Miss Julia to the Rescue

by Ann B. Ross

  When I got to the living room, I saw Josh talking with Ardis and Mr. Pickens, asking them about going to the police academy. Adam was fidgeting in a chair by the door, more than ready, it seemed to me, to leave. Little Miss McAfee had moved a chair next to his and was whispering to him. She was sitting demurely with her ankles crossed, and my eyes almost crossed when I saw that she had more tattoos on her feet and ankles. If the ones on her arms were called full sleeves, then I supposed she also had full socks.

  I’d about had enough of tattoos and piercings and enticements designed to lure an unsuspecting young man into who knew what kind of freakish behavior—all in the name of a spiritual quest of some sort. Don’t you just hate it when you’ve already said no, and people won’t leave you alone?

  Adam suddenly jumped to his feet. “We got to go, Josh. It’s late, and we thank you for supper, but we got to go.”

  Mr. Pickens managed to rise again, shook Adam’s hand and thanked him for his help. “If you and Josh can repair the roof, I’d sure like to see you out here bright and early tomorrow.”

  “Yessir, be glad to. Let’s go, Josh.”

  As Josh disengaged himself from his intense conversation with Ardis, Lillian walked into the room. “Somebody’s telephone ringin’ its head off in a raincoat back there.”

  Nellie McAfee hopped up. “Must be mine. Don’t leave yet, Adam, I’ll be right back.”

  Mr. Pickens walked Adam and Josh out into the hall, discussing what would be needed to repair the roof. Adam seemed intent on getting out the door before Nellie returned, but he didn’t quite make it. She came running back, calling to him.

  “That was Agnes,” she said, almost gasping. Addressing Adam and ignoring everybody else, she went on, “There’s a power line down at her place and she’s been calling everywhere, looking for you. She wants you tonight, right away, because she’s been without power for hours and the generator won’t start. You have to go, Adam, she really needs you.” Then turning to the sheriff as she slipped into her raincoat, she said, “No need for you to drive all the way out there, Uncle Ardis. I’ll ride with Adam.”

  There was nothing Adam could do but agree to go to the Whitman place and take Nellie with him. It wasn’t in him to refuse help to someone in need, although I wondered how dire the need actually was and also wondered why Agnes didn’t have enough help already. There had been at least two decorated, yet able-bodied, young men at the garden party. Was this sudden after-hours need of help designed to entangle Adam even further?

  While good-byes were being said, Adam walked out onto the porch and I followed. It was hardly late, for a dusky light lingered across the wet grass of the lawn and steam from the street blended with the evening mist.

  “Adam,” I said, lowering my voice, “you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Just because somebody calls doesn’t mean you have to answer.”

  He gave me a bleak look, then shook his head. “It’ll be all right, I guess.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, but what you have to do is put on the whole armor of God and call me if you need me.”

  I didn’t know what I could do if he did call, but I could certainly try something. He was wrestling, it seemed to me, with spiritual wickedness in high places and he was no match for it. Why he couldn’t just turn her down, I didn’t know or understand, unless he had such a strong work ethic that he couldn’t refuse to get an ox out of a ditch, regardless of who the ox belonged to. I just didn’t think Agnes Whitman needed help, or if she did, why she couldn’t find it closer to hand.

  I stood on the porch and watched the three of them walk out to the driveway. Adam spoke to Josh, while Nellie waited impatiently beside Adam’s pickup. Then Josh got in his truck and left, apparently having been sent on home. Adam and Nellie got in his truck and turned in the opposite direction toward Fairfields.

  I hoped she’d keep her hands to herself while he was driving.

  “What was that?” Mr. Pickens was standing next to me, watching his guests leave.

  I realized that I had murmured my concern aloud. “Oh, nothing. Just wondering if Miss McAfee is quite the demure little thing that she appears to be.”

  “Nope,” he said with a wry grin. “Tattoos make a statement, and anybody with that many is making a loud one.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would want them,” I said, noticing that we were the only ones still on the porch.

