Miss Julia Raises the Roof

by Ann B. Ross

Huddled in my coat, shivering in the cold, I found reason to appreciate Mr. Pickens’s six-foot-high fence—it was a shield from any sharp eyes peering from his windows. The night was still and quiet as I crouched between the cold stucco of the house and the needle-edged leaves of the holly bush. I pressed my ear against the wall to catch any stray words from inside when two sharp, sudden noises jolted the silent night—one in front of and one behind me.

  Startled, I cringed back as the front door of the Cochran house swung open not four feet from where I was squatting, just as the back door of the Pickens house banged open and yard lights flared on with Lloyd calling, “Wait, Ronnie!”

  Hoping that Ronnie would do his business on the other side of the fence and forget about taking up guard at the corner, I kept my attention on who was stepping out onto the porch. And, like Callie, I couldn’t help but overhear what was said.

  A woman’s voice issued from the doorway, saying, “Don’t you know how hard we’ve worked? You can’t do this to us.”

  “Can and will, Madge,” the man said, his words muffled by a scarf but clear enough. “You’ve got six months to a year, but after that, you’re out. Just be glad I’m giving you a warning.”

  He turned to leave, and as I ducked back behind the corner, Madge—for that’s who it was—called out, “But, it’s not fair, Pete! You rented it to us!”

  Pete Hamrick, now identified, chuckled and said, “Check your lease.” Then he started down the porch steps toward his car.

  Just then Ronnie appeared at the corner of the yard right at the end of Mr. Pickens’s fence—as I knew he was wont to do—and set up a howl that could’ve wakened the dead. I could see his silhouette against the yard lights—his head thrown back, his neck stretched out, as deep, baying sounds rolled from his throat and echoed around the neighborhood. Chills from more than the cold ran up and down my back from the mournful howling.

  Lloyd came running, calling, “Hush, Ronnie, hush! Come on, boy, you’ll wake the whole town!”

  Pete Hamrick, his shoulders hunched in his coat, scurried to his car, cranked it, and got out of there. Madge stood for a minute in the light of the door, then she muttered, “Run, you lily-livered coward!”

  Afraid to move an inch for fear that Lloyd would notice a trembling holly bush, I watched through the leaves as the boy tried to coax Ronnie away from the edge of the yard. He pulled on the great dog’s collar, but couldn’t budge him until finally Ronnie paused for breath. In the brief, blessed silence, Madge called out, “Next time, sic that dog on him!” Then, turning with what sounded like a sob, she went inside, slamming the door behind her.

  Still crouching by the porch, I didn’t know whether to reveal myself to Lloyd, or to Madge, or to creep away to my car and pretend I’d never been there.

  In reality, I didn’t have much of a choice. I think my knees had locked—or frozen—in place from scooching down for so long. I couldn’t even stand up. The choice came down to a toss-up between crawling across the yard or staying in a crouch for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 43

  And Ronnie, having caught his breath, changed his tune and began barking and prancing around, twirling with excitement, as he tried to pull away from Lloyd. He’d chased off one interloper and, to his delight, had picked up the scent of another one. Hoping to hide, I buried my face in the upturned collar of my coat and got a heady whiff of Chanel No. 5, Ronnie’s scent of choice.

  Then another voice joined the racket.

  “Lloyd!” Mr. Pickens called from the back door. “Get that dog inside!”

  “I’m trying my best!” Lloyd called back. “He won’t come.”

  “Then come get the leash.”

  Turning, Lloyd released Ronnie’s collar and dashed toward the Pickens house to get the leash, and Ronnie, lured by the aroma of French parfum, dashed toward the Cochran house to get me.

  “He’s gone!” Lloyd yelled. “J.D., he went next door!”

  “Hold on,” Mr. Pickens sang out, “let me get my . . .”

  Gun? I exploded out of that holly bush like a shot—locked limbs or no locked limbs—and ran for my life. Or rather, for my car.

  “. . . shoes on!”

