What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

  Jolie pushed aside her sketch pad and pen, leaned backward in the cushioned swivel stool behind her drawing board and closed her eyes. The sleeping pill she’d taken last night had left her with a hangover that was only now, at one thirty in the afternoon, beginning to subside. And despite the medication she’d taken before going to bed, she had suffered with nightmares. Cruel jumbled memories. Half-formed thoughts. Terror and pain. Caught in the dark trap of yesterday’s tragedy.

  “Coffee. Black and strong,” the feminine voice said.

  Jolie’s eyelids flew open as she jerked in reaction to the unexpected sound. “God, Cheryl, you scared the bejesus out of me.”

  “Sorry. I knocked before I came barging in.” Tall, model thin, with a mane of strawberry blond hair worn in a loose ponytail, Cheryl Randall extended her hand holding the bright purple mug. “You haven’t stopped for lunch, so I thought maybe you needed a jolt of caffeine.”

  Jolie accepted the coffee. “Thanks.”

  “Your aunt called again,” Cheryl said. “She’s beginning to doubt that I’m telling her the truth about your being out of the office. She told me to tell you that if you don’t take her next call, she’s going to have someone named Max come to Atlanta and fetch you home.” Cheryl chuckled. “I had no idea people still said things like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like ‘fetch you home.’”

  Jolie sipped the coffee, then smiled at Cheryl. “That’s because you’re a Yankee.”

  Cheryl laughed. “Want to tell me what’s going on? Why are you avoiding talking to your aunt? I know you adore the woman.”

  She and Cheryl had been friends for the past two years, ever since she hired the New York native to come to Atlanta and work as her assistant. But she hadn’t shared all the gory details of her youth with Cheryl; only the highlights. They were more buddies, who swapped stories about men and enjoyed an occasional spa-day together, than best friends, who shared intimate secrets.

  “My father died last night and—”

  “Oh, Jolie, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’m okay. It’s not as if he was really a part of my life. I told you that I hadn’t seen him since I was fourteen.”

  “Bummer.” Cheryl plopped down on the sofa in the corner. “So what’s the problem about talking to your aunt?”

  “She wants me to come home for the funeral.”

  “And?” Cheryl gazed at her, bewilderment in her expression.

  “I don’t want to go back to Sumarville. Not now or ever.”

  “Not even for your father’s funeral?”

  “Especially not for my father’s funeral.”

  “There must be quite a story behind why you don’t want to—”

  “It’s a story I’m not going to share with you today or anytime in the future.”

  Cheryl shrugged. “You could at least tell me who this Max guy is that your aunt is threatening to send to Atlanta to fetch you home.”

  “Max is my stepbrother. His mother married my father less than a year after my mother’s death. Let’s just say that in comparison to my wicked stepmother, all fairy-tale witches come off looking downright angelic.”

  “Ah-ha.”

  Jolie glowered at Cheryl.

  “Don’t give me the evil eye,” Cheryl told her. “So you hate the stepmother and never forgave your father for marrying her. Do you hate Max, too?”

  Heat rose up Jolie’s neck and flushed her face. Her feelings for Max were complicated, perhaps more now than in the past. “I don’t know how I feel about Max. I suppose I don’t hate him, but—”

  “There was something going on between you two. A little Southern-style incest maybe?”

  “That’s ridiculous! Your imagination is working overtime. I was fourteen the last time I saw Max and we weren’t romantically involved. He was dating my best friend’s sister at the time. And even if there had been something between Max and me, it wouldn’t have been incest. We aren’t blood related. And our parents weren’t married then.”

  Cheryl looked Jolie square in the eyes. “Do you realize that you’re practically shouting?”

  “What?”

  “A fourteen-year-old girl can have the hots for a guy,” Cheryl said. “I was just kidding about the incest thing, so there’s no shame in admitting that you—”

  “My big crush on Max Devereaux ended the day I realized that I suspected he was capable of murder.”

  Cheryl gasped. “Murder? Who? Who do you think he might have murdered?”

  “My aunt and my mother.”

