The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  "Laura do­esn't know that you aren't her bi­olo­gi­cal mot­her?" Jacob as­ked.

  "No." An­d­rea sho­ok her he­ad. "I sup­po­se we sho­uld ha­ve told her, but…" An­d­rea lo­oked at the she­riff, ho­ping he was ca­pab­le of gre­at un­der­s­tan­ding and com­pas­si­on. "Wo­uld you want to know that yo­ur mot­her was cri­mi­nal­ly in­sa­ne? That she had tri­ed to kill yo­ur gran­d­fat­her by tor­tu­ring him to de­ath?"

  "No, ma'am, I wo­uldn't."

  "Then you can un­der­s­tand why we wan­ted to ke­ep the truth from La­ura, why we've li­ved in fe­ar all the­se ye­ars that the truth wo­uld co­me out. Very few pe­op­le know abo­ut Ce­cil's first mar­ri­age. He and his fat­her had a fal­ling out when Ce­cil mar­ri­ed Mar­ga­ret. She wasn't… she wasn't our kind."

  "My first wi­fe ca­me from trash, She­riff But­ler," Ce­cil sa­id. "She was a be­a­uti­ful wo­man de­ter­mi­ned to es­ca­pe from po­verty, and she saw me as her es­ca­pe ro­ute. I was yo­ung and fo­olish, and al­t­ho­ugh I was in lo­ve with An­d­rea and we we­re prac­ti­cal­ly en­ga­ged, one night I suc­cum­bed to Mar­ga­ret's rat­her con­si­de­rab­le charm. She ca­me to me a co­up­le of months la­ter and told me she was preg­nant. Na­tu­ral­ly, I did the ho­no­rab­le thing and mar­ri­ed her. Aga­inst my pa­rents' wis­hes.

  "We mo­ved to Lo­u­is­vil­le and we­re li­ving the­re when La­ura was born." Ce­cil sig­hed he­avily. "My pa­rents cut off my funds, and I was ill-equ­ip­ped to ma­ke a li­ving on my own. Mar­ga­ret dis­co­ve­red that I co­uld of­fer her very lit­tle wit­ho­ut my fat­her's mo­ney, and it was men mat I re­ali­zed my wi­fe had se­ve­re men­tal prob­lems. She… she… uh-" Ce­cil cle­ared his thro­at "I to­ok La­ura, left Mar­ga­ret, and went ho­me to my pa­rents." Te­ars tric­k­led down Ce­cil's che­eks. "My pa­rents ar­ran­ged for the mar­ri­age to be an­nul­led and we-I-ga­ined full cus­tody of La­ura."

  Andrea co­uldn't be­ar se­e­ing her hus­band this way, so to­tal­ly de­fe­ated, in so much pa­in. She had ne­ver lo­ved an­yo­ne but Ce­cil. She had for­gi­ven him, lo­ved him, mar­ri­ed him, and adop­ted La­ura. And she had ne­ver reg­ret­ted tho­se de­ci­si­ons.

  "Margaret so­me­how ma­na­ged to ab­duct Mar­s­hall Wil­lis, Ce­cil's fat­her," An­d­rea sa­id. "She bla­med him for ever­y­t­hing at the ti­me. She had in­ten­ded to kill him, af­ter she tor­tu­red him. She to­ok him to the Wil­lis hunt-mg lod­ge and only by me­re chan­ce a co­up­le of hun­ters he­ard Mar­s­hall's scre­ams and in­ves­ti­ga­ted."

  "Margaret had tor­tu­red my fat­her for ho­urs," Ce­cil sa­id. "If tho­se hun­ters hadn't… he al­most di­ed." ‘’You must see that our kno­wing La­ura's bi­olo­gi­cal mot­her's bac­k­g­ro­und sheds new light on Jamie's mur­der ca­se," Jacob sa­id.

