"There's nothing wrong with being different," I said, feeling for the first time a slight kinship with Ashley Knowles, since I'd never been known to run with the pack, either. Although Ashley's black-rimmed eyes and green nail polish put her far beyond me or the pack. Odd, though, I thought, that this grandmother hadn't mentioned those dramatic cosmetic additions. Maybe the girl put them on between home and school. Some do that, you know, leave home one way and show up at school or work another.

"Here's what we should do, Mrs. Knowles," I said. "You be in charge of getting her back in the pageant, and I'll see to it that she has a makeover that'll put her head and shoulders above anybody who's been mean to her. Lillian, here, is a near-professional when it comes to doing makeovers. Why, between the two of us, we could open a beauty school, if we had a mind to." Lillian shot me a look that would've ordinarily stopped me cold, but there was nothing I liked better than a challenge, and Ashley Knowles was a challenge if there ever was one. Besides, I had to do something to keep her uncle quiet.

"Well, my goodness sakes alive, she can't pass up a chance like that," Mrs. Knowles said, her dark eyes glinting with determination. "Not even the Avon lady is that good." Then she gave a firm nod of her head. "She'll be there. When I put my foot down, she hops to, and I aim to put it down."

"Well, we want her to want to," I cautioned, picturing a sullen Ashley shuffling down the runway. "Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Knowles. Tell Ashley to be at my house first thing in the morning. We're going to fix that girl up, and give her some confidence in herself. And maybe help her find a job, too. I'm not without influence in the local job market." Although I wasn't sure that my influence went as far as McDonald's.

"Lord, don't I know it. Ashley won't squirm outta this. I won't let her. She'll be there, don't you worry."

"Then we'll be looking for her. Oh, Mrs. Knowles," I said, as if I'd just thought of it, "do you by chance know a preacher by the name of Kincaid?"

"Aaron? I guess I do, since he's my boy by my first husband. How come you to know him?"

"By way of a, uh, church service I once attended. He mentioned being kin to a Knowles family around here."

"He's a fine preacher, if I do say so, an' he just thinks the world of Ashley. He called a coupla nights ago to see how she's doin'." Mrs. Knowles squinched up her eyes in sudden concern. "Aaron ain't give you no trouble, has he?"

"No. Indeed not. I've just heard him the one time, and wondered at the connection." I hoped she'd let the matter drop.

She cackled again. "Well, that boy's nigh fifty years old now, and he's seen his share of troubles. But he don't let it bother him, he just follows the Lord an' takes care of his kin."

"Yes, that's what I understand. Lillian, we must be going. Thank you again, Mrs. Knowles."

"Why, honey," she said, springing up from her chair as I opened the door, "I didn't even offer you a Coke or nothin'. I don't know where my manners went. Stay on a while, Ashley'll be on home sometime today."

"No, we have to get back. Thank you anyway. I just wanted to make sure that she'd stay in the pageant. I'm just so pleased to have your help with keeping her in. I'm sure she'll make a good showing."

I opened the door and felt for the top cement step with my foot. Lillian took my arm to help me reach the ground. She worried constantly about falling. Me, not her, but I shook her off when I gained my footing.

"Thank you again," I called back, as I headed for the car, pretending that I couldn't hear Eunice Knowles's voice rattling on behind us about how we should come back anytime, how she'd forgotten to serve the Sara Lee pound cake she had in the freezer, how I was always welcome, and how Ashley'd be sorry she missed us.

"My word," I said, as I closed the car door and reached for the seat belt. "That was an unusual experience."

"Uh-huh," Lillian said, cringing as I narrowly missed a tree turning the car around. After a while, she added, "She sho' know how to talk, don't she."

Chapter 30.

"Lillian, you have to help me," I said, elbows propped on the table, my head bowed between my hands. Eunice Knowles had called early that morning, saying that Ashley had agreed to stay in the pageant. "It took me some doin'," Mrs. Knowles had said, "but she finally said okay when I told her she couldn't do no better than to have a fine woman like you help her with her ambitions. She'll be there in a little while."

So now I had to back up my words to turn Ashley Knowles into a beauty queen, and that's why I was appealing to Lillian.

But Lillian went right on stacking breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, showing not one bit of sympathy, while the grating whine of the Pruitts' electric drill added to my distress.

Casting my eyes toward the ceiling and praying for relief from the constant din of closet building, I said, "I can't think with that racket going on. Not that thinking is going to help with this." Spread out on the table in front of me were a curling iron, a large mirror on a stand, hairpins, a comb, a brush, and a basket filled to overflowing with one beauty product after another, most of which I'd never seen nor heard of. "Hazel Marie said we should start Ashley on a beauty regimen, but I don't know what that is. Ashley's on her way over here right this minute, and, Lillian, we have to give her a makeover, and I can't even give myself one."

