The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  "Ah, his mind isn't on his job," Mo­ody told them. "He's got him­self a new swe­etie. A re­al hot lit­tle num­ber and-"

  "Shut up, will you!" Bobby Joe glo­we­red at Mo­ody. "Hell, can't a man ha­ve a pri­va­te li­fe wit­ho­ut ever­y­body stic­king the­ir no­se in his bu­si­ness?" 'You're over­re­ac­ting to a lit­tle in­no­cent rib­bing," Jacob sa­id. 'That's not li­ke you. So­met­hing is wrong or you wo­uldn't be ac­ting this way."

  Bobby Joe stor­med out of the of­fi­ce, slam­ming the do­or be­hind him af­ter he mar­c­hed in­to the hall. Jacob glan­ced from Mo­ody to Dal­las and then back at Mo­ody.

  "Who's the girl?"

  Moody grin­ned. With tho­se big blue eyes and curly blond ha­ir, he lo­oked li­ke an over­g­rown kid. "It's that Wil­lis girl."

  Laura Wil­lis?" Dal­las and Jacob sa­id si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly. "Nah, the ot­her one." 'The te­ena­ger?" Jacob as­ked.

  "Yeah. Her na­me is She­ri­dan and she's only ni­ne­te­en, but from what Bobby Joe says, she su­re do­esn't act li­ke a kid, if you know what I me­an."

  Jacob nod­ded. So Bobby Joe was scre­wing the yo­un­ger Wil­lis girl. Con­si­de­ring that Bobby Joe wasn't exactly a la­di­es' man and not known for ma­king the first mo­ve, She­ri­dan Wil­lis must ha­ve put the mo­ves on him. But why was he ac­ting as if he'd com­mit­ted a cri­me? If she was ni­ne­te­en, she was le­gal.

  "Maybe he's em­bar­ras­sed abo­ut da­ting so­me­body that yo­ung," Dal­las sa­id.

  Jacob sho­ok his he­ad. "I don't think that's it. The­re's so­met­hing mo­re. So­met­hing to do with the­se mur­ders."

  "You think Bobby Joe knows so­met­hing we don't know?" Dal­las as­ked.

  "How's that pos­sib­le?" Mo­ody's smo­oth brow wrin­k­led.

  "I'm not su­re, but I'm go­ing to find out," Jacob told them.

  When he exi­ted the of­fi­ce, he lo­oked up and down the hall. He spot­ted Bobby Joe at the end of the cor­ri­dor by the co­la mac­hi­ne. As if sen­sing Jacob's pre­sen­ce, his de­puty glan­ced up from whe­re he'd just de­po­si­ted co­ins in­to the slot. The­ir ga­zes met for an in­s­tant. Then Bobby Joe lo­oked down to whe­re the mac­hi­ne had de­po­si­ted an ice-cold can of ro­ot be­er in­to the me­tal bed. Jacob to­ok so­me qu­ar­ters out of his poc­ket so that when he re­ac­hed the co­la mac­hi­ne, he drop­ped the co­ins in the slot and hit the Oran­ge Crush but­ton. Af­ter ret­ri­eving his drink and snap­ping the tab, he lif­ted the can t his lips and to­ok a long swig.

  "I gu­ess Mo­ody told you who I've be­en sne­aking aro­und se­e­ing." Bobby Joe de­li­be­ra­tely didn't lo­ok at Jacob.

  "Sheridan Wil­lis." Jacob wi­ped his mo­uth with the back of his free hand, then tur­ned and put his hand on Bobby Joe's sho­ul­der. "Is the­re so­met­hing you want to tell me?" ^ Bobby Joe har­rum­p­hed. "Want to tell you-no. Ne­ed to tell you-yes."

  "Just spit it out. Wha­te­ver it is, it can't be as bad you're ma­king it out to be."

  "It's not that. It's just I sho­uld ha­ve al­re­ady sa­id so­met­hing to you abo­ut it, es­pe­ci­al­ly con­si­de­ring it might be so­met­hing that co­uld help Miss Jaz­zy."

  "Tell me now."

