Murder in Her Stocking

by G. A. McKevett

  Stella reached for her granddaughter and hugged her close. So close that she was afraid the child would feel her heart pounding in her chest and know how frightened she was.

  “What we’re gonna do,” she said, when she finally found the words, “is this.... We’re going to go get burgers for you and your brother and your sisters. Two each. Then I’m going to take you home so you can feed them while the food’s still hot. You’re going to have to be a good little actress and act like nothin’s wrong. Nothin’ at all. As soon as I’ve dropped you off at your house, I’m gonna hightail it over to the sheriff’s office and tell him all that you just told me.”

  “But if you do that, I’ll get in big trouble with Mama!”

  “I know, honey. But try not to worry about your mama and let Sheriff Gilford take care of her. She’s not the biggest problem right now.”

  “She’s not?”

  “No. But I don’t want you to worry about that, either. I want you to trust me and the sheriff. Between the two of us, we’ll do whatever we have to do in order to keep you kids safe. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Stella saw the trust in her grandchild’s eyes. The trust of an innocent who believed what they were being told by someone they loved.

  An innocent who hadn’t yet learned that no one could truly keep another person safe at all times, not even one who meant more to them than life itself.

  Sadly, the cruel world offered no such guarantees.

  But a grandmother’s promise—a Southern grandma, whose inclination was to fight tooth and claw for those she loved—that was about as good as it got.

  Chapter 14

  After dropping Savannah discreetly down the street from her mother’s house, Stella headed directly to the sheriff’s station. She found the front desk manned by a bored, sleepy Deputy Mervin Jarvis.

  A solitaire card game was in progress on the desk. From the way he was slumped forward in the chair, his face nearly in his cards, Stella surmised that he was losing.

  But then, something about Mervin Jarvis just seemed to announce to the world that he lost most challenges that life threw his way.

  She asked to speak to Sheriff Gilford and was told, “The boss went home for a couple of hours. Said he had to get something to eat and would maybe catch a nap if he could. I’d leave him alone, if I was you.”

  Figuring that was all she would get out of Deputy Mervin, Stella left him to his card game and hurried out the door.

  Once back in her truck, she did a U-turn on the street and headed toward the river.

  Many years ago, Manny Gilford and his wife, Lucy, had bought a decrepit little fisherman’s cabin set high on a bluff overlooking the Pine River. They had refurbished it with every spare penny they could save from his job as a deputy sheriff and hers at Sherry Ann’s Bakery in downtown McGill.

  Once the house had been converted into a charming, cozy cabin, they’d set about attempting to raise a family. Their efforts had been short lived, like Lucy Gilford.

  One hot July day, while Manny was away on a drunk-and-disorderly call at the tavern, Lucy decided to take a swim in the river, probably to escape the heat.

  When Manny returned an hour later, his pretty Lucy was nowhere to be found.

  It was three terrible weeks before her body was finally located downstream.

  Lucy had never been known as a strong swimmer. Manny was, but of course, he had been out on a call.

  The county’s handsome young sheriff had never forgiven himself.

  The town of McGill grieved with him and for him. When he refused to answer the door, cakes galore were left on the cabin’s porch, along with casseroles and fried chicken, condolence cards, and every flower that the local florist had in stock.

  Widow Maxwell even crocheted a little cross bookmarker.

  Manny buried it with Lucy.

  But, although their grieving deputy performed his duties impeccably, as though nothing at all had happened to shatter his heart and his world, Manny Gilford held all his well-meaning neighbors at arm’s length.

  Even his two closest friends, Arthur and Stella Reid, had never been invited to the cabin again.

  If Stella wasn’t so worried about her grandchildren, she would never have invaded his privacy by just dropping by unannounced. Plus, with a murder investigation under way, she knew he had to be exhausted, and heaven only knew when he had eaten his last solid meal.

  But Stella reminded herself of the sincere look in his eyes when he had told her not to hesitate to ask, should she need his help.

  She had never needed help more, and she had no doubt that he would understand her desperation.

  A flood of nostalgia swept over her as she drove down the narrow, winding road. On either side of her, the forest grew more dense and dark as she drew closer to the river.

  Her headlights illuminated the stately slash pines, some of them from eighty to one hundred feet tall, their long dark needles glistening against their red bark. Their sweet fragrance filled her truck, invoking even sweeter memories.

  She remembered the long summer evenings when they enjoyed Manny’s barbecued ribs; corn on the comb, seasoned with Lucy’s special blend, wrapped in foil, and nested among the coals; and Stella’s strawberry shortcake for dessert.

  She recalled Monopoly games that stretched into the wee hours of the night, Lucy’s squeals of indignation when she discovered that Manny had moved one of her hotels from her property to his, her own outcries when she caught Art pilfering a five-hundred-dollar bill from the bank.

  Such good times, never to be forgotten.

  Sadly, never to be re-created.

  When Stella reached the cabin, she was dismayed to see there were no lights on, other than the porch lamp beside the door.

  Sheriff Gilford was getting a well-deserved rest. If he was lucky, even some sleep. But her momentary pangs of guilt for disturbing him vanished when she thought of her grandchildren living in a home with hard-core drugs and visits from a dealer who had no qualms about threatening to harm them.

