Miss Julia Paints the Town

by Ann B. Ross

  They’re not making any more land, you know. Richard said he was putting together a real estate venture, and my contribution would give me a voice in how it was structured and developed. Saying what, how and where something was to be built had appealed to me, because there’d been too many architecturally challenged buildings already thrown up in our area of the state. I couldn’t help but believe that any such venture would benefit from my input.

  And, as I’ve said, the other reason I’d invested with him was Helen. You couldn’t ask for a nicer, more willing person. Helen had been an officer in every civic, social and religious organization I knew of. Why, she’d been president of the garden club for three terms running, and we only elected somebody else when she broke her hip last winter and had to be in a full-body cast for weeks on end. Every once in a while, Helen had implied to me that she’d like to just attend a meeting sometime without having to chair it, but she was generally amenable to whatever anybody wanted her to do. She was the most capable and trustworthy woman I knew. I had thought it an act of friendship to put a little money into her husband’s hands and, in the doing, lend my support to a local business.

  I stood in the middle of the bedroom with all these thoughts running through my mind, wondering what I should do. If Richard was really guilty of fraudulent behavior with other people’s money, and mine, it would be a scandal of monumental proportions. How would Helen bear up under it? Or had she known what he was doing all along? Was she now off somewhere on a South Sea island with him?

  Lord, I couldn’t believe it. Not of her, of all people. Still, you never know.

  I had a sudden pang in my breast, remembering another office that Helen held. She was the treasurer this year of the Lila Mae Harding Sunday School class and had our weekly collections in her keeping.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I recalled that our Sunday school offerings couldn’t amount to enough to finance a flight from fraud, much less a trip to the South Seas.

  “What you doin’ jus’ standin’ there?”

  “Oh, Lillian,” I gasped, spinning around. “You scared me to death. My mind was a million miles away.”

  “You ought to be settin’ down. You as white as a sheet. You want me to call Mr. Sam?”

  “No. No, don’t do that. I’m all right. I’ve just had some disturbing news. Lillian, you know Helen Stroud, don’t you?”

  “Yessum, she that little lady what always look so put-together. Her husband in the real estate bus’ness, I think.”

  “Well, not anymore, apparently. It’s in the paper this morning. It looks like he’s absconded with all his investors’ money.”

  “He what?”

  “Left. Gone. They can’t find him, and his office is locked up tight. Nobody knows where their money is, if he’s lost it or stolen it or what.”

  Lillian frowned. “How’d he get they money in the first place?”

  “Well, they gave it to him. To invest and make more money. You know, like when you put money in a bank and it makes interest.”

  She laughed. “My money don’t stay in long enough to make anything.”

  I nodded. “You’re more right than you know.” The way interest rates were these days, you were more likely to lose money than gain it. I decided, then and there, to make arrangements with Binkie to look after what I’d provided for Lillian when I passed on, even though I didn’t intend to do so anytime soon.

  It was just such innocent and trusting people like Lillian who got hurt in this current scandal. Well, Lord, and like me, too.

  “Anyway, I’m going over to Helen’s. She’ll be prostrate with shame, if I know her. And worried, too, if Richard’s taken off without her.” I took a sweater out of the dresser drawer. “It’s still a little nippy out there, isn’t it?”

  “Yessum, you’ll need that, but it s’posed to warm up later on.” Lillian’s face was knotted with concern. “I might know some people what give they money to Mr. Stroud. I hope I don’t, but I maybe do. What you think he do with it, if he not in bus’ness no more?”

  “I don’t know, Lillian. I can’t imagine that he started out deliberately to steal from his investors. He is a Presbyterian after all. More likely, he made some poor investments and then couldn’t meet his obligations.” I thought about the frantic efforts Richard Stroud must’ve made to prevent exactly what had apparently happened. “On the other hand,” I went on, “there’s such a thing as a pyramid scheme, where you pay your first investor with money from your second one and on and on down the line. The problem comes when you stop getting new investors.”

