Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (25 page)

Etta Mae had no trouble convincing me that the fried chicken and potato salad that Lillian had left in the refrigerator would be much better than what the clubhouse dining room would serve. We steamed some broccoli, sliced a tomato, and warmed up the yeast rolls, then sat at the kitchen table, congratulating ourselves on the decision to eat at home.

“This is going to work real well,” Etta Mae said, reaching for another paper napkin. “We'll be through by the time the news is off. That's when they'll start the marathon again.”

“Marathon? Who's running?”

“
Sex and the City
. They've been running it all day, so we've missed the oldest ones. Did you watch it when it first came on?”

“Etta Mae,” I said, “I don't have an idea in the world what you're talking about, but it doesn't sound very edifying.”

“It's not as bad as it sounds. Just a serial TV show about some women who live in New York. I just love it, so I hope you don't mind if I watch it again.”

“Of course not. I don't believe I've seen it, so I'll enjoy watching it with you.”

So, since Mattie's television set was so small and there were no comfortable places to sit in her apartment, we delayed our nightly trek until the marathon ended around eleven that evening.

Etta Mae, in shorts and her pink bunny bedroomers, curled up in one of the leather chairs by the fireplace in the library, while
I stretched out on the sofa. We were both thoroughly engaged in the antics on the screen.

During the last thirty minutes of a fairly explicit episode, I cleared my throat and said, “My word, Etta Mae. Do young women of today really carry on like that?”

“Um-m, I'm not sure,” she mumbled. “Maybe in New York they do.”

“Yes, that probably explains it. Or else the writer just wishes they would.”

_______

When the phone rang at an embarrassingly delicate point in the last episode, I was relieved to excuse myself even though a call at that time of night usually meant trouble of some kind. This one was no exception.

“Julia?” Helen said when I answered. “Sorry to call so late, but did you by chance pick up my key to Mattie's apartment yesterday?”

It took me a minute to process the concern in Helen's voice as well as the question. “Why, no, I didn't. Don't you have it?”

“Oh, Julia, I am beyond distressed. I didn't realize it was gone until just a few minutes ago. Diane locked up behind us when we left yesterday afternoon, and I've been gone all day today—Nate and I went to Charlotte for the
Southern Living
home show—so I've just realized it's not here.”

A chill went down my back as I recalled the visit that Mr. Cobb, bearing coffee and Krispy Kremes, had made the day before. Without bringing that up, I asked, “When was the last time you remember having it?”

“Yesterday at the apartment. I got there before Diane, so I went on in. Julia, I
always
put that key—it's on a chain by itself—in my purse after I use it. I mean, I don't ever leave it lying around. But I've dumped everything out twice, and it's just not here.” She stopped, then went on. “You know it's not like me to be careless, and. . . Oh, Julia, I am so sorry. I so hoped that you had it.”

No, I didn't have it, but I had a fairly good idea of who did.

All I could do at that point was to assure Helen that all would be well, and that she shouldn't concern herself about spilled milk or lost keys. After hanging up, I decided not to frighten Etta Mae by mentioning the likelihood of a creeping night visitor who could now avoid our alarm system. It was simply up to me to stay awake all night long.

_______

It was after eleven by the time we got ourselves together to go to the apartment. I packed my overnight bag while Etta Mae filled her grocery sack, and we turned off lights behind us as we went downstairs.

“Etta Mae,” I said, “would you get the lights in the library while I turn off the living room lamps? Oh, and bring my pocketbook, please. It's on the desk.”

Both of us were silent on the short drive to the apartment. But after several hours of watching the questionable exploits of young women in the big city, what was there to say? And after Helen's call, I had more pressing problems on my mind than Mr. Big's vacillations.

“Good grief, Etta Mae,” I said as the tires crunched on the gravel of the parking lot at Mattie's building. “The safety light at the back corner is out, and worse than that, the lot looks full.”

She sat up to look through the windshield. “It sure is. Somebody must have company.”

“Well,” I said with some sharpness, “guests shouldn't be permitted to take the parking places of people who live here.”

“Uh, Miss Julia,” Etta Mae said, “we don't live here.”

I had to laugh, although having no place to park frustrates me no end. And even more so when, as it happened, I reached the end of the double row of parked cars and had no room in which to turn around. There was nothing for it but to crank my head around and back out—always a hazardous procedure.

“We'll have to park on the street,” I said as I finished the reverse manuever. “Help me look for a space.”

