She frowned. "It's like a cloth screen, Etta Mae said. Something that hangs between the actors and the audience to make the actors look kinda hazy, I think."

"It seems to me that if you go to a play, you go to see what's on the stage."

"Well, I know, but it's supposed to give a blurry effect. Kinda like airbrushing a photograph, I guess. I don't know, Miss Julia. I just hope it works."

"I do too, and that's what worries me. Ashley's going to need more than a blurry effect. If she walks out on that stage and sees all those people looking at her, even through a screen darkly, we're going to have one frozen girl on our hands."

"We'll just have to use a thick scrim so that won't happen. I think it could be real dramatic if we backlight her so that she's outlined for the audience. And maybe put a light somewhere that shines right in her eyes, so she can't see out. She could sit or stand in profile, so that she's not even looking out at the audience, maybe with a backdrop of mountains behind her. Wouldn't that be pretty?"

"My goodness, Hazel Marie, you sound like you know what you're talking about. So professional. I didn't know you knew anything about stagecraft."

"I don't, really." She smiled, pleased that I'd acknowledged her newfound expertise. "But we have some good volunteers who're helping us get set up."

"One thing you should keep in mind, though," I said. "If you have Ashley looking away from the audience, there'd better not be anybody watching her from the sidelines. You know, backstage personnel and the like."

"That's the wings you're talking about. And, you're right, we'll have to be careful to keep everybody away when she's performing. Oh, she is so good, Miss Julia. She's just going to make the pageant."

That evening after supper, I accompanied Hazel Marie to the high school auditorium to act as a constructively critical observer of the pageant rehearsal. I hated to leave the house, expecting any minute to hear from Sam and Little Lloyd by phone or, even better, to see them pull into the driveway. Hazel Marie was torn, too, and I could tell that worry over their whereabouts was getting to her. But the show must go on, she said, although our show wasn't exactly Broadway material, and for my money it could never open and nobody'd know the difference. To ease our concerns, she put messages on both our answering machines, telling where we were and when we'd be home.

"That way," she said, "they won't be worried about us, and they'll call back."

I hoped she was right, and as I settled myself in a seat some distance from the stage, I tried to put my mind on the matter at hand. Not an easy job, for the confused state of affairs on and off the stage made me so antsy I could hardly sit still. They all needed a firm hand taken to them, from the bluegrass band that couldn't get tuned up to the giddy contestants who were too excited to listen to directions. Add to that Willie Pruitt, who was stomping around on the makeshift runway to be sure it wouldn't collapse under the tread of pumps with three-inch heels; Miss Wiggins, who was shouting orders to any and everybody; Hazel Marie, who was flapping her arms in an organizational frenzy; and a half dozen off-duty deputies serving as volunteers but doing nothing except getting in the way and leering at the contestants, most of whom were in their usual attire of shorts and tops, both cropped beyond decency.

I was pleased to see Ashley Knowles among them, relieved that she hadn't had second thoughts about participating, and that she'd washed her face. I noticed, though, that she still held herself apart from the others. And not a one of those girls tried to include her. Just wait, I thought to myself, she's going to show you all a thing or two. And I was going to take my share of credit for it, too.

Having heard Ashley's talent, I was feeling much better about the bargain with Preacher Kincaid. If I could only do something about her looks, she had a chance to win fair and square-influence or no influence.

"Okay, everybody," Miss Wiggins bellowed from the stage, as Hazel Marie herded the girls behind the curtains. "The music's about to start, and I'm going to introduce you one at a time. Come out to center stage, pause and pose, then walk down the runway to the end. Stop there and let everybody get a good look, then pivot and return to center stage. Pivot again and face the audience, then walk to your spot at the back of the stage. There're marks where you're supposed to stand, so just stay there until all the contestants have had their turn; then you'll go back down the runway in a line. Be careful when you pass each other-this thing's not very wide." She frowned at Willie Pruitt, who took the criticism in stride as he grinned up at her.

The volunteers took seats up close to the runway, the better to see the parade of beauties, and Miss Wiggins took her place at the microphone on one side of the stage. She looked up at the sound booth over my head, then leaned into the microphone, shouting, "Lights!" There was an electronic squeal, and one of the deputies hurried over to adjust the volume. The lights in the auditorium went out and spotlights lit up the stage.

