Kendra Clayton Mystery Box Set

by Angela Henry

  “Hey, Ms. Martin. What’s wrong?” I asked cautiously. But I knew by the way she was eyeing me, like she was trying to figure out where it would hurt the most if she hit me, that she’d found out about Lynette.

  “Well, let’s see, Kendra. My daughter is supposed to be getting married in three days and she’s up and run away. We have people arriving from out of town on Friday, not to mention the rehearsal dinner, the caterer, photographer and the DJ to deal with. We’ve got a deposit on the reception hall that’s nonrefundable. I have no idea what to do. No one’s heard from her. Why the devil wasn’t I told about this?” She tossed her long, mane-like weave over her shoulder. The harsh morning sunlight was not doing Justine any favors. I could see wrinkles fanning out from the corners of her eyes and her foundation was caked in the creases of her neck.

  “I’m so sorry, Justine. Greg and I thought she’d be back by now,” I offered weakly.

  “Y’all thought wrong. I knew that silly gal was going to mess this up. I kept telling her ass she wouldn’t be able to hold on to a good man like Greg.”

  Lord forgive me. I just couldn’t hold my tongue. “What’s wrong with you? Why would you tell her that? She’s under enough stress over this wedding. Why would you put more pressure on her by saying things like that? Sounds like you don’t want her marriage to work out. No wonder she ran off.” I though Justine’s head might start spinning around.

  “Now, hold up. Who are you talking to like that? I know you’re not trying to jump bad with me, young lady. Not you of all people,” she said, shaking a ring-laden finger at me. What in the world was she talking about?

  “Me of all people? What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, jumping out of the seat and slamming my car door behind me. Justine took a step back on her too- small high-heeled mules.

  “It means you’re the last person who should be talking. The whole town knows about what you’ve been up to. Running around on that nice lawyer. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Ashamed of what?”

  “You were seen, Kendra. You and Morris Rollins were seen coming out of the Heritage Arms together. Everyone knows. It’s all over town.”

  “We were looking for Lynette!” I screamed.

  “How dare you drag my daughter into your dirt, you little liar.” She turned on her heel and started to tip across the parking lot into the store then stopped and turned to yell at me. “And if you hear from Lynette, tell her if she’s not back by Friday morning I’m canceling that wedding of hers, and she can get the hell out of my house since I’m causing her so much stress.”

  I was aware that people were staring at me and whispering. I got in my car and got the hell out of Dodge.

  I was tempted to go home and hide but thought better of it. After all, I hadn’t done a damned thing with Morris Rollins. I was going to kill Lynette when I finally caught up with her. I knew Mama was ready to kill me, since she was firmly plugged into the Willow gossip network and had probably caught wind of the rumor. I decided to steer clear of her. Thank goodness, Carl, although he spent a lot of his time in Willow, actually lived in Columbus and was pretty oblivious to town gossip. I wondered what people would say if they knew I was having dinner with Rollins that night. I wondered what Carl would say. Would he even care?

  I headed to Perkins and had a big breakfast of pancakes, sausage and eggs and finally read the issue of the Springfield News-Sun that Harmon had waved under my nose at the station that morning.

  Shop Owner Found Dead in His Shop.

  May Have Surprised Vandal.

  Forty-eight-year-old Donald Cabot, owner and proprietor of Cabot’s Cave, a store specializing in movie memorabilia and collectibles, located downtown in the marketplace, was found dead in his shop Tuesday evening. Officers were called to the scene by Kendra Clayton of Willow after she arrived at the shop for an appointment with Donald Cabot and found Cabot’s body on the floor. Police theorize that Cabot may have surprised vandals in the process of wrecking his shop. Cause of death is not immediately known and, though the autopsy results are not expected until tomorrow, Cabot’s mother, Viola Cabot, has told police that her son suffered from a serious heart condition.

