The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  Caleb sta­red in­qu­iringly at Jacob.

  "Folks might think you two we­re in ca­ho­ots," Jacob sa­id. "May­be Jaz­zy lu­red Jamie up to that ca­bin whe­re you we­re wa­iting for him. May­be it wasn't a wo­man who kil­led him. May­be it was a je­alo­us lo­ver. May­be the two of you de­ci­ded that the only way to get Jamie out of Jaz­zy's li­fe per­ma­nently was to kill him."

  Jazzy grab­bed Ca­leb's arm, sen­sing he was on the ver­ge of hit­ting Jacob. "No, don't. Jacob is only pla­ying de­vil's ad­vo­ca­te. Be­si­des, he's rig­ht-you won't help me by lying abo­ut our be­ing to­get­her when Jamie was kil­led."

  Jacob's cell pho­ne rang. He han­ded the evi­den­ce bag to Mo­ody and told him to get it over to the she­rif­fs of­fi­ce im­me­di­ately. Ret­ri­eving his pho­ne from its belt hol­der, he pun­c­hed the ON but­ton.

  "Butler he­re." He lis­te­ned, then sa­id, "Why am I not sur­p­ri­sed?"

  "What is it?" Genny as­ked, but Jaz­zy sen­sed that by the lo­ok on her best fri­end's fa­ce she al­re­ady sus­pec­ted what Jacob had be­en told.

  'Yeah, Dal­las, thanks. Me­et me over at my of­fi­ce as so­on as pos­sib­le." He lo­oked at Jaz­zy. "I know what I ha­ve to do, but I su­re as hell don't ha­ve to li­ke it." Jacob hit the off but­ton and re­tur­ned his pho­ne to the clip hol­der on his belt.

  "You know Dal­las went back to the ca­bin and then to the si­te whe­re the Jag was dum­ped, to over­see things the­re," Jacob sa­id. "We've com­bi­ned for­ces-the she­rif­fs de­par­t­ment and the po­li­ce de­par­t­ment."

  "What did Dal­las tell you?" Jaz­zy as­ked, and when Genny slip­ped her hand over Jaz­zy's and squ­e­ezed, she knew the news was re­al­ly bad.

  "They fo­und a bo­ok of mat­c­hes at the ca­bin," Jacob sa­id. 'They're from Jaz­zy's Jo­int. Got the lo­go on the co­ver."

  "So? Big de­al." Ca­leb all but snar­led his sta­te­ment. "Half the po­pu­la­ti­on of Che­ro­kee Co­unty pro­bably has a Jaz­zy's Jo­int bo­ok of mat­c­hes."

  "Yeah, I know, and the mat­c­hes alo­ne wo­uldn't pro­ve an­y­t­hing. But co­up­led with the blo­ody kni­fe and-I Jacob pa­used and cur­sed softly un­der his bre­ath. 'They fo­und so­met­hing in the wo­ods only a few fe­et away from the bur­ned out Jag."

  Three sets of eyes fo­cu­sed on Jacob, but he lo­oked only at Jaz­zy. "They fo­und a red silk scarf with the ini­ti­als J.T. mo­nog­ram­med on it."

  Jazzy la­ug­hed. "Who­ever the hell she is, she's go­od. She didn't ste­al just any of my scar­ves. No, she had to ste­al the one with my ini­ti­als on it-the one my fri­end the she­riff ga­ve me for my bir­t­h­day last ye­ar."

  Chapter 16

  "Is ever­y­t­hing set for Miss La­ura's re­turn?" Re­ba as­ked Do­ra as the ho­use­ke­eper ser­ved them af­ter­no­on cof­fee in the sun­ro­om.

  "Yes, ma'am. The flo­rist de­li­ve­red the fresh flo­wers you or­de­red, and I've pla­ced the ar­ran­ge­ments aro­und the ro­om," Do­ra rep­li­ed. "I chan­ged the bed li­nen as you re­qu­es­ted and I mo­ved Miss She­ri­dan's things in­to anot­her ro­om so that Miss La­ura can ha­ve com­p­le­te pe­ace and qu­i­et."

  "Has the nur­se we hi­red to lo­ok af­ter La­ura ar­ri­ved?" Re­ba ner­vo­usly rub­bed her thro­at, the tre­mor in her hand a su­re sign that the me­di­ca­ti­on Dr. Mac­Na­ir had pres­c­ri­bed to so­ot­he her was we­aring off.

