Miss Julia Paints the Town (14 page)

Etta Mae gave me a relieved smile. “Okay. I just have a hard time dealing with preachers in general.”

“You and me, both. Now,” I said, picking up the phone again, “I'm going to call Mr. Kessler and invite him to a guided tour of the town.”

“Here we are, Arthur.” I brought the three of us to a stop in front of the double doors of the Quality Furniture Store. We'd walked along the sidewalk from the courthouse, where Etta Mae and I had met Mr. Kessler. He'd spent the morning there with a representative of a demolition company getting an estimate of what it would take to bring down the building. He'd seemed pleased when I'd called and suggested that he join us so we could introduce him to some of the townspeople. Then, in his assumption that I'd be interested in the destruction of the courthouse, he mentioned the word
implosion.
I nearly dropped the phone.

“Just ignore the furniture store sign,” I said, motioning Etta Mae closer. She had a tendency to hang back, as I had learned when she helped me chase crooks in Florida. But when a monumental surprise is needed, why, she could come roaring to the rescue. “Now, Arthur, as far as I know, this is the newest church in town. You'll find that Abbotsville is a hotbed of churches. They spring up overnight, seems like. That's because we're a very religious community, and Brother Vernon Puckett is as religious as they come. Why, I can't tell you how many different spiritual avenues he's been down. And, since his new church is only a hop and a skip from the courthouse, I'm sure it'll be an added attraction for anybody looking to buy a condo.”

Mr. Kessler's eyes darted from the storefront to Etta Mae and back to me. He wasn't sure I was serious, and of course I wasn't. But I wanted him to think I found nothing unusual in the display of Bibles, tracts, devotional books and plaques spread out in windows that had once featured chrome dinette sets and plush La-Z-Boy recliners.

“Let's go in,” I said, pushing the door open and setting off a tinkling bell. “I called Brother Vern, so he's expecting us.”

Well, even I had to stop and catch my breath when we stepped inside. The furniture company had occupied a huge space, much larger than Brother Vern's fledgling church needed. He, or somebody, had attached a metal pole that spanned the width of the building about a third of the way back. A navy blue curtain hung from the pole, effectively hiding the back of the building and creating a more intimate meeting area. A large white banner was draped across the curtain. I had to blink twice at the words,
GOD HAS RICHES UNTOLD WAITING FOR YOU,
that were stenciled on it. Metal folding chairs, about six rows of them flanking a center aisle, substituted for pews. An oak pulpit with a microphone stood at the front, and an upright piano was catty-corner to the left of it, facing the congregational chairs. A chrome-decorated drum set was beside the piano. I counted two more stand-alone microphones nearby. Maybe Mr. Kessler's condo owners wouldn't have to leave home to hear the services.

“Welcome! Welcome!” Brother Vern swished aside the navy curtain and came rushing toward us, his ruddy face beaming. He hadn't changed much since the last time I'd seen him, except for a few added pounds and considerably darker hair. He was a patriotic sight in a navy double-knit suit that didn't wrinkle except where he did, a white shirt and a bright red tie. I had to avert my eyes at his footwear. He was fashionably correct, since Easter had already come and gone, but to my mind it would always be too early for white patent-leather loafers.

He greeted me, nodded briefly at Etta Mae, but his attention was clearly focused on the man with us.

“Brother Vern, this is Mr. Arthur Kessler,” I said, beginning the introductions. “It looks as if he might be your neighbor, so I thought the two of you should meet.”

Brother Vern clasped Mr. Kessler's hand in both of his and shook it as his broad welcoming smile gave way to a look of deep piety, consisting of a deep frown and a heavenward glance under half-closed eyes.

“Brother Kessler,” he said, still pumping his hand. “The Lord be praised. I can tell you're a man of prayer. It's just comin' off you in waves, Brother, and I can tell because I'm a man of prayer, too. It takes one to know one, don't it? But you folks have a seat. Pull up one of these metal chairs, but be careful how you sit. They're a little rickety, 'cause they were donated by the Good Shepherd Funeral Home when they updated. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth, though, do you? You won't find anybody that appreciates a gift like we do here at the Hallelujah House.”

