A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📖

Two people were sitting in their cars when I got back to the store, waiting for a storm to blow through. And, of course, waiting for me. I tried to get help from Billie, a local woman who enjoyed time away from her three demanding kids, but she needed to take one of her passel to the pediatrician in Boone. I parked as close to the store as possible, ran from my truck, unlocked the front door, and tore off the Sorry sign. As they hurried in, dripping wet, I made my apologies. I felt better when one nodded and the other even smiled, seeming to understand the circumstances.

I knew I shouldn’t dread customers, but at that moment, all I wanted to do was brew some coffee and grab something to eat. Besides, if they were like the parade so far that week, they were mostly in the market for a firsthand report on the biggest news since Jimmy Carter campaigned in town six years ago.

“Hey, honey,” a third customer warbled as she came through the door, her sensible plastic rain bonnet and long yellow slicker keeping her dry. “How’re doing?”

Dammit, what a cynic I’ve turned into, I said to myself. Myrtle and Roy Ledford, her husband of fifty-two years, were some of my best customers. And early on, they’d welcomed me into their home, where I’d sampled my first—and last—moonshine. Something interesting always happened there. One evening, Roy pulled out his grandfather’s wax-canister phonograph and played a recording of a tinny voice singing, “I thought you were a dream, but you were just an old string bean.” Another time, they regaled me with stories of Roy’s bootleg days, right out of Thunder Road. He’d gotten caught and sent to the federal prison in Ohio. Ever since, thirty some years later, locals still referred to him as “Roy He-Went-Up-the-River Ledford.”

I always returned from their home laden with gifts—canned peaches and freshly baked bread, honey and jam, biscuits and pies. Until folks got to know you, being new could generate suspicion. But others wanted to be the first to entertain you, sometimes so they could one-up their neighbors, but mostly out of genuine kindness.

Myrtle’s voice sounded as though she had Parkinson’s, but she was as healthy at seventy-one as I was some twenty some years behind her. She’d suffered from the lousy medical care at the local hospital, when the slip of a scalpel during a simple procedure had damaged her vocal cords. “You sure had a rough day yesterday,” she added, piling groceries into her basket.

“You was lucky you had that old dog with you,” Roy added. 

“I was, Roy. In fact, I’m lucky to have Jake any day.”

The mention of his name sent Jake howling upstairs. He’d turned out to be the perfect shop dog. The first day he joined me in the store, he just naturally knew how to behave when strangers came and went. He held strong opinions about being part of the scene.

“Speaking of the devil,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

The rain had let up, so I didn’t have to rush up the stairs. Good thing. My ankle felt better, but it still bothered me enough to cause a limp. I’d barely opened the door before Jake flew past me, down the steps. I followed, and as I rounded the corner, I saw him pressing his nose against the door where it met the frame, willing it to open. Roy obliged, so I took advantage of the moment and sat on one of the benches out front under the overhang, where the seats were dry. The sun was out again, and the fresh spring air carried the sweet scent of the hyacinths blooming nearby.

I looked over at Abit’s empty chair. Where was he? I should’ve been glad he was off doing something more constructive, but I liked knowing he was nearby. I cracked the front door and asked, “Everybody doing okay?” Jake looked up sheepishly as Roy rubbed him behind his ears. He broke away and started running around the store, sussing out smells and possible rodents; he was better than any cat. “I want to check on Abit.”

“You go ahead, honey. We’ve got a good bit of shopping to do,” Myrtle answered for everyone. 

I took my time up the long flight of stone stairs to Vester and Mildred’s front porch. As I approached the house, I could see Abit sitting at the table, talking to his mother, finishing off a piece of apple pie.

“Hey, Della, how’d it go?”

“Well, as good as could be expected. I wanted to let you know I’m back.”

Mildred didn’t frown, like she often did when I made a fuss over Abit. She had a prim mouth that said more about her thoughts than the few words that came out of it. I worried that she didn’t trust me, or maybe she didn’t like sharing her son’s attention. “Mildred, thanks for last night. It was good to talk to all of you.”

“I know that was mighty hard on you,” Mildred said. Looking down at the cars pulling up in front of the store, she added, “And I know you’ll be busy for the next few days with shoppers and gossipers. Why don’t you stop by for supper tomorrow evening? I’m cooking a fresh ham.”

