Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2

by Micheal Maxwell

  Three Nails is a tale of tragedy, redemption, and hope from the author of the bestselling Cole Sage series. To receive a free ebook copy straight to your inbox, click here.

  CELLAR FULL OF COLE

  __________________________

  A Cole Sage Mystery

  MICHEAL MAXWELL

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cellar Full of Cole

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Helix of Cole

  Also by Micheal Maxwell

  Copyright

  CELLAR FULL OF COLE

  ONE

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft was a man of peculiar habits. A bachelor, not by personal choice, but by the choice of what seemed to be the entire female sex. He lived alone. He had few, if any, friends, and a family that would just as soon pretend he didn’t exist. At work, he did what was expected and not much more. He arrived at exactly 8:55 A.M. and left promptly at 5:05 P.M.

  He carried a red plaid lunch bag that zipped open to reveal a matching plaid thermos with a bright screw-off cap that doubled as a cup. In the thermos were the boiling hot contents of a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup heated each morning on the back left-hand burner of his stove. He never added the can of water as the directions instructed; he preferred his soup full strength. The bit of broth that wouldn’t fit in the thermos was added to a container kept in the freezer compartment of his refrigerator, to be used at some future date.

  In a clear Ziploc sandwich bag, he packed seven saltine crackers—no more, no less. He would lay the bag on the lunchroom table and smash the crackers with the butt of his hand. After adding the bits to the soup, he would turn the bag inside out and lick the bottom seam. He delighted in the salty powder that was left behind. This daily ritual was unobserved by his fellow employees because Phillip Wesley Ashcroft always took lunch alone.

  Although he found his work tedious, he seldom missed a day and, in fact, hadn’t bothered to take a vacation for the last three years in a row. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft occupied the same grey-carpeted cubicle for the past sixteen years. Once or twice a year, he brought a handheld vacuum cleaner to the office and thoroughly vacuumed all the carpeted surfaces.

  Few things annoyed Phillip Wesley Ashcroft. By and large, he was lacking in malice. However, he hated the hairs on his fingers. He shaved them, waxed them, and even tried burning them off with a soldering iron, one hair at a time, but they always grew back. He hated the way he could see them when he bit his nails.

  He also hated his thick body hair. This was probably the result of the resentment he felt for going bald at a young age. He bought infomercial goo to remove it. Twenty years ago, for almost a year, he had a smooth body. Arms, legs, back, even parts that chafed and burned from the shaving and chemicals. He shaved his head, his eyebrows, and even plucked out his eyelashes. It took almost an entire day to get clean and smooth. But he did it. It was no use, though. It all grew back. The worst part was the itching. When it got to be about an eighth of an inch long, it almost drove him insane. So, he gave up. But his hands and fingers were different. Those had to be smooth.

  Each night he washed them three times. He cleaned under his nails, or what was left of them, and applied lotion. He wore soft cotton gloves to bed and, in the morning, gently moisturized his hands with a lanolin-glycerin mixture he developed over several years. For a while, he thought of bottling and selling his mixture, and even designed a label, but he gave up the idea.

  Today, the hair on his hands was particularly annoying him. I must think of something else. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft loved to play “thought games.” He delighted in knowing that he was miles away, deep inside his own world of words, and that if anyone were to walk by his cubicle, it would look like he was hard at work. Not like some of the people around him who played solitaire or Tetris on their computers. They always got caught, scolded, and told not to do it anymore—but they always did. Not Phillip Wesley Ashcroft, though. He was never scolded because there was no way to catch him. Except on rare occasions when his supervisor came to review his current project, no one bothered him. No one knew he was playing his own special games in his head.

  Today’s game would be based on something he thought about on the bus to work. Today he would play with names. Not just any names, but names of people like himself who were referred to by all three of their names. Lee Harvey Oswald killed Kennedy. That was too easy, too obvious, he must try harder. John Wayne Gacy killed boys, painted clowns. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft thought Gacy was a pervert. Who killed the other Kennedy? he thought. Sirhan Sirhan, only two names. He smiled as he wondered if Sirhan’s middle name was also Sirhan.

  James Earl Ray shot Martin Luther King, and claimed he was innocent to the end. Who else? Phillip Wesley Ashcroft thought as he shuffled the papers in front of him. John Wilkes Booth killed Lincoln. Billy Bob Thornton, who was he? Who did he kill? Stupid, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft thought to himself, he’s an actor; he didn’t kill anybody. Neither, for that matter, did Billy Ray Cyrus.

  The guy who killed John Lennon was known by all three of his names, but Phillip Wesley Ashcroft took a vow to never speak them. Many famous murderers committed their crime to become famous, like the guy who killed Lennon. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft would steal his fame, or at least a small part of it, by never speaking his name. He tried not to even think it. That way, he would remember the Beatle, but his killer would fade away because he would be nameless.

  Henry Lee Lucas confessed to 3,000 killings, but the number was closer to 200. Tommy Lynn Sells said he killed 70. His favorite, though, was Jack “The” Ripper. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft giggled softly to himself for his cleverness. “The,” he thought, was the perfect middle name. He ended the game on a happy note.

