by Ann B. Ross
“Why not push yourself in? You might be surprised at the reception you get.”
He gave me a wry smile. “I’m not the pushy type.”
“Huh. If that’s the case, then I don’t know who is. Take a right at the stop sign.”
He did and we proceeded on in silence, in spite of my many sidewise glances at him in hopes of eliciting more of what he was thinking. Giving up with a sigh, I said, “So what mischief was Ilona Weaver up to in her young years? Did Sam say?”
“Embezzlement.”
“Embezzlement? My goodness, I’ve never known anybody who embezzled.” Then after a few minutes, I said, “Well, of course there was Richard Stroud, but other than that, I still don’t, because I don’t know Ilona Weaver. Maybe I’d better prepare myself. Do you still have Sam’s notes?”
He jerked a thumb toward the backseat. “They’re in my briefcase, but there’s not much on her. Sam said she was the most reluctant to talk of them all. Hardly let him in the house and was fairly belligerent about it. No wonder, though, because embezzlement’s a felony and she got away clean. No conviction, no sentence, no explanation.”
“Well, that is strange. How much did she embezzle?”
“A few hundred dollars, but it was from a Girl Scout cookie fund or a bake sale for the PTA. Something like that.”
“Maybe they let her pay it back,” I said, scrounging among the papers in his briefcase. “I declare, Mr. Pickens, you need to get these papers organized.”
He ignored my suggestion and said instead, “The prosecutor dropped the charges, so some arrangement was undoubtedly made. In fact, Sam said he almost didn’t include her, and wouldn’t have, except for her records being stolen along with the others.”
“Hm-m-m,” I said, finally finding the skimpy notes on the Weaver case. “He just has ‘Embezzlement. No charges filed.’ Maybe she didn’t take as much money as they thought.”
He smiled at my ignorance of the law. “Embezzle a penny, and it’s still a felony.”
“Slow down, Mr. Pickens. It’s right up here, I think.” I craned out the windshield, looking for the place that Sam had described. “There it is. And there she is, I think, on the front porch.”
I pointed toward a double-wide trailer on a small knoll to our left. It looked long and firmly anchored to the ground with a wide railed porch and a ramp along one side, made of raw treated lumber, obviously added to it. As he guided the car into the driveway, I could see a woman I took to be Ilona Weaver wrapped in a heavy sweater and a quilt, sitting in a wheelchair, taking the sun. I almost melted, looking at her, for the day was already sweltering.
“I didn’t know she was crippled,” I whispered.
“Yeah, Sam said she’s been in that chair for a few years now. Some kind of degenerative disease, not sure what.”
“Bless her heart,” I murmured sympathetically. “Let’s hope she’ll appreciate a little company.”
My hope was dashed as we got out of the car and approached the brooding woman in the wheelchair. She was heavyset from what I could tell, reminding me of a turtle, as she sat slouched over and huddled under the quilt. Thick plaits of hair, black enough to be dyed, draped along each shoulder. The frown on her face deepened, and her deep-set eyes glowered at us as we reached the bottom step.
“You can stop right there,” she said, a hand holding the end of a slender rope snaking out from under the quilt. The other end of the rope was attached to the handle of the screen door. Behind the screen stood a silent but alertly watchful dog. As its form took shape behind the screen mesh, I could see saliva oozing from its mouth and hear a low but ominous growl deep in its throat.
I nudged Mr. Pickens and stepped back. “You go ahead,” I whispered.
“Mrs. Weaver?” Mr. Pickens courageously said. “Sam Murdoch called about us stopping by. We’d just like to ask if you have any knowledge of . . .”
“I got nothing to say to Sam Murdoch or to you,” Mrs. Weaver said. “I told him not to come out here no more and not to send nobody. An’ if you think I don’t mean it, why, I’ll just jerk this rope an’ let my rottweiler tell you.”
“Don’t do that, Mrs. Weaver,” Mr. Pickens said, prudently keeping his feet on the ground and away from the steps. “We’re not here to make trouble. We’re just trying to find out if you know who could’ve been interested enough in your records to steal them.”
