Before she had met the “love of her life,” the richest man in town.
“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut if you had to, Stella Reid. You’d bite that tongue of yours clean in two, and knowing you, you’d still be able to state your piece, loud and clear, with just half a tongue.”
Stella couldn’t help laughing. That was one good thing about having a friend you’d known your whole life—she knew you better than you knew yourself . . . and loved you, anyway.
Florence grabbed another paper towel, walked to the refrigerator, and took an ice cube from the freezer. She wrapped it in the towel and pressed it to her wounded lip with such practiced expertise that Stella felt a chill just watching her.
“Don’t fret,” Florence told her. “Looks like things may work out exactly the way you’d like them to between me and Bud.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lately, he’s been talking about leaving me. He threatened to just now. That’s what the big fight was about.”
“I thought it was over beer.”
Florence shrugged. “Most of our fights start off about something little, then slide into the bigger things. He told me that if I don’t shape up, he’s going to leave me flat. Can you imagine? After all these years, to just walk away from a marriage?”
Florence started to cry, and Stella couldn’t imagine why.
“Let him walk! It’d be the first good thing he’s done for you since he shoved that ring on your finger.”
“This is you not stating your opinion, not telling me my business?” Florence chuckled, tears streaming down her face. “Ten whole seconds you held out. That has to be some kind of record for you.”
“Oh, hush up. You stand there mashin’ an ice cube against your busted lip and tell me it’d be a bad thing if that man walked away from you? Go ahead and see if even you believe it.”
Anger flashed in Florence’s eyes. “He wouldn’t just leave me. He’d take everything with him. Everything we worked for. He’d kick me out of this house, my house. The house I dreamed up all on my own and told the contractor how to build. The house I decorated. I chose every pillow and curtain and every picture on these walls. But it’s his name that’s on the deed, and I’ll be the one on the street, looking for some ratty house to rent and not being able to afford even that.”
“But you have the store. You’ve worked there forty years, putting in more hours than he has.”
“The store’s in his name, too. His daddy left it to him, long before Bud ever married me.” Florence began to cry even harder. “I’m telling you, Stella, if he kicks me out, I’ll have nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
For a long time, Stella stared down at the floor, considering her next words.
Florence was right; she couldn’t withhold her opinion and act like one of her closest friends’ problems weren’t her own.
A wiser woman probably could, she decided. A smarter woman could turn her back on a lifelong friend and still look herself in the eye the next morning in the bathroom mirror.
Unfortunately, Stella knew she would never be that wise.
She wasn’t even sure she wanted to be that smarter woman.
“You’ll have absolutely nothing,” she said softly, “except maybe . . . safety, peace, freedom, self-respect.”
Florence sniffed and shook her head. “Self-respect doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Unpaid bills ain’t the end of the world, Flo. Lots of folks have those. Hell’s bells, I’ve got a stack of ’em myself.”
Florence turned her back to Stella, walked to the garbage can, and tossed the ice cube and paper towel into it. When she turned back around to face her friend, her eyes were cold, distant.
Stella knew the conversation about Bud was over. Again, they had talked in circles and wound up at the same sad place.
Nowhere.
Florence couldn’t imagine her life without Bud and all the material things he represented. Apparently, she wasn’t ready to even try to imagine such a life.
Stella knew there was absolutely nothing she could do about it, and maybe that was the way it should be. After all, who was she to advise another woman on what to do with her marriage? What kind of world would it be if one person made such decisions for another?
“You should probably tell me why you ran over here,” Florence was saying to her. “Bud could come back at any time, and when he does, you really shouldn’t be here.”
Stella thought of little Waycross, back at her house, waiting with fear and trembling to find out what sort of price he was going to have to pay for his transgression.
Her precious grandson was her responsibility. Not her friend Florence—lost and struggling as she might be.
For certain, Bud Bagley wasn’t her burden to carry.
