by Ann B. Ross
“Actually,” Etta Mae went on, “he couldn’t identify anybody in the pictures they showed him. And Lieutenant Peavey wouldn’t tell Binkie whether he’d even hesitated over any of them. I just wish he could’ve identified one of the others. But he didn’t, so I guess everything’s still up in the air.”
Lillian and I did our best to reassure her and tell her that surely the nephew’s inability to point at her picture proved her innocence. I don’t think she was convinced and probably wouldn’t be until the real culprit was revealed. I can’t say that I blamed her, for Francie’s accusation—the only lead the lieutenant had—still hung over her head.
Hazel Marie had been quiet for several minutes, then with a knowledgeable tone that surprised me, she said, “You know what they do, don’t you? They put your picture in with four or five pictures of people they know—probably women deputies or clerks in the office, like that. The thing about it is, Etta Mae, there wasn’t anybody but you in that lineup that they’re even looking at.” She glanced around at us. “J.D. told me how they do it.”
“Well, my word,” I said, flaring up, “you’d think they’d put some real suspects in the lineup. What good did it do to go through that rigamarole when we know that the one person they suspect is innocent? I think they should’ve put Evelyn’s picture in it, and maybe the gatekeeper’s, the trashman’s and so forth—anybody who had access to Francie’s cottage.”
Lillian said, “I thought that nephew ’membered it was a woman that hocked it.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s right. Well, I guess they should’ve used pictures of wives and girlfriends of those people. Or,” I went on with a sudden flash, “even Francie’s picture, because I don’t trust that woman as far as I can throw her.”
Hazel Marie patted my arm. She knew that I suspected Francie, but for far more than the theft of a bracelet.
When we’d talked out the open-ended results of the lineup, thrashed through the ineptitude of the sheriff’s department and eaten lunch, Hazel Marie asked Etta Mae if she still felt like doing some shopping. Etta Mae looked tired and drained from her unproductive morning, but she quickly agreed.
“She don’t need to be on her feet too long,” Lillian cautioned, with a knowing look at Hazel Marie. “Miss Etta Mae, don’t let her be traipsin’ all over the place. You know how she like to shop.”
Etta Mae gave her a quick grin. “I sure do, but don’t worry. She just wants to look at cribs, then we’ll be home.”
“That’s right,” Hazel Marie said. “I’m just looking today to see what they have. Then I’ll get J.D. to go with me to see which one he likes.”
“Lots of luck with that,” I said, smiling, as Lillian laughed at the thought of Mr. Pickens judiciously studying a lineup of baby beds, then, after careful consideration of each one, pointing out his choice. It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if he opted for a dresser drawer and a pillow. Make that two dresser drawers and two pillows.
Chapter 38
“Lillian,” I said as they left for their shopping trip, “something’s got to be done to help Etta Mae. But for the life of me, I can’t think what it could be.” But something else was niggling at the back of my mind, something that might take care of the other problem that was troubling me.
“It all work out in the long run,” Lillian said. “You don’t need to be messin’ ’round in it.”
“Oh, I agree. I just want to give it some thought.” And to that end, I went into the living room so I could think by myself without anybody taking the wind out of my sails.
As concerned about Etta Mae as I was, it was Sam who had me in mortal turmoil. Inadvertently, Hazel Marie had opened my eyes to the danger that he was in. Everybody knows that the most constant of husbands can have his head turned, and Sam’s innate kindness would allow him to put up with Francie until she had him where she wanted him. I didn’t doubt that Sam was faithful—he might be unhappy, but his own high moral standards would keep him faithful. So on those grounds, as opposed to the moral standards of Wesley Lloyd Springer, I trusted him completely. But I didn’t trust Francie Pitts.
So did that give me license to fight fire with fire? I thought it did, and to that end I went back to the kitchen and told Lillian that I was going to pay a visit to LuAnne Conover. But just as I started for the door, the phone rang.
As soon as I answered it, Emma Sue Ledbetter began talking. “Julia, I just got back from visiting Francie Whatever-her-name-is, and I’m so upset I can hardly stand it. Something is really, really wrong with her.”
I could’ve told her that to begin with, but I just said, “I know.”
