Sleep Well, My Lady

by Kwei Quartey

  Books by the author

  The Inspector Darko Dawson Mysteries

  Wife of the Gods

  Children of the Street

  Murder at Cape Three Points

  Gold of Our Fathers

  Death by His Grace

  The Emma Djan Mysteries

  The Missing American

  Sleep Well, My Lady

  Other Books

  Death at the Voyager Hotel

  Kamila

  Copyright © 2021 by Kwei Quartey

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue, and incidents depicted are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  227 W 17th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Quartey, Kwei, author.

  Sleep well, my lady / Kwei Quartey.

  Series: The Emma Djan investigations ; 2

  ISBN 978-1-64129-207-8

  eISBN 978-1-64129-208-5

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  LCC PS3617.U37 S58 2021 DDC 813’.6—dc23 2020033010

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Map: © netsign33/Shutterstock

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In memory of Careen Chepchumba

  Let justice be done though the heavens fall

  and

  To Mama, who never got to see Emma #2

  Part One

  ONE

  The day of the murder

  In the lavish Trasacco Valley, the Beverly Hills of Accra, no one would have anticipated a murder. The sprawling gated community was landscaped with neat hedgerows and palm trees lining its streets. Pink, yellow, and red hibiscus bushes dotted impossibly green lawns. Red and yellow bougainvillea spilled over the walls and fences.

  Completed about a decade before, the Valley couldn’t possibly fit any more buildings. However, east of it along the N1 Highway stretched acres of virgin land where the Trasacco Company had begun constructing several new gated complexes on what would be called Trasacco Hills.

  The entrance to the Valley was a ten-foot-high wrought-iron gate with a sentry box where the security guards kept track of who went in and out. Peter, the veteran lead security guard, knew every resident by name and face, but all visitors needed to state their identity and destination, and their license plate number might be noted as well. Peter, forty-five, was older than his peers, some of whom were in their twenties. True, he was a tad overweight and could probably not outrun a fit young intruder, but the Valley’s five-year security record was impeccable, with not a single instance of robbery, burglary, or carjacking. Peter was proud of that.

  Change of shift was between 6:30 and 7 a.m., giving Peter another fifteen minutes or so before he went home to his wife and kids. Another early bird in Trasacco Valley was Ismael, the head groundskeeper. With a small number of assistants, he kept hedges trimmed, grass mowed, and weeds cleared. Unlike Peter, he was wiry in build, but like the security man, he was friendly and smiled easily. He had a way with greenery. The elegance of the grounds was, for the most part, due to him. Today, he was to put in Blood of Jesus plants—eye-catching with their deep purple leaves and crimson veins that looked like streaks and splatters of blood—in select areas of the complex.

  But before he did that, he had promised Lady Araba Tagoe, who loved decorating her palatial space with flowers and trees, that he would bring her a pair of planters for the upper terrace outside her bedroom.

  It was a Monday—a fresh start to the week. Ismael went to the garden shed that stood at the end of Ruby Row next to a motion-sensor exit. From the shed, Ismael removed two large terra-cotta planters and carried them one in each hand to 401 Ruby Row.

  For additional security, each mansion in the Valley had a remote-operated wrought-iron gate at the driveway entrance. Among the several different house types and colors, Lady Araba’s was called “The Duke,” painted orange chiffon with a red tile roof trimmed in white. A high-ceilinged portico formed the Duke’s front entrance. As Ismael approached, Lady Araba’s chauffeur, Kweku-Sam, was washing her Range Rover, which he did every morning before he took the boss out. Any driver worth his salt kept his employer’s vehicles shiny and spotless—barely possible in Accra’s dusty environment. Araba’s second car was an Audi, but she preferred the Rover for its high profile and smoothness over rough roads.

  “Morning, Kweku!” Ismael called out.

  Kweku-Sam looked up from his work and smiled. “Morning. How be?”

  “I dey, oo! Wassup?”

  They slipped seamlessly into Twi instead of English. Ismael was from arid Northern Ghana, while Kweku-Sam was Akan, but Twi was their lingua franca.

  “Where is the house girl?” Ismael asked. “Usually she’s sweeping the yard by now.”

  “She traveled to her hometown for a funeral. Where are you taking those flowerpots?”

  “To the terrace,” Ismael responded. “Madam asked me to get them for her.” He worked part-time at a plant shop in town.

  “Okay,” Kweku said, glancing at his watch. “She will be down in about thirty minutes. Today is a big day for her—the fashion show.”

  “Ah, fine.” Ismael knew next to nothing about that kind of thing. It was a different world. The lives of Trasacco’s residents were far removed from his own.

  Ismael took a left across the green lawn with sprawling hibiscus, past the projecting bay window of the living room and the kitchen, then a right at the staff quarters to the rear of the house.

