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