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Chapter 38

T he following week, Ramsey, filthy, fiery-eyed, and apparently full of hard-won, worldly wisdom, came waltzing back home.

It was a lucky break that I even saw him. The old guard had insisted Mere and I go back to Jamie’s cabin—to keep me from running, the unspoken reason—and there was rarely a moment we were left alone. I had finally convinced Jamie to let me drop by the house to pick up some of Mere’s school clothes, and when I saw Ramsey’s scrawny body perched by the door, it felt like a good omen.

Something I was in dire need of.

By then, everything was in order, my plan ready to execute. Well, actually mine and Wren’s plan. After I’d left her, she’d managed to slip out of Juliana and gotten herself down to Atlanta where a friend got her medical help. While she was recuperating from a nasty bullet hole in her right thigh, we’d stayed in contact on a messaging app. I’d finally heard from the professor at Georgia, too, about the gold mine’s existence and rumored grisly past, the last puzzle piece and confirmation that this nightmare was real.

Alice Tilton had disappeared, maybe thanks to Major, but I had no way of knowing. No one in town seemed to think it was out of the ordinary, and her class, including Mere and Temperance, were assigned to other teachers. I hoped she was safe. I also hoped she knew how much her courage and friendship meant to me.

At the Dalzell-Davenport house, I put Ramsey in my Jeep and drove him and the box of Mere’s clothes back to Jamie’s cabin. I had agreed to marry Jamie in late September. A wedding at the Cleburne farm, beside the lake where my husband’s body had been stashed. Where it still was, for all I knew. Jamie had seemed thrilled at the prospect. I assumed he thought it was romantic.

I had asked Jamie to allow me to sleep in my own room while I tried to figure out what to tell Mere. I said it was the least he could do, give me the time I needed, and he agreed. With Mere, I had been sticking with the Peter-still-being-away-on-business story, but it had begun to feel like she could see right through the lie. When I told her we couldn’t call him because “he’s just super busy, babe,” she’d just stare at me with a terrifyingly cold look in her eye. Jamie, on the other hand, watched me in an entirely different way, like I was a piece of meat, and he was a starving man.

“I only want you to be with me because you want it,” he said the night we moved into his cabin, after he’d helped me unpacked my things in the guest room next to Mere’s. He pressed an agonizingly long kiss to my forehead as we stood at the foot of the bed. “When it happens, it’s going to be so good.”

I sent him a coy smile, perfectly calibrated to make him think I was just as tempted as he was. And then my phone whistled. An alert from Wren. I froze, my heart banging in my chest.

“Somebody texting you?” he asked.

I put a hand on his arm. “Scheduling app for the restaurant. Cam sends me an alert when we’re short on staff.”

He put his hand over mine, trapping it against him. “I like it when you touch me.”

It took every ounce of strength in me not to snatch my hand away. “Soon, Jamie. I promise.” His eyes shone with sexual excitement as I moved to the door of my bedroom. “Good night,” I whispered and shut the door.

My hand trembling, I locked the door, then checked my phone.

Good news. Got a call with lawyer set up for tomorrow at noon.

I typed my reply. Perfect. Talk then.

I switched off the notifications on the app, sat on the bed, and let out a long, shaky breath.

* * *

Things were humming along at Billie’s. We were doing bigger numbers than ever, and with the exception of Major, the rest of the staff showed up every day and worked like normal. Then again, as far as they were concerned, everything was normal. The dirty business of Juliana was a purely underground operation run by its three elite families. The average citizen was blithely unaware.

Our regulars continued to stop in—Agnes Childers, Max St. John, Ray and Darlene Calhoun, and of course, Lilah. Even Ox Dalzell returned, now out of the hospital and using a cane, as a result of the supposed self-inflicted gunshot wound to his femur that he sustained while cleaning his pistol. He was occasionally accompanied by his strangely mute, obedient daughters, all of whom pretended they didn’t know me.

There was a brief mention of Isaac Inman’s murder on the local Atlanta news—it was believed he’d been stabbed to death by some meth addict who was passing through the area—but the investigation had apparently hit a dead end. It was surreal. Living in this bubble of a town where real crimes—murders, even—weren’t reported or investigated. They were just buried. Like Peter, in James Cleburne’s lake.

Thanks to the Initiative, new families continued to move to Juliana every day. They showed up in my restaurant, eyes bright and hopes high, naively thinking they’d found paradise in the charming little town of Juliana. But those dreams would be dashed if my plan didn’t succeed. It was this thought that drove me the hardest. It was the thing that kept me up at night. That haunted me more than anything.

If I didn’t stop the old guard, someone else was going to die.

* * *

It was a bright Sunday morning in mid-August, the day before school was to start. The cloudless sky promised the day would be hot as hell. From eight to ten, business was constant but slow. As soon as the churches let out, though—around twelve-thirty—I knew we were going to be slammed.

I had almost the entire staff working that day. Even Mere was sitting at the bar, coloring. I was flitting from the kitchen to the bar to the tables, barely able to keep my nervous hands steady. I ended up rolling silverware in an unobtrusive corner behind the barista station. The robotic action was soothing, not to mention allowed me a view out the window so I could see who was coming up the sidewalk before they reached the door.

