What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

  Two days earlier, Jolie had flown to Atlanta to take care of a work-related emergency and to make arrangements with her attorney for Cheryl to sign checks and make decisions in her absence. In only a few weeks’ time, the focus of her life had changed from her present to her past. There was no way she could go back to her life and career in Atlanta until she discovered the truth about the Belle Rose massacre—and, once and for all, laid the past to rest.

  On the flight back to Sumarville, all she’d thought about was seeing Max again; so it was no surprise that when she stepped off the plane at the Sumarville airport, Max Devereaux’s face was the only one she saw in the small crowd awaiting the incoming passengers. As she approached him, she walked faster. When he caught sight of her, he all but ran toward her. As they came together, each had to screech to a jerky halt to keep from colliding.

  “Good flight?” he asked.

  “As good as you get on one of those”—she inclined her head toward the twin-engine airplane sitting on the runway—“crop dusters that fly between here and Atlanta.”

  He took her small vinyl bag, slung it up on his shoulder, then slipped his arm around her waist. “Come on. We have an early dinner date.”

  “We?”

  “The two of us are meeting Sandy and Gar Wells for supper at the Sumarville Inn restaurant.”

  “We are?”

  They exited the small airport terminal and walked out into the oppressive heat of a summertime afternoon in the Delta.

  “Since we’ve ruled out questioning Roscoe. Wells directly—”

  “You ruled out questioning him directly.” Jolie kept pace with Max as he headed toward the parking lot.

  “Whatever.” Max opened the Porsche’s trunk and dumped Jolie’s bag inside. “The point is that Sandy adamantly opposes everything her father has ever believed in and even Gar disapproves of his father’s history.”

  “Your point?” When Max opened the passenger door, Jolie slid in and then looked up at him. “How does the fact that Roscoe’s children have different moral and political views than their father affect our investigation?”

  Max got in on the driver’s side, started the engine, and glanced over his shoulder before backing out of the parking place. “If we question Sandy and Gar about the possibility that Roscoe might somehow have been involved in a cover-up twenty years ago and might be connected to the attacks on Theron and you, I believe they’ll be honest with us and tell us if they know anything.”

  As the hot breeze whipped the flyaway strands of Jolie’s hair about her face, she stole a glance at Max. Gorgeous, sexy Max, who had become far too important to her in a very short period of time.

  “Okay, I agree that Sandy will be up front with us,” Jolie said. “But are you sure Gar won’t go straight to Roscoe and tell him that we suspect him?”

  “If I ask Gar to keep the conversation in confidence, I’m reasonably sure—”

  “You should question Sandy,” Jolie interrupted. “And I should question Gar.”

  “What?” Max snapped around and glared at her for a millisecond, then returned his gaze to the road.

  “I’m sure it’s no secret, not even from you, that Sandy would walk over hot coals for you, so it stands to reason that she’ll tell you if she knows anything.”

  “Sandy’s a fine woman, but…There’s never been anything between us other than friendship.” Max paused, apparently waiting for her response, but when she didn’t comment, he went on. “I hadn’t realized that you’d picked up on the fact that Gar is interested in you.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes, he is. The evening after Louis’s funeral, right after the reading of the will, he asked if I’d mind if he invited you out, once our legal problems were settled.”

  “That’s nice. I like Gar, but I didn’t have any idea that he…well, that he’s interested in me personally. I just thought that because we were childhood friends, he might—”

  “Don’t flirt with Gar.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said do not flirt with Gar tonight.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because I don’t want him taking you seriously. He might wind up getting hurt if you have to reject him.”

  “Maybe I won’t reject him.”

  “Don’t try to use him to make me jealous. It wouldn’t be fair to Gar. Besides, he’d have no idea how to handle a woman like you.”

  Of all the nerve! To imply that the only reason she’d flirt with Gar would be to make Max jealous. “He wouldn’t know how to handle me, but you would. Is that it?” She glowered at Max.

