Miss Julia Renews Her Vows (21 page)

Joy bloomed on Etta Mae’s face. “That’s it! I
can
prove it, can’t I? I didn’t have time to do it.” Then reality set in and she said, “What if Mrs. Delacorte says she doesn’t remember? What if she says I was wearing something different?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Binkie said. “I’ll get Lieutenant Peavey to ask her, along with other questions, and she won’t think it’s important enough to say anything but the truth. Besides, she won’t be able to describe what you wore to the luncheon. And you also visited another client earlier, didn’t you? We’ll get that statement, too, and confirm what you had on.” Binkie looked at me. “Can you describe in detail what she was wearing when she got here? And Etta Mae, not one word to her now or later to help her remember.”

“Of course I can,” I said, then frowned. “And it certainly was not a scrub suit. It was, well, a dress, dark in color. Oh, and long sleeves and a deep décolletage—I remember that in particular. And she had a large tote bag, maybe navy blue? Or black? And high heels.” I smiled with relief. “How’s that, Etta Mae?”

Binkie held up her hand. “Don’t answer that. And whatever you do, don’t correct anything. We don’t want any hint of collusion here. Come on, Etta Mae, let’s go time how long it took you to do all that driving. Then we’ll see the lieutenant and get it on record. He’ll want to talk to you, too, Miss Julia.”

Well, Lord, I hoped I’d come close enough in describing Etta Mae’s luncheon attire to convince Lieutenant Peavey of her innocence. Because, frankly, the main thing I remembered was all that bosom she’d had on display.

I wanted to go with them, but Lloyd came in from school, then Sam arrived, so I stayed to catch them up with the latest developments.

“So,” Sam said when I finished, “the lieutenant will have the victim, Francie Pitts Delacorte, saying that Etta Mae was wearing a light blue scrub suit that morning and still wearing it when she left at eleven, and a witness, you, Julia, testifying that she had on a dark, long-sleeved dress one hour and fifteen minutes or so later, which should prove that Etta Mae did leave and go home during that time. So let’s say it takes twenty minutes to drive from Francie’s house to Etta Mae’s trailer and another twenty minutes to drive here from the trailer. That eats up forty minutes of the hour and fifteen, leaving about thirty-five minutes unaccounted for.”

“She was dressing, Sam, and fi xing her makeup. Who’s side are you on, anyway?”

Sam grinned at me. “Just thinking like a prosecutor, sweetheart. And like a certain lieutenant. Still, I’ve never known you to be able to change clothes and put on makeup in thirty-five minutes.”

“Yes, and Etta Mae puts on a lot more than I do, so it takes her longer. But seriously, Sam, what worries me is that she was in a real dither when she got here, all rushed and anxious and upset. And it could’ve taken her less than twenty minutes to get from one place to the other. But of course, it all depends on traffic, and it could’ve taken her longer. She could’ve caught the red light in Delmont both ways, and that would’ve slowed her down.”

“Let’s wait and see what Binkie says after they time it. To get to Delmont from Mountain Villas, you have to go through downtown Abbotsville and through Delmont, too, because the trailer park is on the other side. I expect twenty minutes both ways would be about right.”

Lillian and Lloyd had been listening to this, both as interested as Sam and I were. Lillian brought the coffeepot over for refills, her face squinched up as she thought about our time lines.

After a few minutes, Lloyd said, “But Etta Mae does everything real fast. Driving, dressing, everything. She doesn’t waste a minute.”

“That’s called efficiency, Lloyd,” I said, “but you’re right. I’m not sure this is going to get her off the hook. If I know Lieutenant Peavey, he’s going to think she still could’ve hit Francie, grabbed a bracelet and got out of there with enough time left to do everything else.”

Lillian stood with the coffeepot in her hand, staring off in the distance. “Yes’m,” she said, “but where that bracelet at now? I seen her jewel box this mornin’, ’cause them deputies strewed everything out, an’ I didn’t see no gold bangle bracelet. Didn’t see much of anything ’cause she don’t have much.”

“That’s a good question, Lillian,” Sam said. “The bracelet and the weapon both are missing. Binkie said that Mrs. Delacorte suffered a large flat injury to the crown of her head, but the deputies didn’t find anything in or around her house with evidence of having been used.”

“What kind of evidence would be on it?” I asked.

“Oh, strands of her hair, probably. Some blood, if it broke the skin, depending on how hard she was hit.”

“Well, that’s another thing we don’t know,” I said. “Just how hard
was
she hit? She had a bandage on her head when I saw her, but the way she exaggerates, it could’ve been a little tap and nothing more.”

“She was knocked out, Julia,” Sam reminded me with a smile.

“That’s
her
story,” I said.

Later, Sam and I sat in the living room before supper, wincing at each bang of a basketball as Lloyd again and again hit the hoop over the garage door.

“Sam,” I said, “I’ve been wondering about something. Now, I know this is a delicate subject, and you may not want to answer it. But tell me this—from a man’s point of view—what does Francie Pitts have that nobody else seems to have?”

Sam looked at me, raised his eyebrows, then with a half smile said, “In what way?”

I nudged him with my elbow. “You know in what way. I’m talking about how she’s been able to get a new husband almost before the last one is cold in his grave. I mean, let’s face it, she’s neither young nor attractive, and no one would say she has a scintillating personality. She’s probably pretty well off, but I doubt she has enough to blind a man to what she doesn’t have. So what’s her appeal?”

