by Angela Henry
“I said thieves as in plural, meaning more than one.”
“Otis and Dibb were both thieves and were arguing over something they stole?”
“Now you’re gettin’ it,” he said, taking a bite from another cookie.
“And you’re sure was Lewis wasn’t involved? Was he in on whatever they stole, too?” Could I have misjudged Lewis? Was he capable of more than poor fashion choices?
“Naw. Like I said, he was always thought of himself as a ladies’ man. A player. Only most of the time he was the one gettin’ played. If you was a halfway decent lookin’ woman and needed saving, Lewis was your man. He’d pay their rent, their car notes, and even buy candy for their snotty-nose kids. And if he’d do all that for some average lookin’ woman, then what do you think he’d have done for the likes of—”
“Joyce Kirkland?” I said, sitting up straighter in my chair.
“Well, she was Cooper back then. But, yes, ma’am. Not much Lewis Watts wouldn’t do for Joyce. And I mean nothing.”
“So, she was involved in what Dibb and Otis stole?” He considered what I said for a moment before answering.
“She was a different kinda thief. She was beautiful, smart, and charming. Not too many men could resist that kinda combination and you better believe she used it to her advantage,” he concluded, still looking thoughtful. What was he talking about? I’d finally jumped onto his train of thought only to be thrown off when the train made a hairpin turn, leaving me lying on the side of the tracks dazed and confused. Then what he’d said earlier popped into my head.
“Wait a minute. You said 30-year-old chickens coming home to roost. Does that mean that what happened to Dibb and Brenda was tied to what happened to Otis Patterson that night?”
“Come on now, honey. I thought you knew that already.” He was looking at me like I was an idiot. And I felt like an idiot. Not to mention exhausted from talking to this exasperating old man.
“Was Brenda mixed up in what happened that night, too?”
“She got pulled into it after the fact just like Lewis. That foolish sister of hers made sure of that.”
“You mean Betty, right?” I asked, remembering Brenda’s sister’s name from her obit.
“That was her alright,” he said, shaking his head. “She was wild right down to her bones and always dragging her sister into every foolish thing she ever did. You knew they were twins, didn’t you?”
“No. I just knew she’d died.”
“Yeah, well, that was some bad business right there. Just sad.” His eyes got a faraway look in them again as he gazed past me out the window. He was silent for a long minute and when he spoke again his voice was gruff. “Brenda was never the same after Betty died. She used to be such a sweetie pie, always smiling,’ but after her sister died the way she did, Brenda was just a burned-out shell. Hard and brittle and not caring about much of anything.”
“How did she die?” Mr. Buford opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Lucy who placed a hand on his shoulder. She kneeled next to his chair, grabbed his cane and handed it to him.
“Dinnertime, Mr. Buford. It’s all of your favorites tonight. Swiss steak, mashed potatoes, and succotash.”
“Dessert?” he asked, instantly perking up and forgetting about what I’d just asked him.
“Strawberry Jell-O parfaits.”
“I’m on my way, Lucy, honey.” Pinky gave her a toothless grin. Lucy gave us both a smile before heading out the door, followed by the man who’d been working on the puzzle.
“I gotta go, honey. But promise me you’ll come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you all about the night Otis Patterson died and what that mess was really all about. No one else needs to die over something that never shoulda happened in the first place.”
“I promise,” I told him, and followed him out of the rec room and as I headed down the hall towards the front door, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Pinky Buford just standing in the hallway staring after me.
Eleven
It was still early evening when I headed to the public library. Lewis hadn’t mentioned a single thing about a possible robbery Dibb and Otis Patterson had been involved in. But then again, if Joyce Kirkland, née Cooper, had somehow been involved, then I wasn’t at all surprised. I tried to imagine being so hung up on someone—who wasn’t even interested in me—that I’d not only turn a blind eye to their shady crap, but would also protect them at all costs. Love truly is blind.
