Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (20 page)

“Church business,” I told Etta Mae, apologizing for the interruption, but she was still entranced with
Antiques Roadshow
. Maybe that was a good thing. I might've spewed out my outrage at having had the onus of a broken air conditioner laid on my shoulders. And I knew who had put it there—don't think I didn't.

But I put a clamp on the fiery words that wanted to boil out, restrained by knowing that it was bad form to speak ill of one's church to a nonmember. Although I had been occasionally guilty of doing just that when I'd been pushed to my limit.

“I just love this room,” Etta Mae said, sitting up and looking around as the program ended. “It's so elegant and everything. You have real good taste.”

“Thank you, but I can't take all the credit. I had some help from a designer, although I had to put my foot down when she wanted to paint the walls navy blue.”

“Really? It was your idea to paint the walls white and the trim this pretty green? Usually it's the other way around.”

“The color on the trim is Raleigh Tavern Green, and it wasn't my idea at all. It's the way they painted rooms in Colonial times and still do in Williamsburg.” I looked around as she was doing, feeling again the sense of history that the room evoked for me. “I like to think that if Mr. Jefferson came to call, he would feel right at home.”

“I don't think I know him.”

I almost laughed out loud, but I wouldn't have hurt her feelings for the world. So as deftly as I could I explained that I was speaking metaphorically of our third president, and she laughed at herself. Then we had an interesting talk about the country's early years, and she proved a rapt, but short-lived, pupil. As her interest waned, she began to go over her schedule of patients for the following day, and I decided to go upstairs to bed. But the whole episode reminded me of my intention to work with the Literacy Council, which of course I had been unable to do, my time having been wholly taken up with Mattie's affairs.

Maybe one of these days,
I thought, as I trudged up the stairs after a long day of dealing with Sam and Lloyd leaving for a week, the theft of something valuable that was under my guardianship, welcoming a houseguest with a change of clothes in a plastic grocery sack, and learning that I was to blame for a lack of air-conditioning—any one of which was enough for one day alone. I was tired.

But did I sleep? No, I did not. Well, off and on, but mostly off, for images of someone sneaking into Mattie's apartment and emptying it out while I lay in bed worrying about it kept running through my head.

At one point, I sat straight up in bed, thinking I'd heard a noise downstairs.
Etta Mae,
I thought.
Maybe she's getting a midnight snack
. If so, she was quiet about eating it, for I heard nothing more.

I was glad that she was in the house—I would've slept even less imagining somebody breaking in. I mean, a thief was
out there
somewhere. Any house could've been the next target.

Lying down again, my mind was racing so fast that I couldn't get back to sleep. Who had burgled Mattie's apartment? I went over again all the prime suspects—all those who had knowledge of and access to what was in her apartment. And could come to no other feasible person of interest than Andrew F. Cobb. But was that because I didn't want it to have been someone I knew and trusted? Was he a likely candidate only because he was a stranger to us?

Lord, I didn't know. If, however, I could find out where he'd been over the weekend, that might answer some questions. Why, he could've been out of town, which would take him out of the running entirely. He could've taken his little two-wheeled trailer up to a campsite in the Smoky Mountains and spent the weekend hiking on the trails, cooking over a campfire, and sleeping in a bedroll.

On the other hand, I thought, as the other possibility popped up in my mind, even though he'd said that he didn't want to be tied down by material goods, those goods could be turned into cash, which had never tied anybody down. And actually that was exactly what I was in the process of doing.

Maybe that was it! Maybe he was waiting for me to do the hard work of evaluating, sorting, culling, transporting, and selling all of Mattie's material goods, then he'd step in with a court order and an extended hand for the cash.

But here was the question: if Andrew F. Cobb was the thief—why had he bothered? If he was Mattie's great-nephew, everything she had could have been his. Oh, he would've had to prove his kinship, then go through some legal rigmarole to contest her will, but I couldn't imagine that any of the beneficiaries would go to the trouble of challenging his rights to her estate.

Well, I had to rethink that. The church might, but surely Pastor Ledbetter and the elders had more class than to attempt to override a legal heir. Besides St. Paul having had a few words to say on the subject of lawsuits, it was also quite tasteless for a church to involve itself in one. But, then again, the session might figure it was worth it. After all, the church was Mattie's major beneficiary, and the sanctuary was in dire need of cool air. Maybe when it came to a choice between taking the high road or fighting for their rights, the elders would rather be thought tasteless than to swelter all summer.

I had just drifted off to sleep when the phone rang beside the bed. Scared to death, my first thought was that something had happened to Lloyd or Sam.

