People were fleeing the town square. Older citizens gave me dark stares, and clucked as they passed. In the rush, someone shoved a large white envelope into my hand. I didn’t see who. It was a disaster.
8 Minutes to Sunday, Episode One
If you haven't read the first Dalton West mystery, find the links here.
New to this story? Follow the bullet links to find the right episode!
As the last of the visitors left, Fred came over.
He was laughing.
“Thanks,” he said. “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”
Leeanne was torn. She was furious with me for not checking the discount merchandise. But, she was laughing.
“Well, Sheriff, you wanted to make an impression,” She said.
She took my hand. Then she noticed the envelope.
‘For the bride’ It said, in neatly hand lettered Calligraphy.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” I said.
“You got me a surprise?” she said.
“I didn’t. Someone shoved it in my hand,” I said.
She was ripping it open. I stood, rubbing my head, looking at the Santa. I didn’t notice the icy wind coming from Leeanne’s direction until she slapped me.
“What the hell is this?” she demanded.
She punched the contents of the envelope at my chest. Then she was gone. She took DJ and stalked off toward her car.
I grabbed the paper against my chest and held it out. It took a minute for my head to clear. It was a black and white photo. On the left, was me, that much was clear. On the right was someone in a wedding gown. I stopped breathing. Her face had been cut out.
I ran after Leeanne.
“This wasn’t me! I’ve never seen this, or I don’t remember, come on, you can’t blame me for this!” I said.
“You should probably not come home tonight,” she said.
She glared at me, cold. She got in the car and backed out.
“But, Leeanne, I don’t know who this is. There’s not even a face!” I said.
She rolled down the window and hit me in the face with a sample wedding bouquet.
“I knew you were too good to be true, Dalton West, or whatever the hell your name is!” she said.
She squealed the tires as she peeled away from curb.
Fred looked over my shoulder. “Oh dear. Well, the bed in the apartment has fresh sheets,” he said.
He handed me the keys. Everyone had left. The square looked beautiful except for the giant Santa ass now deflated and spread across the lawn. Below the neat butthole Gene had added, his boxers said, “Merry Chrism-ass” I sighed.
It took almost thirty minutes to get Santa back into the box. I rolled it, flopping it one side to the next, to the next, across the lawn to a big dumpster.
I’d have someone help me with it in the morning.
I pulled my truck across the street to Bedman’s hardware and went inside. I locked the doors. The wooden stairs sounded lonely as I went up. Like me. I sighed again. The apartment looked the same as it had last time I was there two months before. Old, and classy, but very well kept. I’d missed this place. But now I’d rather be somewhere else.
I pulled a cold beer out of the fridge. It didn’t help. I took a hot shower and fell into the bed. I lay there, studying the picture. Two months before I’d have been thrilled to find this. But, somehow, it just filled me with dread. It wasn’t just Leeanne either.
I was sorry for how it must have hurt her. But there was something dark in how I felt looking at it that definitely predated Leeanne.
That night I dreamed of a bride. The girl from the photo. I came into the bedroom and there she was. My heart jumped, but then, I screamed. She was dressed in her gown. Over her head, was a thick, plastic bag. The skin below a sickly blue. She’d been suffocated.
READ MY LATEST SHORT STORY "Rocketboy's Sister"
