Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle (42 page)

Still watchful for any surreptitious communication between Sam and Helen, a few questions came to mind. Could Helen be playing Sam off Thurlow? Or vice versa? Could Sam still have some interest in her, and if so, what did men see in her, anyway? Surely Sam didn’t know that Helen was seeing Thurlow and that Thurlow was seeing a great deal more of Helen than anyone suspected.

Should I tell him? And if so, how could I tell him what I’d seen last night? He needed to know what she was up to, but I couldn’t tell him without revealing what I’d been up to, prying into other people’s business and taking all kinds of chances with my own life and limb—the very kind of thing that ran Sam up a wall.

It was a quandary, all right, and if not for that constant worry, I would’ve enjoyed the afternoon: the talk and the laughter as people went to and from the table, the sound of the children laughing and playing, the babies passed from arm to arm, the fire warming the room, and Mr. Pickens lighting up Hazel Marie’s face as he whispered to her.

When the doorbell rang again, Etta Mae was right there to answer it, making me wonder how we ever would have managed without her. She never seemed to tire, never held back from whatever was needed, whether it was caring for the babies or pitching in with kitchen work. And above all, I would never forget how she’d helped with the snowbound delivery of the babies.

At the sound of her voice and that of someone else at the front door, I rose to see who it was.

“Hey there, Miss Julia,” Pastor Poppy Patterson said, a big smile on her face as she handed her coat to Etta Mae. “I’m dropping in like you asked me to, and I’ve just met Etta Mae, here. Etta Mae, we ought to go out for coffee one of these days real soon and have a good long talk.”

Etta Mae beamed, immediately taken by the lovely young woman, who apparently made friends upon first sight. I took Poppy around and introduced her, stopping for her to coo over each baby and for her to heap compliments on Hazel Marie for her accomplishment.

As we walked toward the dining room table, where Coleman and Helen were filling their coffee cups, Pastor Poppy pulled me aside.

“I just have to tell you,” she said with a mischievous smile, “Mr. Jones was in church this morning, and he did exactly what he said he’d do—took notes all through my sermon. I expect I’ll hear from him sooner or later, but I wanted you to know that our visit worked. So thank you again for going with me and getting me in the door. It was all your doing.”

“Oh, not at all, Poppy. Anyway, I was glad to do it. I expect, though, that he was secretly glad to see you just to have a chance to take you to task. That’s the way he is. Now let me get you some coffee or would you prefer spiced tea?”

We turned toward the table and came face to face with Helen. “Helen,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Pastor Poppy Patterson from First Methodist. Poppy, this is Helen Stroud.”

Searching for some way to characterize Helen, as I tried to do whenever I made introductions, I almost added, “She’s one of our most faithful Presbyterians,” even though I had not seen her in church since long before Richard’s demise. I had assumed that shame over his fraudulent activities had kept her away, and I had admired her for it.

Then I was glad I’d held my tongue, for Poppy laughed and said, “Oh, I know Helen. She’s one of our regular visitors—so regular, in fact, that we might be about to make a Methodist of her.”

Well,
that
set me back on my heels. And the first thing that came to mind was this: Did Helen and Thurlow sit together at the Methodist church? But no, they must not, or Poppy would’ve mentioned it, or more likely, she’d have asked Helen to go with her to visit Thurlow. I was willing to bet, although I wasn’t in the habit of betting, that Poppy knew nothing of their unlikely, and to me unseemly, liaison.

So, I mused, as I excused myself to replenish the cake tray and fled to the kitchen, Thurlow, who had never darkened a church door before, and Helen, a lifelong Presbyterian, were both showing up—apparently separately—at the Methodist church. What did that say about their intentions?

I didn’t know, but I did know that Pastor Ledbetter would accept in a dignified, yet sorrowful, way the loss of a faithful member to another church, while Emma Sue would be hurt to her soul. All I could think was that if Helen had indeed been the reason that Thurlow was going to church, then she was doing what no one else had been able to do. And maybe, I suddenly thought, she’d done some other things that no one else had been able to do: things like clean and refurbish Thurlow’s house and yard.

