Chapter 17
J.J. entered the editorial meeting with some kind of plastic zip bag in his hand and a scowl on his face. Cheri sat up straighter. Was that scowl for her? How did they get back to that? What happened to all the good stuff they’d shared the night before?
As she recalled, once Tanyalee finished her little drive-by, J.J. had agreed it wouldn’t be wise for him to stay. So had he suddenly changed his mind? Why would he do that? Maybe she shouldn’t trust him yet. Maybe she should keep her distance from J.J. a little longer, make him win her trust slowly. Something like that could take a while, of course. Days. Weeks. Months, even …
As J.J. plopped into a conference room chair, he gave her a quick wink and a sly, sexy smile.
Cheri had to look down at her legal pad to keep from blushing.
“Check this out, everybody,” he said, throwing the plastic baggy to the center of the table. Everyone leaned in to get a look at the object of interest. Mimi Grayson snatched it, then held it up to the light.
She laughed. “Is this a joke?” She lowered the bag and peered over it at J.J. “We’re being threatened? Why would anyone threaten the Bugle?”
“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” J.J. said.
“Maybe we got ourselves our very own Unabomber,” the photo editor said.
Mimi read aloud. “‘Leave the past in the past, or some of you won’t have a future. This is the only warning you will get.’” She tossed the plastic bag back to the table. “Sounds like something written by a fifth-grader—probably some kind of prank.”
Jim Taggert pulled the plastic-covered sheet of notebook paper his way, shaking his head. “The handwriting’s legible. Everything’s spelled correctly, too, and that right there puts this little missive head and shoulders above our usual letters to the editor. I say we slap it on the front page.”
“Gladys has already scanned it to graphics,” J.J. said.
“How’d y’all find it?” the government reporter asked.
J.J. leaned back in his chair. “It was shoved under the Main Street entrance this morning. Turner’s gonna swing by soon and collect it for evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Mimi asked with a dismissive snort. “You’re really taking this seriously? You think this is connected to the Barbara Jean story?”
“Sure I do,” J.J. said. “What else have we been covering that would prompt a threat like this? The spate of flattened tires at the Piggly Wiggly? The new metal detectors at the county courthouse?”
Cheri reached out for the baggy, then snapped her hand back, second-guessing herself. She’d sworn not to intrude on editorial decisions, hadn’t she? She glanced J.J.’s way. “Do you mind if I take a look?” she asked.
“Of course not, Cheri,” he said, grinning warmly. “Just don’t take it out of the plastic, okay?”
She smiled back at him. “Of course not.”
Cheri took a moment to read over the two sentences, and she knew immediately that it was no child’s prank. The words felt menacing. The handwriting was strong. And angry. A shudder moved through her.
Cheri returned the bag to the tabletop and looked up—only to find Jim and Mimi and the rest of the assembled editorial staff staring at her in shock, eyes big and mouths open. Had she said something rude? Stupid? Ridiculous?
Had she said much of anything?
Uh-oh. They were probably shocked by her politeness and the downright gentlemanly way J.J. had spoken to her. Or maybe it was worse. Maybe they’d seen more than civility in their exchange.
J.J. cleared his throat, and everyone snapped to attention. “Jim, we’ve got room to run that playground feature Sunday. We can even make it a double-truck if you’ve got enough content.”
“I thought you wanted to hold it another week,” Taggert said, frowning.
J.J. shook his head. “Unfortunately, Gladys just gave me the ad count, and we’ve got plenty of room this week. In fact, we’ll be going to press four pages lighter than last Sunday, even with the feature.”
The room stayed silent. Everyone kept their eyes cast down. Even Cheri could translate that bit of newspaperese, and she knew J.J. had just informed them that the paper lost advertising during the last week, even when the Barbara Jean story had brought a significant spike to street sales.
No one said a word. She watched J.J.’s large hands grip the armrests of his chair so hard that the veins and tendons stood out on his wrists.
