Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (26 page)

Not for long, though, because I didn't think I'd live long enough. Cobb hadn't had the time nor the strength to wrest the safe off its current site on the ledge of the dolly, so there it sat. Even worse, it was looking more and more doubtful that I'd be around to get it back to Mattie's apartment, my house, or Mr. Sitton's office. We were going awfully fast, tires screeching on the turns, and the trailer rocking perilously from side to side and, occasionally, sickeningly from front to back.

Clinging desperately to the dolly with one hand and bracing myself against the wall with the other, I began to panic. Was Cobb evading the deputies? Were the deputies even after us? Where was Etta Mae? Had Cobb had an accomplice who'd gotten her? Was the trailer going to turn over? Was I going to throw up?

Then the sirens started, and red and blue lights began flashing through the windows, lighting up the interior of the trailer like a psychedelic light show. It was enough to make one dizzy and cause a headache, too, so I closed my eyes and clung to the dolly. And a good thing I did, for the car and the trailer went crazy, speeding up, slowing down, then skidding back and forth across whatever street we were on, bouncing against one curb and caroming off the other. The trailer tilted, swerved, and swayed. I really thought I would throw up.

Without warning—though, come to think of it, I'd had plenty
of warning—there was an almighty crash and banging and screeching of metal as the car came to a sudden stop. The trailer kept going as debris thudded against the roof. Then it shuddered from the impact, scraped over pavement, and flipped over onto its side. I flipped over as well, and ended up on my back under the fold-down table bolted to the side of the trailer. The dolly, minus the safe, landed on top of me. Kicking it aside, I scrambled up and found myself squatting on a side window, looking around for the safe. The flickering light bars of I-didn't-know-how-many, but a lot of, cop cars lit the interior sporadically, and I was finally able to locate the safe. It had been flung against the tiny under-the-counter refrigerator, and was now safely embedded in a crumpled dent in the door.

Cars screeched to a halt, doors slammed, and loud voices began yelling. Feet pounded on the pavement, somebody smacked a hand against the back of the trailer, and a fire truck rolled to a stop, its ear-splitting siren also dying to a stop. I could see the gear on it from the opposite side window above my head, but mostly all I could see were the tops of trees and a few stars way off in the sky.

I gingerly felt my way to the back door, wondering if I'd suffered an injury that would maim me for life. So far, so good, but I recalled reading that adrenaline takes over in such circumstances, and a victim may not even know she's injured. I was well aware, however, that my shin had been whacked by the wooden seat of that blasted swing set. Throbs of pain were shooting up to my knee.

Dragging my leg along, I reached the ramp door of the trailer, recalling the slam of bolts as Cobb had locked me in.

Banging against the door, I screamed for help. For all I knew, the deputies had no idea that I was imprisoned in the crumpled wreck. What if they couldn't hear me? What if they towed the trailer and left it—and me—to be pancaked into scrap metal? Then I heard a sweet and most welcome voice from the other side of the door.

“Miss Julia! Miss Julia!” Etta Mae yelled at the top of her voice, as she pounded against the back door. “Are you all right? Help, somebody! Somebody, help!”

“Etta Mae,” I yelled right back. “Get me out of here!”

Then there was the comforting voice of Sergeant Coleman Bates. “Miss Julia! Are you injured? What's your status in there?”

“Coleman, my status is upside down and highly uncertain. Get me out of here!”

“Hold on, we're coming!” he yelled. “The door's jammed. Got to use the Jaws of Life. We'll get you out, don't worry.”

Well, I did worry—needing the Jaws of Life was no minor concern. I sank down on the floor—I mean, the wall—next to the final remains of the refrigerator and put my arms around Mattie's safe. As I waited, I pictured those hydraulic jaws opening the aluminum trailer like a can opener cutting into a tin can.

