Murder in Her Stocking

by G. A. McKevett

  “I figure it’s because he’s heard about the Stella Reid Skillet Massacre.”

  “Reckon he didn’t want to take a chance on losing his, uh, mind.”

  Gilford laughed, and Stella continued to look around the room as he wrote his signature and the date on the bag containing the mirror.

  “Reckon we can rule out robbery,” she said, pointing to an open jewelry box on the nightstand beside the bed. “There’s some pretty nice pieces in there, and it doesn’t even look like it was rifled through, let alone that anything was taken.”

  “Yes, I saw that and agree. There’s also twenty dollars over there on the other night table, lying there plain as can be. In this day, with the economy like it is, that’s a fortune to some folks.”

  As she continued to work her way around the room, Stella noticed there was a full array of makeup spread across the top of the dresser. The collection included everyday basics like mascara, lipstick, and eyeliner—products that Prissy wouldn’t have been seen in public without.

  “Prissy wasn’t going anywhere—not for an overnight or anything like that,” Stella observed. “She wouldn’t have left without her makeup essentials. Not a woman like that, one who wouldn’t let the mailman see her without her face painted on.”

  Stella walked to the bathroom door, opened it, and looked inside. She sniffed and detected an acrid odor that she recognized, having smelled it before at Florence’s house. She glanced into the small garbage can next to the toilet and saw a box, some stained plastic gloves, and an empty squeeze bottle that had recently contained a platinum blond shade of hair color. An old, threadbare, stained towel hung haphazardly over the shower curtain rod.

  When she walked back into the main living area, she saw Sheriff Gilford photographing the contents of Prissy’s purse, which he had spread across the bed.

  “When you looked at the body this morning, Sheriff, did you notice if she was wearing old clothes?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, she was. Tattered jeans and a torn-up T-shirt. It kinda surprised me. She was usually dressed up when she was out about town.”

  “I believe she’d just colored her hair,” Stella told him. “That’s somethin’ a woman does if she figures she’s gonna be alone for the evenin’. It stinks up the house, and you look right awful doing it. You gotta wear old clothes that you don’t mind gettin’ stains on. It’s certainly not something you plan to do if you’re fixin’ to have company. Especially a male visitor.”

  “Okay. Good to know. Thank you.”

  She watched as he placed the items back inside the purse, then slipped it into an evidence bag, as well. “Did you get a chance to talk to Jake Neville?” she asked.

  “Yes, I questioned him late last night, after talking to you and before arresting Elmer. Jake’s living in his mama’s basement now.”

  “I heard.”

  “She gave him an alibi. Said he’d been home all evening.”

  “He was not. We saw that big ol’ station wagon of his clear as I’m seein’ you right now. He drove into that alley. No doubt about it.”

  “I believe you. Which means he was doing something he’s not proud of or happy about, otherwise he wouldn’t be lying about it.”

  Stella propped her hands on her hips and gave a defiant toss of her head. “You just haul Jake Neville’s backside into your station house, and I’ll come over and confront him face-to-face with what I saw. We can both watch him squirm like a worm on a hot sidewalk.”

  Sheriff Gilford laughed, then gave her an affectionate smile that, just for a moment, made her feel like she was a fifteen-year-old girl all over again.

  “You know, Stella May,” he said, “I believe you could break him, even without using my nutcracker. I think you could scare a man into confessing that he’d shot President Lincoln, if you were sure he did it.”

  She gave him a half-coquettish smile. “Why, Sheriff, keep talkin’ like that and you could turn a girl’s head.”

  “On a good day maybe,” he replied softly, “if I was real, real lucky.”

  Chapter 11

  When Stella and the sheriff finally left Priscilla’s apartment, he had several boxes filled with evidence bags in the backseat of his cruiser and two deputies who were eager to move on to the more glamorous duties of protecting and serving their community.

  “Ain’t it about time for a break?” Mervin asked, leaning heavily on the cruiser’s hood. “I’m about done for, and this alley’s the cleanest it’s been since this was all part of the Garden of Eden.”