  “Law, that sound like robbin’ Peter to pay Paul.”

  “Exactly. Maybe that’s what happened, but anyway, I’ve got to go see Helen and reassure her that whatever Richard did, or is still doing, won’t reflect on her.” Of course it would, but I’d pretend otherwise.

  After slipping on my sweater and finding my purse and car keys, I went through the dining room to let Sam know that I’d be back soon.

  Finding the room empty, I called to Lillian, “Has Sam already gone?”

  “Yessum, he make a telephone call, then say he got to make steps.”

  “Well, that’s odd,” I said, but it was more than that. As far as I could remember, this was the first time that Sam had left the house without a by-your-leave, much less a good-bye kiss. Since my first husband had held in contempt any demonstrations of fondness, I had thought I’d never get used to being married to a man of Sam’s affectionate nature. But the bereft feeling that swept over me made me realize that I was not only well accustomed to it by now, I missed it when it wasn’t there.

  “He say to tell you,” Lillian went on, “to tell Miz Stroud if she need help to let him know.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, picking up my pocketbook and heading for the door. I left, wondering what had been so important that Sam would leave without saying a word to me.

  Driving the few blocks to Helen’s neatly landscaped Cape Cod house, I commiserated with her situation by reflecting on my own fairly recent past. If anybody knew what it was like to bear the brunt of a husband’s missteps, errors in judgment or actual crimes, I did. Whatever Richard had done would indeed reflect on Helen, her longtime reputation for good deeds notwithstanding. They would all be for naught if he’d actually defrauded his clients. She would be linked to his misdeeds from now on, regardless of her innocence. Unfortunately, that’s what for better or for worse meant, although none of us thought of that when we made our marital vows.

  Well, I thought as I eased through a four-way stop, I could certainly speak from experience, which might be of some help to Helen. I still carried some of the scars left over from my first marriage. So, if Helen listened to anyone, she would do well to listen to me. My advice would be to hold her head up and plow right on, leading her life as she’d always done, in spite of what people might say. One thing was for certain, I didn’t intend to urge her to stand by her man without regard for whatever mischief he was up to.

  I smiled grimly, remembering Hazel Marie humming that tune while she straightened her closet just the other day. She’d stopped in the middle of the chorus and looked at me as if a light had suddenly turned on.

  “That’s Tammy Wynette’s signature song, Miss Julia, but I just thought of something. That woman had five husbands in all and didn’t stand by a one of them. Where does she get off, telling other people to do what she didn’t do herself?”

  At the time, I hadn’t been interested in the romantic antics of the country singers who entranced Hazel Marie. But as I pulled into the Strouds’ driveway, I realized that Miss Wynette’s advice would surely be urged on Helen. Presbyterians believe in standing by your man, too. Except not this Presbyterian, for it was to my everlasting regret that Wesley Lloyd Springer had passed before I’d known enough to cut my losses for all and sundry to see. Every time I thought of what he’d done, which wasn’t all that often these days, I had to deliberately remind myself of how all things work together for good
—the good, in this case, being Hazel Marie and Lloyd in my life, and Sam in my bed.

  I stepped out of the car and started toward the brick walk to Helen’s door. The grass in the neatly mown lawn and the azalea bushes on each side of the entrance looked fresh and new from the showers we’d had during the night. Except for some birds flitting around in an oak tree, nothing stirred. The garage doors were closed, and the curtains in every window were drawn tight. That wasn’t like Helen. Ordinarily, her house would be open and immaculate, which was the way she kept it. By this time of the morning, she would have been planning her next meeting or making calls or checking her calendar. But everything was still and quiet.