I drove slowly down the street, passing one car after the other parallel-parked all along it. I turned at the corner, where we saw a house with all its lights on, music blaring from the open doors and windows, and people moving around on the porch and in the yard.

“That explains it,” Etta Mae said. “They're having a party.”

“But it doesn't excuse the rudeness of parking in personal spaces,” I fumed. “We'll have to walk a country mile to get to the apartment.”

“That's all right,” Etta Mae said, as amenable as always, “but I should've worn better shoes.” She laughed as she lifted a bunny fur–clad foot to show me. “Anyway, we could use the exercise.”

“I guess. Too bad Mildred's not with us.”

After turning another corner, we found a parking space on the far side of the block that Mattie's building was on. After getting my overnight bag from the backseat and slinging my pocketbook on my shoulder while Etta Mae got her sack, I made sure the car doors were locked and we set off along the sidewalk. I didn't like it—for one thing, I was tired and what I was carrying seemed heavier than usual, putting a strain on my shoulder. And even though the streetlights were a help, we still walked through places where overhanging branches from shrubs and bushes kept the sidewalk in full shadow. Some people do not prune their shrubbery as they should.

Anxious to get inside now that Helen's key was in the wind, I stepped out right smartly. Silently castigating myself for not putting the sampler in the absolutely safest place for it, I thought of the immovable, unbreakable-into, and directly-wired-to-the-sheriff's-department safe in Mr. Sitton's office. That's where it should've been kept while Diane contacted a textile expert. But had I turned it over to Mr. Sitton? No, I had not. For one thing, I was loath to relinquish the guardianship of it. And for another, Mr. Sitton's office was closed over the weekend. So with Lillian off for the weekend and unable to guard it when I wasn't home, I was glad that I'd returned the sampler to its safe haven in Mattie's
guest room closet. I was banking on the fact that since no one had ever known about her hiding place, the sampler would remain undisturbed until I took it out again.

Etta Mae and I stumbled along on the broken pavement and protruding tree roots of the sidewalk, giving each other a hand when needed. We could hear and almost feel the thump of the music from the party we'd passed, but everything else was quiet. The houses along the street were dark—decent people asleep in their beds—and the street was empty of cars except for a few parked along the side.

“Hold on, Etta Mae,” I whispered, coming to a stop in the shadow of a spreading oak tree. I pointed across the street where a tall privet hedge bordered the parking area of a podiatrist's office.

“What is it?” she whispered back.

“You see that over there?”

“I don't think so. What is it?”

I grabbed her arm and started across the street. “Come on, let's get a closer look.”

We scurried across the street and stopped on the opposite sidewalk.

“What're we doing?” Etta Mae whispered.

“See that grille sticking out from the hedge? Don't you think that's a Cadillac?”

“Law, Miss Julia, I couldn't tell a Cadillac from a Camry in this light.”

“Well, me, either, if it weren't for that trailer hooked to the back. Don't you think it's an aluminum, one-axle, sort of bullet-shaped Airstream travel trailer with a door on the other side and a drop-down door for ease of loading at the back?”

“Well, not really,” Etta Mae said in a normal tone. “Why? You thinking of buying one?”

I stared at her, although I could barely see her in the dark. “Etta Mae, can you picture me driving around town with something like that hitched to the back of my car? Of
course
I'm not
thinking of buying one. I'm just telling you that that outfit, rig, whatever it is, parked half hidden in the dark behind that hedge, is exactly like what Andrew F. Cobb has, which means . . .”

“Which means,” she said, dropping her voice down to an urgent whisper, “that Andrew F. Cobb himself is somewhere around here.”

“Exactly,” I whispered back. “And there're only two reasons for him to be within half a block of Mattie's apartment in the middle of the night—he's either planning to go in or he's already in.”

Etta Mae moaned.

“Come on,” I urged, taking her arm.

“Where're we going?”

“We're going to catch that sneaky little ponytailed thief red-handed in the very act.”

“Come on, let's go!” I grabbed Etta Mae's arm again and we dashed back across the street. “Cut through this yard, Etta Mae. We'll come out in Mattie's parking lot.”

“Wait, wait! Where're we going?”

I stopped because I'd almost run into a swing set. Dodging that, I headed for the hemlock-planted property line next to the parking lot—and stepped into a plastic baby pool. Water splashed, and I nearly did, too. Those things are slick on the bottom.

“Are you all right?” Etta Mae steadied me, then said, “Listen, we've got to slow down. We could run right into him, or kill ourselves, one.”

“But he could already be in the apartment.
Ransacking
it!”

