Cheri on Top (5 page)

Chapter 6

Once Aunt Viv and Granddaddy were in their rooms for the night, Cherise pulled the short cord of the pink Princess phone from its hallway stand and into the bathroom. She shut and locked the bathroom door. She sat on the fluffy pink bath rug, pressed her back against the claw-foot tub and stretched her legs out under the pedestal sink.

Here she was, thirty years old and still hiding in the bathroom to make a phone call, just like in her high school years. She stared at the familiar pattern of pink and white ceramic tiles going halfway up the wall, inhaling the sharp mix of Jean Naté, Dial soap, and Pond’s cold cream that had seeped into the grout over the decades.

Candy’s voice sounded like the music of the angels. “I knew it,” her friend said after Cherise had given her a detailed rundown of her first day home. “So when do you think you’ll be back? It’ll be great to have a car again. I hate the bus—it’s full of pervs.”

Cherise sighed, then whispered, “I got some bad news about the car. It died. I have no idea what’s wrong with it.”

“Oh, well, you get what you pay for, I guess.” Cherise heard her friend try to hide her disappointment. “How much did we pay for that car, again?”

“Five hundred.”

Candy sighed. “So you’ll be taking the bus home?”

“I’m not coming home. Not right away. I’m going to give it a month.”

“You go, girl,” Candy whispered. “That’s a month longer than I figured you’d last. Have you talked to Tanyalee yet? I know you said J.J.’s still an ass, but is he still hot?”

Cherise frowned. “Yes,” she whispered.

“I knew it,” Candy whispered.

“Wait a minute. Why are
you
whispering?”

“Because you are.”

“But I’m in Aunt Viv’s bathroom. I have to whisper.”

Candy burst out laughing. “My God! This is hilarious! I’m having déjà vu!”

Cherise hung her head and ran her free hand through her hair. “Good Lord, Candy. I swear I have no idea why I came back here, and now I’ve promised Granddaddy I’ll stay for at least four weeks. I made a total fool of myself at that meeting today, pretending like I was Diane-Freakin’-Sawyer. And then Granddaddy took me to the publisher’s office and asked me to pick out a paint color for the walls, and J.J. walked by several times just to sneer at me through the open door.”

“Ugh.”

“I’m not qualified for this.”

“Just choose something in a neutral pastel.”

“No! I mean the
job
! I don’t know the first thing about what I’m supposed to do in this
job
!”

“I don’t know about that,” Cherise said. “You grew up around journalism and what you don’t know now you can learn in a hurry. The important thing is that you demonstrated leadership today—charged right in there and took the bull by the horns. Besides, advance preparation has never been our strong point.”

Cherise giggled. How very true. They’d launched—and lost—several businesses before they stumbled into real estate. Armed with only an online course and an abundance of enthusiasm, they’d managed to turn a three-thousand-dollar investment into a portfolio worth more than fourteen million.

The way up was nothing but one long, heady rush. The way down was all shock and pain.

“This is different,” Cherise said with a sigh. “This is my family’s heritage. What if I do nothing but hammer down the last nail in the coffin? They think I’m some sort of business genius. They think I can turn around decades of decay in a few weeks!”

“The important thing is you’re going to try your best. You’re keeping your promise to your granddaddy. That’s all that matters.” Candy paused. “Um, I just want to remind you that you can never tell anyone what happened down here. My mother can
never
find out I lost the money she gave me.”

“I know.”

“So what else?” Candy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m not following.”

“Come on now,” Candy said. “The paper is on its last legs, Aunt Viv and Garland are as strange as ever, Tater Wayne’s still hot for you, and the lake house has probably fallen to the ground. But what else aren’t you telling me?”

Cherise rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Sure. But I know you. You’re hiding something.”

“God,”
Cherise groaned.

“Well? What is it?”

“He … he almost kissed me.”

Candy was silent for a moment, then said, “Cherise, I’ve been telling you since second grade that it’s nice you’re always so sweet to Tater Wayne, but he misinterprets your good nature. He thinks you’re hitting on him.”

Cherise giggled. “I’m talking about J.J.”

“Out at Paw Paw Lake? You mean, he almost gave you a ‘hello’ kiss on the cheek?”

“Uh, not exactly.”

