Jeff Abbott - Do Unto Others

The warm aroma of freshly baked kolaches enveloped me as I stepped into LuAnne’s Backerei. Kolaches are a Czech pastry, a warm, square roll with a fruit or sausage middle and topping. Every small town in east-central Texas boasts a kolache bakery, even some left over from the earliest Czech immigrants. Kolache and coffee together are the ultimate in comfort foods; the smell alone brought back memories of my grandmother Schneider’s kitchen, a tray of hot kolaches being set before Sister and me-with a gentle warning to let them cool so we wouldn’t burn our mouths. Today’s batch smelled of apple, peach, and heaven. I didn’t know LuAnne or any of the staff; there was one stout, matronly woman in the back on the phone and a trio of young girls brewing coffee, pulling fresh kolaches out of glass-fronted ovens, and ringing the cash register. If LuAnne’s had a morning rush I’d missed it. Two plump ladies in stretch polyester pantsuits sat by the door, laughing merrily over steaming cups of coffee. A circle of older men slumped by a table, watching the women chat. One man, a Dallas Cowboys cap perched on his head, held court, talking and smoking his cigarette. The other men munched on their kolaches, and it was hard to tell if they paid the slightest attention to him. They had probably heard whatever story he was telling a hundred times already. I approached the counter, bought two apple kolaches and a coffee, laced with milk and sugar. The girl who rang up my purchase smiled prettily.

I thought she was just Hally’s type. “Excuse me. Are you Chelsea Hart?” “No, she is.” The girl jerked her head toward the ovens. A girl I never would have pictured with Hally Schneider extracted a tray of steaming peach kolaches from the oven. She wasn’t pretty and I’m not being unkind. She just wasn’t Her face was bony to an extreme, gaunt and sallow. Her nose and chin were small, but sharply pointed, like a cartoon witch’s. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail of dirty-blonde hair, with a front tuft moussed to defy gravity. A short-sleeved blouse showed arms like rails. I moved down the counter and spoke to her, aware of the cashier’s eyes on me. “Excuse me?

Chelsea?” I said. Chelsea Hart gave me an apathetic glance and moved her chewing gum to the other side of her mouth. “Yeah? Can I help you?” she asked in a nasally drawl. “I’m Jordy Poteet. Hally Schneider’s cousin. Could I talk to you for a second?” I motioned toward a table. Chelsea blinked brown eyes at me. She glanced back at the heavy woman, who chirped into her phone, waving a lit cigarette for emphasis. She turned to me. “Sure.” I went to a corner table with my kolaches and coffee and Chelsea followed, dragging her feet along the ground. She sat across from me, propping up her bony face with bony fingers. “Kolache?” I offered her one of my apple pastries. She made a sour face, which didn’t help her cause any. “God, no. I get enough of them, believe me. What did you want?” I still hadn’t come up with a better excuse than planning some party for Hally. “Well, I understand you’re dating my cousin.” She laughed, and it was too hollow and empty to come from a teenage girl. “I don’t think one miserable evening counts as dating.” “Oh.” I was at a loss. “Sorry.

I’m planning a party for Hally, and I hoped you could help me. I thought-” “That I was Hally’s girlfriend?” She laughed, shaking her head. “Wrong. You must not know your cousin very well. I wouldn’t be the person to help you plan a party for Hally.” I took immediate refuge in the kolache, chewing it slowly to gather my thoughts.

Chelsea looked bored. I swallowed and said, “But you were out with him night before last, right?” “Yeah, I was. My evening with Prince Charming. Right.” She leaned forward and I could smell, mixing with the fragrance of coffee and fruit, a cheap, sticky perfume. “You tell your cousin something for me, okay? I don’t get asked out that often, and it don’t bother me. My own company suits me fine. But when a guy wants to spend time with me, I expect him to be with me, not off in his own world. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about being with me; it was just like he was killing time.” She leaned back. “I was surprised when Hally asked me out. He ain’t exactly the kind of boy that goes out with me. But I figured it out. I’m not stupid. He ain’t been dating anyone in school, so I figure here’s a chance for me, even though he asked me at the last minute. When we were together, he didn’t even know I was around. Just kept checking his watch all through our hamburgers. Told me the same football story three times and didn’t realize it. Even parked down by the river and he just wanted to talk.

If I want to talk I can stay home and listen to my sister.” Chelsea Hart smacked her gum emphatically. “He probably thought he was doing me some damn big favor, just breathing the same air as me. Well, I don’t need that. If he was out with me just to make some other girl jealous, he can kiss my ass.” “Can I ask you one question?” I interjected. Enough pretense. She shrugged bony shoulders. “When did he bring you home?” “Midnight. I got a curfew. I was ready to go home hours earlier, though, but he insisted on sitting and talking. Christ, what a bore he was. And if you’re having some stupid party for him, cross my name off the invite list. I don’t need him.” With that, she stormed back to the counter, leaving me with a kolache halfway to my mouth. Hell hath no fury and all that. I finished my coffee. Chelsea Hart might be as ugly as the day was long but damned if she wasn’t her own person. That would help her in life far better than comeliness ever would. Why was Hally spending time with a girl he had no apparent interest in? Where was his mind when he was on the date from hell? I had a sinking feeling that Hally was more concerned with providing himself with an alibi for Beta’s murder than with winning Chelsea’s heart. Why had my cousin gone to the trouble? What did he have to hide? I hurried out of the warm smell of the bakery, the dull throb of suspicion beginning in my heart. Matt Blalock was the last person I expected to see at the First Baptist Church, but there he was. Adam Hufnagel was helping him into his Taurus, storing the folding wheelchair and putting it in the back seat. I pulled up next to Matt.

The good reverend and Matt ignored me. By the time I was out of the car, Matt’s exhaust churned in the air and he tore out of the parking lot. I blinked at Reverend Adam Hufnagel. He smiled thinly at me. I don’t think he was pleased to see me. Adam Hufnagel was a tall, rangy man, thinner from his bout with cancer last year. He was a tough old bird and he’d beaten the disease. His hair was iron gray, the color that gives a man the look of resolve. Strong-featured, he looked more distinguished than handsome, the ideal father figure. I wondered if his wife Tamma thought of him that way. Brother Adam slipped on his smiling parson’s face for me. “Jordan!” He came forward, shaking my hand in the warm, intimate way that all clergy use. “Good to see you, son. How are you doing?” His voice, a rich-timbred instrument, oozed just the amount of concern a Southern gentleman would permit himself.

“Fine, Reverend, considering what all’s happened in the past couple of days. Do you have a minute to talk?” He inspected his watch. “Just for a few minutes. I have to meet with the ladies who are planning Vacation Bible School.” Ah. “Weren’t your wife, my cousin Janice, and Beta doing that?” He steered me toward a church side door. “Why, yes, they were. Horrible about Beta’s murder. Horrible.” “No one should die that way,” I agreed. “That’s why I’m trying to find out who killed her.” I felt his fingers on my arm stiffen for a moment, then relax.