by Ann B. Ross
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Alsoby Ann B. Ross
Miss Julia Renews Her Vows
Miss Julia Delivers the Goods
Miss Julia Paints the Town
Miss Julia Strikes Back
Miss Julia Stands Her Ground
Miss Julia’s School of Beauty
Miss Julia Meets Her Match
Miss Julia Hits the Road
Miss Julia Throws a Wedding
Miss Julia Takes Over
Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published in 2011 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright ⓒ Ann B. Ross, 2011
All rights reserved
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Ross, Ann B.
Miss Julia rocks the cradle / Ann B. Ross.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-47626-0
1. Springer, Julia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. City and town life—North Carolina—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.O84198M5696 2011
813.54—dc22 2010048909
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Chapter 1
“Miss Julia, Miss Julia!” The sound of Lloyd’s voice bounced from one end of the house to the other as the back door slammed closed with a crash.
His feet pounded through the rooms downstairs, and with a lurch of my heart, I quickly threw aside my Christmas and New Year’s thank-you notes for all the parties, dinners, and fruitcakes that had come our way, and hurried out on the landing.
Leaning over the railing, I called, “Up here, Lloyd! What’s the matter?”
He raced up the stairs and came to a sudden stop, his tennie shoes screeching on the waxed floor. Breathing fast and hard, his face pale and his hair flying around his head, he caught his breath, gasping out, “Guess what just happened.”
“I have no idea. Calm down, now, and tell me.”
“Yes’m, I’m trying to.” He took a deep breath, his eyes still big and wild looking. “You won’t believe it, but it’s all over school. Everybody’s talking about it.” He leaned closer and in a hoarse voice said, “They found a body in Miss Petty’s outhouse.”
“A dead one?”
“Yes, ma’am. Dead as a doornail.”
“In her outhouse? I didn’t know anybody had outhouses these days.”
“Well, I guess it was more like a toolshed or something. Maybe an outbuilding, like that. Anyway, we were in our social studies class—that’s what Miss Petty teaches—and she was asking us questions about General Custer at Little Bighorn, and Mr. Dement came and got her. He didn’t say why, just told us to keep doing our work and stay in our seats until the bell rang, but Billy Hedley looked out the window and saw some cops putting Miss Petty in their car.” He stopped and patted his chest, still struggling to control his breathing.
“Come sit down,” I said, leading him back into the bedroom where I’d been trying to recover from the holidays and prepare for the advent of his mother’s twin babies. “Now get yourself together and tell the rest of it.”
“Well,” he started again, “when school let out, everybody kinda hung around, trying to find out what was going on. And Joyce McIntyre had been in Mr. Dement’s office—she gets sent to the principal’s office every day, seems like—and she heard it all. These two deputies showed up, asking for Miss Petty, and Mr. Dement made his secretary take Joyce out in the hall, but not before she heard about that dead body. But nobody knows who it is or how it got there or anything, except we’re all afraid that Miss Petty knows something. I mean,” Lloyd said, looking at me with eyes wide with wonder, “why would they come get her? What if she put it there?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t think so. There’re a lot of reasons a body might be found in somebody’s toolshed, like, well, I guess a vagrant could just curl up and die. We’ve had some cold nights lately. So, see, it doesn’t necessarily mean someone’s at fault. The deputies could’ve come to get your teacher just to ask questions and, of course, to tell her what they’d found. She may know nothing about it.”
“I hope she doesn’t. She’s a good teacher—not my favorite, but if you have to take social s
tudies, which we do, then she’s all right. Except when she yells. Then she’s mean.”
“She yells? Why?” I asked, thinking how unattractive it was for a teacher to yell at children, and also thinking that the boy needed a little distraction.
“Oh, when somebody doesn’t have their homework or when people talk in class or when you get snapped with a rubber band and you can’t help but yell yourself. Like that.”
“Well, under those circumstances, maybe she can’t help raising her voice. But,” I mused, unable to distract myself, “I wonder who it was who met his end in her toolshed?”
“Me too. Actually, though,” he went on, “we don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. Could be either one, I guess. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d heard anything.”