“J.J.?” Cheri heard herself ask. “Did the Bugle lose any active accounts last week, or was it an expected seasonal downturn, part of a cycle we’ve seen before?”
J.J. shook his head. “To the contrary—we normally get a big boost from lawn and garden retailers and landscapers around this time, but it didn’t happen this year. It’s been a growing problem during the recession—automotive, real estate, Christmas, want ads, back-to-school—the cyclical ad revenue we used to take for granted isn’t there for us anymore.”
Cheri looked around the conference table, knowing J.J.’s words weren’t a revelation to these employees. They’d seen dozens of friends and colleagues lose their jobs while the size and scope of the newspaper delivered to people’s doorsteps continued to shrink. J.J.’s comments just meant they were one step closer to being unemployed.
She hadn’t planned to do it, but she felt herself stand. All eyes followed. She saw a variety of expressions on the faces—curiosity, surprise, and even contempt. She didn’t blame them. After all, it wasn’t even a week ago that these people showed up at work to see their publisher gone and taking his place was some chick from Tampa, a woman who didn’t talk like them or dress like them, a woman who’d spent her time thus far debating paint colors, complaining about the design of her nameplate, and suggesting the newspaper get its sexy back.
“This is my issue to worry about, not yours,” she said. “Your job is to put out the best daily newspaper possible for the citizens of Cataloochee County. The fact that we’ve done exactly that every damn day for nearly one hundred and fifty years should make you proud.”
Mimi Grayson sat up straighter.
“The Bugle has survived world wars and the Great Depression and the digital revolution and it’s going to survive this. Now, here’s what I want us to do—” She looked at J.J. “How much has our single-copy sales gone up since the Barbara Jean Smoot story broke?”
J.J. thought for a moment. “A lot. We’re up twenty-five percent in nonsubscription sales.”
“Okay, then,” Cheri said, looking around the room. “Then this is the time we need to beef up the page count of the Bugle, not gut it. We need to grab these new readers and give them a reason to subscribe. Show them what they’ve been missing.”
“Uh…” Jim Taggert’s eyes swiveled from face to face at the table. “What if all we end up doing is losing more money? The price of newsprint alone will make that a losing proposition.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Cheri saw J.J. shove his chair away from the table. She wouldn’t look at him. If he was scowling at her, she didn’t want to know. In fact, it didn’t matter if he was displeased. This was her job. This paper was her family’s legacy and it was now her responsibility. She had a right to say whatever needed to be said. In fact, she had a duty to say it.
“Look, I know y’all don’t know me from Adam’s off ox, but Grandaddy hiring me wasn’t some kind of joke or act of desperation. I agreed to take on this job and I mean to do my best by every one of y’all. I’m not giving up on this paper and I don’t want you to, either. And Jim…” She looked at the city editor and smiled. “We’re already losing money. And we are guaranteed to keep doing so unless we take a different approach.”
Glances were exchanged. Mimi chuckled. Jim Taggert looked uncomfortable.
“As publisher, I’ll take any heat that’s due me,” she continued. “But if you want me onboard when the plane crashes, I damn well better be on it when it takes off.”
J.J. rose from his chair and Cheri was sure he was about to tell her to shut the hell up—but she refused to look at him. She kept talking.
“Now, my top priority is untangling the financial mess we’re in. However, I want y’all to know that my door is open. If you have any concerns, any questions, any suggestions you think I should hear—about any aspect of the newspaper—I will listen. And…” Cheri felt J.J. arrive at her side. He didn’t touch her, but she felt the heat of his body, the solid presence of him. Suddenly, it dawned on her that he wasn’t trying to shut her up. He was offering his support. She risked a quick glance at him and saw the warm smile in his eyes. Cheri took a deep breath.
“I give you my word—no one will lose their job in the next month. I don’t care how bad things get. Nobody currently employed at the Bugle—in delivery and circulation, or the pressroom, or the newsroom—not one person will lose their job this month. That is my promise.”
