Cold Hearts

Three

Will Porter was finishing breakfast and preparing for an early meeting at school. His wife, Rita, was sitting at the other end of the breakfast table nursing a cup of coffee spiked with a shot of the bourbon she’d gotten drunk on last night. It was all he could do to look at her these days. She was such a disappointment and hardly the wife he needed if he was going to get himself elected state superintendent of schools. His dreams were big, but Rita’s daily hangovers were bigger. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about her, but he wasn’t going to let anything derail his aspirations to get out of this one-horse town.

When his cell phone rang, he was actually relieved. It saved him from having to tell her goodbye. Instead, he just waved at her as he stood up and walked away, talking as he went.

“This is Porter. Yes, Suzette. I’m on my way. What? Heard what?” He paused in the hall. “Really! That’s terrible. So is everyone there? Good, tell them I’m on my way.”

He dropped his phone in his pocket and reached for his briefcase just as Rita picked it up and handed it to him, tilting her cheek in a flirtatious manner.

“You almost forgot my goodbye kiss.”

“I didn’t forget anything,” Will said as he took the briefcase out of her hands.

She grabbed his coat sleeve. “Who was that on the phone? I heard you say something was terrible. What happened?”

“It was Suzette. She called to tell me the parents I’m supposed to meet with this morning are waiting on me, so turn loose of my sleeve, I need to go.”

Rita frowned. “What’s so terrible about that?”

“Oh, that. She said Paul Jackson was dead. Crushed by a car he was working on.”

Rita shrieked. “Oh, my God! That’s terrible! And he was such a sweet man.”

Will frowned. “Really? Did you fuck him when you were in school like you did Dick Phillips? Are you going to throw that in my face, too?”

Rita slapped his face.

He returned the slap and sent her reeling.

“There, now, if you needed an excuse to get shit-faced drunk again today, I just gave it to you.”

He walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Rita was still screaming obscenities as he drove away.

* * *

Gregory Standish was on his way to the bank when his cell phone rang. He glanced down at caller ID and frowned. He’d just sat through a silent breakfast with his wife and daughter, and now his wife wanted to talk. He gave a long-suffering sigh and answered.

“What is it, Gloria?”

“Gregory! I just heard the most terrible news,” she said. “Paul Jackson is dead. They found him crushed beneath a car this morning. There will be a funeral for sure, and I don’t have a thing to wear. Carly and I are going shopping in Summerton, so I won’t be home for lunch. You’ll have to pick something up in town.”

His heart skipped a beat. Those two were going to bankrupt him yet, and a bankrupt banker would never be mayor of Mystic. It was a small dream in comparison to some, but it was his, and every day his family’s spending habits drew him further away from realizing his goal.

“Don’t spend money, Gloria. I told you—we’re already strapped as it is.”

“Don’t be silly, Gregory. You’re president of the bank. You have plenty of money.”

He groaned as the line went dead in his ear.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, dropping the phone back in his pocket.

Now his stomach was in knots. Jackson’s death had given his wife had a new excuse for a shopping spree. He hadn’t seen that coming.

* * *

Mack pulled into the driveway and stopped beneath the carport, taking care to leave room for his dad’s truck, and the moment he thought that, he groaned. His dad wasn’t coming home. The knot in his belly grew tighter as he killed the engine. He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the house in slow, hesitant strides, reluctant to go inside. Today he’d been robbed of all he held dear.

When he unlocked the door and walked in, he was struck by the quiet familiarity of the house. How dare the world keep spinning when he was in free fall? He closed his eyes, and when he took a deep breath, he knew by the lingering scent of stale coffee and bacon grease what his dad had eaten for breakfast the day before. He dropped the suitcase by the door and turned the lock before going into the kitchen.

It was just as he suspected. An unwashed skillet was still on the stove, the bottom covered with congealed bacon grease, and the carafe in the coffeemaker was half-full. His dad would have reheated it last night and finished it off with his supper as he cleaned up, only last night he hadn’t gone home. He’d stayed to do a customer a favor, just as he’d done countless times before, but this time something had gone tragically wrong.

His hands were shaking as he poured the coffee down the sink and refilled the carafe. Once the coffee began to brew, he took his suitcase back to his room, tossed it on the bed and then turned around to hang up his jacket. As he did, his gaze went straight past the open door of his room to the one across the hall. How many times had he awakened at night as a kid and taken comfort from that open door, knowing his dad was so close? He had been convinced nothing could hurt him then because Dad would protect him from nighttime monsters. He’d known that as surely as he’d known his own name. And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that a real monster had come and taken his father’s life.

As soon as he hung up his clothes, he went straight to the desk, found the name and phone number of the company that serviced the hydraulic lift, then texted it to Trey.