“No, Julia, I don’t think you do. She’s had some medical problems, I know, but I think she has some spriritual problems, too. You know that woman who stays with her? That housekeeper or whatever? Well, you wouldn’t believe how ugly Francie talked to her, and I mean with me sitting right there listening to it all. Francie yelled at her, called her a moron and an idiot and just berated her like I’ve never heard before. Why, I wouldn’t talk to a dog that way, much less a person. And she didn’t even apologize to me, just acted like it was something everybody does and I’d understand. But I didn’t and I still don’t. I tell you, Julia, the whole thing scared me. It was like she has a demon, a demon of anger, and she could turn it off and on without thinking a thing about it. And you know what the worst thing about it was?”
“No, what?”
“That woman is her cousin!”
“Really! I didn’t know that. But I’ve heard Francie lay into her, too, and it’s not a pleasant thing to witness. And to think that she’s a relative!”
I listened as Emma Sue went on telling about her visit, but my mind was engaged with this new information. Evelyn was Francie’s cousin—did that mean anything, and if so, what? It seemed obvious to me that Evelyn had to be dependent on Francie—financially speaking, at least—else why would she put up with such abuse? And maybe she was emotionally dependent on her as well and had been so beaten down that she could no longer stand up for herself. I’d heard of cases like that.
Finally, after agreeing with Emma Sue that the pastor should be informed—especially because Emma Sue had convinced herself that a demon was involved—I was able to end the conversation.
After hanging up, I turned to Lillian. “Lillian, do you believe in demons?”
She frowned at me, wondering where that had come from. Then she said, “I b’lieve in the devil, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he have some helpers flittin’ ’round. Why?”
“Oh, I was just wondering. Emma Sue believes in them, but I think they could just be a good excuse for people who can’t or won’t control themselves. They can blame their faults on somebody else.”
But with the greater knowledge of Francie’s personality that Emma Sue had given me, I had no hesitation in going on to LuAnne’s to put my plan in motion.
It was unlike me to drop in on a friend without calling first, though goodness knows people did it to me often enough. But I still wasn’t sure that I could follow through on what I’d decided to do. I wanted to be able to back out before I got there, and if I did, I’d just turn around and go home.
I didn’t back out. In fact, I was even more determined to see it through when I saw who else was visiting. Parked in front of the Conovers’ condo was Francie’s bronze Cadillac, and I nearly broke my neck hurrying out of the car and up to the front door. The woman was everywhere.
When I rang the bell, LuAnne greeted me with a gush of welcome. “Julia! Come on in! You’ll never guess who’s already here, and I thought this was going to be a long, boring afternoon. We’re out on the screened porch where we can enjoy the view. It’s not too cool yet, though it will be when the sun goes down. Come on, Francie’ll be so glad to see you.”
I followed her through the small rooms crowded with furniture from LuAnne’s previous home, out onto the screened-in porch. And, of course, there was Francie, hat—this time a cloche—and all, in the most comfortab
le chair with her foot elevated on an ottoman. She was wearing rubber-soled earth shoes, one of which had been hand customized for comfort.
“Look who’s here,” LuAnne said to Francie. “We might as well have a party.”
“Oh, Julia,” Francie said, her brow knitted with concern. “Should you be out by yourself? They really should take better care of you. I must talk to Sam. I know ever so many little things that would make life easier for you.”
Before I could answer, LuAnne stared at me. “Are you sick? Julia, why haven’t you told me? Here, sit down. What would you like to drink? Something hot? Cold? What can I get you?”
“LuAnne,” I said, as firmly as I could manage. “And you, too, Francie. I am not sick, and I don’t know where you got the idea that I am. I think you’re projecting your problems onto me, Francie. I mean, you have been ill, and still are if that shoe you’ve had cut off is any indication.”
“Oh, now, well,” LuAnne dithered, leading me to a chair. “I’m sure Francie didn’t mean anything. Let’s talk about something else. Who’s going to Dr. Fowler’s class tonight? Are you, Francie?”
Francie waved a languid hand. “I don’t think so. Dr. Fowler personally invited me, you know. Dr. Ledbetter, too, but I’m a single woman, and I have to be careful not to start tongues wagging. It wouldn’t look good for me to attend a class meant for married couples.”