With the hydraulic pump pumping and the metal shrieking and groaning, the door finally popped open. Coleman stuck his head in, then looked around for a second, getting his bearings. Believe me, a deputy's uniform never looked so good. Etta Mae crawled in beside him, and they nearly got stuck in the opening.

“I got you, Miss Julia,” Coleman said, leaning over to put his arms around me. “Are you hurt? The EMTs are here. They'll take a look at you.”

Behind him, Etta Mae stood on the wall of the trailer, which was now the floor, wringing her hands. She was as white as a sheet and moaning under her breath.

“I thought I'd killed her,” she mumbled in a singsongy way, her hands twisting at her waist. “Is she all right? I really thought I'd killed her, I just knew I had. I didn't know what else to do. I just had to stop him.”

“Etta Mae, honey,” I said, standing up with Coleman's help, “get a grip. I'm perfectly all right. A few bruises, I expect, and some hair-raising dreams ahead, but other than that I am remarkably fit. Get me out of here, Coleman, but get the safe out first.”

It didn't quite work that way, because Coleman lifted me out
of the trailer and into the care of two EMTs, bless their hearts. Then he put his hands on Etta Mae's shoulders, turned her around, and marched her to the EMTs' truck.

“Sit down,” he ordered, “and let them look you over. You got thrown around a bit when he hit the wall.”

I processed that for a minute and realized that Etta Mae must've been in the car with Cobb. How had she managed that? Or had
he
managed it the same way he'd managed me? I'd thought she was across the street getting her cell phone.

Oh, well, I thought, too rattled to think clearly, especially since the EMTs were engaged in an all-over examination of my person. Then they put me on a stretcher and wrapped a blanket around me for the shock, and it being a ninety-degree night. I kept throwing it off and sitting up, and they kept pushing me down and wrapping me up.

“Etta Mae,” I called, “where are you?”

“Right here,” she said, looking upside down at me from above my head. “Can I get you anything? Drink of water? Your pocketbook? I brought it back for you, but he was already cranking the car. So I had to use it a little bit.”

“Listen, Etta Mae,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Forget my pocketbook—just don't let that safe out of your sight. Tell Coleman that it's in my legal possession and, for goodness' sake, don't let them leave it in the trailer. It'll get mashed to a pulp.”

Fearing that Coleman or some other deputy would override her, I sat up, flung off the blanket, and got off the stretcher.

“Hey. Hey, now,” one of the EMTs said. “Lie back down. We're going to transport you to the hospital. Just hold tight.”

“I don't need to go to the hospital,” I said firmly. “I have more important matters to tend to, and if you push me down one more time, I will smack you good.”

He laughed and called Coleman over.

While waiting, I became aware of the activity around the Cadillac. The car had jumped the curb and was halfway off the street, its front end buried in a brick wall that I knew had cost a
fortune to build. Firemen and EMTs were tripping over the scattered bricks, and as I watched, they lifted Andrew F. Cobb from the front seat and placed him on a stretcher. EMTs, crouching beside him, blocked my view as they worked on him.

Coleman walked over and said, “Miss Julia, you have to do what they tell you. You've just been through a really bad accident, and you need to be looked at. Why don't you just lie down and let them take care of you?”

“I will, Coleman, I promise. But listen, there's a little safe in there stuck in the door of the refrigerator. It's very heavy and you may need the Jaws of Life to get it out, but I
need
it. I need it to go with me. It belongs to Miss Mattie Freeman, and I'm responsible for it.”

“Is it stolen property?”

“Well, certainly not by me. Actually, though, it
was,
but I'd gotten it back.”

“Ordinarily,” Coleman said, “recovered property goes into the evidence and property room and stays there until after the trial of whoever stole it. Especially if the item is of some value. If it's not, we can probably let you retain possession.”

Good grief,
I thought,
some trials don't even
go
to trial for years. The deacons of the First Presbyterian Church would be up in arms, and I might really have to move my letter to the Episcopal church.

“Miss Julia?” Coleman asked, a frown of concern on his face. “Are you all right?”