The room was silent. Cheri gathered up her legal pad and pen and thanked everyone for their time. She felt their eyes burning a hole in her back as she exited the conference room.
She found Gladys at her desk. This morning’s wardrobe selection consisted of a red nylon-spandex wrap dress, red espadrilles, and red and black earrings in a skull-and-crossbones motif.
“Morning, Gladys.”
“Morning yourself,” she said with a wide, smeared-lipstick smile. “Getting settled in?”
“Slowly,” Cheri said.
“Hmph! I hear you’ve got round-the-clock help out there at the lake house, if you know what I mean!”
Cheri didn’t have the time to deal with the comment. “Gladys,” she said evenly, “I want you to e-mail me with the contact information for all the lawn and garden and landscaping advertising accounts we’ve had in the last ten years. Where is Purnell this morning?”
Gladys narrowed her eyes at Cheri. “He called in sick.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Gladys shrugged. “His heart condition, most likely, though he didn’t rightly say.”
Cheri nodded. “Does he still live on Warmsprings Road?”
Gladys tipped her head. “Yes, but…”
“Thanks,” Cheri said with a polite smile. “Ten minutes, please.”
* * *
Cheri was mad as hell by the time she arrived at Purnell Lawson’s shabby single-story ranch house. She regretted that she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch the day before, because she couldn’t tell whether her current light-headedness was from going twenty-four hours without food or from being as hacked off as she’d ever been in her f*cking life!
She’d visited every one of those lawn and garden and landscaping accounts. Half the landscaping services were no longer in business, but the others bought ads on the spot. “Where you been?” one landscaper asked. “I expected you around here a month ago!”
Of the fourteen brick-and-mortar retail establishments that had done business with the Bugle, five had gone out of business. Three said they’d agreed to advertise and never received contracts or a follow-up call. Two others said they’d been hounding Purnell to run their ads, to no avail. The remaining four said they’d simply given up on the Bugle because of a combination of declining circulation, high rates, unimaginative ad design, and piss-poor customer service.
And every business lost to the newspaper had moved their advertising dollars to the Internet, the Yellow Pages, radio, and the Waynesville and Ashville papers.
When she found Purnell, Cheri swore she might strangle the old fool with her bare hands.
She pounded on the door. Nothing. She pounded some more.
“Purnell!” Cheri shouted against the door. No answer. Sighing in frustration, she hopped down into the tangle of weeds below the front windows and stood on her tiptoes to peek inside. There he was, slumped down in a rocking chair.
“Purnell! Are you okay?” she called out, banging on the window. He didn’t respond.
Cheri raced back to the door and tried the knob. The door flew open, and it was then that she noticed a chain had been torn from the frame. Had someone broken in to his house and attacked him? As she ran toward Purnell’s limp form, she pulled her BlackBerry from her bag and dialed 911.
* * *
“Cheri.”
She jumped in surprise, then stared blankly, as if she couldn’t make sense of the sight of J.J. standing in the doorway.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
“You didn’t. I just … I was lost in thought. How’s Purnell?”
J.J. entered the publisher’s office and took a seat across from Cheri’s desk. The painters had finished, and he had to admit the pale gray-blue color looked nice against the sturdy white of the woodwork, though the space now looked devoid of personality. Garland had labored in this room amid an avalanche of photos, personal mementos, and just plain junk from his half-century tenure. Now, with Cheri, the slate had been wiped clean. He wondered what she’d do with it.
Which reminded him …
“That was a great speech this morning, Madam
Publisher,” he said.
She shot him a scowl. Did she suspect he was messin’ with her? Still? It wasn’t so far-fetched a worry—she’d only been in Bigler a week. It was going to take some time, he knew.
“I only speak the truth, Cheri,” he said. “You inspired the troops, and then you went right out and pounded the pavement for ads—you walked the walk. It’s all anyone’s been talking about around here today.”
In addition to the scowl, she now lowered her chin and drummed her fingers on the desk. It was all J.J. could do not to laugh.
