by Ann B. Ross
“Wait, Cassie,” I said, “let me call Sam to walk you to your car. It’s getting dark out there.”
She gave me a brief, backward glance as she sailed into the kitchen and headed for the back door. “No, that’s all right. My car’s not far. I don’t want to disturb him.”
She didn’t want to see him, either, that was clear. When she reached the back door, she paused to thank me again and to assure me, several times, that our search should go in a different direction. It was all I could do to stand there and listen over and over to her defense of her husband—my mind was on something else. As I’d followed her to the door, my eyes had focused on the long, coarse shank of iron-gray hair, shot through with silver streaks, that had come loose and hung down her back.
“Cassie,” I said, stopping her as she opened the door, “do you know a woman named Rosemary Sullins? She runs a day care center. Well, it’s not so much a center as it is her living room, but she takes care of children.”
She stood still with her hand on the doorknob, her head down looking at it, not me. For a minute I didn’t think she was going to answer. Then pushing the door open and stepping out as if she wanted to be gone, she said, “I’ve heard of her. Why?”
“Oh, no reason, particularly. It’s just that her records were stolen along with yours and a few others. And you reminded me of her, or rather, your hair does. You both have lovely, thick hair that’s about the same color and texture.”
Her hands flew to her head, felt the shank of hair and quickly whirled it around and pinned it with a hairpin. “I don’t usually wear it this way,” she said. “It won’t stay up.”
“It looks better than Rosemary’s,” I said. “The time I saw her, she had it up in a ponytail. But before you go, let me ask you this: Do you know Ilona Weaver or Teddy Tillman? Or Rafe Feldman?”
Her eyes darted toward me. She bit her lip, then said, “Not personally. We don’t socialize much. I have to be going. It’s getting late.” She stepped out, still talking. “William’ll be worried.”
“Wait, Cassie. What about Roberta Baine? Do you know her?”
Cassie shot me a glance filled with shock or fear or maybe both. “No. And I don’t want to. I’ve heard bad things about her. You’d do well to stay away from her, Julia. But,” she said, visibly calming herself, “I don’t like to speak ill of anyone.”
“Well, me, either,” I said, “but sometimes that’s all that can be spoken. About some people, I mean.”
“I have to go,” she said, stepping out into the yard. “William’ll be worried.”
I watched her walk away, thinking that William wasn’t the only one. I closed and locked the door, then went to find Sam to tell him about Cassie Wooten’s odd behavior.
“Sam,” I said, entering the back bedroom where he was still waiting, “that was the strangest visit I’ve ever had. Cassie wanted me to tell you that her husband couldn’t have stolen your files because he’s a Christian. I’m sure that reassures you.”
Sam smiled. “She’s gone?” When I nodded, he rose and said, “Any other stray women around? Can I come out now?”
I had to laugh. “I guess you have been stuck back here for a while. Yes, let’s go to the living room and I’ll tell you what all she said. But, listen, she knows Rosemary Sullins or rather, knows of her. And she knows the others, too, though she said not personally. I think that means something.”
As we took our accustomed places on the sofa, Sam said, “Everybody in the county could say the same thing, Julia. I’m not sure that’s indicative of anything.”
“Well, I didn’t know any of them until all this came up. But something else, Sam, and I know you and Mr. Pickens laughed when I mentioned it before, but Cassie and Rosemary have the exact same kind of hair in color, texture, and the distribution of gray. And both of them would benefit from some conditioner. I wouldn’t have noticed it, except part of Cassie’s had come loose from her French twist and hung down her back like Rosemary’s ponytail.”
“What’s a French twist?”
“It’s when . . .” I started then stopped when I saw the twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, you, stop teasing me. I really think this could mean something. Every last one of those people have unusual hair. Well, an unusual amount of it, anyway. For their age, I mean, and I think it’s worth looking into. They could be kin to each other for all we know. Actually, Sam, they could be part of the Hamilton family—I wish I’d thought to ask Cassie about that. But maybe not, since you said the sheriff made a pile of money when he sold out to that development company, then died before he could spend it all. But as far as I can tell, none in that group benefited from any kind of inheritance. Poor as church mice, most of them.”
