Miss Julia Lays Down the Law (14 page)

I lowered the tent flap and scrooched up tighter, feeling the platform give with each of Coleman’s steps as he walked to the end nearest the street. Through the noise of traffic and the generator, I could barely hear him call down to Roberta, who was now apparently standing below the platform.

“You didn’t need to do this, Roberta,” Coleman said, as I pictured him leaning over the edge to look at her. “But I sure do appreciate it. Hold on, and I’ll winch the bucket down.”

I heard the sound of her voice yelling up to him, but I couldn’t make out the words. I was too busy worrying that she would recognize my car and want to know where I was. But as the conversation went on and no one demanded my appearance, I gradually relaxed. Roberta—bless her heart—was so otherworldly that she probably didn’t even notice the car.

Then I began thinking she might see the ladder. And if she did, she’d find me and want to know what I was doing and why I was hiding in a tent. Well, that was easy to answer—I didn’t want anybody to know I was there. And Coleman didn’t want anybody to know I was there, either, because maybe he didn’t want Roberta to know there was an easy climb to his side. And maybe it was a good thing I was there—Coleman might have need of a chaperone.

I eased the flap open to a tiny slit and peeked out to see Coleman squatting on the far edge of the platform, looking down. A McDonald’s sack—easily identified by the golden arches printed on it—sat beside him, and the bucket in which it had ascended was dangling from the pulley. Roberta had completed her good deed and, to my mind, it was time for her to go.

Besides, my limbs were beginning to cramp up—I needed to straighten them out, I needed to stand up, I needed to get out of that tiny tent and go home. What could Roberta be talking about for so long?

I continued to pick up the odd word here and there, as I watched Coleman nod his head and thank her over and over. Finally, though, he stood, McDonald’s sack in hand, and watched as Roberta apparently walked away toward the street. Then I saw the back of her head rise into view as she climbed the bank toward the railing.

My word,
I thought with a gasp, as I watched her straddle the railing with her skirt hiked up on her thighs. I couldn’t believe it, but she’d gone home from Sue’s and changed clothes. In this chilly weather, made colder by the wind of passing cars, Roberta was wearing a tight-fitting, V-necked pink mohair sweater—I could see the little fuzzy fibers blowing in the breeze.

Coleman came back to his chair, opened the sack, and, rummaging around in it, said, “Let’s see what we have here.” Pulling out a large cup, he uncapped it, then said, “Oh, man, hot chocolate. Want some, Miss Julia?”

“No, Coleman, I don’t. But I do want to know if this is an everyday, or rather an every night, occurrence. What is Roberta doing bringing midnight snacks to you?”

“She’s just being nice. Hey, and look here, two hot apple pies.”

“Just being nice, my foot. You’re playing with fire, Coleman.”

He turned toward the street, gave a big wave as a horn tooted. “There she goes,” he said. “Back toward town. You can open up now, Miss Julia. She’s gone.”

I did, and I was mightily disturbed. There he was, happily eating away at a hot apple pie and sipping from a steaming Styrofoam cup of hot chocolate without one thought of how it looked for a romantically inclined woman like Roberta Smith, who had a tendency to fall for bodice-ripping literary characters, to have brought them to him.

“Coleman, this is not any of my business, but have you thought of how this looks?”

“What? You being here? That’s why I told you to stay in the tent.”

“No, not
my
being here. Who would think a thing about that? I’m talking about you wanting me to hide from Roberta, for one thing.”

He stopped chewing long enough to say, “I thought you didn’t want anybody to know you were here.”

“Well, I guess I didn’t. But you didn’t, either.”

He grinned. “Miss Julia, if Roberta had known I have a ladder and that you had used it, what do you think would’ve happened?”

“She’d be up here, too?”

“Yep, she’s already said she’d like to see the view from up here. And I told her there was no way except to shimmy up one of the poles on the sign. So far, she hasn’t tried that.”

“Oh, my goodness. Well, Coleman, all I can say is that you’d better nip that in the bud while you can. Roberta is losing her head.”

“It’s the uniform,” he said, shrugging, as he happily chewed away on a warm apple pie, seemingly unaware of what he brought to a uniform. “She’ll get over it.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said, and began struggling to crawl out of the tent. “I’ve got to get on home, Coleman, but, my gracious, I’m as stiff as a board.”

I reached for the arm of his chair to pull myself up and out, just as he started to rise to help me.

“Wait, don’t get up!” Pulling on the weighted chair with one hand and pushing myself off with the other, I said, “I need you for ballast.”

