by Ann B. Ross
“It’s a very in color right now,” she’d said, pushing back her long strawberry-blond hair, “but I don’t think it’s going to last long—too dark and depressing. I wouldn’t want to get up in the mornings.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said. “But I do so want a room that my husband will like. He’s put up with pink for so long, and a brown room would be the exact opposite.”
“Well, of course we can work with brown, but I don’t think you want to go too masculine. You’ll be living in it, too.” She opened a wallpaper book and began to flip through it. “Let me suggest something else. If we use blush as a neutral, there’s a wide range of colors that will complement it. Green, for instance, although you have to be careful with shades of green and pink—they can get Palm Beachy real quick.”
As she talked, she got up and started sliding hanger after hanger of fabric swatches that hung from racks along the walls of her place of business.
“Here’s a possibility,” she said, laying a swatch before me on the long table where I was sitting. “And here’s another.”
Before long there were so many choices—all with blush somewhere in the plaid, striped or floral designs—that I was about to be overwhelmed. Who knew blush was such a popular color? I’d certainly never considered it and here I was basing the entire decor of a bedroom and bathroom that Sam and I would use every day of our lives on that one color—condemned, one might say, by Hazel Marie’s choice.
But at least it wasn’t pink, so I drove home with my spirits high. Ms. Parker—Allie, as she insisted—helped me decide on a lovely faded floral design on a background of the lightest shade of blush for the curtains and bedspread—a copy, Allie said, of a fabric in one of the great houses of England. And from what it cost per yard, the house might well have belonged to the queen herself.
We decided that the curtains would hang from fairly simple cornices instead of the swagged and fringed valances that Hazel Marie had chosen. Then we selected a striped fabric for the chairs that blended beautifully with the curtain material and balanced the floral with a hint of masculinity. When Allie found a gorgeous linenlike wallpaper with just enough blush in it to keep it from being ivory, I quickly discarded the thought of paint and decided on it.
After going to a showroom and ordering new bathroom fixtures, I was highly pleased with the morning’s decisions, although I’d had to call Allie and ask her opinion about a new shade of white they were offering. Who knew that what they were calling biscuit would be the in thing in fixtures? And when I saw that the color was nowhere near that of the beautiful brown tops of Lillian’s biscuits, which was what had come to mind, I knew it would be perfect. And to top it off, Allie assured me that biscuit fixtures would blend with the tiles much better than pure white and would also pick up the ivory tint of the wallpaper.
Much relieved to have all that behind me, I came to the conclusion that decorating was a mind-boggling process that involved second-guessing one’s choices until it was simply too late to change anything.
Now to get Adam Waites back on the job, I said to myself as I took the Abbotsville exit and headed home.
Chapter 34
“Look at this, Lillian,” I said as I excitedly spread out swatches and samples on the kitchen table. “Just look how everything goes together. I am so pleased. It’ll be a beautiful room.”
“Yes’m,” she said as she surveyed the display and fingered the fabric swatches. “It’ll be pretty all right. But I thought you was fixin’ up a brown room for Mr. Sam.”
“Well, not completely, because I live in it, too. But see, it has some masculine touches. All the background color is neutral and look at these flowers—the stems are brown. That’s masculine enough. And the bathroom fixtures, Lillian—look at this little sample—would you believe they call that biscuit?”
Lillian laughed. “If my biscuits come out that color, I put ’em back in the oven.”
The telephone rang then and when I answered it, Pastor Poppy Peterson said, “It’s called the Church of Body Modification, Miss Julia. I looked it up on the Internet and, apparently, it qualifies as a real church, although who or what they worship I can’t figure out. But they do have ministers and you can apply to be one online. All you have to do is answer about four pages of questions about yourself and send them in.” Poppy paused, then said, “Sure beats three years of seminary if you just want to call yourself a minister.”
“My word, Poppy. It is a legitimate church then?”
