Who Let That Killer In The House? (3 page)

While Martha and Shana rehashed some of the plays, Clarinda and I gathered up our little bit of litter. Down on the field, Yasheika joined the other coaches. Ronnie shifted so he was around the circle from her. Those two were as tall and as slim as two swords and about as friendly. Seemed like they couldn’t be on the same patch of earth without clashing. Bethany said they got along fine on the ball field, but I suspected that was because both respected DeWayne. Any time they weren’t coaching, they were saying mean and hateful things to each other. Clarinda muttered so only I could hear, “That girl may know softball, but she don’t know men from nothin’. Men need time alone together, without some baby sister all the time hangin’ round.” “She’s not just a baby sister, she’s a coach,” I reminded her.

“Whatever she is, Ronnie can’t stand her. Says she’s all the time pushing herself in where she’s not wanted.” She bent and picked up the small cooler she’d brought. “Well, I gotta be gettin’ home. We got a dinner after church tomorrow, and I still have to do my cooking.” She made her way down the bleachers and stopped by the fence to call to Ridd and Bethany.

I thought fondly that nobody could see those two and Joe Riddley without knowing they were related. They had the same long legs, lanky frame, and way of walking like their joints were connected by rubber bands. They even had the same tinge of cinnamon under the skin from Joe Riddley’s Cherokee grandmother. The primary difference between them was hair. Joe Riddley’s was coarse, almost black, and straight. Bethany’s was softer and a slightly lighter brown, while Ridd, like my daddy, had lost most of his before he was thirty.

I saw another patch of scalp down there, so when Martha stopped talking to Shana and began to gather up her stuff, I asked softly, “Is Buddy losing his hair?”

Martha gave a gurgle of laughter. “Hollis says he is. She claims he mousses it, to make it look fuller.”

“She ought to be ashamed to tell other people. Not many handsome bachelor uncles spend afternoons and weekends carting nieces around.”

“And until she started driving, that niece needed a lot of carting.” I’d heard that criticism from Martha before. She and Ridd didn’t permit Bethany more than two activities a semester, but Hollis played several sports, sang in both the school chorus and the church youth choir, and was in the school drama group. “She’s teaching swimming and life-guarding at the city pool and taking voice lessons this summer.” Martha made voice lessons sound like the very last straw.

“It’s something to do besides hang around the house,” I pointed out. “That big old place could seem real empty with Sara Meg at work and Garnet’s nose always in a book.” Sara Meg and the girls lived in the house Sara Meg and Buddy had grown up in, an enormous Victorian.

Poor Sara Meg. That house and its furniture were about all she had from her ancestors, although the Tanners had been right prosperous for several generations. Josiah Tanner founded a general store in 1845 that evolved into Tanners’ Clothing. For more than a century, three generations of Tanners dressed Hope County and places beyond. Unfortunately, Sara Meg’s daddy, Walter, inherited neither his daddy’s business sense nor his excellent taste in clothing. Once the interstate was built, folks preferred to drive to Augusta to shop. Walter went bankrupt the year before he died and would have lost the house, too, if his lawyer hadn’t urged him earlier to put it in the children’s names. Walter, an impractical, self-centered man, decided to give it to Sara Meg, with the stipulation that he could live there all his life and she’d take care of him. To his son he left “the rest of my estate”—which turned out to be nothing.

After Walter died, Sara Meg came home from college and went to work at a construction company to support herself and eight-year-old Buddy. When she met Fred and they fell in love, he treated Buddy like his own kid brother. After they married, he insisted they have the house appraised and pay a sum each month into the bank to buy what he and Sara Meg both called “Buddy’s half of the house.” That fairness was what put Buddy through college—including the year he wasted in architecture before he decided to become a CPA. Now, since Fred’s death, Hollis was real blunt about the fact that, “If it weren’t for Uncle Buddy, we couldn’t belong to the country club, Garnet couldn’t take piano, and I couldn’t play sports.”

Down on the field, Buddy grabbed Hollis in a bear hug and swung her around and around.

Brandi’s mother propped her fists on her hips. “That young man is far too old for Hollis. What are her parents thinking? They are
never
around.”