  Just be­ca­use Mar­ga­ret was ca­pab­le of do­ing so­met­hing so ter­rib­le do­esn't me­an La­ura is," Ce­cil sa­id. "You tell them, An­d­rea. Tell them that La­ura wo­uld ne­ver…"

  ''You ha­ve ab­so­lu­tely no pro­of that La­ura had an­y­t­hing to do with Jamie's mur­der." An­d­rea held her he­ad high and lo­oked the she­riff right in the eye. "Yes, our el­der da­ug­h­ter is emo­ti­onal­ly fra­gi­le and it's pos­sib­le she in­he­ri­ted a men­tal we­ak­ness from Mar­ga­ret. But La­ura is, as Ce­cil told you, a kind, swe­et yo­ung wo­man, in­ca­pab­le of mur­der."

  "Is that what her psychi­at­rist told y'all af­ter you com­mit­ted her for tre­at­ment a few days af­ter she tri­ed to run down her boy­f­ri­end when she was six­te­en?" Dal­las as­ked.

  Andrea gla­red at the po­li­ce chi­ef. ''That was not­hing mo­re than an ac­ci­dent. No char­ges we­re ever fi­led."

  Andrea lo­oked to the­ir law­yer and the mi­nu­te he no­ti­ced her sta­ring at him, he cle­ared his thro­at and sa­id, "I sug­gest that in­s­te­ad of tor­men­ting the Wil­lis fa­mily and po­in­ting fin­gers at La­ura Wil­lis, you ma­ke so­me in­qu­iri­es abo­ut Mar­ga­ret Ben­t­ley's whe­re­abo­uts. Is she still con­fi­ned to the men­tal hos­pi­tal? If not, then I'd say she co­uld very well be yo­ur-"

  "Shut up!" An­d­rea huf­fed. Dam­ned stu­pid yo­ung man!

  "Ma'am?" Wi­de-eyed and mo­uth aga­pe, Trent Lan­g­ley gul­ped as he lo­oked at An­d­rea.

  "The sa­ni­ta­ri­um whe­re Mar­ga­ret Ben­t­ley re­si­ded for ne­arly twen­ty-two ye­ars bur­ned to the gro­und two ye­ars ago," Dal­las ex­p­la­ined. "She and ne­arly two do­zen ot­her pa­ti­ents di­ed in that fi­re."

  If only Mar­ga­ret we­re ali­ve, An­d­rea tho­ught. If only that in­sa­ne bitch had be­en the one who'd kil­led Jamie. But Mar­ga­ret was de­ad. And the truth abo­ut La­ura's ma­ter­nity was no lon­ger a well-kept fa­mily sec­ret. She had spent twen­ty-fo­ur ye­ars trying to pro­tect Ce­cil's lit­tle girl, but now she fe­ared the ti­me had co­me when the­re was very lit­tle she co­uld do to pro­tect La­ura from a tra­gic past that had co­me back to ha­unt them all.

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  Andrea Wil­lis slap­ped the mor­ning edi­ti­on of The Che­ro­kee Po­in­te He­rald down on the tab­le in front of her hus­band. Jim Up­ton glan­ced up from his pla­te, lit­te­red with the rem­nants of ham and red-eye gravy, scram­b­led eggs and Do­ra's ho­me­ma­de bis­cu­its. Ce­cil Wil­lis lo­oked li­ke a damn whip­ped dog. Jim wan­ted to sho­ut at the man, tell him to grow a bac­k­bo­ne-hell, to grow a set of balls. Only re­cently he'd en­vi­ed Ce­cil be­ing mar­ri­ed to a strong, ta­ke-char­ge wo­man, but that was be­fo­re he'd re­ali­zed just how pussy whip­ped the guy was. He'd ta­ke a clin­ging vi­ne li­ke Re­ba any day of the we­ek over so­me­one li­ke Wil­lis's wi­fe.

  Look at the he­ad­li­nes!" An­d­rea sho­uted. "How are you go­ing to de­al with this?"

  Cecil lif­ted the new­s­pa­per off his pla­te. A wad of scram­b­led eggs, which had stuck to the back of the pa­per drop­ped off, le­aving a gre­asy spot on the new­s­p­rint. He re­ad the he­ad­li­nes, sig­hed, and lo­oked up at his wi­fe, who ho­ve­red over him li­ke a vul­tu­re.

  "It was to be ex­pec­ted," Ce­cil told her.

  "Is that all you ha­ve to say?" An­d­rea de­man­ded.

