Garden Club Secrets

Garden Club Secrets

Vicki Baylis

ISBN 978-1-64258-062-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64258-063-1 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 by Vicki Baylis

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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

Years ago, although too many to actually recall the exact date, I was welcomed into a secret club—the No Man’s Land. Within this group, secrets were held to the highest standards of confidentiality, a group in plain sight and yet invisible at the same time. There were rumors of our existence, and many an infiltration was attempted, though never successful. The friendships formed have lasted to this day.

Burdens carried, prayers lifted, and comfort given. Voices vented, ears listened, and shoulders leaned upon. When one of us laughed, we all laughed, and when one cried, we all had tears to fall. Weddings planned, grandbabies welcomed, hospitals visited, and sadly, even funerals attended. Whether I need a cup of sugar, fashion advice, or help burying a body, I can always count on this special group of women. This book is dedicated to the ladies of No Man’s Land. Our purses are always filled with lipstick and hair spray, and our alibis always check out. May we never use our inside voices and always hit our targets. In the midst of this secret society was a special room—the sewing room—and it was within the walls of this room that we tended to important matters.

Acknowledgments

This book had a unique beginning. Years ago, as a joke, I began to write short stories about my friends—making fun of our girls’ night outs and the mistakes we all make on a daily basis. I would post these stories on social media so everyone could relive the moments and laugh all over again. It was after a few of these stories were written that I decided to turn them into a book. Years from now, we can look back and have another laugh.

Most of the characters in here are real people—my friends. Some of them chose to keep their identities a secret so their names have been changed—having them pick their fake names was hilarious, to say the least. A few of my most brave friends, however, decided to risk it all by letting you know exactly who they are. I laugh out loud at these folks I call friends. I hope you will too.

I give special thanks to the following people:

To Sheriff Danny Rigel and his fine group of officers at the Lamar County Sheriff’s Department. Every time I needed a question answered, they responded without hesitation.

To my good law buddies—Mary Croft, Jim Kinslow, Larry Carroll, Phillip Kidd, John Klem, Scooter Borgman, Mark Denny, Keith Crawford, Brad Weathers, and Mack Burch—for letting me use them as my officers in Depot, Mississippi. They are some of the finest folks I know—highly professional, extremely knowledgeable, and hopefully with a good sense of humor too. If not, I may need to read up on the witness protection program.

So without further delay, I welcome you to Depot, Mississippi. As you stroll down Main Street, you will see a town peppered with white picket fences, a church on almost every corner, and the most friendly, down-to-earth people around. If you stay long enough, you will feel right at home, but if you break the law, you will run into one of the South’s best kept secrets—the Garden Club.

There are always three sides to every story. In Depot, Mississippi, it depends on whom you ask. If you want the facts, ask the townspeople; if you want a juicy story, ask Maybelle Pickett. But if you want the truth, you will need to wait for the rose.

1

The New Sheriff

Maybelle Pickett was known for one thing and one thing only—gossip. In fact, she was downright good at it. If you wanted to know anything about anybody in the town of Depot, Mississippi, all you needed to do was sit on her front porch and rock a spell. Of course, no one dared mention the word gossip , for that was a sin. And being that Maybelle’s daddy had been a preacher all those years down at the Methodist church, you can bet your bottom dollar she knew exactly how to skirt around that sinful word. How that New York City reporter sitting in his office a thousand miles away found out about this little town’s number one tattletale was still unknown. I guess it didn’t matter at this point in time anyway, for Maybelle was already sitting on her front porch, rocking, waiting on him to get out of his car.

Since she trusted no one, she watched him suspiciously as he confidently walked up her sidewalk, carrying his little briefcase. Hmm, she said under her breath. She wondered if the young city slicker had the stomach for what she was about to tell him. In her view, from her rocker, he was too sissy looking to handle much of anything she had to say. Don’t send a boy to do a man’s job, she quoted a past saying from her daddy. But that was neither here nor there, for she had done cashed that fancy New York City check he had sent to her a few weeks earlier. And she wasn’t about to give one cent of that donation back either.

Are you Maybelle Pickett? he asked, as his foot reached the bottom step of her front porch.

I am, she answered.

You ready to talk about that day?

He had been calling her for weeks, meeting all her demands. At first, she denied knowing anything at all. Then she demanded proof he wasn’t one of those scam artists she was always hearing about on the television set. You young people are always scamming the elderly, she told him. Next, she requested money from him, something which, he informed her, was illegal for a journalist to do. What about a donation to Depot’s Methodist Fund? she politely insisted upon to no end. And lastly, when finally satisfied about his true intentions, she refused to speak on the matter over the telephone, afraid someone was recording her words.

Hmm. She was still a little unsure about him. You bring enough paper, young man?

I did. He opened his shiny leather briefcase to reveal his laptop. Only someone of Maybelle’s generation would think things of this sort was still done on paper.

The day in question had remained a secret for many years like a dark cloud quietly hanging over the entire town, a nearly forgotten memory that would resurface from time to time. Even the FBI could not get any useful information out of these local tight-lipped folks. The truth of the matter was hardly anyone knew the details anyhow. It was a mystery all right. The young reporter eagerly handed his new source a faded newspaper. He had stumbled upon the mysterious headline a few years ago while researching another story. This young reporter, eager to make a name for himself, wanted to know every last detail of the day when Depot’s Garden Club disappeared, never to be seen again.

