Cheri on Top (4 page)

Granddaddy slapped at Viv’s hand. “Stop fiddling with me, Vivienne. I’m perfectly fine. And a modern young woman isn’t going to have the slightest desire to drive your pink houseboat around town.”

Aunt Viv slapped the hand that had slapped hers. The slapping back and forth continued for several seconds while the brother and sister argued about the maintenance history of Viv’s 1976 Coupe DeVille, a car that Candy had dubbed “the pimpmobile,” a car that Cherise would never,
ever
be caught driving.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Garland!” Viv said, smacking her brother on the shoulder.

Just then, there was a crisp little knock at the door. The hinges groaned as the door opened. “Anybody home?” When Tater Wayne stuck his head around the living room archway, the senior citizen beat-down abruptly came to a halt.

“Cheri!” He smiled widely, even as his left eyeball began ricocheting around in his skull. He held out a bunch of familiar-looking pink and white peonies and moved toward her, smiling with the seven or eight teeth that remained in his mouth. “What in the world were you thinkin’ stayin’ away from Bigler this long?”

“I know, Tater!” Cherise pasted a smile on her face. “I was just asking myself the same darn thing!”

Chapter 4

The newsroom floors, walls, and ceiling were the same as they had always been. But nothing else about the place made any sense to Cherise.

She made a quick sweep of the long and open room and counted four bodies behind about a dozen desks. When she’d been a kid, the desks had been crammed in here back to back, people running through the narrow aisles with paper gripped in their hands, cigarettes dangling from their lips as they shouted at each other over the ringing phones and clacking and humming of electric typewriters.

Today’s version of the
Bigler Bugle
newsroom was preternaturally sterile. Reporters spoke in hushed tones into earbuds, their fingers flying over laptop keys that barely generated noise. The air was smoke-free. Nobody’s desk was piled high with papers. No one was running down the aisles to deliver news copy or photographs by hand to editors.

In fact, there were no aisles at all, just open space, and Cherise saw only one editor and two people on the copy desk. The place had been decimated.

A wave of sadness rushed over her. The
Bugle
she knew was gone. The business had been gutted and drained of its lifeblood.

At that instant, J.J. came rounding the corner, his expression stern and his footsteps hurried. Cherise watched him point to a reporter who was wrapping up a phone conversation, then at the lone editor, motioning for them both to join him in the new glass-walled conference room.

Only then did J.J. notice Cherise standing at the far end of the newsroom with Granddaddy at her side. He stopped. Cherise watched something pass over his face—surprise and another emotion she couldn’t immediately put her finger on. Probably shock.
She
was still shocked by that moment that they’d almost kissed, that was for sure. One thing she knew—that wasn’t shame she’d just seen in his expression. J.J. didn’t do shame, apparently.

“You, too,” he said, pointing to Cherise. Then J.J. turned his back and headed for the conference room.

Her mouth fell open.
What an ass-hat
. She couldn’t do this. She didn’t need this. She couldn’t stand to be in the same room with J.J., let alone masquerade as his boss. He’d been immeasurably cruel to her sister. What kind of person gets a woman pregnant, cashes out her inheritance, and kicks her to the curb when she miscarries, throwing her things into the rain?

Cherise could still hear Tanyalee’s sobs over the phone. It would be a sound she’d carry with her for the rest of her life.

And she’d almost let that man
kiss
her?

She had to get out of there.

“Shall we?” Grandaddy asked.

No
.

She would turn right around and drive back to Tampa. Or maybe it was time to start over somewhere like Raleigh or Atlanta or Charleston. She had a finance degree and years of experience—she would eventually find a job if she kept trying. And Candy could join her once she was settled.

That was that, then. There was no place for Cherise here. She felt no obligation to her crazy family, their obsolete business, or this ridiculous, has-been, hillbilly town that had nothing to offer but ghost stories and regrets.

“I’m really sorry, Granddaddy,” Cherise said, turning to look up into his milky eyes. “I can’t do this. I should never have agreed to come back here. I’m afraid this isn’t going to work.”

Her grandfather lifted his chin and laughed, all while guiding her toward the conference room with a hand against her back. “That’s the thing about newspapering,” he said, ignoring the fact that she was now digging her heels into the old wood floors in an effort to prevent any additional forward progress. “You just have to jump in, Cheri girl. It’s what all the Newberrys before you have done. You’re going to do great. It’s in your blood.”

“But…”

Granddaddy stopped pushing her and removed his hand. She nearly fell.

“You promised me you’d at least try,” he said, his face pulled tight in seriousness.

