Wild Hearts

by Sharon Sala

  “If you have a question, or if you need help in any way, call me. Will you do that? Will you let me help you that much?”

  She sighed. “Yes. I’ll do that. And, Trey, really...thanks for calling.”

  “Yeah, sure. Try and get some rest.”

  He disconnected before she could say goodbye, and she told herself it didn’t matter, then had to make herself move. All of a sudden the day had caught up with her. She stumbled into the living room, turned off the television and then headed for her room.

  She had the bed turned back and was ready to get in when she stopped. She thought about how far it was from here to her nearest neighbor, then about the person who’d killed her dad, and went across the hall to his bedroom to get his shotgun. She checked to see if it was loaded, then put it just under the edge of her bed.

  She might not sleep a wink, but it wouldn’t be because she was scared. And she didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Four

  Dallas’s sleep was fitful, and she was awake before daybreak, sad but determined to find out the truth. Still in her pajamas, she thought even going into the kitchen to make coffee seemed too much to face, but two cups of coffee and a piece of toast later, she got dressed and began to tackle the morning chores.

  She walked out on the back porch to a world that appeared to be weeping. Water was dripping from the eaves of the house, from the leaves of the trees, from the crepe myrtle bushes on either side of the back steps. Instead of quiet, she heard the soft patter of the droplets with its own brand of rhythm as she walked away from the house.

  The chickens were fussing, ready to be let out of the coop. The cows were bawling inside the corral, waiting to be fed. The normalcy of the morning was somehow comforting, a reminder that some things never changed.

  She entered the lean-to against the chicken house, filled a big bucket with feed and a smaller one with what her dad always called “scratch,” part of what chickens ate to help their craw break down and digest their food, and carried them into the pen. She scattered a little bit out on the ground before she opened the coop, and when all the hens raced out to get the feed, she carried the rest of it inside and refilled the troughs. If it rained again, at least they could come in to eat and stay dry. Then she refilled their water, gathered the eggs and headed for the barn.

  Remembering the lightning strike, she began looking for signs of what had been hit, hoping none of the cattle had been close. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d lost a cow to lightning, but there were no signs of that. She was almost at the barn when she noticed the burn barrel lying on its side. As she drew closer, she soon realized the entire bottom of it was gone.

  That had to be what was hit. She remembered the crime-scene tape and began to look around for where it could have blown. It wasn’t until she started to set the barrel back up that she saw the bottom of it was still there, along with a small wad of what looked like blackened and melted plastic. If it hadn’t been for a tiny tinge of yellow she would never have recognized it as the tape.

  “Yes, Lord, I did want that yellow tape burned, and thank you for doing it, but you didn’t have to scare the crap out of me in the process.”

  She went back to get the egg basket, knowing she had last night’s and this morning’s eggs to clean and put in cartons. The cows were still bawling, so she left the eggs in the cooler and fed them before she went back.

  By the time she made it back to the house it was late enough to call the county sheriff’s office. She got a cup of coffee, then picked up a pen and notepad and sat down at the kitchen table. As she did, she noticed she’d missed a call from Trey. She would call him back after this, she thought, as she punched in the numbers.

  “County sheriff’s office.”

  “This is Dallas Phillips. I need to speak to Sheriff Osmond regarding the death of my father, Dick Phillips.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Already the knot in Dallas’s stomach was getting tighter. She interviewed law enforcement regarding death and crime on a daily basis, but this was in regard to her own father’s death, and she felt as if she were insulting her father’s name.

  “Hello. Miss Phillips? This is Sheriff Osmond. Your father and I were good fishing buddies. I’m really going to miss him.”

  “Oh! You’re Dewey, aren’t you? I didn’t get the connection. Please call me Dallas, and thank you for taking my call.”

  “Of course, and I really am sorry for your loss. How can I help you?”

  “As you can imagine, I want to know where you are on the case. Trey Jakes told me all he knew, and now I want to know what you can tell me.”

  “Then you probably know as much as I do at the moment. We gathered evidence yesterday as we worked the scene. We found nothing obvious that would lead us to believe his death was anything but a suicide, so I’m waiting on the coroner’s findings from the autopsy.”

  “I want you to know that I will never believe he killed himself. I spoke to him two to three times a week. I came home at least once, sometimes twice, a month to visit. I never saw a hint of trouble or felt as if he had a worry in the world. I knew my father well. I would have known if something was bothering him.”

  She heard Osmond sigh and resented it, but said nothing.

  “I understand and appreciate your feelings, Dallas, and I will make note of this conversation in the file, okay? I’m not the kind of man who takes the easy way out to close a case. Okay?”

  Now she sighed, and when she did she recognized the action for what it was and understood where he was coming from. Neither one of them had any knowledge that would make this go away. Nothing could do that.

  “Yes, I hear you,” she said. “Can you tell me when you expect the autopsy to be done?”

  “The coroner told me he would have the initial findings within a week, but if there was a need for more extensive tests, the final results would take longer. However, I promise to let you know when the body will be released.”

