It was widely believed by the women of the town that Miss Prissy Carr had the morals of an alley cat or, worse yet, of a man. Some said she even accepted money from time to time in exchange for performing certain actions that no self-respecting wife would do.
Except, perhaps, for an especially well-behaved husband.
On his birthday.
If he promised not to tell anybody.
Considering all the evidence stacked in that direction, Stella wasn’t a bit surprised when she saw the Chrysler take a sharp turn and head into the alley behind the Bulldog Tavern . . . the tavern with the second-story apartment where Miss Priscilla Carr lived. The apartment with a staircase that led from Prissy’s apartment right down to the dark alley.
No doubt, it was a most convenient setup for a woman with overactive hormones, a cash flow problem, and an insatiable need for male validation.
Not to mention the wayward husband seeking a cheap thrill and not wanting to have the whole town find out about it, even before he could get his britches up and his belt buckled.
“Hmm,” Savannah said, scrambling to her feet and switching the flashlight back on. “Guess we know for sure now.”
“Know what for sure?” Waycross asked as he grabbed his paintbrush and resumed his restoration of the infant.
Savannah gave her grandmother a knowing grin. “Why the poo hit the fan at the principal’s house, and why his drawers hit the street.”
Stella gave her a stern look . . . as stern as she could muster through a grin. “You should pay less attention to grown-up gossip,” she told her precocious granddaughter.
“’Twasn’t grown-ups I heard it from. The fifth graders were talking about it at recess. They favor the Prissy Carr theory, too.”
Stella slapped her hand to her forehead. “Lord, have mercy. What’s this world comin’ to?”
Waycross stood, stretched his tired back, and surveyed his handiwork. His face was as peaceful and full of grace as the Virgin’s.
A freshly cleansed conscience is a fine thing, indeed, Stella told herself, looking at her grandson and feeling a surge of pride.
Some kids would have pouted and been resentful through the entire process. But, to his credit, Waycross had shown grace, dignity, remorse, and a willingness to make restitution. His grandma couldn’t have been more pleased with him.
“Waycross Reid, you did a fine thing, the right thing, making a crooked line straight here tonight. And I’ve no doubt that you’ve—”
Her words were cut short by a cry, a terrible scream that echoed through the alley and into the street, chilling the soul far worse than any winter wind could freeze the body.
Stella set the paint can on the ground and instinctively reached for her grandchildren and pulled them to her.
“What was that?” Waycross asked, his voice shaky.
She could feel him trembling as she hugged him tight against her side.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly, searching her mind for a memory of that sort of scream and finding none.
She had heard cries of fear, pain, and surprise. But this was different—more intense, urgent, and harsh. Like nothing she had ever heard before.
“Was it a man or a woman?” Savannah asked, her own arms tight around her grandmother’s waist.
“I’m not even sure it was a person,” Stella replied. “Maybe an animal or . . .”
But she knew in her heart it was not a beast of any sort. Someone, a human being, was in trouble.
Terrible trouble.
There, in the dark, lonely street, Stella knew there was no one else who could help that person. No one but her.
She looked down at her grandchildren, who were staring up at her with wide, frightened eyes.
Her first responsibility was to them. To keep them safe. Anything and anyone else was secondary.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“No, Granny! We have to help them,” Savannah exclaimed, resisting. Then the child said exactly what Stella was thinking. “I’m afraid they might be dying!”
Stella grabbed the girl’s hand and her brother’s, too. “I know, Savannah girl,” she said. “I think so, too. But I’m gonna make sure you kids are safe and sound first. Then I’ll go back and help them as best I can.”
Waycross tugged at her sleeve. “You can’t, Gran. You might get hurt, too.”
“I’ll be careful,” she replied as she pulled them along, racing toward the end of the block and the sturdy two-story brick box of a building—the sheriff’s station.
Fortunately, it was a short block, and in less than a minute, they had arrived at the station.
“Listen good,” she told them, shoving them toward the rusty screen door. “You hightail it inside. Tell whoever’s on duty what we just heard. Then you stay there. Sit yourselves right down and don’t go nowhere until I come back to fetch you.”
“But you might need our help and—” Savannah argued, but her grandmother interrupted.
“No! The sheriff or one of his deputies will come help me. You stay put right there in the station. Promise me, Savannah, that you’ll keep your little brother safe inside there.”
Reluctantly, Savannah said, “I promise, Granny.”
The girl grabbed Waycross by the hand, and together they raced inside the station, the door creaking then slapping closed behind them.
Stella waited until she could see them through the window, speaking to the deputy at the desk. Then she turned and ran as fast as she could back to the square, back to the alley where that unfortunate soul was in terrible trouble.
Her heart told her they weren’t just in trouble. They were dying.
Unless she was too late, and they were already dead.
Chapter 6
What if it’s an accident, and you just wasted precious time taking the kids to the station house? Stella thought, tormenting herself, as she raced back toward the town square. What if somebody bled to death back in that alley, and you could have stopped it?
