Murder in the Corn Maze, page 14
part #2 of Granny Reid Mystery Series
Stella was proud to call him her friend, and, if things had been a little bit different, they might have been far more than friends.
But there was Stella’s Art, and Manny’s Lucy, and Stella didn’t believe that either she or Manny would have truly wanted to rewrite their life history, given the chance.
“There are plenty of pretty places on this old plantation,” she told him, “if you look for ’em. Some ugly ones, too, where mighty evil things happened in times gone by. Even before the Civil War, let alone during.”
“Like the hanging tree in the front yard?”
“That’s one of the more infamous ones. But there’s plenty of others, too.” She thought of the woods near the corn maze. “Now there’s another one to add to the list.”
Manny looked around, as though getting his bearings. “Speaking of which, I don’t think we’re too far from it now. Should be right over that way, less than a quarter of a mile or so. Wonder how they’re doing?”
“You would’ve liked to have stayed, huh?”
“Yes. But these interviews are as important as anything they’re going to dig up out there. Let’s hope your friend is under that willow, like you think she is.”
It didn’t take long for them to find out. They hadn’t even reached the imposing, sixty-foot-tall willow with its golden boughs before they could hear Elsie singing.
“Whispering Hope,” Stella told Manny, recognizing the old hymn right away as one of Becky’s and her own mother’s favorites.
Manny, whose parents hadn’t been as regular in their church attendance as Becky and Gola, didn’t know what she was talking about.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Her momma used to sing that all the time. Mine too,” she explained. “Mostly when they needed to feel better about something, and that was pretty frequent.”
When they reached the tree, Stella called softly, “Elsie? Sugar, it’s me and the sheriff.”
Instantly, the song ceased. A moment later, Elsie popped her head out, looking at them from a split in the lush, golden veil.
To her relief, Stella saw that she was wearing a smile. A tired one, perhaps, but a sweet one. Stella was also happy to see that her friend’s eyes didn’t look nearly as swollen as before.
“Good afternoon, Stella,” Elsie said. “To you, too, Sheriff.”
He took off his hat and gave her a regal nod. “I’m glad to see you, Miss Dingle. Though I wish it was under happier circumstances.”
“Yes,” Elsie said sadly. “Don’t we all?” She pulled her willow “drapes” aside and waved her arm toward the inside of the canopy. “Would you two like to join me in here? It’s real nice and shady and pretty as can be.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Manny said. “We’d love to.”
He stood back and allowed Stella to walk inside, then followed close behind her.
Elsie dropped the leafy branches back into place, and the three of them were standing in a glorious, small “room” of nature’s creation.
“When we couldn’t find you in your apartment or the big house, I knew you’d be here,” Stella told her. She looked around at the leaves that glistened with a golden glow richer than any king’s ransom. “I forgot how pretty this place is.”
“Plus, people can’t find you when you’re in here,” Elsie said. “Except the ones who love you and know you best, and that’s okay.”
Manny turned to Elsie and pointed to Stella. “I’m with her. Hate to disturb you, but I’m just doing what I’m told.”
“I understand.” Elsie waved toward the bench wrapped around the tree trunk. “Won’t y’all have a seat and rest a spell? If I’d known I was going to have company, I’d have brought some cookies and hot apple cider.”
“That’s okay, sweetie,” Stella said. “This ain’t exactly a social call, I’m afraid.”
“I didn’t figure it was. I’ve seen more cheerful expressions than you two are wearin’ on the faces of pickers in the middle of a cotton field at high noon on a blistering hot day.”
The women sat down, but Manny continued to stand, his sharp eyes on an object that lay on the other side of the bench. “Were you doing a bit of reading?” he asked Elsie, nodding toward the book.
“I started to.” She picked up the small volume and passed her hand over its cover slowly, lovingly. “But I didn’t get far.”
“How come?” Stella asked. “Slow reading, was it? Boring?”
“No. It was interesting enough. A bit too interesting, in fact. That was the problem.”
Stella took it from her and looked over the cover. There was no title on either side. “What is it?”
“My momma’s diary.”
Stella and Manny exchanged quick glances. Stella felt her own heart rate rising.
“Your mother kept a diary?” Manny asked. Stella could hear the poorly hidden excitement in his voice.
“She did. Wrote in it every night, no matter how tired she was, about what happened that day.”
“Now that you mention it,” Stella said, “I remember her writing something every night after she read her Bible and said her prayers. I just thought she was making notes about what she’d read.”
“No. Nothing quite so holy as that, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?” Manny’s eyes glistened with interest. “Anything in particular that I should know about?”
Elsie shrugged. “I’m not sure, Sheriff. It’s tough stuff. I don’t know if even I want to know about it. My momma had a rough life, you know. She tried her best, but things didn’t always go so well for her.” She looked down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. “But then I guess we know all about that now. I hate it that the story of her life ended like this. She deserved better.”
“She sure did, Miss Dingle, and I’m doing everything I can to make sure she gets some justice, and whoever took her from you gets what’s coming to him, too.”
