Cheri on Top (6 page)

Admittedly, the rest of the evening’s events were fuzzy, but of course Purnell had been responsible for the girl’s death! He woke up in the woods near Paw Paw Lake late that night, his fingers smelling like girl juice, dried blood under his eye, a little pair of white cotton panties shoved in his trouser pocket. What in the name of God had happened? Where did Barbara Jean get herself to? he wondered. It must have been one hell of a night!

Purnell had walked home in the dark. He snuck in his own front door without waking Lizzie. He showered and dressed for work, putting a dab of Mercurochrome on the cut and telling Lizzie he’d nicked himself shaving again. He staggered into the newsroom. It wasn’t unusual for him to be a little rough around the edges first thing in the morning, so nobody seemed to notice.

But then again, no one was paying any mind to him that morning. The newsroom was buzzing—there’d been a possible murder! A witness told the sheriff he saw a car plunge into Paw Paw Lake with a woman behind the wheel! And a man was seen jumping out of the vehicle at the last instant. He ran into the woods. Police were looking for him.

Purnell thought he’d vomit. He escaped to his office and shut the door. He could barely catch his breath. What had he done? He and Lizzie had two kids at that point. He’d just been promoted to chief financial officer at the
Bugle
. He’d just become president-elect of the Bigler Chamber of Commerce.
This could not be happening!

“You all right, old man?”

Purnell blinked. It took him a few moments to make sense of where he was, when it was, and why Winston Wimbley’s son was standing in front of him. The pain in his chest helped Purnell regain his focus.

Of course he hadn’t imagined anything. He’d killed that girl, no question. But it had obviously been an accident. And as Purnell had sat in his office at the
Bugle
that morning so long ago, he told himself he should confess. That was the only way out. He’d do it tomorrow. Or the day after that. But he’d do it.

Turned out, a confession wasn’t necessary. Sheriff Winston Wimbley had figured it out by the afternoon. Of course he had—Wimbley knew all about Purnell’s dalliances with the pretty and willing Barbara Jean Smoot, and might have had a few rolls in the grass with her himself. It was no secret she had a thing for older, successful men, after all.

And, oh! Purnell’s body shook in terror as he watched that bastard stroll through the newsroom on his way to the business office, gun on his hip, badge on his chest, and a swagger in his step. Purnell was certain the first words out of his lifelong buddy’s lips would be, “You’re under arrest.”

Instead, Wimbley shut Purnell’s office door behind him and pulled its shade. “
Now
what have you gone and done, Purnell?” Sheriff Wimbley shook his head like he was straining to have patience. “Y’all probably don’t even remember what happened last night.”

Purnell started shaking. He fingered the cut under his eye. He was on the verge of crying. “I don’t remember! Oh, God, what have I done?”

“Looks like she fought you pretty good, too.” With a deep sigh, Wimbley settled into the chair across from Purnell’s desk. “This is an unfortunate turn of events, no doubt, but it doesn’t have to be the end of the world. I can get you out of this mess.”

“What?” Purnell had looked at Wimbley in shock.
“How?”

“I got a little proposition for you.”

And that’s when he got his marching orders. It remained unspoken, but Wimbley had to have been aware that Purnell didn’t have the kind of money he was asking for. They both knew the only way he could comply with Wimbley’s demands would be to steal from the
Bugle
. So that’s what Purnell did.

For the first few years, he made a habit of skimming off revenues, hiding what he’d stolen by underreporting how much the paper was earning through retail advertising, classified liners and displays, and preprint inserts. But after Garland started asking questions, Purnell knew he had to find another way to pay Wimbley. That’s when he got the idea to steal from the debit side of the ledger instead.

He began padding the costs of doing business wherever possible. This included payments for newsprint, ink, machinery, transportation costs, and especially the steady stream of technology upgrades needed from the eighties on. Perhaps Purnell’s most ingenious move was inventing a series of shell “consulting” firms that were paid handsomely for services they never provided.

And that’s how he’d managed it, month after month for more than forty years—a lifetime of stealing from Garland Newberry to pay Winston Wimbley. In exchange, Sheriff Wimbley made the witness go away. As he told Purnell that day in his office, “That Negro don’t have the brains God gave a goose. Won’t be much of a loss.”

Oh, how Purnell had come to wish Winston had just gone ahead and handcuffed him that day, dragged him through the newsroom, and put his ass in jail. It would have been the proper punishment for killing Barbara Jean. It would have spared the life of that poor Johnston bastard, and many years later, Loyal Newberry and his pretty young wife.

