Table of Contents
The Green-Eyed Doll
Copyright
Praise for Jerrie Alexander
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Green-Eyed
Doll
by
Jerrie Alexander
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.
The Green-Eyed Doll
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Jerrie Alexander
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-444-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-445-7
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Jerrie Alexander
An award-winning debut novel,
THE GREEN-EYED DOLL
won First Place in both the 2010 Golden Pen and the Golden Opportunity contests.
Dedication
No book goes to press without an entire village of support behind the author. I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the following people who helped make The Green-Eyed Doll a reality.
My thanks to the folks at The Wild Rose Press and my fabulous editor, Johanna Melaragno, for believing in this book.
Marsha R. West and Jeannie Guzman, many thanks, your invaluable critiques kept me on the right track.
My gratitude goes to Barb Han who dropped her own work-in-progress to proof my manuscript. I owe you big time!
To my incredible beta readers, Jackie Pressley, Betty Peters, Mary Ann McKenzie and Jane Craghead, thanks for your time and complete honesty.
To Jim, my very own John Wayne, thank you for your support, encouragement and most of all, your forever love.
Last but not least, Alexa. Your belief in my success never once faltered. Thank you.
Chapter One
Thursday, July 27th, 1:15 p.m.
Leave it to Mama to die in the middle of the hottest Texas summer on record.
Kicking the dust off his boots, he stepped inside the stifling, cramped trailer for the first time in eleven years. He’d drop off a dress and some flowers at the funeral home. Then he was done. The state could kiss his ass if they thought he’d spend a dime to bury her.
He glanced around the familiar hellhole and fourteen years of beatings and abuse boiled up from his belly. One of his earliest memories was of cowering inside her closet, trying to be quiet. She used to whip his bare back with a straightened wire hanger if he so much as grunted while she entertained a guest.
“Guest my ass.” His voice broke the eerie silence. “Mama fucked anybody with a dick and a dollar.”
He’d learned to mind real good. He used to crawl in that dark closet, hunker down, and peer through a small crack between the doorframe and the wall. There up on the top shelf, the green-eyed doll, the only clean, pure thing in the trailer sat. He’d lock his gaze on her porcelain face and pretend she was real. Because if she was real, she’d never let anybody whip him again. If she was real, she’d love him. If she was real, he wouldn’t hear mama’s headboard bang against the wall.
Nobody messed with Mama’s stuff, not without paying one hell of a penalty. Once, he’d taken the doll down to hold her. Mama caught him—called him a pervert. She’d left long painful welts across his bare back and legs with that hanger. What’d she think he was gonna do, fuck the damn thing?
Mama taught him to take what he wanted. Prison taught him how to take it. He walked down the hall to the bedroom. Well, the doll belonged to him now.
Sweat broke and ran down his face while he stared at the empty shelf. Rage released the hornets. The buzzing in his head grew louder and louder. He clamped both hands over his ears. The one shred of innocence in this dump was gone.
A straightened out wire hanger hung from a nail next to the shelf. A cruel message from the dead.
Get your own doll.
****
Friday, July 28th, 10:30 a.m.
Catherine McCoy’s old Ford sputtered up to the red light and shuddered to a stop. She stabbed her hand through her hair while scanning the small town in front of her. How could she let herself run short of money? Careless. Foolish. One-hundred-sixty-nine dollars and one lonely credit card—for emergency use only—kept her from being stone cold broke.
She had to find work. Period. The light turned green, and Catherine drove into Butte Crest, Texas. Population 19,016. The trip through town took about ten minutes. In the same ten minutes, her hopes for finding a job fell and her heart rate increased. She circled the quaint square with its antique shops and boutiques then drove past a couple of gas stations, a few cafés, lots of churches with tall steeples pointing toward heaven, and one dance hall on the outskirts named Saddleback Inn. No help wanted signs were to be seen. She made a U-turn at a traffic light to circle around for a second look.
The scream of a siren and the sight of colored lights flashing behind her sent tremors through her chest. The last thing she needed was any cop getting near her. She pulled over in front of a funeral home, loosened her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and fished out her wallet.
She dropped her gaze to the outside mirror and waited. Breathe. In. Out. The cruiser’s door opened, and a pair of dark brown western boots hit the gravel. They belonged to a set of long legs wearing khaki uniform pants. A matching shirt covered broad shoulders. He adjusted his aviator sunglasses, retrieved a white western hat, and then settled it over jet-black hair.
