The Truth About Gretchen

by Alretha Thomas

  This restaurant is Lance’s aunt’s favorite hangout. She’s his only relative on the West Coast, and we try to have dinner with her at least once a month. She’s a retired college professor, and her husband is a retired engineer. They moved from Dallas to Los Angeles last year. They’re childless by choice.

  Sitting across from her, my mind drifts to my phone. I thought I felt it vibrate in my dress pocket. I’m wishfully thinking one of the detectives is going to call me. My gaze shifts from my pocket to Lance, who’s glaring at me. I flash a fake smile and turn my attention to Allison.

  “Gretchen, you look amazing tonight. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you in a dress. Lavender is your color. And your hair is adorable pulled up.”

  “Thank you, Allison. I love that red pantsuit. It complements your blue eyes.”

  She passes her age-spotted hands through her salt-and-pepper hair. “James and I are twins today,” she says, chuckling.

  James grins and runs his fingers over the turtleneck of his red sweater. “Service is a little slow tonight,” he says, narrowing his gaze at a waiter serving a family of four across the room.

  “Aunt Allison, how are you enjoying retirement?”

  “It’s amazing, Lance. I should have retired when James did.”

  “It’s about time,” James says, patting his protruding stomach.

  We turn toward our waiter approaching. A tip-worthy smile on his face, he sets our plates in front of us. “Sorry for the delay. We’re a little short-staffed this evening. Can I bring you anything else?”

  Allison looks around the table, and we shake our heads. “No, we’re fine,” she says.

  The waiter leaves, and we dive into our meals.

  “So how’s your film going?” James says between bites of his rare steak.

  “It’s good. I’m almost done casting my lead characters.” I glance at Lance, who’s boring a hole through the side of my face. I promised him I wouldn’t mention anything about reincarnation.

  Allison uses her linen napkin to wipe red sauce off her chin. “That sounds so exciting. It must be fun picking actors.”

  I finish chewing my salmon, then say, “It is fun, but it’s a tough business. There’s a lot of rejection.”

  “What’s your film about? I keep forgetting.” James sets down his fork and takes a sip of his red wine.

  “It’s about a football star who’s killed. It’s actually based on a true story.”

  “Really? Who?” Allison says.

  “A young man named Robert Parker. He was killed in 1991. The same year I was born.” Loud coughing halts our conversation. We turn toward Lance, who’s hacking so loudly the other patrons murmur and gasp. He grabs the water glass in front of him and gulps. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Barely able to speak, he nods. He gathers himself and says, “The spaghetti sauce is too spicy.” Allison beckons the waiter to our table, but Lance intervenes. “It’s not a problem—I’ll eat it.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” she says.

  “Ma’am, what can I help you with?” The waiter stands next to Allison like a toy soldier. But when it comes to service, she doesn’t play. “The sauce is too spicy.” She points to Lance’s plate.

  The waiter grimaces. “I’m sorry about that. Can I get you something else?”

  “I’ll have the salmon dinner.”

  “Coming right up,” he says.

  We watch him leave and then James, who’s smacking his lips, says, “This place is going downhill. Anyway, before all the commotion, you were telling us about the young football player. What was his name? It sounded familiar.”

  Lance again glares at me. I ignore him and say, “Robert Parker. He was a quarterback for the Dallas Enforcers.”

  “I remember that kid. He was really good. What a waste of life and talent,” James says.

  I zero in on James, seeming to forget that Allison and Lance are at the table. “What do you know about him?”

  “Well, he was a big story because he replaced the Enforcers’s star quarterback, Matt Simmons. Simmons was a franchise player. He led the Enforcers to the Super Bowl seven times. But his wild lifestyle finally caught up with him and the Enforcers went from the top of the league to the bottom. That’s when Robert was brought in. The kid was phenomenal.”

  “Whatever happened to Matt Simmons?” I ask.

