Murder Most Grave 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 A 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

  AND THE KILLER IS . . .

  A FEW DROPS OF BITTERS

  Granny Reid Mysteries

  MURDER IN HER STOCKING

  MURDER IN THE CORN MAZE

  MURDER AT MABEL’S MOTEL

  MURDER MOST GRAVE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  G. A. McKevett

  MURDER MOST GRAVE

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  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

  Chapter 39

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2022 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: 2021953425

  The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2909-5

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: June 2022

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2911-8 (e-book)

  Lovingly dedicated to Bruce,

  who doubles my joys and halves my sorrows.

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank Leslie Connell, forever a beloved member of the Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency and a dear friend.

  I also 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

  “That’s it, you little turkey butt. Snooze away. Regain your strength so’s you can torment me at dawn-thirty, when the rest o’ the world’s sound asleep and sawin’ logs. Ever’body but you and me, that is,” Stella Reid said as she gently and oh so slowly laid her sleeping six-month-old grandson in the bassinet next to her comfy chair in the living room.

  Once she had the infant settled and covered with his blue flannel blanket, she couldn’t resist one light stroke of her fingertip on his silky cheek.

  Baby skin. Softest thing on earth, she thought, feeling a flood of affection flow through her, warming her heart and reviving her exhausted body and mind.

  She smiled, whispering, “Even at four in the mornin’, I wouldn’t take a billion dollars for ya.”

  Glancing at the tarnished sunburst clock on the wall over the couch, she realized that this peaceful interlude wasn’t going to last long. Any moment now, the rest of her grandangels would return from school and tear through the front door like a pack of prairie coyotes with a brush fire at their heels.

  Make the most of it while you can, Stella May, she told herself as she settled down for a brief rest in her old, avocado leatherette recliner. Sit a spell and stick yer feet up. Lord knows, breaks from all this grannying business are few and far between these days.

  Like an instant fulfillment of her prophecy, she glanced out the window and saw a big yellow school bus slow down, pull over to the edge of the highway, chug to a stop, and swing its door open.

  A million children poured forth and began to race up the long, dirt road toward the tiny shotgun shack that had been Stella’s home for decades. Now, thanks to a compassionate sheriff, who had interceded on their behalf with the local judge, the humble house was their home, as well.

  It seemed like a million kids, though it was actually only a gaggle of grandyoung’uns.

  The Good Lord had blessed her with eight in total.

  Well, the Lord above and my horny son and his ding-a-ling wife, who still ain’t figured out that it ain’t the stork who brings babies into this world, she thought, shaking her head. Babies that need tendin’ and a heap of lovin’ and guidance for the next twenty years or so.

  But she couldn’t help laughing as she watched them kick up clouds of dust and listened to them whoop and holler as they rushed toward the house, eager for a welcome hug and some sort of after-school treat.

  A few months ago, their snack would have been fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. But since Macon Jr., the baby, had joined his brother and sisters in her custody, most of the cookie baking was being done by a fellow named Famous Amos, assisted by the Keebler Elves, depending on which brand was on sale that week. These days, Stella barely found time to grab the store-bought goodies off the grocery shelf, let alone whip up a batch herself.

  Fortunately, the children didn’t seem to care who made their refreshments, as long as they were readily available, especially after school, when they truly believed they were likely to expire from hunger at any moment.

  With a keen grandmother’s eye Stella observed her brood tripping over their own feet, not to mention each other, in their mad dash to the house. Suddenly, she had an inkling.

  Something was wrong.

  They were always eager to get inside, but they were usually laughing, at least grinning, as they fought to be the first to breach the door. But not with this degree of urgency.

  Also, a quick head count told Stella that somebody was missing. Besides the one sleeping next to her chair, there w
ere only six.

  “I wanna tell her first!” she heard the second oldest, Marietta, yell as they bounded onto the porch.

  Seven-year-old Jesup was shoved aside as Marietta scrambled to enter the house first. But, as usual, the eldest grandchild took charge of the situation.

  Thirteen-year-old Savannah wrapped a protective arm around Jesup and told Marietta, “Don’t go yanking on your sister like that, Miss Mari. She’s little, and you might hurt her, manhandling her that way. Besides, you’ve got no more right to be the one to tell Granny than she has. Just leave her be.”

