“Rachel!” Lester exclaimed when he noticed his wife in the doorway. He jumped up to greet her. “Is that a new dress?” he asked, surveying her outfit.
Leave it to her husband to pick that up. “Long story,” she said.
“ ’Sup, Mom?” her fourteen-year-old son Jordan said, not missing a beat in his game.
Rachel waved to her son. Normally, she would’ve chastised Jordan about his slang but she had more important things to concern herself with right now.
Lester leaned in and hugged her tightly. His embrace actually felt good. Momentarily, she felt safe.
Lester must’ve known Rachel was stressed because he ran his hand over her back and said, “Come on, let me fix you some tea, then we can sit and talk.”
She let out a sigh, then followed her husband down the stairs. Lester sent her to their room to change clothes while he made her a cup of raspberry tea.
“Okay, what in the world happened?” he asked once they were finally settled at the kitchen table.
Rachel took a moment, weighing what to say. Everything inside her wanted to tell him about Pastor Griffith. Maybe if she shared this burden with Lester, he could help her figure out what to do. But Jasmine had convinced her that no one needed to know—especially their husbands.
“Umm, it was just a nightmare,” she finally said, sipping the tea. “A great opportunity with Oprah, ruined.” She wanted to say more—tell him how Jasmine had ruined everything, but for some reason, she just didn’t feel comfortable throwing Jasmine under the bus like that anymore.
“Well, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Pastor Griffith,” Lester continued, worry lines creasing his face, “but he’s not answering my calls.”
At the mention of Pastor Griffith’s name, Rachel tensed.
“Babe, are you okay?” Lester asked, stroking her hand. His touch was soothing. She’d come a long way in her love for Lester. He’d pursued her since they were thirteen years old. She’d never given him the time of day—other than to use him for his money. But his love had endured. It still did. It had taken her years to realize it, but Lester was a good man. That’s why she couldn’t drag him into this mess.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She took another quick sip of her tea, flinching as the hot liquid seemed to pierce her tongue.
Lester glanced at his watch. “Oh, no, it’s almost nine. I need to give your brother a ride to work.”
Rachel knew he was talking about David. His car had been broken for the past three weeks and he was constantly bumming rides.
David!
Her brother hadn’t exactly led a stellar lifestyle. His ex-girlfriend Tawny was a bona fide crackhead and was always getting them in trouble and hooking up with unsavory characters. David didn’t hang with those folks anymore, but he knew that criminal element. Maybe if Rachel talked to him, he could help her figure out what to do.
“I need to get out of the house. Why don’t I go give David a ride?” Rachel said.
“Get out? You just got here.”
“I know, but I need to”—she paused, debating whether to lie—“I need to go pick up some sanitary pads.” She forced a smile. She knew Lester wouldn’t touch that. Anything else, he would’ve insisted on doing for her.
“Are you sure?” Lester asked.
Rachel was already standing before he could finish. She didn’t know why she didn’t think of this in the first place. Her other brother, Jonathan, would give the most sound advice, but David was the one with the criminal background, so he was the person she needed advising her in this case.
“You just get the kids in bed. I’ll be back in a bit,” Rachel said, grabbing her keys and heading out the door before her husband could say another word.
Thirty minutes later, Rachel was pulling in to her brother’s apartment complex. She bore down on the horn.
“Hey, you,” David said, climbing in the car. She’d sent him a text to let him know she was coming to pick him up instead of Lester.
“Hey, big brother,” she replied. “Where’s my nephew?” she asked, referring to David’s two-year-old son, whom he was raising.
“He’s with Dad and Brenda because I’m working the night shift all week.” He eyed her suspiciously. “But I know you didn’t offer to give me a ride to work to check on D.J.” He leaned back in the passenger seat. “So, what’s really going on? Because I know you’re not here out of the goodness of your heart.”
Rachel bit her bottom lip, then said, “Nothing. I was just heading your way.”
He shook his head like he knew she was lying as she pulled out of the complex. David made small talk while she worked to get up the nerve to ask for his advice.
