Now in the quiet of her bedroom Scarlett watched her life unravel on the six o’clock news as Natalie slept quietly in the next room. Back-to-back Valiums had provided just enough fog to allow her to tuck Natalie in bed and make her way back to her room to curl up into a tight ball on the bed. The pills were the only things that allowed her to continue breathing.
Before Scarlett was aware of what her hands were doing, she found herself dialing the phone on the nightstand.
“Hello,” said the voice on line.
“She killed him,” were the first words from Scarlett’s mouth.
“Scarlett, I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” Cynthia said after immediately recognizing the voice. “Honey, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Is there anything I can do? Do you need me to come over? I can be there in thirty minutes. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do now.”
“This is so horrible. Do you know what he was doing at Gideon Truman’s house?”
“No, but I know she had something to do with it.”
“She who?”
“Samantha. She killed him.”
“But the police said it was a home invasion. He had the gun. He was killed in self-defense.”
“I don’t care what the police are saying. I know she killed him. Gideon was working on a story about her. I told him Hezekiah was Natalie’s father. David must have confronted her about it, and she sent him to Gideon’s house.”
“But how on earth could Samantha have that much influence over David? Did she know him that well?”
Scarlett wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and said, “I didn’t tell you before, Cynthia, I was too embarrassed, but . . . David was having an affair with Samantha.”
A gasp could be heard on the line. Then there was silence.
“He told me he was going to leave me for her,” Scarlett added, breaking the silence.
“When?” Cynthia asked, unable to conceal her shock.
“Two weeks ago. He said he was in love with her. I tried to convince him that she’s not capable of loving anyone but herself, but he wouldn’t listen. I told him, Cynthia,” Scarlett said, crying again. “I told him she would destroy him, and now she has. Why couldn’t he listen to me? He would still be alive if only he had listened. She destroys everything she touches.”
“This is unbelievable, Scarlett. I’m so sorry you have to go through this. Are you sure you don’t want me to come over?”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
For moments the only sound was the news playing in the background. Cynthia could not find adequate words to offer as comfort. At that moment silence seemed to be the most appropriate condolence.
Then Scarlett spoke. “Do you remember what you said to me the other day?”
“What?”
“That the only way to stop her would be to do something that is irreversible, quick, and permanent.”
“Yes, I remember,” Cynthia replied cautiously.
“Well . . . I want to stop her now.”
Samantha studied the wall of monitors in front of her desk. At her direction, the studio control room crew had programmed each monitor feed to tune automatically to television stations whenever they mentioned her name. Of the twenty monitors now on, seventeen featured programs where the most recent tragedy to befall New Testament Cathedral was being discussed.
Samantha focused on one of the monitors. “Only two days before the inaugural service,” said a news reporter, speaking live from the steps of the cathedral just below Samantha’s office window, “in what many architects are calling one of the most beautiful churches built anywhere in the world in the last five hundred years, another tragic death has touched the lives of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland and the members of New Testament Cathedral.”
Viewers could see the glass skin of the church behind the reporter.
“David Shackelford, longtime member of New Testament Cathedral and husband of board member Scarlett Shackelford, was found dead in the home of veteran CNN reporter Gideon Truman. Many are now speculating on the possible connection between this murder and the very popular recently installed pastor of this international ministry.”
A talking head on another monitor had this to say. “The religious community is being rocked for the second time in three months, and the pastor of New Testament Cathedral is once again at the center of it all. Only months earlier her husband, the Reverend Hezekiah Cleaveland, was brutally gunned down in the pulpit of their church.”
The reporter continued as snippets of the day’s top stories scrolled beneath him. “Only hours later Reverend Willie Mitchell, a high-ranking New Testament Cathedral minister, was found dead in his home from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Now, weeks later, David Shackelford, attorney, church member, and husband of Scarlett Shackelford, who herself is a longtime member of this church, the former secretary to the late Hezekiah Cleaveland, and a board member, was found dead by police in the home of CNN reporter Gideon Truman.”
On yet another monitor the Entertainment Network offered the most sensational spin of them all. “We’re standing live on the newly built campus of New Testament Cathedral in Los Angeles, California. If the occurrences of the last few months are any indication, it would be safe to say there appears to be a curse on this magnificent building. First, the death of their pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland, then the suicide of a top minister and a key financial donor to the church, and now, today, the baffling murder of an attorney who has in the past provided legal services to the Cleaveland family and is the husband of Hezekiah’s former secretary.”
As the reporter, a Hollywood blonde, spoke, a steady stream of tourists filed behind her. “Only two days before the grand opening,” she continued, “the campus is filled with people who have come from all over the world to witness this event. I talked to some of them earlier, and here’s what they had to say.” A middle-aged housewife with obvious Midwestern roots appeared on the screen. The handbag hoisted on her hip hung from her neck, the strap lying diagonally across her ample bosom.