  She parked the truck, got out, and hurried past the fire pit, with its comfortable Adirondack chairs; the hot tub, its cover blanketed with pine needles; and the stone grill, which Manny himself had built with river rock.

  In another lifetime.

  So urgent were her present concerns that she pushed the memories, good and bad, to the back of her mind—possibly to be considered at a more peaceful, less anxious time.

  She knocked on the door and, only afterward, realized how hard and how loudly she had done so.

  Such a simple action, knocking on a door, but simplistic as it might be, the sound communicated a definite sense of urgency.

  A drowsy and disheveled Sheriff Gilford threw open the door and peered down at her with sleepy eyes.

  He was wearing only a pair of jeans, his chest and feet bare.

  Stella hadn’t seen Manny shirtless since the four of them had gone tubing in the river together so many years ago. She was surprised to see that his physique hadn’t changed much since then. If anything, he was even more heavily muscled than he had been as a younger man. She was also surprised that she would even notice such a thing with so much else on her mind.

  “Stella,” he said, instantly alert when he saw the worried look on her face. “What is it? What’s wrong?” After flinging the door wide, he reached for her arm and pulled her inside.

  “My grandkids,” she began. “They’re in danger.”

  A serious, officious look came over his face. He gave her a gentle push toward the sofa, then reached for his uniform shirt, which was hanging over the back of a chair at the nearby dining table. He tugged his shirt on, then walked to the stone fireplace, stirred the embers to life, and added a few pieces of firewood.

  When he turned back to her, he noticed that she was shivering. He grabbed a red wool blanket, woven with Native American patterns, from a nearby chair and wrapped it snugly around her shoulders.

  Then he dragged the footstool
from an easy chair closer to where she was on the sofa. He sat on the footstool and, with his elbows on his knees, leaned toward her and grasped her hands.

  Deeply concerned, he studied her face intently. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Tell me everything.”

  For the next five minutes, Stella poured her concerns out onto him like a hot torrent that had been pent up too long.

  She told him about Shirley’s drinking problem, which she could tell he already knew far too much about.

  She told him about the filthy house, the lack of food, about Savannah wearing rhinestone flip-flops in December. She watched his face grow darker and angrier by the moment.

  But it was when she told him about the packets of white powder that he finally spoke. “Damn,” was his simple but angry reply. He groaned with exasperation and ran his fingers through his silver hair. Stella could have sworn that she saw his hand shaking.

  “I know,” she said softly. “I was always afraid she might go in that direction.”

  “Me too. I’ve been keeping a close eye on that one for a long time.”

  “You have?”

  His face softened. His eyes searched hers. What he was looking for, she couldn’t be sure.

  Finally, he said, “Of course I have, Stella. She’s a troubled woman, and she’s raising your grandchildren.”

  Stella looked down at her hands, covered by his. She could feel a heat rising in her cheeks that had little to do with the warmth coming from the stone fireplace or the cozy red blanket around her shoulders.

  In one small corner of her mind, a tiny space that was less consumed by the urgency of the moment, she realized that she was alone with a man, a man who obviously cared deeply for her, for the first time in six years.

  She was aware of his home, which was so different from when she had visited years ago, when Lucy was still living there. The soft, frilly feminine touches were gone, along with Lucy’s creative clutter: her fabric stashes, yarn baskets, and her sewing machine.

  Instead, the place was tidy, a bit sparse by comparison, but masculine and tasteful, with heavy leather furniture that had simple lines but appeared comfortable and inviting. The cabin’s knotty pine walls were decorated with a few nicely framed paintings and photographs that reflected the beauty of mountains, forests, rivers, and lakes.

  Behind the door sat a well-stocked, well-locked gun cabinet, and in the corner, some fishing equipment—still shiny, new, and neglected.

  There was something about the cabin now that made Stella, even in her time of trouble, feel sheltered and protected, as though nothing truly bad could happen within these walls.

  The man who lived here simply wouldn’t allow it.

  For the first time since Stella had shared her disturbing news, she felt a bit of hope that, with Manny Gilford’s help, this terrible situation might reach a satisfactory conclusion, after all.

  Nevertheless, she steeled herself before continuing. “Manny. . . there’s more.”

  “Okay. Let’s hear it,” he replied, tightening his fingers around hers.

  “Shirley’s drug dealer comes to the house. Savannah’s seen him twice.”

  She saw the anger flare in his eyes, but he quickly banked it and said in an even, professional tone, “Did Savannah mention what he looks like?”

  “A big, fat guy with long, dirty hair and a long, dirty beard. ‘Like a nasty, mean Santa Claus.’ That’s how she described him.”

  Instantly, Gilford’s face hardened. “I know him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Let’s just say I’ve ‘dealt’ with him before.”

  “Is he mean?”

  He hesitated, and she had the distinct feeling that he was deciding whether or not to be fully candid with her.

  Finally, he said, “Yes. He is. Worse yet, he’s stupid, and that’s a bad combination. You don’t want him anywhere near your grandkids.”

