Who Let That Killer in the House? Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  A Personal Word

  Praise for Patricia Sprinkle’s Mysteries

  Who Left That Body in the Rain?

  “Forming a triumvirate with Anne George and Margaret Maron, Sprinkle adds her powerful voice to the literature of mysteries featuring Southern women. . . . Highly recommended.” —Linda Hutton, Mystery Time

  “Who Left That Body in the Rain? charms, mystifies, and delights. As Southern as Sunday fried chicken and sweet tea. Patricia Sprinkle’s Hopemore is as captivating—and as filled with big hearts and big heartaches—as Jan Karon’s Mitford. Come for one visit and you’ll always return.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  “An heirloom quilt. Each piece of patchwork is unique and with its own history, yet they are deftly stitched together with threads of family love and loyalty, simmering passion, deception and wickedness, but always with optimism imbued with down-home Southern traditions. A novel to be savored while sitting on a creaky swing on the front porch, a pitcher of lemonade nearby, a dog slumbering in the sunlight.” —Joan Hess

  “Captures true Southern customs and personalities, small-town politics and mores perfectly.”—Romantic Times

  “Authentic and convincing. This series is a winner.”

  —Tamar Myers

  Who Invited the Dead Man?

  “A wonderfully portrayed Southern setting. . . . MacLaren seems right at home in her tiny town.”—Library Journal

  “Touches of poignancy mixed with Southern charm and old secrets make Who Invited the Dead Man? a diverting read.”

  —Romantic Times

  And others . . .

  “Light touches of humor and the charming interplay between MacLaren and her magistrate husband make this a fun read for mystery fans.”—Library Journal

  “Sparkling . . . witty . . . a real treat and as refreshing as a mint julep, a true Southern pleasure.”—Romantic Times

  “Sparkles with verve, charm, wit, and insight. I loved it.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  “Engaging . . . compelling . . . a delightful thriller.”

  —Peachtree Magazine

  “The sort of light entertainment we could use more of in the hot summer days to come.”—The Denver Post

  “[Sprinkle] just keeps getting better.”

  —The Charleston Post and Courier

  Thoroughly Southern Mysteries

  WHO INVITED THE DEAD MAN?

  WHO LEFT THAT BODY IN THE RAIN?

  WHO LET THAT KILLER IN THE HOUSE?

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

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  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October

  eISBN : 978-1-101-16149-4

  Copyright © Patricia Sprinkle, 2003

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

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

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or enocurage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  Thanks to . . .

  Judge Mildred Ann Palmer, magistrate from Burke County, Georgia, remains my inspiration for the character of MacLaren Yarbrough and continues to give technical help when I need it. I thank her and her delightful family—who know, I hope, that MacLaren’s family in no way resembles theirs.

  Judge Curt St. Germaine, chief magistrate of Burke County, patiently answered questions about various aspects of the Georgia judicial system as it relates to the work of magistrates. Eddie Slay, coordinator of the Cobb County, GA, CASA program, explained procedures involving juvenile offenders.

  Emöke Sprinkle provided information about hospital psychiatric wards and introduced me to Dr. Greg Brack, associate professor of counseling and psychological services at Georgia State University and a trauma specialist, and Dr. Michele Hill, a conflict resolution specialist. Drs. Brack and Hill helped me understand the psychological dynamics of various characters in this book. They also spoke of the characters as real people and discussed them as such—a rare and precious gift for any author. And they steered me to Trauma and Recovery by Judith Herman, which provided further insights into not only the trauma of several characters but also possible outcomes for their lives.

  Since I knew nothing about girls’ fast-pitch softball when I began, I am very grateful to Jaime Caroti, who played the sport both locally and in national games, and to Leonard Hill, a fast-pitch softball coach, who helped me understand the game.

  High-school chemistry teacher Dwight Jinright researched several methods of killing yourself in a high-school chemistry lab. Thanks, Dwight. I hope you forget all you learned.