“I—”

“Give it four weeks. That’s all I ask. If you still feel this way in a month, I won’t force it—you can go on back to your business in Tampa and forget this ever happened.”

Cherise took a deep breath. “Will you shut down the
Bugle
if I don’t stay?”

“More than likely.”

Cherise blinked at Granddaddy. It was true—she’d given him her word. And she certainly needed the money. A few thousand dollars would be enough for a fresh start. Besides, she could survive anything for a month. Her foray into the world of temp work had taught her that, if nothing else.

“Is there a problem?” J.J. stood in the conference room door, his arms folded across his broad chest and his head cocked in annoyance at their slow progress.

What had happened to him? Cherise wondered. Sure, he was still insanely handsome with that thick, black hair and those intense, bottomless blue eyes. His body was ripped like it had always been, thanks to his fondness for hikes, mountain-biking, and rock climbing. But when had he become so serious? What had happened to the playful man she once knew? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a sincere smile on J.J. DeCourcy’s face.

Cherise suddenly stiffened, a sharp awareness slicing through her.
Oh, yes she did. Of course she remembered
.

It was her last night in Bigler before she left for college. She and J.J. were sitting on the edge of the dock, their bare toes making circles in the warm lake water, their feet bumping against each other’s, their bodies so close she was halfway on his lap.

He kissed her one last time. It was so sweet and hot and deep that her head reeled. She’d allowed herself to fall into it, melt away in the hot rush of that kiss. Just one last time. Then she’d pulled away.

That’s when he’d smiled at her. He looked down into her face, the moonlight shimmering in his eyes, as his lips parted and his dimples deepened. It was one of those charming, lopsided, puppy-love smiles he’d been giving her since the middle school mixer, when he’d professed his eternal devotion and showed her the “CNN” he’d scrawled on his inner left forearm in permanent Magic Marker. “Permanent means it’ll be there forever,” he’d pointed out.

How many times had she explained it all to J.J.? What they’d shared had been fun and wonderful, but it wasn’t meant to last. She had no intention of staying in some small town in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t the life she planned for herself. It might have been good enough for J.J., but not for her, and there was no way she was hitching her fortunes to a small-town boy with small-town dreams, a boy who couldn’t even decide if he wanted to continue his education.

His smile had eventually faded.

Nearly seven years passed before she saw him again, bigger and harder and no longer a boy. He was standing on the doorstep of her first house in Tampa, a shy smile on his face and hope in his eyes.

The next time she saw him he was wearing a tuxedo with a white carnation pinned to his lapel and Tanyalee glued to his arm, and the smile plastered on his face looked more fearful than joyful. And all Cherise could think was,
Here comes the bride, and there goes J.J..

“There’s no problem whatsoever,” Cherise answered him. She smoothed out her shirt and raised her chin as she walked past J.J. and into the conference room, immediately introducing herself to the city editor and general assignment reporter waiting to meet their new publisher. Several other people began to file in, and Cherise took a moment to introduce herself to each—the sports editor, the business writer, the head of the graphics and photography department, and the schools and government reporter.

“Close the door, please,” Cherise told J.J., taking the seat at the head of the conference table as everyone got settled. Granddaddy smiled proudly at her. She took that as her cue to get the meeting started. “Now, I’m assuming the most pressing concern today is the discovery of the old car? What’s the latest? What do we know?”

Chapter 5

We?

J.J. widened his eyes in disbelief and looked sideways at Garland, the proud patriarch. It would take a superhuman amount of self-restraint to not bust out guffawing at this point.

We
knew next to nothing.
We
might be a Newberry, but
we
had never worked a day at the
Bugle
and wouldn’t know a news story if it bit a big hefty chunk out of our nicely shaped ass.
We
just rolled into town in a scrap heap of a car and ridiculously impractical shoes and plopped our tight skirt into the publisher’s chair without so much as a howdy-do.

J.J. took a deep breath as he sat down, reminding himself that there was a reason she was here, and he now had a role to play. At least he hadn’t blown everything by kissing her.

J.J. managed a patient smile. “First off, we know it’s Barbara Jean Smoot’s car. There’s a match with the plates and the vehicle make and model. Turner said there are remains inside, but they are in such disintegrated condition that any forensic investigation will take longer than usual.”

Cheri drummed her fingers on the tabletop, frowning. “That’s just a technicality. Really, who else could it be?” She looked around the table. “Is anyone else missing in this town? Why can’t we just put her picture on the front page and say the Lady of the Lake’s car has been found and the body inside is hers and that she was obviously murdered?”

