Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle (7 page)

“
Two more!
But there
are
sufficient funds in this account,” I said, waving the checkbook. “Just look at this and tell me why you’re bouncing checks all over town, and doing it without notifying me.”

“We don’t do personal notifications anymore,” she said with a condescending smile. “Everything’s computerized these days, so checks are returned automatically. We expect our customers to keep up with the checks they write.”

“I
do
keep up with my checks. Why do you think I’m here? Now, Bitsy, you just look at the register in this checkbook and you’ll see that you have undoubtedly attributed somebody else’s checks to my account.” I handed her my checkbook, the bottom line of which revealed more than sufficient funds to cover several months of groceries. I watched as she looked back and forth from the register to the computer screen.

“Hm,” she said, then clicked her keyboard and stared at the screen. “You must’ve forgotten to enter the check to Ingles and this one to the Sav-Mor drugstore. Then here’s one to Jiffy Lube you weren’t able to cover.”

“
Jiffy Lube? Sav-Mor?
What are you talking about? I don’t even know where those establishments are. I certainly haven’t written checks to them.”

“Oh,” she said, peering closely at the screen, “here’s your problem. On January the fourth, you wrote a check for thirty-five hundred dollars to cash, which was just barely covered. Nothing else cleared after that. You must’ve forgotten to enter it.”

“
Thiry-five hundred!
” I popped straight up out of my chair and stood there, clutching my pocketbook. “To
cash
? I’ll have you know, young lady, that a mistake has been made and I am not the one who made it. Look at that register and you’ll see that the last check I wrote, which was for the electric bill, was number 4991, and the next check, just waiting to be written to Maxwell’s Dry Cleaners, is number 4992, and it’s right here. I never forget to enter
any
checks I write, much less one for that amount of money.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Julia,” Bitsy said, addressing me with an unwonted familiarity, as many bank tellers felt free to do. “This account is empty and is, in fact, in the red. Perhaps you can make a deposit or transfer some funds from another account.”

“No,” I said, trembling from anger or anxiety or simply from my inability to get through to her. “I’ll not put another cent into an account that is leaking funds from somewhere. What good is it to put money in when you’re letting it fall out the back door?”

Bitsy leaned back in her chair and coolly considered me. “I have a suggestion, Julia, which I hope you won’t take the wrong way. We all reach a certain point in our lives when we could use some help. Perhaps there’s someone in your family who could manage your funds for you. It’s a simple matter to give your power of attorney to a responsible relative. My advice would be to consult an attorney so you won’t have this problem again.”

I snatched the checkbook from her hand and marched myself to the door. “And my advice to you would be to find out why that computer you think so much of is making such egregious mistakes. As for me, I will certainly consult my attorney, but not because I’ve lost my ability to add and subtract.” I lifted my head and sailed down the hall, my nerves so frayed I could hardly stand it.

But consulting my attorney had to wait because Binkie Enloe Bates, my attorney of record, was in court for the entire day and possibly for the rest of the week.

“Wouldn’t that just frost you?” I mumbled to myself as I drove home, shaking from the cold. “Binkie’s in court and Sam’s tooling down the highway, while my financial reputation is being absolutely shredded.”

What was I to do with both lawyers unavailable? For it was Sam and Binkie who took care of Wesley Lloyd Springer’s estate, which had been left jointly to Lloyd and me. Well, not exactly left jointly, because Wesley Lloyd had intended to leave it all to Lloyd, and would have if the state hadn’t stepped in with a reminder of something called widow’s rights, meaning half the estate came to me, Wesley Lloyd’s intentions notwithstanding.

Fuming and fussing at being unable to immediately clear up the matter of bouncing checks, I began telling Lillian about it as soon as I walked in the door.

“What’s the use of having two lawyers when neither is around when you need them?” I complained, plopping my pocketbook on the table. “And I tell you, Lillian, I am torn up over Bitsy Simpson. That little snip as good as said that I’m too far over the hill to manage my own finances. I should speak to her mother about her, and I would if her mother wasn’t in a nursing home.”

But before I could continue, Etta Mae Wiggins came breezing in, and not wanting to share my banking problems with her, I put them aside and turned my mind to Hazel Marie’s situation.

Etta Mae was her usual happy little self, pleased to be called on to help. She was dressed in a light blue pantsuitlike outfit that did little for her. She’d once told me that she didn’t like wearing what she called scrubs, but with the kind of work she did with incontinent and bedridden patients, they saved her good clothes. And I supposed the outfits created a more professional look than her usual jeans and pointy-toed boots.

“Hi, Miss Julia, Lillian,” she said, her face reddened by the brisk weather. She put down her heavy tote bag and slid off her padded coat. “How’s the little mother this morning?”

“We think she’s fine,” I said, “but we’d love some reassurance. It was Mr. Pickens who got all concerned and upset thinking she was going into labor, which, I’ve been told, her doctor doesn’t want her to do.”

“That’s right. Not if he wants to monitor her in case she needs a section. At her age he’s being extra careful. But don’t tell her I said that.” Etta Mae sounded knowledgeable, but I kept thinking about that technical school course she’d taken and wasn’t all that comforted. Still, she knew her limitations and was always trying to better herself one way or another, which I admired and commended her for.

“Well, let’s go take a look,” Etta Mae said, sounding like Dr. Hargrove at his breezy best.

I led her through the back hall to Hazel Marie’s room, with Lillian following us. We found her sitting on the foot of the bed, folding the tiny shirts and leggings and blankets and this, that, and the other that make up layettes for twin babies. She looked up as we filed in, pleasure lighting her face.

“Etta Mae!” she cried. “I’m so glad to see you.” Then she stopped and frowned. “Is anything wrong? I thought you’d be working.”