  "Well…" Bobby Joe shuf­fled, then mo­ti­oned for Jacob to fol­low him. "Let's talk out­si­de. Okay? I don't want no­body over­he­aring us."

  When they wal­ked out the back do­or of the co­ur­t­ho­use, Bobby Joe lo­oked aro­und. Af­ter he saw that they we­re com­p­le­tely alo­ne, he sa­id, "Right af­ter Jamie was kil­led, She­ri­dan sa­id she tho­ught may­be her sis­ter had kil­led him."

  "Laura Wil­lis?" 'Ye­ah."

  "What ma­de her think that?"

  "She sa­id her sis­ter had prob­lems. You know, men­tal prob­lems. It se­ems La­ura had a ner­vo­us bre­ak­down when she was six­te­en."

  "Any his­tory of vi­olen­ce?"

  ''I don't know. She­ri­dan didn't say much mo­re, but… she cal­led me just a few mi­nu­tes ago. You know… that per­so­nal call I to­ok."

  Jacob for­ced him­self not to jump to any con­c­lu­si­ons abo­ut La­ura Wil­lis. Not yet. Just be­ca­use he knew Jaz­zy was in­no­cent didn't auto­ma­ti­cal­ly ma­ke La­ura gu­ilty. ut if an­yo­ne ot­her than Jaz­zy had a re­ason to ha­te Jamie, to wish him de­ad, it was pro­bably La­ura.

  "So what abo­ut that call?" Jacob as­ked.

  "It was She­ri­dan. She'd he­ard abo­ut the se­cond mur­der. Se­ems it's al­re­ady all over the TV and ra­dio."

  Jacob gro­aned. Ye­ah, Bri­an Mac­Kin­non wo­uld see to it that the she­rif­fs de­par­t­ment and the lo­cal po­li­ce we­re held up to ri­di­cu­le. That guy had it in for both Dal­las and him.

  "Go on. What did she ha­ve to say?" Jacob sip­ped on his Oran­ge Crush.

  Mimicking his boss, Bobby Joe to­ok a co­up­le of swal­lows from his ro­ot be­er. "She sa­id La­ura co­uld ha­ve kil­led this guy, too… that when I drop­ped her off last night and she was he­ading up the back sta­irs at the Up­ton ho­use, she ca­ught La­ura sne­aking up the sta­irs, too. La­ura had be­en out so­mew­he­re for ho­urs and ho­urs and no­body knew whe­re."

  "Sheridan must re­al­ly ha­te her sis­ter to sha­re this type of in­for­ma­ti­on with a she­rif­fs de­puty, "Jacob sa­id. "Even if he is a de­puty she's scre­wing."

  Bobby Joe's fa­ce flus­hed. "What do you think?"

  "I think we sho­uld ask La­ura Wil­lis to co­me in and talk to us," Jacob sa­id. "And I want Wa­de Tru­man he­re when we qu­es­ti­on her. If he se­es the­re's so­me­one el­se with mo­ti­ve and op­por­tu­nity, he might be per­su­aded to drop the char­ges aga­inst Jaz­zy."

  Caleb pul­led his T-bird in at a Da­iry Bar, got out, or­de­red cof­fee, and got back in his car. When he'd left Che­ro­kee Po­in­te this mor­ning, he'd just star­ted dri­ving, and had en­ded up on Hig­h­way 321 and kept go­ing all the way to Gre­en­vil­le be­fo­re he re­ali­zed whe­re he was. Ori­gi­nal­ly he had plan­ned on me­eting up with Dal­las and Jacob to get all the in­fo he co­uld abo­ut the most re­cent mur­der in Che­ro­kee Co­unty. His go­al had be­en to help Jaz­zy.

  I want to pro­tect you and ta­ke ca­re of you and ma­ke you happy, he'd told her. And he'd me­ant every word.

  Why the hell had he go­ne back in­to the bed­ro­om for one last lo­ok at her this mor­ning? Why hadn't he just left as so­on as Sally got the­re? If he hadn't to­uc­hed her, kis­sed her, hadn't felt the over­w­hel­ming ne­ed to whis­per that he lo­ved her whi­le she slept, he ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve he­ard her mur­mur Jamie's na­me.

