Murder in Her Stocking

by G. A. McKevett

Stella had to admit that she could have been far more patient with her daughter-in-law. More loving and accepting, to be sure.

  She should have given less unsolicited advice and overlooked a few more chocolate-smeared faces, since such things seldom mattered much in the long run.

  But there was no pretending that Shirley had been a diligent, devoted mother. Stella couldn’t bring herself to lie about such a thing, not even to herself. She found it much easier to forgive her daughter-in-law for any offenses she might have committed against her than for those she had inflicted upon her grandchildren.

  “I didn’t come in here to start a fight with you, Shirley,” she said, trying to keep her tone as even and calm as possible. “Truly, I didn’t.”

  “Then what did you come in here for? Got a hankering for a scotch on the rocks, or do you take it neat?”

  Stella wasn’t well versed in bar terms, but she had no problem interpreting the ugly sneer on the younger woman’s face.

  “I came in here to ask you a question,” Stella told her. “Just one question and then I’ll leave you to finish your . . . breakfast. . . in peace.”

  “Oh, I had my Bloody Mary breakfast a long time ago,” Shirley told her as she hefted her beer. “Now I’m working on lunch. Go on. Ask your question so I can get rid of you.”

  “Out there in front, when we were talking earlier,” Stella whispered, “you told me you were worried about your kids almost gettin’ strangled, like Priscilla did.”

  “Yeah? So? That’d worry almost any mother, now, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m sure it would,” Stella replied, “if that’s what happened. But what I wanna know is, why would you say she was strangled?”

  Shirley’s cockiness vanished in an instant. Suddenly, she looked afraid, like a rabbit caught in a cage trap.

  “Well, she was. Wasn’t she?”

  Stella couldn’t remember ever seeing her daughter-in-law so scared. Shirley usually had enough alcohol running through her system to avoid such an emotion.

  “I don’t think anybody knows for sure how she got killed,” Stella said, choosing her words carefully so as not to violate any of the sheriff’s confidences.

  “I must’ve heard it somewhere.” Shirley shook a cigarette from her pack, then dropped her silver lighter with its turquoise butterfly onto the bar. It landed with a clatter, and Shirley jumped.

  “Think hard, Shirl,” Stella coaxed her. “It’s important. Who do you reckon you heard it from?”

  “I don’t know! Somebody must’ve said something about it sometime. Or maybe I just dreamed it up. Leave me alone and let me finish my beer before it goes flat.”

  Stella looked around and realized that the other patrons were giving her looks that were even less friendly than the ones they had sent her way when she’d first arrived.

  Yes, she had definitely worn out her welcome in this establishment. She looked into her daughter-in-law’s eyes and saw a degree of hatred that seared her heart.

  With all those beautiful children that we share in common, not to mention Macon, how did we wind up here? she asked herself.

  Time to go.

  Stella retrieved her purse off the bar, stood, and said softly, “Thank you, Shirley, for your time. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. If you happen to remember the answer to that question of mine, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d let me know. You have a good day now, hear?”

  A grumble was Shirley’s only response as she lifted her beer to her lips. But Stella heard enough to know that she had just been told where to go—and it wasn’t a five-star vacation destination.

  As she made her way out the tavern’s front door, Stella realized with a heavy heart that she was carrying more questions and misgivings out of the Bulldog Tavern than she had carried in.

  Chapter 12

  When the school bell rang and the Reid children raced to catch the bus to their grandmother’s house, they found her waiting for them in her old panel truck near the bus parking lot.

  Stella thought they would be happy to see her, especially when they discovered that she had brought along their grandpa’s old thermos, which she’d filled with hot cocoa, and some cups.

  They did appear pleased, although Stella thought she detected a mood that was less than festive when they climbed inside and buckled themselves into their appointed seats.

  Being the oldest, Savannah sat in the front passenger seat, next to Stella. One look at her granddaughter told Stella that, indeed, something unpleasant was afoot.

  “Everything okay?” Stella asked.

