The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  "I think you'd bet­ter stick aro­und," Jacob told her. "We ne­ed to find out if Jaz­zy might be re­la­ted to the mur­de­ress."

  Reve gas­ped. "Just what do you me­an by that? Su­rely you aren't im­p­l­ying that I-I… you're a mo­ron if you think for one mi­nu­te that I'm go­ing to stand he­re and al­low you to-"

  "Pipe down, will you?" How the hell tins wo­man co­uld lo­ok so much li­ke Jaz­zy and be so com­p­le­tely dif­fe­rent he'd ne­ver know. "No­body is ac­cu­sing you of an­y­t­hing. But sin­ce we ha­ve every re­ason to be­li­eve that the kil­ler was dri­ving yo­ur car and that she set it on fi­re and sent it ca­re­ening over in­to a ra­vi­ne up in the mo­un­ta­ins-"

  "My Jag was set on fi­re?"

  "Burned to a fa­re-thee-well. It's just ba­rely re­cog­ni­zab­le. But we're ni­nety-ni­ne per­cent su­re it's yo­ur car."

  "The kil­ler sto­le my car, then bur­ned it?"

  "We think she used it to tran­s­port Jamie Up­ton to a de­ser­ted ca­bin up ne­ar Scot­s­man's Bluff. Then she dro­ve it hal­f­way back down the mo­un­ta­in, set it on fi­re, and-"

  "I was right he­re, in this ca­bin"-she po­in­ted to the adj­o­ining ro­om-"in that bed­ro­om, in the bed as­le­ep. I was not pic­king up Jamie Up­ton and ta­king him to so­me de­ser­ted ca­bin to kill him. Go­od gri­ef, if I had plan­ned to kill him, I'd ha­ve hardly be­en stu­pid eno­ugh to let so­me­one see me dri­ving my own car. A very dis­tinct car, might I add."

  "Maybe."

  "Oh, you are a mo­ron if you think I had an­y­t­hing to do with Jamie's mur­der." She flung her hands out in a ges­tu­re of exas­pe­ra­ti­on. "I had no mo­ti­ve. Why wo­uld I want to kill Jamie?"

  "You tell me, Ms. Sor­rell. Did he lo­ve you and le­ave you? Did he ma­ke a fo­ol out of you? Are you used to en­ding yo­ur af­fa­irs, not the ot­her way aro­und, and got pis­sed when Jamie bro­ke things off?"

  She sho­ok her fin­ger in his fa­ce. "I did not ha­ve an af­fa­ir with Jamie, so the­re was no af­fa­ir to end. We had a few da­tes. That's the ex­tent of our re­la­ti­on­s­hip. It didn't ta­ke me long to fi­gu­re out that the man was a char­ming Ro­meo who had only two in­te­rests in me. One, I lo­oked li­ke his te­ena­ge swe­et­he­art. And two, he wan­ted me to be anot­her notch on his bed­post. I was smart eno­ugh to see thro­ugh him and not fall for his li­ne of bull. Un­li­ke yo­ur fri­end Jaz­zy."

  "Lady, you're a re­al pi­ece of work."

  "And just what do you me­an by that cryptic sta­te­ment?"

  When Jacob gla­red at her, she til­ted her sno­oty lit­tle no­se and sa­id, "Wo­uld you li­ke me to gi­ve you the de­fi­ni­ti­on of the world cryptic? I re­ali­ze that as a bac­k­wo­ods she­riff you pro­bably didn't go to col­le­ge. Ac­tu­al­ly, you might not even ha­ve fi­nis­hed high scho­ol."

  Jacob la­ug­hed. Damn in­fu­ri­ating bitch had not only im­p­li­ed he was an une­du­ca­ted idi­ot, and the­re­fo­re stu­pid, but she had re­fer­red to him-to his fa­ce-as a mo­ron. Twi­ce!

  "Ms. Sor­rell, don't le­ave town."

  "Am I un­der ar­rest?"

  "No, ma'am. But if you le­ave town, I'll put out a war­rant for yo­ur ar­rest.",* "On what char­ges?"

