Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle

by Ann B. Ross

  “It is worrisome, I admit. It’s like death striking at one place, while life begins at another. But that’s the natural way, isn’t it? And the world just keeps on going.”

  I had to sit down and rest after that profound philosophical moment. And a good thing I did because Lillian wasn’t through.

  “Yessum, it do. But don’t sound like to me that whoever dead down there got that way in a nat’ral way. Dyin’ in a toolshed seem’bout as unnat’ral as you can get.”

  “You have a point,” I said, leaning over and beginning to drum my fingers on the table. “But my concern right now is the whereabouts of Lloyd, Sam, and Mr. Pickens. I declare, one after the other leaves and none of them have come back.” I got up and went to the window again. “I mean, what can be keeping them? They know we’re sitting here waiting for them, and they’re lingering and lingering. Besides, I need to ask Sam about that check. He’ll know what to do about it. Lillian,” I said, making a quick decision, “don’t say anything to Hazel Marie, but I can’t stand this any longer.”

  “Yes’m, I been wond’rin’ when you gonna do somethin’, even though you promised Mr. Sam you gonna stop doin’ it.”

  I gave her a quick smile and went to get my coat. “I only promised to stop interfering in other people’s affairs. I didn’t say one word about staying out of the troubles of our own family. And come to think of it,” I said, stopping to think of it, “that has always been the case.” I slipped on my coat and headed for the door. “This may be just such another situation that calls for a little well-meant looking into.”

  Chapter 4

  Mr. Pickens had been right—it was cold. As the short winter day headed toward night, I put my head down against the wind and almost changed my mind about walking. Instead, I pulled the scarf from around my coat collar and wrapped it around my head.

  As I headed down the sidewalk, I met small groups of people, most of them bundled up in scarves, hats, and gloves, coming and going along the sidewalks, some getting into parked cars as if the sightseeing tour were over, and others hurrying toward warm houses. I walked briskly through pools of light from the streetlamps, moving in and out of the areas of the late afternoon darkness, speaking but mostly just nodding to the people I passed. Some wanted to stop and talk, but I had neither the time nor the inclination for chitchat.

  Squinting my eyes against the cold, I scanned those I passed for a glimpse of the ones I was looking for, hoping to meet them as they headed home. As I got closer to Thurlow’s house, I saw cars lined up on each side of the street. Up ahead at the intersection that led to Thurlow Jones’s house, there was a patrol car parked crosswise to the street. Some distance away, red and blue strobing lights reflected off the surrounding houses and the low-lying clouds, indicating the presence of emergency vehicles.

  Stopping at the corner, I looked farther down Polk Street and saw patrol cars blocking several intersections. So it was a good thing I had not driven the car—I would’ve been on foot anyway.

  Turning onto Thurlow’s side street, I kept a sharp eye out for any of the three I was looking for, pausing just long enough to ask the people I passed if they’d seen Sam or Lloyd. I didn’t ask about Mr. Pickens because few people in town knew him by sight.

  Gradually, I began to realize that I knew few of the people coming from the scene of the crime. The word seemed to have gotten out—probably by way of schoolchildren getting home with the news—and folks from all over had come to bear witness or just to see what they could see. I couldn’t imagine the attraction that would draw people from warm homes on a cold evening right at suppertime to stand around and watch a body being removed. It would take a great deal more than that to get me out, as, in fact, it had.

  Then I saw part of the attraction. A large group of people was standing around a van that was double-parked by a patrol car. Thick black cables from the van snaked down the street. WLOS, Channel 13—or Channel 3 if you had cable—had their roving reporters on-site. I knew what we’d see on the news that evening: a pretty blonde right out of college speaking in a childish but awed voice giving a report that would tell nothing more than what we already knew, then filling the time interviewing the spectators, who would express both excitement and fear. In other words, no news at all.

  Sidestepping a stroller pushed by a woman who should’ve known better than to bring a baby to such a place, I almost bumped into Ralph Peterson, the salesman from Abbotsville Motors.

  “Oh, Ralph, excuse me. I almost ran into you.”

  “Why, good evening, Miss Julia. What brings you out this time of a day?”

