Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle Read Online Free Page B

Lillian,” I said, making a quick decision, “don’t say anything to Hazel Marie, but I can’t stand this any longer.”
    “Yes’m, I been wond’rin’ when you gonna do somethin’, even though you promised Mr. Sam you gonna stop doin’ it.”
    I gave her a quick smile and went to get my coat. “I only promised to stop interfering in other people’s affairs. I didn’t say one word about staying out of the troubles of our own family. And come to think of it,” I said, stopping to think of it, “that has always been the case.” I slipped on my coat and headed for the door. “This may be just such another situation that calls for a little well-meant looking into.”

Chapter 4

    Mr. Pickens had been right—it was cold. As the short winter day headed toward night, I put my head down against the wind and almost changed my mind about walking. Instead, I pulled the scarf from around my coat collar and wrapped it around my head.
    As I headed down the sidewalk, I met small groups of people, most of them bundled up in scarves, hats, and gloves, coming and going along the sidewalks, some getting into parked cars as if the sightseeing tour were over, and others hurrying toward warm houses. I walked briskly through pools of light from the streetlamps, moving in and out of the areas of the late afternoon darkness, speaking but mostly just nodding to the people I passed. Some wanted to stop and talk, but I had neither the time nor the inclination for chitchat.
    Squinting my eyes against the cold, I scanned those I passed for a glimpse of the ones I was looking for, hoping to meet them as they headed home. As I got closer to Thurlow’s house, I saw cars lined up on each side of the street. Up ahead at the intersection that led to Thurlow Jones’s house, there was a patrol car parked crosswise to the street. Some distance away, red and blue strobing lights reflected off the surrounding houses and the low-lying clouds, indicating the presence of emergency vehicles.
    Stopping at the corner, I looked farther down Polk Street and saw patrol cars blocking several intersections. So it was a good thing I had not driven the car—I would’ve been on foot anyway.
    Turning onto Thurlow’s side street, I kept a sharp eye out for any of the three I was looking for, pausing just long enough to ask the people I passed if they’d seen Sam or Lloyd. I didn’t ask about Mr. Pickens because few people in town knew him by sight.
    Gradually, I began to realize that I knew few of the people coming from the scene of the crime. The word seemed to have gotten out—probably by way of schoolchildren getting home with the news—and folks from all over had come to bear witness or just to see what they could see. I couldn’t imagine the attraction that would draw people from warm homes on a cold evening right at suppertime to stand around and watch a body being removed. It would take a great deal more than that to get me out, as, in fact, it had.
    Then I saw part of the attraction. A large group of people was standing around a van that was double-parked by a patrol car. Thick black cables from the van snaked down the street. WLOS, Channel 13—or Channel 3 if you had cable—had their roving reporters on-site. I knew what we’d see on the news that evening: a pretty blonde right out of college speaking in a childish but awed voice giving a report that would tell nothing more than what we already knew, then filling the time interviewing the spectators, who would express both excitement and fear. In other words, no news at all.
    Sidestepping a stroller pushed by a woman who should’ve known better than to bring a baby to such a place, I almost bumped into Ralph Peterson, the salesman from Abbotsville Motors.
    “Oh, Ralph, excuse me. I almost ran into you.”
    “Why, good evening, Miss Julia. What brings you out this time of a day?”
    “Possibly the same thing that brought you out,” I said with some asperity. “Actually, though, I’m