“Okay, Gran.”
Stella watched as relief took the place of fear on his delicate features.
After sitting on the ground, she pulled him onto her lap and began to gently rock him. As he snuggled in, she couldn’t help thinking of her husband, six feet beneath them, and how sad it was that he was the closest thing to a male figure that this little boy could turn to in a time of trouble.
Six years ago, Arthur had left them, taken in a terrible tractor accident while working their small farm on the other side of town. Stella and everyone who loved him had thought their lives had ended along with his.
The townsfolk of McGill had never seen a funeral with so many attendees or so many tears shed. It had been an enormous outpouring of grief for the gentle man who had quietly touched so many lives with his acts of kindness.
“Art Reid pulled my car out of a ditch with his tractor one cold night in the pouring-down rain. Wouldn’t take a dollar for it, neither,” one mourner had said.
“He spent a whole Saturday helping me pull the automatic transmission outta my old Buick, and you know what a hateful, backbreaking job that can be. Didn’t even cuss when it slipped and danged near tore off three of his knuckles, neither.”
“He’s the ‘friend that sticks closer than a brother’ that Proverbs talks about,” another said. “He gave me five dollars for gas when I needed it bad. Found out later it was the last money he had in the world. What’s more, when I tried to pay him back, he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Didn’t tell ever’body in town he gave it to you, neither,” someone added, “like some do. They help you out one time, and you never hear the end of it. But Art ’tweren’t like that. He wasn’t the sort to do you a favor, then throw it up to you later on.”
Indeed, Arthur Reid had been well loved, respected, and missed. But his chief mourners, by far, were his wife and grandchildren.
Little Waycross had been only three years old when his grandfather passed. But, although the boy had no distinct memories of him, he cherished every good word, every kind story he had ever heard spoken about Gramps. Waycross Reid was fiercely proud of the man who had been his grandfather.
Perhaps, Stella surmised, his attachment to his grandfather was because he had so few reasons to be proud of his own father. Sadly, the boy and all the Reid family members were reminded of Macon Reid’s shortcomings daily. Such were the trials of living in a small town filled with people who had plenty of opinions but precious little common sense about when, where, or how to state them.
She brushed the auburn curls from the boy’s forehead, placed her hand beneath his chin, and forced him to look up at her. “You out here talkin’ to your grandpa?” she asked.
He sniffed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I thought so. Bendin’ his ear ’bout all your problems?”
Waycross shook his head. “No. That’d take way too long. I was just lettin’ him know ’bout this last one. The worst one.”
“What’d he have to say ’bout it?”
“Not much. I’d just got done fillin’ ’im in when you showed up.”
Stella suppressed a chuckle. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt an important conversation like that.”
“It’s okay. Gramps don’t mind. He likes it when you come to see him. He misses you somethin’ fierce.”
At first, Stella thought her grandson was teasing. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw a level of sincerity that shocked her.
Could there be more to Waycross’s graveside visits than she had considered?
“He told you that?” she asked. “Gramps told you that he misses me?”
The boy nodded vigorously, setting his curls abob. “All the time.”
Stella gulped, trying to swallow the lump forming in her throat. “Well, ain’t that interestin’. What else does your grandpa tell you?”
“He said he likes your new hairdo. It reminds him of the way you wore your hair back when you and him was courtin’.”
A shiver skittered down Stella’s back, and it had nothing to do with the damp earth she was sitting on or the brisk twilight air. She had, indeed, worn her hair in much the same fashion when she and Art had first started keeping company. Back then, she had worn it long and loose about her shoulders, because that was the way he preferred it. Now the carefree style was born of necessity and a lack of time to primp and crimp while providing part-time care for a herd of grandkids.
But there was no way for little Waycross to have known that. Only a couple of old black-and-white photos remained of that era of her life, and she was pretty sure her grandson had seen neither of them.
“I didn’t know you came here to have actual conversations with your grandpa,” she said. “I thought it was just so you could be close to him.”
“That too,” he replied. “But Gramps is a smart guy. He gives good advice. You should try it yourself sometime.”
Stella tried to get her mind around the idea that her grandson had some sort of spiritual connection with her departed husband. But she reminded herself that she shouldn’t be surprised. Art had always put his family above everything, helping them in every way he could. It wasn’t so hard to believe that he would continue to do so from the other side.
“What sort of advice does Gramps give you?” she asked.
“Mostly, he tells me to mind you and always do what you say, ’cause you’re smart and won’t lead me wrong.”
“That is good advice.”
“But he tells me I shouldn’t do everything that Mama says to do, ’cause some of it’s against the law, and I could wind up in the hoosecow.”
“I think that’s hoosegow. It means ‘jail.’”
“I know what it means, and I don’t wanna go there.”
“Why would you go to jail for doin’ somethin’ your mama tells you to do?” she asked, suddenly quite concerned.
“’Cause Sheriff Gilford takes a dim view of stuff like snatchin’ cigarettes at the service station.”
“Your mama told you to . . . what?”
“She told me to act like I need to use the station’s toilet, and then she’d pretend she was having problems pumpin’ the gas so that ol’ Mr. Warren would come out to help her. Then she wanted me to go in and take some of her favorite cigarettes out from behind his counter.”