  Stella watched him wipe the sweat from his brow with his forearm, and it occurred to her that Deputy Mervin Jarvis might be the only person she’d ever known who could perspire profusely in the middle of a snowstorm.

  Gilford looked at his watch. “It’s eleven o’clock, Mervin. It’s a bit early for lunch, even for you.”

  Augustus spoke up. “You know Mervin, boss. Two hours—that’s about his limit when it comes to hard physical labor. What would you like us to do next?”

  “Canvas the stores, every one of them, up and down Main. Find out who was in their store the last hour before they closed, and when the owners actually locked up and left. Ask if they saw anything suspicious. Anything at all.”

  Stella considered speaking up and mentioning that all the stores were dark, the streets were deserted, and not a soul was in sight last night. But she doubted the wisdom of highlighting the fact that she was all too aware of those facts. It wasn’t something your run-of-the-mill downtown visitor would have paid such close attention to.

  “Okay, boss.” Augustus gave Gilford a most officious, curt nod, spun on his heel, and marched away.

  Stella kept an eye on Gilford as he watched Augustus leave. While she might have expected the sheriff to appreciate his deputy’s highly professional attitude and admirable work ethic, Gilford’s expression was more suspicious than grateful.

  Rumors around town suggested that Deputy Augustus Faber had every intention of being Sheriff Augustus Faber one day soon.

  Stella couldn’t imagine that Manny Gilford was a man who would go gently into the good night of retirement. Even though she had known him as a quiet child and a gangly teenager, he had become a sheriff before turning thirty, and Stella couldn’t picture him wearing anything but his uniform. She couldn’t imagine him driving an ordinary vehicle to the grocery store or fishing by the riverside on a lazy summer afternoon.

  No. Augustus Faber could whirl on his heel, march like a marine, and solve the Black Dahlia murder, but Sheriff Manny Gilford would never retire and hand Augustus his badge.

  Gilford turned to Mervin and said, “Unless you’d like to wash and wax that vehicle, Deputy, I suggest you stop using it as a La-Z-Boy recliner and carry on with your duties.”

  With exaggerated effort, Mervin pushed himself off the cruiser. “What duties would those be, sir? I could go back to the station and keep an eye on Elmer for you.”

  “The last time you offered to keep an eye on a prisoner at the station, I came back to a deputy who reeked of pizza and a petty-cash drawer without a single quarter in it.”

  Mervin shrugged and looked down at the ground sheepishly. “I think I got me one of them Pac-Man addictions, sir. I heard on the news last night that some folks are startin’ to think it’s a real disease, and it’s sweepin’ the nation.”

  “I’m going to give you a broom,” Gilford told him, “and you’ll be the one sweepin’ the nation, or at least this county, Jarvis, if you don’t get to canvassing those shops with your fellow deputy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stay away from that pizza parlor and its Pac-Man machine.”

  Mervin trudged away, moving as though he had fifty pounds of lead weights sewn into his boxers.

  Gilford turned his attention to Stella. She couldn’t help noticing that his face softened the moment he did.

  She was touched and somewhat pleased. But, for reasons she couldn’t quite understand, it made her uneasy.

>   “Mrs. Reid,” he said, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated your help last night and this morning. Most people don’t step forward to aid law enforcement, like you and your family have. They’re even less likely to if the victim is somebody they aren’t particularly fond of.”

  “That’s a shame,” Stella replied. “Even the less loved among us deserve our protection. In fact, they might need it more than most, them not always having family to back ’em up.”

  She thought for a moment of what she had seen—and not seen—in Priscilla Carr’s apartment. “Speaking of family,” she said, “did Prissy have any family around here? I can’t recall hearing of any, and she’s been here in McGill about five years, if I remember correctly.”

  “She has been here five years. Moved here from Chesterville when she was twenty.”

  “Didn’t get far.”