Yes, that might be, and if it’s true, that’d be awful, and I’ll have to live with it, she told the condemning voice. But what if I took two innocent children into a violent situation, and they were hurt—or even worse? There’d be no living with something like that.
By the time she reached the nativity scene, the matter had been decided in her own mind and heart.
At this point in her life, Stella Reid was many things: a widow, a mother, an alto in the church choir, an excellent gardener—especially when it came to roses—and as good a neighbor as she could manage to be, considering that she had the likes of Bud Bagley living next door.
But, primarily, she was a grandmother.
Those children were her life, her mission, her calling. If someone had died in that alley because she’d put her grand-angels’ well-being first, then she would find a way to live with it, believing in her heart that the tragedy was somehow meant to be.
The peace of mind that her decision gave her was fleeting, though.
As Stella passed the crèche and headed down the alley behind the tavern, a dark sense of foreboding swept over her. A shiver trickled down her back and into her limbs, and it had little to do with the chill of the night.
Stella recognized the sensation all too well.
Three times before, she had experienced that same ominous, oppressive feeling. It was as though something evil and menacing was enveloping her, pressing in on her from all sides, robbing her of breath, draining the strength from her body, until she thought her legs might buckle beneath her.
The first time it had happened, Stella had been only a child. As her precious mother died in her arms, that malevolent presence had surrounded her, crushing her, until she thought that she, too, would die.
The second instance occurred on a day six years ago, when Stella had looked at the kitchen clock and realized that her husband was thirty-three minutes late for the midday dinner she had prepared for him.
Arthur Reid knew how
hard his wife worked at preparing his dinner, knew all the loving care that went into her meals. He never came home late from tending their fields.
Never.
Except that day.
The third instance had been mere seconds before two men wearing army uniforms and somber faces knocked on her front door. Stella hadn’t needed to open the door to know why they were there. They had come to “regretfully inform” her that her oldest son had been killed in action.
They had told her that she should feel proud of her boy, because he had given his life for his country. But Stella hadn’t felt proud that day. Her heart had been too broken to feel anything but agony.
The pride had come later, much later, when she reached out her hand and touched her son’s name engraved on the wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.
Death.
This black, oppressive feeling that gripped her heart and sent fear cascading through her bloodstream—it meant death.
Not the peaceful ending of a life well lived. An untimely death.
Someone had been taken violently. Before their time.
For a moment, Stella froze, unable to move. Hidden in the shadows of the silent alley, she considered the fact that if she wasn’t careful, the untimely passing she was sensing might turn out to be her own.
Be careful, girl. Watch yourself, she thought. We can’t let nothin’ bad happen to you. You’ve gotta stay alive and help raise those children. Heaven knows, Shirley can’t do it on her own.
As she strained her eyes to see in the darkness, she wished she had Savannah’s flashlight with her. Dim and fading as it might have been, it would be better than nothing.
She listened intently for anything and everything. Movement, voices, even the sound of breathing.
She heard nothing but the wind’s whining complaint as it swept leaves and litter from the street, between the buildings, and into the alleyway.
She debated the wisdom of announcing her presence versus remaining quiet and, hopefully, undiscovered.
Why did you come running back here then, if it wasn’t to help somebody? she asked herself. How much help do you expect to render by just standin’ around, with your teeth in your mouth, and nobody even knowin’ you’re here?
“Hello?” she called out, timidly at first, then a bit louder. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
She heard a slight scratching, scurrying noise off to her right, but during her childhood, Stella had listened to enough rats scampering around in barns and along the rafters of her house to recognize the sound of a rodent scrambling for cover.
Shivering, she took a few steps in the direction of the tavern’s rear entrance. “Is anybody back here?” she called out, louder this time. “It’s Stella Reid. I thought I heard somebody. Are you hurt? If you need help, I . . . Oww!”
At first, she thought someone had slugged her shoulder. The impact knocked her backward and nearly off her feet.
Self-protective anger rose in her, replacing her fear. “Hey! What do you think you’re doin’?” she shouted at the figure that had struck her and was now running away.
But her indignation quickly faded as she mentally processed what had just happened and realized that they hadn’t hit her but had simply slammed into her while running out of the alley.
She watched as the person rushed past the manger scene, and tried to recognize them. But they were nothing but a graceless, anonymous shape attempting to make a clumsy getaway.
Once the offender reached the street, she could see them more clearly by the glow of the town’s one and only traffic light. A flashing four-way red light at the corner of Main and Madison.
There was no mistaking that face or the limp. No one else in town walked like that, except—
“Elmer Yonce,” she muttered. “You lop-eared scalawag. What were you up to back here? No good, I’ll betcha. That’s what you were up to. Same as you’ve always been.”
That was when Stella heard it.
A faint gasp.
A moan and then a terrible guttural gurgling that sounded like some kind of macabre percolator, perking a bitter, deadly brew.
She turned and hurried through the darkness toward the sound. It seemed to be coming from an area near the rear of the tavern.