Now if she’d just turn her hands to
him,
I’d give her all the credit in the world. Provided that she stayed away from Sam at the same time.

I heard the doorbell ring again and hurriedly finished slicing another pound cake. Wondering who else had come in, I started through the swinging door into the dining room. Then hearing an unexpected voice, I slid the tray on the table and slipped back into the kitchen before anybody saw me.

My heart pounded away, as “Be sure your sins will find you out” ran through my mind. The last person in the world that I expected or wanted to see was standing in the hall talking to Sam. And why did
he
have to answer the door? Easing the swinging door open just a tiny bit, I listened.

“Come on in, Deputy,” Sam was saying. “I expect you know Coleman, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Sergeant Bates, good to see you,” Deputy Will Powers said. “Sorry to barge in like this. I just wanted to bring this by, in case anybody here lost it.”

And would you believe he pulled out Lloyd’s many-colored cap and held it out toward Sam?

“No,” Sam said, “no, I don’t think it’s ours.”

“Well, it’s lookin’ a little worse for the wear. The wind was blowing it around, right near where I picked up Mrs. Murdoch’s friend this morning, and I thought it might be hers.”

I gasped and let the door close. Leaning against the wall, I was suffering pure mortification. Sam was going to find out what I’d done and where I’d been, and for all I knew he’d stay at his house, living with Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens forever.

Then, unable to keep from listening, I eased the door open a bare inch, just in time to hear Lloyd say, “Why, that looks like
mine.
Where’d it come from?”

“Found it in the street, next to Miss Laverne Petty’s house. You been visitin’ over there lately?”

“No, sir,” Lloyd said firmly. “I know better than to go over there. She told us she was going to fix anybody who snooped around her toolshed.”

Deputy Powers laughed. “She sure did that, all right. She rigged up a sheet over the shed door so it would flop down when the door was swung open. And,” he said, still laughing, “I didn’t believe Mrs. Murdoch’s friend when she said she’d seen a ghost—thought she was confused or something. That was my mistake, so I hope you’ll pass along my apologies.”

I couldn’t listen to any more. Sam was going to want some answers and some explanations, and I declare, I’d about run out of both. I had the urge to get my coat and just leave—and would’ve if I’d had anywhere to go. So who came pushing through the door? The very one I wasn’t ready to face.

“Julia?” Sam said, coming into the kitchen. “You need any help?”

“I’m just putting on another pot of coffee.” Busying myself at the counter, I turned away from him. “They’re having a good time in there, aren’t they?”

“It’s like ole home week.” Sam got a bag of coffee out of the refrigerator and handed it to me. “A deputy stopped by a minute ago to show us a cap he’d found. Lloyd said it looked like one of his, but the deputy thinks a friend of yours lost it. Which was a little odd, because I didn’t know you’d had a houseguest.”

“Well, how could you? You haven’t been around. Besides, it was just someone I used to know. She won’t be coming back.” I turned the faucet on full blast, noisily filling the coffeepot, hoping to cut off any further discussion on that subject. “Did you and Mr. Pickens come to a decision?”

Sam grinned, a sure sign that he was pleased with himself. “Yep, but I had a hard time convincing him. You know how he feels about supporting his family on his own. So I went into this long song and dance about how I’d been all but destitute when I first hung out my shingle and how clients were paying me with chickens and hams and so forth, none of which would pay the electric bill. And how when I wanted to get married, an uncle helped me, practically gave me the house because he was going into a nursing home. I told Pickens that I was simply passing along the help that somebody had given me, as if, you know, it was a moral obligation for me to do the same.”

“My goodness,” I said, touched by his story of how he’d gotten through hard times. “I didn’t know all that.”

