“Man you’ve just met? You’d never met James prior to this morning? Really?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Then how, pray tell, did you know he liked ketchup on his eggs?”
Christy looks at me with an inquisitive expression.
“You asked for ketchup after your entreés arrived at brunch today. You never used it, but James was certainly a fan. My momma used to do that for Daddy. He’d always forget to ask for Tabasco sauce before the waiter left the table, so Momma got in the habit of asking for it for him. That’s what people who’ve been together for a long time do. They think for the other person.”
“That proves that I knew James before today? Because I asked for ketchup? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“That’s not all. James agreed to carry the painting for you when you were leaving Sweet Tea. He walked ahead of us while you and I chatted. And, when we caught up with him, he was waiting by your car. Funny how he didn’t need any instruction on which car was yours.”
Clearly flustered, she responds. “That’s just a coincidence. He was just . . . he was just waiting for us and happened to be near my car.”
“Hmm. Maybe.” I switch gears. “So, we saw Raynell’s painting out in your car.”
“So? I plan to take it back over to Terrence later. You aren’t accusing me of stealing it, are you? You asked me to retrieve it for James to reassess it at your restaurant. We all know it doesn’t have any major value anyway . . . at least not enough to make it worth stealing.”
“No, the one in the car doesn’t have any significant value, but I suspect that one does.” I point to some edges of a frame sticking out from underneath the sofa. “When you rushed to hide it from us when we knocked on the door, you should have made sure it was entirely out of sight.”
“Ooh . . . it’s about to go down!” Wavonne steps over to the sofa and slides the painting out from underneath.
I take a quick look at it. “Yes, that’s the one I remember seeing at Raynell’s weeks ago. It definitely has a more weathered look than the poor imitation out in the car. You know what else I noticed when I leaned in close to examine the imitation on the table at Sweet Tea?”
“What did you notice, Halia?” James asks, irritation in his voice.
“It had a certain smell—a smell that I just figured out over at Kimberly’s studio earlier today was the scent of fresh paint. You’ll notice this one”—I point toward the painting on the floor—“doesn’t have a smell, which is how I knew James was lying when he said the copy he viewed at Sweet Tea, the copy that’s down in your car as we speak, was painted about the same time as the original. Portraits that are decades old don’t smell of paint, but newly made reproductions do. Any real art appraiser would have noticed the smell and immediately concluded that the portrait viewed at Sweet Tea was painted recently. But James isn’t a real art appraiser, is he?”
No one answers my question.
“You arranged for James, who I’m guessing is your boyfriend, to pretend to be an appraiser so he could tell Raynell that the painting was worthless. You—”
Christy interrupts me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you know a lot . . . about a lot of things, Christy. Let’s take art for instance. Who would have guessed that an assistant to a real estate agent would have a master’s degree in art history?”
“How did you know that?”
“I had Wavonne do a little digging on her phone on the way over here. You shouldn’t keep things on your LinkedIn profile that you don’t want others to see.” I pause for a moment. “My guess is there are not a lot of jobs out there these days for art history majors, so you had to settle for what you hoped would be a temporary gig with Raynell.”
“Having an art degree is hardly a crime.”
“No, but it does give you the credentials to determine the worth of art or at least have an idea if a piece might be worth something. My guess is you knew the value of the Keckley as soon as you saw it, and you immediately began scheming about how to keep Raynell in the dark about it. I guess that’s where James came in. You two conspired for James to pose as an art expert and tell Raynell her painting had no value, when you knew that it was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. I’m thinking you even had him tell her that her antique desk was worth a few thousand bucks to throw her a bone and keep her from getting suspicious.”
“Pure fiction,” James says.
“Real life is always more interesting than fiction, James. I bet killing Raynell was not part of the original plan. You probably just planned to switch out the painting with a better reproduction at some later date, but suddenly you needed to act fast when you heard Raynell asking Kimberly to take a look at the painting at the reunion. You decided to kill Raynell before Kimberly could tell her how much the painting was really worth, which would have led Raynell to investigate the two of you. Then not only would you have lost your chance at making some serious cash, but you may very well have found yourself in jail on conspiracy charges.”
“This is silly,” James says. “Okay, so you caught us with the real painting. Maybe we did switch it out. But you can’t prove we killed Raynell. Besides, from what I’ve heard, all indications lead to her death being an accident. Word is there was no sign of forced entry or struggle.”
“Of course there was no forced entry. Christy has a key to her house and, even if she didn’t, she was the last one to see Raynell alive when she put her to bed the night of the reunion. She could have left the door unlocked for reentry later.”
“That doesn’t explain why there were no signs of struggle,” Detective Hutchins says. “And these two”—he gestures toward Christy and James—“are not big people. Even together I doubt they could have killed Ms. Rollins without her putting up a good fight . . . a struggle.”
“There were no signs of struggle because . . . well, because Raynell was already dead . . . or at least unconscious when Christy and James slammed her head against the bath tub.”
Christy visibly tenses up. “That’s ridiculous!”