  “Thank you,” Dallas said, and gave him the number to her cell phone, then disconnected.

  She hadn’t learned anything new, but she’d made the first contact to let them know she was here, to make sure they understood someone was paying attention on her father’s behalf.

  She took a sip of coffee and then finally called Trey.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Hello. Are you okay?”

  “Good morning to you, too,” she said. “I’m as good as I can be, considering.”

  “I guessed you were outside when I called.”

  “Yes. I just got off the phone with Sheriff Osmond. The coroner will do the initial autopsy within a week, so I’ve made the decision to just hold a memorial service for Dad and bury him privately when everything’s done.”

  Trey thought about the condition the body had been in when he’d seen it and knew that she was making a wise decision.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” he said.

  “Can you do me a favor as you go about your day?”

  “Absolutely. What do you need?”

  “Tell people there are still eggs for sale. I can’t stop the hens from laying, and I don’t want the eggs to go to waste.”

  “Oh. Right. Life still goes on, doesn’t it, honey?”

  She laughed, but there was not an ounce of humor in it.

  “It damn sure does, whether we like it or not.”

  “What are you going to do today?”

  She glanced up at the calendar on the wall, and as she did, suddenly remembered the significance of the date.

  “I’m going to follow your suggestion and go through Dad’s things, see if I can find anything that would help explain what happened.”

  “Let me know if you do,” he said.

  “I will, and, Trey...”

  “Yeah?”

  “Happy birthday.”

  He hurt for the sadness in her voice.

  “Thanks. I’m the guest of honor at Mom’s for supper tonight. She’s
going all out on my favorite foods.”

  “She’s the best when it comes to mothering, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. The whole family will be there...except Sam. I would ask you to join us, but...”

  “Oh, no, although thank you for thinking of me. I wouldn’t be good company, you know?”

  “I figured as much, but would you mind if I came by later tonight and brought you a piece of my birthday cake?”

  “Is it going to be Italian cream cake?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “I might let you in the door,” she said, and closed her eyes against sudden tears, remembering other birthdays and making out while feeding each other bites of cake.

  “That’s great. Then I’ll see you later tonight, and if I get called back to the office, I’ll let you know so you won’t stay up waiting on me to show.”

  “Okay, and have a happy birthday, Trey.”

  “Thank you, and remember, call if you need me.”

  And then he was gone. She wished she’d had something else to talk about just to hear his voice a little longer.

  She sat at the table while her coffee got cold, thinking about what to do next. She had been in college when her mother died, and by the time she got home, her dad had already made all the decisions and arrangements. It was hard, this business of dying, and when the question of how it happened was unanswered, it was even harder. It was time to call the preacher.

  * * *

  It was almost 11:00 a.m. when Betsy took the chicken potpie out of the oven and set it aside to cool as she finished mixing a marinated salad. When Trey called asking her to spread the word that the Phillips family still had eggs to sell, she’d made a couple of calls to start the ball rolling and took it as the opening she needed to pay Dallas a visit, but she wasn’t going empty-handed.

  * * *

  The fact that Dallas was even in her father’s room was sad all on its own. It smelled like his aftershave, and the toes of his house shoes were poking out from beneath the side of the bed. Her mother’s picture was still hanging on the wall opposite the foot of the bed, the last thing Dick saw at night before he closed his eyes and the first thing he saw when he opened them the next morning.

  Salt on an open wound, she thought, and then went to work. Hours later she was still there, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room, surrounded by the past six months of bills and correspondence that he’d kept in a shoe box in the closet. There were no unpaid bills and no letters of any kind that could be construed as troublesome or threatening. The only thing left to go through was her grandfather’s desk, but it was in the living room.

  She began putting everything away and was almost done when she thought she heard a car coming up the driveway. She got up quickly, wiping her hands on her jeans as she went down the hall and into the living room. She didn’t recognize the car, but she knew the woman getting out. When she saw that she was carrying food, she felt a moment of panic. There had been a death in the family, precipitating an influx of visitors and the bringing of food. She combed her fingers through her hair and hoped she didn’t look like she’d been crying.

  * * *

  Betsy’s hands were full as she came up the steps, but she didn’t have to knock. Dallas was standing in the doorway.

  Betsy hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind that I came without calling.”

  Dallas shook her head. “Don’t be silly. I’m glad to see you. Come in.”

  Betsy stepped across the threshold. “Okay if I put this stuff in the kitchen for you?”

  “Of course,” Dallas said. “Follow me.”

  “This is chicken potpie, and it’s still hot,” Betsy said, as she walked over to the stove and put the covered pie plate onto an unlit burner. “This is marinated salad. You’ll need to refrigerate it.”

  Dallas peeked in at the potpie as Betsy set the salad on the counter.

  “It looks wonderful. Thank you for thinking of me,” Dallas said, and when she looked up, Betsy was crying.

  “I’m so sorry,” Betsy said, as she put her arms around Dallas and gave her a hug. “I would give anything for this not to have happened.”

