Friends & Foes

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  The top hat that the man wore tipped a little as he glanced down at a directory, then dialed four numbers. From where she stood, Jasmine could hear the phone ringing . . . and ringing . . . and ringing.

  Before he returned the phone to its cradle, Jasmine was pointing at it and telling him, “You need to call again, ’cause he’s waiting for me.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Miss,” the concierge said. “But I can’t send anyone up without letting the pastor know.”

  “Hey, Stan. The pastor is waiting for her.”

  Jasmine exhaled as she turned around and faced her angel. She wanted to kiss the valet who’d taken Rachel’s keys earlier.

  “Yeah,” he continued, “the Reverend called down while you were helping Ms. Johnson up with her packages. He said to let the ladies right up.” Then he turned to Jasmine. “There are supposed to be a couple more, right?”

  “Yes,” Jasmine said breathlessly. That meant that the reporter and Yvette hadn’t arrived. Ha! Rachel was up there with Pastor Griffith and after the argument the two of them had had at Harpo Studios, Jasmine was sure that by now, her nemesis was probably wishing that she’d never sent Jasmine on a wild-pastor chase.

  “You can go right up to apartment four-oh-four,” the valet attendant said.

  Jasmine strolled to the elevator, then stopped and turned around. Why was she going up there? By now, Pastor Griffith was surely torturing Rachel in some kind of way and Rachel deserved it all. Plus, if she waited down here, Jasmine could intercept the woman from O Magazine and Yvette right in the lobby. She could tell them that Rachel had her own emergency, and now she was gone.

  Then, the interview would just belong to her—the way it was supposed to. That would be the ultimate payback for the games that chickenhead had been playing all day long!

  But just as Jasmine aimed her butt for the sofa in the lobby, she had that tug on her heart.

  Dang! She’d been having that a lot lately—whenever she was getting ready to do something that she shouldn’t do, she’d get this little pull in the center of her chest. The first time it happened, about six months ago, she thought for a second that she was having a heart attack.

  When she’d told Hosea about it, he’d chuckled. “It may be just the Holy Spirit, darlin’.”

  That made her laugh, but since that first time, it had happened at least another ten times—and she was beginning to believe that maybe Hosea had been right.

  She tried to settle into the couch, but then, Jasmine sucked her teeth and marched to the elevator.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to herself as she rose to the fourth floor. “Why am I going to save this middle school dropout?”

  Jasmine was still pissed about her decision when she knocked on Number 404 with an attitude. She hit the door so hard that it pushed open. She paused for a second, but then stepped inside.

  The space was silent, almost eerily so.

  “Hello,” she called out.

  And then . . .

  A blood-curdling scream. At first, the sound made Jasmine freeze, but only for a moment. She dashed toward the cries that followed and just a couple of seconds later, she was in what had to be the master bedroom suite.

  She gasped at the sight—Pastor Griffith lying on the floor and Rachel pressed up against the wall, trembling in fright.

  “What the hell?” Jasmine’s eyes were wide as she moved closer, though she carefully stepped around the pool of blood that was seeping from a deep gash in Pastor Griffith’s head. “What did you do to him?”

  Rachel shook her head. “I . . . I didn’t do anything,” she whimpered as she pushed herself up from the floor.

  Jasmine’s glance moved from the dead pastor to Rachel. “There’s blood all over your dress!”

  Rachel’s chin dropped to her chest as she tried to glance down beyond her Wonderbra-enhanced DDs. Jasmine could see the scream rising within Rachel and she knew that if Rachel let it out, the girl would never stop.

  “What happened?” Jasmine asked as she motioned for Rachel to step away from the body.

  Rachel’s head whipped from side to side. “I don’t know. I just came in here and he was like that. I checked his pulse. I felt blood—wiped it on my dress. He-he’s dead,” she cried. “We have to call the police.”

  Jasmine felt that tug again, as if her subconscious was ahead of her—ahead of the thoughts that were just now coming to her. In an instant, memories scanned through her mind, of all the things Rachel had done to her. From kidnapping Jacqueline, to exposing her as a stripper, to the stunts she’d pulled this morning.

