In Hell: When Love Kills A Small Town Mystery

Chapter 26

 "What do you remember about the night my mother was murdered?"

"God, Cash. I'd heard that you were beating that dead horse," Deck said. "Look, I understand it was your mother, but that's all ancient history."

Cash said nothing. The silence lengthened.

"Oh, for god sakes," Deck said. "If you must know, I was in a coma the night your mom died. Well, a drunken stupor, at least. I had been partying for four days straight. I was unconscious that night. I know nothing and remember even less."

"Okay," Cash said. "I didn't think I'd get much out of you."

"Your opinion of me is underwhelming. Possibly correct, but underwhelming. I hate to be a bad host, but I really have some important business to attend to. So, if you don't mind ..."

*****

If it would make her feel better, Dixie would strip her skin from the bone and toss it out the back door. Nice thought, but it would simply take too much time. Time. Time. Time. Where had it gone? She felt the insidious ticking like a time bomb going in her head. That sound never seemed to leave her brain.

Deck was a fool. He was careless.

Dixie fingered the trinkets on the mantle above the fireplace in her bedroom. Cheap. Tacky. Hideous. Like something you'd pick up at a dime store, a carnival, or a flea market.

They looked out of place among the finery that otherwise decorated the opulent room. A small teddy bear. Souvenirs from her youth and a time when the world was her apple. A glass slipper. A kewpie doll with garish eyelashes and a brightly painted, puckering mouth. A plastic monkey. A motel ashtray. The whole lot would probably fetch about three dollars and change – and only then on a good day. Yet, they never failed to bring a smile to her lips.

She was young then.

Strong. Proud. Beautiful.

And the world had seemed younger then, too. Anything seemed possible. Conquering business. Breaking through the glass ceiling. Finding true love.

Love.

Something twisted deep inside Dixie's chest. Tears filled her eyes. It was real and painful, but it wasn't caused by the ruthless disease that was devouring her with relentless pleasure. Her thin fingers wrapped around a small chalk dog. Purple veins traced paths across bruised skin. She took a long, slow sip from her vodka martini.

She looked outside the window. The gardens were a tangle of overgrowth and weeds. The house was crumbling around her. Funny, years ago this would have thrown her into a fit of depression and anger. Now, she looked about the scene with glazed, uncaring eyes.

When had she changed? When had she abandoned everything that had meant anything? When had she given up?

She did not know.

*****

Dixie slammed the phone down on the coffee table. For over an hour, she'd been trying to get in touch with Deck. She knew it was futile, a waste of time, but still, she picked up the phone and dialed her brother's number one more time. Impossible. He only answered when his 'business partners' were on the other end.

Business partners.

She wasn't blind. She wasn't stupid either. Her little brother was nothing more than a small-time candy man. And he wasn't even good at it. If it hadn't been for her he would have been rotting away in a jail cell years ago. She threw her phone across the room. It smashed against the wall and fell with a dull thud. She wanted to scream, to pull her hair out by the roots.

"Goddammit to hell," she said. "If you weren't my brother, I swear I'd kill you."

It was an often repeated sentiment. Dixie was tired. Tired of making excuses. Tired of making ends meet. Tired of keeping up appearances when everyone around knew, and nobody cared. Tired of trying. Tired of Deck's excesses. Hell, she was just plain tired.

She sipped her drink. It did little to ease her shattered nerves. Nothing seemed to help anymore. She walked to the bar and refilled her delicate glass from a crystal pitcher. She clenched her fist, pounding it on the bar's surface as her mind raced. No matter how badly she felt, she knew she had to try. It was up to her. It always had been. She'd been a fucking miracle worker over the years. She looked in the mirror and laughed. She might as well have glued a broom and mop, maybe a toilet plunger or two, to her hands. No, a shovel was more like it. She was always cleaning up that man's messes.

Raising the glass above her head, she slung it against the wall. The wet stain spread like an angry wound. The glass shattered into a million pieces. Dixie's scream bounced off the walls of the empty room like a ping pong ball on uppers.