Cheri on Top

by Susan Donovan

  “The financials. Has Purnell given you everything you need?”

  Cherise laughed uncomfortably, supposing there was no right time to ask the questions that had stacked up since that afternoon, when Gladys Harbison delivered some of the five years’ worth of accounting and bookkeeping reports to her office. A quick perusal was enough for Cherise to see that the Bugle hadn’t just lost ad revenue and circulation over the years, it was a study in financial mismanagement. She’d tried to track down Purnell to talk with him, but he’d been out of the office the whole afternoon.

  “The Bugle hasn’t been audited in at least fifteen years, Granddaddy,” she said matter-of-factly. “Were you aware of this?”

  He brushed corn bread crumbs off the tablecloth. “Oh, it’s been a lot longer than that, but there’s no need for it, Cheri. We’re a privately owned family business where every employee is part of the family. It’s always been our way.”

  She fought not to roll her eyes. Her grandfather was clueless! “Even privately held corporations need auditing, Granddaddy. Audits reveal how reliable your reporting methods are and identify the changing trends in your business. They help you manage risk, and keep you on track toward accomplishing your goals.”

  He said nothing, but avoided eye contact.

  “Granddaddy, I can’t even figure out where some of your numbers are coming from, and I used to make my living doing this!”

  His lip twitched.

  “How involved have you been with the business end of the paper?”

  He shrugged. “Involved enough.”

  “It’s pretty unusual to have just one person who operates as both head of sales and chief financial officer, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged again.

  “In fact,” she continued, “this arrangement is borderline illegal, Granddaddy. Separating revenue creation from accounting is standard operating procedure and important for fraud prevention.”

  He laughed. “Not if you’re the Bugle, Cheri. We’ve always done it that way. There are three arms of the company—finance, circulation, and editorial. The finance arm includes all our ad sales and it’s all under Purnell. Editorial was mine. Since Chester Wollard passed, I’ve been handling circulation, too. It’s always worked well for us.”

  Cherise shook her head. “I have to disagree.”

  “What are you saying?” His watery eyes blinked several times.

  “I mean I’ve never seen such sloppy accounting in my life! The paper is hemorrhaging money, and I haven’t yet been able to figure where all the bleeding is coming from. You’ve got serious problems.”

  He frowned, and when he shook his head, his jowls jiggled. “I’m sure if you just sat down with Purnell, he’d clear everything up.”

  “Granddaddy, that’s what I’m trying to tell you—Purnell is a big part of the problem.”

  He laughed. “Sugar, I’ve known Purnell Lawson my entire life. He’s a good man and the only remaining friend-of-my-heart from my childhood. Now, I will admit that he’s had some health issues recently, and his drinking sure doesn’t help the situation, but—”

  “At best, he’s incompetent. At worst—”

  The swinging door burst open, and Aunt Viv swept in with a coffee tray and two dessert plates. She served Granddaddy first. His slice of cake was so thin it couldn’t support its own weight and had fallen into a tiny mound of red velvet dust. Cherise received a piece as big as her head.

  “Cheri, dear, would you like sugar and cream?” Viv asked this as she began adding both to the coffee cup.

  Granddaddy rolled his eyes.

  Aunt Viv plopped down into her chair and sighed, her work done. She reached for her tumbler.

  “No cake?” Cherise asked, knowing full well what her aunt’s response would be.

  “All I need is my risky slush,” she said with a wink. The smell of vodka and strawberry daiquiri mix was strong enough to bring tears to Cherise’s eyes. She sighed.

  “Did Taffy come by to see you today?” Viv savored a long swig of her alcoholic confection. “Did you two have a nice, long talk? I sure hope you took some time to get reacquainted.”

  Cherise’s attention wandered to the cake. As if on autopilot, she stuck her fork in the spongy perfection and brought it to her mouth, reeling from the sweet shock. She opened her eyes with a start, put down her fork, and pushed her plate away. If she didn’t get out of this house soon, she’d end up bat-shit crazy. Three hundred pounds worth of bat-shit crazy.