  I couldn’t believe it. Not one mention about the masked man that chased me or about Kurt Preston being present at the scene. Did they think I’d just made the whole thing up? I also didn’t think the store had been broken into by vandals. I only saw one person—the masked man—who must have been looking for something. But what? I slammed the paper down on the table, knocking over my orange juice in the process and splashing it on my white shirt. I tried to mop up the spill, only succeeding in making a sticky mess. I’d have to go home and change.

  I pulled in front of my apartment at the same time as Allegra, who was carrying a McDonald’s bag. She was wearing a white denim pantsuit, trimmed in gold studs, and gold sandals. The girl even dressed to the nines to go get a Big Mac. Unbelievable.

  “Mama just called me looking for you. She wants you to call her. She sounded pissed off about something. Did you puke on yourself?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at my stained shirt as we climbed the steps to my front door.

  I mumbled a terse, “No.” I was relieved I’d left my cell phone at home. I wasn’t looking forward to talking to Mama. I wondered if it was about Rollins or if Justine Martin had called and blabbed about our argument in the parking lot. Either way, the call would have to wait.

  I started to unlock the door, but it was already unlocked and ajar, which didn’t fully register until Allegra pushed past and walked in ahead of me. I followed, ran smack into her and started to angrily shove her out of my way, when I saw what had stopped her in her tracks. My apartment was a wreck. It looked like a bomb had gone off. There were clothes everywhere, even hanging off my ceiling fan. Allegra dropped her bag.

  “What the hell!” I yelled. I kicked my way through the pile of clothes on the floor to the center of the room and ran around the apartment. Allegra was rooted to the spot. My bedroom was a mess, as well. The closet door was wide open and clothes and boxes had been pulled out. The kitchen had a few cabinets opened and some plastic containers were scattered on the counters. The bathroom was untouched. As far as I could tell, nothing had been taken. At least, nothing of mine.

  I walked back into the living room to find my sister silently picking up her designer duds from the floor. Her Louis Vuitton suitcases, which she never fully unpacked since she was constantly running back and forth between my place and Mama’s, had been emptied and lay in front of the couch. I noticed every single flap and pocket had been unzipped and unsnapped. Allegra remained strangely silent.

  “Are you missing anything?” I asked absently as I searched the mess for my phone. I figured her silence was due to the theft of one of her precious high-end possessions. She remained silent, avoiding eye contact. Then it hit me, and I whirled around to face her.

  “It’s you, isn’t it? Whoever broke in here was looking for something you had! Answer me, Allie!” I screamed when she still wouldn’t say anything.

  She sighed, threw down the shoe she been clutching and sat down in my rocker. “All right! Yes! Are you happy?”

  “What do you have that someone would break in here to get?”

  “Had, Kendra. Whoever broke in took it. It was a check. It was in my suitcase,” she said sullenly. “A check?” I cleared a space on my couch and sat down.

  “Yeah. When I walked into Vivianne’s dressing room and tripped over her purse, I picked the purse up, and something fell out of it. It was a check. Then I found Vivianne’s body and the fire alarm went off. I dropped the purse and I ran. When I got outside I realized I still had the check with me. I wasn’t about to go put it back. I was too scared to tell the police. I knew they’d think I stole it.” She had good reason to be scared. I’d inadvertently walked off with something from a crime scene once and Harmon had threatened to arrest me.

  “What was the check for?”

  “It was a check for
five thousand dollars from a Diamond Publishing Company in Columbus for an advance against royalties for a book Vivianne had written.”

  “Do you think this was the exciting news Vivianne had for her fans?” I asked. Allegra just shrugged.

  “Any idea what kind of book she wrote?”

  “No. But the check referred to the title—The Onyx Man.” Allegra jumped out of the rocker and started pacing nervously. “What if the police find out about that stupid check? They’ll arrest me for sure. I don’t want to go to jail,” she wailed.

  “Calm down, Allie, I won’t say anything.” I knew I wasn’t doing the right thing but figured since the check was now gone, there was no real reason to tell the police. And if I kept telling myself that, maybe I’d actually start believing it.