  This lady deserved payback . . . and Hosea deserved to be the president of the ABC.

  The idea must have been somewhere in her heart already because it came so quickly.

  “No!” Jasmine shouted, and grabbed Rachel’s hand. “We have to get out of here!”

  “What? No! We have to call the police,” Rachel cried.

  “You can’t do that.” With a final glance at the pastor, Jasmine dragged Rachel down the hall, toward the front of the apartment.

  “But I have to,” Rachel wailed. “We have to let the police know that there’s a dead man back there.”

  Jasmine stopped moving. At least she had Rachel out of that room. “And what do you think is going to happen when you call the police?”

  Rachel’s eyes were so filled with tears that Jasmine wondered how she could even see. “What do you mean?”

  “Rachel,” Jasmine said, keeping her voice stern. “You are the first lady of the American Baptist Coalition.”

  “So?”

  “So, how is this going to look? One of the board members is found dead by the wife of the president.”

  “But that’s what happened!”

  “And people have been convicted of murder on much less.”

  “Murder!” she shrieked.

  Jasmine felt her opportunity slipping away. On one hand, Rachel’s hysteria would work for her—she couldn’t think straight right now. But that would be the downfall of her plan, too. Rachel was so distraught that it didn’t seem like she’d be able to function beyond putting one foot in front of the other.

  But this was just too good an opportunity to let slip by. She had to give it her best try. And, she’d have to do it within the next few minutes because surely, Yvette and the reporter were on their way.

  “All I’m saying is that you don’t need that drama, Rachel, especially—” Jasmine stopped. She glanced at Rachel for a moment, then turned away as if she couldn’t face her. Then, she shook her head.

  “What?” Rachel cried. “What were you going to say?”

  “Well, you don’t want this drama with all that’s going down with the ABC and the investigation with your husband and Pastor Griffith—”

  “What? What are you talking about?” She was still crying, but it sounded a little different now. Hysteria with some sense.

  When Jasmine faced Rachel this time, her eyes were wide. “You don’t know?” Jasmine asked. “I don’t have time to explain it all now because we have to get out of here. But let’s just say that your husband is going to be the first one the police will look at. And since you found him—”

  “No,” Rachel screamed. “No. Lester had nothing to do with this.”

  “I know that.” Jasmine lowered her voice as a clue for Rachel to do the same. “I know that and you know that. But there will still be lots of questions asked and you don’t need to get involved in this. Let someone else find Pastor Griffith,” she said, taking Rachel’s hand once again. “Don’t get involved, Rachel. Trust me.”

  It was her last two words that made Rachel stop and snatch her hand away. Rachel wasn’t hysterical enough to trust Jasmine.

  “All right,” Jasmine said. “You do what you have to do, but I’m leaving.” She was going to leave no matter what. This was Rachel’s drama, not hers. “I didn’t find the pastor, you did; so don’t even give them my name. I’m out.”

  “No,
no,” Rachel said, sounding desperate once again. “I’m going with you.”

  Her smile was instant, but Jasmine pivoted slowly to give herself time to compose a serious, concerned expression.

  “Okay, we’ve got to move quickly because Yvette will be here with—”

  “Oh, God,” Rachel moaned.

  Jasmine wanted to slap Rachel and tell her to “snap out of it!” like Cher did in that movie Moonstruck. But the girl was young and pitiful and Jasmine had to be patient . . . since she was setting up Rachel for the biggest fall of her life.

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know. Maybe the door . . . and maybe . . .” Rachel shuddered. “I touched him,” she said, with tears spilling out once again.

  “Okay, you have your purse, right?”

  Rachel nodded.

  Glancing around quickly, Jasmine grabbed an afghan that was tossed over the sofa. Using the blanket, she wiped the door handle—especially since she had touched the knob as well. She tossed it back onto the couch, looked around, and then took Rachel’s hand again as if she was leading a two-year-old.

