Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (18 page)

Monday came, and by midmorning Lloyd had called to say that he was back from school with his almost perfect report card. So Sam stowed his one small suitcase in the trunk of his car, kissed me good-bye, and drove off to pick up Lloyd and Mr. Pickens. They had a long road ahead of them to the bottom of Mississippi, which would've been worse if they'd gone in Mr. Pickens's cramped sports car as he'd first suggested. Both Lloyd and Sam vetoed that in favor of Sam's roomier Lincoln.

They'd also discussed flying to Biloxi, but that would've involved changing planes in Atlanta, and there wasn't an easy connection. “Besides,” Mr. Pickens had said, “I like road trips, and with two good drivers, we'll be fine.”

I stood on the front porch after Sam had driven off to pick up the other two, and waited. Sure enough, in a little while his car nosed onto Polk Street, slowed as it neared the house, while all three of them, grinning, waved until they were out of sight.

It's close to heart wrenching when people you love go off from home. You're happy for them, but you also fear for them. I wished the week were over already and that they were driving in rather than out.

Sighing, I went inside, determined to stay so busy during the days with Mattie's affairs and so entertained in the evenings with Etta Mae's company that the week would fly by. She had accepted with enthusiasm my invitation to spend a week in Lloyd's room along with all meals included.

“It'll be like a vacation,” she'd said. “I haven't had a real vacation since I don't know when, and this will be like room and board in a fancy hotel. I'd love to, Miss Julia.”

Recalling that conversation, I got as far as the living room and sat down to process all that had happened between packing for Sam on Saturday and seeing him off on Monday. Sunday had been close to a lost day, as Sam had wavered about leaving at all. Concerned that the entire church, it seemed, was now expecting me to come to the rescue, he felt he should stay home to fend them off. I had insisted that he go—the fishing trip had been planned for months—telling him that I would unplug the phones, refuse to answer the door, and stay out of sight for the duration.

“Let them clamor, Sam,” I'd told him. “There's nothing I can do about it.”

It had happened like this: we'd gone to church as we usually did on Sunday morning and had just settled in our pew, preparing to focus on Pastor Ledbetter's sermon. The congregation waited in respectful silence for him to begin. But just as he clasped the pulpit and opened his mouth, a far-off clanking sound issued from the bowels of the church, followed by a low groan that filled the sanctuary.

We all sat up, looked around, then to the pastor for guidance. What in the world was it? Then a woman—it might've been LuAnne—on the far side of the church stood up and screamed, “
Smoke!
The church is on fire!”

And sure enough, a wisp of smoke emanated from the vent high up on the wall beside the apse. There was a great stirring of the congregation as people got up to leave, while the pastor called for calm and orderliness. We Presbyterians do like things done decently and in order, you know.

“Slow down, people, it's all right!” Pastor Ledbetter shouted. “Don't panic. No fire, no fire! It's just the air-conditioning.” The explanation didn't help, for his lapel microphone amplified his voice to an unbearable decibel level, making the scramble to get outside even more frantic.

Sam kept his hands on my shoulders as we joined the surge for the doors, but by that time the smoke had dissipated and the groaning and clanking had died away.

Well, of course that hadn't been the end of it, although it had ended the service. We'd barely gotten home when two trucks from Nichol's Heating and Air-Conditioning pulled into the parking lot of the church. Thank goodness for workmen who answer emergency calls on the weekends.

Sam and I had sat on the front porch after a light lunch and watched the goings and comings across the street. Pastor Ledbetter, sweating in the sun, followed the men from truck to church and back again over and over. One truck left, apparently to retrieve some parts for the unit, and a group of deacons gathered under the porte cochere, probably to discuss what was to be done and how to pay for it.

“Think I should take some sandwiches over?” I asked, but made no move to do so.

Sam smiled. “Oh, I wouldn't bother. They ought to go on home and let the repairmen do their job.”

“My thought exactly,” I said, and continued to sit, lazily waving a fan in the heat. “Sam, let's go in the house. There's no need to swelter out here just because they are. Our air-conditioning is working.”

“Good idea,” he said, rising from his rocking chair.

