Chapter 46

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.”