Murder in Her Stocking

by G. A. McKevett

  Stella could feel her heart sinking by the moment.

  From the look on Sheriff Gilford’s face, she knew he was feeling the same.

  He tossed his pen onto the desktop with an exasperated groan. “Then it might have been Elmer, but you can’t say for sure.”

  “Right.”

  “And it wasn’t you or Leland?”

  “Of course not. We was both inside at that point.”

  “Did you mention to Leland that you’d just seen somebody murdered?”

  “Of course! Wouldn’t you? That’s not somethin’ you see every day! I was all scared and excited and shook up! I had to tell somebody.”

  “What did Leland say when you told him?”

  “He told me to shut the damned door and mind my own business. I told him we should call you and tell you about it, but he said I was dumber than dirt. Said you’d go askin’ what we were doin’ back there, and it might come out that we’d been, you know, buyin’ and sellin’ . . . stuff. Then him and me would be in trouble.”

  “You could’ve dropped a dime anonymously, you know,” Gilford told her. “Told me what you saw.”

  “Why bother? I just told you, totally poured my guts out, and you’re not a bit closer to knowing what happened than you were before.”

  “Thanks,” Gilford said, running his fingers through his hair and looking more tired than Stella had ever seen him. “I appreciate you reminding me.”

  Shirley sank lower in her chair. Stella noticed she was shivering in spite of the warmth of the room.

  “Now that I’ve told you all this stuff, Sheriff,” Shirley said, “I’m gonna have to be lookin’ over my shoulder ever’ minute. If Leland gets wind of it, he’ll knock me into next Sunday. If I’m lucky.”

  “Leland Corder won’t be knocking anybody anywhere,” Gilford replied. “He’s cooling his heels in a cell in Hooter Grove right now.”

  “In jail?” both Shirley and Stella exclaimed.

  The sheriff looked more than a little pleased with himself. “Yes, indeed. An anonymous tip last night led the police chief over there to his trailer, where he had a ton of cocaine stashed in a coffee can in his freezer. How original.” He chuckled. “Leland’s a second cousin twice removed from Albert Einstein’s nephew’s neighbor.”

  “Really?” Shirley looked puzzled. “He didn’t seem that smart to me. Just goes to show, you never know.”

  Gilford sighed, folded his notebook, and shoved it into a drawer. “Leland was booked into the Hooter Grove jail by three this morning. Nobody’s going to have to worry about him for a very long time.”

  The sheriff stood and walked around to stand beside Shirley’s chair.

  “Gimme your purse,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Shirley clutched it to her breast like a mother protecting her infant from a charging grizzly bear. “No! Why?”

  “You’ve just confessed to buying cocaine from a known drug dealer. You’re the mother of seven children, the oldest being only twelve years old. Do you really think I’m going to let you walk out of here with drugs in your purse?”

  Shirley tried to stare him down with one of her best “hate Stella” looks, but it had no effect at all on Sheriff Manny Gilford. He returned it as he said, “Gimme that purse, Shirley Reid. Now!”

  She stood and shoved it at his chest as hard as she could.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reid, for your cooperation,” he said, his tone unmistakably sarcastic.

  He dumped the contents of the purse onto the top of the desk.

  Stella wasn’t surprised to see most of the items spread before them, the standard Shirley paraphernalia: a copious amount of makeup, several packs of cigarettes, some breath spray, three different hairbrushes, hair spray, some backup turquoise jewelry, and numerous different brands and styles of condoms.

  Stella supposed that she should be indignant to see that her daughter-in-law was using birth control when her husband was on the other side of the country and not expected back for months. But instead of outrage or surprise, Stella felt a bit of relief. At least Shirley was being careful, showing a little responsibility—a rare occurrence, but a welcome one.

  Two other items bothered Stella far more. The first was a small plastic bag containing white powder.

  It was one thing to hear about the drugs from Savannah and Shirley. It was quite another for Stella to see it with her own eyes.

