Miss Julia Renews Her Vows (39 page)

Etta Mae smiled, but it was a little strained.

Sam put his arm around my chair. “Well, Julia, you and Dr. Hargrove may have solved one problem. I hope so, anyway. But I declare, woman, you’ve run me a merry chase.” He patted my back, then turned to Mr. Pickens. “J.D., you think this medical explanation will cut any ice with the lieutenant?”

“I’m thinking it will. At least he can put that aside and concentrate on who really attacked the woman. Perfume and collards were red herrings anyway.”

“Oh, me,” Etta Mae moaned, “that means he’ll still be looking at me. The pawnbroker’s nephew can’t say who pawned her bracelet, and I can’t prove I wasn’t there.”

“Well,” I said, putting aside my fork, “ just hold on, Etta Mae. There’s more coming.” And I went on to tell about the search for unauthorized personnel that had been conducted throughout the church by Pastor Ledbetter, with me in tow. “That’s why I’m so late getting home. We walked all over that church, looking in every room, closet, hall and stairwell in the place. And let me tell you just who we found. You won’t believe it.”

They almost didn’t, but it was too delicious not to. Hazel Marie had to know every little detail: what Francie looked like when she stepped out of the bridal parlor, what Dr. Fowler said, how Pastor Ledbetter reacted and what he would do about the enrichment classes.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” I said, turning to him, “but it looks as if they’re over.” And with a certain amount of vindication I couldn’t hide, I went on. “I know you’re disappointed, but the pastor is simply outraged at finding Dr. Fowler conducting a laboratory class instead of a lecture.”

Sam and Mr. Pickens laughed, and Sam, to my surprise, said, “Serves him right. Actually, it serves both of them right. Ledbetter for bringing in somebody who stirred up trouble once before, and Fowler for putting his theories into action.”

I stared at Sam, wondering how much he knew of the trouble Dr. Fowler had stirred up once before. Of course, he might not have been referring to the specific trouble the man had stirred up for me, but it was certainly not the time to ask questions, with everybody sitting around listening.

“So, Etta Mae,” I concluded, to put her mind at ease and to get off the subject of Dr. Fowler, troublemaker extraordinaire. “Francie Pitts Delacorte has shown her true colors everywhere. How anybody could believe a word out of her mouth after all she’s done is beyond me, and Lieutenant Peavey will have to take that into account.”

And if he didn’t, I thought to myself, something was brewing in my mind that just might make the lieutenant sit up and take notice.

Sam and Mr. Pickens discussed Dr. Hargrove’s suggestion that Francie could’ve suffered from dysosmia until I’d about heard enough of it. Sam said he’d feel more confident if Dr. Hargrove had ever treated Francie, while Mr. Pickens wanted to see the medical book for himself. They talked it up one side and down the other, becoming more and more intrigued with the possibilities the diagnosis offered.

“Only thing is,” Sam said, after we’d carried the conversation as far as it would go, “the only way to duplicate what might’ve happened is to hit Francie over the head again and see if she smells anything.” He laughed and stretched. “I don’t imagine Lieutenant Peavey will try it, though.”

“After the way she’s treated Etta Mae,” I said, “I’d volunteer to do the hitting.” Then, feeling somewhat fatigued from all that traipsing through the church, I excused myself and went upstairs to bed.

When Sam came up, he was still chuckling about Dr. Fowler and Francie. I was all but asleep, but not close enough that I couldn’t pose a question.

“You’re not disappointed about the classes?”

“Not a bit,” he said, climbing into bed and putting his arm around me. “I have better things to do with my Monday nights.”

Tuesday morning, and in fact most of the long day, was spent waiting to hear from Etta Mae or Binkie or Sam or Emma Sue or somebody. Things were going on that I knew nothing about, and it made me edgy and unable to settle on anything. I didn’t know how Lieutenant Peavey would react to hearing about dysosmia or what he was interrogating Etta Mae about or what Binkie was doing to protect her or what Emma Sue would think about Dr. Fowler and Francie—demon activity or aged hormones run amok.

By lunchtime, with no word from anybody, I began to think of something else that could be done. I didn’t share it with Lillian or Hazel Marie, knowing they’d say it was too risky. But it continued to run through my mind in spite of the fact that Hazel Marie talked about stretch marks while we ate.

By the time she’d decided to take a nap, I’d made up my mind. I went upstairs out of their hearing and dialed Lloyd’s cell phone number. I knew he wouldn’t answer because to do so during school risked losing his phone to the principal. But I could leave a message, which I proceeded to do, knowing that he would check as soon as the bell rang.

“Lloyd?” I said, as if he would respond. “Don’t walk home today. Look for me in front of the school. I have a little project I want you to help me with, okay?”