I nodded and continued processing.

Running through my mind was not only the thought of the extended length of time that it would take to probate Mattie's will if the safe were to be confiscated but also the possibility that someone would pilfer the evidence from the evidence room. I'd heard of such things happening, although how anyone could walk out of the sheriff's department with that heavy safe under his arm, I didn't know.

“Now, Coleman, here's the truth of the matter. The safe itself is of no value—who would want it? And I will tell you that at this
point in time, no one has any definite idea of the value of what is in it. It could be one of a kind, or it could be one of a thousand. All I know is that according to Mr. Ernest Sitton, Esquire, I am responsible to the court for its proper dispensation. Coleman,” I said, grabbing his hand, “I
need
that safe.”

Just then, the bustling around the car increased as the stretcher bearing Cobb was lifted and carried to the waiting ambulance.

“How bad is he?” I asked, pointing in the general direction.

“Nothing obviously major, but they put him in a neck brace. He's conscious, but not clicking too well—shock, maybe, or could be internal injuries.”

“Probably not wearing a seat belt,” I said, with a touch of self-righteousness.

“Got that right,” Coleman said. “He's pretty beat up, though. Especially around the face and head.”

“That's too bad,” I said, making the automatic response of a well-bred individual. “However, one does reap what one sows.”

He grinned. “I'll go see about your safe. No reason, I guess, for us to keep it. We'll know where it is.”

As he turned away and the ambulance bearing Andrew F. Cobb headed for the hospital, Etta Mae, still white around the mouth, sidled up to me. “Miss Julia? You think he'll be all right? That man, I mean.”

“Cobb? Coleman didn't seem too concerned and, to tell the truth, neither am I. He inveigled his way into town, playing the grieving relative and making people feel sorry for him, and all along he was planning to steal from poor old Miss Mattie. I never wish ill on anybody, Etta Mae, but it seems to me that he got pretty much what he deserved.”

“Oh, I hope he'll be all right,” Etta Mae said. “I was afraid I'd killed him.”

“How, honey? How could you have killed him?”

“With your pocketbook. See, I got back from getting my phone and your pocketbook just as he jumped in the car. And I didn't
know where you were until I heard you screaming bloody murder, so when he started cranking the car, I didn't think. I just grabbed a door handle and flung myself in the backseat. I didn't even have time to close the door, because he stepped on the gas and we flew out of the lot with the trailer bumping and jolting along behind us. I kept yelling for him to stop, but he wouldn't, and I didn't have any way to make him, so I just started hitting him over the head with your pocketbook. It was all I had.”

“Well, you certainly did the right thing. If it hadn't been for you, I'd still be locked in that trailer heading for who-knows-where. Kentucky, maybe.”

“Well, but I'm real sorry, Miss Julia. I hit him so hard that something broke or came loose or something inside your pocketbook. But, really, you don't have to worry. I won't tell anybody.”

What was she talking about? This wreck on a city street would be front-page news in the morning paper—everybody would know.

“Miss Wiggins?” A deputy walked over holding at arm's length my large black pocketbook. “Found this in the car. Is it yours? It come open and strewed things all over the place. You might want to check it, be sure we got everything.”

I wasn't seeing too well in the still-flashing lights, but something was wrong with the pocketbook that I'd paid an arm and a leg for and that Etta Mae had run across the street to retrieve. Water, or something, dripped from the seams and a heady aroma emanated from it.

“Oh, thank you.” Etta Mae spoke up right smartly as she reached for the wet, squishy bag that I now recognized as faux leather. “It's mine, and everything in it's mine, too.”

“Why, Etta Mae,” I said, “that's not yours. It's . . .”

“No, ma'am,” she broke in, “it's mine, it really is.” Then she leaned over and whispered, “Don't claim it, Miss Julia, and nobody'll know.”

“Listen, ladies,” the deputy said, setting the pocketbook on an errant brick. “Y'all can decide whose it is. I got to get back to work.” And he walked away.

