Miss Julia Renews Her Vows

by Ann B. Ross

  “We’ll fix you some, too.”

  I glanced back and saw Sam crossing the street, a worried frown on his face. Hurrying up the stairs, I called back to Lloyd, “Don’t worry about me. Tell Sam that all I need is to get in bed and not be disturbed.”

  I didn’t just lie across the bed, I undressed and got in it, determined to be too sick, too weak, too something to go get counseled. As I pulled the covers up almost over my head, I remembered the reason that Dr. Fred Fowler had been so attentive during his first foray into our church. I sprang straight up, gasping for breath as the recall struck with full force—Pastor Ledbetter had primed him to evaluate my mental capacity in the hopes that I’d be declared too incompetent to administer Wesley Lloyd Springer’s estate. And it had been during his evaluation, of which I’d been completely in the dark, that I’d been enticed to make a spectacle of myself in the bridal parlor of the church. Oh, how close I had come to being made a ward of the state and having every cent of Wesley Lloyd’s estate in the hands of Pastor Ledbetter and his handpicked elders.

  If it hadn’t been for Sam and Binkie and a scrap of paper scrawled on by Wesley Lloyd that changed everything, who knows what would’ve happened? Sam stood up for me then, but would he once he knew how I’d closed my eyes and thrown myself at the most repulsive man in the Western world?

  Hearing Sam’s footsteps on the stairs, I flung myself back down and pulled up the covers.

  “Julia?” he whispered as he tiptoed to the bed. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I groaned. “Just a little stomach upset. And some dizziness and an awful fatigue. And a scratchy throat, and I’m aching all over.” I couldn’t think of any more symptoms and hoped those would do.

  “I’ll call Dr. Hargrove.”

  “No,” I said, more strongly than I’d intended. Then, modulating my voice, I whispered hoarsely, “No, Sam, all I need is some rest. I’ll call him tomorrow if I’m not any better.”

  “Well, can I bring you a bowl of soup?” Bless his heart, he sounded so worried.

  My stomach growled, giving credence to my claim of an upset digestive system, but in reality making me aware of how hungry I was. “Maybe just a cup,” I whispered pitiably, “and a soft drink to settle my stomach.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “And plenty of ice, please.”

  Hearing him leave, I threw the covers back and wondered how long I could keep up the pretense of illness to my trusting and concerned husband. Through tomorrow night, at least, I told myself. Then I could legitimately drop out of being counseled on the grounds of having missed the introductory session. And if Sam felt the need to get psychological help in order to stoke his embers, why, he could just get it by himself.

  Chapter 9

  Of course, the best outcome of all would have been if Sam had decided not to go, either. But he felt an obligation to support the pastor because he’d been specifically asked to be there. It was the same with anything anybody came up with—the Kiwanis, the Rotary, this fund drive, that fund drive—ask Sam Murdoch; he’ll support it. All I could do was hope that he’d feel enough concern for me to want to stay home.

  Hearing Sam’s footsteps coming up the stairs again—thank goodness for that one creaky tread—I quickly rearranged myself in bed. He came in, bearing a tray with a cup of soup, some crackers, a can of ginger ale and a glass filled with cracked ice.

  Setting it on the bedside table, he reached over and felt my forehead. “You’re a little warm, Julia. I wish you’d let me call the doctor.”

  I wanted to tell him I was warm because my embers were glowing, but I just moaned and assured him that all I needed was a little time in bed. “It’s just a twenty-four-hour bug, Sam. I’ll be better tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”

  “Well,” Sam said, as he prepared to draw up a chair and watch me eat. “Lloyd’s worried about you, but he’s a little disappointed, too. He wanted to go to that dog show, the field trials over at the fairgrounds, remember?”

  “Oh, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it? I’d forgotten, but you two go right ahead.”

  “I can’t leave you alone, Julia. Not with you sick like this.”