  Now isn’t the time to panic. After all, there’s no need to think Jolie Royale will return to Sumarville for Louis’s funeral. And even if she does make a quick visit, staying for a few days and then returning to Atlanta, how much trouble can she cause?

  I’ve been lucky—damn lucky—for twenty years. Back at the time it happened, perhaps a few people whispered my name, daring to consider me a suspect, but the authorities never seriously considered me. They had their man—Lemar Fuqua. His death was quite conveniently ruled a suicide. Even the slightest hint that there might have been an interracial romance between Fuqua and Lisette Desmond had been enough to make the man the chief suspect, and in the end, the only suspect.

  Jolie was supposed to die that day. I shot her three times. Why didn’t the damn girl die? Once she was in the hospital, I couldn’t get to her to finish the job. Louis kept a guard at her door twenty-four-seven. Hell, even now, I break out in a cold sweat whenever I think about how I felt when she finally regained consciousness. At first she couldn’t remember anything, then gradually her memory returned, until she recalled every detail of the day she’d been shot. She swore she never saw the person who shot her, had no idea if it had been a man or a woman, if it had been a black person or a white person.

  But who’s to say that she didn’t block out that one memory. What if a visit to Sumarville unearthed that forgotten knowledge?

  If she returns, I’ll have to keep a close watch on her. And if she gives me any cause to suspect she knows the truth, then I’ll have to finish the job I started twenty years ago. And this time, I’ll make sure Jolie dies.

  Chapter 4

  Yvonne stayed discreetly in the background, quietly observing the mourners. No one would question her right to be here. As the family’s housekeeper, she would be expected to be present at the visitation tonight at Trendall Funeral Home. She had asked Theron to stop by, to offer his condolences to the family, but he hadn’t given her a definite answer. Surely he wouldn’t disappoint her; she so seldom asked anything of him. If he didn’t put in an appearance, Clarice would be upset. Clarice was especially fond of Theron, something he’d never questioned as a child but as an adult seemed to resent. Although she didn’t want her son to forget their people’s past and prayed that he would continue working for everything he believed in, she wished he could learn to forgive. She had considered telling him about the secrets from her past, wondering if it would help him understand her and perhaps himself. But what if the truth only fueled the anger inside him?

  Yvonne silently watched the never-ending line of mourners as they made their way closer and closer to the family standing near the golden casket surrounded by enormous floral arrangements. Every time someone spoke to her, Georgette cried. Maybe Max should have asked the doctor to give her a stronger dose of Valium. Despite her sincere weeping, Louis Royale’s widow looked regal and undeniably lovely in her navy blue suit and pearls, her jet-black hair fashionably styled and her makeup flawless. At her left side, Mallory was a younger version of Georgette, only her eyes were different. She had Louis’s dark azure blue eyes, which made for a striking contrast to her ebony hair. Poor little Mallory looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else on earth than here. The girl was immature for eighteen and spoiled rotten. Louis had lavished all the attention on her that he had once given to Jolie.

  Yvonne glanced at her wristwatch. Seven-thirty. They were halfway through the three-hour vi
sitation and still no sign of Jolie. Clarice hadn’t spoken to her niece personally but had left her numerous messages. She had tried to prepare Clarice for the possibility that Jolie might not come home, not even for her own father’s funeral. But Clarice could not be swayed in her firm conviction that her niece would put in an appearance.

  Max stood to Georgette’s right, his presence overpowering. Yvonne had sensed a unique strength in Max the first time she’d seen him. He’d been a quiet brooding little boy who had grown up hearing the ugly rumors about his mother and the speculation about his own legitimacy. He was not an easy man to like and didn’t seem to care what others thought of him. But people tended to either admire or fear him. Yvonne admired him. Over the years, she had watched him mature into Louis Royale’s right-hand man and had witnessed his protective caring nature when it came to his mother, his sister, and even to Clarice. He took his obligations seriously. During the past five years, when Louis’s health had begun to deteriorate, Max had taken over the bulk of responsibilities for the businesses and the family.

