Who Let That Killer In The House? Read Online Free

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.