Manny dried his hands on his pants legs. “I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that Billy Ray’s old man worked for the water company.”
“Oh, that’s right. He did . . . before he got sent off to prison. Reckon among all those wise life lessons that Billy’s daddy imparted to his son along the way, there were some tips on how to steal water from the city.”
“I’m sure he either turned it on or had one of his flunkies do it. In one of the other rooms I saw enough beer cans, marijuana roaches, and girlie magazines to suggest that they had some get-togethers here.”
“How do you know it was the Lone Wolves?”
“The swastika flag on the wall was a tip-off, along with the initials LWWP spray-painted on the wall.”
“Those boys had a real talent there, decorating with spray paint cans. They missed their callin’s as graffiti artists. Speaking of, where’s that ugly pickup of theirs?”
“I had it towed over to Flo’s garage, and I went over it. Didn’t find anything, but I didn’t really expect to, after I’d talked to Deacon and Earle.”
“You interviewed those hooligans?”
“Sure. I figured they were the ones who took Billy Ray his truck and a change of clothes.”
“Did they?”
“Deacon did. Billy Ray broke into the Hodge house—they’re away on vacation—and called him. Told him to get the truck to him on the double, so he did.”
“Could you arrest Deacon for aiding a fugitive or somethin’?”
“I could, but he swore he was in fear for his life. I’m keeping the possibility in my back pocket, in case I need it later.”
Stella looked around and shuddered. “Are we done here? I’ve had enough of Mabel’s for a while.”
“Me too. Let’s boogie. I’ve got to get those samples from Herb and off to Atlanta. Hopefully, that’ll prove more helpful than snaking an old toilet.”
As they locked up the motel room and Manny strung the yellow police tape across the door, Stella thought about Billy Ray and his father. Both were dead now, and it could be argued they contributed to their own untimely demises.
Live by the sword, die by the sword, Stella thought, recalling Pastor O’Reilly’s most recent sermon.
“That daddy of Billy Ray’s, he never had a lick o’ sense, bless his heart,” she said as they got back into the cruiser. “He beats that guy in the pool hall nearly to death and winds up in prison. What sort of example was he setting for his young son? What age was Billy when that happened? Ten?”
“About that, I’d say, and Billy’s mom wasn’t much better. Died in that car wreck.”
“She’d been drinking, as I recall.”
“She was. Broadsided old Mr. Hayworth. He suffered to his dying day from the injuries she inflicted on him.”
“Some folks lead sad lives, that’s just all there is to it. I hate the way Billy Ray was, but it ain’t too hard to see how he got that way.”
Manny started up the car and drove it around the motel and onto the highway. “That’s very true. I believe he was about fifteen when his dad got killed in that fight.”
“I remember hearin’ about that. A fight there in the prison yard, I believe.”
Stella was silent, as yet another part of the story came to mind. A disturbing detail.
Manny was the first to speak of it. “The guy who killed him was a Latino, as I recall.”
“I remember that, too. I also heard that Mr. Sonner was the one who started the fight.”
“Not too hard to see where Billy Ray’s nasty attitudes came from. Especially if he didn’t take into account the fact that his daddy caused his own problems in life.”
“Folks have a tendency to overlook details like that, when it’s to their advantage to do so.”
Stella thought about the young man stretched out on the stainless-steel table in Herb’s preparation room, his hateful tattoos and the strange pink and green spots on his skin.
He’d been strong and healthy . . . except in his mind and spirit. He should have lived a full life, enjoyed raising a family, and contributed something to the world before he left it. What a waste.
“The apple didn’t fall far from the Sonner tree,” Manny said.
Stella nodded solemnly. “Apples seldom do . . . even on a windy day.”
Chapter 21
No sooner had Manny driven himself and Stella back to the funeral home than his radio crackled with a message from Mervin.
“Sheriff, is Mrs. Reid still with you?”
“She is. Why?”
“The school called. Seems Mrs. Reid told the secretary there that, if they needed her, she might be here at the station or out runnin’ around in the cruiser with you.”
Stella’s heart sank. “I did, Manny,” she said. “Alma’s not been feeling well. I told them to contact me through you if need be.”
“Okay, Merv. What else did the school say?”
“Just that one of her granddaughters ain’t feelin’ up to par, so she oughta come get her.”
“Okay. Call them back and tell them she’s on her way.”
An instant later, Manny was leaving the funeral home and driving toward the town center. “I’ll take you to the school,” he said, “and if she needs to go to the doctor or the hospital, we’ll take her there, too.”
“No,” Stella objected. “It’s bad enough that I interrupt your important business with you having to take me back to the station to get my truck. Then you’re gonna have to turn back around and head back to Herb’s when you were there already. That’s a waste of time on a day when you’re so busy. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. Those samples can wait a while. We’ll get you and yours taken care of first.”
“I won’t have it, Manny! Listen to me. That child’s had a bellyache off and on for days, and I’m pretty sure we can chalk it up to her being in a dither about that spelling bee and too many rich desserts in a row. You take me to the station.”
She gave him a little grin. “You won’t even have to stop. Just slow down as you drive by, and I’ll bail out. I’ve rolled outta a few cars in my day.”
