As Good as Dead

by Beverly Barton

  “Your Aunt Sally?”

  “Or maybe Corrine Talbot.”

  “We’re making a lot of wild guesses here, none of which may turn out to be correct.”

  A loud, repetitive knocking on the door ended their conversation.

  “Jazzy, Mr. Powell is here,” Tiffany called through the closed door.

  “Show him in right now.” Jazzy turned to greet their visitor.

  Reve rose, laid her purse on the chair seat and stood beside Jazzy.

  The door opened to reveal a big, wide-shouldered man in a navy blue suit, a crisp white shirt and a burgundy, navy and white striped tie. His white-blond hair was cut short, obviously in an effort to control the curliness that revealed itself despite the style. A pair of dark blue eyes surveyed the room and the two women. Everything about him reeked of money and good taste.

  At six-four, with the toned body of an athlete and the aura of a dangerous warrior, Griffin Powell possessed the kind of magnetism that intrigued women and intimated other men. Reve knew the man by reputation only. Although she had used his agency when she’d had Jazzy investigated nearly a year ago, the two had never met. She knew only what everyone else knew about Mr. Powell—that he’d been a poor boy who’d grown up on a farm outside Dayton and had made a name for himself as a star quarterback for the University of Tennessee nearly two decades ago. After graduation, when everyone had been sure he’d turn pro, the man had disappeared off the face of the earth. For ten years, no one had any idea what had happened to him. Then five years ago, he’d come back to Tennessee—rich, powerful and apparently world-weary. He’d opened a private security and investigation agency in Knoxville, catering to an elite clientele, and soon became the state’s most famous mystery man.

  Powell declined to give interviews, despite public curiosity and the media’s quest to unearth his secrets. Over the years, his reputation had become legendary, with half a dozen different scenarios circulating that explained the missing years of his life. Reve had to admit that she was curious, but understanding what it was like to be the focus of that kind of attention, she intended to keep her curiosity in check. And she’d warned Jazzy not to ask him any personal questions when they met.

  “Mr. Griffin.” Reve extended her hand.

  He shook hands with her. A strong, confident exchange. Neither smiled.

  Jazzy came forward, her usual glittery personality and sexiness all but oozing from her pores. “I’m Jazzy Talbot. It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Griffin.”

  “Ladies.” He nodded curtly.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Jazzy rushed to remove the stack of magazines from the chair to her right.

  “Why don’t we all sit,” Griffin suggested.

  They all sat, Griffin and Reve in the chairs flanking Jazzy’s desk. Jazzy chose to prop herself on the edge of her desk in a rather provocative pose. Reve realized that Jazzy wasn’t even aware of what she’d done, that being sexy was second nature to her. She wasn’t coming on to Griffin Powell. She was just being herself.

  Griffin laid his briefcase on his lap, flipped it open and removed a document. “I ran an initial check on the two of you first thing this morning before I left Knoxville.”

  “We could have told you anything you wanted to know.” Jazzy smiled flirtatiously with Griffin. And once again Reve realized that Jazzy wasn’t doing it intentionally.

  The corners of Griffin’s mouth lifted ever so slightly, as if he was mildly amused by Jazzy. “I like to cut through any sentiment and get down to the bare facts.” He looked at Reve. “I’ve sent an agent to Sevierville to look into the events surrounding your being found in a Dumpster. I want the exact date, and if possible we’ll track down any eye witnesses. I’ll also want your permission to speak to the attorney who handled your adoption.”

  “Yes, of course. Winston Carroll is retired now, and when I questioned him myself, he didn’t seem to know any more than my mother had already told me.”

  Griffin nodded, then looked at Jazzy. “I’ll want to question your aunt.” He glanced down at his report. “Sally Talbot. I believe she raised you after her sister Corrine Talbot’s death.”

  “That’s right,” Jazzy said.

  “We’ll find out more about Corrine, too. A good start will be to find records proving she really was pregnant and if she was, whether she gave birth to one baby girl or two. And if she did have twins, were those children the two of you.”

  “Reve and I had planned to speak to Aunt Sally later today. We’re paying her a surprise visit.”