  “A few days before Parker was killed, Simmons was found dead in a Vegas hotel. He’d committed suicide. Took a bunch of barbiturates with alcohol. The team’s owner and the coach managed to keep it out of the news. They didn’t want the team or the public to know about Simmons’s death because they were afraid it would shake up the team, and they’d lose the Super Bowl. They concocted a story that he was away in rehab.”

  “That’s crazy,” I say. “How were they able to do that?”

  “Money moves mountains,” he says, knitting his brows. “As you know, Parker was killed days later, but they couldn’t keep that under wraps. Then both stories became headline news. With their two star quarterbacks gone, they lost the Super Bowl. That was some crazy time for football. Simmons’s death wasn’t a surprise. Everyone knew he was spiraling downward. And once the owner signed Parker, I think Simmons just gave up. What made you want to do a film about Parker?”

  Before I can part my lips, a shoe hits my ankle. I turn toward Lance, but he ignores me and says, “Come on, guys—you’re boring Aunt Allison. She doesn’t want to talk about sports.”

  Allison giggles. “It’s not my favorite subject, but this story sounds fascinating. What made you think of it, Gretchen?”

  “You know how much I love football. I wanted to create a film centered on my favorite sport. So I did a little research about local football stars, and that’s when I discovered Robert Parker’s story.” Now I’m lying to Lance and to his aunt. At least this time it’s for his benefit, not my own.

  Lance sighs and slouches into his chair. “It’s going to be a great film,” he says, grabbing my hand. As he kisses it, the waiter approaches with Lance’s salmon dinner. Lance resumes eating, and Allison asks him about the bomb threat. While they engage in a lively chat about terrorism and the state of the nation, I reflect on my conversation with James, specifically Matt Simmons’s suicide. Something’s there, but I can’t figure it out. I nearly jump out of my chair when my phone vibrates. I excuse myself from the table. I take my cell out of my pocket, and my heart flutters when I see restricted. Standing near the restaurant entrance, I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Gretchen Holloway?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Don’t worry about who this is. I just want to give you a little word of advice: mind your own business, bitch.”

  “Who gave you my number?”

  The call disconnects. Fear sucker-punches me in the heart. My eyes scan the parking lot, wondering if the caller is out there somewhere, waiting to attack me. I stumble to the reception area and sit, trying to compose myself before I go back to our table.

  Who was that? Whoever it was knows that I’m trying to find Robert’s killer. But who and how?

  My phone vibrates again, and I almost pee my pants. Restricted flashes across the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak to Gretchen Holloway?”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Officer Leon Williams with the Shady Grove Police Department. You came by the station today. I understand you have some questions about the Robert Parker case.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “I’m off duty right now, but if you come by the station on Monday, I can meet with you.”

  “What time are you available?”

  “Around 10:00 a.m.”

  Dammit, I have the callbacks. “Is there any way you can meet in the evening, around 6:00 p.m.?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “Nevermind—I can be there at 10:00 a.m.” I’
ll have to change the callback time.

  “See you then,” he says.

  “Yes and thank you for calling.” I hang up, rethinking the other call. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe Lance put somebody up to it, so I’ll stop my investigation. No—Lance isn’t that manipulative. Speaking of Lance, I stand as he approaches from the dining area.

  “Where have you been? Aunt Allison is worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. I had a call about the film.” Two lies in one night. I’m becoming a pro, and it’s sickening.

  “Let’s get back. Thanks for keeping your word and not bringing up reincarnation,” he says, leading me back to the table.

  I follow him, my mind racing with thoughts about Robert and the anonymous caller.

  Chapter 20

  Regina

  I watch Taylor’s chest rising and falling, thinking about the thrill he gave me last night. I had no idea how tense and stressed I was. Our lovemaking was a much-needed distraction. He doesn’t know the first thing about making up a bed, but he knows everything about making up in bed. After Gretchen left the diner, Kate showed up, and I spent another hour there bringing her up to speed. She thinks we’re onto something, and there’s a strong possibility we’ll break the case.

