by Angela Henry
“The looney bin? You mean she had mental health problems?”
“Ain’t that what I just said?” she snapped.
“What was wrong with her?” I was trying hard to ignore my landlady’s testiness. It was time to wrap up this visit. If I knew her, and I did, despite what she’d told me, she was probably chomping at the bit to go bail her jailbird son out.
“Somethin’ to do with hearing voices.”
“She was schizophrenic?”
“How the heck should know? When someone wasn’t right in the head, it wasn’t something we talked about back then. But her mama was the same way, and that’s where she got it from. The way I heard it Connie wasn’t just hearing voices. She was up at all hours of the night ’cause the voices wouldn’t let her sleep.”
“Do you know Charles Newcastle?”
“Oh, I know him all right. He’s the reason Stevie got seven years for his first offense. The man is the only black judge in Willow, and he’s twice as hard on black folk than he is on the whites. Like he’s trying to make an example outta us,” she concluded, like her son being repeatedly arrested for theft had nothing to do with it.
“What happened to Connie’s mother?”
“Killed herself when Connie was a teenager. Poor woman. It’s like that whole family’s cursed. Then after Connie got killed the way she did, that husband of hers up and…” Just then the rotary phone on the wall rang. Mrs. Carson instantly sat her Coke can on the table and got up to answer it.
“Hello?” she said, sounding tentative. “Yes, I’ll accept the charges. Stevie? That you, baby?” She broke out into a toothless grin and I sighed and shook my head in annoyance.
I got up to go. This visit was clearly over. But what had she been about to tell me about Charles Newcastle? Maybe it was time I found out.
Judge Charles Newcastle was a handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered with chocolate brown skin and close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. His black judge’s robes made him look even more distinguished. And if he was still this fine as a man of sixty, I can only imagine what he must have looked like thirty years ago. I had a very hard time reconciling the good-looking, respectable man who’d just exited the courtroom to the pee-loving guy from the ledger and the married man pictured with Brenda Howard sitting on his lap. She’d hidden the picture. Why?
“Judge Newcastle,” I called out as he walked past me. He turned and gave me a cool, quizzical look. “I just need a minute of your time, sir.” He looked poised to tell me he was busy, but his eyes got big and he looked quickly up and down the hall when I flashed the photo of him and Brenda at him.
“What is this about? Where did you get that?” he asked in a low voice as he absently nodded a greeting at another judge walking past.
“Is there someplace we can speak privately?”
“My chambers,” he replied tersely and turned on his heel, assuming that I would follow him, which I did, around the corner and up three flights of stairs.
He was obviously in great shape as he mounted the stairs effortlessly, while I struggled to keep up with him. When he reached a doorway at the top of the third flight of stairs, he looked back and gave me a withering look as he waited for me.
“Hold all my calls, Margaret. And I’m not to be disturbed,” he told the plump older black woman seated behind a desk in the antechamber of his office.
Her eyes narrowed when she looked at me and I couldn’t help but wonder if she thought I was there to give the Honorable Judge Newcastle a piss-soaked nooner. The door to his rather impressive chambers had barely closed behind me before he rounded on me.
“Do you want money? Is that what this is about? How much do you want?” He’d pulled a checkbook out of the drawer of a massive glass-topped oak desk that made the one in Paul Kirkland’s office look like a coffee table.
“I don’t want anything except information, Judge Newcastle. I promise.” I sat the picture down on his desk blotter and took a step back with my hands in the air like I was under arrest, which I very well could be if this visit went any further sideways.
“How do I know you haven’t made copies? And where did you get this photograph?”
“You don’t know if I made copies. And I found the photograph in Brenda Howard’s apartment. But if you answer a question for me, I’ll leave, and I promise you won’t see or hear from me again.” I sat down in the brown leather wingback in front of his desk and he reluctantly sat down, too. He visibly relaxed but still swept the photo across his desk into a drawer.
“I’m waiting, Miss?”
“Clayton. Kendra Clayton.”
“And what is it you’re wanting to know, Ms. Clayton?”
“I wanted to know what was taken when your house was broken into in 1973.” I could tell by the way his eyebrows arched that this was the last thing he’d been expecting me to ask him.
“You mean besides my first wife’s life?” I should have seen that one coming a mile away.
He glanced at a framed photo on his desk of a wedding picture of him and a woman who must have been his second wife. Charles Newcastle wore a black suit with the wide lapels that were popular in the seventies and sported a short afro. His bride wore a white lace mini-dress with bell sleeves and chunky heeled pumps. A wide-brimmed hat obscured most of her face revealing only a smile. Her left hand clutched a bridal bouquet. They were both looking down at a little girl of about five with pigtails wearing white tights, a blue gingham dress, and white patent leather shoes. A wreath of daisies sat atop her head. It was Sharon. This must have been her father and stepmother’s wedding picture.
“I’m sorry. I have no idea how difficult this must be for you. But I was wanting to know if anything of sentimental value was stolen?”