  I sidestepped a puddle on the brick walkway, admiring the herringbone pattern as I walked up onto the front stoop. I rang the doorbell, not once but three times. Then I used the lion’s head knocker, which I usually hesitate to do at any house because the thundering noise it makes shatters my nerves. But there was no movement or sound from inside. So I removed a calling card from my purse and jotted a note to Helen on the back. Then I slipped it into the mail slot, hoping it wouldn’t slide across her highly polished floor and lie hidden under her Williamsburg block-front chest.

  Feeling more concerned than ever after my futile attempt to comfort a friend, I walked back to the car. Just as I opened the door and started to slide in, I felt the presence of someone right behind me.

  Whirling around, I almost bumped into a slender man who was hanging onto my door, looking avidly at me.

  “Who are you?” I demanded, clutching my pocketbook.

  “Andy Jordan, ma’am. Abbotsville Times. Would you care to make a statement?”

  Chapter 3

  “About what?”

  “About your husband. Where is he? What do you think of the fraud charges filed against him? Is he willing to be interviewed so he can tell his side of the story?”

  I looked the young man up and down, sweeping my eyes up from his muddy sneakers to the Panthers ball cap on his head, taking note of his pleated khakis and his overly large windbreaker and the stenographer’s pad in his hand. His other hand held a poised Bic.

  “Young man,” I said, drawing myself up sharply, “I don’t know how long you’ve been in this line of work, but you have accosted the wrong person. I am not Mrs. Stroud, but I am a friend of hers and you may quote me on that.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He immediately started scribbling on his pad. “And your name and address? I’ll need your age, too.”

  “You’ll need a lot more than that before I’m through.” I slid into the car and slammed the door. The idea, wanting to know my age. What is it with people who think they can ask the most personal questions and expect an answer?

  I cranked the car and backed out, hoping but not especially caring if he was out of the way.

  “Sam!” I called as I came through the back door at home. “Where is he, Lillian?”

  She turned from the sink, water dripping from her hands. “At his house, I reckon. That’s where he go every morning of the week.”

  “Oh, well, I was hoping he’d be back by now.”

  Other than his strange omission earlier that morning, Sam was usually fairly regular in his routine. Every weekday he went to the office at his house to work on a legal history of the county, something that kept him occupied and out from underfoot. He said he’d been doing paperwork all his working life, and retirement just meant more of it.

  “What’s the matter with you anyway?” Lillian said, looking closely at me. “You all out of breath.”

  “I’m all right. At least I think I am.” Just as I started across the kitchen, I changed my mind and collapsed onto a chair by the table. “Oh, Lillian, the newspaper is already after Helen. They’re going to smear her all across the front page. I know they will.”

  “Why they do that?” Lillian asked, frowning at the thought. “She don’t take nobody’s money. What she say, anyway?”

  “Nobody answered the door, and everything was closed up. Oh, Lillian, what if she took off with Richard?” I slumped over the table, then with a renewed spurt of anxiety, said, “A newspaper reporter jumped out of the bushes and wanted to interview me. At first, he thought I was Helen, then he wanted my name and address. And my age!”

  Lillian smiled. “What you tell him?”

  “That it was none of his business,” I said. “Or words to that effect.” I leaned my head on my hand. “Oh, Lillian, this is so upsetting. I don’t know whether to be mad at Richard for stealing or worried about him for being falsely accused. And I don’t know if Helen has aided and abetted him or if she’s as crushed by this as we are.”

  “If I was you,” Lillian counseled, “I wouldn’t judge neither one of ’em, ’less I be judged likewise. You ought to wait ’fore you do anything till you know who done what. But, I tell you one thing, Miz Stroud ought to be gettin’ herself a good lawyer.” Lillian punctuated that statement with a firm nod of her head. “Though I try not to ever need one.”

  “Maybe that’s what Sam meant when he offered to help. I know he’d give her good advice. Except he’s retired, and may not be able to. But if they’re coming after her, she does need a good lawyer.”

  “Maybe she talk to Miss Binkie.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Binkie doesn’t do criminal law, and Helen may need one who does. Richard certainly will.”