“Not a word. It’s been quiet all afternoon, what with Lillian out grocery shopping and Mr. Pickens taking your mother to Asheville for her checkup.”
“Well, I sure would like to know what’s going on,” Lloyd said, frowning. “Maybe something’ll be on the news tonight or in the paper tomorrow.” He thought it over for a few seconds, then went on. “You reckon you could call Mr. Jones and ask him?”
“Who? You mean, Thurlow Jones?”
“Yes’m, Miss Petty lives right behind him on that street that parallels his. I bet he’d know something.”
I did a little thinking it over myself. “I expect he would, Lloyd. He seems to know everything that goes on in this town. But he can be, well, a little on the eccentric side, so I hesitate to get mixed up with him again. Let’s wait a while and see if Sam knows anything when he gets home. And Lillian might’ve heard something at the grocery store.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding judiciously. “That’d probably be better. Mr. Jones kinda scares me too.”
After assuring Lloyd that the sheriff’s deputies would have the matter well in hand, I encouraged him to turn his mind to his homework until we heard more. But I couldn’t turn my mind to anything else, and instead of finishing my thank-you notes, I worried at it, wondering who in the world could be in a teacher’s toolshed, deader than a doornail, and hardly six blocks from my own toolshed.
Hearing Lillian come in downstairs, I hurried out to see if she’d heard anything and met Lloyd on the stairs, apparently on the same mission.
“I’ve been texting everybody I know,” he confided, a frown of worry on his forehead, “and nobody knows anything. It beats all I ever heard.”
“Now, Lloyd, don’t get too worked up over this. It may be that the body hasn’t been identified yet. But let’s see what the word is from the grocery aisles.”
To our surprise, there was none, for Lillian was as astounded as I had been to hear the news. She stopped putting away groceries when Lloyd told the tale of what had happened at school.
“Somebody dead in somebody’s backyard? ” she asked, her eyes about as big as Lloyd’s.
“Well,” Lloyd said, “not right out in the yard. What we heard was that it was found in the teacher’s toolshed or her garage or something.”
Then he looked at her, and Lillian looked at him, the same thought seeming to flash between them. “Lemme get my broom,” she said, hurrying to the pantry as Lloyd headed for the back door.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Where’re you going?”
Lillian hoisted the broom on her shoulder and marched out behind Lloyd. “We gonna see they any dead bodies in our toolshed.”
Chapter 2
Well, I thought, let them look. I couldn’t imagine finding another dead body so close to the first one, but then, I hadn’t been able to imagine finding one anywhere at all.
In spite of what I’d told Lloyd, I was sorely tempted to call Thurlow Jones to see what he knew. He was sure to have some information, as avidly interested as he was in everything that went on in town. And living so close to the scene, he would know what was known, although that could be precious little at this point. On the other hand, ignorance of the facts wouldn’t stop Thurlow from saying whatever came into his head. The man seemed to live for stirring things up, and the more fat he could throw onto the fire, the better he liked it.
But to get mixed up with Thurlow again? I shuddered at the thought. I’d had my share of run-ins with him in the past, and I’d always ended up feeling he’d had the best of me every time. For one thing, he didn’t care what he said, which put me at a great disadvantage because I couldn’t bring myself to respond in kind. Any woman who wanted her conduct to be above reproach could never go tit for tat with Thurlow Jones because he could make more outrageous statements than anybody I’d ever known. He took inordinate pleasure in being offensive to a lady’s sense of decency, to say nothing of his attempts to put his hands on her person. You would think that anyone as well-heeled as Thurlow would also have at least a modicum of culture and good taste. I mean, he could afford to learn some social skills even if he hadn’t been born with them.
No, I told myself, I’d leave Thurlow to those who could put up with him, because I certainly wasn’t among them. Besides, I had no business and very little interest in meddling in something that had nothing to do with me or mine.
In fact, I had promised Sam—not that he had demanded a promise, I’d offered it freely—to stick to my own knitting and not get involved with the problems of everybody else. And to tell you the truth, I was feeling a bit virtuous about it too. There was enough going on in my own household to keep my mind and my hands fully occupied.
