Murder in Her Stocking

by G. A. McKevett

  “Can’t tell me any more than that?”

  “No. Sorry. I really can’t.”

  He considered her words, then said, “I respect that. Keeping a friend’s confidence is a good thing. I was just asking in case I need to intervene. Bud’s a mean guy. He can get pretty rough when he has a mind to.”

  “Ain’t no secret in that. The whole town knows that about him. He makes sure they do.”

  “That reminds me—I saw Bud heading out of town the day before yesterday. You can spot that monster truck of his a mile off with that god-awful sparkly blue paint job. He caught my eye because he was on the river road, heading north toward the county line. Most people don’t use that road much in the wintertime. In all the years I’ve known him, I can’t recall ever seeing him on it before. Most of Bud’s business is here in town or south of here.”

  Stella silently told herself to file that bit of information away for Florence. It might give her a clue as to where her husband had absconded to.

  Manny pressed his point a bit more. “You wouldn’t happen to know where he was headed, would you, Stella?” he asked.

  “I have no idea where he’d be headed, if he was going in that direction. Any particular reason you’re asking?”

  He laughed. “No reason. Except that if I get a feeling somebody doesn’t want me to know something, I suddenly develop a burning curiosity to find out all I can about it. I’m just nosy that way.”

  “Then we’re all nosy that way, Sheriff.” She pulled her coat collar up around her neck as a particularly biting wind whipped across the parking lot. “Speaking of being nosy,” she continued, “I was wondering if you’ve got anything new on the murder. How did your interview with Leland Corder go?”

  “Let’s sit in my car,” he said, “and I’ll turn on the heater. Don’t want my right-hand gal freezing to death on me. I’ll fill you in on everything, but let’s do it someplace where you’re not going to get frostbite.”

  On their way to his vehicle, which, as she had suspected, was a bit farther down the street from the mortuary than was necessary, Stella wondered which pleased her more, the fact that he was concerned for her comfort or the fact that he considered her his “right-hand gal.”

  She decided it was the latter.

  Manny opened the passenger door for her, waited as she settled herself inside, then walked around and got into the driver’s seat.

  When he turned on the car ignition, the radio began to blast a popular disco song. He quickly switched it off and looked a bit embarrassed.

  Stella laughed. “I didn’t have you pegged as a guy with disco fever.”

  “The Bee Gees, the Steve Miller Band, Olivia Newton-John, Chicago, Willy Nelson—I’m a fan of all of them. You spend as much time in a vehicle as I do, you get less picky.”

  “I imagine you do. Now, tell me about Leland. Did you squeeze him hard?”

  “Harder than a mustard bottle gets squeezed on the Fourth of July. It was fun. I’m not overfond of Mr. Corder. He’s a most unpleasant fella.”

  “Did he back up Shirley’s story?”

  “All the way. Except for the drug deal. He wouldn’t own up to that.”

  “He probably figures he’s got enough trouble in that department already.”

  “My thoughts precisely.”

  “But he said he saw Elmer in the alley?”

  “He did, same as Shirley. But after they went back inside the Bulldog and heard the fall down the stairs, he says he didn’t look out the door like she did. So, he didn’t see anybody strangling anybody.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Sure is. But even if he didn’t help much with this case, he’ll be going away on the drug charge for a long time, this being his fourth offense. You and your family can forget about him.”

  “How about Elmer?” she asked. “Did you get a chance to talk to him yet?”

  “Absolutely. He’s my number one suspect right now—lucky him.”

  “Did you get anything good outta him?”

  “Nope. I got squat outta the old pervert. And I did everything short of holding him up by his ankles and shaking him till the change fell out of his pockets.”

  “More likely, his dentures would fall out before any money would. Elmer’s too broke to pay attention. Always has been.”

  “He admitted to being in the alley,” Manny said. “He didn’t have much choice, since three people saw him. Tried to say he was just hanging out back there. But I got him to admit he was hiding from me after I chased him away from the retirement home.”

