Miss Julia to the Rescue (13 page)

“Oh my, Etta Mae,” I said as she turned onto the highway and headed back toward the cabin. “It sounds like they’re treating him like a prisoner. I wish you could’ve at least looked in so we’d know for sure he’s there.”

“Well,” she said, as she ran a hand through her hair, “I wasn’t through. I left the ladies’ and, figuring that nurse had her eye out for me—she was a witch—I decided there were two ways to skin a cat and came straight outside. I just slipped around the whole hospital—you know, between the wall and the bushes so nobody would see me. Well, I didn’t bother with the emergency room, but I looked in the other windows to see if I could see him. Almost got caught by a security guy when I was around by the maternity wing in the back, but I knew J.D. wouldn’t be there, so I left.” She blew out her breath. “Whew, what a rush!”

“My goodness, that was a daring thing to do,” I said, marveling at her courage. “Did you find him?”

“No, dang it. Well, I might have. Most of the rooms had blinds
that were either open or cracked a little or pulled up a few inches, and the windows are low enough so I could see in okay. But those last two rooms at the end of the hall were closed up tight. I listened under both of them for a few minutes, but I couldn’t hear a thing. The air-conditioning units were too loud.

“Anyway,” she went on, “there’s a fire door at the end of that hall between those two rooms. We can’t get in that way, but we could sure get out. If we needed to, that is.”

“You’re not thinking we might have to
sneak
him out, are you?”

“Just being prepared,” she said with a grin. Then she sobered up and said, “It just seems strange to me that they won’t let anybody in. Or, I guess, let him out. And you know, if he’s conscious at all, he’d tell them who he is, and he must be conscious because didn’t the sheriff tell Coleman his wound wasn’t all that serious? So I’m thinking he must be shot in the leg or foot, because if he could walk, he’d be up and out of there. Otherwise, I just don’t understand it.”

“Well, neither do I, and I’m worried sick about it. Of course, if they think he’s some kind of chemist, I guess that would explain it.”

“Who’d think that?”

“I told you, remember? Coleman mentioned something about laboratories.”

“Oh, Miss Julia,” she said, laughing. “It doesn’t take a chemist to brew up a batch of meth. You can do it in a kitchen or anywhere. It’s a drug, a homemade drug. They sell it on the street.”

“My word,” I murmured. Then, “Well, Mr. Pickens is not a cook, either.” The more I thought about the whole situation, the more incensed I became, except I was so tired from the long day that I couldn’t work up a full head of steam. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep, Etta Mae, then we’ll track down that sheriff in the morning, get Mr. Pickens and take off for home.”

“Suits me,” she said, then yawned so wide her jaws creaked.

After Etta Mae wondered aloud if Mill Run had cell phone reception, I was pleasantly surprised to get right through to Hazel Marie.
Thank goodness, because I didn’t have the energy to beg the use of a landline from Pearl’s substitute in the office. I quickly gave Hazel Marie our nonreport, then had to spend an inordinate amount of long-distance time encouraging her. I spoke with Lillian and Lloyd for a few minutes, then I put the phone in the charger, which I usually forget to do, and crawled carefully into bed with Etta Mae. We were both on edge—literally—for we lay as far apart from each other as the double bed would allow.

Nonetheless, we slept until almost seven the next morning, but I don’t know how—too tired to do anything else, I guess. The mattress was knobby, the linens damp and smelly, and I couldn’t get comfortable with a strange body in bed with me. And on top of that, our next-door neighbors came in about midnight and the rumble of their talk seemed to go on for hours. At one point, Etta Mae flipped herself over and plopped a pillow over her head, mumbling something about thin walls and inconsiderate people.

“You want to go back to Bud’s Best Burgers?” I asked as we dressed.

“I guess so, but I hope he’s got more than that.” Etta Mae wasn’t much of a morning person. She dressed in silence and made no effort toward reaching her normal peak of perkiness, which I appreciated, not being a morning person myself.

I brewed two Styrofoam cups of coffee, handed her one, and tried to drink the other. The taste was more than enough incentive to keep moving so we could get the real thing.

After a breakfast that was at least palatable, although neither of us ate very much, we drove to the sheriff’s office, parking at the curb. There were three or four patrol cars—all with the usual
PROTECT AND SERVE
painted on the sides—in the lot next to the office, and even as we walked to the door, two of the cars pulled out, going in separate directions.

“I am determined to get some answers this morning, Etta
Mae,” I said, pushing through the doors and into a small lobby with a counter across the back. “I’m tired of this runaround we’ve been getting. I say, no visitors, no information, no nothing.”

I walked up to the deputy behind the counter and said, “I am Mrs. Julia Murdoch and this is Miss Etta Mae Wiggins. We’re from North Carolina and we’d like to see the sheriff. Please tell him we’re here.”

He was a big man, tall and broad, reminiscent of Lieutenant Peavey, back home. He looked us over, then said, “Sheriff don’t usually come in on a Sunday. You want to talk to somebody else or come back tomorrow?”

“Neither. My business is with your sheriff, and it can’t wait till tomorrow. Please call him and tell him we have important information for him—information that he needs.”