Why had Garland’s son turned out to be such a goddamned do-gooder of a publisher? Why did he have to go poking his nose into what was buried in the past?
Ah, hell … Oh, Lord have mercy … of course I killed Barbara Jean! Because if I didn’t, it would mean Garland’s son and daughter-in-law died for no damn reason at all!

“You should probably sit down, you old fool,” Wim said. “You look kinda green all of a sudden.”

Purnell fell back into the rocking chair, his throat burning with bile. Then a sharp pain sliced through his chest. He stared at the young Wimbley, suddenly unable to get his breath. “You’re a fuckin’ liar,” he wheezed.

Wim raised his hands over his head. “I’m not shitting you! When I went to drag the lake, I had no idea she was there! Now we’ve got a dead body and a big-ass publicity problem. Who’s gonna want to shell out a third of a million for a retirement cottage at the scene of a murder, haunted by an honest-to-God ghost? Fuck! Do you have any idea how much fuckin’ money I’m about to lose on this?”

Purnell gasped. It was unthinkable. He couldn’t grasp it … his vision was going dark … “On the kitchen counter … my pills … hurry.”

Wim ran from the room. When he returned seconds later, he shoved the bottle toward him. Purnell shook out a single tablet and placed it under his tongue, waiting for the relief to come.

“Should I take you to the hospital?”

Purnell shook his head.

“Well. All right then, I guess.” Wim cleared his throat and headed for the door. “Remember what I said about stopping J.J.”

Relief washed through Purnell at the sound of the door shutting. He didn’t want the little prick to see him cry.

*   *   *

The moon was off duty that night and the path was severely overgrown, but J.J. knew the way. He’d taken this walk hundreds of times in life, and again in his dreams.

When he reached the lake’s edge, he saw that the water was as lifeless as black glass. No breeze rippled its surface. No stars peeked from the cloud cover to reflect in its mirror. And since it was still May, the nighttime symphony of amphibians, insects, and loons hadn’t yet gotten their act together. It was all silence. Darkness. Memories.

J.J. held the flower arrangement against his leg and inhaled the cool night air. What everybody said about him was true—he belonged in hill country. He’d traveled the world, but these North Carolina mountains were in his blood and bone. Nowhere else rang true. This would always be home, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

He smiled and shook his head in the dark. He hoped Cheri would discover it was the same for her. In fact, he’d bet everything on it.

He remembered the day he and Garland discussed the possibility of Cheri coming to town. Yes, the publisher’s job was supposed to be his, but he’d be all right if it went to Cheri. “She’s a Newberry and I’m not,” he’d told Garland.

“You sure, son?” Garland’s white eyebrows twitched as he studied J.J. “It’s not going to be an easy road, you know. Cheri has made a point of avoiding this family, and I can’t say as I blame her. She’s complicated, you know, always been a prickly girl. Still angry about losing her mama and daddy.”

J.J. knew all that.

“As you know, this newspaper is at a crossroads, Jefferson, and it won’t take much for us to go under for good. So if I bring her in as publisher, you’ll still need to keep a hand on the wheel.”

He’d nodded.

“Plus…” Garland cocked his head and peered at J.J. quizzically. “Shit, son—if Cheri comes home it’ll open the whole Tanyalee can o’ worms. You know those girls never sorted it out between them.” Garland chuckled. “You’ll be ripped apart like a sirloin at a dogfight.”

J.J. knew all that, too, but he’d agreed with Garland—the two sisters couldn’t go on forever without having it out, could they?

“It would all be worth it if Cheri came home and stayed, wouldn’t it?” Garland smiled at him. “So you’re up for this mess, son?”

“Of course,” J.J. had answered. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

By now, J.J.’s eyes had become accustomed to the dark, and he scanned the lake property, noting how the land gently leveled out at the water’s edge. The Newberrys owned over twenty wooded acres on this side, with the summer house strategically placed for sunset views over the Smokies. The house was fairly isolated, though he could make out the lights over at the McCaswells’ around the bend, a trick that would soon be impossible when the trees reached their full abundance.

He’d always loved Newberry Lake. Looking back, he knew that living here for six months had been the only decent thing to come from his marriage to Tanyalee.

J.J. shook his head and headed to the front porch. He placed the flowers by the door so they’d be the first thing Cheri would see when she visited with Tater Wayne the next day.