Stella was dying to open the journal and look inside, but she didn’t dare do so without Elsie’s blessing. “You say you couldn’t bring yourself to read it all yet?” she said.
“No. I couldn’t. I’ve started to a couple of times over the years, but after a few pages, I just close it back up. It didn’t feel right.”
“Really personal stuff?”
Elsie nodded. “Very personal. Let’s just say, when she was writing it, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t intending for her daughter to read it someday. It feels like I’m violating her privacy, and heaven knows, she’d been violated enough already.”
“That’s for sure,” Manny said, his voice soft and kind. “But do you reckon, if something written in those pages could guide us to her killer, it might be worth it?”
“That’s pretty much what she said, when she dropped by to see me last night.”
“She dropped by?” Manny asked. “Who? Your mother?”
Stella could see the incredulity, mixed with something that looked like a strange sort of hope, on his face.
“Yes.” Elsie nodded emphatically. “She paid me another visit last night. She told me that she appreciated the fact that I hadn’t read her diary out of respect, even though I’ve had it all these years. But she said it was time for me to take it out of the cedar chest and read every word of it. She said, ‘It’ll help you figure out what happened to all of us.’”
“All of us?” Manny asked.
His voice sounded as tight and tense as Stella felt.
“She didn’t just say her?” Stella asked. “Or both of us? She said all of us?”
Elsie nodded. “That’s what she said. I’m sure of it. She said all.”
The three sat in silence for a few moments, absorbing what they had heard and what it might mean.
“If your momma told you the truth,” Stella said, “and she was always a woman who leaned that direction, there’s more victims than just her and my own mom.”
Manny nodded solemnly. “That would indicate there’s at least three, and you know what that means.”
“What,” Elsie said, “other than that it’s a cryin’, awful shame?”
“If your mother did visit you, and she was right about how many victims there’s been . . . then we’ve got us a serial killer right here in little ol’ McGill.”
“That’s a mighty disturbing thought, if ever I heard one,” Stella said. “To think we might be rubbin’ elbows with one of those heartless monsters, just walking up and down the rows of the grocery store, let alone sitting in the pews at church.”
Elsie appeared scandalized. “Oh, I don’t think serial killers go to church, Sister Stella! There must be some kinda rule against that, surely.”
“You’d be surprised what serial killers do,” Manny said, shaking his head. “Blending in with the rest of us is one of the things they do best. It’s how they get away with their meanness and not get caught.”
Stella looked down at the book in her hands and again, ran her fingers over its soft, leather cover. “I wouldn’t ask this, Elsie, under any other circumstances. But this is a bad situation we’re in. So, please find it in your heart to forgive me for my rudeness.” She drew a deep breath. “Would you let me take your momma’s diary home with me and read it? You know I loved her to pieces. Still do. She was a fine woman, who always did the best she could. I wouldn’t judge her for a single word that’s written in these pages.”
When Elsie hesitated, Stella added, “I promise you I won’t tell anybody anything I read—except the sheriff here, that is—and only then if I truly believe it has something to do with these killings.”
It took Elsie a long time to decide. So long, in fact, that Stella thought she was going to refuse. And she wouldn’t have blamed her.
But finally, Elsie looked at her with tears glistening in her eyes and said, “Okay, Stella. I’ll let you read it, and you do whatever you feel is best with what you find. But it don’t sit easy with me. Not one bit.”
“Is there anything I can do, anything I can say, that would set your mind at ease?” Stella asked.
“I’m afraid not. Because, you see, it ain’t just about my momma’s privacy. It’s about you, Stella. If you read what’s in that book, it’s gonna hurt you somethin’ fierce. I can hardly stand the thought of that. You been hurt so much and so bad already in your life. I can’t bear to add to your burden with the words in those pages.”
“Why would I be hurt by what your momma wrote?” Stella asked, feeling a swell of apprehension rising in her spirit.
“Because some of it’s about your daddy.”
For a moment Stella felt a bit of relief. “Oh. Is that all? If that’s what you’re worried about, Elsie, don’t fret. I know all too well that Finley Quinn and the ol’ bogeyman himself were the very best of friends. Heck, everybody in town knew that. He didn’t bother to keep it a secret.”
“No,” Elsie said. “But he had some other secrets.”
“Like what?” Manny wanted to know.
Elsie’s folded hands squeezed each other tightly as she said, “Stella, when I told you about the night my momma disappeared, I didn’t tell you all I knew.”
“Okay. Can you tell me now?”
“I think I’m gonna have to.” Elsie closed her eyes, bit her lower lip, then spoke with quiet, gentle determination. “I told you that my daddy came home and caught her kissing another man.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Actually, she wasn’t kissing that man. He was kissing her. He’d come by our house like he was stopping in for a visit. But after he talked to her for a minute or so he grabbed her and was forcing her against her will. When my daddy came in and saw what was going on, I guess he didn’t realize that she was trying to fight the man off. Either that, or he didn’t care. He wasn’t the kind to check out all the facts before he administered a beatin’. Anyway, I told you that my dad chased the man away and then started to beat my momma up plumb awful.”
“I remember every word you told me,” Stella said. “To get away from him, she ran out into the cold night with no coat on.”