  “Possibly the same thing that brought you out,” I said with some asperity. “Actually, though, I’m looking for Sam and Lloyd. Have you seen them?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I b’lieve I did get a glimpse of ’em. Mr. Sam was talking to ole Thurlow on the other side of his yard a little while ago. Right down there a ways,” he said, pointing in the direction of Thurlow’s house. “I think maybe the boy might’ve been with him.”

  “Well, thank you, I’ll track them down from here,” I said, moving on past him. “It’s past time for decent people to be home where they belong.”

  When I got to the middle of Thurlow’s block, right across from his house, I realized the crowds had thinned out. I would’ve thought that would be where the most onlookers would be, but apparently the deputies had contained the area to only those who lived on the block. If so, they’d missed me and I intended to keep it that way. I scanned Thurlow’s large front yard, but could see hardly anything for all the overgrown shrubs and trees. His was the most unkempt yard in town, and he was forever being given citations for it. A couple of weeks after receiving one, he’d hire the cheapest pickup truck driver with a John Deere mower to cut the grass and trim the branches over the sidewalk. That happened about once a summer; then he’d let it all grow back until the next time the town had had enough of it. In other words, he did as little as he could get away with, and the town let him. His yard, as well as his house, inside and out, was a shame and a disgrace. And it wasn’t a matter of the wherewithal to keep things up. Thurlow Jones was loaded, most likely because he rarely spent any of it. I recalled the time a new member of the garden club, one who’d just retired from up north, proposed that the club take on Thurlow’s yard as our yearly beautification project so we could “help that poor, pitiful man who’s just existing in such a shambles.” Mildred Allen nearly fell out of her chair laughing.

  I didn’t see Sam, and I didn’t see Lloyd or Mr. Pickens, and it was getting darker. I didn’t know where to look next, because I certainly didn’t want to look in the next block where Miss Petty’s house was—first, because I didn’t think the deputies would let me get that far, and second, I didn’t want to see any of the gruesome details, LuAnne Conover notwithstanding.

  Then a brilliant light suddenly turned on across the street at the end of Thurlow’s front walk. A television camera on the shoulder of a heavyset man was filming two figures—one was Thurlow and the other, a slip of a girl holding a microphone.

  Thurlow had not improved one iota since the last time I’d seen him. I declare, you’d think if he was going to be on television, he’d have cleaned himself up, but he was his usual unkempt self, made even more so in the glare of the camera lights. I watched as he made the most of his time in the spotlight, waving his arms and talking, then leaning in close to the girl interviewer. I just shook my head at his antics, dreading having to deal with him.

  But I took a deep breath and stepped off the sidewalk onto the empty street and walked toward the small group of neighbors waiting their turn to be on television. I stopped on the edge of the group as the interview drew to a close and peered at Thurlow, hoping for some indication that he’d mended his ways. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t.

  He was a wiry man, short enough for me to look at him eye to eye, something I tried to avoid because devilment was always glittering behind his glasses. His hair was mussed up, probably from snat
ching off his hat so the camera could get a close-up of his face. His clothes hung on him and were, no doubt, stained and dirty, as they usually were. When he turned his head, I could see in the glare of the light the white stubble on his face. I’d once heard him say he shaved twice a week whether he needed to or not, and it was obvious that he was holding to his schedule. His shirttail was only partially tucked into his trousers, and over it he wore a stained canvas coat that had seen better days a long time ago.

  Hating to get mixed up with Thurlow again—the man had no shame—I nonetheless circled the small crowd of sightseers and stood right outside the pool of light, waiting to ask him about Sam and Lloyd. I positioned myself so that Thurlow could see me just as the interviewer turned toward the camera, stumbled through a wrap-up, then, with a much more assured delivery, said, “This is Mandy Wright, Channel 13-WLOS Nightly News, reporting from Abbotsville. Back to you, Darleen.”

  The camera light went off, leaving me practically blind in the dark. But I dodged the shoulder-held camera as the man swung around to leave and pursued Thurlow as he turned toward his house.

  “Mr. Jones,” I called. “Thurlow, wait a minute, please.”