And, unfortunately, that was all the seduction J.J. had time for that evening. He got in his truck and headed back to the newsroom, knowing it was going to be a long, long night.

Chapter 7

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

Cherise picked up the shiny brass nameplate from the desktop and gawked.

CHERI NEWBERRY, PUBLISHER.

Why did these people insist on calling her
Cheri
? It wasn’t what her parents named her. It wasn’t even how she referred to herself. So why did they do it?

There was no excuse. So what if everyone in Bigler had called her Cheri from middle school on? If Candy had been able to make the transition, why couldn’t everyone else?

Cherise opened the desk drawer, tossed the nameplate inside, and slammed it shut.

“Morning.”

Cherise jumped at the sound of his voice. She managed a pleasant smile as she looked up to meet J.J.’s gaze.

Her heart thudded.

He stood slouched in the doorway, wearing yesterday’s jeans and rumpled cotton dress shirt. He looked disheveled. Sleepy. He’d probably nodded off in his desk chair at some point during the night.

Though wrinkled and bleary-eyed, J.J. still looked unbearably, wildly
sexy
.

Cherise shook her head, startled by the thought. “Good morning.” It embarrassed her that her voice sounded so unstable.

“Problem?” He looked at her askance.

“There’s a spelling error on my nameplate. It’s not … well, they spelled…” She lost her train of thought because, no, of course he wasn’t sexy. At all. He wasn’t even a decent guy. He was rude. Hostile. Cruel. A liar and a cheat. He was a bad man who happened to be good-looking. Period.

And he stood there staring at her, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

“Whom should I speak to about ordering a replacement?”

J.J. thought that was funny, apparently. He straightened from the door frame as he laughed. “A typo, eh? At the
Bigler Bugle
? Are you absolutely certain?”

“I know how to spell my name.”

“See? That’s why we hired you as publisher!”

Cherise crossed her arms over her chest, in no mood for J.J.’s caustic brand of conversation. “I don’t go by Cheri anymore, as you are well aware. I’ve been known as Cherise Newberry since … well … for more than five years. I believe it sounds far more professional.”

He produced a crooked smile. “It most certainly does.”

“I have no interest in going through life as a Popsicle flavor.”

J.J. nodded slowly. “Or lollipop.”

Cheri narrowed one eye at him, regretting she’d even started this conversation.

“But I gotta tell you, there’s nothing like a cherry Slurpee on a hot summer day.” He winked at her.

“Are you done?”

“Actually, no.” J.J. gave a thoughtful nod. “Did you know that ‘cherry’ is what gearheads call a perfectly restored old car? Or that virgins are sometimes—”

“Who’s in charge of nameplates?” Cherise prayed her cheeks hadn’t flared red. “Who’s the point person for these things?”

“Ah, that would be Gladys.” J.J. crooked a thumb over his left shoulder.

She frowned. That couldn’t be right—Gladys Harbison was still at the
Bugle
? Cherise hadn’t seen her yesterday and assumed she’d retired long ago—or gone to the great Frederick’s of Hollywood in the Sky.

“Yup. Gladys still runs the joint.”

When J.J. let go with a real smile, Cheri took a sharp breath in—now
that
was the smile she remembered. It engaged his entire face and pushed up at his sparkling, blue-black eyes. But it was Gladys that made him smile like that. Not her.

“She must be way past eighty,” Cherise said, forcing herself to change the subject in her head.
He isn’t handsome. He isn’t sexy. He isn’t good.

“No one knows for sure.”

“And she’s here today?”

J.J. nodded, gesturing for Cherise to take a peek into the newsroom. She ventured to the office door and immediately snapped her head back. She retreated behind her desk, horrified, and began to shuffle papers on her desktop, thinking to herself that old ladies weren’t supposed to wear that stuff! They were supposed to look like Aunt Viv, in pedal pushers and tennies!

J.J. laughed at her reaction.

“I…” Cherise looked up at him, at a loss for words. “I didn’t think she’d still be dressing like a…”

“Ten-dollar hooker?”

She choked back a laugh. When Cherise was a kid, Gladys had preferred stretch miniskirts, dangly feather earrings, and bottle-black, spiked-up hair. Apparently, she still did.

“She’s dabbling in Internet dating these days.”

“Please—” Cherise held up her hand. “Can we talk about something else?”

J.J. laughed again. He was clearly enjoying this exchange. “Sure. I assume you’ve seen the front page of today’s
Bugle
?”