  God, it had be­en li­ke a kni­fe in his he­art. He had just spent the most in­c­re­dib­le ho­urs of his li­fe ma­king lo­ve with a wo­man who had co­me to me­an ever­y­t­hing to him. He'd be­en stu­pid eno­ugh to think she felt the sa­me way. But it wasn't his na­me she mur­mu­red in her sle­ep. He wasn't the man in her mind and in her he­art. That sac­red spot was re­ser­ved for a man who had ne­ver be­en worthy of her.

  Maybe if Jamie we­re still ali­ve, he'd ha­ve a chan­ce to win Jaz­zy away from him. But how did he fight a ghost? Had he re­al­ly tho­ught he was such a stud that one night in bed with him and Jaz­zy wo­uld for­get abo­ut all tho­se ye­ars she'd be­en in lo­ve with Jamie?

  Caleb squ­e­ezed the half-full fo­am cup so hard that the con­tents slos­hed out over the top and spil­led on­to his hand. He cur­sed lo­udly. The cof­fee was still hot. Hot eno­ugh to ma­ke him crin­ge, but not hot eno­ugh to burn.

  What are you go­ing to do, McCord, just ke­ep go­ing. Don't lo­ok back. But what abo­ut his things back the­re at the ca­bin? Okay, so go back long eno­ugh to get yo­ur stuff, then hit the ro­ad.

  You can't le­ave -wit­ho­ut chec­king on Miss Re­ba, wit­ho­ut tal­king to Big Jim Up­ton and tel­ling him who you are. Af­ter all, that's why you ca­m
e to Che­ro­kee Co­unty. To find out abo­ut yo­ur mot­her's fa­mily.

  If he went to Big Jim with the truth, the odds we­re le man wo­uldn't be­li­eve him. So show him yo­ur birth cer­ti­fi­ca­te. Show him the pic­tu­res of you and yo­ur mot­her when you we­re a kid. Tell him you'll ta­ke a DNA test.

  Is that what he wan­ted? Did he want to be Big Jim, Up­ton's gran­d­son-the he­ir to the Up­ton for­tu­ne? If he was filthy, stin­king rich wo­uld Jaz­zy want him? Wo­uld she lo­ve him?

  Caleb la­ug­hed at him­self, at his own fo­olis­h­ness. He had known and pi­ti­ed lo­ve­sick fo­ols, ne­ver dre­aming that so­me­day he'd jo­in the­ir ranks.

  If you lo­ve Jaz­zy so damn much, how can you de­sert her? How can you let yo­ur stu­pid pri­de ke­ep you from be­ing the­re to ta­ke ca­re of her? You ma­de her pro­mi­ses. You 're a man of yo­ur word, aren't you?

  He had un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness back in Che­ro­kee Co­un­ty-with Big Jim Up­ton and Miss Re­ba. And with Jaz­zy.

  Caleb got out of the car, dum­ped his smas­hed fo­am cup in the trash bin out­si­de the Da­iry Bar, and ma­de a de­ci­si­on. If he went back and pro­ved his iden­tity to his gran­d­pa­rents and pur­su­ed a re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Jaz­zy, so­me pe­op­le wo­uld say that he'd step­ped in­to Jamie Up­ton's sho­es and ta­ken over the man's li­fe. Hell, a lot of pe­op­le wo­uld say it. But they'd be wrong. He didn't want any part of Jamie's li­fe. But you do want ever­y­t­hing that had on­ce be­en Jamie's, an in­ner vo­ice told him.

  Jim and Re­ba Up­ton we­re his gran­d­pa­rents, too. He had a right to know them, didn't he? Pe­op­le might not un­der­s­tand that the Up­ton for­tu­ne didn't me­an that much to him, but ha­ving a fa­mily did. And as far as Jaz­zy was con­cer­ned, he didn't want her to lo­ve him the way she'd lo­ved Jamie. He wan­ted mo­re from her be-, ca­use he was wil­ling to of­fer her mo­re.

