Beg to Die

by Beverly Barton

  The receptionist shook her head. “Mr. Carruthers, our security chief, is upstairs personally making sure no one bothers Mr. Upton.”

  “I see,” Dallas said. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  They headed straight for the nearest elevator. On the ride up, neither said a word. The minute the doors opened, they heard a ruckus and saw two guards escorting a TV cameraman down the corridor.

  Jacob walked over to a burly gray-haired man in uniform. “Hey, Charlie, need a little assistance?”

  Charlie Carruthers grunted. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You’d think the Queen of England was in our ICU the way folks are acting.”

  “Miss Reba’s heart attack is big news, considering it happened at Jamie’s funeral,” Jacob said.

  “That poor old woman.” Charlie shook his head sympathetically. “It’s no wonder she keeled over at the graveside. Not many of us could go through losing both our kids and then our only grandchild.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that.” Dallas nudged Jacob in the side and nodded to a spot to the left, a few feet behind Charlie.

  Jacob glanced over his shoulder and scanned the area where two hallways intersected. Leaning against the wall near an alcove where several vending machines stood, Caleb McCord looked down at the floor, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders slumped.

  Jacob left Dallas talking to Charlie while he casually made his way down the hall toward the alcove. When he approached, McCord glanced up and their gazes locked instantly.

  “You got a reason for being here?” Jacob asked.

  “I might.”

  “A reason I should know about?”

  McCord gave Jacob a speculative look. “Maybe you already know why I’m here.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Why would it be any of your business?”

  “Jazzy didn’t kill Jamie and we both know it. That means somebody else did.”

  “Yeah, so? Genny said it was a woman who tried to look like Jazzy. What’s that fact got to do with—”

  “Maybe this woman had help.”

  “Are you accusing me of something, Sheriff?”

  “Nope. Just speculating. It was no secret that there was no love lost between you and Jamie because of Jazzy. Maybe you figured the only way to get rid of the competition was to kill him. That’s one motive.”

  “And now you’ve figured out that I might have another motive as well.”

  “Seeing how you’re Melanie Upton’s son, now that Jamie is dead, you’re the heir to the Upton fortune. I’d say that’s a damn good motive for murder.”

  Chapter 20

  As one of the maintenance crew for Cherokee Cabin Rentals, Stan Watson not only did yard work—mowing grass, trimming shrubs, and raking leaves—but because he was pretty much a jack-of-all-trades, he had keys to every cabin so he could keep a check on the heat and air systems, the plumbing, etc. Even though it was springtime, it still got chilly around these parts some days and just about every night, so tourists often used their fireplaces. Checking on the Honey Bear Trail cabin’s fireplace was on his to-do list for this afternoon, but it was nearly six and he took off work about that time every day.

  “The last tenants complained that the damper on the fireplace flu wasn’t working right,” his boss had told him. “Make sure you check it real good before the place is rented out again and somebody builds a fire and gets smoke all in the cabin.”

  When he parked his old Chevy truck in the drive, he noticed there wasn’t another vehicle anywhere around, so he assumed that nobody had rented the place today. Cherokee Cabin Rentals’ policy was to do all inside maintenance work when a cabin was vacant.

  Stan got out of the truck. Then, as he stepped up on the front porch, he fished around in his pants pocket for the key ring. Just as he pulled out the set of keys, he heard a peculiar noise. Could it be a bear? he wondered. The black bears had come out of winter hibernation and sometimes made it this far down the mountain. He’d come face-to-face with more than one bear since he’d been working on the rental cabins.

  Damn, there the sound was again. Could be a bear scratching around out back, but it sounded more like somebody digging. There wasn’t another cabin closer than half a mile, and he was the only maintenance man who was supposed to be up here today.

  Figuring no matter whether it was a bear or a person making the racket, if he confronted him, he might attack. Best if he had some sort of protection. He went back to the truck and picked up one of the heavy metal rakes lying next to the lawn mower and gas-powered weed eater. Creeping around the side of the cabin, he felt his heart beating ninety-to-nothing. It wasn’t that he was afraid. Not exactly. Just cautious. When he got to the back of the cabin, he paused. He could still hear the noise, but didn’t see anything or anybody.

