Cheri on Top

  “Have you examined the report I gave you?”

  “Yes,” Turner said, his voice clipped. “I sent it on to the district attorney. You’ve definitely got something.”

  Cheri laughed. “No—you’ve got something, Sheriff! Don’t you see? All the money Purnell stole went to Wimbley! Wimbley must have been blackmailing Purnell. Do you think it’s possible Purnell has gone all this time thinking he killed Barbara Jean, and that’s why he was paying Wimbley?”

  “Still paying,” J.J. added.

  Turner didn’t say anything, only stared at her, and Cheri worried he didn’t believe her hypothesis. But then he said, “Go on.”

  “All right.” She took a breath. She was going for it. “Here’s the real question. Have you found any evidence—anything at all—that would indicate Sheriff Wimbley made sure the car was never found? Have you found anything tying Wimbley to Barbara Jean’s actual murder? If you have, then all the pieces fit.”

  Turner’s usually handsome and friendly face pulled into a blank mask. It was a transformation both startling and fascinating to watch.

  “Wh-whaaat?” J.J. managed to get out.

  Turner stayed silent.

  “Yeah. See, after Barbara Jean disappeared, Wimbley gave his family’s Maggie Valley land to the boyfriend of Barbara’s little sister, a slacker named Wesley McCoy, who promptly married the girl. Why would Wimbley do that, unless he was paying McCoy off for something? Maybe to make sure Barbara Jean’s sister never pushed for answers in the case or went above his head to get justice?”

  “Hold up, sugar,” J.J. said. “You’re swinging mighty wide here.”

  “Or not.” Turner’s eyes flashed at J.J. “Listen, DeCourcy, you can’t use—”

  “No.” J.J. shook his head with conviction. “There is no way in hell that whatever you’re about to say is off the record.”

  Turner scrunched up his lips. “Fair enough. Then I have no comment due to the fact that this is an ongoing federal homicide investigation.”

  “Shee-it!”

  “But thank you, Cheri.” Turner reached out and gave her a good squeeze and kiss on the cheek. “If things don’t work out over at the Bugle you can come to work for me.”

  “Halliday!”

  Turner waved over his shoulder and started down the dock, but didn’t look back.

  “Fine!” J.J. called out. “We’ll run what we got and we’ll get our own comment from the FBI!”

  Turner looked over his shoulder and winked at him. “It’s a free country, DeCourcy.”

  J.J. began chuckling.

  “What?”

  “Oh, that was Turner’s way of telling you that you got the story right.”

  “We got it right.”

  J.J. smiled down at her, the water shining in his dark eyes. “I think we need to make a run out to Maggie Valley.”

  Cheri agreed, but told him to wait a moment. There was something she wanted to bring along.

  * * *

  Carlotta Smoot McCoy greeted them halfway down her drive, legs spread wide, arms crossed over her chest. She was already shaking her head.

  “I just shooed the sheriff and those snooty federal people away,” she told them, scowling. “You think I got anything better to say to you? You might as well just stay in your pickup and turn right on around.”

  “Let me handle this,” Cheri said to J.J.

  She exited the truck, bringing the box with her. “You got a freezer, Carlotta?”

  The lady nearly growled at her.

  Cheri looked up at the power lines running along the lane. “You got the electric turned on out here?”

  “Of course I do!” she said. “I ain’t country trash!”

  “Fine. Let’s walk to your trailer. I’ve got some things to put in your freezer.”

  Carlotta’s eyes darted to the box in Cheri’s hands and then to her face. “I don’t take charity.”

  Cheri laughed. “Have you ever sat down to supper with Vivienne Newberry?”

  Carlotta nodded. “Yes, but it was a long, long time ago. She’s one hell of a cook.”

  “And she cooks a hell of a lot of food—too much.” Cheri kept walking and Carlotta kept pace. “Look, I won’t beat around the bush with you, Ms. McCoy. I’m stinkin’ rich. I’ve got everything a person could want. I’ve frittered away so much it would make your head spin. You, however, are living as poorly as anyone I’ve ever seen. So, in this box there’s lots of food and some nice clothes—you’re probably about my size when you’re not malnourished—so this stuff is for you.”

