Murder in Her Stocking

by G. A. McKevett

  Stella couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since they had enjoyed a nutritious, hot meal. Too many times she had looked into Shirley’s refrigerator, only to find beer and condiments that were long past their expiration dates.

  The moment Elsie saw Stella, she jumped to her feet and offered the chair she had been occupying.

  “Here you go,” she said. “I was just finishing up. I’ll get you a fresh plate and—”

  “No, no. You just sit still and finish your dinner peaceful like. We are in no rush. Unless you need to get home . . .”

  A slight look of sadness crossed Elsie’s round, childlike face. “I got nobody and nothin’ much to rush home to, if it’s all the same to you,” she said.

  “That’s good, ’cause I was gonna ask if I could impose on you to hang around awhile longer. Mr. Waycross and me, we got us some business to attend to, if you wouldn’t mind holdin’ down the fort a bit longer.”

  Elsie brightened in an instant. “Oh, I can stay all night, if you want. I could sleep on the couch if needs be.”

  In her peripheral vision, Stella saw Waycross flinch. She smiled to herself. The couch was Waycross’s bed—at his expressed request. A few months ago, he had laid down the law and proclaimed himself “too old to sleep in a room full of girls anymore.”

  Considering the tough evening he had endured so far, Stella couldn’t bear the thought of ousting him from the “bed” he was so proud of. Even a gentle-natured fellow could take only so much trauma in a twenty-four-hour period.

  “That’s okay, Sister Elsie.” Stella put her hand on Elsie’s shoulder and eased her back onto the chair. “It won’t take all night, this little chore of ours. We’ll get ’er done lickety-split and be back before you know it.”

  “Unless Waycross gets his butt arrested,” Marietta interjected, speaking around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

  “Don’t talk with food in your mouth, Marietta,” Stella told her. “And don’t use strong language at the dinner table—or anyplace else, for that matter.”

  Marietta made a big show of swallowing the potatoes and rinsing them down with a gulp of water, then restated her case with haughty authority. “Unless Waycross gets his hind end thrown in prison and rots there for the rest of his life, ’cause we ain’t got enough money to bail him out with.”

  “That does it!” Savannah reached over and grabbed her sister by the front of her shirt and shook her soundly. “You shut your mean, nasty mouth, Marietta Reid, or I swear, I’ll slap you neked and hide your clothes!”

  In an instant, a shirt-yanking, hair-pulling affray was well under way.

  “Girls!” Stella exclaimed as she rushed to separate her beloved grandchildren before they could do serious bodily harm to each other. With no Merthiolate or bandages in the house, bloodshed simply wasn’t to be tolerated.

  But before she could reach them, Elsie had taken control of the room in her natural gracious way. “Anybody want some apple pie? There’s ice cream to go with it. But only if you’re sittin’ in your seat quietly and not tearing your sister’s hair outta her head or ripping her clothes off.”

  In a heartbeat, complete and utter silence reigned.

  Gentle smiles decorated both Savannah’s and Marietta’s faces.

  The little boogers look plumb angelic, Stella thought. Ah, the power of pie à la mode.

  “For everybody’s information,” she said, “Waycross ain’t going to no jail. He’s just got a little chore he needs to do, and it’s nobody’s business but his own.”

  She gave Waycross a nudge toward the empty chair, where he usually sat. “Park yerself over there, grandson, and shovel down some of Elsie’s good meat loaf and mashed potatoes while you got the chance. I’m gonna run next door to Flo’s house and pick up a couple of things. When I get back, you and me’s gonna address that issue that nobody needs to talk about. Not one solitary word.”

  She looked around the table at the curious faces, which included Elsie’s.

  Turning to Savannah, she said, “If Miss Elsie don’t need you here to help with dishes, baths, and such, Waycross and me would like to have you join us for our little excursion.”

  Savannah brightened, her deep blue eyes twinkling, at the prospect of an adventure. She looked pleadingly at Elsie.

  Waving a dismissive hand, Elsie said, “Oh, she can go along, if she’s a mind to. We can get by without her for once. Miss Marietta can give me a hand with the little ’uns.”