  Following the sound, he made his way down the slope at the back of the house, then skidded to an awkward stop when he saw a woman down in the wooded section of the hollow. At this distance, he couldn’t make out much about her, except that she was definitely female—and she had short red hair.

  What the hell’s she doing? Stan wondered.

  Curiosity got the better of him, so instead of calling out to her and warning her that she wasn’t alone, he decided to get a little closer so he could make out what she was doing. When he got about twenty feet from her, he realized she was digging a hole. With her back to him, he couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t think he knew her. Still, she reminded him of somebody. She wore blue jeans and a dark plaid shirt. And a pair of cotton work gloves. Guess she didn’t want to put any blisters on her hands. Women were funny about stuff like that.

  Just when he started to holler at her, ask her what she was doing on private property, she stopped digging. He took several slow, cautious steps in her direction and that’s when he noticed two things: she’d already dug a pretty deep hole, about three feet or more, and there was a big black plastic garbage sack a couple of feet to her right.

  She’s going to bury that garbage sack, Stan thought.

  “Hey, there,” he called out. “You can’t be burying your garbage down there. This here is private property.”

  The woman froze to the spot. For several minutes she didn’t move, didn’t respond at all. She sure was acting like somebody who’d gotten caught doing something they shouldn’t be doing. Then all of a sudden she whirled around and smiled at him. Damn! She wasn’t no badlooking woman. He didn’t know her, but she sure looked familiar. He thought maybe he’d seen her somewhere.

  “Hello, yourself.” She laid the shovel aside and waved at Stan. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions,” he told her. “Who are you?”

  She laughed and when she did, he relaxed immediately. Hell, she was just a woman. All soft and round and downright friendly. Nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. And there sure wasn’t no reason to be hateful to her.

  “Call me Honey,” she said. “All my friends do.”

  He started down the hill; she started up.

  “What are you burying?” Stan eyed the plastic garbage sack.

  “You’d never believe it if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  She laughed again and he found himself smiling as she came closer. “Well, I just got a divorce from a lying, cheating son of a bitch. I came up here with some of his favorite things, and I intend to bury them where he’ll never find them. I want to piss him off, make him pay for being such a lousy husband.”

  Stan chuckled. “Can’t say that I blame you. That’s what I should have done with my ex-wife’s things.”

  The woman came up to him and laid her hand on his arm. “Well, handsome, you didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Stan…Stanley Watson, ma’am.”

  She squeezed his arm and batted her eyelashes at him. Damn if she wasn’t flirting with him. Looking at her up close, he realized there was quite a few years’ age difference between them, but what difference did that make? None
really.

  “You know, Stan, I haven’t been with a man since I kicked my husband out nearly a year ago.”

  “Is that right?” Good-looking and horny. The perfect combination in a woman, no matter how young or how old.

  She ran her hand up and down his arm, then placed her open palm over the center of his chest. His prick twitched. He hadn’t gotten laid in several months, so he was pretty horny himself.

  “You could help me bury my husband’s stuff. Then we could get better acquainted.”

  “I’d be happy to help you, ma’am.”

  “Honey. Call me Honey.”

  “Well, Honey, let’s get that bag of stuff buried,” he said and started following her down the hill. “I got a key to that cabin back up yonder. And I know for a fact that there’s a mighty fine king-size bed inside.”

  Stan couldn’t get that damn plastic garbage bag buried fast enough. After he patted the dirt into a neat mound, she reached out and took the shovel from him.

  “I’ll take this,” she said. “It’s mine, not my husband’s.”

  Stan nodded, then picked up the rake he’d set aside earlier. Together they climbed up and out of the wooded hollow behind the cabin. When they reached the driveway, Stan told her, “I’ll put this rake in the back of the truck and then open up the cabin.”