Next order of business was to call the employees. There were only two, and he was sorry for their circumstances, but as of today they were out of a job. The best he could do, if they wanted to move or make the daily drive to Summerton, was to offer them a job at his lumberyard. If not, they were on their own.

* * *

Betsy Jakes was making bread, and with her daughter, Trina, already at work, she had the house to herself. Kneading the dough was good therapy. The dough was a physical thing she could hold on to, which was vital for a woman losing her grip on reality. It was bad enough learning yet another of her friends was gone, but something else was happening that caused her concern.

She was losing track of time, and it had happened again this morning.

She had no memory of hanging up the phone or going to the kitchen after talking to Trey, no memory of gathering up the ingredients to bake, and yet here she was, making bread. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, along with the bitter taste of bile. She was on the verge of throwing up but afraid if she gave in to the feeling something terrible would happen, so she kept working the dough with slow, rhythmic movements, pushing out air bubbles with each downward thrust from the heel of her hand.

She was elbow-deep in flour and yeast, the radio playing loudly enough in the background that she didn’t hear Dallas’s car as she pulled up outside.

* * *

Dallas drove around to the back of the house. After Trey’s concern about his mother’s state of mind, she was anxious as to what she might find. She got out on the run, peered through the window in the back door and saw Betsy at the cabinet. Relieved that she seemed to be doing okay, Dallas tried the door. It was unlocked. Instead of knocking, she opened it.

“Knock, knock,” she said, standing on the threshold holding a carton of eggs and waiting for an invitation.

Betsy was smiling as she turned around. “Come in, sugar! It’s good to see you!” Flour flew in every direction as Betsy lifted her hand to wave, and they both laughed when some of it settled back on her face. “I guess I should qualify that. Come in, but don’t get too close. I seem to be making a bigger mess than usual this morning.”

Betsy seemed just fine. Dallas breathed a sigh of relief. “My little hens are laying up a storm. I brought you some fresh eggs,” she said.

She put the eggs in the refrigerator, hung her jacket on the back of a chair, then gave Betsy a hello kiss.

“Thank you for the eggs,” Betsy said. “Coffee is fresh. Help yourself.”

“Thanks. So I see you’re making bread. That will be yummy.”

“Yes. With that nip in the air, it seemed like a good thing to do today,” Betsy said.

“I haven’t made yeast bread in ages,” Dallas said as she brushed the flour from Betsy’s cheeks and then poured herself a cup of coffee.

Betsy’s smile widened. She was beyond happy that Trey and Dallas were back together. She thought it was a ridiculous waste of life when people who loved each other as they did couldn’t find a way to work out their differences so they could be together.

“Oatmeal-raisin cookies are in the cookie jar if you want one with your coffee,” Betsy said.

“I never turn down any of your cooking,” Dallas said. She grabbed a cookie, and then pulled up a kitchen stool and sat down.

“I suppose Trey sent you to check on me,” Betsy said. “It’s terrible about Paul, isn’t it? The news took me aback, I can tell you. Such a horrible thing to have happened. I’ve been thinking about Mack ever since I heard.”

Dallas ignored the twinge of sadness she felt. Her dad’s murder had been such a shock, and it was still unsolved. She could empathize with what Mack must be feeling.

“Trey did suggest I stop by to make sure you were okay.”

“Losing people we love, no matter how it happens, is a terrible thing,” Betsy said, and then paused in her kneading to give Dallas a long look.

“Are you doing okay? I mean, are you finding ways to stay busy and happy since you decided to move back home? I know you had an exciting life in Charleston.”

Dallas took a sip of coffee, and then set the cookie and the cup aside.

“I had a busy life, but it quit being exciting years ago. I just didn’t know it until I was forced to face what I’d given up to get it. Trey and I are fine. Don’t worry any about us, okay?”

Betsy gave the dough one last flip on the bread board and then covered it with a clean white cloth so it could rise.

“I’m not worried about any of my kids,” she said. She washed her hands and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Let’s go sit where I can put my feet up. I’m feeling my age today.”

Dallas followed her into the living room without comment, although there was something about the unfamiliar stoop to Betsy’s shoulders and the dragging steps that gave her some concern. When she saw the way Betsy eased herself down in the chair, she knew something was off.

“Are you in pain?”

Betsy stifled a sigh. “No, honey. I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

Dallas frowned. “But you’re not in pain?”

“Oh, no! Not a bit. Just tired. I’ll take a nap this afternoon and be good to go. Now, tell me, how’s the egg business?”

Dallas smiled. “Not slacking off, that’s for sure.”

Betsy leaned back and momentarily closed her eyes, and as she did, everything went black. She heard the sound of screeching brakes and someone praying, and jumped out of her seat so fast she knocked the mug off the table. It broke, splashing hot coffee all over the legs of her pants and the hardwood floor.

