Miss Julia Takes the Wheel Read online

  Also by Ann B. Ross

  Miss Julia Raises the Roof

  Miss Julia Weathers the Storm

  Miss Julia Inherits a Mess

  Miss Julia Lays Down the Law

  Etta Mae’s Worst Bad Luck Day

  Miss Julia’s Marvelous Makeover

  Miss Julia Stirs Up Trouble

  Miss Julia to the Rescue

  Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle

  Miss Julia Renews Her Vows

  Miss Julia Delivers the Goods

  Miss Julia Paints the Town

  Miss Julia Strikes Back

  Miss Julia Stands Her Ground

  Miss Julia’s School of Beauty

  Miss Julia Meets Her Match

  Miss Julia Hits the Road

  Miss Julia Throws a Wedding

  Miss Julia Takes Over

  Miss Julia Speaks Her Mind

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Ann B. Ross

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ross, Ann B., author.

  Title: Miss Julia takes the wheel / Ann B. Ross.

  Description: New York : Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, [2019] |

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018051406 (print) | LCCN 2018054110 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525560494 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525560487 (hardback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3568.O84198 (ebook) | LCC PS3568.O84198 M578 2019 (print) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018051406

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  As Binkie Enlow-Bates is always there for Miss Julia, so Sharon B. Alexander is for me.

  Thank you, Sharon. This one is for you.

  Contents

  Also by Ann B. Ross

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  *

  “Miss Julia,” Dr. Bob Hargrove said as he clicked his pen closed and twirled himself around on his little stool, “you are the most boring patient I have. I can’t find a thing wrong with you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I can’t pique your interest with some small malfunction or another.” I ran my hand down the front of my blouse, ensuring that all the buttonholes were filled. It’s hard enough to undress in a doctor’s office, but even more difficult to redress, hurrying as one must to be put back together before he comes waltzing in to announce the verdict of one’s yearly examination.

  “But,” I went on, “I get so tired. I don’t have the stamina or the energy I once had. And it’s hard to bend over or to get out of a chair. And my joints ache and my neck is stiff and my back hurts all the time—something has to be wrong.”

  “Nope,” he said, coming to his feet with a slight groan—an indication that he might be dealing with some of the same symptoms. “What you’re describing is a natural result of aging.”

  “I suppose,” I said, bowing to the obvious, “but I don’t like hearing it.” My age was a tender subject with me and I didn’t like him bringing it up and blaming everything on it. I could still recall the time in my life when every small complaint was laid at the feet of certain internal organs that are exclusive to my gender. Now, however, as those organs have taken themselves into retirement, doctors were blaming everything under the sun on advancing age.

  “None of us do,” he said, as if all his patients were octogenarians, and I knew for a fact that his practice consisted mostly of young families. Then with a sidewise glance at me, he asked, “So, how’s your driving these days?”

  “My driving’s just fine,” I said, stung by the question. How did he know that I’d backed into my boxwood hedge, crushing three of the bushes, gotten mired in the sodden ground cover, and had had to call a wrecker to extricate the car?

  “Well, keep in mind that age affects the reflexes, and aging is a fact of life, if life lasts long enough. I’m happy to assure you that yours is lasting quite well.”

  “And I certainly appreciate hearing that, but I declare, I hate to think of suffering through every day of what’s left of it.”

  He bent his head and stared at me over the top of his glasses. “I can give you something for the aches and pains if you’ll take it.”

  “No, I don’t want a row of medicine bottles on the windowsill over my sink, and I don’t want to have to keep a schedule of when and how much of each one I should take. I don’t want to have to be medicated just to be able to get out of bed each morning.”

  “How much exercise do you get?”

  “My word, Dr. Hargrove, I go up and down the stairs a half dozen times a day. I get plenty of exercise.”

  “But maybe not the right kind,” he said, leaning against his desk and crossing one foot over the other. “Why don’t you consider some form of regular guided exercise? You might be surprised at how helpful it can be.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’m not
interested in running a marathon for charity or walking ten miles for some disease or another.”

  “No,” he said, straightening up and getting ready to move on to the next patient. “I’m talking about a low-impact exercise class that you’d do two or three times a week.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like yoga, or Zumba, or some kind of aerobics. Tai chi is an excellent form of exercise. I recommend it.”

