Starks' Reality

by Sarah Storme

  Thirty minutes later, more or less presentable, he drove into Port O’Donald and followed blue signs to the hospital.

  The facility was larger than he’d imagined, probably the only one for miles. Jake strode through a side door to the emergency room and to the counter where a young nurse sat, covering a yawn. She looked up, grinning sheepishly.

  “Long night?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Always. May I help you?”

  “I’m Chief Starks from Port Boyer. The Taylors were brought in about a half hour ago. I’m here to check on them.”

  The woman consulted a clipboard. “Yes, here they are. Dr. Anderson is with them.”

  “I’d like to speak to Dr. Anderson, when he’s available.”

  The nurse raised one eyebrow. “I’ll see if the doctor has finished with the exam yet.”

  She disappeared through double doors, and reappeared several minutes later with Dr. Emily Anderson, a nice-looking, middle-aged woman who wore a white coat and an amused grin. Obviously, the nurse had told her of Jake’s blunder. His face warmed.

  “Chief Starks,” she said, shaking his hand. “I understand you’re here to check on the Taylors.”

  “Yes. Any idea what’s wrong with them?”

  “I can’t be sure until we get all the tests back, but my guess is food poisoning. We had another person from Port Boyer call in about an hour ago with similar symptoms. His case didn’t sound quite as serious as Ed Taylor’s, however.”

  “Food poisoning, huh?”

  “It could be the water, but my guess is it was something they ate for dinner. We’ll be more certain in a few hours.”

  Jake nodded. “Thanks. I’ll call a little later.”

  As he returned to his car, he thought about the Taylors. He knew where they’d eaten dinner.

  ~~**~~**~~

  Heather glanced out the kitchen window at the crunch of footsteps on the driveway. Chief Starks approached, eyes hidden by the brim of a straw cowboy hat. When he looked up, he stared right at her and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  Why did he have to be so good-looking? In spite of herself, she felt an urge to smile back.

  As soon as she looked away, a more reasonable thought hit. Why was he in her front yard at seven-thirty in the morning? Carrying her coffee cup, she opened the screen door and waited in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Ms. Cooper.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps, hat in hand.

  “It was.” She stepped out and let the screen door close behind her.

  Because the house had been built on pilings, she stood several feet above Starks’ head. He looked up at her, and the morning sun turned his eyes an unearthly shade of bluish silver. He studied her face for a long, uncomfortable moment.

  “I don’t suppose you have an extra cup of coffee?” he asked.

  Chief Starks certainly had a lot of gall coming to her house and asking for coffee. She knew better than to trust any of the Port Boyer police, and she wasn’t about to let him in. She would not be lulled into a false sense of security—or lewd thoughts—by broad shoulders.

  “I haven’t had a chance to go to the store yet,” he continued, climbing the stairs, “so I don’t have any groceries.”

  When he got to the top, he stood less than two feet from her, examining her with the same intensity he’d used the day before.

  Her face warmed and her lungs lost the ability to take in air. Unable to think of an alternative, she opened the screen door and led the way into the kitchen, struggling to catch her breath.

  He strolled across the linoleum floor and eased into one of the wooden chairs. Heather filled a coffee mug as she listened to his movements. He was staring at her again, she could feel it, and her hands shook.

  Most of her teenage years, she’d been too busy to pay much attention to boys. Not that she hadn’t noticed them. She just hadn’t gone out of her way to attract their attention. And the guys she’d dated in college hadn’t overly impressed her with their gender in general. She’d thought Matt was different, but in the end she’d been wrong. It didn’t matter; she had more important things to worry about, like her future and her father. So why did she find Jake Starks so interesting, in spite of her best efforts not to?

  “Does your father live with you?”

  She placed the coffee mug in front of him. “Why are you here?”

  Starks raised the mug and sipped. He closed his eyes for a moment and then smiled. “This is exactly what I needed. Thank you.” He motioned toward the chair across the small table from him. “Please, sit with me.”

  She suddenly remembered what had wakened her from a deep sleep in the middle of the night. It wasn’t unusual to hear sirens in downtown Austin, but they almost never disturbed the quiet in Port Boyer, except during tourist season when Red Daily was chasing down young women to threaten with speeding tickets.

  “Does this have something to do with the siren last night?”

  He nodded, and then took another sip of coffee. “You know Mr. Taylor?”

  “Ed Taylor?”

  “Yes.”

  Heather eased into the chair as she nodded.

  “He’s very sick.”

  “Heart attack?” she asked.

  “No, the doctors think it’s food poisoning. His wife is ill, too.”

  “Food poisoning? But they ate dinner here last…night.” She stood as realization hit her. “You think we poisoned them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe they had something for dessert at home. Has anyone checked on that?” Her heart raced as the scenario played out. If something at Coop’s had made the Taylors sick, the Health Department would probably shut them down. They wouldn’t be able to make the loan payments, and she only had enough money in the bank to pay tuition or pay off the loan for a month or two. With her funds depleted, she wouldn’t be able to afford the last semester of engineering school, so she’d have to work behind a counter or wait tables forever. Coop would lose his bar and his house, and end up as one of the homeless guys you step around on a filthy downtown sidewalk. Both of their lives would be ruined.