  Regardless of what others might think of Max, Yvonne had the greatest respect for him. He was accepted by the leaders of Mississippi society only because Louis had demanded it. Max had always been an outsider, an outcast who wasn’t a true blue blood. She understood bigotry, whether it was directed at people because of the color of their skin or because of their lack of pedigree.

  Despite the speculations of a few townspeople twenty years ago that perhaps an eighteen-year-old Max Devereaux had killed the Desmond sisters in order to clear the path for his mother to marry Louis, she had never taken those whispered innuendoes seriously. She believed in Max’s innocence as strongly as she believed in her brother Lemar’s innocence. Those rumors had died down less than a year after the murders, only to resurface again when Max’s wife, Felicia, had mysteriously disappeared nine years ago. Her body was found months later by a couple of fishermen in a swampy area of lowland near the river. Felicia’s murderer had never been caught and speculation had run wild in Sumarville that summer.

  “Quite a circus event they’ve got going on here,” Theron said, as he came up beside his mother. “I can just imagine what tomorrow’s funeral will be like.”

  Deep in thought, Yvonne hadn’t noticed her son approaching. She gasped softly, then grabbed his arm. “Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m here only as a favor to you. Otherwise, I’d steer clear of this sideshow.”

  She tugged on his arm. “Come with me. I want you to speak to Clarice and pay your condolences to Georgette and Mallory and Max.”

  Theron groaned, then glanced around the huge ornately decorated Magnolia Room. “So, Jolie didn’t show up. Smart woman.”

  “It’s not eight yet,” Yvonne said. “There’s still time for her to—”

  “Why would she come back? What’s here for her now?”

  “Her family.”

  “Only Clarice. I’m sure she doesn’t think of her stepmother, stepbrother, and half sister as family.”

  “No, she probably doesn’t. She couldn’t accept Louis’s marriage to Georgette so soon after Audrey’s death, but you’d think that once she grew up, she could have found it in her heart to forgive her father and at least come for a visit now and then.”

  “Louis Royale made his choices.”

  Yvonne sighed. “That’s something you and Jolie have in common—your inability to forgive.”

  Yvonne led her son through the milling crowd that lingered in the Magnolia Room. Despite the air-conditioning, a stifling warmth permeated the area. Too many people crammed into a small space. Too much body heat on a hot June night.

  “There’s Clarice.” Yvonne leaned closer to Theron as she whispered, “You be on your best behavior with her. Do you hear me? She’s mighty fond of you and doesn’t deserve anything from you but love and respect.”

  Clarice’s face beamed the moment she saw Theron. She held out her hands. Yvonne nudged him in the ribs. He took Clarice’s small lily-white hands in his big dark hands.

  “Thank you for coming.” Clarice squeezed his hands. “You’ve neglected to come around and see me since you’ve moved back to Sumarville.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry about that, but I’ve been pretty busy getting settled in and setting up my practice.”

  Clarice removed one of her hands from Theron’s grip and reached out to the tall muscular man beside her. “Nowell, this is Yvonne’s son, Theron. He’s a brilliant young lawyer and he’s come home to Sumarville only recently.” Clarice turned to Theron. “My dear boy, this is Nowell Landers, a very special friend of mine.” Clarice giggled quietly, then covered her mouth with her hand, as if aware that laughter wasn’t appropriate in the Magnolia Room. “I suppose I could say, as Mama would have, that Nowell is courting me.”

  Theron lifted his eyebrows, surprise evident in his facial expression. He nodded to Nowell. “How do you do?”

  Nowell slipped a big arm around Clarice’s waist. “Quite well, thank you kindly. And might I say it’s a pleasure to meet you at long last. I’ve heard a great deal about you, from your mother and from Clarice. They’re mighty proud of you.”

  “I’m afraid the ladies exaggerate. You know how mothers and…and family friends can be.”

  Yvonne tugged on Theron’s arm. “You should speak to Max and—”

  “By all means. Lead the way.”

  “We’ll have to get in line,” Yvonne said. “I think the end of the line is outside in the hallway. Earlier it was all the way outside and into the street.”