  “He threatened to hurt the kids.”

  Her words hung in the air like a violent storm, heavy and ominous, about to break over their heads.

  “When?”

  “Last night. Savannah saw him and Shirley talking in her kitchen. He sold Shirley some packets of white powder—Savannah thinks they were coke, though it bothers me something fierce to think she’d even know such a thing—and then he asked Shirley if she’d told anybody what she saw the night before. That’d be the night of the killing.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “She told him no, that nobody even knew she was ‘back there when it happened.’ He told her if she did tell anyone, she and her brat kids would get hurt. ‘Worse than hurt.’”

  “Okay.”

  It was one simple word, but Stella could see a change in her old friend’s face, specifically in his gray eyes, which had suddenly gone icy. She saw a distinct transformation from Manny, the sweet guy, to a fierce predator who had just caught a whiff of prey.

  “One other thing,” Stella continued. “I was talking to Shirley, and when we spoke of Priscilla’s murder, she mentioned that Prissy was strangled.”

  “Is that why you asked me if I’d told anybody that, Stella?”

  She hung her head, blushing. “Yes. I’m sorry. I should have told you then and there. But I’d just had some ugly words with her, and I was afraid that if I told on her, she’d think it was on account of that. Besides, I couldn’t really believe that she’d actually have anything to do with somethin’ so awful.”

  “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. You’ve helped me out a lot already, and you’ve got to put your family’s welfare first.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your patience.”

  “Stella May Reid, a lot of people in this town try my patience. You aren’t one of ’em.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He stood and began to pace in front of the fireplace. “All right. Game plan. The first thing I’m going to do is talk to Shirley. Then, depending on what she tells me, I’ll decide how I’m going to deal with Leland Corder.”

  “Leland who?”

  “Santa’s evil twin. He’s from Hooter Grove. He used to come here to McGill to sell his dope. I put the fear o’ God in him last year, but it seems it’s worn off. He’s in need of another dose. Worse than a dose, if I can manage it.”

  Stella cleared her throat and said, “Manny, I know you’ve gotta do your duties, but when you talk to Shirley, can you please leave my little Savannah out of it? Shirley’s off her rocker lately from those drugs, and she’s been bein’ mean to the young’uns already. If she knew Savannah—”

  “I’ll just tell her that I know she was there in the alley that night. I won’t tell her how I know. Shirley doesn’t strike me as the soul of discretion. She’s probably told a few people there at the bar already. She’ll assume it was one of them who told me.”

  “Shirley’s pretty loose lipped, for sure. She figures the definition of a secret is ‘something that you tell to only one person at a time.’”

  “On the other hand, if she picked an inconvenient time to suddenly become discreet, she’s going to know it was you. I may not be able to keep you out of it.”

  “Better me than poor Savannah. That child carries a heavy enough burden as it is.”

  They were silent for several moments, both of them thinking.

  Finally, Gilford said, “I’ve got an idea. I could bring her to the station, make sure nobody else’s there but you.”

  “But me?”

  “Yes. I could stash you in my office and close the door. Then bring her in and question her there at the front desk, like I did you and your grandkids. I’ll interview her while you listen in.”

  “How am I going to listen in if I’m in your office and the door’s closed?”

  He looked right, then left, leaned closer, and whispered, “If you put your ear on the radiator, which I’ll make sure is turned off, you’ll hear every word. But if you tell anybody that, I’ll have you run out of town and dumped in t
he desert.”

  “There aren’t any deserts in Georgia.”

  “I’ll find one.”

  She laughed. “I’ll keep mum. Promise. But why would I be in your office, eavesdropping?”

  “That way, if Shirley really didn’t tell anybody but you, I can haul you out, confront her with her accuser, face-to-face, and with any luck, scare her into spilling everything she knows.”

  Stella thought it over, then gave him a grim smile. “I wouldn’t mind confronting Miss Shirley right now. I’d rather do it with a frying pan, but since you’ll be there . . .”

  “Just wiggle your right earlobe and I’ll excuse myself to the little boy’s room. But make sure you’ve cleaned up the scene before I come back.”

  “Or if she refuses to talk, you could always use that ‘dump you in the desert’ threat.”

  “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Plumb terrified.”

  “I’ll wait until tomorrow morning, pick her up after your grandkids are off to school.”

  “Okay. If you think that’ll be soon enough. I can’t help but worry about that dirty Santa Claus, Leland fella.”

  Gilford smirked. “Don’t fret about Leland Corder. I plan to contact the chief of police there in Hooter Grove. He’s an old friend of mine from way back. Leland’ll be in custody in half an hour.”

  “Half an hour? How can you be sure he’ll find him that fast?”

  “’Cause Hooter Grove’s a small town like McGill, and there are only three places Leland would be—the tavern, the pool hall, or his trailer.”

  “What if he’s here in McGill?”

  “Then I’ll already have him in jail.”

  She looked confused.

  He stood and began to tuck his shirt in. “You see, Mrs. Reid, I’m fixin’ to walk you to your truck right now, and then I’m taking a run into town. If Leland’s there, I’ll find him and lock him up.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ll think of something.”