Miss Julia Renews Her Vows

by Ann B. Ross

  “The only other entrance,” the pastor went on, explaining what I already knew, “is the side door next to the men’s classroom, where we’ll be meeting, and it stays locked except when there’s a service of some kind. I was on my way to unlock it and turn on some lights.”

  My concern about Sam eased off. If the door was locked, he couldn’t have gotten in. “Then who could it be? Who could’ve gotten in without your hearing them or through a locked door?”

  A flash of apprehension swept quickly across his face, and his eyes widened. He swallowed hard and whispered, “Emma Sue said a demon?”

  “Yes, she did, but surely not here, Pastor. A demon wouldn’t dare enter this place. So put on the armor of God and buck up. We’re not dealing with the supernatural. We’re dealing with someone who knows how to get into the building and bring that woman with him.”

  “You’re right. Of course you are.” He withdrew a large handkerchief and mopped his face. “It’s somebody who has a key to the side door. Dr. Fowler, for one, and a few of the elders and those who have authority to look after the building. It’s someone who knows Mrs. Delacorte and wants to show her what First Presbyterian has to offer. Let’s just go see who it is.”

  Having recovered his own authority, he started off down the corridor. But not before hurrying me along for company. I complied with a heavy heart, for I knew only two people who met the criteria he’d just listed: Dr. Fowler, as he’d said, and Sam, who, as I knew, often checked the church during the week. I was sickened at the thought of encountering either one off somewhere in a dark corner with Francie Pitts.

  Chapter 41

  As we walked down the corridor, Pastor Ledbetter hit every light switch we passed, leaving no dark corners anywhere. We reached the end of the corridor and turned left into a short connecting hall that led to the side door. The pastor tried it, found it unlocked and grunted with chagrin that somebody had entered the church without his knowledge.

  Then he leaned through the door of the men’s Sunday-school classroom, the first room from the side door, and switched on the light to be sure it was empty. The room was the largest in the building, which was the reason it had been designated for Dr. Fowler’s sessions, despite the fact that, so far, he’d not come close to filling it.

  “Nobody’s here yet,” Pastor Ledbetter said, which I had also noted. “But we’d better look around. I’m beginning to think that the door was inadvertently left unlocked, so anybody could’ve come in—vandals or tramps or somebody like that.”

  “I’m sure it was Francie I heard. She has a distinctive laugh.”

  “An empty building can distort sounds, Miss Julia,” he said in a patronizing tone. “I can’t imagine that Mrs. Delacorte would be so presumptuous as to come in without letting me know. It’s probably somebody looking for a handout or a place to sleep.”

  “In that case,” I said, dutifully following him as he strode toward the dark end of the cross corridor. “Shouldn’t we call the sheriff?”

  “Not at all. I’ll just find whoever it is and offer a few dollars for a meal. This sort of thing happens all the time.” He’d obviously overcome his earlier apprehension and was now determined to sort things out on his own.

  That lasted just long enough for us to approach the elevator, the one that old Mr. Stenson had insisted we put in for all the members who used walkers, in spite of the fact that it ran the building fund over budget. Just as we got to the elevator, we became aware of a rumbling sound, heard a ding and saw the light above the door come on.

  Pastor Ledbetter looked at me, and I looked at him. We waited as the door jerked, then began to slide open. My heart almost stopped, for neither of us had pressed the call button. Pastor Ledbetter took a step back, almost colliding with me, as we waited, neither of us moving, until the door was fully open. Then we waited some more. Nobody was in it. I gasped, and Pastor Ledbetter took a sharp breath.

  “Who sent it down?” he asked, his voice catching in his throat. “Did you punch the button?”

  “I didn’t go near it. It was somebody else.”

  “I’m going to see,” he said and started to enter the elevator.

  “Wait, Pastor,” I said, putting out my hand. “Let’s take the stairs. The way that thing’s acting, I don’t want to ride in it.”

  “Good idea. We should check the stairwells anyway.”