  It was the sympathy that got to her. Dallas dissolved into a fresh set of tears.

  “Oh Lord, me, too. I can’t believe he’s gone,” Dallas said. “I’m sorry you were the one who found him.”

  Betsy shuddered, despite her intent not to go there with Dallas.

  “Come sit down with me,” Betsy said, as she took a seat at the kitchen table.

  Dallas pulled out a chair and joined her.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Betsy asked.

  “Not unless you know something about Dad that I don’t. I’ve been going through his things all morning looking for answers, trying to find something that will explain this madness, but so far, nothing.”

  “How are you going to handle the funeral services? Will you wait for—”

  “No waiting,” Dallas said. “I’ve scheduled a memorial service for the day after tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. When they finally release his body, he’ll be buried beside Mom without further ceremony.”

  Betsy nodded. “I think that’s a good decision. So, if you’re having a morning service, you’ll have the family meal here at the house afterward, right?”

  “I guess,” Dallas said, wiping tears and blowing her nose. “I can’t get from one decision to the next without coming undone.”

  Betsy reached across the table and took her hand.

  “Will you let me help? You can just be present. Let me deal with the food and the people. Consider me your hostess for the day, okay?”

  Dallas squeezed Betsy’s hand. “I accept, and gladly. Dad has an elderly aunt in Michigan who won’t be attending, but I have to call and let her know. I have a few cousins scattered about the country, but have no idea how many, if any, will come. Mom has two sisters still living. I’ll call them and let them notify the rest of the family, but I really don’t expect many to show. They’re all so far away.”

  “You could have the service at a later date, so people can plan ahead,” Betsy suggested.

  Dallas looked away.

  “What?” Betsy asked. “What aren’t you saying?”

  “That I dread seeing them come in the door believing Dad killed himself, because I know the family, and that’s exactly what they’ll think—especially Mom’s side. They always thought she could have done better for herself than marrying a hillbilly farmer.”

  Betsy frowned. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  Dallas shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t bring him back to life, and I can’t change the public assumption that Dad committed suicide until I find out why he was killed and who did it.”

  Betsy was at a loss as to how to respond to that and went immediately to something else. “In the meantime, we have a memorial service to plan, and you don’t want to have some piddly event that says you’re not going all out because you believe he killed himself. You’re having the ‘he was the best man ever’ ceremony. Now, have you spoken to the preacher?”

  “Yes. I have to write Dad’s eulogy, but everything else has been settled. What would you think if, instead of a sermon, the preacher invites anyone who’d like to, to come up to the pulpit and speak about knowing him, or tell a funny story about him, if they want?”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea. I wish I could be there, but I think I’d better stay here at the house during the service to receive the food that will be coming. Now, that’s enough for today. It’s time I get home. I know you probably don’t have much appetite, but promise me you’ll eat a little. You have to keep up your strength.”

  “I promise,” Dallas said, and gave Betsy a big hug as she stood up to leave.

  She walked with her out of the house, and just as Betsy was about to leave, the delivery van from the local flower shop drove up.

  Dallas swallowed past the lump in her throat. First the food. Now the flowers.

  She waved at Betsy
as she drove away, then opened the door for the lady who came carrying bouquets.

  “Thank you, dear. Where do you want me to put these?”

  “You can put one on that end table and the other on the coffee table,” Dallas said.

  “Oh, this isn’t all. I have a bunch more. How about I bring them in and you put them where you want them?”

  “All right,” Dallas said, and began looking at the cards as the woman hurried out.

  One was from their church, the second from Paul Jackson, one of her dad’s oldest friends. When the woman finally left, she had delivered a total of six.

  Dallas went to get the notepad and started writing down names of the people who’d sent flowers, then started another list of people who’d brought food, with Betsy Jakes at the top.

  The scent of the chicken potpie actually made her feel hungry, and it was almost noon. Maybe it was time to take a break. Even though she was anxious to resume her search, she had to start calling the family. After that, a little food.

  * * *

  She’d only managed to make a few calls before the preacher’s secretary called to let her know she’d posted a notice of Dick Phillips’s memorial service in the local paper.

  Betsy was at home making calls to all of Dick’s egg customers about available eggs.

  Dallas was getting more help than she could have imagined. One neighbor stopped by with a pie and condolences. Two egg customers came without knowing of the death and were properly horrified. The elderly woman cried, which made Dallas cry with her. The young man with two little kids was saddened by the news, and then embarrassed because his kids wouldn’t stop asking where Mr. Phillips was because he always let them pet the hens. Everyone wanted details and then was shocked by her terse answers. Dallas was in tears again by the time the last one left.

  It was two hours later before she got a chance to resume her search, and the next place she wanted to look was the old desk. As a child, she’d learned where the secret compartments were and had been fascinated by the idea of finding hidden treasures. Now all she wanted were answers.

  She sat down and opened the rolltop. Usually there was a faint layer of dust on the surface because he never used it anymore, but to her surprise it was not only clean, but she could smell the faint scent of furniture polish.