The Last To Die

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The Last To Die Page 33

by Beverly Barton


  Caleb nod­ded, then rus­hed to­ward the ele­va­tors. Af­ter he en­te­red and pun­c­hed the fo­urth flo­or but­ton, he tho­ught abo­ut what the nur­se had sa­id abo­ut his con­cern for Re­ba Up­ton be­ing ob­vi­o­us. Ye­ah, he was con­cer­ned, but he wasn't su­re why. She was his gran­d­mot­her, but he didn't know her, had ne­ver ac­tu­al­ly met her. May­be just kno­wing she was his gran­d­mot­her was eno­ugh to ma­ke him ca­re. When Miss Re­ba's ima­ge flas­hed thro­ugh his mind, he saw his mot­her. That was why he ca­red. At so­me po­int in her li­fe, his mot­her had lo­ved Miss Re­ba and Big Jim. Ot­her­wi­se when she was on her de­at­h­bed, she ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve told him to go to them. Okay, so his mot­her had di­ed ye­ars ago and he was a lit­tle la­te in ful­fil­ling her dying wish. But bet­ter la­te than ne­ver, right?

  When the ele­va­tor do­ors swung open, he he­si­ta­ted for a mo­ment. Do it, he told him­self. You aren't go­ing to dis­turb her. You aren’t go­ing to tell her who you are. Not yet. But may­be you can just ta­ke a lo­ok and see for yo­ur­self that she's go­ing to be all right.

  Caleb step­ped out of the ele­va­tor and glan­ced left and right. Just how many pri­va­te su­ites we­re up he­re on the fo­urth flo­or? And if the­re was mo­re than one, how wo­uld he know which one Miss Re­ba was in?

  If you run in­to an­y­body or if a nur­se con­f­ronts you, just act li­ke you know what you 're do­ing and whe­re you 're go­ing. And if the­re's a gu­ard at Miss Re­ba's do­or, just walk on by.

  It didn't ta­ke long for him to dis­co­ver that the pa­ti­ent's na­me was pos­ted on the out­si­de of the do­or and the­re we­re only two pri­va­te su­ites. One was empty. When he ap­pro­ac­hed the ot­her, the do­or sto­od hal­f­way open. He to­ok a de­ep bre­ath and ap­pro­ac­hed, then pa­used out­si­de and lo­oked in­to the ro­om. A wo­man in a uni­form-a pri­va­te duty nur­se, no do­ubt-sat ne­ar the fo­ot of the bed, her back to Ca­leb. He had a cle­ar vi­ew of his gran­d­mot­her. Des­pi­te her blond ha­ir and re­la­ti­vely smo­oth fa­ce, she lo­oked old. A he­art at­tack wo­uld age a per­son, he fi­gu­red. But even tho­ugh she was pa­le and lo­oked ter­ribly small and hel­p­less in that hos­pi­tal bed, she was still a pretty wo­man. Just li­ke his mot­her had be­en, Ye­ars of drug use had ta­ken a toll on his mot­her, but even at the end, when she'd be­en bo­ne skinny, her on­ce lus­t­ro­us ha­ir thin and dull, and with dark cir­c­les un­der her eyes, she had still be­en pretty. Or may­be he had just lo­oked at her thro­ugh a son's eyes. Me­la­nie hadn't be­en the best mot­her in the world, but she'd be­en the only mot­her he'd had, and be­fo­re the drugs to­ok over her li­fe com­p­le­tely, the­re had be­en so­me go­od ti­mes. Go­od me­mo­ri­es.

  He didn't know how long he sto­od the­re just sta­ring at his gran­d­mot­her, won­de­ring how she wo­uld re­act when she le­ar­ned that her da­ug­h­ter had left be­hind a child. Then, just as he de­ci­ded it was ti­me for him to le­ave, a big hand ho­oked over his sho­ul­der.

  "What the hell do you think you're do­ing?" Big Jim Up­ton's vo­ice so­un­ded li­ke a rot­twe­iler's fe­ro­ci­o­us growl.

  Caleb tur­ned aro­und and fa­ced his gran­d­fat­her.

  "If you're a dam­ned re­por­ter-"

  "I'm not a re­por­ter." 'Then what are you do­ing sno­oping aro­und out­si­de my wi­fe's hos­pi­tal ro­om? Who told you whe­re she was?"