“Depends on your definition of a church, I guess. But listen to this: it involves body manipulation, ritual body suspension, hook pulling, play piercing, fasting, binding, corsetry, firewalking, and so forth, which test and push the limits of flesh and spirit. I’m quoting.”
I didn’t have an immediate response, visualizing what would’ve added up to torture if inflicted by one person on another. But if one did it to oneself, what would that add up to?
“Well,” I cautiously admitted, “I used to wear a corset and it certainly tested my limits. I never thought of it as part of my religion, although I expect every church-going woman back in those days wore one, too.”
“Oh, Miss Julia,” Poppy laughed, “you are too much. Anyway, just wanted to tell you what I found. I’ll talk to you later.”
Late that afternoon, after a call from Hazel Marie asking me to drop by, I strolled over to see her and the walking wounded. I took the long way because I needed the exercise and wanted time to clear my head. I had waited all day for Adam to show up or to call or in some way let me know when he’d be back, but I’d heard nothing from him. The whole thing was getting to me to such an extent that I’d contemplated calling his mother again. Then I’d had a better idea, but finally restrained myself because it would’ve been too much like tattling to run tell his daddy.
But if he wasn’t soon back on the job, heads were going to roll and that Whitman woman’s would be the first to go. Except she’d probably enjoy it.
The day hadn’t been a total waste as far as work moving along, however, because about midafternoon a crew of chimney builders had shown up along with that prissy architect. Tucker Caldwell had carefully outlined with yellow spray paint a large rectangle on the grass where they were to dig the foundation for my big fat chimney, then he set them to work.
I almost missed him, for by the time I got outside, he was already heading for his car and I had to call to him to wait.
“Good morning,” I said, panting a little from my dash as I reached him. “Are you just leaving them to it?”
“They know what they’re doing,” he said, somewhat shortly. “They don’t need me around.”
“Well, I need somebody around. Adam Waites has abandoned me, Tucker, and he’s left a mess. Do you know where he is?”
He gazed off as if he were suddenly interested in crepe myrtle blooms. “He may be at the Whitman estate, staking off the dimensions of a new building.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. Is he in the habit of leaving jobs before finishing them?” I stared at him, or rather at the extra stud in his left ear. That made two there—one more than he’d had the last time I’d seen him. I wondered when he’d have enough.
Squinching up my eyes to block out the sight, I asked, “And are you working out there, too?”
He gave a short nod. “I’m designing the guesthouse.” Then meeting my eyes in a challenging manner, he said, “You know, Mrs. Murdoch, I have several clients. I can’t offer my services exclusively to just one.”
“I don’t expect you to,” I replied, “but I do expect my work to be done in a timely manner, and so far you’ve done just that. But Adam is another matter, and if you and Mrs. Whitman have colluded to take him away from an incomplete job, then we’re going to have a problem.”
He drew himself up, which wasn’t very far, and said with some indignation, “Adam is an independent contractor, so I have no authority over him. Where and when he works is between him and his clients.”
&n
bsp; “That’s good to know, Mr. Caldwell. I will take this matter up with him, now that I know that you aren’t pressuring him to choose one client over another.”
“No,” he said thoughtfully, as if he’d just realized how it might seem, “I wouldn’t do that. But Adam is a compliant soul, and, well, Ms. Whitman has a strong personality.” He reached up and fingered the extra ear stud. “He likes to please people.”
Murmuring “Don’t we all,” I ended the conversation and returned to the house, thinking that Tucker Caldwell had told me all I needed to know. Adam was enthralled in some way or another by Agnes Whitman and could be needing help to get unenthralled.
I might just have to call his daddy after all.
When I got to Hazel Marie’s house, I found both her and Mr. Pickens sitting—he quite gingerly—in the room that Sam had used as an office, but which now was their family room. They’d been watching the late afternoon cooking shows, or at least that’s what was on the television. I don’t know how much actual watching they’d been doing.
“How’re you feeling, Mr. Pickens?” I asked as Hazel Marie led me into the room.