I approached the reference desk with trepidation. The last time I was here, I’d been unfairly accused of looking at porn, the direct result of having pissed off a nerd. And unfortunately for me, that nerd’s mother was one of the reference librarians. I was hoping she wasn’t working tonight, because even though she apologized to me for her son’s crappy behavior, it was still a little awkward. But as luck would have it, she was on duty and did a double take as I approached the desk.
“Hello,” she said, reddening slightly and showing me that she did indeed remember me.
“Hi,” I said, giving her a smile that I hoped would put her at ease. After all, dealing with that son of hers was probably no day at the beach. No need to make her life even more miserable.
“How can I help you?”
“I was wondering how far back the index for the Willow News Gazette went?” I wasn’t up for scrolling blindly through a year’s worth of microfilm. A student of mine at the literacy center had recently told me the library was indexing the articles in the newspaper.
“We have it indexed as far back as 1950.” She came out from behind the desk and heading into the stacks to the right the desk and nodded her head, gesturing for me to follow her.
“Great. I’m looking for something that happened in 1973,” I replied.
“What exactly are you looking for?” We had arrived at a set of wooden drawers that looked much like an old card catalog, only it wasn’t nearly as big and sat on top of a table. I was a little disappointed this info wasn’t available on the computer, but I knew the library’s budget was tight and resigned myself to some old school searching.
“A news report of a robbery that may have taken place in 1973.” I wasn’t even sure what exactly I was looking for, and again cursed Pinky Buford and his riddles. If I didn’t know any better, and I didn’t, he was probably using what he knew as an excuse to keep me visiting him. Then I instantly felt bad. He was an old man, and even the nurse at the home told me he didn’t get many visitors. If visiting a lonely, elderly man in a nursing home was the price I had to pay for some information, then I’d gladly do it.
The librarian pulled out a drawer with a label on it that read R - T and sat it on a small table opposite the drawers. I had expected the drawers to be labeled by year and looked at her in confusion.
“The News-Gazette is indexed by subject. So, if you’re looking for an account of a robbery, it would be filed in the R’s or possible in the T’s under Theft.”
“Oh, that makes sense. Thanks,” I told her, and she smiled and left me to my search.
I got busy flipping through the R section index cards and found plenty of news reports about robberies, many of them unsolved. Same for the T’s. I leaned back in my chair, annoyed and discouraged. Whatever robbery they’d taken part in, if they had taken part in a robbery at all, they hadn’t been caught. Feeling stupid, I picked up the drawer and started pushing it back into its slot when another thought occurred to me. If the R and T sections listed stories about robberies and thefts, would the B section list stories about burglaries?
I hurriedly put away the drawer and pulled the A – C drawer out. I took it back to my seat and started the slow process of flipping through the index cards in the B’s. All I found were stories about church bake sales, birth announcements, the Springmont High marching band performing in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and stories about the opening of a new barbershop or bakery. I’d almost given up when I caught a glimpse of a name that stopped me in my tracks—Newcastle. I read the card
. District Attorney Newcastle’s Wife Killed during Botched Burglary. The story appeared in the July 15, 1973 issue of the News Gazette. District Attorney Newcastle? Could that be Charles Newcastle, Sharon’s father?
I headed back to the periodicals section where the microfilm was kept and filled out the slip for the July 15, 1973 edition of the Willow News Gazette. I had to wait for what felt like an eternity, but five minutes later I had the box of microfilm in my hand. My fingers trembled with anticipation as I loaded the film onto the reader. And it didn’t take long to find the article. I sat back in my chair in shock for a minute as I looked at the black-and-white picture of the beautiful woman that had accompanied the article.
Constance Newcastle, wife of then-district attorney Charles Newcastle, had been only 35 years old when she’d awoken one night to find burglars had broken into their home. Neighbors heard screaming coming from the house around midnight, followed by a gunshot. It was theorized that Mrs. Newcastle had interrupted a burglary in process and been shot and killed by one of the burglars when she started screaming. Constance Newcastle and her one-year-old daughter, Sharon, were the only two home at the time. Charles Newcastle had been away on a business trip.
