Sleep Well, My Lady

by Kwei Quartey

  Two low-profile armchairs with a white-and-blue floral print faced the foot of the bed on either side of the room.

  Emma nodded approval—not too eagerly, she reminded herself. She snapped a few photos. “I’m curious,” she said, turning to Rita. “You advised me that a violent death occurred in the house. Where and when did it happen?”

  Rita looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Yes, almost one year ago now. The owner was murdered sometime during the night. That morning, the gardener came onto the terrace outside to do some work and spotted the owner lying deceased on the bed. Have you heard of Lady Araba?”

  “Yes, of course! It was here she was killed?” Emma feigned shock. “I didn’t realize. I knew she lived in one of the estates in town, but I had no idea it was here. Oh, goodness.”

  “Does it trouble you? I mean, in terms of potentially buying the house?”

  “Well,” Emma said, hesitantly, “I must confess it’s a little disturbing.”

  Worry flitted over Rita’s face. Emma imagined she had shown the house to several people who had balked about buying it on seeing the “murder bedroom.” She wondered if the white man from last week was still interested, then laughed inwardly. As if she could buy the house in his stead.

  “It does lead me to ask about the security here,” Emma said. “How was someone murdered when there are three—or is it four—guards available?”

  “Well, from what I can gather,” Rita said, “it’s because the murderer was probably someone very familiar with the security guards; they let him in without thinking anything was strange. The other possibility is that the rear gate wasn’t operating, or someone climbed over it or otherwise got in. But I can assure you the security team does a great job.” Rita switched subjects hastily. “Would you like to see the bathroom?”

  They moved into the master bathroom, which had a huge shower stall, tub, marble-top his-and-hers vanity, and an oddly shaped toilet Emma had never seen the likes of. She looked around. All this space was almost shocking. The fixtures gleamed. She thought of the tarnished, worn-down taps at her house.

  They wandered out of the bathroom back into the bedroom.

  “Please, may I inquire what you do for a living?” Rita asked Emma.

  “Import-export business. I’m partnered with my father.”

  “Ah, I see.” Emma thought she saw a knowing gleam in Rita’s eyes. Domestic-international trade was full of opportunity, loopholes, bribery, and corruption, and it could certainly make you a lot of money, especially if you had been at it for a long time—which, presumably, Emma’s fictitious father had been.

  “How is it working with your father?” Rita asked, smiling.

  “I’m his only child,” Emma said sweetly. “He dotes on me. In fact, it will be him buying the house for me.”

  “Wonderful,” Rita said, her face shining.

  “I love the layout,” Emma said, looking around the room. “I wonder what it looked like when Lady Araba lived here.”

  “Lady Araba’s bed was in the same position, but we changed the actual bed. For obvious reasons. Also, the carpet, of course.”

  “I understand,” Emma said. “Please, may I see the terrace?”

  “Oh, yes!” Rita said with enthusiasm. She felt uneasy in the bedroom, Emma suspected.

  Like downstairs, the door had a dead bolt and opened from the inside with a hand-turned lever matching the white trim of the door. Emma and Rita stepped out onto the terrace. The sun was scorching, especially after the air-conditioned room behind them.

  The area was smaller than the garden terrace downstairs. In the shade of a well-crafted pergola, four wicker chairs surrounded a circular central table. A flowerpot stand with several shrubs and flowering plants stood on either side of the pergola.

  Emma walked to the edge of the terrace, which was guarded by a decorative wrought-iron railing. The view from here was spectacular. Between and among the palm trees, she had a bird’s-eye view of many of the other residences. Rita joined her at the railing.

  “How do you like it?” she asked.

  “It’s nice. So peaceful.” Emma turned around for a different view of the terrace and immediately noticed she was perfectly reflected in the glass door and that she couldn’t see through into the bedroom. Why was that? With the interior darker than the brightly lit terrace, the glass behaved as a mirror. Emma took a couple of pictures, walked back to the door, and got close to it. Still, her reflection partially obscured how much she could see inside. At night, with the light on in the room, the mirror would “reverse.”