“Sentimental?” he began, then laughed humorlessly. “Nothing was taken. They broke in and my wife interrupted them before they could steal a thing. She must have seen their faces, and they didn’t want to leave a witness behind,” he said, his voice cracking. He stopped talking and swallowed hard to regain his composure, then cleared his throat and looked at me like he was waiting for me to ask something else. But the raw pain in his eyes told me all I needed to know. This man hadn’t killed his wife. Despite the fact that he'd clearly been unfaithful to her, he’d loved her. Or maybe what I was witnessing was merely regret or guilt.
“Thank you for your time, Judge Newcastle.” I got up to go. And he stood up, too.
“That’s it? That’s all you wanted?”
“Well, that and to return your photograph.” He sat back down in his seat, suddenly deflated and looking a whole lot less like the pompous ass he’d been mere minutes ago in the hall.
“Did you know Brenda?”
“No,” I replied truthfully. “But I knew of her from a mutual friend of ours.” I couldn’t believe I’d just referred to Lewis Watts as a friend. Cue the apocalypse. The judge was silent for several seconds like he was contemplating something.
“You know,” he said softly, “it was just a bit of…madness with Brenda. When my marriage had hit a rough patch, she reminded me of someone from a long time ago that I had cared deeply for. Someone we both cared for. I was fond of Brenda, but it wasn’t the same and then she started having expectations and making demands on my time. I just had to end it. I thought I was setting her free so she could find a man able to give her what she wanted. But now she’s dead, too. And my daughter…” He sighed and looked up to find me staring intently at him and something behind his eyes closed.
“I’ll see myself out,” I told him, feeling slightly lightheaded as I realized Charles Newcastle had been having an affair with Brenda because she’d reminded him of her twin, Betty.
All the women he’d loved then were now dead. Two were murdered. One died of AIDS. And his daughter had almost died of an apparent suicide attempt. But there was one person who’d remained unscathed throughout it all. Pinky Buford’s words came back to me again, Once upon a time there were two girls, five years apart in age. Cou
sins. I finally knew what this was all about. I just needed a few more details.
Seventeen
Sharon Newcastle looked thinner than when I’d last seen her and had circles under her eyes that looked like black smudges. She sat across the table from me in the morning room of Willow Memorial Hospital’s mental health wing. It was a beautiful but cold January day, and the morning room was filled with bright, natural light. Sharon wore a pair of blue-and-black plaid pajamas bottoms with a black sweatshirt. Her hair was combed back from her makeup-free face. She looked ten years younger without makeup. I’d been waiting for her for nearly half an hour and had almost left when she finally appeared, looking embarrassed and not quite able to look me in the eye.
“How have you been?” I reached across the table and squeezed her hands and she briefly let me before pulling away.
“Well…” She gestured around the room like it should be pretty obvious how she was doing. I could have kicked myself. The woman had tried to kill herself. She was not okay.
“Sorry,” I said.
“No, Kendra, I’m sorry,” she said with a sigh. “I’m just angry and frustrated and not sure why I’m even here. I have clients and cases I need to be working on, and they’re insisting I stay here another forty-eight hours.”
“But, I thought…” But she wouldn’t let me finish.
“It was an accident. I took some sleep meds and then got busy and forgot I took them and took more. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I swear!” Her eyes welled up with tears and she turned away and wiped her eyes.
“I believe you,” I said, truly wanting to believe her. But I wasn’t sure. If she was schizophrenic like her mother and grandmother, could she have heard a voice that told her to take the pills? Or had someone deliberately tried to make it seem like she was suicidal?
“They keep telling me I need to be careful and keep track of my prescriptions and how much medicine I’m taking. But I have one of those daily pill cases with the days marked and compartments for each day’s meds. I’d have known whether I’d already taken my sleeping pills. I just don’t know how I could have taken an extra dose.” She looked truly confused.
“Could someone have tampered with your pills?”
“Tampered with my pills? Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking out loud.” But I could tell by tilt of her head and the crease of concentration in her forehead that she was remembering something. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just—never mind. What brings you by, Kendra?”
“I stopped by your office to tell you that the police have a new suspect in the murders of Dibb Bentley and Brenda Howard. The charges against Lewis are going to be dropped.” I went on to tell her about Dwayne Roper and everything that had happened in the last 24 hours that she wouldn’t have been aware of. She pumped a fist and let out a whoop.
“That is wonderful news, Kendra. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. The last word I had from the DA’s office about his case was the day he got out. They had confirmation from the manager of his apartment building that he had access to a freezer in the basement of his apartment building, and he could have stored Mr. Bentley’s body in it after killing him. They thought it was a slam dunk case.”
“So what? I have access to a freezer at my uncle’s restaurant. Lots of people have access to a freezer. Did they find any evidence of a body in that freezer?”
“They sent it to the state crime lab, but results could take weeks because they’re always backed up. But they seemed pretty confident. Only now he doesn’t have to worry, since another suspect has been arrested. He’s confessed, right?”
“I doubt it. But the evidence points straight to him.” We were both silent, as neither of needed to point out that if the test results came back positive for Dibb’s body having been in that freezer, Dwayne Roper or no Dwayne Roper, Lewis was shit outta luck.
“I think I ran into your ex at your office the other day,” I said to change the subject.
