A Glimmer of Death

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  “You read me like a cop.”

  “That’s because I used to be one.” He broke into a smile.

  “How often do the police interview witnesses at the scene of the crime?”

  He thought for a moment. “Depends on the suspects, depends on the crime.” He sounded like Aunt Phoenix talking about the glimmer.

  “The police interviewed our staff today at the office, in the room where Risko was shot. Does that mean they suspect one of us?”

  “Could be. Like I said, depends on the suspects, depends on the crime. From the little you’ve told me, sounds like it was an inside job.”

  “Please don’t tell me that!”

  “Remember the warning I gave you,” he said, turning serious. “I don’t mean to scare you, but it’s not easy to tell who is or isn’t a killer. Your murderer may not know the rage is growing inside. Sometimes folks don’t know they have a killer inside until it’s out. I’ve known fighters, some of the sweetest guys you’d ever want to meet, get in the ring and the beast will claw its way out. Take Mike Tyson. Remember him? He loved those pigeons he kept on the roof when he was a kid. First fight he had was because somebody killed one of those birds. You never know what will bring out the devil in you.”

  “Not everybody has a devil in them.”

  “Yeah, they do. But it’s got to get poked,” he said with conviction.

  I finished up dinner, and Lennox wrapped up an extra chicken leg, some mac and cheese, and a slice of that dreadful apple pie, reminding me to get back to him about the baker. I promised I would.

  When I walked in the door, Juniper greeted me with his usual beg-a-thon show for treats.

  “At least I know there’s no devil in you,” I said as I delivered his request for Temptations, reading the list of ingredients and musing aloud, yet again, why these particular treats had such a hold on my pet. I picked him up, hugged him, and he jumped out of my arms, scampering to the pantry where I kept them. “Or maybe you do have the devil in you,” I said, giving him a few more. He gobbled them up, looked for even more, then ran into the living room and settled down on his favorite cushion on the couch. I had no discipline when it came to Juniper, and he knew it. It was good to be home, though, cheered by my dear little pet, who always lifted my spirits. When I thought about the young couple that rented the apartment, my feelings soared even higher.

  Do you know any charms to ensure happiness? I texted Aunt Phoenix, hoping against hope she knew some special kind of magic.

  Are U Kidding Me?! If I did, I’d sell them she quickly texted back. I could always count on Aunt Phoenix to deliver a dose of reality. But even my aunt didn’t dampen my spirits.

  I brewed some chamomile tea and poured it into my favorite oversized china cup, adding more honey than it needed, then watched a rerun of Downton Abbey, escaping into the trials and tribulations of the British aristocracy, which had absolutely no connection to me or anyone I knew. I’d told Lennox I’d check with my contact about expanding their business, my “contact” being Darryl. “Answer me in my dreams,” I whispered when I got into bed that night because he often would, and he did that night, in that place inside me where he still lived. Time for D&D Delights to grow. Go where you’re meant to, my love, came into my thoughts.

  I woke up, knowing it was a dream, but not yet ready to let his voice go. I had my answer. When the phone rang a few moments later, I let it ring a while before picking up. I knew who it was even before I heard his voice.

  Chapter 7

  Dessa, it’s me, Harley. I’m in jail. Grovesville city jail. They picked me up for killing Charlie, said my prints were on the gun, said I shot him. There’s not another person in this world I can call except you. I put you on my list. Hope that’s okay. Can you come down here? I need you to do something for me.

  I’d known it was him so the gift finally was earning its keep or maybe I had simply added stuff up: Bertie’s bar chatter, Harley’s absence, suspicious cops asking where he was—that, along with the anxiety black women get whenever the law starts asking questions about black men they know. And this was not my first rodeo.

  When I was a kid, my father was picked up for a mugging done by a man twice his height with skin three times lighter. Darryl had been pulled over more times than I can count, always for that old dependable catchall: DWB (Driving While Black, for the uninitiated). A part of me had always feared Harley Wilde might end up in somebody’s crosshairs sooner or later, and now it had happened.

