Murder in Her Stocking

by G. A. McKevett

  “Ten-four, sir.”

  As Manny headed for his vehicle, Vidalia in his arms, Stella and Savannah hurried over to the other five children, who were still huddled beneath the sheriff’s blankets.

  They were all overjoyed to see their oldest sister, except for Marietta, who was still crying about her dress being muddy.

  When Waycross saw Sheriff Gilford carrying Vidalia, he said, “Oh, no! What’s wrong with Vi? She’s not dead, is she, Gran?”

  “No, no. Nothin’ so bad as all that,” Stella assured him. “Her knee’s cut, and she’s gonna have to go see the doc to get it stitched up.”

  Stella reached down and stroked Alma’s hair. “We’ll get that hand of yours looked at, too, sweet pea. You kids have been through the mill tonight, but it looks like you all made it through okay.”

  They gave halfhearted nods.

  Except Marietta, who sobbed. “I’m not okay. I’m not even a little bit okay. I need a bath and a clean dress.”

  “Yes, you do, darlin’,” Stella told her. “And we’ll get you both just as soon as we can.”

  The others looked almost as woebegone as their mud-covered sister. Stella couldn’t blame them for being glum. It would be a while before any of them recuperated from this. She was sure that the scare had taken years off her lifespan.

  At that moment, she thought she heard something, a noise coming from farther up the road.

  It sounded like . . . singing.

  “Oh, what fun . . . ride . . . in a one-horse . . . sleigh, hey!”

  “Somebody’s singin’ ‘Jingle Bells,’ ” Jesup said.

  “O’er the fields . . . laughin’ . . .”

  “Yes,” Stella said. “That’s ‘Jingle Bells,’ all right. No doubt about it.”

  She was all too familiar with that drunken, off-key voice. She had heard it far too many times to be mistaken.

  Rage and its accompanying adrenaline poured into her bloodstream. It was the closest she had ever come to literally “seeing red.”

  “You kids wait right here,” she said. “Don’t go nowhere till I tell ya. No matter what you see or hear.”

  She left them and started down the road, heading toward the gleeful, tipsy warbler.

  Along the way she passed Manny, who was laying Vidalia across the backseat of his car and placing her head on Savannah’s lap.

  The singing continued. “Ohh, dashing through the snow . . . in a sled . . . to Grandmother’s house we . . . no, no . . . not to that ol’ bat’s house . . . to . . . to walkin’ in a winter wonderland!”

  “That’s Shirley, squallin’ like a cat with its tail caught in a wringer,” Stella told Manny. “She’s singing gall-danged Christmas carols! At a time like this!”

  He watched her, obviously deeply concerned. “You want to tend to Vidalia, Stella May, while I deal with Shirley?” he said a bit too eagerly.

  “Just gimme one minute with ’er, and then she’s all yours,” was Stella’s clipped reply. “What I got to say to her won’t take long.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of,” he muttered.

  Stella strode down the road, a woman with a purpose, with Manny several paces behind her.

  She could smell Shirley even before the woman stepped up from the ditch into the headlight beams. The stench of alcohol wafting from her daughter-in-law was overpowering. The stink went straight from Stella’s nose to her stomach, making her nauseous in an instant.

  She ain’t just been drinkin’ that whiskey, Stella thought. She plumb took a bath in it.

  Apparently, the accident had caused Shirley to lose control of her bottle, as well as her vehicle, because the entire front of her blouse was drenched with booze.

  But a great deal of it must have found its way down her throat before the accident, judging from the glassy look in her eyes. She blinked several times, stared at Stella uncomprehendingly, then gave her a big, cheerful smile.

  “I know you! Merry Christmas! You’re . . . you’re . . .” Suddenly, the smile disappeared. “Oh, it’s you,” she mumbled.

  “Yes, it’s me, Shirley. Where are your children?”

  Shirley froze in mid-step, looked around her, down at the ground, then up at the sky. She shook her head, the picture of confusion. “They were here just a minute ago.”

  A strange numbness took hold of Stella. It was a sensation she had never felt before, and she welcomed it. She felt a switch flip deep inside her, a master switch that controlled many things—caution, restraint, and the fear of consequences, along with the basic rules of society.

