Miss Julia Paints the Town

by Ann B. Ross

  “Hold up, Etta Mae,” I whispered. “There’s somebody in the shed.” I crouched down and felt her do the same.

  “Who is it?” she whispered back.

  “I don’t know. Two people, I think.”

  Poochie duckwalked up close. “I bet it’s somebody doin’ what they ought not be doin’,” he said with a soft laugh.

  The last thing I wanted was to come up on a pair of secret lovers. What other people do is no business of mine, except now that we were so close, it would be interesting to know who they were.

  “Sh-h-h, let’s get out of sight.” I began to creep toward a clump of boxwoods near the shed, drawing the statue and Etta Mae along with me. “Maybe they’ll leave in a few minutes.”

  They didn’t. They kept talking and, as we huddled together beside the shed, Etta Mae started flipping the statue over. Before I knew it, she had the four of us—me, Poochie, herself and Lady Justice—covered with the heavy drop cloth.

  “Camouflage,” she whispered.

  Lord, it was hot under there, and smelly, too. No telling where that canvas had been, or Poochie, either. Then, glancing sharply at Etta Mae, even though I couldn’t see her, my mouth opened in surprise. I recognized one of the voices.

  Arthur Kessler was laying down the law to somebody, although his voice was hushed and I could only pick up a few words. “…you responsible,” he said. “You brought me in, and now I need…for the next payment…minimum down to demolish…”

  Another voice, pleading, almost whining, whispered back, “It wasn’t me…. He brought me in, too.”

  “I don’t care. What do you think’s…that pile of bricks? You get Stroud back here any way you can, or I’m going to…”

  “But, Arthur…”

  I clamped my hand over my mouth to muffle a gasp. It was Horace Allen who was doing the pleading. And being threatened, too. Their footsteps shuffled on the floor of the shed and more whispered words drifted out as they headed for the open door.

  I clamped down on Etta Mae’s arm and scrooched lower under the drop cloth.

  The whispering men stepped outside and stopped. I could’ve reached out and touched one of them. But I didn’t. I tried to make myself smaller, sensing the tension between them.

  “Listen, Arthur,” Horace said, barely above a whisper, “he’s got the money. Mine, too, remember, and nobody knows where he is, much less me. How am I supposed to find him?”

  “You get this and you get it good,” Arthur Kessler said. “I’ve put the last cent I’m putting into this venture, and as far as I’m concerned what’s left of the courthouse can just sit there. The county can repossess it. I didn’t sign on to be investigated by the FBI. I’m getting out.” I heard him move away, then, as if turning back, he said, “And one more thing. Nobody knows that you and Stroud were backing me, and it better stay that way. So you keep your mouth shut.”

  “But, Arthur, it’s me that’ll be left holding the bag. If you leave and they don’t find Stroud, what’ll I do?”

  “That’s your problem. The whole town’s crazy, anyway.”

  “Wait. Wait, don’t leave,” Horace said, trying to whisper but not quite making it. “What’re you going to do?”

  There was a moment of silence when it seemed that Mr. Kessler wasn’t going to answer. Then he said with an immoderate tone of self-assurance. “First, I’m getting some investors I can trust, not that it’s any of your business. Then I’m putting in a golf course on some county property I’ve found. You and Stroud can take care of yourselves.”

  Etta Mae’s hand dug into my shoulder so tightly that I almost yelped. “Granny’s farm!” she hissed.

  We heard the swish of branches as one or the other of them strode off toward the soiree. I heard Horace’s voice recede as he followed, pleading, “But, Arthur,” one more time, but I could find no compassion in my heart for him. I flung off the canvas camouflage and rose from our hiding place, filled with an outrage like I’d never felt before. My strategy had worked, all right—Arthur was fed up with the town and was scrapping plans for a high-rise—but a lot of good it was doing me. There he went, blithely walking away from the mess he’d created on Main Street. He would be gone, as I’d wanted, but so was our historic courthouse. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and I was nearly choking on it. But my outrage was nothing like Etta Mae’s. I could sense the fury building up in her as she sprang to her feet and started after them.

  “Wait, Etta Mae,” I said, stumbling after her. “Let’s hide this thing first, then we’ll get him. He won’t get away.”