  Cheri kept her eyes looking straight ahead and didn’t slow her walk.

  “What in the name of—”

  “Don’t argue with me, Ms. McCoy. Don’t tell me you don’t need help, at least for the time being, because that would be a bunch of bullshit.”

  They’d reached the trailer. Cheri put the box on the metal stoop. The woman’s face was stoic as stone. “Oh, and I brought this for you.”

  Cheri reached in the box and pulled out the black-and-white photograph of Barbara Jean the newspaper had kept filed away for more than forty years. Cheri had put a nice frame around it.

  Carlotta frowned but reached out for it.

  “We scan all pictures digitally now, so we don’t need the original. I thought it was only right to return it.”

  “I’m so grateful, Miss Newberry.” The words came out in a barely audible whisper.

  “I don’t deserve your gratitude. You’ve been through a lot, probably more than anyone will ever know. And you were right—the Bugle failed you. We didn’t do our job. We didn’t dig deep enough to find out what happened to your sister, even when the answers were right in front of us.”

  Carlotta’s jaw dropped.

  Cheri smiled. “But we’re getting there.”

  Her eyes bugged out. “You are?”

  Cheri nodded. “Listen, Ms. McCoy, we know Sheriff Wimbley sold this land to your husband for a pittance, probably to keep him quiet. We think the sheriff had something to do with Barbara Jean’s death or at least had a hand in covering it up.”

  Carlotta swallowed hard.

  “It’s all about to come out, Ms. McCoy. It’s okay if there’s something you want people to know about Barbara Jean, or the circumstances surrounding her disappearance. Your husband is dead. Sheriff Wimbley is dead. Nobody can hurt you or take this land from you. I checked, and you own it outright, so it’s yours to sell or live on as you choose. You’re a wealthy woman.”

  She blinked. “I am?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I gotta sit.” Carlotta’s knees buckled as her little rump hit one of the metal stairs. Her body began to twitch. Then she began to cry. She grabbed Cheri’s hand and looked up at her. “Wimbley told us we’d lose our land and he’d make the rest of us disappear too if we ever raised a fuss about Barbara Jean.”

  Cheri sighed. Wimbley had been such a bastard.

  “He always reminded us that he owned us and his son would own us after he was gone. You see, Barbara Jean…” Carlotta shook her head, the tears streaming down her face. “She told me once that she was running with Wimbley and his friend Purnell Lawson at the Bugle. I knowed they did something to her. But I always figured if the law and the newspaper don’t want something to come out in this town, it ain’t never coming out. Never.”

  Cheri put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

  Carlotta clutched the framed photo of her sister to her belly and softly cried. “Can y’all give me a ride into town?” she asked. “I want a copy of my deed and then I’m going to talk to the police.”

  Chapter 26

  “There isn’t enough coffee in all of Cataloochee County to get me through this party.” J.J. stumbled in the front door of the lake house, crumpled and red around the eyes.

  Cheri handed him a mug anyway. “Then you’ll have to rely on—what did you call it?—the adrenaline of a great news story. Just be careful who you go around kiss
ing today.”

  J.J. pulled Cheri to him and kissed her hard. “We doubled our print run this morning, just like you told us to do, you sexy thang.”

  She giggled. “Good.”

  “The story is awesome. Mimi did a hell of a job helping me put everything together after you left late last night, plus she got the FBI to give us a statement—a real one. Cheri, I’ve got a huge surprise for you. Ready?”

  She nodded.

  J.J. reached behind him and pulled a rolled-up copy of that morning’s Bugle from his belt. Cheri opened it but could barely believe what she was seeing.

  “He did do it.” She glanced up at J.J. with her mouth ajar. “They found Wimbley’s nightstick rammed between the dash and the gas pedal of Barbara Jean’s car? Are you kidding?”