  Granddaddy reached across the table to pat the top of her hand. “I’ll have a chat with Purnell. Don’t worry about any of that mess. Now, I understand from Tater Wayne that the lake house needs some fixin’ up. Don’t you mind any of that, either. I’ve already called a few boys and they’ll start work tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Cherise heard herself say. “Because I want to move in right away.”

  “What?” Viv’s eyes went wide.

  Cherise was just as surprised by her decision as Aunt Viv. But what alternative did she have?

  “I’ll have to borrow some cookware and dishes and stuff—and I’ll need to round up a decent box spring and mattress, linens, curtains, maybe a secondhand couch.” Cherise saw her aunt frown. “Everything in there is covered in mold and mildew, Aunt Viv. It has to be pitched.”

  Viv sighed deeply. “Some of those things are family heirlooms, Cheri. You can’t just roll into town and start throwing things out willy-nilly, though I know you never were the sentimental type. Not like Taffy, God bless her heart.”

  “Vivienne.” Granddaddy smacked his hand on the table.

  “Well, I have a right to know why Cheri doesn’t want to stay here! Is there something wrong with this house? She only picked at her cake! Is there something wrong with the cake, too? And why is it so hard for Cheri to give her own flesh-and-blood sister the time of day?” Aunt Viv turned her pursed lips in Cherise’s direction. “Well?”

  Cherise felt her face go hot. She counted to five as she placed her napkin on the table and gathered her untouched coffee and barely disturbed dessert plate. “I’m used to being on my own, Aunt Viv. I would feel more comfortable having my own place.” She stood, took a step toward the swinging door, then turned around. “And yes, Tanyalee did stop by today. We spoke for about three minutes, which was more than enough time for us to get reacquainted. There was even time for her to try to rent me one of Wim’s condos and then blame me for her divorce and her miscarriage. So yeah—it was a really nice talk.”

  “Now, Cheri—”

  She didn’t wait to hear what Granddaddy had to say. She kicked the swinging door with her high-heeled boot, dumped her dishes in the sink, and ran up the back staircase to her old room.

  I must have been insane to come back here.

  She slammed the door behind her and threw herself on the bed.

  Was there any conceivable reason for J.J. to lie to Tanyalee about those phone calls? Was he trying to cover for his own bad behavior in some way? And why would Tanyalee believe him—a man she said treated her so badly—without even checking with her own sister?

  Or was this all about Tanyalee and her ability to twist and turn at a lie until it had a whiff of truth to it?

  This is why Cherise had left Bigler and never wanted to return. Shit! She’d almost wolfed down that big-ass piece of red velvet cake when she was already too stuffed to breathe! And why? Because this town made her second-guess herself. Suddenly, she didn’t trust her own eyes, her own ears, or her finely tuned gut instinct. And she wasn’t going to allow it. She wasn’t going to let herself get sucked in that way.

  Cherise was on the verge of screaming. She wanted to beat her fists into the bed and howl.

  But she didn’t. Cherise raised her head from the coverlet. She patted the bed, suddenly aware that she hadn’t bounced all over creation on contact with the mattress. This was not the mattress and box spring she’d had in high school. This bed was new. Firm. Plush.

  Tomorrow, she’d be strapping thi
s sucker to the roof of the pimpmobile and moving out.

  Chapter 10

  The tap on the door made Cherise raise her head from the computer screen. When she saw it was Gladys Harbison, a little hum of disappointment traveled through her.

  As hard as it was to admit, she’d hoped it might be J.J. She couldn’t go much longer without talking to him about what the hell had really happened with Tanyalee and why—God, why—he had blamed Cherise for their divorce. It was driving her crazy. But J.J. had managed to avoid her all morning, almost as if he knew Cherise was on to him.

  It made perfect sense, of course. Jackasses rarely enjoyed being called on their jackassish-ness.

  “Where do you want me to put these?” Gladys asked, bent over by the weight of the documents, which did wonders for the view of crinkly flesh down the front of her peasant blouse. Cherise averted her eyes. She jumped from her desk chair, relieved Gladys of the stack, and placed it in the far corner of the room. With all the accumulating paperwork, the office was already in a state of disorganization, but with the addition of the painting supplies, ladders, and drop cloths, it had advanced to chaos.