  Sliding deftly between Marietta and the front door, Savannah cleared the way for Jesup, who scurried past her disgruntled sister and into the house.

  Stella stood and steeled herself for what she was about to hear. She had already figured out that the missing person in the mess of grandkids was her other grandson, Waycross.

  He was conspicuous in his absence because everyone rushing through the door was female and had dark hair like her own, a testimony to Stella’s mother, a full-blooded Cherokee.

  Waycross was exceptional in the family for two reasons. First, until baby Macon Jr. had arrived, he had been the solitary male child. Second, he was distinctive as the only carrottop. And no simple, subtle auburn shades for Waycross Reid. He had a flaming copper, wild and wooly head of hair that one could spot a mile away in a crowd.

  But today, not one ginger kid came through Stella’s door, and that was alarming, as the one child most likely to get into deep trouble was poor Waycross.

  He wasn’t a bad kid. Just fond of mischief and resourceful at creating it.

  “Okay, where in tarnation is that brother of yours?” Stella asked the eager-faced Jesup, who ran up to her grandmother, wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, and stared up at her, big blue eyes wide and concerned.

  “He done run off, Granny,” Jesup proclaimed.

  “Yeah!” shouted another voice in the crowd, followed by more excited pronouncements.

  “We tried, but we couldn’t catch ’im!”

  “I had him by the shirt for a minute, but he wriggled out of my—”

  “Even the principal tried to lay hands on ’im!”

  “Some of the teachers, too!”

  “But he got clean away! Made hisself a proper es-cape, he did.”

  “You know how fast he can run when he’s a mind to!”

  Stella held up both hands and donned her best, “Don’t-worry, pressure-on-that-cut-will-stop-the-bleeding” look.

  She used it frequently, whether she felt optimistic about such remedies or not. With eight grandchildren under her roof, optimism had to prevail at all times.

  “This ain’t the first time Waycross has run away,” she told his excited, worried sisters. “Cain’t really blame the boy if he decides he’s had his canful of all of us females at least once a month.”

  “Yes, he does run away on a regular basis,” Savannah said softly, a calm contrast to the rest of the gang. “But he always takes time to pack a pillowcase with some of his Transformers, his G.I. Joe, and a pair of clean underwear for each day he intends to be away.”

  “Yes.” Stella nodded. “Waycross is big on personal hygiene. It’s true. An admirable quality, ’specially in a boy child.”

  She reached for the baby, who was wide awake now and beginning to fuss. As she clasped the child to her chest and patted his behind, she turned back to Savannah and said, “Where was he last seen and what happened right before he made his git-away?”

  “It was at school!” Marietta interjected. “Made a dang fool of hisself right there in front of ever’body. Embarrassed the family somethin’ fierce. Like he always does.”

  “I figured it was at school, Marietta, since the principal and teachers chased ’im,” Stella told her with a tone far more patient than she felt.

  Marietta made a practice of standing on her grandmother’s last strained nerve and dancing an Irish jig on it. “I’ll thank you not to refer to anybody in this family as a fool. We’re all doin’ the best we can, day to day, includin’ Waycross. Sometimes we do well and sometimes we fall flat on our faces, but there ain’t no fools under this roof.”

  Marietta stuck out her lower lip. “ ’Cept Waycross.”

  “Go to your room, Miss Marietta Reid. Right this minute, and don’t come out till I tell ya to.”

  As Marietta flounced off toward the bedroom she shared with the rest of her sisters, stomping and huffing, Stella added, “You’d better stick that bottom lip of yours back in place, too, before you trip over it.”

  Stella heard a disgruntled mumbling. Something about old ladies tripping if somebody pushed them hard enough. But she decided to let it go. She had to pick her battles with Marietta Reid. Otherwise, her home would be a constant war zone.

  She turned back to the group of girls and said, “Everybody go into the kitchen, raid the cookie jar, and get yourself a cup of milk. Vidalia, you pour for the little’uns. Savannah, darlin’, you stick around. Alma, please bring your big sister some refreshments.”

  The room cleared out in an instant, leaving only Stella, Savannah, the baby, and a rare moment of peace and quiet.

