Cheri on Top by Susan Donovan Page A

the inside.
    “Give me a fuckin’ break, son,” Purnell said. “Besides, J.J.’s not your problem. There are FBI agents in town. And I sure as hell can’t do anything about the FBI.”
    “No. Listen to me.” Wim began to pace back and forth. It occurred to Purnell that all he had to do was stretch out his foot and he could trip the little prick. Now wouldn’t that be fun?
    “I heard it’s going to take a while for the police to get a positive ID on the body. I need you to keep J.J. from printing anything in the meantime. I gotta sell those lots.”
    Purnell laughed. “You’re kidding me.”
    “Listen.” Wim held his palms out. “Daddy always said there was nothing down there. Whenever I asked him about it, he’d laugh and say that you were too drunk to know what really happened that night, and there was no car in the lake. No ghost. No murder. Nothing. He said you blacked out. He told you that you killed the girl so he could use you.”
    Purnell didn’t think he had it in him, but he shot out of the rocking chair, energized by a burst of clear, pure rage. He grabbed Wim by the collar of his preppy shirt. “What?”
    Wim twisted himself free. “It’s the truth! Daddy said you were so drunk you thought you killed her and he went along with your delusion because he could use you to get money to start buying land. Daddy said that he knew for a fact that Barbara Jean Smoot ran off and changed her name. He used to laugh at you all the time.”
    Purnell’s chest tightened. He had trouble breathing. “Nonsense!” he whispered.
    That was crazy talk. How many times had he relived that night in 1964? Barbara Jean had picked him up behind the newspaper offices and they did what they usually did—they got liquored up and went for a ride. Music blared from the dashboard radio, the wind whipped all that gorgeous blond hair of hers around her head, Purnell dragged his fingers across the bare flesh of her upper arm, tweaked a hard little nipple … that Barbara Jean had been something special, all wild and hell-bent on living life to the fullest. He was damn happy to help her.
    Admittedly, the rest of the evening’s events were fuzzy, but of course Purnell had been responsible for the girl’s death! He woke up in the woods near Paw Paw Lake late that night, his fingers smelling like girl juice, dried blood under his eye, a little pair of white cotton panties shoved in his trouser pocket. What in the name of God had happened? Where did Barbara Jean get herself to? he wondered. It must have been one hell of a night!
    Purnell had walked home in the dark. He snuck in his own front door without waking Lizzie. He showered and dressed for work, putting a dab of Mercurochrome on the cut and telling Lizzie he’d nicked himself shaving again. He staggered into the newsroom. It wasn’t unusual for him to be a little rough around the edges first thing in the morning, so nobody seemed to notice.
    But then again, no one was paying any mind to him that morning. The newsroom was buzzing—there’d been a possible murder! A witness told the sheriff he saw a car plunge into Paw Paw Lake with a woman behind the wheel! And a man was seen jumping out of the vehicle at the last instant. He ran into the woods. Police were looking for him.
    Purnell thought he’d vomit. He escaped to his office and shut the door. He could barely catch his breath. What had he done? He and Lizzie had two kids at that point. He’d just been promoted to chief financial officer at the Bugle . He’d just become president-elect of the Bigler Chamber of Commerce. This could not be happening!
    “You all right, old man?”
    Purnell blinked. It took him a few moments to make sense of where he was, when it was, and why Winston Wimbley’s son was standing in front of him. The pain in his chest helped Purnell regain his focus.
    Of course he hadn’t imagined anything. He’d killed that girl, no question. But it had obviously been an accident. And as Purnell had