  Inside the hallway, Jasmine pointed to the staircase. “Let’s go down that way.”

  As she went down the stairs, Jasmine organized her thoughts. She really needed to make this as much of a cloak and dagger operation as she could. She needed Rachel to trust her.

  On the first-floor landing, Jasmine said, “Okay, I want you to go out the back door, and I’ll talk the valet into giving me your car.”

  “Why?” Rachel asked, her eyes still filled with tears.

  “Because I’m trying to protect you and I don’t want you to walk out the front door of this building with all of that blood on your dress.”

  It was as if she’d forgotten and when Rachel looked down, her hysteria returned.

  “Don’t worry,” Jasmine said, trying to calm her. “I’ll get your car and meet you out back.”

  When all Rachel said was “Okay,” Jasmine knew that she had this girl right where she needed her.

  This petrified Rachel wasn’t going to last; Jasmine knew that. At some point, Rachel would look back and regret this. But shock was a beautiful thing. And as long as Rachel stayed in this state for a few more minutes, Jasmine would be able to move forward with her plan.

  “Don’t say anything to anyone,” Jasmine reminded Rachel. “Keep your purse in front of you in case you see anyone. And here, take my sunglasses.” Jasmine handed Rachel her Chanels. “I don’t want anyone to remember you. I’ll take the risk for both of us.”

  Rachel adjusted the glasses on her face, then nodded at Jasmine.

  As Rachel slipped out the back door, Jasmine turned toward the lobby.

  Wow! Pastor Griffith was dead. She only wondered for a moment what had happened because that man was into so much mess, it was a wonder that he’d lived this long.

  She’d call Hosea and have him say a prayer or something for Pastor Griffith, though she was sure there wasn’t much anyone could do for that man’s soul.

  This was such a tragedy. But like folks said, one person’s tragedy was another’s triumph.

  This was going to be her triumphant day.

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  You’ve got to calm down.

  The sane, rational part of Rachel was trying to garner control.

  Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!

  But the erratic, panic-stricken part refused to listen.

  Rachel had alternated between extreme fear, complete hysteria, and utter disbelief for the past hour. She’d never seen a dead man up close before, especially someone she knew. She felt like Rev. Griffith’s lifeless image would forever be embedded in her mind.

  Rachel had finally stopped crying, but her despair hadn’t subsided. In fact, she knew she probably looked a hot mess right now, with puffy eyes and a mascara-stained face.

  “Here, clean yourself up.” Jasmine’s words brought Rachel back to reality. They were sitting in the small room at the LaQuinta Inn. She didn’t remember much, except Jasmine saying they had no choice but to come to this dump because she “wasn’t about to take a bloody, hysterical Rachel back up to my hotel room at the Omni.”

  Rachel took the towel, slowly coming out of her daze. She looked around the bare room. Although she’d upgraded to more exclusive hotels, she wasn’t above a LaQuinta. But being here had to be killing Jasmine.

  Yet, Jasmine was here anyway.

  Rachel sniffed as she thought about how Jasmine had literally taken control of everything. Here Rachel had been scheming and conniving just a little while ago, and now Jasmine was being nothing but a friend.

  “And put this on.” Jasmine handed Rachel an oversized sweat top and pants.

  “What is this?”

  “Look, its not like Walgreens sells designer duds and I didn’t have time to run to your favorite store, T.J.Maxx.”

  There was the old Jasmine, Rachel thought. Normally, she would’ve had a comeback for Jasmine’s condescending dig, but right now, that was the last thing on her mind.

  “Or you could just stay in your blood-soaked clothes,” Jasmine said when Rachel didn’t move.

  Rachel glanced down at her dress, the blood now dried and flaking. Just the sight made her heart race all over again. She took the hideous outfit and made her way into the bathroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again and the tears welled back up. Her dress was covered in blood. Her hair was all over her head. Just like she thought—a hot mess.

  Rachel turned the shower on, getting the water as hot as she could stand it, then stepped inside. She wished she could wash away the madness of the last few hours. Shoot, at this point, she wished she could turn back the hands of time and not even have boarded that plane to Chicago in the first place.

