Kendra Clayton Mystery Box Set

by Angela Henry

“I couldn’t stay away from him, though. We were planning to elope and then all of a sudden everything changed. He wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I was stunned. Every time I wanted to talk to him about it he blew me off. Finally, I confronted him in the office one night when he was working late. Kendra,” she said, shaking her head, “he was like a different person. He was so cold and nasty. He told me the real reason he wanted to marry me and that Mother had made it worth his while to leave me alone. Said it was easier to leave me alone and get paid for it than to pretend he loved me. Then he just turned his back on me like I was dismissed. I never felt so angry and hurt in all my life.”

  “What did you do?” If it had been me, I’d have cut him a new butt hole.

  “Like I said, something stupid. I remember feeling really hot like I was about to burn up. I think I was even sweating. All I could think about was hurting him as much as he hurt me. I was standing by the receptionist’s desk and my hand came to rest on a paperweight. Actually, it was just a big rock with some paint on it that our receptionist’s daughter made at school. I grabbed hold of that thing and threw it with all my might at Raymond. It caught him right square in the back of the head. He just fell like he’d been shot. There was so much blood, and I couldn’t get it to stop. I didn’t know what to do.”

  I remembered her saying almost the same thing the night she called me when she found Jordan.

  “Didn’t you call for an ambulance?”

  “No,” she said defensively. “I called the only person I could think to call: Mother. This was before she moved out here to the Knoll. The house wasn’t finished yet, and she was still living in that little place next door to the office. Mother always was in her element during a crisis.” I couldn’t help but notice the resentment in her voice.

  “So you took him to the hospital?”

  “Mother sent me home. She said she’d handle it. I kept looking out the window trying to see what was going on and then the phone rang. It was one of Mother’s clients going on and on about some problem with a house they’d bought. I couldn’t get the woman off the phone. When I finally did tear myself away, I rushed to the window just in time to see Mother driving away in Raymond’s car. I could see him slumped over in the passenger seat. I waited and waited and finally around two in the morning she came home in a cab. When I asked her what happened, all she would say was that she took care of everything and that Raymond wouldn’t be causing any more problems.”

  “You mean to tell me she took him away and didn’t say where or what happened?” I asked in amazement.

  “She told me to go next door and clean up the mess and that was it. For years afterward, whenever I would ask her about it, she would tell me the same thing. To tell you the truth, Kendra, I don’t know what happened to Raymond. His wife showed up at Mother’s kicking up a fuss. She wanted to know where he was or what we’d done to him to be precise. She filed a missing person’s report and the police came around asking a lot of questions. I was so scared.”

  I sat back and took in all that I’d just been told. Fool that I was, I thought—or rather hoped—that Bernie’s explanation would ease my mind. Instead I felt even more confused. Now I understood why Bernie didn’t want the police looking too closely at her or any motive she might have. They would connect her to Raymond Hodge’s disappearance. But who’s to say they wouldn’t anyway?

  “What did your mother tell the police?”

  “That Raymond never showed up for work and that no one had seen him. They had no reason not to believe her and after a while they stopped looking.”

  “Did the police know about you and Raymond?”

  “Of course they knew. His wife made sure they knew about it. Now can you see where I’m coming from? For the second time in my life something bad has happened to a man I’ve been seriously involved with. It’s only a matter of time before the police make a connection, and when they do, it’s not going to look very good for me.”

  “Bernie, there’s more to it than that. What about opportunity? You were at work Friday morning and Jordan had your car. Archer Street is several blocks away from the literacy center. How were you supposed to have killed Jordan and gotten back to work on foot before anyone noticed you were gone?” I reasoned.

  She thought about what I’d said for a minute but still didn’t look convinced.

  “If the police want me to be guilty, then they’ll find a way for me to have done it. It would sure make things easier for me if Vanessa were guilty, and if I didn’t do it, that could only leave her.”