  “You sure you want this room painted gray?” Gladys asked, looking around. “Won’t it be depressing?”

  Cherise chuckled softly, knowing the wall color was the least of her depression-causing concerns. She gestured to the paint can. “The color’s called Tradewind Azure.”

  “Funny name for gray. Here.” Gladys held out the nameplate Cherise had given her the day before. “You left this on my desk by accident.”

  Cherise raised her hand, palm out. “Actually, I left it for you along with a note asking that you correct the spelling error.”

  She frowned. “I thought you meant there was an error on the ad sales summary. I’ve been looking for a misspelling all morning!” Gladys adjusted her bifocals and held the shiny brass up to the light. “I don’t see anything wrong with this.”

  “It’s just that I prefer Cherise. C-h-e-r-i-s-e. Would you mind arranging for a reorder?”

  Gladys shrugged. “You’re the boss. But it’s gonna take a couple weeks. I’ll have to redo all the business cards, too, I suppose.” She put a fist on her hip. “That’s why I did all this in advance, you know, so you’d feel welcome, so you’d walk in and know where it was you were supposed to sit and all.”

  Cherise smiled again. “That was very kind of you.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Gladys, could you stay for a minute? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

  The secretary nodded, moved aside a large canvas drop cloth, and sat in a chair across from Cherise’s desk. Her skirt rode up, displaying a complex web of varicose veins and a pair of platform ankle-strap heels more often seen on women one fourth her age. Gladys crossed her arms over her low-cut peasant blouse.

  “You probably want to talk to me about the Barbara Jean Smoot case, right? Because I was working here in 1964 and I remember that day—complete pandemonium.”

  Cherise hadn’t expected that offer. “Uh, no. I mean, not really. I’m not a reporter. But you could tell J.J. what you remember from that day. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

  “Already did.”

  “All right.”

  “So this is about my outfits, then?”

  Cheri pulled her head back in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “I told Garland I was fine with you steppin’ in as publisher and all, but that I wasn’t about to stop dressin’ the way I like to dress, the way that makes me feel beautiful, so don’t even start with me about that.” She raised her heavily penciled brows, waiting for a challenge.

  “Uh.” Cherise paused, trying to collect herself. “I just wanted to ask you about the way the financial records are kept here at the Bugle.”

  “Oh.” Gladys waved her hand through the air. “Ask away, then.”

  Cherise had to stop herself from laughing out loud. For six months now, she’d really believed that she’d been in the thick of doing her penance. All this time, she thought the bill collectors, the empty studio apartment, the crappy car, the sparse wardrobe, the temp bookkeeping jobs, the worry, the embarrassment, the regret—she’d thought that was the price she would be paying for an ego run wild. Not so, apparently. All that had only been a warm-up for the purgatory that was Bigler, North Carolina.

  “Purnell should really be the one to answer your questions. I just do what he tells me.”

  “I understand,” Cherise said, nodding politely. “But Purnell doesn’t seem to spend much time in the building. He hasn’t returned any of my calls.”

  “Oh, since the cutbacks he’s always off visiting with clients personally and selling ad space. He’s a real people person.”

  He’s sure as hell not a numbers person, Cherise thought, folding her hands on the desktop. “So tell me about the bookkeeping routine, Gladys.”

  * * *

  Gladys was a terrible driver, which wouldn’t have been any of Cherise’s business if she weren’t riding shotgun in the DeVille, hanging halfway out the window to steady the poorly tied-down set of bedding.

  “Holy hell, Gladys! Slow down! I’m losing the pillow top!”

  “Sorry,” she said with a shrug, taking another curve of Randall Road fast enough to cause her dangling feather earrings to smack against her cheeks. “When you’re my age, there’s no time to waste.”

  “Well, I’m not ready to die, so slow down.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Cherise shook her head and laughed. That seemed to be Gladys’s response to most every comment she’d made today.