  She had gone past the heat of anger to a cold, thought-free place where nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but the next two seconds.

  Stella took one more step toward her daughter-in-law, drew back her fist, and slammed it into her face.

  Shirley collapsed like a cheap air mattress that had just been run over by a semitruck.

  A whooshing sound came out of her as she hit the pavement, where she lay, utterly still and, thankfully, silent.

  Stella heard a soft “Wow!” whispered behind her.

  Manny rushed to Shirley, knelt beside her, and pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse.

  “Well? Is she dead?” Stella asked, somehow surprised by her own lack of interest in the answer.

  He chuckled. “She’s all right. But remind me not to ever piss you off, girl. That was one helluva shot.”

  Stella turned to walk back to her wounded, frightened grandchildren.

  “It was a long time comin’,” she said. “A long, long time.”

  Chapter 21

  “See there,” Stella told her grandchildren as they sat in the living room, sipping cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top. “I told you ever’thing would be okay in a few hours, and here we are, back to normal.”

  “Not exactly normal,” Savannah said. “Nobody’s talking.”

  “I’m too tired to talk,” Marietta said, tugging Stella’s rose-spangled satin bathrobe tighter around her and running her fingers through her wet, freshly shampooed hair. “All that mud—it took a lot outta me.”

  Waycross grimaced. “I can tell right now, that mud’s gonna take a lot outta all of us. We’ll be hearin’ ’bout it till our dyin’ day.”

  Stella pulled Alma, who was sitting on her lap, a bit closer to her. The girl’s hand was in a cast—a cast that had already been signed by everyone present and decorated with Christmas bells, candy canes, and a crude attempt at a Rudolph, who looked like a cat with a red nose and a crooked TV antenna on his head.

  Stella gave a warm Grandma’s smile and a wink across the room to Vidalia, who was lying on the couch, her head in Savannah’s lap, her knee bandaged from mid-thigh to her calf. She looked a bit forlorn but seemed to be enjoying all the attention, especially having her big sister stroke her head and play with her hair.

  “Now that we’re all settled down,” Stella continued, “I wanna take a minute to thank each and ever’ one of you for the fine job you did tonight. Our family went through a ferocious ordeal, and we couldn’t have come out, reignin’ victorious, at the end without the contributions of each of you.”

  She turned to Jesup. “Bein’ the littlest, our Jesup usually comes last, so we’ll thank her first. Miss Jesup, you might be the baby of the family, but you sure didn’t behave like one today. You and Cordelia were all hemmed in there in the cab o’ that truck, cold and scared, but you weren’t bawlin’ your heads off or pitchin’ fits and makin’ things worse. Cordelia, y’all behaved better than most grown-ups would’ve. And once we hauled you outta there, you did exactly what we asked you to, with no complaints at all.”

  She turned Alma around on her lap so that she could look into her big, innocent eyes. “Miss Alma, you were hurt bad—a broken hand that must’ve been smartin’ somethin’ fierce. But you didn’t squall, neither. You sucked it up and stuck it out with grace and dignity, like the little lady you are, and you made me mighty proud.”

  “Thank
you, Granny,” the child replied, snuggling closer.

  “Waycross,” Stella said, “you braved your own pain and fear and took good care of your little sisters while the sheriff and I were trying to find the rest of ’em. You’re the man of our house, and we all feel safer because you are.”

  Stella was happy to look at Vidalia and see that she was smiling, knowing she was next in line. “Our sweet Vidalia, you were hurt the worst of all tonight. Thirty-nine stitches ain’t nothin’ to whistle Dixie about. But while Doc Hynson was stitchin’ you up, you sat there quiet as a well-behaved church mouse and didn’t holler once.”

  “She cried, though,” Marietta said, suddenly deciding she wasn’t too tired to talk. “I saw tears rollin’ down her cheeks aplenty.”

  “Oh, hush, Mari,” Savannah snapped. “Crying’s allowed when you’re getting stitches. At least she wasn’t pitchin’ a hissy fit over getting dirty.”