  “Not even Carl, Kendra. You can’t tell him, either. Promise me you won’t. He was really mad about me not telling him about touching Vivianne’s purse. If he finds out about the check, he’ll freak.”

  “I promise not to tell Carl. You didn’t tell anyone else about the check, did you?”

  “Just Noelle. She got all excited and wanted me to hand it over but I wouldn’t. She probably wants to get an exclusive story out of it for herself for Hollywood Vibe.”

  Noelle. Of course! She had to be the one who broke in here to steal the check. She must have been the one on Mama’s back porch that night. Allie had been staying with Mama that night and had all her stuff with her. Noelle must have taken the check to try and cash it to cover her gambling debts. She must really be getting desperate. Allegra had mentioned that she thought Noelle had resorted to stealing to feed her habit. I didn’t let Allegra in on my little theory. Instead, I called the police, who came and took a brief statement and suggested I get my locks changed, and Allegra and I cleaned up my apartment.

  TEN

  A couple of hours later, Allegra left for Mama’s, but not before I made her promise to say she hadn’t seen me and didn’t know where I was. I got on the phone to information and got the number for Diamond Publishing Company in Columbus. As I dialed, I wondered how I was going to get them to tell me what I wanted to know.

  “Diamond Publishing. This is Alison. How may I help you?” said the cheerful voice on the other end on the line.

  “This is Harriet Randall, Vivianne DeArmond’s assistant,” I said in my haughtiest voice. “In light of her recent death, I need information regarding Ms. DeArmond’s book.” When I heard an exasperated sigh on the other end of the line, I knew it wasn’t going to be good.

  “Please hold, Ms. Randall, while I put you through to our editor.” I heard ringing which was promptly answered by another irritated female voice.

  “Ms. Randall, this is Margo Diamond. I told you when you called yesterday that I couldn’t give you any information about Ms. DeArmond’s book over the phone. When you can provide legal documentation proving that you are the executor of Ms. DeArmond’s estate, then I will gladly provide you with the information. Until then, I’m sorry, but our hands are tied.”

  I said a quick, “Thank you,” and hung up.

  Someone had already called about Vivianne’s book. Was it really Harriet or was it Noelle? Why would Noelle call about the book? If, as I suspected, she was the one who stole the check, then why bother about the book? Unless Allegra was right and she was trying to get info about the book for some kind of story for Hollywood Vibe. For that matter, knowing how ambitious Allegra is, she could have been the one who called. But if it was actually Harriet who called then that could mean she didn’t know what Vivianne’s book was about. That could also be the reason Vivianne hadn’t told her assistant about her interview with Allegra. She didn’t want Harriet to know about the book. I couldn’t help but wonder what in the world The Onyx Man was about. And was there something in that book that Harriet Randall would have killed Vivianne over? I decided to find out.

  I hopped in my car and headed out to Troyer Road where I knew Vivianne’s farm was. Harriet Randall, as far as I knew, had lived with Vivianne for years. It was hot out and my air-conditioning was on the fritz. I had all the windows in my Nova rolled down but was still sweating like a pig and knew I’d have to shower and change yet again before heading over to Rollins’s house for dinner. I was at a four-way stop about to make a left-hand turn when a silver Cadillac came flying past me headed in the opposite direction. Even though the person driving looked as though they could barely see over the steering wheel, I could tell it was Harriet by the two-toned hair. I made an abrupt illegal U-turn and started following her. Harriet drove like a bat out of hell and I had a hard time keeping up as she weaved in and out of traffic. After about ten minutes and a few near misses involving two cars and a motorcycle, she finally pulled into the parking lot of Woodlawn Nursing Home on a residential street of Park Hurst that I didn’t think I’d ever had the pleasure of driving down before. Most of the homes in Park Hurst were modest single-storied homes on slabs with tiny front yards and carports instead of attached garages.

