The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  Damn, the­re the so­und was aga­in. Co­uld be a be­ar scrat­c­hing aro­und out back, but it so­un­ded mo­re li­ke so­me­body dig­ging. The­re wasn't anot­her ca­bin clo­ser than half a mi­le, and he was the only ma­in­te­nan­ce man who was sup­po­sed to be up he­re to­day.

  Figuring no mat­ter whet­her it was a be­ar or a per­son ma­king the rac­ket, if he con­f­ron­ted him, he might at­tack. Best if he had so­me sort of pro­tec­ti­on. He went back to the truck and pic­ked up one of the he­avy me­tal ra­kes lying next to the lawn mo­wer and gas-po­we­red we­ed eater. Cre­eping aro­und the si­de of the ca­bin, he felt his he­art be­ating ni­nety-to-not­hing. It wasn't that he was af­ra­id. Not exactly. Just ca­uti­o­us. When he got to the back of the ca­bin, he pa­used. He co­uld still he­ar the no­ise, but didn't see an­y­t­hing or an­y­body.

  Following the so­und, he ma­de his way down the slo­pe at the back of the ho­use, then skid­ded to an aw­k­ward stop when he saw a wo­man down in the wo­oded sec­ti­on of the hol­low. At this dis­tan­ce, he co­uldn't ma­ke out much abo­ut her, ex­cept that she was de­fi­ni­tely fe­ma­le-and she had short red ha­ir.

  What the hell's she do­ing? Stan won­de­red.

  Cu­ri­osity got the bet­ter of him, so in­s­te­ad of cal­ling °ut to her and war­ning her that she wasn't alo­ne, he de­ci­ded to get a lit­tle clo­ser so he co­uld ma­ke out what she was do­ing. When he got abo­ut twenty fe­et from her, he re­ali­zed she was dig­ging a ho­le. With her back to him, he co­uldn't see her fa­ce, but he didn't think he knew her. Still, she re­min­ded him of so­me­body. She wo­re blue je­ans and a dark pla­id shirt. And a pa­ir of cot­ton work/ glo­ves. Gu­ess she didn't want to put any blis­ters on her hands. Wo­men we­re funny abo­ut stuff li­ke that.

  Just when he star­ted to hol­ler at her, ask her what she was do­ing on pri­va­te pro­perty, she stop­ped dig­ging. He to­ok se­ve­ral slow, ca­uti­o­us steps in her di­rec­ti­on and that's when he no­ti­ced two things: she'd al­re­ady dug a pretty de­ep ho­le, abo­ut three fe­et or mo­re, and the­re was a big black plas­tic gar­ba­ge sack a co­up­le of fe­et toe her right.

  She's go­ing to bury that gar­ba­ge sack, Stan tho­ught.

  "Hey, the­re," he cal­led out. "You can't be bur­ying yo­ur gar­ba­ge down the­re. This he­re is pri­va­te pro­perty."

  The wo­man fro­ze to the spot. For se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes she didn't mo­ve, didn't res­pond at all. She su­re was ac­ting li­ke so­me­body who'd got­ten ca­ught do­ing so­met­hing they sho­uldn't be do­ing. Then all of a sud­den she whir­led aro­und and smi­led at him. Damn! She wasn't no bad-lo­oking wo­man. He didn't know her, but she su­re lo­oked fa­mi­li­ar. He tho­ught may­be he'd se­en her so­mew­he­re.

  "Hello, yo­ur­self." She la­id the sho­vel asi­de and wa­ved at Stan. 'Who are you?"

  "I'm the one as­king the qu­es­ti­ons," he told her. "Who are you?"

  She la­ug­hed and when she did, he re­la­xed im­me­di­ately. Hell, she was just a wo­man. All soft and ro­und and dow­n­right fri­endly. Not­hing to be af­ra­id of, he told him­self. And the­re su­re wasn't no re­ason to be ha­te­ful to her.

  "Call me Ho­ney," she sa­id. "All my fri­ends do."

  He star­ted down the hill; she star­ted up.

  ''What are you bur­ying?" Stan eyed the plas­tic gar­ba­ge sack. '

  "You'd ne­ver be­li­eve it if I told you."

