Miss Julia to the Rescue (22 page)

After tracking Coleman down to let him know we were back and had Mr. Pickens where he belonged, I had to go into detail about how we’d sprung him from Sheriff McAfee’s clutches.

“You did
what
?” Coleman asked in some amazement.

So I told him again, then asked, “Now, Coleman, the big question is this: What’s that sheriff going to do? Will he try to extradite him? Will he arrest me and Etta Mae? And by the way, Mr. Pickens was not under arrest. I specifically asked if he was, and was told by Sheriff McAfee that he was not, so we did not aid and abet an escape. It’s important to remember that in whatever dealings you have with him.”

“
Me
?”

“Yes, of course, you. I figure you’ll be the one he’ll contact—he knows where to reach you. I think the best recourse would be to firmly remind the sheriff that Mr. Pickens left of his own free will and will happily return to testify when and if he is needed. At least I assume he will—you can never tell what Mr. Pickens will do. You might also remind Sheriff McAfee that by that time Mr. Pickens should have all his marbles back in place and be able to testify because he’ll no longer be so heavily medicated he doesn’t know up from down.”

“What?”

I was beginning to wonder about Coleman by this time. “Let me put it this way,” I said, taking it slowly so he could follow my
line of thought. “Etta Mae thinks they kept Mr. Pickens under heavy sedation. We know they kept him isolated, and we know they tried to keep us away from him. That to me smacks of unlawful imprisonment. Or something. So I think when that sheriff calls you, which he surely will, you ought to at least intimate that he is in big trouble, which I won’t mind bringing down on his head.”

“Ah, well, let me think about it, Miss Julia. First thing, though, I ought to talk to J.D. Get his take on what happened.”

“Good idea. And lots of luck making sense of what he says. But go on and see for yourself what they did to him. Actually, that reminds me: I’m going to talk to Dr. Hargrove about defrocking whatever doctor took orders from a sheriff who’s never been to medical school. I think steps should be taken against him. And I think I’d better get Binkie on board for me and Etta Mae. It never hurts to have a good lawyer on hand.”

“Okay, you do whatever you want about that and I’ll get my ducks in a row for when the sheriff calls.”

After that satisfactory call, I went upstairs to see what Adam Waites, one of the carpenter’s sons, was doing. The sunroom was in a mess, I can tell you that, with a table saw set up in the middle of the room, lumber stacked around, and sawdust everywhere.

“Mr. Waites,” I said, as he removed his safety glasses, “tell me how you’re progressing.” From all the noise he’d been making, I’d thought he would’ve been further along than he was.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Murdoch. It’s a beautiful day that the Lord has made, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” I said, waving away the distraction. “Now, catch me up with what you’re doing.”

And what it amounted to was the building of the framework for the cabinets under the windows.

“Now, right here,” he said, pointing to the middle window, “I thought I’d build a desk, then …”

“No, Mr. Waites, no built-in desk. Sam needs room to spread out, so I’m putting a table desk in here for him. Just build a straight wall of cabinets like the ones I drew out for you on the plan. Please don’t add anything extra without checking with me first.” Mildred hadn’t warned me that Mr. Waites would have ideas of his own, but now that I knew, I’d have to watch him carefully. “And one other thing, we’ll need to have a number of electrical outlets for the lower cabinets and around all the walls. You know, for his printer and copier and telephone and all the other gadgets he has.”

“Have to get an electrician for that.”

“Of course. I assumed you’d know who to get, so get him when you’re ready.”

Mr. Waites studied the wall for a minute. “Sure would be a good place for a desk. You want to go ahead and pick out the stain you want on the cabinets?”

“Mr. Waites, Adam,” I said, trying for patience and about failing to get it. “No stain on the cabinets. See, right here on the plan, it says white. I want white cabinets. That means paint—good paint that won’t chip. Enamel of some kind.” Then, feeling quite efficient for my forethought, I went on. “In fact, the cabinets have been ordered and delivered. They’re stacked up in boxes out in the garage, just waiting to be brought in and installed.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I knew that. I’ll bring my brother to help me get them in.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, then looking at me with a sheepish expression, he said, “Just got my mind on too many other things, I guess.”

“Well, let’s get it on this job. Although,” I said, not wanting to be too hard on him, “if you’re having trouble at home or something, I’m sorry.”

“No’m, I’m all right. The Lord will see me through.”

Thinking to myself,
Let’s hope He will
, I wondered if I’d been remiss by not employing Mr. Caldwell, the architect, to design and supervise the remodeling of the sunroom as well as the new
library. But what was done was done, and I left feeling less than fully confident in Mr. Waites’s ability to follow directions.

Then right after lunch, Mr. Tucker Caldwell himself showed up at my door right on time, although with all that had happened over the weekend, I’d forgotten he was coming. Which will teach me to check my calendar now and then.

“I’ve come to measure your room, Mrs. Murdoch,” he said as I ushered him in.