  So up the stairs we went, Pastor Ledbetter snapping on lights so that the building was being lit up like a Christmas tree. But the more light the better, as far as I was concerned. My joints were having enough trouble climbing those stairs without stumbling around in the dark.

  We came out on the second floor, walked the halls, stuck our heads in empty classrooms and walked on into the main building, which housed the sanctuary and the choir room. We found nobody anywhere, nor any sign that anybody had been there.

  So we retraced our steps to search the rooms along the cross hall, both of us puffing by this time. Finding no one, even though we looked in every classroom, closet and supply room, we headed for the more public areas of the building. Perched on a small incline, the front part of the Sunday-school building was at street level, and that was the part that had been specifically designed as a chapel for small funerals and weddings. It, too, had an exterior door, a narrow portico and a walkway leading out to the sidewalk. And right next to the chapel was that infamous, though elegantly decorated, room where bridal parties gathered to await the ceremony.

  I realized as I tried to keep up with Pastor Ledbetter that it was the first time I’d been near the place since that humiliating episode a few years back. In fact, I’d deliberately avoided it, not wanting to be reminded of what had happened. I’d had no reason to be there, and plenty not to be.

  And all this while, I was becoming more and more agitated for fear we’d find Sam in a compromising position with Francie Pitts. The woman would stop at nothing to get what she wanted, and it was plain that she wanted Sam in spite of my efforts through LuAnne to aim her toward Fred Fowler. It was entirely possible that Sam had not one impure thought in his head, intent only on Francie’s spiritual welfare, but she could turn on him the way Dr. Fowler had turned on me, overwhelming him with that secret knowledge of hers. Trotting along behind Pastor Ledbetter, I could’ve cried at the thought.

  “Unless we’ve walked right past him,” Pastor Ledbetter said, looking to the right and the left, “he’s got to be here somewhere.”

  “Pastor, it’s not a him. It’s a her, but a him might be with her.”

  “Well, now, Miss Julia, let’s not jump to conclusions. I can’t imagine you can identify someone by a laugh, especially in a building of this size.” He veered off to jerk open the door to a storage room, seemingly having regained his confidence. But he hadn’t regained it totally, for he still wanted company. “Let’s be sure nobody’s hiding in here.”

  I followed him, whispering, “I think the chapel is the place to look. Somebody could be hiding among the pews or behind the pulpit.”

  “Not yet,” he said decisively. “We’ll go there last. I want to make a lot of noise so we’ll herd whoever it is into the chapel and, hopefully, on outside. That way, we’ll avoid a scene in the church.”

  I nodded agreement, as I surveyed the five-branched candlestands and other stored objects used for weddings. But I was wondering how easily a demon could be herded. If Emma Sue was right, we were dealing with fire, and for that reason I made sure to let Pastor Ledbetter take the lead.

  So intent was he to search the supply and storage rooms that I just stood in the doorways and watched, which allowed me to keep an eye on the hall as well. I had a fear of someone or something sneaking up behind me.

  Then I heard something: a scuffle of sorts and a muted laugh. And, Lord help us, a moan.

  “Pastor!” I whispered, clutching at his sleeve.

  He whirled away from his inspection of a collection of mops and brooms. “What!” he said in a fierce whisper.

  “I heard
something. Listen!”

  He stood stock still, a look of concentration on his face as he listened intently. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Just wait, because I did.”

  Then we both heard it: a garbled voice and a thump against a wall.

  “The bridal parlor!” Pastor Ledbetter said, and off he took, muttering to himself. “I’m not going to have this. I simply am not. There’re valuable things in there, and I’m not going to have them stolen. My patience is at an end.”

  Oh, Lord, I thought, as I scurried to keep up with him. Please let it be a tramp or a thief. Or let it be just Francie in the throes of a hallucination. Or, because by this time I was seeing the end of my marriage, let it even be a demon; I didn’t care. Just don’t let it be Sam.