  ''Try me."

  She la­ug­hed aga­in and he fo­und him­self smi­ling as she ca­me clo­ser. "Well, I just got a di­vor­ce from a lying, che­ating son of a bitch. I ca­me up he­re with so­me of his fa­vo­ri­te things, and I in­tend to bury them whe­re he'll ne­ver find them. I want to piss him off, ma­ke him pay for be­ing such a lo­usy hus­band."

  Stan chuc­k­led. "Can't say that I bla­me you. That's what I sho­uld ha­ve do­ne with my ex-wi­fe's things."

  The wo­man ca­me up to him and la­id her hand on his arm. "Well, han­d­so­me, you didn't tell me yo­ur na­me."

  "Stan… Stan­ley Wat­son, ma'am." She squ­e­ezed his arm and bat­ted her eye­las­hes at him. Damn if she wasn't flir­ting with him. Lo­oking at her up clo­se, he re­ali­zed the­re was qu­ite a few ye­ars age dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en them, but what dif­fe­ren­ce did that ma­ke? No­ne re­al­ly.

  "You know, Stan, I ha­ven't be­en with a man sin­ce I kic­ked my hus­band out ne­arly a ye­ar ago."

  "Is that right?" Go­od-lo­oking and horny. The per­fect com­bi­na­ti­on in a wo­man, no mat­ter how yo­ung or how old.

  She ran her hand up and down his arm, then pla­ced her open palm over the cen­ter of his chest. His prick twit­c­hed. He hadn't got­ten la­id in se­ve­ral months, so he was pretty horny him­self. iou co­uld help me bury my hus­band's stuff. Then we co­uld get bet­ter ac­qu­a­in­ted."

  "I'd be happy to help you, ma'am."

  "Ho­ney. Call me Ho­ney."

  "Well, Ho­ney, let's get that bag of stuff bu­ri­ed," he sa­id and star­ted fol­lo­wing her down the hill. "I got a key to that ca­bin back up yon­der. And I know for a fact that the­re's a mighty fi­ne king-si­ze bed in­si­de."

  Stan co­uldn't get that damn plas­tic gar­ba­ge bag bu­ri­ed fast eno­ugh. Af­ter he pat­ted the dirt in­to a ne­at mo­und, she re­ac­hed out and to­ok the sho­vel from him.

  "I'll ta­ke this," she sa­id. "It's mi­ne, not my hus­band's. "

  Stan nod­ded, then pic­ked up the ra­ke he'd set asi­de ear­li­er. To­get­her they clim­bed up and out of the wo­oded: hol­low be­hind the ca­bin. When they re­ac­hed the dri­ve­way, Stan told her, "I'll put this ra­ke in the back of the truck and then open up the ca­bin."

  "Do you mind if I put my sho­vel in yo­ur truck?" She fol­lo­wed him to­ward the pic­kup. "I par­ked my car down the ro­ad api­ece. May­be af­ter­ward you co­uld drop me off the­re."

  "Sure thing." All he co­uld think abo­ut was the fact that in just a few mi­nu­tes he was go­ing to be scre­wing a go­od-lo­oking wo­man.

  He drop­ped the truck's ta­il­ga­te, le­aned over, and tos­sed the ra­ke on­to the bed. Just as he star­ted to turn aro­und and ta­ke her sho­vel from her, he felt so­met­hing hard and he­avy hit him on the he­ad. Stun­ned by the unex­pec­ted­ness and the hor­ren­do­us pa­in, he didn't ha­ve ti­me to re­act be­fo­re anot­her blow struck him. And then ever­y­t­hing went black as he lost con­s­ci­o­us­ness.

  Jazzy clo­is­te­red her­self in the of­fi­ce at Jaz­zy's Jo­int She co­uldn't de­al with cus­to­mers right now. Not when Ca­leb wasn't he­re. He'd cal­led to tell her he wo­uld be run­ning la­te for work, but that he'd try to be the­re by ni­ne. Sin­ce the pla­ce sel­dom got rowdy in the early ho­urs of the eve­ning, es­pe­ci­al­ly on a we­ek­night, she was su­re Lacy and the two wa­it­res­ses, She­ri and Ka­lin­da, co­uld hold down the fort. But she did ha­ve a bu­si­ness to run des­pi­te pre­sently be­ing Che­ro­kee Po­in­te's most no­to­ri­o­us cri­mi­nal.