We spent the afternoon reading the Sunday papers and occasionally checking on the activity at the church through the front windows. Finally, around five o'clock the repairmen left, and so did the pastor and the deacons. I hoped that was a sign that all was well.

It wasn't. About five-thirty, the phone started ringing and it didn't stop until we turned it off and went to bed. The pastor was first in line, with every one of the twelve deacons taking his turn to appeal to my loyalty to the church.

“We
need
air-conditioning, Miss Julia,” the pastor had said. “The old unit can't be repaired. We can't even limp by on it, and
there're too many windows to be opening and closing them every day and every night, and, besides, most of them are painted shut. I just don't know what we'll do if you're unwilling to distribute Miss Mattie's assets in a timely manner.”

“It's not that I'm unwilling,” I said, trying to patiently explain my position. “It's that I'm unable to distribute what doesn't exist.” And I went on to recount the many snags that were holding up Mattie's assets—mainly that she had so few.

“But surely,” he pled, “she has a little something somewhere. You could perhaps manage a partial payment of the bequest she made to the church. Just so we can get a new unit and keep the church cool. You know, Miss Julia, that some of our elderly members and small children will truly suffer in the heat.”

“Pastor, all I can tell you is that I will check with Mattie's attorney to see if I can legally do that. But I'll tell you right now that I don't think I can. In fact, Mr. Sitton has said that most wills take six months or more to be probated.”

“Six months! Why, that'll be the dead of winter, and we won't need air-conditioning.”

By that time, I had had enough. It wasn't my fault, or Mattie's, that the deacons hadn't planned for expected expenditures or for obsolescent air-conditioning units. Taking care of the church property was their job, after all. Besides, not every church had to be air-conditioned—Lillian's, for instance, wasn't. They had overhead fans and handheld ones, too. Spoiled, that's what we were.

Fed up, I said, “My advice, Pastor, is for the church to go into debt and keep the congregation cool. I know you don't want to do it, and I appreciate that, but my hands are tied. Besides,” I went on, “you can have a campaign to raise funds to pay for it, and I'll be the first to contribute.”

He was not happy with me. One of the things that I could admire about him was that he was disinclined to incur debt—unlike another minister I knew who had once gone into a frenzy of bank-financed church construction, then answered a call to another church before the roof was on.

I had barely gotten off the phone with the pastor when one of the deacons called. And after that, one after the other was either pleading with or nagging at me, as if a hot church were entirely my fault.

To whom, I wondered, would they have turned if Mattie hadn't died?

_______

“Come sit with me,” I said as I walked into the kitchen after Lillian had called me to lunch. I had been mentally picturing Sam's Lincoln going farther and farther down the mountain, and I needed a distraction. “I have got to think of something besides those three on the road dodging crazy drivers, while I'm here trying to dodge overheated deacons. Tell me about the Reverend Abernathy. He was having some kind of problem, wasn't he?”

“Yes'm, he sure was and still is.” Lillian hung a washcloth over the faucet and came over to the table with my plate. “See, Mr. Robert Mobley, he died, like I tole you. An' ever'body was happy for Miss Bessie, 'cause he treat her so bad. We all figgered she was set for life in that little house he have an' doin' jus' for herself without wonderin' what he gonna do next. Well . . .”

“Knock, knock, yoo-hoo, Julia!” Mildred rapped on the back door.

“Why, Miz Allen!” Lillian greeted her as she opened the door. “Come in, come in. You lookin' mighty fine for a lady right outta the hospital.”

“I'm feeling fine, too. So fine that I'm thinking of taking a walk. Julia,” she said, turning to me, “if you've finished lunch, let's walk a while.”

“Wonderful!” I jumped up, anxious to strike while the iron was hot or before she changed her mind. “But come in for a minute. I want to show you something.”

I hurried to retrieve Mattie's scribble from my pocketbook, as Mildred sank into a chair at the kitchen table, saying, “Whew, I'm out of breath from walking across the yard.”

“Look at this,” I said, handing the scrap of paper to her. “I
found it in Mattie's safe-deposit box, but I can't make head nor tails out of it. And neither can Sam or Lillian.”

Mildred frowned as she studied the numbers and figures. “Well, I've seen some of Mattie's writing, and it looks kind of wobbly like this does, Julia,” she said, as she carefully placed the scrap on the table and pushed it away. “You ought to get rid of it. It may be a spell of some kind, like if you wanted to put a hex on somebody.”