  The despair in his voice stunned me. I’d always assumed Harley had family and friends, and his plaintive cry for help surprised me. Was I really the only one he could count on? And what did he want me to do? God knows, I didn’t have any money for bail. Hopefully, he just wanted me to contact a family member, which he must have somewhere—a doting mother or loving aunt who kept an eye on him and stayed in his business, a best friend near his own age, a girlfriend he kept tucked away in his heart and never mentioned—at least not to me. He acted like a tough, go-it-alone dude, but I knew men who played that role and were anything but that. I was reminded again how little I knew about him. Maybe he was guilty. What if the police were right? Should I trust him?

  Not everybody has a devil in them.

  Yeah, they do. But it’s got to get poked.

  Had Charlie Risko poked Harley Wilde’s devil?

  There was no point in trying to sleep. I was up now, fully awake. I went downstairs to the kitchen and brewed some coffee, stronger even than the stuff I’d had at Royal’s last Friday. With Juniper traipsing behind me hoping for treats, I went back upstairs to the spare bedroom that served as our home office. It was a room I seldom used, except to pay bills online when I had the money. A stack of unpaid ones faced me now, and I tried to ignore them. A couple of catalogs, which I also ignored, were piled on the side of the desk. I tossed them into a wastebasket to clear up space and settled behind the desk.

  This had been Darryl’s place where he wrote lesson plans, did research, and kept his notes and observations about the kids he taught. It wasn’t large but had enough space for a couch, desk, chair, and a tall IKEA bookcase crowded with textbooks, teaching materials, and the dozens of cookbooks I’d bought over the years. The room was musty, and I opened a window to let in the cold night air, which chilled me until I got used to it. The good thing was it would keep me awake. I turned on the computer, an old Dell, constantly urging me to upgrade to Windows 10, which I hadn’t bothered to do. Big mistake.

  Apparently giving up his quest for treats, Juniper sauntered into the room and settled down on the couch for a nap. “What should I do?” I said to myself and the cat, even though I knew the answer: I had to get up tomorrow morning, go to the jail, and listen to what the man had to say.

  I need you to do something for me.

  Offering to pay his bail was out of the question; he knew that because I was always borrowing a couple of dollars from him. What did he want?

  There’s not another person in this world I can call.

  Who would I call if I found myself in similar circumstances? Aunt Phoenix. I chuckled at the thought. I’d have to think hard and long about sending that text.

  Said my prints were on the gun, said I shot him.

  “How the heck did they get on the gun if you didn’t shoot him?” I asked an absent Harley, surprised by the depth of my anger. Juniper, taking note of my tone, picked up his head, perked his ears, then jumped on the desk and trotted across the keyboard, as he always does whenever someone is getting ready to write. I shoved him off the desk and smiled at his antics despite myself.

  “Okay,” I said aloud, to myself, Juniper, and . . . Harley. “I’ll need to ask you myself.”

  Darryl was a great one for googling. It was his essential source of information on anything from recent academic studies to determining the longest—or shortest word—in the world. I thought about that and typed the words how to visit someone in jail on the screen.

  I stayed up for the next few hou
rs researching jails, what Harley was facing, and what I had to do to visit him. He was in a city jail, not a state or federal prison, a lucky thing for him. He’d been arrested and still had to face arraignment, plead guilty or innocent, and then be scheduled for trial. Harley had known enough about incarceration to put me on his visiting list. Had he been down this road before?

  I still had lingering doubts about getting involved. We were just coworkers, after all. I really didn’t owe him anything. I could hear Aunt Phoenix warning me to stay away. Yet I could also hear Darryl (a kinder angel) telling me to help Harley out in any way that I could. I’d promised myself when he left me I would honor the kind of man he was. No. I didn’t owe Harley; I owed my husband.

  I studied the website of the city jail to find out when visiting hours were. I was in luck. They were from 1:00 until 3:00 tomorrow. I also noted the visitation rules: Call before leaving in case there was a lockdown. Dress appropriately—no halter tops, miniskirts, or see-through blouses. (They didn’t have to worry about that.) Bring a driver’s license. Be prepared to go through security. I fell asleep at the computer, crawled back into bed, and woke up the next morning at 10:00 a.m. By noon, I was in line with other visitors, family members, and friends all waiting to see loved ones . . . and otherwise.