I spoke sharper than I intended, because I was a tad annoyed at how she jumped to conclusions without getting the facts. “That’s her uncle Buddy. Her mother can’t afford to leave work on Saturdays.”

“That’s the busiest day of the week at Children’s World,” Martha added.

Shana shaded her eyes against the sun. “Is that where she works? I haven’t been in. We just moved here in March, from Chicago.”

Maybe she didn’t mean to sound like the move hadn’t been her idea and she thought Hopemore had tacky little stores, but I felt another spurt of indignation. Granted, Hopemore isn’t as big as Chicago—we have about thirteen thousand people in what our Chamber of Commerce calls “Greater Hopemore.” But we’ve got some fine people here with reason to be proud of their family businesses. Sara Meg Stanton was one of them. She started that store with nothing but Fred’s life-insurance money and was making a go of it by sheer hard work. “She owns the business,” I informed Shana, “and it’s a great store.”

Martha picked up a candy wrapper Cricket had dropped. “
Southern Living
said last year that Sara Meg has one of the best collections of hand-painted children’s furniture and smocked children’s clothing in the South. She paints the furniture and smocks the clothes herself.”

“She’s a great painter,” I bragged. “She studied three years at the Savannah College of Art and Design.”

Shana primped up her mouth. “That’s nice, but children need their parents around. She could at least shut down for her daughter’s games—or hire more help.” She bent to retrieve a shirt one of her boys had left under the seat and started stuffing it into a canvas carryall.

I opened my mouth to tell her how hard it is to get and pay good help in a store with a small profit margin, but Martha touched my arm in warning. As an emergency-room nurse, she’s had a lot of training in anger management and keeping things calm. “Sara Meg would love to be here,” she assured Shana, “but she can’t afford to close the shop or hire help. There’s a rumor that a big superstore is going to be built just outside of town, and—”

“Those old boll weevils!” I muttered to myself.

Shana stopped stuffing the shirt into her carryall. “What do you mean by that?”

“Boll weevils are bugs that suck the heart out of cotton and leave it dead. They plagued the South years ago. Now, superstores are doing the same thing to little towns across the country.”

She propped one hand on her hip, her face as pink as her shirt. “My husband was sent here to build that store. It will eventually provide a hundred jobs in Hope County.”

My mama didn’t raise me to be rude to strangers, but this woman had pushed my button once too often. “Not at the management level, it won’t. It may employ a lot of people at minimum wage or a little above, but business owners and managers will lose their jobs, local stores will go under, and all the profits will leave the county. Stockholders in California and Michigan may smile, but folks in Hopemore won’t. Our whole downtown will dry up into antique stores, thrift shops, and cell-phone offices.”

“It’s the wave of the future, sweetie. Get used to it.” Shana hefted her cooler and smacked it down on the bleacher like she’d rather whack me on the head.

I felt like she already had. For weeks we’d been hearing a rumor about the superstore, but nobody had confirmed it until now. Martha’s worried eyes met mine. A superstore would not only put Sara Meg out of business, it would hurt the nursery side of Yarbrough’s. We could offer better-quality plants and advice, but we could never match their prices. Joe Riddley and I had no mortgage and both our kids were grown and married, so we could support ourselves selling fertilizer, seed, and animal feed, but we’d have to let people go. The thought made me ill.

Maybe Shana noticed how quiet we’d gotten, because she offered us a sop. “The new store won’t be carrying hand-painted furniture and hand-smocked dresses.” She wadded candy wrappers and set them beside ten drink cans and three water bottles on the bleacher.

I heaved a sigh from my toes. “Sara Meg can’t support two girls and put them through college on painted furniture and smocking. Most of her business is school clothes, birthday party presents, and toys.” My throat clogged with tears. “She’ll never survive.”

The woman shrugged—which she shouldn’t do, dressed that way—and said tartly, “My mother used to say God shows how much He loves us by giving us burdens to make us stronger.”

That raised even Martha’s hackles. “Then Sara Meg ought to be the strongest woman in Georgia. Her mother died when she was fourteen and her brother two. She raised him until she went to art school. Her senior year there, their daddy died leaving them without a penny. She quit school without complaint and came home to work in order support herself and Buddy.”

