Sleep Well, My Lady

by Kwei Quartey

  “These are excellent thoughts,” Sowah said. “They still leave us with one question, though. If Ismael is the killer, why, then, would he want to be the one who ‘discovers’ the body?”

  Emma blew out her breath. “You’re right, boss. That’s a good question.”

  “I know!” Gideon said, snapping his fingers. “He wanted to return to the scene of the crime. Certain killers either enjoy reliving the murder or just feel compelled to see it again.”

  Sowah smiled and pointed his index finger at Gideon. “Gold star for you.”

  “Oh, no,” Jojo muttered, slapping his forehead. “He’s going to be boasting about this all day.”

  Gideon stuck his tongue out at him and grinned.

  “Walter,” Sowah said, turning to him, “you and Gideon visited the Tagoes last night, correct?”

  “Yes, boss,” Walter said. “It was a strange experience.”

  “How so?”

  “Gideon and I talked about it after we left,” Walter said. “There’s a kind of tension in the air between the Father and his wife, but even before we get to that, I noticed how heavily made-up Mrs. Tagoe was—almost what they call ‘pancake,’ is that the word?” He looked at Emma, but she said nothing. She wished Walter would stop assuming she knew everything about all things female.

  “Why did you think it was strange, Walter?” Sowah asked.

  “Well, I use my wife, Beatrice, as a frame of reference,” Walter said, “and maybe this isn’t a valid thought, but Beatrice has levels of makeup. At home just relaxing and not doing anything, she may have none. Going out shopping, or maybe when friends come over, the makeup is moderate, but when we’re going to a special event, she’s in maximum makeup mode, if I may call it that. To me, that’s how Mrs. Tagoe was.”

  “Okay,” Sowah said slowly, “so, what are you driving at?”

  “What crossed my mind was physical abuse,” Walter said. “Disguising her bruises.”

  “Oh, really!” Sowah exclaimed, taken aback. “That didn’t occur to me.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Tagoe was planning to go out later,” Emma said.

  “I don’t think so,” Walter said. “Without the husband?”

  “Why not?” Emma asked.

  Walter shook his head. “He wasn’t dressed up at all to go out, and I don’t get the feeling she’s the kind of woman who would go somewhere and leave the hubby at home.”

  Emma gave a little snort and then realized too late that it sounded derisive. On the one hand, Walter was getting on her nerves, but on the other, she wondered why she was taking this so personally.

  “Okay, let’s come back to that,” Sowah said. “You mentioned tension between the Father and Mrs. Tagoe?”

  “When I asked about Father Tagoe’s relationship with Araba,” Walter said, “Mrs. Tagoe seemed uncomfortable, and at a few other points, I felt like she wanted to say something but wouldn’t dare in front of him. The Father laid on the piety thick, and she seemed to follow his example just because she felt she had to. Something was simply not right.”

  “Where do you position Father Tagoe in a hierarchy of suspects?” Sowah asked.

  Walter thought about it for a moment. “Despite the strange feeling I got there, honestly, I don’t think we were looking at a killer.”

  “What did you think, Gideon?” Sowah asked.

  “I agree with Walter. He’s religious, and I think he may be a hypocrite as well—like so many priests—but I couldn’t see any motive.”

  “In summation, then,” Sowah said, “it looks like Ismael has floated somewhat to the top of our list of suspects? Rather closer to Augustus Seeza. Does everyone agree?”

  But no one in the room enthusiastically endorsed that either.

  “Boss, I don’t know what to think,” Jojo confessed.

  “We still need to talk to Seeza,” Walter pointed out. “Maybe we can get a better perspective then.”

  “Yes,” Sowah said, “but Jojo, you will go back to Ismael, and push him this time to come out with whatever he’s hiding from us.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Okay,” Sowah said. “Meeting over. Well done, all of you.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  One month before

  In the late afternoon light, Bertha was the vision of loveliness as she welcomed Justice Julius Seeza to the sprawling living room of her Airport Hills mansion. Elegant and tall, her skin even fairer than Lady Araba’s, Bertha possessed an aura of dignity and self-assurance. She was a full-figured, strongly built woman who wore her weight well.

  The house girl brought in some refreshments—a small platter of Danish butter cookies, Star beer for Julius, and tropical punch for Bertha, who did not drink.

  “How are you faring?” Julius asked her, pouring his beer.

  Bertha sighed and gave an ever-so-slight smile. “By God’s grace, I’m managing—even though I still feel the pain.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Caroline and I miss you. We always loved you. We still do, and I hope you know that. My parents knew yours so well and for such a long time that you’ve been like a daughter to us and will always be.”

  Bertha smiled sweetly. “Thank you. I miss you too, Papa. Was Mama Caroline unable to come with you?”

  “Honestly, she doesn’t know I’m here. She plans to visit you, but I wanted to warn you in advance about what she intends to ask you. She constantly talks about the possibility of you and Augustus getting back together again, and she has a plan. She’s thinking along the lines of a truth and reconciliation process.”

  Bertha laughed. “What is this, Rwanda?”