  “Tell me ever’thing, sweetheart, and don’t leave out nothin’,” she told her firstborn grandchild, the girl who was having to become a woman far too quickly.

  Savannah sighed, walked over to Stella, and took the baby from her.

  As soon as the exchange was made, Stella realized how good it felt to have her arms empty for a moment. Little Macon Jr. only weighed seventeen pounds, but after a few hours, it took a toll on his grandmother’s arms.

  She had once told her best friend, Elsie, “There’s a reason the good Lord don’t give women our age little children to care for. We just ain’t up to chasin’ after ’em, like when we was younger.”

  Of course, that had been before Stella’s son had decided he didn’t need to bother raising the children he’d brought into the world and her daughter-in-law had gone to prison for neglecting and endangering them.

  Savannah kissed her little brother’s forehead and held him close to her chest. He reached up and laid his chubby baby hand on her cheek.

  “The problem with Waycross,” the girl began, “got started by that nasty ol’ Jeanette Parker.”

  Stella sighed. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me? I wish that girl would find herself somebody else to torment for a while and give our poor Waycross a break. He could sure use one.”

  A look crossed Savannah’s face ever so briefly. Uneasiness along with something perhaps akin to guilt.

  Stella’s sharp eyes caught it, and her grandmotherly suspicion was aroused.

  “Is there somethin’ else you wanna tell me, sweetheart?” she asked the girl. “Somethin’ you got to say about Miss Jeanette maybe?”

  Savannah shrugged and the sheepish look deepened. “Um, well, Gran, I . . .”

  “Yes. Spit it out, child. You got nothin’ to fear in my house by speakin’ the truth.”

  “Okay.” Savannah drew a deep breath and said, “I think Jeanette’s really mad at me, but she’s been taking it out on Waycross, because he’s little and he won’t fight back like I do.”

  “Hmm. Okay. We’ll discuss the ins and outs of that later,” Stella said, pushing her own suspicions and misgivings aside for the time being. “What did she say or do to Waycross that upset him so?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t hear it all. But I think it was something about his hair being red.”

  Stella shook her head. “That child does shoulder more than his share of grief because of that colorful hair of his. Why, I’ll never know. He’s beautiful and easy to spot in a crowd. There’s somethin’ to be said for that in a passel o’ kids this big.”

  Savannah just smiled and nodded. She still had that air of sadness about her, and something told Stella there was more to it than just concern about her brother. Later, Stella would have to shake her tree a bit and see what fruit fell to the ground, if any
. Now that Savannah was a teenager, she held on to her secrets a tad more tightly than before adolescence had changed her, both body and mind.

  “I’ll watch the kids while you go look for him,” Savannah offered. “I’m sure he’s eager for you to find him. He always is.”

  Stella hesitated. While she knew that Savannah was far more mature and capable of caring for her siblings than most of the adults in their tiny town of McGill, Georgia, she hated to saddle a child with such a chore.

  Stella had left the gang in Savannah’s custody when emergencies had occurred. But that was before baby Macon Jr. arrived. Stella was reluctant to burden the child with an infant as well as her sometimes unruly siblings.

  Stella glanced at the sunburst clock again. “Okay. Elsie should be finished workin’ there at Judge Patterson’s place. I’ll call her and ask if she can come over. Then I’ll go scour the countryside for your wayward brother.”

  “You can go on ahead. Let me call Elsie. I’ll tell her about Waycross and that you had to go. You know her. She’ll be here in three minutes flat. I doubt anything bad will happen that quick, what with Marietta on time-out in the bedroom.”

  Stella chuckled. “That’s true. But call Elsie right now. I wanna know she’s on her way before I leave.”

  Savannah laid the once-again asleep baby down in his bassinet, then rushed to the phone and dialed. As Stella collected her purse and car keys from the piecrust table next to the door, she heard her granddaughter say, “Thank you, Miss Elsie. Granny appreciates it. We all do. See you in a minute.”

  Savannah hung up the phone and turned to her grandmother, who was waiting by the open door. “Okay, Gran, she’s on her way. I’d check the graveyard if I were you. He was headed that direction.”

  “Thank you, darlin’.”