Catherine’s heart rate quickened while she rolled down the window. She took a deep breath and reminded herself she had nothing to fear. She greeted him with her best fake smile.
“Hello, officer. Is there a problem?” She passed him her license and proof of insurance without waiting for him to ask. She leaned back in the seat, proud her hand hadn’t trembled.
“Sheriff Ballard.” He cocked his head slightly and tipped his hat.
She waited silently while he studied her identification. She’d legally changed her name back to McCoy before leaving Oklahoma and starting her trek across T
exas. Catherine had started life over, and getting rid of Andrew Randall’s name had been a big step.
“Ma’am. Did you hear me?”
Catherine turned her attention to the man standing beside her car. The sheriff’s whiskey-toned drawl reverberated with impatience. He leaned down, removed his sunglasses, and squinted in the bright sunlight. Eyes blue as the Texas sky and cold as Antarctica bore down on her. Catherine tightened her grip on her composure. She’d learned her lesson when dealing with the law. The less you say, the better.
“Sorry. Wha...What did you say?” Had she stuttered? Her tongue and brain refused to coordinate. Calm down. Stop overreacting.
“For starters, you made an illegal U-turn. Not to mention, the emission control system on your vehicle needs attention. I choked walking up behind you.”
“I didn’t see a sign.” No need to debate his choking comment.
“It’s hanging from the light, in plain sight.” He slid his sunglasses back on, moved away a few steps, and pulled a ticket book from his hip pocket.
She’d be broke if she had to pay a traffic fine. Maybe, if she looked him in the eye, he’d listen to reason. Armed with a plan and full of determination, she got out. A gust of wind jerked the car door out of her grasp. It swung out fast, clipped the sheriff, knocking him off balance.
“What the hell?” he growled. His sunglasses went flying when he staggered backward a step before regaining his footing. “Are you trying to get arrested?”
One word slammed into her brain...arrested? Not again. Never again. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I only wanted to talk to you.”
“Ma’am, get back inside your vehicle. Please.”
Great, she’d made matters worse by trying to reason with him. She settled in the seat and sighed. The sheriff wore a white hat, but he was no John Wayne.
“No, ma’am.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m certainly not John Wayne.”
Crap. Had she said that out loud? Catherine closed her mouth. Let him write the damn ticket. His stormy eyes grew darker. In the middle of a heat wave, she shivered from the chill.
The sheriff retrieved his broken sunglasses. One black eyebrow twitched when the earpiece came off in his hand. She was sure to get that ticket.
“Your car’s packed.” He tilted his head toward the backseat. “You moving to town?”
“Moving isn’t against the law, is it?” Just write it up and let me go.
“No, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of.”
Did he almost grin?
“Here’s the truth. I hadn’t planned on staying, but I’m running short on cash. I need to find a job. When I’ve saved enough money, I’ll move on.”
She swallowed hard, waiting as he stared at her. He closed the citation book, then handed her identification back.
“No ticket?” She relaxed and smiled for the first time.
“Not today. Look, if you’re serious about finding a job, I know of one here in town.” He paused. “Make that two.” A frown crossed his face. “The second one’s not a good choice.”
“What are they?”
“The funeral home you’re parked in front of needs office help, and the local bar—which in my opinion is not a good idea—needs a waitress. As far as I’ve heard, Butte Crest has nothing else to offer.”
The tension in her neck eased. “I appreciate your help.”
“No problem. Drive safely.”
Catherine checked her rearview mirror before easing her car onto the road. The handsome sheriff had walked off the pavement and now stood in the ditch. Geesh. Did he think she would run over him?
****
Friday, July 28th, 11:30 a.m.
Matt checked his messages and then radioed his dispatcher he was back in service.
“Took you long enough,” Sue grumbled. “I received a call from Tanya Perry over in Curry. Her best friend, Julia Drummond, is missing. They’d agreed to meet for supper last night. Julia never showed.”
“What else did she say?” His gut clenched. He never ignored his gut.
“Seems Julia didn’t open her flower shop this morning. You want to wait twenty-four hours or should I send Jake?”
“No need to wait. Her not showing up for work is enough reason to check it out. Tell Jake I’ll meet him at the florist shop. Run a background on her and start a file. If I’m not back before you leave, toss the info on my desk.”
“There’s no room on your desk.” Her surly tone held a hint of laughter.
“Oh. When you’ve finished with the Drummond woman, run this license num....” He stopped. Disgust filled his belly. Other than personal curiosity, he had no reason to use the system to check out the new woman in town. Wouldn’t Dad have been proud? That kind of unethical behavior was his trademark.