“You, um, might’ve heard . . . there was a bit of excitement in the town square today,” she began.
“Waycross painted mustaches on everybody in the nativity scene,” was the curt reply.
“Oh. Yes. You know?”
“I painted every one of those figures myself. At least twenty people called to tell me as soon as the vandalism was discovered. I had to take my phone off the hook.”
“And you knew it was Waycross?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“Remember when Waycross took over the paper route for the Mitchell boy, after ol’ man Wisecarver ran his Buick into him when he was delivering papers on his bike?”
“Yes, I recall. Waycross took that route for over a month, while the Mitchell boy’s leg was in a cast,” Stella said, fearing where this was leading.
“Every day of that month, whenever I picked up my paper on the front step, I was treated to your grandson’s artistry.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. Not even President Reagan or the First Lady was spared.”
Stella couldn’t help giggling at the thought of Nancy Reagan wearing one of Waycross’s elaborate curly mustaches.
“It wasn’t funny,” Florence said, completely giggle free. “It was highly annoying. But I tolerated it because, well, because he’s yours. But I wasn’t the least bit happy to hear that all the hard work I did on that beautiful manger scene was wasted because your grandkid went crazy off his rocker with a black marker.”
“None of us are happy about it, Flo,” Stella assured her. “Least of all Waycross. He’s plumb beside himself with grief and remorse about it.”
“Really?”
Stella thought of how her grandkid had looked when she’d last seen him. He’d been happily gobbling down Elsie’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes, gleefully anticipating apple pie topped with ice cream. “I reckon he will be, once I’m done with him.”
“Whatever punishment you’ve got planned, it won’t fix the damage that’s been done.”
“Actually, it will. That’s the punishment. To fix the damage that’s been done. I came over here to see if you’ve got any of those paints left over—the ones you used when you did the figures. We don’t need much. Just a bit of flesh tone for the humans and some brown for the donkey and white for the sheep.”
“You’re going to have a fourth grader paint the town’s nativity scene?”
Stella shrugged and grinned a bit sheepishly. “He’s a very good little artist for his age, and I’ll be there to supervise. I’ll make sure he just covers up the mustaches. That’s all. Nothing else. I promise.”
Florence motioned for Stella to follow her to a guest bedroom, which she had converted into an art studio. “Okay,” she said. “I’m going on the record as telling you that it’s a very bad idea. If you don’t keep a close eye on that little ruffian, I swear, the holy Christ Child will be wearing ruby-red lipstick and arched black eyebrows.”
Chapter 5
“Hold that flashlight steady, Savannah, darlin’. Your little brother’s gettin’ more paint on me and his sister’s coat than he is on the Virgin Mary’s face,” Stella told her granddaughter as the stealth
y trio labored in the cold December darkness, trying their best to set the world right and balance Lady Justice’s scale.
Though eager to get to work and have the task all done and dusted, Stella, Savannah, and Waycross had postponed their chore until after nine o’clock. Figuring they were less likely to be discovered in the performance of their covert mission with the streets dark and deserted, they had waited in the truck, which Stella had parked discreetly across the street from the pool hall.
Upon hearing the stroke of nine from the belfry of the First Baptist Church on the corner, they had emerged from the truck, paint cans and brushes in hand and deadly serious looks on their faces.
By then, all the stores along Main Street had closed, even the ones that had stayed open late for holiday shoppers.
Most of the straggling die-hard patrons of the pool hall and tavern had gone home. Stella figured the few who remained would be so inebriated they wouldn’t make reliable witnesses, even if they discovered the threesome working away on the figures in the crèche.
The nativity scene was dark, as all the municipal holiday decorations had been turned off at 8:00 p.m. to conserve electricity, out of respect for the town’s limited budget. While the lack of light made the artistic aspect of the job more difficult, at least they weren’t likely to get nabbed and thrown into jail for life for the vandalization of public property—as prophesized by Miss Doom-and-Gloom Marietta.