  She barely slowed down. “You better believe he won’t.”

  I took off down the path behind her, calling back over my shoulder, “Take care of the statue, Poochie.” My heart was pounding as I slipped between the bushes that crowded the path, anxious to catch Etta Mae before she publicly flew into Arthur Kessler. He’d wanted to see the natives in their natural habitat, but, believe me, when one of our natives gets up a head of steam, he’d see a lot more than he wanted. Just read the police reports in the Abbotsville Times.

  Chapter 46

  Etta Mae slung branches and vines right and left as she did her best to run down the path. I had no trouble keeping up with her since she was somewhat hobbled by the tight dress she was wearing. As we neared the party, the sounds of laughter and bright voices and the Crooked River Boys playing “Country Roads” got louder. Etta Mae stopped where the path opened onto the lawn and, eyes blazing, surveyed the crowd.

  I popped out beside her on the edge of the broad lawn, lit up now with candles on the table, lanterns in the trees and a lot of strategically placed landscape lights. People were swarming all over the grounds, and I had to stretch and strain, trying to find Arthur Kessler.

  “Hold on, Etta Mae,” I said, panting heavily. “Let’s report him to somebody. Maybe to the commissioners or the FBI, if we can find them, but to somebody who’ll stop him before he defaults on the courthouse and leaves town.”

  “I’m not studying the courthouse right now,” she said, her ample bosom heaving with built-up anger. “I’m studying that sorry, underhanded idiot who thinks he can put Granny in a home and a golf course on her place. I’m gonna fix him good.”

  I was doing a little heaving, too, from my exertions on the path. “No, Etta Mae, don’t do that,” I said, fearing she’d end up in jail for public brawling before they got around to booking her for theft. “Let’s go find the commissioners and tell them he’s the mastermind who inveigled two prominent businessmen to steal and who was given permission to destroy an Abbot County landmark before paying in full and who’s now about to slip out of town, leaving us with the ruins. They’ll stop him.”

  “Look!” she suddenly screeched. “Look at that!” She ignored my effort to calm her down, pointing a rigid finger at a spot near the tent where a mass of people were dancing.

  I craned my neck to see what she was looking at. “What?”

  “Arthur Kessler and Boyce! They’re talking!” And she hiked up her skirt which, short as it was, didn’t have far to go, and took off running, her bare limbs twinkling in the dusk. “I’m putting a stop to that right now!”

  “Wait, Etta Mae!” I called, but she didn’t have waiting in mind. So I hiked up my long skirt an inch or so and plunged into the crowd after her. We drew more than a little attention as we threaded our way through clumps of people, many of whom stopped midbite to watch us pass.

  Etta Mae came to a puffing stop right between Boyce and Arthur Kessler. She had to wait a minute to catch her breath, but then she lit into her uncle.

  “Boyce Wiggins!” she said. “What do you think you’re doing? I’ll fight you tooth and nail before I let you sell Granny’s place. Don’t you know Arthur Kessler’s a developer? Don’t you know what he’s done down on Main Street, which, if you don’t know it, he’s planning to run out on? You want him leaving a mess like that next door to you? And if you think you’re putting Granny in a home, you better think again because she
’s staying right where she is. And you!” she screamed, rounding on Mr. Kessler, “I told you once and I’m not telling you again! Granny’s not selling! You hear me? Nobody’s selling anything to you in this town.”

  I had stopped a little behind her by this time, having been somewhat hindered by a lack of stamina. Noticing the amazed faces that I’d passed, turning first toward the Wiggins scene, then back to me and beyond, I looked back, too. There was Poochie, Lady Justice bouncing under his arm, the drop cloth snagged on her sword and trailing along behind him.

  “Dad blame it!” Poochie said, tripping on the canvas and catching himself before he fell. “What you want me to do with this thing? I got to eat sometime or ’nother.”

  “Poochie, for goodness’ sake!” I said, turning him back. “I told you to hide it. Get it out of here before Mr. Kessler sees it.”

  But it was too late. Mr. Kessler had seen it and he was plowing through the crowd, ignoring Etta Mae as he pushed people aside right and left.

  Etta Mae whirled away from Boyce and took out after Mr. Kessler, screeching, “You get back here! I’m not through with you!”