“You gonna give me a number?”
“No. Never mind.” Matt pulled onto the highway and headed toward the small town of Curry.
His mind drifted to the newcomer in town. Her driver’s license picture hadn’t done her justice. He would’ve used something more definitive than the word red to describe her hair. Shoulder length, her curly locks brought to mind a wildfire out of control. Bright green eyes had looked directly into his. Judging from the sparks shooting from her gaze, the lady had a temper to go with the hair. His cop’s instinct had perked up when she broke contact with his gaze.
Yep. A redheaded puzzle had arrived in his town. She piqued his curiosity. He kicked the cruiser up a notch and put the air conditioner on high, pushing the image of those bright green eyes from his mind.
Concentrate on the missing woman.
****
Friday, July 28th, noon
Catherine’s hands still shook from her visit with the sheriff when she parked in front of the Saddleback bar. She ran a brush through her hair, regrouped, and refocused. Any job had to be better than the funeral home.
The outside of the bar wasn’t much to look at—a huge, square, sheet metal building with few windows. Three pickups, all with oversized tires, and one car sat on a large gravel lot. A big neon saddle with a rider topped the sign out front advertising a weekly pool tournament and a band on the weekends. The absence of a help wanted sign worried her. Was this the right place? Can’t hurt to ask. Catherine got out, straightened her shoulders, and went inside. The odor of stale beer and cigarettes slammed into her senses. The door closed and plunged her into darkness.
“Welcome. Come on in here.” The raspy voice sounded like it might be female. “Walk straight ahead a few steps. Your eyes will adjust.”
Catherine made her way toward the voice, and her vision became acclimated within seconds. The place wasn’t as dark as her first impression. Along the back wall hung dozens of beer signs, illuminating a long, shiny, wooden bar lined with chrome stools. Tables and chairs were tucked around a small stage and a square dance floor barely left room for four pool tables. How difficult could working here be?
“What’ll you have?” The sandpaper voice belonged to the woman behind the bar.
“Coke, please.” Catherine sat on a barstool. “The sheriff said you need help. Who do I see about applying?”
“That would be me. Name’s Marty Carlton. I own the place.” She popped the top and then pushed the canned drink to Catherine. “So you met our hotter-n-hell new sheriff?”
“He’s new?” She wiped her sweaty palm on her pants and extended her hand.
Marty reached across the bar, her grip was strong and firm. Hard to guess age in the dim lights, but Catherine estimated Marty to be in her forties.
“New to us. Couldn’t be much more than a year.” Marty chuckled to herself. “He caused a mighty stir with the women when he first hit town.”
“I’m sure.” Catherine shifted the owner’s focus back to the question. “I’m Catherine McCoy. Do you need—” One of the men playing pool interrupted when he yelled out an order.
“Hang on a second,” Marty said, cutting Catherine off.
Marty pulled a couple of beers from
the cooler and delivered them, taking a few minutes to chat. Her long, blonde ponytail tied with a pink ribbon swung from side to side, keeping time with the sway of her hips. Her skintight jeans and a two-sizes-too-small, pink tank top revealed way more cleavage than Catherine would be comfortable showing.
One of the customers followed Marty back to the counter.
“Be right back with you, Catherine. Gotta make change for the pool table.” Marty opened the register, put a bill in the tray, and counted out a handful of coins.
The man took his money, winked at Catherine, and sauntered away.
“I think he was flirting.”
“He’s a guy ain’t he?” Marty waved off Catherine’s question. “The tighter a waitress wears her jeans, the bigger her tips.”
Catherine understood the concept. “About the job?”
“You got experience working in a bar?”
“No. But I learn fast.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not local. Where are you from?”
“Born and raised in Oklahoma.” Chills skittered across Catherine’s skin. She’d perfected the art of measuring her words without appearing to be evasive. Prevented her from answering too many personal questions.
“Hmm.” Marty’s head moved back slightly. “What brought you to town?”
“I’m passing through and need to work a few months.”
Marty came around the bar and sat next to Catherine. Closer and in better light, Marty’s heavy makeup and long, false eyelashes didn’t hide the lines around her mouth and the crows feet at the corner of her eyes. Catherine’s estimate of Marty’s age rose to at least fifty. Her pale blue eyes told a story of their own. Underneath the paint and powder, she had an air of sadness about her.
The Green-Eyed Doll Page 1