  A quirky grin lifted the corners of his lips, but he didn’t even glance her way when he said, “I believe the answer to that question is obvious.”

  Jolie huffed loudly, then kept quiet. Something told her that she couldn’t win this argument with Max.

  As the sun hovered on the western horizon, a vivid yellow-orange ball of flame, Yvonne and Clarice sat on the side porch in the big white rockers, each sipping lemonade that Yvonne had prepared fresh that afternoon. This was truly the first day in nearly two weeks that Yvonne had allowed herself to relax, to forgo worry and concern about Theron and what the future held for all of them. God only knew what ugly truths were on the verge of being discovered.

  “Sure been hot today,” Clarice said, fanning herself with the antique lace fan that had once belonged to her mother.

  “Likely to be the same tomorrow,” Yvonne replied.

  Clarice took another sip of lemonade, then placed the nearly empty glass on the table between the rockers. “Maybe they’ll let you bring Theron home tomorrow.”

  “Could be. Dr. Bainbridge said tomorrow or the next day.”

  “I thought Theron took it pretty well, learning about our being kinfolk and all.”

  Clarice’s gaze met Yvonne’s and the two women smiled at each other. Loving, bittersweet smiles that encompassed more than friendship—even more than sisterhood.

  “Much better than I thought he would,” Yvonne said. “Of course once he’s had time to think about it more, he might—”

  “He can’t deny his heritage anymore than the rest of us can.”

  “Guess not.”

  Sitting there quietly for several minutes, they continued rocking. The humid evening breeze began to cool ever so slightly.

  “That wind’s getting up.” Yvonne sniffed the air. “And it’s cooling off some. Must be coming off a rain close by.”

  “Yvonne?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’m sure Jolie and Max think Roscoe’s involved.”

  Yvonne’s heart lurched as if it would burst right through her chest. Just the mention of that man’s name had a way of reminding her of things she’d rather forget.

  “I hope they can prove it,” Yvonne said. “I’d like to see his lily-white hide nailed to the barn wall. I’d even doing the nailing myself.”

  “Guess you would.” Clarice kept fanning. “And I’d help you.”

  “A man like Roscoe would be capable of just about anything, even murder. Somebody needs to expose him and show the world that he’s the same racist hatemonger he was forty years ago. He needs to be punished for…” Yvonne wrung her hands. If Jolie and Max could somehow prove that Roscoe was involved in manipulating the investigation of the Belle Rose massacre, then maybe that heartless monster would finally be punished. It really didn’t matter to her which of his many sins he would have to pay for, just as long as he paid. Preferably with his life. There had been a time when she’d considered killing him herself.

  Yvonne sighed. “I’ve often wondered if we did the right thing. If we’d told Mr. Sam about what—”

  “We swore that we’d never tell anyone, that it would be our secret forever. We made a pact.”

  “Times have changed. People might believe us now. We could—”

  “No!”

  Yvonne nodded. “You’re probably right. Best we keep it to ourselves. Besides, our telling about one cr
ime Roscoe committed wouldn’t prove he took part in another. We’ll just have to let Jolie and Max dig up the evidence against him.”

  While Theron had hovered between life and death, Yvonne hadn’t had time to think of anything except her son. Her days and nights had been spent praying and waiting. But now that Theron was recovering, she had begun thinking about who had paid those men to kill Theron. Only one name came to mind. Even Jolie and Max thought there was a good possibility Roscoe Wells was somehow involved.

  Maybe times had changed; maybe people would believe them if they chose to tell their story now. Even if it would be her word and Clarice’s against Roscoe’s, proclaiming the truth to the world would probably end the bastard’s political career. Maybe she needed to remind Roscoe, even threaten him. She wouldn’t go see him, wouldn’t put herself inside his home, but she could telephone him. She could make him squirm.

