Wild Hearts. Sharon Sala
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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