Stella felt her blood pressure rising by the second. She ached to get her hands on her daughter-in-law and, at the same moment, was thankful she couldn’t. How dare that woman involve this innocent child in her own illegal shenanigans!
“Have you actually done that, sweet cheeks?” she asked the boy. “You can tell me the truth. It’s okay. Have you gone and snatched cigarettes from ol’ Mr. Warren? If you have, I won’t hold it against you, ’cause it weren’t your idea.”
“Nope. I told her a little fib. Pretended I couldn’t find her brand. She was mad, but at least I didn’t get a whuppin’ for not doing what she said.”
“She would have whupped you for not doing it?”
He nodded.
“How do you know that?”
“’Cause she told me so, and she had that look in her eye. The kind she gets when she means business.”
For the child’s sake, Stella fought to keep her temper under control. The last thing he needed was to have the adults he loved at each other’s throats. But that was exactly what she wanted to be. At Shirley Reid’s throat, strangling her until her eyes bugged out on stems like those of some cartoon character who had just seen something startling.
“I know it’s a sin to lie,” Waycross said, continuing his confession, “but I figured it was better than stealin’. I could’ve got in bad trouble for thievin’, but all I got was one smack on the head for not doin’ what she told me.”
“You done good, darlin’. Real good. I’m proud of you.” Stella fought back tears as she pressed a kiss to his forehead and promised herself that she would deal with this problem as soon as she settled the issue of the Holy Family’s unsightly facial hair.
She drew a deep breath and said, “Speakin’ of wrongdoings, we need to address the problem at hand. The one you created when you decided to take a paintbrush to—”
“A marker.”
“What?”
“I used a marker. Paint works okay for beards, but a marker’s better for mustaches.”
“I shudder to think of how you became such an expert.”
“You said it was okay to draw them. You said it looked funny.”
“I said it was okay for you to draw them on magazines and newspapers after I’d done read ’em. But, as I’m sure you remember, I draw a line at Bible folk. Remember the Adam and Eve incident?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tears filled his eyes.
“Then why did you do it, punkin? Those figures belong to the whole town. Why would you think it was okay for you to deface public property like that?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know I was defacin’ nothin’. I just wanted to make people laugh. You laughed when I put mustaches on the president and Queen Elizabeth.”
“Yes, but that was in my magazine, not the town’s manger scene. What do you reckon we oughta do to set this situation straight?”
He looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes. “We gotta do somethin’?”
“Sure we do. We can’t just pretend nothin’ happened, and that we don’t know squat about it.”
Tears began to stream down his face, and she could feel his small body trembling against hers. “Do we have to tell them, Gran?” he asked. “Do I have to fess up?”
“That’s usually best under circumstances like these.”
“But it wouldn’t be the best. Not this time. It would be plumb awful.”
“I don’t think it’d be so bad. Most folks hold a body in high regard if they admit they did something wrong and want to set it right.”
“Not me,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody in this town is ever gonna hold none of us Reids in high regard, no matter what we do.”
Stella felt like someone had just shoved something cold and sharp between her ribs. “Why would you say such a thing, Waycross?”
“You know,” he said, with eyes too old for his years. “Because of my mom and my dad. Because of... the way they are.”
“How’s that, darlin’?” she asked, dreading the answer. Of course, she knew better than her grandson what her son’s and daughter-in-law’s reputations were, but she needed to know how much he knew and understood.
“They say,” he began, “that my mom’s afraid that barstool—the one under Elvis’s picture—is gonna float away if she ain’t holdin’ it down night and day.”
“What do you think of that, sugar?”
“I think it’s dumb, ’cause that stool’s bolted to the floor. I checked myself one night, when I went in there to tell her to come home.”
“I see.”
“And they say my dad’s always keepin’ the road hot in his truck, drivin’ all over the country, ’cause he’d rather be away from his wife and kids so’s he can chase skirts.”
The feeling of something sharp and cold stabbed even more deeply into Stella’s chest. She was sure it was piercing her heart. “What do you reckon that means,” she asked him, “when they say that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. That sounds dumb, too. He’s a guy. What would he want with a skirt? Besides, skirts don’t run down the road on their own, now do they? Why would anybody need to chase one?”
“I agree, sweetheart. In all my born days, I’ve yet to see a skirt of any kind hightail it down a street.” She kissed the top of his head, breathing in the precious boy smell of him. “It sounds to me like whatever folks in this town are sayin’ ’bout us Reids is a bunch of hooey and not worth gettin’ ourselves in a dither about. Okay?”
“I just don’t want to confess my crime to anybody, ’cause it’ll add to all the hooey.”
Stella thought it over long and hard, weighing the value of teaching the child the consequences of a transgression versus adding to the burden of shame he already carried.
Finally, she said, “I think I’ve got a solution to this problem. A way you can atone for your crime without the town gossips gettin’ all in a tizzy.”
He looked up at her, painfully hopeful. “What way’s that, Gran?”
“You’ll see. It requires you putting that artistic flair of yours to work, and some old-fashioned sneakiness on both our parts. Reckon you’re up for it?”
