Who Let That Killer In The House? Read Online Free Page A

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