Murder at Mabel's Motel

by G. A. McKevett

  The girl’s face had turned bright red, and she was gasping for air as she added, “I wouldn’t ever hurt nobody with a switch. I don’t care what anybody says, I’m not that mean!”

  With her final words, she started to sob. For the first time ever, Stella realized that Marietta was aware of her reputation, and she hated it.

  In spite of her granddaughter’s momentary angst, Stella was somewhat relieved. There might be hope for her second grandchild, after all.

  But for the sake of the others—at the moment, little Alma—Stella had to make the most of the learning opportunity.

  “I know you don’t mean to be cruel, darlin’,” she told her. “I know that in your heart of hearts you’re a good girl. But we all have to learn lessons. All through our lives we’re learnin’. And one of the lessons you need real bad to learn is that the words that come out of your mouth are very important.”

  Marietta shrugged. “They’re just words. Words ain’t nothin’. You can’t even see them.”

  “Words are some of the most powerful things in the world. Sweet ones can heal bad, bad hurts. And bitter ones can injure a heart worse than any switch could ever hurt a leg. If you’d beaten your sister with a switch, it would’ve hurt somethin’ fierce, she would’ve cried, and in a week or so, the marks would be gone, all healed up. But the words you spoke to her just now, those names you call her almost every day that you think are funny, they are leaving switch marks on her heart that are never gonna go away. She’ll remember them till her dying day.”

  “But she calls me ‘Contrary Mari.’ They all do. Even the kids at school.”

  “That’s not nice. That’s mean, and they shouldn’t do it. But which would you rather be called, ‘Contrary Mari’ or ‘skunk butt face’? Or would you rather be accused of cheatin’ in a contest, one that you won fair and square and worked hard to do so?”

  Again, there was no answer. Marietta just continued to stare down at her hands and pick at the hangnail on her thumb. But Stella saw a tear roll down each cheek, which gave her a bit of hope the seed she had just attempted to plant had fallen on soft, fertile ground.

  “I’m going to give you a choice,” she told the girl, slipping her arm around her waist. “You can either sit out here and think for the rest of the evening, look at the flowers and figure out what you should do to make this situation right . . .”

  “That sounds boring as watching weeds grow. What’s my other choice?”

  “You could go back to your sister, tell her you’re sorry for what you said and congratulate her on her new blue ribbon, and help us eat the brownies I’m going to bake to celebrate her victory.”

  Marietta debated for a while. “Is there a third choice that involves eatin’ brownies, but leaves out that Alma part?”

  “Nope. Just those two options. What’s it gonna be?”

  With a deep sigh that was normally reserved for those with the weight of the world bearing down on them, Marietta rose and began to trudge back to the house.

  About halfway there, she looked back at Stella, who was following close behind. With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, the girl said, “Them brownies you’re fixin’ to bake—you’re gonna be throwin’ in some extra pecans, right?”

  Stella reached down and smacked her playfully on the rear. “Good try, kiddo. You know darned well your little sister despises nuts.”

  * * *

  To her shame, Stella had to admit that she had been absorbed lately and hadn’t been concentrating on her grandmother role as she much as she usually did. Between the pleasure of Manny’s company and the dramas of Yolanda’s attack and Billy Ray’s murder, she had found plenty to distract her from her duties.

  Of course, the laundry could wait a day or two, the floors could skip a daily scrubbing, and a stack of hamburgers was quicker to throw together than a dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and cream gravy.

  Washing clothes and cooking weren’t the neglected duties she felt bad about.

  She regretted the fact that she hadn’t been as attentive to the children themselves as she liked to be.

  Their parents had neglected them shamefully, and she was determined to show them a completely different experience inside the walls of her home than what they had endured before.

  As she sat at the head of the kitchen table with its plywood extension and looked down the sides of it at the little heads, intently bent over their plates, she reminded herself that this was what it was all about.