  Genny had spent the mor­ning with her, then Aunt Sally had ta­ken over aro­und one. The only way she'd be­en ab­le to get her aunt to go ho­me was to pro­mi­se she wo­uld stay put in he­re in her of­fi­ce un­til Ca­leb ca­me in to work. As much as she ap­pre­ci­ated the­ir con­cern, ha­ving them ho­ve­ring over her was al­re­ady get­ting on her ner­ves. She fi­gu­red they tho­ught to­day wo­uld be es­pe­ci­al­ly dif­fi­cult for her, con­si­de­ring Jamie Up­ton had be­en bu­ri­ed this af­ter­no­on. A part of her wis­hed she co­uld ha­ve go­ne to his fu­ne­ral.

  A soft rap­ping on the clo­sed do­or ga­ined Jaz­zy's at­ten­ti­on. Ho­ping it was Ca­leb, she glan­ced up from the pa­per­work she'd be­en do­ing. "Yes?"

  The do­or eased open and Re­ve Sor­rell wal­ked in. "May I spe­ak to you?"

  Jazzy in­s­pec­ted the wo­man from
top to bot­tom. Damn, they did lo­ok a lot ali­ke. Re­ve Sor­rell was tal­ler than she and plum­per, but not by any me­ans fat. She cer­ta­inly didn't do much with what she had. Her ha­ir was the sa­me na­tu­ral auburn Jaz­zy's wo­uld be if she didn't use that fa­bu­lo­us sha­de of Hussy Red, and her eyes we­re the sa­me de­ep red­dish brown as hers we­re wit­ho­ut her gre­en con­tacts. Not only co­uld Ms. Sor­rell use mo­re ma­ke­up and a new ha­ir­do-who the hell wo­re the­ir ha­ir in bun the­se days?-but she sho­uld in­vest in so­me stylish fe­mi­ni­ne clot­hes. The navy blue slacks and jac­ket she had on, al­be­it pro­bably the best mo­ney co­uld buy, we­re al­most mas­cu­li­ne.

  ''I fi­gu­red you'd al­re­ady left town by now," Jaz­zy sa­id.

  ''I… uh… I'm on my way out of town, as a matter of fact. I had in­ten­ded le­aving by no­on to­day, but that was be­fo­re yo­ur boy­f­ri­end sho­wed up and thre­ate­ned me."

  Jazzy sta­red qu­iz­zi­cal­ly at the ot­her wo­man. "My boy­f­ri­end?"

  "Do you ha­ve so many boy­f­ri­ends that I ha­ve to na­me the spe­ci­fic one?"

  "If you ca­me he­re to in­sult me, you can le­ave. I've he­ard all the in­sults la­tely that I want to he­ar."

  "I apo­lo­gi­ze. I ca­me he­re to ask you… well, to ma­ke su­re that I ha­ve yo­ur word, as well as Mr. McCord's, that what y'all know abo­ut me-abo­ut the pos­sib­le con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en you and me-will re­ma­in bet­we­en us."

  What the hell was she tal­king abo­ut? Ca­leb had thre­ate­ned Re­ve Sor­rell? And what was this con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en the two of them? "I don't know what you're tal­king abo­ut."

  Reve ga­ve Jaz­zy a you're-lying sta­re. "Do you ex­pect me to be­li­eve that he didn't tell you he'd run a check on me… on my bac­k­g­ro­und, and is using that in­for­ma­ti­on to blac­k­ma­il me?"

  Jazzy grin­ned. So the sno­oty Ms. Sor­rell had so­met­hing to hi­de, did she? "It wo­uld se­em I'm not the only one with a shady past. Just what are you gu­ilty of, Re­ve?" She em­p­ha­si­zed the wo­man's gi­ven na­me.

  "He hasn't told you?" Re­ve in­ha­led and ex­ha­led slowly.

  "I ha­ven't se­en Ca­leb sin­ce early this mor­ning, but I'm su­re he'll tell me ever­y­t­hing when he co­mes in to work la­ter."

