Stella felt hot tears sting her eyes as her grandchild’s words found a special soft place in her heart. “Thank you, darlin’. But I didn’t do anything that anybody else couldn’t have done.”
“That’s just the point. There’s a lot of people in this town who could have helped Miss Carr if they’d been there, but they probably wouldn’t have. At least not in as nice a way as you did. I love a lot of things about you, Granny, but the thing I love most is that you do nice things for people who don’t even deserve it.”
Stella hugged her close. “Everybody’s deserving of human kindness, darlin’. And besides, we don’t treat people according to who they are. We treat them according to who we are, and we try our best to be decent people, even if we do come up short lots of the time. It’s the tryin’ that counts.”
Stella could tell that her granddaughter was considering her words long and hard, because it was a while before Savannah looked over at her grandmother, a twinkle of humor in her eyes, and said, “Except for that ornery ol’ Bud Bagley. I don’t reckon that was human kindness that you were doling out there in the kitchen with the frying pan.”
Stella chuckled and found the laughter to be healing to her sad, exhausted spirit. “Kindness comes in many forms,” she replied. “And as I recall, I was more interested in being kind to Miss Flo that day than ol’ fart head Bud.”
They both giggled hysterically, and once again, Stella felt the dark, ugly coldness that had taken up residence in her heart earlier in the evening continue to melt away.
“Can I call Marietta an old fart head sometime?” Savannah asked as they snuggled closer, enjoying the warmth and companionship that unconditional love offered.
“No.”
“Why not? You just called—”
“She’s your sister, and what did I just say about family?”
“Can I call her a pee-pee brain?”
“No.”
“Bottom burp? That’s a nicer word for fart.”
“Vannah Sue, don’t make me have to—”
“But she is one. Seriously, have you gotten a good whiff of that girl lately?”
“Good night, Savannah!”
“Good night, Granny.”
Chapter 9
Stella had to admit that she was relieved to drop her grandkids off at school the next morning. As much as she adored them and enjoyed their company, she had plans today. She intended to accomplish a lot before they got out of school, and the places she would go, the people she would see, and the things they would talk about weren’t for young eyes and ears.
Her first stop was at Florence’s house. She had called Flo that morning, before taking the children to school, and they had agreed that Florence would drop by for coffee later in the morning. But no sooner had Stella hung up the phone than she realized she could have scheduled her time with Flo more wisely.
Florence tended to linger wherever she was parked, sometimes for hours, and Stella wanted to do more with her day than entertain her curious friend with every grisly detail of yesterday’s miserable experience and listen to her complaints about ol’ bottom burp Bud.
So as soon as she had delivered the children to the big, ancient brick elementary school, which Stella and the previous three generations of her family had attended, she headed for Flo’s house.
She figured if she was the one dropping by, she could leave as soon as she wanted to and get on with her day’s activities.
After having Bud nearly run her down the night before, Stella was hoping to avoid him. But unlike a lot of people in town, she had never been afraid of Bud Bagley, and she wasn’t about to start now.
Since he was her next-door neighbor, she didn’t see the point in trying to avoid him, either. Their paths were bound to cross on a daily basis, as they had for thirty years, and she was determined not to let him intimidate her the way he did his wife.
However, when Stella drove up the driveway to the house and saw that his monster truck was nowhere in sight, she had to admit that she felt a bit relieved. Still quite shaken from the drama of the past evening, she wasn’t inclined to invite more today.
She parked her truck in front of the house, got out, and hurried to the front door.
Usually, she went to the back door, opened it, and hollered for Florence. But today she felt like being a bit less informal. Her last talk with Flo hadn’t been a particularly pleasant one, and her friend had sounded a bit cool on the phone earlier. She wasn’t sure Flo was ready to welcome her with open arms.
Another reason to hate Bud Bagley, Stella thought as she waited for Florence to answer her knock.
Convinced that you shouldn’t harbor animosity in your heart against anyone, Stella worked hard not to hate Bud. It wasn’t easy, since the guy gave her reasons on a daily basis.