  “Dr. Hargrove, I am a Presbyterian, as you well know, and most of those exercises include some all-encompassing religious view that is most definitely at odds with the Nicene Creed. I don’t want anything interfering with my spiritual well-being, thank you very much.”

  “Well, think about it anyway,” he said, closing my chart. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he said, “I guess Sue told you that we’re leaving for Europe next week—Monday, in fact.” Sue Hargrove was a friend, a fellow member of the garden club and the book club, and, in my opinion, a most suitable wife for the well-respected physician. She gave lovely parties.

  “She told several of us awhile back,” I said, “but, I declare, I didn’t realize that the time is upon us. I must have you both for dinner before you go.” After that conventional invitation, it occurred to me that something more important was staring me in the face. “Doctor, if my memory serves me correctly, Sue said something about an extended tour—a matter of months, even. Will you really be gone that long?”

  The thought of being without the services of my physician, even though I rarely had need of them, filled me with anxiety. I think he could see the dawning realization of looming abandonment on my face for he stopped and patted me on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Julia,” he said. “I have a locum tenens coming in. He and his family will be staying in our house, and he’ll take care of my practice. He’s highly qualified, a graduate of McGill in Montreal, in fact, and—”

  “He’s from Canada? What’s he doing way down here?”

  “Came to his senses, I expect,” Dr. Hargrove said with a wry grin. “His wife’s from California, so maybe she drew him south. Anyway, he’ll be available just as I’ve always been. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

  I wasn’t so sure of that. First of all, a locum tenens meant that his substitute didn’t have a practice of his own, otherwise he would be too busy to take over for someone else. And second of all, what was the reason he didn’t have a busy practice of his own?

  The substitute would certainly bear keeping an eye on, but all I could do at the present was thank Dr. Hargrove for seeing me, wish him happy travels, and go home, hoping none of us would require medical care while he was traipsing around Europe.

  Chapter 2

  *

  By the time I turned the car into the driveway at home, I felt sure I was coming down with something. My face was cold and clammy, my hands were trembling, and my shoulders were shivering and shaking.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” I mumbled, gathering my keys and my purse to go inside. “Here I am—getting sick just as my doctor will be out of the office, out of town, and out of touch.”

  I entered the house through the backdoor, expecting to find Lillian in the kitchen. She wasn’t, so I sank into a chair at the table to unbutton my coat and take my pulse.

  Lillian came through from the dining room, stopped short when she saw me, then said, “You’re home mighty early. I thought you had things to do.”

  “I did, but I didn’t do them. Lillian, come see if I have a fever.”

  Lillian frowned, then walked over to the table. “You gettin’ sick?” She put her hand on my forehead in the time-honored way of detecting a fever.

  “I think I am. See how my hands are trembling? And I’m shaking all over, and I’m about to freeze to death.”

  “Well,” she pronounced as she removed her hand, “don’t look like you got a fever. You jus’ cold, Miss Julia, an’ no wonder. It’s February out there, an’ the temp’rature jus’ barely past the freezing mark. Why don’t you go set in the liberry an’ I’ll bring you some hot tea.”

  “Well, I’m not that sick,” I said, getting to my feet. “Obviously. So a cup of coffee would be better.” Feeling a little undone that I wasn’t exhibiting more symptoms, I took myself to the library, turned up the gas fire in the fireplace, and huddled, still in my coat, on the Chippendale sofa.

  I just knew I was getting sick. The problem was that it was so slow in declaring itself. If it went the way these things usually did, I’d have a few days of feeling out of sorts, then just as soon as Dr. Hargrove lifted off for foreign lands, it would hit me full force and I’d have to see a doctor who practiced medicine by wandering from pillar to post, filling in for others.

  I could just see it. I would wake up Monday morning—Dr. Hargrove’s leaving day—covered with a rash, burning with a fever, and coughing my lungs out. There would be nothing for it but to call in that new doctor who didn’t stay in one place long enough to be held accountable for any mistakes he might’ve made.

  Feeling immensely sorry for myself, I managed to perk up at the sound of Sam’s coming home and speaking with Lillian. Mindful of the fact that no one had good fortune in all aspects of their lives, I was eternally grateful for having bountifully received it in the form of my second husband. Which was only fair, since I’d totally missed out with my first one.