  On the second floor, Lady Araba’s master bedroom occupied the west wing and opened directly onto a terrace via a framed glass door. Ismael already had a ladder leaning against the wall from the day before when he had been up on the terrace. It was tricky climbing up with a heavy planter in one hand, but he was accustomed to awkward maneuvers. At the top of the ladder, he reached over the decorative terrace wall and set down the first planter gingerly. He returned to the ground and did the same for the second planter before skipping over the wall into the terrace. Ismael loved it here. The shaded pergola, which Lady Araba had designed herself, was surrounded by explosions of color. Hanging ferns, blue plumbago, red ixora, yellow galphimia, and pink desert rose flourished. There wasn’t any other homeowner in Trasacco who could boast of such plant glory. Ismael moved the planters to either side of the pergola. Lady Araba liked symmetry and matching pairs. As Ismael went past, he looked toward the glass door and felt his stomach plunge.

  He scrambled down the ladder, jumping the last four rungs to the ground. He ran around to the front of the house, shouting, “Kweku! Kweku!”

  Kweku-Sam looked up from polishing off the Rover with a chamois. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Madam,” Ismael said, breathing hard. “Something bad has happened. Do you have a key to the house?”

  Kweku-Sam shook his head. “No. But what has happened?”

  “She’s lying in her bed,” Ismael said, “and there’s blood. Take the car and bring Peter here. Quick!”

  The Rover’s tires squealed as Kweku-Sam gunned the engine.

  Inside the security booth, Peter had finished entering his summary of the night’s activities into the logbook and was giving the morning report to the two security guards taking over duty. There wasn’t much to report, as the shift had been quiet.

  He looked up as Lady Araba’s Rover came toward
them at top speed. Kweku-Sam jumped out. “Peter, come! Ismael says something bad has happened to Lady Araba.”

  Peter frowned. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. You just come, my brodda.”

  Peter dropped everything and got into the Rover. Kweku-Sam made a rubber-burning U-turn, and they took off back to 401, where they skidded into the driveway. Ismael was nowhere to be seen. Peter followed Kweku-Sam at a full run to the rear of the house.

  “Ismael!” Kweku-Sam called out.

  “I’m up here!” Ismael’s head appeared over the terrace wall.

  “Chaley, what’s going on?” Peter asked.

  “I think she’s dead,” Ismael said, voice shaking.

  “What?”

  “Do you have a key to get inside?” Ismael asked Peter.

  “No, no, I don’t.” Peter started up the ladder. Kweku-Sam followed.

  “Then I have to break the glass door,” Ismael said, grabbing a metal patio chair from the pergola. By the time the other two men reached the terrace, Ismael was attacking the door with the legs of the chair. It splintered open on his second attempt, and he reached inside and pulled down the door handle. The other two men were right behind Ismael as he pushed the door open.

  “Awurade,” he said. “Oh, Jesus.”

  Shades of white and cream were the color scheme of the room. The copious scarlet of the spattered blood on the carpet and bed was a jarring contrast. A bloody duvet covered Lady Araba’s body up to her neck. She was lying on her back and might have simply been asleep, save that her face was bloated and gray. Her eyes, now milky white, were still open. So was her mouth. The pillow on which her head rested had a wide halo of dried blood.

  Peter and Ismael stood staring, frozen. They heard a loud wailing sound and turned to see Kweku-Sam weeping as he rushed inside. Calling out his boss’s name, he lurched toward the bed, but Peter grabbed him and held him back.

  “Kweku,” he said quietly, then more emphatically, “Kweku, there’s nothing you can do. Madam is dead.”

  TWO

  Twenty years before

  Araba had learned to sew by the time she was thirteen years old. Her Auntie Dele Tetteyfio was a seamstress who patiently taught her how to put together blouses, skirts, and dresses from scratch. Araba preferred the company of her doting aunt to that of her parents, Fifi and Miriam. Reverend Fifi Tagoe was a priest at the All Saints Anglican Church in Accra and an extreme disciplinarian apparently obsessed with the sin of fornication. Every other sermon of his seemed concerned with its evils.

  In her early teens, Araba had only the foggiest notion what fornication meant. Was it having a boyfriend, or just hanging around boys? It might also mean having sex when you weren’t supposed to. If that was the case, then Araba was not a fornicator. She didn’t like boys much then, and certainly not enough to have a boyfriend. Boys were silly, empty-headed.

  Reverend Tagoe wasn’t a loving man in any demonstrable way. He didn’t hug his children. Tagoe was a believer in the maxim, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” He kept a cane in his bedroom in case Oko needed a whipping, but rarely did he use it on his daughter.

  Leaning against Dele’s chair, Araba watched her aunt hem a sleeve on her sewing machine, her fingers deft and precise while her feet pumped the pedal.

  “Auntie?” Araba said. “What is fornication?”

  Dele was a short, powerful woman with a stubborn mouth. Appropriately, she came from Bukom, a tough old part of Accra that continued to churn out a disproportionate number of professional boxers.

  Dele held up a blouse to examine it. The fabric, a cotton blend with swirls of pale blue and fuchsia, was by Woodin—a well-known, upscale brand. “Why are you asking me that, Araba?”

  “I always hear Daddy preaching to people not to fornicate,” Araba said.

  “And he hasn’t explained it you?” Dele asked. “Or is it you don’t understand the explanation?”

