What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

  Disturbed by a niggling little feeling he didn’t quite understand, R. J. didn’t respond immediately. Hell, how was he supposed to react to such a syrupy sweet statement?

  “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  She grasped his hand and squeezed tightly. “I’ve been so frightened, so unhappy and worried, ever since Daddy went into the hospital and the doctors told Max that it didn’t look good. I couldn’t believe that Daddy might die. But he did.”

  R. J. turned her hand over in his and brought it to his lips. When he kissed her hand, she sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. Casually, loosely, he slipped his arm around her waist.

  “Max has been so busy taking care of Mother and making all the plans for the funeral and doing all the things he usually does, that he hasn’t realized how much I need him. He doesn’t understand how I feel. My whole world is falling apart. My daddy is dead. My mother is unraveling before my very eyes. And my half sister has moved into Belle Rose and is going to make our lives a living hell.”

  “It’s all right, baby.” R. J. smoothed his lips over her temple. “I’m here. Lean on me. Let me make you feel better.”

  “Oh, R.J.”

  She responded, just as he knew she would, by turning to him, flinging her arms around his waist and burying her face against his chest. He wrapped her in a gentle embrace, his manner comforting and nonthreatening. Her tears dampened his naked flesh.

  “That’s it. Let it all out. Keep on crying.” He kissed the top of her head, then rested his chin there.

  “Please, don’t leave me.” She held on to him for dear life. “Don’t leave Sumarville. Stay. Please, please stay forever. I need you so much.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her.

  After all, why would he want to leave town? At least not yet. He had a good job, a decent place to live, and a potential lover whose innocence and trust aroused him more than he liked to admit. He’d have to be very careful to not get himself all tangled up in Mallory’s sweet seductive snare.

  “Sorry about this mess,” Ike Denton said. “Looks like somebody tried to bury those files where they’d never be found.”

  Jolie knelt down beside Theron as he prized open a rusty file cabinet in the basement of the sheriff’s department located in the courthouse. “I can’t believe Sumarville didn’t computerize their files until six years ago.”

  “I can,” Theron grumbled. “Sumarville is about half a century behind. Some people around here think it’s the nineteen-fifties.” When he jerked the creaking cabinet open, dust flew everywhere and a couple of small bugs scurried across the top of the files.

  “With no more manpower than we have and such a limited budget, we haven’t been able to put all the old records on computer,” Ike explained. “Nellie’s been working on it diligently whenever she can find time, and we’ve got the past ten years’ worth of information computerized, but she’s doing double duty as our computer expert and our dispatcher. And she’s our only female officer, so occasionally we need her to handle some of the women we arrest.”

  Theron glanced over his shoulder at Ike. “Is there a desk and some chairs down here in the basement? It would save us time if we could start looking over files down here instead of having to tote them upstairs.”

  “There’s a table down here,” Ike said. “I’ll move it over here, then go get y’all a couple of chairs.”

  “Need any help with that table?” Theron asked.

  “I can get it,” Ike replied. “You just keep searching for those files.”

  Theron grabbed a handful of dusty, slightly moldy file folders and handed them to Jolie. “Start with these while I go through the next batch.”

  She nodded, then clasping the dirty folders to her chest she glanced around for a place to lay them. With a small square wooden table held in front of him, its legs protruding straight out, Ike came toward her, then set the battered desk down on the concrete floor a few feet away from her.

  “I’ll get y’all some chairs and bring a rag to clean off that table,” Ike said as he turned to leave.

  Jolie dropped the folders on top of the desk, creating another minor dust storm. She sneezed.

  “Gesundheit,” Theron said.

  They both laughed.

  “I guess it would have been asking too much for the files from twenty years ago to be on the computer,” Jolie said.

  “That would have made this much too easy,” Theron replied.

  “Well, you’d think that the records of the only double murder…make that, triple murder…in Sumarville would warrant special treatment.”