This was the first time I’d seen him without his desk intervening and I was surprised at what a small man he was. Standing next to him, I saw he barely came to my shoulder, although in spite of his stature he gave off a sense of busy competence. He wore a brown suit with a red bow tie, which I could’ve told him did not add a whit to my confidence in him—reminding me, as it did, of another small man’s affinity for bow ties.

I took him back to the large bedroom, pointing out the two possible sites for the fireplace with the Williamsburg chimney I wanted. He went right to work with a large metal tape measure, jotting down in his tiny handwriting the figures that he’d use in drawing a blueprint. I stood in the middle of the room next to the bed, watching as he worked with prissy efficiency. And gradually I began to realize that something was different from my first impression of him. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, for there was nothing unusual about his attire or his heavy glasses or the way his thick hair flopped over his forehead. But something
was
different. Perhaps, I mused, I just had not known him long enough.

“I think we’ll need bookshelves, too,” I reminded him. “Tall ones, all the way to the ceiling on the fireplace wall, with maybe cabinets underneath. Let’s use mahogany or cherry or something along those lines. Remember, Mr. Caldwell, an English library is the look I want.”

He nodded as he drew the room’s outline on his pad. “I know what you want. I’ll use a dark warm wood around the entire room with panels outlined by thin molding. Deep baseboards and crown moldings with dentils, too. I’ll bring samples of the wood to show you and an elevation of each wall before we begin installation. And you might as well call me Tucker.”

“Thank you,” I said, but did not offer my first name to him. I believe in keeping a professional distance, at least until an employee has proved himself. It’s awfully difficult to complain to or reprimand someone who views himself as your friend.

“You want to keep this Oriental rug?” he asked, as I stepped out into the hall to get out of his way.

“No, it has to go. It suffered a soaking not too long ago, and even though I’ve had it cleaned, I’d prefer carpet instead.” As I considered the old, but not particularly valuable, rug, I couldn’t help but recall Hazel Marie standing in the middle of a huge wet spot on the rug that frigid night her babies had been born.

Tucker Caldwell walked out into the hall, making me step back farther, and eyed the hardwood there. “Looks like the same. Sometimes in these old houses, the hardwood floors don’t match from one room to the next.”

“My house is not that old,” I assured him, although because it wasn’t a series of cantilevered modern boxes with solar panels on top he probably thought it was.

“Be a shame, though,” he said, “to put carpet over this fine wood. I say we keep the wood and get a new rug.”

“And I say that my feet get cold. Besides, the floor will still be there under the carpet. Now, Mr. Caldwell, I mean, Tucker, what do you think? Where would you put the fireplace?”

“I’m thinking the east wall,” he said, walking back into the room. “It’s a little hard to visualize with the bed in the way and that wall of closets. That’ll have to go. But if we put the fireplace on this wall over here, it’ll be the focal point and the first thing you see when you walk in.”

“Perfect, and exactly what I was thinking,” I said, pleased that
he was seeing things my way and not going off on a tangent of his own.

He stood next to the bed, gazing around the room, looking up at the high ceiling and back around all the walls. “Take out those closets,” he said as if he were thinking out loud, “and I’ll have a symmetrical room with almost ideal proportions.” Then, whirling around so quickly he almost startled me, he said, “Ordinarily, I don’t like to copy what’s already been done, but this room lends itself to replicating a typical Williamsburg library. Maybe you’ve seen them?”

“Yes, I showed you a picture…”

“Yes, indeedy,” he said, rubbing his hands as if becoming more and more pleased with the idea. “Now, Mrs. Murdoch, you leave it all to me, because I can assure you that you will like how it turns out. And don’t worry about its being too traditional or old-fashioned. The Williamsburg look never goes out of style.”

I stared at him, hardly believing what I was hearing. “I know,” I said. “I was the one who suggested…”

“So that’s it. I have what I need, so I’ll be going. Oh, by the way, do you have a preference for a builder?”

“Well, Adam Waites is doing some work for me upstairs, and I’ve mentioned the possibility of his doing this room, too.”

“Good, good,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Adam is an excellent carpenter. I’ve worked with him before, so I’ll get him lined up. But let me caution you, he tends to run ahead and add his own ideas.”

“I’ve noticed,” I said, somewhat dryly. “That’s a fairly common tendency.”

“He’ll be working under my supervision, though,” Tucker Caldwell said, as if he hadn’t heard my comment, “so I’ll have my eye on him. Thank you, Mrs. Murdoch, I’ll call you as soon as I have the plan ready. Won’t be long.”

He’d already taken off down the hall, heading for the front door with me trailing along behind him. I was glad for the enthusiasm he was displaying, but would’ve liked to have had more of a
conversation with him. It wasn’t to be, however, for he was off like a shot, seemingly eager to get to his drafting table.

I stood by the door after closing it behind him as a wave of fatigue hit me—the consequence of our busy weekend. Then something else hit me—I suddenly realized what was different about Tucker Caldwell.
Earrings!
That fussy little man had a gold stud stuck in his left earlobe, which I
knew
had not been there when I’d met him in his office. It seemed as if Mr. Tucker Caldwell had had as interesting a weekend as Etta Mae and I, although I assure you we had not come home with any decorative souvenirs from our trip.