  That was exactly what I wanted to hear, but tomorrow night, not today. “That’s sweet, Sam,” I said, reaching for his hand. “But really, do go on and take him. All I’m going to do is sleep all afternoon, so there’s no need for the two of you to sit around here while I do it.”

  After a little more encouragement, he finally agreed to leave me to suffer in peace. “I’ll lock up good,” he said, “but I don’t feel right about going. If Lloyd hadn’t been looking forward to it so much, I wouldn’t. We won’t stay long, though.”

  Finally, they left. I heard them go out the back, heard car doors slam and the car back out of the driveway. With relief, I sat up on the side of the bed and devoured that meager lunch. Then I put on a robe, went downstairs to the kitchen and fi xed a sandwich, being careful not to leave any crumbs lying around as evidence. I had left the tray in the bedroom, too, for appearances’ sake.

  But after wandering around the house for a while, I got bored and went back upstairs. What was I going to do with myself for twenty-four hours? Well, for one thing, I thought as I got back in bed, I could try to sort out my feelings. So far, my thoughts had been bouncing from one side of my head to the other, and I couldn’t tell which was causing me the most distress.

  Number one, I began, as I leaned against a pile of pillows, Sam was altogether too willing to go to a psychologist to have our marriage enriched. Was it, as he claimed, only because he wanted to cooperate with the pastor? Sam was an amiable soul and readily disposed to put himself out to be helpful, even if he had little use for counseling by committee or by a self-styled expert. Still, I couldn’t discount the possibility that he sensed something wrong with, or missing in, our marriage or, heaven forbid, me. The thought of Sam’s being unhappy made me ill, and I mean really ill.

  Number two, I was constitutionally unable to submit to discussing my needs, feelings or the state of my marriage in front of other couples, Dr. Fred Fowler facilitating. Furthermore, I felt no need for any kind of counseling, whether to help or to placate the pastor. I was happy and content in my marriage and didn’t want anybody meddling in it, especially to stoke embers that as far as I was concerned, were sizzling along just fine. In fact, if they blazed up any higher, I wouldn’t be able to stand it.

  Number three, how in the world could I face Dr. Fred Fowler under any circumstances? Shame washed over me at the very thought. And come to think of it, how could he face me? Because, let me tell you, it was only because of his words and his actions that I lost my head in that bridal parlor, in spite of what he told Pastor Ledbetter. He’d acted the innocent, saying that I’d attacked him when all it was was a bereaved and neglected woman responding to a little perceived kindness. The man was a menace.

  Number four, Pastor Ledbetter. What was his purpose in all this? Why did he want Sam and me in the sessions? Was he out to deliberately embarrass me? Or did he have some ulterior motive concerning the state of my mind? But what good would that do him now? The Springer estate was tied up as tightly as it could possibly be, and there was no way he could get his hands on it. Besides, the Family Life Center, which was the reason he’d wanted access to the estate, was already built, even though there was still a hefty mortgage on it.

  I gave up after number four because they were all running together by this time. What it came down to was this: whatever was going on, I wanted nothing to do with it. Actually, I could put a stop to it immediately if I could bring myself to tell Sam about that awful episode in the bridal parlor. My face burned with shame at the thought of admitting and describing the need that had been so overwhelming as to blot out the repugnance I’d felt every time I looked at Dr. Fowler. I’d had to keep my eyes closed.

  My excuse for what happened was that I had been lonely, lonely to the depths of my soul. Having lived with Wesley Lloyd Springe
r in a barren marriage for more than forty years, then discovering what he’d done—kept a mistress and had a son—I’d been more than ready for a few sweet words whispered with gasping breath, even if it was in a church setting. And Dr. Fred Fowler had been more than ready to provide those words, enticing and provoking an unhappy, unloved woman into a compromising position on a green velvet love seat—all in an effort to prove me incapable of looking after myself and the Springer estate.

  Talk about needing psychological help! I wasn’t the one who needed it, and he called himself a Christian, too.

