by Ann B. Ross
“Sad?” I asked, surprised. “I’ve thought her strange, but now that you say it, sad may be the better word. Which ties in with something going on with her family. Oh, Sam, that is sad.”
“You think Hazel Marie may know what it is?”
“Not really, because she’d have mentioned it if she did. Still, she’s had more recent contact with Lauren than I’ve had, and may have picked up some indication of a problem.
“Because if there is one,” I said, “we could offer to keep the children if Lauren needs to fly home. Or take some food to them, or help with any plans she needs to make. It’s just so sad to think of her, filled with grief or anxiety, essentially alone in a strange town. And her husband is so busy, I doubt he’s much help.”
“Well, you run on to Hazel Marie’s. I’ll clear up here, then I’m going to the little house and see what Pickens and Son are up to.”
“Sam,” I said, immediately on my guard, “you do not need to be doing any carpentry work. Your back could go out again at any time, and I mean just by leaning over to pick up a nail. I wish you wouldn’t go over there and be tempted to help out.”
“I promise,” he said, putting his hand over his heart, “not to help out at all. I’ll just observe and give my studied opinion and expert advice about any and everything they’re doing.”
“Then take a folding chair so you won’t have to stand while giving that advice. You do have to be careful, Sam. Once your back has had one seizure, it’s prone to have another one.”
“Oh, but,” he said, lightly, “I now have Dr. Crawford’s wonder pills to put me right.”
“No,” I said, outwardly teasing, but inwardly giving warning, “if your back goes out again, I’m taking you to the emergency room so one of those hospitalists can see you.”
“Fair warning,” he said as we both laughed. “I’ll be extra careful.”
* * *
—
I should’ve walked to Hazel Marie’s house—I needed the exercise—but it was clouding up to rain, so I drove. Mr. Pickens’s car was in the driveway, but not the Bonneville, so I knew that Lloyd was getting to drive again. It would be parked on Rosewood Lane as work proceeded on the little house.
Hazel Marie welcomed me in and, fearing to wake the little girls, I tiptoed behind her into the living room.
“James is off,” she said, “but the coffee’s ready to plug in. Let’s sit in the kitchen where our voices won’t carry upstairs.”
“Oh, good,” I said, following her. “I love that huge kitchen.”
We settled in at the table in a corner beside a large window that looked out over the side yard. The day had darkened considerably as clouds gathered overhead. I would have to talk fast so I could leave before the rains came.
“So what’s going on with Lauren?” Hazel Marie asked as she propped her elbows on the table and looked expectantly at me.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” I said, and continued on to tell her what LuAnne had told me about Lauren’s visit to the Good Shepherd Funeral Home.
“The funeral home?” Hazel Marie exclaimed. “Why?”
“That’s what I want to know. All I can think of is some problem with her family—I mean her extended family. I think we’d know if it was her husband or children. Or,” I said, as another thought bloomed, “Dr. Crawford’s family, but they’d be in Canada, wouldn’t they?”
“I really don’t know.” Hazel Marie straightened and leaned back against her chair. “Oh, I hate to think what they must be going through—and in a strange town, too. Because, Miss Julia, I don’t think they’ve made any friends, other than us. And we’re certainly not close because they don’t seem to want us to be, I guess. I mean, I’ve tried, but when you try and try and get nowhere, you soon become a pest. And I didn’t want that to happen. So I admit that I’ve stopped trying, and now I just feel terrible.”
“Well, don’t do that,” I said. “Of us all, you’ve made the most effort and should be commended for it. But let’s think about this. It seems that Lauren didn’t go to the funeral home for a visitation, because LuAnne said none had been scheduled that day. So what I want to know is this: Can you think of any reason why she would go in to talk with somebody at the funeral home—and I mean in the director’s office?”
“No, I can’t think of a one—other than what you’ve said. If it has to do with her faraway family, I can see that she might go in to ask how to deal with a funeral home in another state, or something like that.” Hazel Marie drummed her fingers lightly on the table, then she said, “I’ll call her. I’ll just call and ask how she’s doing. Maybe ask her and the children over again for a playdate—although she’s turned me down twice in the past couple of weeks. She says that Don keeps her busy overseeing his real estate—busy enough that he’s apparently let her hire some help with the children.”
“Then that may answer another question,” I said and went on to tell her of Lloyd’s possible sighting of Lauren on a county road, miles from town.
A rumble of thunder bestirred me and I rose from the table, thanking Hazel Marie for letting me disrupt her Sunday afternoon. She walked me to the front door, but stopped there.
“Miss Julia,” she said, a frown on her face, “you remember us talking about how Lloyd may be losing interest in the little house? Well, it may be getting worse. He’s supposed to go over there after school tomorrow and be sure that all the cabinets got delivered—you know, check the item numbers against the bill, then cut open the boxes and check for damage. J.D. will be gone, so I was going to pick up Lloyd from school in his car, let him drive to Rosewood, then leave him there and come on home. But he’s already told me that he’ll ride his bike to school because he has to stay late—something to do with the Key Club project. So he can’t go to the little house, and he’s not at all concerned about it.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s a little surprising, but then again, his school work and the activities he’s involved in have to take precedence. He’s just putting first things first. I wouldn’t worry about it, Hazel Marie, if I were you.”