  “By the time all the tension settled and all the rumors died down twenty years ago, most people in Sumarville, black and white, were ready to put the incident behind them and move on.”

  “I don’t understand why Daddy didn’t demand a more thorough investigation. He knew the kind of man Lemar was,” Jolie said. “And yet he accepted the sheriff’s decision to close the books on the case.”

  “I think, maybe more than anyone, your daddy wanted the whole thing put behind him.” Theron dumped a stack of folders on the opposite end of the desk, sending dust particles flying. “All he seemed to care about in the first few weeks after the killings was whether you’d recover. And even if he was having an affair with Georgette at the time, Mama can tell you that he was pretty broken up about your mother’s death.”

  “He recovered soon enough.” It had taken Louis Royale less than a year to recover fully—recover enough to take a new bride.

  Jolie tried to make out the typed heading on the first file folder in front of her, but mildew had destroyed the ink. She flipped it open and hurriedly scanned the report. A bank robbery. She checked the date. Nineteen years ago. She flipped through several other files, noting the dates.

  “Check the dates on your files,” she told him. “These all seem to be from nineteen years ago.”

  Theron hurriedly went through a dozen folders. “Same with all of these. They’re all nineteen eighty-three.”

  “Then we’re close. The ones dated nineteen eighty-two must be in another cabinet.” Her gaze rested on the tall cabinet beside the one Theron had opened. “Maybe that one.”

  Just as Theron turned and reached out for the handle on the next cabinet, Ike reappeared carrying two metal folding chairs. A large white rag hung out of his pants pocket.

  “Here’s a couple of chairs.” He set the chairs on either side of the desk, then whipped out the rag and ran it over the tabletop, sending billows of dust dancing in every direction.

  “If y’all need to take a break, you know where the rest rooms are and where the coffeepot and vending machines are.” Ike glanced at the stack of musty folders. “Find anything yet?”

  “Not yet,” Jolie replied, “but at least we’re in the right decade.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll get back to work. But if there’s anything I can do to help out, just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Ike,” Theron said. “I appreciate your being so cooperative. I realize that if we’re able to find something to warrant reopening the Belle Rose massacre case, it could wind up making your job a lot more difficult. Tempers could flare. Old prejudices could resurface. And if it gets too bad, national news services are bound to swarm the town.”

  “Let’s just take this thing one step at a time.” Ike laid his meaty hand on Theron’s shoulder. “You two find what you need to get the case reopened and I’ll deal with any local rumblings.” Ike gave Theron’s shoulder a squeeze. “I remember Lemar quite well. He was a nice man. Everybody liked him. For a time, he dated my aunt LaKora. Every time he came around to the house, he’d always give me a piece of peppermint candy.”

  Jolie smiled. “I think Lemar kept his pockets filled with peppermints just for us kids.” Sighing softly, she looked at Ike. “Was he dating your aunt that spring? If he was then—”

  Ike shook his head. “They dated a year before that and Auntie ended their relationship when she up and ra
n off with another man.”

  “Do either of you know if Lemar was involved with someone at the time of the murders?” Jolie asked.

  “If he was, not even Mama knew anything about it,” Theron said. “But she swears that he and Lisette Desmond were not romantically involved. Not ever.”

  “Yvonne should know.” Jolie swished her hands together, removing the dust. “What I don’t understand is how the rumor about Lemar and Aunt Lisette ever got started in the first place.”

  Ike eyed Theron, as if contemplating Theron’s reaction before he spoke. Ike coughed a couple of times. “Folks talk, you know. A black man and a white woman being friends used to be punishable by death in these parts and even now, it’s frowned on. Black folks in Sumarville always said that Lemar had better watch out hanging around the Desmond sisters the way he did, especially Lisette and Clarice.”

  “Lemar and Yvonne grew up at Belle Rose,” Jolie said. “They were like family.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know that, but…Heck, there’s no point in my going over old gossip when y’all have got more important stuff to do.” Ike glanced at the folders.