  “I heard she walked most of the way. She’d been raised in foster homes. Got married young. Left him because she was sick and tired of getting beat up.”

  “Some might say the poor girl never had a chance.”

  “Everybody gets a chance. Some kind or the other. It’s what they decide to do with it that counts.”

  “I just meant that some have an easier time than others.”

  “I don’t disagree with you,” he said. “I just get tired of people blaming fate for their own mistakes. Sometimes good people get a bad break. I won’t deny it happens. But a lot of times, the trouble folks find themselves in . . . it’s just chickens coming home to roost.”

  “Except murder,” Stella said, gently insisting on Priscilla’s behalf.

  “Yes. Except murder.”

  Sheriff Gilford brushed his hand over his eyes and sighed. It occurred to Stella that his face was gray and his eyes were dull.

  “Are you okay, Sheriff?” she asked. “You’re lookin’ pretty peaked. You feelin’ poorly?”

  “Naw. Just a bit tired. That’s all.”

  “How much sleep did you get last night?”

  “Sleep?”

  “Reckon that answers my question. Maybe you should go home and catch a few winks.”

  He shook his head. “I have to get that evidence back to the station. Though it won’t all fit in the safe. I may have to lock it up in one of the cells. Out of Elmer’s reach, of course.”

  “Of course. And don’t forget, if you need somebody to rough him up and ring a confession out of ’im, I volunteer for the job.”

  He gave her a quick glance over. Not a long, lingering lecherous look—the kind that Elmer Yonce gave women. Gilford didn’t linger on her bustline, making her feel like a rump roast being sized up in a butcher shop.

  No, Sheriff Gilford’s evaluation and the approving look in his eye made her feel appreciated, admired, and respected.

  Stella had to admit it was a good feeling, one she hadn’t experienced much in the past six years.

  “There’s something I was meaning to ask you,” she said. “If you don’t mind and have the time.”

  “Of course I do. What is it?”

  “I was wondering, did you happen to mention to anybody that Priscilla was strangled to death?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely sure. Why would I tell someone that when I don’t even know for sure if it’s true?”

  “That’s what I figured.” She took a deep breath. “Do you reckon anybody else might’ve mentioned that?”

  “No. Herb didn’t see the marks on her neck until I pointed them out to him there at the mortuary. I’ve been with him since then, and I had him so busy swabbing blood off the pavement that he hasn’t talked to anybody but you and me. Not even Augustus or Mervin.”

  “Again, are you real sure about that?”

  “Completely sure. Why are you asking me this stuff, Stella?”

  “Just somethin’ I was thinkin’ about. I’m sure it’s not important. If you’re finished with me, I think I should get going now,” she said, suddenly eager to leave.

  She told herself that she was uneasy with being at the scene of the crime. But Stella Reid knew herself pretty well, and she was aware that at least part of her eagerness to get going had to do with Sheriff Gilford, how good he looked in his uniform, his thick silver hair, and the affectionate gleam in his gray eyes when he spoke to her.

  For as long as she could remember, he had looked at her that way. The idea that Manny Gilford might have a bit of a crush on her was hardly a new one. She had suspected that since second grade, when he slipped her a bit of paper with a red heart on it for Valentine’s Day.

  But Manny had been one of her husband’s best friends. To her knowledge, Manny had never been the sort of fella to make a move on another man’s woman. Any man’s woman. And certainly not if she was involved with one of his best friends.

  Of course, Arthur was gone now. Had been for some time. But only in body. Not in spirit.

  That was why Stella wore Art’s wedding ring on a chain around her neck—a chain long enough that the ring was situated directly over her heart.

  As far as she was concerned, she was still a married woman and always would be. Even the slightest bit of flirting with an old friend like Manny Gilford felt wrong to her. Adulterous even.

  Those feelings—not the blood on the asphalt—were the reason she wanted to get out of the alley as quickly as possible.

  “If you need me for anything, Sheriff,” she said, “don’t hesitate to ask. Just gimme me a ring or stop by the house. I know how important this investigation is. I’ll drop anything I’m doin’ to help you with it.”