Sam frowned, considering the possibility. “I don’t know, Julia. That’s a real jump.”
“I know it is, but just think about it. If you line them up and compare them, it might tell us something. Ted Tillman’s hair is still mostly black with just a few flecks of white in it, but he has a full head of it. He might be the youngest, don’t you think? Or maybe he’s not bright enough to have any worries. Ilona Weaver, well, we can’t tell about her because her hair is dyed as black as shoe polish. It’s pitiful that nobody’s ever told her that the older you get, the lighter your hair should be. But Rosemary Sullins and Cassie, I declare, Sam, they could be kin.” I thought for a minute, picturing the gaunt and skinny Sullins woman and the short and plump Cassie Wooten side by side. “Well, not close kin, since they don’t look anything alike. But we’re only talking about hair now, and theirs is alike. And then there’s Rafe Feldman, who I’d say is the oldest.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow at me. “When did you see him?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I must’ve forgotten, because you were right, Sam, about the state of his mind. I went to see him in that nursing home, and all he did was insult me and sit there looking as old as Methuselah. But I noticed his hair, all right, and it was a thick thatch just like Teddy’s, parted the same and everything, except for being as white as cotton. And another thing, Sam, that I just thought of. They both have cowlicks.”
Sam ran his hand over the top of his head. “So do I.”
“Yes, but theirs is on the wrong side.” I squinched my eyes up, recapturing an image of the heads of the two men. “I’m sure of it. They both part their hair on the right side, while most men part theirs on the left. Right?”
“I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” Sam said, a note of amusement in his voice.
“Well, think about this: Line them up in your mind, Sam, from the youngest to the oldest, and think hair. They go from almost totally black to totally white, with a mixture of white, black, and gray in between. Except, as I said, for Ilona, since she’s using a hair product that throws her out of kilter.”
“That’s a stretch, Julia,” Sam said, but I could tell he was beginning to consider it. “I doubt we could establish kinship on the basis of hair color.”
“There is a way we could establish something,” I said, my mind speeding on. “If we could find some pictures, we could check both heads—the sheriff ’s and the judge’s. I just wish I’d paid more attention to that picture in Roberta’s parlor. Although it was so dark, the only hair I could see was bushy eyebrows. But I tell you, Sam, the cowlicks on Teddy and Rafe are distinctive, color notwithstanding. All we’d have to do is look for pictures of the judge and the sheriff and see which one has a matching cowlick on the wrong side.”
“Well,” he said, his mouth twitching just a little, “we’ll think about it.” He patted my knee, an intimate gesture that was perfectly fine since no one was around to see. “I’ll run it by Pickens and see what he says.”
“And Hazel Marie, too,” I said. “I wish she could see every one of them, because if there’s one thing Hazel Marie knows, it’s hair.”
Chapter 45
“And speaking of Hazel Marie,” I went on, “where is she? What in the world could they be doing for so long?”
“I
think I’ve already answered that question,” Sam said, smiling as he looked at his watch. “It’s not all that late, just a little past ten.”
“It seems later than that. Maybe because the day’s been so long. Just think of all that’s happened. Our visit to Roberta Baines, Emma Sue’s party, Hazel Marie’s narrow escape, a nine-one-one call to our house, Miss Mattie’s trip to the hospital and, oh my goodness, I forgot to ask you. How did your visit to Judge Anders go? Did you learn anything?”
“Not a whole lot, although it was interesting. He said he’d probably known Baine as well as anybody, but that wasn’t saying much. He told me that Baine was an odd duck—his words, and that he’d enjoyed and used the authority of the bench more than any judge he’d ever known. According to him, Baine bitterly resented the legislature’s interference when they limited a judge’s discretionary powers.” Sam paused, gathering his thoughts. “Then, cautioning me that it was just his opinion, he said he’d always worried about the judge’s daughter. Said, from his viewpoint, Roberta had been too wrapped up in her father, and that her father had encouraged that dependency. She’d been a loner since she was a child, and he thought that Judge Baine and his wife took advantage of her, keeping her home to take care of the mother, who was always sickly, then later to do the same for her father.”