  Julius smiled only slightly at the poor joke. “The point is, Mama wants you and Augustus to meet, sit down in our presence, and express what you’ve been through on both sides. All the pain. And don’t forget, Mama Caroline and I have also suffered through all these troubles.”

  “I don’t see the point of a truth and reconciliation mission—or whatever you want to call it—when Araba the temptress is still hanging around. Honestly, Papa Julius, I detest that woman.”

  “And I can understand that,” Julius said. “Look, Araba will eventually fall by the roadside, or I should say, will be dropped there. Her family has been pressuring her to cut herself off from Augustus, and if you got back together with him, she would see that there’s no point in continuing the charade. Bertha, dear, Araba is not a permanent fixture here. You, Augustus, and your marriage are.”

  A brief silence fell between them, and Bertha spoke. “How is he—Augustus?”

  “He’s doing well,” Julius said with enthusiasm. “He’s been alcohol-free for almost four months straight now and returning to his normal self. I’m very proud of him.”

  Bertha nodded. “I’m glad for you. And him.” She nibbled on a cookie and sipped some juice before resuming. “If I were to consider ever reuniting with Augustus, he would have to be stone-cold sober.”

  “And we’re going to make sure of that,” Julius said. “We are paying for his rehab program, and I think he’s going to do well.”

  “That’s promising, Papa Julius.”

  “Yes, it is,” Julius said. “Bertha, it’s been a bumpy road, but we are finally in control at the steering wheel. What you and the kids and we too have been going through is unsustainable, and we won’t allow it to continue? Okay? You have my word on that. So, what do you say?”

  Bertha held Julius’s gaze in hers. “If Augustus can stay sober and push Lady Araba away once and for all, then yes, I am open to truth and reconciliation.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Two days before

  The annual Accra Fashion Week, sponsored by NIVEA, was at the Tang Palace Hotel. It was already Saturday night, meaning Lady Araba and Samson had less than two days to nail down every detail for a flawless runway performance Monday morning. The so-called rehearsa
l earlier that day had not gone well. Four models hadn’t shown up, so Araba either needed to find replacements or change the sequence and timing of appearances so their existing models could appear on the runway multiple times. So far, two new models had pledged to show up early the next morning and have the outfits altered to suit their body type.

  The caterer for the event had run into a technical problem at the last minute and had threatened to back out until Samson got on the phone and yelled at them, threatening to expose them as unprofessional on social media.

  In the Airport City office, Araba pored over the models’ names and walk-on times, allowing for the possibility that they would be two short. Samson popped out to find something to eat and returned with food and good news. Diamond, one of their standby models, had just called him to say she could fill in.

  “Yes!” Araba said, pumping the air in triumph. “Thank God. Just one more now.”

  “You should eat,” Samson said, plonking a large plastic bag of food down on the table.

  “What did you get?” Araba said, not looking up.

  “Jollof rice.”

  “Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll have some a little later.”

  “No,” Samson insisted. “You eat right now. You know how you are before events. You get tense, starve yourself, and are on the verge of collapsing on the day of the show.”

  Araba acquiesced and opened the bag.

  Samson cleared his throat. “Lady Pizzazz is everywhere on the ’gram and Facebook saying how she’s going to have the greatest show on earth.”

  Araba rolled her eyes. “Please. It’s all talk.”

  “They say she has a new line based on traditional clothing from Northern Ghana.”

  “I don’t give a damn. It could be from the Sahara Desert and she couldn’t keep up,” Araba said. “Come on, let’s finish this.”

  She and Samson worked for another hour.

  “The music is set up?” Araba asked him.

  He nodded. “Yes. DJ Breezy is confirmed.”

  “Good.” She sat back for a moment and stretched her arms above her head, only to wince and grab the back of her neck.

  “You’re tense,” Samson said. He stood behind her and began to massage the sore spot.

  Araba moaned with relief. “That feels so good.”

  “I want to help you de-stress,” he said. “Your muscles are so rigid.”

  He worked on her neck and shoulders in silence for a few minutes, then bent to kiss her on the neck.

  “Samson,” she said. “No.”

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “I’m your boss,” she reminded him sternly.

  “Yes,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “The most beautiful boss in the world.”

  He moved his fingers to Araba’s collarbone, gently caressing her until she stood up and slipped out from his grasp.

  “You have to control yourself,” she said sharply. “I don’t like this.”

  “The times we were together, you liked it,” he reminded her.

  “I know,” she said wearily, “but that was a mistake. For both of us. Let’s move on.”

  He said nothing in response, but looked at her the way a hungry animal eyed food snatched from under its nose.

  “I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning,” she said, packing up for the day. “We still have a lot to do.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Finally at home, Araba took a shower, then took to the sofa in the living room in her nightgown. Amanua, the house girl, came in to ask if Araba needed anything more. She would be leaving early Sunday for a funeral. Araba dismissed her for the night and switched on the TV in time to catch the latest episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta. After a while, she began to feel drowsy and decided to call it a day.

  Her phone buzzed. Samson had texted. She opened the message and saw: Sorry about earlier. It won’t happen again.

