Miss Julia's Marvelous Makeover (29 page)

On our way home, Latisha fell asleep in the backseat, lying slumped over her seat belt. I had a hard time getting her in the house when I pulled into the driveway. Although it wasn't as late as I'd thought—only a little past ten-thirty—I knew Sam would be worried. He would've looked for us at the park and, not finding us, he probably called home. Being otherwise occupied, I, of course, would not have been where he could reach me. I had a lot of explaining to do.

Surprisingly, though, Sam's car wasn't home, so I figured he and the volunteers, perhaps along with the Pickenses, were having a late supper somewhere in town. Maybe he wasn't worried.

“Come on, honey,” I said, unbuckling Latisha and helping her out of the car. “Let's get you to bed.”

We stumbled together into the kitchen and, after switching on the lights, I stepped out of my muddy garden boots and began removing her rain gear.

“Well,” I said, picking some leaves from her hair, “we missed the fireworks at the park, didn't we? We'll make up for it next year.”

“I don't need to make up for it,” she said, her voice regaining its usual volume. “We had us a fireworks show better'n anybody else's, an' the only thing wrong with it was I didn't get to light none of them firecrackers.”

—

After getting her cleaned up and into a cotton nightgown that Lillian kept for those occasions when they stayed the night, I tucked her in bed. She'd been half asleep on her feet, so she quickly curled up and settled in.

Looking down at that sweet child, I shivered at the thought of what could've happened if we hadn't discovered that loaded sack
she'd carried around and put its contents out of commission. I didn't feel much better at the thought of what Lillian would do when she learned of Latisha's portable arsenal.

The sale of fireworks was illegal in North Carolina, and I knew Latisha had not been to any state where they were legal. And I also knew that Lillian would not have let her buy any, if she had. But
somebody
had, and that somebody had supplied them to Latisha.

I sat on the edge of the bed, smoothed back her hair, and said, “Honey, where did you get all those fireworks?”

Her eyelids fluttered, and she murmured, “I buy 'em.”

“You
bought
them? Where did you get the money?”

“Didn't need no money.” She flipped over on her other side. “Mr. Nub jus' wanted two a Great-Granny's pound cakes.”

They Lord,
I thought, patted her shoulder, and took myself downstairs. So Nub Walker had been her supplier. I should've guessed—he walked around with lit sparklers on every holiday, including Halloween. He would have to be spoken to, but not by me. In fact, the sheriff should consider taking him into protective custody to keep him intact, once Lillian found out what he'd done. Poor Nub, he was sweet and trusting and as good a soul as you'd ever want to meet, but he wasn't all there. Well, frankly, he was mentally retarded, and I know that's become insensitive to say, but how else do you describe a forty-year-old man who'd spent five years in first grade and hadn't learned to read to this day?

When Lillian learned that he'd sold fireworks to an eight-year-old child—regardless of the compliment to her pound cakes—she would skin him alive. Even the Witness Protection Program might not keep him safe.

—

Tired and worn out, but too full of the evening's events to sleep, I prepared for bed, but went downstairs to wait for Sam. He came in a little while later, equally tired and full of his day's happenings. We sat together on the sofa in the library where I could hold his hand and worry about the fatigue on his face.

“What a day, Julia,” he said, but not tiredly. He said it as if he were ready to do it all over again the next day. “I've never seen such enthusiasm. Big crowds everywhere, and they clapped and cheered and waved Murdoch banners. I rode in a couple of parades and went to three barbecues and two picnics. Then Jimmy Ray and I were introduced out at the park.” He laughed. “They put us between a bluegrass band and the fireworks show—didn't get to say anything but ‘I hope you'll vote for me,' or some such, but lots of people were there, in spite of the drizzle.” He stopped and looked at me. “The city outdid itself with the fireworks. Did you get a good parking place?”

“As a matter of fact,” I began, then went on to tell him that Latisha and I had missed the great fireworks display, but that we'd put on one of our own. I thought his eyebrows were going to disappear into his hair as I told him of Rodney's brazen attempt to enlarge my property and of our successful counterattack.