  "What's the prob­lem?" Jim as­ked. "I as­su­me the re­por­ters ha­ve got­ten wind of La­ura's past his­tory… her emo­ti­onal prob­lems when she was a yo­ung girl."

  Cecil fol­ded the pa­per and han­ded it to Jim. "Now that La­ura is a sus­pect in Jamie's mur­der, if you'd pre­fer we find so­mew­he­re el­se to stay, I'll un­der­s­tand."

  Jim to­ok the pa­per, scan­ned the he­ad­li­nes:

  IS JAZZY INNOCENT?

  DID JAMIE'S FIANCEE DO IT?

  then tos­sed the new­s­pa­per asi­de. "Rub­bish. La­ura didn't kill Jamie any mo­re than I did. Bri­an Mac­Kin­non li­ke to sen­sa­ti­ona­li­ze ever­y­t­hing. If I tho­ught it wo­uld dc any go­od, I'd call Far­lan and tell him to re­in in that son of his."

  "Are you sa­ying that the­re's not­hing we can do abo­ut what the new­s­pa­per prints abo­ut La­ura?" An­d­rea as­ked, her ga­ze fo­cu­sed on Jim.

  Jim glan­ced at the dis­car­ded new­s­pa­per. "My bet is that the re­por­ter who wro­te that pi­ece of trash stop­ped just short of slan­der. The facts are pro­bably cor­rect, even if they've be­en dis­tor­ted a bit."

  "I've re­ad the en­ti­re ar­tic­le," An­d­rea sa­id. "Eit­her so­me­one in the she­rif­fs de­par­t­ment has be­en tal­king or that re­por­ter has do­ne so­me dig­ging-de­ep dig­ging-in­to La­ura's past."

  "My God, do they know abo­ut-" Ce­cil shut up the mi­nu­te his wi­fe glo­we­red at him, ma­king Jim won­der what he'd be­en abo­ut to say.

  "Yes, they know that the Ro­berts boy ac­cu­sed La­ura of trying to run him down with her car when she was six­te­en." An­d­rea
glan­ced qu­ickly back and forth from Ce­cil to Jim. "I as­su­re you that La­ura did not try to harm that boy. It was an ac­ci­dent."

  Jim fi­gu­red the­re was mo­re to the story than either Andrea or Ce­cil was let­ting on, but at pre­sent his big­gest con­cern wasn't La­ura. He knew the girl, knew how gen-de and kind she was. The very idea that she had tor­tu­red Jamie to de­ath was lu­dic­ro­us. Of co­ur­se, he didn't re­al­ly be­li­eve Jaz­zy Tal­bot was ca­pab­le of such cru­elty, eit­her.

  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. 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.

  He had he­ard Ca­leb McCord's words re­pe­ating them-sel­ves in his mind, aga­in and aga­in, ever sin­ce yes­ter­day when he'd con­f­ron­ted that yo­ung man stan­ding out­si­de Re­ba's hos­pi­tal su­ite.

  Jamie's mur­de­rer was pro­bably still at lar­ge, free to kill aga­in. Hell, she'd al­re­ady kil­led aga­in, if the she­rif­fs gu­ess was right, that the sa­me per­son had kil­led that Wat­son man. Ne­it­her La­ura nor Jaz­zy was gu­ilty, he felt cer­ta­in of that fact. If he did what he knew was right, he'd ma­ke a pho­ne call to Wa­de Tru­man and see if it was too la­te to get the char­ges aga­inst Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot drop­ped.

  Why now? Jim as­ked him­self. Are you wil­ling to go aga­inst what Re­ba wants just be­ca­use of what that yo­ung pup McCord sa­id?

  ''We'll ma­ke su­re La­ura is ta­ken ca­re of," Jim told her pa­rents. "How is she this mor­ning?" He glan­ced aro­und her ro­om. "Didn't she fe­el li­ke co­ming down for bre­ak­fast? And what abo­ut She­ri­dan?" Jim was be­gin­ning to dis­li­ke She­ri­dan mo­re and mo­re. The­re was so­met­hing de­ci­dedly unap­pe­aling abo­ut the girl. His gu­ess was the yo­un­ger Wil­lis da­ug­h­ter had be­en The Cherokee Pointe He­rald re­por­ter's so­ur­ce of in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut La­ura. It was pla­in to see that She­ri­dan des­pi­sed her ol­der sis­ter.

