Murder in the Corn Maze Read online

  Books by G.A. McKevett

  SAVANNAH REID MYSTERIES

  Just Desserts

  Bitter Sweets

  Killer Calories

  Cooked Goose

  Sugar and Spite

  Sour Grapes

  Peaches and Screams

  Death by Chocolate

  Cereal Killer

  Murder à la Mode

  Corpse Suzette

  Fat Free and Fatal

  Poisoned Tarts

  A Body to Die For

  Wicked Craving

  A Decadent Way to Die

  Buried in Buttercream

  Killer Honeymoon

  Killer Physique

  Killer Gourmet

  Killer Reunion

  Every Body on Deck

  Hide and Sneak

  Bitter Brew

  GRANNY REID MYSTERIES

  Murder in Her Stocking

  Murder in the Corn Maze

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  G.A. MCKEVETT

  MURDER in the CORN MAZE

  A GRANNY REID MYSTERY

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Sonja Massie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2019940171

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1629-3

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1631-6 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1631-0 (e-book)

  Lovingly dedicated to mothers everywhere:

  those who bear children,

  those who raise ones born to others,

  and those who, by necessity, have mothered themselves.

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank all the fans who write to me, sharing their thoughts and offering endless encouragement. Your stories touch my heart, and I enjoy your letters more than you know. I can be reached at:

  [email protected]

  and

  facebook.com/gwendolynnarden.mckevett

  Chapter 1

  “Who woulda thought a shaggy ol’ brown rug could change a nice little boy into a snarlin’, spittin’-mad grizzly bear?”

  Stella Reid stuck her needle into her pin cushion, sat back in her recliner, and admired her handiwork. Taking her praise to heart, her nine-year-old grandson, Waycross, cranked up the drama by lunging at his oldest sister, paper claws “shredding” the air a few inches from her nose.

  “Watch yourself there, Mr. Grizzly Bear,” Savannah warned him with all the authority of a precocious sixth-grader. “I’m the one carryin’ the gun, and I’m death on soup cans on a fence. I could take you down with one shot.”

  “Could not neither!” Waycross stood on tiptoes in a vain attempt to be eyeball-to-eyeball with his sister. “That’s nothin’ but a silly BB gun you got there, and it ain’t loaded! Even if it was, it couldn’t bring down a rabbit, let alone a snarlin’, spittin’-mad grizzly bear like me.”

  He turned to his grandmother, his freckled face almost as red as his mop of curly hair, which was sticking out from under the cap with round bear ears—also made from what had formerly been Stella’s kitchen sink rug. “She couldn’t take down no grizzly bear with a dumb ol’ BB gun, huh, Gran?”

  Some days, Stella felt like 90 percent of her time and energy were spent acting as judge and jury to settle disputes between her grandchildren. With all seven of them living beneath her roof, there was seldom a moment when there wasn’t some sort of “trial” underway.

  She liked to tell herself that she was “growing in understanding” along the way. She figured by the time she got to the Pearly Gates, she’d be able to give King Solomon himself a run for his money in the wisdom department.

  “It’s Halloween, Mr. Waycross,” she said with a tired sigh. “So, your sister’s as much of a real hunter as you are a real grizzly bear.” She reached over and tucked some of his copper curls back beneath the cap. “And I reckon her gun’s about as deadly as your claws. You both better show each other some heartfelt respect, if you intend to get through that parade tonight still alive and kickin’, let alone with the prize!”

  Both kids giggled, and the argument was ended, at least for the time being. Stella savored the momentary peace.

  But her golden silence was short-lived.

  A few seconds later, a series of bloodcurdling shrieks erupted from the children’s bedroom. It sounded like someone’s hide was being removed, inch by inch, with red-hot pinchers.

  Or perhaps, one of the girls had grabbed eleven-year-old Marietta’s favorite hair bow. With Miss Mari it was often hard to tell if she was being tortured or just pitching a hissy fit.

  Stella jumped to her feet and ran from the living room into the bedroom, ready to apply a tourniquet, fetch the fire extinguisher, or remove sharp objects that had been manually inserted into a kid—who might or might not themselves be innocent—by a malicious, mischievous sibling.

  Fortunately, the latter didn’t happen often, but it wasn’t exactly unheard of in the Reid household.

  The last incident was when ten-year-old Vidalia had snuck beneath the bed and stabbed the sleeping Marietta in the rear with a hat pin.

  The injury was worse than what Stella could treat with her bottle of Merthiolate and had required a trip to the doctor’s office for a tetanus shot. Then there was a follow-up visit for antibiotics when the wound got infected.

  Vidalia had spent some meaningful, educational time with her grandmother behind the henhouse for that infraction.