  Rachel didn’t know how long she’d been in the shower when Jasmine banged on the door. “Hurry up, Rachel,” she said.

  Rachel dried off and put on the clothes Jasmine had bought, grateful that her nemesis had even thought to get underwear.

  “I still think we should’ve called the police,” Rachel said as she walked out of the bathroom twenty minutes later.

  “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Rachel. And say what?” Jasmine said. “I told you, if you want to call, fine, just drop me off at the airport, then you deal with the paparazzi.”

  “Paparazzi?”

  “Yes, Rev. Griffith is well known in Chicago. I’m sure the media will be all over this story. And I’m sure they’ll believe your story that you didn’t kill him, even though all of Oprah’s audience heard you threaten the man just a couple of hours ago,” she said sarcastically.

  “I didn’t kill him.” Rachel felt herself hyperventilating again as her mind raced back to their argument. She was just talking noise with her threat. No one could’ve believed she really would do any harm to Rev. Griffith, would they?

  The ringing cell phone kept Rachel from going off the deep end. She picked it up and looked as Yvette’s name popped up on the screen. Rachel pressed Talk just as Jasmine hissed, “Don’t answer it.”

  Rachel gave her a “too late” shrug, then said meekly, “Hello.”

  “Rachel! Where are you guys?” Yvette said, panicked.

  “Ummm, ummm,” Rachel stammered.

  “I mean, thank God the reporter is running late,” Yvette continued. “You’re not here. Jasmine’s not here. Pastor Griffith’s not here. I swear, I feel like I’m fighting an uphill battle with you people.”

  Rachel paused as her words sank in. Here?

  “Where are you?” Rachel asked.

  “I’m at Pastor Griffith’s apartment. Where you’re supposed to be.”

  “Wh-what are you doing there?” Her eyes widened in horror.

  “We have an interview, remember?” Yvette said, exasperated. “I pulled all these strings to keep this interview and you guys aren’t here.”

  Rachel no longer cared about any interview. She didn’t w
ant any part of this anymore.

  “Where are you guys?” Yvette snapped. “I need you to get over here ASAP.”

  “Umm, ummm.” Rachel looked to Jasmine for help, but Jasmine was just staring at her, confused.

  “What’s going on?” Jasmine mouthed.

  Rachel covered the mouthpiece. “Yvette is at Pastor Griffith’s,” she whispered.

  Jasmine’s eyes grew wide as well.

  “Rachel, where are you?” Yvette repeated.

  “Ummm, we were hungry, and umm, Jasmine . . . she wanted some Harold’s Chicken.”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes in disgust, but Rachel ignored her and continued talking. “So, we came here to get something to eat.”

  “Come again,” Yvette slowly said. “You already blew one opportunity. You’re about to blow another one because . . . You. Wanted. Some. Freakin’. Chicken? Are you serious?”

  “Exactly where are you in Pastor Griffith’s apartment?” Rachel asked.

  “I’m in the living room,” she huffed. “What kind of question is that? I thought you guys were around somewhere since the door was cracked.”

  “Ummm, have you looked around?” Rachel said slowly.

  “Why would I go wandering around this man’s house?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s in the bedroom taking a nap.”

  Yvette huffed, then it sounded like she was moving through the apartment. “He’s not back here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m in the man’s bedroom and he’s not here.”

  “Did you look on the floor? Maybe he fell or had a stroke or something.”

  “I’m walking all over the man’s bedroom and he’s not here,” she snapped. “This is ridiculous. This is an opportunity to clean up the mess from earlier, so I need you guys here ASAP!”

  “Oh, my God,” Rachel pushed the End button and slowly turned to Jasmine.

  “What?” Jasmine asked, frantic.

  Rachel plopped down on the bed, stunned. She looked up at Jasmine as she weighed the magnitude of Yvette’s words. “You’re not going to believe this. Pastor Griffith is gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “I don’t know. Just gone.”