  It would solve her current problem but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it could also rake up old questions of what really happened to Raymond Hodge. The answer to that one died along with Althea Gibson. Why did Althea refuse to tell Bernie what happened? Could she have just been shielding her from the knowledge that Raymond died of his wound or that possibly Althea herself finished off what Bernie started? I suspect that whatever happened, Bernie’s mother saw it as a prime opportunity to gain control over her daughter. Bernie must have felt a debt of gratitude to her mother for getting her out of a bad situation.

  “Kendra, if you don’t mind, I would rather not talk about this anymore.”

  “Sure,” I said, and then a thought came to mind. “Bernie, just how did you find out about Jordan and Vanessa?” She gave me a look of pure annoyance.

  “I got an anonymous note in the mail.”

  Another note? What the hell was going on?

  FIVE

  Monday morning I woke up evil. I thought of a million reasons not to go to work. I thought back to the look on Bernie’s face when I told her about the note I had found. I thought she was going to spew lemon cake all over the patio. Could the two notes be connected? I know how people could be when they know your man is cheating. They can’t wait for you to find out about it, even if they have to tell you themselves. Maybe that’s all the letter was about. I tried to get Bernie to tell the police about the letter and she said no. She’d thrown it away, or so she claimed. When I tried to get her to change her mind, she asked me to leave.

  I’d pretty much made up my mind to call in sick when it dawned on me that this would be the last full week of classes at the literacy center. We would have a four-week break, during which I would not be paid, and then resume for an eight-week summer session. I thought about all my bills and the fact that I’d already used most of my sick leave when I had the flu back in January. I dragged my butt out of bed. My back was still bugging the hell out of me, which didn’t make my mood any better. Lynette had sprained her back a few months ago, and I wondered if she had any painkillers left. I had to call her anyway. I still owed her a cussing out.

  Less than an hour into my workday, I wished I had called in. Dorothy Burgess, my boss, was on a rampage. She’s usually pretty cool and laid-back. She only gets this way once a year around the time she has to get the yearly report ready for the State Board of Education. Our funding rides on that report, so I guess she has the right to get a little crazy. She’d already lit into me about some attendance sheets that she needed for statistics and couldn’t find. I have to admit I wasn’t very diplomatic about it. Maybe if I hadn’t spent the weekend dealing with the police, Bernie, and a horrible blind date, I’d be in a more helpful mood. As far as I was concerned, I’d earned my bad mood and planned on savoring it.

  Rhonda Hammond, the program’s math instructor, walked into the room. I knew she must have encountered Hurricane Dorothy because she was red in the face, mumbling angrily, and rubbing the fingertips of her right hand together, something she always does when she needs a cigarette. Rhonda’s a heavy smoker and always smells like cigarettes and Liz Claiborne perfume, a combination that reminds me of a dirty ashtray filled with flowers.

  “I don’t have to ask where you just came from,” I said.

  “I just keep telling myself five more days till Bermuda.” She sat down at her desk and ran her hands through her short blond hair. Rhonda’s husband’s a doct
or, and they were going to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary in Bermuda.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Dorothy’s taking up a collection to send Bernie some flowers. Boy, I couldn’t believe it when I read that in the paper yesterday. Do they have any idea who did it?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said with an air of finality. I was hoping she wouldn’t ask me any more questions. As much as I like Rhonda, I was sick and tired of the subject of Bernie and the murder. Ever since I showed up at work, I’d been bombarded with questions. I’d decided when I got out of bed that I was going to stay out of it, stay away from Bernie unless she called me, and hope and pray the killer was caught soon.

  I didn’t even want to think about it anymore because every time I did, I imagined myself being arrested on a charge of obstruction of justice, and, as I’m being carted off to jail, Mama is there sadly shaking her head and saying, “I tried to tell you, girl, but you just wouldn’t listen. A hard head makes a soft behind.” That must have been her favorite thing to say to my sister and me right before she whipped us. I looked at the clock and groaned. Classes hadn’t even started yet. It was going to be a long day.

