Cheri on Top by Susan Donovan Page B

sat in his office at the Bugle that morning so long ago, he told himself he should confess. That was the only way out. He’d do it tomorrow. Or the day after that. But he’d do it.
    Turned out, a confession wasn’t necessary. Sheriff Winston Wimbley had figured it out by the afternoon. Of course he had—Wimbley knew all about Purnell’s dalliances with the pretty and willing Barbara Jean Smoot, and might have had a few rolls in the grass with her himself. It was no secret she had a thing for older, successful men, after all.
    And, oh! Purnell’s body shook in terror as he watched that bastard stroll through the newsroom on his way to the business office, gun on his hip, badge on his chest, and a swagger in his step. Purnell was certain the first words out of his lifelong buddy’s lips would be, “You’re under arrest.”
    Instead, Wimbley shut Purnell’s office door behind him and pulled its shade. “ Now what have you gone and done, Purnell?” Sheriff Wimbley shook his head like he was straining to have patience. “Y’all probably don’t even remember what happened last night.”
    Purnell started shaking. He fingered the cut under his eye. He was on the verge of crying. “I don’t remember! Oh, God, what have I done?”
    “Looks like she fought you pretty good, too.” With a deep sigh, Wimbley settled into the chair across from Purnell’s desk. “This is an unfortunate turn of events, no doubt, but it doesn’t have to be the end of the world. I can get you out of this mess.”
    “What?” Purnell had looked at Wimbley in shock. “How?”
    “I got a little proposition for you.”
    And that’s when he got his marching orders. It remained unspoken, but Wimbley had to have been aware that Purnell didn’t have the kind of money he was asking for. They both knew the only way he could comply with Wimbley’s demands would be to steal from the Bugle . So that’s what Purnell did.
    For the first few years, he made a habit of skimming off revenues, hiding what he’d stolen by underreporting how much the paper was earning through retail advertising, classified liners and displays, and preprint inserts. But after Garland started asking questions, Purnell knew he had to find another way to pay Wimbley. That’s when he got the idea to steal from the debit side of the ledger instead.
    He began padding the costs of doing business wherever possible. This included payments for newsprint, ink, machinery, transportation costs, and especially the steady stream of technology upgrades needed from the eighties on. Perhaps Purnell’s most ingenious move was inventing a series of shell “consulting” firms that were paid handsomely for services they never provided.
    And that’s how he’d managed it, month after month for more than forty years—a lifetime of stealing from Garland Newberry to pay Winston Wimbley. In exchange, Sheriff Wimbley made the witness go away. As he told Purnell that day in his office, “That Negro don’t have the brains God gave a goose. Won’t be much of a loss.”
    Oh, how Purnell had come to wish Winston had just gone ahead and handcuffed him that day, dragged him through the newsroom, and put his ass in jail. It would have been the proper punishment for killing Barbara Jean. It would have spared the life of that poor Johnston bastard, and many years later, Loyal Newberry and his pretty young wife.
    Why had Garland’s son turned out to be such a goddamned do-gooder of a publisher? Why did he have to go poking his nose into what was buried in the past? Ah, hell … Oh, Lord have mercy … of course I killed Barbara Jean! Because if I didn’t, it would mean Garland’s son and daughter-in-law died for no damn reason at all!
    “You should probably sit down, you old fool,” Wim said. “You look kinda green all of a sudden.”
    Purnell fell back into the rocking chair, his throat burning with bile. Then a sharp pain sliced through his chest. He stared at the young Wimbley, suddenly