  “As I was sayin’,” Stella continued, “Miss Vidalia, you were brave as brave gets tonight. In the days and years ahead, when you look down at the scar you’re bound to have on that knee, you remember that it’s a badge of courage and be proud of it!”

  Stella turned to Marietta and frantically searched her brain for some virtuous act to praise on her second granddaughter’s behalf. She felt bad that it was such a challenge.

  “Miss Marietta, I thank you for the sacrifice that you made tonight by riding in our old truck with me, instead of in Sheriff Gilford’s big, fancy cruiser or the deputy’s.”

  “It’s not like I had a choice,” Marietta said, pouting. “You made me. Pushed me right in, like I was a sack of flour.”

  “I explained to you before,” Stella said, summoning her last modicum of patience, “I didn’t want you to get either of the lawmen’s cars dirty.”

  “Vidalia got the sheriff’s all bloody, and that’s way worse!” Marietta argued.

  Stella turned to Savannah, her eyes soft and loving. “Savannah, dear, what would we do without you? You may have saved your sister’s life tonight, bandagin’ her up like you did with your jacket and keeping her bleedin’ under control till we got there. Then, in the doctor’s office, you and Waycross did such a good job of keeping everybody calm and entertained while Doc took care of Vidalia and Alma. We are truly blessed to have you in this family.”

  Stella paused, composing her next words carefully before she spoke them. Finally, she said, “And all of us need to give a special thanks to the person who helped us so much tonight in so many ways, and he ain’t even part of our family.”

  She waved a hand toward the corner, where Sheriff Manny Gilford sat on one of her dining-room chairs, which he had brought in from the kitchen, quietly taking in the scene before him.

  He smiled and gave a quick nod as the roomful of children and their grandmother cheered and clapped uproariously, demonstrating more enthusiasm and energy than they had shown all evening.

  When the applause finally died down, he said, “You’re all welcome. It was an honor to help such fine folks. I’m just glad it all turned out okay in the end.”

  “You arrested our mama.”

  Everyone turned to stare at little Jesup. Her eyes were wide, and her face was solemn, as her words hung in the air.

  Manny shot Stella a helpless, troubled look. He seemed to be searching his mind for an appropriate answer and finding none.

  “Yes, he did,” Stella quickly interjected. “He had to. It was his duty as sheriff. He didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

  “Mama broke the law, Jesup,” Savannah softly said.

  “Because she drove the truck into the ditch?” asked Alma.

  “No,” Manny replied. “Driving a truck into a ditch isn’t necessarily against the law. That’s usually just an accident.”

  “Mama was drunk,” Savannah said. “You all saw how much she was drinking there at the house. She could hardly even walk when she loaded us into the truck. I asked her not to, but—”

  “I did, too,” Waycross said. “She was talkin’ but not makin’ sense.”

  “She was laughing a lot,” Alma added. “And Mama never laughs unless she drinks a lot of whiskey.”

  “She drove drunk,” Savannah said, “and that’s the part that’s against the law. Huh, Sheriff?”

  “You’re absolutely right, Savannah,” Manny agreed. “The law about not driving drunk is a really important law.”

  “Yeah, and we know why,” Waycross said. “Look at what happened tonight.”

  “That’s right,” Manny told him. “And what’s worse, she had you kids in the truck with her. That broke another very, very important law. Grown-ups can’t put kids in danger like that without getting in a whole lot of trouble.”

  “Did you take her to jail again?” Alma wanted to know.

  “Deputy Faber did, because I told him to,” the sheriff answered.

  “She was screamin’ like she was gettin’ kilt when he was puttin’ her in his car,” Waycross said. “I’ve heard her pitch a duck fit before, but not like that. That one was a doozy!”

  “Deputy Faber wasn’t hurting her,” Savannah said. “Not one bit. She was just mad.”

  “Madder than a hornet in a Coke bottle,” Waycross added.

  “Are we gonna have to get the coffee can out from under the kitchen sink, Sheriff?” Jesup asked. “Do we need to give you what we got in there so’s she can get out of jail?”

  Manny looked sad as he said, “No, sweetie. I’m afraid there’s not enough change in that can to bail her out this time.”