  The rest of the day went by slowly. Attendance was low, which didn’t surprise me since this was the last week of class. I was able to get a lot of lesson plans done. I wanted to be prepared when Dorothy came charging down to see what I had planned for the summer program. As expected, she came to my classroom around eleven thirty after the morning session was over. But it wasn’t to see any lesson plans. She had two visitors with her, Detectives Harmon and Mercer. I took one look at them and wanted to cry.

  They made such an odd pair. Charles Mercer, florid, overweight, rumpled, and friendly. Trish Harmon, thin, neat, humorless, and completely professional. I was surprised she went by Trish and not Patricia. I told the Laurel and Hardy of the Willow police force to have a seat. I was well aware that Dorothy was probably lurking in the hall somewhere trying to hear everything. I watched as Mercer squeezed himself into one of the desk chairs. Trish Harmon ignored him and got straight to the point.

  “Miss Clayton, we need to speak to you about your relationship with Jordan Wallace.”

  “My relationship with Jordan? We didn’t have a relationship. He was Bernie’s boyfriend, not mine.” Of all the things they could have asked me, this was the last thing I was expecting.

  “Then can you tell us the nature of an argument you had with Jordan Wallace approximately one month ago in the parking lot of Estelle’s restaurant? An argument in which you threatened to kill Mr. Wallace.”

  “What!” I said in amazement and then I remembered. How could I forget? It had been late one Friday night when I had filled in for one of the servers. I hate waiting tables but could hardly pass up the chance to earn some extra cash. I was leaving to go home and was at my car about to unlock the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and was quickly pulled into a clumsy embrace by a very drunk Jordan. I tried to pull away but he held me tightly against him. He had two big handfuls of my ass and was breathing his beer breath in my face, telling me to relax and to stop being so stuck-up.

  I lost it. I started calling him everything but a child of God. I managed to break free by stomping on his foot. Then I started beating him with my long beaded key chain. He called me a crazy bitch and said it was no wonder I didn’t have a man. He started walking back toward Estelle’s where he must have been drinking up in the bar. It was then that I yelled out that I would kill him if he ever touched me again. He responded by throwing a rock at me, missing, and cracking someone else’s windshield.

  I started to leave the person a note with Jordan’s name and phone number but I chickened out and just went home. I wanted to forget about it. I never told Bernie what happened. Jordan took her away for a romantic weekend that she probably paid for. Bernie was so happy—she talked about that trip for weeks afterward. I didn’t have the heart to tell her.

  It seemed kind of funny now. So much so that I started laughing. I noticed that Harmon and Mercer were looking at me strangely. So I filled them in. Mercer looked away but not before I saw a smile on his face. Trish Harmon didn’t see any humor in my story at all. Her thin lips were pursed in disapproval.

  “Then you’re not denying you made the threat?” Harmon asked, ever the professional.

  “Well, no, I’m not denying that I made the threat. But I didn’t mean it. I was mad. Look, I don’t know about you, Detective Harmon, but I don’t like any man touching me without my permission,” I said calmly. I knew this situation wouldn’t be helped at all by being defensive. But inside I was seething. How dare they come here and ask me these stupid questions! I also knew that they could have only gotten this information from one person: Joy Owens. She had come outside and was unlocking her bicycle during my encounter with Jordan and had witnessed the whole thing. I could just kill her.

  “What my partner means to say is that when we get information like this during a murder investigation, it’s our job to look into it, Miss Clayton,” Detective Mercer said kindly, speaking for the first time. I got the feeling that Charles Mercer saw me as a potentially hysterical female and was treating me as such with his calm-yet-firm voice. His tone reminded me of when I stepped on a rusty nail as a kid and had to get a tetanus shot and of the doctor whose words calmed and soothed me right before he jabbed a big needle in my arm. This visit had that same feel to it.