  He shrugged as if he didn’t know, either. “Lot of people have them—one or two, maybe. I’ve got one on my arm.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, got it when I was runnin’ wild and didn’t know any better. But these days, even a lot of women wear ink, kinda as beauty marks, I guess, like flowers or hearts or something. Nothing like Miss McAfee’s, though.”

  “Well, in my opinion, hers aren’t beauty marks,” I said. “I understand that she’s involved with some kind of religious group that encourages subduing the flesh in order to strengthen the spirit.”

  “Huh,” he said. Then turning to go back inside, he said, “From the way that girl looks, her spirit must be pretty strong by now.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” I followed him toward the door, then touched his arm. “Mr. Pickens, if Adam doesn’t show up in the morning to fix your roof, give me a call.”

  He gave me a quick grin as he opened the screen door, motioning me inside. “Think she’ll keep him overnight?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” I said as I walked in past him. “Or Agnes Whitman, either.”

  Soon afterward, I made my excuses and left early so I could get home before full dark. Mr. Pickens and the sheriff had settled in to swapping cop stories, as they called them, so Lloyd decided to stay on to hear them, which meant he’d stay the night.

  Lying in bed later, unable to sleep for wondering what was happening at the Whitman place, it suddenly occurred to me to also wonder why I was so exercised about Adam Waites’s welfare. He was a nice young man, hardworking and dependable, but he was only a temporary employee. I’d had many of those over the years with never a thought of their personal lives or problems. They had come and gone and stayed out of my mind until I needed their particular expertise again.

  What was it about Adam that so troubled my sleep? His apparent innocence about the ways of the world? Maybe, except he was a grown man and should be able to take care of himself. And if he could, why was I lying there with visions of circus women chasing him with needles and pins and plugs?

  Nellie Cheyenne McAfee was one reason I was feeling so protective of him. She was the kind of woman that a man needed to build up to, not to have to tackle as his first experience. She’d be a handful for any man, even one who had a tolerance for bold women.

  But here was a thought: maybe Adam wasn’t very bright, although if true, being backward certainly hadn’t prevented him from learning his trade.

  “Oh, Sam,” I whispered, “I wish you were here.”

  When the phone rang, it jerked me out of a deep sleep and for a second I was so disoriented I nearly knocked the lamp off the table.

  “Yes? Hello?” My heart was thumping away for fear that something was wrong somewhere—was it Sam? Lloyd? The babies? Another tree across the house? When the phone rings at one-thirty in the morning, you can be fairly sure it is not a social call.

  “Um, uh, Miz Murdoch?” It was a man’s voice, but not one I recognized.

  “Who is this?” I demanded, still afraid of hearing bad news. “Who’s calling this time of night?”

  “Uh, it’s me. You said, uh, I could call, so …” The words were slurred and mumbled, trailing off into moaning incoherence.

  “Adam?” My hand tightened on the receiver. “Is that you, Adam?” It didn’t sound like him. It sounded like somebody in pain.

  “Yesh, ma’am. M’truck’s gone.” More mumbling and a few gasping breaths ending with “… need to go home.”

  “Speak up. I can’t understand you.”

  “Hate t
o ask,” he said, fairly clearly, then fell to mumbling again, “… get home.”

  “Where are you?” I said it loudly and forcefully, as if that would shake some information out of him.

  “Agnesh’s.” There was a beep on the line, then a click, then nothing.

  “Adam! Are you there? Speak to me.”

  I heard a hum on the line, then his voice came through with one word: “dyin’.”

  Good Lord! I sprang out of bed, still clutching the phone and calling to him. The line was dead or he was, one. Jerking open the drawer of the bedside table, I rummaged around for the phone book. I’d call Agnes Whitman and tell her… well, I didn’t know what I’d tell her. But she could start looking for Adam and get him some help. But there was no phone book, and no wonder, with the house as torn up as it was.

  I dialed information and was told that the Whitman number was unlisted.

  “Unlisted! But this is an emergency!” It did no good, for you can’t argue or plead with a robotic voice.