  To hell with Jamie. To hell with what pe­op­le wo­uld think and say. He was not go­ing to let one word-one na­me-that Jaz­zy had spo­ken in her sle­ep run him off and stop him from la­ying cla­im to ever­y­t­hing he wan­ted. Ever­y­t­hing that was rig­h­t­ful­ly his.

  Caleb slid be­hind the whe­el and star­ted his Thun­der-bird. Af­ter bac­king out of the par­king area, he tur­ned the car so­ut­h­west. He was he­ading ho­me.

  Mid af­ter­no­on, Dal­las fi­nis­hed up a la­te lunch with Jacob, the two of them sip­ping cof­fee and enj­oying Lu­die's ho­me­ma­de pe­can pie. As so­on as Genny had fi­nis­hed eating, she'd go­ne to Jaz­zy's apar­t­ment to re­li­eve Sally, who'd cal­led to say that Jaz­zy was wor­ri­ed abo­ut Ca­leb. He'd left aro­und six this mor­ning and they hadn't he­ard a word from him. Dal­las fi­gu­red his Genny wo­uld be ab­le to so­ot­he Jaz­zy's con­cerns. He just ho­ped she didn't over­do. Genny had a way of put­ting ever­yo­ne el­se first and her­self last. As hard as he tri­ed to lo­ok af­ter her, to ma­ke her con­si­der her own ne­eds, she co­uldn't chan­ge who she was. By na­tu­re she was a ca­re­ta­ker. That lo­ving, gi­ving spi­rit was as much a part of her as tho­se lu­mi­no­us black eyes and her re­mar­kab­le gift of sight, all three in­he­ri­ted from her Granny But­ler, a half-bre­ed Che­ro­kee.

  Dallas's cell pho­ne rang, pul­ling him from his tho­ughts of Genny. He re­mo­ved the pho­ne from its hol­der, pun­c­hed the on but­ton and sa­id, "Ye­ah, Slo­an he­re."

  Dallas, it's Te­ri. I've got a pre­li­mi­nary on La­ura Wil­lis and I'm still dig­ging. It co­uld ta­ke anot­her day, may­be two, to get ever­y­t­hing on her, her pa­rents, and her sis­ter."

  Keep dig­ging," Dal­las sa­id. "Now go ahe­ad and tell me what you've got."

  She did ha­ve so­me sort of men­tal col­lap­se when she was fif­te­en. She spent ne­arly three months in a pri­va­te hos­pi­tal and was un­der psychi­at­ric ca­re for a co­up­le of ye­ars."

  "Any de­ta­ils on what ca­used the bre­ak­down?"

  "Haven't be­en ab­le to find that out yet."

  When Te­ri pa­used and didn't say an­y­t­hing for a co­up­le of mi­nu­tes, Dal­las re­mem­be­red how she'd al­ways li­ked to bu­ild up to a big re­ve­la­ti­on with a long, si­lent pa­use.

  "What is it?" he as­ked.

  She chuc­k­led. "Just an in­te­res­ting lit­tle tid­bit It was easy eno­ugh to tra­ce da­tes. You know, things li­ke da­te of birth, da­te of mar­ri­age, and so on. La­ura Wil­lis is twen­ty-fo­ur, ac­cor­ding to the re­cords I was ab­le to ac­cess-her dri­ver's li­cen­se in­fo be­ing one."

  "So?"

  "Andrea and Ce­cil Wil­lis ha­ve be­en mar­ri­ed only twen­ty-th­ree ye­ars."

  Dallas mul­led the in­for­ma­ti­on over in his mind. "Did you do­ub­le-check the dates?"

  ''Yes, I did. You sho­uld know that we FBI types al­ways do­ub­le-check."

  "All that me­ans is that La­ura was born be­fo­re her pa­rents we­re mar­ri­ed."

  "Maybe."

  "What are you dying to tell me?"

  "Andrea Wil­lis is not the first Mrs. Ce­cil Wil­lis. His first mar­ri­age was an­nul­led twen­ty-fo­ur ye­ars ago, so that me­ans he was mar­ri­ed to so­me­one el­se when he fat­he­red La­ura."

  "Interesting, but I don't see how it's per­ti­nent to our ca­se."