I had about gotten myself under control by this time, and I coolly decided I would do what I’d come to do. I didn’t particularly like myself for it, but I didn’t see that it could cause any damage and, who knows? It might do some good.
So I said, “If they both invited you, knowing that you’re single, then they want you there. And you might enjoy it.”
“Are you and Sam going?” Francie asked, her eyes squinching up at me.
“We haven’t decided yet. Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens are home, so we might just visit with them tonight. Then again,” I went on, my intent to get her there in mind, “Sam may go by himself. That’s what he’s been doing.”
LuAnne chimed in then. “You won’t be the only single person there, Francie. I’m trying my best to get Leonard to go without me. And I doubt that Emma Sue will be there, but the pastor will be. Oh,” she said, jumping up, “what am I thinking! That coffee’s perked by now. I won’t be but a minute.”
“I’ll help you,” I said, and followed her to the kitchen, knowing full well that Francie would not stir from her chair.
As LuAnne began to prepare cups and saucers on a tray, I said as casually as I could, “We really should encourage Francie to go tonight. I heard that Dr. Fowler has taken a personal interest in her, and she’d be foolish to pass that up, single as she is.”
LuAnne stopped pouring coffee, an avid look on her face. “A personal interest? Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to start any rumors. I just know that he visited her on Saturday—with the pastor, I might add—and has been burdened by her situation ever since.”
LuAnne’s eyes sparkled. “Wouldn’t that be something? Does she know he’s interested?”
“It doesn’t sound like it, because she’s not planning to go to his class tonight. But don’t say anything, LuAnne. What I heard may not mean anything. I wouldn’t want to get her hopes up. Although,” I mused, “I heard that he’d been in prayer about her all day yesterday. That could mean something.”
I figured by that time that I’d accomplished enough and noted with satisfaction that I’d not embellished one thing. I could leave the rest to LuAnne, who’d never kept a secret in her life. So I lingered awhile, had coffee on the porch, listened to Francie talk about Florida, her recent hospital stay, the dearth of good help and her toe until I could stand it no longer.
Rising, I said, “This has been nice, but I must be on my way. Thank you, LuAnne, and Francie, it was good to see you again.”
LuAnne, protesting that I needn’t rush off, followed me to her front door. Then she leaned close and whispered, “You think Dr. Fowler is really interested in her?”
“That’s just what I heard, and it may not be true. But we know she’s looking, and if he is, too, well, one never knows, does one? I wouldn’t say anything, you know, definite, if I were you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, but maybe just a little hint?” LuAnne giggled. “I think it’d be so romantic to get those two together.”
On my way home, I continued to congratulate myself on how well I’d handled the matter. LuAnne would take care of the rest, for I’d probably not gotten out of sight before Francie knew that she had a secret admirer. I could sit back now and watch Francie switch her attention to a bird in the hand.
When I went into the kitchen, all was quiet, if you discounted the radio playing gospel music and Lillian singing along.
She stopped as I walked in. “Where you been so long?”
“Just talking,” I said, reaching for the telephone. “I let the time get away from me. Have you heard from Sam? Is he still at his house?”
“Yes’m, he was.” She turned from the sink, where she was peeling potatoes. “But it won’t help to call him now ’cause he won’t answer. He tole me he have a meetin’ downtown an’ won’t be home till suppertime.”
“Well, my goodness,” I said, hanging up the phone in exasperation. “Every time I want to talk to him, he always has something to do and I have to wait. But I’ll tell you this, he better not be volunteering us for anything else. I don’t care who asks him to.”
“You won’t have to do no waitin’ this time ’cause you got to go to the doctor. Mr. Sam, he tole me to tell you to go right on to Dr. Hargrove’s soon as you come in. The doctor gonna work you in, an’ Mr. Sam, he say he don’t mean maybe.”
“What? I don’t have time to go to the doctor. What does he mean by making an appointment for me? Just because I sneezed a few times yesterday, he thinks I need a doctor. I’m not sick, Lillian, and you know it. Why didn’t you tell him I’m not?”