“Oh, good grief!” she said. “I am so clumsy.”

“I’ll get a rag to clean it up,” Dallas said, as she ran to the kitchen.

Betsy got down on her knees to pick up the broken pieces of the cup, and all of a sudden she was on her hands and knees in the floorboard of a car and flying down the road so fast she could feel the vibration beneath her fingers. The scent of vomit was up her nose and burning the back of her throat, and someone was screaming. She didn’t realize that it was her making all the noise until Dallas dropped down to the floor beside her, calling her name.

“Betsy! Betsy! What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did you fall?”

Betsy rocked back on her heels. Her hands were shaking, and she kept brushing at her face and the front of her shirt, expecting it to be covered in vomit. She looked down at the broken cup and spilled coffee, and shivered.

“I don’t know,” Betsy mumbled. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Dallas was scared. The way Betsy was acting, it was almost as if she had suffered some kind of seizure.

“You have coffee all over your pants. Let me help you to your room. You can change and then lie down for a while. I’ll stay and finish off your bread, okay?”

“I have to clean up the car,” Betsy muttered, pointing down at the floor. “I threw up, and I have to clean it up.”

Dallas’s heart skipped a beat. Clean up the car? Because she threw up in it?

“It’s okay, honey. I’ll clean it,” Dallas said, and she all but pushed Betsy down the hall to her room.

It took a few minutes for Dallas to get Betsy into clean clothes, but as soon as she did, Betsy crawled up onto her bed and rolled over. She closed her eyes so fast it gave Dallas the impression that she was seeing something she couldn’t face and wanted it all to go away.

Dallas took a quilt from the quilt rack and covered Betsy up to her chin, then hurried back into the living room to clean up the floor. As soon as she was through, she picked up her phone to call Trey, and then stopped. He was certain to have his hands full right now, and he couldn’t do anything for his mother that she wasn’t already doing. He would call when he got time, and she would talk to him then.

* * *

The killer stood with the crowd of onlookers across the street from the garage, nursing a cup of coffee and listening to the gossip mill creating a whole set of rumors out of thin air. He smirked, thinking what tiny minds they had and small worlds they lived in, and how easy it had been to erase past errors. Only one more to go and then the future would be secure.

* * *

Lissa was struggling at school and finally gave in to the fact that she couldn’t maintain a sane thought for more than a few seconds. She kept seeing that foot and the pool of blood, and all she wanted was to take yesterday back. Then she would never have gone along with Paul’s offer to work late on her car. She would have assured him it wasn’t necessary and that she could easily get a ride to work. But she couldn’t revise the past, and now a good man was dead. She wasn’t sure how she was going to live with that and ever be happy again.

Added to that, her first-graders were getting on her last nerve. She knew from experience that children sensed when the adults in their lives were troubled and acted out accordingly. Today it was taking all her concentration to keep them occupied. Tears welled constantly, but she kept blinking them away. Every time she looked out at the red clay of the muddy playground, the red water in the puddles made her think of the blood that had run out from under her car. She had an overwhelming urge to throw up.

Finally it was lunchtime, which meant the day was half over. She marched her students from the classroom to the cafeteria, and then went about the business of getting them settled down to eat. Some brought lunches and went through the line just to get a carton of milk, while others juggled trays filled with food from the cafeteria.

Every day during lunch, at least one child dropped a tray. She just hoped today it wasn’t one of hers. If anyone cried around her today she was likely to join them.

She was standing beside the cooler, putting a carton of milk on every tray and congratulating herself on hiding her emotions when she accidentally dropped a carton, and then another and another. That was when she realized her hands were shaking to the point that she couldn’t maintain her grip. She glanced around to make sure no one noticed and began using both hands to do her job.

But she’d been mistaken. All her coworkers knew what had happened. They knew why she’d been late getting to school and were sympathetic. When someone said her name and then tapped her on the shoulder, she found herself face-to-face with her principal.

“Mr. Wilson! Would you like a carton of milk?”

Wilson calmly took the milk out of her hand and put it on the tray of the waiting student, then cupped her elbow.

“No. I came to tell you we have a substitute for your class for the rest of the day. You need some time at home.”

Lissa’s eyes welled. “I’m fine, really.”

“No, you’re not, and I wouldn’t be, either. Go get your things and meet Louis at the office. He volunteered to take you home.”

One of the aides took over milk duty as she and the principal walked out of the cafeteria. Now that the decision had been taken out of her hands, she felt the walls she’d put up beginning to crumble. She hurried to gather up her things, left her lesson plans out on the desk for the substitute teacher and headed for the office.