“Ma’am, what do you think of the latest tragedy that has happened to the folks here at New Testament?” the blond reporter asked from off screen. Her perfectly manicured fingernails holding a mic to the woman’s mouth were all that could be seen of her.
“This is all just so sad,” the Midwestern mom said, dabbing one eye with her sleeve. “My heart goes out to the poor man’s family, but especially to Pastor Cleaveland. She is such a brave woman, and I just hate that she has to go through something like this again.”
“What would you say to Pastor Cleaveland if you could speak with her now?” the reporter asked, pressing on.
“I would tell her that we’re all praying for her and that she’s a strong woman and we believe God is going to see her through this.”
“Sir, is this your wife?” the blond reporter said to an attentive man who was standing next to the weeping Midwestern mom. “What did you think when you first heard of this third death involving New Testament Cathedral?”
“We drove here from Michigan to see the church and to maybe see Pastor Cleaveland in person,” he said with a digital camera in one hand and a bulging gift bag from the New Testament Cathedral souvenir shop in the other. “The first thing I thought was the devil must be really mad about this beautiful church being built and he’s just testing her. But we know that Pastor Cleaveland is stronger than the devil and that she’s gonna come out of all this victorious and stronger than ever.”
On another monitor a nondescript guy with a perfect haircut and a tan was much less generous with his sympathy and praise. “Is it just me, or does anyone else out there think it’s awfully strange that there have been three deaths, all of which have some connection to this televangelist? That’s right. I said it. Televangelist. Even though Samantha Cleaveland doesn’t look like your typical polyester suit–wearing Bible-thumper, she is. I
f you look past that face, and I must admit she is a knockout, and past the expensive clothes, her message is the same as that of all the other shysters and snake-oil salesmen on television. ‘God wants you to send me your money.’”
Samantha recoiled in her leather chair when she heard the words.
“In my humble opinion,” the guy with the haircut continued, “the police ought to take a closer look at the lovely Pastor Samantha Cleaveland. If they do, I suspect they’ll find a snake in this crystal Garden of Eden.”
A picture of Samantha and Jasmine standing in the pulpit flashed on another monitor. Samantha pressed the buttons on her control panel to increase the volume and to transfer the story to the largest monitor on the wall.
“We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming to bring you this breaking news. This has yet to be confirmed, but a neighbor of CNN reporter Gideon Truman has reportedly told police he saw Jasmine Cleaveland, the daughter of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland and the late Hezekiah Cleaveland, going into the Truman house between two and three o’clock in the morning.”
“I was just getting home from a night out,” said a man who was standing in the front yard of a house across the street from Gideon’s. “I was sitting in my driveway, trying to sober up a bit before I went in. I was there for maybe five minutes when I saw Gideon Truman pull into his driveway. He got out of his car and went to the passenger side and let out this girl.”
The man seemed to be talking to no one in particular as he continued his account. “A car drove by and pointed their headlights right at them. I immediately recognized the girl. It was Jasmine Cleaveland. I’ve seen her before on television. My wife watches their TV show, and I sometimes watch it with her. The girl was obviously very drunk, and Gideon had to help her out of the car and up the stairs to his house. I’m positive it was her.”
Samantha immediately dialed Jasmine’s cell phone and was greeted with “I hate you.”
“Jasmine, are you still in that house?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any way you can get out without being seen?”
“No,” came the curt reply.
“Then stay put,” Samantha said firmly. “I’m going to send a car for you. His instructions will be to wait near the house until all the media have left the street. He will then come into that house and remove you forcefully if you resist. Is that clear?”
“If I see any of your cars on this street,” Jasmine said coldly, “I promise you I will walk out the front door and hold a press conference right here on the steps and tell the world that you killed my father. Do you understand?”
“I did not kill Daddy!” Samantha yelled.
“Don’t call him Daddy!” Jasmine yelled back into the phone. “He was the only person who ever loved me, and you took him away from me. You gave up the right to call him Daddy when you had him killed.”
Samantha bolted to her feet and fought to contain her rage. After a deep breath, she said calmly, “I wish you would stop saying that. You are going to find yourself in more trouble than you can handle if you continue with this fantasy. You’re confused right now. I promise things will get better. When you come home, we’ll go away together. Would you like to go to the house in Spain for a few days? Or maybe the flat in London? We can do some mother-daughter bonding and get in some serious shopping, like we used to. I underestimated the impact this all would have on you. I should have paid more attention. I’m sorry.”
“I know what I heard. You admitted killing him and trying to kill Gideon and Danny,” Jasmine replied, ignoring her mother’s obvious attempt to remove her from the reach of prying reporters. “The only other person in the world who loved Daddy besides me,” she added as a dig.
As Jasmine spoke, it became clear to Samantha that the days of authoritative mother and obedient child were over. She quickly recalibrated her approach, speaking woman to woman.