Mr. Kessler retrieved his hand and began to back toward the door. “We can't stay. Mrs. Murdoch and Etta Mae are showing me the town, and I have to get back to finish my survey of the courthouse.”

“Oh, well, I don't want to hold you up.” Brother Vern edged closer and put his hand on Mr. Kessler's shoulder. “A busy man like you has all kinds of business to tend to. But let me just say that I am looking forward to seeing that fine building of yours rise up from the ashes. And as soon as the lobby's finished, I'll put a tract rack in it so the people there will have ready access to the Word of God. And, of course, a schedule of our meeting times. I tell you, Brother, I'm lookin' forward to our membership rolls expanding a hundredfold when you get all them new people moved in. Right now, since we're so new and all, the nub of our membership come from the Rescue Mission or they walk in off the street. We could use some new blood and, listen,” he said, moving closer and lowering his voice in a confiding manner, “the people you bring in will want to hear my message. It's human nature to want prosperity and wealth, 'specially if you don't have neither one. But, you know what's a fact? Them that has always wants more. And I know where to get it. Our Lord owns the cattle on a thousand hills and ever'thing else. Now, nobody wants a herd of cattle these days, but that's just a symbol for what God wants to give away, and all we have to do is ask.

“And I'll tell you something else,” Brother Vern continued, holding Arthur's upper arm. “You heard of them twelve-step programs? Well, I got a four-step program. Number One, Trust God, because you can't get nowhere without trust. Number Two, Invest in God, because, just like in a bank, you can't make interest if you don't invest your capital. And Number Three, Ask God, because he wants to hear what you want so he can supply it. And Number Four, Wait on God, because he's sittin' up there ready to shower you with all good things. But all in his own good time, you have to remember that and not go buying cars and condos and takin' vacations on credit.”

Mr. Kessler had a slightly desperate look on his face. He glanced at his watch, then at me. “I do believe we need to be going. Good to meet you, Reverend Puckett. I wish you success in your endeavors.” And he turned and headed for the door with Brother Vern right behind him.

“Oh, don't you worry about me,” he said, his broad smile restored to its former glory. “You just tell them city folk that this is one place where the Word of God is preached. To their benefit, don't forget that!”

By this time, Mr. Kessler was out on the sidewalk, while Brother Vern hung on to the door, still talking. “And if anybody needs any spiritual help, teachin' or preachin' or prayin', anytime of the day or night, why, I'm right here ready to minister to one an' all.” He started to close the door, but was struck with another thought. Leaning out again, he called, “Oh, Brother Kessler, a God-thing just hit me in the head! You gonna need a chaplain. That would be a fine thing to offer prospective buyers. Tell 'em it's one of the amenities you're offering. A Condo Chaplain, what do you think of that?”

But Mr. Kessler was making tracks down the sidewalk and didn't reply. Etta Mae and I had to nudge Brother Vern aside to get ourselves out and hurry after him.

Puffing a little as I reached Mr. Kessler's side, I said, “Isn't it inspiring to hear such enthusiasm? Brother Vern is always in the forefront of the newest trends. He was one of the first preachers around here to move from radio to television preaching. And now, here he is, all taken up with what I think is called wealth theology, which ought to interest you, Arthur. But I will admit, Brother Vern can get carried away at times. His heart's in the right place though. He's just an example of how willing our people are to go the extra mile to be good neighbors.”

Mr. Kessler came to a halt on the sidewalk as we reached the courthouse. “Fences make good neighbors, and I might have to put one up.” He swung around and glared at me. “Was he serious? Does he think he'll have the run of my building?”

“Oh, I imagine he does,” I said placidly. “We're real friendly around here. Aren't we, Etta Mae?”