  He turned, looked me up and down, then said, “Why, if it’s not Lady Springer. Oh, pardon me all to hell, it’s Madam Murdoch now, ain’t it?”

  “Watch your language, Thurlow. I’m of no mind to put up with your foolishness. I wanted to ask if you’ve seen Sam.”

  Thurlow’s eyebrows went up and his gold-rimmed glasses slid farther down his nose. A pleased smile deepened the wrinkles on his face. “Ha! Lost him, have you? I coulda told you it wouldn’t last, and now you know.”

  “Oh for goodness sakes, Thurlow. Use some sense. I haven’t lost him, I’m just looking for him. It’s suppertime. And Lloyd needs to be home. Ralph said they were talking to you, so do you know where they went?”

  Thurlow’s eyes glittered as he thought of an answer. “Well, I tell you,” he said after some consideration, “I’ve seen so many people tonight that I’ll have to think who all they were. Why don’t you come on in the house and get warm?”

  I took a step back. No way in this world would I be enticed into his house again, much less go in alone. Why, the last time I was there, the man put his hand on my person and pinched. And he even did it in full view of Lillian.

  “You don’t need to think about it,” I said. “You either saw them or you didn’t, so which is it? And I don’t have time to visit with you. That boy needs to be home.”

  He poked his head toward me and said, “You don’t want to hear about the body they found? Everybody else does. Where’s your curiosity, Madam Murdoch? I can give you the lowdown, but it’s cold as an Eskimo’s you-know-what. Come on in, and I’ll tell you everything I know. And,” he said with a wicked grin, “I know everything you’d like to know.”

  I stepped back again, first from his leering face, and second from the vile suggestion I had no doubt he was making. But that was his way, always looking to embarrass and humiliate a lady. I’d occasionally wondered what he’d do if someone ever took him up on it, but—and you can count on this—that someone would never be me.

  “Keep your mind on what I’m asking you,” I said, “because I don’t want to know anything else. I haven’t the slightest interest in delving into the death of some stranger who had the misfortune to end up next door to you. Now, please give me a straight answer. Did you see where Sam and Lloyd went?”

  “Well,” he said, heaving an exaggerated sigh of defeat, “you are one captious woman and hard to please to boot. But if I was you, I’d head on home. That’s where they were going. Unless, of course, they’re sending out a search party for you by now. If women stayed home like they’re supposed to, they wouldn’t be runnin’ around after dark, worryin’ people half to death.”

  That just flew all over me. I drew myself up and said, “You’re a fine one to talk. Worrying people half to death is all you do, and you take pleasure in doing it too. I should’ve known I wouldn’t get a straight answer out of you.”

  And off I went, leaving him laughing behind me in the dark. I’d gotten halfway across the street when I heard him say, “Come on back anytime Murdoch goes missin’ again.”

  Chapter 5

  It was a relief to get out of the cold night air and walk into the warm kitchen, and a much greater relief to find Sam, Lloyd, and Mr. Pickens there waiting for me.

  Sam met me at the door, a look of concern on his face. “I was about to go looking for you. Come on in here and get warm.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” I said, taking off my coat. “It’s been one after the other going out to look for somebody, then getting lost themselves. I don’t know how I missed you, but, of course, I got mixed up with Thurlow because Ralph Peterson said he’d seen you talking to him. I could’ve gone all day without that little run-in.”

  Lloyd immediately perked up. “What did he say about that dead body, Miss Julia?”

  “Not one thing, because I wasn’t interested in hearing it. He tried to get me to go inside with him where, he said, he’d tell me everything I wanted to know. But all I wanted was to find you and get you home.”

  Mr. Pickens, who, strangely enough, was stirring something on the stove, laughed. “Good thing you didn’t go in, Miss Julia. Sam might’ve had to shoot him.”

  Now what do you say to a comment like that? I rolled my eyes and pretended I hadn’t heard him.

  Finally catching my breath, relieved that they all were home where they were supposed to be, I realized that the kitchen table was set, Lloyd was putting rolls in a basket, Mr. Pickens was dipping up vegetables, and Sam was slicing a pot roast.