But I wasn’t Hazel Marie, so I did worry about it. It wasn’t like Lloyd to slough off something his father had asked him to do, and it was inconceivable that he’d turn down a chance to drive his car in favor of riding his bike, especially with a week of rain predicted.
* * *
—
I left soon after that, hoping that Hazel Marie would have a few minutes of peace and quiet before the little girls woke from their naps. I’d barely gotten my seat belt fastened when the heavens opened and rain came down in torrents. I waited it out, not wanting to risk the poor visibility, and as I waited, I went over what I knew about Lauren Crawford.
Not much, I concluded, which raised the question of why worry about her? There’s always a fine line between true concern and active meddling, between offering help and actual interference. The difference, I suppose, is in the eye of the beholder. How would Lauren view it?
From what I could tell, she wanted to be left alone. And to be honest, that was what I was inclined to do—just turn the page and go on about my own business. On the other hand, to look the other way when someone seemed troubled didn’t sit comfortably with me.
Nor did Lloyd’s seeming loss of interest in construction work. Then I began to wonder if his little accident was still preying on his mind, recalling how I’d wanted to hide my head after having caused a few dings myself.
Well, I had no answers, but if it wasn’t one thing to worry about, it was two more. But nothing had to be decided or done right away, so I was able to put Lauren Crawford temporarily out of mind. Lloyd, however, was another matter entirely.
Chapter 39
*
The following morning, Monday, I had nothing pressing jotted on my calendar, so I decided to put the day to better use than brooding over what I could do little about. It
would, in fact, be a good day to begin putting away winter clothes, holding back a few cardigans and light jackets for the odd chilly day. It wasn’t a chore that I particularly enjoyed, but I did it in anticipation of the virtuous feeling I would have when it was done.
All day to myself, I thought, for Mildred had been told that she could bring Horace home and Ida Lee would be driving, so she could help pack his things. That daily afternoon trip had ruled my days for more than two weeks, and although I was happy to help out my friend—even though she was perfectly capable of driving herself—I admit that I was even happier to have the day free.
A phone call early that morning changed everything, although it eased at least one worry that had nagged at the back of my mind. It made me, in fact, recalibrate a lot of my preconceived notions.
“Miss Julia?” the caller asked. “This is Libbie in Dr. Hargrove’s, I mean, Dr. Crawford’s office. How are you this morning?”
“Why, I’m fine, Libbie,” I said, wondering with a stab of concern why she would be calling. “What can I do for you? Is it about Sam? He’s getting along quite well.”
“No, nothing like that. Well, it’s a little about Mr. Sam. Dr. Crawford wanted me to ask how he’s doing and if he’s had to take many of the oxycodone tablets prescribed for him.”
I laughed a little and said with a slight edge in my voice, “Interesting that you should ask, Libbie. No, Sam needed only two halves, so there’re fifty-nine left over. And to tell the truth, I’ve been worried about having so many still around.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “Dr. Crawford wants to know if you’ll donate them to his drive to collect unused medications to send to a mission field. And he said if Mr. Sam needs more later on, he’ll give him another prescription.”
“Why, that’d be wonderful,” I said, immediately regretting the hard feelings I’d had toward an overprescribing physician. “I’d planned to turn them in as soon as the sheriff has another drug-collection day anyway. But I think they’d just be destroyed and be of no use to anybody. How much better to send them where they’re truly needed. I’ll drop them by the office sometime today.”
“Oh, good,” Libbie said again, as if relieved that Sam hadn’t taken them all. “Everybody’s been wonderfully helpful—bringing in all kinds of analgesics from over-the-counter to narcotics. Our patients are eager to turn them in for a good cause, and we have a basket almost full already. It’s amazing what we keep in our medicine cabinets, isn’t it?”
“It surely is. And, Libbie,” I went on, “Dr. Crawford is to be commended for this, and I hope you’ll tell him so.”
After hanging up, it occurred to me that this was an instance of having wasted a lot of time and energy aiming hard feelings toward someone who did not deserve them. What a thoughtful thing to do—collect unused drugs and send them to people in dire need of them. To say nothing of the kindness he’d shown Lloyd when a lot of people would’ve claimed a whiplash injury and called a lawyer.
To now view Dr. Don Crawford in an even more charitable light lifted my spirits considerably, and I chastised myself for having been so quick to judge him. But bless his heart, while thinking of the needs of others, he was also having to deal with a problem in his own home. As I thought of that strange, sad woman who was his wife, my heart went out to him, and I wished for pardon for every angry thought I’d ever had about him.
* * *
—
I’d barely put the phone down when it rang again. This time it was LuAnne, who immediately launched into a torrent of words.
“Julia? Would you believe that I have to work on weekends now? I know they mentioned it when I interviewed, but they didn’t fully explain it, and I was so eager to make a good impression that I didn’t ask any questions. But now my weekend to work is coming up and I have to take today and tomorrow off. Can you imagine having Monday and Tuesday for your weekend instead of Saturday and Sunday? But apparently we have to take turns giving up our weekends and now it’s my turn. I don’t know what to do with myself today, trying to pretend that Monday is a Saturday.”