“No reason for you to,” Sam said, his deep blue eyes twinkling. “It wasn’t exactly true, but a little white lie in a good cause never hurt anybody.”

My heart lifted as I looked him straight in the eye, sharing a conspiratory smile. “I couldn’t agree more.” And at that instant, I felt a sense of redemptiom for all the little white lies I’d told, as well as those I had on reserve in case I ever needed to tell them.

“Anyway,” Sam went on, “we got that settled and they’ll move in as soon as Hazel Marie feels up to it. We were about ready to join the party here when James came in and started telling Pickens about the prowler we had last night.”

“Prowler? My goodness, did you catch him?”

“No,” Sam said, laughing. “It was probably an animal looking for a warm place. But James wanted Pickens to investigate, because he’d never heard of an animal that could unlock a door.”

I almost said, “That door wasn’t locked,” but caught myself in time. I let it pass, realizing that James had been covering himself for forgetting to lock it, and that Sam understood that. As far as I was concerned, an animal looking for a warm place was the perfect explanation, door locked or not.

“Now, listen, Julia,” Sam said in a more serious tone, “I’ve been wanting to tell you something, but I was asked not to tell anybody. Except now, with Richard out of the picture, I’ve been released to tell you, and only you. Can you keep a secret? I mean, a deep, dark secret?” Sam was smiling as he edged closer to me and lowered his voice.

“Why, you know I can. You wouldn’t believe the secrets I’ve kept, and I’ve never revealed a one of them.”

“Well,” he said, taking a deep breath, “Helen came over to see me the other day—I gave her lunch because she had so much to talk about. Anyway, here’s the big secret: she’s going to marry Thurlow.”

“No! ” I widened my eyes as far as they would go. “I can’t believe that.”

“Well, believe it, because it’s true. Her problem, however, was that Thurlow wanted her to sign a prenuptial agreement. That’s what she wanted to talk to me about. I looked it over and told her she absolutely could not sign such an unfair document. It would’ve given her no security at all, which, frankly, I think is basically what she’s looking for. That, and a free hand in fixing up that old house of his. Maybe him too. Anyway, I showed her how she could turn the tables on him.”

“How? You know Thurlow likes to get the best of any deal he’s involved in.”

“Exactly, but I also know that Thurlow respects anyone who can get the best of him. He admires cleverness, so that’s what we gave him. I worked up a prenuptial agreement for
him
to sign and, believe me, it secures her future and it covers everything she wants from him and then some, including joining a church. They’ve been visiting several churches to see which one would suit them both when the time comes.” Sam stopped and laughed under his breath. “Helen told me a minute ago that Thurlow scanned the agreement, then grabbed a pen and said, ‘Where’s the dotted line?’ Apparently, he is totally smitten and delighted with his savvy future bride.”

“My goodness,” I said. “I don’t know which floors me more: Helen marrying Thurlow or Thurlow going to church.”

“Well, it won’t be the First Presbyterian. Helen said it reminded her too much of Richard, and besides, Ledbetter really turned her off when he lit into her about divorcing Richard. Told her it was cruel and inhumane to hit a man when he was down and in prison. So she waited, expecting an amiable divorce when Richard got out, which he’d apparently agreed to.

“Instead, though,” Sam went on with a frown, “Richard got both early release and religion at the same time. Absolutely no divorce. He intended to oppose it every step of the way, including a public recounting of her infidelity while he was, as he said, rotting in jail. She would’ve gotten her divorce, of course, but it would’ve been a three-ring circus.”

“Oh my,” I said, “and Helen hates public spectacles.”

Sam smiled ruefully and shook his head. “It was already getting to be a mess with Richard pestering her all the time and her having to sneak around to see Thurlow.”

“Well, have you ever,” I mumbled; then, thinking that this was the opportune time to cover myself, I went on. “Do you suppose Richard knew about her and Thurlow? I mean, he died so close to Thurlow’s house.”