Pretty is as Pretty Dies

Chapter One-3

TANNER HAYES SPLUTTERED wordlessly, perspiration standing in beads on his high forehead. The fact that his usually ruddy face was ashen and that he dramatically clutched his chest would have alerted insightful observers to his sudden, vicious heart attack. But Parke Stockard, for all her beauty, money, and shrewdness, wasn’t particularly perceptive. Or compassionate. She thought only that his round, balding head, buggy eyes, and strangled utterances reminded her of a toad.

She lazily batted a buzzing fly his way with a manicured hand, curious to see if a long tongue would slurp it up. When it didn’t, she bored with her flight of fancy and returned to the business at hand.

“Your house,” she repeated loudly. Was the old man deaf or just stupid? “You need to sell it to me. Let me know when you’re ready to sign on. You’ll be amazed how much your property will be worth when we level your house and build three in its place. And really—your home is completely outdated.” She waved her slender arm dismissively towards the old Colonial. “You won’t have a hope of selling it when you or your wife goes to a nursing home. Which,” she pointed out, “could be any day now.” She gave him a hard look, spun on her heel, and walked briskly to her car.

As Parke zipped down the road in her sporty car, she angled the rearview mirror down to apply more red lipstick. This explains why she never saw Tanner Hayes lying on his cement driveway, still clutching his chest, or his wife, Althea, hurrying down the long drive to her husband’s side.

It was a short drive to her own home. It was an old farmhouse with a wrap-around porch. At least, it was until she’d razed it. Now it was a fabulous Mediterranean-style villa named Shangri-La with real stucco, a tiled roof, and an in-law suite in the basement. The in-law suite was sort of a dungeon, but it hardly mattered since Parke had divorced the pesky husband and equally irritating in-laws.

She began to wonder, however, if she should put her son Cecil in the dungeon suite. Perhaps under lock and key. She wasn’t sure where all the money she funneled him was going, but if the unsavory tattooed friend with the odd piercings was any indication, Cecil was once again heading down the wrong road. It would be nice to avoid rehab this time. Parke wondered if they even had rehab centers in the South.

She was just pulling the massive wooden front door shut behind her when she heard Cecil’s voice echoing through the granite-floored foyer from the balcony above. She whipped off her Chanel sunglasses, ready for battle. What would it be this time? $25,000? $40,000? Bracing herself, she put a tanned hand where she imagined her heart might be. Her son thought she looked as if she was about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

“Yes, Cecil,” she asked in a faux faint voice. It was a faded enough tone to give Cecil pause.

“Mother, I need a little money.” His mind raced, calculating how little he could get away with asking.

“Yes, Cecil?” She sank dramatically into a Chippendale chair, rummaging in her bag for her checkbook.

“Just...” he stopped. “Just....five thousand.”

Parke stopped short. Five thousand? Five thousand what? Surely not dollars. There had to be a catch. Five thousand pounds? Five thousand rubies? She wasn’t going to give him a chance to revise it. She snatched the checkbook and a pen out of the bag and scribbled out a check, chipping a lacquered nail in the process. She slapped it wordlessly on a marble-topped table in the foyer and swept out of the room. Cecil thoughtfully watched as her high heels tapped out of the foyer. He hoped his free-loading days weren’t drawing to a close.

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* * * *

BENTON CHAMBERS PUFFED a cigar (a habit cultivated because he thought that’s what Southern politicians were supposed to do). After flicking off the long row of ash, he set the cigar down on a heavy ashtray and pulled open his desk drawer for his flask of Jim Beam and a glass. His pudgy fingers clamped around the flask as he poured the brown liquid into the glass and downed it eagerly, wiping a few stray drops off his bloated features with the back of his wrist.

Benton had thought his re-election to the city council would be a cakewalk. Running on the “preserving Bradley’s history” platform was a guaranteed winner since everyone was furious about the Stockard woman sticking McMansions on small lots. Everybody in town was railing against her and his win looked like a sure thing.

Benton stared morosely at his drink, then laid it down and picked up the cigar again. He’d thought serving on the city council would be an easy job. How hard could it be to govern a small Southern town with a quaint and vibrant downtown, a pretty lake, and a healthy tourism industry? If only he’d known. He hadn’t counted on Parke coming after him, pressuring him. He thought they’d had a totally different arrangement. Who knew someone so beautiful could be so toxic? Blackmailing harpy. And now he was stuck—if he suddenly changed platforms, he’d look like a fool at best and would lose the election at worst. How could he get Parke Stockard to stop talking? He’d put in the time, shook the hands, shot the bull. He had the pretty wife, the friends with beach houses. He’d be a monkey’s uncle if that pretty Yankee was going to take him down just when he’d made it big. His cell phone bleated and he ignored its ring after seeing his wife’s number on the display. He smoked and thought while the air turned blue.

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