  “You’re right,” Theron agreed. “Old gossip won’t help us find evidence to clear Uncle Lemar’s name.”

  When Ike turned to leave, Jolie grasped his arm. “Humor me, would you, Sheriff Denton?” He shrugged. “Tell me what old gossip you were talking about?”

  Ike eyed Theron again. “It probably wouldn’t have any bearing on the case. But…well, folks used to say that Lemar and Yvonne were treated like family by the Desmonds because they were family?”

  “What?” Jolie and Theron said in unison.

  “It was just gossip. Like I said before, you know how people talk. They said Mr. Sam Desmond and Sadie Fuqua were…” Ike looked down at the floor.

  “People thought that my grandmother and Mr. Sam were lovers?” Theron’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of. Mama would have told me if—Hell, that would mean that Lemar was Lisette’s half brother.” Theron stomped around the dank musty basement, his feet pounding against the cold concrete floor. He kept shaking his head as if trying to dislodge an unwanted thought. “It can’t be true. Tales about white men and pretty black servant girls are as plentiful as cotton bolls in these parts.”

  “I told y’all it was just gossip,” Ike said. “And it doesn’t pay to listen to gossip.”

  Ike made his escape while Theron continued pacing the floor. Jolie allowed her mind to assimilate the information, to weigh the possibilities. If it were true, if Lisette and Lemar had been half siblings, then why hadn’t Mama or Aunt Clarice ever told her? Why hadn’t Yvonne told Theron?

  “I don’t believe it’s true,” Theron said. “Mama would have told me. She would never have kept something like that a secret from me.”

  Theron stopped, grasped the back of the metal chair nearest him, and looked down at the file folders. “We’re wasting time even thinking about such nonsense.” He reached out, scooped up the folders, and returned them to the file cabinet, then did the same with the folders in front of Jolie.

  While he worked to open the top drawer on the next cabinet, which seemed to be stuck, Jolie tried the cabinet on the other side. The drawer opened easily, but she soon discovered that the files were from 1984. Just as she started to speak to Theron, he managed to open the warped drawer. She moved to his side and watched while he scanned the first couple of files.

  “Nineteen eighty-two,” he said. “Jackpot!”

  “You take half, and I’ll take half,” she said.

  He lifted an armful of folders, leaving the drawer empty, and dumped the files on the table.

  The stench of mold and mildew irritated Jolie’s nose.

  “Phew, these things stink.” But she didn’t allow the smell to stop her from taking several folders and looking through them.

  Twenty minutes later, Theron replaced the folders. His broad shoulders slumped. A weary disappointed expression crossed his face when he turned to Jolie.

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He slammed his fist down on top of the table, shaking the unstable legs. “I knew this wouldn’t be easy, but… What if someone destroyed those files? What if they’ve been gone for years?”

  “We can’t give up,” Jolie said. “Not yet. Not until we’ve searched every file in this damn basement!”

  “Are they still at the sheriff’s department?” Roscoe asked.

  “Yes, sir, they’re still there,” Templeton Blair replied.

  Roscoe had called an old friend, a man who also had been a Klan member back in the old days. His friend knew the right people to contact if you needed somebody for a certain kind of job. Templeton Blair, an expert at dealing with unpleasant situations, came highly recommended.

  “Hell, it’s nearly nine o’clock. What are they going to do, stay there all night?”

  “What if they find what they’re looking for?”

  “They won’t. And that’s the problem.” Roscoe had been paying former sheriff Aaron Bendall hush money for twenty years. He was still sending him a check every month. He’d made a mistake trusting Bendall to get rid of those files. Oh, he’d removed them from the sheriff’s department, but he hadn’t destroyed them. Bendall had made copies of the Belle Rose massacre files and kept them, along with the originals, in various safety deposit boxes.

  “If there’s something in the basement you don’t want anybody to find, why didn’t you just have somebody set fire to that old building years ago?” Templeton asked.

