Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Read online

  Cole leaned way over the counter and kissed her on the top of her head. “That’s why I love you. You know exactly what you believe and aren’t afraid to shout it.”

  “Little church wouldn’t do you no harm. A little shoutin’, neither. Christmas service is 7 o’clock! I’ll save you a seat!”

  “Sorry, got plans.”

  “What? Watchin’ Scrooge on TV?”

  “No, I’m going to see my daughter and her family out in California.”

  “Oh, Cole, that is so wonderful. I was hoping you might.”

  “Yep, I fly out on the 23rd. If you’re nice to me, I might bring you back a bag of big, sweet California oranges.”

  “I’m brown sugar from now on,” Olajean said, reaching for the flashing red phone line on her console. She blew Cole a kiss and gave him a dismissive wave.

  When Cole got to his cubicle, he noticed the stack of pink message slips stuck all over his keyboard. He took off his overcoat, scarf, leather jacket, and Russian fox fur hat, and sat down.

  “So, what have we got here?” Cole started sorting through the stack. Three return calls from potential interviewees, one from a Wichita television station, a call from the payroll office about insurance deductions, and one that caught Cole’s attention: Chuck Waddle called from San Francisco. Chuck and Cole went all the way back to college journalism classes. The last he heard, Chuck was working as the London Office Chief for the Dallas Morning News. Cole reached for the phone and punched in the number, eager to catch up with his old friend.

  “Chronicle. What extension?”

  “Chuck Waddle, please.”

  “Mr. Waddle is on another line; care to hold?”

  “Sure.”

  Cole was able to hear a medley from Cats and a smooth jazz version of “Little Drummer Boy” before Chuck came on the line.

  “Cole, how are you? How’s things in Popsicle Land?”

  “Warm and toasty where I’m sitting, but your California cotton wardrobe wouldn’t do you much good back here. Temperature on the bank sign says, ‘Too cold, going in to warm up.’ It’s about 20 degrees, but with the wind chill it’s about 5 below. Want to come back for some water polo?”

  “No, thanks. What’s this I hear about Brennan being sick?”

  “Not good. Started last summer with a chest cold, he thought. Couldn’t shake it. Turns out its cancer. He’s a fighter, you know, but the chemo has knocked him for a loop. Still coming to work every day, but I don’t know how long he can keep up.”

  “I’m sorry. I know he means a lot to you.”

  “Thanks, Chuck. How’s Chris?”

  “He’s fine. Into some kind of Burmese cooking this month. Got my guts churning. Too many veggies for me, I’m a steak-and-potatoes guy, ya know? Otherwise, we’re fine. I’ll send you a picture of our remodel with your Christmas card.”

  “Cool.”

  There was a long awkward silence. Usually Cole and Chuck could keep the phone lines buzzing for ages before the pause set in.

  Cole spoke first. “So, why do I get the feeling there is more to this call than a friendly hello. When did you get back from London, and what are you doing at the Examiner?”

  “Got back in July. Dallas wasn’t a good fit anymore. San Francisco is wonderful, and I love my new job. That’s why I’m calling, really.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Aren’t you about due for a change of climate? How long has it been? Thirteen or fourteen years?”

  “Twelve this time,” Cole said thoughtfully.

  “I’ll cut to the chase. I got a spot out here. I want you for it, and I’ve got the budget. What’s it gonna take?” Waddle was matter-of-fact, but Cole could envision his broad smile at the other end of the line.

  “Well, ‘Happy Holidays’ to you, too.”

  “I’m serious, Cole. We’ve got a great staff, and the editorial team is actually a team. No infighting around here. I need someone to write ‘heart’ stuff. Your stuff. Dig up the crap and show the human side, the effects and damage. You’re what we need here. Sort of the capper.”

  “What are you, the editor?”

  “No. Associate. But everybody knows we’re friends and well, I sort of . . . .”

  “You said you could get me.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I bet.”

  “Look, I’ll send you a first-class ticket and put you up at the St. Francis if you just come out, meet the team, and give us a legitimate chance to win you over.”