“Well, she’s done all right for herself. She lives in one of the biggest houses in town. I asked about it when we were looking for a place—it would have been perfect for us. But the Realtor said she wouldn’t consider selling.”

“Of course not!” I wanted to shake her until her eyeballs rolled. “Sara Meg’s great-great-granddaddy built that house, and besides, it’s paid for.”

“She could sell it for a bundle and buy a smaller place. Then she could hire help and come to her daughter’s games. Support is so important to a child at this age. And where’s Hollis’s father? He’s never around.” The woman’s blue eyes were wide and hot, framed by sticky lashes. If she didn’t already know her mascara had run down one cheek, I wasn’t going to tell her.

“Hollis’s daddy is dead,” I snapped.

“He was a fireman,” Martha explained, “and got killed in a fire. Her uncle Buddy’s been the only daddy Hollis has had for the last six years.”

At least Shana had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Well, I gotta be going.” As she picked up her cooler to leave, she suggested, “Maybe Ms. Stanton can get a job in the new store.” She clomped down the bleachers, leaving her trash.

When she was out of earshot, I told Martha, “She’s got a mighty peculiar notion of God.”

Martha laughed, sat down, and stretched her short legs onto the bench Shana had left. “As if God needs to bring trouble on us, the way we’re so willing to bring it on ourselves. And what we don’t bring on ourselves, other folks are generally happy to provide.”

I watched two clouds drift together to cover the sun. “Fred Stanton was killed because our fire equipment was substandard and the county commission had refused to authorize money to replace it.”

Martha laid a plump hand over mine. “As that group of folks you and Pop took to the next meeting so eloquently pointed out.”

The clouds were almost together now. Only a sliver of sun remained. “I just wish we’d spoken up earlier.”

“Do you ever wonder, Mac, how many awful things happen around us because we don’t get involved? It’s a sobering thought.” She gave a puff of dismay. “Speaking of which, Shana forgot her bag.”

I would have let that bag rot right there, but Martha picked it up and headed down the bleachers. I sat watching the sun come back from behind the clouds and remembered how glad most folks were when Sara Meg married Fred. Of course, there were a few who thought a Tanner ought to marry only a doctor, a lawyer, or a businessman, but most were tickled that she’d found that big gentle fireman with a face full of freckles and hair like a penny. With her splendid auburn hair, they made a striking couple. When the girls came along, everybody loved to see the Stantons, hair blazing in two shades of red, sharing ice cream downtown or walking down the aisle at church. For fourteen years they seemed a storybook family—until Fred was killed.

The amazing thing was, all the while that trouble followed her up one year and down another, Sara Meg kept smiling. She had a drop-dead gorgeous smile with white, even teeth and a brave happy look in her dark eyes that made the whole town love her. Only Joe Riddley said there was something not quite natural about Sara Meg and her smile. “She doesn’t let things touch her,” he claimed. “Walks around with her eyes half-closed and doesn’t see a thing except what she wants to see.” Sara Meg had seen so much trouble, it seemed to me she had a right to shut out as much as she could.

Speaking of trouble, who was that handsome blond man Bethany was all twined around down on the field? I asked as soon as Martha panted back up the bleachers, still carrying the bag and gasping, “I couldn’t catch her. But I saw Buddy and told him to meet us at Myrtle’s.”

“That’s good. But who is that boy with Bethany?”

Martha heaved a disgusted mother’s sigh. “Ridd calls him her latest mistake. His name is Todd Wylie. He’s nineteen, and he lives over in Louisville. They met at some party, and he’s been hanging around her for nearly a month. We think he’s too old for her, and too fast, but every time we say a word against him, she gets all stony-faced.”

I could have said a few words against him myself. He was kissing my granddaughter down on the ball field in front of God and everybody, and she didn’t seem to mind a bit.

Martha sighed again. “I’ve been wondering whether I ought to ask Hollis to caution Bethany a bit.”

“Honey, I’m not sure right now Bethany would hear a word anybody said.”

Martha looked down to where Buddy was shaking Garnet’s elbow to tell her it was time to leave. Garnet shut her book with obvious reluctance and rose to follow him. “Sometimes I wish Bethany were more like Garnet—interested in nothing except books and music.”