  “I’d like to go with you. My guess is that Sally Talbot can shed a great deal of light on the matter.”

  “Oh, I know she can,” Jazzy replied. “The problem is, will she tell us the truth? You see, I’m the most important person in the world to Aunt Sally. If she has been lying to me all these years, then she’s going to be afraid to tell me the truth, afraid she’ll lose me.”

  “Then perhaps you should assure her that isn’t the case.” Griffin held out a copy of his report to Jazzy. “Read this over and see if it’s correct and if there’s any pertinent information that needs to be added.”

  When Jazzy took the report, he then turned to Reve and handed her a copy. “Would you do the same, Ms. Sorrell?”

  Reve took the report, nodded and then scanned the two-page summary. She soon realized that the document was a concise, accurate, condensed account of her life, from when she was adopted by the Sorrells to the present day, including all the known facts that connected her to Jazzy.

  Same blood type. AB negative.

  Strong physical resemblance. Practically identical.

  Sorrell adopted as an infant. Talbot reared by an “aunt.”

  The two women grew up within a three-hour drive of each other.

  “Why not add that our favorite dessert is banana pudding?” Jazzy said, lifting her head after skimming the document.

  “Or you could even add that we both prefer Caesar salad to house salad,” Reve said and returned Jazzy’s instant smile.

  Griffin glanced from one to the other. “I take it that you two have already decided that you’re sisters. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” Reve told him. “We believe the DNA test results will only confirm what we already know. That’s why I hired you before the results came back. We don’t want to waste any more time in tracking down our biological mother and discovering the facts surrounding our births.”

  “Are you both prepared to learn the truth?” Griffin asked. “Sometimes it’s better to not go digging around in the past. You might not like what you find out.”

  “I assume we won’t like what we find out,” Reve said. “After all, how could a story that begins with disposing of an infant in the trash possibly wind up reading like a fairy tale?”

  CHAPTER 15

  They took Jazzy’s red Jeep and left Reve’s Jaguar parked in town. They had passed the turnoff for the Upton estate several miles back. The road leading from the main highway that wound around and around in its ascent up the mountain was a hazardous, narrow, paved strip, jutted with potholes and protected from deep ravines by low, rusted guardrails. During most of their trip, one country-and-western song after another had blasted from Jazzy’s radio. Reve had made herself grin and bear it. She really didn’t like country music, especially not the current brand. And all the while the music pulsated through the Jeep, Jazzy had chatted away about first one thing and then another.

  “I hope Mr. Powell wasn’t offended by my insisting he wait to talk to Aunt Sally until we’d had a chance to talk to her first,” had been one of Jazzy’s first remarks.

  With that topic discussed and dismissed, Jazzy had gone on to comments about her aunt, her poor but filled-with-love childhood, and her aunt’s friend Ludie, who was a full-bloodied Cherokee. Reve had wanted to shout “Stop!” Too much information given too quickly. But her sister hadn’t paused long enough for Reve to get a word in edgewise.

  As Jazzy zipped her shiny red Jeep aro
und one sharp curve after another, Reve held her breath. When they reached a level strip of roadway, Jazzy glanced at Reve. “You look pale. What’s wrong? Is it my driving or my choice in music?”

  “Truthfully?” Reve asked.

  “Yeah, if nothing else, let’s promise to always be honest with each other.”

  “It’s both. I don’t care for most country music. And although I’ve been known to drive fast myself, the steep dropoffs on each side of this road unnerve me.”

  Jazzy immediately slowed down to forty-five miles an hour and turned off the radio. “Better?”

  Reve breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, thank you.”

  “What kind of music do you like?”

  “I have fairly eclectic tastes. There are a few older country songs I like, but for the most part I prefer cool jazz, classical and semi-classical.”

  “Hm-mm. Jazz is okay. And I like the blues, too.” Jazzy kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. “I wonder what else we have in common, other than banana pudding and Caesar salad and liking jazz music.”

  “My guess would be not much.”