  “How do you know for sure it’s food poisoning? Maybe they have a virus or something. We’ve never had any problems with people getting sick.” Her voice rose in pitch with her growing anxiety, but she couldn’t help it. “Why are they accusing us?”

  Starks didn’t react to her panic, but remained seated, sipping. When he spoke, his voice was calm and controlled. “No one has accused you of anything. We think it’s food poisoning, and if it is, we don’t know for sure where they got it. The Taylors were taken to the hospital, one person from town called in shortly before that, and another called in this morning. I don’t have their names yet.” He finished his coffee and leaned back in the chair. “Please, sit down.”

  His composure was a salve to her frazzled nerves. Embarrassed by her outburst, Heather returned to her chair.

  “Do you remember what the Taylors ate last night?”

  She nodded. “Their usual, a half-dozen oysters and a bowl of gumbo each. Mr. Taylor had two whiskey sours and Mrs. Taylor had a Coke.”

  “Was there more than one batch of gumbo?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” he said, “I had the gumbo and I’m okay. That leaves the oysters. Aren’t they sometimes dangerous?”

  “Tran’s very careful. No one has ever gotten sick on his oysters.”

  “Careful? About what?”

  “Closures and warnings.”

  “Closures?”

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. “The state closes areas if the water’s polluted. The back part of the bay’s permanently closed.”

  “Why?”

  “Coliform levels are too high during runoff.”

  His brow furrowed.

  “Too much sewage seeping in,” she explained.

  They both turned at the sound of a car in the driveway. Heather rose and glanced out the window. “You have a visitor.”r />
  She followed Starks outside and watched from the porch as he talked to Kenny Rhodes. Kenny looked more nervous than usual, but she couldn’t hear their conversation.

  As soon as it ended, Kenny drove off and Starks returned to the steps.

  “The hospital notified the Health Department,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that if it turns out to be food poisoning, they’ll send someone out to investigate.”

  “How are they going to know if the oysters were bad? We sold them all.”

  He shrugged. “They’ll probably err on the side of public safety.”

  “You mean, shut us down.”

  He nodded.

  “They can’t do that,” she said, panic rising again as bile in her throat. “Coop will be ruined.”

  He glanced away for a moment, and then he looked up at her. “What do you do with the oyster shells?”

  “Wash them and put them on the driveway, or pile them in back. Locals haul them off.”

  “Where are the shells from last night?”

  “Outside behind the bar.”

  “Have they been washed yet?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He nodded. “If I were you, I’d put the shells on ice. Then you’ll be able to hand them over for testing if it comes to that.”

  Not a bad idea. At least Coop’s wouldn’t get closed down without a reason.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” Heather hurried back inside and grabbed a pair of rubber gloves.

  When she emerged from the house, she found Starks still standing in the yard.

  “Is there something else?” she asked.

  “I thought I’d help you.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “I don’t mind.” He followed her down the path to the bar. The tone of his voice left no room for refusal. The man was definitely used to being in control, which was more than a little irritating.

  ~~**~~**~~

  The pile of oyster shells wasn’t hard to find; a warm Gulf breeze carried the smell.

  “Do you have another pair of gloves?” Jake asked.

  Heather Cooper shot an annoyed glare at him before climbing the back stairs, unlocking a storage room, and stepping inside.

  When she emerged, she tossed a handful of burlap sacks on the ground beside the shells, handed him a pair of rubber gloves, and then grabbed a shovel from under the edge of the porch.

  “Do you have any plastic garbage bags?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “If the shells are contaminated, you don’t want the juice all over the place, do you?”

  She definitely didn’t like it when he was right. Jake did his best not to grin.

  Heather dropped the shovel, marched back into the storage room, and returned in a few minutes with a box of trash bags.

  Jake pulled out a bag, opened it, and fitted it inside one of the burlap sacks. Then he knelt beside the shells and held the bag open. Heather filled it carefully.

  As he tied the top of the plastic bag, he glanced up at the woman standing over him. She waited with one hand on the shovel handle and the other fisted on her hip. The cut-off shorts she wore frayed high on muscular, brown thighs. Her short white T-shirt revealed a sexy slice of stomach, and the worn fabric clung to her breasts. She hadn’t yet braided her hair; it hung in a long ponytail in front of her shoulder. He nearly fell over when his gaze made it up to her face and he found her studying him through narrowed eyes.

  Mentally shaking himself, Jake returned his attention to his work. He used a piece of string to tie the top of the burlap sack, carefully wrapping it five times before tying a square knot, as he would all of them. If anyone opened the sacks, he’d know it.

  Since the plastic bags were smaller than oyster sacks, the shells ended up in six bags. Carrying two at a time, Jake followed Heather into the storage room. They stacked the sacks in an empty half of a large, upright, metal cooler. In two trips, they had the shells safely stashed.

  “Deuce?”

  Heather closed the steel door and walked out to the porch. “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing over here so early?” Coop stood in a tie-dyed shirt and khaki shorts, his hair not brushed and his eyes blood-shot and swollen. Jake recognized the look; the man had been drunk when he went to bed.