  ''I wasn't sno­oping." Ca­leb jer­ked free of Jim's tight hold. "I stop­ped by to see how Miss Re­ba was do­ing."

  Jim eyed him sus­pi­ci­o­usly. "Do I know you? You lo­ok fa­mi­li­ar."

  "You don't know me, Mr. Up­ton. But if I lo­ok fa­mi­li­ar to you, it co­uld be be­ca­use I lo­ok qu­ite a bit li­ke my mot­her."

  "Your mot­her? Do we know yo­ur mot­her? Is she a fri­end of ours?" Jim scan­ned Ca­leb from his over­long ha­ir to his black le­at­her bo­ots.

  If you're go­ing to do it, do it! Ca­leb told him­self. May­be this is the wrong ti­me and the wrong pla­ce, but you’ve put it off long eno­ugh.

  "My mot­her was Me­la­nie Up­ton McCord."

  Jim gla­red at him as if he wasn't su­re he'd he­ard him right. "What sort of ga­me are you pla­ying, boy? You re to try to ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of us when we're at our most vul­ne­rab­le? Well, wha­te­ver you're up to, for­get it. Our da­ug­h­ter di­ed fif­te­en ye­ars ago of a-"

  "A drug over­do­se in Mem­p­his."

  Jim frow­ned, squ­in­ting his eyes and scrun­c­hing his fa­ce. "How wo­uld you know that?"

  "Because I was with her when she di­ed. I'm the one who tri­ed to sa­ve her. I'm the one who cal­led for an am­bu­lan­ce."

  Jim grab­bed Ca­leb by the front of his shirt. "How old are you? Not old eno­ugh to ha­ve be­en her lo­ver."

  "I was six­te­en when she di­ed. She wasn't even forty, but she lo­oked sixty. Drugs do that to pe­op­le, even be­a­uti­ful blon­de wo­men from go­od fa­mi­li­es. Be­a­uti­ful blon­de wo­men who lo­ok just li­ke the­ir mot­hers."

  Jim lo­ose­ned his hold on Ca­leb's shirt, but didn't let go. He sta­red in­to Ca­leb's eyes- eyes that we­re not li­ke his mot­her's. Jim stu­di­ed his fe­atu­res. Slowly. Ca­re­ful­ly. "You lo­ok a bit li­ke her and I can see so­me of Jim Jr. in you-" Jim re­le­ased Ca­leb ab­ruptly and step­ped away from him. "You can't be hers. If she'd had a child, the po­li­ce wo­uld ha­ve told us when they no­ti­fi­ed us she had di­ed."

  "They didn't know abo­ut me," Ca­leb sa­id. "When I knew she was de­ad, I split. I didn't hang aro­und so so­me so­ci­al wor­ker co­uld put me in a fos­ter ho­me."

  "But if she had a child, why… why didn't she co­me ho­me? She had a hus­band." Jim sho­ok his he­ad. "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-two."

  "She left he­re over thir­ty-th­ree ye­ars ago. Left us, left a go­od hus­band-"

  "He's not my fat­her."

  "And my Me­la­nie is not yo­ur mot­her." Jim har­de­ned his ga­ze. "Who­ever the hell you are, don't you da­re ever go ne­ar Miss Re­ba tel­ling her yo­ur crazy li­es. That wo­man has be­en thro­ugh way too much al­re­ady."

  "I don't want to hurt her… or you."

  ''Then get the hell out of my sight. Le­ave Che­ro­kee Po­in­te, and don't you ever co­me back. Do you he­ar me, boy?"

  Caleb lo­oked the old man right in the eye. "I'll le­ave whe­ne­ver I get damn go­od and re­ady to go."

  "You know who I am. You know what I can do to you if I've a mind to."

  "Yeah, I know. I know that you've se­en to it that the DA has ra­il­ro­aded an in­no­cent wo­man, had her ar­res­ted for a mur­der she didn't com­mit. I know all abo­ut how po­wer­ful Big Jim Up­ton is." Ca­leb grun­ted. "Hell, may­be you're right. May­be I'm not yo­ur gran­d­son. If Jamie Up­ton was the re­sult of yo­ur pa­ren­ting skills, then I'm damn lucky I didn't do what my mot­her wan­ted me to do and co­me to you and Miss Re­ba when I was six­te­en."

  Jim's fa­ce flus­hed. For a mi­nu­te the­re Ca­leb tho­ught Big Jim might hit him.