By eleven, there was an hour wait, people milling around on the sidewalks and congregating around the benches Mayor Dixie had finally, reluctantly, installed across the street on the square. One by one, I watched as the regulars trickled in and Finch sat them at their preferred post-church brunch tables. Ox Dalzell and his daughters at table thirteen. Agnes Childers and one of her many nieces at fourteen. Lilah and Temperance Street sat at sixteen, and Dixie, Major, and Toby Minette, along with Ronnie Coleman, at my four-top, twenty-one. The Calhouns, who always preferred the bar, were already ensconced there, working their way through a pitcher of mimosas. Jamie and his dad were at our largest table in the back corner, joined by Doc Belmont St. John and Max, his grandson.

Right around the time the Bloody Marys, mimosas, and bellinis were flowing, I slipped into the kitchen. Falcon and his team were jamming at their stations, a well-oiled piece of machinery that sent a twinge of melancholy through me. When the dust settled from what I’d set in motion, I might have to completely start over. It was a damn shame. But I’d started over before. And if there was one thing moving to Juliana had taught me, I’d do anything for my daughter. Starting from scratch was nothing.

Back out in the front of house, the servers were huddled around the barista station.

“Weird vibe today,” I heard one of them say in a low voice.

“Super weird,” came the answer. “Not a fan.”

“Okay, guys,” I clasped my hands under my chin and gave them an energetic smile. “Let’s get these plates moving.”

Through the window, I checked the square across the street. One gentleman in particular stood out, fully dressed as he was in a dark suit, tie, and aviator sunglasses. Unlike all the other people milling around waiting for their names to be called, he wasn’t scrolling his phone or chatting. He was sitting very still, watching the entrance of the restaurant. Beside him sat a young woman, also in a dark pantsuit, also in sunglasses. I noticed around the corner two sheriff’s vehicles had pulled up. It was time.

Tossing a furtive glance over at the tables, I pushed through the front door and stepped out into the sunshine. The window boxes that lined the restaurant were bursting with lush, cherry-red geraniums. I picked a handful and went back inside. I walked slowly through the restaurant, from table to table—the Dalzells, Childers, Streets, Minettes, and finally the Cleburnes—dropping a single geranium into each empty vase. As I did, each of them sent me indulgent smiles.

Yeah, we’re one big, happy family, aren’t we? Flowers for everyone.

As I dropped the last bloom in the vase next to Darlene Calhoun’s water glass, the man and woman in the dark suits who’d been waiting outside entered the restaurant. They were trailed by Sheriff Childers, who was looking fairly green around the gills, as well as three deputies. They lined up beside me, allowing me the one courtesy I’d requested—the chance to address my customers directly.

“Can I have your attention, everybody?” I said, trying to ignore the way sweat had sprung out along my hairline and was now pouring down my back. I waved Mere over, and she slipped off her stool and walked to my side, taking my hand. I squeezed it tight.

The restaurant stilled as each face at every table turned toward me.

I willed my voice not to shake. “I apologize for interrupting your brunch, but we have some special guests here today. Cherokee District Attorney Clint Evans and Assistant DA Dorinda Lopez. They are criminal prosecutors for Bartow and Gordon Counties.”

A murmur rippled through the restaurant.

“They have some business to attend to here today—”

The door swung open again, revealing Wren Street. Pale, but upright, her black hair grown out just enough so it covered her head like a cap. She wore a tie-dyed maxi skirt and a T-shirt with the Mona Lisa on it and leaned on a cane. There was a discernible rustle as everyone turned toward the front of the restaurant, and then the room fell silent. From behind me I heard a shriek, then Lilah rushed past me. She took her daughter in her arms, weeping and smothering her with kisses right before Temperance hit them like she’d been shot out of a cannon.

“Mama!” the little girl cried and clung to Wren.

No one else in the place uttered a word. I found Jamie’s face at the back of the restaurant. He looked momentarily thrown; then his face settled into a grimace, like he had some kind of pain in his gut.

I turned to the Street family, still tangled in an awkward embrace. “Lilah, why don’t you have Wren join you at your table?” I grinned at Wren. “Diet Dr. Pepper?”

Wren nodded. “Thanks.”

Lilah, barely able to contain herself, somehow got Wren and Temperance back to their table.

I turned to the crowd. “As I was saying, if you all will just sit tight and let our special guests do their thing, when they’re finished, dessert is on the house.”

One of the deputies stepped up to table twenty-one, where Mayor Dixie and her brother-in-law sat, and announced in a loud, clear voice, “Mayor Dixie Minette? Toby Minette?”

All over the room jaws dropped, as a shock wave of incredulity mixed with alarm rippled through the air. The atmosphere crackled with electricity. I felt like my whole body was on fire. Like I could run up a mountain or rip out the bolted-down bar with my bare hands.

Mayor Dixie stood, her face a study of shock, confusion, and fury. Toby followed suit. Major and Ronnie Coleman along with everyone else in the place watched in bewilderment.

