Miss Julia to the Rescue by Ann B. Ross Page A

something, and we’re the only ones who can. Mr. Pickens needs someone to speak up for him because it seems he’s not able to speak for himself.”
    “Well, I don’t understand why the sheriff is holding him incommunicado. Is he under arrest?”
    I almost ran off the road. “I didn’t think of that! But, no, he can’t be. Surely the sheriff would’ve told Coleman if he was. At least you’d think he would. But that’s a good question, Etta Mae, because it would explain why they’re keeping Mr. Pickens from contacting anybody.”
    “Yes’m, but even a hardened criminal is allowed a phone call, and I know J.D. is not that.”
    “Of course he isn’t,” I said, although I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d come close a few times. “But it could be that that call he made, looking for Sam or Coleman, qualified as his one call, even if the connection was so bad I couldn’t understand him.”
    We rode along in silence for a while as Etta Mae absorbed the information. Then she said, “Something else must be going on. Ahospital doesn’t withhold patient information from family members. Not that I’ve ever heard of anyway.”
    “Well, I didn’t want to mention this because I didn’t want to scare you. And I don’t believe it anyway. But Coleman told me that the sheriff implied—take note of that, Etta Mae, he only implied—that Mr. Pickens is suspected of being mixed up in growing marijuana. Or making something in laboratories, which is ridiculous because Mr. Pickens is certainly no scientist.”
    Etta Mae’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “
Meth
labs? You’re talking about meth labs? Listen, Miss Julia, the people who grow marijuana are bad enough, but we need to stay away from meth labs. Those people would as soon shoot you as look at you.”
    “Oh, Lord,” I moaned, letting the car ease down below the speed limit. “That must be what happened to Mr. Pickens. He must’ve gotten too close. But, Etta Mae, if he did, it would be because he was trying to stop them, not because he was one of them.”
    “Then I guess we’ll just have to convince the sheriff of that.” Etta Mae thought about this for a while, then she said, “Wonder what kind of man he is. The sheriff, I mean.”
    By the time we’d gone through the easternmost tip of Tennessee and picked up Interstate 81 North into Virginia, I was feeling the effects of the coffee we’d had. I pulled off at the first rest area we came to and we both availed ourselves of the facilities.
    When we were back on the road, Etta Mae adjusted her seat and dropped off to sleep. I kept myself alert by running over in my mind the various ploys we might use to get in to see Mr. Pickens. Should we go straight to the hospital? See the sheriff first? Try to find his doctor? Wander around like tourists until we knew more?
    I drove on, watching the traffic, which was heavy with trucks, and fiddling with the radio. Stations came and went as we moved on through the rolling countryside of western Virgina, which was dotted with small towns off the interstate and farms along the side with cattle on seemingly a thousand hills. Giving up on finding a radio station with decent music, I listened for a while to a preacherwho was exercised about the downward trend of our country while I became more and more exercised about finding another place to stop.
    When Etta Mae stirred and sat up, I said, “There ought to be a rest area fairly near. Would you like to stop?”
    “Would I ever!” she said, then yawned. “I’m getting hungry, too. Those biscuits you brought hit the spot, but it’s getting close to lunchtime.”
    “I’d like to make just one stop, but I don’t think I can wait to find a restaurant. See, there’s a sign—rest area two miles. Let’s make a quick stop there, then go on. There may be some restaurants around Wytheville, which is where we pick up 77 North.”
    “Suits me. I’m about to pop.”
    We came off the highway and nosed into a parking