“Is he still in touch with Roberta?”
Sam shook his head. “No, and I think he felt bad about that, but he’s had some health problems himself and doesn’t get out much. Then he said something that’s been on my mind ever since. He said that it seemed to him that Judge and Mrs. Baine had produced that one daughter for the sole purpose of having a nurse and housekeeper. Because that’s all she’d ever been.”
“Why, Sam, that makes me want to cry. Could it be true?”
“I don’t know, Julia. It’s sad to even think about a little girl growing up in such a household, burdened with responsibilities too heavy for her. No wonder she’s the way she is.”
“Just think, Sam, if she was born and bred to look after her parents and they’re both gone, what’s her purpose now? That’s the most pitiful and maybe the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yes, it’s a shame.” Sam slapped his knees and started to rise. “Well, it’s been a long day and I’m about ready for bed. How about you?”
“I wanted to wait for Hazel Marie to get in. I’m not sure I can sleep without knowing what they’ve decided. For all we know, our worries could be over. Or,” I said, getting to my feet, “just starting over again, depending on what that undependable Mr. Pickens decides to do.”
Sam laughed. “Just give it time, honey. I expect we’ll know all we need to know by morning. We’ll leave a few lights on, in case they come in, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they decide to spend the night at my house.”
“You’d think by now they’d have learned what kind of trouble that can get them into. Besides, it’s just plain tasteless to spend the night together when they know we know what they’re doing.”
“I expect they’re just talking.” Sam looked at me, his eyes sparkling. “They do have a lot to talk about, you know, and it could easily take all night. And speaking of such, one other thing Judge Anders told me. He said that at one time there was talk about Judge Baine liking the ladies a bit too much. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but he knew Mrs. Baine had been an invalid for twenty or so years before she died, so who knows? There could be something to it.”
“I never heard anything like that. Did you?”
“Nope, not a word. All I ever heard was lawyers moaning about what a tyrant he was.” Sam turned off the living room lights and we started up the stairs to bed.
Reaching the second floor, I turned toward Lloyd’s room. His door was open and the lights and television were on. I looked in and saw him sitting propped up on the bed, still in his shorts and polo shirt.
“Hey, honey,” I said, “you about ready for bed?”
“No’m, not yet. I’m going to stay up till Mama gets home.”
“I wouldn’t wait up if I were you, she could be late getting in. Can’t you just imagine what all they have to talk about? They have weeks to catch up with. Why, I figure Mr. Pickens is over there pleading for his life, while your mother is holding his feet to the fire.”
He smiled at the thought, which was better than him thinking about what, in all likelihood, they were really doing. But I quickly put that out of my mind, too.
“Anyway,” I went on, “you know Mr. Pickens will look after her.”
“Yessum, I know. But I’ll probably worry till she gets home.”
After giving him a few more assurances, which probably didn’t help, I left to prepare for bed. Thinking I would just catnap until I heard Hazel Marie come in, I fell fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The day had worn me out, as it had Sam because he was asleep before I crawled in beside him.
My eyes flew open sometime later, but not too much later for I saw by the clock on the nightstand that only a couple of hours had passed. Something had awakened me, a soft thump somewhere in the house. Sam was still breathing steadily in deep sleep beside me, while I lay there picturing Hazel Marie tiptoeing in downstairs. I started to get up, anxious to hear what had passed between her and Mr. Pickens. Then I decided I shouldn’t appear too eager, so I settled back down.
It didn’t take long to get enough of that. I slipped out of bed, found my robe and did a little tiptoeing myself. I eased down the staircase, trying not to wake Sam or Lloyd, but not wanting to scare Hazel Marie either. With the few lights we’d left on, I had no trouble seeing where I was going, but the hall was filled with shadows and silences. I heard no more thumps, no more footsteps, and by the time I reached the front hall and crept back toward Hazel Marie’s room, I was beginning to think that my mind had played a trick on me and nobody was there at all.