“I can hear you,” Stella said. “I’m coming. Where are you?”
“Here,” came the weak, hoarse reply.
Feeling her way rather than seeing, Stella stumbled along until her foot struck something soft. Something that was moving. But barely.
She was horrified to realize it was a body. Someone was lying at the foot of the staircase that led to Priscilla Carr’s second-story apartment.
“Stella?” the person said in a harsh voice between awful gurgling gasps. “Stella . . . Reid?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s me. I’m here, and I’m going to help you.”
Stella knelt on the ground, and as her eyes finally began to adjust to the darkness, she could see just enough to recognize the person lying there.
The permed blond hairdo was way too big, even by 1980s standards. Her shirt was low cut, exposing far more than the average McGill woman would have shown, even to her husband on an anniversary night.
No one in town showed that much skin or had hair so large except the town “bad woman.” Both were her trademarks.
“Priscilla, I’ve got you, honey. Don’t worry. You’re not alone anymore,” Stella told her. “Can you hear me?”
She cupped Priscilla’s face in her hands and felt the woman give a slight nod.
“I know you’re hurt, sugar,” Stella said, feeling foolish for stating what was so terribly obvious. “Try not to worry. The police are coming. We’re gonna help you, so don’t be scared. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Don’t lie to her, the condemning voice in Stella’s head told her. It’s not okay, and you know it. She’s dying. You’re lying to a dying woman.
Oh, shut up and go away, Stella countered with a calmer voice, a wiser voice from deep inside her spirit. We don’t need your two cents’ worth at a time like this. Even if she dies, everything will be okay. Death is just another part of livin’.
The awful gurgling was getting worse by the moment. Stella could feel a wet, warm stickiness on her fingers and palms, and she knew it was blood. Quite a lot of it.
“Did you fall, darlin’?” she asked. “Did you take a header down those stairs of yours?”
There was no verbal reply.
Stella had the distinct feeling that Priscilla was now past speaking. But she was certain she could feel a slight shaking of her head from side to side, as though in denial.
“You didn’t fall by accident?”
Again, a small but distinct side-to-side movement, signifying a no.
“Did somebody do this to you, Priscilla? Did somebody deliberately hurt you?”
She felt a faint but definite nod.
“Who was it that hurt you, honey? Can you tell me?”
When Priscilla didn’t respond, Stella asked again, more loudly. “Prissy, who did this to you? Please tell me. Try hard, sweetie. It’s important.”
Stella listened, straining to hear any word of response, but there was nothing. Even the terrible liquid breathing was slowing and becoming less pronounced by the moment.
“Oh, Sheriff, you best get a move on!” Stella whispered into the darkness. Then she added a quick but heartfelt and desperately sincere prayer. “Lord, please get us some help here pronto! She’s gotta have medical attention right away! Please, please, please!”
Stella sat down on the ground next to Priscilla Carr and gathered the woman’s damaged body into her arms. She held her tight and rocked her in the same tender way she soothed her grandchildren when they had suffered some injury either to their flesh or their spirits or both.
The accusing voice in Stella’s head decided to weigh in once again, shouting at her. You shouldn’t move her! You might hurt her, damage her even worse! If her neck’s broken, you could paralyze her, even kill
her, and then you’ll be in a heap of trouble!
But Stella was listening to her heart, not the dark voice in her head. Her heart assured her that the worst had already been done to Priscilla Carr.
Cuddling and comforting wouldn’t cost Prissy her life. Sadly, they wouldn’t save it, either. But a kind embrace from someone who truly cared, someone offering unconditional love—that just might ease her fear of passing from this world into the next.
Stella had a feeling that Prissy Carr hadn’t received a lot of cuddling, comforting, and unconditional love in her short lifetime.
Sex—whether paid for with a twenty-dollar bill or freely given in exchange for a moment of feeling desired by a fellow human being—was a poor substitute for the real thing.
* * *
Within only a few minutes, Stella’s prayers were answered. Sheriff Gilford arrived, and he brought help with him: Doc Hynson and the doctor’s van, which was the closest thing McGill had to offer for emergency transport if its only ambulance was already in use.
But by the time they came, Stella Reid was the only one remaining in the cold, dark alley.
Just Stella and Priscilla Carr’s body.
Prissy had already left.
Chapter 7
As Stella sat on the cold metal folding chair next to the front desk in the sheriff’s station, it occurred to her, and not for the first time, that for a basically honest person who tried to abide by the laws of God and man, she’d spent more than her share of time in that station house.
She wasn’t particularly happy about it, either.
Most of her visits to the old but sturdy two-story brick building had been to post bail for her daughter-in-law, whose addiction to liquor resulted in her being charged with a lot of petty offenses, like public intoxication and disturbing the peace.
On a particularly bad night, Shirley Reid’s offenses were less petty, like assault. Usually, with a beer bottle or her purse.
Once, she had used her boyfriend’s cowboy boot. While he was still wearing it.
Murder in Her Stocking Page 6