First and foremost was the imminent arrival of the twin Pickens babies, an occurrence rife with anxiety, anticipation, and one headache after another. As LuAnne Conover, my long-standing friend, said to me right after she learned of the coming event, “You’re getting a little more than you bargained for, aren’t you, Julia? In the first place, Hazel Marie had some nerve throwing herself on your mercy after what she did with Wesley Lloyd Springer. And now this. I can’t imagine why she’d get herself in such a fix as to have twins. I hate to say this because I like Hazel Marie, I really do, but that tells you what she’s been doing, and a lot of it too.”
I put LuAnne straight on that little matter in a hurry. I knew for a fact that Hazel Marie hadn’t planned on one baby, much less two. And LuAnne should’ve known that I would not abide any criticism of Hazel Marie, in spite of her having shown up at my house with my own husband’s little son in tow. But all that was in the past and behind me, helped considerably by the fact that Wesley Lloyd Springer was out of the picture and in his grave.
But Hazel Marie was not a young thing, and I didn’t know how she’d withstand all that would be asked of her in the coming weeks. Even now she could hardly waddle around the house, needing to stop and catch her breath every so often and being unable to bend over even to put on her step-ins. And that doctor who specializes in risky situations told her she needed exercise, but in the same breath told her to stay off her feet as much as possible. Now I ask you, how’s she supposed to manage both?
And another thing that preyed on my mind was not knowing exactly when to expect those babies. On the basis of that ill-advised trip Hazel Marie had taken with Mr. Pickens to San Francisco in the early summer, I’d figured sometime in February would be about right. But from the way she was looking, she couldn’t possibly last that long. And every time I asked her when they were due, she seemed reluctant to give me a straight answer. “Well, you know,” she’d say, “twins usually come early.”
Well, it depends on just how early we’re talking about, doesn’t it? Maybe things had been going on before the San Francisco trip, and maybe I wouldn’t be all that surprised if they had. I’d put all that behind me, though, because Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens were married in plenty of time for the twins’ birth, if not for their conception—whenever it had occurred.
And, always, there was the little niggling worry that Mr. Pickens would lapse into his previous pattern of marrying and divorcing one wife after another. He did not have a good track record as far as staying tied to one woman was conce
rned. So far, though, I had to admit that he was performing more than adequately in his role of solicitous husband and expectant father. Of course he was aware that I had my eye on him and knew that he’d do well to take his responsibilities seriously. He knew it because I’d told him often enough.
And then, here we were only a few days into the new year with all of us trying to recover, get the house straightened again, and deal with the fact that the anticipation of the holidays had been greater, as usual, than the realization. And also trying to watch Hazel Marie like a hawk to be sure she didn’t do too much, and making sure that Lloyd wasn’t feeling left out, what with everybody so wrapped up in what was coming instead of what was already here, namely him. He’d been an only for all of his twelve years and the center of his mother’s attention, as well as the center of mine, in spite of his striking resemblance to Wesley Lloyd, which I kept hoping he’d sooner or later outgrow.
And then there was Sam, my darling second and last husband. It had occurred to me that he might feel that he was being pushed out of house and home, especially because he had every reason to expect some peace and quiet at this time in our lives. I do think that a woman’s second husband needs special care and reassurance, especially when he’s living in a first husband’s house and not only in the company of said husband’s widow, but the man’s former mistress and son as well.
I stopped and thought again about what the ensuing years since Wesley Lloyd Springer’s demise had wrought in my living arrangements. I had come from being a lone widow with only the daily help of Lillian to now having to step over and around Sam, Hazel Marie, Lloyd, Mr. Pickens, and soon two infants, plus Lillian and Latisha, her great-granddaughter, both of whom spent more time at my house than their own. And thank the Lord they did. I couldn’t have handled all the comings and goings by myself.
My worst fear not so long ago had been that Hazel Marie would pick up and move off, taking Lloyd with her, to have those babies by herself. It was only Mr. Pickens coming to his senses long enough to marry her that had prevented that catastrophe. So far be it from me to complain about having so many under my roof—that’s where I wanted them even if you could hardly stir us all with a stick.