“I’m fine,” he said, somewhat testily, and squirmed a little on the eiderdown pillow underneath him. “But if you want to know the truth, I’m tired of this.”
“Oh, J.D.,” Hazel Marie said as her eyes watered. “I hope you’re not tired of us.”
“No, honey, I mean I’m tired of not being able to do anything. Have a seat, Miss Julia, you’ll need it.” He squirmed a little more, trying to ease whatever was bothering him. “Thought you’d like to know that I got a call from Coleman. Sheriff McAfee’s on his way.”
“Oh, my goodness, when will he be here? Do you know what he wants? Is he going to arrest anybody?” My immediate thought was to let Etta Mae know so she could take some vacation time and get out of town.
Mr. Pickens gave a short laugh. “You’ve had some experience with that office, so you should know. They didn’t tell Coleman anything except that the sheriff has some other business to take care of along the way. He’s expecting me to be available when he gets here, whenever that is.”
“I hope you’ve alerted Binkie,” I said. “You shouldn’t say one word to him without your lawyer present—all the shows tell you that.”
He ran his hand through that thick mass of black hair and said, “I can handle it. I’m the victim here, which is something new for me.”
“That sheriff thinks you’re more than that—a witness at the very least. So you ought to be prepared: be in bed when he comes, have Dr. Hargrove tell him you can’t be moved, whatever you have to do. I tell you, Mr. Pickens, they do things differently in Mill Run, West Virginia, and I don’t think you want to go back there.”
“Oh, J.D.,” Hazel Marie said again as she wrung her hands in her lap. “What if he’s coming to arrest you?”
“Look, honey, if he wanted to do that, he’d tell our sheriff to hold me. And Coleman said it sounded more like a courtesy call. He’ll just take my statement and that’ll be the end of it.” Mr. Pickens turned to me. “I expect he’ll want to talk to you and Etta Mae, too, about getting me out of the hospital. You two better have your stories straight.”
I looked around the room, so different now from the way Sam had had it, wondering as I did so why the sheriff would make that long trip just to take a statement. Couldn’t our sheriff do it for him? Or couldn’t Mr. Pickens mail him a notarized statement? There were too many questions and too few answers, and one possibility after another ran through my mind. “Did they say when he’d be here?”
“Just that he’s on his way with a stop off or two before he gets here. Which could mean anything. He could be here today, tomorrow or later in the week.”
“Well, I might be going out of town for a while. I thought I’d ask Etta Mae to go with me.”
Mr. Pickens gave me one of his knowing grins. “You better put that on hold for the time being.” Then he grimaced and squirmed again.
Hazel Marie jumped up and ran to him. “Let me straighten your pillow. You can’t keep twisting around like that, J.D. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I can’t help it,” he complained, frowning. “The blamed things itch.”
Well, I thought as I walked home, the other shoe has finally dropped—Sheriff McAfee was on his way. I went over and over in my mind all that Etta Mae and I had done when we were in Mill Run and, I declare, I couldn’t come up with one thing I would’ve done differently or that anyone else wouldn’t have done in our place. We had contacted the sheriff and gotten no help. We’d contacted the hospital and gotten no help. I had specifically asked if Mr. Pickens was under arrest and had been assured that he was not, so we couldn’t be accused of abetting a jailbreak.
The only thing I could see that we might be held responsible for was ignoring a NO VISITORS sign on his hospital door. But then again, it wasn’t as if we’d gone in and sat around chatting with him for an hour or so. I wouldn’t call what we did visiting.
One thing was for sure, though. I would have to call Etta Mae and warn her, and I hated to do it. She would worry herself sick until the sheriff got here and we learned exactly what he would do.
And one more thing was for sure—I would have to have Binkie primed to take care of us. She was the best lawyer I knew for snapping “Don’t answer that” in the nick of time.
Chapter 35
After moaning to Lillian for a while about our impending interrogation, then having supper and worrying about the sunburn Lloyd had gotten on the tennis court, I called Etta Mae to put her on notice about Sheriff McAfee’s imminent visit.