“Yes, ma'am, we are,” she said. “Why, we don't hardly ever lock our doors. The only time we do is when Dixon Hightower gets one of his prowling fits. Why,” she went on with a laugh, “I remember when ladies used to hang their wash out to dry and Dixon would go from yard to yard, taking whatever he wanted. Sears had a big run on dryers after that.”

“Who's Dixon Hightower?” Mr. Kessler demanded.

“Oh,” I said with a careless wave of my hand, “he's one of our young men who's never entirely grown up. He's harmless and really a sweet boy. There're just certain things he can't resist taking when he sees them. It used to be little, shiny things—anything from a piece of tinfoil to a silver teaspoon. Now, though, he seems to have moved on to the soft and silky.”

“Yeah,” Etta Mae said, “the last time he went on a spree, they found seventy-two pairs of ladies' underpants stuffed in his closet. The cops had a time trying to figure out who they all belonged to, especially when some ladies wouldn't own up to the bigger sizes.”

I hadn't planned to mention to Mr. Kessler the nature of Dixon's objects of interest, but I was happy enough for Etta Mae to do so. Forewarned is forearmed, in case Mr. Kessler was accustomed to silk boxers.

“Don't worry about Dixon,” I said. “You're a widower and your daughters live somewhere else, so he won't be a bother to you. You might never even see him.”

“Unless,” Etta Mae said with a laugh, “you're planning to string clotheslines on the grounds.”

“That'll be the day,” Mr. Kessler mumbled and stomped off. Then he wheeled around. “I appreciate you ladies taking time to show me around. But I'd be interested in meeting some of the natives and seeing the more cultural aspects of the town. Could we do that next time?”

“Oh, culture!” I said. “Why, we're loaded with culture, Arthur. Etta Mae and I will try to trim the list down to a manageable size, then we'll get an early start tomorrow and hit the high spots.”

I took Etta Mae's arm and turned her toward the sidewalk. “He wants to meet some
natives,”
I whispered fiercely. “What's he going to do, take pictures for
National Geographic
? Or make tapes to amuse his sophisticated clientele? I tell you, Etta Mae, the man thinks we're a different species.” I stopped suddenly and glared in his direction. “Curiosities. That's what he thinks we are. And you know what? I believe there're a few odd specimens here and there we can show him.”

We left Mr. Kessler to map out the ruin and destruction of a town landmark and walked down the side street toward the Not-So-Old Market where I'd parked my car. The sidewalk was cluttered with cast-off furniture, plastic toys and what can only be described as unmitigated junk, all for resale.

“Etta Mae,” I said, as she slowed to look at the merchandise, “think culture.”

“I'm trying, but I don't know what it is exactly.”

“Listen, it's a fine line we have to walk. We want to show him the worst while pretending it's the best, but when we don't even have the worst, what do we do? I mean, Abbotsville is too small for a concert hall or an arts center or a museum or anything like that.” Taking her arm, I went on, “Let's cross the street here.”

When we were settled in the car, I turned on the ignition to roll down the windows but didn't start the engine. “Let's think about this for a minute. We need a plan, a schedule or something. Today's visit with Brother Vern was too much spur of the moment, although I think it went well, don't you? When the mayor called back to tell me it would be a good time to show Mr. Kessler Main Street since he'd be downtown anyway, I just grabbed the opportunity and called on you. But, I'll tell you this, Mayor Outz is not going to be running this show. You wouldn't believe how eager he is to sell the courthouse. There's nothing objective at all about his position, so he'd undermine us before we can undermine him, if we give him half a chance.”

Etta Mae frowned as she twisted her mouth in thought. “What I don't understand is why the mayor is so worried about Mr. Kessler. I didn't think there was any question that he would buy the courthouse if the commissioners approve it.”

“Oh, I think you're right about that. Arthur Kessler wants that property, but Charlie Outz is your typical politician trying to make sure there's no slip betwixt cup and lip.”

“Ma'am?”