  As Stella charged into the bedroom, she hoped that whatever the crisis might be, it would prove less expensive this time. Doctor visits, shots, and penicillin didn’t come cheap these days, and she did well to afford oatmeal, bologna, and potatoes.

  The vision that greeted her inside the tiny bedroom was one of mayhem. She had arrived not a moment too soon, because Marietta was trying to pull Vidalia off the top berth of one of the three sets of bunk beds. Only a year younger than Marietta and nearly as large, Vidalia wasn’t making it easy for her.

  Although she was completely off the bed, Vidalia’s arms and legs were wrapped around the railing, and she was hanging on for dear life.

  To make the scene even more bizarre, Marietta was attired in a red, chiffon evening dress and Vidalia a tropical-print, satin sarong. Both dresses had been borrowed from Stella’s next-door neighbor, whose extensive wardrobe was far fancier than her own.

  The girls also wore paper crowns spangled with glitter and the occasional rhinestone.

  In the four seconds it took Stella to rush across the room, pull Marietta off her sister, and lower Vidalia safely to the floor, Stella had plenty of time to wonder how those crowns had managed to stay on during the fight that would have put a St. Paddy’s Day, Irish donnybrook to shame.

  “That stupid-face, contrary Mari was trying to snatch my crown,” Vidalia wailed. “She was fixin’ to rip it right off my head after me spendin’ all day long gluin’ glitter and diamonds on it!”

  “I need it more than she does!” Marietta yelled. “She’s just a princess, and I’m a queen. I need to wear the bigger crown, or we’ll both look dumb as gutter dirt, and folks will laugh at us tonight at the parade.”

  Stella stood for a moment, staring at her granddaughter, whose audacity never failed to amaze and alarm her. Not to mention the girl’s vocabulary.

  “Do you have any idea what ‘gutter dirt’ is, Miss Marietta?”

  The child thought it over for a while, then shrugged. “No, but it’s what Vidalia’s made of. And rat tails and slug slime and maggot poop and—”

  “Okay! That’ll be quite enough out of you, young lady. Apologize to your sister for manhandlin’ her, sayin’ ugly things about her, and tryin’ to snatch the crown off her that she worked so hard on, just because you like it better than the one you made.”

/>   “But—!”

  “No buts! Apologize and mean it, or you and me’s gonna continue this discussion behind the woodshed.”

  “We ain’t got no woodshed!”

  “As you know, the henhouse does fine in a pinch. You sass me one more time, young lady, I’ll be takin’ you out there and introducin’ you to Miss Hickory Switch. And believe you me, you won’t like her one bit!”

  Marietta weighed the pros and cons far longer than Stella would have liked.

  I’m gonna have to find new ways to instill fear and trembling, or at least a smidgeon of respect, in that young’un or we’re both doomed, she thought.

  Finally, Marietta mumbled a lackluster, one-syllabled “Sorry,” in her sister’s general direction.

  “That was one of the puniest apologies ever uttered in the history of the world,” Stella told her. “Try again. Harder.”

  “S-o-o-o-r! R-e-e-e-e!” Marietta shouted in her sister’s face. “I’m so, so, so sorry, Vidalia Reid . . . that your face looks like a skunk’s rear end!”

  “That’s it!” Stella grabbed Marietta by the hand and escorted her out of the bedroom, through Stella’s own bedroom and the living room, where Savannah and Waycross watched, eyes wide and mouths open.

  “Wait! Granny! Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute! Where’re you takin’ me? Are you gonna give me a beatin’?” Marietta asked when Stella pulled her out the front door and slammed it behind them.

  Stella looked down at Marietta and saw traces of genuine fear in the child’s eyes. She thought of the times she had seen her daughter-in-law raise her hand to the children. Violence and cursing were the only tools in Shirley Reid’s parenting kit. They were all the children had known until the courts had removed them from their mother and placed them in Stella’s custody.

  “No, child,” Stella told her granddaughter. “I would never beat you, and this time I’m not even gonna spank you, though sometimes you do stand on my last nerve and dance a jig. I’m fixin’ to sit you down over here in a place of repose.”

  She led her to the large porch swing and settled her onto it.

  “What’s ‘a place of repose’?” Marietta asked, flouncing about like a hen sitting on a nest made of barbed wire.

  “A peaceful spot where you can rest and—”

  “I ain’t tired.”

  “You should be. After all that hullabaloo, you should be plumb wore to a frazzle. Rest, like I said, and compose yourself, and reconsider your ways.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Think about what you did wrong.”

  “I didn’t do a blamed thing wrong! It’s Vi who did wrong! She’s the one you should be pushin’ down on swings. She’s too dumb to know that a queen needs a bigger crown than—”

  “Hush, Marietta Reid. Just ’cause you’re reposin’ on the porch, don’t mean that marchin’ you off behind the henhouse ain’t still a consideration if you keep smarting off to me. I am your grandmother, and I won’t abide it!”