  Jim re­ac­hed over and gras­ped his wi­fe's wrist, then slip­ped his big hand aro­und her small one. "Mrs. Con­ley went di­rectly to the hos­pi­tal to me­et An­d­rea and Ce­cil. She sug­ges­ted it was best if she spe­ak to La­ura's pa­rents be­fo­re brin­ging her ho­me, as well as get in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons on La­ura's ca­re from Dr. Mac­Na­ir and the hos­pi­tal psychi­at­rist."

  Dora pla­ced the sil­ver ser­vi­ce on the wic­ker tab­le, then lif­ted the sil­ver pot and po­ured cof­fee in­to two chi­na cups. "Will the­re be an­y­t­hing el­se?"

  "No, that will be all," Jim told the ho­use­ke­eper.

  "I want ever­y­t­hing pos­sib­le do­ne for La­ura. That child has be­en thro­ugh-" Re­ba's vo­iced crac­ked; te­ars po­oled in her eyes. "She has lost ever­y­t­hing, just as we ha­ve. Jamie. And the baby." She clut­c­hed Jim's hand tightly. "Oh, Jim, the baby. Jamie's baby. If only…"

  Jim sco­oted to the ed­ge of his wic­ker cha­ir, le­aned over, and dra­ped his arm aro­und Re­ba's sho­ul­ders. "Not­hing can be do­ne abo­ut it now. The baby's go­ne."

  "Yes, the baby's go­ne." Re­ba dab­bed the cor­ners of her eyes with her fin­ger­tips. "It's as if we've be­en cur­sed, as if Fa­te-or God-is de­ter­mi­ned to ta­ke ever­y­t­hing from us and le­ave us not­hing. First Jim Jr. and then Me­la­nie. Our chil­d­ren. Both such be­a­uti­ful, fi­ne pe­op­le. And now Jamie, our only gran­d­c­hild. If only La­ura hadn't lost the baby, we wo­uld ha­ve-"

  Reba bro­ke down and cri­ed. She'd be­en crying a lot the­se past fo­ur days, and Jim had do­ne his best to be at her si­de. She de­ser­ved no less. As he pat­ted her ten­derly, he tho­ught abo­ut Erin and how des­pe­ra­tely he'd wan­ted to be with her, to find the com­fort in her arms that he co­uld find now­he­re el­se. But how co­uld he slip away- day or nig­ht-when Re­ba ne­eded him so? And if he we­re to­tal­ly ho­nest with him­self, he'd ha­ve to ad­mit that as much as he wan­ted Erin, as much as he ne­eded her, right now he ne­eded his wi­fe mo­re. No one un­der­s­to­od the depth of his des­pa­ir the way Re­ba did. No one sha­red his gri­ef and sen­se of ho­pe­les­sness as she did. No one el­se had lo­ved Jamie as much as he did, only Re­ba.

  "We'll get thro­ugh this so­me­how." Jim held her, and as she mel­ted in­to him as if so­me­how ab­sor­bing his strength, he le­aned his he­ad over aga­inst hers and pres­sed his lips to her tem­p­le. A ten­der fe­eling swel­led up in­si­de him. He had ne­ver be­en in lo­ve with Re­ba, but he did ca­re for her, per­haps even lo­ved her in a way. "We've still got each ot­her, for what it's worth."

  Sniffling softly, she tur­ned to fa­ce him. "Do we? Do I still ha­ve you?"

  A ner­vo­us pang hit him in the gut. Did Re­ba know abo­ut Erin? Or did she simply sus­pect that the­re was anot­her wo­man, that the­re had al­ways be­en ot­her wo­men? "Of co­ur­se you still ha­ve me. I'm he­re, aren't I?" With the ut­most gen­de­ness, he ca­res­sed her che­ek. "We've be­en thro­ugh a lot to­get­her in the­se past fif­ty-fo­ur ye­ars and so­me­how sur­vi­ved. We'll sur­vi­ve this, too."

  "I don't know if I want to sur­vi­ve." Re­ba ga­zed in­to Jim's eyes, and what he saw frig­h­te­ned him. Ut­ter ho­pe­les­sness. The will to li­ve fa­ding away.

  "I can't be­ar to see you li­ke this. Ple­ase-"

  Dora ca­me rus­hing in­to the sun­ro­om. 'They're he­re. Miss La­ura is ho­me!"

