Chapter 25
When Cheri arrived at the lake house, Tater Wayne was busy setting up the barbecue, a huge barrel-shaped contraption with a decorative sheet-metal pig snout and ears at one end and a curly metal tail at the other. The rental people were unloading tables and chairs on the lawn. The liquor store deliverymen were rolling the kegs up onto the porch.
It suddenly occurred to her that two hundred people would be here by noon tomorrow. How was she supposed to throw a party and deal with all this crap at the same time?
Cheri saw Turner’s SUV and J.J.’s pickup parked in the grass near the dock. She could see the two men standing in conversation by the water, and she ran toward them.
“Whoa!” J.J. said, laughing as she raced their way. The smiles they’d had on their faces faded fast—she must have looked as shell-shocked as she felt.
“Are you all right?” J.J. caught her as she came to a stop at the dock edge.
Cheri shook her head. “No. Yes. I’m fine.” She planted a quick kiss on his lips, then looked to Turner. “Did you ever wonder how Sheriff Wimbley got the money to start his real estate business?”
Turner’s hazel eyes immediately lost their friendly sparkle. It was as if a shade had just been pulled down. “Why do you ask, Cheri?”
“I mean, where did Wimbley suddenly get a bunch of cash to go out buying up land and making real estate deals in 1965? He couldn’t have made a lot of money as sheriff, right?”
“Nope,” Turner said. “The pay sucked just as bad back then as it does now.”
“So where did he get the money?”
Cheri heard J.J. chuckle. She turned to him.
“You see where I’m going with this?” she asked him.
J.J. nodded.
“No,” Turner said. “Fill me in.”
“She’s following the money,” J.J. said. “All the cash missing from the Bugle—”
“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.”