  “Anything wrong?” Rita said from behind Emma.

  “No, nothing. Does the glass have a coating on the inside?”

  “That I’m not sure,” Rita said, “but I believe it comes tinted.”

  “I see,” Emma said.

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  “Just making sure someone can’t see into the bedroom from the terrace.”

  “I understand.”

  Emma knew Rita might have found it odd, but she cupped her hands around her eyes and peered into the room through the glass. And then she noticed something even stranger. From where she was standing, the head of the bed was outside her view. That meant something Ismael had told Jojo couldn’t possibly be true.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Eleven months after

  The last item on Rita’s list to show Emma was the garage, which had more than ample space to accommodate two cars. One of its doors led into the downstairs corridor. The door had a deadbolt lock, but what if Lady Araba wasn’t accustomed to locking it behind her on entering the house once the garage was shut? What if the killer—and now, Emma was fairly or unfairly visualizing Ismael, though she’d never seen him—had hidden behind or underneath one of the two cars as Lady Araba pulled into the garage in the other that night? If she’d gone inside, closing the door but not locking it, then he would have access to her bedroom. He could have strangled Araba to death and left through any door in the house, locking it behind him. But Emma was stumped again—he would still need a key to do that. All the doors had been locked.

  Emma must have looked pensive, because Rita smiled at her and said, “Thinking it over?”

  “I am,” Emma replied. “I do like the home. What I’ll do is get in touch with you in the next two weeks, as soon as my father returns from Frankfurt. He’s there on business.”

  “Of course,” Rita said. “Very good.”

  “Thank you so much for showing me around.”

  “It’s my great pleasure. Let me take you back to the front entrance.”

  Before they got to the SUV, Emma noticed a man watching them from outside the driveway. He turned away and walked off. As they drove back, Emma spotted the same guy crouched on the sidewalk, digging a hole in the soil with a trowel. Rita lightly pumped the horn and the man looked up, waving back with a grin.

  “That’s Ismael,” Rita said. “He’s the one who’s kept the landscaping looking so good all these years.”

  Must talk to him, Emma thought. She might never be back, so this was the time.

  At the gate, Emma thanked Rita again, and they proceeded to their respective vehicles.

  “Please wait a few minutes,” Emma said to Jordan.

  “Yes, madam.”

  Emma improvised a quick plan. If she went back into the estate in the Mercedes, it might provoke some pesky questions on the way out and perhaps even jeopardize coming back here if she needed to. But what if she befriended one of the guards? Now was a good time to see just how serious they were about security.

  She got out and approached the nearest guard. “Hello, I’m Melody Acquah.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Your name, please.”

  “I’m Peter.”

  “Peter, I want to go back to look at the streets around the house Rita was show
ing me,” Emma said. “She didn’t have a chance to walk me through them all.”

  He nodded. “No problem. Madam Rita knows you, so it’s fine.”

  “Thank you, Peter.” Emma slipped him a twenty-cedi bill.

  His eyes brightened several-fold. “God bless you.”

  Emma returned to the car. “Let’s go,” she said to Jordan.

  She directed him to the spot she had seen Ismael planting and found him patting the soil around a seedling. “Stop here, please,” Emma said.

  She alighted and walked the few steps back to Ismael, greeting him by name. “I’m Melody, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, madam.” He couldn’t shake hands because his were soiled, so he offered his right wrist.

  “I saw you as I was leaving and I wanted to come to greet you,” Emma said. “I’ve heard so much about you—how good you are at your work.”

  Ismael’s face lit up with a smile, and he gave a laugh that was both self-conscious and pleased. “Thank you very much, madam.”

  “Rita has been showing me house number 401,” Emma said.

  “You want to buy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, fine, fine,” Ismael said, looking happy. “Then you are welcome in advance, Madam Melody.”