“No shoes neither.”
Stella glanced at Manny and saw the information register in his eyes.
“No shoes,” she heard him whisper.
“What I didn’t tell you, sugar,” Elsie said to Stella as she reached for her hand and squeezed it, “is that I knew the man. He was no stranger. He was your daddy.”
Stella said nothing as the ramifications of what she had just heard washed over her.
Becky Dingle had run out into the night to escape a man who was beating her. Had he run after her and finished the job? Or had she run right into the arms of the man who had attacked her only moments before?
Either way, it appeared that Elsie’s father or her own could have killed Rebecca Dingle.
If Elsie’s account of her mother’s latest visitation was accurate, one of their fathers might even be a serial killer.
“When you read that diary,” Elsie continued, “you’re going to find out that your daddy was after my momma a long time before that awful night. Even before your own momma got killed. Worse yet, you’re gonna find out that my momma thought he killed yours.”
Stella felt as though time had somehow stopped. All of a sudden, she was aware of everything around her: the wind rustling the golden leaves of the willow tree’s canopy; Elsie’s breath, ragged and quick; the look on Manny’s face—one of anger and sadness; and her own body trembling, as though she was standing, naked, in a snowstorm.
“I’m sorry,” she heard Elsie whisper, as though from far away.
Stella turned, held out her arms to her friend, and a moment later was enveloped in one of the famous Elsie Dingle hugs.
“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Stella said as she held her close, soaking in the love and comfort the embrace afforded. “You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ that my heart ain’t already said, years ago. I’m older now, and I just want to hear the truth. In the end, a pretty lie can make you happy for a season, but only the truth can give you peace.”
Chapter 21
After supper was over, the dishes done, baths taken, a story told, prayers said, and seven grandangels had been tucked into bed, kissed, and individually told they were the best kid alive on God’s green earth, Stella sat in her avocado, leatherette recliner and read.
After the day she had experienced, she certainly couldn’t go without her daily scripture reading and the strength it provided her weary spirit. But instead of her habitual dose of entertainment, in the form of the latest supermarket tabloid, Stella opened Becky Dingle’s diary and began to read.
She thought that Elsie’s warning had prepared her for what she would see on those pages. But to her surprise, it had not.
Nothing could.
To hear the details of the violence her father had visited upon her mother, written by her mother’s best friend . . . It was almost more than Stella could bear.
Certainly, as a child, she had grown up hearing the blows on the other side of the wall of her bedroom. Countless times she had seen them administered firsthand. How often had she watched her mother trying to cover bruises with makeup in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of her husband’s cruelty?
Far too many times.
But through it all, the young, naive Stella had thought their dark family shame was a secret to their friends and neighbors. Surely, no one knew but the three of them. Instinctively, Stella was aware that her mother believed their secrets were well hidden, as well.
Gola Quinn had to believe the lie in order to maintain her dignity, such as it was.
But the entries in Becky Dingle’s diary showed all too clearly that Becky knew what was happening to her friend and was deeply concerned about it.
Stella read passages where Becky had poured her troubled thoughts onto paper, convinced that, eventually, her dearest friend would be murdered by her husband’s hand.
The farther Stella read in the book, the more Becky’s anxiety rose. Then, abruptly, her concern changed to grief and rage. Her beloved friend had been murdered, and Becky Dingle had absolutely no doubt whatsoever about who had committed the crime.
It touched Stella’s heart deeply to see how worried Becky had been about Stella, a young child living with a man capable of such brutality.
On the pages of her book, Becky debated the pros and cons of taking what she suspected to the sheriff. It was well known in the town that Finley Quinn and the sheriff were close drinking buddies. Becky doubted anything worthwhile would come from her stepping forward. Quite the contrary, in fact.
She feared she would not only succeed in bringing Finley’s wrath down upon herself personally, but possibly put Stella in an even worse situation than she was already in.
Finley lived his life angry, getting into trouble and hurting others at every turn. Drunk and enraged, who knew what he might do?
Finally, Stella could read no more. Both her heart and her eyes had seen more than they could bear for one sitting.
She went to bed, but lay there thinking of all she had seen and heard over the past day.
It felt like a wave of dark, black mud—like that which had covered the lower part of the body in the woods—sweeping over her, pulling her to the bottom of some putrid swamp.
“Art,” she whispered. “Darlin’, I’m scared.”
As always, there was no response. Either she didn’t have the sensitivity that Elsie did when it came to hearing and speaking with those who had passed over, or maybe her husband just wasn’t as chatty as Elsie’s mother.
But that never stopped Stella from talking to him.
“I told you about my mom, what happened to her, how I found her there in the house.... You helped me a lot that night, sweetheart. I was feeling particularly low because it was her birthday, and I was missing her so bad. The things you said about me being a brave kid and how much it must have helped her to have me there when she passed over, holding her, and telling her that everything was going to be okay—even though, of course, it wasn’t . . . That was exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you.”
Again, there was no response, and Stella didn’t expect one. She had been talking to Art for over six years now with no answers. But then, even when he’d been alive, she’d done most of the talking.