  "I'm not su­re. But I'll think of so­met­hing."

  She grit­ted her te­eth. "I did not kill Jamie Up­ton. I had no re­ason to kill him."

  "If you say so."

  "I in­tend to con­tact my law­yer."

  Jacob nod­ded to the te­lep­ho­ne. "Go right ahe­ad."

  Oddly eno­ugh, the pho­ne rang. Re­ve Sor­rell jum­ped as if she'd be­en shot.

  "Damn!" she mum­b­led the word un­der her bre­ath, then wal­ked over and pic­ked up the re­ce­iver. "Yes, Re­ve Sor­rell he­re." She pa­used, lis­te­ning to the cal­ler. "What did you say?" She lis­te­ned aga­in. ‘’Yes, She­riff But­ler is he­re. Cer­ta­inly." She held out the re­ce­iver to him.

  "Who is it?" he as­ked.

  "She didn't say." Re­ve pla­ced her hand over the mo­ut­h­pi­ece and sa­id softly, 'The­re's so­met­hing funny abo­ut her vo­ice."

  "How's that?"

  "It so­un­ded muf­fled. Eit­her that or she's got the worst ca­se of lar­y­n­gi­tis I've ever he­ard."

  Jacob to­ok the pho­ne. "This is She­riff But­ler."

  "You're qu­es­ti­oning the wrong wo­man," the husky vo­ice sa­id.

  "Who is this?"

  "Someone who wants to help."

  Jacob re­ali­zed the vo­ice was be­ing dis­gu­ised, pro­bably by so­me type of de­vi­ce. His gut in­s­tincts told him •hat he was spe­aking to the kil­ler.

  "How can you help me?"

  "You ne­ed evi­den­ce be­fo­re you can ar­rest Jaz­zy Tal­bot, don't you?"

  "And you ha­ve that evi­den­ce?"

  "Of co­ur­se not, but I know whe­re you can find it."

  "Where?" Jacob as­ked.

  "In her of­fi­ce at Jas­mi­ne's."

  "How do you-" The di­al to­ne hum­med in his ear. Son of a bitch.

  "What's wrong?" Re­ve as­ked.

  "Nothing you ne­ed to con­cern yo­ur­self with," he told her. "It's be­en in­te­res­ting, Ms. Sor­rell, but I've got to run. I ha­ve a mur­der ca­se to sol­ve."

  "By all me­ans, She­riff. Don't let me stop you."

  Jacob pa­used as he he­aded out the do­or, then glan­ced over his sho­ul­der. "Re­mem­ber not to le­ave town."

  When she scre­wed up her fa­ce in a moc­king smi­le, he tip­ped his hat and left. He had to talk to Jaz­zy and get per­mis­si­on to se­arch her of­fi­ce for evi­den­ce he wasn 't even su­re was the­re. But if it was, he fi­gu­red the re­al kil­ler had plan­ted it. And if that was the ca­se, then things didn't lo­ok go­od for Jaz­zy. No, sir, things we­re lo­oking wor­se for her with every pas­sing mi­nu­te.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  When Dr. Mac­Na­ir en­te­red the wa­iting ro­om on the first flo­or of Co­unty Ge­ne­ral, Jim ro­se to his fe­et, but he sto­od back and al­lo­wed La­ura's pa­rents to me­et the doc­tor. His he­art lod­ged in his thro­at as he wa­ited to he­ar his un­born gre­at-gran­d­c­hild's fa­te.

  "I'm sorry," Mac­Na­ir sa­id.

  Jim sig­hed. The only ho­pe of an he­ir-a des­cen­dant with his blo­od flo­wing thro­ugh his or her ve­ins-had di­ed with the mis­car­ri­age of Jamie's child. Why now, God, why now? Wasn't it eno­ugh to ta­ke Jamie? Did you ha­ve to ta­ke his baby, too?

  "When may we see La­ura?" An­d­rea Wil­lis held her hus­band's hand tightly.