  I began dressing, my mind running over possibilities, the first of which was who I could call for help. Adam’s father? No, or Adam would’ve called him instead of me. Mr. Pickens was out. He could barely get around his own house, much less run around the countryside looking for a dying man. I thought of calling Coleman or 911, but what could I tell them? That I’d gotten a strange phone call from a man who was either half dead or already there?

  If his truck was gone, he could be stranded on the side of the road somewhere between Fairfields and his home. But no, Adam had said he was at Agnes’s, or that’s what it sounded like.

  Then I thought of Sheriff McAfee. He’d know something of Agnes Whitman from his niece, and if I’d read him right, he’d not been all that enthusiastic about Nellie’s association with her. Which was ironic, considering his association with snakes. Talk about a pot calling a kettle black.

  But if nothing else, Sheriff McAfee could start with Nellie—wake her if necessary—and track down Adam from the last time she’d seen him. I pulled on some low-heeled shoes, thinking I might have to walk all over creation to find him.

  But where was the sheriff staying? A motel maybe, or perhaps an inn, of which there were any number in and around Abbotsville. Too many to call if Adam was in dire straits.

  Etta Mae! I should have thought of her first. She’d know where the sheriff was, or if she didn’t, she’d go with me. Because I was going, there being no way in the world I could ignore a cry for help.

  Chapter 45

  She didn’t answer. I let it ring long enough to wake the dead if she’d been at home. Cell phone! I thought and hurried down the stairs to the kitchen, where the number was written on a pad, the rolled-up rug in the hall nearly tripping me on the way.

  Picturing Adam lying in a ditch somewhere, breathing his last, I shouted, “Etta Mae!” when she answered her cell. “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “What? Our sheriff or the other one?”

  “The other one, McAfee. Ardis, where is he? How can I get in touch with him?”

  “Well, uh, he’s right here. We’re in his truck on our way home. What’s going on?”

  “Adam Waites just called and he’s either sick or hurt or something. He sounded near death, Etta Mae, and I need some help finding him.”

  “Who’s Adam Waites?”

  “You know! One of the men who climbed on the roof and ate supper with us and went off with that pitiful-looking girl to the Whitman place. And he’s still out there somewhere and she’s the sheriff’s niece so I figure he can get her to help us find him.” I took a deep breath and tried to state my case calmly. “I wouldn’t disturb him, Etta Mae, if I didn’t feel that he’s the most likely one to approach Nellie or Cheyenne or whoever she is and get some answers.” I took another breath as panic swept over me again. “She may be the last person to see Adam alive. Will he do it, Etta Mae? Adam needs help!”

  “Uh, well, wait just a minute.” The phone went silent, then I heard some muffled sounds of movement and whispering.

  “Miss Julia? Ardis says we’ll swing by the Whitman place and he’ll talk to Nellie. Will that be all right?”

  “Yes, yes, that’ll be perfect. But I’m going, too. I’ll either drive or go with you, whichever is easier.”

  “We’re just leaving Asheville, so it’s easier for us to go directly to Fairfields. But you stay home, Miss Julia. Let Ardis handle it, he knows what to do.”

  Well, so did I, which was to find Adam and get him home. So I didn’t agree or disagree, just urged her to hurry, hung up the phone, grabbed my pocketbook, and went stumbling out the back door in the dark. Then turned around and went back inside, thinking cell phone again. Lloyd had mine charging on the kitchen counter, bless his heart, so I stuffed it in my pocketbook and hurried outside to the car, congratulating myself for thinking of it.

  Heat lightning flickered around as I got in the car, and thunder rumbled off in the distance. Typical summer weather, I reassured myself, and merely the back end of the line of thunderstorms that had come through earlier. Nonetheless, I turned on my heel and ran back to the house, snatching up the yellow slicker and hat that Lillian kept on a hook by the door.

  Surely by this time, I had everything needed to conduct a search if that was what I had to do. I couldn’t understand why Adam hadn’t turned to the people at the Whitman place or why they had not come to his aid. Something had gone on, or was still going on, out there that made Adam seek aid from an outside source—namely, me. And that thought made my heart race and my hands tremble.