Lillian closed her eyes and shook her head, her mouth in a thin line. “Uh-uh, not me. I don’t tell him nothin’ that have to do with you. You can do yo’ own tellin’. But if I was you, I’d go on and see that doctor. Mr. Sam, he firm about it.”
There was nothing for it but to do it and get it over with. There was still that enrichment class that was due to start in a couple of hours, and with all my running around that day, I would be hard pressed to pull another sickly spell. Maybe Dr. Hargrove would tell me I needed to slow down or not go out in the night air or something.
Ungraciously, I grabbed my pocketbook and flung myself toward the door. “Well, I’ll go to please him, but I don’t like it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I fumed all the way to the doctor’s office, so put out that I’d brought this on myself, pretending to be sick just to avoid Dr. Fowler. I was reaping what I’d sown, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
And Francie hadn’t helped, going on and on about my poor health, getting Sam even more worried than he needed to be. The only bright spot was the possibility that I’d turned Francie’s avaricious gaze in another direction.
Chapter 39
It was after five by the time I reached Dr. Hargrove’s office, and I was hoping he’d given up on me and gone home. So I confidently breezed into the empty waiting room, apologized to the receptionist for being so late and asked for an appointment later in the fall.
She looked up over her glasses, frowning. “He’s waiting for you.”
Just then, a nurse opened the inner door and stood aside. “Doctor’s waiting for you, Mrs. Murdoch.”
“I heard,” I said, and, firming my shoulders because I was trapped, I followed her down the hall to the doctor’s inner office.
And indeed, he was waiting, surprising as that may sound to any number of patients who’ve done their share of waiting for him. He closed the medical journal he’d been reading and rose from a chair behind his desk when I entered. “Come in, Miss Julia. Sa
m tells me you’ve not been feeling well. Have a seat and tell me what’s going on with you.”
“Not one thing. And I’ll tell you right now, I am not going to undress and crawl up on a table. I have neither the time nor the inclination for it. Sam has gotten himself so exercised over a few sneezes and a thirty-six-hour bug that he’s taken entirely too much on himself.”
Dr. Hargrove’s eyebrows went up at that, but he seemed to take it in stride. “Well, since you’re here, why don’t I at least check your throat and listen to your chest. That’ll put his mind at rest, then we’ll sit down and have a little talk.”
Put that way, I did sit down because I was tired. What I’d been up to that afternoon had taken a lot out of me. Propping my pocketbook on my lap, I said, “As long as I can sit right here, I’ll open my mouth and two buttons. That’s as far as I’m willing to go.”
With a smile, he used a tongue depressor to look down my throat, then, sliding a stethoscope bell inside the bodice of my dress, he listened intently. He had some trouble running his hand from the collar down the back of my dress, but he managed it without demanding I come out of my clothes.
“Everything looks and sounds fine,” he said, laying the stethoscope on the desk, which is a sign of self-confidence in a physician. He didn’t need to draw attention to himself by wearing it around his neck. “Now,” he went on, resuming his seat behind the desk, “catch me up with what’s going on. How’s Hazel Marie? She back from her honeymoon? And Lillian, how’s she doing? Tell her I’d like to check her blood pressure again.” He glanced up at me, real interest on his face. “And Lloyd? He’s turning into a fine boy, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he’s growing up, Dr. Hargrove,” I said, smiling.
“And you? How is your life these days?”
He spoke so softly and so kindly, as if he truly wanted to know, that I nearly broke down. I felt something give way in my chest and before I knew it, I was turning myself inside out, telling him what had happened to Francie Pitts and how convinced I was of Etta Mae’s innocence and how I was trying to prove it because Francie was either lying through her teeth or totally confused. “And she’s basing her whole accusation on nothing more than smelling Etta Mae’s perfume. Shania Twain by Stetson it was, and Dr. Hargrove, it doesn’t smell bad at all. Quite nice, actually, but Francie’s convinced that it smells like collard greens, because that’s what she had for lunch in the hospital and it reminded her of what she’d smelled after she got hit on the head. Can you believe such a thing? And a young woman’s life is about to be ruined. It’s no wonder Sam thinks I’m ill. I’m just anxious, that’s all. And I think that’s enough to be anxious about without worrying about him.”