  Jim hel­ped Re­ba to her fe­et and to­get­her they hur­ri­ed to gre­et La­ura. An­d­rea and Ce­cil flan­ked the­ir da­ug­h­ter. A sul­king She­ri­dan ca­me in be­hind them, car­rying La­ura's over­night ca­se. A tall, ro­bust wo­man in her mid for­ti­es en­te­red the fo­yer last. Jim as­su­med the tall bru­net­te was Mrs. Con­ley, the psychi­at­ric nur­se that Dr. Mac­Na­ir had highly re­com­men­ded.

  Reba wal­ked qu­ickly for­ward, then he­si­ta­ted for a fo­ment, se­ar­c­hing La­ura's pa­le, emo­ti­on­less fa­ce. Jim mo­ved in slowly be­hind his wi­fe and put his hands on her sho­ul­ders.

  'Welcome, ho­me, my de­ar, de­ar girl," Re­ba sa­id. "Yo­ur ro­om is all re­ady for you."

  Thank you," La­ura rep­li­ed. 'You've be­en so kind to me. Sin­ce the day Jamie bro­ught me ho­me and in­t­ro­du­ced me to y'all as his fi­an­c­ée, you've be­en not­hing but gra­ci­o­us and kind."

  "Oh, La­ura… swe­et girl… you're ever­y­t­hing we ever ho­ped for in a wi­fe for our Jamie."

 
Andrea slip­ped her arm aro­und La­ura's wa­ist. "If y'all don't mind, I think La­ura sho­uld lie down for a whi­le."

  "Yes, of co­ur­se." Ten­sing, Re­ba le­aned bac­k­ward in­to Jim. "How tho­ug­h­t­less of us to ke­ep you stan­ding he­re in the fo­yer when you-"

  Laura pul­led away from her mot­her, went stra­ight to Re­ba, and held out her hands. "Wo­uld you walk me to my ro­om, Miss Re­ba? And ple­ase sit with me, just for a few mi­nu­tes. No one el­se will let me talk abo­ut Jamie. No one el­se lo­ved him the way we did."

  Jim glan­ced from Ce­cil Wil­lis to Mrs. Con­ley, si­lently qu­es­ti­oning them as to whet­her Re­ba sho­uld ag­ree to La­ura's re­qu­est.

  Mrs. Con­ley mo­ved in and an­s­we­red his qu­es­ti­on qu­ite ef­fi­ci­ently. She la­id her hand gently on La­ura's sho­ul­der as she lo­oked right at Re­ba. "Yes, Mrs. Up­ton, why don't you co­me with us and help me get La­ura set­tled in? Her pa­rents and sis­ter can check in on us la­ter."

  Laura gras­ped Re­ba's hand and the two he­aded to­ward the sta­ir­ca­se. Mrs. Con­ley to­ok La­ura's over­night bag from She­ri­dan, and af­ter a qu­ick glan­ce at Jim- with an un­der­s­tan­ding pas­sing bet­we­en them that she wo­uld lo­ok af­ter both La­ura and Re­ba-she fol­lo­wed her char­ges.

  "Am I dis­mis­sed?" She­ri­dan as­ked in­so­lently.

  Andrea sig­hed. "Why don't you-oh, de­ar, you're sha­ring a ro­om with La­ura. I didn't think-"

  "We had Do­ra mo­ve She­ri­dan's things in­to the bed­ro­om ac­ross the hall from La­ura," Jim sa­id.

  ''Thank you," An­d­rea rep­li­ed.

  ''That's gre­at," She­ri­dan sa­id, an in­so­lent, phony smi­le on her fa­ce. "Do­es an­yo­ne mind if I ta­ke a bre­ak from all this me­lod­ra­ma? I'd li­ke to fres­hen up and then go in­to town, if I co­uld bor­row a car." 'Ta­ke Jamie's Mer­ce­des," Jim sa­id. "Ask Do­ra for the keys." He'd de­ci­ded that he didn't li­ke She­ri­dan Wil­lis. She ca­me ac­ross as a spo­iled rot­ten, ha­te­ful lit­tle bitch. Ac­tu­al­ly she was the fe­ma­le equ­iva­lent of Jamie. Tho­se two wo­uld ha­ve be­en a per­fect match. And they pro­bably had be­en, Jim tho­ught. He didn't do­ubt for a mi­nu­te that Jamie had sco­red with the yo­un­ger Wil­lis sis­ter.