“Hello?” I quavered, then cleared my throat.

“Mrs. Murdoch? It's Nate Wheeler. Sorry to wake you, but we've had an incident here, and I thought I'd better let you know.”

I sat straight up in bed, wide awake. “What kind of incident? Another break-in?”

“No, I think we nipped that in the bud. But somebody was sneaking around the building. Nothing happened because Mrs. Henderson up on the third floor saw something or somebody moving down below. She was sleeping in her sunroom and got up to go to the . . . Ah, well, anyway, she was awake and looked out the window and saw a shadow creeping around below near Mrs. Freeman's sunroom. So she thought . . .”

“The thief! He was coming back for something else.”

“That's what she thought, so she called the sheriff, then me. Deputies are looking around outside now, but they haven't found anything.”

“Oh, my,” I moaned. “Mr. Wheeler, are you sure that nobody got in?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I went all around outside Mrs. Freeman's sunroom with a deputy and we checked every window. There's no breach anywhere, and I guess we have Mrs. Henderson to thank for that.”

And her call of nature
,
I thought, but didn't say.

“Well, that settles it,” I said. “If you hear noises in the hall in about fifteen minutes, it'll be me. Mr. Wheeler, I am moving in for the duration, and I just dare that thief to come back.”

Mr. Wheeler began to say that he didn't think my coming over was necessary, but I cut him off. Mattie's things were my responsibility, and I intended to take care of them.

Throwing back the covers—my air-conditioning was working just fine—I pulled on a robe and hurried across the hall.

“Etta Mae?” I whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, ma'am. Is everything all right? I heard the phone.”

I told her that I was leaving to spend the night elsewhere because of a possible impending crime and that she should go back
to sleep. “Lillian will be here to give you breakfast, so you can tell her where I am.”

“No way,” she said, swinging her feet out of bed. “I'm not staying here by myself. I'm going with you.”

To tell the truth, I was glad to hear it. She put on a cotton robe and pink, fluffy bedroomers that looked like a pair of rabbbits on her feet, grabbed her grocery sack, and followed me down the stairs, both of us still in our night clothes. I grabbed my pocketbook, wrote a quick note to Lillian, left it on the kitchen counter, and off we went.

The deputies were gone by the time we drove the five blocks, but Mr. Wheeler was waiting for us in the building's vestibule. Thinking that I should've taken time to dress, I clutched my robe closer. I needn't have bothered. It was Etta Mae for whom he had eyes—an uncommonly inappropriate reaction at midnight after an attempted criminal entry.

I didn't linger in the hall, just quickly unlocked Mattie's door, shoved Etta Mae through it, and thanked Mr. Wheeler for his rapid response to the emergency.

Well, of course, the apartment was unprepared for overnight guests, so the first thing we had to do was to put sheets on the guest room bed for Etta Mae. Mattie had kept it with just a spread over the mattress pad. Her bed, on the other hand, had been frequently used and the sheets looked it. As tired as I was by that time, there was no way I was going to crawl in between Mattie's, or anybody else's, slept-in sheets. But there was something else that needed doing first.

“One more thing, Etta Mae,” I said as we finished with her bed. “Then we can sleep in peace. Let's block those French doors, so if anybody gets in the sunroom he can't get in here.”

“I'd rather he not get in
any
where,” Etta Mae mumbled, but she followed me into the living room and began shoving a chair in front of the doors.

I placed a brass lamp on the chair seat, then stepped back. “That's not going to stop anybody. Anything heavy enough to keep
somebody out is too heavy for us to move. I tell you what, let's get these boxes off the sofa and I'll sleep on it.”

“Oh, no. Let me sleep in here, and you sleep in the guest room. I was just thinking about doing that, anyway.”

I looked at the hard-as-a-rock Victorian monstrosity, thought of what the state of my back would be in the morning, and said, “Etta Mae, you're my guest, and I hate to put you up on a sofa. But, I declare, those sofa arms are so large I wouldn't be able to stretch out.”

“Well, see, I'm short enough to fit, and I've slept on sofas before—pallets, too, which are a lot worse. And I'm a light sleeper. I'll hear anything that moves.”

I hated taking her bed, but was glad not to have to sleep in Mattie's, clean sheets or not. It just wouldn't have felt right. So I agreed to the arrangement, helped Etta Mae find a blanket and a pillow, then crawled into the bed in the guest room, thankful for the comfort, though feeling guilty for ill using my guest.

And, by the way, Etta Mae wasn't such a light sleeper. She was prone to snoring, but at least that was proof that the sofa was conducive to sleep.