  Shoes, gun, it didn’t matter, I ran. Just as I rounded the far fence to cross Jan Osborne’s yard, Ronnie caught up with me and, tongue dangling, began loping happily alongside. Panting, I reached the car, flung open the door, and fell inside, then had to shove Ronnie away as he tried to crawl in over me. With a great bodily heave, I finally pushed him out and got the door closed. With Lloyd and Mr. Pickens still calling and whistling for him, Ronnie reared up against the car, his paws on the roof and his great head pressed against the window, as he peered longingly in at me.

  I cranked the car, eased away an inch or two, and Ronnie swung away to let me go. Fearing that he’d chase the car, I was relieved when he heeded Mr. Pickens’s call and bounded away toward the man to whom he’d switched his allegiance.

  Fearing also that Lloyd or Mr. Pickens would identify my car, I left the headlights off until I turned a corner at the end of the street. Then I drove straight home, parked in the driveway, and tried to pull myself together. I’d just suffered a harrowing, yet informative, experience and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But I now knew for a certainty that Madge and at least one county commissioner had been in cahoots all along—just as she’d implied—although there was no telling exactly what had transpired between them while I’d been cowering in a holly bush. All I knew was that a notice seemed to have been issued by one to the other, and Madge was none too happy about it.

  Waiting in the car until I’d settled myself down to some extent, I eventually eased into the house, locked the kitchen door behind me, and hoped that Sam was sleeping the sleep of the just. I took off my coat, then had to pick off the sharp-edged holly leaves that had come home with me. After hanging the coat in the pantry, I turned off the downstairs lights and got ready to face the music upstairs.

  “Julia?” Sam called as I trudged up the steps. “Is that you?”

  “You better hope so,” I called back lightly, knowing he would laugh and perhaps not question me too closely.

  “How’re you feeling?” I asked, entering and sitting on the bed beside him.

  “Much better,” he said, then paused for a racking cough. “I think I slept for a couple of hours. What time is it, anyway?”

  “Not too late. We got a lot of ornaments made, but we talked a lot, too. Listen, Sam,” I went on, distracting him from the question of time, “you won’t believe what Callie overheard at the commissioners’ meeting the other night.”

  I went on to repeat what I’d heard, ending by saying, “We were right all along—it’s been rigged from the start. The only thing we don’t know is why. It obviously has something to do with buying up the rest of the block, but why do they want that? And exactly who are they? I mean, I guess they’re Ridgetop, but who are they?”

  “Good questions,” Sam said and coughed again.

  “Here, drink this.” I poured a dose of Robitussin and handed it to him. “I’ve a good mind to go see Madge Taylor. She may be in the right frame of mind to unload everything she knows.”

  “Why would you think that? Nothing’s really changed.”

  “Uh, well, I guess because things may be coming to a head or maybe to an end. I mean, with the commissioners having voted to let her stay there—which is essentially what that conditional-use permit allows her to do.” Retreating quickly before I let on that I knew more than what Callie had overheard—Sam wouldn’t approve of house creeping—I veered to a related subject. “Rebecca said that Pete Hamrick has been in the library looking at historic records and books having to do with upgrading—modernizing, I guess—small towns. So he’s up to his neck in whatever is going on.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t doubt it. He’s into a lot of things anyway, but it’s too l
ate to worry about it tonight. Come on to bed, honey.”

  “I think I will,” I said, beginning to rise.

  “Wait,” Sam said, frowning as he looked at me. “How’d you get that scratch on your cheek?”

  “Oh,” I said, frantically trying to think of a reason without out-and-out lying. “I guess . . . well, I got too close to a holly bush as I was leaving Sue’s and sorta brushed against it. Scratched my hand, too.” I held up my hand to show him the stinging scratch across the back of it.

  “You need to be careful,” Sam said. “Both of us do. We’re at the falling stage, and neither of us wants a broken hip.”

  “You’re right about that,” I agreed, then went to the bathroom to look for the Neosporin.

  * * *

  —

  I lay in bed listening to Sam breathe through chest rattles and realized with a jolt of concern that I had more to worry about than zoning laws, block takeovers, or lapsed leases. First thing in the morning, I was taking him to Dr. Hargrove.