  Of course, there was another option. I could simply get some backbone and tell Sam straight out that I wasn’t interested in being counseled by anybody at any time, and that as far as I was concerned, any enriching that our marriage needed could be done in the privacy of our home. I could just tell him that I wasn’t going, period.

  Yes, and what if he thought we had a real problem? Would my recalcitrance tell him that I was refusing to face the facts and didn’t care whether he was happy or not?

  Leaning my head against the pillows and staring at the ceiling, I wondered if we should’ve renewed our vows at the same time Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens said theirs for the first time. Maybe that would have reassured Sam that our marriage was alive and crackling along just fine. For the life of me, though, I couldn’t see how repeating a few words that we’d already said could stir up his fire, or anybody else’s.

  Lord, what a mess. I threw back the covers and tried to think of something else. How in the world had Hazel Marie spent days upon days in bed? After only a few hours of it, I was about to lose my mind.

  When the telephone rang, I eagerly reached for it, then hesitated before picking it up. If it was Sam checking in, I needed to sound pitiful, but it might be someone who would help me pass the time.

  To be on the safe side, I answered as neutrally as I could—let whoever it was make of it what they would. “Yes?”

  “Miss Julia? I’m sorry to bother you, but I don’t know who else to call. Do you know where Binkie is?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Etta Mae. Etta Mae Wiggins. Miss Julia,” she went on, her words spilling out in a rush, “I really need to find Binkie, and nobody answers at her house and she’s not in her office because it’s Sunday and I don’t know what to do.” She ended on a sob that sent a jolt of concern through me.

  “Etta Mae, what’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “I’m in jail! And they won’t let me make any more phone calls and I think they’re going to lock me up and I’ve never been in jail before and, please, Miss Julia, please find Binkie for me. I need a lawyer real bad and I don’t know anybody else that would come. Please, please, don’t let them lock me up. I didn’t do anything—I promise I didn’t.”

  By this time, I’d swung my feet out of bed, sitting there gripping the phone for all I was worth. “Why, Etta Mae? What’re they accusing you of?”

  Etta Mae swallowed a sob, trying to get the words out. “It’s a client, a patient, one of the ladies I visit every week. They say I stole her gold bangle bracelet, and I didn’t, Miss Julia, I swear I didn’t.”

  Etta Mae worked for the Handy Home Helpers, functioning, as near as I could make out, like a visiting nurse. But because she wasn’t a professional nurse—I think she’d had a few months of night school at the community college—she was more of a combination nursemaid and housemaid who did minor cleaning, ran errands, drove clients to the doctor and in general gave a helping hand to shut-ins and the elderly who couldn’t do for themselves.

  “Well,” I said, “if you didn’t do it and you don’t have it, how could they arrest you?”

  “I think because,” she said in a quivering voice, “they think maybe, well, probably because they think I tried to kill her, too.”

  “Tried to kill her! Etta Mae, forget about the gold bracelet! That’s the last thing to worry about. Now, where are you?”

  “At the sheriff’s office. Downtown in Abbotsville. The Delmont deputies picked me up at my trailer and all I was doing was reading the Sunday paper. They brought me here, and they keep asking me where I was on Thursday, and I was there. I mean, she was on my schedule that day and I visited her right before I came to your house for the lunch party, but she was fine when I left. I promise she was. I didn’t even know there was a problem until today. Oh, Miss Julia, they’re going to lock me up, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’ll tell you what you do,” I said, beginning to come out of my gown. “You don’t say another word to anybody. I’ll be right down there and we’ll get this straightened out in short order. The idea, arresting you! Stop worrying, Etta Mae, I’m on my way.”

  I left a scrawled note for Sam on the kitchen table, tried to call Binkie one last time and had to leave a message, as I assumed Etta Mae had, too, and left with a racing heart and a firm determination to stand up for Etta Mae Wiggins, as she had stood up for me so many times before.

  Chapter 10

  The first person I saw when I walked into the Abbot County Sheriff’s Office was Lieutenant Peavey, wouldn’t you know? He was just turning away from the officer at the front desk, heading back into the depths of the department. Before he got very far, I marched right up and planted myself in front of him. He’d have to go around or through me, and I wasn’t sure which he’d do.