Finally, the door opened and Florence appeared, looking disheveled and distraught, and not in the mood for company.
“I thought I was coming over to your house later,” she told Stella, sounding quite testy.
“That’s what we said,” Stella admitted. “But when I was dropping the young’uns off, it occurred to me that I could just swing by here on my way into town.”
“Wasn’t exactly on your way.”
“Wasn’t that far outta my way.”
Stella could tell by the suspicious, disapproving expression on her best friend’s face that Flo wasn’t buying it. Or liking it.
After so many years of being friends, if anyone could tell when Stella was fudging the truth a bit, it was Florence.
“If it’s not a good time for you, I’ll skedaddle,” Stella offered. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re—”
Florence burst into tears, with sobs that were so deep and racking that Stella was alarmed. She rushed through the doorway and put her arms around her friend.
“What’s the matter? Flo, what is it? What’s going on?”
When Stella received no answer, she gently shook her. “Flo, stop your bawlin’ and tell me what’s happened.”
“It’s . . . it’s Bud,” Florence finally managed to say.
Stella held her at arm’s length and looked her up and down, searching for any telltale bruising or other marks. “Has that bastard beaten you again?”
“No! It’s worse than that.”
“Worse? How could it be worse?”
“He’s leaving me. For sure. For good.”
Stella didn’t know what to say. Her first inclination was to jump up and down and yell, “Yippee!” but she figured that would be inappropriate, so she said and did nothing.
“He means it this time,” Florence said, as though Stella wasn’t believing her. “He’s at the bank right now, cleaning out our accounts.”
For the first time, Stella noticed some suitcases stacked haphazardly at the bottom of the staircase. The flicker of hope inside her flared to a soul-warming blaze.
Could it be true? It seemed too good to be believed.
Stella held her emotions in check. No point in raisin’ your hopes sky high, she told herself. It’s a long way to fall if it ain’t so.
“Are those your bags, Flo?” she asked. “Is he throwing you out? Because if he is, I can help you find a—”
“No! He’s moving out himself. He said I can stay here till he sells the place. He’s leaving town. Says he’s done with me, the town, his whole life here. He wants a new start.”
“He’s almost sixty.”
“I know. Stupid, huh? But that’s what he wants.”
“A bit late for a midlife crisis.”
“I told him that. He told me to shut my face if I wanted to keep it.”
Among the suitcases, Stella saw several matching boxes made of finely polished mahogany. She knew what they contained, having seen Bud’s extensive collection of valuable coins more times than she cared to. Bud was as proud of his coins as most men were of their children.
“He’s taking his coin collection, too, I see,” she observed.
“He’s taking
everything we have that’s of any value,” Florence complained. “I’ll be lucky if I get to keep my mama’s china. He tried to empty out my jewelry box, too. Said he gave the stuff to me, so he could take it, and I told him no way. I was surprised when he put it back. That was the first time he ever did what I told him.”
First time she ever called his bluff, Stella thought, confirming her own suspicion that Bud was a two-bit bully.
Standing up to some bullies could cost a person their life, Stella had learned the hard way long, long ago. But most garden-variety bullies would back down in the face of stern opposition.
She had always suspected that Bud Bagley was one of those run-of-the-mill, dime-a-dozen tormentors who could dish out far more than they could take.
After she listened to Florence’s story about the jewelry, it occurred to Stella that if her friend had made a habit of standing up to Bud years ago, when the relationship was newer, the dynamics a bit more pliable, they might’ve had a different marriage.
Probably not a good one. But at least Florence might have received fewer busted lips.
Stella reminded herself, she might’ve wound up in the local cemetery instead. No one really knew what went on between a husband and wife behind closed doors.
“I’m glad you stood up to him for your jewelry, Flo,” Stella told her. “I know how much some of those pieces mean to you—gifts from your mom and your sisters and such.”
“Gifts from you,” Florence said, her tears subsiding a bit.