  When Sam turned onto his side, though, he began to breathe easier and the same old concerns with a new twist invaded my thoughts.

  Pete Hamrick had thrown out the word lease to Madge. “Check your lease,” he’d said, and laughed as if he knew something she didn’t.

  Was there something in the fine print that she’d overlooked? Maybe something in print so fine that it was meant to be overlooked? Maybe it had to do with the term of the lease. Or maybe it didn’t address options to renew.

  Or—and with this thought, I popped straight up in bed—was there no lease at all? Had Madge, in her eagerness to lay hold of the house, moved in as LuAnne had moved into Helen’s condo, without the protection of a lease? Which would mean that Madge and her merry band could be moved out at the whim of the owners—Pete Hamrick being, apparently, one of them.

  His last-minute jab to check her lease could’ve been a double-edged sword if there was no lease to check.

  Okay, I thought, lying back down, what do we really know at this point?

  Number one: Madge had known from the start that her nonprofit undertaking was safe from the zoning board. That was now confirmed by the conditional-use permit that Pete Hamrick had arm-twisted the board of commissioners into granting.

  Number two: A holding company by the name of Ridgetop Corporation was attempting to buy the other houses on the block. Pete’s showing up at the Cochran house in the dead of night to warn Madge of an impending change in her status as a renter confirmed him as a member of that group. Only an insider would know something like that.

  Number three: Pete Hamrick, from what I’d overheard that night, was unaware—so far—that plans were afoot to outbid Ridgetop’s offers to purchase. It was obvious to me that a lot of money was being staked on not just the Cochran house but the entire block. What would he do when he learned that Mildred and I were cutting him off at the knees?

  Number four: And what would Madge do now that she knew Pete’s plan to evict her? What would she do when she learned that Mildred and I would do the same as soon as we could? Madge had to know that she wasn’t wanted where she was, so it could hardly come as a surprise. She had done nothing but sneak around and ensconce herself in the Cochran house, then justified being there as her right. It seemed equally just to me that others would make a few stealthy moves to unensconce her.

  Then I mentally summed up with number five: She would need another place to house her homeless teens.

  And with that obvious conclusion in mind, I turned over and fell asleep in spite of Sam’s full-bore snoring by this time.

  Chapter 44

  Sam absolutely refused to go see Dr. Hargrove, or rather, to go so Dr. Hargrove could see him. He came to the breakfast table fully dressed, freshly shaven, and looking only half peaked.

  “I’m a hundred percent better,” he said, then coughed for several seconds. “Well”—he grinned when he’d caught his breath—“maybe ninety percent.”

  “All right,” I reluctantly concurred, “but I’m watching you. At the first sign of a relapse, you’re going to the doctor or the emergency room. Take your pick.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Lillian,” he said, turning to her, “I attribute my return to health to your recommendation of Vicks VapoRub. The next time I come down with something, I’m checking with you first.”

  She smiled, pleased with herself, and said, “Ole-timey cures pretty much work ev’ry time.”

  We all turned as Lloyd rapped on the back door, then walked in. “Hey, everybody. I came over to tell you about the excitement we had last night. Boy, something was really going on at the Cochran house.”

  I quickly intervened. “Have you had breakfast? Come sit with us. Lillian, bring another plate, please.”

  Lloyd slid into a chair across from me. “I guess I could eat a biscuit or two. Nobody makes ’em like Miss Lillian.”

  The day was certainly starting off right for Lillian with all the compliments she was getting. And deservedly getting, I thought to myself, and tried to think of a few more to keep the subject on her rather than on Lloyd’s news.

  “What happened last night?” Sam asked, to my dismay.

  “Well,” Lloyd said, his face lighting up with the telling, “when I took Ronnie out about eleven, he went crazy, and I mean, crazy. See, there was somebody visiting next door at the Cochran house. I saw him when he left, and of course that set Ronnie off because he always barks when anybody goes or comes over there.”