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft started using all three of his names in 1991 when he read in the newspaper of Donald Henry “Pee Wee” Gaskins. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft loved the way the paper referred to him as “the meanest man in America.” Gaskins confessed to more than 200 murders but was convicted of only nine. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft bought Gaskins’ autobiography online and read with complete clarity and understanding of Gaskins’ claim that he possessed “a special mind” that gave him “permission to kill.”

  That “special mind” was something Phillip Wesley Ashcroft shared with Pee Wee Gaskins. Although he never committed a murder, the time was drawing near. It would be a release to finally fulfill what he was put on Earth to do. The evil that crept over society was corrupting and perverting all things sweet and pure. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft spent hours worrying and watching as children passed in front of his apartment on their way to school each morning. He feared they would be corrupted somehow before they could make it to the safety of the classroom.

  School was a safe place for Phillip Wesley Ashcroft. Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Duncan, and Miss Cotton all treated him like he was special. Children need protection from parents who spank them for no reason, he thought. At school, there were no cold baths to teach you not to wet the bed. There were no endless rantings about the value of a dime-sized splash of milk on the table. At school, you didn’t have to eat raw rice so you would value the hard work mommy took to cook your meals. At school, there was milk and graham crackers and a pat on the head for a job well done. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft loved school.

  Children were much nicer than adults. He missed the nice little girls who would pass him notes in class. He missed the cookie or piece of candy they would give him from their lunch pails. How did those nice little girls grow up to be the short-tempered bitches that now surrounded him? Just let him make a mistake on a report or be late with an audit review, and watch their fangs come out.

  The bo
ys always invited him to play catch or dodge ball at recess. They would all ride their bikes home after school and pretend they were flying in formation like the Blue Angels. They never invited him for a drink after work now, did they? No jokes for him to hear at the soda machines, no lunchtime dash to the taqueria with a buddy, so he ate alone, ignored.

  The answer was in the children. If they were preserved while they were still sweet and pure, they could be saved. They simply could not be allowed to grow into cold, distant, unfeeling adults. Phillip Wesley Ashcroft had no need for the fairy tale world of heaven. He knew there was nothing out there. No pearly gates, no sweet by and by, and certainly no streets paved in gold. There was just rest, perfect rest. The darkness and peace you feel in a deep motionless sleep; that is what awaits you when your heartbeat stops. That is what he could offer the children—the peace and the assurance of remaining innocent.

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft turned and looked at Beth Swann in the cubicle across the aisle. She was so involved in her own world of work, parties, and friends that she had no time for him. Not that she was his ideal. She was too thin, her hair was too straight, and she had a bump on the bridge of her nose. That didn’t stop a constant stream of men from passing by just to say “hi” to Beth and look down the front of her blouse. They would share a story about a co-worker, a pleasantry about a recent party or reception and, more often than not, inquire as to her social calendar for the weekend. It made him sick.

  When she first came to the office, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft asked her to dinner. “So sorry” was her response; there was “a previous engagement.” That didn’t stop her from accepting an invitation from Martin Mauer five minutes later. Three years passed and she never looked in his direction, never offered him a cookie or piece of candy from her lunch pail. She grew up. She would have been much nicer twenty or so years earlier. He just knew it.

  TWO

  The Chicago wind roared around corners like a freight train down a mountain. The sidewalks were icy and slick and the air seared the inside of your nostrils like razor burn, but to Cole Sage it could have been a day in May. Like a blind man getting back his sight or a lame man who once again could walk, Cole was a man reborn.

  It was a little over six months since Ellie died. She was in his heart and on his mind for most of his adult life. They parted long ago and were reunited only for a few days, but in those few days he found a new life. The love and longing he felt for her, she felt just as deeply half a continent away. Even though the longing to be together was never to be realized, they did have one great connection: a daughter. Erin was a smart, beautiful young woman that Cole hadn’t known existed.

  The joy of having a part of Ellie live on was like an emotional heart transplant. In the few days before her passing, they were able to share soul-deep emotion and unfiltered feelings that few people ever experience. Ellie freed Cole of the pain and remorse of losing her all those years ago and showed him that his life could mean something. Erin had become such a wonderful part of his life that sometimes he couldn’t remember the years he spent alone.

  His work went from drudgery to a laser light of committed dedication. The series he wrote on the alarming number of elderly people turning to violence was being considered for a Pulitzer Prize, then was picked up and reprinted in dozens of magazines and newspapers throughout the United States and Canada. Offers of book deals, radio and television interviews, and jobs—to the point where Cole hired a manager. But he wasn’t just on a crusade for the elderly. It was just the rekindling of the journalistic fire he almost destroyed with apathy and cynicism.

  Cole’s co-workers at the Sentinel weren’t quite sure what to make of this “new” member of their staff. He greeted people with a friendly smile, the scowl, that served as such a valuable mask, was gone, and his trademark rapier wit returned quicker, funnier, and more topical than ever. He became the textbook example of the multi-tasker. Many of the younger writers on the paper never knew the young Cole. Their mental picture of that nasty guy in the end cubicle was their only experience.