  He certainly is charming, Emma thought. “Please, Ismael, I wanted to know whether you—I mean, if I buy the house—whether you will be able to bring me some new and different plants.”

  “No problem, madam. I can do that.” He hesitated. “Please, number 401 . . . that’s the house . . .”

  “Where Lady Araba died? Yes, Rita told me.”

  “But you are okay to buy it?”

  “Yes, it doesn’t trouble me,” Emma assured him. “Why? It seems you are worried.”

  “Not at all, please,” Ismael said, smiling with some embarrassment.

  “What are you planting there?” Emma asked. She wanted to ease the pressure off him, at least temporarily.

  “That one is begonia,” Ismael said.

  “I heard Lady Araba loved flowers.”

  Ismael nodded. “Madam Rita told you?”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “When we went to the terrace and I saw all the plants there. Are you the one who took them to Lady Araba?”

  “Yes.” Ismael’s gaze dropped for a second and he patted around a seedling. “I used to bring her some from my business.”

  Emma saw something in his face and eyes. “It’s paining you, Ismael? About Lady Araba.”

  “Yes please.”

  “Me too,” Emma said. “You know, I admired her. Are you the one who saw her that day? Dead, I mean.”

  “Yes please.”

  “Oh,” Emma said, shaking her head in regret. “Terrible.”

  Ismael nodded. “I broke the glass door to enter. Lady Araba’s face was so swollen.” He seemed to shudder. “It looked horrible. Then I called security.”

  “Sorry,” Emma said again.

  “Oh, you don’t worry,” Ismael said. “I’m okay.”

  “Good,” Emma said, flashing him a smile.

  “Please, madam, I have to go to the other side of the estate.”

  “Of course.” She passed a ten-cedi bill to him. “Thank you for your good work, Ismael, eh?”

  He beamed. “God bless you, madam.”

  Emma watched him as he walked away. The “dash” she had given both Ismael and Peter was just in case she had to come back to ask them further questions. An appreciative gratuity could buy people’s silence, but it could also loosen tongues.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Eleven months after

  At the next morning briefing, everyone was on time except Walter, who came running in with an apologetic look. After making a few routine announcements, Sowah got down to the case.

  “Let me bring you all up-to-date with what I’ve learned from my visit to Bob Agyekum at Metro TV,” he said. “As you’re aware, he and I have known each other for a long time.” He stood and walked over to the whiteboard, which still bore the web of suspects in the case.

  “Bob brought a couple of things to my attention. One is that Augustus’s relationship with Bertha Longdon, his ex-wife, played a big role in his behavior. Even when they were separated, Bertha either couldn’t let him go or was crazed with jealousy over his being with another woman—or both. She harassed and stalked Araba and Augustus, mostly on social media, where she insinuated that Augustus had always been a philanderer and still was, even after getting together with Araba. That made things rocky for him, and it appears to be the point at which he started drinking heavily again, leading to his dismissal from Metro TV. The bottom line is that Araba had a powerful enemy in Bertha, and we must look at her too.”

  Yet another angle. The room murmured.

  “It is now imperative that we talk to Augustus. Walter, I think you can pose as the same sympathetic freelance journalist you were with the Tagoes. Call DS Boateng for his phone number.”

  “Okay, sir,” Walter said.

  “Now,” Sowah continued, “we still have the issue of the crime scene evidence. If the DNA or fingerprints match any of the people we’ve been considering, we could have a breakthrough. So, I’ll keep nudging DCOP Laryea on this. I’m hoping he can make some headway with Director-General Tawiah.”

  “To get FSL to do it?” Gideon asked.

  “Yes.”

  Which reminded Emma of something. “Boss, I’ve been wondering about Lady Araba’s postmortem. We don’t know what they found. We don’t even know who did the autopsy.”

  “Oh,” Sowah said. “Yes, you’re right. That slipped my mind. I can ask Laryea for help on that as well. Now, Emma, it’s your turn to tell us about your visit to Trasacco.”