  “Burmese dinner?”

  “Whatever you want,” Waddle said excitedly.

  Since Ellie’s death, Cole had reevaluated his life. Mick Brennan gave him a job after he got fired from the Journal. Nobody else wanted him. His work stunk. Cole knew it, and anybody with an eighth grade education knew it. The fire went out. Brennan gave him a job and, as much as he hated Chicago, a home. His torment over losing Ellie all those years ago—call it foolish, call it an excuse—sent him into a professional limbo for a dozen years. Now the curse was lifted. She forgave him. He forgave himself. Cole Sage had set himself on fire with enthusiasm, and when the crowd gathered to watch, he gave them something to read that was electric. Maybe San Francisco would make the comeback complete. To be honest, though, the itch to give it a try was Erin and her family nearby in California.

  “All right. It’s a deal!”

  “When can you come?”

  “How about the 20th? I have plans on the 22nd in Southern California. Is two days enough?”

  “That would be great!” Waddle sounded like he wasn’t expecting a ‘yes’ and was overjoyed with Cole’s willingness to consider an offer.

  “Big money, huh?”

  “I didn’t say that!” Waddle chuckled.

  “Then it better be an awfully good dinner.”

  “I’ll tell Chris to keep practicing. Hope I can survive it.”

  “It’ll be good to see you.”

  “Hey, this is business, not personal.” Chuck was trying to do his best Vito Corleone.

  “Hey, Chuck,” Cole interrupted.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  “Look for the FedEx boy in the cute shorts to bring you a holiday package.”

  “I’ll only recognize him if he takes his coat off. See you in a couple weeks.”

  Cole hung up, turned his chair, and looked at the picture of Erin, Jenny, and Ben that was push-pinned to the grey carpeting of the cubicle wall.

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Cole said to the picture.

  THREE

  On Saturday, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft bought a dog, a tiny ball of curls with big eyes and a wet nose. Although he hated pink, he also bought a pink leash with a pink rhinestone collar. It is an all-together sissy-looking thing, he thought, but it will suit my purposes nicely. What child could resist a puppy? And what could be less threatening than a puppy with a pink-and-rhinestone collar and leash?

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft hated the dog. It whined and yelped all night, made messes on the floor, spilled the milk he put out in a small bowl and knocked most of the little brown balls of dog food from the bigger bowl. The animal brought bad odors and disarray to his very controlled home environment. He would get rid of it very soon. First, the creature had a job to do.

  Sunday afternoon was bright and crisp. The storm that passed through on Friday and Saturday left the air clean and the sky a deep, cloudless blue. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft dressed in an uncustomary pair of brown corduroy jeans, a Cal Berkeley Bears sweatshirt, and a pair of tennis shoes. He ran the pants and sweatshirt, as well as a new Green Peace baseball cap, through the wash. He washed and dried his new clothes on high heat to take the “new” look out of them. As he dressed, he felt very uncomfortable not wearing his usual attire of sharply creased slacks and crisply laundered button-down shirt.

  After a lunch of corn chips and a tuna sandwich, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft clipped the pink leash onto the rhinestone collar and left for the park
with his new puppy. It took several weeks to find the perfect neighborhood park. Not far from St. Mary’s School was a park with lots of kids and very few parents. It was the kind of place where parents in the neighborhood felt safe letting their children go in the company of a friend or older sibling. Most of the kids gathered around the brightly colored giraffe, the elephant climbing bars, or the bright blue spiral snake slide. A few were running and chasing each other around the lawn, but most played in the big oval sandy play area.

  Near the edge of the park was a wooden bench that backed onto a thickly wooded lot. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft slipped unnoticed into the trees on Wednesday evening after work. He took a small penlight and found that the other side of the lot opened into a short side street with one house that was boarded up and another, unoccupied, that was being renovated. He walked the length of the street up one side and back down the other without seeing signs of life in any of the houses.