  Araba texted back: It’s all right. Let’s just move forward.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Two weeks before

  Julius and Caroline Seeza joined forces to stage an intervention with their son. He had been sober for longer than any recent stretch. They sat him down in the dining room, where they faced him from the opposite side of the table.

  Caroline began. “We’re proud of you, Augustus.” She had never called him “Gus,” which she found to be crude. “You’ve been clean for almost five months, and for that, you deserve praise. In view of that, your father and I want you to consider getting back together with Bertha again.”

  Augustus, freshly shaved and looking better than he had in a long time, suddenly appeared weary. “I think that ship has sailed,” he said dully.

  “No,” Julius said quietly. “It has not. Look, I’ve spoken to Bertha, and she’s willing to try a truth and reconciliation process. This could really work.”

  “You have two dear children,” Caroline pressed. “You owe it to them, if no one else—especially your son, Ben. No child should grow up with an absent parent. This will negatively affect them for life.”

  “So, will their seeing Bertha and me in a constant state of hostility toward each other,” Augustus said.

  “We’re not talking about abruptly bringing the two of you together under one roof,” Caroline said. “This is a process—a marathon, not a sprint, and we speak of truth and reconciliation because it’s one of the best ways to bring peace between two parties. Little by little, you and Bertha will iron out the difficulties and find ways to resolve the challenges that the two of you have been facing and lay the groundwork for a solid future.”

  Augustus averted his eyes to stare at the table in front of him. He seemed to be mulling over the points his parents had made, but he suddenly buried his face in his palms. “I just wish I could forget about her,” he groaned.

  Caroline frowned. “About whom?”

  “Araba, of course!” he said, almost angrily. “What is it about her, that I can’t get her out of my system? This is like torture.”

  Almost at the point of weeping, Augustus began to hyperventilate and become overwrought. Caroline got up, came around, and put her arms around him. “We’re here for you, my love. We will help you get through this. You’re not alone.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Eleven months after

  DCOP Laryea had scheduled an end-of-day meeting with Director-General Madam Tawiah, who was running behind. Finally, after six in the evening when the sun was setting, Tawiah was ready to receive him in her office. Laryea came in and took a seat in one of the comfy chairs in this now tastefully furnished room. Unlike her predecessor, she seldom stayed behind her desk when speaking with her senior officers. She sat a comfortable distance from Laryea.

  “How can I help?” Tawiah asked.

  “Please, it’s regarding the Araba Tagoe case—you know, the lady murdered almost a year ago.”

  “I remember,” Tawiah said. “What about it?”

  “I’ve had an inquiry from an old friend of mine, Yemo Sowah, who runs a private detective agency. Lady Araba’s aunt brought the case to him because she was dissatisfied with the way we’ve handled the case.”

  “Dissatisfied in what way?” Tawiah asked skeptically.

  “Although Araba’s driver was arrested for the crime, Dele believes that Augustus Seeza, who was in a relationship with Lady Araba, is the prime suspect.”

  “I’m well acquainted with Dele Tetteyfio,” Tawiah said. “She came to see me weeks after the death of her niece, and I listened duly to her concerns, but as I told her, we have a full confession from the lady’s driver, Kwesi—or was it Kweku?”

  “Kweku, madam.”

  “He tried to steal Lady Araba’s jewelry, and she caught him in the act. He panicked and murdered her. We have the complete confession from Kweku. Case closed.”

/>   She knows confessions can be false, Laryea thought. I know that too, and she knows I know. “Please, what would be wrong with using the DNA evidence to bolster the case against the driver?” Laryea asked. “We have an officer who can perform it—DS Isaac Boateng, whom I’m sure you know.”

  “I do,” Tawiah said. “But, in this case, the DNA evidence may only confuse the picture. You see, because Augustus Seeza was frequently in her house, his DNA is likely to be present in the evidence.”

  “But only in traces, surely, madam? I think they can tell—”

  “We want to avoid any confusion,” Tawiah interrupted. “It’s not worth the chance that we may imprison the wrong person.”

  Typical nonsensical obfuscation, Laryea thought.

  “Furthermore,” Tawiah continued, “I question the motivation behind Boateng going for training in South Africa. I won’t mention names, but he persuaded someone it was a good idea, and off Boateng went.”

  “Oh,” Laryea said blankly. “I wasn’t aware. But that doesn’t say anything about his competence to process the DNA. After all, he handled the case of the missing Takoradi girls, and that wasn’t easy. He should be up to the task of this case.”

  “Just be aware, between you and me, that we were having behavioral problems with Boateng.”

  “How so, madam?”

  “Some mental instability.”

  Laryea found this odd. “Please, is that the reason Boateng was moved from Headquarters to the Tema division?”

  “I transferred him,” Tawiah said. “He was overstepping his bounds in the Lady Araba case. He was biased against the Seeza family, harassing them unnecessarily. It seems he had an axe to grind.”

  “Then, madam, what about contracting a reliable third party like Professor Kingsley at CCU or one of the private DNA labs in town? Then we will have an unbiased evaluation.”

  Before Tawiah could answer, there was a knock on the door, and a man with an egg-shaped bald head entered. Laryea recognized him at once. Adam Kyei, the Minister of Science & Technology and owner of Metro TV.