  Too quickly, too cheerfully, Savannah responded, “Sure! Everything’s fine! Just fine!”

  Okay, Stella thought. Either somebody died or Christmas got cancelled.

  Stella turned in her seat and saw a truck filled with glum faces.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Y’all look like somebody done licked the red off your candy canes.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” Marietta piped up. “Everybody at school has already got—”

  “Marietta, you hush your mouth,” Savannah barked.

  “I will not!”

  “You will, too, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Girls!” Stella glanced from Marietta’s pouty face to Savannah’s stern one. “Let’s keep civil tongues in our heads when we speak to each other.”

  “Marietta’s got nothing to say,” Savannah replied, looking deeply distressed. “But she’s bound to say it, anyway. No matter who it hurts, because that’s the way she is.”

  Stella looked at Waycross, who was fidgeting with the library book he held in his lap. His big eyes met Stella’s. “That’s true. Marietta’s that way. Yes, she is,” he said. “She don’t care who she hurts as long as she gets her say.”

  Turning to Marietta, Stella said, “Granddaughter, is that true? Are the words you want to speak likely to hurt somebody?”

  Marietta stuck her chin out indignantly and puffed herself up until she looked like she was about to explode out of her winter jacket. “I’m the one who’s hurt, so why should I be quiet about it?”

  “How did you get hurt, darlin’?”

  Stella saw Savannah shoot Marietta a fierce warning look. She also saw it fly right over Marietta’s head and land somewhere in the back of the truck.

  “It was me who got hurt, standing there on the playground, listening to everybody talk about what kind of Christmas tree their family got this year, when I got no kind at all.”

  “None of the rest of us have one, either,” Vidalia noted, rubbing at the paint stains on her jacket. “But you didn’t see us making a scene, standin’ there on the playground, bawlin’ like a calf without a mama and telling the whole world about it.”

  “That would’ve been a sight,” Waycross said, “if we’d all pitched a hissy fit like you did. We’d probably been on the news.”

  “Family makes complete jackasses of themselves,” Savannah muttered under her breath. “Film at eleven.”

  “I don’t want to hear you use that word, Miss Savannah Sue,” Stella whispered back.

  “It’s in the Bible.”

  “You heard me.”

  Stella began to pour the cocoa into the cups, being careful to fill them only halfway in case of spills. As she handed one to each child, she said, “It’s funny that y’all should bring up the topic of a Christmas tree. ’Cause that’s where we’re going right now. To buy one. We’ll set it up tonight there in the front room, and you kids can put the lights and ornaments on for me. The icicles, too, if you promise to hang them straight. You know I don’t abide crooked icicles.”

  There was so much cheering inside the truck that Stella feared the cocoa would be spilled before it was even tasted.

  Everyone from little Jesup to Marietta was positively overflowing with holiday cheer.

  Only Savannah sat quietly, staring off into the distance, with an inscrutable expression on her pretty face.

  Stella didn’t have to ask why. Sadly,
her eldest granddaughter was far too well informed when it came to the inadequacies of the Reid family budget.

  Stella decided to set her mind at ease.

  Turning to the gang in the rear of the truck, Stella said, “Hold on to your hot chocolate. We’re off to Mr. Anderson’s Christmas tree lot to get the best tree we can find. But first, we have to stop by the house just for a second, while I run inside and get something.”

  “Like money?” Savannah whispered.

  Stella simply nodded as she started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot, driving carefully so as not to jostle the hot chocolate drinkers and their treats.

  A few moments later, they had reached the little shotgun shack. Stella left the children waiting while she ran inside.

  It was as she was dumping the coffee can from under the sink into a pillowcase that she glanced up and saw Savannah standing there, looking confused and surprised.

  Finally, the child said, “I thought that money was just for bailing Mama out of jail.”

  “It’s for emergencies.”

  “I know. Like bailing Mama out of jail.”