  “If we go to the end of the line, this could take a good twenty minutes.”

  “Mind your manners. Twenty minutes won’t kill you.”

  She ushered him out into the hall. Several people glowered at them, but when a few smiled and spoke to Yvonne, the others seemed to relax. It wasn’t that often that African Americans entered the doors of the Trendall Funeral Home.

  “What’s going on with Clarice and that guy?” Theron asked.

  “You heard what she said—he’s courting her.”

  “I take that to mean that they’re dating?”

  Yvonne nodded.

  “What’s he after? Hasn’t somebody told him that all the money in the family belonged to Louis Royale?”

  “Lower your voice. Someone might hear you.”

  “And do you think that everybody in Sumarville isn’t laughing behind her back? A man doesn’t court a fruitcake like Clarice, unless he thinks he’ll get something monetary out of it.”

  “Sh…” Yvonne cautioned, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Max agrees with you and I must admit that I have my doubts, but Clarice refuses to listen to anything negative about Nowell.”

  Just as Theron started to reply, he glanced behind Yvonne and seemed totally hypnotized by whoever or whatever had captured his attention. Yvonne glanced over her shoulder. Dr. Sandy Wells and Dr. Amy Jardien entered the line directly behind them. Sandy and Amy were local general practitioners, partners in a clinic that served the poor in the community. Yvonne couldn’t help thinking what an odd twosome the women made and how there had been a time when friendship between a white woman and a black woman was frowned upon in these parts. Unless of course, the black woman was the white woman’s maid. Yvonne wondered what Sandy’s father thought of his daughter’s close association with the daughter of Sumarville’s black undertaker? Just the thought of Roscoe Wells sent cold shivers through Yvonne. The man had once been a racist, a bigot, and a rumored member of the Klan. And despite his political promises that not only had he never been associated with the Klan and that he was now an advocate of progressive race relations, she didn’t believe him. But others did, even some of the African Americans who had helped reelect him to the state senate four times.

  “Hello, Mrs. Carter. How are you?” Sandy Wells asked.

  Yvonne forced a smile as she turned to face the woman. Logic dictated that she be nice to Dr. Wells, who had never done anything to Yvonne, had never
in any way been anything other than friendly and polite. But emotional reactions were something else altogether. No matter how good a woman Sandy Wells might be, she was the spawn of the devil. And no matter how much Roscoe Wells declared himself a reformed racist, Yvonne would never believe a word out of the man’s wicked mouth.

  “I’m fine, Dr. Wells,” Yvonne said. “And you?”

  “Fine, but sad for Louis’s family, of course. How is Georgette holding up?”

  “She’s rather shaky, but Max is taking good care of her.”

  “Naturally. Max is a rock, isn’t he? Such a strong man.”

  Yvonne only nodded. She suspected that Sandy Wells was halfway in love with her former brother-in-law and perhaps always had been, even when her older sister Felicia had been alive.

  Sandy looked up at Theron. “I had heard that you’d returned to Sumarville. Do you remember me from when we used to play together when I visited Jolie at Belle Rose?”

  Theron nodded. “Yes, I remember you…and your brother.”

  Sandy lowered her voice. “Did Jolie come home for the funeral?”

  “She hasn’t arrived, yet,” Yvonne said. Noticing the way her son was staring at Amy Jardien and she at him, Yvonne thought it best to introduce the two immediately. “Theron, you probably don’t remember Mr. Nehemiah Jardien’s youngest child, Amy. She’s a doctor now.”

  Theron held out his hand to the young woman who tilted her head and smiled warmly at him. The girl was undeniably lovely, with coffee-colored skin and large black eyes that sparkled as she and Theron exchanged a lingering handshake.

  “I’m Theron Carter, Dr. Jardien,” he said, emphasizing the word doctor.

  “Yes, I know who you are. Everyone’s been talking about your return to Sumarville. I’m pleased to finally meet you.” Amy moistened her full lips nervously.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Theron assured her.

  “If y’all will excuse me, I’m going to break line,” Sandy said. “I see my brother is up there ahead of us.”