The Last Sunday

by Terry E. Hill

  Finally exhausted, he dropped the full weight of his body onto the bed, breathless and covered in perspiration. His chest heaved as he gasped for air. Percy struggled to free himself from the reality that their lives would be forever bound together by the blood of Lance Savage. But he was too tired to fight. His future was no longer his own. It now belonged to the woman cowering in the kitchen, under the marble island.

  “The streak of bad luck that many are now calling the Cleaveland Curse has struck again. Pastor Samantha Cleaveland, the wife of the late Hezekiah Cleaveland, was brutally murdered last night in her home, in front of hundreds of horrified guests.”

  Scarlett sat quietly in a chair in her bedroom, cradling a picture of Natalie in her arms. The curtains were drawn, and the only light in the room came from the television hanging on the wall in front of her bed. After the police allowed her to leave the estate, she’d driven home in a daze. She still had on the gown.

  The night had brought her a steely resolve. I had to do it, she thought over and over again until she believed it herself. I had to stop her before she killed again. Before she killed me or my little girl. She found comfort and absolution in the words. Forgive me, God, but I had to do it.

  “Police are now distancing themselves from their original theory that Pastor Cleaveland died from a gunshot wound,” the news anchor continued. “Here’s what Los Angeles Police Department chief Anthony Cordova had to say at a press conference held earlier this morning about their latest findings.”

  A grave-looking Chief Cordova, standing at a podium flanked by his top brass, appeared on the TV screen.

  “Contrary to what witnesses originally told police, we have just been told by the coroner’s office that Pastor Cleaveland did not die as a result of a gunshot,” he said.

  There was a collective gasp from the crowd of reporters that filled the room.

  The police chief continued. “There were no signs of trauma to her body other than those sustained when she fell down the stairs in her foyer. We are waiting for autopsy results before we announce the official cause of death.”

  Scarlett bolted upright in the chair, sending the picture frame flying to the floor. “That can’t be,” she said out loud. “I shot her. I know I did.”

  “There was no blood?” someone in the crowd called out.

  “That is correct,” the chief said. “No blood was found at or near the crime scene.”

  “Chief Cordova, Chief Cordova,” the reporters called out in unison.

  “What are they saying was the cause of death if it wasn’t from gunshot wounds?” one reporter yelled above all the others vying for the chief’s attention.

  “We’re not speculating at this time. We are going to wait for the results from the autopsy, which we’re expecting later today.”

  “Was anyone else hurt?” asked another reporter. “Numerous witnesses said they heard a single gunshot just before she collapsed.”

  “No one else was injured. We are still investigating to determine if it was in fact a gunshot that was heard or possibly something like a champagne bottle being opened by one of the waitstaff.”

  “Do you have anyone in custody, and if not, have you identified any possible suspects?”

  “No one has been arrested at this time, and we have not identified any suspects,” the chief said, bowing his head slightly. “As soon as we are sure of the cause of death, we hope that will lead us to possible suspects.”

  “We understand her daughter was present. Did she witness the murder, and where is she now?”

  “Yes, the daughter of Pastor Cleaveland was present. She was immediately removed from the scene and taken to an undisclosed secure location. She is safe and under twenty-four-hour protection.”

  “Do you suspect the killer is the same person or persons who assassinated her husband? Has any progress been made in that investigation?” a reporter called out from the back of the crowd.

  “We haven’t ruled out the possibility that the killer is the same in both murders. That, obviously, is the first theory we are investigating at this time.” The chief then raised his hand to the crowd. “That’s all I am able to say at this time. We will hold another briefing as soon as we hear from the coroner’s office. Thank you.”

  “Danny!” Gideon called out from the living room. “Danny, did you hear that?” Gideon was sitting in the living room, watching the morning news closely as the chief of police announced the new details. He ran to the kitchen, where Danny was cradling a cup of coffee at the table.

  Gideon burst into the room. “She wasn’t shot,” he said with a puzzled expression.

  “What do you mean? I thought you said you heard a gunshot,” Danny said, equally puzzled.

  “They think it might have been a champagne cork. They don’t know what killed her, but there was no blood and no gunshot wounds. Do you know what that means?”

  “What?”

  “It means Jasmine didn’t kill her mother.”

  “Thank God,” Danny said with a sigh of relief. “I was so worried about her. She would have never been able to live with herself if she had killed her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s still sleeping. Should we wake her and tell her the news?”

  After Gideon and Jasmine had arrived home from the party, he’d whisked her into the house. Two police cars and one private security car arrived only minutes after he had closed the front door.

  Jasmine was silent the entire ride. When they entered the house, Danny was waiting at the front door. Jasmine ran into his arms and wept into his chest.

  “Are you all right, Jasmine? I heard everything on the news.” He then looked at Gideon and mouthed the words, “Is she dead?”

  Gideon simply nodded his head yes.

  Jasmine did not speak. They took her into the guest bedroom and put her under the covers. The tears were flowing, but there was no expression of remorse, grief, or pain on her face. It was simply blank. Gideon and Danny sat on the bed next to her until she drifted off to sleep.