  Raisin’ these young’uns, she told herself, is why I’m here on this earth. It’s my sacred callin’, as sure as if I was President Reagan or Pope John Paul hisself.

  As she watched the children devouring the fried chicken with all the “fixin’s” dinner she had prepared with such love and care, she decided she wouldn’t have traded places with either of those fellows . . . or anyone else she could think of, for that matter.

  The blessings around her table were the reason why she had to hold even as fine a man as Sheriff Gilford at a distance. At her age, with limited energy and resources, she had to avoid any distraction. Even one who set her heart pitter-patting with a flirty grin or who caused her heart to ache with longing when he held her hand or gave her even the most chaste of kisses.

  No more men, Stella May, she told herself, and certainly not a lawman whose work you find positively fascinatin’. You just ain’t got the time or the energy.

  As though materializing out of her thoughts, Manny appeared at the kitchen door. Through the screen, she could see his face clearly, and she thought he looked especially tired. Maybe worried.

  Her promise to herself instantly forgotten, she jumped up from her chair and hurried to the door. Unhooking it, she said, “Evenin’, Sheriff. Your timin’ is perfect. Come on in and have a bite of supper with us.”

  Even the kids perked up as the large man walked into the already crowded kitchen with its extended table and throngs of children, filling it with his presence.

  Manny was a family favorite, and it took only seconds before Waycross had dragged a chair from the living room up to the table and the others had scooted their chairs around to make room for him to sit.

  Stella couldn’t help noticing that Savannah, who was directing the rearrangement, had managed for the new, empty chair to be placed between hers and Stella’s.

  Shortly afterward, Manny had a plate of his own in front of him, laden with as generous a helping as the carefully meted out supply could afford.

  If it had been anyone else dropping in on them unexpectedly, Stella was sure Waycross would have resented having to give up his extra wing. But Manny was a great favorite, especially with the boy, who was perpetually surrounded by females, so Waycross didn’t seem to mind sharing one bit.

  Sweet tea glasses were refilled, and Manny offered a rather long-winded toast to their in-house celebrity. Alma glowed, soaking in the attention. Marietta pouted, but kept her mouth shut, except when stuffing it with mashed potatoes.

  Even Manny seemed to enjoy the break, a bit of levity in what had otherwise been a stressful few days.

  But from time to time, when the group was quiet, intent upon their eating, Stella thought she saw a kind of sadness on the sheriff’s face that she hadn’t seen earlier in the day. Not even when they had found Billy Ray’s body had he seemed so weighed down.

  She wondered why he had dropped by unannounced. It wasn’t like him. Usually, he called first to make sure it was a good time.

  Yes, Stella thought, somethin’s buggin’ him. Somethin’ bad. No doubt about it.

  As soon as they were finished eating, and the brownies had been enjoyed, as well, Stella began the nightly routine of assigning the chores. “Savannah, please clear the table. Marietta, you wash the dishes. Vidalia dries and puts ’em away. Jesup, wash off the counters when they’re done, sugar. You’re tall enough to reach all the way to the back of ’em now. Waycross, please take the paper trash out to the barrel and burn it. Cordele, I’d appreciate it if you’
d feed the chickens and make sure you rinse out their water bucket real good, while you’re at it.”

  Marietta propped her hands on her hips and said, “What’s Alma gonna do?”

  Stella reached over, ran one of Alma’s silky black curls through her fingers, and gave it a little tug. “Alma is going to go take a nice, long, hot bath and relax. She had a stressful day. Since it’s a special occasion, she can even use some of my fancy lilac bath soap that y’all gave me for Christmas.”

  Marietta opened her mouth to object, Stella gave her “the look,” and the child seemed to think better of it. Instead, she spun on her heel, marched over to the kitchen sink, and began to fill it with hot water and suds.

  “What would you like me to do, Granny?” Manny asked, leaning over her shoulder, so closely that she could feel his warm breath on her neck.