A sharp pain sliced into J.J.’s right temple. “Because that’s not good journalism.”

“Fine. I understand your point. I’m not an idiot,” Cheri said. “What I’m suggesting is that we find a way to spice up the ‘good journalism’ so we can take advantage of this story and sell some papers.”

Cheri waited for someone in the room to agree with her, but no one did. “Isn’t that what we’re trying to do here? Isn’t it about time the
Bugle
got its sexy back?”

Mimi Grayson, J.J.’s only general assignment reporter, snorted in disbelief, then covered it up with a fake sneezing attack. Jim Taggert, the
Bugle
’s seasoned city editor, stared blankly ahead, the gray stubble on his upper lip glistening with sweat.

J.J. turned slowly to Garland for some guidance. The old man gave him a helpless shrug and a wink.

Oh, shit. What had they done?

“Madam publisher,” J.J. began, wondering how the hell he could give Cheri a refresher course in journalism without making it sound belittling. “You are well aware, growing up as a Newberry and all, that the primary responsibility of a newspaper is to report the news as accurately and fairly as possible while making our home-delivery edition deadline, which is midnight, about eight hours from now.”

“I know that.”

“Then, of course, you know that the
Bugle
can’t publish something without the facts to back it up.”

I’m starting to sound like Turner,
he realized with a shudder.

“I’m not asking you to,” Cheri said, her voice growing snippy. “I’m asking you to make the most of the facts we do have.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s Barbara Jean Smoot’s car, right? So that’s fact number one.” Cheri said this with authority.

“Okay,” J.J. allowed.

“Is Barbara Jean Smoot still officially missing?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Is Barbara Jean Smoot the woman behind the ‘Lady of the Lake’ legend?

“Well, if you believe that stuff, yeah.”

“Then that’s fact number two,” Cheri continued. “And from that flows some logical possibilities that we can use to attract readers. The body in Miss Smoot’s car is probably Miss Smoot, so we’ll just get the sheriff to say that. And she was probably the victim of foul play, because how else does a woman end up at the bottom of a lake, trapped in her car, forced to haunt the site of her hideous murder until justice is done?”

J.J. bit down on his bottom lip so it wouldn’t land on the floor with a thud.

Taggert cleared his throat. “She coulda gotten lost and driven into the water.”

“Maybe she was under the influence and thought the dock was a road,” Mimi suggested.

Cheri frowned. “Who wants to read that? We need something juicier, something that will make people gasp and gossip to their neighbor and not be able to fall asleep at night!” She gestured toward her grandfather, her golden eyes shining with excitement. “Am I right, or what?”

J.J. squinted at Cheri, deciding that her enthusiasm greatly outweighed her grasp of reality. This imbalance might allow her to pass for the redheaded love child of Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck, but it had no place at a principled little Southern news outlet like the
Bugle
.

Someone knocked on the conference room door, putting an end to Cheri’s fevered sales pitch. Whoever it was, J.J. wanted to hug and kiss them for their timing.

“Am I interrupting?” The perpetually pickled Purnell Lawson headed toward Cheri before anyone could answer, his arms outstretched and his smile wide. The finance and advertising director’s belly pushed against his shirt buttons with such force that J.J. feared his red suspenders would snap off, poking somebody’s eye out.

“The prodigal daughter has returned! Give ole Uncle Purnell a hug!”

J.J. watched Cheri stand politely and tap the old guy on the back as he embraced her.

“How are you, Purnell?” Cheri asked.

“Busier than a cat covering crap on a marble floor!” Purnell kissed her cheek. “How’s my sweet Cheri?”

Garland looked embarrassed and cleared his throat. “There’ll be plenty of time for a nice visit over at the house, Purnell,” he said. “Right now we’re in the middle of an editorial meeting.”

“Getting her feet wet already?” Purnell laughed loudly, sending a breeze of Beefeater through the enclosed room. “Something big, I hope. We need a spike in street sales to stimulate advertising. What y’all got?” Purnell looked to Garland with his reddened eyes wide.

“Well, seems Barbara Jean Smoot’s car was just pulled out from Paw Paw Lake.”

Purnell sucked in air like he wanted his Beefeater fumes back. The old man’s bloated face paled and his body stilled.

“You don’t say?” Purnell asked, still smiling.

“Wim Wimbley drained the lake so he could start construction and they found the car this morning,” Mimi said. “They got a winch and a crane out there right away.”

Purnell nodded. “Well now, that
is
a good story.” He chuckled. “I’ll leave y’all to your business.”

Suddenly, he was gone.