  “Okay, boss, but first, I want to thank you for the rented Benz.”

  A cheer went up from the others, who promptly began to tease her.

  “Lady Emma, fashion icon!”

  “No, it’s Princess Emma rather.”

  “Is that so?” Gideon said, looking awestruck. “Then we must bow to her!” He jumped up and executed a showy, ridiculous bow. Emma struggled to keep a straight face.

  “No, seriously, Emma,” Jojo said, “you dey take selfie for Benz inside? Come on, make you no lie.”

  “Okay, yes,” Emma confessed. “I did.”

  “And you’ve been hiding it from us?” Jojo said in mock consternation. “Let’s see. Come on, show us!”

  Emma feigned reluctance in pulling out her phone. She located the photos and first showed the boss, who smiled and let it pass around to exclamations of admiration.

  “Can I be your husband in the Benz next time?” Jojo asked, winking at her.

  Emma couldn’t hold her laughter in any longer.

  “Okay,” Sowah said, finally. “Back to work. By the way, Emma, I agree—the Benz suits you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  More cheers and laughter. “The boss approves.”

  Sowah turned to Emma. “Don’t mind them. Go on.”

  Emma described her tour of what had once been Lady Araba’s home, down to the kinds of locks on the doors and windows and all the access points, front to back. Emma felt the garage was important to consider as a possible means of entry into the home.

  “As you climb the stairs to the second floor,” Emma continued, “you see the master bedroom ahead a little to your left. Wait, I have some photos you can all look at.” She fiddled with her phone as the others came around to her desk. “In the bedroom, you can see how the bed is arranged in relation to the door that opens onto the terrace. Here we are on the terrace, which is facing the back of the house. This railing is where Ismael leaned his ladder against to come onto the terrace. So, from the railing, I took a picture of the terrace door. The glass has a tint, so it acts like a mirror. Even when I got close, it
was hard to see inside. Jojo, Ismael told you it was around seven in the morning that he went to the terrace, not so?”

  “Correct.”

  “And I was there between nine o’clock and nine-thirty, so the sun was brighter than at seven o’clock, but not that much. The glass would still be like a mirror. So, my question is, how did Ismael spot Lady Araba in the bed unless he put his face right up against the glass door? Why would he do that? Unless something or someone tipped him off to do it, or he’s a Peeping Tom?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re saying,” Jojo said slowly, light dawning.

  “Go on,” Sowah said to Emma.

  “Lady Araba was known to wake up around five in the morning, when it’s still dark outside,” Emma said. “With the lights on in the room but off on the terrace, what she can see outside is limited. It’s the exact reverse of the situation during the day, right? Someone can observe her from the terrace without being seen.”

  “You mean Ismael was watching her?” Walter interjected. “And then what? He went in and murdered her? What’s his motive?”

  “I have an idea what it might be,” Emma said, “but I want to finish this part first. Let’s say Lady Araba neglected to lock the terrace door. Late at night, Ismael could get up to the terrace with his ladder, open the door quietly, attack Araba, and strangle her to death. When he’s done, he arranges her in what we can call a ‘normal’ sleeping position, under the covers.

  “Around seven in the morning, when Ismael goes up to the terrace with the planters, he already knows Lady Araba is dead. He raises the alarm to Peter while pretending the terrace door is locked. So, he smashes the glass to get in, already knowing what he will find. The story he tells everyone is that he happened to see into Araba’s room at seven and see her dead.”

  Jojo applauded, but Walter looked skeptical, while Sowah and Gideon appeared neutral.

  “And what about motive?” Walter asked.

  “Ismael told me Lady Araba loved flowers,” Emma continued, “and how he always brought her special ones from his garden shop. What if the real reason he kept bringing flowers to Araba was that he was in love with her? And if she spurned him when he professed his love to her? Well, that can become intent to kill.”