  At the edge of the park, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft set down the dog and slipped a plastic sandwich bag over his hand to give the appearance of a dog owner conscientious enough to pick up after his pet. He casually strolled along the sidewalk in front of the park, talking to the dog in phrases and tones that truly repulsed him, but that he was sure would be in character for a man who owned the little perky ball of happiness that pranced at the end of the pink leash.

  As he made his way along the park, no one paid him any attention. One man, who was probably in the park with his kids, dozed on a blanket about 30 feet from the sandy play area. A young mother, nursing an infant, sat cross-legged next to a stroller on the opposite side from the sleeping man.

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft made his way around the park and took a seat on the bench; neither adult looked up. With a quick motion, he unclipped the leash from the dog’s collar. The puppy bounced and chirped around his feet. He slowly and carefully pushed the dog. As it darted back and forth, it worked its way farther and farther from where Phillip Wesley Ashcroft sat. Before too long, the sound of the children laughing and screaming in the play area caught the dog’s attention. Just as he hoped, the dog ran straight for the children.

  Back and forth, happily barking and spinning, the dog tried to jump up onto the concrete curb that held back the sand. Twice it rolled head over heels in the excitement of trying to reach the children. Then, just as he had imagined over and over sitting in his cubicle at work, a little girl noticed the dog.

  She sat alone at the top of a deep blue spiral slide, rocking back and forth, her arms locked around the safety bars. She stretched her neck trying to get a better look at the little, curly puppy. A big smile spread across her face, exposing a big space that would soon be home to a new front tooth. At first she stood and shifted back and forth, watching the dog. Then with one swift movement, she shot down the slide and into the sand below.

  The little girl ran straight to where the puppy struggled to get into the sandbox. She stood still at the edge of the cement barrier and looked about for someone who could belong to the dog. She didn’t even look in Phillip Wesley Ashcroft’s direction. Satisfied, she squatted down and said something unheard to the puppy. Tentatively, she reached out and stroked the top of the dog’s head, her hand jerking back when it rose up to lick her. Again she reached out and this time stroked the dog’s back. The animal calmed and lay down in the grass.

  Growing bolder with the dog’s less frantic movements, she reached out and picked up the puppy. Gently, she rocked it back and forth in her arms, and even from his vantage point, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft could tell she was singing to the puppy. Such sweetness, he thought, certainly not the actions of the woman she will become. She would be just the kind of child he could save.

  The little girl walked the perimeter of the play area, her back to Phillip Wesley Ashcroft. As she rounded the halfway mark, he stood and made his way toward her. They met just as she completed the circle.

  “There you are,” he said in a concerned voice.

  “Is she yours?” the little girl asked.

  “Yes, I was sitting on the bench over there and she ran away. I was getting ready to give her a treat and she just scampered off. Looks like she’s made a new friend.” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft smiled warmly.

  “She’s the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen. What’s her name?”

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft stood still as a stone. He had role played this scene hundreds of times as he lay in bed drifting to sleep, but he never thought of giving the dog a name. He felt no affection for the animal and never spoke to it except in exasperation. His mind raced. Fido, Rover, Fluffy, Scruffy, Patches—they all sounded so contrived. He coughed and cleared his throat.

  “You know, I haven’t named her yet. Would you like to help me?” He didn’t breathe until she jumped up and down and squealed.

  “Please, please, please! Yes, can I name her?” the girl pleaded in delight.

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft felt the trap close. He had her. She would do anything for him now. This was better than he could have imagined.

  “Let’s go sit down. I still haven’t given her the treats I bought. Would you like to give her some?” He bent down to look her in the face and smiled.

  “Can I really feed her?”

  “Sure.” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft began moving toward the bench.

  The girl half walked, half skipped in front of him. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft looked over at the man still napping on the blanket, he didn’t move. The nursing mother switched breasts and was giving all of her attention to re-snapping and straightening her blouse.

  He watched as the little girl made her way to the bench. She wore a pair of suede boots trimmed in fake lamb’s wool, the legs of her jeans tucked into the tops of the boots. Her pale pink jacket had a hood with a white fluffy trim. The hood bounced in time as she skipped along.