Miss Wiggins shuffled a few papers, then started out in dramatic tones, "And our first contestant . . . Wait a minute. Where's the music? Ricky, y'all're supposed to be playing."

The orchestra, if you can call it that, cut loose then, with a bouncy tune featuring fiddles, guitars, banjos, and, for all I could tell, a washboard or two.

"Okay," Miss Wiggins said, with a quick look backstage. "We're gonna do it this time. Y'all ready?" Putting her mouth right next to the microphone, she started again. "And our first contestant is Miss SWAT Team, Hea-a-a-the-e-r Pea-vey!"

That was a little much for me, but the off-duty deputies welcomed Miss Peavey's appearance with clapping and whistles. She glided to the center of the stage, her posture correct and her color high. She did everything right, although with obvious self-consciousness, until she got to the end of the runway. She stood for a moment; then, when she pivoted, her hands flew out to the side and her knees bent as if she were waiting for a ball to be passed. When the runway creaked and listed slightly, I realized she was trying to keep her balance.

"Hey!" she yelled. "This thing's falling."

Willie Pruitt ducked down to shore up the runway, telling her, "No, it's not. Keep walking. I'll have it fixed in a minute."

One of the deputies called out, "I'll catch you, Heather!" He'd've thought better of it if her father had been there.

The rehearsal came to a screeching halt while Willie hammered on another brace. Miss Wiggins stood tapping her foot, but he just went about his business with a smile on his face, delighted, it seemed, with any kind of attention from her. "You said to make it temporary," he reminded her.

"But I didn't say half-assed," she snapped back. I cringed at the example she was setting for those impressionable young women. Miss Wiggins, to my mind, could've used some schooling in the social graces even more than the girls, who were at least trying to appear well-bred. But some people don't know and don't care to know.

As the contestants congregated onstage to see what the holdup was, some of the deputies checked out Willie's work, shaking the runway to assure themselves of its stability. Hazel Marie herded the girls backstage again, and Miss Wiggins consulted with the band leader. She seemed to be unhappy with their selection of runway walk music.

I tried to shut my mind to the chaos around me, sinking into wondering where Sam and Little Lloyd were and what they were doing right that minute. Visions of highway accidents or some other unfortunate occurrence raced through my mind, even as I told myself how unlikely such things were. But I am a worrier, and much more apt to expect misfortune than to assume that all is well all the time.

I nearly jumped out of my seat when a head leaned close to the back of my neck. "Well, well," a decidedly unwelcome voice whispered much too close, "what have we here?"

I jerked around, visibly annoyed and not trying to conceal it. "Thurlow Jones! What're you doing here? This is a rehearsal and it's not open to the public."

"I'm not the public. I'm a judge, and I'm just checking out the merchandise." He sat back, smugly pleased that he had startled the life out of me.

Typically, his face was stubbled, not from an effort to follow the current style, but from flat laziness. He'd been lax about shaving all his life. Even though he wore a suit and tie, the one was rumpled and the other stained and frayed. I wondered why he bothered. An old man's musty odor drifted toward me, and I scooted to the edge of my seat, ready to abandon ship if he lingered.

He was a scrawny, short-in-stature but large-in-belligerence man, and the town's premier eccentric, which is saying something, because Abbotsville has a gracious plenty of peculiar people. He lived in a large, run-down house that could've been a show place if he'd taken the trouble to repair it and mow the grass. He had all the money in the world, but nobody could remember how he'd come by it. His family had always been wealthy, but since he'd never married and had no children that anybody knew of, there was talk that he aimed to make the money run out at the same time he did. To that end, he lived a pauper's life, because he was just crazy enough to like it, and gave enormous amounts to the oddest causes anybody could imagine.

"Merchandise!" I hissed. "I'll have you know that is no way to speak of these young women. They have graciously agreed to do this for the good of the community, which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Jones, and I will not have you disparage them in such a manner."

"Well, pardon the hell outta me," he said, sliding down in his chair, with a grin on his face and a glint in his eye.

Thurlow loved to get a rise out of people with his shocking pronouncements, and he'd just gotten one out of me. I knew that the best way to deal with him was to ignore whatever came out of his mouth, but how could I when he irritated me beyond endurance?

