Chapter 19
“Brought you some flowers.”
Purnell watched Wim set the cheap arrangement on the hospital room windowsill. Pathetically enough, it was one of only three he’d received in the days he’d been hooked up to a tangle of tubes and wires and informed that he was not long for this world.
The most extravagant flower arrangement was from Garland and the staff of the Bugle.
The scrawniest was some kind of fern sent by his three kids, ten grandchildren, and twenty-two great-grandchildren. Being that he had little else to occupy his thoughts, Purnell had figured out that the arrangement likely cost each descendant a whopping eleven cents. No wonder no one had come to visit him—who could scrounge up gas money after that kind of large-scale family sacrifice?
“What the f*ck do you want?” Purnell snapped.
Wimbley broke out in a fake smile. “Can’t an old friend pay his respects? Out of the goodness of his heart?”
Purnell groaned. He didn’t have the energy to point out that Wim didn’t qualify on either count.
“Honestly, I came to do a little brainstorming with you. You’re going to help me formulate a plan.”
Purnell had no time for this dipshit. “Your threats mean nothing to me, son. I’m going to be dead soon, so go ahead, knock yourself out—tell the world I killed Barbara Jean Smoot. You can even make up some details if you want, seeing as I can’t remember half of what happened that night.”
Wim shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his shiny shoes. “I didn’t come here to threaten you, Lawson, I came to offer you redemption for your sins. Isn’t that what the dying want?”
“Get out of my hospital room, you prick.”
Wimbley laughed. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I sent a threatening letter to the Bugle that they’ll never trace back to me, because I’m brilliant. And now you’re gonna help me come up with something to blackmail Garland Newberry with—something that will stop him from snooping around out at Paw Paw Lake.”
Purnell shook his head in disgust—Winston’s boy might be handsome, but he was stupid enough to try to alphabetize a bag of M&M’s. “Again with blackmail, young Wim? Not looking to branch out? Have you considered counterfeiting? Forgery? Your lovely fiancée could help you with that.”
“Funny. You got any better ideas?”
He turned his face away and stared out the window. The first thing that caught his eye was the red brick of the Bugle building in relief against the green-blue hills of his little mountain town. He didn’t know what to expect in death, but surely hell wouldn’t include a view of the Smokies. That would be reserved for the decent folk who made it to heaven, the ones who didn’t have so much blood on their hands.
He shuddered. The truth was his most hideous offense was a bloodless crime, perfectly clean, premeditated in the most literal sense. Poor Loyal and Melanie, drawing their dying breaths as Purnell drove through the night, all the way from the seashore to his home in the blue mountains. That car ride seemed to last an eternity, nothing but his self-loathing to keep him company as the hours stretched on.
Just like it had been with Barbara Jean, he’d made it home before dawn to shower out the smell of his crime from his skin and hair. With Barbara Jean, of course, it had been the smell of p-ssy and blood. With Loyal and Melanie, it had been the smell of gas.
He was squeaky clean when he stood in the middle of the newsroom later that day, his sobbing coworkers gathered near to hear the tragic news—their new publisher and his wife were dead. And Purnell was steady as a rock in Vivienne’s parlor later that evening, helping Garland, Viv, and the Newberry girls deal with their shock and grief.
Clean. Steady.
Viciously heartless.
And just like that, it happened again, the way it had been happening since the day Barbara Jean’s body had been pulled from the mud. Images flashed through his brain like lightning strikes, bright, shocking, then gone. He didn’t know what the hell they were. Memories? Imagination? Fear? His brain going haywire from the liver disease?
But these—the ones he just now experienced—these were new.
Winston Wimbley yanking Purnell’s shirt collar and dragging him from Barbara Jean’s car.
Wimbley’s police baton connecting with Purnell’s cheek.
Blood flying past a shiny sheriff’s badge before it splattered on the dark road under Purnell’s feet.
He thought he might vomit.
“Well?” The young Wimbley sounded impatient. “Tick, tick, old man. Help me figure a way out of this mess.”
Purnell turned to face him. “Your father was the biggest son of a bitch I ever knew.”
