The Truth About Gretchen

by Alretha Thomas

  “Shh. Curt is here.”

  “What’s he doing here?” She plants her toned arms on her narrow hips. “And why are you so dressed up?”

  “Curt didn’t go to church. He’s upstairs. And I’m dressed for church, so your father would think that’s where I was going. You know he’s not happy with what I’m doing. And I hope you don’t tell him.”

  “I’m not going to say anything. How many times do I have to tell you that?” she hisses.

  “Don’t give me that look. You told my mother that I ditched the audition.”

  “Sorry. It slipped out. But really, I’m not going to tell my father about this.”

  “You’d better not. Listen—there’s a box in the hall closet with the photo albums. My mother has them arranged by year. The videotapes are in there too. Grab everything marked December 1990. Here, put these on,” I say, reaching into my purse for the extra pair of gloves I brought.

  “What about Curt?”

  “I’ll handle him.”

  “Call me if you need me.”

  “I got him,” I say, pointing her to the closet.

  She leaves me, and I go back upstairs. I walk to my mother’s room and stand in the doorway. Curt, now wearing a robe, sits on the bed, his back to me. If I had a gun, I could shoot him dead right now, and no one would be the wiser. Well, Cookie would know, but she wouldn’t snitch. Just then he rises and turns toward me.

  “What? What’s wrong?” he says.

  “Nothing.”

  “Who was at the door?”

  “Cookie.”

  “What’s she doin’ here? And you still haven’t told me what you’re doin’ here.”

  “I … uh … came by to pick up some pictures and videos. I’m going to have them put on a DVD and show them at my mother’s sixty-eighth birthday party next month. I plan to put together a slideshow. It’s a surprise, so don’t tell her.” Good answer, Regina.

  He smiles, and the corners of his eyes form soft crinkles. “Lawd knows that’s a good idea, Gina. I wish I’d come up with that.” His smile fades, and he scrunches up his face. “Just … just don’t include no pictures of Robert. That’s gonna upset her. She hasn’t been right since you told her about that white girl startin’ trouble. Gina, I know you miss Robert, but you need to leave all that in the past and live your life.”

  Anger floods my veins, and I press my hands to my sides, fearing I might reach out and strangle his turkey neck. “Curt, that’s bullshit. My mother doesn’t have a problem with seeing pictures of her firstborn. Why do you think he’s on every wall and mantle in this house? His trophies are everywhere. This place is a virtual shrine to Robert. I think you’re the one with the problem.”

  “What you talkin’ ’bout? Lawd knows you talkin’ crazy.”

  “Will you please stop saying Lawd. And it’s Lord, not Lawd. The Lord has nothing to do with what happened to Robert, but the devil has everything to do with it.”

  “Gina, I think you and Cookie need to leave.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re on our way out. But I have one question before I go.”

  “What?”

  “Where’s the gun you used to have?”

  “What gun?” Alarm crosses his face.

  “The gun you had when we lived in Shady Grove. The one you bought after our house was broken into.”

  “I uh … uhm … err … I don’t have it anymore.” His gaze drifts toward the closet.

  “Is that right?” I say, trying to figure out how I can search the closet before he has a chance to dispose of the murder weapon.

  “That’s right,” he says.

  He walks toward me and motions for me to leave. I stay put, desperate to check the closet. I have to distract him.

  I double over and scream. I fall to my knees, clutching my stomach. The sound of Cookie storming up the stairs and Curt asking me what’s wrong fills the room.

  “Gina, what’s happening?” Curt says.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Cookie stoops down, trying to see my face.

  “I don’t know. It hurts. It hurts like hell,” I say.

  “Lawd, have mercy,” Curt says.

  “What did you do to her?” Cookie says.

  “I didn’t do nothing. Maybe we should call 911.”

  My screams crescendo. “My throat is burning. Curt, bring me some water. I need some ice water.”

  Trembling, he runs out of the room, and I jump up and grab Cookie. “The gun is in the closet. I’m going to go downstairs. Go through that closet. Tear it to shreds. Find that gun!”

  “I thought you were sick.”

