Stella Reid had no doubt whatsoever that for her grandchild—her insatiably curious, life-embracing, courageous granddaughter—it was the best thing in the world.
Stella opened the elegant front door, with its oval beveled-glass window, and walked into the foyer. Above hung a gorgeous crystal chandelier, which bathed the room in a clean golden light. Below, the floor was covered with hand-painted terra-cotta tiles.
She found her granddaughter, as always, beneath the graceful curving staircase, tucked away in a cozy alcove, sitting on a tiny, made-for-children chair.
At twelve, Savannah was big for her age, tall and strong, like her grandpa Art had been. Stella couldn’t help noticing that it wouldn’t be long before she would be too large for that miniature chair.
Nothing stayed the same. Everything was constantly changing, including Stella’s grandchildren, and that was both a source of joy and sorrow to her heart.
So deeply engrossed was Savannah in her Hardy Boys mystery that Stella was reluctant to disturb her. The poor girl had so little time to herself that it seemed a shame to interrupt her. But Stella knew she was bringing welcome news to someone who received too few happy updates. The intrusion would be welcome.
“Hey, sugar,” she whispered as she bent down and stuck her head into the alcove, near the dragonfly stained-glass lamp that lit the cozy cubbyhole for any solitary reader sitting in it.
Savannah started at the sound and looked up with troubled eyes. Once she saw who her visitor was, she appeared overjoyed and relieved.
Stella cringed to see her granddaughter’s reaction. Savannah was scared, and understandably so. A thug had threatened her mother with harm to the entire family. How could the girl be otherwise?
“I’m sorry to bother you while you’re reading,” Stella told her as she sat on the floor beside the tiny chair.
Savannah reached over, put her arms around Stella’s neck, and gave her a warm, lingering hug. “That’s okay, Granny. Don’t ever say you’re a bother. I’m always tickled to see you.”
Glancing around, Stella whispered, “Where’s Miss Rose?”
“In there.” Savannah nodded toward an adjoining room, which had once been the old mansion’s parlor. “Sitting at her desk. I already did the filing for her.”
“What a precious girl you are. You make me mighty proud, Savannah.”
“That’s okay. I like helping Miss Rose. I think I might become a librarian someday. A volunteer one on my days off.” She looked down at the book in her hand. “But, of course, the rest of the time, I’ll be a policewoman. A detective policewoman. That way I can sleuth all the time, like Frank and Joe, or Nancy.”
“Speaking of sleuthing, I’ve been on the prowl myself since I saw you last. And I have some news for you. But you can’t tell anybody that you know. Nobody at all. Promise?”
“Sure! Double-dog promise!”
“Okay. Mostly, I came in here today so I could tell you that you don’t have to worry no more about that dirty old guy with the nasty beard who threatened your mama.”
“I don’t?”
“Nope. He’s in jail.”
“For real?”
“As real as those iron bars get.”
“He didn’t get arrested for hurting my mom, did he?” she asked, suddenly fearful.
“No, of course not.” Stella leaned back as far as she could and saw Rose Clingingsmith sitting at her desk, working on some book cards, totally absorbed in her task. “He was arrested for having a lot of drugs in his house. Somebody tipped the police off that he had a bunch, so they raided his trailer and found them.”
Savannah eyed Stella suspiciously. “That ‘somebody’ wasn’t you, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t. Him getting arrested wasn’t connected to you in no way, punkin. He got his ornery backside tossed in jail all because of his own wrongdoings. It had nothin’ to do with what he said to your mom.”
Savannah lowered her eyes. “Or that he sold her stuff, and she bought it?”
“That either, darlin’. Like I said, there’s nothing at all to worry your noggin about. Not just that, but Sheriff Gilford gave your mom a very serious talkin’-to. She’s not to take any more drugs or drive when she’s drinking, especially with you kids in the car. She’s not supposed to go jerkin’ you kids around, being over rough with you, like she was the other day at the Christmas tree lot. If she does any of those things, the sheriff will find out about it, and he’ll be on her like a duck on a june bug.”
Savannah gazed at Stella with bright, happy eyes, which were filled with wonder at such good fortune.
While Stella was pleased to see her granddaughter overjoyed, it hurt her heart that the child would be so happy just to be safe—a right that, thankfully, most children were blessed with every day.
Once again, Savannah wrapped her arms around her grandmother’s neck and hugged her tightly. “Thank you, Granny,” she whispered. “Thank you so much.”
“I told you, sweet cheeks, us Reids had nothing to do with this fine turn of events. Truth be told, it was Sheriff Gilford who took control of the situation. If you want to thank somebody, maybe one of these days you could thank him. But not in front of anybody. He gets all bashful if you praise him too much.”
Savannah gave her a playful, knowing look. “Sure, Granny. We both know why he gets all bashful in front of you.”
“That’ll be enough of that, young lady. You and your smarty-pants brother already made your opinion known on that subject.”
“And we’re right!”
“I told you, enough hooey. Now, hush up your foolishness, ’cause I got something else to tell you. Some more good news.”
“More? I can’t take it! All this and it ain’t even Christmas yet.”