“Speaking for myself, she doesn’t have any.”

“Well, but she does, or at least she has had to a lot of men. Why, Sam, she’s married and buried and married again over and over, with practically no turnaround time. And I’m trying to understand what they see in her and exactly how she does it.”

“Well, Julia, some women just have that little something extra.”

“I knew you’d know! What is it?”

“My guess is that it’s . . .” He leaned over and whispered, “erotic knowledge.”

I jerked back and stared at him. “Erotic . . .? No, Sam, that couldn’t be it. How would Francie Pitts have that? Where would she get it? And,” I went on, frowning, “what is it, anyway?”

“Oh, ways to please a man, I expect. Sensually speaking, that is.” Sam picked up the newspaper from the lamp table. “I’m just guessing. Did you see that article about the Methodist church getting a new preacher?”

“No, and don’t change the subject. If there’s something to know about pleasing a man, I want to know it. I have a man to please, too, you know.”

Sam put his arm around me and whispered against my hair. “You please me just fine.”

Well, I wasn’t too sure about that. Why else was he trying to get me in a marriage enrichment counseling session? Was he hoping that Dr. Fowler had the inside scoop on erotic knowledge and would disseminate it? An image of Dr. Fowler lecturing on explicit sensual matters sprang full blown into my mind. My eyelids fluttered at the thought.

By the time Etta Mae returned, after having dropped Binkie off, Sam and I had moved on to other subjects, although I was still mulling over the apparent hole in my erotic knowledge storehouse and wondering how I could fill it without attending class. Independent study was one option, though I wouldn’t know where to start. But one thing was for sure: if Dr. Fowler and Francie Pitts were the only experts in the field available to me, I’d just stay ignorant and hope Sam would resign himself to doing without the frills.

But I had to put aside this fascinating, though worrisome, subject to concentrate on Etta Mae’s problem. On her return, she had confirmed that our estimated driving times were pretty much on the money. “Now if I can just convince Lieutenant Peavey that it takes me thirty-five minutes to change clothes and do my makeup, I’ll be okay. Mr. Sam,” she went on, turning to him, “do you think I ought to demonstrate how I did it? He could sit in my living room and time me, and I’d do everything just like I did last Thursday.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Sam said, smiling at her. “He has a wife, so I expect he knows how long it takes.”

She didn’t seem all that convinced, but she put it aside to shower us with thanks for helping her in her time of need. “But I’d better be getting back and begin looking for a job. Miss Julia, if you start feeling bad again, just give me a call. I don’t expect I’ll be busy anytime soon.”

We urged her to stay on, but she said she didn’t want to wear out her welcome. She finally consented to have dinner with us, after which she’d pack her things and be off. I hated to see her go but mentally reserved the right to call her back on duty if I needed to be sick again, come Monday next.

When Lillian tinkled the dinner bell, we all went into the dining room and took our places, still discussing how long it took women to dress.

Wanting to put a stop to it, I said, “It all depends on why she’s dressing. I mean, what she’s dressing
for.
If she’s going to a party, as Etta Mae was, then naturally she’ll take a few more pains with her toilette.”

Etta Mae frowned at the unfamiliar word, and Lloyd got tickled, putting his hand over his mouth as he giggled.

“Toilette,” I said sternly, “simply means one’s overall grooming. Among other things.”

“Yes’m,” Lloyd said, his eyes dancing with delight at teasing me. “I’m laughing at the other things.”

When I arrived at Mildred’s house later that evening, after seeing Etta Mae off, I was surprised at the number of women she’d invited. She must’ve been truly disturbed about the attack on Francie to have gone to so much trouble to arrange for a safety demonstration. I walked in along with three others, and Mildred directed us toward her large drawing, room, where rows of folding chairs had been set up in a semicircle facing the Adam mantel of the fireplace.

Smiling and greeting the others, I strolled through the spacious foyer and through the double doors to the drawing room. The front-row chairs were already taken, which suited me fine. If the well-muscled instructor I envisioned wanted to demonstrate some defensive technique with a volunteer, I preferred to watch from the back row rather than be singled out as an assistant.

As I began to sidle to a few empty seats in the back row, I glanced toward the fireplace and nearly lost my breath. Seated there, in a Chippendale wing chair upholstered in blue and gold brocade, was none other than Dr. Fred Fowler, a smug little smile on his face as he surveyed the eager crowd who’d come to sit at his feet.

I was paralyzed with outrage. False pretenses! That’s how Mildred had gotten me there, letting me think I’d learn some kind of judo mumbo jumbo to protect myself, then springing on me the very one whom I’d gone to such extreme measures to avoid.

Then, drawing a heaving breath, I regained some sense. Mildred had done no such thing. She knew nothing of my antipathy toward the man nor anything of my previous dealings with him. It wasn’t her fault that I was there, but it would be my fault if I stayed.

I turned to edge back through the crowd, my mind set on getting out of there and getting home. Before I could move, though, I felt a steady push behind me.

“Julia,” Emma Sue Ledbetter whispered, nudging me along. “I’m so glad to see you. Let’s sit together.”

“This is not what I expected, Emma Sue. I’m going home.”

“No, don’t do that. Look, I brought some paper to take notes. Here’s a pad for you.” Emma Sue handed me a small, yellow legal pad. “I’m going to take down word for word what Dr. Fowler says so Larry will see what he’s up to.”