What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

  Max stripped down to his black boxer shorts, turned on the faucets, and filled the sink with hot water. As he reached out to open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet, he caught a glimpse of himself and chuckled mirthlessly. He was a sorry sight; that was for sure. He looked more like a bum than a businessman. But what could he expect—he’d stayed at the hospital last night and gone straight to the office this morning, still wearing his rumpled clothes. He had rushed back to the hospital for each ICU visitation period today; and tonight he’d said his final farewell to a man he loved and admired.

  Hurriedly he lathered his face with shaving cream and ran a new disposable razor over his two-day-old beard. With small patches of lather still clinging to his skin, he turned on the shower, removed his shorts, and stepped beneath the tepid spray. As he washed himself, his penis grew hard. He hadn’t been with a woman in weeks, and his body badly needed release. He’d been too damn busy to even stop by to see Eartha, let alone take the luscious redhead to bed.

  The impending death of someone you knew, someone close, had an odd effect on a person, making him want to reassure himself that life went on, to celebrate the fact that he was alive in every way that mattered to a man.

  Just as Max stepped out of the shower, the phone rang. Without giving a thought to his wet naked state, he tromped out of the tan-and-white-tiled bathroom. His feet left moist footprints as he trekked across the bedroom floor. His heart raced wildly when he lifted the receiver, as fear coursed through his body, instinctively knowing bad news awaited him.

  “Devereaux here.”

  “Max.”

  God damn it! His instincts had been right. He could hear the barely constrained tears in his sister’s voice.

  “Mallory, honey, is everything—”

  “Daddy’s dead, Max.” Mallory Royale choked on her tears.

  “I’ll be right there, baby. Stay strong…for Mama. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

  “Mmm-hmm…yes…I—I can.”

  “Tell Mama that I’ll handle everything when I get there.”

  “Max?”

  “What, honey?”

  “Aunt Clarice said that you should call Jolie.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Tell her I’ll take care of that, too. Later.”

  Max gently returned the receiver to the base, took a deep steadying breath, then swallowed the emotion lodged in his throat. There had been a time years ago when he’d hated Louis Royale, but his feelings about Louis changed drastically over the years, after his mother married the man whom he’d once blamed for his father’s death.

  Philip Devereaux had been a good, decent man who’d made an honest woman out of Georgette Clifton and had accepted the child she carried as his own. Max didn’t know if Philip had been his biological father, and somehow it didn’t really matter anymore. He could have a DNA test run, but unless he planned to print the results on the front page of the Sumarville Chronicle, no one in the county would ever believe he was a legitimate Devereaux. There had been no physical similarities between Max and the small timid Philip, who like his father before him had been a freckle-faced redhead. Years ago Max had convinced himself that sometimes sons looked like their mothers. He certainly did.

  He’d spent his entire life pretending he didn’t care that local society looked down their snobby noses at him, even after he became Louis Royale’s heir apparent. And those old rumors lingered to this day, those whispered innuendoes that Maximillian Devereaux—the bad seed—had possibly been the one who’d slain the Desmond sisters and Lemar Fuqua. Some people had said, “That boy just wanted to clear the way for his mama to become the second Mrs. Royale.”

  The fact that Max’s wife had been murdered less than three years into their marriage had only added fuel to the ancient gossip flames. It didn’t matter, of course, that there had been no substantial evidence against him in either case. People simply enjoyed painting him as a villain.

  As Max towel-dried his hair and then dressed hurriedly in jeans and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, he thought about the arrangements that would have to be made. The funeral would be a major event in Mississippi. The governor would attend the service. He and Louis were old friends; they’d been fraternity brothers.

  Trendall Funeral Home would handle the arrangements. Here in Sumarville, there were only two funeral homes. Trendall for the whites; Jardien for the blacks. Burial was still a segregated event in Mississippi, even in the twenty-first century.

  Max shoved his wallet into his back pocket, clipped his cellular phone onto his belt, then raced out of his room and down the stairs. He picked up his car keys off the intricately carved commode in the foyer as he headed for the front door. Hurriedly tapping in the security code, he wondered if he should stop by Yvonne’s cottage to tell her about Louis’s death. No, better just phone her on the way and have her come to the house and prepare things for the family’s return. Yvonne had been a part of the household long before he and his mother moved into Belle Rose. Indeed Yvonne and her brother had grown up on the plantation along with the Desmond sisters, and Yvonne’s mother had been the family’s housekeeper.

  Within five minutes of his sister’s call, Max headed his Porsche toward town, his foot heavy on the gas pedal. He just hoped that Mallory would be able to handle things until he arrived. His half sister was only eighteen and quite immature for her age. She’d been spoiled rotten by their mother and Louis. Sometimes Max wondered if Louis had doted on Mallory and spoiled her so shamelessly because his only other child had cut him completely out of her life.