“Mayor Dixie Minette,” the deputy said in a monotone voice. “Toby Minette. Put your hands behind your back.”

Dixie didn’t move. Neither did Toby. They both glared at Sheriff Childers.

The man in the suit, District Attorney Clint Evans, addressed Mayor Dixie. “Mrs. Minette, you are under arrest under Georgia Code Title 48, Chapter 1-6 ‘Unlawful filing of false documents; omissions; tax evasion—’ ”

“What?” Dixie snapped, mortally offended. “I don’t know what that is.” She addressed the sheriff. “Frank, an explanation, if you please?”

“Allow me,” I stepped closer. “Title 48, Mayor Dixie, is what they charge you with when you’ve bribed a government official, in this case a county tax commissioner, to waive your property taxes for the last, oh, three decades.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jamie rise slowly from his seat.

ADA Dorinda Lopez turned to the restaurant and announced in an authoritative voice, “We request that anyone with a red geranium on their table stay seated at this time.”

Jamie sat back down with a thunk, his eyes murderously fastened on me.

“Just about everyone here today who owns a home in Juliana has been ducking their property taxes for decades,” I announced to the stunned room as the two Federal agents and the deputies continued their business, going from table to table, cuffing people, and marching them out the door to a waiting van. “Dodging upward of a million dollars. The families you trusted to lead you, to keep Juliana safe and healthy and thriving, shirked their duty to pay what they rightfully owed—letting the rest of you shoulder the lion’s share of the county’s budget. The crime is a misdemeanor but can result in up to twelve months in jail, fines, and restitution, which I’m guessing may wipe many of them out financially since they’ve been doing this for decades.”

DA Evans turned to Sheriff Childers who was standing just behind him. “You’re next, sir.”

Childers’ face went slack, his eyes hard as flint. “You put those cuffs on me, son, and I’ll wallop you,” he said and, hitching his pants, marched out of the restaurant, one of the deputies trotting after him.

All around me, I could hear the sound of the other two deputies reading the charges and the subsequent soft chink of the handcuffs. Ox Dalzell limped out, fully cuffed, leaving his daughters sitting in stunned silence at their table, then Ray and Darlene Calhoun. Even old Agnes Childers went, leaving her bewildered niece. As they marched Lilah Street past us, I stopped her.

“I’m so sorry, Lilah. I asked them not to include you.”

She regarded me with eyes full of love. Full of pain. “You gave me back my daughter. This”—she glanced down at the cuffs—“this was my mistake.”

They led her out, and Mere took my hand and huddled closer to me. I saw, at the back of the restaurant, that Jamie was finally up, offering his wrists to the deputy standing before him. As he was led past me, he stopped and turned to face me. His chin jutted in haughty defiance, his eyes cold and dead. He appraised me, slowly, with loathing. But if I could’ve breathed fire like a medieval dragon and reduced him to ashes in return, I would have.

“You’re a liar,” he said.

“We do what we have to.”

His upper lip curled, and I could’ve sworn he bared his teeth at me.

But I wasn’t going to let him go that easily. “But if you want the truth, here it is. This is just the tip of the iceberg for you, Jamie. The beginning of your nightmare. The Feds are looking at you and your father, the Minettes, and Ox for felony murder, federal tax evasion, bribery, kidnapping, wire fraud, witness intimidation, witness tampering, obstruction of justice, and every kind of fraud wrapped up in your Initiative program. There’s lots more to come for you.”

He shook his head and looked away from me, a smile twisting his lips.

“You tried to destroy my family,” I said, “but you failed, and now I’m taking everything you hold dear. Your shop, your home. Your town . It’s mine now. Mine.” I turned to my daughter. I was shaking with fury and relief . . . and who knows, maybe the carbon monoxide that was still pouring out of the Minette gold mine. “Mere?”

Without me saying a word, she knew what I wanted and ripped the gold bracelet off her wrist, holding it out to Jamie. He ignored it, and she dropped it on the ground. I told her to go back to the bar.

“She won’t forget,” he growled at me, a glint of unbridled insanity in his eyes. “You’ve angered her, and she won’t let you get away with it.”

The sheer fanatic zeal in his eyes sent a cold chill through me. She. He meant Juliana Minette. He truly believed in a dead girl, who protected this town from beyond the grave with her magical powers. It was so hard to wrap my head around. I was staring right in the face of pure, unhinged lunacy.

The deputy gave him a push and then they were all gone, leaving only a smattering of customers and the staff behind, looking shell-shocked. Falcon and the rest of the back of the house had come out and were staring at the now mostly empty tables, all of them still bearing their single, red geranium.

I turned once more to address the people left. “I have a new thing I whipped up that I’d love for y’all to try,” I said. “It’s peaches and fresh mint and crème fraiche. Not sure what I’m going to call it, but for now, we’re going to go with ‘Just Desserts.’ ”

Someone whistled, long and low. Somebody else let out a wry chuckle. As I walked back toward the kitchen, my heart still beating fast, my mouth dry as dust, everyone started to clap.