  "Mm-hmm. Yes, I'm su­re he will."

  "Look, wha­te­ver it is, yo­ur sec­rets are sa­fe with me. Wha­te­ver de­al you wor­ked out with Ca­leb"-and Jaz­zy in­ten­ded to find out exactly what that was all abo­ut-'Is okay with me. Be­si­des, I'm hardly in a po­si­ti­on to throw sto­nes at an­yo­ne el­se."

  Narrowing her ga­ze, Re­ve sta­red at Jaz­zy, her ex­p­res­si­on pen­si­ve and un­cer­ta­in, as if she co­uldn't qu­ite fi­gu­re Jaz­zy out. "I ha­ven't mur­de­red an­yo­ne, if that's what you're thin­king."

  "Neither ha­ve I," Jaz­zy told her.

  Reve nod­ded. "Per­haps not, but you we­re ar­res­ted for Jamie Up­ton's mur­der, and that's so­met­hing I'd pre­fer my fri­ends and as­so­ci­ates not know."

  "Why wo­uld you ca­re if yo­ur-just what sort of in­for­ma­ti­on did Ca­leb dig up on you?" What was it that Re­ve had sa­id a few mi­nu­tes ago? So­met­hing abo­ut a pos­sib­le con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en us. Bet­we­en Re­ve and Jaz­zy? "What's the con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en us that you don't want an­yo­ne to find out abo­ut?"

  "I'd pre­fer to think the­re is no con­nec­ti­on, but yo­ur Mr. McCord be­li­eves that we are sis­ters." 'That's not pos­sib­le. Aunt Sally told me that my mot­her ga­ve birth to only one baby. Me."

  "Yes, and I ho­pe she's right." Re­ve's jaw tig­h­te­ned; a pa­ined ex­p­res­si­on cros­sed her fa­ce. "I was adop­ted when I was an in­fant. I had be­en left to die in a Dum­p­s­ter in Se­vi­er­vil­le. And that's so­met­hing very few pe­op­le know. So you see, I ha­ve no idea who my bi­olo­gi­cal pa­rents are."

  Oh, holy shit! A cold, un­ner­ving sen­sa­ti­on crept thro­ugh Jaz­zy. Wo­uld Aunt Sally lie to her? May­be. But why? Was it pos­sib­le that this rich, classy, stuck-up wo­man was her sis­ter? "That fact alo­ne do­esn't ma­ke us sis­ters." My adop­ti­ve pa­rents ga­ve me a bir­t­h­day-they gu­es­sed the da­te sin­ce the doc­tors told them ap­pro­xi­ma­tely how old they tho­ught I was. My bir­t­h­day and yo­urs are less than a we­ek apart."

  "And?" The­re had to be mo­re; Jaz­zy co­uld sen­se that Re­ve hadn't sha­red the most dam­ning evi­den­ce with her.

  "My blo­od type is AB ne­ga­ti­ve."

  Jazzy gas­ped. Damn! Do­ub­le damn! "So is mi­ne."

  "Yes, that's what Mr. McCord told me."

  ''Then…"

  "Being com­p­le­tely lo­gi­cal he­re, I ha­ve to ad­mit that the­re is a chan­ce you and I are bi­olo­gi­cal sis­ters. Pos­sibly twins."

  Jazzy didn't know whet­her to la­ugh or cry. "Well, ho­ney, don't act li­ke it's a fa­te wor­se than de­ath."

  "You must see how to­tal­ly ri­di­cu­lo­us it wo­uld be for us to be sis­ters… I me­an in any ot­her way than ge­ne­ti­cal­ly spe­aking, of co­ur­se."

  "Of co­ur­se."

  "We ha­ve not­hing in com­mon."

  "Oh, I wo­uldn't say that."

  Reve sta­red at Jaz­zy in her damn ag­gra­va­ting, su­pe­ri­or way.

  Jazzy sa­id, "It wo­uld se­em we just might ha­ve a mot­her and fat­her in com­mon."

  Reve ten­sed vi­sibly, as if the tho­ught was mo­re than she co­uld be­ar. "Did you know yo­ur mot­her?"