Lillian grunted. "Wadn't me what said she could."

I raised my head. "Well, but, I told you what that preacher said. The only way to keep my name off 60 Minutes when they do a fake-marriage segment is to get that girl back in the pageant, and fixed up enough to win. And, I'll tell you the truth, I think that's an impossible job even if I knew what I was doing."

I'd tried to finagle some help from one of the two experts who were running the pageant. But Miss Wiggins had a crisis on her hands that morning. She'd found one of her home-care patients in need of an emergency trip to the hospital, and Miss Wiggins had to be in attendance. Frankly, I thought that was just an excuse. There're plenty of real nurses in a hospital. Then Hazel Marie announced that she had a meeting with Sheriff Frady and the downtown merchants to finalize the plans for the department's public awareness program, of which the pageant was a big part, and she had to be there to make a presentation. She'd been so nervous about speaking before such a prominent group that she couldn't give the proper attention to my concerns. All she'd been able to do was throw together the beauty aids that were now strewn across the table before me. "I can't help you, Miss Julia," she'd said, her hands shaking in her anxiety to look over her notes one more time. "Just do like you've seen me do, and remember, anything you do will be an improvement."

Well, I wasn't so sure about that, especially since Lillian had said that she only knew about cosmetic preparations for tawny complexions. Now here I was, the poorest hand in any two counties you want to name when it came to shading, highlighting, and blending colors, plucking eyebrows, lining eyes or lips, and bouffant coiffuring.

When I'd moaned to Hazel Marie about what to do with Ashley's long, stringy hair, she'd said, "Well, one good thing, Miss Julia. You won't need to use an extension."

Not knowing what an extension was, I hadn't planned on using one.

On top of finding myself in charge of Ashley's cosmetic enhancement session, Sam had not called the night before, nor had Little Lloyd called that morning. Not hearing from them had put Hazel Marie in an even worse state, and while she prepared herself for her public speaking ordeal, she kept glancing from the silent telephone to me and back again. I'd tried to reassure her by suggesting that their appointment with Sonny Sutton had been delayed, or gone overtime, or some other such reason. But I was anxious to hear from them, myself.

When the doorbell rang, I told Lillian I'd get it. "It's probably Ashley," I said. "Time for us to face the music."

I walked through the dining room, into the living room and opened the front door. I almost didn't recognize the girl. Gone were the black-lined eyes, the atrocious nail polish, and, thank the Lord, the nose button. Her hair looked freshly washed, most of it fluffed out around her shoulders, and with the sun behind her, a few strands stood out in static attention like a halo around her head. I'd like to say that she looked better, but when you're plain, you're plain, and I ought to know.

"Come in, Ashley," I said, noting with approval her denim skirt and cotton blouse, with no flesh showing in between. "We're so glad you're staying in the pageant. It wouldn't be the same without you."

She gave me a brief smile, then ducked her head so that her hair fell around her face. "I'm still not sure about it," she murmured.

Ah, I thought, I might not be a good hand at cosmetics, but encouragement is one thing I can do. "But we are. And so are the officers on the third watch. Remember, they chose you."

She shrugged, as if to say she couldn't understand why. Frankly, I couldn't either, but they had, and she was what I had to work with, thanks to Preacher Kincaid. But I didn't want her to know about his meddling.

I led her into the kitchen, introduced her to Lillian, and sat her down in front of the mirror. I stood there for a moment, wondering what to do next and realizing that I'd reached the extent of my expertise. Facing that fact, I didn't know whether to admit I was as ignorant as a stump or keep quiet and try to stumble my way through.

"How about some coffee, Ashley? Or would you like a Coke?" I bustled around the kitchen, sidestepping Lillian, busying myself with anything but that basket of unknown potions.

"A Coke, please, if you don't mind," she mumbled.

Turning to the refrigerator, I said, "I'll get it, Lillian. You sit down and get Ashley started."

She gave me a look that would've frozen me if I'd paid any attention to it. But she sat down and began taking out one item after another, frowning as she read the labels on each one.

I put a glass in front of Ashley and took my seat across from Lillian, who was still studying labels with assiduous care.

"Well, now," I said with forced gaiety, "where shall we start?"

Lillian stared at me, and even Ashley dared to raise her eyes for a brief frightened look. Then I raised my hands and admitted defeat. "Ashley, we don't know what in the world we're doing. I'd hoped that Hazel Marie would do this, but she's in a meeting with the sheriff. Miss Wiggins was the second team, but she's hung up at the hospital for I don't know how long. And that leaves Lillian and me, and neither of us knows one blush from another, and that's the truth."