“Latisha saved the day, Sam,” I concluded. “But Lillian is going to thrash Nub Walker to within an inch of his life for selling her a sack of fireworks and a Bic lighter, as well. I think you should talk to the sheriff about him. No telling how many other children he's sold to.”

“I will. But, Julia, what in the world possessed you to go out there by yourself? I know, I know,” Sam said, holding up his hand to stop my protest. “You had Etta Mae and Latisha with you, but I wouldn't call either of them much help if you'd had trouble.”

“Oh, Sam, you wouldn't believe the help they were! I couldn't have asked for better. Why, if it hadn't been for Latisha's sack and Etta Mae's throwing arm, all we could've done was watch while Rodney stole a tenth of an acre. And, speaking of that,” I went on, hoping to distract him, “why did he think moving a couple of stakes would do him any good? He knows I wouldn't sell if there were fifty acres out there. And how would he explain the difference between the old plat and what the surveyors would've found?”

“He wouldn't have to explain it,” Sam said. “He'd probably have acted as surprised as anyone at the discrepancy. Although most likely the newer survey would stand unless the railroad questioned
it. But from what you say, he'd better have a good explanation in the morning. When his surveyors get there, they'll have questions about that stake being so far out of line. Plus,” he went on, trying not to smile, “somebody's going to have to explain the evidence of it having been moved. He didn't finish covering his tracks, did he?”

“No, but he'll have the rest of the night to finish it. Except, somehow I don't think he will. His tools are out of reach, for one thing—but ready to hand if we need his fingerprints. And Etta Mae arranged for a flat tire, and, Sam, I didn't have anything to do with that. Didn't even know about it till it was done.”

“Okay, but would you mind if I went out there in the morning? I'd like to meet Rodney and his surveyors.”

“Oh, Sam,
would
you? I'd be so relieved to have you lay down the law to them all. I'm so tired of Rodney and his mortuary plans, and tired of Thurlow hovering in the background with threats of bribes and political influence and eminent domain for the public good. I'd like to wash my hands of it all, pay my property taxes as I've always done, and assure Etta Mae that her home is safe from gravediggers.”

Sam laughed, took my hand, and said, “Are you engaging me as your attorney of record?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling, “and for anything else you might have in mind.”

—

Thunder and the sharp flashes of lightning woke me sometime in the night. Scrooching up close to Sam's back, I listened to the pounding of heavy rain and wondered what Rodney was doing. If he'd regained enough courage to try to finish what he'd started, he'd be out there in it, slipping and sliding in the mud and soaked to the skin. Surely, though, he had enough sense not to attempt to move another stake in bad weather. Holding an iron stake in the midst of a thunderstorm would make him a lightning rod the likes of which would put our little fireworks show to shame. Lightning Rod-ney, I thought, then turned over and went back to sleep.

Sam was up and gone before daylight. Whispering that he wanted to be out on Springer Road before Rodney and the surveyors got there, he said he'd get a bagel on his way and for me to stay in bed.

Gratefully, I did, thinking that if having a gallbladder operation would give me as much energy as Sam seemed to have, I ought to schedule mine fairly soon.

—

About eight, I went downstairs, dreading every step, to face Lillian. Latisha was already there, having had her breakfast and, from the look on her face, a good talking-to.

“Lillian,” I said as soon as I stepped into the sunny kitchen, “I can explain, but first, how is Mrs. Abernathy?”

Lillian turned to me with a big smile. “She so much better, thank the Lord. Miss Julia, I tell you the truth, we all thought she was passin', but the Lord, He hear our prayers, an' He answer 'em jus' the way we ast Him to.”

“I am so glad. Did you get any sleep?”

“I doze off an' on, so I'm all right.” Lillian cracked an egg on the edge of a skillet, cut her eyes at me, and said, “Latisha tole me what y'all done last night. I guess she need a switchin' for gettin' firecrackers from ole Nub, but, I declare, she don't know no better, an' he don't either. I don't know what I ought to do.”