  "After the ter­rib­le ti­me we had at the she­rif­fs of­fi­ce yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on, Dr. Mac­Na­ir ca­me ho­me with us and in­s­t­ruc­ted Mrs. Con­ley to ke­ep La­ura se­da­ted so that she'd get a go­od night's rest," An­d­rea ex­p­la­ined.: "And She­ri­dan has al­re­ady go­ne out this mor­ning."

  Or ne­ver ca­me ho­me last night, Jim tho­ught.

  "If the­re's an­y­t­hing La­ura ne­eds, you just let me know." Jim fi­nis­hed off the last bi­tes of his bre­ak­fast, was­hed them down with cof­fee, then sco­oted back his cha­ir and sto­od. "Ple­ase ex­cu­se me. I ha­ve so­me bu­si­ness to at­tend to."

  "Yes, of co­ur­se." An­d­rea of­fe­red him an ar­ti­fi­ci­al smi­le.

  ''Thank you, Jim," Ce­cil sa­id. "We ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur kin­d­ness."

  Jim nod­ded, then he­aded stra­ight for his study. The mi­nu­te he was alo­ne and the do­or loc­ked, he sat be­hind his desk and lif­ted the te­lep­ho­ne re­ce­iver. He pun­c­hed in the num­ber and wa­ited as it rang.

  "Powell In­ves­ti­ga­ti­ons," the re­cep­ti­onist sa­id.

  "Griffin Po­well, ple­ase. Tell him it's Jim Up­ton."

  "Yes, sir."

  In less than a mi­nu­te a man's de­ep ba­ri­to­ne vo­ice sa­id, "Mor­ning, Jim."

  "What do you ha­ve for me?"

  "Not a lot," Grif­fin rep­li­ed. "After all, we just star­ted on this in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on la­te yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on."

  "Do you ha­ve an­y­t­hing at all?" 'The­re is a mar­ri­age re­cord for Me­la­nie Up­ton to a Franky Joe McCord-six months be­fo­re the birth of a child na­med Ca­leb Up­ton McCord-thir­ty-two, al­most thir­ty-th­ree ye­ars ago."

  "My Me­la­nie?" 'That's what we're chec­king on," Grif­fin sa­id. "I sho­uld ha­ve a mo­re-de­ta­iled re­port for you by la­te to­day. Two of my best men flew in­to Mem­p­his last night."

  "I want ever­y­t­hing they can dig up on my da­ug­h­ter du­ring her ye­ars in Mem­p­his. If she mar­ri­ed this Franky Joe McCord, the mar­ri­age wasn't le­gal. She was al­re­ady a mar­ri­ed wo­man. Byron didn't get a di­vor­ce for se­ve­ral ye­ars af­ter Me­la­nie left him."

  "I don't sup­po­se that fact mat­ters any now, ex­cept that wo­uld ma­ke Ca­leb McCord il­le­gi­ti­ma­te."

  "I want to know every de­ta­il of Ca­leb McCord's li­fe. And if he is my gran­d­son, I don't gi­ve a rat's ass that he might be a bas­tard."

  "It'll ta­ke ti­me to get the in­fo you want."

  "Do a rush job. You know that mo­ney is no obj­ect."

  "I do ha­ve the guy's blo­od type, if that will help."

  "How'd-no, don't tell me. I don't ne­ed to know how you get the in­for­ma­ti­on, just get it," Jim sa­id. "So what's his blo­od type?" ‘’Type O."

  "Humph! Half the world is type O. I'm type O. So we­re Me­la­nie and Jim, Jr. No gre­at re­ve­la­ti­on the­re, but at le­ast it do­esn't ru­le the boy out. He might be my gran­d­son."

  ''Tell me this, Jim-do you want him to be yo­ur gran­d­son?" Grif­fin as­ked.

