Deadly Southern Charm

by Mary Burton

  That’s the thing about stoic people. You never really know what they’re thinking.

  * * * *

  It’s been several months since the trial, and I’ve become stoic, too. So I’m glad to have the chance to sit by the pool at my parents’ country club tonight, watching the sun set without anyone lounging beside me, peppering me with questions about my day or telling me funny stories, trying to lighten my mood. Mother and Daddy are out ensuring everything’s ready for Daddy’s seventieth birthday party tomorrow. The kids are at a movie. And the other club members are the smile-and-wave kind—with me, at least. Not chatty, which I appreciate. I’m glad to have time to think.

  I’ve spent a lot of time since the trial thinking about my life, and I realize that my marriage was doomed from the moment Aaron and I met. I pushed him to the brink. And I do take the blame for that.

  But not all of it.

  During his ranting and raving the day he died, Aaron revealed some things I hadn’t known. He had pursued me our junior year in college because he’d thought I was the one for him. I checked all his boxes. Attractive, smart, determined. I’d make the perfect corporate wife, helping him raise the perfect family, he’d said. We were more alike than I’d ever imagined.

  Except it turned out I had bigger dreams than he did. I wanted the beach house, trips to Europe, expensive private school for the kids, and fine clothes and jewelry for me. All Aaron wanted was a good little wife, a solid management position, and a little something on the side. I guess he thought having a mistress would make him a real man.

  To add insult to injury, he didn’t cheat with some random woman. He did it with my sister. They’d been at it for years. Danielle liked him for who he was, he said. They had fun together. And he’d finally decided he wanted to be with her all the time. No more harping from me. Just lots of fun with her. He didn’t care how it looked. So after an appropriate mourning period, he was going to marry Danielle, without all the hassle and expense of divorce and alimony.

  I hadn’t mentioned this to anyone. Not my attorney or my family or my friends or the jury. I hadn’t even mentioned it to Danielle, whom I tripped down the stairs at my parents’ house an hour ago, right before I left for the club. She’d flailed as she began to tumble, her ever-present glass of gin crashing down the carpeted steps. A happy thunk sounded when Danielle’s head hit the wood floor in the entryway, her neck as twisted as the staircase, with blood seeping out of her ear. I was glad I didn’t need to slam her skull against the floor myself, though I’d been prepared to do it if necessary.

  Mother and Daddy should be calling any time now, having found my poor dead drunk of a sister. I’m sorry to put them through this, but there really was no other way. I couldn’t be the one to find the little home-wrecker, not after what happened with Aaron. Besides, Mother and Daddy are strong. They proved that during my trial. They can handle this.

  As for me, I’m not sure what’s next. With Seth and Lucy on track for the Ivy League, and Aaron’s life insurance payout more than enough to cover their educations and keep me in the lifestyle I deserve, my future’s wide open. I’ve already shown the world I can be a successful wife and mother—the ultimate power behind the throne. Now I’m going to take that power out for a spin, promoting the one person I’ve been neglecting all these years—me.

  I don’t know how I didn’t realize it until now. This is how life is supposed to be.

  STEWING, Libby Hall

  They say taking down your neighbor won’t bring you any higher, but the day I, Stella Dole, took down my ex-husband Scraper Dole, my level of happiness was through the roof. Our little town of Sloe in the foothills of Virginia talked for months about how Scraper had died. It was all over social media. Lordy, I still can’t believe that man has a meme about him.

  Before I tell you what happened, there are a couple of things you need to know. The Doles were the royalty of the poor in Sloe. When old Mayor Pritchard died, Scraper put his name down for giggles and ran against Mayor Pritchard’s racist son, Dick. Of course, the old Sloe families couldn’t vote for Dick because they didn’t want reporters turning our town into a media circus. That’s never good for business, and even worse for a town that’s just starting to recover from the textile factory exodus. I don’t think it surprised anyone, except Dick and Scraper, when Scraper won.