A pan clattered in the sink, as Lillian spun around.
“What you say?”

“Oh, no,” I said, laughing. “Our Miss Mattie? Surely not. Mrs. Allen's just teasing, Lillian.”

“Mattie had her ways,” Mildred said, but she was laughing. “And she was strange, you have to admit.”

“You won't believe how strange. I'll tell you as we walk.” I opened the door and urged her up and out. “And, Lillian,” I said, turning back, “Christians don't have to worry about hexes. We'll talk when I get back. This won't take long.”

And it didn't. Mildred's idea of a walk was a leisurely stroll to the far end of the block and back again.

“That should do it for the first time,” she said as we returned to her driveway. “I forgot the pedometer, but how many steps do you think that was? I lost count when you were telling me about finding a flask in Mattie's pocketbook.”

I was tempted to say about fifty, but was afraid of discouraging her. “I wasn't counting, but I think we should aim to go all the way around the block the next time.”

“Well, I don't know,” Mildred said, blotting her face with a Kleenex. “It's awfully hot to be outside that long.”

“We don't need to push it, but maybe walking later in the day would be better. We got a good start today, though, and I'm proud of you, Mildred. Every step you take and every calorie you turn down pushes that operation further away.”

“That's why I'm doing it, but, boy, am I tired!”

Mildred urged me to come in for a restorative lemonade break, which I was happy to do. We sat on her side porch and discussed the disposition of Mattie's furniture.

“Well, I'll tell you, Mildred,” I said, folding a napkin around my frosted glass, “I couldn't be more pleased with Diane Jankowski. She's so knowledgeable and competent. I feel sure that she'll get the best price possible for everything. And, believe me, I am going to need every penny to carry out Mattie's wishes.”

“I know you can't do anything about it now,” Mildred said, “but I'd be interested in that little cellarette you told me about—if it's as good as your appraiser says.” She took a sip of her lemonade. “Let me know when the auction will be. I may have business in Atlanta about the same time.”

After a little more discussion of antiques in general, I sighed and mentioned the telephone campaign that Pastor Ledbetter and the deacons were on.

“I hate to go home,” I said. “They just keep calling and not a one listens when I say I can't release what I don't have. It's as if the air conditioner died the same time as Mattie, so the timing makes it a sign of some kind.” I managed a weak laugh, but I was really tired of fending off church leaders bent on getting what they wanted.

“Julia,” Mildred said, “why don't you leave that church? You've threatened to long enough, and St. Mark's would love to have you.”

“I've thought about it, but the First Presbyterian is Sam's church. And Hazel Marie's and Lloyd's. I can't leave them.”

“Well, I was in the same boat, as you remember. I joined the First Pres because it was Horace's church, so Tony grew up in it. Then he moved to New York and you know the change that came over him. Well, her now. By that time Horace had stopped going at all, and there I was all by myself. So I decided I'd go where I belonged which was St. Mark's. I was a cradle Episcopalian, you know.”

“I do know, and I know you're happy there. And I've been tempted to move my letter, believe me, I have. I guess, though,” I mused aloud, “I'm holding St. Mark's in reserve. It's my out if things get too bad across the street.”

Kind of like she was holding that stapling operation in reserve as a last option if nothing else worked. But I didn't say that out loud because being compared with a line of staples in one's stomach was hardly a compliment to St. Mark's Episcopal Church.

Then, after a brief discussion of Mattie's funeral and LuAnne's management of it, I slipped across our yards and went home.

“'Bout time you got back,” Lillian said when I walked in. “That phone been ringin' off the hook. I write all the names down on that piece of paper. They want you to call 'em back.”

I glanced down the list—the names of four deacons and one elder—then wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. “I know what they want. Lillian,” I said, turning to her. “If they call back, you haven't seen me. I'm going to Mattie's to help Helen and Diane, and I plan to stay until they're ready to leave. I'll get some work done and be away from the phone at the same time. Don't tell anybody where I am.”

“Miss Etta Mae be here for supper, so you better be on back here by six.”

“Oh, I'll be back before then. Is Lloyd's room ready for her? I have time to change the sheets.”