  The police officers and the security guard tapped on the door only once.

  “Hello, Mr. Truman. I’m Officer Bryant, and this is Officer Kantor. This is Scot Wilkins with Pastor Cleaveland’s private security,” said one of the officers, pointing to a plain-clothed man standing behind him. “We just want to let you know we will be posted in the front and back of your home this evening. You all are safe tonight.”

  “Thank you, Officers,” Gideon replied nervously and closed the door.

  He and Danny had been awake the entire night, tormented by the thought that the girl sleeping in the next room had killed her mother and they were the only people who knew it.

  “No, let her sleep,” Gideon said after hearing the morning news. “She may not have killed her, but her mother is dead nonetheless,” he added, sitting down at the kitchen table next to Danny. “Now both her parents are dead.”

  “But at least she doesn’t have blood on her hands.”

  “It also means we’re safe now, Danny. She can’t hurt us anymore.”

  “Poor kid. No parents. What is she going to do now?”

  Gideon was silent for a moment, then said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I told her she could stay here with us as long as she liked.”

  “You’re a very special man, Gideon Truman, and that’s why I love you. Of course I don’t mind. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Danny rested his head on Gideon’s shoulder. There were moments of silence between them before Danny finally asked the question that was now on both their minds.

  “Then I wonder who killed her?”

  At 7:23 p.m., Sunday evening’s regularly scheduled programming was stopped suddenly to provide viewers with the latest on the death of Samantha Cleaveland.

  “We are interrupting this program,” reporters across the country said in unison, “to bring you live coverage of the press conference that is just about to start at the Los Angeles Police Department, where police
chief Anthony Cordova is said to be announcing the cause of death of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland.”

  “We’ve received the toxicology reports from the coroner’s office,” the chief announced, reading from a prepared statement, to the sea of cameras. “Pastor Samantha Cleaveland died of a massive coronary brought on by the introduction of the substance known as digitalis into the glass of champagne she drank after giving a toast to her late husband. Traces of the drug were found in her system, on shreds of glass from a champagne flute, and in the liquid that was spilled on the steps when she dropped the glass.

  “Digitalis, also known as digitalin, is typically prescribed to patients suffering from congestive heart failure. It has been determined that a lethal dose was placed in her glass, which led to a fatal increase in her heart rate. Digitalis is derived from the common garden plant known as fox . . .”

  Hattie Williams turned off the television in her living room. The house was now quiet. The only sounds were the tick, tick, tick from a clock that sat proudly over the fireplace, in the center of the mantelpiece.

  Hattie had undressed and gone straight to bed after being driven home from the party. It was the first night in months that her sleep was not interrupted by the haunting dreams. There were no visions and no visitors from the other side. She slept deeply and woke to the sound of a sparrow singing just outside her bedroom window. Somehow the world seemed more peaceful than the day before. The coffee that morning was more satisfying than usual, the sun seemed brighter through her windows, and her spirit was at peace.

  The first words she spoke when she woke that morning was, “Lord, forgive me for not listening to what you were trying to tell me all this time.”

  At 11:00 that morning, she cleaned and prepared the collard leaves she had picked from her garden on Saturday. Just as she had predicted, there was plenty of time to cook them, because the glistening cathedral in the center of downtown Los Angeles was locked tight.

  This was the first Sunday she had not gone to church in years. The last time she had missed a Sunday morning service was ten years earlier, on the day after her husband died.

  That afternoon Hattie picked up her purse from the couch in the living room and walked into the kitchen. The smell of collard greens filled the house, even though she had already eaten an early dinner and the leftovers were neatly tucked away in the refrigerator. Hattie sat her purse on the counter next to the sink and slowly removed the contents.

  A crumpled wad of clean Kleenex was first, followed by her wallet, a powder compact, three peppermint candies wrapped in cellophane, and a small tube of her favorite lavender-scented hand lotion. The last thing she removed was another Kleenex, this one neatly folded. She carefully unfolded the fragile white paper and held it over the side of the sink that contained the garbage disposal. When she turned the Kleenex upside down, two green stems, each less than half an inch long, fell into the sink. The paper was still slightly damp from the liquid that had oozed from the stems.

  Hattie used the Kleenex to scoot the stems down the drain. She stuffed the Kleenex down behind them, turned on the water, and pressed the garbage disposal switch on the wall just above the sink. Hattie washed her hands under the warm running water. Lord, I’m sorry I waited so long, she thought as she applied an extra squirt of dish washing liquid to her palm. Hezekiah might still be alive if I had listened to you sooner.

  As she dried her hands, she heard the chimes of her doorbell. “Lord, who could that be?” she said as she made her way to the front door. “Hold on,” she called out. “I’ll be right there.”

  When she opened the door, she saw Gideon’s silhouette through the metal screen door.

  “Hello, Mrs. Williams. It’s Gideon Truman. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you last night. I wanted to make sure you were all right. May I come in?”

  “Of course, baby,” she said. “That is very sweet of you. Please come in. Would you like something to drink? I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade for my dinner. Are you hungry? I could warm something up for you. There’s plenty greens left. I always make enough just in case someone drops by unexpectedly.”