  "My mot­her's fa­vo­ri­te co­lor was blue. Her fa­vo­ri­te fa­iry ta­le was Sle­eping Be­a­uty. You used to re­ad it to her every night when she was a lit­tle girl. She had a pony na­med Ruf­fles. Her six­te­enth bir­t­h­day pre­sent from you was a yel­low Cor­vet­te. And Miss Re­ba ga­ve her a gold loc­ket sur­ro­un­ded by di­amonds on her wed­ding day. She wo­re it all the ti­me when I was a kid. She hung on to that nec­k­la­ce for a long ti­me, but fi­nal­ly in the end she sold it to buy drugs."

  Caleb tur­ned and wal­ked away. Let the old man di­gest all that in­for­ma­ti­on. If he ever wan­ted to talk to Ca­leb, he'd ha­ve to co­me to him. He wasn't go­ing to beg the man to be­li­eve him. And he su­re as hell wasn't go­ing to let Big Jim Up­ton in­ti­mi­da­te him.

  Andrea didn't li­ke
this one lit­tle bit. Al­t­ho­ugh the had as­su­red Ce­cil they didn't ne­ed the­ir law­yer pre­sent, she felt une­asy wal­king in­to the she­rif­fs of­fi­ce wit­ho­ut le­gal co­un­sel. They had the­ir mur­de­rer-Jaz­zy Tal­bot. Why did they ne­ed to qu­es­ti­on her fa­mily any fur­t­her? She be­li­eved she co­uld con­t­rol Ce­cil. Af­ter all, she'd be­en do­ing it for ye­ars. But the­ir da­ug­h­ters we­re anot­her mat­ter. She­ri­dan was he­ad­s­t­rong, in­so­lent, and might say an­y­t­hing. She'd ta­ken her yo­un­ger child asi­de be­fo­re they left the Up­ton ho­use and war­ned her to be on her best be­ha­vi­or. She pro­bably had She­ri­dan un­der con­t­rol, too. At le­ast tem­po­ra­rily. But what abo­ut La­ura? That po­or child was so fra­gi­le that it wo­uldn't ta­ke very much pres­su­re for her bre­ak in­to pi­eces. Pi­eces that might not ever go back to­get­her.

  "Do not say an­y­t­hing abo­ut not re­mem­be­ring whe­re you we­re the night Jamie di­ed," An­d­rea had told La­ura. "Do you he­ar me?"

  Laura had nod­ded and pro­mi­sed to ke­ep the­ir sec­ret, but An­d­rea knew that if she was pus­hed too far, La­ura wo­uld crum­b­le. And if that hap­pe­ned, the­re wo­uld be lit­tle that she and Ce­cil co­uld do for the girl. God help them all if the who­le truth ever ca­me out.

  What if she did kill Jamie? An­d­rea as­ked her­self as the fo­ur of them en­te­red the co­ur­t­ho­use. He­ads high, she'd told them. We ha­ve not­hing to fe­ar.

  If La­ura kil­led Jamie, no one must ever know. But what abo­ut the ot­her man who had be­en mur­de­red, that Wat­son man? La­ura had be­en out aga­in last eve­ning. She­ri­dan had ca­ught her slip­ping up the back sta­irs. Had she kil­led him, too? And if she had, why?

  "Please co­me in." Jacob But­ler met them at the do­or to the she­rif­fs de­par­t­ment. "I su­re do ap­pre­ci­ate y'all co­ming in. I'll try not to ke­ep you folks long. Just co­me on back to my of­fi­ce so we can talk in pri­va­te."

  Andrea nud­ged Ce­cil, who sto­od asi­de for his wi­fe and da­ug­h­ters, then fol­lo­wed alon­g­si­de the she­riff.

  "I put in a call to Phil­lip Stoc­k­ton, my law­yer, and he ad­vi­sed me as to what I sho­uld and sho­uldn't spe­ak to you abo­ut," Ce­cil sa­id. "But sin­ce ne­it­her I nor my wi­fe and da­ug­h­ters ha­ve an­y­t­hing to hi­de, we're mo­re than glad to co­ope­ra­te."

  "Just go on in and ha­ve a se­at," She­riff But­ler sa­id when they re­ac­hed his of­fi­ce. "I've as­ked Po­li­ce Chi­ef Slo­an and our dis­t­rict at­tor­ney, Wa­de Tru­man, to sit in on our con­ver­sa­ti­on."