“Already done, an' I put out towels an' things, too. Bed turned
down an' flowers in a vase. An' I'm fixin' fried chicken, creamed corn, and fried okra for her supper.”

“Well, I hope you're including me for that supper,” I said, laughing. Lillian thought that Etta Mae needed some mothering and fattening up. She was looking forward to having her around. “Actually, I'd better not tell Sam what we're having when he calls. They might all turn around and come back home.”

Just as I put the final labels—either
MR. SITTON
or
THROW AWAY
—on the bags of sorted papers and odds and ends from Mattie's apartment, I heard the phone ring. I ignored it, but Lillian didn't.

“Miss Julia?” she called as she came across the hall. “You better take this. It's Miss Helen, an' she real upset.”

What now?
I thought, but wondering,
Andrew F. Cobb,
as I picked up the phone in the library. “Helen? What's going on?”

“Julia,” Helen said, her voice tight with concern, “I hate to ask you, but, well, did you take it? Or move it somewhere?”

“Move what?”

“The cellarette. We can't find it. I mean, it was here Friday afternoon. We'd moved it into the guest room, because Diane had already taken pictures of it. But it's not there now.”

“Have you . . .” I started, knowing full well that they had, “looked everywhere?”

“Everywhere,” she affirmed. “Even asked Nate to help us move things around. It's just not here, Julia. I'm so upset, I don't know what to do.”

Neither did I. Feeling that the floor had dropped from under me, I asked, “The door, was it locked when you got there? Any signs of tampering?”

“No, and we checked for that. The door was locked. In fact, I had trouble opening it with the new key. Oh, Julia, I feel responsible, and I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault, Helen. But surely it's there somewhere—it couldn't have just walked off. Keep looking, I'm on my way.”

I didn't take time to say good-bye, just clicked off the phone and headed out.

“Lillian,” I called, grabbing my pocketbook, “there's trouble at Mattie's place. I'll be back as soon as I can.” And off I went, my nerves snapping like a tangle of hot wires.

_______

I pushed open Mattie's door and almost knocked Mr. Wheeler over. “Oh, sorry. Have you found it?” I cried, knowing that I looked as wild-eyed and frantic as I felt.

Helen and Diane just stood there, Helen near tears and Diane frowning over her camera.

Mr. Wheeler was the only one who seemed able to answer. “It's not here,” he said. “I've moved everything and looked everywhere. But . . .”

“But how could it just disappear?” I asked, throwing out my hands.

“Come over here and I'll show you.” Mr. Wheeler walked over to the large chest-on-chest that had been in front of the French doors to the sunroom. “See here,” he said, squatting down and pointing to a wide, deep scratch on the floor, “this chest has been moved—shoved back. And the French doors weren't locked. I was able to slip behind this thing and get into the sunroom. There's a back window that wasn't locked—it is now, though. Whoever it was got in that way.”

“Oh, my word! What else is missing? What else?” I couldn't believe I'd been so focused on getting a new lock for the front door that I'd completely overlooked checking the windows. But who would've thought of three walls of small windows, high off the ground, in a room that we couldn't even get into? “Who could've done this?” I demanded.

“Someone,” Mr. Wheeler calmly answered, “who knew enough to choose a small, easily handled piece, and who knew the value of it. The real question is, who would know where to sell it?”

“That's a good question,” Diane said, suddenly looking up. “I have pictures of it and I know the local antiques dealers and some regional ones. I'll make copies and send them out. In fact,
I'll call everybody I know in the business and ask them to watch for it.”

“Do that,” Mr. Wheeler said, then turned to me. “But the first thing we need to do is report the theft. You'll need a police report to prove ownership when it turns up. Or to make a claim on a homeowner's insurance policy. If Mrs. Freeman had one.”

“I'll have to look,” I said, but I was thinking that finding it would be a job for Mr. Sitton. “I haven't seen one so far. All right, I'll call the sheriff's department.”

_______

We spent the next two and a half hours watching three deputies examine the crime scene, including dusting the offending windowsill for fingerprints. When they'd first walked in, one of them looked around at the furniture-filled room, and mumbled, “Somebody
live
here?”