And sure enough, when I peeked into her room where a small lamp was on, the bed was still made and there was no sign of her. Well, except for the cardboard patch over the broken window pane, but of course that concerned her exit, not her return.
I padded softly into the back hall, thinking I’d check the kitchen. She might be looking for a midnight snack after her marathon session with Mr. Pickens.
Just as I walked into the kitchen where only the light over the stove was on, I walked right into Lloyd. We both screeched and jumped back. My heart pounded until I realized who he was, while he gasped, “Miss Julia! I thought you were a ghost!”
“You about scared me to death, too.” I patted my chest, trying to get my breathing back to normal. “I thought I heard your mother. Has she come in?”
“No’m, and I’m really worried. I tried to call her, but all I got was a busy signal. I asked the operator to break in for me, but she said Mr. Sam’s phone is out of order. She wanted me to call an eight hundred number and report it, but that’d take forever, the way they put you on hold. So then I tried J.D.’s cell phone, but it just goes to voice mail.” He squared his shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “Miss Julia, there’s only one thing to do. I’m going over there.”
Lord, he was growing up. I looked right back at him. “Wait till I get some clothes on. I’m going with you.”
I raced upstairs, hurriedly put on a housedress, grabbed some low-heeled shoes, and pulled the door closed behind me. For a second, I considered waking Sam to tell him where we’d be, then thought better of it. Why disturb his sleep when he’d do nothing but worry about us? Or get up and go with us? Neither of which he needed to do.
“Be real quiet,” I whispered to Lloyd as I joined him at the back door. “Wait. Let me slip on these shoes. Okay, let’s go. You want to walk or take the car?”
“Well, I was gonna run, but let’s just walk. If the lights’re on and they’re just sitting around talking, they won’t have to know we’re checking on them. But if a car pulls up, they’ll know what we’re doing.” He took my arm as we went down the back steps in the dark. “Watch your step, Mis
s Julia. Let’s go through the back garden. It’s nearer that way.”
“You lead on. I’m right behind you.”
We crossed the lawn, pushed aside some overgrown azalea and forsythia branches until we reached the gate that opened on to the sidewalk. Then we picked up speed as we headed toward Sam’s house. The streets were empty of cars, except for a few parked along the sides. Streetlights made the going easy, although I wondered what people would think if they saw us power walking at this time of night. Most of the houses along the way were dark, so hopefully nobody was looking out a window.
When we turned the corner at Sam’s street, we both stopped. There were lights on in the house, but not many. One lamp burned in the living room window, and the kitchen was dimly lit. But the carriage lamps on either side of the front door were not on, so the porch was in deep shadow.
“What do you think?” Lloyd said.
“Um, I don’t know. I thought there’d be more lights on.” Actually, I didn’t. In fact, I was sort of surprised that any were on at all. I thought they’d prefer to carry on their negotiations in the dark. “Mr. Pickens’s car’s there, so they haven’t gone anywhere. Maybe we ought to go home, Lloyd. They may be in the kitchen, fixing something to eat. Neither one of them had any supper.”
“Yessum, maybe so. I sure don’t want to just bust in on ’em, but looks like Mama would’ve let us know something.”
“It surely does, but you know she’s had a lot on her mind here lately, being sick and all. And worrying over the situation with Mr. Pickens hasn’t helped matters.”
But even as we discussed returning home, we’d both eased our way a little closer to the house. For some reason, even with a few lights on, the house felt empty. No one moved in front of the windows. No shades, curtains, or blinds were drawn. No music or television was playing.
Two things came to mind: They’d decided to take a walk or they were in Sam’s back bedroom on the far side of the house, the windows of which we couldn’t see. If it were the latter, they wouldn’t be caring if the lights were on or not. For that reason, I didn’t suggest that we go to that side of the house. There were some things that Lloyd didn’t need to see or know.
