Free Miss Julia Rocks the Cradle by Ann B. Ross

screen in front of the fire, I sailed out the front door, intent on enlisting Mildred’s aid in curtailing Thurlow. I almost ran right into two deputies, one of whom had a finger pointed to ring the doorbell.
    “Why, good afternoon,” I said, quickly regaining my composure as I looked up at the two markedly similiar deputies. Both were big men, made even more so by the padded jackets they wore. Both had blond crewcuts and both wore solemn expressions on their wind-reddened faces. “What can I do for you? Is anything wrong?”
    “Julia S. Murdoch?” one of them asked.
    “Yes.” I nodded, then with a gasp asked, “Has there been an accident?” Visions of Sam lying broken on the side of a highway flashed through my mind. “Or Lloyd? Has something happened to him?”
    The taller by maybe an inch edged forward and with a stern look said, “We have no information on any accidents, ma’am. We’re here to escort you to the station.”
    He took my arm as politely as Sam would’ve done and urged me down the steps. It was then that I saw the patrol car parked at the curb, with doors open and motor running, wasting gas as they wasted my time.
    “Well, wait,” I protested, as I was gently propelled to the car. “What’s this about? Why do I have to go to the station? I need to call my husband, my lawyer, somebody. Just wait a minute now.”
    “Ma’am, we’d like you to come down for questioning. You can make a call when we get there.”
    “ Questioning? What about?” I almost stumbled and would have without his firm hand on my arm. Looking over my shoulder at the house, I tried to call Lillian, but could only manage to pitifully whisper her name.
    Stunned and confused, I quickly found myself in the backseat of an official car that had a reinforced mesh screen between me and my abductors and no handles on any of the doors.
    Reviving somewhat as the driver made a screeching U-turn on Polk Street, I leaned up and knocked on the screen. “Young man,” I called, “I can answer your questions in the privacy of my home, so stop this car this instant. I want you to call Sergeant Coleman Bates right now. Or Lieutenant Peavey, either one. They’ll tell you you’re making a mistake.”
    I could’ve been talking to the wind for all the notice they took. They didn’t even have the courtesy to give me a glance, which proved how ill bred and poorly raised they’d been. Defeated, I slumped back in the corner of the seat, which was rank with sweat and other unsavory odors, hoping with all my heart that no one would see me being taken in like a common criminal.

Chapter 9

    I stormed back into the house and stomped through the rooms until I found Lillian cleaning the downstairs powder room. Fuming and outraged, I recounted to her an experience that no person of my standing should ever have to endure.
    “And would you believe,” I ranted, torn between shame and mind-ripping anger, “they questioned me about checks I didn’t write, showed me what appeared to be my signature but wasn’t, and wouldn’t listen to a word I said. And they fingerprinted me ! Then they took my picture, Lillian, and I’ll probably be tacked up on every post office wall in the country. Oh,” I said, my knees wobbling as I leaned against the vanity cabinet, “I have never in my life been so humiliated. It was that bank that turned me in, and believe me, they’re going to be sorry.”
    “Now jus’ calm yo’self down,” Lillian said, taking my arm and guiding me out of the powder room. “Jus’ wait till Miss Binkie get ahold of ’em. They know not to mess with you then.”
    “Binkie’s in court,” I said, wringing my hands and trying not to cry. “And Sam’s gone and Coleman was unavailable, whatever that means. They took me to detention, Lillian, as if I were in grammar school! They made me stand in front of a magistrate and I knew him. I could’ve gone through the floor, because he just looked at me over his glasses and shook his