“You saw Alex at my office?” Her face flushed with color and a smile tugged at her lips. It was obvious she still loved her ex. And from the note I’d read, he still loved her, too. But now I understood why she’d broken up with him. It wasn’t that she couldn’t have kids. She didn’t want to pass her mental illness on to a child.
“Tall, dapper guy with glasses?”
“Yep,” she said, smiling. “That’s my guy. I mean…” Her smile vanished and she looked away.
“Girl, I understand. It took a long time before I stopped thinking of Carl as my man. You’ll get there, too.”
“But I don’t want to get there. I want him back.”
“And there’s no way you two can get around the having kids issue? Are you sure he doesn’t want to adopt? Or you just think he feels that way?”
“There’s something about me that he doesn’t know and I’m afraid if I tell him, I’ll lose him forever.”
“He deserves to know the truth, Sharon. And if he can’t accept it, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
“You sound just like my dad. He said almost the same thing last night when Alex showed up and I wouldn’t see him.”
“He’s a smart man. You’re lucky to have such supportive parents.”
“Parent,” she said. Her jaw tightened. “My stepmom and I aren’t close. I remind her too much of my mother. My father called and told her I was in the hospital and she hasn’t even shown up.”
“Well,” I said, after several minutes of awkward silence. “I’ll let you get your rest. But before I go, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yeah,” she said, perking up. “Can you go feed my cat?” I beamed at her.
“Of course I can.” I am such a nosy bitch.
Sharon lived in a condo on Jamestown Road. She told me there was a spare key taped under a potted plant on her porch. I wasn’t sure why a woman who represented some of the worst dregs of society would leave a key that could easily be found by anyone motivated enough to look. But it was really none of my business. Then again, a lot of things were none of my business. The minute I stepped foot in the foyer of the bright airy bi-level condo, a grey cat with white paws resembling socks and a patch of white on its chest wound itself through my legs and purred loudly. It must have really been hungry, because Sharon told me her cat, Newt, was shy around strangers and not to be surprised if he hid the entire time I was here.
“Hello, sweetie. Are you hungry?” I stooped to pet Newt; he continued to purr deeply and rub his head against my hand before heading down stairs, pausing at the bottom of the steps to make sure I was following him. Now this was a sweet cat. Not like Ms. Carson’s monster, Mahalia, who hated me as much as she loved catnip.
An eat-in kitchen, a family room, and a half bathroom occupied the lower level of Sharon’s condo. A large black-and-white granite-topped island took up the middle of the kitchen. On the floor next to it was a stainless steel automatic pet feeder, which emptied into a black food bowl. There was an indicator light flashing on the front to alert someone when it was empty, which it was. I located cat food in the cabinet next to the fridge, where Sharon said it would be, refilled the feeder’s hopper, and pressed the button on the front. Cat food cascaded out into the bowl, and Newt rushed over to eat. I also filled his water bowl with fresh water.
While Newt was busy chowing down, I turned my attention to what I’d come here for—Sharon’s pill case, which, as it happened, was sitting on top of the island next to a half-empty glass of juice. It was a small, blue plastic pill case filled with a week’s worth of pills. Each day’s compartment was split into two sections for morning and evening meds. There were four pills in each compartment, two for morning and two for evening. There was a pill filled with white powder and what looked to a multivitamin for the morning and the same white powder-filled pill and a tiny white tablet for evening. The tiny white pill must have been the sleeping pill. And I figured the powder-filled pills were her schizophreni
a meds. One a whim, I picked up the white powder pill that Sharon would have taken that evening and laid a paper towel down on the counter. I pulled the pill apart and shook the powdery contents out onto the paper towel. As I suspected, four tiny blue sleeping tablets tumbled out along with the powder. Someone had sabotaged Sharon’s medication so she’d overdose.
I opened all the containers for the days prior and noticed she didn’t always take her evening meds. The three days prior to her overdose she hadn’t taken her evening meds. I pulled those apart as well to find the same sleeping tablets hidden inside. Whoever did this knew she didn’t always take her evening meds and wasn’t taking any chances. I rummaged through the kitchen drawers until I found a plastic baggie and swept the tablets I’d taken apart into it, then put both the baggie and the pillbox into my purse. I got on my phone to Mason as I headed up the steps to leave but he didn’t answer. I paused momentarily to look at the planter the key had been hidden under. The person who’d done this must have known about the key as well.
I got into my car and headed over to the Pullman Apartments. When I got there, I was happy not to have had to buzz random numbers to get in. I still had Lewis’s keys from when I’d come by to pick up his blood pressure medicine. The lobby was dark and empty. I walked over to the manager’s office door just off the lobby. The gold plaque that read Esther Wade, Manager, gleamed in the gloom. I knocked but there was no answer. I pressed my ear to the door. There was no movement on the other side.
“Are you looking for Esther?” came a voice from behind me. I jumped.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” said the older man behind me. He looked to be in his late fifties and wore a blue Rosie’s Cleaning Service uniform, with a name badge that read Jay. They must not have found a permanent replacement for Sticky-Fingered Stevie.
“No problem. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Not until the end of the month, why?” he said. Lewis had also told me twice that Esther Wade was out of town. I just hadn’t put two and two together.