  Scraper and I never had much to do with each other growing up. He started working for the county’s Department of Transportation right out of high school. My parents sent me to college, and afterward I made some money selling real estate in Richmond. When my folks passed, I came back to Sloe and used family money to develop two new retirement communities along the river.

  After Scraper settled into the mayor’s office, I called on him for a special building permit, bringing him a shepherd’s pie to seal the deal. I’m known for my shepherd’s pies—I bring them to every potluck and funeral. I use steak, not just stew meat, or venison when I can get it. Scraper loved my pies. Long story short, between my flattering him and giving him the pie, the permit was a done deal.

  Scraper was annoying, and tons smarter than he acted, and the man had a sex appeal that I still don’t understand. I usually like my men young, easy to manage, and temporary. Scraper was none of those things. Somehow three dinners, two more pies, one permit, and lots of dirty sex later, we got married.

  Oh, we fought more than two cats in a bag. The man infuriated me from the start. Several times he brought home roadkill from work, always claimed it was “fresh” and I could use it in one of my pies. I don’t care how “fresh” it was—I never cooked roadkill.

  It took three years, more fighting and an affair before we divorced. The day I signed the papers, I sent one of my employees over to his office with another shepherd’s pie to say goodbye. The marriage might have ended, but we couldn’t stop poking at each other like kids at a hornet nest.

  I look pretty good for forty. My blond hair, long legs, good tan, and flat stomach mean I never have to work too hard to get a date. I like my freedom, but in a small town, there are reminders of your mistakes everywhere. And right now, the biggest reminder of all was leaning against my new Cadillac when I closed up my office.

  “Get off my car, Scraper. I can smell you from here.”

  Scraper stayed where he was and tilted his head up. “I don’t see how. Your perfume would knock a man over at fifty feet.”

  “You can’t smell anything.” It was true, and it was why he was also the DOT’s go-to man for scraping dead animals off the roads. I tried to shove him away from the car. “I don’t have time for this.”

  He stayed put, smiling. “I was just thinking about you, lovey. You know that big stand of trees on the slope by the stream? I’m going to cut ’em down. I can’t really see the river all that well.”

  After our divorce, Scraper started renting the house on the slope above mine, to get back at me, I’m sure, but since we didn’t see much of each other, it was easy to ignore him.

  “You know damn well my Daddy planted those trees,” I said. “I’ll have you fined for destroying a… a… environmental habitat or something!”

  Scraper laughed. “That’s rich, coming from the chief developer of—what is it? Sleepy Hollow Hills or some suburban crap like that? Nothing you file will hold any water here. Too many folks hate you for bringing in all those outsiders.” He paused. “You hear Dallas Chirp is back in town? I hired him, you know—figured nobody else would, after everything that happened between you two. Every good deed deserves another, don’t you think?”

  Dallas Chirp had slunk out of Sloe ten years ago after brawling with my lover, Tom Slaughter. Tom and I were “visiting” the motel where Dallas worked and he spotted us. They got into a fight and it spilled into the street. Tom wound up with a broken arm and thirty-five stitches in his head. Dallas got fired, and I had to explain in court why I was at the Stars & Stripes Motel with someone other than Scraper. For months afterward, my life was nothing but gossip and “Bless he
r heart” comments. I laid low, moved out, and started fixing up the old family home outside of town until things blew over.

  “That boy deserves better than he got,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see what I can do for him too. Now get off my car, or I’ll run you over.”

  Scraper slowly stretched and stepped away. I gunned the engine as I left, hoping some of the smaller rocks would hit him.

  The next evening, I tracked Dallas Chirp down in the Shook Nook, a local crab shack on the river. It wasn’t hard—his truck’s license plate read “CHIRP 1.” After convincing him there weren’t any hard feelings and that I just wanted to help him get a fresh start, he agreed to come do some work for me until he could find something permanent. What I didn’t count on was how much he’d grown up in ten years. The gangly, pimply-faced kid from the motel had turned into a man with scruffy hair, arms like Popeye, and a chest you just wanted to run your hands down for fun. And he met all my criteria—handsome, dumb, and temporary. Many drinks later, I found myself with a new yardman and an energetic lover.