  Woodlawn Nursing Home consisted of two nondescript, white, single-storied buildings parallel to each other and joined together by another brick building in an almost U-shaped formation, kind of reminding me of army barracks. While the buildings weren’t much to write home about, a lot of attention and money had gone into the landscaping. The bushes that flanked either side of the front entrance were neatly trimmed and the lawn was the lush green that only comes from professional lawn treatments. There was a concrete walkway leading to a large, circular, stone-paved area in the center of the front lawn with some wooden benches arranged around a small fountain.

  Harriet parked her Cadillac, taking up two spaces, and got out and walked in. I pulled in several spaces down from her to wait. After about fifteen minutes, Harriet emerged pushing a wheelchair occupied by an elderly black woman with silvery-white hair that hung to her shoulders. An oxygen tank was attached to the side of the chair and I could see the tube snaking from it had been looped around the woman’s ears so as to keep it positioned in her nose. Harriet pushed the chair out to the fountain, parked the wheelchair next to one of the benches and sat down. I watched her for the next forty-five minutes as she chatted to the woman, occasionally reaching out to stroke her face or long hair, surprising me with her tenderness. The woman in the wheelchair didn’t seem to have much to say and mainly stared vacantly at Harriet, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the lack of response, or she wheezed so loudly I could hear it from where I was sitting. I wondered who the woman was— Harriet’s mother, perhaps?

  I kept checking my watch. It was getting late and I still had to change and buy groceries for my evening with Reverend Rollins. I knew there were women who’d cut off an ear to spend an evening with Morris Rollins. If I didn’t have to get some much-needed info on Harriet Randall, I’d have probably told him no thanks. When it appeared that Harriet wasn’t about to wrap up her visit any time soon, I reluctantly started up my car and left.

  I arrived at Morris Rollins’s house around seven that evening. He had recently sold his big mansion in the Briar Creek area of Willow and moved to a more modest brick ranch about a ten-minute drive outside of Willow. I couldn’t blame him. His old house held too many bad memories. His new house sat back from the road up on a hill. I turned into the long winding driveway, noting that Rollins’s gold Mercedes was parked in front of a large detached garage in the same red brick as the house. The garage had two stories and the windows on the top floor indicated that there must be an apartment up there. I knew Rollins’s daughter Inez now lived with him and wondered if she stayed over the garage.

  I parked behind his car and got out. Rollins must have heard my car because he emerged from the backyard dressed in faded jeans and a blue short-sleeved T-shirt. He grinned his high-beam smile when he saw me and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, did you?” he asked, walking up to the car.

  “I only got lost once,” I replied truthfully, handing
him two grocery bags. I grabbed a cake box from my front seat and he led the way into a large backyard with a deck that ran almost the entire length of the house. I followed him through a set of sliding glass doors into a bright and airy kitchen.

  I set the cake box on the brown-,black-and gold-flecked granite counter top and looked around. The kitchen was huge with a dining area at one end and an island cook top in the center. It opened up into a large family room inhabited by an armoire on the back wall that was opened revealing a TV and CD/ DVD player. A large, square, glass coffee table sat in the middle of the room in front of a brown leather sectional. The walls were painted a soft yellow. A set of built-in shelves against one wall held family pictures, pieces of wooden sculpture and multicolored ceramic bowls and vases. The opposite wall housed a brick fireplace. The overall effect was warm and inviting.

  “I think I like this house better than your old one.”

  Rollins laughed and said softly, “Thank you, Kendra. I like it, too.” He was staring at me strangely and I suddenly wondered if I’d made a mistake wearing the skirt, lacy camisole and blouse. But the look he was giving me wasn’t exactly lustful, just curious.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” He walked back into the kitchen and started looking in the grocery bags.

  “You like spaghetti, don’t you? It seemed like a safe bet.”

  “I love spaghetti. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Can you put a pot of water on to boil?”

  After Rollins rounded up the necessary utensils, I got to work chopping onions and garlic for the sauce, and decided now would be as good at time as any to bring up the real reason I’d agreed to come over.

  “How long have you known Harriet Randall?”