“I don’t know an’ I don’t care,” she said, giving the rope a light snap, making the dog’s shoulders bunch up, readying itself to spring as soon as she opened the door. “But I’ll tell you this, whoever took ’em did me a favor. More power to ’em, I say. Nobody’s got a right to go mucking through the past, anyway, an’ you can tell Sam Murdoch I said so. Or do you want Alvin to send him a message?” And she snapped the rope again, this time rattling the screen and causing Alvin to bare his teeth. “You better be glad I got me a dog that won’t do nothin’ till I tell it to.”
“We are, I assure you,” I said, plucking at Mr. Pickens’s sleeve. “Thank you, Mrs. Weaver, we’ll be going now.”
As we got back in the car with the doors safely closed, I said, “Alvin?”
Mr. Pickens grinned as he started the car. “Yeah, and I wouldn’t want to question it. But Sam didn’t mention a dog. Wonder if she got it after he came to see her?”
“I don’t know, but she sure didn’t want to talk to us, did she? If she wasn’t confined to a wheelchair, I’d put her down as another suspect.”
Chapter 27
As we traveled back toward town, stopping briefly at an outlying convenience store for a pack of Juicy Fruit gum which Mr. Pickens insisted on paying for, we were no wiser than when we’d left the city limits. After asking him to turn the air-conditioning up a little, I occupied myself with thoughts of the uncooperative and unfriendly Ilona Weaver. I had hoped she knew something that would help us, but with Alvin standing ready to pounce, there’d been no way of getting her to open up. So it had been a wasted trip, which I couldn’t help but point out to Mr. Pickens.
“Well, that little visit didn’t amount to anything, did it?” I said just to be saying something.
He grunted, while I watched the scenery as we passed through the valley. It was a typical rural countryside with a range of low purplish mountains to the west that bounded the valley. On either side of the road there were rolling hills with pastureland enclosed by barbed wire fences. A few head of cattle or milk cows—I couldn’t tell which—lazily grazed as tails switched at flies. We passed the occasional unpainted farmhouse with a cluster of outbuildings surrounding it. More often, though, the farmhouses were derelict, falling in and covered with vines and weeds, while the families luxuriated in newer single or double wides sprouting television dishes and antennas.
Mindful that unprecedented opportunities presented themselves while I had Mr. Pickens to myself in the car and that those opportunities were fleeting, I prepared for another attack on his stubborn refusal to make any attempt at winning back Hazel Marie. All it would take would be a little give on his part, for I was convinced that Hazel Marie could not and would not hold out against his manly charm—if he’d ever turn it on again. The only reason they were in this hostile situation was his unwillingness to reenter matrimony, while she was holding out for a commitment and a wedding ceremony.
At this point, a ceremony was all I cared about—just a quickie by a magistrate would do. As far as I was concerned, any kind of long-term commitment could be worked out later on.
“Mr. Pickens?” I said, trying to recall the steps to leading a soul to the Lord that I’d learned years ago in a workshop on witnessing when Pastor Ledbetter had brought in a visiting evangelist who’d been trained by Billy Graham in one of his crusades. The evangelist had emphasized that we shouldn’t embarrass, shame, or pressure anyone into coming forward. He said that the best way to reach a recalcitrant heart was to tell of our own personal spiritual journey.
So, if recounting my experience would work in that situa
tion, perhaps it would work in the present one.
“Mr. Pickens?” I said again. “As you know, I’ve been twice married, which I know doesn’t equal the number of times you’ve taken the plunge. But, I want you to know that if I’d thought all marriages were like my first one, I’d never have married Sam Murdoch. I’d still be a dried-up, bitter, and resentful widow if I’d been unwilling to take another chance. And I’ll tell you the truth, there was a lot of comfort in keeping my anger toward Wesley Lloyd Springer alive and just not trying for anything better. But I thank the Lord every day of my life that I married Sam and learned what a real meeting of minds and hearts can be like.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said and yawned.