  Again, he gave her that smile that seemed to go directly to her knees and make them wobbly. “Thank you, Mrs. Reid, and I want you to know, if you ever need anything, anything at all, you or your family, just let me know and I’ll come running. I’d consider it an honor to help you any way I can.”

  Just for a moment, Stella allowed herself to return his smile. She heard a slight trembling in her own voice when she replied, “I know that, Manny. I’ve always known it, and I depend on it. On you. Thank you, Sheriff.”

  With that, she turned and left.

  Quickly.

  Before she made the mistake of doing or saying something that she would regret later that night in the dark silence of her bedroom, with her husband’s spirit nearby.

  * * *

  Stella Reid wasn’t in the habit of going into taverns.

  But when she did, it was almost always to fetch her daughter-in-law when there was some sort of emergency and she had no other choice.

  It wasn’t that she felt she was too good to mingle with the folks inside those doors. She knew that being in a bar didn’t make you a drunk any more than parking in a garage made you a car or sitting in a church pew made you righteous. But she was allergic to the smoke and didn’t like the loud music, or the way the other patrons looked at her when she walked through the establishment. As though she didn’t belong there. As if she wasn’t one of them and, therefore, wasn’t particularly welcome.

  Stella had felt that way most of her childhood—lonely, separate from those around her—and she didn’t fancy repeating the experience as an adult if she could avoid it.

  She felt that same sense of alienation when she stepped inside the Bulldog’s front door now. She sensed every eye in the place turn and lock on her—scrutinizing, evaluating, and somehow finding her wanting.

  As always, the smoke was thick and acrid. It irritated her eyes almost instantly, and the odor was so strong that she could taste it.

  She would have to change clothes the moment she got home and maybe even wash her hair to avoid getting a headache from it.

  When her eyes finally adjusted to the dim light, she spotted Shirley, seated in her usual place—the last stool at the end of the bar, beneath an eight-by-ten black-and-white head shot of Elvis Presley.

  Everybody else might have moved on from Elvis, embracing the Beatles and subsequent rock bands since. But Shirley would b
e an Elvis fan until her dying day.

  In her early twenties, Shirley had frequented a different tavern, one just outside of town, down by the river. That was where she had asked the owner to hang a picture of Elvis over her favorite stool, enhancing her view and, ultimately, her mood.

  But when she was permanently banned from the riverside bar, she brought the photo with her to her new watering hole. From that day forward, Shirley Reid swore that she would never drink a beer in any tavern that was unadorned with a picture of “the King.”

  It was known in every drinking establishment within fifty miles of McGill that it was to the owner’s advantage to post a picture of Elvis. Shirley Reid’s bar bill more than compensated the owner for their effort.

  Stella walked over to Shirley, took a seat on the stool next to hers, and laid her purse on the bar, well away from Shirley’s ashtray.

  “I’m surprised you’d show your face in here,” Shirley said, her cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, “after the rough things you said to me outside.”

  Stella couldn’t remember saying anything particularly “rough” to her daughter-in-law, though she did recall being accused of nearly getting her grandchildren murdered.

  But she hadn’t come here to argue with Shirley. Quite the contrary. Stella preferred to live in peace with her fellow man, as much as they would allow and she could manage.

  Though, so far, her “live and let live” philosophy hadn’t worked with Shirley. She was sure that girl could start a fight in an empty room or win an argument with a fence post.

  Some people seemed to thrive on conflict. It was one of their basic food groups, and they didn’t seem to be able to live without it.

  Shirley’s silver bangle bracelets jingled as she tapped the bar, signaling for the bartender to bring her another beer. She half turned on her stool, and when her eyes met Stella’s, the older woman was surprised to see the amount of animosity burning there.

  Stella couldn’t recall when she and Shirley had first argued all those years ago. But their relationship had gotten off to a rocky start from the very beginning, and it had gone downhill since.