Judas Burning

by Carolyn Haines

“What are you getting at?”

  J.D. pulled the bracelet from his pocket. It came out curling and slinking around his hand and fingers. Vivian drew back, as if it might bite her.

  “Did you give this to Camille?” he asked.

  Vivian stared at the bracelet. “I’ve never seen that piece of jewelry before in my life.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  J.D. stepped out of the patrol car and walked into the principal’s office at Chickasaw County High School. He had a warrant in his hand for the arrest of Tommy Hayes. If Hayes got a good lawyer, the charges wouldn’t stick, but J.D. didn’t intend for them to. He wanted to make a point with the school teacher, who’d lied to him.

  With the principal huffing behind him, J.D. went to Hayes’s classroom and called the teacher out to the hall.

  “What’s up, J.D.?” Hayes asked. He glanced back into the classroom, where his students were unnaturally well behaved.

  “You’re under arrest, Tommy,” J.D. said.

  “For what?”

  “We should talk outside.”

  “Well, I want to know,” the principal said.

  J.D. ignored him and led Hayes outside. There was no need to cuff him. There wasn’t any fight in him. He put Hayes in the back of the patrol car and drove toward the courthouse.

  “What’s going on?” Hayes asked from the back seat. He sounded as if he were about to cry.

  “You’ve lied to me,” J.D. said. “More than once.”

  There was a miserable silence for two blocks. They were headed up Providence Street when Hayes spoke again.

  “I did lie. I bought Angie a boom box, and I took it to her at the river. I saw both girls that morning.”

  J.D. slowed the car. “Why did you lie?”

  “Because it makes me look guilty of murder. I was there. She was blackmailing me. I had a motive to kill her, and I was at the place where she disappeared. But I didn’t kill her, J.D. I didn’t. I gave her the boom box, and I left.”

  “What time was this?” J.D. pulled over and turned to look at Hayes through the grill.

  “It was close to ten. I’d bought the boom box the day before, and I had it for her. She was supposed to come by the house and get it. That’s why I wasn’t at school. Then Angie called me on her cell phone and told me I’d better deliver the boom box to the river right away or she was going to call the superintendent and tell him about my relationship with Craig. I did what she said, and then I drove to Biloxi to hire a lawyer.”

  “Your relationship with Craig Baggett is homosexual.”

  “That’s right. I wanted to protect Craig. His father will—” Hayes’s voice was little more than a whisper. “We’ll both probably be stoned to death. You know how it is here. Everything is a sin. Being gay—Jesus, people will think I’m in league with Satan.”

  J.D. looked past Hayes to a pickup truck driving by. Hayes was in danger of losing his job and a whole lot more. Jexville wasn’t a community that tolerated those outside traditional relationship and family patterns. He had a right to be afraid. Getting fired might be the least that happened.

  “What time did you leave the river?”

  “I didn’t stay more than five minutes.”

  “Did you talk to Angie?”

  Hayes wiped his right eye. “I begged her not to tell anyone.” His voice was strained. “Trisha promised she wouldn’t say anything, and she tried to get Angie to promise. But Angie wouldn’t. She said she never gave up a weapon.”

  He hesitated, and J.D. pushed. “You were angry with Angie.”

  “She was a stupid bitch who didn’t care who she ruined. Poor Trisha. She didn’t want to go to the river with Angie. She only went because no one else would. Angie didn’t have a single friend in the world, so Trisha went along to disguise the fact that Angie was all alone.”

  “Tommy, did you see anyone else on the river when you were there?”

  “Just the two girls.”

  J.D. drove to the courthouse. He exited the car and opened the back door. “Tommy, I’m not going to kid you; you’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to go to the sheriff’s office and wait for me at my desk. I’m not going to charge you or put anything on the books unless you leave. Once this goes down in the docket, it’s on your record for good. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Hayes gave a feeble smile. “I’ll be right there when you come back.”

  J.D. watched as the teacher disappeared into the courthouse. Hayes had lied to protect his secret, but J.D. didn’t believe he’d killed anyone, least of all the two girls.

  He pulled the bracelet out. He’d dusted it for prints and found only Camille’s. Camille had said her mother gave it to her, but Vivian had denied it.

  He put the car in gear and headed toward Main Street. If the bracelet had been purchased at Easterling’s Jewelry, it would simplify things. And if it hadn’t, Clive Easterling could probably tell J.D. where to begin looking for the store that had sold it—and to whom.

  He passed the Magnolia B&B and saw Robert Medino reclined on the porch swing, his bare feet extended toward Main Street. J.D. didn’t like him, but he knew that soon enough the writer would pack up and move on. He didn’t have what it took to put down roots and stay in a place.

  Dixon sat on the edge of the bed with the packet of letters beside her. She held one page of lined, three-holed notebook paper and read the words written in pencil. The date was November 18, 1995.

  My son, I want you to know my days here are not terrible. I eat and sleep and mark off the hours, knowing that you are growing strong in your mother’s care.

  Winter is coming to the Delta, and soon the cotton fields will be empty. Today I watched a thunderstorm move across the fields. The clouds reminded me of dragons, and I thought of that book I used to read to you. Ask your mama to read it for me tonight.