  "Soon," Mac­Na­ir rep­li­ed. "We did a D and C and she's as­le­ep and res­ting com­for­tably now. In a few we­eks, she'll be fully re­co­ve­red. The­re was no per­ma­nent da­ma­ge, no re­ason she can't ha­ve ot­her chil­d­ren."

  It was go­od that swe­et, lit­tle La­ura wo­uld one day be ab­le to ha­ve ot­her chil­d­ren, Jim tho­ught. But tho­se chil­d­ren wo­uldn't be Up­ton ba­bi­es. Jamie's child was de­ad.

  Tears glis­te­ned in Ce­cil Wil­lis's eyes. "Thank you, Dr. Mac­Na­ir."

  "I'll ar­ran­ge for a gri­ef co­un­se­lor to spe­ak to La­ura," Mac­Na­ir sa­id.

  "I wo­uld pre­fer that I be pre­sent when the co­un­se­lor talks to La­ura," An­d­rea sa­id. T plan on be­ing he­re at the hos­pi­tal with her day and night un­til she's re­le­ased."

  "Yes, of co­ur­se." Mac­Na­ir lo­oked sympat­he­ti­cal­ly at An­d­rea. "La­ura will cer­ta­inly ne­ed her mot­her with her."

  After the doc­tor left, Jim wal­ked over to An­d­rea and Ce­cil. Du­ring the­ir bri­ef ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce, Jim had for­med an opi­ni­on of the co­up­le. Ba­si­cal­ly he li­ked them. They se­emed li­ke go­od pe­op­le. Re­ba su­re set gre­at sto­re by them be­ing we­althy and so­ci­al­ly pro­mi­nent. La­ura 's from a fi­ne fa­mily, Re­ba
had sa­id. The Wil­lis fa­mily has be­en bre­eding Ken­tucky Derby win­ners for ge­ne­ra­ti­ons. They're old mo­ney.

  "I'm truly glad that La­ura will be all right," Jim told them. "She's a de­ar girl. Re­ba and I we­re lo­oking for­ward to her be­co­ming a mem­ber of our fa­mily. And if the baby had-" Jim cle­ared his thro­at. "I'm go­ing to he­ad on back to the ho­use. If the se­da­ti­ve Dr. Mac­Na­ir ga­ve Re­ba has worn off, she's pro­bably wor­rying her­self sick be­ca­use I ha­ven't cal­led to let her know how La­ura is."

  Cecil sho­ok Jim's hand, then pat­ted him on the back. "Ple­ase tell She­ri­dan that we'll call her la­ter."

  "Yes, yes, of co­ur­se," Jim rep­li­ed. "I ap­pre­ci­ate her sta­ying at the ho­use with Re­ba. It was kind of her to of­fer.

  As Jim left the wa­iting ro­om and wal­ked down the hall to­ward the hos­pi­tal's back exit, he tho­ught abo­ut what he had lost to­day and how ir­re­vo­cably his li­fe ha chan­ged in the mat­ter of ho­urs. Less than twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs ago, Jamie had be­en ali­ve. And La­ura had bee preg­nant.

  Just as the auto­ma­tic exit do­ors ope­ned and Jim step­ped out­si­de, he ca­me to an ab­rupt halt when he saw Erin Mer­cer rus­hing to­ward him. What was she do­ing he­re? How had she known whe­re he was? ''Jim!" She ran to­ward him, her arms open wi­de.

  He grab­bed her hands to pre­vent her from en­ve­lo­ping him in a hug.

  "I know abo­ut Jamie. I cal­led yo­ur ho­use and spo­ke to Do­ra. I as­ked to spe­ak to you to gi­ve you my con­do­len­ces, and she sa­id you'd go­ne to the hos­pi­tal." She lo­oked up at him with con­cern in her eyes. "Are you all right? I was af­ra­id you'd had a he­art at­tack or-"

  He pul­led her asi­de, away from die glass wall that sur­ro­un­ded the hos­pi­tal exit and ex­po­sed them to prying eyes. "I'm fi­ne. I ca­me to die hos­pi­tal with La­ura's pa­rents. La­ura just suf­fe­red a mis­car­ri­age."