  As the sleek black sports car sped along the back roads of Desmond County, Mississippi, Max made a mental list of what needed to be done as soon as possible. He wished that contacting Jolie Royale wasn’t on that list. He hadn’t seen Louis’s elder daughter since she was fourteen; nor had he spoken to her once in all the years since Louis had sent her away from Belle Rose. No matter how many times Louis had issued her an invitation to come home, even if just for a visit, or how many times Aunt Clarice had pleaded with her to return to Sumarville, Jolie had adamantly refused. She had told her father and her aunt that she would never set foot on Belle Rose property as long as that woman lived there. That woman being Georgette Clifton Devereaux Royale.

  Yvonne lifted a fresh-baked skillet of cornbread from the oven, then turned it out onto a plate. Since he’d moved back to Sumarville after living in Memphis for the past eight years, her son, Theron, came to her house for a late dinner every Thursday evening. She had wanted him to move in with her, but he’d laughed at her suggestion.

  “Mama, I’m thirty-eight and have lived on my own since I left for college twenty years ago,” Theron had told her. “Besides, you know I’d never live on the old plantation. Belle Rose may be home to you, but not to me.”

  She didn’t necessarily believe her son was wrong to feel the way he did about her living in the cottage provided by Louis Royale, the same cottage her mother had occupied all the years she’d been the housekeeper for the Desmond family. Theron was a new breed of black man. A modern African-American who resented anything connected to the old ways, to anything that even hinted of subservience to whites. But there were things Theron didn’t know, things he couldn’t possibly understand. The Desmonds had been her family. As long as Clarice lived, Yvonne would never leave her. How could she ever explain to Theron the deep emotional bond that existed between Clarice and her? Even if she told him the complete truth, would he be able to accept her devotion to a white woman?

  “Supper sure looks good.” After she placed the cornbread on the table, Theron pulled out a chair for her. “You’re the best cook in Desmond County.”

  Yvonne simply smiled modestly as she sat down and lifted a white linen napkin from atop the white linen tablecloth. She had always loved nice things: elegant linens and china and crystal. Although her home was modest compared to many, she took pride in the cottage and its contents. She had learned from the Desmond sisters how to conduct herself as a proper lady.

&n
bsp; “Being a true lady has nothing to do with the color of one’s skin,” Clarice had once told her.

  As they ate the cornbread, fried potatoes, chicken, and okra, Theron discussed his plans to eventually run for district attorney of Desmond County, and perhaps one day, even governor. Yvonne responded positively to all his ideas. She was very proud of her only child, who even as a boy had been brilliant beyond her wildest dreams. If her husband were alive, he’d be so proud of their son. But Ossie had died when Theron was only ten. To this day she missed Ossie, but she could see the man she had loved in his son. Tall, broad shouldered, and handsome, with a thousand-watt smile that warmed her heart.

  Yvonne had scrimped and saved and accepted help from Clarice to send Theron to college, and he had worked diligently, too, attending school and holding down a full-time job. But in the end, it had been worth every sacrifice. Theron had graduated magna cum laude and later went to work straight out of law school for a prestigious firm in Atlanta. After working there for several years, he’d taken an even better offer with a firm in Memphis, so she’d been surprised when, three months ago, Theron had returned to Sumarville and opened his own practice.

  “I realize I need to live here for a year or so before I put my plans into action.” Theron lifted the jug of iced tea and refilled his empty glass. “But I have the backing to run for office whenever I say the word. And once I’ve established my practice here in Sumarville and folks get to know me again, the African-American vote alone would be nearly enough to elect me.”

  “You have some fine ambitions, son.” Yvonne stretched her hand across the table and laid it on Theron’s arm. “But if you reopen that old can of worms about the Desmond murders, you won’t accomplish anything except to offend a lot of white people.”

  The muscles in Theron’s arm tensed. He jerked away from his mother’s touch. “Damn it, Mama, when are you going to get it through your head that I don’t give a damn about offending any of the uppity white folks in these parts. If I can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Uncle Lemar didn’t murder Audrey Royale and Lisette Desmond and then commit suicide, all of our people”—Theron thumped his fist on the center of his chest—“and the decent, fair-minded whites will respect me for having solved a twenty-year-old murder case.”

  When he’d first mentioned his intention to do everything within his power to reopen the case and clear his uncle’s name, Yvonne had hoped and prayed he would change his mind. If he tried to get the case reopened, he was bound to rile the whole county—both blacks and whites. She’d never forget how tense race relations were twenty years ago when the local sheriff’s office had come to the conclusion that Lemar Fuqua had murdered Audrey and Lisette and then shot himself. A double-murder and a suicide.

  Everyone who’d known Lemar said he wasn’t capable of murder and she agreed wholeheartedly. Her brother had been a kind, gentle man. And he’d been fond of the three Desmond sisters his entire life. They had played together as children and grown up together at Belle Rose. Twenty years ago when Lemar had been branded a murderer, she had tried her best to persuade the local authorities that they’d made a mistake, that they should look elsewhere for their killer. But an ugly rumor that had spread like wildfire convinced the townspeople of Lemar’s guilt—the vicious rumor that Lemar had been deeply in love with Lisette and had gone mad when she became engaged to Parry Clifton. Even the whispered supposition of an interracial love affair had been enough to once again bring to the surface the fear, anger, suspicion, and hatred that had long existed between the two races.

  “I know you don’t want to listen to what I have to say, but I’m your mama and you owe me the courtesy of hearing me out,” Yvonne said.