Stella glanced at her watch. “It’s twenty minutes to four, so you better skedaddle and get yourself home.”
Savannah nodded and reluctantly closed her book. “I know. I shouldn’t leave them alone like this, not even once a week. Someday, when we least expect it, Mari and Vi are gonna kill each other over who gets to wear that stupid red hair bow. They don’t have a lick o’ sense between them, when it comes to that hair bow.”
“My news ain’t about a hair bow. Or your sisters whuppin’ each other’s tails. It’s way better than that—the reason why you gotta get back home. You have to be there at four o’clock because the sheriff is sending his deputy around with a bunch of groceries for you kids.”
Again, Stella watched her granddaughter’s face light up with joy over the prospect of receiving what other children took for granted.
“Oh, Granny, really? That’s so cool!”
“Sheriff Gilford’s got two deputies,” Stella told her. “Don’t mention that I said this, but as it turns out, one’s a lot brighter than the other one.”
Savannah tucked her book under her arm, stood, and wriggled out of the alcove. “Let me guess,” she said as she took Stella’s hand and they strolled out of the library. “The one who’s bringing the groceries is the one who—”
“Could throw hisself on the ground and miss.”
“His porch light’s on, but nobody’s home.”
“His corn bread ain’t quite done in the middle.”
“He’s a macaroni short of a tuna casserole.”
They both laughed long and hard, relishing the lightness of spirit that only those who had recently been deeply frightened could experience.
When they’d finally collected themselves, Stella said, “Bless his heart. We shouldn’t poke fun at Deputy Jarvis. It ain’t nice.”
“Yeah, we shouldn’t laugh at somebody who might be bringing us ice cream.”
“That’s for sure.”
They looked at each other and again collapsed into fits of giggles.
“You better watch out. Be careful... ,” Stella said.
“That he don’t stick the ice cream in the oven!”
Chapter 17
When Stella slipped into her navy blue “funeral dre
ss,” she couldn’t help thinking of the times she had put it on in the past and feeling a predictable sadness.
Certainly, she had worn it on many other occasions, too. With her limited wardrobe, no garment was exclusive to one event.
But Florence had bought it for her when Arthur died. Therefore, it would forever be her “funeral dress.”
Once she had it on and zipped up the back, she turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror on the back of her bathroom door.
She saw a tired woman whose skin had lost the summer glow it received from daily gardening.
But when she took a closer look, she pretty much liked what she saw there. The woman in the mirror had a sparkle in her eye that showed she treasured life, difficult as it might be from time to time. She looked strong, with a slight up-tilt to her chin that spoke of determination and confidence.
Stella thought she also seemed at peace with herself and basically contented with where she was, what she had, and who she was.
It didn’t get much better than that.
However, for some reason, Stella wanted to look just a little nicer than usual tonight. On any given day, she spent hardly any time on her appearance. She’d twist her unruly dark curls into a big roll at the nape of her neck and secure it with whatever barrette or clip was handy. Maybe a swipe of lip gloss and she was out the door. But as she prepared to pay her respects to Priscilla Carr, Stella wanted to look a tad more polished.
She spent a bit more time on her hair twist, making sure all the stray wisps were neatly tucked. Then she secured it with a leather bun barrette with the Cherokee symbol for love cut into it. The barrette was one of Stella’s most beloved possessions, the only thing she owned that had once belonged to her mother—a woman who had had even fewer personal treasures than her daughter.
Her hair done, Stella searched in the back of the medicine chest for a tube of red lipstick she had stashed there ages ago.
Priscilla Carr would never have gone out in public without her famous ruby-red lipstick.
Stella found it, and as she carefully applied it, she tried to convince herself she was doing so for Prissy.
I guess that’s for Prissy, too, she thought as she dabbed a bit of the Blue Waltz cologne that Savannah had given her for Christmas last year behind each ear. Get real, Stella darlin’. We know each other a little better than that, and Prissy’s past smelling anything now, bless her heart.
Her grooming completed, Stella headed to the kitchen and made a quick phone call.
“I’m on my way, Flo,” she said. “You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I reckon,” was the lackluster reply.
“Okay. Skedaddle on outside. I’ll swing by and getcha in a minute.”
* * *
As Florence climbed into the truck, she gave Stella a quick perusal. “I see you’re wearing the dress I gave you,” she said.
“Yes, Flo.” Stella managed not to sigh or sound cross. That was one thing about Florence—she was generous to a fault, but if she gave you something, she never let you forget it. In fact, by the end of the day, the entire town would be well informed of her liberality.
Flo was a nice gal with a good heart, but it would never occur to her to leave money anonymously in somebody’s mailbox or to give them a dress without telling them how much it cost and letting them know that she’d had to do without in order to give it to them.
After reaching over and feeling the fabric of the skirt, Florence said, “Yeah, that dress has held up good over the years. But then, you get what you pay for, and Lord knows I paid enough for that. Didn’t have time to wait for it to go on sale, what with Art’s funeral coming up in just a couple of days. Plumb ruined my clothes budget for the month. I had to wear an old raggedy dress myself, but like Jenny at the beauty shop said, it was more important that you looked good, you being the widow and all.”