Candy whistled low and long. “Details, please.”

“I was in the process of slapping him for being such a dickhead, you know, not saying a single freakin’ word to me while Turner was nothing but a gentleman.”

“How’s Turner doing? He’s always been a good guy.”

“Actually, he seems very sad, even though it’s been years since his wife died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He asked about you.”

“Really? That was nice of him. Tell him I say ‘hey.’ But we were talking about you—what did you mean by ‘slap’? A real slap? You were trying to slap J.J.?”

“Yes, but he grabbed my wrist and yanked me up against him and stared at me like some kind of sex-crazed, wild—”

“
Cheri? Are you in there?”

The bathroom doorknob jiggled back and forth. This was followed by a series of quick little knocks on the door.
“Everything all right, sweetie? Can I get you anything? I bought you some sanitary pads. They’re on the second shelf of the linen closet, behind the Dippity-Do.”

“I’ll be out in a second, Aunt Viv.”

Candy began laughing into the phone. “Better hang up before you get grounded! And save some of that Dippity-Do for me!”

“Oh, my God,” Cherise whispered. “I don’t care if I’m sleeping on a bed of leaves out at the lake. I gotta get out of here and get a cell phone.”

“Maybe with your first check you can buy yourself one of those pay-as-you-go phones.”

“I plan on it. I’ll get you one, too.”

“That’d be great! We haven’t had cell phones since—”

“Cheri?”

“I better go.”

“Hold up,” Candy said. “J.J. was staring at you like he wanted to kiss you? Are you sure?”

Cherise laughed. “Of course I’m sure. He just grabbed me and—”

“Cheri? Did you find the pads?”

“I really gotta go. I miss you.”

“Miss you more. Call me tomorrow. This shit is so good I don’t even miss having cable.”

*   *   *

Purnell pushed up from the rocking chair and stumbled through his living room to the front door, kicking over his bottle of gin in the process. He watched the remaining liquid soak into the carpet.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

The pounding on the door continued. He could pretend to be asleep, he supposed, but what was the point? The prick had a key. The prick was his landlord. The prick owned Purnell’s home. The prick owned his soul.

Purnell yanked his suspenders onto his shoulders as he answered the door. “Fuck you,” he said by way of greeting. Then he staggered back to the rocker and took a minute to catch his breath. When he looked up, the prick stood over him, disgust in his eyes and glee in his smirk.

Wim Wimbley had one hell of a smirk.

“Just love what you’ve done with the place, Lawson.” Wim nudged the gin bottle with the toe of his polished loafer. “It’s got a nice Late Stage Alcoholic vibe to it.”

Purnell ignored him. He hooked his fingers into his suspender straps and rocked back and forth, the hate roiling in him. Sometimes he had to laugh at how he’d misjudged this young man. The senior Wimbley had been a soulless bastard his entire life—back in school, all the time he was Cataloochee County sheriff, and later when he started buying and selling every acre of land he could get his hands on this side of Tennessee. Even after Wimbley had gone and knocked up his third wife—becoming a daddy at fifty—Purnell used to tell himself that his nightmare would be over once the old bastard was dead. What a pitiful miscalculation that had been.

Wimbley’s spawn was twice the prick his father ever was, and he’d inherited more than the land development company—he’d inherited the family’s profitable little blackmail business as well.

The transition from father to son had been seamless. After Winston died, Wim continued with the collections. Six hundred dollars on the first day of every month, month after month, year after year, with a sixteen percent penalty for late payment. Thanks to the Wimbleys, the fear of being prosecuted for murder had turned Purnell into a thief and drained every bit of decency from his life.

“Of course, I’ll have to charge you for damage to the carpet upon termination of the lease,” Wim said.

Purnell howled with laughter. That statement was absurd and they both knew it. The lease would terminate when Purnell did. Besides, the carpet—like everything else in this little ranch house—had been purchased by Purnell a long, long time ago, when he still owned the place, back before Lizzie got sick, back when there was a reason to get up every morning.

“What do you want, Wimbley?”

He chuckled. “You could at least offer me a drink.”

Purnell gestured to the gin-soaked carpet. “Help yourself. Straws are in the kitchen.”

Wim laughed.