  But Mr. Kessler had his eyes on the prize. He ran up, snatched the statue from Poochie and clasped it to his bosom. “This is mine! Where’d you get it?”

  “Off the dome,” Poochie said, snatching it back. “Where you think?”

  “You stole it!” Mr. Kessler yelled, scrabbling and reaching for the statue as Poochie held on, evading each grab.

  I was screaming, “Wait, wait!” as spectators edged in closer.

  Etta Mae popped through, took Mr. Kessler by the arm, none too gently, and whirled him around. At the sight of her blazing eyes, he raised his hands to ward her off.

  “Nobody stole anything,” she screamed, “except you! That statue belongs to the town because you didn’t pay a red cent for it.” She turned, aware now of the crowd eagerly listening. “You know where he was getting the money to put up his luxury condominiums? From Assured Estate Planners, that’s where. Your money!” Murmurs swept through the crowd, and Etta Mae got up a fresh head of steam. “And now, he thinks he can run my granny off her place and put her in a rest home just so he can ruin something else!”

  Figuring now was as good a time as any, I stepped up. “And see this?” I pointed to the statue. “Stand her up, Poochie. This is all that’s left of our beautiful courthouse.” I glared at Arthur Kessler. “It’s because of you that it’s standing here on the ground instead of way up in the sky where it belongs. You gave it to us, and we’re keeping it. And now you’re trying to take off and not even clean up after yourself.”

  “He better not take off!” a loud voice called out from the crowd. “My wrecking crew’s not been paid. I’ll slap a lien on him so fast he won’t know what hit him.”

  “Wait your turn,” I snapped, then faced Mr. Kessler again. “I, for one, don’t care if your Crowne Plaza never gets built. I hope it doesn’t. But there’s a pile of rubble to be removed and a gazebo to be replaced and landscaping to be reinstalled. And you’re going to do it. The garden club beautified those grounds once, and we’re not going to do it again.”

  “I should say not,” Mildred bellowed. And a number of other garden club members added their agreement.

  Mr. Kessler’s head twisted from side to side, but he was surrounded by Abbotsvillians who didn’t take too kindly to developers who quit before the job was done.

  But that didn’t stop him from trying to talk his way around them. “No problem,” he said, drawing himself up as he glanced around at the crowd. “We’ll work something out. I just need a little time to get my investors in line.”

  “Investors!” I yelled, stung almost beyond words. “You know who his investors were? You, me and everybody else who gave money to Richard Stroud. It was our money that destroyed the courthouse, and it was going to be our money that built a monstrosity on Main Street.” I could hardly speak I was so mad and so dizzy from turning back and forth, addressing first the crowd and then Mr. Kessler. “But Richard Stroud had other plans, didn’t he? He left you with a problem, and now you want to leave us with one. Well, we won’t stand for it.”

  An elbow suddenly pushed me aside as Granny Wiggins wiggled out of the crowd and stomped up to Mr. Kessler. “You come in here wantin’ to buy me out? Well, I got news for you, Buster. You might could pull the wool over the eyes of these city folks,” she said, swinging her arm around at the crowd, “but you don’t fool me. My advice is for you to get a shovel and start movin’ that mess you made.”

  People began to push in closer, threatening mayhem as angry shouts rose from several directions. Coleman and Mr. Pickens stepped up, and just in time, too. “What’s the problem?” Coleman asked, standing foursquare in front of Mr. Kessler. Mr. Pickens stood beside him, and between those two forces of law and order, Mr. Kessler was going to have to answer for his deeds.

  Eager to reestablish themselves in the town’s favor, several commissioners began demanding to know what he planned to do. Coleman was a sworn law officer, but Mr. Pickens, being privately employed, didn’t have the authority of the sheriff. But at the sudden appearance of two of the previously unidentified gentlemen, they both stepped aside.

  I heard the gray-suited men mention Richard Stroud’s name to Mr. Kessler, then they each took an elbow and began to move him out. I had no doubt he was in for a night of intense questioning as a person of interest in the case. They might’ve wanted Richard Stroud, but I expect they could make do with Arthur Kessler. As they turned him away, somebody lobbed a half-eaten barbecued rib over my head. It landed on Arthur’s shoulder and made a nasty stain on his fine linen jacket. I think Thurlow did it. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  Watching as Arthur Kessler protested his innocence, repeating over and over to the stone-faced men on each side that he was a victim of Richard Stroud’s machinations as much as anybody, I just shook my head. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I thought, and wished the same applied to a certain block on Main Street.