I thought the day would never pass. All I could think of was how I could accomplish my plan and how, if I did, it would surely get Etta Mae off the hook. When it was almost time for school to let out, I picked up my pocketbook, told Lillian that I had a little shopping to do and left.

Crammed in with a long line of other cars, I had several minutes to wait outside the school, but at last the doors opened and hundreds of young boys and girls streamed out of the building. I saw Lloyd craning his neck looking for me, but it took a while before the line moved and I could ease up to where he stood, cell phone in hand.

Opening the door and slinging his book bag onto the backseat, Lloyd asked, “Hey, Miss Julia. What’s up?”

“You have film in that phone?”

“Film?” He gave me a frowning look. “No’m, it doesn’t need film. Why?”

“We’re going on a photo shoot—I think that’s what it’s called. Only it has to be done in secret and under cover. I want you to take a picture of three people, up close and full face, if you can get it. But none of them can know you’re doing it. Can you manage that?”

Lloyd grinned. “Depends on whether they’re expecting it or not. See, if they don’t know what I’m doing, I can pretend to be texting somebody while they talk to you, then I’ll just tilt the phone—like this—and get ’em.”

“That sounds easy enough,” I said with some relief as I headed away from the school grounds. “But we can’t get caught doing it or it won’t work. Not,” I hurriedly said, “that we’ll be doing anything wrong, but these people might not appreciate being taken unawares.”

“Okay,” he said, giving me another grin, but this one with a tinge of conspiracy in it. “Who’re we gonna capture and why?”

“The why is for Etta Mae. Lieutenant Peavey put her picture in a lineup, but she was the only suspect in it! That doesn’t make sense to me. I want to give the witness some real suspects to look at.”

Well, of course, then I had to explain to Lloyd what all had gone on, and after doing so, he wholeheartedly agreed that it was only right to give that nephew some choice in the matter. How in the world could he be expected to identify a thief out of a bunch of women clerks and deputies?

“Whose pictures are we taking?” Lloyd asked again. “I need to get myself ready for some surreptitious aiming.” Laughing, he fiddled with some buttons on his phone. “That was one of our spelling words. I’ve been waiting for a chance to use it.”

I smiled, immensely proud of his intellect and his aptitude for all things electronic. “First, I want a picture of the gatekeeper when we get to Mountain Villas, which is where we’re going. I don’t really suspect him because we’re looking for a woman, but it’ll give you some practice. Then I want a picture of a woman we’re going to see and then another one of her companion-housekeeper-sitter.”

“Is that one person or three?”

“Three people in all, but only one companion, although she’s a combination of things. And Lloyd, take as many pictures of each one as you can. I want to get clear pictures of their faces.”

“I hate to tell you this, Miss Julia, but the resolution won’t be too good. These phones aren’t the best cameras in the world.”

“Just so they’re recognizable; I don’t think it’ll matter.” I glanced at him as we neared the gate at Mountain Villas. “Where can we get them developed?”

“I’ll e-mail them to myself, then print ’em out at home.”

“Well, my goodness,” I mumbled, as I pulled to a stop at the gatehouse and put my window down.

When the grizzled gatekeeper shuffled out to the car, I greeted him and asked if he knew if Mrs. Delacorte was at home.

He leaned down to the window—just as I wanted him to—and said, “I don’t pay no mind to who goes, just to who comes in, so no, ma’am, I can’t tell you.”

Sneaking a glance at Lloyd, hoping he’d gotten a good shot, I thanked the gatekeeper and proceeded on.

As soon as the street curved so that we were out of sight of the gatehouse, I pulled to the curb.

“Did you get him?”

“Just look,” Lloyd said, and held up his phone so that I could see a perfect image of the gatekeeper, bad teeth and all, framed by the window as he peered in at us.

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “And he didn’t suspect a thing. You did it so well that I didn’t even notice, and I knew what you were doing. Now,” I went on as I eased away from the curb, “let’s see you do the same thing with these other two—they’re the important ones.”

“No problem. I think I’m suited for this kind of work.”

I glanced worriedly at him, wondering what nefarious career I was encouraging him toward.

But it was too late for second thoughts, so I said, “Now, Lloyd, listen for a minute. You know it will be rude for you to be standing around with your thumbs working away on that thing while I visit with these women, but I want you to pretend that you don’t know any better. In fact, I may even scold you a little for it, especially if one of them takes note of what you’re doing. But if you get a good picture of each of them, it’ll be worth a little playacting in the long run. I just don’t want you to think it’s a normal way of doing things.”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s normal,” Lloyd said, grinning, “but it sure is fun.”

I pulled to the curb in front of Francie’s cottage, neatly avoiding the listing Japanese maple, glanced at the Cadillac in the carport that proved they were home and said, “Don’t have too much fun. You’re going to law school, remember?”