Well—she paused for another sip from her glass of sweet tea—I guess we should start at the homecoming parade.

Homecoming parade? he questioned.

Yeah, that’s when I first noticed it all right. Oh, but Maybelle was so wrong. Or was she? The reporter stayed glued to every word coming out of her mouth. The eighty-five-year-old may have been wrong as all get-out when it came to the details of the greatest mystery this town had ever seen, but she was an excellent storyteller for sure.

It was a beautiful day for the parade, and the sunshine was a welcome change from the gloomy weather of the past week. The tropical storm had come and gone without much notice except for one family that needed to be evacuated from the rising floodwaters. If only Big Pete Norris hadn’t built his home so close to the creek like everyone told him not to do, then no one would have even been concerned with the three days of nonstop raining. Well, no one but the ladies of Depot’s hospitality committee, that is. Ever since the weatherman predicted a chance of the storm coming through, prayer vigils immediately began to pop up at all the local churches throughout the community. With answered prayers and many a thanks given, the parade was going to be right on schedule. As custom would have it, the entire community participated in the festivities, including the new sheriff. From the top of the concrete steps of First Baptist Church, he stood watching and waiting as the local high school band led the parade of Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts, cheerleaders, and numerous sports teams down Main Street. The sheriff laughed a little when the chess club, members of only two, walked past. To the local VFW, he saluted proudly, and to the others, he would wave and smile, sometimes even nod. Although no one could tell as he stood there, dressed in his uniform overlooking the townspeople, he was actually working as he was watching everyone stroll by. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the answers to the secrets were hidden within the crowd below. Although he had his suspicions, they were nothing more than just suspicions at the time.

This little community was exactly what the retired chief of police needed. James Kennedy and Shelia, his wife of twenty-seven years, left the fast-paced life of big city living to return to the slower ways they had left behind years ago. Both of them had been born on the outskirts of this very town, and over the years, they had yearned to move back home.

Kennedy had no intentions, though, of returning to law enforcement until the untimely death of the community’s beloved, longtime sheriff. Although Sheriff Wiggins’s clothes were found with small tears and his arms and face were covered with little cuts and scratches, a heart attack is what the autopsy read. Many unanswered questions remained regarding the events surrounding that day. He was found on the edge of the road near the Diamond Dennis Simmentals ranch covered from head to toe with dirt, clutching tightly to a few dollar bills in his hand. He was missing his bone-handled Colt 1911 A and one shoe—a fact not made public in hopes it would lead them to some answers about the money. Sheriff Tony Wiggins had been watching over Depot for thirty years, and if the good Lord hadn’t called him home, the people would have continued to elect him time and time again.

Before long, a few things puzzled Kennedy. And one of those concerns just happened to be the crime rate in this little community. It was exceptionally low, practically nonexistent at times. Although crime did emerge, there were hardly any unsolved cases to speak of. And that fact is what puzzled him the most. The seasoned officer noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that one of his deputies was headed toward his direction. Deputy John Klem was traveling as fast as the crowd would allow. He had been at the sheriff’s department for seventeen years, and just like Sheriff Wiggins, he was loved by everyone. In fact, many of the townspeople insisted that he take the role of sheriff. Honored to be asked, he politely declined, though, as he was already counting down the days to retirement. The deputy maneuvered his six-foot-five body among the mounds of baby strollers and parents taking pictures of their children as the parade slowly wandered by. He stopped and shook many of their hands too. His mistake was getting caught by the ladies’ Garden Club as he felt obligated to accept each and every one of their well-meaning hugs. By the time he made it up to the top of the concrete steps, he was out of breath and smelling like a mixture of their perfumes.

Sheriff, the mayor wants you to say a little something over at the barbecue, said the deputy, as he sniffed the sleeves of his uniform.

Dang it, why do those women need to wear so much of that stinking perfume? he complained. Following the parade each year was the annual BBQ fund-raiser. The library was nominated to be this year’s recipient of all the funds raised. Last year, the money went to purchase equipment for updating the school’s playgrounds, and the year prior to that, a water fountain was built in honor of the town’s veterans. Kennedy turned and reminded his deputy once again, We don’t have a mayor. Oh, but they did, not in any official capacity, though. Mrs. Peggy Horton was the self-proclaimed mayor and had been for the last thirteen years, running unopposed in the last two elections.

I know what you said, Sheriff, but that woman has done more for this town than anybody else, and besides, she was unopposed in the last two elections, the slow-talking deputy proudly pointed out. The sheriff had to admit that was a good point indeed if only the election had not been held at the local feed and seed store. Just go meet her and you will see. She really is a good mayor, his deputy reassured.

The two men began to make their way down the steps to head toward the intersection of First and Main Street. It was there in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot where the makeshift stage had been set up for the annual speeches and talent show contest. The deputy, grabbing a hold of the sheriff’s arm, said, Wait, we better go down the side steps. You won’t make it through all the Garden Club hugs in time if we don’t.

The young reporter looked up from his computer because of a long period of silence. Maybelle had stopped talking. In fact, he thought he heard a faint snore. He