_______

Etta Mae and I, hunched over, scurried from the car to my kitchen door before any early risers could catch sight of us creeping in after a night out somewhere—especially dressed, or undressed, as we were.

Lillian slewed around from the sink, her eyes wide, staring at us in alarm. “What you doin', comin' in here like that? Where you been? You s'posed to be in bed!”

“Oh, Lillian, you wouldn't believe.” I collapsed in a chair at the table, as Etta Mae waved at Lillian and went straight through the kitchen on her way to get dressed for work.

“Well,” Lillian said, her hands on her hips, “I jus' wanta know what you two been doin', runnin' 'round without hardly no clothes on. Folks gonna be talkin' all over town.”

“Nobody saw us,” I said, “but if they did, I don't much care.” And I went on to tell her of our night and why we'd been running around in our bedclothes. “I left you a note—it's here on the table. And you know I had to look after Miss Mattie's property, Lillian, as I am legally constrained to do.”

“Look like to me you coulda done it with some clothes on, but sound like you couldn't much help it. What you want for breakfast?”

“Anything. Whatever you fix for Etta Mae—she'll need a big one before she goes to work.” I stood up and pushed my chair back. “So to make you feel better, I'm going up and get dressed.”

“It don't make no never mind to me,” she said, setting a skillet on the stove. “'Cept I gotta have something to tell everybody what asks, an' they'll be askin', you know they will. 'Cause you can't do nothin' in this town without somebody knowin' about it.”

“We were fully clothed, Lillian, from head to toe. And I don't care who saw us.” I stopped and considered for a minute. “Although I don't think anybody did—it's too early and we scrooched down in the car.”

Lillian's shoulders started shaking, and, trying to hold back a laugh, she said, “I wisht I'd seen you out runnin' 'round, 'speci'lly Miss Etta Mae in them big, ole, fluffy rabbity-lookin' shoes of hers.”

Then we both started laughing and I had to sit back down to get my breath. Besides, why hurry to dress by that time?

After Etta Mae left for work, I decided to make good use of the morning to go through the closet in Mattie's guest room—at least to clear it out and to transfer any valuable papers to my house, where they would be safe. And, I determined, I would urge Diane and Helen to finish their appraisals so we could get the furniture out of there as well. When that was done, there would be no need to spend another night in somebody else's lumpy bed. I had absolutely no desire to actually move into Mattie's apartment for an unlimited span of time. One night was enough for me.

Telling Lillian where I was going, and being told in turn to take my cell phone, I checked my checklist and said, “One of these days it'll become a habit and I won't need to be reminded. But it better be quick because Mattie's phone will be cut off tomorrow, which means one less bill to pay.”

_______

I met Mr. Wheeler in the building's vestibule as I was going in and he was coming out.

He smiled, wished me a good morning, and said, “I hope you and your friend rested well last night.”

“As well as could be expected under the circumstances, thank you,” I replied. “But I'd as soon not do it too many times. I intend to light a fire under Diane and Helen so we can get this place empty and off my hands.”

“I don't blame you,” he said with an easy smile. “But you have somebody new helping you now, don't you?”

“Oh, you mean Etta Mae? No, she's my houseguest and insisted on keeping me company last night. I couldn't ask her to help. She has her hands full with her own job.”

“Well,” he said, as I moved on toward Mattie's door, “maybe I'll see you both tonight. That is, if you're planning to stay over again.”

“I am. I mean, we are, and I guess it'll be for the duration.”

“Good,” he said on his way out. “Call me if I can help. I'll be around.”

Hm-m,
I thought, as I closed and locked Mattie's door behind me. If I wasn't mistaken, Mr. Wheeler was exhibiting interest in a certain young woman, when all the while I'd thought it was Helen who had taken his eye.

I stopped in the middle of Mattie's crowded living room and thought,
Hm-m,
again. Maybe that nice Mr. Wheeler had eyes for the ladies—
any
ladies, that is. Whoever happened to cross his path, which made me wonder about the accuracy of my earlier assessment of him.

“Well, you never know about people,” I mumbled aloud with a little thump of disappointment.

Then I headed for the guest room closet, where I found my work cut out for me—it was still crammed full of coats and jackets and wool skirts and dresses—all of which meant another trip to Goodwill. The top shelf was stacked high with boxes, and as I lifted armloads of clothes off the rod, I saw that the back corner of the closet was also stacked high with more boxes, albums, and who-knew-what-else.