“Not any longer,” I said, then went on to explain what we were doing and what had occurred. I also had to explain what a cellarette was and why anyone would want one. I'm not sure the deputies were convinced, for they kept asking if anything else was missing.

“We got some prints,” the detective—who wasn't Sergeant Coleman Bates, I'm sorry to say—told me. “But they're probably the owner's—same ones everywhere else. The rest is mostly smudges. Prob'bly from wearing gloves.”

He was thorough, though, taking prints from a few things that we knew only Mattie had touched—like her Bible in a drawer by her bed—as well as from Mr. Wheeler, who had recently closed and locked the window, for comparison.

At one point, the detective checked a few things in his notebook, then looked up. “You have an estimate as to the value of what was taken?”

“Maybe a thousand or so, I guess,” I ventured, then turned to Diane. “But here's the expert.”

“More like eight or ten thousand,” she said. “It's museum quality.”

My mouth fell open as I thought of the dent that money could've made in the lists of bequests.

The detective's eyebrows went straight up. “Really? For a little . . . whatever it was?”

“It's not something you'd pick up on eBay,” Diane said drily. “Or at IKEA, either.”

As the deputies prepared to leave, the detective took me aside. “Mrs. Murdoch, it looks to me like this was a professional job—not just a kid lookin' for some quick cash. Whoever did this knew what he wanted, got it, then left. Didn't bother anything else. Chances are, if y'all hadn't been checkin' everything Mrs. Freeman had, you wouldn't even have missed it. I hate to tell you, but I wouldn't be surprised if that little box thing was settin' right now in an antiques store in Charleston or Richmond.”

With a sinking heart, I knew he was right. We didn't even know when the break-in had happened—it could've been at any time over the weekend when none of us had been there. That gave the thief plenty of time to whisk the cellarette to far-flung reaches of the country, and, furthermore, plenty of time to get back to Abbotsville and appear innocent.

But there was one question that narrowed the field of possible suspects, which was: who even knew that the cellarette existed? I began to list them in my mind, my eyes flicking over the obvious ones standing there in the room—Helen, Diane, Mr. Wheeler—and quickly discounted them.

Then there was Mildred, whom I'd told about the cellarette, but she had no reason to steal it. She wanted to buy it. And Lillian had heard me tell Sam about it, but to suspect either of them was beyond comprehension. I couldn't remember if I'd mentioned it to LuAnne, though she wouldn't have done it. She could've told any number of other people, though, and if so, I'd never track them all down. Mr. Sitton? No, impossible.

Who was left? It came down to the fact that whoever had stolen the cellarette knew what he or she was doing. So I swung
back to considering Helen, Diane, and Mr. Wheeler, and hated myself for doing it. But who else was there?

Well, Andrew F. Cobb, for one. But he'd never been in Mattie's apartment, although he knew where it was. He'd told me as much at Mattie's visitation. But did he know furniture? How could he have known that a valuable cellarette was in Mattie's collection? Did he even know what one was?

The fact was, we didn't know enough about him to consider him a suspect. But I knew the others—except for Mr. Wheeler and Diane—well enough to know they couldn't possibly have done it. But I could not bring myself to seriously think either Diane or Mr. Wheeler could be the guilty one. As for Diane, she was an accredited appraiser and her career would be over if there was ever a hint of dishonesty on her part. Besides, she was already sketching out a mock-up for the flyers to be sent out to dealers so they'd know what to look for if anyone tried to sell or pawn the cellarette.

And Mr. Wheeler? Well, if he was the one, I'd never again be able to trust my judgment about anybody I met. I'd turn into a beady-eyed, suspicious old woman distrusting everyone around me. I was skeptical enough about people already. I didn't want to get any worse.

_______

After further discussion among us about how awful it was and how we all regretted that it had happened, I suggested we lock up and go home. No one, least of all myself, felt like doing more work in the apartment, so after following Mr. Wheeler around, squeezing behind the chest-on-chest to double-check the sunroom windows, he made the obvious but overlooked suggestion of taking out the drawers so we could move the chest out of the way. And, of course, found all seven drawers full of more stuff for me to go through. But with just the frame of the chest, Mr. Wheeler, Diane, and Helen were able to move it enough to allow us to go freely in and out of the sunroom.