Ashley looked up from behind her hair, her face brightening, as she said, "I don't either, so I guess I'll be going."

"I tell you what," Lillian said, and I could've hugged her for it. "Le's us all see what we can do. If nobody know the right an' wrong of it, then nobody know the difference."

And that's what we did, although it took the longest time to get Ashley to break down and enjoy herself. When she finally realized that we were truly at a greater loss than she was, she became more comfortable with our experiments on her face. We all played around with moisturizers, toners, cleansers, foundations, eye liners, and lipsticks, and after a while, Ashley was primping and giggling and trying first one thing and another. When we'd used a little of every bottle and jar in the basket, Lillian began to wield the curling iron. She soon had Ashley looking like Shirley Temple in her heyday.

When we'd done all we could, I had to admit that we'd given Ashley a makeover, but into what, I couldn't say. "Ashley, honey," I said, "we may've gone overboard a little." I peered at the colors on her face and the ringlets on her head. "But," I went on with an authority I didn't possess, "show people always go heavy on the makeup. Thank goodness, it's not permanent. I promise we'll get better at it. Still, I hope you're not too disappointed with the results."

"I guess not," she said, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. "It sure is different, though."

Lillian stood back, cocking her head to the side as she gave her assessment. "She look pretty good to me. Miss Julia, you an' me ought to open us up a beauty school, like you say. Miss Ashley done learned us how to do it."

"Lord, Lillian, if we did, I'd have to be the first student. Well, Ashley, at least it's been a pleasant way to pass the morning."

"Actually," she said, still hesitant to look straight at me, "I didn't know we were going to do this. I thought you wanted to hear my talent."

"You did?" My goodness, we had gotten our wires crossed, hadn't we? I didn't know any more about music, guitar playing in particular, than I did about cosmetics. "Well," I said, glancing at Lillian, "I guess we could try, but I don't have a guitar in the house."

"Mine's in the car," she said, rising from the chair. "I'll run get it." She hurried toward the door, then looked around with a shy smile. "I hope nobody sees me."

As soon as Ashley was out the door, Lillian's eyes rolled back in her head. "What you know 'bout guitar playin'?"

"Not a thing. But, according to her grandmother, all she needs is some confidence and reassurance. And we can give her that."

"I don't know if we can or not," she mumbled. "It might be like us puttin' on all that paint 'thout knowin' what we doin'."

"Well, try," I said.

Ashley came back in, giving me a start when I saw the garish colors on her face from a distance. She was lugging a large guitar case, which she put on the floor beside her chair. Taking infinite care, she opened the latches. Then she carefully drew out the instrument and settled it in position across her lap, while I waited to hear the result of all the practice her grandmother had complained about.

Instead, she began to tune the thing, one string at a time, as her newly curled hair draped beside her face. Plink-plink, plunk-plunk, on top of sounds of hammering from above, made me want to jump out of my skin. I just can't stand all that screechy tuning that the local symphony orchestra does, either. Get your instruments in tune beforehand, I want to scream. You knew you were going to play them.

Ashley finally got to the point of strumming one chord, and I thought we'd hear something musical for a change. But no, it didn't suit her, so she went back to the monotonous tuning. At last, she strummed a chord twice in a row, glanced at me, and turned sideways in her chair. After another strum or two, she cut her eyes at Lillian, and would've turned backward if she'd been on a stool.

She stopped, her face entirely hidden from us. "It's no use. I can't do it."

"Can't do what?" I said, jerking upright at that jolting announcement. "Don't tell me you can't play it." I'd about given up hope of her winning even an honorable mention in the looks category, even with the advantage Lillian and I had given her. So if the girl couldn't play the instrument of her own choice, there was no way she could shine in the talent category to make up for it. She didn't have a chance of making any kind of showing, and I was going to be the one to suffer for it when her uncle started talking.

"Yes, ma'am, I can," she whispered, still unable to face us. "It's just, well, I can't do it with people watching me."

"Well, Lord, honey. Lillian and I aren't people. I mean, we're not an audience. If you can't in front of us, how're you going to manage at the pageant?"

Her shoulders drooped and she laid her head against the back of the chair. "That's why I didn't want to be in it," she whispered, her face red with embarrassment. "I just get scared and my fingers stiffen up when I see people watching me."

I listened to this pitiful tale with my mouth open. Then I looked at Lillian, who was shaking her head in dismay. The silence lengthened as I realized that no amount of encouragemnt or training in charm and poise was going to overcome the problem of somebody so frightened of the spotlight. Especially if being the center of attention required nimble fingers.

"I'm sorry," Ashley mumbled. "I better go on home."