  “Girl, I’m acting. Hurry, before he comes back. I’ll be downstairs.”

  “I already stashed the video and photo album in my car. I’ll find the gun.”

  We high-five, and I head downstairs with my arms wrapped around my waist. Curt, holding a glass of ice water, meets me at the bottom of the stairs. I stumble into the living room, with him close behind. I slump into the recliner, moaning and groaning. He hands me the water and I gulp. He sits on the sofa with wide eyes.

  “How you doin’ now?”

  “It’s getting better. But I still don’t feel well. Please don’t leave me. I’m scared.”

  “I’m not gonna leave you. Girl, I’ve been here since you was five. I’m not about to leave now. Gina, I know you ain’t never accepted me, but I love you. And I loved Robert. And Lawd knows I’d die for your mama. Hell, I’d kill for her if I had to.”

  “How do you feel?” Cookie says as she runs into the living room.

  “Better.”

  “She looks better,” Curt says. “You probably should still get checked out by a doctor. Might be some female thing going on. Like fibroids. One of my best customers had ’em. She said they made her bleed a lot. And they were painful.”

  Cookie and I share a look. “It might be that,” I say. “Well, we’re going to leave. And don’t tell my mother I was here. I want the slideshow to be a surprise.”

  “I won’t,” he says.

  I stand and wobble a bit, keeping up my ruse. Cookie sidles up next to me and helps me to the door. She squeezes my arm, letting me know she has the gun. Curt opens the door, and we rush out. I look over my shoulder at him, imagining the police dragging him from the house in handcuffs. Him kicking, cursing, and screaming, “Lawd, lawd.”

  Chapter 21

  Gretchen

  Eyes glued to my computer screen, I read emails from actors and agents confirming their receipt of the time change for tomorrow’s callbacks. Thank goodness everyone can accommodate the new schedule. Thanksgiving is five days away, and I want to finish the casting before then. I’m not sure if that’s possible now, being in the midst of the investigation. Nonetheless, I’m going to try to do both, and with Regina’s help, I might succeed.

  I close my email and return to the online article I was reading about having a case reopened. The number one requirement is new evidence. And at this point, the only new info we have is that Robert may have overhead Regina tell her friend that Curt raped her. And if Robert confronted and threatened him, that would be a motive.

  “Red, somebody is blowing up your cell.”

  My eyes search for my phone. I could’ve sworn I brought it in here, but apparently not. I stand, go to the door, and fling it open. Lance, my phone in his hand, says, “You missed the call. And they didn’t leave a message. I wasn’t snooping, but I noticed it was a restricted call.”

  “Thanks.”

  I take my phone from him and reenter my office, wondering if it was the person who called me at the restaurant. I’m still a little freaked out about that. Actually, I’m very freaked out about it. I don’t think Lance put anyone up to it. His closest friend, Jerome, is in London with his wife and kid for the holidays. And he would never involve any of his colleagues in his personal affairs. I’ve thought about Regina’s husband. He’s also not happy about what we’re doing. Maybe he got a hold of my number. Or maybe Regina’s stepfath
er is guilty, and he called, trying to shut down our investigation. But how would he have gotten my number?

  Lance grips my shoulder, and I yelp.

  “Whoa, you’re tense, Red. How much longer are you going to be? It’s a beautiful day. It’s Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday. Come on, let’s go to the park. You need some air.”

  I almost rebuff his invitation, but he looks so pitiful. “Okay. Just for a little while.”

  He smiles as he grabs me around the waist and plants soft kisses on the tip of my nose. “Thanks, Red. Forty minutes tops.”

  “No longer than that.” I escape his embrace. “You know I have to prepare for the callbacks. Besides, in a few days you’ll be out of school for Thanksgiving, and I’ll have all the casting done, if I stay on schedule. Then we can really go crazy.”

  “Enough jibber-jabber. Let’s go. I already packed our bikes.”

  He grabs my purse off the console table in the foyer and hangs it on my shoulder. Then he ushers me to the garage. None of my thoughts pertain to a leisurely bike ride through the park.