  She glanced over and saw Savannah watching them. She could tell her granddaughter, who wanted nothing more than to grow up and be a police officer herself, was as curious as Stella was about why the sheriff had paid them an evening visit.

  Stella turned to Manny and said, “I’d like you to join me in the living room for a cup of coffee, Sheriff, if it ain’t too much of a hardship.”

  “It is,” he replied with a chuckle. “A terrible burden. But I’ll bear up.”

  Chapter 16

  When Stella and Manny had finished about half their coffee, she decided to just ask him outright what was going on. She could tell he had something on his mind, something he appeared reluctant to tell her.

  That, of course, made her all the more curious.

  “Spit it out, boy,” she said, keeping her voice low, in case it was information of a sensitive nature that he didn’t want the children to overhear. “You didn’t come by here tonight just to snag a fried chicken supper and a brownie.”

  “Actually, I was cruising down the highway tonight with my windows open. When I passed your driveway and smelled the heavenly aroma of—”

  “Oh, bullpucky. You can’t smell what I cook from the highway. You came by to tell me somethin’.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a brown envelope.

  She recognized it as one of the type that he’d been using at the motel earlier in the day. “I’ve got something here I’d like you to look at. I was staring at it all afternoon, and I’m still not sure what I’m looking at.”

  She reached for her reading glasses, the ones she used when she did fine needlepoint, because the magnification was the highest the drugstore carried.

  For extra assistance, she pulled a gooseneck lamp closer and turned it on the brightest of its three settings.

  “Okey-dokey,” she told him. “I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s see whatcha got.”

  “Here, put these on first,” he said, handing her a pair of surgical gloves, also like the ones they had been wearing when handling objects at the motel that might be considered evidence.

  “Oh, we’re gonna be all official now, are we?”

  “We are. Technically, I shouldn’t be letting a civilian touch it, but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “My lips are sealed,” she said, then added with a grin, “now that I’ve finished that brownie.”

  Just as Manny was handing Stella the envelope, Savannah poked her head around the corner and said, “I’ve finished clearing the dishes now, Granny. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  There was no mistaking the wistful tone in the girl’s voice or the pleading expression on her face as she looked down at the envelope that was now in Stella’s hand.

  Stella laughed. “You mean, like take a look at this here evidence with me?”

  “Something like that,” she replied with a giggle.

  Stella turned to Manny. “If she doesn’t touch it, can she look, too?”

  “Of course she can,” Manny answered right away. “I’ve got a spare set of gloves, so she can even touch if she wants.”

  No one had to ask Savannah again. In record time she had crossed the living room, grabbed the gloves out of the sheriff’s hand, put them on, and was waiting, hands up, with the expectant look of a surgical nurse eager to assist with a complicated operation.

  “I assume your grandmother told you what we found this morning,” Manny said, while Stella opened the envelope and looked inside.

  “Yes,” Savannah replied. “I guess I should feel bad, and I do, if somebody murdered him, because that’s just plain wrong if they did. But I’m not sorry he’s gone. I don’t think he’ll be missed much, and poor Yolanda’s going to feel a lot safer.”

  “I’m sure a lot of folks feel that way, sugar,” Manny told her. “We’d be lying if we said we were all choked up about his passing. But you’re right. If somebody killed him, that’s even worse than what he’s done. Nobody deserves that.”

  “Did you inform Yolanda and her dad yet?” Stella asked Manny.

  “As soon as you left the station, I went over to the hospital and did it in person. She’s conscious now and doing really well. Raul was especially relieved. Doc Hynson, too. He hadn’t left their side and was happy to go home and get some sleep.”

  “You got any yet?”

  Manny didn’t reply but nodded at the envelope. “Can you get it out of there okay? It being sticky, it doesn’t . . .”

  “Here it comes,” Stella said as she tugged to get the contents of the envelope to release and slide out. When it did, and she got a look at it, she said, “Tape. It’s part of the duct tape that was stuck all around the frame of that bathroom door.”