  Instantly, Marietta scowled, dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter, and propped her hands on her hips. “How come stupid, ugly ol’ Savannah gets to go, and I have to stay here and do her work?”

  “She’s goin’ because I asked her to,” Stella replied, her voice soft and low, but stern. “And the next time you let an ugly word come out of your mouth when addressing one of your siblings, Miss Marietta, you’re gonna find yourself chewin’ on a bar of Ivory soap. As you may recall, you ain’t fond of the flavor.”

  “No,” Vidalia said with a snicker, “Mari’s partial to Camay, ’cause it’s for bee-u-tee-ful women.”

  “Then how come she uses it?” chimed in usually docile Alma.

  “’Cause Marietta thinks she’s sooo bee-u-tee-ful, like the women in the magazine pictures,” Vidalia explained, striking a glamorous profile pose for all to appreciate.

  “Not another word, any of you, if you want some of Miss Elsie’s pie.” Stella leaned across the table and passed the platter with its one remaining slice of meat loaf to Waycross. Her own tummy rumbled at the sight. She reassured her empty stomach that there were plenty of mashed potatoes left.

  As though reading her mind, Elsie said, “I’ll put you back a piece of pie, Sister Stella, and I’ll save you some ice cream for when you get back from your . . . uh . . . chore.”

  “Thank you, darlin’.” Stella patted her friend’s shoulder. “I’ll look forward to that. See you all later, and you young’uns best mind your manners. If I hear you’ve been naughty for Miss Elsie, we’ll be havin’ us a mighty serious reckoning first thing tomorrow mornin’.”

  Stella didn’t recall ever having to actually deliver a “serious reckoning” to any of her grandkids. In fact, not even she herself knew for sure what such a thing would consist of. But considering the ferocious gleam in her eye when she announced the threat, they lived in mortal terror of receiving one, and that was usually enough to keep them from maiming one another.

  Years ago, Granny had decided that the proper disciplining of children was 99 percent love and 1 percent making sure they were terrified to cross you.

  Chapter 4

  Leaving the children in Elsie’s more than capable hands, Stella hurried outside into the winter darkness. She debated about whether or not to drive the truck, since it was a bit colder than usual for a December night in Georgia. But she had left her purse in the house, and having no keys handy, she decided to just walk across the small field that separated her house from Florence and Bud Bagley’s home.

  As the Bagleys had been Stella’s nearest neighbors for more than thirty years, and Florence had been her close friend since childhood, Stella knew the couple well. Too well, when it came to being privy to their frequent squabbles and occasional knock-down-drag-outs.

  Mostly, it was Flo who got knocked down. Stella dreaded the day she might hear that her neighbor had also been dragged out.

  Bud wasn’t popular in the town. Too many people had been on the receiving end of his temper—a temper that was bad on a good day and worse on a bad one.

  Liquor consumption didn’t help.

  Bud wasn’t a happy drunk. Alcohol brought out the worst in his surly, troublesome disposition. Most folks in McGill were leery of him and gave him a wide berth.

  Some were downright afraid of Bud Bagley.

  Stella wasn’t one of them.

  One day shortly after Arthur had died, when Stella was in the depths of her grief and fresh out of patience, Florence had come running across the field, h
er nose bleeding profusely, half scared to death, seeking help.

  Stella had promptly called Sheriff Gilford, but before he could arrive, an angry Bud had come to retrieve his wayward, disobedient wife. When pounding on the back door hadn’t worked, he’d kicked it open.

  Unfortunately for him, Stella had been cleaning the skillet she’d just fried the Sunday chicken in and had it in her hand when Bud burst through the broken door and into her kitchen.

  By the time the tale of the “Stella Reid Skillet Massacre” had been passed along to every household in McGill, it had been revised, embellished, and amended until there were several versions of the “gospel truth.”

  By some accounts, Bud had rushed into the house and, as bad luck would have it, had run face-first, several times, into Stella’s fourteen-inch cast-iron skillet.