  They glared at each other for what seemed, at least to Stella, a miserably long time before the child finally looked away and sighed. Her shoulders and her chin dropped a notch.

  Stella had a feeling that was as much of a sign of contrition as she was likely to get this go-around.

  “That’s right. You sit there and think about how you could’ve handled the last ten minutes differently and had a better out-come.”

  Marietta opened her mouth to retort but seemed to think better of it and shut it.

  As Stella walked back to the door, she added, “Don’t you dare lift your hind end off that swing till I come back to fetch you.”

  As she walked inside the old shotgun house and closed the screen door behind her, Stella whispered a heartfelt prayer. “Lord, please fill my heart with patience for that child. Otherwise, I’m afraid that one of these days me and her’s gonna tangle, and I’m not sure who’d win.”

  Chapter 2

  A few hours later, as Stella stood with the crowd on Main Street in McGill, Georgia, watching the tiny town’s annual Halloween parade go by, she couldn’t help beaming with pride at the Reid children.

  Her family was well represented, if she did say so herself. Unlike many of the other costumes that had been purchased through catalogues and on out-of-town shopping expeditions, her grandchildren’s outfits were homemade. Gathering whatever they could find around the house and yard, they had used their imagination, thread, glue, and nails to transform themselves into characters they loved and admired.

  The youngest, little first-grader Jesup, had chosen to be Tinkerbell for a night, in an old olive T-shirt, cut with a jagged hem. Cotton balls had been glued together to create large pom-poms that were then stuck to the tops of green flip-flops. Some coat hangers and panty hose had been transformed into translucent wings that bobbed nicely as she marched along, carrying a wand made of a broken broomstick, its tip dipped in glue, then glitter.

  She was prancing down the street, dousing bystanders with her leftover “fairy dust.”

  But only the females.

  Stella had warned her before the parade had begun that, “Menfolk don’t cotton to gettin’ glitterfied.”

  Between Jesup flinging magic here and there with wild abandon, and the two older girls’ crowns, the glitter bill alone had laid waste to Stella’s meager Halloween budget. But seeing the smile of pure happiness on little Tinkerbell’s face, Stella decided it was money well spent.

  Someone squeezed closer to Stella, then poked her in the ribs with a fingertip. She turned and saw it was her next-door neighbor, Florence. As always, Stella had mixed feelings about seeing her childhood friend. Flo was a good person—when it suited her purposes. She was always happy to do a neighbor a favor and was equally passionate about reminding them and everyone else in town about it from that day forward.

  “Those two granddaughters of yours look mighty pretty wearing my dresses,” Florence observed, pointing at Queen Marietta, dressed in the red chiffon number with a zillion yards of net petticoats, and Princess Vidalia, in the brilliant tropical sarong that Florence had bought last summer for a wannabe luau at Judge Patterson’s antebellum mansion.

  “They do,” Stella said. “Thank you for the use of them outfits. It meant the world to the girls. They feel mighty glamorous in them.”

  “Well,” Florence sniffed. “I knew the fanciest thing in your closet was your funeral dress, the one I bought for you when your Arthur passed away, all unexpected like.”

  Stella winced. Good ol’ Flo had a way of finding a person’s deepest, most painful wound, sticking her finger right in the middle of it, and twisting.

  Discarding the first five possible retorts that ran through her mind, Stella settled on, “Thank goodness for you and your fancy dresses, Flo. Queen Marietta woulda hightailed it to Timbuktu if I’d suggested she wear my funeral dress. It’s not exactly regal.”

  “No, but you’re one of the best-dressed women at every funeral this town has, year after year.”

  Stella thought, She’s leavin’ off the “Thanks to me” part. Reckon it’s just understood.

  “Thanks to me,” Flo added.

  Or not.

  “Hey, look who’s walking over here,” Florence said, jabbing her in the ribs again. “He’s got a way of showing up wherever you are. Ever notice that?”

  Stella looked around to see who Florence was referring to . . . although she had a pretty good idea. As a result of those suspicions, her pulse rate went up at least ten points.

  Yes. There he was, strolling along the edge of the street, patrolling the parade, making sure no parent was too full of hard apple cider to keep their little ones out of the road and away from the floats and vehicles.

  “Sheriff Gilford,” Stella said when he stopped next to her and gave her a warm smile that caused her knees to weaken. “I see you’re dressed in your usual Halloween costume.”

  Manny Gilford’s celebratory attire was a running joke in the small town. Since he had joined law enforcement at the age of twenty-two, few McGillians had ever seen him in anything but his khaki uniform.