“What are you implying?” she asked.
“I’m not implying a damn thing. I’m telling you—you’re gonna make one hell of a publisher. It’s in your genes.”
Cheri’s eyes briefly flashed toward her computer screen.
“Is this a bad time?”
She sighed, a few shiny, dark red strands of hair clinging to her cheek when she shook her head. “Just tired.” She gave him a brave smile. “So, what about Purnell? What do the doctors say?”
“He’s stable, but still refusing any kind of treatment other than medicine for the pain. The doctors say it’s a combination of liver disease and congestive heart failure. Garland’s sitting with him, but it looks like the guy has just given up—he made the doctors draw up a do-not-resuscitate order.”
Cheri rubbed her forehead and sighed. “What about his family? Doesn’t he have some kids and grandkids living close by?”
J.J. raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “All of them live around here, but nobody seems to be in a hurry to get to his bedside.”
“How sad,” Cheri said, stretching her arms over her head. This gave J.J. a nice view of her breasts moving beneath an otherwise perfectly businesslike blouse. Then again, the girl could make a burlap sack sexy—always could. “It’s a shame how families can fall apart like that,” she said with a yawn.
He opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. The hesitation wasn’t lost on Cheri.
She smiled at him. “Go ahead, Jefferson Jackson. Make your pithy observation.”
“About what?”
Cheri laughed, then groaned in frustration. “I’m a big ole hypocrite—that’s what you were going to tell me, right? That I got a lot of nerve commenting on other people’s screwed-up families when mine should have its own exhibit in the Dysfunctional Family Museum?”
“Not my place,” J.J. said, smiling, tapping his fingers on the armrest.
“Ha,” she said. “And no, I haven’t talked to Tanyalee yet and I haven’t spoken to Aunt Viv since I ran from her house and now I’ve got a headache bigger than all hell.”
“You eat yet?”
“Just a handful of nuts and a carrot stick I stole from Gladys.” J.J. watched Cheri close her eyes tight for an instant, then glance at the computer screen again. With a definitive smack of her fingers on the keyboard, she closed the spreadsheet she’d been viewing. “I’m about ready to keel over from hunger, actually.”
“Can’t have that.” J.J. stood up and offered his hand to her. “How does Lenny’s sound?”
Cheri grabbed her bag off the back of her chair, laughing. “My God! That place hasn’t been closed down by the health department? Do they still make those grilled pimento cheese and Wonder Bread sandwiches?”
“Of course. And they still come with a side of barbecue slaw.”
“Damn!”
Grinning, J.J. placed his hand at the base of Cheri’s spine and waited for her to pass in front of him into the newsroom. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “And they’re still whipping up their world-famous fried pies and their—”
Cheri spun around, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply. J.J.’s eyes widened in surprise, and though his first impulse was to grab the globes of her ass and throw her down and devour her, he decided he’d be smart to make sure the night copy editors weren’t getting a show.
As soundlessly as he could, J.J. pulled Cheri back into her office and shut the door with his foot. He started chuckling beneath her kisses. “If I knew pimento cheese would send you over the edge like this, I’d have mentioned it earlier.”
Cheri laughed, too, leaving sweet little kisses all over his cheeks, chin, and forehead. Eventually, she peeled herself off his neck. “Sorry—I’ve been dying to do that all damn day.”
J.J. rested his ass on the edge of Cheri’s desk and pulled her between his legs. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She tipped her head and smiled shyly, her gaze wandering over his face. Eventually, she raised her hand to bury her fingers in his hair, and J.J. held his breath, as if he were afraid the slightest movement would chase her away. It was nothing less than a miracle, this loving touch of hers. It felt like he’d been waiting for it forever, as long as he’d been waiting for her to tell him she still loved him … or loved him at all.
J.J. watched in fascinataion as Cheri’s thoughts wandered and her golden eyes darkened.
“Tell me, darlin’,” he said.