He kept his seat, but started laughing. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but ballast is a new one. Miss Julia, let me help you.”

“Just sit still. I can manage.” And I did, finally. But the effort of leveraging myself upright was beginning to tell on me, and I decided that I would stay on my feet from then on.

Standing, now that I was, too, Coleman grinned and said, “I’ve always admired your management style, and I’ve just seen another instance of it.”

I straightened my coat and, still panting from the strain on my system, said, “I intend to fend for myself for as long as I can.”

Just as Coleman took my arm to walk me to the ladder, a voice too near to be on the ground said, “Hey, there, Sergeant. Want some comp’ny?”

Startled, Coleman released me. I quickly dropped back down into the tent as we both turned to see a man’s head top the ladder. Then the rest of him leaped out onto the platform.

“Oh, ’scuse me. You already got some.”

“Lamar!
” Coleman said. “Where’d you come from?”

“That gas station over yonder.” He pointed toward the east. “I come ’round the back way to check on you. Man, it’s
nice
up here.”

Uneasily, because I hadn’t intended to do it again, I eased back into a crouch, not to hide, because I’d already been seen, but because the tent was the warmest place on the platform and the only place to keep from being seen from the street. No telling what would happen if people in passing cars thought Coleman was holding a council or having a party instead of a solitary sign sitting for a charitable cause.

Coleman said, “What kind of trouble are you in now, Lamar?”

“Ain’t in no trouble,” the intruder said, grinning. “Not now, anyway. Jus’ wanted to see how you doin’.”

I’d recognized the voice by this time and the two plastic grocery bags tied together and run through the belt loops of his jeans. He was the man Sam and I had picked up last summer, the one who had promised as many votes as Sam needed, and the one who practiced outlaw justice.

“Say, Sergeant,” he said, “you don’t have another one of them pies, do you? Looks mighty good.”

“Just happen to have one. Here you go.” Coleman drew out the second of Roberta’s McDonald’s apple pies, which undoubtedly was not as hot as advertised by now.

Lamar unwrapped it, and as he began eating it, he squatted down beside the tent flap. Looking in, he said, “I ’member you. You took me to the gas station on a hot-as-hell day last summer. Sergeant, this here’s a nice lady, an’ I hope you ain’t arrestin’ her.”

Coleman snorted. “No, Lamar. This is Mrs. Murdoch, a friend of mine. Miss Julia, this is Lamar Owens, a frequent guest of the Abbot County jail.”

“Got that right,” Lamar said, unruffled, as he stuffed the last of the pie into his mouth. “You boys look after me when my unemployment runs out.”

“Okay,” Coleman said, “time for you to take off, Lamar. I appreciate the visit, but Mrs. Murdoch is leaving and I’m going to bed.”

Lamar didn’t move, just kept staring at me through the tent flap. Then, as if he’d just put a few things together, he said, “I hear the cops been givin’ you grief, an’ I know how that is.” He hunched in closer. “If you want my advice, ma’am, this ain’t a good place for you to be.” He jabbed his thumb in Coleman’s direction, then whispered, “He’s one of ’em.”

Coleman tried not to laugh. “She knows that. Now, Lamar, it’s time for you to boogie on outa here. Let’s go.”

“Okay, okay. Jus’ wanted to see how you’re makin’ out. I got to git back, anyways.” He stood up and headed toward the ladder, calling behind him, “Nice seein’ you, Miz Murdoch.”

“You, too,” I murmured.

Then I heard Coleman say, “Here, go get something to eat. But if I hear you went to the liquor store, I’m gonna run you in again.”

Coleman came back to the tent, leaned down, and said, “It’s clear, Miss Julia. We’d better get you down and on your way before anybody else shows up. I need to get that ladder out of sight.”

“And to think I worried about you being lonely up here,” I said as I crawled out again, but this time gratefully accepting Coleman’s help. Stepping behind the tent to avoid eyes from the street, I asked, “Do many like Mr. Owens come by to see you?”

“Oh, yeah. At one time or another, we’ve arrested about half the county, seems like, and they take a personal interest in what we do. And they all come out at night. In fact, you’d be surprised at what goes on around town at night.” Coleman laughed. “Believe me, who you see at three
P.M
. is a whole lot different from who’s out at three in the morning, and right now, I’m their number one attraction.”

“Hey, Officer! Look over here!”

Turning toward the street, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A car filled with yelling and hollering men was creeping along the street. A young woman, completely unclothed, hung out the back window, exposing herself to the whole world, and to Coleman specifically.

