Final Justice Page 3

  Playfully, she scrambled from the bed and hurried to the living room to grab one of the dusty roses from a Coke bottle and stick it between her teeth. Then she raced back to the bed to strike a seductive pose by leaning back with her legs spread wide and bosom thrust forward.

  She could hear him making his way in the darkness, and when he reached the bedroom door, she called out huskily, "Oh, Luke, baby, you don't know how I've been praying you'd make it."

  The overhead bulb flashed on, flooding the room with a sickly yellow light. The rose dropped from Emma Jean's mouth. It was Rudy.

  "I was right."

  Her blood curdled with terror.

  "You have been screwing that son of a bitch."

  Slowly, his eyes slitted in that menacing glare she had learned to fear, Rudy started toward the bed. It was then that she saw the gleam of the butcher knife in his hand.

  * * *

  The coffee was hot, but Alma Ballard was hotter.

  She sat at the kitchen table, dressed for work in green slacks, white blouse, and an orange jacket emblazoned with HAMPTON MILLS on the back and SUPERVISOR on the front. White cotton socks cuffed her dingy sneakers, and her straight brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail held by a rubber band.

  A glance at the clock brought a fresh rush of anger. It was after six-thirty. She was due at work at seven, but no way was she leaving till she found out where Luke was, damn him. If something bad had happened, he should have called unless, and she gritted her teeth to think about it, he had fallen asleep somewhere with his girlfriend. She dug down in her pocket and brought out a crumpled pack of Camels. Lighting up, she inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke from her nose as she absently picked at a piece of tobacco caught between her teeth.

  Luke thought he was so clever, but she had heard the rumors about him and Emma Jean Veazey, and she was worried about it. Sure, she had suspected from time to time that he'd been with women in the past, but they were just fly-by-night floozies. If he was seriously involved with Emma Jean, it might be something to worry about. She even thought about talking to Rudy Veazy so he could put a stop to it, then decided against it. Rudy might kill him, and Alma didn't want him dead, not that she gave a damn about Luke any more than he gave a rat's ass about her. She just didn't want Tammy to have to live with the shame of having the man she thought of as her daddy murdered for screwing another man's wife.

  Alma drew on the Camel so deeply that the smoke stung her lungs. Maybe she should feel guilty about making Luke think Tammy was his, but she didn't. After all, Tammy could have been if Jimmy Tate hadn't gotten her pregnant first. In all fairness, when she started going all the way with Luke, she hadn't known she was already pregnant. She and Jimmy had broken up over Sylvie Grice, and she wanted to make him jealous, so she went out with Luke, who was trying to make Sara Daughtry jealous.

  As it turned out, Jimmy didn't care because he and Sylvie made up, ran off to Mississippi, and got married. So when Alma realized she was going to have a baby, she pointed the finger at Luke, figuring he was better husband material than Jimmy, anyway. Besides, her daddy didn't even have to make him marry her because Miss Orlena, Luke's mother, saw to it that Luke would do the right thing. After all, who in all of Hampton should know better than Miss Orlena how important it was for a boy to accept his responsibility? She surely had her cross to bear, raising Luke in shame with the whole town knowing he was a bastard.

  So they were married, and Alma moved in to live with Luke and his mother at Junior Kearney's motor court. Only Luke didn't stay long. He had only agreed to the marriage if his mother would sign for him to join the Army, which was what he did, dropping out of school to go marching off.

  He had not been around when Tammy was born, and Alma wondered if he would have even come back at all, if not for his mother. He sure never pretended to care anything about her. He never wanted to have sex with her, which was fine. Alma had never enjoyed sex anyway. It was only good for making babies. Look at her own mother, for goodness sakes. Ten children. Each of her sisters had several babies before they were twenty, making them old before their time. She had sworn it wouldn't happen to her. So she had left Tammy with Miss Orlena and gone to work at the mill, eventually climbing up the ladder to become a floor supervisor and earn a nice salary.