  She thought of her grandchildren, especially the smaller ones, who were innocent and blissfully ignorant of such things. Unbidden images crossed her mind of them finding a Baggie like that. Playing with it. Maybe tasting it or inhaling it. The possible tragic outcome.

  Then there was the other item. A roll of cash, bound with a thick rubber band.

  Where had Shirley gotten her hands on that much money? Heaven knows, she hadn’t earned it by the sweat of her brow. Sitting on a barstool under a picture of Elvis didn’t work up a lot of sweat or pay that much.

  Stella thought of the empty refrigerator at home and Savannah wearing worn flip-flops and a thin, cast-off jacket in December.

  Her rage rose, hot and fierce inside her. Rather than try to tamp it down with reminders to “Love thy neighbor,” she allowed the anger inside her spirit to go unchecked. If ever there was such a thing as “righteous indignation,” surely this was it.

  “I assume,” Sheriff Gilford said, “that this is one of the bags that you scored off Leland the other night.”

  Shirley gave him a curt nod and sank back down onto her chair.

  She and Stella watched as he took a small brown evidence envelope from his desk drawer and scribbled Shirley’s name, the date, and the time on the front. Then, using the tip of the pen, rather than his fingers, he flipped the Baggie into the envelope and sealed it.

  “I’m going to be keeping this somewhere special,” he told Shirley. “Under lock and key. If you behave yourself, that’s where it’ll stay. But I better not hear one more report of you mistreating your children, of you throwing a temper tantrum in front of them, yanking them around, doing drugs, driving drunk or, in general, not acting in a manner appropriate for the mother of seven children. If I do, I’ll be taking that Baggie of cocaine, along with some pretty sad stories about you, over to Judge Patterson. He takes a dim view of people who expose children to that kind of malarkey. You’ll wind up behind bars. Not the ones upstairs, either. Prison bars. Not for days or weeks, but for months or years, where there’s no alcohol, no men, and no turquoise jewelry.”

  Shirley said nothing. She just sat and fumed.

  “What’s even worse,” he continued, “at least in your estimation, I’d bet, is that the state would take away those kids of yours and would give them to your mother-in-law here. Something tells me you’d absolutely hate that. Not so much because you’d be pining for your children, but because you’d know she had them.”

  Shirley shot a .45 caliber glare at Stella.

  “Keep that in mind,” the sheriff continued, “the next time you decide to hang out in dark alleys and score cocaine, or drive drunk with those kids in the back of a pickup truck.”

  Shirley brushed some imaginary lint off her jacket, lifted her chin, and said, “Are you quite done with me, Sheriff? I gave you all I’ve got in the way of information, and you promised you’d cut me loose if I did.”

  “Go.”

  “Good.”

  She began to pick up her belongings from the desk and shove them into her purse. Stella couldn’t help noticing that the first things she put away were the condoms.

  The second thing she picked up was the cash roll, but before she could stick it in her purse, Gilford snatched it out of her hand.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doin’?” she yelled as he removed the rubber band and began to peel bills off the roll. “That there’s my rent money!”

  He gave her a withering look. “Sure it is, Shirley. We both know you were getting ready to score with that money. But now you don’t need to, because you just turned over
a new leaf. Right?”

  He replaced the rubber band around the remaining bills, put a paper clip on the ones he had taken, and shoved them into a drawer. “Are you going to be home about four o’clock this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Um, I don’t know. Usually I—”

  “I know. I know. Usually, you’re still at the bar at that hour. But your kids will be home from school, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Because Deputy Jarvis is gonna take that money and go grocery shopping with it. He’ll drop by about four with a bunch of nutritious food for those children.”

  “But what if I’m not there?”

  “Your kids’ll let him in, and I’m sure they’ll help him put away the groceries. You better hope he doesn’t find that house of yours looking like a rat’s nest, the way it did the last time I took you home drunk.”

  Stella could see Shirley practically squirm inside her denim jacket. While she had to admit that she enjoyed seeing her daughter-in-law having to account for misbehavior, Stella received no real comfort from it.