"Mr. Jones . . ." I began in a calmer tone, attempting to appeal to his social conscience, as well as to get in a plug for Ashley. "There is one particular contestant that I hope you will look kindly upon. Now, I know that it would be unethical for me to try to sway your vote, but Ashley Knowles is extremely talented and she'd make a wonderful representative of the sheriff's department."

"You mean she'd look good with the canine unit? Or, you mean you couldn't tell her apart from the dogs?"

"No, that's not what I mean, and you know it. I mean that Ashley ought to win the crown, and I would be most appreciative if you gave her every consideration. And, Mr. Jones . . ."

"Just a minute, Julia Whatever-Your-Name-Is. We know each other better'n that. Call me Thurlow. And I'll look at your girl, but I already got my eye on that little chubby one."

Melanie Easley. That's who he was referring to in such uncomplimentary terms, the very one Little Lloyd was so taken with.

"Thurlow, please. It would mean ever so much to me if you would give Ashley every . . ."

"You trying to bribe me?" Thurlow's glasses glinted in the light from the stage. "If you are, I'll need a better offer than just a little appreciation."

He cocked his head to one side, as the music swelled to the swaying walk of YoShandra Washington on the runway. "Hear that? It's Pretty Woman,' just the song for you."

"I am a married woman now, and my name is Julia Murdoch. Mrs. Sam Murdoch, and don't you forget it." The last person in the world who needed to know my unsettled marital state was this cocky snip of a man who would've been courting me in a minute if I gave him one bit of encouragement. And if he expected me to offer more for his consideration of Ashley, well, I'd rather take my chances with Preacher Kincaid.

"Is that a fact?"

I half stood, clutching my pocketbook, prepared to do battle or to take myself out of there-one of the two. "It most certainly is a fact, and you'd better hope Sam doesn't learn that you've been pestering me."

With a snort of dismissal, he pulled himself up close to the back of my seat. "How's he gonna know? He's left you, hasn't he? Up and gone, and who knows when or if he'll be back. You know what I think?" He swiveled his head first to the left, then the right, as if he wanted to whisper a secret. "I think you're on the market again, and just so you know, I'm still available."

I stood to my full height, which was some inches above his, and said, "As far as I'm concerned, you'll stay available." Then I side-stepped my way to the aisle, aiming to leave until I remembered that I'd come with Hazel Marie and couldn't go until she did.

Even so, I wanted away from Thurlow Jones, who was striking much too close to home. Lord, I needed Sam by my side before LuAnne's speculations started to take hold, and Thurlow raised the woeful specter of me as an abandoned woman.

Chapter 32.

But what if I were? Abandoned, I mean. What if it was Sam who was having second thoughts? What if, now that he was free, even if he didn't know it yet, he took a long, hard look at being married to me and didn't like what he saw? I probably wasn't that easy to get along with, always wanting to have my way and thinking I knew what was best for everybody and letting them know it.

Lillian had told me a hundred times or more that I was going to lose Sam if I didn't treat him better. "Mr. Sam, he gonna find him somebody else, you don't get off yo' high horse an' start 'preciatin' what you got." Her words rang in my head, and I knew truer ones had never been spoken. I hadn't appreciated him as he deserved. I'd let him do all the courting, rarely responding, and that had carried right over into our marriage, such as it was. And I'd been only too quick to banish him to another room, never letting him know how much I'd missed having him by my side through the night. For all I'd revealed of my own anguish, he had every reason to think I was relieved to have him gone from both bed and board.

So what if he'd had a change of heart when he got off on his own? Out of sight, out of mind, you know. And, even though he had Little Lloyd with him to remind him of me, he might've begun thinking of greener pastures and quieter waters. Neither of which he was likely to get from me.

I stopped, almost stumbling, midway down the aisle, and grasped the back of a chair, weakened as a paralyzing thought hit me. What if our questionable marriage was indeed a sign from above-but to Sam, not to me? I slid into the first chair in the row, hardly able to get my breath. Here, I'd been thinking that the Lord was speaking to me, when all along the signs could've been aimed at Sam. Maybe the Lord had other rows for him to hoe.