“Well, but what I’m saying is that you can’t always go on past experience. Why, when I think of what my life was like with Mr. Springer, I just shudder. It makes me wonder how in the world I had the courage to marry again, even to a man like Sam. And then I really shudder, because what if I’d turned him down? Think what I would’ve missed. Think of how empty my life would’ve been. He is the finest man in the world and I almost turned my back on him. The thought of it can jerk me out of a sound sleep.”
He cut his eyes at me. “Why’re you telling me this?”
“Why, Mr. Pickens, I’m giving you my personal testimony! He who has ears to hear ought to listen to it. And another thing, marriage is honorable in all and devoutly to be desired.”
He smiled. “Uh-huh.”
“You just have to be willing to try again and, after all, from what I’ve heard, you and Hazel Marie have lasted longer in an unmarried state than any of your actual marriages. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Tells me not to rock the boat,” he said, infuriating me because nothing I’d said had gotten through to him. “Here we are,” he went on as we approached my house.
“Oh, look,” I said as Mr. Pickens pulled into my driveway, “there’s Sam’s car. Why don’t you come in and have lunch with us?” And, I thought to myself, you can see how well Sam and I get along.
He waited ever so long before answering, then he said, “I wouldn’t want to upset anybody.”
“Oh, for goodness sakes, you’re not going to upset anybody. Hazel Marie is confined to her bed, well, my bed, since she’s not supposed to go up and down stairs.”
His head swiveled so fast toward me, it was a wonder it didn’t put a crick in his neck. “Is she that bad off?”
“No, I told you. She just hit a little bump in the road, but we’re expecting her to have smooth sailing from here on out. Now come on in. Lillian will want to see you.”
So he did, climbing out of the car and following me through the back door and into the kitchen.
“Law, Mr. Pickens!” Lillian greeted him. “I been thinkin’ you done th’owed us over, you not been here in so long. But you hit it at a good time. I got some homemade chili, hot enough to put hair on yo’ chest if you lackin’, an’ some French bread and cole slaw, just settin’ here waitin’.”
Mr. Pickens grinned at her, then walked to the stove to lean over and smell the bubbling chili. “I believe you were expecting me.”
“I always ’spect you anytime you in town.”
“See,” I said, relieved to be in the air-conditioned house, “didn’t I tell you?” Then, disappointed that we weren’t having a cool salad, I patted my face with a Kleenex and said, “But it’s awfully hot today to be having chili.”
Lillian gave me a knowing glance. “Miss Hazel Marie say she have a taste for it, so I fix it.”
Tempted to lightly mention that cravings for certain foods were typical of certain conditions, I refrained for fear that Lillian would take it a step farther. Instead, I said, “That sounds like she’s feeling better. Where’s Sam?”
“He in there visitin’ with her,” Lillian said to me, but her eyes were on Mr. Pickens. “An’ she do all right this morning, ’cept she awful tired of that bed.”
“I don’t blame her, poor thing,” I said for Mr. Pickens’s benefit, which unfortunately didn’t seem to dent his calm demeanor. “Go ahead and sit down, Mr. Pickens. I’ll get Sam and give Hazel Marie this gum. Then we’ll eat.”
I walked down the back hall and turned into the bedroom just in time to hear Hazel Marie tearfully say, “I don’t know why y’all are so good to me.”
Sam, who was sitting in a chair beside her bed, looked up and smiled as I entered. “Hey, Julia, come on in, honey. We’re making plans for a passel of little ones that’ll turn this house upside down.” He patted Hazel Marie’s hand. “Now, you just stop all that worrying about us and take care of yourself and those babies. I need some more fishing buddies, anyway.”
After giving Hazel Marie the gum and assuring myself that she was having no more problems, I followed Sam back to the kitchen where he and Mr. Pickens were already discussing the morning’s activities.
I drew out a chair and joined the two of them at the table. “Lillian,” I said, taking pleasure in doing something that would’ve given Wesley Lloyd a stroke if he hadn’t already had one, “get a bowl for yourself and sit with us.”
“No’m, I got things to do. Y’all go ahead and eat.”
Mr. Pickens looked up at her. “You can sit on my lap.”
She doubled up, laughing. “You somethin’ else, Mr. Pickens.”