  Your mother’s family comes from Kentucky, and when you are old enough, you must ask her to tell you the stories. She has a proud heritage, and I want you to always remember that. No matter what is said about me, remember that you have many things to be proud of. Ask your mama.

  I love you, son.

  Daddy.

  Dixon picked up the second letter, written the following week, on Thanksgiving Day. It went into great detail about the prison holiday meal. Dixon could read between the lines. Jones did not want to leave a legacy of grief to his only child.

  She read several more letters, then put them aside to think about her visit with Willard Jones. She’d gone to Parchman after a three-day drunk. She hadn’t shown up for work or even called in. She’d driven from Memphis across the flat landscape of the Delta, thinking about the sheer physical labor that had been required to remove all the trees for those vast stretches of farmland. Topsoil eight feet deep. But not since the river had been controlled by the levee.

  When she’d arrived at the prison, only her credentials as a reporter had gotten her onto death row to see Jones. Even then, an assistant warden had stayed at her side. He’d probably thought she was going to try and assassinate the prisoner. Hardly.

  She’d talked to Jones in a small room, the one used by lawyers and priests. Prison had aged him. The years behind bars had turned him gray, both hair and skin. He’d said nothing about the smell of bourbon on her.

  “Did you kill my father?” she’d asked. She could remember her rage.

  “Go home, Miss Sinclair.”

  It was the only thing he’d said to her. He’d refused to say another word, and she had left the prison angrier than before. It had been a lovely excuse to turn into the first bar she came to on the outskirts of Memphis and drink until she’d passed out. She’d come to in a clinic where some of her coworkers had taken her.

  And from there, she’d gone on to drink harder, just to show them she could. But Jones had remained in her thoughts. Present every day. Now she heard his voice, and she understood why his son wanted so desperately to save him.
<
br />   The air conditioner fluttered the pages of the letter. She stood up and went outside, taking the letters to the front porch swing. She began to read again. A year in prison had passed before Jones mentioned the murder.

  My son, I am well, if not happy. Today I thought I would tell you a few truths. I did not kill Ray Sinclair. A jury convicted me, but they made a mistake. Let me tell you what happened, so you will always know the truth.

  Mr. Sinclair was a newspaper man who wrote hard facts about powerful people. He had written several articles about Bo Duelly, a man with power in the black community. Bo Duelly and I were enemies. He is a man you should never trust.

  As I’ve told you about your mother’s people, I also come from a proud family. The Jones family has lived in Jones County, Mississippi, since long before the Civil War.

  During the Civil War, Jones County refused to join in the secession from the Union. It declared itself a Free State. There was an outlaw during this time who rode the county taking what he wanted from the wealthy families, and one of the things he took was your great-great-grandmother. He bought her freedom, eventually, and she had his child. She carried the name of Jones, which was from the family she was stolen from.

  Your great-great-grandmother never married. She kept the Jones name, and she eventually acquired nearly three hundred acres in Jones County. This land was considered worthless because there were old caves on it, salt domes. But the land was in our family for a long time, until it was stolen.

  On the morning of the newspaper bombing, I had a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Sinclair. He’d been asking questions about that land in Jones County, and I had information to tell him. So we met and talked, and I left the newspaper.

  Two hours later, he was dead, and a few hours after that I was charged with his murder. Alexander, I never made a bomb, and I don’t know where the newspaper clippings they found in our home came from. That’s the truth. Now just hold this in your heart. Don’t go asking questions. By the time you understand this, I will probably be dead, so there won’t be any point in digging all of this up. But I want you to know the truth. Your daddy is an innocent man. And you should hold yourself with pride and dignity. Love, Daddy.

  Dixon put the letters aside. She didn’t have to read any further. She had the answer, and now she needed the proof. She needed to go to Jackson and research her father’s newspaper articles. But, she couldn’t. She had a paper to put together, and she’d shoved far too much responsibility on Linda and Tucker in the past few days. She was grateful to Robert for volunteering to go for her.

  She dialed the Magnolia and asked to speak to Robert.

  “Darlin’, he’s out on the front porch in the swing. Is it important enough that I disturb him?”

  “Ruth Ann, if you don’t put him on the phone right now, I’m going to drive over there and snatch you bald-headed.”

  “Well, there’s no call to talk to me thataway.”

  Dixon didn’t respond. She heard Ruth Ann’s tread and the screech of the screened door. Then, “You have a call from a very rude person.”

  Robert’s voice was warm and easy. “What’s happening, Dixon?”

  She was amused. “You knew the rude person was me.”

  He laughed. “It had to be a woman, and since you’re the only woman in town who would telephone me, it was easy to figure out.”

  It had been such a long time since she’d trusted anyone. Especially with something this important. “Could you go to Jackson and look up those newspaper articles right away?”

  She heard his feet hit the floor and realized he’d been reclining in the swing.

  “I can leave in the next ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  “No thanks necessary. Did you find out something?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when you get back. Look in particular for stories about the Mississippi salt domes.”