Thankful that the auditorium was dark, I leaned my elbow on the chair arm and hid my face as the consequences of my sudden insight hit me full force. And, as I wrestled with that, the beat of "Pretty Woman" reverberating through the room and Miss Wiggins's amplified voice announcing the contestants played havoc with what was already going on in my head.

Lord, I thought. If that's the case, if all the signs are not aimed at me, but at Sam, where does that leave me? Out in the cold, that's where.

No. No, it couldn't be so. I shook myself, lifted my head and watched as Tasha McKenzie sashayed down the runway. But I didn't really see her, for I was busy telling myself that surely I would not be hung out to dry.

Sam had made a promise to stay with me until death did us part, but look at the dubious circumstances he'd made it in. For all I knew, those circumstances rendered his promise null and void.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and mortally shaken by the range of my thoughts, I switched around, pocketbook held high, ready to smack Thurlow Jones out of his seat and across the aisle.

"Whoa!" Mr. Pickens said, grinning his pirate's grin and holding his hands up to ward off a blow. "Don't hit me. I give up."

"Oh, Mr. Pickens," I said, the air suddenly taken out of my sails. "I didn't know it was you." I leaned my head against the back of the chair, just undone at how on edge I was.

"Hey," he said, leaning close so that his aromatic aftershave cologne nearly overpowered me. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know." I sat upright and tried to pull myself together. "As all right as I can be, I guess. I'm sorry, Mr. Pickens, I thought you were Thurlow Jones. He's been pestering the life out of me."

He looked around, scanning the auditorium. "Is he here?"

"I hope to goodness he's gone. He wasn't supposed to be here in the first place." I was trying to put up a good front for Mr. Pickens, letting him think that Thurlow was the cause of my unsteady nerves.

"How long you think this'll last?" he asked, his black eyes watching every move that Hazel Marie made as she showed the contestants their marks on the stage. "Hazel Marie doesn't know I'm back, and I'm gonna surprise her with a great big kiss." He transferred his twinkling gaze to me, expecting to be taken to task for such graphic language. "And speaking of kissing-yours, not mine-where's Sam? He around?"

"Oh-h-h," I wailed, as softly as I could, so as not to attract the attention of outsiders to my dire straits. "He's gone, and, Mr. Pickens, I think he's left me and may not ever come back, and I guess it's Aaron Kincaid's fault, who falsely presented himself as qualified to join a man and woman in holy matrimony, which you already know about. But what you don't know is that it may be my fault, as well, because I haven't been much of a wife, and that may be why I've been judged and found wanting, and doomed to a lonely old age for the rest of my life."

"What are you talking about?" Mr. Pickens frowned, giving me his full attention, now that sudden tears were revealing my inner turmoil. "Hey. Hey, now, it can't be that bad."

"You just don't know, Mr. Pickens," I said, fumbling for a Kleenex in my pocketbook.

"Well, tell me about it."

"I can't. Not here, with all this commotion going on." I waved my hand toward the runway, where the contestants were passing each other in the most disorderly fashion imaginable. Giggles and laughter almost drowned out the music, as one young woman after another teetered on the turn, almost falling off.

"Then come on." Mr. Pickens stood up, took my arm, and hoisted me out of my seat. Before I knew it, we were headed out of the auditorium and into the dusky evening outside. "You want to sit out here," he said, indicating the cement steps, "or go to my car?"

"Your car, Mr. Pickens. You're not fully aware of the delicate nature of my concerns."

He nodded and led me out to the sidewalk and toward his car, gratifying me with the concerned look on his face, although his mouth did twitch occasionally.

"Now let's hear it," he said, when we were settled in his low-slung sports car, which caused great inconvenience to anyone trying to get in or out.