As we began to eat, she prepared a tray for Hazel Marie, fixing a bowl of chili for herself as well, and left for the bedroom.
“Sam,” I said, after Mr. Pickens finished telling him of our unproductive morning, “there’s something I don’t understand. How did you get those people to talk in the first place? Did they just come right out and tell you they stole and embezzled and acted up in public without suffering any ill effects?”
Sam put down his spoon. “Not really. I was careful with my questions, just asking in a general way about their experiences with the law back in the day. A few of them volunteered a lot of personal detail, always with a laugh and some smugness about lost or insufficient evidence. And hinting at having some pull with the powers that be. The older Tillman brother got a kick out of telling me how Teddy never served a lick of time in spite of stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” I said. “Because they sure aren’t eager to talk about any of it now. So it stands to reason that the theft at your house is what has changed their attitude. And it may be that every last one of them knows who did it and who it is that has their records now, and they’re too intimitated or scared to say anything.” I looked at Mr. Pickens. “Did you tell him how Ilona Weaver almost sicced Alvin on us?”
“Yeah,” he said with a short laugh. “And I was right. She didn’t have a dog when Sam was there.”
“If she did,” Sam added, “I sure didn’t see it. But I have to say that she was the most reluctant to talk to me. I put it down at the time to her illness, having enough on her mind not to want to dredge up the past. She was friendly enough, though.”
“Well,” I said, “she certainly wasn’t very welcoming this morning, and I have no desire to upset her again. We have a couple more to see, don’t we, Mr. Pickens? I think we ought to arm ourselves with a few dog biscuits, just in case we run up on some of Alvin’s litter-mates.”
Chapter 28
While we ate, Sam told us how he’d spent the morning in the courthouse, searching unsuccessfully for the missing files. After several hours, he’d given up and left a list of the relevant names with the clerks, asking to be called if they ran across any of the mislaid files.
“I’m not holding my breath, though,” he said. “They’re too busy to do a search, so I’m hoping that somebody will find them while looking for something else.”
“And while you’re hoping,” I said, “hope they’ll turn them in at the desk instead of leaving them where they are.”
We continued in this vein, bringing up random suggestions of how we should proceed to get Sam back on track with his legal history. Mr.
Pickens had less to say than either Sam or me, and I couldn’t help but notice how his eyes kept returning again and again to the dining room door. It was as if he were visualizing Hazel Marie pushing through it, eagerly laughing and talking a mile a minute, her face lighting up at the sight of him.
And to tell the truth, I would’ve loved to have seen her come frolicking through the door myself. As I thought about it, I realized how still and quiet the house had been these last couple of weeks. The joy that was Hazel Marie, before she turned sour on Mr. Pickens and before she knew what he’d left her with, was gone. I missed hearing her chattering around the house, missed listening to her sing a country song, missed her giggle at something that had happened at church or the garden club, missed her clattering down the stairs, calling, “Miss Julia, guess what!” I missed seeing the pleasure she expressed over a new dress or a slice of one of Lillian’s cakes or the sun shining through the latticework in the gazebo. And I missed seeing the delight she took in her son and in Mr. Pickens.
I could’ve shaken him till his teeth rattled for doing nothing to lift the pall of sadness in my house. If I’d ever had the slightest regret for taking Hazel Marie to my bosom, these empty days of gloom would’ve confirmed for me how much she contributed to my own well-being.
“Well,” Mr. Pickens said, putting his spoon beside the twice-filled bowl on his plate, “that was some good eatin’.”
I noticed a fine sheen of perspiration on his brow, which was no wonder since Lillian made her chili so spicy. Delicately patting my own face with my napkin, I said, “I hope it’s fortified you enough to go out again this afternoon. I’m anxious to get everybody seen as soon as we can. If Hazel Marie takes a sudden downturn, I won’t be able to accompany you.”
Mr. Pickens gave me a frowning stare, making me think he was going to ask a penetrating question. In which case, I determined to answer it as plainly and succinctly as possible, if for no other reason than to see what he would do. But he didn’t ask any kind of question, just stared a bit longer, then nodded.