Finally, when they’d reached his job, Rachel stopped the car, then turned to her brother. “Look, I just need to ask you something.”
He smiled. “I knew it was something. You all holy now, but I know the real Rachel and she isn’t just offering up rides, especially when she just got back in town.”
“Hypothetically speaking,” she continued, ignoring his sarcasm, “if a person were to, like, see a dead body and they didn’t do anything about it, what would happen?”
He lost his smile, stared at her for a minute, then said, “Rachel, what in the world have you gotten yourself into now?”
“Me?” She feigned shock. “Why does this have to be about me? This is someone that, ummm, told me some things in confession.”
“Umm, you’re not a priest,” he chuckled.
“You know what I mean,” she said, exasperated. “They confided in me, so I can’t share who it is but I want to figure out how to help them.”
“Okay, whatever,” he said, obviously not believing her. “But to answer your question, I’m no lawyer, but I think you have a legal obligation to report it when you know a crime has been committed. Not only that, wouldn’t it be the Christian thing to do?” he said with a smirk.
“David, I’m being serious.”
He sighed heavily, and shook his head like he knew his sister was headed for trouble.
“I just want to know. The D.A. can’t prosecute without a body, can they?” Rachel questioned.
“Happens all the time. Do you really want to go to trial over murder?”
“Oh, my God! Murder? I would go—I mean, the person I’m talking about could face murder charges?”
David narrowed his gaze at her. “All right, sis. I don’t know what type of mess you’ve gotten caught up in, but I’m telling you, you don’t need to be doing anything that could put you behind bars.”
She tried to laugh it off, but inside, she was terrified. “Boy, I know that. I’m a prominent first lady. I’m not committing any crimes.”
He raised his eyebrows. “All right, then. Let me put it like this. My boy Mase is doing twenty-five to life for murder after DNA put him at a crime scene. They never found the dude he was accused of murdering, but they convicted him anyway.”
DNA? She hadn’t considered DNA evidence. Yes, Jasmine had wiped the doorknob off but what if they’d missed something? What if the police found out she’d been there?
Rachel tried to keep the panic from setting in. Maybe if she and Jasmine could find who stole Pastor Griffith’s body, they could find the real killer. “Look, don’t you know someone that can, umm, find dead people?”
David looked at her like she was crazy. “Yeah, let me call Bruce Willis,” he said sarcastically.
She swatted his shoulder. “This is serious, David! My life is on the line!”
His eyes widened in shock. Rachel wanted to kick herself. The last thing she needed was someone getting suspicious.
“Look, sis,” David said, “all I can tell you is if you’re caught up in some mess, you would need to make sure you cover all your bases because there aren’t too many people who get away with murder these days.”
“I didn’t murder anyone,” she said, her voice cracking.
He looked at her skeptically. “Well, if you know about a murder and didn’t do a
nything about it, you can still get in major trouble. So, clean it up and don’t tell anyone anything,” he said sternly. “The people you trust the most with your dirt are the same ones that will turn on you when their back’s against the wall. So whatever you—or the person who confided in you—did, keep it between you and God.” He put his hand on the door handle. “And you know what? That includes me. I wouldn’t snitch on you, but I’m just now getting my life together. I’m not trying to be an accessory to any crime. Love you, though.” He kissed her on the cheek and got out of the car.
Rachel sat for a moment, taking in everything he’d said. Jasmine wouldn’t turn on her, would she? She couldn’t because at this point, Jasmine was in just as deep as she was.
The buzzing of her cell phone snapped Rachel out of her thoughts.
Hope u made it home safely. Keep it together. JB
Speak of the devil. Rachel couldn’t believe Jasmine was texting her. She guessed Jasmine was just as worried as she was.
Keep it together.
Keep it between you and God.
Rachel composed herself. Both her brother and Jasmine were right. She needed to keep it together. No one else needed to know anything. In fact, maybe Jasmine was on to something when she said to pretend it never happened. That’s it, Rachel thought, nodding. In fact, maybe the stress of the day at Harpo Studios had caused her to imagine the whole thing.