  “There was tape around the door of the room where you found the body?” Savannah asked, her eyes bright with curiosity as she bent over Stella’s shoulder and stared at the gray wad of duct tape that was lying in her grandmother’s gloved palm.

  “There was,” Manny told her.

  “On the inside of the door?” the girl wanted to know.

  “No. On the outside.”

  “Was there a window in the room?”

  “No window.”

  “Then Billy Ray couldn’t have put tape around the door, gone outside, and climbed in through the window. Not that he would have, because that would’ve been stupid, but even a ding-a-ling with no good reason couldn’t have done it even if he’d wanted to.”

  Stella and Manny stared at the girl blankly.

  “I know,” Savannah said, “that didn’t come out right. I was just thinking out loud.” Then she added in a most authoritative tone, “But the bottom line is: The homicide victim couldn’t have put the tape on the door himself. It must have been the perpetrator.”

  Both Stella and Manny grinned, amused by Savannah’s logic that, for all its meanderings, was sound, as well as her use of what she obviously considered official police terminology.

  “She gets that lingo from the detective books she reads,” Stella told Manny.

  “I assumed so. Hey, she has to learn all she can. She’s going to be a cop someday, I hear.”

  But Savannah was too absorbed in studying the evidence at hand to absorb his words or the supportive encouragement he was offering.

  “I’m confused,” she said. “Why would anybody put tape around a door? Even duct tape’s not strong enough to keep a grown man inside, if he was determined to get out. Is it?”

  “It’s strong, and it might. They used a lot of it,” Manny replied. “But what was keeping the door closed for sure was a chair. The top of it was shoved beneath the door handle nice and tight.”

  “Wow! Whoever did it really wanted to make sure that Billy Ray didn’t get out! Sounds to me like it was somebody who was afraid of him.”

  Both Stella and Manny gave her another long, searching look.

  Then Stella said, “You might be right there, Savannah girl. We just assumed he was killed by somebody who was mad at him. Someone he’d done wrong. Heaven knows, there’s enough of them folks walkin’ the streets of McGill. But the murde
rer might’ve been somebody who was afraid of him, not mad at him.”

  “Actually, the killer could’ve been both,” Manny suggested. “Fear and rage aren’t mutually exclusive. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  Stella held the tape closer and peered at it under the strong light. “What is that?” she asked, pointing to a fuzzy substance around some of the edges of the tape.

  “To be honest, that’s why I brought it to you. I was wondering myself.” Manny reached into his other shirt pocket and pulled out a magnifying glass with a glittery, hot pink, plastic frame. “No comments on the equipment here, girls,” he said. “This is what Merv brought back when I sent him out to buy one. Either he meant it as a joke, or he’s dumber than he looks.”

  Savannah grinned. “They aren’t mutually exclusive.” She took the magnifier from his hand and gave it to her grandmother.

  Stella squinted through it for a long time, then let Savannah have a look.

  “It appears to me to be some sort of cloth fibers,” Stella said. “Blue ones.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Manny agreed. “But what kind?”

  “Ain’t cotton,” Stella replied. “I know what those look like, and they’re too fluffy to be silk.”

  “Looks like fur to me,” Savannah suggested.

  “Fur?” Manny scowled. “Blue fur? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blue animal, other than a blue jay or parakeet.”

  “But it looks like bunny fur,” Savannah told Stella. “Like those big, fluffy bunnies that Farmer Dixon and his wife, Miss Peggy, used to raise. Remember how soft and fluffy their coats were? She used to clip their fur off them like they were woolly little sheep and then she’d sell it.”

  “That’s true, Manny,” Stella told him. “Them was angora rabbits. Their fur’s real fancy. Peggy Dixon told me that angora’s used for expensive sweaters.”

  “Expensive blue sweaters, huh?” Manny nodded thoughtfully. “You mean like the one Franklin Tucker was wearing today.”