“My Lord,” I said, feeling slightly faint and mortally embarrassed. “Get me down from here, Coleman. This is worse than an unknown runner zipping past my house.”

Coleman laughed as he walked me to the ladder. “At least he has clothes on, skimpy though they are.”

I stopped at the head of the ladder, unslung my pocketbook, and opened it. “Here, put this in your bucket and let us hope that you’ll soon be down from here and back home where Binkie can look after you.” And I emptied my wallet, thrust the bills in his hand, and took my leave.

But halfway down the ladder, I was assailed by the most horrendous, ear-splitting racket, wailing and shrieking loud enough to wake the dead. Struck dumb, I slipped and almost fell. Frightened half to death and holding on for dear life, I yelled, “What is it? What is it?”

Looking up at Coleman’s grinning face, I had a mind to climb back up and dress him down good. But finally as the din faded away in the distance, he said, “It’s just some of my buddies using their sirens to tell me good night.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes, my hearing will never be the same again. Coleman, do you ever get any sleep?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “The town vagrants’ll be creeping around pretty soon.”

“Then I’m getting out of here. Thank you, Coleman, for making me feel better.”

But not all that much better, because with all the interruptions and distractions, I hadn’t been able to tell him everything. Which may have been a good thing after all.

I crawled into bed some hours later than I normally retired, grateful for the peace and quiet—Latisha was asleep and no sirens went off—and hoped that Coleman would get some rest before the vagrants showed up. I declare, I didn’t know that so much went on during the night hours when I thought everybody was home in bed. There seemed to be a culture of nocturnal roamers who came awake and began their days only when the sun went down. I was glad to be home and out of it.

Yet as tired as I was, I couldn’t turn off the roiling thoughts in my mind. I’d gone to Coleman to lay them all out to him, but there’d been too many interruptions to have spread them out fully. I’d not gotten anywhere close to telling him of my concern about Pastor Ledbetter and Emma Sue. But, oh, how I longed to tell somebody, then have that somebody tell me and show me how wrong I was. As it was, I could say only—to myself—that the situation with the Ledbetters was getting more and more muddled.

After turning over for the umpteenth time, I sat up in bed, propped up by a pillow, and went over what I knew:

Number one: Emma Sue had been laid low by Connie’s criticism of the courthouse park, specifically the design, implementation, and upkeep of the plants and care of the statue—all of which were of Emma Sue’s doing. And Emma Sue had taken every censuring word that came out of Connie’s mouth personally.

Number two: When I say that Emma Sue had been laid low, I mean really done in. I’d never seen her in such a state as she’d been and apparently was still in. Why, she’d not even called or written a thank-you note for the chicken pot pies and for cleaning her kitchen. That was not at all like Emma Sue, and was as good an indicator of her state of mind as anything I could think of.

Number three: Pastor Ledbetter had been more concerned about Emma Sue’s reaction to Connie’s criticism than I’d ever known him to be about anything that had ever happened to his wife. Normally, when she suffered the occasional migraine, he took it in stride with only a hint of martyrdom for having a susceptible wife. This time, though, he’d been noticeably and deeply worried, and, even worse, he had come to
me
for help. Right then and there, my guard should’ve gone up with red flags flying. When had he ever done that before?

Number four: He had effectively silenced me by inveigling a promise I was having trouble keeping—and not only
having
trouble keeping, but deep
in
trouble for keeping.

Number five: He had taken Emma Sue and himself out of town, thereby making himself unavailable to release me from my promise, and thereby also making them both unavailable to be interviewed. And as far as I knew, Emma Sue was the only one who’d been at Connie’s coffee who had not been treated to an hour’s session with Detective Ellis.

Wasn’t that strange in itself? Wouldn’t innocent parties be eager to help solve a crime? And as I thought about it, even worse was

Number six: Pastor Ledbetter had told Norma that he was taking Emma Sue to a specialist in Winston-Salem, yet, according to Norma, they’d barely spent one night there before they were on their way back. Now, don’t tell me that you can get an appointment with a specialist, have an examination, then get a diagnosis and a treatment plan all in one day—that’s beyond belief. It would take that long to draw enough blood for all the tests that would be ordered.

So something was wrong somewhere, and even though I could not bring myself to actually suspect either Ledbetter, I couldn’t shut down the questions that were engendered by their actions, either.

I got out of bed, put on a robe and slippers, and left the room—too edgy to sleep. Stopped at the top of the stairs by the sound of a mumbling voice, I stood for a minute, listening.