  “Ed Taylor’s sick. Chief Starks thinks it’s food poisoning.”

  “Oh, shit,” Coop said, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Is Ed all right?”

  Jake removed the rubber gloves and stopped beside Heather. “We don’t know, yet. He was unconscious when the ambulance arrived.”

  “Oh, man, that’s bad. He’s pretty old.” Coop shook his head. “Is it something we did?”

  “We don’t know that yet, either,” he said. “So we thought we’d bag the oyster shells in case they need to be tested.”

  “Good idea. Where did you put them?”

  Heather motioned with her head. “In the cooler.”

  Coop nodded.

  Handing Heather the gloves, Jake turned and started down the steps. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Coop said, extending his hand.

  Jake accepted the handshake, and then glanced up at Heather. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  She nodded slightly, her lips pursed tightly together.

  Leaving father and daughter behind the building, he walked around the bar and across the parking lot, and followed the road to his own house.

  He thought about Heather Cooper as he walked. For whatever reason, she worked at giving him a cold shoulder. Good thing. She could easily distract him.

  As she was doing at that moment.

  Refocusing, he considered calling the hospital again, but realized it was probably too early to get any questions answered. He had plenty of time to visit Tucker first.

  Jake swallowed hard.

  ~~**~~**~~

  For the past half hour, guilt had burned like molten lava in Heather’s stomach. When Starks told her about Ed Taylor, her first response was to worry about herself and her father. When Coop heard the news, he asked about Ed.

  She felt like a cold-hearted bitch. But someone had to worry about Coop and he wouldn’t do it himself. The responsibility had always fallen to her. It had become a habit over the course of her life.

  “The eggs are great,” he said, pointing with his fork. “You ought to try them.”

  Heather glanced down at her plate. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Don’t worry, Deuce, I’m sure Ed will be all right. He’s a strong old buzzard.”

  She stared at her father. The man smiled at her with a sweet naiveté as he chewed.

  “It’s not Ed Taylor I’m worried about,” she said. “If he got sick on our food, they’ll shut us down.”

  “Aw, don’t get worked up. I’m sure everything will be okay.”

  She stiffened. “How can you say that?”

  “It’s true. One way or the other, it’ll all work out. Life’s too short to worry.”

  Heather huffed as exasperation replaced her guilt. The man was impossible.

  Coop pushed his plate to hers and scooped her eggs onto it. “You sure you don’t want these?”

  She carried her plate to the sink. “What should I tell Tran?”

  Coop shrugged. “I’ll tell him what’s going on when I see him at the dock.”

  “You’re going fishing?” How could he even consider leaving at a time like this?

  “There’s a big one out there with my name on it.”

  Heather shook her head as she washed her plate and silverware. No matter how hard she tried, she’d never figure out her father.

  “I like the new chief,” Coop said. “What do you think of him?”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “He seems like he’s on the ball. To me, that is.”

  She spun around. “He’s a cop in Port Boyer. He’s no different than any other cop in this stup
id place. Have you forgotten what happened last year?”

  The childish joy disappeared from her father’s face. “I remember. But maybe Boudreaux was right.”

  “About what? About you asking for broken ribs? Or about me begging him for sex?”

  He frowned. “Not about you. But he may have been right about me. I might have been out of control. I don’t remember anything about that afternoon.”

  “You really think you started a fight with Tran?” The whole thing had been so absurd, she couldn’t believe he still doubted the truth.

  Coop dropped his fork into his plate and rose quickly. “You don’t know,” he muttered, as he hurried from the kitchen. The screen door screeched and bounced against the doorframe.

  Heather sighed as she picked up his plate and scraped it into the scrap bowl. She knew better than to discuss certain subjects with her father, like the episode a year earlier that had landed him in the hospital. She always got mad, and he always withdrew. When would she learn to keep quiet?

  As she washed the plate, she gazed out the window. Starks drove by in a sporty black car and turned onto Main Street. He glanced in her direction as he passed.

  ~~**~~**~~

  The only business open on Main Street at nine o’clock Saturday morning was the bakery. People walking toward the door stared at Jake as he drove by. How long would it take for the novelty to wear off?

  Probably longer than he’d be around.

  North of town, a narrow paved road ran to the bay and then ringed it north and east. Several houses nudged the shore, forty or fifty yards from the road. Slowing at each driveway, Jake checked mailboxes until he found one stenciled D. Tucker. He turned in and drove the dirt road to the end.

  Tucker’s house balanced atop numerous posts that could have once been telephone poles. Dark wood siding, rows of trees, and a brown metal roof helped hide the place from prying eyes on the road. A long ramp ran back and forth in front of the house joining the front porch to the driveway where a dark blue Chevy van sat parked in the shade.

  Opting for the stairs to the right of the ramp, Jake climbed slowly, his heart racing. He hadn’t seen Dave Tucker in years—long enough to forget how to handle the guilt. When they’d ridden together, he’d been able to tell the man anything. In fact, he’d felt more comfortable with Tucker than with his own wife.