Afraid to move an inch for fear that Lloyd would notice a trembling holly bush, I watched through the leaves as the boy tried to coax Ronnie away from the edge of the yard. He pulled on the great dog’s collar, but couldn’t budge him until finally Ronnie paused for breath. In the brief, blessed silence, Madge called out, “Next time, sic that dog on him!” Then, turning with what sounded like a sob, she went inside, slamming the door behind her.
Still crouching by the porch, I didn’t know whether to reveal myself to Lloyd, or to Madge, or to creep away to my car and pretend I’d never been there.
In reality, I didn’t have much of a choice. I think my knees had locked—or frozen—in place from scooching down for so long. I couldn’t even stand up. The choice came down to a toss-up between crawling across the yard or staying in a crouch for the rest of the night.
Chapter 43
And Ronnie, having caught his breath, changed his tune and began barking and prancing around, twirling with excitement, as he tried to pull away from Lloyd. He’d chased off one interloper and, to his delight, had picked up the scent of another one. Hoping to hide, I buried my face in the upturned collar of my coat and got a heady whiff of Chanel No. 5, Ronnie’s scent of choice.
Then another voice joined the racket.
“Lloyd!” Mr. Pickens called from the back door. “Get that dog inside!”
“I’m trying my best!” Lloyd called back. “He won’t come.”
“Then come get the leash.”
Turning, Lloyd released Ronnie’s collar and dashed toward the Pickens house to get the leash, and Ronnie, lured by the aroma of French parfum, dashed toward the Cochran house to get me.
“He’s gone!” Lloyd yelled. “J.D., he went next door!”
“Hold on,” Mr. Pickens sang out, “let me get my . . .”
Gun? I exploded out of that holly bush like a shot—locked limbs or no locked limbs—and ran for my life. Or rather, for my car.
“. . . shoes on!”
Shoes, gun, it didn’t matter, I ran. Just as I rounded the far fence to cross Jan Osborne’s yard, Ronnie caught up with me and, tongue dangling, began loping happily alongside. Panting, I reached the car, flung open the door, and fell inside, then had to shove Ronnie away as he tried to crawl in over me. With a great bodily heave, I finally pushed him out and got the door closed. With Lloyd and Mr. Pickens still calling and whistling for him, Ronnie reared up against the car, his paws on the roof and his great head pressed against the window, as he peered longingly in at me.
I cranked the car, eased away an inch or two, and Ronnie swung away to let me go. Fearing that he’d chase the car, I was relieved when he heeded Mr. Pickens’s call and bounded away toward the man to whom he’d switched his allegiance.
Fearing also that Lloyd or Mr. Pickens would identify my car, I left the headlights off until I turned a corner at the end of the street. Then I drove straight home, parked in the driveway, and tried to pull myself together. I’d just suffered a harrowing, yet informative, experience and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. But I now knew for a certainty that Madge and at least one county commissioner had been in cahoots all along—just as she’d implied—although there was no telling exactly what had transpired between them while I’d been cowering in a holly bush. All I knew was that a notice seemed to have been issued by one to the other, and Madge was none too happy about it.
Waiting in the car until I’d settled myself down to some extent, I eventually eased into the house, locked the kitchen door behind me, and hoped that Sam was sleeping the sleep of the just. I took off my coat, then had to pick off the sharp-edged holly leaves that had come home with me. After hanging the coat in the pantry, I turned off the downstairs lights and got ready to face the music upstairs.
“Julia?” Sam called as I trudged up the steps. “Is that you?”
“You better hope so,” I called back lightly, knowing he would laugh and perhaps not question me too closely.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked, entering and sitting on the bed beside him.
“Much better,” he said, then paused for a racking cough. “I think I slept for a couple of hours. What time is it, anyway?”
“Not too late. We got a lot of ornaments made, but we talked a lot, too. Listen, Sam,” I went on, distracting him from the question of time, “you won’t believe what Callie overheard at the commissioners’ meeting the other night.”
I went on to repeat what I’d heard, ending by saying, “We were right all along—it’s been rigged from the start. The only thing we don’t know is why. It obviously has something to do with buying up the rest of the block, but why do they want that? And exactly who are they? I mean, I guess they’re Ridgetop, but who are they?”
“Good questions,” Sam said and coughed again.
“Here, drink this.” I poured a dose of Robitussin and handed it to him. “I’ve a good mind to go see Madge Taylor. She may be in the right frame of mind to unload everything she knows.”
“Why would you think that? Nothing’s really changed.”
“Uh, well, I guess because things may be coming to a head or maybe to an end. I mean, with the commissioners having voted to let her stay there—which is essentially what that conditional-use permit allows her to do.” Retreating quickly before I let on that I knew more than what Callie had overheard—Sam wouldn’t approve of house creeping—I veered to a related subject. “Rebecca said that Pete Hamrick has been in the library looking at historic records and books having to do with upgrading—modernizing, I guess—small towns. So he’s up to his