“What I'm saying is, the mayor is holding his breath between now and next Tuesday when the commissioners will vote on selling the courthouse down the river. He wants to ensure Mr. Kessler's interest and, at the same time, I have no doubt he's working the commissioners to get their votes. The thing is, Etta Mae,” I said, turning to her, “we could aim our campaign at the county commissioners and try to get them to vote against it, but I don't trust a one of them. They could swear on a stack of Bibles, but when it came down to it, who knows what they'd do. So my plan is to aim at disengaging Mr. Kessler's interest in buying it. That way, it won't matter how easily swayed the members are. They can vote to sell it all they want, but if there's no buyer, why, it won't matter.”

“So we have till next Tuesday?”

I nodded. “Yes, a week from now. And Arthur Kessler will be here until then, making his plans, suborning commissioners with promises of buying locally and making sure there're dollar signs in everybody's eyes. And when he gets their votes, he's free to tear down the courthouse and put up anything he wants. You know, Etta Mae, the town doesn't have any restrictions on what an owner can do with his property. Once he gets that site, Arthur Kessler can throw up the worst-looking building in the world. Why, he could put up a pool hall or a bowling alley, if he wanted to.” I sighed and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “We missed our chance several years ago when some of us wanted to have Main Street designated a historic district. It didn't go anywhere because some of the downtown merchants didn't want anybody telling them what they could and could not do, and the courthouse, itself, got us bogged down, too. Some of us thought it should count as an antique, but it's a little less than a hundred years old. At least, that was the argument, which I never thought should have applied. Anyway,” I said, cranking the car, “we might as well go on home.”

Driving slowly along the streets toward my house, I returned to the subject. “Did you know that the mayor wanted me to have Mr. Kessler as a houseguest?”

“Really?”

I nodded, leaning forward to check for oncoming traffic at Pine Street. “Yes, that's how I learned that the town is paying his expenses. Charlie Outz said the town would pay a per diem if I'd put him up. I told him ‘No, thank you, I don't take in paying customers.' He probably wanted me to have him for nothing, but I didn't offer. So they ended up putting him at the Mary Grace Haddington House. In their best room, too, the only one with an adjoining bath. No telling how much it costs. And,” I went on, stomping on the gas, “Arthur Kessler is a millionaire many times over. Why in the world should a town that can't afford to build adequate schools pay that man's room and board? It beats all I ever heard. And Arthur Kessler accepts it as his due.”

“That's bad,” she said. “You'd think, if they had to do it at all, they'd put him at the Days Inn out on the interstate. That's ever so nice, and you can get a room for around forty dollars a night. Thirty-nine ninety-five, I think, in the off-season. I'd take that over a room in somebody's house any day.”

Wondering how she knew the cost of a motel room, I pulled into my driveway without asking for clarification, not really wanting to know. Etta Mae's new red Camry was parked at the curb. I started to compliment her on it, then reconsidered. The less said about how she had been able to get it, the better.

“Let's sit here a minute, Etta Mae,” I said, as I switched off the engine. “We need to come up with something cultural, and the only thing I can think of is my book club. What do you think of that?”

“No offense, but not much.”

“Good!” I smiled at her. “That means it won't impress Mr. Kessler, either. The only problem is, it doesn't meet for another two weeks. Of course, with Helen Stroud, who's our president, being a recluse these days, it might be longer than that.” I thought for a minute, then said, “I guess I could see if everybody else wanted to have an extra meeting at my house and have you and Mr. Kessler as guests.”

“Um, well, what do you do at a book club?”

“Oh, we all read the same book beforehand and then discuss it. Don't worry about it, as a guest you wouldn't be expected to contribute anything. Unless you wanted to, of course. This year we're not reading any current books, just some good, old ones. The next one on our list is
The Great Gatsby.
I'll loan you my copy if we decide to meet early. It's short, so it won't take long.” I gathered my pocketbook and opened the car door. “Come to think of it, though, I haven't quite finished it myself. Got hung up on that green light on the pier, for one thing. It's got to be a symbol of something, but I can't figure out what. Come on in, Etta Mae, we can plan better inside.”

As we walked toward the back door, the family's usual entrance, I realized how easily Etta Mae seemed to fit in. I hadn't even considered taking her in the front door.