  When I got home, I made the mistake of showing Taylor the suspect list, and he lost it. He thinks I’m headed for destruction, and he was really pissed when he saw Curt’s name on the list. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Taylor why Curt was on the list, so that caused more problems. After a shouting match, he locked himself in his man cave, and I locked myself in my office.

  I took advantage of the time alone and conducted my own little investigation. I found Lorraine, Robert’s ex, on Facebook. I sent her a friend request, and she accepted it. I’m not sure if she remembers me. A lot of people just want to rack up as many friends as possible and can’t care less about who they’re friending. She has a lot going on. And she has a son. He’s twenty-six and looks nothing like Robert. So I guess she was lying about Robert being the father. I plan to reach out to her, get a meeting, try to rekindle a relationship that never was. If Curt didn’t kill Robert, there’s a chance she might have, or she knows who did. But I have little doubt that Curt killed Robert. It makes sense.

  Around 11:00 p.m. I heard a knock on my office door. I opened it to find Taylor standing there in his birthday suit, with a white handkerchief draped over his erection. I fell on the floor laughing. He joined me, we kissed, and before I realized it, we were in our bedroom ravishing each other. After about an hour of lovemaking, he fell asleep, and I tossed and turned all night, thinking about Curt and how I’m going to bust him.

  “Hey, baby. Morning.” Taylor, now awake, flashes me a gap-toothed smile. He sits up and pulls me onto his chest.

  “Good morning, lover man. You wore me out. Are you sure you’re fifty-seven?” I trail my fingers over his chest.

  “Fifty-seven going on twenty-seven.” He laughs heartily. “You going to your mom’s church this morning?”

  “I promised her.” My gaze falls on the clock, sandwiched between stacks of books, on Taylor’s nightstand. “I’d better get ready to head out.”

  He releases me, and I stand in the buff. His eyes study my body. “You’d better get in the shower before I attack you again,” he says through laughter. “I would go to church with you, but … uh … I … uh.”

  “Don’t worry, Tay. I know you think my mother’s preacher is boring and that he’s going to put you to sleep.”

  “That’s not true.” He drops his head on the pillow and feigns snoring. I grab the other pillow off the bed and throw it at him. The room fills with laughter.

  Little does he know, I’m glad he’s not going—I’m not going either. I plan to spend the morning searching my mother’s house, while they’re at church. I’m determined to find Curt’s gun and any other evidence that may prove he killed Robert. I hate lying to Taylor, but even though we made up, he’s still not on board with my investigation, so I have to keep everything on the down low.

  *****

  While driving toward my mother’s house, I scope her block to make sure she and Curt have gone to church. It’s 11:00 a.m., so they should be sitting in the third row of the middle aisle, like they do every Sunday. They always go in my mother’s Buick, which she parks in the driveway. Her car’s gone, and when I called the house, I got the answering machine. I park in her spot and dash for the stairs, looking over my shoulder. Cookie is supposed to be joining me, but she’s late, as usual. She’s going to go through the photo albums and my mother’s video collection, for pictures and footage of the parties at the Crystal Ballroom and our house in Shady Grove. After I told Cookie about Gretchen and everything that’s been going on, she told me I was nuts, but she still said she would help me. She was only a baby when she lost her mother, but she says she dreams about her and that there’s a hole in her heart that Taylor, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t fill. So she gets me, understands how I feel.

  I enter the house and shut the door. My eyes seek the best place to start my search. They land on the staircase. I reach into my purse for the rubber gloves I brought, put them on, then climb two steps at a time, anxious to find the smoking gun. At the top of the stairs, I glance at my mother’s closed bedroom door. When we were growing up in Shady Grove, her room was off limits when she wasn’t home.

  When I was eight, I had asked my mother for a Cabbage Patch Kids doll for Christmas. They’d just come out, and I was desperate for one. That’s all I could think about, and I wanted Robert to find out if my mother had gotten me one. I couldn’t wait until Christmas Day.