I straightened my dress, smoothing it over my knees, and began to unburden myself. "I guess I'm worried about Sam. You've been gone, so you may not know that he and Little Lloyd took off several days ago to track down that preacher who supposedly married us but apparently didn't. See, Mr. Pickens," I said, then had to swallow hard before proceeding. "I wanted him to go, urged it, in fact, and banished him to Deputy Bates's old room until he agreed to go. I wanted him to find out for sure, you see, so I'd know where we stood. And that's part of the problem. I've been so concerned about myself, and my reputation, with little or no concern about his needs. Or what he might want." I dabbed at my eyes, just overcome with my own shortcomings. "And I wanted him gone because LuAnne Conover had planned a wedding reception for us that I wasn't supposed to know about, but Lillian told me anyway, and you know I couldn't have that under the circumstances. I mean, a wedding reception when there hasn't been a real wedding? That wouldn't do at all, but I couldn't admit that to her, so the only thing to do was to have Sam out of town, which was a good excuse to give her. And now, now, I haven't heard from him since night before last, so it's been two whole days of silence, with not even a call from Little Lloyd. And for all I know," I moaned, as my voice broke, "Sam's decided that he's better off without me."

Dead silence from Mr. Pickens. I glanced over at him, seeing his dark profile against the open window. The fingers of one hand tapped softly on the steering wheel.

"And that's not the worst of it," I went on. "All this upset may be a sign from the Lord that Sam and I shouldn't have even tried to get married. I mean, why else would this be happening to us, if the Lord's hand wasn't in it? And I haven't even told you the half of it. Of the signs, I mean."

"Well," he said, finally breaking his silence. He handed me his handkerchief, which I accepted gratefully since my damp and wadded-up Kleenex had lost its usefulness. "I can't help you with the Lord's business, seeing that we're not in close communication. I just go along the best way I know how until I hit a brick wall; then I do something else."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of! I'm afraid that the Lord is telling Sam that I'm the wrong woman for him. And it just breaks my heart, because I know I've not been all that pleasant to him. Nor very warm," I mumbled, looking out the window on my side. "Nor, well, responsive to his overtures, which I know a husband has every right to expect. But, if he'd just given me a little more time to, to adjust, I believe I would've sooner or later. But now he's gone and I'm afraid he's not coming back."

I covered my face with Mr. Pickens's sweet-smelling handkerchief and gave in to my grief.

He rearranged himself in his seat, so that he was leaning against the door, facing me. He took a couple of deep breaths, and turned his head so he was looking through the windshield. Then he ran his hand over his mouth a few times. He coughed and breathed deeply again.

My head shot up. "Are you laughing?"

"No! Lord, no, Miss Julia. You know me better than that."

"That's the trouble," I said, gritting my teeth at the thought of his playful nature. "I do know you."

"Listen, now," he said, and I could hear the change of tone in his voice. "A couple of things. Number one, if Sam was planning to leave you, he wouldn't've taken Lloyd with him. So put that out of your head. Number two, three, and four, where was he when he last called you, where was he headed next, and does he have a cell phone with him?"

"He doesn't have a cell phone, I don't think. At least, I've never seen one. And he was in Sevierville when he last called, and on his way to Nashville to see Sonny Sutton's manager. He's the Singing Sensation from San Antone, you know. Sonny, I mean, not the manager." I blew my nose and wiped my eyes again. "Sam thinks that Sonny's people have a better chance of finding the preacher than he does by himself. But I don't even know if he got there or not. And, Mr. Pickens, thank you for reminding me about Little Lloyd. I'm not thinking straight, or I'd have realized that he wouldn't keep that child from his mother. That means . . . Oh, Lord, that means that something has happened to them."

"Hold on, now. Don't go off the deep end on me. First thing in the morning, I'll start tracking them down. And if I have to, I'll go after them."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Pickens. I feel better already, because if Sam Murdoch wants off the hook, I want him to tell me to my face."

Mr. Pickens's white teeth flashed in the dark car. "Yeah, hold his feet to the fire." Then he tapped the steering wheel again. "How's Hazel Marie taking it?"

"Well, she's concerned, of course. But not as much as I am, because she trusts Sam to look after the boy." I did a little tapping of my own on the arm of the door. "Which with this silent treatment I'm getting, is more than I can say."

He reached over and patted my arm. "Put your mind at rest. I'm on the case."

"Mr. Pickens," I said, my voice sounding hollow, "I declare, I shouldn't say this to you, but you beat all I've ever seen. You're the world's worst when it comes to what is considered proper behavior." I sniffed, then went on. "In fact, you are the flightiest and most unsettling man I know, yet every time I get in trouble, you're the one I turn to."

"Yeah, and I get you out of it, too. Don't I?"

"So far," I said, nodding in agreement. "Let's see how you do this time."