  Yvonne and Clarice sat together in silence for a good fifteen minutes before the roar of Nowell Landers’s Harley shattered the stillness.

  Clarice jumped up from her rocker and rushed to the edge of the porch, then grasped the banister railing and looked down the road.

  “I’ve got a secret,” Clarice said.

  “What sort of secret?” Yvonne immediately knew that the secret must have something to do with the man sitting astride the motorcycle just now pulling to a stop in the driveway. “Something about Nowell?”

  “We’ve always shared all our secrets, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” Yvonne replied. “All our secrets, all our lives.”

  Clarice turned to Yvonne, rushed over to her and grabbed her hands, urging her to stand. When Yvonne came to her feet, Clarice fidgeted, her whole body dancing with delight.

  “You’ll never guess who Nowell Landers really is.” Tears of happiness flooded Clarice’s eyes.

  “Who is he?” A pang of apprehension jolted Yvonne’s stomach.

  “He’s Jonathan, of course. My sweet Jonathan come home to me at last.”

  Jolie glanced across the table at Garland Wells. He smiled. All through dinner it had been apparent that Gar was under the misimpression that Max had set up a double date in order to bring Gar and Jolie together. And Max whisking Sandy off and onto the dance floor only added evidence to the case Gar had already built in his mind.

  “Gar, we need to talk.”

  He reached over the table and grasped her hand where it rested on the white linen tablecloth. “I suppose Max told you how I feel about you.”

  Oh, shit! “He mentioned that you’d thought about asking me for a date.”

  Gar turned her hand over, palm up, and caressed it tenderly. “I’m glad to see you and Max on speaking terms. After all, he’s not only a client but a good friend. I wouldn’t want—”

  “I’m not interested in dating anyone right now,” Jolie said, doing her best to project a friendly caring tone. “Max and I have joined forces, more or less out of necessity, to do everything in our power to have the Belle Rose massacre case reopened. We’ve been questioning everyone that might know anything about what happened that day.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” He released her hand hurriedly, his own hand jerking in the process.

  He seems unnaturally nervous, Jolie thought. The color drained from his face as if he’d suddenly taken ill.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “This dinner tonight, it wasn’t a double date, was it?”

  She shook her head. “No. And I’m sorry if Max led you to believe it was.”

  “Poor Sandy.” Gar shook his head.

  Jolie glanced at the people on the dance floor, quickly focusing on one couple in particular. Sandy was smiling at Max, a lovesick expression on her face. Dear God, did he have that effect on all women? Sweeping her gaze across the restaurant, she paused on the redhead behind the bar. Eartha Kilpatrick watched Max and Sandy, a forlorn expression on her face. Not jealousy. Not anger or hatred. More a look of heavyhearted acceptance. Another of Max’s conquests realizing how futile loving Max was, how unlikely it was that she would share a future with him.

  “Funny thing,” Jolie said, “when we were kids, I had no idea that Sandy had a crush on Max. We were best friends, but that was one secret we never shared.”

  “She knew you had a crush on Max, too,” Gar said. “That’s why she never told you.”

  “She knew? But how did—”

  “You weren’t very subtle. Every time Max was anywhere around, you’d moon over him. He never knew, of course. But Felicia suspected and she used to torment Sandy about it, telling her that Max would never want her, not when he could have his pick of either Felicia or you.”

  “Felicia was cruel to have treated Sandy that way.”

  “Felicia was a cruel person.” Gar sighed. “I always regretted that I didn’t try to warn Max before he married her.”

  Jolie suddenly felt guilty. Guilty that she’d been in Max’s arms. Guilty that she had kissed him. Guilty because she knew he wanted her in a way he would never want Sandy.

  “Loving someone who doesn’t love you is a real bitch,” Jolie said, more or less mumbling to herself.

  “Yes, it can be,” Gar agreed.

  Jolie looked directly at him, a stricken feeling knotting her insides. Oh, please, God, please, don’t let him mean that he’s in love with me.