  Stella drew a deep breath. “I’m the one who saves it up, one nickel at a time. So, I’m the one who decides what it’s used for. And I say this family’s got itself an emergency. It needs a Christmas tree.”

  The grandmother and the girl stood, searching each other’s eyes, for a long time.

  Then Stella said, “What do you think of that, Miss Savannah?”

  Her granddaughter gave her a small, sly smile and said, “Reckon it might be the first time that Mr. Anderson ever got paid for a tree with a pillowcase full of nickels.”

  “He’s a nice man, and a sale’s a sale. Somethin’ tells me he won’t mind a bit.”

  Together, they walked out of the house, Stella clutching the heavy pillow slip to her chest.

  Nearing the truck, Stella heard Savannah say, “Good idea you had there, Granny. I approve.”

  “Thank you, sugar. I’m glad you understand.”

  “I do. Probably better than you think. There’s not much point in throwing somebody a lifeline if they’re just going to keep on jumping back into the river over and over again.”

  “That’s so true, darlin’. Especially when lifelines are scarce and there’s others that need ’em.”

  * * *

  Even with the Christmas trees being already picked over, Stella and her grandchildren had no problem scoring a fine tree—small enough for their tiny living room, but fresh and full and well balanced.

  As Savannah, Waycross, and Vidalia helped Stella tie the tree to the top of the truck, Savannah told her grandmother, “Mr. Anderson gave us a deal on that tree, and you know why, don’t you?”

  “Because it’s about the end of the season, and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to sell it to anybody else?”

  “Nope. It’s because he’s sweet on you.”

  “That’s not true, Savannah. I think you’ve been reading some of them romance novels along with your Nancy Drew books. Your imagination’s workin’ overtime.”

  “No it’s not. I know what I’m talking about. Mr. Anderson likes you, and Sheriff Gilford likes you. Every man in town who’s ol . . . I mean, your age, they’re carryin’ a torch for you. It’s cause you’re the prettiest lady in McGill who’s, well, you know, your age.”

  “Hmm. Thank you. I reckon. But I do believe you’re exag-geratin’ the situation a mite.”

  “No, Savannah’s right,” Waycross interjected, tugging on a twine knot to make sure it was secure. “Mr. Anderson likes you, and the sheriff’s got the hots for you big-time. No doubt about it.”

  “Waycross! You’re not supposed to even know about stuff like ‘hots’ yet.”

  Savannah laughed, finally lighthearted and joyful with the festivities under way. “Don’t kid yourself, Granny. Waycross knows a lot about stuff like that. We all do. We can’t help it. That’s all people talk about at school. It’s all they hear in the songs on the radio and all they see on TV. Here’s what everybody was singing at recess today. . . .”

  To Stella’s consternation, Savannah and Waycross began to bellow out Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff.”

  Stella clapped her hands over her ears and, with greatly exaggerated outrage, shouted, “No! Y’all quit it! I can’t bear it! It’s an abomination!”

  The kids collapsed in a fit of giggles.

  “Maybe we should try a Christmas carol,” Savannah told Waycross. “We don’t want Granny to blow a gasket before we even get the tree home.”

  Waycross agreed and launched into his own full-throated rendition of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” They were all guffawing by the time they got the tree tied snugly.

  As they were getting into the truck to join the rest and head home, Mr. Anderson came running toward them, carrying an enormous cake covered with coconut frosting and decorated with colorful gumdrops.

  “Here,” he said, shoving the cake through Stella’s open window. “My sister, Charlene, bakes one of these every Christmas for me. But this year I’m on a diet. I was wondering if y’all know anybody who might like to have it.”

  “I know somebody!” Vidalia screamed.

  “Yes!” Waycross yelled. “We would!”

  “I’ll take it!” Marietta cried. “I can eat the whole thing myself!”

  Once Stella had the cake in hand, she gave Mr. Anderson her prettiest smile—the kind a fellow might appreciate if he was “sweet” on a gal—and told him, “Thank you so much, Mr. Anderson. You’ve no idea what this means to us. God bless you, sir.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. A very merry Christmas to you and yours.”