  Andrea glan­ced at the ot­her two men-the big blond po­li­ce chi­ef stan­ding by the win­dows and Mr. Tru­man se­ated be­hind the she­rif­fs desk-but she didn't ac­k­now­led­ge the­ir pre­sen­ce by spe­aking to them. Then she no­ted that fo­ur cha­irs we­re spre­ad out over the ro­om, so that no two pe­op­le wo­uld be si­de by si­de. Had that be­en de­li­be­ra­te or just hap­pen­s­tan­ce? She le­aned over and whis­pe­red to Ce­cil, "Mo­ve one of the cha­irs next to this one"-she po­in­ted-"w­he­re I'll sit."

  He lo­oked at her, a puz­zled ex­p­res­si­on on his fa­ce, but did as she had as­ked. As so­on as he pla­ced the fol­ding cha­ir be­si­de the one whe­re An­d­rea sat, she cal­led, "La­ura, co­me sit by me, de­ar."

  Sheridan eyed her mot­her, then grin­ned. She didn't li­ke that cun­ning smi­le. What did She­ri­dan know? Pro­bably not­hing. But that girl had a mis­c­hi­evo­us stre­ak a mi­le wi­de and se­emed to enj­oy ca­using tro­ub­le.

  Jacob But­ler cros­sed his arms over his mas­si­ve chest and sat on the ed­ge of his desk. "As you folks pro­bably al­re­ady know, we've had anot­her mur­der he­re in Che­ro­kee Co­unty."

  Yes," Ce­cil sa­id. "A han­d­y­man of so­me sort, wasn't "A ma­in­te­nan­ce man for Che­ro­kee Ca­bin Ren­tals," Jacob sa­id. "His na­me was Stan­ley Wat­son. Did y'all by any chan­ce know him?"

  "Certainly not," An­d­rea rep­li­ed. "Why wo­uld you ever think we might know such a per­son?"

  "Just as­king, ma'am. Just as­king."

  "Cecil co­uld ha­ve an­s­we­red that qu­es­ti­on over the pho­ne-" An­d­rea stop­ped mid sen­ten­ce, re­ali­zing she was over­re­ac­ting.

  "Stan Wat­son's mur­der has si­mi­la­ri­ti­es to Jamie Up­ton's. Only this ti­me the body was bur­ned in­si­de the ve­hic­le, so we don't know whet­her she tor­tu­red him or not."

  Laura gas­ped. An­d­rea put her arm aro­und her da­ug­h­ter's sho­ul­der. "Re­al­ly, She­riff," An­d­rea scol­ded.

  "Sorry, ma'am, but you see, we fi­gu­re that the per­son who kil­led Jamie kil­led Stan."

  ''Then you al­re­ady ha­ve yo­ur mur­de­rer," An­d­rea told him. ''Jaz­zy Tal­bot kil­led Jamie." She lo­oked di­rectly at the dis­t­rict at­tor­ney. "Isn't that right?"

  ''Jaz­zy's ca­se will go be­fo­re a grand jury, if we can't find the re­al mur­de­rer, "Jacob sa­id. "You see, Jaz­zy has an iron­c­lad ali­bi for the ti­me Stan Wat­son was kil­led, so the­re’s no way she co­uld ha­ve com­mit­ted the se­cond mur­der."

  Andrea swal­lo­wed. Don't think abo­ut it, she told her­self. If you think abo­ut it, so­met­hing might show on yo­ur fa­ce that wo­uld ma­ke the she­riff sus­pi­ci­ous.

  "We ne­ed to know exactly whe­re each of you was bet­we­en six yes­ter­day eve­ning and mid­night last night."

  "We we­re at the Up­ton ho­me," An­d­rea rep­li­ed.

  "All fo­ur of you? "Jacob But­ler as­ked.

  "Yes-"

  "Don't lie for me, Mot­her." She­ri­dan boldly sta­red at the she­riff. "I had a da­te that las­ted for ho­urs and ho­urs. I was with this gen­t­le­man from abo­ut six-thirty un­til so­me­ti­me af­ter mid­night."

  Jacob cle­ared his thro­at. "We can ve­rify yo­ur whe­re­abo­uts, Ms. Wil­lis."