“Hey, Miss Etta Mae,” Lillian said, smiling as she always did whenever Etta Mae showed up. “Miss Julia, Mrs. Allen say for you to call her when you get home.”

I put my pocketbook on the counter and asked, “Is it news about Horace?”

“She don't say what it is. Y'all want some coffee?”

“That'd be nice. I'll call Mildred in a little while. Have a seat, Etta Mae. We'll sit here in the kitchen, if you don't mind. As you see, I'm treating you like family.”

Etta Mae was pleased at that. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “It sure is nice not to have to be somewhere every hour of the day. I don't know when I've had the time just to do whatever comes along.”

“All right,” I said, sitting across from her, “we need to think culture. What else can we show Mr. Kessler?”

Lillian stopped in midpour, the coffeepot suspended over the cups. “What you mean, culture?”

“Well, I don't know. I've always considered myself a cultured person, but I'm not sure why. We're assuming that Mr. Kessler is referring to art and music and plays and the like, of which there's a complete lack in Abbotsville, except for the senior play at the high school. They put that on a couple of weeks ago, so that's out.”

Etta Mae sat up with a sudden light in her eyes. “But won't that work? I mean, if Abbotsville doesn't have any culture, won't that do what we want?”

“It could,” I said, musing over the possibilities. “But I think it'd have more impact if we could show him something that he thought
we
thought was culture, but it's really not. See, I want him to meet people who don't think like he does. He's so wrapped up in showcasing this quaint little town with all its warm and welcoming neighbors. He intends for that to be a big selling point to prospective buyers of his condos. So I want him to meet some of the people who'll be their neighbors.”

Lillian put a plate of brownies on the table. “Y'all could have a party an' let him meet people that way.”

“Well, we could,” I said with little enthusiasm. Then, struck with another thought, I said, “I know! Why don't we have a soiree?”

“Okay, but what's a soiree?” Etta Mae asked.

“It's just a party, but
soiree
will sound more cultural to Mr. Kessler. Let's make it an afternoon affair and everybody can dress up in garden hats and filmy dresses and such. What do you think?”

“I don't think I have anything filmy. Or a hat, either.”

I waved my hand. “Hazel Marie'll have something you can wear. Now, how about this? Why don't we have some entertainment to make it a little special? That would really make it a cultural affair. You know, like a musical afternoon.”

Lillian shook her head. “I think you gettin' ahead of yo'self. Who you know can entertain with any kind of music?”

That stopped me, because if there was one area in which I was sadly lacking, it was in musical aesthetics. But Etta Mae had the answer.

“Tina Doland!” she said. “She's the soloist at First Baptist, and I heard her one time at their Christmas concert. Sent shivers all down my back.”

“Because she was good or because she was terrible?”

“Um, well, she sounded kinda high and churchified, I guess. Real different from Faith Hill, anyway.”

“Well, I declare,” I said, not exactly sure who Faith Hill was. “I didn't know Tina could sing, but that brings up another problem. We don't have a piano, which she would surely need. Lillian, remember when I wanted Lloyd to take piano lessons and almost bought a baby grand?”

“Yessum, an' I 'member you don't have enough room for one of them things an' you was about to build a music room onto the house 'til Lloyd, he say he want to play the drums instead, which take up a lot of room, too, but not as much as a piano.”

“Lord, yes, I was thrilled when he wanted to be in the band, but who would've thought he'd want a drum set? Anyway, it turned out that he had to take piano lessons, anyway, but not so many as to make it worth adding on to the house. Well,” I said, deflating slightly, “I guess that takes care of our musical afternoon.”

“Miz Allen,” Lillian said, “she got a big piano in her living room. Maybe she have yo' party there.”

“So she does!” I jumped up and headed for the phone. “And it's just what she needs to get her mind off Horace. I'll call her right now.”

Lillian started shaking her head again. “You better hope she don't have to have Mr. Horace's casket in the living room same time as yo' party. Miss Tina be singin' a different tune then.”