  I also thank my agent, Nancy Yost, for finding a home for the book, and I especially thank my editor, Ellen Edwards, for helping me shape it into what it was meant to be.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  MacLaren Yarbrough: amateur sleuth, Georgia magistrate, co-owner of Yarbrough’s Feed, Seed and Nursery

  Joe Riddley Yarbrough: MacLaren’s husband, a former magistrate, co-owner of Yarbrough Seed and Nursery />
  Ridd: the Yarbroughs’ elder son, high-school math teacher and part-time farmer

  Martha: Ridd’s wife, an emergency-room supervisor

  Cricket (4) and Bethany (16): their children

  Clarinda Williams: the Yarbroughs’ longtime cook

  Ronnie Hayes Clarinda’s grandson, just graduated from the University of Georgia

  DeWayne Evans: high-school science teacher, coach of the Honeybees fast-pitch softball team

  Yasheika Evans: DeWayne’s younger sister, just graduated from Howard University

  Sara Meg Stanton: widowed owner of Children’s World, a clothing/toy shop

  Garnet (18) and Hollis (16): her children

  Buddy Tanner: Sara Meg’s younger brother and a local CPA

  Smitty Smith (17): young skinhead, leader of a gang of hoodlums

  Tyrone (Terrible Ty) Noland (17): member of Smitty’s gang who likes Hollis

  Willie (Wet Willie) Keller (16): another gang member

  Art Franklin (18): poet, student at community college, waiter at Myrtle’s, likes Garnet

  Charlie Muggins: police chief

  Isaac James: assistant police chief

  1

  An empty locker room shouldn’t have anybody in it—not even a dead body.

  My son Ridd pushed open the door and called, but he got no answer, of course.

  To make sure, he pushed the door wider and put his head inside. “Anybody he—?”

  He cut off midword, gave a lurch, and clutched the door for support. “Oh, God, no!” He clung to that doorframe and his knees buckled.

  I will never know how I covered the distance between us in time, but I caught him before he slid to the floor. Holding him tight around the waist, I peered past him into the dimness.

  That was the morning we found the body.

  This story didn’t begin then, of course. I’m not sure that even the United Daughters of the Confederacy could trace its genealogy with reliable accuracy, but for me, it began the first Saturday in June, the day Hollis Stanton socked a softball the center fielder couldn’t catch. Nobody had an inkling that day that evil, like contained poison gas, was fixing to be released, that it would ooze across town in an invisible cloud that, by the end of the month, would leave one person dead and another clinging reluctantly to life.

  We were all there. How did we miss what was going on? How did I?

  When Hollis hit her ball, two hundred people in the high-school bleachers gasped in surprise. Hollis was a great little catcher, but she was a dreadful batter.

  Brandi Wethers left second base and flew toward home. We leaped to our feet and cheered as she crossed the plate a gnat’s second before the ball reached the catcher. We kept cheering as Hollis rounded first base, and when she slid in safe at second, hair streaming behind her like a banner of pure copper, everybody was jumping up and down. Her uncle Buddy, four rows below us, waved his arms and screamed like a wild man.

  Beside me, my cook, Clarinda, grunted in disgust. “Even that didn’t get Garnet’s nose out of her book.” Sure enough, Hollis’s older sister was a solitary island of calm, head bent over her book, thick auburn hair spread across her shoulders like a mantle. Anybody could tell that Garnet Stanton thought fast-pitch softball an enormous waste of time.

  I didn’t have time to waste on Garnet. I was watching a family in front of us: two fat little boys, a pudgy father whose belly strained his yellow T-shirt, and a plump blond mother in black spandex pants and a tight pink top with two tiny straps and far more beneath it than it was designed to hold. The way they had screamed and carried on while Brandi was running, I figured they were her family. It wasn’t so easy to figure whether their combined bulk, jumping in unison, would get all our names in next week’s Hopemore Statesman under the headline “Bleachers Collapse, Killing Dozens.”

  As they finally sat down, Clarinda leaned over and muttered, “I personally wouldn’t wear that pink top without a bra.” I elbowed her. Clarinda has a carrying voice. She also has far too much bosom to wear any top without a bra.

  Clarinda had come with Joe Riddley and me to watch the Hopemore Honeybees, our recreation department’s summer season, senior girls’ fast-pitch softball team, play the county championship game. Our store—Yarbrough’s Feed, Seed and Nursery—was team sponsor and both our older son, Ridd, and Clarinda’s grandson, Ronnie, were assistant coaches. The real reason Clarinda and I were there, though, and why Joe Riddley had taken the unprecedented step of shutting down the store for this game, was because Ridd’s daughter, Bethany, was the team’s star pitcher. All three of us were a bit biased where Bethany was concerned.