  "I think the­re's mo­re to it," Te­ri sa­id. "Call it gut in­s­tinct, but-hey, why don't you ask Genny to do a…’’ "No way."

  "Not even if it wo­uld help her fri­end Jaz­zy?" 'You ke­ep dig­ging, find out all you can and if you don't co­me up with so­met­hing, then may­be I'll in­vol­ve Genny."

  "Whatever you say. I'll be in to­uch."

  When Dal­las rep­la­ced his pho­ne in its hol­s­ter, Jacob as­ked, "Anything?"

  "Not re­al­ly, but Te­ri's got a hunch and her hun­c­hes usu­al­ly pay off," Dal­las sa­id. "She'll be back in to­uch with me so­on."

  "Well, I ho­pe you're right abo­ut her hun­c­hes. We've got two un­sol­ved mur­ders and un­less we can gi­ve the DA anot­her vi­ab­le sus­pect, Jaz­zy will mo­re than li­kely be put on tri­al for Jamie's mur­der."

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  Cherokee Co­unty Hos­pi­tal se­emed the most lo­gi­cal' first stop for Ca­leb when he re­tur­ned to town. He wasn't qu­ite re­ady to fa­ce Jaz­zy, to con­f­ront her with his wo­un­ded! mas­cu­li­ne pri­de. If she told him that she still lo­ved Jamie, he wasn't su­re how he'd re­act. Was he wil­ling to spend the rest of his li­fe pla­ying se­cond fid­dle to his de­ad co­usin? Or if when she fo­und out the truth abo­ut Ca­leb ac­tu­al­ly be­ing an Up­ton he­ir, wo­uld she want him and put him in the po­si­ti­on of al­ways won­de­ring if she lo­ved him or the Up­ton mil­li­ons? When he pa­used at the nur­se's sta­ti­on down the hall from the in­ten­si­ve ca­re unit, no one pa­id any at­ten­ti­on to him. He cle­ared his thro­at A sta­tu­es­que black wo­man in her mid fif­ti­es, with a warm smi­le, tur­ned to fa­ce him. "May I help you, sir?"'

  "I was won­de­ring if I co­uld find out how Mrs. Up­ton is do­ing?" Ca­leb as­ked.

  A pe­ti­te mid­dle-aged blon­de-ap­pa­rently the RN on duty-snap­ped aro­und and gla­red at Ca­leb. "If you're anot­her re­por­ter, I sug­gest you le­ave be­fo­re I call se­cu­rity.''

  "I'm not a re­por­ter."

  ''Then what is yo­ur in­te­rest in Mrs. Up­ton? Are you fa­mily? A clo­se' per­so­nal fri­end?"

  Caleb didn't know how to res­pond and be­fo­re he co­uld think of a su­itab­le reply, the RN told him, "Sin­ce you're ap­pa­rently ne­it­her, per­haps you sho­uld call Mr. Up­ton and ask for that type of in­for­ma­ti­on."

  "I'm fa­mily," Ca­leb sa­id boldly.

  The RN eyed him skep­ti­cal­ly. "I do­ubt that"

  "Look, all I want to know is if she's bet­ter or wor­se."

  "Check with the Up­ton fa­mily," t
he nur­se told him, then pic­ked up a stack of charts and wal­ked off down the hall.

  Just as Ca­leb star­ted to le­ave, the ot­her nur­se cal­led to him qu­i­etly. "Hey, yo­ung man."

  Caleb stop­ped and fa­ced her. "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Mrs. Up­ton's con­di­ti­on has be­en up­g­ra­ded. She's do­ing much bet­ter. So much bet­ter that they mo­ved her out of ICU abo­ut an ho­ur ago. Her hus­band ar­ran­ged for her to ha­ve a su­ite on the fo­urth flo­or."

  "Thank you." Ca­leb grin­ned. "And you sho­uld know I re­al­ly am a mem­ber of the fa­mily."

  "I tho­ught so," the nur­se rep­li­ed. "I co­uld tell right away that you we­re ge­nu­inely con­cer­ned abo­ut Mrs. Up­ton."