By the time the church clock tolled the half hour, notifying Stella that she and her family had been at their task for thirty long minutes, she was beginning to question the wisdom of forcing Waycross to do all the painting by himself.
During his confession, the child had stated that he’d managed to bewhisker the Holy Family in less than three minutes flat. But, unfortunately, permanent marker was the mini-artist’s medium of choice, not acrylic paint. De-whiskering was proving to be far more difficult and time consuming.
Besides, he had performed the first act of artistic expression while in the throes of gleeful inspiration. Now he was not only obliterating his own work but paying penance, as well.
Waycross Reid was quickly learning that it took far longer to accomplish something one was forced to do than it took to follow one’s own creative vision.
* * *
By the time the clock tolled ten, the threesome had made considerably more progress.
“Okay. Mary, Joseph, the wise men, the donkey, the sheep, the angel, and the shepherds are done,” Stella said, wiping sweat from her brow onto her coat sleeve.
Who’d think a body could sweat so much on a cold winter night? she wondered. Especially when their hands are numb with cold.
“All that’s left now is baby Jesus,” she told Waycross. “You did say you wanted to do him last.”
“I figured I should practice on the others first,” he said, “so I’d be good at it by the time I got to him.”
Savannah shifted her position and shone the ever-weakening flashlight beam onto the infant’s face. “You’d better make it snappy, little brother, as this flashlight’s about to give up the ghost any second now.”
“Don’t say that!” he shot back. “Don’t rush me. I’m nervous enough as it is. This is serious business. I reckon God’s mad enough at me already. I don’t want to mess up his baby son’s face and get in worse trouble than I’m already in. It’s bad enough having the whole town hate you. I don’t need God Almighty hating me, too.”
Stella moved closer to the manger, too, as she was holding paints and brushes, assisting the artiste. “I wouldn’t worry too much, if I was you,” she told him. “I’m sure God doesn’t hate you. I don’t think He’s mad at you, neither. I think He knows exactly how many hairs are on that curly red head of yours and how many freckles you’ve got on your nose. And I believe He loves every single one of them, hairs and freckles alike.”
“But I thought this here was a mortal sin, what I did,” the boy said, looking confused.
“More like youthful mischief, and not done with any sort of malice or evil intent. Believe me, Waycross Reid, there are a lot worse deeds committed every day in this sad ol’ world of ours.”
“Then why are we sneaking around like this,” Savannah asked, “doing it in the dark and freezing our bee-hinds off?”
“Because your little brother has a hard enough time being the only carrot-top boy in town. He doesn’t need to grow up with this nonsense on his head, too. He’d never hear the end of it.”
Savannah nodded thoughtfully, and even in the dim light, Stella could see that she understood. In a town as small and intimate as McGill, a person’s reputation was everything. Earned at an early age, it stuck for life and tended to determine one’s destiny.
When it came to reputations, thanks to the shenanigans of Shirley and Macon Reid, the family’s name was beat to shreds.
Savannah understood all of this. Stella couldn’t help being enormously proud of her. The child was wise beyond her years. Always had been.
“I reckon you’re right about that,” Savannah said, jiggling the dying flashlight. “People here in town already have plenty to say about us Reids. We don’t need to give them even more to wag their tongues about.”
Waycross dipped Florence’s best brush into the light peach–colored paint, swabbed off the excess on the edge of the can, then turned to the infant in the manger. With his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth, his brow furrowed with concentration, Waycross knelt beside the Holy Child’s improvised cradle and began his final and most important act of reparation.
But the instant he touched the brush to the baby’s upper lip, a bright light bore down on them, exposing them and their furtive activities with its harsh glare.
“Hit the deck!” Savannah exclaimed as she ducked behind the manger, dragging her little brother with her.
Stella took cover as well, behind a sheep. Peeking between its legs, she could see a vehicle coming straight toward them. It was a large car, and for a moment, Stella thought it might be the sheriff’s cruiser.
