Miss Julia to the Rescue (25 page)

I slowed and stopped beside a young man who waited at the paved courtyard. He wore black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt buttoned all the way up to a black string tie. Almost blinded by the sun’s glare, I lowered my window and asked where I should park.

“I’ll park it for you, ma’am,” he said, opening my door as I wondered how large a party this was to be if it required valet services.

As I stepped out of the car, bending way over so I wouldn’t scrape off my hat, I got a closer look at the young man. My smile froze on my face as I smothered a gasp. That poor misguided boy was absolutely studded with rings and bolts and safety pins, and I don’t mean just his ears. I mean all over his face from eyebrows to nose to bottom lip to his tongue. And creeping up from his shirt collar, tattooed swirls wound around his neck all the way up to his chin.

It’s rude to stare no matter how bizarre someone looks, so I tore my eyes away from the sight that must have had his mother in tears, thanked him and proceeded to the walkway beside the
house that he pointed out to me. It was a lovely walk under a wisteria-covered pergola that led to an extensive lawn at the back of the house.

From the corner of the house, I could see a gathering of women across an expanse of grass near what appeared to be a cabanalike structure beside a pool. I stood for a moment to take in the back of the house, which looked much better than the front. From this aspect, the house formed a shallow U, which allowed for an open terrace bounded by a stone balustrade. A few wide stone steps opened onto a broad walkway that bisected the lawn and led to the pool area. Miniature boxwood hedges lined the parterres on each side of the walkway, making a lovely vista. I stood for a minute, taking it all in.

Off in the distance, beyond the pool, two horses grazed in a white-fenced paddock next to a barn. To my right was a garage with four bays, all occupied by vehicles of one kind or another. Farther away, almost hidden in a copse of trees and laurels, I noticed the roof and a side of a large rustic building, the purpose of which I had no idea. Gazing at the lawn, the fields, and all the outbuildings, I was entranced with the beauty and extent of the Whitman compound.

“That way, ma’am,” a young woman said, pointing toward the pool.

She had walked up behind me and it was just as well I hadn’t seen her coming—I might’ve run for the car. If I’d kept my eyes on her fresh and comely face, I would’ve been all right. But who could miss the rest of her? At first, I thought she was wearing a long-sleeved tie-dyed undershirt beneath the short sleeves of her gray uniform, and I wondered how she could stand it in the heat.

When I realized that what I thought were long sleeves was instead a multitude of black, yellow and red tattooed designs completely covering her arms and neck, I audibly gasped. Shocked and embarrassed, I murmured my thanks and hurried on my way, wondering why in the world someone would do that to herself. Didn’t she know she’d have those things for the rest of her life?
And wasn’t she aware of what would happen when her skin began to sag, a condition I was more than familiar with? A rising sun on a young shoulder would be setting on an elderly elbow.

Maybe, I thought as I walked toward the party, the maid and valet were a couple. Maybe they’d gotten in with the wrong crowd when they were younger and hadn’t known any better than to have themselves inked over. Maybe they were now settled into stable jobs and regretted their misspent youths.

Then again, maybe they’d been in the navy.

However it had happened, I was saddened for them, stuck as they were with indelible dermal designs.

Shuddering a little at the thought, I was glad to approach the gathering of ladies, many of whom smiled and waved at me. As I joined them, I felt relieved to be among familiar faces and unadorned arms and necks. Well, except for strings of pearls, lockets, a few diamond tennis bracelets and several charm bracelets, all of which were perfectly normal and appropriate, and could be removed at any time. I put the pitiful young couple out of my mind and set about to enjoy the party—until I met our hostess.

Mildred watched with a peculiar smile on her face as she introduced me to Agnes Whitman, and I must say that it took an act of will to keep my composure and respond courteously to Miss Whitman’s welcome. The woman was skinny as a rail, one of those thin edgy types whose eyes bore into you. On that hot day, she was dressed in a long-sleeved, high-neck silk blouse with a long flowing skirt that flipped around her ankles. And sandals—sandals that revealed long toes with rings on them. And after I had gone back and forth about the kind of shoes I should wear. Her hair was pulled back tightly from her face, then fell long and straight down her back all the way to her waist. It was dark with plenty of gray, which might make you think she cared little about her looks, but you’d be wrong. When she turned her head to speak to Mildred, who was still silently amused at my reaction, I saw scars behind her ear.
Face-lift
, I thought, having seen such scars a few times before, but to my mind this one hadn’t been too successful—her eyes had a definite slant to them and her face was so tight that her lips looked like two thin lines.

I don’t mean to be critical. If somebody wants a face-lift and can afford it, why, go ahead and have one. I, myself, was just waiting for an arm lift.

But Agnes Whitman’s drastic face-lift wasn’t the worst of it. It was her earrings that drew my eyes and kept them there, in spite of my trying to look everywhere but at them. They were so long
that they dangled to her shoulders and so heavy that her earlobes were stretched. But the absolute worst was how those earrings were attached. I stared—I couldn’t help it. Her earlobes were filled with … well, I don’t know what to call them …
plugs
, I guess, or maybe round corks from which a number of jangling chains and disks hung. I declare, the woman looked like a Zulu chieftain in a
National Geographic
magazine.

“Thank you for having me,” I managed to say, shaking Miss Whitman’s extended hand. “Your home is lovely.” A more descriptive word would have been
impressive
, which wouldn’t have expressed a personal judgment on a matter of taste, but courtesy had been too long ingrained in me. So I lied, which in a social setting is entirely forgivable.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Agnes said, her eyes, which I noted were slightly popped, whether from birth or from surgical intervention I couldn’t tell, giving me the once-over. “I designed it myself.”

“Remarkable,” I murmured, inwardly relieved that I wouldn’t have to find another architect for my project.