  She stubbed out the cigarette. Things weren't really so bad even if she and Luke couldn't stand each other. Thanks to his getting a VA loan, they were able to buy a house. Alma enjoyed being a respected member of the community, even though Luke wouldn't step foot inside her church—Gospel Light United. He said they were fanatics because the women couldn't wear lipstick, and dancing and watching television were considered sins.

  Smoking was also forbidden, she thought guiltily as she lit another cigarette. But as long as nobody knew about it, she was going to keep it up—especially when her nerves were bad, like now. Where was Luke anyhow, damn it?

  She didn't want her tidy life messed up, which meant it was time to put a stop to things between him and Emma Jean before they went too far. Emma Jean might be trying to talk him into running off with her, and he might be crazy enough to do it. After all, he had been acting funny lately, and when anybody mentioned his running for sheriff again next year, he wouldn't talk about it.

  She had to find out where he was, damn it, and if he was off somewhere with Emma Jean, there was going to be hell to pay.

  She reached for the phone.

  * * *

  Wilma Farrell was busy filing her nails. No one was around the courthouse because the sheriff and the deputies had worked most of the night. She didn't expect them until lunch time, and she was looking forward to a quiet morning.

  The phone rang, and she answered, hoping it was nothing important.

  "Is he there?"

  Wilma recognized the voice. "I haven't seen him this morning, Alma. I figured he'd sleep late." She started clearing her manicure supplies from the top of her desk. So much for an easy morning. Luke was probably on his way in.

  "Well, he isn't sleeping late here," Alma fired back curtly, at the same time wishing she hadn't. She didn't want to make Wilma wonder why she was upset. Softening her tone, she added, "I just thought maybe there was more vandalism than usual last night, and he was still working."

  "You mean he hasn't come home?"

  "If he had, do you think I'd be calling?" So much for not sounding upset.

  "Well, I don't know of anything that would have kept him this late."

  "Well, look at the log, damn it."

  Wilma's brows rose sharply. Everyone knew Alma Ballard called herself a Christian, so she must be really aggravated to curse. She quickly scanned the log. "Nope. Nothing here—but wait..." She saw that something on the very last line had been erased but couldn't tell what it was. "No. Nothing."

  "Then what time did he sign off?"

  Wilma saw the time noted for Matt and Kirby but nothing for Luke. "I guess he forgot to call in."

  "He wouldn't do that. He's the sheriff, you idiot. Where's Ned?"

  Wilma knew Alma was very angry now, but there was something else, a sense of urgency in her voice that was downright scary. "He left when I got here about thirty minutes ago. Said he was going fishing. Do you want me to call the deputies and see if they know anything?"

  "Don't bother. I'll take care of it myself."

  Alma slammed the receiver down, fuming to think Luke could only be at Emma Jean's. She had seen the schedule and knew Rudy was working nights. Luke was probably so hot to get over there he forgot to sign off for the first time. After quickly phoning the mill to say she'd be late, she snatched up her purse and car keys.

  If Luke had, indeed, fallen asleep in the little tramp's bed, she was going to yank his butt right out of it, then beat the hell out of Emma Jean. Enough was enough.

  Wilma immediately called Matt. He was her nephew, and they were close. They had been talking about Luke's carrying on with Emma Jean Veazey and how it might be getting serious.

  Matt
was still asleep, but she told Ruthie, his wife, that it was an emergency, and he finally came on the line. He listened, then said, "I can't say anything over the phone, Aunt Wilma, but you know what I'm thinking."

  She knew all right. He was agreeing with her that Luke was going to be in big trouble if he was snoozing in Rudy Veazey's bed. "Well, what do you think we should do?"

  "I'd better drive out there and look around."

  She felt relief, but not much and urged, "You'd better hurry, because I think that's where Alma is headed, and from the way she sounded on the phone, Lord help them both if she gets there first."

  Chapter 3

  Cleve Hampton, III, or "Buddy," as he was known to intimates, fought the impulse to send the golf putter crashing against the wall.

  Murline Pruitt watched nervously. She well knew his temper and dreaded how he'd react to hearing Alma Ballard had called in saying she'd be late.

  He set the putter aside. "Did she say how late?"

