Cheri on Top (10 page)

Chapter 12

Turner whipped his department-issued SUV into his designated parking space, and immediately began shaking his head and grinning at J.J.

“What’s so funny?” J.J. asked, uncrossing his legs and pushing himself off the exterior brick wall of the Bigler Municipal Complex. “I wouldn’t have to stalk you if you’d just answer my damn phone calls.”

Turner didn’t even bother to hide the glee that showed in his eyes as he stepped down from his vehicle. “How’s the evil plot progressing, Jay? Has she succumbed to your charms yet?”

J.J. shook his head as he opened the glass entrance door and gestured for Turner to go ahead of him. “I’m here on official business.”

“Uh-huh.” Turner yanked off his ball cap and rubbed his close-cropped hair. J.J. followed him as he wound his way past the one-man 911 call center, the empty animal control office, and his secretary’s desk. Like most people with normal jobs, she’d gone home hours ago. “Have a seat,” Turner said. He shut his office door behind them. “Coffee?”

“Nah, thanks.”

“Good, ’cause I don’t think there’s any made around here.” Turner gave him a lopsided grin, but despite the cheerful demeanor, J.J. could tell his friend was bordering on exhaustion.

“The FBI still staying at the Tip-Top Motel?”

“Yeah, and bitching and moaning about it every minute of the day.” Turner leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands behind his head. J.J. could see dark circles under his eyes. “I told ’em if they wanted five-star accommodations they shoulda stayed in Raleigh-Durham.”

“What’s the latest?”

Turner shrugged. “This ain’t like the TV shows, Jay. You don’t just drop off a slice of forty-year-old waterlogged flesh and get all the answers before the commercial break. The FBI crime lab has its priorities, and this ice-cold case ain’t one of them, sad to say.”

J.J. nodded. “So nothing new?”

Turner smiled. “Not since the last time you asked, which was three hours ago.”

J.J. let out a groan of frustration. Even to his own ears it sounded overly dramatic.

Turner raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Carlotta Smoot McCoy won’t talk to us. She’s thrown Mimi off her property twice and told me to go to hell today for about the tenth time. She says the newspaper abandoned her family a few days after her sister went missing, when it stopped putting Barbara Jean’s disappearance on the front page. She claims it’s the
Bugle’
s fault that justice was never done.”

Turner nodded. “Carlotta’s not much interested in talking to us, either. She blames the sheriff’s department as much as the
Bugle,
ranting about how old Sheriff Wimbley had Barbara Jean’s blood on his hands.”

“Jesus,” J.J. said.

“Outside my mama’s family, she’s the only person I’ve run across who doesn’t suspect poor Carleton. She told me, ‘That poor man went to heaven with a pure heart.’”

“What kind of learning disability did you say he had?” J.J. asked.

“I didn’t say.” Turner straightened in his chair and ran his hands quickly over his face, trying to keep himself awake, no doubt. “Mama thinks it was some kind of attention deficit problem with some dyslexia thrown in—shit they didn’t know about back then. He only made it to the eighth grade. She said he was a sweet man, and a hard worker.”

“Now that’s an odd thing,” J.J. said, leaning an elbow on Turner’s desk. “I noticed there isn’t a single article where anyone comes right out and names Carleton as a suspect, although Sheriff Wimbley gets pretty close. He’s always referred to as a ‘witness.’ And I haven’t been able to find any record of a charging document being filed against him, unless you know something I don’t.”

“Nope.”

“So there’s nothing in the department archives you’re not sharing with me?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“So Carleton was a witness, nothing more. So why do you keep saying that everyone in town just assumed he was the murderer?”

Turner chuckled. “In North Carolina in 1964, the word ‘witness’—when applied to someone of the slow-witted, black, and male persuasion—was spelled s-u-s-p-e-c-t.”

J.J. frowned.

“Besides,” Turner continued. “People want closure. It’s just human nature. It was easier to blame it on a feebleminded black man from out of town than worry that the killer could be one of your nice, white, next-door neighbors.”

There was an edge to Turner’s words tonight. “I see,” J.J. said. “So the FBI doesn’t want you saying anything, is that it?”

Turner made a face, but stayed silent.

“So was there?”

“Was there what?”

“A nice, white, next-door neighbor killer on the loose?”