  Stella thought it over for a moment. “If he flashed his dick-do at Myrtle, then ran down the street and into an alley, with you after him, then raced upstairs to Prissy’s apartment, smashed her over the head with that fancy mirror, threw her down the stairs, ran down after her, and strangled her to death . . . I gotta tell you, Manny, that’s the hardest day’s work Elmer Yonce ever did. Personally, I don’t think he’s able.”

  “Does sound a bit ambitious for him, now that you mention it.”

  “Did he say if he saw anybody else?”

  “Says he spied two people smoking outside the tavern door. Didn’t get a good enough look at them to tell if it was Shirley, and I don’t know if he’s acquainted with Leland. But he said it was a fat man and a skinny woman.”

  “Sounds like those two.”

  “It does. Elmer also saw Jake Neville’s Chrysler cruise through the alley. Says it stopped for a few seconds there at the bottom of the stairs, then drove on out the other side. I had a little talk with Allison this afternoon, and she admitted to me that it was her. Seemed she just wanted to see if Jake was there with Prissy. But she couldn’t see anything from the car, so she just drove on.”

  “Guess that takes Jake outta the runnin’.”

  “Maybe. I’m trying to keep an open mind about everybody and everything at this point.”

  “Did Elmer hear somebody scream and fall down the stairs?”

  “Yes. He claims it scared him so bad that he hid behind that big Dumpster back there and didn’t come out until he figured the coast was clear. Says that’s when he ran into you.”

  “Don’t tell me he didn’t hear Prissy’s death gargles. I sure did. If he was back there, he couldn’t have missed ’em. He had to know somebody was hurt and in trouble.”

  “Actually, he admitted to me that he heard the scream, the fall, and the choking. He said he heard her making those awful dying sounds. But he said he was afraid to come out and try to help.” Manny paused and wiped his hand wearily across his eyes. “I believe him, Stella. The man had tears rolling down his cheeks when he told me. He’s all broken up about it. Feels guilty. I guess there’s a speck of decency in everybody, if you look hard enough for it.”

  “I’d like to think that’s true.”

  Stella thought about the scream and how she had felt it deep in her soul. She recalled Prissy’s final breaths and knew she’d be haunted by those sounds for the rest of her life.

  Yes, she had been able to put her fear aside and help the woman, anyway. But what if Elmer Yonce had reached into his soul and simply hadn’t found the strength to do the same? What if it just wasn’t there?

  Could she really blame him?

  “That leaves you with a whole lot of nobody and nothin’, huh, Manny?” she said.

  “I’d say that about sums it up, Stella May.” He turned the ignition off and shoved the keys in his pocket. “Whatcha think, kiddo? Shall we go pay our respects?”

  “I’d rather chew bumblebees than go inside there and hear all the malarkey that’s gonna be said about that girl. But I suppose we might as well get ’er done.”

  Chapter 18

  As Stella and Sheriff Gilford walked up the circular brick driveway to the mortuary, it occurred to her, not for the first time, that Jameson’s Funeral Home was one of the prettiest buildings in town, if not in the entire county. Other than Judge Patterson’s antebellum mansion, of course.

  Both we
re colonial style, white with massive columns and elegant black shutters. But the judge’s home was the real thing. Jameson’s was a facade.

  Inside Judge Patterson’s mansion, some Civil War soldiers had been nursed back to health, while others had perished on the long oak dining table that had been pressed into service for surgeries. Some said the ghosts of the soldiers who had suffered and died there still haunted the place.

  While the funeral parlor had always seemed a bit creepy in Stella’s estimation, she doubted there were any actual ghosts there. She figured the suffering that might have incited spectral visitations had occurred before the earthly remains of the departed had arrived at this place.

  Still, when Sheriff Gilford opened one of the double doors and ushered Stella inside, she felt a wash of emotions that caused her to wish she could turn around and run back out.

  No matter how soft the navy-blue carpet under her feet might be, or how tasteful the finely polished mahogany wainscoting on the walls, Jameson’s Funeral Home was and would forever be the place she had seen her husband’s face for the last time. The place where she had stroked his hand and said good-bye.