“Yep, that’s it,” she mumbled, finally smiling as she pulled her car out of the parking lot of the building where David worked as a security guard. “It never happened,” she repeated.
She’d never been at Pastor Griffith’s apartment. She’d never seen a dead body. For all she knew, Pastor Griffith had run off to Costa Rica with his young lover. She didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’.
That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
Chapter
TEN
The moment Jasmine opened the door to her apartment, she grabbed Mae Frances’s wrist and dragged her inside, which was quite a feat since Mae Frances had at least four inches and fifty pounds over Jasmine’s five-foot-five, one-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame.
“What the . . . ?” Mae Frances said as she stumbled across the foyer. “Jasmine Larson! What in the heck is wrong with you?” She brushed her fingers through the hairs of her coat as if Jasmine had somehow messed up her thirty-five-year-old mink.
“What took you so long to get here?” Jasmine whispered.
Her best friend frowned. “You just called me thirty minutes ago. What was I supposed to do, fly across town and land my helicopter in the middle of your penthouse?”
Jasmine ignored her friend’s sarcasm. “I called you all day yesterday, but you didn’t answer.”
“Oh!” A slow smile crossed Mae Frances’s face. “Sorry ’bout that, but I had company. Herman was in town.”
Jasmine twisted the lock in the door, then started down the hallway before she asked, “Herman who?”
“Herman Cain.”
“Who’s he?”
“A black Republican who thinks he can give President Obama a run for his money. He’s thinking about entering the race, so he wanted my advice on how he could get past Newt.”
“Newt who?”
“Newt Gingrich, ’cause you know, I used to hang out with him back in the day.”
Jasmine stopped and slowly pivoted to face her friend. Mae Frances grinned and nodded like she had a secret.
Jasmine frowned. “You’re not saying . . .”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Jasmine Larson. Herman came into the city because he wanted my advice on getting past Newt and the rest of them clowns.”
Jasmine’s eyes widened, but then she wondered why she was surprised. Of course Mae Frances would know Newt Gingrich and this Herman Cain guy. Mae Frances knew everyone—living and dead.
Jasmine led her friend back to the study, her mind once again focused on why she’d sent out the 9-1-1 to Mae Frances.
“Why are we going all the way back here?” Mae Frances grumbled. “I prefer sitting in the living room.”
Jasmine didn’t say a word until she stepped inside the last bedroom, which had been converted into a home office for her and Hosea. She made sure the door was completely shut before she spoke. “Mrs. Sloss is in the kitchen with Zaya and I don’t want her to overhear this,” she said as she directed Mae Frances toward the small sofa.
“What did you do now, Jasmine Larson?” Mae Frances grumbled.
“What do you mean?”
“Any time you call me for a secret meeting, that means I have to get you out of some mess.” Mae Frances shrugged her mink from her shoulders, then leaned back and crossed her arms. “So, who did you sleep with? What I gotta do?”
“I didn’t sleep with anyone,” Jasmine said, rolling her neck with each word.
Mae Frances twisted her lips as if to say, “Yeah, right.”
“Mae Frances,” Jasmine continued, “I haven’t slept with another man since I married Hosea.”
Mae Frances tilted her head and raised her eyes toward the ceiling as if she was trying to calculate. “So if it’s not another man, why did you drag me over here like someone died or something?”
Jasmine raised her eyebrows. “Do you know already?”
“Know what?”
Jasmine took a deep breath before she said, “Pastor Griffith is dead!”
“What?” her friend screamed so loud Jasmine leaned over and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Mae Frances! I told you; Mrs. Sloss is right down the hall.”
“Well, what did you expect me to do?” Mae Frances started fanning herself and rocking back and forth on the edge of the sofa as if she was having a heat flash. It took her a minute or two to settle down enough to say, “Now, repeat that . . . slowly, this time, Jasmine Larson.”