“Nothing,” I said, “don't do anything. Sam's going to talk to the sheriff about Nub, and, Lillian, I had no idea that Latisha had a sackful of fireworks, but they couldn't have been put to a better use. I just want you to know that she was never in any danger—I wouldn't have had that child hurt for anything. And we only went
out there to see what Rodney was doing—nothing else, just to sneak in and sneak out. It was only when we got there that Latisha called our attention to what she had, and I thought it was better to go ahead and use them in a good cause than to let her keep them.” I stopped, wondering how much more to say. “I should've called you, but with Mrs. Abernathy so sick . . .” I trailed off and quit.

“I don't never worry 'bout Latisha when she with you,” Lillian said, making me feel both better and worse. Then she laughed. “Sometimes I reckon I ought to, though. Set on down, this egg be done.”

—

Just as I sat at the table, the phone rang. Hurrying to answer it before Lillian fussed about a cold breakfast, I heard Etta Mae on the line.

“Miss Julia? I'm out in the country on my cell, so I might lose you. I have to hurry and tell you that I passed that place on my way to work—you know the one I mean, don't you? The place where we were last night?”

“Yes, I know. Out there on—”

“Don't say it,” she said. “No telling who's listening. Anyway, there was a whole bunch of cars on the side of the road and men wandering around above the ditch. And I mean, a couple of cop cars and some other cars, and a wrecker.” She giggled. “Guess what they need that for.”

We chatted a few minutes longer while I told her that Sam would've been one of the men, and that he knew exactly who and what we'd seen and exactly where Rodney's tools were, in case he needed corroborative evidence.

“As far as you and I—and Latisha, of course—are concerned,” I assured her, “we're out of it. What Rodney did is as plain as day, and even more so after that downpour last night, so they won't need any eyewitness testimony. And, Etta Mae . . . Etta Mae? Well,” I said, replacing the phone, “I've lost her.”

—

About midmorning, Sam came in looking pleased and slightly sunburned. “An interesting morning, Julia,” he said. “You would've enjoyed it.” He sat at the table as Lillian brought over a cup of coffee.

“What happened?” I asked, eager to hear it all. “Tell us everything.”

“Well, I got there first, as I intended,” he said. “Then somebody in what looked like one of McCrory's Lincolns dropped Rodney off. To say he was taken aback to see me is an understatement. He hemmed and hawed, trying to explain why his car was parked in the bushes. He told me he'd been out there the day before looking around so he could point things out to the surveyors, and that his car wouldn't start when he was ready to leave.” Sam looked up at Lillian and me. “Why don't you two sit down? This is a long story.” We did and he continued. “Anyway, he was fit to be tied when his car really wouldn't start. Not only did it have a flat tire, it was mired in mud from rainwater runoff. Took about an hour to get a tow truck to come pull it out. And, let me tell you, he was one anxious young man. He couldn't stand still, kept snapping his fingers and jiggling around, saying, ‘I got to go. I'm late, got to get to work,' and so on. No way around it—he wanted to be gone before the surveyors came.

“But he didn't make it. Two surveyors showed up, and as soon as they crossed the ditch, one of them looked around, saw the footprints and trampled weeds, as well as the mud puddle where the stake had been, and said, ‘Uh-oh. Looks like we got us a land thief.' I thought Rodney would faint, but he pulled himself together and got real interested in who could've possibly moved a stake. He even went so far as to discover the new location—just happened to stumble across it.” Sam stopped, shook his head, and laughed.

“Well, finally the wrecker got there, and Rodney got busy directing the driver on how to do his job until, that is, Coleman pulled up in his patrol car and another came in behind him. Rodney was beside himself by that time, talking a mile a minute,
saying he couldn't imagine who could've done it, and that he'd been there the day before and somebody had shot at him, and he wanted to report the incident. Well, Coleman perked up at that, asked him all kinds of questions he couldn't answer. Rodney said, ‘They shot at me a dozen times, and I'm not ashamed to say I ran for my life. I mean, there must've been five or six of them, and I knew I couldn't take 'em all on.'