  Andrea snap­ped her he­ad aro­und and gla­red at her yo­un­ger da­ug­h­ter. Go­od God, su­rely she hadn't be­en with the she­riff. No, not the she­riff, but cer­ta­inly so­me­one he knew. She scan­ned the ro­om, stud­ying each man, won­de­ring if She­ri­dan had be­en with the chi­ef of po­li­ce or even the dis­t­rict at­tor­ney.

  "Cecil and I we­re to­get­her du­ring that ti­me and La­ura was eit­her with us or with her nur­se," An­d­rea sa­id, wan­ting to pro­tect La­ura. The she­riff must ne­ver know that La­ura had drug­ged Mrs. Con­ley and di­sap­pe­ared for ho­urs yes­ter­day eve­ning. If ne­ces­sary, she wo­uld pay off the nur­se, gi­ve her an enor­mo­us bo­nus for ke­eping qu­i­et.

  Jacob wal­ked over to La­ura, squ­at­ted down in front of her and as­ked in a kind, gen­t­le vo­ice, "La­ura, is the­re an­y­t­hing you can tell us that might help us sol­ve Jamie's mur­der… and Stan Wat­son's mur­der?"

  Laura lo­oked to her mot­her, her blue eyes wi­de with fe­ar and ple­ading for help. "I-I don't know… so­me­ti­mes I can't re­mem­ber things. I want to help, but…"

  "Please, don't do this," An­d­rea sa­id to the she­riff. "La­ura is by na­tu­re very de­li­ca­te and Jamie's de­ath has un­set­tled her, not to men­ti­on the un­for­tu­na­te mis­car­ri­age. She's un­der a doc­tor's ca­re." An­d­rea lo­oked at Ce­cil. "We sho­uld ha­ve Dr. Mac­Na­ir he­re. He can ex­p­la­in how easily the le­ast lit­tle ti­ling might-" She cle­ared her thro­at. "Ple­ase… La­ura can't help you. Be­li­eve me, she can't."

  The she­riff eyed An­d­rea sus­pi­ci­o­usly and for a split se­cond, she co­uldn't bre­at­he. Fe­ar smot­he­red her. But­ler ro­se to his full, im­p­res­si­ve he­ight. An­d­rea ima­gi­ned that this man's si­ze and sa­va­ge fe­atu­res of­ten frig­h­te­ned cri­mi­nals in­to ma­king a full con­fes­si­on. But she wasn't a cri­mi­nal and she wasn't easily in­ti­mi­da­ted, es­pe­ci­al­ly by so­me­one as in­fe­ri­or as this bac­k­wo�
�ods In­di­an she­riff.

  The she­riff ope­ned the of­fi­ce do­or and cal­led to one of his de­pu­ti­es, "Con­tact Dr. Mac­Na­ir and ask him if he can co­me over he­re as so­on as pos­sib­le. Tell him we're qu­es­ti­oning the Wil­lis fa­mily and that I ha­ve so­me qu­es­ti­ons for La­ura, but her mot­her fe­els qu­es­ti­oning her any fur­t­her might je­opar­di­ze her he­alth."

  Andrea felt the blo­od rush to her fa­ce, he­ard it po­un­ding thro­ugh her he­ad. She sto­od, wal­ked over to Ce­cil and sa­id qu­i­etly, "Do so­met­hing!"

  "What wo­uld you ha­ve me do?" Ce­cil sig­hed. His sho­ul­ders sag­ged.

  "Laura sho­uldn't be qu­es­ti­oned." An­d­rea la­id her hand on her hus­band's arm and squ­e­ezed tightly. "Do you un­der­s­tand?"

  His eyes ope­ned wi­de with re­ali­za­ti­on. He nod­ded. "I'll call Phil­lip."

  Just as An­d­rea star­ted to res­pond, to tell Ce­cil they ne­eded mo­re im­me­di­ate help than Phil­lip co­uld gi­ve them sin­ce he was hun­d­reds of mi­les away in Le­xin­g­ton, a te­lep­ho­ne rang. She glan­ced aro­und in­si­de the she­rif­fs of­fi­ce and thro­ugh the open do­or in­to the outer of­fi­ce and no­ted one of the de­pu­ti­es on the pho­ne cal­ling Dr. Mac­Na­ir, as he'd be­en in­s­t­ruc­ted to do. Then she saw the chi­ef of po­li­ce re­mo­ve his cell pho­ne from its belt clip and flip the pho­ne open. She wat­c­hed him as he hur­ri­edly wal­ked in­to the outer of­fi­ce area.

 

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