Jasmine nodded. “It’s true. Pastor Griffith is dead.”
“Well, how did he get dead? Did you kill him?”
“Mae Frances!” It was Jasmine’s turn to yell.
“Well, you know you’ve done some scandalous stuff in your lifetime.”
“I’ve never killed anyone. At least not directly. But this time, it has nothing to do with me. It’s all Rachel.”
“Rachel who? Not that country chick?”
“Yup,” Jasmine said. “This is why I was trying to get in touch with you all day yesterday. Really, from the moment my plane touched down at JFK the other night.”
“Okay, you need to back up and explain this to me,” Mae Frances said. “Like I said, slowly.”
So, Jasmine began at the beginning: from the moment she arrived at Harpo Studios to the point where she came out of the restroom and saw Rachel standing there.
“You mean to tell me that she showed up at Oprah?”
Jasmine nodded and continued with the story.
When Jasmine got to the part about the archive room, Mae Frances shouted, “No! She didn’t lock you in there like that!”
Then Jasmine told her friend about finding Oprah, Yvette, Cecelia, and Pastor Griffith all in the lot . . . with Rachel.
“What were Cecelia and Earl doing there?”
“Yvette invited them, but can you focus?”
But when Jasmine got to the part about confronting Rachel in the parking lot, Mae Frances sat back and hollered, “That must’ve been something.” Her shoulders quivered as she laughed. “The two first ladies duking it out in front of the big O.”
“Mae Frances, this isn’t funny. I told you, Pastor Griffith is dead.”
“Oh. Yeah. I forgot.” She lowered her eyes as she wiped away her tears of laughter and then slumped her shoulders as if that was the appropriate thing to do. Her voice was softer when she said, “So, is he really dead?”
Jasmine nodded and filled Mae Frances in on the rest of the story until Mae Frances screamed again. “What do you mean he disappeared?”
This time, she jumped up from the sofa, so there was no time for Jasmine to cover
her mouth.
“Please!” Jasmine hissed. “Keep your voice down ’cause you’re the only person I’m telling about this.”
“What do you mean? You didn’t tell Preacher Man?” she asked, calling Jasmine’s husband by the name she’d made up for him years before.
“Of course not! Hosea would tell me to call the police.”
Her eyes were wide when she asked, “So, you didn’t call the police?”
Jasmine leaned back on the sofa, crossed her legs, and smiled. “If you sit down, I’ll fill you in on the greatest scheme I’ve ever had.”
The deep lines in Mae Frances’s forehead looked like they’d been branded into her skin. She took slow steps back to Jasmine. “A man is dead, his body is gone, and all you’re thinking about is some scheme?”
Jasmine’s eyebrows seemed to rise to the top of her forehead. Was Mae Frances really coming at her like that? She . . . who was the master schemer? “Look, you know who Pastor Griffith was and what he was involved with. And you know how he was just setting Hosea up to become president of the Coalition because he thought he’d be able to control my husband.” She waved her hand in the air. “I’m not about to shed one tear for the man who sold all those drugs to all those people, and who had no problem trying to mix my husband up in the middle of his mess.”
Mae Frances sighed. “He wasn’t like that when I knew him all those years ago.” She paused. “Plus, word on the street is that he was trying to get out of it all because of, you know, his daughter.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. Ever since she and Mae Frances had uncovered the pastor’s illicit activities months ago, Mae Frances had filled Jasmine in on whatever she learned about Pastor Griffith. Mae Frances insisted that she found Pastor Griffith’s involvement with drugs just so hard to believe since Pastor Griffith’s only child, Eleanor, had struggled with crack her entire adult life.
That was exactly why Jasmine thought that Earl Griffith was a low-down, dirty dog to the nth degree. Jasmine was convinced that Pastor Griffith was responsible for his own daughter’s addiction, though Mae Frances always said that could never be true. But Jasmine believed that not only had Pastor Griffith poisoned his community, he’d poisoned his own blood, too.
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