“During all this I just stood back and let the surveyors point out the evidence to Coleman. He was taking notes and snapping pictures while Rodney was about to talk himself into real trouble. I finally drew him aside and told him he'd said enough, and that as long as the deputies didn't find any tools with fingerprints on them, they wouldn't know who the guilty party was. He turned white as a sheet and said he hadn't seen any tools and didn't know where they could be. ‘I don't doubt that,' I said, ‘but whoever shot at you probably has them or knows where they are. My advice to you is to cancel the survey and get out of Dodge.' Well,” Sam said, laughing again, “I put it a little differently than that. But he thanked me and said if he'd known there were crazy people roaming around with guns in that part of the county, he never would've considered your property. By that time, they'd pulled his car out, so Rodney gave his card to Coleman, crawled in with the truck driver, and off they went, towing the Escalade behind them.”

Lillian and I laughed, and I must say that I did it with a great deal of relief.

“Oh, by the way, Julia,” Sam went on. “Do you know what surveyors call the iron stakes they use as markers?” I shook my head and he told me. “They call them monuments.”

“
Really
? Well. I declare. Then since Rodney's given up on his cemetery, we'll have something to remember him by.”

—

You would think that with Rodney getting his comeuppance and Sam making sure my property was no longer desirable that, for one day, we'd had our fill of unexpected events. For one thing, I'd
begun feeling a nagging guilt for leaving Trixie so long with Hazel Marie. The Pickens family didn't need a permanent houseguest, so it was time for me to take up the burden of that prickly girl again. The time came sooner than I expected, for the day wasn't over by a long shot. I knew it when the mailman came.

Along with the bills, a letter from Elsie was in the pile I drew from the mailbox on the front porch. I stood looking at it, hoping that it would be what I'd longed for, but realizing that, without a return address, it was unlikely to be. I sat in a wicker chair on the porch, tore open the envelope, and read:

Dear Julia,

You probably don't wont to hear this, but I need for Trixie to come home.

A smile spread across my face and I had an urge to sing the Hallelujah Chorus. Although to be truthful, with Trixie at Hazel Marie's, she had been little trouble to me. The same could not be said for her former gentleman friend to whom she'd introduced us. I kept reading.

Well, home to us but not to her since she don't know where we are. So you can tell her this is where we are Ocean View RV Park #213 Whisper Lane Daytona, Fla I don't know the zip. We're just renting so dont think we can't afford a house but Troy took a parttime job at a gater farm and got bit. On the leg and it swoll up something awful and he went to the hospital and the doctor says he has to stay off of it, so I need help taking care of him. Troy don't like to be tied to his bed, so he is ill as a hornet all the time. I'm tired of being up and down all night long every night of the week waiting on him hand and foot.

Poor Trixie, I thought, to have to leave the gracious home she was in and go to a cramped RV, whatever that was, and care for an ill-tempered patient who would likely undo everything Hazel Marie and I had done. I felt a stab of sympathy.

You'll just have to do without her and so will anybody else she's taken up with. If she pitches a fit, tell her absence makes the heart grow fonder and so forth. She's needed here, but tell her the Ocean View Park is close to the race track and they's men young and old around all the time. Some of them even park their million dollar RVs right here in the park close to us. So let me know what bus she'll be on and I will meet it.

I know you hate to see her go—anybody would, but maybe she can come back at Xmas if Troy is on his feet by then. Hope you won't miss her too much.

Your cousin, Elsie Bingham

My heart had grown lighter with each line, although there was not one word of thanks or a hint of gratitude in the letter. But she had added, like an afterthought, a phone number at the bottom. That was more than she'd done in her first letter, which meant that she was no longer hiding their whereabouts from Trixie or me.

In spite of having received the news I'd been longing for, I had to admit to myself that I would regret being unable to witness Trixie's full blossoming under Hazel Marie's tutelage. I comforted myself, however, by noting the distinct possibility that Trixie had already reached her peak, and there'd be nothing more to witness.