  "Laura was preg­nant?"

  Jim nod­ded. "She hadn't even told Jamie."

  "Oh, Jim…J­im, I'm so sorry, dar­ling. I wish the­re was so­met­hing I co­uld do."

  He tho­ught abo­ut de­man­ding to know whe­re she'd be­en all night, why she hadn't be­en at ho­me early this mor­ning when he'd stop­ped by her ca­bin. But so­me­how that didn't se­em to mat­ter right now. ''I ne­ed you, Erin. God, how I ne­ed you."

  Squeezing his hands, she le­aned to­ward him. It was all he co­uld do to stop him­self from grab­bing her and kis­sing her.

  "I'm he­re for you," she told him. "Tell me what I can do and I'll do it. An­y­t­hing. Ever­y­t­hing."

  Jim let go of her and stuf­fed his hands in­to his pants Poc­kets. "I ha­ve to go ho­me and tell Re­ba that"-he lo­oked up at the cle­ar blue sky, swal­lo­wed, and wil­led his emo­ti­ons un­der con­t­rol. "She's in pretty bad shape, you can ima­gi­ne. Fin­ding out that we no lon­ger ha­ve the ho­pe of a gre­at-gran­d­c­hild…"

  "I un­der­s­tand that you ha­ve to be with her, that she ne­eds you." Erin of­fe­red him a com­pas­si­ona­te smi­le. "And you pro­bably ne­ed her, too. Af­ter all-"

  "I ne­ed you," he told her. "La­ter to­day-will you be at ho­me?"

  "Yes, of co­ur­se I will be."

  "I'll try to co­me by. Just for a whi­le."

  "If you can't, it will be all right. Just know that if you ne­ed me, I'm he­re for you."

  "I'll co­me by. I want to be with you." Wit­ho­ut sa­ving anot­her word to her, he wal­ked away, and all the whi­le he wis­hed he co­uld turn aro­und, go back to her, and pull her in­to his arms.

  "I ne­ed yo­ur per­mis­si­on to se­arch yo­ur of­fi­ce, "Jacob I told Jaz­zy.

  "Why do you ne­ed to se­arch her of­fi­ce?" Genny in­qu­ired at the pre­ci­se mo­ment Ca­leb as­ked "Why?"

  "You ha­ve my per­mis­si­on," Jaz­zy sa­id. "I ha­ve not­hing to hi­de."

  Jacob shif­ted un­com­for­tably. "Hell, Jaz­zy, I know that. Don't think just be­ca­use I've got to se­arch yo­ur of­fi­ce that for one mi­nu­te I think you kil­led Jamie. Not even if we find evi­den­ce to the con­t­rary."

  Caleb snor­ted. "I don't see why you ha­ve to go se­ar­c­hing for evi­den­ce aga­inst Jaz­zy just be­ca­use so­me nut cal­led j you and sa­id-"

  "He's just do­ing his job." Jaz­zy grab­bed Ca­leb's arm.

  "Is it his job to help so­me crazy wo­man ra­il­ro­ad you for a cri­me you didn't com­mit?" Ca­leb gla­red at Jacob.

  "What will you do if you find so­me sort of plan­ted evi­den­ce in Jaz­zy's of­fi­ce?" Genny as­ked. "You'll know that it was put the­re, that Jaz­zy is in­no­cent."

  Jacob re­mo­ved his Stet­son, then ran his fin­gers thro­ugh the back of his ha­ir whe­re it res­ted just abo­ve his sho­ul­ders. "I'm not trying to bu­ild a ca­se aga­inst Jaz­zy, but as the she­riff, it's my job to sha­re all the in­for­ma­ti­on I ha­ve with Wa­de Tru­man. Our am­bi­ti­o­us yo­ung DA is al­re­ady bre­at­hing down my neck hot and he­avy abo­ut co­ming up with a sus­pect."

  "And I'm the most li­kely sus­pect, aren't I?" Jaz­zy sa­id.