  It was a glorious day for a ball game. At the edge of the field, mimosas waved small pink pom-poms. Up near the school, a huge old magnolia spread blossoms as creamy and wide as dinner plates while fat blue hydrangeas nodded approval. The sky was deep blue, dotted with dollops of whipped-cream clouds, and new-mown hay and honeysuckle scented the breeze. It looked like half of Hopemore—county seat of Hope County, located in that wedge of Georgia between I-16 and I-20—had come out to watch the Honeybees play what we all expected to be their final game.

  Summer sports in Hopemore had never produced a winning team. We’d been amazed that the Honeybees had gotten this far—largely due to the coaching of high-school chemistry teacher DeWayne Evans and his sister, Yasheika. Now, at the bottom of the last inning, the team was two runs behind, had two outs, and had reached the bottom of their batting lineup. Beside Joe Riddley on the bench, Bethany’s little brother, Cricket, squirmed. His mother, Martha, gave him an encouraging hug, but she looked anxious. I saw several Honeybees eyeing the other team’s coach. The winning coach would choose three or four players from each county team to play on an all-county team at district play-offs the last week in June. I’m sure every Honeybee wondered if she would get picked.

  As the next batter sauntered toward the plate, adjusting her helmet over a long brown ponytail, I heard groans.

  “Do it, baby!” Clarinda called.

  “Send in a pinch hitter!” Brandi’s mother yelled. Her husband and sons took up the cry. Others followed, stamping their feet so the bleachers throbbed. “Pinch hitter! Pinch hitter!”

  If I’d had a sword, that woman’s frizzy yellow head would have rolled, county magistrate though I am. That wasn’t just any old ballplayer she was razzing—it was my oldest grandchild. Sure, she might bat to fielders’ mitts like her balls contained a homing device, but she had a great windmill pitch. She didn’t deserve to be insulted by adults who ought to know better.

  Bethany trudged toward the plate like somebody heading for the guillotine.

  I saw her daddy give her an encouraging slap on the back and heard him say, “Come on, Yarbrough, hit a homer.” I wished he sounded a little more convinced that she could.

  Bethany and Hollis had played ball together since they were little, but it was Yasheika’s after-practice work and DeWayne’s good coaching that had turned them into a catcher and pitcher the Statesman had started calling DeWayne’s Deadly Duo. Unfortunately, no amount of coaching had ever made them good hitters. That’s why they batted last.

  “Come on, baby. You can do it!” Clarinda yelled again.

  Martha, an emergency-room supervisor who daily faced gory scenes without flinching, covered her eyes. “I can’t watch. Tell me when it’s over.”

  Joe Riddley cupped his mouth and begged at the top of his lungs, “Hit one for Pop!”

  I was considering disowning the lot of them, when I realized I was clenching my fists and whispering, “Please, God, please, God, please, God,” as if the Almighty had nothing better to do that afternoon than make sure my granddaughter hit a ball.

  Bethany flickered a quick, nervous smile in our direction, then gave Coach Evans a pleading look like she wanted to lay down her bat.

  Cricket bounced on the front of his bleacher seat, ready to fly down and help his big sister. “Hit it, Beth’ny,” he roared into a sudden silence. “Hit it
, for a change!”

  Bethany visibly cringed.

  “Time out!” Coach Evans left his position behind third base and went to home plate. He was dark as semisweet chocolate, his face a shadow in the afternoon sun. I couldn’t see his expression as he spoke into Bethany’s ear, but she listened gravely, then nodded and lifted her chin. As he stepped away, Yasheika left her first-base coaching spot and trotted to the plate.

  Yasheika was much closer to the ages of the players, a tall, slender young woman with coffee-and-milk skin. She’d graduated from Howard University in early May, then came to Hopemore to help her brother coach because, as Bethany and Hollis told us at least weekly, she used to pitch for a fast-pitch team that had won the national championship.

  Whatever Yasheika said made Bethany laugh. As the coach trotted back to first, Bethany took a few practice swings with what looked like a whole lot more determination.

  Poised on the balls of her feet, she waited for the pitch. She didn’t swing when the first ball crossed the plate, but the umpire called, “Strike one!”

  I glared in his direction. “Anybody could see that ball was low.”

  Joe Riddley reached across Clarinda and laid a big hand on my arm. “Take it easy, Little Bit. It’s not over yet.” His eyes didn’t leave the game.