  The stories on the other end of the spectrum included her chasing him out of the house and across the field to his home, skillet bashing him all the while, and doing so much damage that it took Doc Hynson four hours and over a hundred stitches to close him up.

  Some more creative eyewitnesses swore that when they saw him stumbling into Doc’s office, part of his brain matter was hanging out of his right ear.

  Stella knew that the actual, honest-to-goodness truth lay somewhere in the middle. But most importantly, she knew that Bud Bagley was a bully, plain and simple. When she’d walloped him upside the head with that frying pan, she had seen real fear in his eyes.

  Terror, in fact, and more than a little surprise.

  Bud Bagley wasn’t used to being stood up to.

  Especially by a woman.

  A couple of good, solid whacks and he had backed right down. But then, most people would have, she recalled as she walked up the Bagleys’ driveway, toward their house. That particular skillet was the one she used to fry chicken for seven hungry kids. It was mighty heavy, and she hadn’t exactly held back when she clobbered him with it. Twice. There in her kitchen.

  Since that day, Bud had avoided his utensil-wielding neighbor and, better still, had backed off a bit on his wife thumping. So, all in all, Stella figured that giving Bud a bit of what he had coming was time and energy well spent.

  The memory brought a smirk to her face as she approached the large brick home, with its wide veranda and fine paved driveway. It was a far cry from her little hovel of a house, rickety porch, and dirt road.

  But Stella didn’t mind. She hadn’t minded when she and Arthur bought the place from the Bagleys over thirty years ago. It had been her first adult home, her only adult home, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  More than once it had occurred to her that she would have much preferred to spend her life in her shotgun shack, with Arthur Reid sitting at the breakfast table with her and sleeping beside her on their humble featherbed, than to live in this elegant brick home, with its fancy shutters, wrought-iron fences . . . and Bud.

  Even without Art, her life was better than her friend’s.

  No, Stella Reid wouldn’t trade places with Florence Bagley for the world.

  As though to reinforce her convictions, as she approached the house, Stella saw the front door crash open and Bud Bagley rush out. Yelling crude insults over his shoulder at Florence, who was standing in the open doorway, her hand over her mouth, Bud made his way to his oversize pickup, parked in front of the house. Bud was famous for his monster pickup, with its custom bright blue metal-flake paint job.

  The townsfolk could see Bud Bagley coming a mile off, and that was just the way he liked it.

  He yanked the door of his ugly big truck open, climbed inside, and seconds later came roaring down the driveway toward Stella.

  She barely had time to scramble to the side to avoid being hit.

  For just a moment, she caught a glimpse of Bud’s face, glowing green from the lights of his truck’s dashboard. The view was brief, but it was clear enough for her to tell that he was drunk and furious.

  Both were all-too-common conditions for the well-off man who owned the town’s largest gas station, not to mention its only grocery store and pool hall.

  Once Bud was out of sight, Stella turned her attention to her friend, who was still standing in the doorway, holding her hand over her mouth. By the porch light, Stella could tell that Flo was crying. She could also see that her friend had spotted her approaching the house and didn’t look happy about it.

  Stella chided herself for not phoning Flo before dropping by. Folks in McGill seldom called to ask permission before stopping at one another’s houses. Southern hospitality favored an open-door policy toward all.

  But Stella reminded herself that the Bagleys’ home wasn’t as hospitable as most.

  Houses that harbored secrets of a violent nature seldom were.

  “Evenin’, Flo,” Stella called out. Her cheery tone sounded fake, even to her.

  “Hey, Stella,” was the lackluster reply. “How’re you this evening?”

  Stella stepped up onto the veranda, and Flo opened the door wider, inviting her inside. Though she still had her hand across her mouth.

  Stella noticed that her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and her usually perfect hairdo was badly mussed.

  “Actually, we’ve done better,” Stella told her as she walked into the foyer and Flo closed the door behind her. “That’s why I’m here. I was wondering if you could help me out with somethin’. Me and mine are in a bit of a pickle.”

  Flo lowered her hand from her face, and Stella was alarmed to see that her lip was bleeding.