  “Who was it?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. “Not that it matters, but that time of night? Who’d be visiting then?”

  “I don’t know. I was too busy trying to calm Ronnie down to see who it was. But it was a man, and he practically ran to his car and left in a hurry. But the funny thing about it was that Ronnie kept on carrying on, and always before he’d stop barking when they left. But then he got away from me, and J.D. had to come out and help me chase him down. I can’t figure out why Ronnie took off like that—he’s never done that before, either. I still can’t understand it.”

  Of course I understood it—Ronnie was partial to French perfume. But Lillian, who was standing stock-still beside the table, listening to this recital, gasped. “You mean he run away?”

  “Oh, he came back, but we heard a car crank up down the street, and J.D. is convinced that Ronnie chased off a prowler. Or something worse, and J.D. gave him an extra treat last night and one this morning, too.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, patting my chest. “A prowler! That’s scary, Lloyd, but I’m so glad it wasn’t anything worse. And so glad that Ronnie was on guard duty. We’ll have to tell Mr. Thurlow that Ronnie is a hero.”

  It was all I could do to keep from revealing my relief that even though I’d been smelled, I’d not been seen, but I managed fairly well. At least nobody accused me of anything, not even Lillian, who could usually tell when I’d been up to something.

  * * *

  —

  It being a Saturday morning with no school, Sam invited Lloyd to go downtown with him. That was a sign to me that he was feeling better, for he’d been content to stay home during the past few days. Now, though, he was ready to catch up with whatever was going on in town, probably at the Bluebird, which always buzzed with news. There was a large, round table in the back where men retired from the daily grind generally congregated to speculate on the world situation and to pass around current local rumors.

  “You might think of getting a haircut,” I suggested, “since you’ll be downtown anyway.”

  Sam laughed. “That’s on my list. Lloyd, let’s go do that, and we might get in a little Christmas shopping, too. Then we’ll have lunch at the Bluebird.”

  So off they went just as Mildred called, saying that we had business to conduct. So off I went as well, but not before glancing at the want ads in the newspaper, as I’d lately taken to doing.

  * *
*

  —

  Ida Lee, Mildred’s highly competent housekeeper—or rather, her general factotum, as Mildred called her—led me to the study. Mildred was sitting behind a large desk strewn with papers as a short, thin, fairly young man with a full head of curly hair and a fashionable hint of beard was standing by.

  “Julia,” Mildred said, looking up as I entered, “come in. This is Tom LaSalle from Pearson, Hahn, and Everett in Atlanta. He knows everything there is to know about real estate. Tom, this is the other fifty percent of Great Dane Properties. Pull up a chair, Julia, and let’s get this show on the road.”

  I soon learned that Tom LaSalle was whom you’d want to get a show moving right along. Edgy and almost abrupt in his movements and his words, Tom, as he urged us to call him, was one of those people who couldn’t sit still. He was constantly on the move, twitching, doodling, frowning, smiling, talking, explaining, fiddling on his laptop, sitting down, and getting up again. No wonder he was as skinny as a rail, but he knew his business and soon let us know it, too. But he’d have worn me out if I’d been around him much longer.

  He had both Mildred and me sign documents granting him authority to act for us in the purchase of the properties that we had our eyes on. From the sound of his report, though, he’d already assumed all the authority he needed.

  Jumping up to spread a map of the block on the desk, Tom LaSalle jabbed a finger at the Pickerell house. “Got this one. Already signed on the dotted line. Couldn’t be happier.”

  “What did he say about the previous offer?” I asked. “I mean, was he hesitant about accepting ours?”

  “First of all, he doesn’t know it’s your offer. Following Mrs. Allen’s instructions,” he said, nodding at Mildred, “I’ve kept your involvement under wraps. The assumption is that I represent something similiar to the Ridgetop Corporation.” He twirled a pencil in his hand. “But, no, no hesitation after I explained that Ridgetop was taking advantage. And they were. No doubt about it. Played on his fear that a group home next door would make his house unsalable.”