  Although, and I almost stumbled as the thought came to me, if it was Sam, I wouldn’t have to worry about confessing my own little set-to in the bridal parlor. He’d be begging for my forgiveness, instead of the other way around.

  Then shame washed over me at having thought of such a thing, and I went back to praying that it wasn’t Sam. Please let him be home reading or watching television or getting ready to come to Dr. Fowler’s meeting—anywhere but in that room.

  Just as Pastor Ledbetter reached for the doorknob, the door sprang back and Dr. Fred Fowler rushed out. A breath of relief rushed out of me, and I felt like singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Who would’ve thought I’d be so happy to see him? Even so, I stepped back out of his line of sight, not at all eager to renew our acquaintance.

  I needn’t have bothered, for he had a more urgent problem on his hands, and he looked it. His hair, rusty and gray, was tousled, his eyes wide and staring out of crooked glasses, and the knot in his tie was halfway down his chest. His shirt was unbuttoned, too.

  “Larry!” he screamed, coming to an abrupt halt as his face screwed up in shock at seeing the pastor. Then, quickly recovering, Dr. Fowler practically threw himself on him. “Just in time, Larry, you got here just in time.”

  “What’s going on here?” Pastor Ledbetter demanded, pushing Dr. Fowler away.

  “You have to understand,” Dr. Fowler pleaded, his hands scrabbling against the pastor. “She’s crazy, and I’m a PhD, not a physician. I don’t have the tools to deal with her.”

  And then there was Francie, standing in the doorway. She smiled at us, tittered and straightened her dress. Her hat, I noticed, was on the floor behind her, and her hair looked the worse for it.

  “Why, Pastor Ledbetter,” she said, just as calm and collected as you please. “And Julia. You really should be home resting, dear. Fred and I have been wrestling with my spiritual problems, and he’s been ever so much help.”

  “Seems you’ve been wrestling with more than that,” Pastor Ledbetter said. He shrugged off Dr. Fowler, who’d scurried behind him and was nudging up against his back.

  All this while, Dr. Fowler had taken no notice of me, mainly because my initial shock at seeing him had made me step back into a corner. And I guess he had enough to handle without bringing up a previous wrestling match.

  “It was innocent, Larry,” Dr. Fowler pleaded. “I promise you, it was innocent. Until, until something just came over her. I am just done in. I can’t get my breath. I need to lie down. Cancel the meeting, Larry, I can’t go on.”

  “I certainly will cancel the meeting,” the pastor said, his mouth in a firm line. “And you, Mrs. Delacorte, need to go home. The church, after hours, is no place to wrestle with anything. And Fred,” he went on, turning to him, “you go to the inn. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

  “Well!” Francie retorted. “I guess I’ve been told off. All right, I’ll go, but you can bet I won’t darken the door of this church again!” And she tossed her head and began swishing her way toward the elevator.

  “Wait, Francie,” I called, so pleased with her banishment that I forgot to stay hidden. “You forgot your hat.”

  “Bring it to me tomorrow,” she said without slowing down. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I said, half under my breath but not caring who heard me.

  Pastor Ledbetter put his hands on his hips and gazed, somewhat scornfully, at Dr. Fowler, who stood trembling and, by this time, leaning against the wall. If I hadn’t personally known how manipulative the man could be, I might’ve felt sorry for him, in spite of the fact that I was seeing more than I wanted to see of white chest hair. But he’d just met his match in Francie, who, unlike me, didn’t have a smidgen of shame in her. Dr. Fowler was left holding the bag, and I didn’t think Pastor Ledbetter could whitewash a second such episode with a widow woman in the bridal parlor.

  “Larry,” Dr. Fowler said, suddenly straightening up and speaking more authoritatively than he had any right to do. “You have a severe problem here. You should take note of Paul’s letter to Timothy concerning idle widows who wander from house to house, carrying tales and stirring up trouble. A series of classes on the proper conduct of widows is required to get this church back on track. I’ll be glad to take that on for you.” He slid the knot of his tie up to his collar, even though his shirt was still gaping open. With an effort to sound calm and in control, he added, “I have some experience along those lines, you know.”