Wim laughed. “Now that’s a news flash worthy of the front page of the Bugle. I asked you a question, old man. I need you to give me something I can hold over Garland’s head.”
Purnell closed his eyes for a moment. How had he gotten himself in this mess? How had he allowed his life to be controlled by not one, but two Wimbleys?
“Garland ain’t even publisher anymore, you ass. Cheri Newberry is, remember? She’s the one making decisions over there now, along with J.J., of course, so if I were you, that’s who I’d be trying to get to do my bidding.”
He watched Wimbley squint and bob his head up and down, as if the act of thinking might be a new experience for him. Eventually, the boy stopped nodding and started smiling. “Now, that sounds like something I might actually enjoy, Lawson, and it’s definitely something my lovely fiancée and I could do together for fun and relaxation! You’re a f*cking genius!”
Right then, Purnell made a decision. He’d keep his gaze focused on the mountains for the remainder of this painful hospital room visit. Nothing else. That way, when he died, the timeless beauty of the Smokies would be the last image to burn itself in his mind, not the moronic look in Wim Wimbley’s eyes.
He wondered what was the last thing Loyal and Melanie Newberry saw. Probably each other. The autopsy report said they died in their sleep, tangled up together like teenagers as the gas slowly poisoned them. Without a doubt, their blood was on him. He remembered what he did to those poor kids. He remembered every last second of it.
But what about Barbara Jean? What was the last image she saw? Purnell’s angry eyes? His sloppy-drunk smile? Was it the back of his hand? Oh, everybody knew he could be a mean drunk back in those days, but why—why?—couldn’t he remember the act of killing her?
Unless, of course, he hadn’t.
But that would mean he was nothing but a pawn, a spineless man who’d handed over his life without the slightest fight. And the pain of that was too much to bear.
Purnell’s body jolted. This time, the flash wasn’t a picture. It was words … horrible words … real … and they struck him so clearly he clamped his hands to his ears to block the sound.
“Get out of the damn car, Lawson. Time to share.”
When Purnell’s hands fell away, Wim was still droning on.
“I think Cheri’s full of shit, myself. She came by the office this morning, and I kept looking at her thinking that nobody I know in Florida real estate made it out alive, and she’s going around telling everyone she’s still living the high life down in Tampa?”
Purnell kept his eyes on the mountains.
“And I thought to myself, shee-it, it’d take me about five minutes to get the goods on that bitch.”
“Sounds like you got yourself a plan, son,” Purnell said, concentrating on the last mountain spring he would ever see. It fascinated him that beauty remained, even in the middle of all the weakness and the killing and the lies. “Time’s a-wastin.”
* * *
Cheri handed Tater Wayne the leftover pizza and a few extra cold beers, then waved to Mimi Grayson as she pulled away from the lake house. “Thanks again for your help, Mimi!” she called out.
Tater Wayne turned to go, but he stopped on the first porch step, giving her a shy smile.
“You’re a good friend to me, Tater,” Cheri said. “I appreciate every last thing you’ve done since I came home.”
Tater shook his head, his hair sliding over his ricocheting eye. “You know Garland’s paying me, right? I mean … that’s not the only reason…”
She smiled at him, hoping it would get his eye to settle down.
“I’d do anything for you, Cheri, even if I wasn’t getting money, but all’s I’m sayin’ is—”
She stepped forward and hugged him. “You have a good night, now, Tater.”
“Oh. Okay. You, too, Cheri.”
Keet, keet, keet!
“Careful not to run over Artemis,” Cheri added, nodding toward the squirrel now standing in the middle of the gravel drive.
Tater Wayne shook his head, laughing. “All right now, I’ll admit that thing acts like a Doberman, but are you telling me you named a damn squirrel? Y’all been in the city too long.”
Cheri giggled. “Artemis was the ancient Greek goddess of protection. I looked it up.”
“Y’all need a dog,” Tater said, heading out with a wave. Cheri made sure Artemis darted safely off around the side of the house as Tater drove away. Thanks to J.J.’s reconnaissance earlier in the day, Cheri now knew exactly where her little preggo roommate was headed—the old wood tongue-and-groove soffit under the eaves. J.J. said she’d built an impressive nest of leaves, fur, dried lake grass, feathers, and shredded paper for her brood, and had chewed a hole clear through to serve as her private entrance to the inside of the house. He’d closed it up.