“Etta Mae,” I said, “why are you claiming that thing? It's soaked through and it reeks to high heaven. There's only four
dollars and eighty-five cents in it, so just take that out and throw everything else away. What happened to it, anyway?”

“It's what I hit that man with. And I mean, when it connected, it
connected
. I think I knocked him goofy, because that's when he hit the brick wall. And I'll tell you, Miss Julia, it's a good thing you had that flask in it.”

“What?” I said and started laughing, even though the fumes from the pocketbook were burning my sinuses. “For goodness' sake, Etta Mae, that's not mine. Honey, you picked up the wrong pocketbook. That one is Mattie Freeman's and so is what's in it, but don't tell anybody. It would just ruin her reputation.” I stopped laughing as I realized what Etta Mae had not only done—freed me from captivity—but also what she'd tried to do—protect
my
reputation.

I could've hugged her, even though I rarely feel the urge to hug anybody.

_______

We watched as Coleman and another deputy dislodged the safe from the refrigerator door and wrestled it back onto the dolly. Then they had to bend over and back out the ramp door, which, of course, was lying sideways because the trailer was also lying sideways. Etta Mae and I picked up some interesting and highly colorful mutterings from both men as they manhandled the dolly to the back of Coleman's squad car. Then, after a few futile attempts to lift the safe, they called two more deputies over and the four of them picked up the dolly and dumped the safe into the trunk of Coleman's car. The car bounced on its heavy-duty shocks as the safe rolled over and came to rest.

“Miss Julia,” Coleman said, mopping his face as he walked over to us. “Your safe is safe in my trunk, and that's where it's going to stay. It'll take a winch to get it out again. I'll see if J.D. has one when he gets back.”

Wench,
again
! What were Etta Mae and now Coleman thinking? And Mr. Pickens just better not have one.

_______

Nothing would do but that I had to go to the hospital. Coleman insisted, and so did Etta Mae, both of whom I could've overruled. But when the EMTs told me they could lose their jobs if Etta Mae and I weren't seen by a doctor, I went docilely enough.

And it took forever. Believe me, emergency does not mean fast. I waited on a stretcher, then waited on an examining table, then waited to be x-rayed, then waited for the ER doctor to decide that no bones were broken, which he took his own sweet time doing. Then I had to wait for them to give Etta Mae a clean bill. And on top of that, we both had to give statements of the night's events so the deputies could fill out their forms.

Coleman gave us a ride to where my car was parked, strongly suggesting that Etta Mae drive, then assured me again that the safe was safe. “Nobody's going to move it,” he said. “You can bank on that.” Then he followed us home and saw us inside.

“Etta Mae,” I said, as she and I walked into my house close to five o'clock that morning. “All I want to do is go to bed. And I know you do, too. But I need to show up at church at eight o'clock—can you believe that? Presbyterian church services have been at eleven for so long, I thought it was one of the Ten Commandments.”

She laughed. “Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll pass on either time. I'm beat.”

After she went upstairs to Lloyd's bed, I perked a pot of coffee and warmed up one of Lillian's cinnamon rolls. I didn't want to go to church, but with the adrenaline still churning around, I thought I might as well find a use for it. Of course, I had good reason for absenting myself—my goodness, I had been abducted and thrown around in an accident. But if Pastor Ledbetter and the deacons looked over the congregation and saw an empty place in the pew where I normally sat, they'd jump to the conclusion that I'd folded my tent and was ready to give in. They'd think they had me on the run, and they'd ramp up their campaign to get me to make good on Mattie's bequests.

I just couldn't seem to get through to them that I was not
sitting on Mattie's estate, deliberately stalling just to inconvenience them. It might've taken some heat off me if I'd told them about the sampler and its potential, but I had to resist. If word got out that a highly valuable item had been discovered in the back of a closet, thieves would come out of the woodwork, and just one of that crew, namely, Andrew F. Cobb, had been enough to last me a lifetime.