It never failed to disgust him how he’d gotten himself into this mess. After Lizzie got the cancer diagnosis, Purnell didn’t have the time or energy to keep up with blackmail payments to Winston Wimbley. Out of the kindness of the bastard’s blackened heart, the senior Wimbley offered to hold the house title in lieu of payments. Once Purnell was up to date again, he’d get the title back. Never happened, obviously. And now Purnell paid rent on his own home in addition to the blackmail payments. His wife was dead. His kids were grown and gone. The carpet—like the roof, the yard, the furnace, and Purnell’s arteries—was beyond repair.

“I suppose you’ve heard the big news,” Wim said.

Purnell looked away. “You came all the way over here to gloat? Is that it?”

“Not really.”

Purnell produced a raspy chuckle and shook his head. “Don’t be coy, son. No time to fritter away. My ticker could give out at any moment.”

Wim looked around the room for somewhere to sit, then thought better of it. “I stopped by to tell you that you got a problem over at the
Bugle.”

Purnell nodded. “We got lots of problems over at the
Bugle.
Shitty advertising revenue. Shitty circulation. Garland installing his bimbo granddaughter in the publisher’s chair.”

“Hey, careful now,” Wim said with a wry smile. “That bimbo is my fiancée’s sister.”

Purnell snapped his suspenders in surpise. “Well, now, that’ll be as near perfect a marital union as this town’s ever seen. Don’t forget to purchase an engagement announcement in the
Bugle
. I can get you a discount.”

“Of course you can.” Wim smiled down at him. “The point is, you’re going to need to keep J.J. from writing about that car. Nobody wants that.”

One of Purnell’s eyebrows shot high on his forehead. “Really now? What kind of sick game are you playing, Wim? You knew as well as I did what was on the bottom of Paw Paw Lake and you dug it up anyway—got all your permits in place and merrily sucked the lake dry. If you didn’t want the truth to come out, why did you go and do that, boy? For sport? To see an old man squirm on the hook just one last time?”

“I didn’t know she was down there,” Wim said.

“That’s horseshit.”

“No. I’m telling you the truth.” Wim suddenly looked nervous. He rubbed his smooth-shaven chin. Not for the first time, Purnell wondered how Wim was able to pull it off—he was just as handsome and golden as he’d always been. None of the rotten, stinking foul mess at his core had ever leached to the surface. It was another way in which the son surpassed the father.

At least with Winston, he’d been as ugly on the outside as the inside.

“Give me a fuckin’ break, son,” Purnell said. “Besides, J.J.’s not your problem. There are FBI agents in town. And I sure as hell can’t do anything about the FBI.”

“No. Listen to me.” Wim began to pace back and forth. It occurred to Purnell that all he had to do was stretch out his foot and he could trip the little prick. Now wouldn’t that be fun?

“I heard it’s going to take a while for the police to get a positive ID on the body. I need you to keep J.J. from printing anything in the meantime. I gotta sell those lots.”

Purnell laughed. “You’re kidding me.”

“Listen.” Wim held his palms out. “Daddy always said there was nothing down there. Whenever I asked him about it, he’d laugh and say that you were too drunk to know what really happened that night, and there was no car in the lake. No ghost. No murder. Nothing. He said you blacked out. He told you that you killed the girl so he could use you.”

Purnell didn’t think he had it in him, but he shot out of the rocking chair, energized by a burst of clear, pure rage. He grabbed Wim by the collar of his preppy shirt.
“What?”

Wim twisted himself free. “It’s the truth! Daddy said you were so drunk you thought you killed her and he went along with your delusion because he could use you to get money to start buying land. Daddy said that he knew for a fact that Barbara Jean Smoot ran off and changed her name. He used to laugh at you all the time.”

Purnell’s chest tightened. He had trouble breathing. “Nonsense!” he whispered.

That was crazy talk. How many times had he relived that night in 1964? Barbara Jean had picked him up behind the newspaper offices and they did what they usually did—they got liquored up and went for a ride. Music blared from the dashboard radio, the wind whipped all that gorgeous blond hair of hers around her head, Purnell dragged his fingers across the bare flesh of her upper arm, tweaked a hard little nipple … that Barbara Jean had been something special, all wild and hell-bent on living life to the fullest. He was damn happy to help her.