  Easterling Jewelry was a narrow store between Main Street Drugs and a cheap furniture store. J.D. had known the owner since first grade. Clive had been a thin child with a too-big head and glasses with thick black frames. He’d collected stamps and coins and knew the pantheon of Greek gods by heart. Even the teachers were afraid of him.

  J.D. was thinking about Clive’s first-grade show-and-tell as he entered the jewelry store. Clive came out of the back with a jeweler’s magnification device on his head.

  “I kept telling everyone you’d get a girlfriend,” Clive said. “At last you’re here to buy her a gift. Gold or silver?”

  J.D. shook his head. “Wishful thinking. No girl, yet.”

  “Then what brings you to the store?” Clive asked.

  “Is anyone else here?”

  Clive shook his head. “Lydia went down to the Hickory Pit to pick up some lunches. She just left.”

  J.D. probably had half an hour. He reached into his pocket and brought out the bracelet. Clive’s eyes brightened.

  “That’s some beautiful work.”

  “Not yours then?”

  Clive picked up the gold and let it ripple through his fingers. “No. I wish it were. This is exquisite. Gold is malleable, but the person working this knew the exact limit. See how the interlocking links make it look alive as it bends?” Clive examined the bracelet in silence. “So who does it belong to?”

  “A dead girl.”

  Clive examined the gold more closely. “And you want to know where she got it?”

  “You’re as smart as ever.”

  Clive picked up the bracelet. “I’ve seen work like this.” He hesitated. “Most retail jewelers don’t design any longer. They carry national or international designers. A piece of this quality shouldn’t be hard to trace. If you can give me a few hours, I’ll photograph it, get on the Internet, and I’ll bet I can find the jeweler who sold it.”

  “Thanks, Clive.”

  “You could do this yourself, but I probably know where to start quicker than you.”

  “Could you put a monetary value on the piece?”

  Clive thought about it. “I’d say that if the buyer paid full price, it had to be around seven thousand dollars.”

  It was a very expensive gift for a fifteen-year-old girl.

  Clive sighed. “I heard they found the Salter girl. There was talk in the Hickory Pit this morning. Folks are riled.”

  “I know.”

  “I heard more than one man say folks should get their rifles and go hunting in the swamps for the man who killed those girls.” Clive frowned. “Folks seem to believe it’s a Mexican man.”

  J.D. nodded. “I’m looking for a man who defaced some property at the Catholic church. There’s reason to believe he might be involved in the disappearance of the girls.”

  “You think he kidnapped them and killed them?”

  That was the crux of it. J.D. wasn’t sure what he believed. The idea of a man coming to destroy a statue and ending up killing two girls was hard to swallow.

  “J.D.?” Clive touched his shoulder. “You look haunted, man. Can I get you come coffee?”

  J.D. nodded. “That would be good.”

  Clive went to the back and returned with a paper cup of black coffee. “I know this business with those girls is tearing you up. Most folks don’t know how hard this is for you.”

  J.D. sipped the coffee. It was hot and bitter.

  “You joined the service after Karen was killed in the accident. Right after the funeral. You never wanted folks to see you hurt.”

  “Most folks don’t care to show their pain in public.”

  “It’s more than that with you. You left everything. Your folks, the farm. You just let it all go. I never thought you’d come back here.”

  J.D. shrugged. It wasn’t that he didn’t have regrets; he’d just accepted that the past couldn’t be undone. He’d run away from the pain of his sister’s death. It had cost him everything, but he hadn’t known what else to do. Going into the marines had given him a focus away from the loss that had destroyed his par
ents.

  “How long have you been sheriff now?” Clive asked.

  “Five years,” J.D. said. “I’m into my second term.”

  “Amazing.” Clive smiled. “Maybe if you run again, I’ll vote for you.”

  “Maybe it won’t be too long before I’m back to buy a present for a … woman.”

  “You’ll get a twenty-percent discount on anything in the store,” Clive said.

  “Thanks. I’ll stop by again before you close.”

  “How about I give you a call the minute I find something?” Clive asked.

  “That’s even better.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Dixon spent the afternoon at a meeting of the board of aldermen, who were discussing renovation of the town’s sewage system. A handful of citizens protested the location of the new sewage treatment plant, and one person complained about garbage pickup. Not exactly a meeting of global significance, but Dixon felt good about covering local governing bodies. Once the stories appeared in the paper, more citizens might get involved. Ray Sinclair had been a big advocate of such coverage.

  Her father was much on her mind as she walked from city hall back to the newspaper. Willard Jones’s letters to his son had brought back memories. Jones and her father had been leading diverse lives that had collided one day in May, a day that changed both families forever.

  She checked her cell phone for messages. It was hard waiting to hear from Robert, but she had to stay in Jexville. There were stories to write and photos to print—for her newspaper. The Independent was her chance to prove herself to her father. It was also an excuse to hide from a past she didn’t want to confront. She was lucky to have Robert, a man who cared enough—and had the skills—to help her.

  Tucker was waiting for her at the newspaper office.

  “What about the preliminaries for the Junior Miss pageant?” he asked. “Will we cover the pageant? It’s tonight.”

  “Why don’t you do it? I should think the least you get out of it would be a date.”

  “Right. Those girls are underage,” he said.