  When Jacob re­ac­hed out and pla­ced his hand on Jaz­zy's sho­ul­der, Ca­leb ten­sed. Jacob co­uld tell the guy wan­ted to knock his hand off her. He un­der­s­to­od the ot­her man's prop­ri­eto­ri­al, pos­ses­si­ve at­ti­tu­de. He'd sen­sed the sa­me thing in Dal­las Slo­an the very first ti­me he saw him with Genny.

  "You didn't kill Jamie," Jacob sa­id. "We all know that out the­re so­mew­he­re is a very dis­tur­bed wo­man who will, so­oner or la­ter, gi­ve her­self away."

  "Yeah, but in the me­an­ti­me, I may just wind up in ja­il." Jaz­zy cros­sed her arms over her wa­ist and emit­ted a co­up­le of ner­vo­us, moc­king chuc­k­les. "It's not as if Jamie didn't screw me over eno­ugh whi­le he was ali­ve. Now he's re­ac­hing out from the gra­ve to do it."

  While Jacob and De­puty Mo­ody Ryan se­ar­c­hed Jaz­zy's of­fi­ce, she wa­ited out­si­de in the hall with Genny and Ca­leb. She co­uld fe­el the no­ose tig­h­te­ning aro­und her neck. She didn't ne­ed Genny's psychic gifts to know that so­me­one had in­ten­ti­onal­ly fra­med her for Jamie's mur­der. But who? And why?

  Someone had ha­ted Jamie so much that they had tor­tu­red him to de­ath. And that sa­me per­son ha­ted her eno­ugh to want to see her go to ja­il-oh, God, not just 8° to ja­il, but be sen­ten­ced to de­ath for Jamie's mur­der. Wow co­uld this be hap­pe­ning? And why now, when she had tho­ught may­be she had a chan­ce of fin­ding hap­pi­ness with Ca­leb?

  When Jacob ca­me out of her of­fi­ce car­rying a plas­tic bag, she grab­bed Ca­leb by the arm. Jacob held up the bag to show them the blo­ody kni­fe it con­ta­ined.

  "Where was it?"Jazzy as­ked him.

  "Hidden in the back of one of the fi­le ca­bi­nets," Jacob told her.

  "It's the kni­fe she used on Jamie," Genny sa­id. "But you won't find any fin­ger­p­rints on it. Only Jamie'sj blo­od."

  "I didn't put it the­re," Jaz­zy sa­id, her strong sur­vi­val in­s­tincts kic­king in, for­cing her to de­fend her­self, even to her fri­ends.

  "We know that," Genny sa­id. "Jacob, the kni­fe was plan­ted in Jaz­zy's of­fi­ce to ma­ke her lo­ok gu­ilty."

  "Yeah, I know," he rep­li­ed. "But I'm af­ra­id who­ever put it the­re ac­com­p­lis­hed her go­al."

  "Are you go­ing to ar­rest me?" Jaz­zy as­ked.

  "Hell no, he isn't go­ing to ar­rest you." Ca­leb mo­ved bet­we­en Jaz­zy and Jacob. 'You and I we­re to­get­her last night and this mor­ning. I'll swe­ar in co­urt that we we­re to­get­her whe­ne­ver Jamie was kil­led." He gla­red at Jacob, his ag­gres­si­ve stan­ce and de­ter­mi­ned ex­p­res­si­on is­su­ing a war­ning.

  Jazzy pus­hed Ca­leb gently asi­de and lo­oked di­rectly at Jacob. "What hap­pens next?"

  "Nothi
ng right now," Jacob rep­li­ed. "It co­uld ta­ke a whi­le to de­ter­mi­ne if this kni­fe was used on Jamie, if this is his blo­od. Be­si­des, if this is all the evi­den­ce that shows up-"

  "She co­uldn't ha­ve kil­led Jamie," Ca­leb re­ite­ra­ted. "She was with me."

  In that slow, easy way Jacob had, he tur­ned and squ­in­c­hed his eyes as he fo­cu­sed on Ca­leb. "If you lie to try to pro­tect Jaz­zy, you won't help her. You just might hurt her and get yo­ur­self in tro­ub­le to bo­ot."