“But J.D.’s not worried?” she asked.
“He didn’t seem to be, but of course with Hazel Marie there he’d play it down to keep from upsetting her. He just said the two of us should have our stories straight.” I thought about that for a minute and so did she. Then I said, “I don’t know what he meant by that because I’ve always found that telling the truth is the best policy. Besides, what did we do wrong?”
“Well-l-l,” she said, drawing out the word as she considered the question. “We did take him out of the hospital against a doctor’s orders, but I don’t think that’s an arrestable offense.”
“I don’t, either, because it was the sheriff’s orders, not a doctor’s. Wouldn’t that make a difference?”
“Gosh, I don’t know, Miss Julia.”
I suddenly had an inspired thought. “I think it would! So if he gets us on that, we can get him for practicing medicine without a license. What do you think of that?”
She sighed. “I think we’re up a tree without a paddle. Maybe a creek. Anyway, I guess all we can do is just wait and see.”
“I know, but if you have an urge to leave town, don’t go without me.” I almost brought the conversation to a close, but then thought of something to cheer her up. “Listen, Etta Mae, the sheriff may not get here for days and if he holds off long enough, Sam’ll be home. Binkie’s already said she’ll be there for us, but with Sam and her, we would slide right through this whole mess.”
After hanging up, I sat for a while, longing for Sam, while at the same time hoping we could satisfy Sheriff McAfee and see the last of him before Sam got home. I never like disturbing my husband’s peace of mind.
I was slow getting up the following morning, having been troubled by dreams of courtrooms and jail cells half the night. As I went through my routine ablutions, I took special care in my clothing choices because I might have to face Sheriff McAfee sometime during the day. I wanted him to be aware that he was not dealing with a run-of-the-mill Saturday night barfly—the kind I assumed a sheriff usually dealt with—but rather with a dignified woman of a certain standing who was not without friends in high places.
So I took care in my selection, even though I was unsure that he would notice. Or if he did, that it would even matter to him. I declare, I still hadn’t figured out Sheriff McAfee. He gave the appearance of being a laconic backwoodsman with littl
e on his mind but getting through the day. At the same time, he wasn’t above skirting the law, at least to my mind, by isolating Mr. Pickens in a hospital room and preventing access to him by his loved ones. And all the time he was cutting his eyes at Etta Mae, he was also making sure that we knew he was a church-going man.
Which brought up another matter: Was he a snake handler or not? Had he deliberately sent us to that church with following signs, knowing full well what we’d run into? Had that been his idea of a joke? Or had it really been his church and he’d been prevented from attending by another call at the last minute?
As I said, I couldn’t figure him out, yet today might be the very day he showed up in Abbotsville and we would all have to answer to him. If, that is, he had jurisdiction in this county. Or even in this state. That was something to look into, so I’d be on firm legal ground if I needed to take the Fifth Amendment.
As I opened the bedroom door to go to the kitchen, I realized that I’d been hearing the murmur of people talking as well as doors opening and closing. Lloyd and Lillian, I thought, and hurried out to remind Lloyd to put on suntan lotion every time he stepped out on a tennis court. The poor little thing had Wesley Lloyd Springer’s fair complexion and would burn to a crisp if he wasn’t careful.
“Good morning, Lillian,” I said as I walked into the kitchen and looked around. “Where’s Lloyd? I thought I heard him.”
“No’m, he already gone. They playin’ early ’fore the sun get too high. Coffee’s ready.” She pointed at the pot and I headed for it. “Who you heard was Mr. Adam, which I know you glad to hear is upstairs workin’.”
“Oh, thank the Lord,” I said with heartfelt gratitude. “Did he say what he’s been doing?”
“No’m, when I say, ‘Good mornin’,’ he say, ‘Praise the Lord, it is a good mornin’.’ He don’t ever have much to say for hisself.”