“No, I’m afraid it isn’t. And I’ll tell you why. Word on the street is that someone stole Raynell’s Escalade the day after she died—”
“Yeah . . . some hood rats must’ve heard Raynell croaked and figured they’ll steal her car while there was no one home,” Wavonne interrupts.
I eye Wavonne in such a way that tells her to cool it and let me do the talking. “But whoever stole the vehicle abandoned it on the side of the road when it ran out of gas only a few miles from her home.”
“So?”
“That always struck me as odd. Raynell was very detailed-oriented and on top of things . . . and, like a Boy Scout, she was always prepared. She earned her living in her car and was hardly the kind of person who would let her gas tank get so low that her car would run out of gas before she could get to the nearest filling station.”
“What does that have to do with anything? It means nothing,” Christy says.
“It means we look for an explanation of why her gas tank was near empty the day she’s found dead. Perhaps it was because someone”—I look at Christy as I say this—“left the car running all night with the garage door closed. Perhaps someone brought her home from the reunion and put her to bed. Then went into the garage and started the car, knowing that Raynell was so drunk she’d likely sleep through the carbon monoxide fumes coming into her house until they killed her or at least rendered her immobile.”
“And not that anyone did, but let’s just say that someone else entered the house shortly after you left.” I move my gaze from Christy to Kimberly. “And let’s just say this someone was there to . . . I don’t know . . . switch out shampoo with hair removal cream. The running car in the garage would also explain why this person left Raynell’s feeling light-headed and was so loopy that she had to pull over and get some rest in a parking lot. The house would have likely just started to fill up with fumes when she came to settle an old high school vendetta.
While she wouldn’t have been there long enough for the fumes to kill her, they could have made her feel unwell on the way home and caused the lingering headache she might have reported for days afterward.”
“If you really think someone left the car running all night, what makes you think it was me?” Christy asks. “There were tons of people in town with motive to kill Raynell. From what I understand, half her former classmates hated her. Why not Gregory Simms . . . or her.” Christy directs a finger toward Kimberly.
“Interesting that you’re pointing to Kimberly. I went to see her today, and she was working with some spray paints. Did you know people wear masks when they work with spray paints? Funny thing, when she took the mask off, the straps that go behind her ears left some marks on her face—the same kind of marks you had on your face when I came to get my check from you the morning after the reunion. I thought they were sleep lines from a wrinkly pillowcase, but now I’m quite certain they were from a mask—a mask you wore when you went back to Raynell’s after filling her house with carbon monoxide all night. It would have been necessary to wear one when you went around opening all the windows to let the fumes out.
“I thought it was odd that all the windows were open the morning we found Raynell. She was always complaining about how much she hated the heat—”
“Girl was a bigger sweater than Whitney Houston during her crack days.”
I nod in agreement with Wavonne. “And why would she have all the windows in her house open when she was home alone? Let’s face it, Christy, you went back to Raynell’s the morning after the reunion, opened all the windows to clear the house of car exhaust. And, at some point, James joined you, and the two of you dragged Raynell’s dead body out of bed into the bathroom and slammed her head against the tub. Shortly after you hastily created a bad reproduction of the Keckley painting and replaced it with the original, hoping it would go unnoticed.”
“That’s all speculation,” James says.
Christy looks at him, and it seems that the stress of her actions and the lies to cover them have taken their toll. “So what if we did kill her? The bitch had it coming.”
“Christy!” James calls, trying to get her to shut up.
“They’ve already got us on the stolen painting, James. It’s over,” she says to him, and then turns to the rest of us. “She was a horrible person. All she did was scream at me all day and complain about everything I did. She wouldn’t have sold a single house if it wasn’t for all of my work. But do you think that miser ever shared so much as a penny of one of her commissions with me? When she made a big sale, do you know what she would do? She’d give me some of her designer hand-me-downs in a plastic trash bag as some sort of warped thank-you. Like I was supposed to have undying gratitude for her leftover Manolos. Yeah, we killed her to keep her from finding out we tried to dupe her out of a hefty sum of money and to make sure we got the painting, but just ridding the world of Raynell Rollins was reason enough.”
As Christy continues to unravel, I see Detective Hutchins approach the living room window and signal to the officers outside. Neither Christy nor James appears braced to make a run for it, so I’m surprised when Detective Hutchins flips his jacket back to reveal his gun. “I’m placing both of you under arrest,” he says. “Don’t make me take this out of its holster.”
The words have barely left his mouth when two armed police officers open the front door, and quickly step inside with their guns drawn. Detective Hutchins directs them to cuff Christy and James and take them outside to read them their rights.
“I have to hand it to you, Halia, you did it again,” Detective Hutchins says to me with a look of surprise. “But maybe from now on you should leave the detective work to the professionals. Or one of these days you may end up getting hurt yourself.”
“I’ll do my best.”
While Wavonne and I watch him walk outside the apartment to check on his underlings, she leans toward me. “Think you can keep them distracted while I take a quick peek in Christy’s closet for some of those hand-me-down Manolos?”