  I don’t know whether Scraper saw Dallas’ truck in my driveway that night or not, but I know he saw Dallas come over the next day to start work. I could see the sun glinting off Scraper’s binoculars. Pervert.

  When Dallas had gone, I did what I always do in the summer afternoons. I carried a towel and a book across the lawn to my tanning chair. Sure enough, those binoculars were busy again. Minutes later, a golf ball landed in my yard. I heard the thump and looked up, but it had settled in the grass, so I went back to my book. Scraper put another ball on the ground and swung again, softer this time. I looked up as the ball hooked to the right. Scraper waved.

  You have to ignore childish behavior to take the fun out of it, so I went back to my book.

  Thwack!

  When the next golf ball landed three feet away, I jumped out of my chair.

  “Dammit, Scraper! My yard is not your private golf course!”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” he called back. “Didn’t see you. I was just practicing for my meeting with the county planners next week.”

  “What meeting?” County planners were the key to the next step of my development.

  “To decide whether or not the county can afford all the schools and roads those new houses of yours are going to require. You know, all that zoning crap you developers hate so much?”

  “Scraper Dole, I swear to God if you try and stop me from—”

  “Relax, hon. I ain’t telling them nothing yet. But maybe your new lawn boy can help you. I hear he’s the owner of some prime real estate. It sure would be awfully convenient to have him sell you that property.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Of course, I did. I needed the acreage from Dallas’ grandparents’ place for the development. Believe me, I wasn’t hiring him or sleeping with him just to be nice. That acreage was the only thing standing in the way of the zoning restrictions already in place. Dallas’ grandparents were old school and wouldn’t sell at any price. My only other move was to get the zoning changed. I’d spent the last two years promising the zoning board the moon, but they kept stalling, and Scraper was at the bottom of it. If the zoning board didn’t vote my way, I wouldn’t be able to create the family neighborhood that Sloe needed to feed into the new hospital system being built in Verna, five miles down the highway. I needed Dallas to sell me that land he’d inherited.

  “You better watch your step, Stella. That boy might hoe a row better than you.”

  I grabbed my things, gave Scraper the finger and stomped back to the house.

  The warning reminded me of something Dallas had told me last week when he’d been edging Scraper’s lawn. Seems Scraper had built a catapult from scraps of wood and an old bike tire. According to Dallas, the catapult had a tarp next to it, covering a pile of his three dogs’ poop. Scraper had been sitting in his lawn chair, a pair of binoculars hung from his neck, Dallas said. He went on to detail their exchange.

  “What is that?” Dallas had asked, pointing at the tarp.

  “What’s it look like?”

  “A big pile of poop. Jesus, Scraper, how can you just sit there?”

  Scraper shrugged. “Lost my sense of smell a long time ago in a fight. That’s why I pick up the road kill. Watch this.”

  He shoveled a pile of filth onto the arm of the catapult, strapped the arm back, and flicked away an elastic band. The arm of the catapult snapped forward, pitching its load into the air. Scraper handed Dallas the binoculars to view the results. Brown clumps surrounded my tanning chair.

  “I think you hit a foot or two to the left,” Dallas said. “Don’t you think she’ll call the police or something?”

  “She won’t. The sheriff owes me too many favors.” Scraper glanced sideways at Dallas and smiled, but Dallas said it never quite reached his eyes. “Besides, she slept with half of the deputies and dumped them when she was done. None of them will write a report about something as stupid as dog poop in her yard.”

  “You looking out for me, Scraper, or was that a warning?” Dallas asked.

  “Just a little friendly advice. You humiliated her a long time ago. Don’t think she’s forgotten it.”

  When Dallas told me that, I shrugged it off but, like I said, Scraper isn’t as dumb as he pretends to be.

  I didn’t say anything to Dallas and tried to pretend it didn’t bother me. If Dallas was telling me about Scraper’s plan, what was he telling Scraper about me? But the next incident was the last straw.