“Please,” Agnes said, indicating a linen-covered table in the shade of the cabana, “have something to eat. And drink. There’s wine and mint juleps, or if you’d like something straight, just tell the barman.” Then turning to give me that pop-eyed stare again, she abruptly said, “So glad to meet you, but I see someone else coming. Excuse me.”

I glanced back toward the house and saw Helen Stroud walking toward us. “Mildred,” I said as our hostess moved away, “why didn’t you warn me?”

“I
did
,” she whispered. “I told you I hadn’t seen her in years and didn’t know what to expect. And I told you she was a little strange. But you have to admit she’s interesting. I told you that, too.”

“Well, yes, you did. But let’s get out of the sun. I’m about to melt.” As we wandered toward the table, I went on. “I hope the something straight is lemonade.”

Just as we arrived at the table, which was covered with trays of fruit and vegetables as well as a variety of cheeses and nuts,
without a ham biscuit in sight, LuAnne Conover came rushing over.

“Julia, Mildred,” she whispered, her eyes bright and darting around, “did you see that valet? Have you ever seen anything like all that metal on his face? I nearly died. And the maid! Honey, she is
covered
with tattoos.”

“Sh-h-h, LuAnne,” Mildred said, laughing. “Not so loud.”

“Well, I don’t care,” LuAnne returned right smartly. “If somebody wants to freak herself out like that, she has to expect to be talked about. But let me tell you what Marlene told me.” She leaned in close as the three of us huddled to hear the latest. “She said she’d heard that Agnes
herself
is covered with tattoos and that’s why she’s wearing that blouse in this heat. She didn’t want to shock us at first meeting.”

My head, along with Mildred’s, swiveled around to look at our hostess, who was chatting with Helen.

“Surely not,” I said, although I had wondered at the long sleeves and high neck of Agnes’s blouse—not exactly what one would expect at an outdoor party.

“Well, I’m just passing on what Marlene said,” LuAnne went on. “She said Agnes has full-sleeve tattoos, like that maid. That’s what it’s called—full-sleeve because it runs from shoulder to wrist, and it’s considered body art, of all things.”

“Art, my foot!” Mildred said, drawing back in surprise. “Art is what you hang on the wall.”

“I’m just telling you what I heard, but we’d better be careful before getting too close with her. You never know.”

As soon as I got a look at the young man tending bar, I was inclined to agree with her. Having walked over to the table set up with drinks, intending to ask for something cold and unlaced, I turned on my heel, deciding I could do without. The bartender had a two-inch metal rod stuck straight through the septum of his nose, and all I could think of was how it must’ve hurt going through. I also wondered how in the world he kept it clean.

I walked out of the cabana into the shade of the awning and
met Pastor Poppy Peterson, who was heading for the table. Poppy was an assistant minister and one of my favorite people, even though she was a Methodist. She was her usual luscious-looking self, dressed today in a sundress that revealed her smooth, creamy shoulders and a discreet décolletage. Apparently having given no thought to the perils of walking on grass, she had on high heels that almost qualified as stilts—three inches at a minimum and open toed to display bright red toenails.

“Miss Julia!” she said, a smile lighting her face. “I’m so glad to see you. How are you?”

“Hot, ill at ease and disturbed. How are you?”

Her laughter, always close to the surface, bubbled up. “I don’t need to ask you why. My only question is why
I
was invited.”

“Because Mildred and I put you on the list,” I told her and went on to explain how that had come about. “We had no idea what we were getting into and, frankly, I still have no idea. What is it with these people, Poppy?”

“Let’s walk over here out of the way,” Poppy said, taking my arm and moving toward a table with an umbrella. “I’ve already filled my plate once and don’t need to again. It’s all vegetarian anyway.”

We sat at the table beside the pool, and Poppy scooted her chair close to mine so we could talk. “It’s like this—I think,” she said, her voice pitched low. “I got here fairly early, so I had the benefit of a long talk with Agnes, or rather of
listening
to a long talk by Agnes. In fact, I think she was just waiting for me. She started by asking me how I’d decided to become a Christian minister—that’s the way she put it, with the emphasis on
Christian
. But instead of letting me answer, she announced that she’s a minister, too, but a minister of a much older religion than the Christian church. Then she went into this long song and dance about the necessity of strengthening the bond of mind, body and soul, which I gather are inclined to fly apart if you don’t. According to her, if you want to become a complete human being and experience the divine, you have to enhance your life by celebrating
certain ancient rituals that she would be happy to explore with me.”

“What in the world was she talking about?”

“Beats me,” Poppy said, shrugging her shoulders. “I just told her I was already celebrating an ancient ritual every day in my devotions and once a month with Communion. Then I invited her to the Methodist church, which didn’t go over too well. I think,” Poppy went on with a conspiratorial grin, “I’ve lost my place on her invitation list.”

“I’m taking my name off as well,” I said, although I wasn’t as sanguine about it as Poppy. I was still distressed by what I’d seen and by what might be seen under Agnes’s blouse if she took it off. “Well,” I went on, “she may be off on a tangent as far as religion is concerned, but we do have to give her credit. Not many people would employ those poor misled refugees from a motorcycle gang. I know I’d hesitate to have them around every day.”

Poppy crossed her arms on the table and hunched closer. “I don’t think they’re from a motorcycle gang. They may be members of that church Agnes was talking about. I mean, if you can call it a church, given that it’s nontheistic, but it’s probably part of some New Age movement that’s essentially pagan, which means not new at all but as old as the hills. If it’s what I think it is, they’re into ritualistic manipulation of the body with piercings and tattoos and even cutting the skin to make decorative scars. The idea is to test the limits of what the body can take.”

I was horrified.
“Why?”