  With Shirley, any improvement was bound to be temporary. But Sheriff Manny Gilford was trying. She had to give him that.

  He took a few steps closer to Shirley, until he was quite literally breathing down her neck. “You better listen to me, woman, and listen good. Your kids are gonna start having a better life. I’m gonna see to it. I’m gonna watch you day and night, and the minute you step out of line, that’s it. You’ll lose everything that ever meant anything to you.”

  He leaned even closer, until they were nearly nose to nose. “Look into my eyes, Shirley Reid. Go on. Do it. Tell me I don’t mean it.”

  Shirley looked up and winced at what she saw.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You remember that. Now, pick up the rest of your crap and get the hell out of my station.”

  Shirley wasted no time when shoving her remaining belongings into her purse. In seconds, she was heading out the door, slamming it behind her.

  Stella sighed and turned to Manny. “Not exactly overcome with remorse, was she?”

  “Nope. I’ve seen more repentant serial killers.”

  “You’ve seen serial killers?”

  He grinned and shrugged. “On TV.”

  “Oh, well, yeah. Who hasn’t?”

  She stood, walked over to stand beside him, and placed her hand on his forearm. Even through the cloth of his sleeve, she could feel his warmth.

  For reasons she didn’t have time to examine then and there, she recalled the moment he had held her there in his cabin. Something told her he was remembering it, too.

  “I sure appreciate all you did, and all you tried to do, for me and mine here today, Manny. I’m never gonna forget it. I owe you.”

  He placed his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “You don’t owe me anything, Stella May Reid. I’m just doing my job.”

  “I know you are, Sheriff, and I know you do your job well. But I can’t help thinking you went some extra miles for me, like sitting in a car outside my grandchildren’s house until three this morning, making sure Leland Corder was behind bars and they were safe. That’s above and beyond.”

  He shrugged, and she was surprised to see that he was even blushing a bit beneath his perpetual sheriff’s tan.

  She removed her hand from his arm and instantly felt a slight loss, as though something very nice, very special was gone.

  At least for the moment.

  “I should get going,” she said.

  “Me too. I’m fixin’ to run over to Hooter Grove to talk to Leland. I’ll put the squeeze on him and see if his story lines up with your daughter-in-law’s.”

  “Reckon it will?”

  “I think so. How about you? Do you think she was being truthful? You always did have a truffle pig’s nose when it comes to sniffin’ out a liar.”

  “I think she told it the way it happened. Shirley’s pretty easy to catch in a lie. She’s not good at spinnin’ yarns on the spur of the moment. I don’t think she’s creative enough to come up with those details, like Elmer lookin’ like he was hiding from somebody.”

  “He was hiding from somebody. Me. I chased him away from the old folks’ home where he’d shown his . . . ignorance. Lost him a few blocks this side of there.”

  “Looks like he’s your number one suspect at the moment.”

  “Yeah. I’ll have a friendly chat with him once I get back from Hooter Grove.” He hesitated a moment, then said a bit tentatively, “You wanna come with me? You know, just so we can talk about the case on the way there and back.”

  She smiled up at him, her dimples deep. “I’d enjoy that, Manny. But I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve got somethin’ I gotta do at three fifteen, and you might not be back before that.”

  He looked disappointed, but his voice was soft and kind when he said, “You can have that rain check, Mrs. Reid. In fact, you can have as many as you want for as long as you want.”

  She must have looked as startled as she felt, because he quickly added, “You know, because I appreciate your input. You’re good at this investigation stuff. That’s why I said . . . I mean, why I—”

  “Of course,” she interjected. “You’d rather have me workin’ beside you than ol’ Jarvis.”

  He gave her a quick appreciative glance up and down that made her glad she’d put on one of her best floral-print dresses before leaving the house that morning.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’d much rather have you beside me than Jarvis, or anybody else that I can think of. For more reasons than one.”

  Again, she saw the look, felt the warmth of the affection behind it.

  “I’ll see you tonight, Manny,” she said softly. “At Prissy’s visitation. You’ll be there. Right?”