  ''That's very ni­ce of you," An­d­rea sa­id, "but-"

  "You and Daddy ta­ke ca­re of La­ura," She­ri­dan sa­id. "Don't worry abo­ut me. La­ura co­mes first, do­esn't she? As al­ways." With a smir­king, con­des­cen­ding grin, she whir­led aro­und and he­aded down the hal­lway to­ward the kit­c­hen.

  "I must apo­lo­gi­ze-" Ce­cil sa­id.

  "No ne­ed." Jim held up his hand in a stop ges­tu­re.

  "We plan to ta­ke La­ura ho­me with us af­ter the fu­ne­ral," An­d­rea sa­id. "The so­oner she gets away from… well, from the re­min­ders of Jamie, the so­oner she'll start to he­al."

  "I un­der­s­tand," Jim sa­id. "But it will be dif­fi­cult for Re­ba to let her go. I think tho­se two ne­ed each ot­her right now. If y'all co­uld stay on just a few days af­ter the fu­ne­ral, I'd ap­pre­ci­ate it."

  Cecil nod­ded. "We'll do wha­te­ver the doc­tors sug­gest is best for La­ura." ‘’Yes, of co­ur­se. Na­tu­ral­ly La­ura must be yo­ur first con­cern." An aw­k­ward si­len­ce fol­lo­wed. Fi­nal­ly Jim sa­id, "If y‘all ha­ven't had lunch, we can get Do­ra to whip up so­met­hing."

  "I co­uldn't eat a bi­te," An­d­rea rep­li­ed. "But a cup of tea wo­uld be ni­ce." She tur­ned to her hus­band. "Darling, why don't you co­me with me? We'll ha­ve Do­ra fix you a san­d­wich."

  Jim wat­c­hed as An­d­rea Wil­lis led her hus­band away. It was ap­pa­rent who the do­mi­nant par­t­ner in that re­la­ti­on­s­hip was. It wasn't that he tho­ught Ce­cil al­lo­wed his wi­fe to le­ad him aro­und by the no­se. No, he didn't think that. He sus­pec­ted that Ce­cil fo­und it com­for­ting to be mar­ri­ed to such a strong, ca­pab­le wo­man. Jim al­most en­vi­ed the man. He won­de­red what it wo­uld be li­ke, just on­ce, to ha­ve a ma­te he co­uld le­an on in­s­te­ad of the ot­her way aro­und.

  As he wal­ked up­s­ta­irs, he won­de­red how the vi­sit bet­we­en La­ura and Re­ba was go­ing. Jamie's do­ting gran­d­mot­her and be­sot­ted fi­an­c­ée. Two wo­men who had lo­ved Jamie de­eply and over­lo­oked his many cha­rac­ter flaws. No do­ubt they wo­uld find Jamie, in de­ath, to be a sa­int Grun­ting, he sho­ok his he­ad sadly. When he re­ac­hed the lan­ding and star­ted to turn to­ward his bed­ro­om su­ite, he pa­used for a mo­ment. Des­pi­te as­su­ring him­self that Mrs. Con­ley co­uld han­d­le two we­eping, mo­ur­n­ful wo­men, he fo­und him­self wal­king in the op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­on and stra­ight to­ward La­ura's ro­om. The do­or sto­od open. He pa­used out­si­de, fe­eling a bit li­ke a vo­ye­ur as he lo­oked in at a pri­va­te mo­ment. Mrs. Con­ley bu­si­ed her­self un­pac­king La­ura's over­night ca­se. Re­ba sto­od by the win­dow, tal­king softly, tel­ling La­ura so­me silly lit­tle ta­le abo­ut Jamie's sixth bir­t­h­day, and yet ig­no­ring La­ura' com­p­le­tely. Jim co­uld see that his wi­fe had slip­ped away bri­efly in­to a world whe­re Jamie still exis­ted, that she was ob­li­vi­o­us to ever­y­t­hing and ever­yo­ne aro­und her.

  His ga­ze tra­ve­led to La­ura, who sat in the roc­king cha­ir, only a few fe­et away from the win­dows. One hand lay atop the ot­her on her belly, as if she we­re pro­tec­ting that spot. Her eyes ap­pe­ared gla­zed. Ap­pa­rently, she was com­p­le­tely un­con­nec­ted to re­ality. Then, as she roc­ked back and forth, she lo­oked down at her sto­mach and smi­led.