  I started to moan again, but the sound of the front doorbell stopped me. “Maybe that’s Helen now.” I rose from the chair to answer it, then said, “But probably not. If she wouldn’t answer her own door, why would she be at mine?”

  Hurrying through the living room, I hoped my visitor would be Helen or at least someone with news of her. As soon as I opened the door, though, it was LuAnne Conover who breezed past me and headed for my Victorian sofa.

  “Julia, I am so mad I could spit,” she declared, her mouth so tight she could barely get the words out. My closest friend for many years plopped down and glared at me as if I were the object of her anger.

  “I expect a lot of people’re upset,” I said, as I sat down beside her, glad to have someone to talk with. “I am, too, but we don’t know that anything really wrong has happened. Sam says there may be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  She glanced up at me through narrowed eyes. “Perfectly reasonable…? How can you say that?”

  “Well, he could be sick, or just needing to get away for a while. This could all be the fault of his office help. You know, the mice will play when the cat’s away.”

  She jerked upright and stared at me as if I were crazy. “He doesn’t have office help! Why would he?”

  “Well, I don’t know, LuAnne, I just assumed. Anyway, I guess you invested with him…”

  “Of course I invested in him. What do you think I’ve been doing for forty-one years!”

  “Uh, LuAnne, are we talking about the Strouds?”

  “Helen?” A shocked look passed over her face. “You think it’s Helen?”

  “Well, no. Actually, I think it’s Richard.”

  Shock turned to horror as she gaped at me. “Richard? No, oh, no.” She suddenly leaned over and put her head between her knees. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Let’s get you to the bathroom,” I said, standing and trying to pull her up.

  She resisted me, and finally straightened up. “Quit pulling on me, Julia, I’m all right. But my nerves are shot. Just look.” She held out a trembling hand for me to see, then used it to push back her hair. “This is where faith comes in, Julia, when you need strength to bear up. But it’s such a shock to even consider…what you said.”

  “What did I say?”

  She waved her hand and turned away. “He said he wanted to get away for a while and think about things. Why would he want to do that? He’s never needed to think about things before.”

  I sat down again. “You’ve been in touch with him? Has Helen? Is she with him?”

  LuAnne sprang to her feet.
“It is Helen, isn’t it? How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me, Julia?”

  “Tell you what? All I know is what was in the paper.”

  I thought LuAnne was going to keel over. “The paper? It was in the newspaper? How did the state of my marriage become a news item? Who told them?”

  “Your marriage? I thought you were talking about Richard and Helen.”

  “I didn’t start off talking about them,” she screeched, shaking her finger at me, “but if you know something, you owe it to me to tell me. I can’t believe it’s Helen. I thought she was a friend, a close friend, but if she’s done this…Oh, that sly, deceitful woman! Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, while all along they’ve been sneaking around behind my back.”

  “Wait a minute, LuAnne, I’m lost here. I don’t know a thing about Helen. All I know is that Richard has apparently defrauded his clients and skipped town. That’s what was in the paper. Not a word about Helen or you or your marriage. Now, start at the beginning and tell me what’s wrong.”

  She balled up her fists and stood before me, trembling with the effort to control herself. “You’re sure it’s not Helen? Or Richard? Because if it is, believe you me, I am going to take steps.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not either one. Now, what’s going on with your marriage?”

  LuAnne sat back down, then she leaned her head against the sofa back and gazed at the ceiling. “I think Leonard’s lost his mind. I truly question his sanity. He’s moved out, Julia, can you believe that? So he can have some space, of all things. What does he need with space, I ask you? I’m the one who needs space, but you don’t see me moving out and breaking up a perfectly good marriage.” Color bloomed on her face and her eyes took on a fiery glint. “He says there’s nobody else, but I’ll tell you this, there has to be. Leonard can’t cook, he can’t do laundry and he can’t pick up after himself. He can’t even find the remote when he’s the one who punches it all the time. What’s he going to do in all this space he wants?”