  She would always love this place and hate it for the same reason.

  As though sensing her thoughts, Manny placed his hand gently on her upper back as they walked along the hallway toward the viewing rooms in the back.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She turned, looked up at him, and saw tears brimming in his eyes. Whether they were for his best friend, Arthur, or his wife, Lucy, she couldn’t tell.

  Probably both, she decided.

  A door to the right opened, and Herb Jameson stepped into the hallway. He smiled, as though happy to see them, and said, “I was hoping I’d run into you, Sheriff, Sist . . . I mean, Mrs. Reid. Can I have a quick word with you before we go in?”

  Gilford looked down at her, as though asking her permission. She nodded, and they both followed Herb into his office.

  Like the rest of the mortuary, this was an elegant, quiet, dark room. Several comfortable chairs were gathered around a heavy desk.

  All too well, she recalled sitting in one of those chairs, talking to Herb, looking at pictures spread across his desk. Photos of caskets. She had been attempting to make final arrangements for her vital, still young husband, whom she had kissed good-bye just before he left to work in the fields less than forty-eight hours before.

  At that time, she could hardly breathe, let alone pick out a coffin.

  Stella sat in a chair, as directed, but hoped that Herb Jameson would say his piece quickly and let her escape the suffocating confines of the room.

  “Are you okay?” Manny softly asked again as he sat on the chair next to hers. “Because, if you aren’t, we can—”

  “I’m okay. What’s up, Herb?”

  She knew she was being a bit abrupt with the funeral director. So, he hadn’t shown a lot of aptitude in the alley, and he’d said some unpleasant things about a young woman who had passed. She had no reason to hate him or to act like she did.

  “First,” Herb began, “I want to apologize to you both. You being a lady, I’ll start with you, Mrs. Reid. The things I said about Miss Carr were inappropriate. I should never have said them in front of anyone, let alone a lady like yourself. I never should have even thought them. They were unkind and judgmental. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Stella searched his eyes and saw genuine remorse. “I can, Brother Herb,” she told him. “I accept and appreciate your apology.”

  “Thank you.” Herb turned to the sheriff. “And you, Sheriff Gilford . . . I behaved like an idiot the other day, not knowing the simplest things that a coroner should know. To be honest with you, when I took the job, I never dreamed I’d ever have to investigate a murder. I didn’t study up like I should have. At least on the basic procedures. I was wrong. But I’ve been making up for lost time now, and if, God forbid, you should ever need me to fulfill my duties as a coroner again, I’ll be much better prepared.”

  Gilford seemed as impressed as Stella. “Happy to hear it, Herb. Does this mean you’ve got those blood-type tests done for me?”

  “I do.” Herb grabbed a folder off his desk and shoved it into the sheriff’s hands. “Priscilla was A negative. Only six percent of people here in the United States are A negative. Of those ten swabs I took there at the foot of the stairs, all ten were A negative.”

  “Then she was probably the only bleeder at the scene,” Gilford replied. “Good to know.”

  “Also,” Herb continued, “the samples I took from the bedspread and the brush upstairs were A positive. The hairs on the brush were microscopically similar to Miss Carr’s, enough to say they were most likely hers.”

  “Thank you, Herb. This is all helpful,” Manny said, looking over the paperwork. “I also see you found more evidence of strangulation.”

  “That’s right!” Herb said enthusiastically, quite proud of himself. “Besides the bruising that you saw on her neck, her hyoid bone was definitely broken.”

  “What does that mean?” Stella asked.

  “The hyoid bone is deep in the neck and not easily broken,” Manny replied. “Since she wasn’t in a car accident and had no gunshot wound, she was almost certainly strangled. That makes her manner of death strangulation, and her cause of death homicide.”

  “But she was still alive when I got there,” Stella said, trying to understand.

  “Barely,” Herb replied. “Strangulation doesn’t always mean instant death. The throat can continue to swell after a choking. People have died minutes, hours, days, or even months after they’ve been choked, all from the damage it causes.”