“Uh-oh,” she heard Savannah say. “The jig’s up.”
“Hit the deck? The jig’s up?” Waycross whispered. “Vannah Sue, you gotta stop reading so many of them Nancy Drew books.”
“Shh, both of y’all,” Stella told them. “If it’s the sheriff, you two keep mum and let me do all the talkin’. Ya hear?”
“You ain’t gonna tell him, are you, Gran?” Waycross asked tearfully. “Marietta said he’ll toss me in jail with all them real bad guys, and I’ll have to stay there, hangin’ out with hoodlums, till I rot.”
“Marietta’s full of bull-pucky. Pay her no mind and keep quiet,” Stella whispered. “Sheriff Gilford ain’t gonna throw no little kid in jail. Least of all you, Waycross Reid. He’s a better man than that.” She took a closer look at the oncoming vehicle. “Besides, I don’t think it’s the sheriff, anyway. There’s no lights on the top of that car.”
As the automobile drove by, they were all three relieved to see that Granny was right. It wasn’t the dreaded police cruiser. It was a big Chrysler station wagon with wood-grain panels on the sides.
Since there was only one woody wagon in McGill, they instantly knew whose car it was.
“Oh, my goodness! It’s Principal Neville,” Savannah whispered. “What’s he doing down here this time of night?”
Yes, what is he up to? Stella thought. Suspicions leapt to mind, but she kept them to herself. They weren’t the sort of stories a self-respecting grandma shared with her grandkids.
Rumors concerning Jake Neville and his wife, Allison, had been flying like chicken feathers in a cyclone all over town the past week and a half.
Ten days ago Allison had been seen tossing Jake’s computer and a pillowcase full of his clothes out the front window of their house and onto the sidewalk. The clothing had fared better than the computer, which had shattered on impact. But the pillowcase had come open, and a stiff wind had blown Principal Neville’s underdrawers down the street.
In and of itself, that wasn’t such a dreadful thing. Most folks understood that a school principal wore underwear . . . or at least they hoped he did. But one pair of Jake’s boxers was particularly festive in nature, with a Grinch face over the crotch. The character’s otherwise small green nose was greatly exaggerated and strategically placed, and the word naughty was emblazoned on the rear.
Had Jake Neville been the local plumber, an electrician, or the town dogcatcher, his reputation might have survived the event. But the combination of knowing that the town’s high school principal wore silly and slightly risqué underwear and that his wife had tossed him out on his ear, and he was now living with his mother, was simply too tantalizing not to be shared.
And shared it was. Over and over and over again.
From the time Principal Neville’s knickers hit the sidewalk until everyone in town knew about his marital conflict and his exotic taste in male lingerie, only an hour and seventeen minutes had passed, establishing a new all-time record for the McGill gossip chain.
Now, a week and a half later, Stella watched the disgraced school administrator’s Chrysler cruise down Main Street, and she considered the various rumors she had heard thus far concerning Allison Neville’s reasons for pitching her husband out of their house.
Some said he had been playing poker for money in Andy’s barbershop after hours. Again. After her warning him that she wasn’t putting up with his gambling nonsense anymore.
Others claimed they had heard him call her a particularly nasty word just before his eviction. While no husband had actually been murdered for using that word in the history of McGill, a few had been hopelessly maimed and rendered unrecognizable to their loved ones after uttering that unfortunate syllable. So, there could be some truth to that account.
However, the most common rumor, and the one Stella favored, was that Allison Neville had caught her husband in the act of tickling the fancy of the town’s premier floozy, Priscilla Carr.
Miss Prissy Carr resided at the bottom of the barrel of McGill society. She had no husband of her own, which wasn’t, in and of itself, a fatal social faux pas. But Prissy wasn’t the least bit adverse to borrowing someone else’s for an hour or two, when she had the notion.
Murder in Her Stocking Page 5