  “I had my reasons.” Because there had been no need to destroy the building. Not then. He’d never figured anybody would go snooping around, not after all these years.

  “When do you want me to—”

  “As soon as possible. I want that uppity son of a bitch stopped. Take him out of the picture first. That should make Jolie Royale think twice. But if she keeps on snooping, then you’ll have to deal with her, too.”

  “Yes, sir. Leave everything to me.”

  Roscoe slammed down the receiver. Hellfire! Why had Theron Carter come back to Sumarville? Why hadn’t he stayed in Memphis at that big fancy law firm? And Jolie Royale! Who’d have thought Louis would leave Belle Rose to her? He’d have laid odds that Louis would have left the old plantation to Georgette. The man had been a fool over that New Orleans whore.

  When Theron and Jolie didn’t find the files, when they realized those particular files were missing, they’d figure out that somebody deliberately got rid of them. But that wouldn’t stop them; it would only add fuel to the flame. They’d keep digging. And once they found out that Bendall was still alive, they’d try to find him. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Roscoe kicked the wastepaper basket beside his desk and sent it sailing across the room, scattering debris as it rolled to a stop.

  A soft knock sounded on the closed door. “Daddy, are you all right? I thought I heard a noise.” Gar opened the door.

  “I’m fine, Garland,” Roscoe said. “Just accidently knocked over the wastebasket.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up.”

  The minute Gar bent to lift the basket, Roscoe bellowed, “Leave the damn thing. That’s what Mattie’s for. I pay her enough money to clean up after me.”

  “All right,” Gar said. “I’m going up to bed now. Do you need anything before I retire for the night?”

  Did he need anything? Hell, yes, he needed those damn files destroyed. He should have known once Theron moved back to Sumarville that he was up to something. If only he’d sent someone to tear that damn basement apart months ago and destroy a bunch of old files. Then there would be an explanation for why those Belle Rose files were missing. Of course it wouldn’t have been an easy thing to accomplish, not with the new sheriff, that big gorilla Denton, being a straight-arrow kind of man. If he could be bought off, Roscoe would have already done it. But Denton was an honest lawman—the kind Roscoe hated.

  “Daddy
, is something wrong?”

  “Huh?”

  “You seem miles away.”

  “Yeah, well, just thinking about a speech I’ve got to give. You go on up to bed, son. I don’t need anything.”

  Garland said good night, then closed the door behind him when he left Roscoe’s study. His son was a good man. A little naive about the way things should be done—the in-and-outs of politics—he’d made a few mistakes. One big mistake in particular. But he was a good man nevertheless. Garland had stood by him when no one else had. Roscoe would do anything to protect his only son and his son’s potential political career. He’d even kill to protect him. There was no reason anyone should ever know the truth. He’d make sure of that.

  Chapter 13

  Nowell followed Clarice into his apartment, then closed and locked the door. She hadn’t felt this giddy, hadn’t known this mixture of excitement and uncertainty in nearly forty years. Not since the first time she and Jonathan had made love. She’d been twenty-three then and living in Memphis, working at a dress shop, learning her trade. On a rainy Tuesday a young soldier, home on a month’s leave, came into the shop looking for a birthday gift for his mother. They had taken one look at each other and it had been love at first sight. Jonathan had been handsome, dashing, ardent. He’d simply swept her off her feet. Within two weeks of their first meeting, they were engaged. And the night he put the ring on her finger, he made love to her for the first time. Those had been the happiest days of her life. Three short weeks. Five months and a hundred love letters later, Jonathan had been killed in Vietnam.

  Nowell slipped his arms around Clarice and drew her back up against his chest. While nuzzling her neck, he whispered, “I love you, Clarice. I love you more than life itself.”

  She turned slowly, the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness in his expression enveloping her in a loving cocoon. His adoring gaze told her more than the words he had spoken what his true feelings were. She never should have doubted him. But she’d been confused since the first day Nowell Landers walked into her life. He’d just shown up one day at Belle Rose and asked to see her.