  A pitiful smile tweaked the corners of Gar’s lips. “Don’t look so upset. I wasn’t referring to you. I had a major crush on someone once, years ago. She was older, more experienced, and I fell madly in love with her.”

  “Oh, Gar, what happened?”

  “She died.” He closed his eyes as if the pain was still fresh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gar shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Besides, she didn’t love me. She was engaged to someone else.” Gar opened his eyes and stared at Jolie. “You remind me of her. Physically. You look so much like she did then. I guess you’re about the same age she was twenty years ago.”

  “My God! You’re talking about my aunt Lisette. You—you were in love with Lisette?”

  Gar snorted. “Yeah, me and half the men in Desmond County.”

  Jolie’s mind whirled with a myriad of puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. But one thing fit: Roscoe Wells was somehow connected to the Belle Rose massacre. And Roscoe’s son had been in love with one of the victims. Meaningless? Maybe. Maybe not.

  “I hate to ask this, but…” Jolie hesitated. “Did you and Aunt Lisette have an affair? And if you did, did your father know about it?”

  “I’ve never told anyone. Not even Max.”

  “Then you were lovers?”

  “Yes, we were lovers, but…What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything,” Jolie assured him. “Just trying to fit some puzzle pieces together. So, you and my aunt had an affair, but she wasn’t serious about you. She planned to marry Parry Clifton and you—”

  “Wanted her to marry me, but she laughed when I asked her. She told me that I was just a kid, that we’d had fun together, but…” Gar closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re wondering. I couldn’t have harmed a hair on her head.”

  “What about your father?”

  “Daddy? He didn’t know anything about Lisette and me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You think—My God, you and Max think my father had something to do with the Belle Rose massacre, don’t you?”

  “We believe he was involved in the cover-up, in the disappearance of the old files from the sheriff’s department, and—”

  Sandy and Max returned to the table before Jolie could finish her explanation. Max seated Sandy, then took the chair across from her, beside Jolie.

  Sandy glanced back and forth from Jolie to Gar. “Well, I’d say you two had the same conversation Max and I did.” She looked at her brother. “So, what do you think, brother dear, is our father capable of murder?�
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  “Probably,” Gar said. “But what motive would he have had to kill Lisette and Audrey? Their families had been friends for generations.”

  “That’s what I asked Max.” Sandy focused on Jolie. “God knows I’d never defend the old bastard if I thought he was guilty, but in this case, I can’t figure out a motive.”

  A tense silence fell among the four of them. Jolie’s heartbeat drummed noisily in her ears. Even if Gar was wrong and Roscoe had known about his affair with Lisette, that wouldn’t have given him a motive to murder her. No, no, that wasn’t it. There had to be something else. But what? What small significant piece of information were they all missing in their calculations?

  Suddenly Max’s cell phone rang. Jolie gasped. Sandy jumped. Gar groaned.

  “Excuse me.” Max removed the phone from his pocket. “Devereaux here.”

  Jolie waited while Max listened and then grunted a few times. He kept glancing at her during the one-sided conversation. Finally he said, “Yes, thanks. This could be the break we’ve been looking for.”

  “Max?” Jolie grabbed his arm.

  “Wait a minute.” Max took a small notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his sport coat and scribbled something down, then returned both items to his jacket.

  “Well?” Jolie glowered at him.

  “Just a business call.”

  Gar rose to his feet. “It’s been…interesting. But I’m ready to call it a night. How about you, sis?”

  Sandy nodded. “Sure, me, too. I think I’ll drop by the hospital and see Theron. I’m sure Amy’s there. She’s been spending a couple of hours with him every evening since he went into a private room.”

  When Sandy stood, Max got up. She kissed his cheek, then leaned over and hugged Jolie. “I hope you two can find out what really happened the day Miss Audrey and Miss Lisette were killed. And I pray to God that my daddy didn’t have anything to do with it.”