminded myself, and the following day would be full of decorating decisions. Something to look forward to, if I could. I would be meeting with an interior designer—not the one who’d helped Hazel Marie with her pink room, but a more conservative one in Asheville. Paint color for the upstairs bedroom along with fabrics for curtains, bedcovers and chairs had to be selected and ordered. Oh, and carpet for that room and the sunroom. Then I needed to decide on furnishings for the new English library that would take the place of the downstairs bedroom, where I was now sitting.

  A lot to do, especially with little heart to do it. Still, I owed it to Sam to make the house as suitable and comfortable for the two of us as I could. The two of us! That thought brought tears to my eyes as I realized that I was suffering from a favorite topic of the women’s magazines Hazel Marie loved: empty-nest syndrome.

  And with that, I sprang from the chair, determined not to be a victim of every popular psychological or medical problem that came along. And why did it need a special name in the first place? Couldn’t you simply miss someone without having a medical label stuck on it? A plain, simple word like “heartache” would come closer to describing what I felt at the thought of losing that boy. Then I reminded myself that I had lived for forty-something years in an empty nest with Wesley Lloyd Springer and didn’t know I was missing anything. Well, yes I did. I just didn’t know what I was missing. Now I knew, and its name was Lloyd.

  The drive to Fairfields was an easy one, although it was my first trip there since it had been built up, it being somewhat off the beaten path. I’d heard about the fine estates in the area and when I turned into the gated area, I was not disappointed. Not disappointed, but somewhat rattled because of another reason that kept me from fully appreciating the large homes and spacious lawns. I’d forgotten how carefully a large-hat-wearing woman has to maneuver herself when moving about. For instance, when I’d attempted to get into the car, the hat’s wide brim had struck the door frame, unsettling the whole thing and messing up my hair. It had taken almost ten minutes of sitting in a blis
tering hot car to readjust both hat and hair, and because I was using the small mirror on the back of the visor, I wasn’t sure how well I’d done it. Then when I’d slipped on my sunglasses, the hat canted to one side and I had to do more adjusting. Added to that, I found that the hat was so wide that every time I moved my head to check for traffic, the brim grazed the headrest, knocking the hat off kilter again. So I drove the whole way hunched over the wheel to keep that blasted hat in place. I was in no mood for a party by the time I arrived.

  But the Whitman estate was a sight to behold. Mildred had been right—I couldn’t miss it. I turned off the main road of the community and drove through an open wrought-iron gate onto a straight, tree-lined avenue, with lawn on one side and a rail-fence-enclosed horse pasture on the other. The drive proceeded a quarter of a mile to the châteauesque mansion at the end of it, although the closer I got, the less Frenchified it looked. In fact, it was a mishmash of different colored stones and stucco with a lot of Gothic windows, one huge Palladian window over the double doors and a slender tower at the far end. A huge fountain spurting water like a geyser stood in the middle of the front court. I thought to myself that if Tucker Caldwell had designed this monstrosity, I would unemploy him forthwith.

  I slowed and stopped beside a young man who waited at the paved courtyard. He wore black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt buttoned all the way up to a black string tie. Almost blinded by the sun’s glare, I lowered my window and asked where I should park.

  “I’ll park it for you, ma’am,” he said, opening my door as I wondered how large a party this was to be if it required valet services.

  As I stepped out of the car, bending way over so I wouldn’t scrape off my hat, I got a closer look at the young man. My smile froze on my face as I smothered a gasp. That poor misguided boy was absolutely studded with rings and bolts and safety pins, and I don’t mean just his ears. I mean all over his face from eyebrows to nose to bottom lip to his tongue. And creeping up from his shirt collar, tattooed swirls wound around his neck all the way up to his chin.

  It’s rude to stare no matter how bizarre someone looks, so I tore my eyes away from the sight that must have had his mother in tears, thanked him and proceeded to the walkway beside the house that he pointed out to me. It was a lovely walk under a wisteria-covered pergola that led to an extensive lawn at the back of the house.

  From the corner of the house, I could see a gathering of women across an expanse of grass near what appeared to be a cabanalike structure beside a pool. I stood for a moment to take in the back of the house, which looked much better than the front. From this aspect, the house formed a shallow U, which allowed for an open terrace bounded by a stone balustrade. A few wide stone steps opened onto a broad walkway that bisected the lawn and led to the pool area. Miniature boxwood hedges lined the parterres on each side of the walkway, making a lovely vista. I stood for a minute, taking it all in.

  Off in the distance, beyond the pool, two horses grazed in a white-fenced paddock next to a barn. To my right was a garage with four bays, all occupied by vehicles of one kind or another. Farther away, almost hidden in a copse of trees and laurels, I noticed the roof and a side of a large rustic building, the purpose of which I had no idea. Gazing at the lawn, the fields, and all the outbuildings, I was entranced with the beauty and extent of the Whitman compound.

  “That way, ma’am,” a young woman said, pointing toward the pool.

  She had walked up behind me and it was just as well I hadn’t seen her coming—I might’ve run for the car. If I’d kept my eyes on her fresh and comely face, I would’ve been all right. But who could miss the rest of her? At first, I thought she was wearing a long-sleeved tie-dyed undershirt beneath the short sleeves of her gray uniform, and I wondered how she could stand it in the heat.