  “Where’s Lillian?” I asked.

  “We sent her on home,” Sam said. “We didn’t know how long you’d be, and it’s getting late. Besides, we have three good cooks here who can handle putting a meal on the table.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, smiling, “after it’s all cooked, I guess so. Well, then, where’s Hazel Marie? She still resting?”

  Mr. Pickens glanced up. “I’m taking a plate to her. She’s propped up on the bed because her back’s hurting.”

  That stopped me. “Her back’s hurting? Why, Mr. Pickens, that’s an early sign.”

  His face went white, and he dropped both spoon and potato into the roasting pan. The resulting splash sprinkled the front of his shirt, but he didn’t notice.

  He ran for the bedroom with me close behind. We burst into the bedroom to find Hazel Marie sitting almost upright on the bed, three or four pillows behind her back, leafing through another movie magazine.

  She looked up and smiled. “Hey, J.D., hey, Miss Julia. Did y’all know that Brad and Angelina may be breaking up? They’re having a real hard time.”

  Mr. Pickens wasn’t interested. “How’s your back? You want me to call the doctor?”

  “It could be a sign, Hazel Marie,” I said, looking her over for any other indications. “That’s how Marilee Cooper knew her last baby was coming.”

  Hazel Marie frowned, thinking about it. “I think I’m all right. It only hurts when I stand for a while or sit in a straight chair. As long as I stay propped up like this, it feels fine.”

  “Maybe I better call the doctor,” Mr. Pickens said, clearly unconvinced.

  She laughed and took his hand. “Don’t do that. I’m really all right. Now go on and eat your supper. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  “Well,” I said, relieved, “if you can laugh, you’re not in labor. From what I’ve heard, it’s not exactly a laughing matter. Come on, Mr. Pickens, and get your supper. Then you can come back in and watch her.”

  That seemed to reassure him, but he was reluctant to leave her. As we walked through the back hall to the kitchen, he stopped, brushed his hand through his hair, and said, “I don’t know what to do. The doctor doesn’t want her to go into labor. He wants to start it in the hospital so he can monitor her. And you know it’ll take a good thirty m
inutes to get to Asheville, so if she has the least twinge, we need to leave.”

  This was a time when I wished I’d had the labor experience myself, so I’d know whereof I spoke. But I hadn’t, and that was all there was to it. I had to rely on what I’d picked up over the years at the garden club and the book club, and occasionally at the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class. Oh, and a few tidbits from Lillian as well.

  “I think we can rely on her mood, Mr. Pickens,” I told him with a great deal more assurance than I was feeling. “As long as she’s more interested in movie-star doings than in what’s happening inside, I think she’s okay. But if she gets a sort of inward look on her face, like she’s listening to something or feeling something different going on, that’s when you better heat up the car.”

  He nodded, a frown of worry still on his face. “I’m glad you’re here, Miss Julia. I’ve never gone through this before.”

  Well, neither had I, so I figured it was time for some help. “Maybe we should see if Etta Mae Wiggins can come before the babies do. Two weeks isn’t too early for her to be in the house and on call. And, surely, she’d recognize labor signs before we would.” At least, I hoped so, for as far as I knew, Etta Mae had not had any firsthand experience either.

  “I’ll call her first thing in the morning,” Mr. Pickens said with a noticeably relieved look at the thought of having a trained observer on hand. “From the way the doctor talked, we wouldn’t have to worry about this. He said that waiting two more weeks wouldn’t be a problem.” He rubbed his face, then ran a hand through his thick hair. “That’s why I went ahead and took a job in Raleigh. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow and be gone about five days. But now I don’t know whether to go or stay.”

  We stood in the dim back hall, light from the kitchen allowing me to see the worry on his face. I knew that Mr. Pickens was deeply concerned about providing for his ready-made family, even though that family had brought enough assets with it to cover everybody’s expenses with a good deal left over. One of the things I admired most about Mr. Pickens was his determination not to live on Lloyd’s inheritance. A lot of men would’ve, you know. So he needed to work, or felt that he did, which was about the same thing in my opinion.