  I get in the passenger seat and smooth my hand over my Patriots hoodie. I glance down at my legs, which need shaving. I’m surprised his aunt didn’t say anything about them at dinner last night. She was probably thinking it. I wish I could change out of my shorts and into jeans. Before I can suggest doing so, the garage door wails and moans and then finally opens. Lance backs out and burns rubber down our street, ignoring the speed bumps. I’m sure he’s trying to get away before I change my mind.

  He plays his favorite Ed Sheeran CD and opens the sunroof. I shift in my seat to escape the sun beating down on my head. My eyes sting when I glimpse the joy bubbling out of Lance. He’s like a little kid who’s getting to go outside after being grounded. He winks at me. I look away, so he won’t see my tear-filled eyes. This man loves me so much, and I take him for granted. I remember when I’d sit alone in my room, wondering if anyone would ever love me. I’d had so many failed relationships. No one could measure up to my father. By the time Patty introduced me to Lance, I was primed for love. At least I thought I was. Who knew the damn dream was going to start? Who knew I was going to find out I’m the reincarnation of Robert Parker?

  “Red. Red. Red!”

  “I’m sorry—what?”

  “Your phone’s ringing again. Why don’t you turn it off?”

  I see Regina’s name on the screen and answer the call. “Regina. Hi. How are you?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  I motion for Lance to turn down the music. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just left my mother’s house. I found some things. I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about it over the phone.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At my stepdaughter’s apartment. I know it’s Sunday, but I was hoping we could meet.”

  “I uh … er … uh.” We’re nearing the park.

  “I’m sorry, Gretchen. That’s okay. Maybe we can meet tomorrow after your callbacks.”

  “Regina, I … uh.”

  “You can’t talk right now. Just say yes or no.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “I gotcha. Call me later when you can. I want to talk to you about what I found.”

  “Will do. Talk to you later.” I hang up, now dying to know what she’s found.

  Lance parks near the playground overrun with kids. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, fine. That was Regina. I told her I’ll talk to her later.”

  “Good,” he says, getting out of the car.

  I slip my phone into my purse and swing it over my shoulder. I follow Lance to the back of the car. He unloads the bikes and then takes my purse and tosses it into the trunk. My stomach sinks at the thought of being unplugged for forty minutes. I resist the urge to protest and mount my bike. He gets on his, and we take off for our usual trail. I ride alongside him, my ponytail bouncing off my back, mentally counting down the minutes.

  ******

  Regina’s distorted face fills my computer monitor. We’ve spent the past thirty minutes trying to navigate around Skype. Being a filmmaker who uses a lot of cutting-edge technology, it should’ve been easy, but somehow I screwed up the app I downloaded. Regina and her stepdaughter Cookie were just as bad. We finally have it up and running.

  My bike ride with Lance was uneventful. Afterward, I cooked dinner, watched his favorite movie—Dead Poets Society—with him, gave him a bath, a massage, and some good loving, then put him to bed. I’ve scored as many touchdowns today as Tom Brady did in the first quarter of the 2009 Patriots versus the Tennessee Titans game—five, an NFL record.

  “Can you see and hear me now?” Regina says.

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Can you see me?”

  “I see you, Cookie.”

  I also see the dining room table in the background, covered with pizza boxes, chip bags, half-eaten pastries, and an empty wine bottle. Maybe the overindulgence was why the ladies were struggling on their end. What I want to see is what they found at Regina’s mother’s house. Regina and Cookie pull up chairs and sit. They peer at me like I’m an alien from another planet. I don’t blame them. I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup, and my hair is in a bun. Lance says I’m so pale I could pass for an albino. The women, on the other hand, have god-given tans. Regina is the darker of the two. Cookie’s complexion is like Robert’s—caramel. She grins, revealing gapped front teeth.

  “I’m glad you came up with this Skype idea, Gretchen. There’s no way I could have driven out there, and I’m over Cookie’s apartment on borrowed time.”

  My eyes dip to the time on my computer. It’s a little after 10:00 p.m. and a miracle I got Lance to bed so early. “So what did you find?”