Her gaze locked with his and he swore he saw fear there. “Please don’t say anything to Granddaddy, not yet, but…”
J.J. straightened. Whatever Cheri was about to tell him had nothing to do with love or even grilled cheese.
“I think I need to show the Bugle books to Turner.”
J.J. abruptly stood up, which caused Cheri to stumble backward. He grabbed her hips. “It’s that bad?”
She nodded her head and bit her bottom lip. “I’m seeing a pattern. Year after year, the expense vouchers Purnell’s been signing off on don’t make sense. I swear there’s a shitload of money missing, and the pattern stretches back at least five years, probably longer.”
J.J. pulled his head back in surprise. “Someone’s skimming off the top? Are you sure?”
“No,” Cheri said as she pulled away and began to pace, her arms crossing over her chest. “That’s the thing—it’s been done ingeniously, year after year. Nothing’s obvious. It could be possible to miss during an audit.”
“I don’t follow,” J.J. said.
“Okay.” Cheri nodded. “Let’s say I’m standing in a room and I don’t see anyone come in behind me, but I can see their shadow on the wall and I can smell their cologne, so I know they’re there. It can be the same way with numbers.” She turned to him, her brow creased in concentration. “Does that make any sense?”
“I guess,” J.J. said.
“Here’s the thing,” she continued. “On multiple occasions, expenditures can’t be verified. There were huge payouts for a color capacity printer tower that was never delivered. Consultants I can’t track down. Increases in our newsprint costs that are way out of line when compared to other newspapers in the region.”
“So what do we need before we can go to the authorities? What can I do to help?”
Cheri laughed, letting her arms swing down at her sides. “Nothing. I just have to keep plugging away, and ideally, I should be looking at records going back another twenty years or so, but I don’t want Purnell to know what I’m up to.”
J.J. pushed up from the edge of the desk and went to her. “How much money are we talking?”
“Depending on how long it goes back, maybe a million or more.”
J.J.’s stomach clenched. “Shee-it.”
“Yeah.”
“But if Purnell’s been stealing boatloads of money from the paper, what’s he done with it? The guy lives like a pauper, and nobody in his family’s doing so hot, either.”
Cheri looked up at him, the corners of her mouth pulled tight. “I know. His house is a pigsty. But let me put it this way—somebody’s up to something, and maybe it would be best if nobody knew I want every record I can get my hands on—not Purnell, not Gladys, not even Granddaddy. So, yes, there is something you can do for me. You can get me the old records.”
J.J. felt his eyes go big. “I’ll go to the warehouse and see what I can find. But you can’t possibly believe—”
“I don’t know what to believe,” she said, cutting him off. “But those are the only three people involved in accounting and bookkeeping around here since, well, forever.”
J.J. tipped his head. “Except your daddy, right? He was publisher for six months back in the mid-eighties, before he…”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. J.J. knew better than to bring up Loyal and Melanie Newberry, even in passing. Back when they were kids, the subject would turn Cheri to cold, hard rock in a flash—and understandably so. Her parents were young and healthy when they were found asphyxiated in an Outer Banks beach house on their second honeymoon, a faulty gas stove eventually to blame.
And now, as Cheri’s spine went rigid and her face lost all expression, J.J. knew nothing had changed for her.
“Yes, my father was publisher from February to September 1987.” With that, Cheri retrieved her bag from the floor—where she’d tossed it during the throes of kissing him, an event that now felt like a lifetime ago.
“Cheri—”
“It’s okay, J.J.,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “It’s an important point, actually. When I get the old records I’ll focus on that stretch. Maybe I’ll see a change in the way business was done or some indication my father knew there was a problem. Thanks for pointing that out.”
She turned away and headed for the door.
“So, no grilled cheese?”
Cheri looked over her shoulder. “I’m suddenly too wiped out to eat. See you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he said. “Publishers get the weekends off around here.”
She offered him a tired smile. “Not this one—not until I sort out this mess.”