Ah, Latisha, talking away in her sleep. That child never stopped. So I continued on down the stairs to the first floor, which was dimly lit by the glow from the streetlight on the corner. I didn’t turn on any lamps, just needing to move around a little to bring my erratic thoughts under control.

Walking to the front window, I looked out at Polk Street to check on the weather. I had no fear of seeing a runner—it was much too late for even the most ardent exerciser.

Still, I was wary, leaning sideways to glance out the window, and as I did,
a face looked back at me!
Lord, I nearly fainted, until I realized it was my own reflection in the glass.

I sat down, breathing heavily and trying to get a grip on my nerves. I could not go on this way—suspecting a man of God and/or his meek wife of something so horrendous as the taking of a life, and, on top of that, being frightened half to death by runners and reflections. And, on top of
that,
knowingly misleading Detective Ellis by not telling him why I’d gone to Connie’s on that fateful day.

To tell or not to tell—that was the question. Whether it was better to break a solemn promise, thereby turning the investigation in a startlingly new direction, or to keep my mouth shut, thereby protecting those who perhaps should be investigated?

It was beyond me to decide what to do, so I determined then and there to do nothing until Sam got home. And I determined—promise or no promise—to give him an earful when he did get home. Then I got up and went back to bed.

 • • • 

“You better look at the paper,” Lillian said, as I, bleary eyed, entered the kitchen the following morning. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. “Set down while I fix your eggs.”

“Where’re the children?” I asked as I sat at the table and picked up the newspaper, which she’d left by my place. “It’s awfully quiet for a Saturday morning.”

“They over at Miss Hazel Marie’s. Nothin’ would do but Latisha had to go see them little girls, so Lloyd took her. I tole ’em not to get too close—just say ‘hey,’ then come on home. You see the paper yet?”

“What’s in it, Lillian? More about the investigation? I hope to goodness they’ve left my name out of it.”

“That lady’s death notice in it, an’ it’s the worst one I ever see. It don’t say a thing about her that folks want to know, like where she come from an’ what she do in her life. They oughta be ’shamed to put such a say-nothing notice in the paper.”

I opened the newspaper and turned to the obituary page. My eyes were drawn to a small paragraph at the bottom. It read:

Constance “Connie” Clayborn, 51, the only daughter of the late Harriett and Thomas Warren, died unexpectedly at her home on Tuesday, November 12. She is survived by her husband, Stanford H. Clayborn, of the home. Arrangements for a private interment will be made by the Holloway Funeral Home and Crematorium in Trenton, New Jersey.

“Why, this doesn’t say anything,” I said.

“That’s what I been sayin’,” Lillian said. “People want to know more’n that, an’ I don’t know why they leave out so much.”

“Well, Lillian, maybe it tells us more than you’d think. First of all, I expect her grieving husband did this for the paper. I mean, who else would have written it? Her parents aren’t around, and apparently she had no children. But, my goodness, it doesn’t even mention that she was a Vassar graduate, and she was so proud of that. I agree with you, Lillian. I’d like to know more than this.”

“Yes’m, an’ it don’t even say she survived by her
lovin’
husband, an’ everybody say that whether they the lovin’ kind or not. And it don’t say where to send flowers, either.”

“You’re right, and it doesn’t name a favorite charity of the deceased for people to donate to, either.”

“Yes’m, an’ it don’t say nothin’ ’bout a visitation time. People kinda ’spect that so they can view the body.”

“Not me, Lillian. I’ve already seen it.”

“Well, but what about a memorial service? It don’t say a word about havin’ one of them, an’ that’s what peoples do when they have the burial somewhere else.”

“Maybe Mr. Clayborn felt they hadn’t lived here long enough to have a good attendance. Of course, he doesn’t know small Southern towns—we would’ve all turned out for a service. Then again,” I said, sighing, “they weren’t churchgoing people, so I guess he didn’t see the need. I declare, Lillian, how in the world do people live through pain and grief without the comfort of faith?”

“Yes’m, they’s got to be something more an’ better’n this world, but lotsa people live like this one’s all they is. It’s pitiful, is what it is.”

“I feel so sorry for them both.”

Lillian walked over and put a plate of scrambled eggs and grits in front of me. “Quit readin’ the paper now, an’ eat ’fore it gets cold. But I tell you what’s a fact. If I didn’t know my sweet Jesus be waitin’ for me on the other side, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Me, either, Lillian,” I said, my heart heavy for Connie and, I’ll admit, for her husband as well—in spite of his propensity for running around half-naked at night.