Turner shrugged. “I got nothing for you, Jay. Sorry.”

“All right.”
Figured as much.
“I finally got a copy of Carleton Johnston’s autopsy report today. The Mecklenberg County coroner said he died of some kind of seizure that caused him to fall and crack his skull.”

“Yep. That’s what the report says.”

“But?”

Turner shrugged. “Mama insists that Carleton didn’t have seizures. Her family’s always maintained someone whacked him over the head to keep him quiet, plain and simple.”

“Then why in God’s name hasn’t your family had his body exhumed to get some answers?

Turner shook his head. “Jay, what do you think I’ve been trying to tell them for the last fifteen years? But Mama and her sister are the only family left who remember Carleton, and they’ve flat-out refused. They think it would be dishonoring the dead. They don’t see things the way we do.”

“So Carleton’s killer gets away with murder? And Barbara Jean’s, too?”

Turner averted his eyes and began shuffling some papers. “Not if I can help it.”

“Tell me,” J.J. said. “Maybe I can help put the pieces together.”

Turner stood abruptly and put his ball cap back on.

“I’ve got to get home and get some rest. But I’ll have something for you next week. Something worth waiting for. I promise.”

“You mean
news
?” J.J. laughed. “An actual piece of
news
I can attribute to Cataloochee County Sheriff Turner Halliday and publish in the
news
paper?”

“Yeah.”

“Shee-it!” J.J. hopped up from his chair. “I hope I remember what to do with it!”

Turner grinned at him. “You talking about a piece of news or a piece of CNN?”

Since J.J. had just transferred his weight to his feet, he froze with his knees bent and his back stooped. He stayed locked in that awkward position for a few seconds.

“You’re right,” J.J. said eventually, standing upright. “You need some sleep.”

Turner put his hand on J.J.’s shoulder as they walked down the hallway and out the back door of the sheriff’s station, chuckling the whole way. “Just go talk to the woman, Jay. Tell her what really happened with Tanyalee. God only knows the kind of poison that viper has been spitting out to Cheri over the years. It’s probably even worse than the shit she’s told Viv and Garland.”

“Garland doesn’t believe a word of it.”

“Well, that’s because he was one of Tanyalee’s victims. Plus, he’s worked with you every day for the last six years and knows the kind of man you are. Cheri, however, doesn’t have the benefit of that. She hasn’t said a peep to you since your wedding day.”

J.J. shivered at the sound of those two words.
Wedding day
. D-day was more like it.

“Seriously.” Turner grabbed J.J. by the shoulders and turned him so they stood eye to eye. His friend had a no-nonsense look on his face. “Cheri’s in Bigler, man. It’s real. She’s back home. But that’s only half the battle—she needs to know what really went on with you and Tanyalee.”

J.J. closed his eyes a moment. “You know I don’t believe it’s my story to tell.” He looked at his friend again, aware that he was scowling at Turner. “Cheri’s got to find out the truth on her own, by confronting her sister. She wouldn’t believe me if I told her, anyway. She’d just think I was doing whatever I had to do to get in her pants.”

Turner’s eyes sparkled under his ball cap. “She’d be right. That’s
exactly
what you’re doing, man. You’re busting your ass so she feels needed at the paper and gets settled out at the lake house. And why are you doing all this shit?”

J.J. considered his point. “To get in her pants.”

“No wonder I make the big money around here.”

Turner slapped him on the shoulder before he headed to his car. J.J. left soon after, with every intention of heading back to the newsroom. But he drove right on through the old downtown, past the Ace Hardware and the diner and the library and the courthouse, until the red brick
Bugle
building receded in his rearview mirror. And soon he found himself driving up the twists and turns of Randall Road, heading into the night woods.

*   *   *

She finished her nightly phone call to Candy a little after ten, thrilled that the lake house and the BlackBerry gave her the privacy to laugh and dish all she wanted, at normal decibel levels,
and
without having to hide in the bathroom! It was comforting to hear Candy’s voice, and laughing together about the events of the day had been just what she needed to unwind.