So I drank half a pot of coffee, took a shower, dressed, and marched into church at ten of eight, ready to show them all that I was standing my ground.

I admit that the unair-conditioned church was a bit stuffy and close. Every one of the deacons and a few of the less conservative elders were in shirtsleeves, which I thought was carrying the need for comfort a little too far. But, along with everybody else, I used the bulletin as a fan and prayed for the hour and fifteen minutes to end before I melted.

When the deacons came down the aisle to receive the offering plates, I bestirred myself to dig my envelope out of my pocketbook. Roger Holmes, the owner of Holmes Insurance Company, was the deacon on my side of the aisle. When he passed the plate to the row in front, he stood right next to me to await its round trip. Quite ostentatiously, he stood there in his short sleeves, took a handkerchief from his pocket, folded it, and blotted his face. Then he carefully refolded the handkerchief and began patting the perspiration from his neck—all the time giving me what Lillian would call the evil eye.

When the plate reached me, I deposited my envelope and passed the plate to him. But instead of releasing it, I held it for a minute so he'd have to lean over. “Roger,” I whispered, “you keep that up, and I'm moving my business to Geico.”

He jerked upright, took the plate, and continued collecting the offerings before taking a seat on the far side of the church.

As tired as I was, I managed to get through the congregational hymns, the Scripture reading, the morning prayer, and the choir's rendition, but the adrenaline ran out about the time the pastor
began his sermon. With the deacons in a state of undress, I wondered what he had on—or didn't have on—under his black robe. It didn't much matter, though, because I slept through the sermon.

_______

Before continuing my nap in my own bed, I checked on Etta Mae when I got home. She was out like a light, so I wrote a note telling her to make herself at home while I slept. Then I called Coleman at home and had to leave a message. He was on night duty, so he, too, was sleeping through the day. The message I left was essentially this: “Whatever you do, Coleman, do not be driving around all night picking up criminals and investigating break-ins and car wrecks and whatever else you do with that safe in your trunk. Bring it to my house late this afternoon. I will remove its contents and you can keep the safe. I'll be waiting for you.”

Then I went to bed.

_______

When I arose late that afternoon, feeling logy from sleep disruption and achy from having been upended in a tin trailer, I found Etta Mae reading the Sunday paper in the library.

She immediately unfolded her tanned legs—the length of which was revealed by the shorts she wore—and jumped up. “Oh, Miss Julia, how're you feeling?”

“Much better,” I said. “But, Etta Mae, I am so sorry that your visit hasn't been quite the vacation I envisioned. Here, I've slept the day away and left you to your own devices. Did you have lunch?”

“I've been fine. In fact, it's been a real nice afternoon. Miss Mildred walked over to tell you that she's lost two more pounds, so I invited her in and we had some iced tea. Then she wanted to take a walk, so we did that, then I came back here and read the paper.”

“My goodness, that was nice of you. How far did you walk?”

“About three blocks. Maybe three and a half.”

“You did better than I've been able to do.” I sat down to rest my aching shin, wishing again that I had a closet full of ladies' pants—the bruise looked awful. “We should think about supper, I guess, but Coleman's coming by so I can take possession of the sampler. I hope you can open that safe again.”

She grinned. “No problem, if you still have the combination.”

“It's in my pocketbook right over there.” I pointed to the Prada bag on the desk. “It's a good thing you got the wrong one last night. If you'd banged the daylights out of Andrew Cobb with mine, no telling where that scrap of paper would've ended up.”

“Boy, that's the truth,” Etta Mae said as we both laughed. Then she sobered a little and said, “Wonder how he's doing. I hope I didn't do any permanent damage.”

“He's probably just glad to be in a hospital instead of a jail cell.” I had little sympathy for scofflaws and evildoers. “Let's go see what Lillian left us for supper. I'm starving.”