  Stella shot a quick look at Savannah. The girl returned the look with what Stella was pretty sure was a bit of a relieved smile.

  “Is Mama gonna have to stay in there for a long spell?” Alma asked, her voice trembling.

  Stella hugged her close.

  “She probably will,” the sheriff replied. “I’m sorry, but we have to make sure she doesn’t cause anybody else to get hurt. But for the grace of God, you all could have been hurt way worse or even killed tonight. Sheriffs and prosecutors and judges, we take that kind of thing very seriously.”

  Alma looked up at her grandmother, tears streaming down her face. “Does that . . . does that mean we get to stay here with you, Granny?” she asked.

  Stella hugged her close. She looked around the room at seven little faces, eyes wide, waiting to hear her answer.

  It was with more gratitude than Stella had ever felt in her life that she said, “That’s what it means, sweeties. It means you get to stay here with me.”

  “For how long?” Waycross asked, his face practically shining with joy.

  “Can we stay a long time?” Vidalia asked.

  “Yeah, a long, long time?” Jesup echoed.

  “If I have anything to say about it,” Sheriff Gilford said under his breath, “it’ll be forever and a day.”

  * * *

  Stella waited until after the sheriff had left and the last child had gone to sleep before she crept into the kitchen, got herself a glass of buttermilk to soothe her stomach, and pulled a slip of paper from between the pages of her cookbook.

  She had filed it next to her fudge recipe, knowing that if she was ever going to use the information written on that paper, it would be at Christmas.

  Christmastime was fudge time, so it had made sense to her when she’d put it there months before.

  She set her buttermilk on the kitchen table, punched the number on the slip of paper into the phone on the wall, and sat down as it rang the party on the other end.

  Feeling her pulse begin to pound from anxiety, Stella couldn’t help feeling resentful. For a task that should be simple, even pleasurable, to cause her such angst—it just wasn’t right.

  Finally, someone answered on the other end. It was a woman with a voice as tired as Stella felt. “Sleepy Time Motor Inn. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Stella replied with as much courtesy as she could muster. “Do you have a Macon Reid staying with you?”

  �
��Um, I’m not sure. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “His mama.”

  “Hang on. I’ll check.”

  Stella waited for what seemed like forever. Finally, the woman returned.

  “He ain’t here. Sorry.”

  If there was anything Stella could do other than bake an amazing German chocolate cake, it was spot a liar. Folks in McGill said her gift was downright divine, and most of them went out of their way to tell her the truth rather than get caught with their pants on fire.

  “He’s there,” she said with great confidence. “Tell him it’s important. Tell him his kids were in a car wreck. Nobody’s dead, but I need to talk to him, so he better pick up the damn phone.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

  A moment later, a voice with a thick Southern drawl said, “Hey, Mama. What in tarnation’s goin’ on back there?”

  “Shirley was drivin’ drunk and wrecked a pickup truck, with the kids loose in the back. They went flyin’ everywhere. Vidalia’s knee got laid open. Took thirty-nine stitches to close it. Alma’s hand got broke. Shirley’s in jail. Other than that, nothin’ much. How ’bout your neck o’ the woods?”

  Stella could hear the sarcastic, bitter tone in her own voice, and it didn’t make her proud. No wonder her son didn’t like to call home anymore. No wonder he pretended not to be in his hotel room when she reached out to him.

  It seemed the only time they spoke anymore was when something went wrong. Badly wrong.

  She wished she’d done better by him. She wished he’d do better by her. But wishing hadn’t gotten either one of them any closer to the other.

  She’d said many a prayer, too. Thousands. They hadn’t worked either, though she clung to her faith that they would. Someday.

  When he didn’t respond, she said, “I’m sorry, son, for takin’ such a harsh tone with you. It’s been a long day.”

  “I imagine so.” There was a long, tense pause. Then he said, “But ever’body’s okay . . . other than all that.”

  “Yes. Thank goodness it wasn’t worse.”

  “Sounds like it coulda been. Easy.”

  “Coulda been.”

  Another lengthy, awkward silence ensued. Stella’s love of her son and desire to have this talk turn out somehow different than the others warred with her desire to just put the conversation out of its misery and spare them both.