EPILOGUE
It’s a crisp fall day, and I’m thankful to have a break from the heat we’ve dealt with all summer as Wavonne and I step out of my van and make our way to one of the event rooms in good old Rebirth Christian Church. I wasn’t that eager to come, but Wavonne, for once in her life, has actually saved up money for the opportunity to bid on some of Raynell’s things that are going to be auctioned off today, so I agreed to bring her.
It’s been almost two months since Raynell’s untimely death. I’m not sure if Terrence wanted to allow for a respectable amount of time to pass before putting Raynell’s finer things up for sale, or if the lag time was due to Christy, the original curator, who was tagging everything and getting it ready for event, being hauled off to jail on murder charges.
I’ve been to Rebirth enough times now that I sort of know the lay of the land at this point; accordingly, it doesn’t take Wavonne and me long to find the room reserved for the auction.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Wavonne says as we enter the space.
“They really didn’t spare any expense, did they?” I take a look around. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by how grand the displays are. I should know by now that Rebirth does nothing on a small scale. Many of Raynell’s outfits are displayed on actual mannequins just like you’d see in a department store. Some of her shoes and handbags are displayed in groups on long tables draped in silk fabric while others are displayed solo on individual pedestals. Jewelry, wallets, and scarves are displayed in glass cases.
“I wonder if Tiffany & Co. is as well-appointed as this place,” I say to Wavonne as we begin to peruse the displays.
“I wonder if Tiffany is as expensive as this place.” Wavonne looks at the bidding form for a pair of T-strap Valentino pumps. “The bidding starts at five hundred dollars. And they want at least four hundred for those Fendi beaded sandals.” She sighs. “There’re no bargains to be had here. I saved two hundred and fifty dollars for nothin’.”
“Let’s keep looking. I’m sure there is something you can afford.”
I pick up a glossy color booklet from one of the tables and begin to thumb through it. It has a complete description of all the items up for auction, a brief bio about Raynell with her photo, and some information about her foundation. Once again I should not be surprised, but I find myself taken aback when I read the fine print at the bottom of one of the pages. It reads: “A portion of the proceeds from the event will go to the Raynell Rollins Foundation for Children in Need.” A portion? I think to myself. The idea that all the proceeds will not go to the foundation seems a little shady, not to mention tacky, considering the auction has been heavily promoted as an event to benefit charity. But given that Raynell was likely the major bread winner in the Rollinses’ household, Terrence may be hoarding earnings from her estate auction to meet the shortfalls he’s bound to face without her income coming in.
“Halia and Wavonne,” I hear come from behind as we move toward the jewelry display cases.
“Alvetta,” I say. “How are you? Clearly you’ve been very busy,” I add, looking around me.
She gives Wavonne and me a quick hug. “I’m fine,” she says. “Yes, I’ve been busy getting everything ready for tonight. We’ve attracted a good crowd. I think we’ll raise a lot of money for Raynell’s foundation. It’s a great way to honor her memory.”
I’m tempted to ask exactly how much of the money made tonight is actually going to charity, but I decide to let it go. I’d rather just assume that most of it is slated for people in need.
“Yes. It looks like lots of people are placing bids.” I take another look around and notice a few somber-looking people seated in the rows of chairs positioned in the middle of the room. “I guess those folks have already placed all their bids?”
“No.” Alvetta laughs. “Those are the serious bidders. I doubt they are taking part in the silent auction at all. They are he
re for the live auction.”
“Live auction?”
“Yes. For the Sarah Vaughan painting. It’s been officially authenticated as an Arthur Keckley original.” Alvetta points to the far side of the room, and I see the painting on display. Wavonne had me so caught up in Raynell’s clothes and accessories I hadn’t looked in the direction of the portrait.
“It really is stunning,” I say as the three of us begin to approach the portrait. “It looks even more exquisite now that it’s displayed with the appropriate lighting.”
“And what do we have here?” Wavonne says when we reach the painting, and she takes note of a nicely built armed security guard standing next to it. “Mm-hmm,” she adds, looking him up and down.
“We’re here to look at the painting, Wavonne.”
“Speak for yourself,” she replies as the guard cracks a smile.
“Is an armed guard really necessary?” I ask Alvetta.
“We’re starting the bidding at a hundred thousand dollars, so yes, I’d say so,” she replies. “Sotheby’s did the valuation, and they are handling the live auction. It should be starting soon. We’re about to close the silent auction, so you two should get any final bids in.”
“I guess we should. It was nice to see you, Alvetta.”
“You too,” she says. “I hope you’ll come to service again sometime soon.” She gives us each a quick peck on the cheek and darts off to speak with a gentleman near the podium, the auctioneer, I assume.
Wavonne and I continue to walk the room, and it’s not long before we are both thoroughly frustrated at the starting bids on most of the items.
“There’s nothin’ here for me,” Wavonne says, defeated.
“They really did price things quite high.” As I say this I try to think of some of the less expensive items we’ve seen tonight. There was a very small Coach wallet that started with a bid of two hundred dollars, but it was a simple leather piece and way too conservative for Wavonne. Some of the scarves and belts had starting bids under one hundred dollars, but I think Wavonne really had her heart set on a purse or a pair of shoes.
Murder with Macaroni and Cheese Page 23