“You’re just too good, Flo. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
“I know.”
They rode along in awkward silence, the elephant in the truck all too obvious. Finally, Stella had to ask, “Well, have you heard from him?”
Florence stared straight ahead out the windshield, her jaw tight. “Nope. Not a word.”
Stella couldn’t quite discern the look on her friend’s face. “Is that good news, you figure, or bad?”
Florence shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe a bit of both.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t like being all alone in that big house. Bud wasn’t one for talking, but at least he was there, taking up space.”
“He ain’t yelling at you or threatening you anymore.”
“That’s true. There’s something kind of peaceful about that—not having to worry if you’re gonna get hit for putting dinner on the table a little late, ’cause the beans were taking a bit longer than you’d thought to cook, or for looking at a body the wrong way.”
Florence’s matter-of-fact tone when she talked about Bud’s abuse had always surprised Stella—as if getting hit or screamed at by one’s mate was as predictable as a change in the weather.
Regarding anybody who might dare to lay a hand on her in anger, Stella’s motto was, “Hit me once, and the next time you see me will be in court—after you get out of the hospital.”
She had made sure that even gentle-tempered Art had known that before she walked down the aisle with him. Stella knew all too well what some men were capable of doing to a woman they had sworn to love and protect for the rest of their lives.
“I checked with the bank this morning,” Florence said, “to see if he’s made any moves toward selling the store or the house.”
“Well, has he?”
“Lora Schuster said she hasn’t heard anything about it. You know how she is there at the bank, her ears on the stretch to hear everybody’s business. If anything was going on, she’d be one of the first to know.”
“True. Lora’s got superpowers. She can hear through the thickest wall and read lips from across the biggest room.”
“I asked her to let me know if she finds out anything.”
Stella searched her mind for any way that she could help her friend. “Tell her, if she does come up with something worthwhile, I’ll bake her an apple pie.”
Florence chuckled. “If I offer her that, she’ll just make up something on the spot.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“That’s because you’re not as devious as most of us, Stella. You’re a good person. A fine friend. I’m lucky to have you.”
Stella reached over and patted Florence’s shoulder. “The feeling’s mutual, darlin’,” she said. “I figure we’re both mighty blessed.”
As they pulled into the parking lot of Herb Jameson’s mortuary, Flo looked around at all the cars and said, “You reckon they’re here because they harbored a deep and abiding affection for Prissy?”
“I suspect that most of these people have come to gawk, to make comments about how much makeup Prissy’s wearing, even when she’s dead, and to swap opinions about who murdered her.”
Florence nodded solemnly. “That’s one thing I’ll say for you, Stella May Reid. You’re an astute judge of human behavior. Maybe a bit cynical, but . . .”
“I ain’t particularly gifted or overly cynical. Figuring out your fellow man ain’t hard. Just assume on any given day that the average person’s up to no good. Most of the time you’ll be right.”
Stella found an empty spot and parked near the edge of the lot. As she and Florence climbed out of the truck, Stella felt a bit apprehensive about the upcoming ordeal. Gathering to pay homage to the town’s primary floozy was bound to be an event fraught with tension. She wasn’t looking forward to it.
As they walked across the parking lot, heading toward the mortuary’s front door, Stella spotted a familiar figure coming toward them—Sheriff Manny Gilford, still in his uniform, still looking especially nice. He had a pleasant look on his face as he locked eyes with Stella.
/> “Good evening, ladies,” he said. “I see we happened to arrive at the same time.”
For some reason, Stella got the feeling that perhaps Sheriff Gilford had been waiting in his cruiser somewhere out of sight, intending to arrive at the same time she did.
One part of her said that she was vain to even think such a thing.
A second part told the first part, Shut up and enjoy the notion. How often did a widow in her fifties enjoy the attention of such a nice-looking man of good character and high standing in the community?
One glance at Florence told Stella that her friend might be thinking something similar. All of a sudden Flo was wearing a knowing little grin and had a twinkle in her eye.
She leaned closer to Stella and whispered, “Oh. Now I see. I was wondering about the red lipstick and the neat hairdo.”
“Shhh!” Stella hissed, giving Florence a pinch on her arm. “Hush up. You don’t see squat.”
“Anything wrong?” the sheriff asked as he joined them.
“Nothin’ at all,” Stella replied. “Except that we’re about to attend a funeral, of course.”
“Of course.” Gilford glanced around, as though looking for someone. “Bud’s not with you tonight?” he asked Florence.
“No. Just Stella,” was her abbreviated reply.
“Oh. Okay.”
Stella could tell by the way Manny was studying Florence that he was curious about her answer. If Flo wanted to keep her and Bud’s separation a secret for much longer, she was going to have to get better at answering the inevitable questions.
“I’m gonna go on inside,” Florence said. “You two take your time, and I’ll meet up with you later.”
Manny watched as Florence hurried up the stairs and through the big double doors of the mortuary. Then he turned to Stella and said, “What’s got into her? Bud been smacking her around again?”
“Let’s just say there’s a bit of trouble in paradise,” Stella replied. “But keep it to yourself.”
Murder in Her Stocking Page 18