  “Hey, Miss Julia,” Poochie said, all of a sudden standing right behind me. “What you want me to do with this thing? I’m tired of luggin’ it around.”

  “Put it down, Poochie,” I said, “for goodness’ sake. And quit following me.”

  With Mr. Kessler now in safe hands, the crowd immediately turned its attention to the flaking and folded statue that had followed me all over the yard. Poochie, looking proud and smiling importantly in the spotlight, had her standing up with his arm around her.

  “This,” I said, sweeping my hand toward the statue, “is what’s left of our courthouse.”

  “Yeah,” Etta Mae chimed in, “and you wouldn’t even have that if it wasn’t for Mi…me and Poochie Dunn. But mostly Poochie.”

  I’ll tell you the truth, Lady Justice made a mighty poor showing, even in the soft glow of Japanese lanterns. Both arms were still folded from the time we’d shoved her through the trapdoor. The scales she held were wrapped across the hilt of her sword, and as Poochie swung her around for everybody to see, the sword caught on Granny Wiggins’s dress, lifting it up above her knees.

  She jumped back, swatting at it and tugging her dress down. “Get that thing away from me!”

  “It’s okay, Granny,” Etta Mae said. “It’s okay. Keep it still, Poochie, and help me straighten out the arms.”

  With no base to rest on, Lady Justice kept tilting over, but Poochie held her while Etta Mae and I pulled her arms away from her body in a semblance of her original position. But not without a lot of flaking off and not without a constant inclination to topple over sideways.

  “I’ll fix that,” Poochie said. He took the sword and straightened it enough for the tip to enter the ground and hold her up. He stepped back to admire the result. There she stood, her scales held aloft but the rest of her listing to the side, like an old woman leaning on a cane.

  People began to push closer, examining and admiring the listing, flaking statue. Then Latisha’s shrill little voi
ce piped up. “Great-Granny, that lady’s just about nekkid.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Emma Sue Ledbetter said, as she pulled the stole from her shoulders and draped it across Lady Justice, hiding the one bare breast. “There. Now she’s decent.” And, with a hike of her slipping sundress, she melted back into the crowd.

  “Julia,” Sam said, coming up behind me and putting a strong arm around my waist. “I think we need to talk.”

  Before I could answer, Etta Mae popped up beside him, “Oh, Mr. Sam,” she said, her eyes shining, “isn’t it wonderful what Poochie did! He got her down for us. It was Miss Julia’s idea, but Poochie got ’er done. I mean, down. We just watched from the sidelines.”

  “That’s right,” I said, looking Sam right in the eye, for Etta Mae had said not one word of untruth. “We owe Poochie a debt of gratitude.”

  “And a new…” he started, but Etta Mae turned him on his heel and, with her hands on his back, marched him off into the crowd.

  Mildred pushed her way into the circle surrounding the statue, then stopped in admiration. “My goodness, it’s Lady Justice right here on my lawn. How appropriate. Now she can rule over the festivities.”

  “Why, Mildred,” I said, “that’s a grand idea. We can say that justice has prevailed, can’t we?” Then remembering the loss of our courthouse and, at the same time, catching sight of Horace, standing palely—having witnessed Arthur’s comeuppance—but safely, behind her, I added. “Generally speaking, that is.”

  Chapter 47

  Loretta Tillman, who was the society editor for the Abbotsville Times back when it had a society page, would’ve written up the soiree in her column and ended it with the words, “and a good time was had by all.” But that’s not my way. Oh, we had a good time for the rest of the evening—I even danced several numbers with Sam even though he was about asleep on his feet from staying up all night. Dancing is not exactly my cup of tea, but it was better than standing around listening to the speculations about Arthur Kessler’s arrest or detention or whatever it was. He’d probably get off scot-free, according to Sam, because, unlike Richard, he’d not stolen anything and, in fact, had been left holding the bag like so many others of us.