“How often do you have to do it, LuAnne?”
“About every six weeks, we all take turns, but I’ve already told you that, haven’t I?”
“Well, just think,” I said, “didn’t you just have this past weekend off? That means you have four days off in a row every six weeks. That’s almost a vacation.”
She was silent for a minute, thinking it over. “I guess so, but think of this. I’ll have to work this coming weekend and I won’t have a day off until the following one. That’s an awful long time to have to get up early every morning.”
“But you like the job and want to keep it. You may enjoy being at work on weekends—just try it and see. Besides, weekends are usually quieter than weekdays—you may even need to take a book to read. There probably won’t be as many people coming and going.”
“Julia,” she said sternly with a hint of exasperation, “a lot of people don’t just come on weekends, they go. You wouldn’t believe how many people leave this vale of tears between three and four o’clock on Friday and Saturday nights. There’ve even been studies done on it. So don’t tell me to take a book to read. I’ll be lucky to get to eat a sandwich. Which reminds me,” she said, pausing to regroup, “I have some errands to run, but can you meet me for a late lunch? I mean, if it’s my Saturday, maybe it can be yours, too.”
“Well, I guess . . . I mean, yes, I’d love to. Twelve-thirty? At the tearoom?”
She confirmed the time and place, and I hung up, mentally rearranging my day. Which did little good, for Mildred called immediately afterward with the news that Horace would not be coming home any time soon.
“They don’t like the way his heart is acting,” Mildred said, “so they want to keep him another week. They want me to meet with the cardiologist and the physical therapist today, Julia, and I’m worried sick about what they’ll tell me. My nerves are just about shot.”
“Oh, my, I’m sorry to hear that. Will Ida Lee be taking you? You probably shouldn’t be driving.”
“No, she’s not feeling well, so that’s why I’m calling. I told them I could not be there until four because that’s been our regular time. Now, Julia, you have been wonderful, driving me every day and I don’t want to take advantage. So what I’m thinking is that Lloyd could drive me after school today, and surely Ida Lee will feel better tomorrow. And,” she went on, “I am a licensed driver, so Lloyd will be perfectly legal.”
Legal, maybe, I thought, but will he be safe? Mildred would start talking and her mind would be a million miles away, and I would no more let Lloyd drive her alone than I would pick up and fly.
“Don’t give it another thought, Mildred,” I said. “I’ll be happy to go with you and Lloyd will, too. It’ll give him a chance to get more experience while we wait for you.”
So there went my day—completely filled up with a long lunch with LuAnne and another road trip with Mildred.
Except, I suddenly realized, Lloyd would be busy that afternoon with a school activity, which meant I’d have to sit and wait alone for an hour or two for Mildred to finish. So on the off-chance that Lloyd’s plans might have changed, I called Hazel Marie and presented the problem to her. I’m glad I did, for his Key Club meeting had been moved to another day, and she was sure that he would love to drive us. “He’s supposed to check the kitchen cabinets at the little house,” she said, “but he can do that when you get back. Why don’t you drop him off there when you get back to town, and I’ll pick him up later.”
Except, I thought as I hung up the phone, I could be aiding and abetting by giving Lloyd an excuse to put off doing what his father had asked him to do. With my heart sinking at the thought, it occurred to me that Lloyd was doing everything he could to avoid working at that house, at least when his father wasn’t around to see that he did. I almost called Hazel Marie back to cancel
Lloyd’s participation in Mildred’s daily trip. Being asked to drive again was another good excuse not to do what he’d been told to do, as had been a now-canceled school activity—just one excuse after another.
Something was going on with that boy, and that afternoon would be a good time to find out what it was.
Chapter 40
*
After dropping the little bottle of oxycodone tablets in the basket at Dr. Crawford’s office, I arrived at the Tête-à-Tête Tearoom right on time, only to find LuAnne there before me. She sat at a table by the front window, nursing a glass of wine. I pretended not to notice, but I certainly did and had to restrain myself from pointing out the danger of drinking alone, which she’d obviously been doing.
We quickly ordered the tearoom’s famous chicken salad plate, complete with slices of canteloupe and served with yeast rolls.
“Can you remember,” LuAnne asked, “when canteloupe was available only in late summer?”
“Unfortunately, I can. But now you can get them almost any time of the year—if you can eat something that’s as hard as a rock.”
We laughed together, then I asked, “But how are you, LuAnne? I’m still getting used to your being at work all day. I can’t tell you how often I pick up the phone, then remember that you’re not at home.” That was not entirely true, but it was close enough to let her know that I missed the contact.
“Oh, I’m fine. But you know I was hardly ever at home even when I wasn’t working. I stayed busy with committee meetings and fund-raisers and first one thing and another.”
“You certainly did.”
“But now,” she said, after swallowing a sip of wine, “the difference is that I have to be at work, whereas when I was volunteering, I could beg off if I wanted to. Of course, I never did, but still.”