“Oh my God,” I said aloud, causing the man in the carrel next to me to lean back in his seat to give me hard look. “Sorry,” I mouthed, and pressed the print button to make a copy of the article.
I had no clue Sharon’s mother had been murdered during a robbery at their home. Had she witnessed it? At a year old would she have even remembered if she had witnessed it? And was this what Pinky had been talking about when he said nothing about Otis Patterson’s murder was what it seemed? Did Dibb and Otis break into the Newcastle house and one of them killed Constance Newcastle in the process? Had Charles Newcastle really been away on a business trip, or was he off in some hotel getting tinkled on by a prostitute, or was he the mastermind behind his wife’s murder? And what did that ledger have to do with anything? Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t go back to the nursing home and ask Pinky Buford, and I was too impatient to wait until tomorrow. But there was someone I could go ask.
I wasn’t thrilled about making a second trip to the county jail in one day, but Lewis was the only other person who could help me make sense of what I’d just found out. The question was, would he tell me the truth, or would he continue to lie? I guess it all depended on how fed up he was with jailhouse attire, food, and unwanted male attention. There was only half an hour left until visiting hours were over, and I noticed my rental was the only car in the lot when I pulled in. I parked close to the entrance, got out and was pushing through the turnstile, barely noticing the person who was on the opposite side on his way out until he called out an all-too-familiar wrong name and I froze.
“Kelly?” said Lewis Watts. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d been arrested in, including his wig, but sported a scruffy salt and pepper beard.
“Lewis?” I said in confusion. I made a full circle in the turnstile and walked back outside into the cold January night air. And as I approached him, I could immediately tell he’d made good on his promise not to shower. He reeked of ripe armpits and dirty ass. I immediately put my hand over my nose.
“Aw, you ain’t got to hurt a brotha’s feelings like that, Kelly.” He actually had the nerve to look offended with his funky little self.
“Whatever, Lewis. What are you doing out? Your bail was a quarter of a million dollars.” I spoke through my fingers making my voice come out a little muffled.
“Damned if I know, Kelly,” he said, shrugging his shoulders causing a wave of odor to waft out from under his armpits. And that was really saying something considering he had on a winter coat. “One minute I was eating a dry-ass baloney sandwich for dinner, the next a guard came and told me I’d made bail and I was free to go.”
“And you didn’t ask who posted your bail? Did you even call Sharon?” A feeling of dread began tickling my stomach. Something didn’t feel right.
“Are you kidding me? I didn’t do anything but get dressed and get the hell outta Dodge before they changed their minds. No one had to tell me twice. And wait a minute,” he said, suddenly looking more confused than me. “Ain’t you here to pick me up?”
“Pick you up? I didn’t even know you were getting out! I came to ask you some questions about Constance Newcastle’s murder. Why didn’t you tell me Dibb and Otis Patterson were connected to that crime? If you don’t start telling me the truth, you’re going to be right back in a jail cell eating baloney in an orange jumpsuit!” Lewis had the good grace to look embarrassed. He sighed and ran a hand over his face.
“Okay, Kelly,” he said, “You deserve to know the truth, or at least as much of it as I know. But can I tell you after I’ve had a shower?”
“Fine. Let’s go,” I told him, worrying about how I was going to get his stench out of my car before realizing I still had my rental. I just hoped they wouldn’t charge me extra for fumigation.
Ten minutes later, I pulled up in front of the Pullman Apartments and was annoyed to find there were no parking spots available. Loud music was coming from inside the building. Somebody was having a party. A group of young men were gathered outside the entrance talking and laughing. Some of them were smoking what looked like joints; other were taking swigs out of liquor bottles in brown paper bags.
“I thought you had to be over 50 to live here?”
“You do,” said Lewis, rolling his eyes. “That’s Ms. Wade’s sorry-ass son Dion and his crew. She’s not home, ’cause that’s the only time he’d dare have a party at her place.