  We were led into a gray, windowless room about the size of a high school cafeteria. People sat on either side of me, avoiding the eyes of others as they spoke in hushed voices. Guards, solemn faced and unsmiling, watched each move we made. Some visitors had bought food and soda from the vending machines in the waiting room, which they arranged in front of them as if they were at a party. When we were all seated, the inmates were allowed to come into the room accompanied by vigilant guards.

  Harley sat across from me. Neither of us spoke. All the light was gone from his face. Fear was in his eyes with no trace of the young man who once brought me lattes, drove fast on his bike, with a loud laugh or good word tucked inside him. He looked shorter, thinner, swallowed by the inmate clothes that hung off his body.

  “Thank you, Dessa, for coming. I . . .” He stopped, his voice choking up. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you, putting you on the list, coming to a place like this. I know we don’t know each other all that well. I know . . .” He stopped again, and cleared his throat. “I didn’t do this, Dessa. I didn’t shoot that man. They’re going to kill me for killing him and I didn’t do it.”

  I studied his face, his eyes, seeking out any truth I could find.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked, his gaze holding me tight.

  “Did you do it?” I whispered, aware of the others sitting on either side of us, but they were involved in their own conversations, hungrily savoring the bit of time they had with those they had come to see.

  “I was there, but I didn’t kill him. He was a jerk, but I didn’t hate him enough to shoot him.”

  “Then how did your prints get on the gun?”

  He paused, leaning close to whisper, “Remember how he was always taking that damn thing out and slamming it on his desk, bragging about knowing folks in high places so he could use it and get away with it? He liked to see people look scared. He was that kind of a bully. You know that as well as I do.”

  That was certainly the truth, and I nodded in agreement.

  “Well, he pulled that thing out when I was there this time like he was going to shoot me, then slapped it down on his desk. I’ve seen people get shot, killed, over nothing. You don’t do that kind of mess unless you mean it. You don’t threaten people just for the hell of it. I cursed him out, picked the gun up, and slammed it right down in front of him where he’d put it. He looked at me funny, then started laughing. I laughed, too, because he looked so damned foolish.

  “Charlie Risko wasn’t nothing but a clown, a BS artist. We both knew there was no way he was going to shoot me or anybody else. He was nothing but a joke. I cursed him out again, and left through the alley door because my bike was parked nearby.” He paused as if remembering something, and then added, “You know when you hear something and then you don’t? Like a ghost whispering?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I knew about ghost whispers; they were right up there with glimmers.

  “Well, I thought I heard him talking to somebody after I left before he slammed the back door, but I was so mad I didn’t give a damn. I got on my bike and got the hell out of there. Might have been talking to himself, for all I know.”

  “Did you mention that to the cops?”

  “They found my prints on the gun. They don’t want to hear nothing from me. They heard I was the last person in the office at the end of the day. They don’t want to hear anything else. They got their man and that’s me.”

  He paused again, as if remembering something else, and then shook his head with a surprising, thin smile. “I’ve known that fool since I got back from Afghanistan. I came to work for him because I wanted to save some money to go back to school. My mother was dying. I needed more money than I was making; that’s how I got involved with him and his crazy, dirty schemes in the first place.”

  “Crazy, dirty schemes?” I asked, puzzled by his choice of words.

  “It was all show with Charlie, everything he did was show,” he continued, not answering my question. “I knew killers when I was in Afghanistan. Real killers. Charlie wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t a threat to me or anybody else. He wasn’t nothing but a spoiled rich boy playing tough in places he had no business playing. Dennis Lane was the one you had to look out for. He was the real thing. If there was anything Charlie should have been shot for it was getting the girls tied up in that mess he was running, dirtying them up like he did.”

  “What girls?”

  He leaned back in the seat, sighed deeply, focusing his gaze back on me as he changed the subject. “I guess you want to know why I called you over here, don’t you? I better tell you quick before I got to go. I need you to do something important for me.”