Stella shook her head. “I never gave you any jewelry worth having. Never could afford the real thing.”
“You gave me some earrings and bracelets that you made out of shells and flowers you’d pressed. Things like that mean just as much as the rest when they’re given from the heart.”
Stella looked at her friend, whose red, swollen eyes were filled with affection—as well as more fear than Stella had ever seen in Florence. She reminded herself that even though she thought Flo would be better off without Bud, this didn’t appear to be what Florence thought.
It was a wife’s perception, not a neighbor’s, that mattered at a time like this.
“Are you going to be okay?” Stella asked her.
After a long pause, Florence said, “I guess so. I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“I reckon not. But you know that people love you in this town, and we’ll all be scrambling to find ways we can help you. Bud might be leaving you with precious little, but he ain’t leaving you alone. Don’t you forget that.”
Florence nodded and seemed a bit more confident of her shaky future.
“I won’t forget it, Stella. I’ll never forget what a good friend you’ve been to me. Maybe with Bud gone and all his torments, I won’t be crying on your shoulder so much. Maybe I can be as good a friend to you as you’ve been to me.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Stella assured her. “Life’s a long journey with lots of twists and turns. I’m sure the day will come, as it has before, when I’ll need you as much as you need me. It’ll all work out even in the long run, I’m sure.”
Florence glanced around the room, at the luggage and the coin boxes. A worried look crossed her face. “You’d better get going, Stella. Bud’s bound to show up any minute now to collect this stuff, and you don’t want him to find you here. Considering the way he’s felt about you since the skillet affray, in the mood he’s in right now, I couldn’t guarantee your safety.”
“Don’t concern yourself with me and Bud. We reached us an understanding a long time ago. You just keep yourself safe. Don’t be afraid to call Sheriff Gilford if a situation arises. And if it’s serious enough, call me first. I can get over here with my skillet a lot faster than the sheriff can with his gun.”
Florence promised that she would be careful, the two friends embraced, and Stella was on her way.
It wasn’t until Stella arrived at the town square and parked across the street from the Bulldog Tavern that she realized how upset her old friend really was.
Gossipy Florence hadn’t thought to ask her one single, solitary question about the murder.
* * *
Oh goody. Just what I need, Stella thought as she walked past the tavern door on her way to the alley and ran nearly headlong into her daughter-in-law. A strong dose of Shirley first thing in the morning. Now, ain’t that a delight and a half?
She could tell from the look on the other woman’s face that Shirley was just as thrilled to see her. Maybe even a little less.
“How are my kids doing after all that rigmarole you put ’em through yesterday?” Shirley demanded, her hands on her hips, jaw jutting out and lifted a notch with indignation.
“And a very good morning to you, too, Shirley,” Stella replied, reminding herself of the Good Book’s admonition, “A soft word turneth away wrath.”
“I leave them with you for ten minutes, and you get them mixed up in a damn murder. What kind of grandmother are you, anyway?”
Okay, Stella thought. Apparently, when King Solomon wrote that particular proverb, he hadn’t met Shirley Reid yet.
“Your kids, my grandchildren, weren’t mixed up in any murder. They weren’t in danger at all last night,” Stella told her, keeping her voice low and soft, while imagining how much fun it would be to just pinch Shirley’s head off and thump it into the gutter. Considering how scrawny her neck was, it probably wouldn’t take much of an effort at all.
“That’s not what I heard!” Shirley flipped her long black hair from one shoulder to the other—a practiced gesture, which Stella was pretty sure she employed to better show off her latest shoulder-duster earrings.
“Then you heard wrong. Two of them were safe and sound in the sheriff’s station, and the other five were back home, bein’ watched by Elsie Dingle, the best babysitter in the county.”