I don’t know why I was so surprised that the elegant Esther Wade didn’t have a doctor or a lawyer as a son.
“Just let me out and go park in my spot in the lot behind the building, Kelly. You can use my code to open the gate. It’s 3011 and that’s the number of my parking space, too. And, Kelly,” he said, before getting out. I turned to look at him. “Thanks for helping, girl. I don’t mean to be difficult. It’s just I thought I was doing the right thing, you know?” I didn’t know but simply nodded and gave him a half smile.
He got out and I let out the breath I was holding. It was bad enough I could smell him through his clothes and coat. But having been enclosed in a car with the heat on had been even worse. I had just pulled up the block and was stopped at the stop sign at the corner, when I heard the unmistakable sounds of gunfire and looked in my rearview window to see Lewis and a couple of other people on the ground. I jumped out of the car and was almost hit by the car that sped past me into the night. By the time I’d run back down the street to the front of the apartment building, most of the young men that had been outside had run back inside, save for Lewis, who was on the ground ,and a young man with a baseball cap pulled over his dreadlocked hair, who was lying screaming on the pavement clutching his lower leg. His pant leg was soaked in dark red. Lewis was struggling to get to his feet, cursing up a storm.
“What the hell?! A man can’t even get up to his crib without mofos shooting up the building! Ain’t this some shit?!” Once on his feet, Lewis hurried over to the young man who was still screaming. “It’s okay, playa. You gonna be just fine. Just hang in there, you hear me?”
“I’m calling the police.” But my fingers were trembling so badly I could barely punch the numbers on the keypad. A few deep breaths later I punched on the numbers. “There’s been a—” I began when the emergency operator answered. But another round of gunfire sounded filling my ears and drowning out everything. The dark blue car carrying the shooters had come back around the corner and was firing again.
Lewis, who had been crouched down next to the young man pressing a handkerchief over his wound, jumped up and rushed towards me moving faster than I thought a man his age was capable of. His mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear what he was saying until he was right up on me.
“Kelly, look out!” He tackled me the ground, throwing himself on top of me as the blue car sped off into the night once again.
The impact had knocked the wind out of me and he was heavy. I gasped for breath, breathing in Lewis’s ripe body odor.
“Lewis! Get off me!” But Lewis didn’t move or make a sound. The blue car could come back for round three, and we needed to take cover. “Lewis!” I screamed in panic. Instead of an answer, a warm, wet sensation covered my chest.
I grabbed Lewis around the waist and with a great effort gently rolled him off me. The front of his coat was covered in blood from a wound in his upper chest near his shoulder. Lewis had been shot. And if he hadn’t jumped in front of me, I’d probably be dead.
Detective Blake Mason found me in the emergency room of Willow Memorial Hospital, shell-shocked and clutching a cup of coffee that had gone cold. Lewis had been shot in the back through his shoulder and had been rushed into surgery. Mason knelt in front of me and I just stared at him wordlessly. My shirt was soaked in blood that was just now beginning to dry. My hands were still stained with some of Lewis’s blood from when I’d tried futilely to staunch the bleeding. Like Lady Macbeth I’d washed them frantically but couldn’t get it all off. The blood had gotten under my fingernails, and there were still traces of it on my wrists and the sleeves of my shirt. There had been so much blood. The knees of my pants were stained with it, as was my winter coat. It’s not like I hadn’t seen lots of blood before. But that person had already been dead. Plus, somehow knowing Lewis had made it all ten times worse. I shuddered.
“Kendra, you okay?” he asked me. When I didn’t answer and continued to stare at him, Mason pried the Styrofoam cup out my hands and pulled me into an embrace. I buried my face into his shoulder. I didn’t cry. I just shivered and he held me tighter. He was so warm and he smelled like soap. Hadn’t we just done this recently? Oh, yeah, when I’d almost been killed when my break line had been cut.
“He saved my life, Mason.” My voice sounded so hollow I didn’t recognize it.