  Araba shook her head. “He hasn’t told me. If I ask him, he’ll be angry.”

  Dele rested the almost-completed blouse to the side and turned to her niece. “When a man and a woman get married,” she said, “they are supposed to stay together forever and only make love to each other. If the husband goes to be with another woman, or the wife goes to be with another man, then they have committed fornication.”

  “So, it’s only for grown-ups, then,” Araba said, relieved.

  “Yes, my dear.” Dele gave Araba a hug. “You won’t have to worry about that for a long time. Now, sit here and do the sleeves. Let’s see how good you are.”

  Araba executed it to her aunt’s approval and smiled at her praise.

  Someone knocked on the door, and Dele went to answer. Araba heard her father’s voice and stiffened.

  “Is she here?” Fifi asked Dele. His voice was deep and rich—perfect for preaching.

  “Yes, she is,” Dele replied. “Please come in.”

  Fifi did and saw Araba in Dele’s sewing bay. Clothes were everywhere, and it looked like a jumble, but Dele knew exactly where everything was.

  Fifi eyed his daughter. “You didn’t tell me you were coming here,” he said. “I was worried.”

  “Sorry, Daddy,” Araba said in not much more than a whisper.

  “It’s not her fault,” Dele said. “It’s me who should have called you. I lost track of time.”

  Fifi grunted. “No problem. Come on, Araba. Say goodbye to Auntie. We have to go home for your bath and dinner.”

  “Bye, Auntie,” Araba said. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be here,” Dele said. “But check with your father first.”

  Fifi guided Araba out with a light hand on her head. “See you later, Dele,” he said, with not so much as a glance at his sister.

  Araba didn’t completely understand why her father and aunt didn’t get along, but what she did know was that Dele always took Araba’s side if it came to that.

  That night, after her bath and dinner, Araba waited for Mama to come up and tuck her in. To pass the time, she looked through her old dog-eared fashion magazines, examining the dress styles, the hairdos, the shoes.

  Mama came in. She went by her middle name, Miriam, not her indigenous name, Yaa. She had a tiny waist and wide hips, the kind that always had men staring. But Araba had never seen her father show affection to his wife.

  “Are you okay, love?” Miriam said.

  “Yes, Mama.” Araba put her magazines away. Her parents constantly checked her reading material to be sure there was nothing to encourage an interest in boys before she was old enough for that—eighteen, in her father’s view.

  Miriam sat at the edge of the bed and rested her hand near Araba’s cheek. “How was Auntie Dele?”

  “Oh, fine,” Araba said. “She let me do a lot of sleeves and hems today.”

  “That’s good,” Miriam said, smiling sweetly. She had never appeared to have a problem with Dele, as far as Araba could tell.

  “By the time I get to fashion school,” Araba declared, “I’ll already know a lot.”

  “Okay, well, we’ll see,” her mother said, smoothing Araba’s covers. “You know Daddy wants you to have a job like . . . like—”

  “Yes, I know,” Araba said. “Like a nurse. Is that the only job in the world?”

  “Now, now,” Mama chastised gently. “He only wants the best for you.”

  “The best for me is what I want to do,” Araba said.

  Mama chuckled. “Well, you have a few more years before you know for sure. Things might change.”

  Araba played with her mother’s gold wedding ring. “But I’ll never change,” she said. “I’m going to be a fashion designer.”

  Mama kissed her on the forehead. “All right, dear. Na-night, and sleep well, my love.” She turned off the light, left the room, and closed the door quietly
behind her.

  Later that night, the power went off. This time of year, it was hot and stuffy day and night, and without the air conditioner, Araba woke up sweating lightly. She threw her covers off and opened the windows to let some air in.

  Her door cracked open, and she looked up to see the shadow of her father. He was a big, solid man. If you punched him, he probably wouldn’t budge.

  “Are you okay, Araba?” he whispered, coming into the room and shutting the door.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to say good night to you earlier,” he said, sitting on the bed the same as his wife had done. “I was on an important phone call.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  “Give me a hug.” He embraced her—he always did. “I love you, okay? God loves you too. It’s a special love we have in the Lord, you understand?”

  Araba nodded. “Yes. You’re squeezing me so hard, Daddy.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry. My goodness, you’re sweating. Why not let’s change you into some dry clothes?”

  He turned on the light and looked in her chest of drawers. “Here—a T-shirt and some panties.” He dropped them on the bed. “I’ll help you.”

  He took off her blouse. She flinched and shielded her developing breasts from him.

  He laughed. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m your daddy.”

  She hurried to put on the shirt and turned away from him in bed as she put on her panties.

  “You’re growing so fast,” he said. “Do the panties still fit you?”

  “Yes, they’re okay,” Araba said, covering herself.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, gently pulling the covers away. “Look at the hem—too tight.”

  “They’re okay, Daddy,” she pleaded.

  “Right here,” he said. “Too tight.”

  She caught her breath and held it, looking away as he slipped his finger under the lace edge of her panties. His breathing was irregular and sounded loud in the quiet room. It always did.