“No, he can't get in. We burglar-proofed it, remember?”

“Etta Mae,” I said, breaking the news to her, “I hate to tell you, but I'm afraid he has a key.”

That stopped her for a minute. “But he'll have to come back to his car.” Etta Mae, never eager to jump into the fray, took the news in stride. “So let's just wait right here and watch. I'll call the sheriff.”

“Good idea,” I said, puffing from the run. “Let's watch for him from under these hemlocks.” I bent down and crawled under the low hanging limbs, pulling Etta Mae along with me. “But I tell you, if he comes out with that safe, I'm going after him. Call the sheriff, Etta Mae.”

She rummaged in the grocery sack for her phone, while I put my overnight bag well back under the drooping hemlock limbs, freeing myself for whatever might happen.

“Finally,” Etta Mae said, pulling her phone, along with something edged with lace, from the bottom of the sack.

Just then, as I peered through a curtain of hemlock branches, a shadow darker than the lot itself came wobbling out from between two parked cars, and headed diagonally, but laboriously, across the lot toward us and the Cadillac. I strained to see through hemlock needles, trying to figure out what I was seeing. It looked like two shadowy blobs—one pulling something and the other pushing something. Whatever they were doing, the gravel was giving them a hard time—the one in front either listing to the side or getting bogged down, while the second one struggled along behind with a lot of pushing and grunting. As the shadow neared, the blob separated momentarily as the back figure stopped and mopped his face. Then I knew what I was seeing.

“Look at that, Etta Mae! It's
him
and he's got a dolly! He's pushing a dolly.”

“A what?”

“Just look! He's moving furniture!”

Then, as the dark figure of Andrew F. Cobb resumed his toil, he reached the sidewalk and bumped the dolly off onto the street. Cobb, wrestling with the heavy load and pushing hard, picked up his pace on the smooth pavement. And so did I, for in the light from a streetlamp, I could see not only Andrew F. Cobb as plain as day—who could miss that ponytail—I could also see Mattie's safe on the dolly.

“Oh, no, you don't!” I hissed, slinging aside my pocketbook. Ignoring Etta Mae's muffled screech, I backed out from under the hemlocks in a scramble to get to my feet and started across the yard toward the street.

“Wait!” Etta Mae said in a loud whisper. “What're we doing?”

“Executing Mattie's will,” I said, fighting that blasted swing set again. One wooden seat whacked my shin, and I almost folded
up right there. “Come on, Etta Mae, we've got to stop him. He's got most of Mattie's estate on that dolly!”

“What about our things? Your pocketbook?”

“Leave 'em,” I said, making a jog around the baby pool. “Leave everything and come on.”

She did, and we scampered across the street—me in my low-heeled, but not flat, Ferragamos and Etta Mae in her pink bunny bedroomers—rounded the end of the privet hedge, and dashed along the side of the car to the trunk, where the Airstream was attached.

I stopped then and held out my arm to slow Etta Mae. “Listen,” I said, crouching down in the space between the car and the trailer. Whatever Cobb was doing, he was doing it at the back of the trailer—something was bumping against it, making it teeter back and forth on its single axle. Right next to where we crouched, we heard the creak and groan of the bolts that held the trailer to the car.

“Etta Mae,” I whispered, “if we unhook this trailer, he'd be up a creek.”

She felt around the coupling with both hands. Then, leaning up close, she whispered, “I don't know, Miss Julia. Even if we got the bolts out, we might need a winch to lift it.”

“A
wench
?” Shocked, I dropped that idea.

Peeking around the end of the trailer, I could see the edge of the back gate ramped down and Mr. Cobb struggling to push the dolly inside. The night was hot and humid, and I could feel perspiration trickling down my back. Andrew F. Cobb was feeling the heat, too. I could hear him panting and gasping for breath—and smell him, too.

“What's he doing?” Etta Mae whispered as she scrunched up against me.

“Stealing!”
I whispered back. “When's the sheriff coming?”

I sneaked a quick peek around the trailer again and saw Cobb pull the dolly a few feet back from the ramp. Then, hunching over, he took a firm grasp on the handles and ran toward the
trailer, pushing hard, and, with a mighty groan, wrestled it over the hump and into the trailer. We could feel and picture and hear every step of the process, for almost, but not quite, under his breath, Cobb was panting and groaning and cursing gravel parking lots, unwieldy dollies, heavy loads, and cramped trailers for all he was worth.

After a minute of silence, as he regained his breath, the trailer began to bounce from one side to the other.