  This new Cole looked different, too. He had lost weight, about 25 pounds, so that instead of looking 10 years older than his 45 years, he now looked 10 years younger. A change that did not go unnoticed by female members of the staff, which led to the speculation around the third floor newsroom that Cole had found a new lady. You could say that was the case. He actually delighted in two new ladies in his life: his daughter, Erin, and his granddaughter, Jenny. But for now that was just for a few close friends to know.

  Cole shook off the snow and stamped his feet as he entered the outside lobby of the Sentinel building. The trappings of Thanksgiving oranges and browns gave way to the greens and reds of the Christmas season. A bright red banner with sparkling gold lettering offering “Season’s Greetings” in several languages was draped on the wall above the reception area. Cole crossed the lobby on the slip-proof rubber mats that were installed across the marble floor to prevent falls and the lawsuits that followed.

  “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Cole sang as he approached the pretty blonde receptionist.

  “Season’s greetings!” she offered in her bubbly best.

  “Merry Christmas!” Cole returned.

  The blonde scowled at Cole as if he had just blurted out some unpleasant profanity. She was programmed to be politically correct and took her charge very seriously.

  “How do you know I’m not Jewish, Mr. Sage?”

  “Well, then, Happy Hanukkah!” Cole offered cheerfully as he passed her.

  “That’s not my point,” she said, still scowling.

  Cole stopped and turned to the angry receptionist. “We cannot impose our value system on others, it can cause real emotional harm,” she lectured.

  “First, what is your name? I don’t think I know it.” Cole was still smiling.

  “Breanna.”

  “Okay, Breanna, I hope you have a strong sense of self-worth and a positive self-image, because I intend to do you ‘real emotional harm.’” Cole cleared his throat and began singing in a loud clear voice:

  “Silent night, holy night

  Shepherds quake at the sight

  Glories stream from heaven afar

  Heavenly hosts sing alleluia

  Christ the Savior is born

  Christ the Savior is born.”

  Cole smiled, cleared his throat again and stood as if awaiting approval.

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Nope, it was supposed to be “Silent Night.” You see, this is December 6, and in 19 days it will be Christmas Day, the 25th of December, the day that is recognized the whole world ‘round as the day Jesus Christ was born—even though he probably was born sometime in the spring. In case you haven’t heard, He’s the guy who started a religion that—the last time I checked—is practiced by the majority of the people of the United States of America, the country in which we are currently residing. Now, in the off chance that you are truly, and not jokingly, a member of the proud and historical Jewish faith—because joking about that would be truly offensive and could cause real emotional harm—this is for you:

  Oh Hanukkah, Oh Hanukkah, come light the Menorah,

  Let’s have a party; we’ll all dance the hora.

  Gather ‘round the table, we’ll give you a treat.

  S’vivon to play with, Latkes to eat.”

  The receptionist was stone-faced. “I don’t think you’re funny, Mr. Sage.”

  “That’s good, because I was trying to make a point. People like you make me puke with your self-righteous inflexible desire to make the rest of us conform to your vision of equality. Obviously, you are neither a believer in Christ, since you failed to sing along with “Silent Night” and whose birthday you would be happily celebrating, but more importantly you wouldn’t have started this silly conversation in the first place. Nor are you proud to be of the Jewish faith since you didn’t wish me a Happy Hanukkah when I offered—or smart enough to be a Bu
ddhist and just keep your mouth shut because you would realize my faith is my way to enlightenment and no business of yours. So, I figure you’re just a stupid sheep following what some professor somewhere told you.”

  The blonde just sat with eyes bugged out, slack-jawed at Cole’s reaction.

  “Oh, yeah, and one more thing, Breanna. If you really want to be politically correct, you will let your hair go back to its natural dark brown color, because as a fellow member of the brunette community, your disenfranchisement and rejection of your natural color to me is very hurtful and emotionally harmful. But you won’t do that, will you?”

  “I think—”

  “Frankly, I don’t want to hear it. Merry Christmas!” Cole brightly said. Then he smiled, swiped his ID card, and went through the employee’s entrance behind the reception desk.

  “Kwanzaa yenu iwe na heri, Olajean!” Cole said, trying to give his old friend a high five.

  “What is with you? You know I’m Baptist!”

  “I was just trying to be sensitive to your African roots and let you know that I celebrate your freedom from the slave mentality.” Cole smiled slyly.

  “African roots, my big black butt. Any fool knows most of the slaves brought here were from West Africa. This Kwanzaa stuff is all about East African rituals. First fruits and all. It ain’t got no Christian foundation. Ain’t about my Jesus’ birthday. I ain’t havin’ it, no sir! I’m talkin’ ‘bout the birth of my Lord, that’s all!”

  “I just love to hear you preach, Olajean.”

  “You’re just tryin’ to rile me up, Cole Sage. You should be ashamed. You know how I get. You go on and get to your office.” Olajean folded her arms across her massive chest and stuck out her bottom lip in an effort to look hurt.