  “That is very kind. But no thank you, Mrs. Williams. I’ve already eaten. Have you been listening to the news? The police are saying Samantha was poisoned with digitalis.” Gideon watched her face closely for the slightest reaction, but there was none.

  “Yes, I heard that,” Hattie said as she made her way slowly down into her favorite chair. “Sit down, baby.”

  “Thank you,” he said, sitting on the couch directly in front of her. “I can’t stay long, but as I said, I wanted to check on you. This is all so tragic.”

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed.

  “It’s unbelievable that they were both killed only months apart and in such similar ways.”

  “How do you mean?” Hattie asked.

  “Well, you know. Hezekiah was killed in front of the entire congregation, and then Samantha was killed in front of all her guests.”

  “I never thought of it in those terms.”

  “If it weren’t so sad, it would be almost . . . poetic,” he said, studying her face. “I mean, it’s as if it were orchestrated by some higher power.”

  “Everything in this world is orchestrated by a higher power, baby,” she replied. “Even death.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some of those greens? I picked them fresh yesterday.”

  “No thank you, ma’am. Mrs. Williams, do you know where digitalis comes from?”

  “No, baby, I don’t.”

  “From foxgloves. Don’t you have a foxglove plant in your garden?” he asked coyly. “I remember you showed it to me the last time I was here.”

  “That’s right, Gideon,” she replied, looking him directly in the eye. “Is there something you want to ask me? If there is, you should go on and get it off your chest before you explode.”

  “Well, as a m-matter of f-fact, there is,” he stuttered. “I don’t know how to say this, but . . .”

  “The only way to say it is to say it,” she said boldly.

  “All right. Mrs. Williams. Did you poison Samantha Cleaveland?”

  Hattie flashed the gentle smile of grandmothers throughout the ages. “Now, why would I do something like that?”

  “I’ve been wondering the same thing ever since I heard the cause of death. I didn’t make the connection at first. But I did a little research on the Internet, and then it hit me. The flowers in your garden contain one of the deadliest poisons in the world and have been used for centuries to commit . . . murder.”

  “I know that, honey. I told you they were poison, but you still haven’t said why you would think I killed Samantha.”

  “Ma’am, I also remembered how personally you took Hezekiah’s death. Almost as if you blamed yourself. Like there was something you could have done to prevent it.”

  As he spoke, a tear rolled down Hattie’s cheek.

  “You always knew she killed him. As a matter of fact, I suspect you knew it even before she did it. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, I knew it,” she said, lifting a handkerchief to her mouth. “I should have warned him, but I didn’t. He would still be alive if I had listened to what God had been trying to tell me.”

  “I saw Samantha put her drink down next to you just before she invited everyone into the foyer.”

  “She was the devil,” Hattie said gently, sobbing into the handkerchief. “If I hadn’t done it, a troubled woman would have done it and ruined her and her baby’s life. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “What woman?” he asked gently. “What bab—”

  Before he finished the question, the picture of the little girl sitting on the mantel in Scarlett’s living room flashed in his head.

  “You did it for his child.”

  “Yes,” Hattie said resolutely. “I couldn’t protect him, but it wasn’t too late to protect his daughter. Her mother was going to do something that would ruin their li
ves. I couldn’t let her do that.”

  The two sat in silence. Hattie stared out the window as the summer sun slowly set. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece chimed 8:00 p.m.

  Gideon finally stood and walked over to Hattie. He kneeled down beside her and took her hand in his.

  “Mother Williams,” he said softly. “Let’s never speak of this again. I’m going to go out back now and dig up those flowers. I’ll destroy them for you.”

  Hattie looked into his eyes. Another tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Thank you, baby,” she said, gently squeezing his hand. “You do that. I won’t be needing them anymore.”

  Gideon stood and began to walk toward the back door.

  “Gideon,” Hattie called out to him.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Take care of Danny and Jasmine,” she said. “They need you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

  The joy in the Sunday morning church service at New Testament Cathedral was palpable. Brass instruments, drums, violins, guitars, and pianos caused the sanctuary to pulsate with rhythmic music. The two twenty-five-foot-high JumboTron screens alternated rapidly between various sweeping images of the twenty-five-thousand-member congregation standing, clapping, and singing in the glass cathedral.

  Four months had passed since the death of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland. On cue, the pace of the music gradually shifted to a more melodic and reverent tone. A soprano sang a hypnotic tune, and the audience obediently chimed in. A billowing hum from the crowd rolled from the front of the church to the top row and filled the room as congregants softly sang in unison and looked upward to heaven.

  The camera followed Percy Pryce from the front row as he walked up the steps to the center of the stage. To his left and right at the pulpit were the waterfalls that poured ribbons of water into the pools below. Then a booming disembodied voice filled the sanctuary and announced to the congregation, “Ladies and gentlemen, Brothers and Sisters, please stand with me and welcome our pastor, Reverend Percy Pryce, and his lovely wife, First Lady Cynthia Pryce!”