  Now I was the one to sigh. “Harley, you know I don’t have any money. I . . .”

  He shook his head, that old Harley smile peeking through. “Listen, Dessa, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me in here. The courts are backed up, and when they arrested me they said it might be a while before my trial. I’ll plead not guilty, and they’ll get me some kind of a lawyer. They’ll probably put me on house arrest with an ankle restraint so I can’t go anywhere because that’s what they do these days. It’s cheaper than putting you in jail until your trial. But I’m liable to lose my apartment and everything in it. I have a couple of things I need you to get for me.”

  “These things you want me to get, they’re not illegal, are they?” I was only half joking.

  “You know me better than that!”

  “Do I?” I didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one.

  “I need you to get my mama’s Bible and keep it for me. I gave most of the stuff to her reading club friends after she died. That Bible is all I have left from her. That and Parker.”

  “Parker?”

  He smiled shyly. “Mom’s parakeet. My mom’s been gone about three years. She was allergic to fur so a dog or cat was out, and I wanted to get her something to keep her company while I was out riding. I moved her in with me the year before she died, and she brought Parker with her. I’ve gotten attached to him. He’s social, likes to sing.”

  “Likes to sing?” I said doubtfully.

  “Can he stay with you, until, well . . . whenever? There’s some money in an old wallet in my bureau drawer. About four hundred bucks. Take that to cover his food and stuff. He doesn’t need much, just birdseed and company.”

  Harley, with his fast motorcycle, black leather jacket, and irreverence didn’t strike me as a parakeet kind of man. Nor the kind of man who would care for an ailing mother during her last days, nor be concerned about a singing parakeet and a Bible. What else didn’t I know?

  “Sure, don’t worry about it,” I said without half thinking about it. Then an image of Tweedy
and Sylvester, aka Parker and Juniper, popped into my mind.

  “An extra key is taped under my mailbox. Feel around for it. I tucked it in real tight.”

  “Anything else you want me to do?” I was in for a dime, might as well be in for a dollar.

  He shook his head. “Hope I get a good lawyer or . . .”

  He didn’t finish the sentence and I didn’t push him. Maybe I should have.

  His jaw stiffened. “Somebody killed Charlie Risko. It had to be somebody we work with, who knew our history. Whoever it is, is still out there, so don’t let anybody know we talked. Stay away from this, Dessa. From people in the office.”

  “I don’t know how I can do that. I still work there.”

  “Promise you will,” he asked like a kid.

  “Okay, I promise. With a cherry on top!” I added on impulse. He looked puzzled. “Before your time,” I added.

  He reached across the divide and grabbed my hand like a kid might, and I thought about his mother, three years gone, and the son I’d never have. Then something happened between us that only Aunt Phoenix would understand. Suddenly, I knew Harley was innocent. He had a glimmer, as strong as the one of Louella’s that had made me want to cry, and as heartbreaking as Vinton’s that made me sad. I knew it with absolute certainty in that place between my head and my heart I’d always doubted was there. It told me that if I did nothing else in my life, I had to keep this young man out of jail.

  “You okay, Dessa? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I think I have.”

  “If it’s Charlie Risko, tell him I’ll kick his butt when I see him in hell,” Harley said, and we both laughed hard at that because we needed to laugh at something. When visiting hours were over, Harley gave me one last look before he went back to wherever they took him, tossing me that old Harley smile, if only for a second.

  * * *

  My bond to Harley had been like that coffee that jolted me back to life in the afternoon; seeing the glimmer changed everything. Going to jail for years would kill him for sure. These few days had diminished his spirit. I needed advice—free advice—and I needed it quick. I didn’t know squat about the criminal justice system, except I didn’t trust it. I thought again about my poor father. He would have gone to state prison, except the guilty guy showed up out of nowhere and confessed out of the blue. Sheer luck, the arresting officer said. Although my aunt never said so, my mother and I guessed the truth—that Aunt Phoenix had a hand in it. I didn’t think she’d intervene for someone who wasn’t kin.