“You have? How many?”
“Well, none. But how hard could it be? Never too late to learn a new skill, I always say.”
“I never heard you say that before.”
“Manny, hush up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
When they neared the station, Manny made a big show of putting his arm across her so she couldn’t jump out. So, of course, she had to pretend to try.
Once the cruiser was stopped next to her truck, he said, “I’ll wait to make sure you can get that jalopy going.”
“Thank you. Good luck with . . . whatever you’re doin’ for the rest of the day.”
“It won’t be as much fun as feeding Alma chicken soup and reading her stories to keep her mind off her tummy, but I’ll try. I’ll call later to see how she’s doing.”
“I appreciate it, Manny.”
“I know you do. I hope she’s okay.”
“She will be. Toodle-oo.”
“You too.”
As he’d promised, he waited until her truck was started and she had pulled away from the curb to make a U-turn and head back the way they had come.
She watched in her rearview mirror as the black-and-white cruiser disappeared down the road.
She felt lonely, as she always did when he left her presence these days.
How on God’s green earth can you feel lonely, Stella Reid? she asked herself. You live in a tiny two-bedroom house with seven young’uns and now there’s another one on the way. How lonesome can a body feel under those circumstances?
Mighty lonely, was her heart’s quiet reply. Mighty lonely, indeed.
* * *
Stella expected that she would need to go inside the school to collect her ailing granddaughter. She couldn’t bear the thought of her gentle little Alma suffering—spelling bee stress or coconut cak
e and brownies aside.
But to her delight, the moment she drove in front of school and parked in one of the spaces reserved for visiting parents, the tiny girl came bounding out the door and down the steps to greet her with a wide smile.
Her glossy black curls, so like Stella’s and Savannah’s, bounced as she scurried around to the passenger’s side of the truck and climbed inside.
“I thought you were in a real pickle, girlie,” she said, reaching over and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I came tearin’ over here like a Kansas tornado to get you, and here you sit, fit as a fiddle.”
Then Stella noticed the brown stain on the front of the girl’s white blouse. “Uh-oh,” she said. “That looks like chocolate milk.”
Alma grinned and nodded. “It is.”
“When it got spilt, was it on its way in or on its way out?”
“On its way out. That’s why my teacher wanted me to go home.”
“I’ll bet she did.”
“She had to call the janitor to clean up the, um, spilt milk. She wasn’t too happy about it and neither was he.”
“So you were just spreadin’ sunshine all over the place, huh?”
“Just on my desk and Sally’s back and hair.”
“You mean Sally Kapensky, whose momma sings alto with me in the church choir?”
“Yeah. She sits in front of me. Well, she used to. She’ll probably ask the teacher if she can move to another desk now.”
“Ain’t that just . . . lovely.”
“She probably won’t wanna be my best friend no more neither.”
“Go figure.”
* * *
Several hours later, all of the children were home, having returned from school at their regular time. Stella had given them strict instructions to remain in the kitchen until they finished their homework, then to play quietly either in their bedroom or outside.
As always, Savannah remained nearby to help nurse and entertain her ailing sibling. At such a time, Stella always experienced mixed emotions about having the girl so involved in the younger children’s upbringing. She felt guilty for relying on a child and asking her to perform what should have been adult duties. Yet, Stella felt enormously grateful, because she couldn’t imagine how she could have managed without her help.
Stella placed Alma on the sofa next to her own comfy chair. The child was lying down, her head was resting on Stella’s best feather pillow. Well plumped, of course.
Stella covered her with her best quilt, the one her mother had made. Stella gave her strict instructions not to deposit any leftover chocolate milk on it. A waste basket, lined with two layers of plastic grocery bags, sat on the floor next to her for that exact purpose.
“I like this quilt,” Alma said, tracing the colorful rings that intersected each other, swirling toward the center.
“It’s a very special quilt,” said Savannah, who was sitting on the couch, down by Alma’s feet. She looked up from the book she was reading. “Our great-grandma Gola was a real Cherokee, and she made that Cherokee wedding quilt for Granny when Gran was just a little girl. But she didn’t show it to her when she made it. She wrapped it up in brown paper and tied it with a string and told her not to open it until the day she got married. She said it was her wedding present to her.”
Alma turned to Stella. “Did you? Did you wait until you married Grandpa Art to open it?”
“I did.”
“That’s so nice,” Alma said, stroking the fabric with her palm. “A real, honest-to-goodness, Cherokee wedding quilt, made by a real Cherokee momma. No wonder it’s so pretty.”
Stella gave Savannah a smile that was tinged with sadness. Savannah knew the rest of the story, but she was wise enough not to share it with her younger sister. Gola must have had a premonition that she wouldn’t still be alive when her daughter was grown and getting married. Why else would a mother make a quilt, wrap it, and give it to her young child, to be opened many years later?
But Stella had told Savannah the story only recently, and she had warned her then that her siblings were too young to hear how their beautiful, young Cherokee great-grandmother had left this world.
It was best that they thought of her simply as the lady who had made the lovely, colorful quilt, which they all enjoyed now.