“What's he doing?” Etta Mae whispered.

“I don't know. Maybe trying to unload the safe. It weighs a ton.”

I turned, grasped her, and sank down beside the trailer tire. Whispering right against her ear, I said, “Call the sheriff again.”

“Uh, I can't. You said leave everything, and I did.”

“But
did
you call?”

“I started to. I got to nine-one, and then got hit with something. Then you said leave it and come on, so I did.”

“Oh, my word,” I moaned, just done in that no help was on the way. “What're we going to do?”

“I'll go back and find my phone,” Etta Mae said, “or wake somebody up or something. Five minutes, and I'll have a cop car here. Just don't let him leave, Miss Julia.” And with that, she turned, crawled a few feet, then sped away without a sound.

I stayed plastered beside the tire, but knowing I'd soon have to move. The early warning of a cramp began to knot up in one leg, so I eased upright before it took hold.

An eerie silence surrounded the trailer and, without Etta Mae breathing down my neck, the night itself. What was Cobb doing in there?

Then I heard the pop and fizz of a bottle being opened—he was taking a break. Which meant a break for us, too—giving the sheriff time to get there.
Hurry, Etta Mae, hurry!

What would I do if Cobb suddenly decided to leave? He already had the centerpiece of Mattie's estate, but how had he known about it? Not everybody kept a safe in their guest room
closet. Well, I figured out the answer to that—while Etta Mae and I had been entranced with young women romping around in New York, Cobb had had a good three hours of darkness to plunder around in the apartment. No telling what else he'd already pilfered and had stacked up in the trailer.

Actually, I was hoping he'd take that dolly and go back for more. I'd even sit back and watch him bring the handkerchief table if that would buy a few more minutes for the sheriff to get there.

Then I felt the trailer shudder as Cobb walked from the front to the back, tromped down the ramp, turned, and leaned down to pick it up. He was closing up shop!

“Stop!”
I screamed, and ran at him. I couldn't stop myself, but I had to stop him.

He was so surprised that he dropped the ramp, and I hopped up on it. Facing him, I said, “You're not stealing another thing, you thief, you! What do you mean, coming here and claiming you don't want anything, and mooning around like a grieving nephew, when all the time you were waiting your chance! You might as well give it up now. A dozen deputies're on the way.” I stood at the top of the ramp, folded my arms, and stared him down, fully confident that my accusation would stop him in his tracks. And confident, too, in the ability of the Abbot County sheriff's department to deploy in a matter of minutes.

He glared at me, the surprise gone as malice took its place.

“The heck you say!” he said, which wasn't exactly what he said.

With a flicker of rage and a hunch of his shoulders, he barreled up the ramp full force, shoving me backward until we both rammed into the dolly, with the safe still on it, in the middle of the cramped interior. I remember the amazement I felt as images of a tiny sink, a hot plate, a table, and a cot flashed past as we fell across the dolly to the floor. Why, I remember thinking, it does have all the comforts of home.

I didn't think much of anything after that, for I was stunned
by his gall and breathless from hitting the floor. The trailer and my head rocked from the impact. He rolled off, kicked at the safe—which still didn't budge—then he was gone.

Crawling toward the door, hoping nothing was broken, I started after him. I intended to point him out to the deputies and say, “There he is. There's the thief,” but before I could drag myself to my feet, he picked up the ramp and slammed it home. I heard a bolt being thrown, and he heard me throw myself against the door as I hammered and banged on it, screaming for help.

A car door slammed, the motor turned over, and a door slammed again. With a lurch that rocked the trailer, the Cadillac pulled out of the lot and bounced onto the street—giving the trailer a double bounce that almost bumped my head against the ceiling. I clung to the counter to stay on my feet.

Oh, my Lord,
I thought,
he's driving away and I'm locked in here and Etta Mae won't know where I am and the deputies will give chase and no telling what'll happen then and Sam's going to be so upset with me—to say nothing of what the beneficiaries and the First Presbyterian Church will say for letting Andrew F. Cobb confiscate Mattie's most valuable asset.

The trailer swayed, then tilted, as the car took a curve. I held on to the dolly for dear life and eased myself down to the floor. I kept thinking that there was no need for panic or for heroics. I would just ride it out, protect myself as well as I could, and await the rescue that was surely on its way—because, disregarding all evidence to the contrary and despite whatever Andrew F. Cobb assumed, right at that moment and for as far as I could see, Mattie's safe with the sampler inside was now in my possession, which was where I intended it to stay.