  "Corrine Tal­bot?" Jaz­zy sho­ok her he­ad. "She di­ed when I was only a few months old. She had co­me to li­ve with Aunt Sally du­ring her last month of preg­nancy."

  "How did she die?"

  "She left me with Aunt Sal­ly-ac­tu­al­ly de­ser­ted me- and she got in­vol­ved with so­me guy who wo­und up dri­ving drunk and kil­ling both of them. It se­ems she didn't ha­ve much luck with men. Not with my fat­her or-"

  "Do you know who yo­ur fat­her was?"

  "Got no idea."

  "Did yo­ur mot­her gi­ve birth at the hos­pi­tal he­re in Che­ro­kee Po­in­te?" Re­ve as­ked.

  "Nope. She had me at ho­me. Aunt Sally and Lu­die de­li­ve­red me."

  "And yo­ur aunt says that her sis­ter ga­ve birth to only one child."

  "Aunt Sally has be­en known to lie if it su­ited her pur­po­ses."

  "Why wo­uld she lie abo­ut the­re be­ing anot­her baby?"

  "I don't know. Ac­tu­al­ly I don't know if she is lying. May­be we're sis­ters, but not twins." Jaz­zy clic­ked her ton­gue. "No, that's not pos­sib­le, is it? We're the sa­me age."

  "Look, Ms. Tal­bot…J­az­zy… I'm cu­ri­o­us, na­tu­ral­ly. But I think it best for me-per­haps for both of us-if we don't pur­sue this mat­ter. I don't ne­ed to know mo­re. I'm per­fectly happy with my li­fe the way it is. And su­rely, con­si­de­ring yo­ur pre­sent cir­cum­s­tan­ces, you ha­ve mo­re im­por­tant mat­ters to con­si­der than the pos­si­bi­lity that you and I are bi­olo­gi­cal sis­ters."

  "You're as­ha­med of me," Jaz­zy sa­id, then shrug­ged. "Can't say that I bla­me you. Who'd want to cla­im me as a sis­ter?"

  "I'm sorry." Re­ve to­ok a he­si­tant step to­ward Jaz­zy, then stop­ped ab­ruptly. "I've in­sul­ted you aga­in, and that wasn't my in­ten­ti­on. I wish… well, I ho­pe things work out for you and that you're ac­qu­it­ted of Jamie's mur­der. Ha­ving Qu­inn Cor­tez de­fen­ding you sho­uld gi­ve you every chan­ce of be­ing-"

  "The Qu­inn Cor­tez?"

  "Oh, that's right, Ca­leb hasn't told you." Re­ve snap­ped open her le­at­her han­d­bag, re­ac­hed in­si­de, and pul­led out a bu­si­ness card. "I've hi­red Mr. Cor­tez to de­fend you, if the grand jury hands down an in­dic­t­ment." She held out the card. "This is my of­fi­ce ad­dress, pho­ne num­ber, and e-ma­il. If-if the­re's an­y­t­hing el­se I
can do to help you-"

  "You're pa­ying for Qu­inn Cor­tez?" Jaz­zy co­uldn't qu­ite get a grip on what was hap­pe­ning he­re. "Ca­leb blac­k­ma­iled you in­to hi­ring Mr. Cor­tez?"

  "Let's say we struck a de­al."

  "Is it that im­por­tant to you to ke­ep my exis­ten­ce a sec­ret-if I am yo­ur sis­ter?"

  "I tho­ught it was," Re­ve rep­li­ed. "Yes, I sup­po­se it is. I don't know. Lo­ok, just be­ca­use I'd pre­fer for us not to be a part of each ot­her's li­ves do­esn't me­an I want an­y­t­hing bad to hap­pen to you."

  "You're not exactly what you se­em, are you, Ms. Sor­rell?"

  Reve smi­led fa­intly. "Ne­it­her are you, Ms. Tal­bot"

  Jazzy to­ok the bu­si­ness card and stuf­fed it in­to one of her front poc­kets. "No­body will ever know abo­ut any pos­sib­le con­nec­ti­on bet­we­en us. Not from me. And not from Ca­leb. I pro­mi­se."