  “Do you mind if I put my shovel in your truck?” She followed him toward the pickup. “I parked my car down the road apiece. Maybe afterward you could drop me off there.”

  “Sure thing.” All he could think about was the fact that in just a few minutes he was going to be screwing a good-looking woman.

  He dropped the truck’s tailgate, leaned over, and tossed the rake onto the bed. Just as he started to turn around and take her shovel from her, he felt something hard and heavy hit him on the head. Stunned by the unexpectedness and the horrendous pain, he didn’t have time to react before another blow struck him. And then everything went black as he lost consciousness.

  Jazzy cloistered herself in the office at Jazzy’s Joint. She couldn’t deal with customers right now. Not when Caleb wasn’t here. He’d called to tell her he would be running late for work, but that he’d try to be there by nine. Since the place seldom got rowdy in the early hours of the evening, especially on a weeknight, she was sure Lacy and the two waitresses, Sheri and Kalinda, could hold down the fort. But she did have a business to run despite presently being Cherokee Pointe’s most notorious criminal.

  Genny had spent the morning with her, then Aunt Sally had taken over around one. The only way she’d been able to get her aunt to go home was to promise she would stay put in here in her office until Caleb came in to work. As much as she appreciated their concern, having them hovering over her was already getting on her nerves. She figured they thought today would be especially difficult for her, considering Jamie Upton had been buried this afternoon. A part of her wished she could have gone to his funeral.

  A soft rapping on the closed door gained Jazzy’s attention. Hoping it was Caleb, she glanced up from the paperwork she’d been doing. “Yes?”

  The door eased open and Reve Sorrell walked in. “May I speak to you?”

  Jazzy inspected the woman from top to bottom. Damn, they did look a lot alike. Reve Sorrell was taller than she and plumper, but not by any means fat. She certainly didn’t do much with what she had. Her hair was the same natural auburn Jazzy’s would be if she didn’t use that fabulous shade of Hussy Red, and her eyes were the same deep reddish brown as hers were without her green contacts. Not only could Ms. Sorrell use more makeup and a new hairdo—who the hell wore their hair in bun these days?—but she should invest in some stylish feminine clothes. The navy blue slacks and jacket she had on, albeit probably the best money could buy, were almost masculine.

  “I figured you’d already left town by now,” Jazzy said.

  “I…uh…I’m on my way out of town, as a matter of fact. I had intended leaving by noon today, but that was before your boyfriend showed up and threatened me.”

  Jazzy stared quizzically at the other woman. “My boyfriend?”

  “Do you have so many boyfriends that I have to name the specific one?”

  “If you came here to insult me, you can leave. I’ve heard all the insults lately that I want to hear.”

  “I apologize. I came here to ask you…well, to make sure that I have your word, as well as Mr. McCord’s, that what y’all know about me—about the possible connection between you and me—will remain between us.”

  What the hell was she talking about? Caleb had threatened Reve Sorrell? And what was this connection between the two of them? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Reve gave Jazzy a you’re-lying stare. “Do you expect me to believe that he didn’t tell you he’d run a check on me…on my background, and is using that information to blackmail me?”

  Jazzy grinned. So the snooty Ms. Sorrell had something to hide, did she? “It would seem I’m not the only one with a shady past. Just what are you guilty of, Reve?” She emphasized the woman’s given name.

  “He hasn’t told you?” Reve inhaled and exhaled slowly.

  “I haven’t seen Caleb since early this morning, but I’m sure he’ll tell me everything when he comes in to work later.”

  “Mm-hmm. Yes, I’m sure he will.”

  “Look, whatever it is, your secrets are safe with me. Whatever deal you worked out with Caleb”—and Jazzy intended to find out exactly what that was all about—“is okay with me. Besides, I’m hardly in a position to throw stones at anyone else.”

  Narrowing her gaze, Reve stared at Jazzy, her expression pensive and uncertain, as if she couldn’t quite figure Jazzy out. “I haven’t murdered anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Neither have I,” Jazzy told her.