  Jazzy laughed, the sound deep-throated and entirely genuine. “Do you like movies?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I’m addicted to old movies. My favorites are those made in the thirties, forties and early fifties.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Reve looked quizzically at Jazzy.

  “Pardon my French, honey,” Jazzy said jokingly. “I’m wild for old movies, too, especially love stories.”

  “It would seem we do have something else in common.”

  “What about collectibles? Do you collect anything in particular?”

  “I collect Hummel figurines. I began collecting them when I was a child.”

  “I collect salt and pepper shakers,” Jazzy said, excitement in her voice. “I have a display case filled with them in my living room.”

  “Sometime you’ll have to show them to me.”

  Smiling broadly, Jazzy cast Reve a quick glance. “Why don’t you have supper with me this evening in my apartment?”

  Knowing that Caleb probably wanted to be alone with Jazzy tonight to present her with the engagement ring he’d gone to Knoxville to buy, Reve hesitated.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to have supper at my place.” Jazzy couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice. “I’m probably pushing too hard. I tend to do that. Sorry.”

  “I’d really like to have dinner with you at your apartment tonight, if you don’t think Caleb would mind.” I’m sorry, Caleb, I really am. I just can’t let Jazzy think I don’t want to get to know her better. I can’t hurt her feelings.

  “Why would Caleb mind? He told me that he thinks we’ll wind up being really good for each other. He likes you, you know.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll come for dinner, but I’ll probably leave early. I have some business calls to make before I turn in.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. She did have to check in with her personal assistant, Paul Welby, who handled her social schedule and her business calendar.

  “That’s fine. You can leave as early as you need to. There will be other nights. And who knows, one of these days we might plan a sleepover.”

  Both of them laughed at the thought of thirty-year-old women having a slumber party.

  A few minutes later, Jazzy drove the Jeep off the paved road and onto a bumpy dirt lane. Up ahead on a sloping hillside rested a small white structure inside a circular clearing surrounded by dense forest. A dirty black truck—an antique from the looks of it—was parked at the side of the house. The late afternoon sun hung low in the west, sunset only an hour or so away.

  “I had vinyl siding put on Aunt Sally’s house a few years ago,” Jazzy said. “Her daddy built the house back when she was a young girl. The place used to look a lot like many of the other shacks up here in the mountains. It’s just four rooms, a front and back porch and a bathroom. The bathroom was an addition in the late sixties.”

  When Jazzy stopped the Jeep in front of the house, two old dogs raised their heads from where they lay on the porch. One yawned and lay back down. The other got up and stood there staring at them as they emerged from the vehicle.

  “That’s Peter and Paul,” Jazzy said. “They’re Aunt Sally’s bloodhounds. They’re the best tracking dogs in the county. Sometimes the law uses them to hunt down criminals or search for a missing person.”

  As she passed the dogs, Jazzy reached out and petted the one standing. Reve stayed on the other side of Jazzy, away from the animals. She liked dogs well enough. She simply wasn’t accustomed to being around big, foul-smelling country dogs that lived outside.

  Jazzy grasped the doorknob with one hand and knocked with the other. “Remember, let me do all the talking. At least at first,” she told Reve.

  Reve nodded.

  “Aunt Sally? Are you home? It’s me, Jazzy. And I’ve brought somebody with me.”

  Jazzy entered the house and motioned for Reve to follow. Before she could close the door, both dogs came loping in behind her. The larger of the two almost identical bloodhounds nuzzled her palm. Reve jumped when his cold, damp nose touched her skin.

  “Peter, behave yourself,” Jazzy scolded.

  “Who’ve you brought with you?” Sally called from the kitchen.

  Before Jazzy could reply, Sally Talbot entered what Reve assumed was the living room since it was furnished with an old floral sofa and two seen-better-days chairs. Scanning the area, Reve noted a round table covered with a plaid cloth between the two chairs, an aluminum coffee can on the floor beside one of the chairs and a small, black potbellied stove in the corner. The walls had been covered with inexpensive wood paneling. Three photographs of Jazzy were arranged in a triangle shape over the sofa—all three obviously school photographs. And above the door that led to the kitchen was a framed reproduction of The Lord’s Supper.

