Chapter 43

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.”