“I am, but I had some time between shut-ins, and your husband is so worried about you, I thought I’d drop by.”

“J.D. called you?”

“Yeah,” Etta Mae said, and laughed. “About five o’clock this morning. Woke me out of a sound sleep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was doing that. But I’m fine, Etta Mae, just a little indigestion now and then, but no wonder. Just look at me! I’m as big as a house.”

By this time, we’d all found a place to sit, although Etta Mae had to move a stack of baby things to make a place on the bed beside Hazel Marie. There was hardly room to turn around for all the accessories that two babies seemed to require. There was a crib—and thank goodness, only one because Hazel Marie had read that twins should be kept together for the first few weeks—and a changing table and a huge laundry hamper and a large upholstered rocking chair with a matching ottoman and another chest of drawers besides the one already in the room. Opened gift boxes were stacked in the corners, their contents waiting to be used or put away. They’d come from the baby shower that LuAnne had hosted before Christmas, and every time I saw them I cringed a little, always uncomfortable about social events that required the bringing of gifts.

“Oh, look at this,” Etta Mae said, spreading a tiny yellow garment on her knees. “It’s the cutest thing. Just look at all the smocking.”

Hazel Marie beamed with pleasure as she held up another garment just like it. “I love it too. And of course I have two of them. Two of everything, actually.”

“Yellow is a good choice,” I said. “It’ll suit either boys or girls, or one of each.”

Etta Mae asked, “You still don’t know what you’re having?”

Hazel Marie shook her head. “No, sometimes I think I want to know, but we decided we wanted to be surprised. The doctor thinks he knows what one of them is.”

Lillian started laughing, then Etta Mae did too.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” Etta Mae said.

“I don’t,” I said.

“It mean,” Lillian said, still laughing, “that one of ’em have something extra, something he can see.”

“Oh,” I said, finally getting it and trying not to be embarrassed at what came to mind.

“Well,” Hazel Marie said, “it’s hard to tell one thing from another on those sonograms—I don’t care what he says. So I’m not counting any chickens before they’re hatched.”

Lillian looked her over, then with a sage nod of her head said, “They’s at least one girl in there ’cause you carryin’ ’em so low.”

“Well, of course she’s carrying them low,” I said, discounting another old wives’ tale. “With that heavy a load, she can’t do anything else. She’s sagging, Lillian.”

Hazel Marie laughed, then put her hand on the small of her back, stretching to ease the cramped muscles. “I’ve got to get up from here,” she said. “Maybe walk around a little. Everything’s so crowded up inside that I can hardly breathe sometimes.”

Etta Mae helped her to her feet. “Let’s walk to the kitchen and see if that helps.”

Lillian was out the door before the rest of us. “She need a little snack too.”

Hazel Marie whispered to me as I took her arm. “Bless her heart, Lillian’s going to snack me to death.”

Etta Mae got Hazel Marie settled at the table, while I brought over the coffeepot and Lillian fixed her a cup of spiced tea because she was off coffee for the duration.

After putting a plate of cookies on the table, Lillian asked, “Anybody heard anything more ’bout that dead body they found?”

“Just what was in the paper this morning,” I said, hoping to move the conversation on to other topics. “That seems to be the extent of what anybody knows.”

“Well, let me tell you what I heard,” Etta Mae said, perking right up. “When I stopped at McDonald’s for a biscuit, there was a bunch of construction workers talking about it—some of them were volunteer firemen, so they knew. They said it was definitely a man, and he’d been dead for at least a couple of days. And he was wearing a real nice overcoat and a suit under that. They said everything was dirty and stained, but you could tell that his clothes were better than you’d expect on a hobo or something.”

“That may not mean anything,” I said. “People occasionally donate some very good things when they’ve outgrown them or gotten tired of them. I heard Maureen Langley say one time that she’d taken an armful of Carlisle outfits to the Salvation Army, and Louise Murphy heard about it and went right down there and bought them for herself. So I’m not sure that the quality of his clothes tells us anything.”

“Just that he had good taste,” Hazel Marie said. She took a sip of tea, then said, “I’d sure like to know how he ended up in Miss Petty’s toolshed.”

“Me too,” Lillian said. “You reckon he a friend of hers?”

“I hope not,” Etta Mae said, laughing. “I’d hate to be her friend if that’s her guest room.”

Even though I’d been determined not to be drawn into other people’s problems, I couldn’t help being interested in the conversation. For one thing, it distracted me from stewing over the bank’s mistake and how I could make them admit to it. “Do any of you know Miss Petty? LuAnne told me that her father used to own that hardware store downtown that closed a few years ago, but that’s all I know about her.”

“Oh, she’s real nice,” Hazel Marie said. “I met her on Parents’ Night at the school back in the fall. She was kinda quiet and mousy looking, though I hate to criticize. I remember thinking that she’d look so much better if she’d take a few pains with her hair and put on some makeup.”

“Maybe you ought to offer to do a makeover for her,” Etta Mae suggested. “You’re real good at that.”

Hazel Marie laughed. “I expect she has more on her mind than a makeover right now. She must be scared to death knowing that somebody died in her backyard. And she lives alone, doesn’t she?”

I thought about it for a minute. “She must. I know her father’s gone, and I believe her mother died years ago. She must’ve inherited the house, because LuAnne said that’s where her folks lived before they passed. I don’t know about any brothers or sisters. And I guess with her name still being Petty, she never married.”

“Speaking of names,” Etta Mae said, her eyes bright with a sudden thought, “if that man had on a decent suit, wouldn’t he have had a billfold or something? I mean, some kind of identification on him?”

“You would think so,” I said, realizing that Etta Mae had asked an astute question, taking us right back to that dead body. “Yet the paper said he was unidentified.”