  Reve nodded. “Perhaps not, but you were arrested for Jamie Upton’s murder, and that’s something I’d prefer my friends and associates not know.”

  “Why would you care if your—just what sort of information did Caleb dig up on you?” What was it that Reve had said a few minutes ago? Something about a possible connection between us. Between Reve and Jazzy? “What’s the connection between us that you don’t want anyone to find out about?”

  “I’d prefer to think there is no connection, but your Mr. McCord believes that we are sisters.”

  “That’s not possible. Aunt Sally told me that my mother gave birth to only one baby. Me.”

  “Yes, and I hope she’s right.” Reve’s jaw tightened; a pained expression crossed her face. “I was adopted when I was an infant. I had been left to die in a Dumpster in Sevierville. And that’s something very few people know. So you see, I have no idea who my biological parents are.”

  Oh, holy shit! A cold, unnerving sensation crept through Jazzy. Would Aunt Sally lie to her? Maybe. But why? Was it possible that this rich, classy, stuck-up woman was her sister? “That fact alone doesn’t make us sisters.”

  “My adoptive parents gave me a birthday—they guessed the date since the doctors told them approximately how old they thought I was. My birthday and yours are less than a week apart.”

  “And?” There had to be more; Jazzy could sense that Reve hadn’t shared the most damning evidence with her.

  “My blood type is AB negative.”

  Jazzy gasped. Damn! Double damn! “So is mine.”

  “Yes, that’s what Mr. McCord told me.”

  “Then…”

  “Being completely logical here, I have to admit that there is a chance you and I are biological sisters. Possibly twins.”

  Jazzy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Well, honey, don’t act like it’s a fate worse than death.”

  “You must see how totally ridiculous it would be for us to be sisters…I mean in any other way than genetically speaking, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “We have nothing in common.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  Reve stared at
Jazzy in her damn aggravating, superior way.

  Jazzy said, “It would seem we just might have a mother and father in common.”

  Reve tensed visibly, as if the thought was more than she could bear. “Did you know your mother?”

  “Corrine Talbot?” Jazzy shook her head. “She died when I was only a few months old. She had come to live with Aunt Sally during her last month of pregnancy.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She left me with Aunt Sally—actually deserted me—and she got involved with some guy who wound up driving drunk and killing both of them. It seems she didn’t have much luck with men. Not with my father or—”

  “Do you know who your father was?”

  “Got no idea.”

  “Did your mother give birth at the hospital here in Cherokee Pointe?” Reve asked.

  “Nope. She had me at home. Aunt Sally and Ludie delivered me.”

  “And your aunt says that her sister gave birth to only one child.”

  “Aunt Sally has been known to lie if it suited her purposes.”

  “Why would she lie about there being another baby?”

  “I don’t know. Actually I don’t know if she is lying. Maybe we’re sisters, but not twins.” Jazzy clicked her tongue. “No, that’s not possible, is it? We’re the same age.”

  “Look, Ms. Talbot…Jazzy…I’m curious, naturally. But I think it best for me—perhaps for both of us—if we don’t pursue this matter. I don’t need to know more. I’m perfectly happy with my life the way it is. And surely, considering your present circumstances, you have more important matters to consider than the possibility that you and I are biological sisters.”

  “You’re ashamed of me,” Jazzy said, then shrugged. “Can’t say that I blame you. Who’d want to claim me as a sister?”

  “I’m sorry.” Reve took a hesitant step toward Jazzy, then stopped abruptly. “I’ve insulted you again, and that wasn’t my intention. I wish…well, I hope things work out for you and that you’re acquitted of Jamie’s murder. Having Quinn Cortez defending you should give you every chance of being—”

  “The Quinn Cortez?”

  “Oh, that’s right, Caleb hasn’t told you.” Reve snapped open her leather handbag, reached inside, and pulled out a business card. “I’ve hired Mr. Cortez to defend you, if the grand jury hands down an indictment.” She held out the card. “This is my office address, phone number, and e-mail. If—if there’s anything else I can do to help you—”