  On Christmas Eve my mother had to check on an elderly lady she took care of. Curt was in Chicago visiting his sick father. While my mother was out, Robert sneaked into her room to look for the presents that she hadn’t finished wrapping. I kept an eye on the front door. After less than a minute, he was dragged out of the room, my mother pulling him by the ear. I was so shocked I almost toppled over. She’d driven her car around the block, walked to the backyard, and come through the back door. While we plotted in the living room, she crept into her room to wait for us. I thought we were done for, but she laughed so hard when she saw my expression. She spared us the belt, but not a tongue-lashing. After that, we promised never to go into her room again. And I did get my Cabbage Patch Kid.

  Anyway, if I don’t find what I’m looking for in the trophy room, I’ll have to break my childhood promise.

  I open the door to what would’ve been Robert’s room, if he’d lived and moved to Inglewood with us. I scan the countless trophies lining the shelves on the wall: most valuable player, rookie of the year, numerous certificates and countless high school, middle school, and elementary school awards. His red and white Enforcers jersey, encased in glass, hangs on the wall above his old bed.

  I flop on the bed as my eyes moisten, and I blink back tears. I have a job to do. No time for crying. I get off the bed, kneel on the floor, and reach under the mattress, while thinking it would be ridiculous for Curt to hide the gun he used to kill Robert under Robert’s mattress. But Taylor told me he’d read something about criminals taking crazy chances because on some level, they want to be caught. He said this theory was based on something Sigmund Freud wrote in 1915.

  I lift the mattress and look under it. My armpits dampen when I feast my eyes on my find: several nudie magazines, a box of bullets, and a large, white envelope. I place the items on top of the bed. This all belongs to Curt. My mother isn’t into porn, and she doesn’t own a gun, so she wouldn’t need ammunition. I open the envelope and dump its contents. A bunch of round chips with numbers on them roll onto the floor. “Ninety days?” I turn over the chip, and it says AA. So that’s how Curt got sober. Okay. There’s also a stack of news articles about Robert’s murder and printouts about molestation and statute of limitations. I open the box of bullets, wondering if the bullet in the gun used to kill Robert matches these. I take a few and put them into my pu
rse. Then I go over the information about molestation. Looks like Curt was trying to see when he would be in the clear. Over two decades have passed since he stumbled into my bedroom. I guess he was worried about what would happen if I exposed him. I review the news articles. Curt was obviously following the case, maybe trying to see if the police were closing in on the truth. I could’ve told him he didn’t need to worry, because the cops didn’t give a flying freak.

  The doorbell rings, and panic seizes my heart. Realizing it’s probably Cookie, I calm. I jump up and head to the door. When I step into the hallway, my eyes meet Curt’s. He stands there in his boxers, gawking at me. I flash back to that night and back away from him.

  He shakes his pointed head covered in gray hair and rubs his stubbled chin. “Oh Lawd. Gina, what you doin’ here?”

  “Don’t you touch me!” My eyes travel over his gray-haired chest and his pot belly. He looks frail and dried up. He’s almost half Taylor’s size in height and stature. I could easily overpower him.

  “Lawd knows, I’m not gonna put my hands on you. You know what happened years ago was an accident. And I’ve kept my promise. I got me twenty-six years of sobriety, Gina.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He squints his beady eyes. “I live here.”

  “You’re supposed to be at church,” I say, snatching off my gloves before he clues in.

  “I got an emergency job last night, and I stayed home to rest. Your mama even turned down the ringers on the phones, so I could sleep. That damn doorbell woke me up. I wish whoever’s ringin’ it would stop. It’s givin’ me a headache.”

  “Uh … can you please put on a robe or something?”

  “Sorry ’bout that. Excuse me,” he says, going back to the master bedroom.

  I rush into the trophy room, replace everything under the mattress, grab my purse, then run downstairs and let Cookie in.

  Wearing a black hoodie and black jeans, she brushes past me, shaking her noisy braids. “Girl, what took you so long to answer the door?”