Cherise didn’t like the tone of his question. It sounded like he was testing her. She suddenly felt defensive. Was she supposed to read the paper before coming into the office? Is that what was expected of publishers? Especially if their managing editor had been working all night, like J.J. obviously had? “I planned to read it once I got here.”

“Ah.” He nodded, pulling a folded copy from behind his back and handing it to her. It felt warm in her palm, which meant he’d probably had it tucked into his belt, and the idea of that sent a shock wave through her. How much of his body had she touched? How well did her fingertips know him? Why couldn’t she recall?

A memory flashed like fire through her muscle and bone—the feel of his hard body on top of her, the old wooden deck pressed into her back, the shiver of pleasure as his hands covered her breasts, his lips claimed her mouth, and her thighs opened in need.

And just like that, Cherise felt on the edge of tears. What the hell was that all about? She hadn’t cried in … forever.

“Read fast,” J.J. said. “We have an editorial meeting in fifteen minutes. Would you like some coffee?”

She nodded quickly, trying to rattle some sense into herself. What was her problem? How had she let J.J. push and pull at her body and heart like this? It was ridiculous. She’d been on a carnival ride of sensation, emotion, and memory for the last two days, and it was looping and banking too fast for her to keep her grip. She felt intensely sad at times. Elated at others. Bewildered always.

J.J. smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

It was true that Aunt Viv’s too-cold cup of instant decaf had failed Cherise on all levels—no caffeine, no flavor, no creamy froth, no rush of soul-satisfying warmth. “That’s a yes,” she said, sighing. “So there’s a good barista in town now?”

J.J. laughed yet again, taking a moment to boldly examine Cherise from head to toe, pausing for an inordinate amount of time on her spike-heeled black boots. This caused her to stand straighter, squeeze her arms tighter over her chest, and second-guess the outfit she’d chosen for her first day as publisher—a stretchy, short-sleeved black blouse and a taupe skirt with a black belt. And the boots, of course.

She’d wanted to look polished, but bring a little urban juju into the small-town environment. God knew it needed it. Plus, it was one of the three decent outfits she still owned.

“Gladys can fix you up with a cup of coffee. She’s also your go-to gal for expense forms, paper clips, USB cables, and whatever else you might need. Oh, and she’ll get you your BlackBerry.”

Cherise felt her eyes go wide. “A
BlackBerry
?”

Immediately, she regretted the outburst. She was supposed to be a finance whiz with a multimillion-dollar business back in Tampa. A person like that wouldn’t become excited about getting a smartphone—she’d already have one, one with all the bells and whistles, too.

“Hey, don’t take it out on me,” J.J. said, misinterpreting her remark. “I know it’s a pain to carry around multiple devices, but the publisher needs to be reachable at all times. Part of the job.”

Cherise nodded, damn happy to have been misunderstood and thrilled with the idea of having a phone again. Then it occurred to her that J.J. was being kind. He was providing helpful information. He was smiling at her now, too, his face relaxed and friendly. She didn’t understand it. She licked her lips in nervousness. His eyes darted to where her tongue had just been. Then he scowled at her.

Oh, this was just plain nuts! If Cherise and J.J. were going to work together, they needed to clear the air. She had to know how he could have been so awful to Tanyalee, and why he seemed to vacillate between sweet and satanic in every encounter she had with him.

And that moment at Paw Paw Lake, when they almost kissed? Somebody needed to say something about that completely bizarre incident. She took a breath. “Listen, J.J.—”

“Yeah. We almost kissed. I know—bizarre. Forget it. I already have. I was hepped up on the adrenaline of a great news story. It’s not the first time that’s happened. In fact, I think I kissed Gladys when we had the giant mudslide across I-40 last year. See you at the meeting.”

He was gone.

After remaining frozen in bewilderment for a long moment, Cherise opened the newspaper she’d been holding.
Body Found at Construction Site,
the bold black headline said. Below was a color photograph of the mud-covered car swinging from a chain, a grieving old woman restrained by sheriff’s deputies in the background.

Imbedded in the story was that iconic black-and-white school picture of Barbara Jean Smoot, the one Cherise remembered seeing as a kid, the girl’s blond bangs cut straight and her ponytail visible as it cascaded from high on the back of her head. Barbara Jean had a smile more suited to Hollywood than hill country. She had an elegant neck. Delicate features. Bright, shining eyes. Under the photo was this question: “Have we finally found the ‘Lady of the Lake’?”

Cherise looked up in time to see J.J. round the corner out of sight.