  Could you get me an extra charger for the BlackBerry?

  You’re the boss.

  Would you please tell J.J. that I’ll be out for the rest of the day?

  You’re the boss.

  Would you mind driving over to Newberry Lake with me this afternoon?

  You’re the boss.

  Gladys lifted her platform shoe from the gas pedal and Cherise sighed with relief. “It’s up here at the top of the hill on the left.”

  “Oh, I know where it is, Miss Cheri,” Gladys said, her coral-pink lips curving into a smile. “There was a time I came up here nearly every weekend. Your grandfather wasn’t always an old fart, you know. We used to have some big parties at that little house.”

  Cherise cocked her head. “Seriously?”

  Gladys took the turn onto Newberry Lane and howled with laughter. “Sweetie, I doubt you’ve ever been to a party better than the ones your granddaddy used to throw back in the day.”

  She smiled to herself, thinking of all the parties she’d gone to in Tampa, Naples, Ocala, and South Beach—the most beautiful of beautiful people, the most private VIP rooms in the most exclusive clubs, and the most opulent private estates. Gladys’s idea of a good time was not quite the same as hers, obviously.

  “Everybody’d show up with nothing but their swimsuits and a towel and spend the weekend.” Gladys wagged her eyebrows at Cherise.

  “Say what?”

  “Oh, yes. And there was plenty of booze. We’d put us some Elvis and Ray Charles and James Brown on the record player. There’d be dancing till the sweat poured and you had to go jump in the lake to cool off. Barbecue so tender it fell apart in your hands and the juices dripped off your elbow. Lots of sleeping under the stars. And sometimes there’d be marijuana. Personally, I never liked the way it made me feel—all out of control and silly like.”

  Cherise swallowed hard. “Granddaddy Garland threw pot parties?”

  “Oh, we never called ’em that. We just called them shindigs.”

  Cherise pointed ahead. “The turnoff is on the left.”

  “Like I said, I could find this place blindfolded.”

  “So when was all this partying going on?”

  “Back in the mid-fifties, before Garland married your grandmother—that put an end to all the fun, I’m afraid.”

  Cherise was having trouble wrapping her brain around t
he house’s wild past. “What about Aunt Viv? Did she approve of these parties?”

  Gladys roared. “What? She was the party! In fact, it was one of her boyfriends, a trumpet player from Charlotte, who brought along the wacky to-backy. Viv was real popular with the boys, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

  Cherise frowned. No, she didn’t know what Gladys was saying. She refused to know what she was saying. “But Aunt Viv never married,” Cherise said.

  “Ha! That wasn’t from lack of offers, let me tell you! She liked to play the field, is all.”

  Cherise turned her face into the wind and used her free hand to rub her brow. What to do with this new information? Her grandfather hosted weekend bacchanals. And her great-aunt was the teenie-weenie-bikini-wearing town slut, dirty dancing to raunchy James Brown tunes with a pot-smoking, beatnik trumpet player. Cherise felt a sick headache coming on.

  The BlackBerry rang.

  She fumbled for the smartphone and saw it was J.J. Her heart began pounding. “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  Cherise sniffed. “Hello, J.J. I’m just fine. Thanks so much for asking.”

  He chuckled. “And I’m fine, too, thanks. Now, where exactly are you?”

  “Out of the office. I have some personal things to take care of. I borrowed Gladys for the day. We’re headed to … Asheville … to do some shopping.”

  Cherise ignored Gladys’s clucking sounds.

  “You have a paper to run, Miss Newberry.”

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Nope—just wondering when you’ll be back in the newsroom.”

  “Not till evening.”

  “Have fun in Asheville.” Click.

  Cherise took the phone from her ear and tossed it in her purse.

  “My, my, my,” Gladys said. “Three days home and you’re already torturing that boy?”

  Cherise fiddled with her hair. “My home is in Tampa, and I have no idea what you mean by ‘torturing.’”

  “Uh-huh. Now, I don’t blame you. If I were only fifty years younger, or even forty years younger, oh, what the hell, even thirty years younger, I’d be all over—”