The deputy’s eyebrows lifted as he gave us a skeptical look. To expedite matters, I said, “I wouldn’t want to be the deputy who causes him to miss out on this.”

“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll see can I reach him.”

Etta Mae and I sat down on the orange molded-plastic chairs that were bolted to the floor. They were supposed to be form fitting, but they didn’t fit mine. We sat and squirmed for the longest time while I wondered if the deputy was just trying to outlast us. Maybe he hadn’t even called the sheriff. Maybe he thought we’d eventually get tired and leave. He shuffled papers, walked around behind the counter and filled his coffee cup, all the while giving us sidelong glances now and then.

“Miss Julia?” Etta Mae whispered. “You reckon he’s coming?”

“He better.” I got up and walked to the counter, looked the deputy right in the eye and wished I were back in Abbotsville, where I knew enough influential people to have my demands met. “Sir,” I said, “we’ve been sitting here for almost an entire hour, and you’ve not said one word to us. Did you call the sheriff? Is he coming in and, if so, when will he be here?”

“Sorry,” he said, although he didn’t sound it. “Most people don’t wait. They just watch for his vehicle, then come on by.”

“Well, I’m sorry, too. I thought I’d made it plain that we’re not most people. When will he be here? You did call him, didn’t you?”

“I did and he didn’t like it, like I knew he wouldn’t. But he said he’d come by on his way to church. If he wasn’t runnin’ late.”

“Well, my word. When does his church start? How much longer do we have to wait?”

“Be ’bout ten-thirty, I ’spect.”

“Well, thank you for letting us know.” I was spitting mad by this time and had to rein myself in to keep my composure. “We’ll go for coffee and be back in time to see him.” I turned to leave, then went back to the counter. “And if he comes in early, you tell him he can just wait for us. Let’s go, Etta Mae.”

We left the office with me mumbling about the most poorly run sheriff’s department I’d ever seen. “ ‘Protect and Serve,’ ” I said loudly enough for the deputy to hear as I went out the door. “Hah! I don’t know about the protecting, but I haven’t seen any serving to speak of.”

Etta Mae drove us around town, very carefully, I noted, possibly because she’d had enough run-ins with law enforcement personnel to know that you obey all traffic laws once you’ve made them mad, which I figured I had just done. She turned into a drive-through establishment and we got cold drinks, the day having heated up considerably.

“Let’s go back now, Etta Mae,” I said. “I think that sheriff might try to avoid us, and I don’t want to give him an excuse to take off again.”

Etta Mae laughed nervously. “I bet you he’s just like that sheriff on
The Dukes of Hazzard
. Remember him? Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane, and he was so goofy, those boys just ran rings around him. I bet that’s what we’ll have to deal with.”

“I don’t care what he’s like,” I said, although I was getting a little nervous myself about facing the man who held the keys to Mr. Pickens’s room. “I just hope he’ll listen to reason and do what I want him to do.”

As we parked in front of the sheriff’s office again, I counted the cars in the lot. There was a new one. Well, not so new, because it was a dark red, beat-up, mud-spattered sports utility vehicle that looked as if it had been worked half to death.

Marching right up to the deputy at the counter, I said, “We’re back. Is he in?”

“Yes, ma’am. Just got here, an’ he don’t wanta miss church, so
you better go on back.” He hitched up his pants with his forearms, then unlatched a half door and led us through a hall to the last room on the left. Giving one rap on the door, he opened it and said, “They’re here.”

He stepped back and held the door for us. We walked into the small room, most of it taken up by a desk with two visitors’ chairs in front of it. File cabinets lined the sides of the room, and a map of the county was pinned to the wall behind the desk. I took all that in at a glance because my attention was drawn to the lean, craggy-faced man who unfolded himself from the creaky chair behind the desk. He was as far from the picture Etta Mae had conjured up as I was from a Hollywood starlet.

Etta Mae took a deep breath beside me as I realized I wasn’t quite immune to his presence, either. There was an air of competence and confidence about him that was both attractive and off-putting—off-putting because he could be a formidable opponent. His hair had started out brown but was mostly white, as was his bushy mustache. He had sharp, piercing blue eyes that looked us over, then tarried on Etta Mae. His craggy face was lined like old leather, but the closer I looked, the younger he seemed. He certainly wasn’t too old to appreciate a young curly-headed woman, which he was obviously doing.

“Ladies,” he said, holding out his hand, “Sheriff Ardis McAfee. How I can help you?”

I shook his hand and introduced ourselves, adding that we were from Abbotsville, North Carolina, so he’d know we hadn’t just walked in off the street, then we took seats in front of his desk. I gave him the same kind of once-over he’d been giving Etta Mae. He was wearing jeans—denim again—and a white shirt. A black sport jacket hung on a coat tree behind him. His black string tie was, I guessed, his concession to church-going attire.

“Abbotsville, huh?” he said, his eyes lazing around as if he were sitting on a porch watching the world go by. “Near Asheville?”

“Fairly,” I said with a terse nod.

“I got a niece livin’ down that way if she’s not moved again. You know a place called Fairfields?”