  “Gotta be. I have to watch and see how different people ‘take it.’”

  “Who’s cryin’ and who’s dancin’ in their bloomers?”

  “You got it. I’d appreciate it if you’d pay close attention yourself and then report back to me.”

  A sly grin brightened Stella’s face. “That sounds a lot like spyin’ on folks and then gossipin’ about ’em.”

  “Welcome to the world of law enforcement.”

  “And you get paid for this?” she mused as she headed for the door. “Sounds more like fun than work to me.”

  Chapter 16

  Early in life, Stella Reid had learned to observe people’s habits. Everyone had a routine, and she had discovered a great deal about those who lived around her by observing their rituals.

  Everyone in the little town of McGill had activities that they performed daily, weekly, monthly, or annually. Those pastimes defined who they were. In their own eyes, and in the opinions of those around them.

  The way they chose to spend their time, especially their free time, spoke louder than words about their character, their values, their joys, their heartaches, and their dreams.

  Every single afternoon April Pomeroy could be seen walking down Main Street to the edge of town and St. Michael’s Cemetery, carrying some flowers from her garden in one hand and a small picture frame in the other. April would place those flowers on a young man’s grave, sit next to his tombstone, and talk to the soldier she had wanted so desperately to marry—much the same way as Waycross Reid talked to his grandfather.

  April would have married her young man, and been happy to do so, had he not perished in the jungles of Vietnam.

  Every woman in McGill knew better than to invite April to an afternoon social. Every eligible bachelor in McGill knew better than to ask her out on a date.

  April’s daily ritual said it all.

  Then there was Stephen....

  Stephen Oldring’s entire family on his father’s side had died of heart attacks before celebrating their forty-fifth birthday. Every day on the highway leading to Hooter Grove, Stephen could be seen running, running, running. Like with April and her graveyard visits, weather mattered not one iota. Stephen never missed a day, eve
r.

  Some folks speculated that he was trying to outrun the Grim Reaper himself. Others, less dramatically inclined, said they respected his discipline and his determination to remain healthy. Some admired his efforts but criticized his attire.

  His T-shirt was tie-dyed. The colors had been brilliant in the sixties but after years of constant wear, they were now only faded pastels. Likewise, the sun had faded his running shorts, which had been black when he began wearing them but over the years had morphed to dark purple, then brown, and finally to a drab green.

  Some folks were heard to say, “Who cares how long you live or how healthy you are if you can’t dress proper? Just imagine if a bus hit ’im and he died in that gitup!”

  As a result, Stephen was known as the healthiest and worst-dressed man in McGill—the most likely to be run over on the road or to die of a heart attack, in spite of his best efforts.

  Stella knew everyone’s habits: where they would be, when they would arrive there, what they would be doing at their destination, when they would leave and why.

  So, she knew exactly where to go and when in order to have a private talk with her oldest grandchild.

  Stella parked in front of the town’s library, got out, and walked up the sidewalk to the old Victorian mansion. Donated to the town by a well-to-do lady named Mildred Hodge, the home was a beauty, with a round turret, colorful stained-glass windows, and the delicate, ornate gingerbread trim so popular in its era.

  The library was Savannah’s favorite place on earth, and it didn’t take a lot of grandmotherly intuition for Stella to figure out why.

  The child led a mundane, often difficult life. Other than school, nearly all her waking hours were spent caring for her siblings, catering to her mother, and being trapped in a house with no television or radio.

  From the cage those walls created, there was no escape for the girl’s curious, adventurous spirit—except through books.

  While Savannah had no books of her own to provide the excitement she so desperately needed, she had discovered a portal into one thousand worlds inside the walls of that mansion.

  Every Wednesday afternoon at 3:15 p.m., Savannah treated herself to a trip to the library. When she first discovered the place, she had told her grandmother, “I can’t believe it, Granny! They’ve got a zillion books in there, and they’ll let you borrow them for free! You read them, and then you take them back and get more! It’s the best thing in the whole wide world!”