The Green-Eyed Doll
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Authors: Jerrie Alexander
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The Green-Eyed
Doll
by
Jerrie Alexander
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Green-Eyed Doll
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Jerrie Alexander
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
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Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-444-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-445-7
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Jerrie Alexander
An award-winning debut novel,
THE GREEN-EYED DOLL
won First Place in both the 2010 Golden Pen and the Golden Opportunity contests.
Dedication
No book goes to press without an entire village of support behind the author. I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the following people who helped make
The Green-Eyed Doll
a reality.
My thanks to the folks at The Wild Rose Press and my fabulous editor, Johanna Melaragno, for believing in this book.
Marsha R. West and Jeannie Guzman, many thanks, your invaluable critiques kept me on the right track.
My gratitude goes to Barb Han who dropped her own work-in-progress to proof my manuscript. I owe you big time!
To my incredible beta readers, Jackie Pressley, Betty Peters, Mary Ann McKenzie and Jane Craghead, thanks for your time and complete honesty.
To Jim, my very own John Wayne, thank you for your support, encouragement and most of all, your forever love.
Last but not least, Alexa. Your belief in my success never once faltered. Thank you.
Chapter One
Thursday, July 27th, 1:15 p.m.
Leave it to Mama to die in the middle of the hottest Texas summer on record.
Kicking the dust off his boots, he stepped inside the stifling, cramped trailer for the first time in eleven years. He’d drop off a dress and some flowers at the funeral home. Then he was done. The state could kiss his ass if they thought he’d spend a dime to bury her.
He glanced around the familiar hellhole and fourteen years of beatings and abuse boiled up from his belly. One of his earliest memories was of cowering inside her closet, trying to be quiet. She used to whip his bare back with a straightened wire hanger if he so much as grunted while she entertained a guest.
“Guest my ass.” His voice broke the eerie silence. “Mama fucked anybody with a dick and a dollar.”
He’d learned to mind real good. He used to crawl in that dark closet, hunker down, and peer through a small crack between the doorframe and the wall. There up on the top shelf, the green-eyed doll, the only clean, pure thing in the trailer sat. He’d lock his gaze on her porcelain face and pretend she was real. Because if she was real, she’d never let anybody whip him again. If she was real, she’d love him. If she was real, he wouldn’t hear mama’s headboard bang against the wall.
Nobody messed with Mama’s stuff, not without paying one hell of a penalty. Once, he’d taken the doll down to hold her. Mama caught him—called him a pervert. She’d left long painful welts across his bare back and legs with that hanger.
What’d she think he was gonna do, fuck the damn thing?
Mama taught him to take what he wanted. Prison taught him how to take it. He walked down the hall to the bedroom. Well, the doll belonged to him now.
Sweat broke and ran down his face while he stared at the empty shelf. Rage released the hornets. The buzzing in his head grew louder and louder. He clamped both hands over his ears. The one shred of innocence in this dump was gone.
A straightened out wire hanger hung from a nail next to the shelf. A cruel message from the dead.
Get your own doll.
****
Friday, July 28th, 10:30 a.m.
Catherine McCoy’s old Ford sputtered up to the red light and shuddered to a stop. She stabbed her hand through her hair while scanning the small town in front of her. How could she let herself run short of money?
Careless.
Foolish.
One-hundred-sixty-nine dollars and one lonely credit card—for emergency use only—kept her from being stone cold broke.
She had to find work. Period. The light turned green, and Catherine drove into Butte Crest, Texas. Population 19,016. The trip through town took about ten minutes. In the same ten minutes, her hopes for finding a job fell and her heart rate increased. She circled the quaint square with its antique shops and boutiques then drove past a couple of gas stations, a few cafés, lots of churches with tall steeples pointing toward heaven, and one dance hall on the outskirts named Saddleback Inn. No help wanted signs were to be seen. She made a U-turn at a traffic light to circle around for a second look.
The scream of a siren and the sight of colored lights flashing behind her sent tremors through her chest. The last thing she needed was any cop getting near her. She pulled over in front of a funeral home, loosened her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and fished out her wallet.
She dropped her gaze to the outside mirror and waited.
Breathe. In. Out.