  "I've tho­ught abo­ut that all night. Co­uldn't think of much el­se. Do I want Ca­leb McCord to be my gran­d­son? Yes, I do, if he's a de­cent hu­man be­ing. If he won't bre­ak Re­ba's he­art a do­zen ti­mes over the way Ta­mie did."

  "McCord was a Mem­p­his cop and his re­cord with the MPD is ad­mi­rab­le," Grif­fin sa­id. "So far we ha­ven't fo­und one dark blot on his re­cord sin­ce he jo­ined the force at twen­ty-two. From what we've un­co­ve­red so far, McCord is so­me­one any fat­her or gran­d­fat­her co­uld be damn pro­ud of. He re­sig­ned from the po­li­ce for­ce af­ter his par­t­ner was kil­led and he was se­ve­rely wo­un­ded."

  Jim swal­lo­wed. A gran­d­son he co­uld be pro­ud of! Damn it, he co­uldn't get his ho­pes up, co­uldn't start ma­king plans for a boy who might turn out to be a fra­ud. "If you find so­lid pro­of that Ca­leb McCord's mot­her was my Me­la­nie, you call me. And send mat pro­of by co­uri­er on the next pla­ne out of Mem­p­his."

  "We'll do the very best we can."

  "I want this kept top sec­ret for now. You un­der­s­tand."

  "Yes, I un­der­s­tand," Grif­fin rep­li­ed. "And you ha­ve my word that we'll ke­ep this un­der wraps."

  When Jim he­ard the di­al to­ne, he re­tur­ned the re­ce­iver to the ba­se, then le­aned back in his desk cha­ir and cup­ped his hands be­hind his he­ad. Was it pos­sib­le? Was it ho­nest to God pos­sib­le that he and Re­ba had anot­her gran­d­c­hild? Was God go­ing to be mer­ci­ful to them af­ter all?

  In a fit of ra­ge she to­re the mor­ning new­s­pa­per in­to pi­eces and threw them in every di­rec­ti­on all aro­und her. How da­re they print such vi­ci­o­us li­es! How da­re they ac­cu­se La­ura Wil­lis of Jamie's mur­der. This was wrong. All wrong! Jaz­zy was the wo­man who sho­uld be pu­nis­hed. She was the one who had be­en Jamie's true par­t­ner in wic­ked­ness. La­ura was an in­no­cent child. Her pa­rents sho­uld ha­ve ta­ken bet­ter ca­re of her. They sho­uldn't let bad things hap­pen to her. This was all Ce­cil Wil­lis's fa­ult. If he'd be­en a bet­ter fat­her… but so­me men didn't know how to be go­od hus­bands and go­od fat­hers. Her baby's fat­her had be­en a bad man. A bad fat­her. She co­uldn't al­low this to hap­pen. The­re had to be a way to turn things aro­und, to ta­ke the sus­pi­ci­on off La­ura. But how?

  Kill so­me­one el­se and ma­ke su­re La­ura has an ali­bi.

  This was all that man's fa­ult. That Stan Wat­son. If he hadn't se­en her dig­ging a ho­le in the wo­ods to bury the we­apons she had used to kill Jamie and the ot­her it
ems from the ca­bin, no­ne of this wo­uld be hap­pe­ning. Wat­son had be­en anot­her man who had ru­ined her plans, as ot­hers had in the past. But she co­uld fix things. La­ura Wil­lis hadn't be­en ar­res­ted. The she­riff had no so­lid evi­den­ce aga­inst her. For the ti­me be­ing La­ura was sa­fe.

  But what abo­ut Jaz­zy? If they didn't pro­se­cu­te her for mur­de­ring Jamie, she wo­uldn't suf­fer. She wo­uldn't en­du­re the tor­ment she de­ser­ved.

  Then it will be up to you to ma­ke su­re she suf­fers ter­ribly be­fo­re you kill her.

  It was ti­me to re­vi­se her plans, to con­si­der her op­ti­ons. She co­uld still ac­com­p­lish most of what she'd set out to do, tor­tu­re tho­se who de­ser­ved to be pu­nis­hed. Tor­tu­re and kill them. She wo­uld kill him slowly and pa­in­ful­ly. She had dre­amed of kil­ling him, of ma­king him pay for what he'd do­ne to her and her baby.