The Fifth Victim Read Free Page B

feel—like the whore people thought she was.
    Just as she rounded the next corner, the county roads intersected. She halted at the four-way stop and glanced to her left at the arched gates and long driveway that led up to the biggest farm in Cherokee County—the Upton farm. Half a mile up the private drive sat a typical Southern mansion, fashioned after old antebellum homes and built over a hundred years ago for Big Jim Upton’s grandmother, who’d been a Mason from Virginia.
    Once, long ago, Jazzy had dreamed of marrying Jamie and living in that big white house, with hot and cold running servants. All her life she’d wanted more, needed more than four walls and a roof. Something inside her yearned to be a lady, and to her that meant being wealthy.
    Jazzy swallowed the emotions lodged in her throat, laughed out loud, then gunned the motor and raced through the intersection. Maybe this time Jamie wouldn’t come looking for her. But if he did, maybe this time she’d find the strength to turn him away.

    Jacob Butler zipped up his brown leather jacket, positioned his brown Stetson on his head and headed out of his office. He hadn’t had a bite to eat since he’d wolfed down a scrambled egg sandwich at seven this morning while he’d been heading toward Scotsman’s Bluff. It had been a long, tiring day. He was now facing his first murder case since he’d been elected sheriff.
    Deputy Bobby Joe Harte called out as Jacob passed by his desk, “That FBI guy just called. He said to tell you he’s in Knoxville and has rented a car. Said he was heading out soon and wanted to talk to you tonight when he gets in.”
    “Did you tell him it was going to snow tonight?” Jacob asked.
    “No sir. I figure the guy had checked the weather.”
    “I’m not going by what the weathermen are predicting. Genny said heavy snowfall tonight.”
    “Funny how she’s always right about things like that.” Bobby Joe grinned.
    “Look, if he shows up—this Sloan guy—before I get back, tell him I’m over at Jasmine’s eating supper.”
    “Just curious, Jacob, but what interest do the Feds have in a local murder case?”
    “The Feds don’t have an interest,” Jacob replied. “It’s a personal matter with Sloan. He had a niece who was killed the same way Susie Richards was—slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb.”
    “Ah, man, that’s gotta be rough.”
    Jacob left the Sheriff’s Department, located on the first floor of the south side of the Cherokee County courthouse, closed the door behind him, and walked out onto the street. A frigid evening wind whizzed around him, blowing tiny new-fallen snowflakes up from the sidewalk. When he looked at the dark sky, he saw snow dancing downward in the glow from the nearby streetlight.
    As he walked up Main, he thought about the young girl who’d died at the hands of a monster early this morning. Pete Holt, the coroner and owner of Holt’s Funeral Home, had said she probably hadn’t been dead more than a couple of hours when he’d examined her at the site. He and Pete had done their best to make sure proper procedures were followed, that all the evidence was gathered, and nothing was left undone. He’d called in Roddy Watson for advice. Roddy had been the chief of police in Cherokee Pointe for the past fifteen years, and what he lacked in brains he partly made up for with experience. Roddy had told Jacob that with a case like this, they’d have to send all the evidence over to Knoxville to the crime lab there.
    Jacob rounded the corner onto Florence Avenue and headed straight for Jasmine’s, the best restaurant in town. As he drew near the front entrance to the renovated two-story building, he sensed he was being followed. When he glanced over his shoulder, he didn’t see anyone, but he couldn’t shake the notion that someone was watching him.
    Damn, Butler, get a hold of yourself. Just because there was a gruesome murder in your county this morning doesn’t mean there are