“Yeah, yeah. Good old Elsie. Couldn’t you find a babysitter who ain’t a . . . well . . . Couldn’t you find somebody who’s the same color as—”
“That’s enough! Stop right there, Shirley Reid!” Stella could feel her face turning hot and the blood pounding in her temples. “Don’t you dare to—”
“Okay, okay. I know you ain’t particular about who you associate with, and I guess that’s your business. But when it comes to my kids, I worry about what you’re exposing them to.”
“The people I expose them to—like Elsie Dingle, who’s one of the best women that ever walked this earth—are a sight better than the mangy, horny mutts you drag home every Saturday night from that there bar,” Stella said. She pointed to the tavern as her patience and Proverbs-inspired good intentions evaporated.
Shirley sputtered a moment or two, obviously flustered, waving her hands around like a duck that was having a hard time taking off from a pond.
That was another mannerism that Stella was pretty sure Shirley employed to show off new jewelry. This time it was rings, enormous silver ones set with turquoise.
Shirley was proud of her Native American collection.
She couldn’t afford fresh fruit for her kids. But she always seemed to have money for beer and turquoise-studded silver jewelry.
Stella watched as her daughter-in-law’s black, penciled-on eyebrows knit into an ugly frown. “Yeah. Once in a while, I invite a gentleman back to the house for coffee on a Saturday night,” she countered. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s not like your worthless son’s ever home to keep me company. But at least there ain’t no murderers in the batch.”
“That you know of.”
Shirley hiked her large fringed leather purse—also studded with silver and turquoise—higher onto her shoulder and tossed her head. The earrings danced, and her rings flashed, as did the four necklaces and eight bangle bracelets.
“All I know is this,” she said. “With all that tender lovin’, ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ grandma care that you supposedly give my kids, you nearly got ’em kilt. Thanks to you, they could’ve all been strangled to death, like that stupid slut Pri
ssy Carr.”
Stella watched as Shirley whirled around and strutted back into the tavern, her buttocks twitching from side to side in her ultra-tight jeans with every step.
The jeans were also accented with medallions of silver set with turquoise.
“Girl, you better hope you never fall into the river,” Stella muttered. “With all that jewelry on, you’ll sink like a rock, never to be seen again. So, keep wearin’ it.”
Chapter 10
As Stella continued her walk between the buildings, heading for the alley, she tried to think of a reason why that would be such a bad thing—Shirley sinking into the river, minus even one bob up for air.
You should be ashamed of yourself, even thinking somethin’ like that, Stella May Reid, she told herself. She’s your grandchildren’s mother.
“For all the good she’s worth to ’em,” she couldn’t help adding.
Rounding the corner, Stella discovered that she was unable to go into the alley—at least legally. As Savannah had predicted when speaking to the sheriff, bright yellow crime-scene tape had been strung across the entrance, warning the public not to cross into the space.
Stella stopped, as the tape instructed, and watched the action taking place within the restricted area.
Like almost every day spent in McGill and every square inch of the tiny town, little was unfamiliar here. Stella knew every person she met, whether in the grocery store, the pharmacy, the bank, or on the school grounds. Therefore, she wasn’t surprised that she knew every person inside the yellow tape, every member of law enforcement who was involved in the investigation of Priscilla Carr’s murder.
In a town where no one had met their death through foul play for many years, there was no need for a full-time coroner. Long ago, Herbert Jameson, the mortician, had been elected to the job, and since then, no one had challenged him for the position.
For as long as Stella could remember, Herb had been the coroner in name only, never having to actually lift a scalpel and perform an honest-to-goodness autopsy.
When Larry Kramer’s cocker spaniel had suddenly dropped dead during the Easter parade, the unpopular mayor had suspected that someone might have poisoned his poor dog. Weeks before, Mayor Kramer had made the unfortunate decision to close the boat ramp on the river, east of town. Kramer felt that the town had hauled one too many trucks, belonging to drunken fishermen, out of the water after the intoxicated drivers had experienced difficulties navigating the algae-slick ramp. Fishermen, drunk and sober alike, had been livid. Some had made threats. Hence, Larry’s paranoia.
Murder in Her Stocking Page 9