  At the bench, she spun around and hopped up onto the seat. Her pale blue-grey eyes danced as Phillip Wesley Ashcroft approached the bench and sat next to her.

  “My name is Brad,” he lied. He was surprised he said it. ‘Brad’ was his “special name,” the name he used when, on those rare occasions, he tried to pick up women.

  “I’m Angela. Nice to meet you.” She obviously comes from well-mannered parents, he thought.

  He reached for the small brown paper bag at the end of the bench. He was still wearing the plastic sandwich bag on his hand. He pulled out a small, unopened package of Puppy Pretzels. Angela chattered excitedly next to him, but he couldn’t seem to focus on what she was saying. He tore the top of the package and shook several of the twisted treats into his palm. He looked at the shapes for a moment and thought they were too fat to be real pretzels.

  “Here you are.” He offered the treats in his right hand while gently slipping his left arm behind her along the top of the bench.

  “How about Taffy?” Angela said, looking up at him with a big toothless grin.

  “I don’t think candy is good for puppies,” he said in mock seriousness.

  “I mean for a name, silly!” Angela giggled.

  “Oh,” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft chuckled, “I think that’s a fine name. I love taffy.”

  Angela wiggled on the seat and worked her hand into her jacket pocket. A moment later, she extended her hand toward Phillip Wesley Ashcroft. In her palm was a piece of salt-water taffy wrapped in the traditional waxy translucent paper.

  “For me?” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft felt a lump come up in his throat. A piece of candy! Just as he remembered from childhood. A pretty little girl sitting on a bench was offering him a piece of candy. She was the right choice. He nearly wept.

  “I pick out just the peanut butter ones, ‘cause I don’t like peppermint.”

  “They’re my favorites, too.” He took the candy from her small hand. “Can I save it for later? I haven’t had lunch yet.”

  Angela giggled.

  “What?”

  “You sound like my mom,” Angela replied and, in a nasal singsong voice said, “Don’t eat candy before
dinner!” She laughed again. “Here, Taffy, have a treat.” She gave the puppy one pretzel.

  “How old are you, Angela?”

  “Seven.” Her missing tooth gave her a pronounced lisp.

  “The perfect age,” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft said more to himself than to the little girl beside him. “We must be neighbors, I live right over there.” He pointed in the general direction of the house across the street.

  “I live in San Carlos. I’m staying with my cousins for the weekend while my mommy and daddy are in Tahoe.”

  “Are they playing in the park, too?”

  “Over there. They’re boys, so they play too rough for me.” She pointed and laughed as the puppy tried to lick her face. “I mostly play by myself.”

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft watched as Angela teased the dog playfully with a pretzel then gently let the dog take it from her fingertips. He poured three more pieces into her hand. Her hair seemed to sparkle as the sun hit the nearly white shine of her golden blonde tips. He felt the warmth of winter sun on his face and for a moment closed his eyes, enjoying the nearness of another human being.

  “I think she’s full,” Angela said.

  The puppy lay quietly in her lap with its eyes closed; it was also enjoying the sun and the softness of Angela’s presence. She gently stroked the little curly mass as its breath grew heavier.

  “I think Taffy is falling asleep,” Angela whispered.

  The glint of a barrette above her right ear caught Phillip Wesley Ashcroft’s eye as she turned to look up at him. With the index finger of his left hand, he ever so softly tapped the pink-and-yellow clip holding back a lock of her golden hair.

  “That’s a cute clip,” he whispered.

  “It’s Hello Kitty. My daddy brought it back to me from Japan. He got a whole bunch.” Her voice sounded hoarse as she spoke in a forced whisper.

  “Nice.”

  Angela’s attention went back to petting the dog. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft looked slowly across the park. We might as well be invisible, he thought. No one even glanced in their direction. He scanned the park left to right, person to person, slowly looking at each child playing in the sand. The adults were lost in their own world, and he realized that the time had come.