Wild Hearts. Sharon Sala

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      “Notifying the next of kin. I’d like to do that, if you wouldn’t mind. Dick’s daughter, Dallas, and I go back a long way, and this is going to hit her hard.”

      Ah, the daughter. So that’s where the connection came in.

      “I don’t mind,” Dewey said. “That’s the worst part of the job, isn’t it?”

      Trey nodded. “I know the autopsy and your investigation will all play into the cause of death, but how do you want me to state it to her? Apparent suicide?”

      “Yes, that’s how I read it, but make sure she knows the final ruling will depend on the autopsy. The coroner is on the way to claim the body. He should be here shortly.”

      “I’ll give her your contact information if she has further questions, okay?”

      “Yes, and give her my condolences. Dick and I were good friends. I can’t believe he did this. I don’t want to believe he did this,” he muttered.

      “Are your men through inside the house?”

      Osmond nodded. “There was no suicide note. The coffeepot was still on, and as usual, the house was spick-and-span.”

      “Then it’s okay if I go inside?”

      “Yeah, but why?” Osmond asked.

      “I need to get a new contact number for Dallas. I haven’t talked to her in several years, not since she moved to Charleston.”

      “Okay,” Osmond said, and then wiped sweat off his forehead and headed back into the barn as Trey went to the house.

      Trey entered through the back door of the utility room and, out of habit, cleaned his feet on the throw rug at the threshold. The layout was exactly as he remembered, and he headed straight through into the kitchen, then into the living room to the landline by the recliner. He could picture Dick kicked back in that chair and talking on the phone with the television on mute. He’d seen him do it a hundred times. He wondered if Dallas would keep the place. It had been in the Phillips family for over a hundred and fifty years. It would be a shame for that heritage to be lost.

      He sat down in the recliner to use Dick’s phone book and turned to the back page where special numbers were listed. Dallas’s number was the first one.

      He started to call her from that phone, then added it to his cell phone instead and left the house. It didn’t seem right to call the daughter on her daddy’s phone and then tell her he was dead.

      He got in his cruiser, reached for the radio and told Avery he would be back in town shortly, then put in a call to his mom to make sure she was okay. He drove away while waiting for her to answer, and when she did she sounded breathless.

      “Hello?”

      “Hey, Mom, I’m just checking in with you. How are you doing?”

      “Honey, I’m fine. There’s a big knot in my stomach, and I wish to God I hadn’t been the one to find him, but it happened. It’s over. I’ll be sad for him and life will go on. I’m on my way home now. I went back to town to get eggs.”

      “Okay, and don’t feel bad for freaking out. It rattled me, too, and don’t think it didn’t. I thought a lot of Dick, and I’m having a really hard time believing this happened.”

      “Me, too,” Betsy said. “It’s unlike the man I thought I knew. Look, I haven’t said a word to anyone, and I’m not going to, but has anyone notified Dallas yet?”

      “No, and that’s on me. Sheriff just gave me the green light, and I stopped in at the house to get her number. I’ll talk to you later.”

      “I’m still making Italian cream cake for your birthday tomorrow,” she said.

      Trey smiled. “In case I don’t tell you often enough, I think you’re the best mom ever, and I love you.”

      He heard her giggle, which made him smile.

      “Thank you, honey. I love you, too,” she said, and disconnected.

      Trey topped a hill and drove up on an old man driving an equally old tractor in the middle of the blacktop. He couldn’t pass, so he took this as the opportunity to pull off the road to call Dallas.

      * * *

      Dallas Phillips left for the television station to begin her day in her favorite black slacks, white blouse and a black-and-white jacket. She enjoyed her work, particularly since she’d become one of WOML Charleston’s hottest on-the-spot reporters.

      She was still in traffic when she got a phone call from the station to meet up with the film crew at the site of a twelve-car pileup on the I-90 outside the city.

      Change of plans.

      She took the next exit, and then drove under the freeway and headed back out of town.

      She met up with the film crew a good quarter of a mile away from the pileup and, despite a stiff wind and thick smoke from the burning cars, began gathering information to go on air. When they signaled to her to get ready, she grabbed the mike, inserted her earpiece and took her stance, waiting for her cue. When it came, she shifted from Dallas the woman to the on-air personality she’d become, and began relaying what had happened with an urgent and somber mien.

      “To date, fifteen people have been taken to local hospitals. The northbound lanes of I-90 will be closed indefinitely. Authorities are asking travelers to please take alternate routes. This is Dallas Phillips for WOML Charleston.”

      “And cut!” her cameraman said. “Great shot with that smoke billowing up behind your head.”

      Dallas frowned. “More like a shot of hell. Hard to believe it started with twelve cars and at last count there were twenty-five. This is a nightmare. There are people who will never make it home.”

      “You didn’t cause it. You just report,” he said.

      What a way to start a day, she thought, her shoulders slumping, and then her phone began to ring as she followed the crew back toward where the news van and her car were parked. She glanced down at the caller ID, but it just registered Out of Area.

      “Dallas Phillips,” she said.

      “Dallas, this is Trey.”

      She closed her eyes, remembering the look on his face when she’d driven away. It was shocking to realize that it hurt just as much now as it had back then. Then she took a deep breath and turned on her on-camera charm.

      “Trey! Wow! I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you? How’s Betsy?”

      “Honey, are you where you can talk?”

      A chill of foreboding swept through her as she remembered he was the chief of police, a person who dealt with death and crimes as she did, but in a different way.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “It’s your dad. Get somewhere so we can talk.”

      “I’m

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