"No, ma'am. You're not going home yet." I had suddenly hit on a tactic that might just work. "Up, Ashley, get up and bring that guitar with you."

I took her by the arm, led her into the pantry, and slid a chair in with her. Then I turned on the light and walked out, closing the door behind me. "Now you can't see us watching you. So you play that thing, and I don't mean maybe."

This time it was Lillian's mouth that was hanging open, but I was determined to keep Miss Third Watch holed up in the pantry until her talent, if she had any, got her out.

After a few minutes of dead quiet, a few clear, though slightly muffled, I must admit, notes emanated from behind the pantry door. Gradually, the notes became chords that stayed close enough together to become what I'd call music. The fact of the matter was, I didn't have much of an ear for any kind of music, but what I was hearing made chills run down my back. Then Ashley's voice rose sweet and true in a mountain ballad that conjured up lonesome ridges and lost loves and tragic deaths. The poignant words touched me deeply, evoking my own muddled situation with Sam. Except I'd yet to see the man I'd hang myself for.

The only thing wrong with the serenade was the volume, which was a mite low. I reached for the knob on the pantry door, intending to ease it open so we could hear better. Lillian placed her hand on my arm and shook her head. "Better not," she whispered. "You might ruin it, an' that be a shame."

As Ashley's voice moved effortlessly into another ballad, Hazel Marie and Etta Mae Wiggins appeared at the back screen door. I moved quickly to them, my finger to my lips. "Sh-h-h, listen. Come on in and listen."

The two women tiptoed in, frowning as they wondered what was going on. Then they both stood stock-still, listening to a plaintive song that made tears well up in Hazel Marie's eyes. I heard a shuffle on the back stairs, and looked up to see both Pruitts standing there. Uncle and nephew were entranced, brought from their work by the music floating up from the pantry. Her song this time was one I recognized, since I'd heard it on The Andy Griffith Show. But this time, the words spoke directly to my heart, wrenching it as she sang of days and seasons quickly passing, and of love staying warm in spite of the winter winds.

All I could think of was how much I wanted Sam's warm love, for as far as we were concerned, the winter winds were already at our backs. Tears gushed into my eyes as I thought of the loss of our youth and how we were frittering away the little time we had left.

When Ashley stopped playing and singing, nobody said a word. We couldn't-at least I couldn't-being so moved by what I'd heard.

Then in a small voice, she called, "Can I come out now?"

"Lord, yes," I said. "Come on out here, child, and let us tell you how wonderful you are."

Hazel Marie's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide in shock, when Ashley hesitantly walked out. I couldn't tell if her surprise came from seeing who had been so melodious, or from her first sight of Ashley's made-over face, or both. She recovered admirably, though, looking at me as if I'd concocted a miracle. Etta Mae began to clap, and Mr. Pruitt and Willie joined in. Ashley cringed at the sudden ovation, and I had to grab her arm to keep her from retreating to the pantry again.

"That was the prettiest music I've ever heard," I exclaimed. "Ashley, you sing like an angel. Now," I went on, noting the pained expression on her face, "Mr. Pruitt, you and Willie need to get back to work. We have business to tend to, and you can hear more when you buy tickets to the pageant."

Ashley just stood there, her guitar hanging by her side, as she shook her head. "I can't," she whispered. "I just can't."

"Why can't you?" Miss Wiggins demanded in her straight-to-the-point way. "There's no reason in the world you can't do the same thing in front of a few hundred people. They'll love you, and probably'll want you to keep on and on. Now, come on. Don't be silly."

I could've shaken the woman. After all my tender nurturing to get Ashley to warm up her voice and her fingers, Miss Wiggins had just turned the girl into a shaken and white-faced semblance of her performing self.

"She has stage fright," I snapped. "Which is nothing to be sneezed at. It's a real affliction, and I ought to know because I suffer from it myself."

"Me, too," Hazel Marie murmured, thinking perhaps of the public speaking trial she'd just undergone. "Ashley, you're just great, and we really need you to perform. You'll make the pageant worth the ticket price all by yourself. Tell us what we can do to help."

"I don't know," she said, still hiding her face. "I just freeze up when I see people watching me."

I thought for a minute, then said, "I don't guess we could put a pantry on the stage, could we?"

"No," Miss Wiggins said, "but we can put her behind a scrim. Then adjust the lights so that all the audience will see is her outline, and fix it so she won't be able to see out at all. It'll be like she's all by herself."

Well, it seemed that Miss Wiggins was good for something, for Ashley's head came up and she looked from one to the other of us, with a tiny glint of hope in her eyes.

Chapter 31.

"What's a scrim?" I asked Hazel Marie when Miss Wiggins and Ashley had gone.