  “Oh, darlin’. That’s gotta hurt.”

  “No. It’s nothing much.”

  Stella gave her a sad, understanding smile, but Florence looked away and headed toward the back of the house and the kitchen. “I hit myself with a cupboard door a while ago, when I was taking down some plates. It’s no big deal.”

  Following her into the kitchen, Stella weighed the pros and cons of once again getting involved in her neighbor’s marital problems. It didn’t take long for her to make her decision. Stella Reid had never been one for standing in the bleachers and watching life play out on the field below.

  Right or wrong, wise or foolish, she got involved. Even if it meant that from time to time, she paid a penalty.

  “You didn’t smack yourself in the mouth with a door, Florence,” she said as she watched her friend tear a paper towel from the roll, wet it, and dab at the blood. “You and me both know it, so don’t go insultin’ my intelligence. That man of yours slugged you in the mouth, and that is a big deal. A real big deal.”

  Florence tossed the bloody paper towel into the garbage. “This one was my fault,” she said sheepishly. “I knew this morning that he was low on beer, but I forgot to bring some home with me from the store. He works hard. He’s under a lot of stress, and he really looks forward to his beers when he gets home.”

  “That’s a heap and a half of hooey. If anybody’s under stress in this household, I’d say it’s the one who gets beat up for something stupid like forgettin’ to restock a grown man’s beer. You work as many hours in that store as he does. Most days, even more. Why can’t he remember to cart his own beer home if it’s that all-fired important to him?”

  “That’s not how things work around here,” Florence replied in a voice so flat and lifeless that it broke Stella’s heart just to hear her words.

  She could remember when Florence was young and positively bubbling over with the joy of life. She was the prettiest and most popular girl in town.

  Because she was so pretty and lively, she had nabbed herself the “richest” man in town. Florence’s mother had been overjoyed!

  Florence and Bud had had the fanciest wedding that McGill had ever seen, with real white doves flying as they drove away. They had even honeymooned at Niagara Falls.

  Florence had been miserable ever since. Every year, her life energy appeared to be seeping out of her at a faster and faster rate. Stella couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Florence smiling an
d carefree.

  Stella walked over to her friend, placed her hands on either side of Florence’s face, and turned it toward the light so she could see her wound better. “Your lip’s busted, sugar,” she told her. “It’s gonna leave a scar.”

  Florence gave a bitter little laugh with no mirth in it and shook her head. “Bud’s getting sloppy in his old age. Used to, he was careful to hit me only in places it wouldn’t show. Under my clothes.”

  “Yeah, that so-called out-of-control temper of his. The one he got from his no-good daddy and says he can’t help. If he was smart enough and in control enough to hit you where it wouldn’t show, he’d be able to just go for a walk or somethin’ to work off his anger and not hit you at all.”

  Florence sighed, suddenly looking tired and annoyed. “We’ve had this talk many times before, Stella. We wind up going in circles. You need to stay out of it. Bud still hates you for hitting him that time. He’ll never get over you making him a laughingstock like that. He still gets teased about it, folks making skillet jokes and such.”

  Stella couldn’t suppress a little snicker. She had to admit that, in her opinion, beaning Bud Bagley with a frying pan was one of the ten top accomplishments of her life, and the memory never failed to bring a smile to her face and a ray of sunlight to her spirit.

  “Don’t laugh about it! There’s nothing funny about it!” Florence said with a degree of fear and urgency that startled Stella. “My marriage isn’t your business, and if you don’t stay out of it, you could get yourself hurt. Bad.”

  Stella thought long and hard before she answered. When she did, she fought to keep her face as blank and her voice as even as she could, hiding her own emotions of anger, frustration, and helplessness.

  “You’re right, Flo. It’s your marriage, your business. If you truly want me to stay out of it, I’ll just bite my tongue and not say another word to you about it ever again.”

  Florence gave her a small, sweet smile filled with affection and even a bit of good humor. It softened her face, and just for a moment, Stella caught a glimpse of her old friend, the happy-go-lucky girl who had made everyone laugh every day at school.