  “You’ve already given me your arguments against my trying to get the case reopened. I understand your fears, but believe me, I know how to take care of myself.” Theron grabbed his mother’s hand and squeezed tenderly. “I realize there are remnants of the Klan still around these parts, but the days when they could get away with murdering a black man are long gone.”

  “It’s not so much the Klan that I’m worried about.” Yvonne looked deeply into her son’s hazel eyes—eyes identical to her own. “Since we know that Lemar wasn’t the murderer, that means the real murderer might still be alive and still living in Sumarville. Don’t you think he’s going to feel threatened? If he believes there’s any way you can unearth the real truth, he’s going to try to stop you.”

  “Good.” Theron hit the table with his fist, rattling the dishes and silverware. “I’d like nothing better than for my investigation into the Desmond sisters’ murders to smoke out the real killer.”

  “Son, why now?” Yvonne asked. “It’s been twenty years and—”

  “You know I’ve wanted to prove Uncle Lemar’s innocence all these years, but I needed enough time so that I could reach a point in my life where I felt confident that I could do it without being stopped by the local authorities. I’m a wealthy respected lawyer, with a lot of powerful connections. The time is finally right. That’s why I’ve come home. The time is now.”

  Jolie Royale locked the door of her condo, then tossed her purse and keys on the table in the small foyer. As she meandered slowly into the living room, she kicked off her red three-inch heels and padded barefoot across the beige carpet. Her date with Gene Naughton had ended on a sour note. She’d been seeing the Atlanta investment broker for over a month now and he expected their relationship to move on to the next stage, which for Gene meant sex. She liked Gene well enough and enjoyed his company, but she thought of them more as friends than lovers. He was attractive and virile for a man of forty-five, but he didn’t arouse any unbridled passion in Jolie. Maybe she expected too much; maybe she had always expected more from relationships than she’d ever found. It wasn’t that she was a simpering virgin, but even at thirty-four she didn’t have a long list of former lovers. In fact the exact opposite was true. Not counting any girlhood infatuations, she’d been in love twice. Or thought she had. Both relationships had ended years ago. The first affair had occurred when she’d attended Instituto Marangoni in Milan, Italy. She’d been twenty-one when she’d lost her virginity to a gorgeous young Italian named Arturo.

  She’d been in love the way only the young and foolish can be in love. He’d broken her heart, of course, when she’d discovered him in bed with another woman. Five years later, while still working in New York, she’d convinced herself that she was in love with a brilliant, struggling actor who swept her off her feet. Paul Judd had sprinkled stardust in her eyes, and it had taken her nearly a year to realize she wasn’t in love with the man, but with the man she thought he was.

  After making her way into the kitchen, Jolie opened the refrigerator to retrieve a can of diet cola. She popped the lid and lifted the drink to her lips before returning to the living room. Sinking down into the overstuffed white damask sofa, she felt between the cushions for the remote control and punched the ON button. The nightly newscast appeared on the TV screen. Jolie hit the MUTE button, then lifted her feet to rest atop the glass and wrought-iron coffee table.

  What was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she just invited Gene home with her? What horrible sin would she have committed by sleeping with a perfectly charming man who wanted to advance their relationship to a more intimate level? Remember what Cheryl says, “You’re just going to have sex with the guy, not marry him.” But the trouble was that she wasn’t Cheryl Randall. The woman who’d been her personal assistant since she’d moved to Atlanta and started her own fashion design business six years ago was a free spirit who went through men the way some women go through Kleenex. Jolie was a far cry from a free spirit. She took things seriously—her personal life as well as her professional life. Talent alone had not made her one of the premiere designers of children’s wear in the United States. A lot of hard work, determination and a very serious, focused personality had made her a success.

  But was a successful business all she wanted from life? Didn’t she
want more, need more? At thirty-four her biological clock had begun ticking a little faster, so if she wanted a husband and children… But did she want a husband? Did she want children? Maybe. If she could find the right man. Someone she could envision spending her life with, growing old with and loving with a mindless passion unlike anything she’d ever known. Was that asking too much? Probably. Most people simply settled for what they could get, for whatever came along that passed for that once-in-a-lifetime love.

  As Jolie finished off the cola, she chuckled at her own romantic stupidity. Love never lasts.

  Okay, so for a few really lucky people, it did last. But for the majority, it didn’t. Most of her friends were either divorced or had gone through a series of unsuccessful live-in relationships. At least she’d never made those mistakes; she’d never married and she’d never lived with a man. She had always liked her independence far too much.

  More than one man had told her that she kept a protective shield around herself and sent out negative vibes, rejecting a guy before he ever made an advance. She wasn’t consciously aware of being an ice queen bitch—something she’d overheard one acquaintance telling another about her at a party a couple of years ago—but maybe she was. Maybe, despite years of therapy, she had never truly recovered from the trauma she’d experienced twenty years ago. Even now there were times when she awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming of discovering Mama’s and Aunt Lisette’s bodies. In those horrid nightmares, she could feel the sting of the bullets that had entered her body. Thank God the killer had thought she was dead.