Miss Julia Renews Her Vows (19 page)

“Well, on the other hand,” I said, with some asperity, “can this Evelyn person prove she’d just gotten there when she called nine-one-one?”

“Actually, no,” Binkie said, “but she does have a grocery receipt that proves she bought something from Ingles at eleven-twenty-eight.”

“That leaves her plenty of time to get to Francie’s house and hit her over the head,” I said, eager to put somebody besides Etta Mae in the line of fire. “After all, how long does something like that take? I just hope they’re questioning her, too.”

“They are,” Binkie said. “According to her statement, she drove straight from Ingles to the house, which only took her five or ten minutes; went in the back door to the kitchen; put up the groceries; then started the dishwasher, which she’d forgotten to do earlier. Then she went in to check on Mrs. Delacorte. That’s when she found her on the floor.”

“Yes,” I said, “but that fiddling around in the kitchen could’ve taken fifteen minutes or more, depending on how efficient she is.”

“She’s not efficient,” Etta Mae said. “She kinda shuffles along on her own time.”

Binkie winced. “That could put the attack closer to the time you left, Etta Mae, rather than near the time Evelyn got there. Except one of the deputies noted that the dishwasher was just ending the wash cycle when he got there, so that pretty much confirms her story.”

“I just wish,” Etta Mae said softly, “that I’d waited till she got there; then none of it would’ve happened. But I stayed a half hour longer than I usually do. My time with Mrs. Delacorte is supposed to be from eight-thirty to ten-thirty, Mondays and Thursdays, and Lurline gets really upset if we stay longer than we’re supposed to. Her clients are on contract, so she can’t charge them for overtime. And, Miss Julia, I was so anxious to get to your party that I was on pins and needles, ’cause I had to run home, take a shower and change clothes, then drive from Delmont to be here on time. And even then, I was late.”

“It’s perfectly all right, Etta Mae,” I assured her. “You were hardly late at all, and I still think that Lieutenant Peavey would do better to concentrate on that Evelyn rather than you.”

“Yes’m, except Evelyn’s been with Mrs. Delacorte for years and I haven’t. She even moved up here with her from Florida, and Mrs. Delacorte bought a house for her. And she’s pretty old and kinda frail, and ought not even to be driving, so I don’t think he figures she’d be up for attacking anybody.”

“Well,” I mumbled, half to myself, “you never can tell what old people can do. They can fool you sometimes.”

When Lillian announced dinner, we urged Binkie to stay but she had to get home to her own family. Etta Mae walked her to the door, thanking her profusely and hugging her, and Binkie assured her that she would push for more information on Mrs. Delacorte come the morning.

As we walked into the dining room, Sam asked how I was feeling. “You’ve had a busy day, Julia. You shouldn’t have done so much.”

“I felt fine all day, but I will admit to being a little tired now,” I told him, and it was the truth. I had hardly any appetite and wanted only to crawl into bed, which I did as soon as Etta Mae agreed to remain with us a while longer. Actually, I was glad she was staying, because Lillian’s portentous warning seemed to be coming true. My pretense of being sick might well have laid the groundwork for a true illness.

As it turned out, all I’d needed was a good night’s sleep, which I got, and I arose the following morning ready to face the world again. The first thing on my agenda was to think up something for Etta Mae to do. With no job to go to and a patient who required no care, namely me, she needed to be kept busy so she wouldn’t fall victim to despair.

Of course, when Hazel Marie came home, Etta Mae would have her hands full. But the interim had to be filled with enough tasks and chores so that Etta Mae would feel she was serving a real need. I didn’t want her to think she was a charity case.

I needn’t have worried. By the time I got downstairs, she and Lillian had the morning mapped out. The two of them were going to go to Etta Mae’s trailer and clean it from top to bottom after the ravages it had suffered at the hands of the Delmont deputies. They even seemed to be looking forward to it, although Etta Mae was a little awkward about accepting Lillian’s help.

“What am I supposed to do?” she whispered to me when Lillian stepped out of the kitchen. “I’ve never had a cleaning lady before.”

“And you don’t have one now,” I said. “Listen, Etta Mae, she’s offered to help because she likes you and wants to help. The two of you are friends, and you’ll both pitch in and have that place clean in no time.”

“But do I pay her?”

“No, you’d offend her if you offer. Just accept her help the way you’d accept mine or that of any other friend. Now just go on and have a good time. Lillian,” I said, as she came back into the kitchen, “take whatever cleaning supplies you want with you.”

“Yes’m, I’m planning to.”

“One thing’s for sure, Lillian,” Etta Mae said, “we won’t need any silver polish.”

We laughed at that, and I was pleased that Etta Mae seemed more comfortable with the thought of Lillian’s help. And even though I knew Lillian would not have accepted any payment, just as I had told Etta Mae, I planned to add a little to her weekly check, simply because I appreciated her good heart.

As they started out the door, loaded down with cleansers and dusters and first one thing and another, Etta Mae turned back. “Oh, Miss Julia, I forgot to invite you. Would you like to go with us?”

Lillian started laughing—either because of Etta Mae’s issuing a formal invitation or because the idea of my cleaning a house was so unlikely. For whatever reason, though, I assured Etta Mae that cleaning her trailer was one invitation that I had to regretfully refuse.