Cherise changed into a pair of thick socks, her favorite drawstring pajama pants, and a camisole tank top that was past its prime. She added a cardigan sweater and headed out to the kitchen. After she’d boiled some water and thrown a tea bag in a cup, she took her hot drink out to the top step of the new porch and plopped down. She breathed deeply, getting a nose full of rich lake air and fresh sawdust. She pulled her sweater tight and let the night settle around her.

Truth be told, Candy was the only thing Cherise missed about Tampa. Well, Candy and a decent cup of coffee. Everything else about the place seemed part of some faraway dream—the malls and boutiques, the sweltering heat, the gated neighborhoods she could no longer afford. It was fascinating how the memory of Tampa had already receded to a faraway place in her brain, reduced to a sun-bleached, flat blur, a barren strip of nothing special. Cherise took a cautious sip of her scalding hot tea and smiled to herself in the dark.

Florida was about as different from Bigler as you could get—which was probably why she moved there in the first place. And with each year she had stayed away, her life here in western North Carolina seemed less and less real. Less and less a part of who she really was. When acquaintances would ask her where she was from, she’d answer, “Tampa.” If they persisted, noting her accent, Cherise would answer again, “Tampa,” and work even harder at ditching her Cack-a-lacky curse.

But a thick black line had been drawn on that day J.J. showed up on her doorstep more than five years ago, all sweet and shy and sexy and telling her he wanted another chance with her, that he’d never forgotten her. Looking back, she felt sick to her stomach to think how close she’d come to falling for it, how she had started to believe him. Thank God Tanyalee called when she did.

From that day forward, she’d referred to herself as Cherise. She no longer wanted one foot in her present and one in her past. She no longer wanted any ties to Bigler or J.J. or Tanyalee or that stupid, naïve girl who had been Cheri Newberry.

So when she returned to Bigler for Tanyalee’s wedding, she returned as Cherise. And Cherise and Candy made a point of staying overnight at a B and B in Waynesville. Anywhere but Bigler. They’d promised each other they’d never again spend a night in this town. It all sounded ridiculously pretentious to Cherise now, but she had money in those days, with more money on the horizon, and it would have seemed preposterous then that she’d ever find herself in a position where she’d have to come home to Bigler for a paycheck, a hot meal, and a place of her own.

After the wedding, the disconnect to her past was complete. She put most everything about her hometown out of her mind, the lake house in particular. That’s why she’d been surprised to see how solid its walls were. How the years of heat and sun and mountain air permeated the floors. How quiet it was here. Peaceful. Real. And as strange as it was to admit, Cherise found herself enjoying the beauty of the rolling green-blue mountain vistas and the lakes and the forests of Cataloochee County, its familiar roads, the particular quality of light in its sunrises and sunsets. It was almost as if she were seeing things for the first time, like how there was a moist and teeming world under all the stillness that she’d never noticed before. Insects. Birds. Wildflowers. Streams.

This part of the South was intoxicating. It was a raw and boundless place, a magnet for songwriters, painters, and poets determined to capture the essence of its wild beauty. And try as she might to deny it, the story of this place was her family’s story, and, in turn, her own. She might not be proud of that fact, but it didn’t change it. So she supposed there was no shame in her taking advantage of her enforced stay here to take stock, make some changes, think things through, all while enjoying the view.

But she knew she couldn’t hide here forever.

Cherise sighed deeply, the familiar money worries pushing into her brain. She’d get her first paycheck in another couple of days, and it was already spent. She planned to send more than half of her after-tax earnings to Candy to pay her portion of their bills, even though her friend had expressed her desire to ditch the studio apartment and stay with an old boyfriend to save money.

“Don’t panic—I’ll be sleeping on his futon,” Candy reassured her. “And when you get home, we’ll get a nicer place.”

Cherise didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d imagined starting over somewhere new, somewhere that wasn’t Tampa. When Cherise had something specific to tell Candy, she would. Right now, that’s all it was—her imagination.

Whatever was left of that first paycheck would go to groceries and savings, not to mention gas for the pimpmobile, an expense she hadn’t planned for. The gang down at the garage had dropped the bomb on Cherise that afternoon—the gas-friendly Corolla needed eight hundred dollars’ worth of work. They said something about a fried cylinder head and a complete valve job—conditions that Candy thought sounded vaguely pornographic. Porno or no, the two of them had opted not to fix the Corolla for the time being, and Cherise had it towed to Viv’s for storage.