  “Turner came through at the last minute—he got the FBI to give us what we needed in exchange for bringing Carlotta in to make a statement—and for all your research. Look at this—” J.J. tapped his finger on the third paragraph and read aloud. “‘An FBI spokesman said that Wimbley, a Bigler real estate developer who died in 2001, is now considered the only suspect in the murder. According to investigators, Ms. Smoot had a sexual relationship with Wimbley during his tenure as Cataloochee County sheriff, and forensic examination revealed that prior to her death, Ms. Smoot sustained a blunt force injury consistent with the shape and weight of the police baton found in the vehicle. However, officials said the forensic evidence indicated the injury was not fatal and that Ms. Smoot likely lost consciousness and drowned.’”

  Cheri stared at him. “Poor Barbara Jean!” she whispered.

  “At least we have answers now.”

  “What’s Turner going to do about Wim?”

  “Right,” J.J. said, scrunching his nose as if the mere sound of the man’s name left a bad smell. “We agreed to leave out any mention of the blackmail payments. The FBI is still investigating and the district attorney is putting together a case on Wim as we speak—they didn’t want to spook him.”

  “He’s supposed to show up here with Tanyalee today.”

  “This is sure gonna be interesting.”

  J.J. had no idea just how interesting. Cheri had been anxious all morning, knowing that she’d only cleaned up one part of the mess. She still had her suspicions about her parents’ deaths to sort through, which would be no easy task with Purnell still in a coma. Plus, there was her own confession to make. She’d decided the ruse had gone on long enough—she would tell J.J. now and everyone else would find about her financial troubles back in Florida at the picnic. She’d just give them the facts, then ask to be forgiven for taking so long to come clean.

  “What’s up, sugar?” J.J. peered down into her face with concern. “Are you worried about Garland? How hard he’s going to take the news about his old friends?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Cheri said. “I plan to sit down and hash it out with him before the party, but it’s more than that, really.”

  “You gonna tell me?”

  She nodded. “I am. But first, there’s something I want you to see.”

  Cheri relieved J.J. of his coffee cup, spun him around, and directed him out the front door. When they hit the porch they were greeted by a wall of dark clouds coming in over the lake.

  “Uh-oh,” Cheri said. “It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

  When J.J. didn’t concur she found him checking out the kegs of beer sitting in ice on the porch.

  “Nothing to fear. Where there’s beer, there’s a way.”

  Cheri tugged on J.J.’s hand and dragged him down to the gravel drive and around to the ladder against the side of the house.

  “Oh, boy,” he said as he began to climb. “When did you make this discovery?”

  “About an hour ago. I hadn’t seen Artemis for a couple days, so I figured I better make sure she was all right.”

  J.J. peered up into the soffit and was greeted by a loud “Chit! Chit!” He immediately climbed back down, a huge smile on his face. “I counted five. You know, she’s not going to like our party very much.”

  Cheri checked out the gathering clouds again, knowing that the squirrel was the least of her concerns.

  Suddenly they heard the crunch of gravel beneath car tires and turned to see who was arriving so exasperatingly early. Cheri’s money was on Aunt Viv when a strange rusted-out Chevrolet Caprice topped the hill and coasted toward the house. It almost looked like a junked police cruiser. Cheri squinted to get a better look.

  “Anyone you know?” J.J. asked. “The Blues Brothers, perhaps?”

  That was when Cheri got her first peek of blond curls and big, dark sunglasses. The horn began to blast. “Candy?” she yelled out. “No way! It’s Candy!”

  “Cherise! I made it! Am I too late for the party?”

  * * *

  For the first hour or so, the picnic was smooth sailing. There were several reasons for this, and Cheri was thankful for each and every one of them. Most importantly, the rain had held off. Also, the side dishes were plentiful, the keg taps worked, and Tater Wayne’s pork ribs and barbecued chicken were so good everyone agreed they should be illegal. It didn’t hurt that Jim Taggert’s bluegrass group—the Sardonic Beaver Band—had the place rockin’.

  Oh. And Tanyalee and Wim hadn’t shown up.

  “Where do you think they are?” Viv asked Cheri for the tenth time in as many minutes. “She’s not answering her phone. I’m worried sick.”