  There were a few cars out and around on the streets as I drove through town, but as I gained the state highway that led to Fairfields they were few and far between. In fact, on long stretches, my car was the only one on the road. And as sprinkles of rain dotted the windshield, a lonely feeling swept over me, but at least I was dry while Adam might be lying out with no shelter at all.

  My eyes swept the sides of the road, looking for stranded pickups in case it had been taken, then abandoned. Adam had said he was at Agnes’s but, apparently, his truck wasn’t. Who could’ve taken it? Or had he left it somewhere that he couldn’t get to? Whatever had happened, it stood to reason that Agnes Whitman’s estate had to be the starting point in any kind of search.

  Maybe I should’ve called his daddy instead of Ardis or instead of taking it on myself. It had crossed my mind earlier to do just that, but Adam could’ve called home just as easily as he’d called me. Yet he hadn’t. I’d surmised that the elder Mr. Waites was a hard man who might not understand the lure of a tattooed girl. So maybe Adam wanted somebody with a little more compassion for the weaknesses of the flesh. Like me, for instance, who’d once experienced a temptation on a green velvet love seat and lived to regret it.

  Besides, far be it from me to interfere in family relationships. I’d find Adam, reassure him that whatever had gone on between him and Nellie would not mean eternal ruination, and send him home hardly worse for the wear.

  My mind was running away with me as one speculation after another flitted in and out my brain.

  Slowing as I reached the Fairfields community, I turned in and drove through the stone pillars that marked the entrance. Wondering how close Etta Mae and Ardis were, I drove carefully toward the Whitman place. There were no other cars on the street, no streetlights, and only a few security lights dotted here and there. One of the advertised features of this planned estate community was its rural atmosphere, and I could believe it. I could’ve been driving through abandoned countryside for all the human activity I could see.

  But soon I began to see a glow above the trees as I approached the Whitman place—security lights on tall poles were scattered on the outskirts of the property. Either the power had come back on, or Adam had fixed the generator, who knew which? But the house itself was shrouded in darkness. I turned into the drive and came to a stop. Closed and undoubtedly locked gates blocked my way.

  I sat in the idling car, determining what my next step
should be. In the glare of the headlights, I saw an intercom box set into one of the pillars that supported the gate. I could buzz myself in, I supposed. Or I could sit and wait for Ardis, who had a semilegitimate reason—his niece—for disturbing the sleep of Agnes and her strange staff.

  I strained to see up the driveway between the trees, hoping for signs of activity that would perhaps mean that Adam was getting help. But the drive toward the house faded into darkness, the security lights having been set too far away.

  I sat there for a few more minutes, hoping to see Ardis and Etta Mae pull in behind me. Then deciding that if there was a dying man on the property, I could never forgive myself for having dithered over the propriety of ringing a doorbell in the middle of the night.

  I couldn’t stand it any longer. I got out of the car and buzzed the buzzer. And kept on buzzing it until finally a sleep-filled male voice answered.

  “Who is it?” he growled.

  “It’s Mrs. Julia Springer Murdoch. There’s an emergency somewhere on your property and I need to get in to see about it.”

  “Who?”

  I repeated myself, ending with “Let me in this minute! Somebody may be dying while you’re trying to wake up.”

  He mumbled something about waiting a minute, so I began walking back and forth between my car and the gate, getting more anxious by the minute. I’d left the car running and the door open, so I had plenty of light, but still the night seemed to close in on me. I kept looking over my shoulder, thinking something might spring out of the blackness. The rumble of thunder and flickering lightning weren’t helping my feelings, either.

  With relief, I saw headlights coming down the drive toward me. An old, mud-spattered Jeep stopped on the other side of the gate, and a young man with mussed-up hair crawled out. As he approached the gate, I recognized him as the valet who’d parked my car at the garden party. But he didn’t have on his nice car-parking outfit. All he was wearing was a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms and a lot of ink on his chest, including a hollow-eyed death’s head. In the glare of the car lights, I caught a glimpse of metal here and there on his face.