“I guess you’re old enough to hear this now, Jasmine,” she said. “Yes, your father was a homosexual. He never really loved me. He married me to further his career. He thought he would take over your grandfather’s church after he died.” Samantha paused to gauge the effectiveness of this new approach.
There was silence, so she continued. “He hurt me, darling. I was devastated and afraid for our future, for your future. I admit I was embarrassed, but that is it. I never did anything to hurt your father. I dedicated my entire life to him. Everything I did, I did for him. I loved him. You have to believe me.”
There was still no response.
“Are you alone now?” Samantha asked, lowering her voice.
“Yes, I’m alone,” Jasmine answered with a hint of exasperation.
“Good. Honey, Danny killed your father. I can’t prove it, but your father told me the day before he died that he was being stalked by Danny. He threatened to kill your father if he didn’t leave me.”
Jasmine was standing near the pool in Gideon’s backyard, looking into the water. Parker scampered at her feet. Danny was in the kitchen, preparing a light snack for their lunch, and Gideon was in his study, closely following as his life was being dissected on the news.
The events of the evening before were still buzzing in Jasmine’s head. As her mother spoke, she could remember only her father’s large hand holding hers as they walked in the mall. She thought of all the times he had held her in his arms and kissed her good night on the forehead and said “I love you, princess.”
“Then why didn’t you tell that to the police?” Jasmine finally asked.
“Don’t be so stupid,” Samantha said cruelly. “I can’t admit that your father was gay. His memory would be ruined. He would become a national joke. Would you want that to happen?”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying,” Jasmine finally said to her mother. “You hated him, and now you’re trying to blame Daddy’s death on Danny. Danny loved him, and I believe Daddy loved Danny too. I saw how you treated Daddy all those years. You only used him and me to make yourself look better than you really are. It’s always been about you.”
“That’s not true, darling. I’ve done everything for you. I have bought you everything you’ve ever wanted. I built a beautiful home for us—”
“Daddy hated that house, and so do I. It’s hideous, and I’m embarrassed every time I walk in the front door.”
“Darling, you’re just upset and confused,” Samantha said, barely containing her rage. “As soon as the media leaves, the car will bring you home. Everything will be fine soon. You’ll see.”
“Nothing will ever be fine again.” Jasmine began to cry. “I’m not sure what I will do if I see you again.”
“Are you threatening me?”
There was silence on the line. Jasmine sobbed into the phone and sat down, trembling, on a wicker chaise near the edge of the pool. Parker quickly leapt to her side and snuggled at her hip.
“I hate you,” Jasmine whimpered and dropped the phone onto the cushion, next to Parker.
“Jasmine,” Samantha said to the sound of Parker’s purr. “Jasmine Camille Cleaveland, answer me.” Still there was nothing but Parker’s steady purr. “Jasmine!” she finally shouted in the phone, causing Parker to jump when he heard her voice.
The next thing Samantha heard was the sound of Parker hissing at her screaming voice as he clawed at the glowing cell phone screen. Parker disconnected the call with the third tap of his paw as Samantha screamed, “Jasmi—”
It was now Saturday morning, the day before the inaugural morning service. A month of frantic preparations coordinated by a squadron of celebrity party planners, publicists, and security experts was approaching a climactic ending on the campus of New Testament Cathedral and at the Cleaveland estate.
The elaborate lighting installed in the sanctuary was designed to enhance the natural light that would pour through the five hundred thousand rectangular panes of glass. Samantha had commissioned the twenty hand-blown chandeliers that now dangled from the ceiling. The waterfalls flanking the
pulpit sent dramatic sheets of water cascading into reservoirs that doubled as the baptismal pools.
Fresh perennials had been spread over the entire campus and looked like red, yellow, magenta, and lavender snow, and the French light fixtures that lined the pathways had been polished to resemble brand-new pennies. The cobblestone walkways appeared to have never been trod on by leather soles. Nothing could be considered perfect and complete until Samantha deemed it to be so. It was showtime, and New Testament Cathedral was ready for its close-up.
The only way to get on the guest list for the party that was to be held that evening at the estate was to be placed on it by Samantha herself and then to purchase a ticket that required a minimum one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation to the ministry. The list had been full for months. The guests had all written their six-figure checks months in advance for fear of being bumped by someone with deeper pockets or a sexier name than their own. It was no secret to anyone who could afford to attend the party that the more money you gave, the closer you were allowed to stand to Samantha Cleaveland, and those who had the wherewithal eagerly paid the price of admission to her inner circle.
Samantha had sequestered herself in her bedroom suite Saturday morning and had no intention of coming out until she made her grand entrance at the party that evening. Stylists, secretaries, personal assistants, and her make-up artist were allowed in the inner sanctum upon demand.
The master suite was a series of six rooms, each more elaborate than the other. Samantha held court in the entrance, which was the size of a living room in a normal home.
“I need to see my dress,” was one of her commands. “Please bring it in. And send for the designer and seamstress, in case I need it altered again.”
The Last Sunday Page 22