It was pleasant having the house entirely to myself for a change, although I soon grew tired of my own company. With no one to talk to, thoughts of Francie Pitts and her false accusations against Etta Mae filled my head. The woman had to be wrong. Etta Mae would never injure a living soul, much less her own patient. She was a feisty little thing, there was no doubt about that, but in all the tight spots we’d been in together I’d never gotten a hint that she could turn violent.

Still, I couldn’t help but recall her flushed face, tousled hair, trembling hands and gasping breath as she arrived at my house last Thursday for that fateful luncheon. Those symptoms could have been the aftereffects of a loss of temper and control that had led her to bash Francie’s head in. I had to admit that whenever I’d been around Francie, I’d often felt the urge to slap her face. So given Francie’s usual regal ways, I could hardly blame Etta Mae if she had hauled off and let her have it.

But, of course, I didn’t mean that. I was prone to let my thoughts run away with me. Etta Mae did not do it. She had left Francie in good health at eleven o’clock, just as she said she had. Either somebody else came in between that time and the time the sitter got there or the sitter got there early and did the job herself. That was the more likely story. Anybody who’d worked for Francie for years could easily have reached the end of her rope last Thursday and decided to shut her up, even for a little while. I didn’t care how feeble this Evelyn was supposed to be—anybody could walk up behind a person and have the strength to bring a weapon crashing down. And that brought something else to mind—where was the weapon? And what
was
the weapon?

I started to the phone to call Binkie, having realized that the nature of the weapon could possibly lead to the wielder of it. The doorbell stopped me, so I turned around and opened the door to Emma Sue Ledbetter, Pastor Ledbetter’s meek and long-suffering wife.

“Why, Emma Sue, what a nice surprise,” I said. “Come in. I’m glad to see you.”

“Oh, Julia,” she said, following me into the living room as I indicated the sofa. “I apologize for barging in on you like this, but you’re the only one I know who’ll understand. I know you will,” she went on, taking a handful of Kleenex from her tote bag, “because you didn’t go either.”

“What are we talking about, Emma Sue?”

“That blasted marriage enrichment program!” Emma Sue practically spat the words out, taking me aback because she ordinarily had nothing but good to say about everything and everybody. “I know you were sick, and so was I, but we can’t keep getting sick every Monday night, can we?”

“Well,” I said, playing for time, as I realized that Emma Sue may have seen right through me. “I guess we can’t. But I really was sick, Emma Sue.” And that was the dead-level truth, for I recalled with a shudder the cold trembling down my back and the clutch of nausea in my throat when Dr. Fowler’s name jumped out at me from the church bulletin Sunday morning.

“Oh, I was, too,” she said, nodding with conviction. “Sick to my soul. Body, too. But Julia, I don’t want to go to those sessions even though I guess I’m over whatever I had. But I came to ask if you’re going to the next one.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “I figure that because I’ve missed the introductory session, it wouldn’t be fair to the group to come in later on.”

“
You
might be able to get away with that,” she said, with a despairing sigh, “but I can’t. Larry says that because he’s the pastor, he has to be there, and because I’m his wife, I have to be, too.” She sniffed, then gave up on that and blew her nose. “We both
have
to be there. ‘How will it look,’ he said, ‘if we don’t support a church program?’ And I said, ‘Well, how will it look if we
do
?’ Everybody will think our marriage is in trouble, Julia, and besides, I’m already supporting every program and activity in that church, and I simply cannot take on another one. Especially one like that. It’ll tear me up, Julia, knowing that everybody in the congregation will be worried about the state of our marriage. Pastors and their wives have to be so careful, you know, not to give offense or stir up trouble.” Emma Sue stifled a sob. “But Larry doesn’t see it that way. He’s convinced that Dr. Fowler can make a good thing even better, and we ought to take advantage of it, while at the same time set an example for everybody else.

“And I’ll tell you something else,” she went on before I could get a word out, “but you can’t tell anybody, Julia, not even Sam, because I know you tell him everything. Promise me you won’t.”

“I promise I won’t,” I said.

She really started crying then, pitifully, with tears streaming down her face. “I think Larry’s unhappy with me. I think he’s come to the age where he’s wondering if there’s not something better. Men do that, you know. All the books say so, even the Christian marriage manuals. So I think Larry wants us to go to Dr. Fowler’s sessions so I’ll learn how to be a better wife. And I’ll tell you the truth, Julia, I’m not perfect, but I’m doing the best I can already.”

“Of course you are, Emma Sue,” I said. “Nobody could do better. And you shouldn’t be made to feel guilty if you don’t want to spend your Monday evenings in the company of that so-called expert on marriage. What’re his credentials, anyway? Anybody can hang out a shingle, you know, and just because he has a PhD doesn’t mean he knows how to kindle anybody’s embers.”

I stopped then, remembering with burning shame that he’d once kindled mine. But that was an aberration on my part, one I had to live with but never repeat.

“Yes,” Emma Sue said, wiping her face with a fierce swipe of the wad of Kleenex, “and you don’t know the half of it.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “He’s not even married himself, and never even
been
married. So what does he know? Doodley-squat, that’s what.”

“Really!” I was surprised, though I guess I shouldn’t have been, considering his actions in the bridal parlor. “I didn’t know that. I just assumed that he’d had some practical experience on the subject.”

“And that’s not all,” Emma Sue hissed. “He lives with his
mother
! And always has, all his life, and he’s no spring chicken. She’s on up there in age, too, I understand, but still. I think that’s more than a little strange, don’t you?”