  Pastor Ledbetter just stared at him, a look on his face of stunned disbelief at Dr. Fowler’s presumption. Then he turned to me and said, “Miss Julia, I think I owe you an apology for a past error in judgment.”

  Chapter 42

  Well, he certainly did, and he made one of sorts, though it humbled him to do it.

  Then Pastor Ledbetter motioned Dr. Fowler and me toward the elevator. “The two of you can go on home. I’ll stay and cancel the meeting. In the meantime, Fred, you need to spend some time in prayer. I’ll meet with you in the morning in my office.”

  We got in the elevator, each taking a different corner, and rode down in silence. I studied Dr. Fowler, marveling at how the mighty had fallen. He continued to ignore me, and I wondered if he didn’t remember or even recognize me. That was probably it, and here I’d been suffering agonies of shame and regret for years over a terrible lapse of common sense.

  When we stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor, we heard voices and laughter coming from the men’s classroom, where people had begun to gather.

  Pastor Ledbetter said, “I recommend that you both go out the main door, so you can avoid meeting anybody. I’ll tell the group that you’re incapacitated, Fred, and won’t be able to continue the classes.”

  “But Larry,” Dr. Fowler declared, “I’ll be able to complete the series. Just let me get myself together tonight, and I’ll pick right up next week. What I have to say about enriching marriages is too important to let fall by the wayside.”

  I didn’t think that Pastor Ledbetter’s face could get any grimmer, but it did. “This church,” he said, “has had all the marriage enrichment it can stand. The series is canceled.”

  And with that, he stalked off toward the men’s classroom to send the group home. I turned down the corridor, hurrying to get away from Dr. Fowler and go home, too. I wasn’t quick enough, though, for Dr. Fowler was right behind me, and he hadn’t forgotten who I was.

  “Mrs. Springer,” he called in a loud whisper, for he wasn’t eager to draw attention to himself from the group who’d gathered to hear his lecture. “Julia, wait, we need to talk.”

  I kept on going. “My name is Julia Murdoch—Mrs. Murdoch to you—and we have nothing to talk about.”

  “But you can help,” he said, drawing abreast and falling in step as we approached the Fellowship Hall. “All you have to do is tell Larry how easily these things get out of hand, and I am not to blame. Explain to him how widowhood creates a longing for intimacy and how, for some unknown reason, I seem to—I don’t know—just inflame lonely women.”

  Walking into the dark Fellowship Hall, I came to a dead stop and turned to face him. “For some unknown reason?” I cried. “Let me tell yo
u something, Doctor Fowler. You are the reason! Now, I grant you that you may’ve bitten off more than you could chew with Francie—she’s a different kettle of fish. But you took advantage of me, and you know it. You deliberately led me on to make a fool of myself. Maybe you did it to help the pastor get his hands on the Springer estate, or maybe you did it to have an example to cite and laugh about in your classes, I don’t know. But I do know this: I wouldn’t help you out of this mess if you were the last man on earth.”

  Dr. Fowler’s shoulders slumped, as he said in a sad and dejected voice, “You’re a hard woman.”

  “You better believe it,” I said and stomped off toward the door. Then I thought better of it and turned back. “Let me give you some advice: get yourself married. That way, you’ll have a little authority when you teach your classes, and it might keep you out of all the trouble you seem to have with widows.” Then, with sudden inspiration, I went on. “And Francie Pitts Delacorte is the perfect woman for you. She likes being married. She has lots of experience with it and she’s actively looking for a husband.” I knew, because she was looking at mine. “And furthermore,” I whispered, leaning toward him, while looking around to be sure we were alone, “she is well-to-do, and not only that, she has secret erotic knowledge. Why, Dr. Fowler, she could completely transform your ember-stoking classes.”

  I declare if a spark of interest didn’t flare up in his eyes, turning soon into a gleam of speculation. “You don’t say,” he said.