  The minute Sally saw Reve, she stopped dead still and her welcoming smile vanished. “You should’ve called first. Me and Ludie was just fixing to go on over to her place.”

  As if on cue, a short, squat gray-haired woman appeared. Her expressive black eyes settled on Reve. “We ain’t in no hurry. You two come on in. I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee and serve up some peach cobbler I brought over here for Sally.”

  “Coffee would be great, Ludie,” Jazzy said. “But I’ll forgo the cobbler. Reve and I both had some of your carrot cake for lunch.”

  Ludie gave Sally a nudge. “Sit down and visit a while with Jazzy and Ms. Sorrell. I’ll go fix that coffee right now.”

  Sally looked from Reve to Jazzy. “What brings y’all out here?”

  “I think you know.” Jazzy sat down on the sofa.

  “Yeah, I guess I do.” She turned to Reve. “Have a seat, gal.”

  “Thank you.” Reve sat beside Jazzy.

  Sally walked over to a pile of wood stacked in a rickety old crate, picked up a couple of split logs and carried them over to the cast-iron potbellied stove. After opening the hinged door, she rammed the wood inside and then closed the door. The stove gave off a great deal of heat so the room was toasty warm on this cool autumn day. After wiping her hands on the sides of her faded denim jeans, Sally sat in one of the ragged, slipcovered chairs.

  “Reve has hired Griffin Powell to investigate the circumstances surrounding her adoption,” Jazzy told Sally. “She wants to find out who tossed her into that Dumpster in Sevierville. She wants to know who her biological parents are.”

  Sally pulled a square of tobacco from her shirt pocket, bit off a chunk and began chewing. After a few minutes, she said, “I can think of better ways to spend money than paying that highfalutin private dick to meddle in things best left alone.”

  “Don’t you think Reve has a right to know who her birth parents are?”

  Sally picked up the coffee tin from the floor beside her chair, brought it to her lips and spit. After wiping her mouth, she narrowed her gaze and glared at Reve.
“It seems to me that them Sorrells gave you a mighty good life. I’d think you’d be grateful and not have a hankering to cause other folks trouble.”

  “For whom am I causing trouble?” Reve asked. “You, Ms. Talbot?”

  Sally spit into the can again, then set it on the floor. “I’ll tell you what I told my niece. My sister Corrine come home to these hills when she was about ready to deliver her baby. She said her husband deserted her, but I figured she weren’t never married. She was still calling herself Corrine Talbot. Anyhow, I delivered her baby. A little girl. One little girl. Not two. Not twins. And a few days later, old Doc Webster come up here to see about my sister and the little one. He recorded Jazzy’s birth. Nine pounds, seven ounces. She was a big, healthy youngun.”

  “Aunt Sally, you know that Reve and I are expecting to get the results of our DNA tests back any day now.” Jazzy leaned forward, a pleading look in her eyes. “We fully expect the results to show that we’re twin sisters. Why won’t you tell us the truth?”

  Jumping to her feet, the old rawboned woman’s ice-blue eyes burned with indignation. “Are you calling me a liar, gal? Me, your own aunt?”

  Jazzy shot off the sofa, rushed over to Sally and grabbed her hands. “Now, you listen here, you crazy old woman—I love you. Do you hear me? No matter what, I love you. And nothing will change that fact.”

  Tears welled up in Sally’s eyes. “I didn’t know nothing about no other baby. I swear I didn’t.”

  Jazzy squeezed her aunt’s hands tightly. “I believe you. Now, please, tell us…tell me the truth. Am I your sister Corrine’s baby?”

  “Ah, hell, gal.” Sally jerked free of Jazzy’s tenacious hold. “I couldn’t bear it if you hated me. I just couldn’t—”

  Sally lumbered to the front door, flung it open and went out onto the porch. Jazzy and Reve exchanged nervous glances, then Jazzy followed her aunt outside. By the time Jazzy reached the porch, Sally had already gone out into the yard and was heading for the woods, both old bloodhounds lumbering along behind her.