Louis Parsons, the school custodian, was already there with keys in hand. He was a stocky thirtysomething man who wore his hair in a ponytail and was so shy around women that he looked down at their feet instead of their faces when he spoke.

“I can carry that bag for you,” he said. He slipped the big tote from her shoulder as he escorted her to the parking lot.

The drive home was completely silent.

Lissa was teary eyed and still trembling when Louis pulled up to her house. When he started to get out, she stopped him.

“You don’t need to get out, and thank you the ride.”

He kept his gaze fixed on the hood of his car. “I’m sure sorry about what happened to Mr. Jackson.”

“So am I, Louis. Thank you again for the ride.”

He ducked his head as she gathered up her things and got out, the house key in her hand. Her steps were dragging as she heard Louis drive away. She made it up the steps and was fumbling with the key, trying to get it in the lock, when she heard a car pull up behind her.

She wouldn’t turn around. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, but she couldn’t get the key in the lock fast enough to make an escape. All of a sudden there were footsteps coming up the walk, and then someone was calling out her name.

“Lissa! Lissa! Wait up!”

Her shoulders slumped.

Oh, perfect. It’s T.J.

She wasn’t in the mood to talk. They’d said all they needed to say to each other a couple of months earlier, when she’d quit accepting his invitations to dinner, but before she could think of a way to head him off he had bounded up the steps and slipped a hand beneath her elbow.

“Let me help you inside,” he said, as he took the keys from her hand and quickly opened the door.

Lissa entered reluctantly. Once he was inside, he was difficult to get out.

“I’m not up to visitors today, T.J.”

He ran a finger down the side of her cheek as his voice softened.

“I know, Liss. I heard what happened. I’m so sorry you were the one who found the body. It must have been awful for you.”

Lissa pushed his hand aside. She hated the nickname he persisted in using and didn’t intend to talk about what had happened with anyone, especially him.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Please go, T.J. I just need to be alone.”

T. J. Silver wasn’t used to women refusing his attentions, and this only reminded him how pissed he was that she had ended their very new, very tenuous relationship after just a handful of dinner dates.

“I understand how you feel, but I just want to help. I assume your car is going to be unavailable for a while. Could I give you a ride to school tomorrow?”

The last thing she wanted was to owe him any favors.

“No, I have that covered,” she said. She then went to the door and stepped aside, waiting for him to leave. “Thank you for checking on me. It was very kind.”

T.J.’s eyes narrowed angrily, but he managed a smile as he slid a hand beneath her hair and cupped the back of her neck.

“I didn’t do it to be kind, Liss. I did it because I care about you.”

She stiffened beneath the familiarity, and she knew he felt it.

“So you have my number,” he said. “Call if you need anything, okay?”

“Thank you again,” she said.

He gave in and walked out, and the moment he crossed the threshold she shut the door and turned the lock.

His fingers curled into fists when he heard that click, but he kept on walking.

Lissa leaned against the door until she heard him drive away. Only then did she abandon her post and go to her room to change.

* * *

Being around women made Louis Parsons nervous. He would never have volunteered to take Melissa Sherman home on his own, but the principal was his boss, and he’d asked if Louis would take her home, so he had.

He kept glancing at the floorboard and the seat of his truck as he drove away, making sure she hadn’t left anything behind. His identical twin brother, Reece, used the truck at night, and he made a big deal of keeping it clean, which Louis thought was stupid because Reece’s dog, Bobo, shed like crazy and Reece was always taking Bobo for a ride.

He got back to school and slipped right into the routine as if he’d never been gone, hauling the oversize trash cans from the school cafeteria to the Dumpsters and sweeping up the floor after the last lunch shift had ended. He stayed busy all afternoon and then went to work cleaning up the rooms after school was out, thinking all the time of the comfort waiting for him back home. Even though he and his brother shared a house, they didn’t share their lives. Louis worked days, his brother worked nights and, even though they shared a vehicle and sometimes the dog, their paths rarely crossed.

His steps were dragging as he locked up the building and headed to the parking lot. It was almost supper time, but he was going home to take a nap. He’d always taken a nap after school when he was little and he did the same thing now because routines and schedules were how Louis Parsons rolled.

The house he and Reece rented was on the far side of the park in the old part of Mystic. The houses weren’t shacks, but they were a little run-down, most of them in need of a coat or two of paint or minor repairs. Louis had fixed the front steps when they’d moved in, and painted the porch so the outside looked neat. The interior was a work in progress. He liked to stay busy during the day, even on weekends, but that meant quiet projects because Reece slept days.

He unlocked the door and entered quietly, wrinkling his nose at the doggy smell of the house as he headed for the kitchen with his to-go coffee mug. He rinsed it out to refill tomorrow, wrote a note to Reece telling him what food was available in the refrigerator for his nighttime meals and headed down the hall to his room.