  When I realized that what I thought were long sleeves was instead a multitude of black, yellow and red tattooed designs completely covering her arms and neck, I audibly gasped. Shocked and embarrassed, I murmured my thanks and hurried on my way, wondering why in the world someone would do that to herself. Didn’t she know she’d have those things for the rest of her life? And wasn’t she aware of what would happen when her skin began to sag, a condition I was more than familiar with? A rising sun on a young shoulder would be setting on an elderly elbow.

  Maybe, I thought as I walked toward the party, the maid and valet were a couple. Maybe they’d gotten in with the wrong crowd when they were younger and hadn’t known any better than to have themselves inked over. Maybe they were now settled into stable jobs and regretted their misspent youths.

  Then again, maybe they’d been in the navy.

  However it had happened, I was saddened for them, stuck as they were with indelible dermal designs.

  Shuddering a little at the thought, I was glad to approach the gathering of ladies, many of whom smiled and waved at me. As I joined them, I felt relieved to be among familiar faces and unadorned arms and necks. Well, except for strings of pearls, lockets, a few diamond tennis bracelets and several charm bracelets, all of which were perfectly normal and appropriate, and could be removed at any time. I put the pitiful young couple out of my mind and set about to enjoy the party—until I met our hostess.

  Chapter 29

  Mildred watched with a peculiar smile on her face as she introduced me to Agnes Whitman, and I must say that it took an act of will to keep my composure and respond courteously to Miss Whitman’s welcome. The woman was skinny as a rail, one of those thin edgy types whose eyes bore into you. On that hot day, she was dressed in a long-sleeved, high-neck silk blouse with a long flowing skirt that flipped around her ankles. And sandals—sandals that revealed long toes with rings on them. And after I had gone back and forth about the kind of shoes I should wear. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her face, then fell long and straight down her back all the way to her waist. It was dark with plenty of gray, which might make you think she cared little about her looks, but you’d be wrong. When she turned her head to speak to Mildred, who was still silently amused at my reaction, I saw scars behind her ear. Face-lift, I thought, having seen such scars a few times before, but to my mind this one hadn’t been too successful—her eyes had a definite slant to them and her face was so tight that her lips looked like two thin lines.

  I don’t mean to be critical. If somebody wants a face-lift and can afford it, why, go ahead and have one. I, myself, was just waiting for an arm lift.

  But Agnes Whitman’s drastic face-lift wasn’t the worst of it. It was her earrings that drew my eyes and kept them there, in spite of my trying to look everywhere but at them. They were so long that they dangled to her shoulders and so heavy that her earlobes were stretched. But the absolute worst was how those earrings were attached. I stared—I couldn’t help it. Her earlobes were filled with … well, I don’t know what to call them … plugs, I guess, or maybe round corks from which a number of jangling chains and disks hung. I declare, the woman looked like a Zulu chieftain in a National Geographic magazine.

  “Thank you for having me,” I managed to say, shaking Miss Whitman’s extended hand. “Your home is lovely.” A more descriptive word would have been impressive, which wouldn’t have expressed a personal judgment on a matter of taste, but courtesy had been too long ingrained in me. So I lied, which in a social setting is entirely forgivable.

  “I’m so glad you like it,” Agnes said, her eyes, which I noted were slightly popped, whether from birth or from surgical intervention I couldn’t tell, giving me the once-over. “I designed it myself.”

  “Remarkable,” I murmured, inwardly relieved that I wouldn’t have to find another architect for my project.

  “Please,” Agnes said, indicating a linen-covered table in the shade of the cabana, “have something to eat. And drink. There’s wine and mint juleps, or if you’d like something straight, just tell the barman.” Then turning to give me that pop-eyed stare again, she abruptly said, “So glad to meet you, but I see someone else coming. Exc
use me.”

  I glanced back toward the house and saw Helen Stroud walking toward us. “Mildred,” I said as our hostess moved away, “why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I did,” she whispered. “I told you I hadn’t seen her in years and didn’t know what to expect. And I told you she was a little strange. But you have to admit she’s interesting. I told you that, too.”

  “Well, yes, you did. But let’s get out of the sun. I’m about to melt.” As we wandered toward the table, I went on. “I hope the something straight is lemonade.”

  Just as we arrived at the table, which was covered with trays of fruit and vegetables as well as a variety of cheeses and nuts, without a ham biscuit in sight, LuAnne Conover came rushing over.

  “Julia, Mildred,” she whispered, her eyes bright and darting around, “did you see that valet? Have you ever seen anything like all that metal on his face? I nearly died. And the maid! Honey, she is covered with tattoos.”

  “Sh-h-h, LuAnne,” Mildred said, laughing. “Not so loud.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” LuAnne returned right smartly. “If somebody wants to freak herself out like that, she has to expect to be talked about. But let me tell you what Marlene told me.” She leaned in close as the three of us huddled to hear the latest. “She said she’d heard that Agnes herself is covered with tattoos and that’s why she’s wearing that blouse in this heat. She didn’t want to shock us at first meeting.”

  My head, along with Mildred’s, swiveled around to look at our hostess, who was chatting with Helen.

  “Surely not,” I said, although I had wondered at the long sleeves and high neck of Agnes’s blouse—not exactly what one would expect at an outdoor party.

  “Well, I’m just passing on what Marlene said,” LuAnne went on. “She said Agnes has full-sleeve tattoos, like that maid. That’s what it’s called—full-sleeve because it runs from shoulder to wrist, and it’s considered body art, of all things.”