The cruiser’s door opened, and a pair of dark brown western boots hit the gravel. They belonged to a set of long legs wearing khaki uniform pants. A matching shirt covered broad shoulders. He adjusted his aviator sunglasses, retrieved a white western hat, and then settled it over jet-black hair.
Catherine’s heart rate quickened while she rolled down the window. She took a deep breath and reminded herself she had nothing to fear. She greeted him with her best fake smile.
“Hello, officer. Is there a problem?” She passed him her license and proof of insurance without waiting for him to ask. She leaned back in the seat, proud her hand hadn’t trembled.
“Sheriff Ballard.” He cocked his head slightly and tipped his hat.
She waited silently while he studied her identification. She’d legally changed her name back to McCoy before leaving Oklahoma and starting her trek across Texas. Catherine had started life over, and getting rid of Andrew Randall’s name had been a big step.
“Ma’am. Did you hear me?”
Catherine turned her attention to the man standing beside her car. The sheriff’s whiskey-toned drawl reverberated with impatience. He leaned down, removed his sunglasses, and squinted in the bright sunlight. Eyes blue as the Texas sky and cold as Antarctica bore down on her. Catherine tightened her grip on her composure. She’d learned her lesson when dealing with the law. The less you say, the better.
“Sorry. Wha...What did you say?” Had she stuttered? Her tongue and brain refused to coordinate.
Calm down.
Stop overreacting.
“For starters, you made an illegal U-turn. Not to mention, the emission control system on your vehicle needs attention. I choked walking up behind you.”
“I didn’t see a sign.” No need to debate his choking comment.
“It’s hanging from the light, in plain sight.” He slid his sunglasses back on, moved away a few steps, and pulled a ticket book from his hip pocket.
She’d be broke if she had to pay a traffic fine. Maybe, if she looked him in the eye, he’d listen to reason. Armed with a plan and full of determination, she got out. A gust of wind jerked the car door out of her grasp. It swung out fast, clipped the sheriff, knocking him off balance.
“What the hell?” he growled. His sunglasses went flying when he staggered backward a step before regaining his footing. “Are you trying to get arrested?”
One word slammed into her brain...arrested?
Not again.
Never again.
“Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I only wanted to talk to you.”
“Ma’am, get back inside your vehicle. Please.”
Great, she’d made matters worse by trying to reason with him. She settled in the seat and sighed. The sheriff wore a white hat, but he was no John Wayne.
“No, ma’am.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m certainly not John Wayne.”
Crap. Had she said that out loud?
Catherine closed her mouth. Let him write the damn ticket. His stormy eyes grew darker. In the middle of a heat wave, she shivered from the chill.
The sheriff retrieved his broken sunglasses. One black eyebrow twitched when the earpiece came off in his hand. She was sure to get that ticket.
“Your car’s packed.” He tilted his head toward the backseat. “You moving to town?”
“Moving isn’t against the law, is it?”
Just write it up and let me go.
“No, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of.”
Did he almost grin?
“Here’s the truth. I hadn’t planned on staying, but I’m running short on cash. I need to find a job. When I’ve saved enough money, I’ll move on.”
She swallowed hard, waiting as he stared at her. He closed the citation book, then handed her identification back.
“No ticket?” She relaxed and smiled for the first time.
“Not today. Look, if you’re serious about finding a job, I know of one here in town.” He paused. “Make that two.” A frown crossed his face. “The second one’s not a good choice.”
“What are they?”
“The funeral home you’re parked in front of needs office help, and the local bar—which in my opinion is not a good idea—needs a waitress. As far as I’ve heard, Butte Crest has nothing else to offer.”
The tension in her neck eased. “I appreciate your help.”
“No problem. Drive safely.”
Catherine checked her rearview mirror before easing her car onto the road. The handsome sheriff had walked off the pavement and now stood in the ditch. Geesh. Did he think she would run over him?
****
Friday, July 28th, 11:30 a.m.
Matt checked his messages and then radioed his dispatcher he was back in service.
“Took you long enough,” Sue grumbled. “I received a call from Tanya Perry over in Curry. Her best friend, Julia Drummond, is missing. They’d agreed to meet for supper last night. Julia never showed.”
“What else did she say?” His gut clenched. He never ignored his gut.
“Seems Julia didn’t open her flower shop this morning. You want to wait twenty-four hours or should I send Jake?”