  "No, just that there was some kind of family emergency."

  "Damn it. First Rudy Veazey leaves sick and now this. How the hell am I supposed to keep that section of the plant running overtime when both the foreman and floor supervisor are out? Nobody likes working Saturdays, but that's too bad. What's wrong with Veazey, anyway?"

  "I was told when he clocked out around four he claimed he had a stomachache."

  "Call his house. Tell him about Alma not showing up, and if he wants to keep his job to get his butt back down here."

  "I tried, but I kept getting a busy signal, so I called the operator, and she checked and said the phone was off the hook."

  She jumped as Buddy kicked the side of his desk. "Then he's fired. Check the personnel files for who's next in seniority and promote them to his job."

  After Murline rushed from the room, Buddy opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out the flask of vodka he kept there for the times when life seemed unbearable. Thanks to Luke Ballard, it was almost empty.

  Buddy had a ten o'clock tee-off at the country club but couldn't leave till a replacement was found for Rudy. He just wished he could fire Alma, too, but didn't dare. Not now. Hell, he wished he had never promoted her in the first place, but she was a good worker, and he'd felt sorry for her raising her kid alone. Like everyone else, he never thought Luke would come back to Hampton to stay, only he'd been wrong. Now here he was, the richest man in Buford County, having his strings pulled by a redneck sheriff and the only way he would ever have any peace was for the son of a bitch to die.

  His private line rang, and he answered, cringing to hear Burch Cleghorn's voice.

  "Hey, it's me. Listen, I called your house, but the maid said you were at the office. Since it's such a nice day I figured you'd be heading to the golf course later, and I want to invite myself along if it's okay."

  Buddy gritted his teeth. "I'm playing with Thad Greer."

  A few seconds of silence was followed by Burch whining, "But he wouldn't care if I came along if you said it was okay."

  "He might feel uncomfortable."

  "That's ridiculous. I mean, it's time people start forgetting."

  Buddy snickered. "You're a fool to think they ever will."

  Burch's voice cracked. "Yeah, Luke made sure of that, didn't he? He fixed me, all right. But I'm not the only one. I still think he had something to do with Hardy's deeding the funeral home back over to Lucy and letting her boss him around ever since. He'll get to you, too, if he can."

  Buddy was silent for a moment, not trusting himself to speak, lest he reveal his own fury. The truth was, Luke had gotten to him. The one mercy was that no one else knew—not yet, anyway. Finally, he said, "I'm not as stupid as you are, Burch."

  "Okay. Okay. But it's not fair. Sara Daughtry is nothing but a slut, and she came out smelling like a rose, while I..."

  "Nobody knows it was her you were with, and Luke threatened to kill you and make it look like an accident if you said she was, didn't he?"

  "Yeah, and I could kill both of 'em with my bare hands."

  Buddy shook his head in disgust. Burch was getting on his nerves. "Look, I know you're going through a rough time, but I've got problems of my own here."

  Burch welcomed someone else's troubles to get his mind off his own. "What's going on?"

  "We're running overtime. Alma Ballard is the supervisor, but there's a family emergency, and she's going to be late if she shows at all. Rudy Veazey is the foreman on that side, and he went home sick."

  Burch gave a nasty chuckle. "Maybe Alma's emergency is that Luke wants to pork her for a change, instead of Rudy's old lady. Maybe she wants to get it while she can."

  Buddy matched his coarse humor. "And maybe Rudy stayed out for the same reason—to pork his old lady while Luke isn't around."

  "I doubt Rudy knows Luke is screwing her. If he did, he'd kill both of them."

  "Then maybe we should see to it he finds out," Buddy laughed. "That would make a few folks happy, wouldn't it?"

  Burch seized on Buddy's sudden switch to a good mood. "Sure would, old chum, but how about the golf game? I'll come on over to your office and..."