  In fact, as I listened to his warm conversation with Lillian, I felt easier facing the possibility of an imminent illness attended by an itinerant physician. If anyone would look after me, it would be Sam. As I would for him.

  Not only did we trust each other with life and death decisions, we’d had Binkie, my curly-headed lawyer, draw up medical power-of-attorney documents to make that trust legally binding. The only snag had been in designating to whom that power would descend if either of us was unable to step up to the plate. Meaning of course, if one of us was dead or otherwise incapacitated.

  Sam had gone back and forth over his choice, considering both sheriff’s deputy sergeant Coleman Bates and J. D. Pickens, PI, as possibilities, but had finally decided on Binkie. He’d said, “I entrusted my law practice to her, and that had been my whole life for many years. Why stop with that? Besides, I expect I’ll get the benefit of Coleman’s input, too. In personal matters, Binkie has no problem listening to her husband.”

  I’d had no hesitation in designating Hazel Marie Puckett Pickens as my second in command. LuAnne Conover, my longtime friend and sometime irritant, had been aghast at my selection.

  “Julia,” she’d said, “I like Hazel Marie, you know I do, but to give her that much authority over your very life, why, how could you? She was Wesley Lloyd Springer’s kept woman for years and even had a child by him. How do you know that she wouldn’t get rid of you in a minute if she had the chance?”

  She was referring to my first husband, unfaithful in life, but now permanently settled in the Good Shepherd Cemetery for these past several years. The child of whom LuAnne spoke was Lloyd Pickens, fairly recently adopted by Hazel Marie’s husband, J. D. Pickens, PI, and the light of my life. If ever good fortune had come out of bad, he was it.

  “LuAnne,” I’d responded after a great sigh, “I would trust Hazel Marie with my life—which obviously I have done by naming her. She’s like a mama bear when it comes to protecting her own, and she is the most sincere and openly honest person I know.” And, I’d thought to myself, if that hurts your feelings, I can’t help it.

  * * *

  —

  “How’re you feeling, honey?” Sam said, as he came into the library from the kitchen. He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “Lillian says you might be coming down with something.”

  “Well,” I said, smiling just because he was there, “if I am, you could be next.”

  “No worries,” he said, sitting down beside me. “I’ll take whatever you have to give.”

 
Then after telling him the results of my annual checkup, I began to bemoan the fact that we would be without our trusted physician for who-knew-how-long and would have to depend on an unknown replacement in the form of a locum tenens.

  “I think that’s what’s making me ill,” I said, summing up my feeling of loss even though Dr. Hargrove had yet to go anywhere. “If I have to get sick, I need to do it before he leaves.”

  “But,” Sam said, taking my hand, “who says you have to get sick?”

  “Well, nobody, I guess. I’m just thinking ahead because I don’t want to be at the mercy of a substitute. Why, Sam, everybody knows that a substitute is somebody who didn’t make the first team.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sam said. “For all we know this new doctor was a straight A student, but simply doesn’t like being tied down to one place. He may have wanderlust, like somebody else you know.”

  I smiled at that, for my sweet husband loved to travel, see new places, and learn new things. He’d done a good bit of it during our marriage right by himself, for I was a homebody, preferring my own bed and a regular routine. It worked fine for us.

  “That’s true,” I said, nodding. “And I shouldn’t judge him before he even gets here.” I would, however, withhold judgment only until an announcement of his temporary appointment appeared in the newspaper. At that time, I would learn where he got his medical education and what kind of clinical experience he had, which would, in turn, tell me all I needed to know as to his qualifications to diagnose, prescribe, and treat both me and mine.

  “Sam?” I said, as he picked up the newspaper and flapped out the folds. “I’m thinking I might ask Bob Hargrove for a prescription for some kind of preventive medication before he leaves. Just, you know, to have on hand in case I need it.”

  “And what,” he asked with a cock of his eyebrow, “would that preventive medication prevent?”

  “Well, I don’t know. But all you see on television these days are ads for every ailment under the sun and for some things that I didn’t know even qualified as ailments. And the names they give them—the medicines, I mean, not the ailments.”