  “Oh, I see.” Stella felt sick inside, thinking of Priscilla fighting for breath through swollen passages that were narrowing by the moment.

  “That’s impressive work, Herb.” Manny handed back the folder. “Is that all?”

  “One more thing. She has a little girl.”

  “What?” Stella stared at Herb. “Prissy was a mother?”

  “She was. I was trying to find out if she has any next of kin there in Chesterville, where she’s from . . . someone who’d like to say how and where she should be buried. She has no siblings, and her parents are gone. But her aunt’s been raising her five-year-old girl, hoping that Priscilla would get her life back on track. Seems that at one time Prissy wanted to be a nurse, but . . . ”

  “I’ll need the name of that aunt and any contact information you might have for her,” Gilford said. “I’ll have to find out if Prissy had any enemies in Chesterville that we don’t know about.”

  “Here’s her phone number, Sheriff,” Herb said, handing Manny a piece of paper. “I already asked the aunt when I talked to her if she had any idea who might have done it, but she had no clue.”

  “Then she isn’t here tonight?” Stella asked.

  “No. She thought it would be better if she stayed with her great-niece. But she paid for the funeral and asked that I do a nice job for Prissy. I did. The best I could.”

  Stella stood along with Manny, and Herb walked them to the door.

  For a moment, she reached over and touched her church brother’s arm. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad we’re on good terms again. I don’t like being on the outs with people I care about.”

  “I feel the same way,” he told her. “Life’s too short.”

  Stella nodded. “You, of all people, should know that.”

  * * *

  When Stella walked into the visitation room with Sheriff Gilford and Herb Jameson on either side of her, the first person to greet her was Elsie Dingle.

  It took only seconds for Elsie to cross the room and enfold Stella in a warm, comforting embrace. Stella melted against her comfy, cushy friend, savoring every moment.

  When Stella finally pulled back and looked down into her friend’s beautiful, dark eyes, she said, “What would I do without you, Sister Elsie, and those hugs of yours?”

  “Don’t know,” was the
cheerful reply. “But you’ll never have to find out, ’cause I’ll always be nearby when you need one.”

  Manny and Herb drifted away in opposite directions, leaving Stella and Elsie to mull over the more mundane topics commonly discussed at visitations.

  “How does she look?” Stella asked, nodding toward the coffin at the end of the room.

  “Pretty as a picture,” Elsie told her. “Brother Jameson did a fine job on her. Her hair in particular. Herb always has been good with hair, you know.”

  “Yes,” Stella agreed. “He’s downright gifted when it comes to hair. That’s for sure.”

  “Prissy looks like Snow White, only with bleached blond hair, lyin’ there all prettied up, just waiting for her prince to come along and give her a big kiss to wake her.”

  Stella winced just a bit at Elsie’s choice of metaphor. Looking around the room, Stella could see numerous couples who had come to pay their respects. She was a bit surprised, considering the rumors about previous visitations of another sort—the ones to Prissy’s apartment.

  Stella couldn’t imagine how awkward it was for those men to accompany their wives on this somber occasion. To see one’s mistress lying in a coffin would be bad enough. To have to do so while holding your wife’s hand in a room full of your neighbors had to be even worse.

  Stella tried to drum up some sympathy in her heart for them, but she couldn’t. As far as she was concerned, an awkward evening at a funeral home was a small price to pay for breaking one’s marriage vows.

  “I’ll tell you who don’t seem so good tonight,” Elsie whispered. “And that’s Flo. She looks downright peaked, and she’s cranky, too. Noni Wilde asked her where Bud is, and Flo ’bout bit her head off and spit it back at her. What do you reckon’s wrong with her?”

  Stella stifled a groan and wished that Florence would make some sort of public proclamation about her and Bud’s separation. Trying to cover for her was getting to be wearisome.

  She glanced over at Florence, who was talking to Pastor O’Reilly and his wife, Connie. They seemed deep in conversation. Stella could tell that Florence was having a hard time appearing cheerful. She never had been very good at hiding her feelings. At least not the bad ones.