  Ignoring the way he towered over me and craning my neck to look straight up into those cold blue eyes that were usually hidden by dark aviator glasses, I said, “Lieutenant Peavey, I’m Julia—”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Well, yes, I expect you do. But I’m here on behalf of Etta Mae Wiggins. I’d like to see her, please.”

  “She’s being interviewed.”

  “Interviewed! Without a lawyer? You can’t do that!” I bit my lip, considering. “Can you?”

  “I said she was being interviewed, not interrogated. And I didn’t say she was responding.”

  “Well, good. I told her not to, you know. But I want you to know that I think it’s a crying shame that you would arrest somebody on a Sunday—the Lord’s day, a day of rest, a day when lawyers are out of town. How could you do such a thing?”

  “One day’s as good as another in my line of work.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I feel sorry for you. But look, Lieutenant Peavey, sir, you can’t really believe that Miss Wiggins had anything to do with stealing anything, much less trying to kill someone, whoever it was.”

  “Her patient,” he pronounced, as if the mere words were an accusation. “The one she was supposed to be taking care of. We’re talking to everybody who had any contact with the victim that day, and Miss Wiggins did.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I said, waving my hand. “As far as I know, she had contact with the woman every week, and if she’d planned to steal from her or kill her, she had plenty of time to do either one long before last Thursday. Besides, I can personally vouch for Miss Wiggins, because she has an alibi. She was having lunch at my house.”

  Lieutenant Peavey gazed down on me from his great height. “How do you know when the attempt was made?”

  “Well. Well, I don’t. But I just can’t imagine that anyone would try to kill a person and then come to a luncheon and eat chicken à la king. Can you?” I kept my eyes trained on his, not allowing him to intimidate me any more than he normally did. “Tell me this, then. Just what time was the attempt on the woman’s life made?”

  “That information hasn’t been released.”

  Well, that just frosted me good. How could a person defend herself if she wasn’t told the crucial time? I’d hate to have to account for my time every minute of the past day, much less the past week, and I was sure that Etta Mae was in the same fi x. But then I realized that she would have a daily schedule of the clients she had to visit, so maybe she would have an easier time of it.

  “Then tell me this,” I said, “has the information about when I can see Miss Wiggins been released?
And just where is she? And how is she? I’m holding you responsible for her welfare, Lieutenant, and I want your assurance that she is being well treated.”

  I thought he wasn’t going to answer, so I stood there, using every fiber of my being not to back down under his unrelenting gaze.

  Then he said, “Have a seat in the lobby. I’ll see if she’s ready to go.”

  He turned away and, I declare, I almost crumpled to the floor as relief flooded through me. I wobbled to a molded plastic chair and seated myself, prepared to wait as long as it took to get Etta Mae out of the clutches of the law.

  It was a good thirty minutes before Etta Mae appeared, and I hardly recognized her. She was in her usual jeans and T-shirt, both as tight as they could be, but nothing else was as usual. Her face was white and mascara smeared, her hair a mass of tangles, and she was so shaken that an officer held on to her arm.

  I came to my feet and hurried toward her. “Etta Mae, honey, are you all right?”

  “Oh, Miss Julia,” she said as a gush of tears came spurting out of her eyes.

  I had an urge to hug her, but that’s something I rarely do, as she well knew, so I gave the officer a cold stare and took her arm from him. “Do I have to pay any bail? If so, tell me when, where and how much.”

  “She’s not under arrest,” he said, his eyebrows lifting. “At least, not yet. Besides, it’s Sunday and the bail bondsmen are closed.”

  “Who said anything about a bail bondsman? There’s a checkbook in my purse and I don’t mind using it. Bail bondsmen closed, indeed! I guess that’s just another reason you pick on a poor, defenseless woman on the Lord’s day, isn’t it?” I turned away and started for the door. “Come on, Etta Mae, let’s get out of here.”