After emptying the rod of hanging clothes, I reached up and took down a stack of boxes to put on the bed—one good thing, I would have to get this task done before nightfall so I would have room to crawl in. Another good thing, the boxes weren't heavy. One held a collection of gloves, some with mates, some without. Another held woolen scarves, and another was full of pages torn from magazines—for the recipes, I supposed.

I started a Goodwill stack on one side of the bed, opened a trash bag at my feet for the magazine pages, and placed a few grocery store boxes nearby for anything valuable that should go to my house for safekeeping.

Then the problem cropped up—what was valuable and what was not? Mr. Sitton had said that I should use my own discretion in determining value, but after possibly misjudging Mr. Wheeler, how could I trust my own discretion?

I could just hear Lillian: “Jus' do the best you can, that's all anybody can do.”

Then my cell phone rang, startling me because it rarely did so. When I hesitantly answered it, Etta Mae said, “Miss Julia, I know what it is. I was standing here ready to give a bed bath, and it just came to me. You have a pencil and paper?”

“Yes,” I said, scrounging in my purse until I found a pen and a receipt from the bookstore. “I'm ready.”

“Okay, it's the combination for a safe.”

“What safe?”

“There has to be one somewhere. Write this down: left seven, right ten, left twenty-three, and right ten again. I'm taking every little scribble at face value, but I'll bet you anything it'll open a safe somewhere.”

_______

Where in the world would Mattie have kept a safe? Excited by the thought of finding one, I hurried through the apartment, looking under beds, peeking behind portraits for a wall safe, and opening cabinets for hidden dials. All of that was just to reassure myself because I knew where a safe had to be. If, indeed, there was one—that deep, dark guest room closet that I had yet to explore. So I went back to it, reminding myself that there was more to look for than an imaginary safe. I was responsible for sorting through everything before Andrew F. Cobb got his hands on it. Removing the last of the clothes hangers, lifting down boxes from the shelf, and going through each one of them, I learned little
more than that Mattie had pretty much saved everything she'd ever come across.

But then, blowing dust off an old shoe box that had once held a pair of Thom McAn oxfords, size 10D, I hit pay dirt—of a sort. Fewer than a dozen letters, some held together with faded pink ribbons, and a few in the distinctive red-and-blue-bordered flimsy envelopes, stamped
AIRMAIL
, that I knew at once were from Tommy. How had she received them with an irate father watching her every move? There was no telling, but get them she had, for here they were in a shoe box.

I opened one at random from each pack to confirm the sender, and a quick scan identified one as a missive from prison and the other from a war zone.

I sat for a moment, there on the side of the bed, holding a box of sad memories on my lap, and thought of Andrew F. Cobb. If he was who he said he was, these things belonged to him, whether or not he was writing a family history. And if he was writing one, the letters would be a treasure trove for him.

I carefully set the box aside—it would go to my house until it could be legitimately claimed. And if it never was, perhaps a library somewhere in Kentucky would archive them for future historians.

With the shelves now empty, I felt around in the dark corner at the back of the closet and brought out several dusty photograph albums from a stack of books, ledgers, and boxes that was almost shoulder high. Flipping through albums, I saw that they contained pictures that looked as old as the hills—some had come loose from the little corner tabs, others had faded to a sickly yellow, and some were so old that they could've been tintypes. Whatever tintypes were. Most were of what I assumed were family members—perhaps grandparents, both tall, broad shouldered, and of wide girth, standing stiff and unsmiling on the porch of a stately two-story farmhouse. There were several pictures of two little boys in knee britches and a few of a little girl in a pinafore who looked as unhappy as Mattie often had when I had known her.

Looking through another album in the stack, I came across the wedding picture of Mattie and Tommy. I knew what it was because of the studio background with handpainted wedding bells in each corner. So young, I thought as I studied the happy faces, it was heartbreaking. Especially since I knew what the future held for them. Mattie was wearing a white dress down to her ankles, but it wasn't an evening gown. With black buttons down the front and a black belt at her waist, it looked more like a housedress. She wore dark shoes with a small heel and—my word—white socks.

And Tommy? He was in shirtsleeves without a tie and pleated trousers that looked a size or two too large for him, but the smile on his face as he held his bride close would move the heart of a person of stone. Unless it was his bride's father, whose heart was apparently never moved.

Lord, I thought as I closed the album, it's a good thing that none of us knows the future. If those two had known theirs, they wouldn't have had even that one happy day.

I sighed and consigned the albums to my take-home-with-me pile, thinking that they might be archived along with the letters. If, that is, no legal heir appeared—or wanted them, if one did.