Especially when they needed a bit of coddling, as Alma did at that moment.
Savannah returned to her reading, and Stella sat in her chair and crocheted, allowing Alma to rest. Stella hoped she might drift off into a peaceful, healing sleep.
But instead, the child tossed and turned, as though she couldn’t get comfortable, special quilt and pillow or not.
“Would you like to hear a story, sugar?” Stella asked her. “I could read you a nice fairy tale from that old book you kids gave me for Christmas last year. It’s got some good ones in it.”
“No, that’s okay.” Alma looked up at Stella with eyes that seemed less bright than usual. Less lively than they had been even a few minutes before.
“Are you feelin’ any better?” Stella asked. “Did that medicine I gave you help your tummy at all?”
“I think it might’ve made it worse.” Alma touched her belly gingerly.
Stella wondered if she should call Dr. Hynson’s office again. She had done so as soon as she returned home with the girl, but the doctor’s wife told her that he had gone to the hospital to deliver Debbie Lockland’s baby. Mrs. Hynson couldn’t say when he might return. Since it was Debbie’s first, it might take a while.
Stella reached over, placed her hand on the child’s forehead, and frowned, unhappy with what she felt. “Let me take your temperature again, babycakes. You feel hotter than before.”
On her way to the bathroom, Stella passed the girls’ bedroom and overheard Marietta and Vidalia quarreling about something. This time, even Cordele and Jesup had joined in the affray.
“Y’all keep it down in there like I told you!” she shouted as she passed by. “Your sister ain’t feelin’ good, and she don’t need to hear that malarkey! Neither do I.”
To her surprise, they did as they were told instantly. By their tone, she could tell they were still arguing, but at least they were doing so quietly.
She hurried into the bathroom, took the thermometer from the medicine chest, and returned to the living room. She couldn’t help being worried. A tummy ache was one thing. A fever, too? That could be bad. More than nerves or an overindulgent diet.
She knelt beside the coach, shook down the thermometer, and stuck it in Alma’s mouth, placing the end under her tongue. Then she stroked her hair as they waited for the result.
“That’s it, sugar,” she told the girl. “You’re gonna be just fine. I wouldn’t have it any other way, you hear?”
Alma nodded, but Stella didn’t like how pale she looked or how quickly she had gone from the chatty, energetic little girl they all loved to this lackadaisical, faded version of herself.
Just as Stella was getting ready to remove the thermometer and check it, there was a soft knocking on the door.
She wasn’t expecting company, but in a town as small as McGill, neighbors frequently dropped by unannounced.
Today, of all days, she wished they wouldn’t.
Savannah answered it, and Stella was surprised to hear Dolly Browning’s voice from the porch saying, “Hello, Savannah. Is your grandmother at home? I dropped by to give her some fresh tomatoes. Just picked them this morning. I’ve got so many this year, I don’t know what to do with them.”
Savannah turned and gave Stella a questioning look. Stella nodded, and Savannah said, “How nice of you, Miss Browning. Please, do come in.”
To Stella’s mortification, it was the exact moment when Dolly stepped into their house that the thermometer came out of Alma’s mouth.
It came flying out, along with whatever remained of the chocolate milk she had consumed during her school milk break.
Fortunately, it missed the quilt and most of it landed in the trash can next to th
e couch.
But Stella was less concerned about the spectacle it must have presented to their visitor and more worried about the fact that her granddaughter wasn’t as far along the road to recovery as she had hoped.
Apparently, quite the contrary, in fact.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Browning, but it might notta been the best time for you to come callin’. We ain’t at our best, I’m afraid. We’ve got us a sick girlie here,” Stella said as she stroked Alma’s forehead, which was now definitely hotter than it had been before. Stella certainly didn’t need a thermometer to tell the girl had a fever.
With a look of deep concern, Dolly handed a large bag filled with tomatoes to Savannah, then hurried over to Stella and stood beside her, next to the couch. “What’s going on here?” she asked Alma. “We can’t have sick girlies around here. We don’t allow such a thing.”
“She’s got herself a fever and her tummy aches,” Stella said. “She seems awful tired all of a sudden. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed a couple of hours ago.”
Dolly laid her hand on Alma’s forehead. “How long have you had a tummy ache, sweetie?” she asked her.
“A few days. Off and on.”
“Has it been about the same or getting worse?”
“Worse,” Alma replied in a voice that sounded so small and weak that it frightened Stella.
With seven grandkids, she was accustomed to nursing sick children. But she didn’t like how quickly Alma seemed to be going downhill.
“Stella, have you spoken to the doctor yet?” Dolly asked, moving closer to the couch and Alma.
Stella had to step back a little to make room for her.
“No,” Stella told her. “Doc’s out of town. His wife says he’s at the hospital delivering a baby.”
“Aren’t they always when you need them,” Dolly said. “She definitely has a fever, and I don’t like the way she looks.”
“Me either, but I—”
“Would you mind if I examined her?”
Dolly’s question took Stella aback. Why would this woman, who had just walked into her home to deliver some tomatoes, want to examine her granddaughter?
Murder at Mabel's Motel Page 17