  Cheri put an arm around Viv’s pink blouse and squeezed her tight. “Please don’t worry.” She nodded toward Turner, standing with a few FBI agents and J.J. over by the hog-shaped barbecue. “If there’d been an accident or something, Turner would have already found out.”

  “All right,” Viv said, wandering off.

  Granddaddy was her main concern. He hadn’t recovered from hearing everything Cheri had to tell him about Winston Wimbley and Purnell. It broke Cheri’s heart to hear him blame himself. Before the guests arrived, he’d sat at the old oak table and cried his eyes out, saying that if he’d let his friends dupe him like that he had no right to call himself a newsman.

  Thank God Candy had shown up when she did. Granddaddy had always adored her, and she had him laughing and reminiscing by the time the party was in full swing.

  At one point, Candy took Cheri aside and whispered, “I just knew you needed me here for this. Was I right or what?”

  And now, since everything seemed to be going smoothly, Cheri decided she’d get herself a beer and mentally review everything she needed to say to J.J. before anything or anyone else could distract her.

  I’m broke. I lost everything in the Florida real estate crash. Please forgive me for not telling you sooner, but I wasn’t ready until now. I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us. I’ll tell you all the details after the party.

  A quick peek confirmed that he was now standing on the dock with Turner and the FBI agents. J.J. must have felt her gaze on him because he turned at that moment, unleashing a wickedly sweet smile in her direction.

  Cheri took a step toward him. It was going to feel so good to get this off her chest.

  Then her BlackBerry rang.

  “Incomplete Data” was on the line.

  * * *

  “No. No. No. This cannot be.”

  Tanyalee slapped a hand to her chest. She was having heart palpitations. She was going to die. She should call an ambulance.

  It was all gone. Everything Wim had ever given her was gone.

  Her two-carat marquise-cut diamond in its platinum setting. Her pearls. Her gold and silver. The emergency cash envelope she kept in her underwear drawer.

  He even took his great-grandmother’s hair combs! She loved those things! She hated that bastard!

  He’d run all her credit cards through the shredder, which was her first clue that today would not be going as planned.

  She’d woken up at eleven. She went into the bathroom and there it was, a little shredded bird’s nest of plastic on the b
athroom rug, tiny slivers of what had once been her lovely, smooth, gleaming American Express Gold Card, her Visa card and MasterCard, and her Home Depot card. He’d even shredded her Sears card! Really—like she’d suddenly have the urge to go out and purchase appliances?

  Two hours had passed since that initial shock, but she was still sobbing. What had happened? Everything had been going so well—he was so happy with everything they’d discovered about Cheri! Where had this all come from?

  And, oh no, she didn’t even want to look in the attached garage, because if he’d taken her Mercedes, she might as well just hang herself.

  Tanyalee looked in the bedroom mirror and swore that if she ever saw Wim Wimbley again, she’d put her hands around his spindly neck and cut off his air supply.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  A man’s thickly accented voice said, “Is this Cherise Nancy Newberry?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Am I speaking to Cherise Nancy Newberry, formerly of 4761 Belinda Lane in Harbour Island, Florida?”

  “Who is this? How did you get this number?” Cheri abruptly turned away from the dock and swiveled her head around to look for Candy. She found her over by the barbecue hog chatting up Tater Wayne.

  “Cheri!” Aunt Viv had just jumped up and down waving a pink arm in the air. “Cheri, come on over here now. We’re gonna have a little presentation!”

  “I need to speak with Miss Newberry regarding a matter of—”

  “Cheri! Come on now!”

  “Listen, I can’t talk at the moment, but I’m doing the best I can to deal with my debt situation. You have my word.”

  Viv began swinging a little metal noisemaker over her head.

  “I’ve really got to go.”

  She shoved the BlackBerry in her pocket.

  * * *

  The douche bag had taken the singles from her wallet. He’d even taken the change from the kitchen junk drawer, her house key, her cell phone, her laptop, her iPod.

  Feeling a lot like Bigler’s version of Cindy Lou Who, Tanyalee walked down to the end of their lane and stuck out her thumb.