  As he walked away, a big smile on his face, Waycross leaned over his grandmother’s shoulder and whispered, “Hots, Gran. Major hot stuff.”

  She would have ruffled his hair, but her hands were too full of cake. “There’s an empty cardboard box back there somewhere. Find it and pass it up, would ya, grandson?”

  A moment later, the box was put on Savannah’s lap, and the cake was lovingly placed inside it.

  “There you go, darlin’,” Stella told the girl. “You hang on tight to that beautiful cake, and I’ll try not to make any sudden stops.”

  But when Savannah didn’t reply, Stella gave her an inquisitive look and saw that she was staring straight ahead out the windshield at something in front of the truck.

  Instantly, the child’s alarmed expression caused Stella’s heart to skip a beat. She looked to see the cause for concern, and she understood instantly.

  Shirley had gotten out of an old pickup and was walking toward them. Stella recognized the vehicle, with its enormous snarling bulldog logo on the side, as the truck that the tavern owner used for deliveries.

  One look at Shirley’s face and Stella felt her stomach spasm. She had seen Shirley in some bad moods before, even throwing complete and utter conniptions. But she had never seen her like that.

  Contorted with rage, Shirley’s face reminded Stella of every horror movie she had ever seen involving people who were possessed by demonic spirits.

  Shirley looked as though at any second her hair would burst into flames, her head would start to spin, and fire would shoot out of her mouth.

  She figured it out, Stella thought. She knows that I know that she was lying this morning. She knows more about Priscilla’s death than she’s saying, and she knows I know it.

  Stella was also aware that she was about to pay dearly for her insight.

  “Get outta that truck!” Shirley screamed as she approached them. “You kids get outta there this minute!”

  At first, the children, like Stella, were too shocked to move or speak.

  But when Shirley made her way to the back of the truck and pulled the doors open, they began to cry.

  To Stella’s horror, Shirley began to yank them out, one by one, pulling them by their arms and tossing them onto the ground like they were so many old rag dolls.

  “Stop! Shirley,
no!” Stella scrambled out of the truck and raced to the rear, where her grandchildren were screaming with pain and fear.

  “Mama, no! Don’t!” Vidalia cried as she was dragged out.

  “Ow! That hurts!” Waycross yelled.

  Marietta was lying on the ground, where she’d been thrown, shrieking like she was dying. Alma lay beside her, terrorized into complete silence.

  When Shirley took hold of little Jesup, the child began to shake violently and sob.

  Stella grabbed Shirley by the shoulders and spun her around to face her. “Shirley!” she screamed in her face, trying to jar the woman out of the rage she was in. “Stop it! What in tarnation are you doing?”

  Shirley shook off Stella’s grip, but she released Jesup, who climbed down from the truck herself and collapsed into the arms of her oldest sister. Like Stella, Savannah had rushed to the rear of the truck to protect her siblings.

  “I’m taking my kids home, where they belong,” Shirley yelled back. “You wicked old witch, telling them bad things about me! You’ve got a lot of nerve when your son’s nothing but a worthless piece of—”

  “Shirley. That’s enough. Please, let’s settle down and talk about this.” Stella fought to calm herself, to catch her breath. There for a moment, she had thought that she and her daughter-in-law were going to come to blows right in front of all seven children.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Shirley said. “I’m taking them back home with me, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before you get to see ’em again.”

  Savannah reached over and put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Mama, Granny doesn’t talk bad about you to us. She’s never said one bad thing about you. She wouldn’t do that. You’re our mother and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, she’s a damned saint, this one.”

  “I never claimed to be a saint,” Stella said, “but I want to make peace with you. Right here, right now. You’re my daughter-in-law, the mother of my grandchildren. I don’t want trouble with you.” Stella forced a smile to her lips.

  What choice do you have but to play nice? she told herself, feeling like a liar and a hypocrite as she stood there, smiling at someone she’d prefer to take apart at the seams.