  The women exchange a conspiratorial glance, then Regina nudges Cookie, who holds up a plastic bag. I blink when my eyes land on what’s inside. “Whose gun is that?”

  “My stepfather’s.”

  I grip the sides of the chair, as the image of Robert in his casket, with a gaping hole in his head crashes over me like a tidal wave. I stand and shake off the memory.

  “Cookie found it in my mother’s closet. I asked him if he still had it, and he said he got rid of it. But his roaming eyes said something else. I had Cookie look for it while I tricked him into going downstairs.”

  Cookie sets the gun between the two pizza boxes on the table. “We believe it’s the murder weapon,” she says.

  “I found bullets too,” Regina adds.

  I’m amazed that we’re in possession of what could be the gun that was used to murder me … Robert. “This is freaking awesome.” I momentarily flash back to my father teaching me how to shoot a gun, when we spent summers in Joshua Tree.

  “What do we do now?” Cookie says.

  “We go to the police,” Regina says.

  “I have a meeting with a Shady Grove detective in the morning. He works in the cold case unit. The gun discovery couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “I want to be at that meeting,” Regina says.

  I take a moment before agreeing, not sure if it’s a good idea. But Robert was her brother—she deserves to be there. “As long as you can keep your emotions in check. We want the detective to cooperate with us. We can’t put him on the defensive.”

  “I understand,” Regina says.

  Her face contorts and then crumples into sobs. Cookie pulls her close. “Don’t cry. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to get justice.”

  “She’s right, Regina,” I say, wishing I could be there to hold her hand.

  “I should go to my mother’s house right now and blow Curt’s brains out.”

  “Regina, take it easy. We don’t know for a fact that this is the murder weapon. The police will know what kind of gun was used. We have to get verification,” I urge.

  “It’s the gun!” She wrestles free of Cookie’s grasp and bangs on the table, screaming out her pain.

  “Calm down, Gina. Please. Y
ou’re scaring me,” Cookie says. She shakes her head and the beads in her braided hair clink.

  A ringing phone does what Cookie and I couldn’t do. Regina calms down, reaches into her purse draped on the chair arm, and grabs her cell. “It’s Taylor. Damn. I have to go.” She answers the phone. “I’m on my way now, Tay. Bye!”

  “He’s mad?”

  “You know your father, Cookie. Of course he’s mad. I’ve been gone all day. Gretchen, I’ll meet you at the Shady Grove Police Department tomorrow.”

  “The meeting is at 10:00 a.m.”

  “I’ll see you there.” Regina turns to Cookie. “Sorry about leaving you with this mess, but I have to go home.” Regina gingerly picks up the gun and puts it in her purse.

  “No worries,” Cookie says, hugging Regina. She separates from her and says, “Gretchen, we need to exchange numbers. Things are gettin’ serious, and I want to stay in the loop. Just in case I can’t reach Regina, or she’s unable to reach me.”

  We do so, then Regina says, “Bye, Gretchen. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “See you,” I say. “And be safe driving home.” I log out of Skype and exhale.

  Standing and stretching, I think about tomorrow’s meeting with the detective, hoping Regina doesn’t lose it. She’s beyond edgy, and I can’t blame her. I believe she’s right about the police. After I put Lance to bed and before my meeting with Regina and Cookie, I conducted more research on some sports blogs. A lot of NFL buffs don’t believe enough was done to find Robert’s killer. A few even believe there was a cover-up. I’m not sure about that, but it’s strange that Matt Simmons and Robert died within days of each other.

  I leave my office and head to the bathroom for some aspirin. This case has so many moving pieces my head’s aching. I enter the guest bathroom and retrieve some aspirin from the medicine cabinet. Standing in front of the mirror, I peer at my pale face, and a thought makes my cheeks flush. What if … what if Matt Simmons’s death wasn’t a suicide? What if he was murdered by the same person who killed Robert?

  I go to the kitchen, grab a bottle of water off the counter, and get comfortable at the kitchen table, mulling over my theory. Who would benefit from Matt and Robert being murdered? I open the pill bottle and swallow the tablets with a gulp of water. The opposing team! That’s who’d benefit. The owner of the opposing team.