  A couple of days later, while I was at my yoga class, Dallas went to work and found Scraper sitting next to the tarp again, catapult ready. On the tarp was a pile of dead dogs, two squirrels, and an opossum.

  “You got to be kidding,” Dallas muttered.

  Scraper turned in his chair and waved him over to his cooler. “Grab a beer. I got something I want to show you. I ain’t had time to try it out yet.”

  Scraper handed him the binoculars and his beer. “Watch this.” He picked up one of the dogs. It was frozen stiff.

  “You froze them?” Dallas asked, incredulous.

  Scraper nodded. “They’ll fling better.”

  Scraper loaded the dog carcass onto the catapult, pulled the lever back and launched it into my yard. It landed a short distance from my chair.

  “You sure she’s not home?” Dallas asked.

  “Yep.” He loaded one of the squirrels onto the catapult and launched. “Damn, too short.” He loaded an opossum and launched again. It landed a few feet from the dog. “That’ll work. I just want her to be able to smell ’em when she gets outside. She used to hate that smell when I got off work. She didn’t like that part of my job,” Scraper mused out loud, “but she sure liked a challenge. She never could make me do what she wanted.”

  “So now you’re throwing dead dogs in her yard?”

  “Don’t lecture me on my ex-wife, son. Just because you’re the flavor of the month don’t mean you understand.”

  “If you think I’m going to let you throw more crap in her yard when I have to clean it up, you’re wrong,” Dallas said.

  “What are you going do about it? You gonna throw me through a glass window like you did Tom Slaughter?”

  Dallas said he tried to rein in his rage, but he smashed Scraper’s nose anyway. While Scraper howled and tried to stop the flow of blood, Dallas got in his truck and left. He came to my house that night, and after we made love, he told me what had happened. I didn’t say much, but inside I was seething. Dallas must have known the night was ruined, because he got dressed and practically ran out the door.

  The next morning, I found him staining chairs in his garage.

  “I need you to do some work for me today,” I said.

  He ignored me, moving wood around. Well, I’m not that easy to get rid of, and the bottom line is, he was still my employee.

  “Dallas, I’ve got a yard full of dead animals. I need them cleaned up.”

  Dallas looked up. “I
’m not cleaning them up. Scraper’s deliberately doing this stuff because he knows he can get to us both.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

  He sighed. “I’ll come by after lunch and dig a hole for you. But that’s it. I’m not getting stuck in the middle of whatever it is you two are doing anymore.”

  “But I’m not doing anything! It’s all him!”

  He straightened up and said, “You two have been fighting World War Three for years. And I see now I’m just the latest weapon.”

  “That’s not true,” I lied.

  “I know why you hired me. I’m not selling my grandparents’ farm. Not to you. Not to nobody.” He crossed his arms and stared at me, hard, with his lips pressed hard together. Any other day I would have melted. He looked incredibly sexy like that.

  Instead, I saw red. That little troublemaker was not going to ruin my plans, and I was going to kill whoever told him about the zoning problems I was having. “After I gave you a job when nobody else would, and let you in my house—”

  “Me and apparently every man you hire,” he said. “I might work construction and landscaping, Stella, but I’m not stupid. Now, I said I’d dig you a hole, and I will, but that’s all. Burying road kill is not part of the deal. Scraper knew you’d try to make me clean it up. That’s my punishment for being with you.” He made a show of clamping a new piece of wood and picking up the sander. “I’m not touching them.”

  He switched on the sander, drowning out anything I was going to say.

  That night I sat and fumed. In my heart, I knew Dallas wasn’t to blame. Scraper and I had played him like a fiddle. Once again that man had pissed in my pot and ruined the only good thing I had going. I’d used all my equity and borrowing power to buy that land to develop it. If Dallas wouldn’t sell his granddad’s land and Scraper controlled the zoning, I was going to end up sitting on a 300-acre piece of dirt. With no houses on it, I’d be lucky if I could sell it at all, much less break even.