  "Another time. I've got to go." Buddy hung up and thought maybe he shouldn't have been so brusque, but the fact was, if not for him and Hardy Moon, Burch wouldn't have any social life at all. Buddy knew Burch's marriage was wrecked, but his wife had stuck by him because she couldn't afford to leave. After all, how could she support herself at her age when the only thing she had ever done in life was play bridge and have three kids? And Burch couldn't afford to keep her up separately. His practice had gone to hell after the scandal, and while he still had a few out-of-town clients, his days of high living were over. Burch's life had been ruined forevermore, and if Luke had his way he'd do the same damn thing to Buddy's.

  * * *

  Burch was still in bed and thought maybe he would just stay there all day. He had no reason to get up. Nobody wanted anything to do with him, which was why he hated weekends. Monday through Friday he had his work, such as it was, plus he didn't have to be around Irene, who let him know every chance she got that she hated his guts.

  Luke Ballard. The name boiled like bile in his gut. God, he wished him dead.

  "Burch?" Irene appeared in the doorway. It was not yet eight o'clock but she was dressed in a blue polished cotton dress, her hair still perfectly coiffed from the beauty parlor the day before. She wore stockings, medium high heels, a touch of rouge and lipstick. Every day for the twenty-four years they had been married she got up early to make herself as attractive as possible. Only now she did so out of habit, not to please him.

  Burch did not respond, pretending to be asleep, hoping she would go away. She yanked the covers off his head. "I don't want you hanging around the house today."

  He rolled over to meet her contemptuous glare. "Why not? I happen to live here, you know."

  "Much to my sorrow and humiliation," she fired back. "Now my church circle is meeting here this morning to make plans for the Christmas bazaar, and I don't want them to see you because it will remind them of what you did."

  He snorted. "As if out-of-sight, out-of-mind means anything to those old biddies. They'll still gossip."

  "Shame on you. They're fine Christian women. If they weren't, they wouldn't have anything to do with me. God knows, everybody wonders why I stay with you, anyway."

  "Well, we know, don't we, dear? Because you can't do anything except play bridge and pour tea, and, therefore, cannot support yourself."

  Her eyes narrowed. "I want you out of here."

  "I'll stay in my room and won't come out." They slept separately in opposite ends of the large house.

  "I'm giving you one hour, Burch."

  "I'm not going anywhere, and you and your pious friends can go to hell."

  "How dare you talk to me that way? I've been a good wife and raised three fine children. And look how you've treated me. Look what you did to me, to our marriage, and..."

  He leaped
out of bed, ran into the bathroom, and slammed and locked the door after him. He'd heard it all before and was sick of it. Turning on the shower full force to drown out her screaming, he let the water run while he opened the medicine chest and took out the bottle of aspirin. He gulped down several to try and stave off the headache that was sure to come. By the time he was dressed, she had given up and left.

  He snatched up the phone and dialed the funeral home. Hardy answered, and Burch said, desperately, "Let's go play golf or do something. I've got to get out of here. Irene is in one of her moods..."

  "No can do. I've got the Petrie funeral at eleven this morning."

  "What about after?"

  "I have a body to prepare." Hardy never said embalm. He had been taught in mortuary school that the word bothered some people.

  Burch bantered, "Is it Luke Ballard, by any chance?"

  Hardy chuckled. "Don't we all wish? Maybe one of these days. But at least I've got another creep to put away that I can't stand—Jubal Cochran. His next-door neighbor found him on the bathroom floor when she checked to see why he didn't answer the phone or come to the door."

  "What happened?"

  "I'm putting heart attack on the coroner's report."

  Jubal had owned the hardware store. Burch had known Jubal all his life but felt no remorse over his death. Jubal was one of the holier-than-thous who had wanted to crucify him after Luke and Sara set him up. Jubal had also told all over town that there was hanky-panky going on at the funeral home, but when Burch reminded Hardy of that, Hardy cut him off.

  "I don't care anymore, and I've got to get busy. Call Buddy and see if he'll play with you." Sometimes Hardy felt sorry for Burch because he and Buddy were the only men in town who would have anything to do with him. This was not, however, one of those times. He had too much to do. He was also anxious to get started on Jubal because he enjoyed embalming people he didn't like.

  Burch said, "I did, but he's got a mess on his hands." He recounted the situation at the mill.