  A cold chill shot thro­ugh Jim's body.

  Wade Tru­man was as new at be­ing Che­ro­kee Co­unty's dis­t­rict at­tor­ney as Jacob was at be­ing the she­riff. They'd known each ot­her all the­ir li­ves and had be­en fri­ends just abo­ut as long, des­pi­te be­ing to­tal op­po­si­tes and des­pi­te the fact Wa­de was se­ve­ral ye­ars yo­un­ger. Wa­de was pu­re Scots-Irish, not a drop of Che­ro­kee blo­od in his ve­ins, which ac­co­un­ted for his ruddy com­p­le­xi­on, sky blue eyes, and sandy ha­ir. Whe­re Jacob had jo­ined the navy at eig­h­te­en, Wa­de had go­ne off to UT. Wa­de ca­me from an up­per-mid­dle-class bac­k­g­ro­und. His fat­her had be­en a sta­te se­na­tor, his gran­d­fat­her a fe­de­ral jud­ge. And Wa­de had am­bi­ti­ons to run for po­li­ti­cal of­fi­ce. Jacob sus­pec­ted that he had his eye on the go­ver­nor's man­si­on. On the ot­her hand, Jacob's am­bi­ti­ons we­re mo­dest in com­pa­ri­son. All he wan­ted was to le­arn how to be a go­od law­man.

  While rub­bing the back of his neck, Wa­de pa­ced the flo­or. "Damn it, Jacob, I don't li­ke the idea an­y­mo­re than you do, but, my God, man, the evi­den­ce is right the­re in front of our eyes. Jaz­zy Tal­bot kil­led Jamie."

  "No, she didn't," Jacob rep­li­ed, trying to ke­ep his vo­ice calm, which was no easy task, con­si­de­ring how agi­ta­ted he was. He'd spent the bet­ter part of the last ho­ur do­ing his le­vel best to con­vin­ce Wa­de that so­me­body had fra­med Jaz­zy.

  "I ag­ree with Jacob," Dal­las Slo­an sa­id as he po­ured him­self a cup of cof­fee. 'Jaz­zy's no fo­ol. She wo­uld ha­ve co­ve­red her tracks bet­ter. She wo­uldn't ha­ve-"

  "Let's say I ag­ree with you two." Wa­de stop­ped pa­cing and fa­ced Dal­las. "I don't want to pro­se­cu­te Jaz­zy. Hell, even if she did kill Jamie-"

  "She didn't!" Jacob and Dal­las spo­ke si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly.

  "I was just go­ing to say that I don't en­ti­rely di­sag­ree with the folks who say who­ever kil­led Jamie sho­uld get an award. We all know the guy was a re­al son of a bitch. And the who­le town knows the way he tre­ated Jaz­zy. A sympat­he­tic jury wo­uld go easy on her."

  "If she's char­ged with first deg­ree mur­der, the jury won't be in­c­li­ned to let her off scot-free," Dal­las s
a­id. "Who­ever kil­led Jamie plan­ned his mur­der down to the last de­ta­il. If you char­ge Jaz­zy, it will be for pre­me­di­ta­ted mur­der, won't it?"

  "I don't know. May­be not. As much as I'd li­ke to, I can't ig­no­re the facts." Wa­de gri­ma­ced. "Lo­ok, Big Jim cal­led me this mor­ning. He wants ac­ti­on and he wants it now. Miss Re­ba is cal­ling for Jaz­zy's he­ad on a sil­ver plat­ter."

  "And you in­tend to ser­ve Jaz­zy up to Miss Re­ba." Jacob knot­ted his hands in­to tight fists. He ne­eded half an ho­ur with a pun­c­hing bag to work off so­me frus­t­ra­ti­on. He knew Wa­de had lit­tle cho­ice in the mat­ter. If the Up­tons wan­ted Jaz­zy ar­res­ted for mur­der, then her fa­te was se­aled.

  "Jazzy has no ali­bi for the ti­me-"

  "Caleb McCord says ot­her­wi­se," Dal­las told him.

  "And who is Ca­leb McCord?" Wa­de frow­ned. "What do we know abo­ut this guy, ot­her than he's Jaz­zy's lo­ver and wo­uld lie for her? Hell, for all we know, he hel­ped her kill Jamie."