  Harmon, who hadn’t liked my last comment one little bit, continued on. “Did you have any other violent encounters with Jordan Wallace in which you threatened his life? It would be a good idea to tell us now before we find out on our own.”

  I pressed the palm of my hand against my forehead in mock concentration. “Now, let me see. I made an illegal U-turn last week; I also stole candy from a baby and kicked a puppy. But, nope, I haven’t threatened to kill anyone lately.” Only when I’m truly pissed do I become a complete smart-ass.

  “Miss Clayton, someone you knew has been brutally murdered, and we would really appreciate your cooperation,” Charles Mercer said calmly, playing the good cop to Harmon’s bad one.

  “Is that so? I could have sworn that’s what I was doing when I called you about that note. By the way, what have you found out about it?”

  Harmon looked like she was about to burst a blood vessel. “You are in no position to make any demands. You trespassed on a murder scene, you removed a piece of evidence from the scene, and you were witnessed threatening the victim’s life. As far as this note is concerned, I’m beginning to wonder if you were the one who manufactured the note in order to divert our attention away from you and Ms. Gibson.”

  It was like I’d been kicked in the stomach. It never occurred to me that they would think I was responsible for the note. How did everything get so screwed up?

  “We’ve found out nothing much about the note so far,” Mercer said softly, giving me a look of pity. “Both the paper and the envelope were of cheap quality, the kind that can be purchased at just about any store. We’re not prepared at this time to make any connection between it and Jordan Wallace’s murder.”

  “That’s it? What about fingerprints? Did you find any fingerprints?” I asked in a small voice. I felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

  “Oh yes, we found a perfect set of prints on both the envelope and the paper,” Trish Harmon said. “Both sets belong to you, Miss Clayton.” She gave the first hint of a smile I’d ever seen on her face. I wanted to wring her skinny neck.

  “Please don’t plan any trips or leave town in case we have more questions for you,” Mercer said as he hefted his bulk up out of the small desk.

  They left me sitting at my desk feeling like a trapped rat on a sinking ship.

  The rest of the day went by quickly enough. I wasn’t at all unhappy when quitting time came. It didn’t take long for the news to spread throughout the building that the police had been to see me and that I didn’t look happy when they left. One by one, my coworkers,
and even people I barely knew who worked for other programs housed in the Clark Literacy Center, were coming up to me and asking if I was okay and did I want to talk. Although I knew a few of them were genuinely concerned, most of them had that glitter in their eyes that people get when they drive past a car wreck or witness a fistfight—that strange mix of fascination and repulsion that draws people like flies to other folks’ troubles. So much for staying out of it. It didn’t seem as if I was going to be able to do that now.

  I decided to go over to Estelle’s and ask Joy what the hell she’d been thinking, even though I knew she’d just deny it. When I got there, Gwen told me Joy was outside taking a cigarette break. I walked toward the back door and saw that there was a piece of brick wedged in the doorjamb so it wouldn’t close all the way. Alex hated for any of us to do this because the Dumpster wasn’t too far from this door and it let flies in. Of course, Joy didn’t care and did it anyway.

  I walked through the door and saw Joy leaned up against the fence opposite me. She was dressed in her work clothes—black pants with suspenders and a white blouse. Her burgundy-tinted hair was pulled back into a knot at the back of her head. Her bangs almost covered her eyes. She had a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She looked like a juvenile delinquent.

  “I just came to thank you, girlfriend,” I said nastily.

  “What?” she said with her usual frown.

  “Thanks for telling the police about what happened between me and Jordan Wallace in the parking lot last month. I really enjoyed them coming to my job and asking me a lot of bullshit questions.”

  I had expected her to get defensive. What I didn’t expect was for her to laugh at me. But that’s what she was doing. She was laughing hard and then she started coughing and choking on the smoke she forgot to exhale. When she was finished, she grinned at me, took another drag on her cigarette, and blew the smoke straight at me.