Grinning broadly, he said, “Yes, ma’am. Let’s git ’er done!”
Chapter 3
Before Stella could begin the process of helping her miscreant grandson atone for his felonious behavior, she decided to stop by her house and see how Elsie was faring with the rest of the horde. Elsie had used Stella’s old Mercury panel truck, as the rear had been outfitted with seven seats and was the only vehicle in McGill, other than the town’s one school bus, that could transport all the Reid young’uns at once in a halfway safe manner.
Therefore, Stella had the pleasure of driving Elsie’s red 1965 Mustang on her way home. As she pulled onto the dirt road leading to her small shotgun house, Stella marveled at the ease of driving a smaller vehicle with good brakes and only one quiet child inside it.
But even as she enjoyed the simpler, easier scenario, she reminded herself that there wasn’t a single one of those seven kids she would trade for their weight in gold. Or for a ton of the stuff, for that matter.
“Simple” wasn’t always the sweetest.
“I thought we was taking me to a place where I can right my wrongs and amend my evil ways,” Waycross said, a bit concerned, when he realized where they were headed.
“We are,” Stella assured him. “But first, we gotta run inside and make sure that Elsie’s got things in hand. Plus, you might need a potty break before we get down to the nitty-gritty of you payin’ your debt to society.”
Waycross giggled. “I’m a boy, Gran. I can take a potty break anyplace, anytime. All I need’s a bush that’s thirsty.”
“Be that as it may. We ain’t heathens. You’ll use the outhouse like proper, civilized folk.”
She drove the Mustang to the front of the house and carefully parked it next to her old truck. “Besides,” she continued, “I thought we’d asked Savannah to join us. Might be good to have her along. That girl has a knack for skullduggery.”
“Savannah digs up skulls?”
Stella laughed. “Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t put it past her. Skullduggery means ‘bein’ tricky and crafty.’”
“Sneaky?”
“That too.”
“Then Savannah’s perfect for a skullduggery job. She’s sneaky as they come, and then some.”
“Now, now.” She reached into the back seat and grabbed her purse. “Keep your words kind and soft when describin’ your sister. Miss Savannah is downright gifted when it comes to bein’ sneaky. But she uses her powers for good. Most of the time. Once in a while, a body’s gotta use their God-given wiles and cunning when they’re fightin’ on the side of the angels.”
Together, they hurried up the rickety steps and onto the porch, where the chains on Stella’s beloved bench swing were creaking as an ever increasingly cold wind rounded the corner of the house and blew against it.
“You grab Vidalia’s warm coat, too,” she told him. “You’re gonna need it.”
“I don’t wanna wear that thing,” he whined. “It’s a girl’s coat. It’s purple!”
“I understand, but that wind’s pickin’ up somethin’ fierce. It’s gonna be dark where we’re goin’. Nobody’ll see you.”
“But what if they do and they laugh at me? I get laughed at enough for my hair being red and my freckles.”
“If anybody sees you and dares to laugh at you, I’ll give ’em a smack upside the head. Okay?”
He grinned up at her with a snaggletoothed smile that set her heart aglow in spite of the winter wind.
“Okay,” he said. “It’d be worth havin’ ’em poke
fun at me just to see you whack ’em.” As they opened the door and started to walk inside, the boy paused and said, “You gonna bring your skillet, Gran? Just in case?”
“Not this time, grandson. If the need should arise, the good Lord will supply a weapon.”
“’Cause you’d be fightin’ on the side of His angels, right?”
“Exactly right.”
Stella looked around, and as always when she left the children in Elsie’s care, the house was quiet, orderly, and filled with a gentle peace, which seemed to follow Elsie Dingle wherever she went. That was one of the things that made Elsie a great friend and occasional babysitter.
Another was her ability to bake the best coconut cakes and apple pies in the county.
Stella and Waycross made their way through the long, narrow house, which was built in typical “shotgun” fashion, without the luxury of hallways, one room leading into another. The style was rumored to have been given its name because one could fire a gun through the front door and the bullet would exit through the back door without striking a wall.
They passed through the living room, Stella’s bedroom, then the children’s bedroom, and made their way to the kitchen, where the other six grandchildren sat at Stella’s chrome dining table, with its red mother-of-pearl Formica surface and matching leatherette chairs. On the wall nearby, a clock the size and shape of a black cat, with green rhinestone eyes, twitched its tail, marking the passage of time in the Reid household. The clock was one of Stella’s treasures, as her oldest grandchild had bought it for her with money she had earned doing menial labor for her neighbors.
Savannah had always demonstrated a generous nature and a willingness to work hard, to go along with her nosiness and crafty wiles. Stella considered it proof that most people were a combination of saint and sinner.
Savannah sat at one end of the table, Elsie at the other. Elsie was calmly dishing up seconds of mashed potatoes and thin slices of meat loaf served Elsie style, with plenty of catsup sweetened with a bit of brown sugar.
The table was uncharacteristically quiet, with each child shoveling in the food, as though it might disappear at any moment, before they had their fill.
Murder in Her Stocking Page 3