Mildred’s cooking was better than some four-star restaurants in D.C. I flashed on a table laden with homemade biscuits and beans and corn pudding and probably another fresh pie. “Sounds great, and I could use some company. It’s harder at night.” When I squeezed Abit’s shoulder, he spoke through a mouthful of pie, something that sounded remotely like, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Three more cars were lined up, with another pulling in as I headed down their steps. Lately, it felt as though all I did was go up and down stairs. Some days, especially before June when the tourists came, maybe only ten people shopped all day, and I was wishing for one of those now. Then I remembered my bank balance and quickened my step, best I could.

Chapter 9: Abit

I was enjoying all the people coming and going that week. More cops—different departments and duties—and even some guy up from Asheville. That reporter from our local newspaper was coming by a lot, too. Earlier, Della had made a joke about the Mountain Weakly, but I didn’t get it. When she explained it to me, I snorted so hard, I got some Coca-Cola up my nose.

That babe from the new gallery stopped by at closing time on Wednesday. Della told me she was coming for some wine and cheese and chitchat, and I could see them inside when I had to go home to Mama.

We still didn’t know who that dead girl was—just that her name began with L, but nothin’ else. Not a peep from anyone after the articles in the newspaper and even some news stories on TV. And nobody knew who the guy was who ran through the woods and told Della about the body. Brower said in one of the articles that he was probably just some tourist out for a nice walk in the woods. “That’ll be a walk he doesn’t forget any time soon,” Brower told the reporter. What a jerk.

So, all kinds of gossip was flying. Brower and those other cops stuck with suicide. Della told me too many things seemed off to just leave it at that, but she admitted that we didn’t have any evidence that L was murdered, either. Of course, that didn’t stop two local thugs who didn’t have nothin’ better to do than to get stinkin’ drunk and do mean things. I’d seen ‘em come by the store for beer, but I went to bed too early to know what they was up to, late at night, cruising the county and acting up.

When I came down to the store the next morning, though, I found big red painted letters on Della’s picture window: MUIDEIEI. It was real scary looking, like blood with lots of drips. I figured it was a word I hadn’t learned yet. Whatever it meant, I knew it was no good, so I got some blades from Daddy’s toolbox and started scraping. I was still on the letter U when Della came downstairs. Jake was jumping round all happy to see me, like we hadn’t just seen each other the day before.

“What does MUIDEIEI mean, Della?”

“MURDERER, honey, but the R’s dripped into one big slug of a letter—those three letters that look like I? Someone was writing MURDERER on my store.” I barely heard her, her voice so low.

“There’s no ‘someone’ about it. You know it’s got to be them drunks Buddy and Donnie. Don’t pay them no mind.” I went back to scraping. “And besides, ain’t no way you done the murder, even if she were killed. Why in the world would they write that on your store?”

Della just stood there a while before asking, “Do you have another one of those razor blades?”

Chapter 10: Della

Not long after Abit and I finished cleaning the window, Tony Benedict, the reporter from the Mountain Weekly, walked in. His shirt was buttoned wrong, and coffee stains made a peculiar pattern down the front. Over the past twenty-five years, I’d seen a world of sloppy reporters. It was a hard life, and once you got engrossed in a story, personal hygiene could take a hit.

Ever since I’d found the dead woman, it seemed Tony couldn’t stay away from the store. No one at his paper had given Coburn’s as much as a new-business listing when I first opened. Not that I cared all that much, but I couldn’t understand why Dockery Real Estate got a half-page spread and Coburn’s didn’t merit a mention. Well, I knew, but I couldn’t change that.

“Mornin’, Miss,” he said, as if he didn’t know my name. I nodded. “Just wanted to let you know that we’re running the memorial service notice, the one Father Max has planned for next Wednesday. I got it in just before the deadline for this week, so it’s in today’s paper.”

“Well, I’m sure your readership will be up this week. People seem to be, well, enjoying this tragedy. How many pages this week?”

He looked surprised and answered, “Twenty-four.”

“From twelve? Wow. You are doing good.”

“Hey, we’re not trying to milk this or anything. We think it’s important to keep people informed.”

“Okay. Now let’s hope all those