“You sure you don’t mind sharing your home with a family of squirrels?” he’d asked her. “I can move the nest—put it in a hollow log or something.”
“No!” she’d said. “She was here first, after all.”
Suddenly, strong arms slid across her ribs and pulled her close, bringing her back to the present moment. With eyes closed and neck limp with pleasure, she luxuriated in the feel and scent of J.J. She’d spent the whole day in his company for the first time in a dozen years, and it felt comfortably familiar and like an exotic treat all at the same time.
That morning they’d retrieved more than a dozen boxes of financial records from the old warehouse and hauled everything—including what Cheri had accumulated at the Bugle—back to the lake house, where they’d set up a makeshift office in the back bedroom.
They had enjoyed lunch at Lenny’s in town, and Cheri finally got her grilled pimento cheese sandwich. They stopped off at the house on Willamette to chat with Granddaddy, asking him if her father had left behind any personal record of his time as publisher. Granddaddy had directed them to four boxes in the attic, which J.J. had carried to his truck.
When they’d returned to the cottage to paint, they were thrilled that Tater and Mimi were there ready to lend a hand. Cheri had pulled J.J. aside at one point to ask if the general assignment reporter was trying to suck up to the new boss, and he shook his head. “Nope. Mimi said she admires you and hopes you stay. Personally, I think she’s into the ‘woman on top’ aspect of it all.” Cheri had laughed at that.
And now, as she stood on the porch in the unusually warm night air, J.J.’s arms around her, Cheri felt loose and calm. She’d accomplished a great deal in one day. She was physically exhausted. And she’d had two beers with her pizza. But she knew the real reason she felt so peaceful, so outrageously happy, was J.J.
He’d had her laughing all day, reminiscing about their teenage escapades, filling her in on his life between high scool and his return to Bigler, and his adventures as managing editor of the Bugle. With frequent contributions from Tater and Mimi, Cheri could now say she had the lowdown on the remaining inhabitants of the newsroom. She found out the graphics editor had five kids and coached in the town’s soccer and baseball leagues; the sports reporter ran a statewide foster program for abused hunting dogs; and city editor Jim Taggert was a sought-after banjo picker who’d released three CDs and went on tour every summer. This information did nothing but make Cheri more determined to keep the newspaper in business and her employees’ lives afloat.
Despite all the conversation and laughter, the four of them managed to clean and paint the whole inside of the cottage in a day. It would easily be party ready in two weeks.
“You smell so damn good,” J.J. said into Cheri’s ear.
She laughed, knowing he was exaggerating. “I smell like Sherwin Williams and Murphy’s oil soap.”
“Eau de manual labor,” he said, his chuckle vibrating against the side of her neck. J.J. moved his hands over her belly and cradled her. “With rich undertones of Cheri—pure, sweet Cheri.”
“Mmm.” She snuggled into him closer, enjoying the simple act of breathing the lake air. She leaned into the hard heat of J.J.’s body. She listened to the telltale symphony of a fast-approaching summer—crickets, tree frogs, and even an occasional call of a loon.
“I love it here,” she whispered, shocking herself, not because she said those words but because there seemed to be no aftertaste of anxiety. She must be coming to terms with the fact that she loved being at the lake house. She must be getting used to Bigler again. Damn, but Candy was going to freak when she told her.
And just like that, Cheri felt her body clench. What the hell was she doing letting her guard down like this? Her sister hated her and wished her dead. She was solely responsible for people’s livelihoods. And she was living a lie! Tanyalee and J.J. and Granddaddy and Aunt Viv and everyone else in Bigler thought she was rich and successful, and she’d done absolutely nothing to correct them since her return.
And now it was too late! She’d look like a fool if she told everyone the truth now! She was no better than Tanyalee.
“Want to grab a couple beers and sit on the dock?” J.J. asked her.
“You just read my mind,” she said, pushing the uneasiness away again, if only for the time being.