Your mother’s name was Gabrielle Garrity. When I met her she was performing in vaudeville as a clown named Cinnamon. She wore sloppy tramp clothing so the audience wouldn’t see her as a woman but as a funny hobo. And she wore white clown make-up so the audience would never know she was a Negro.
I met her after a show at the old Hippodrome. I’d written a script for a play and had been scouring the theatres of New York for the perfect actress. Even in the tramp clothing and the garish paint I could see she was beautiful. I believe I fell in love with her the moment she walked on stage. And I began to love her the moment I held her hand in mine backstage.
We were inseparable from that day in 1921 to the day of her death. Understand this, I would have married Gabrielle at any time, regardless of her racial heritage but I was trapped in a loveless marriage with Irene, who refused to give me a divorce.
You were born in 1924. Gabrielle had been living in Harlem but I persuaded her to move next door to Irene and me. And so began two lies to Irene. She did not know I loved Gabrielle and she did not know that Gabrielle’s child, Charlotte Garrity—you—was also mine. And so we all lived as neighbors for five years until Irene realized the truth.
I have no real proof that Irene murdered Gabrielle. What I do know is that Gabrielle begged off our excursion to the movie theatre that day, pleading a headache. She asked if we would still take you with us. I thought nothing of it when Irene said she wanted to bring a basket of food to Gabrielle and suggested I take you to the lobby and wait for her. When we returned home, my beloved Gabrielle was dead. A pillow lay beside her and that pillow had bloodstains on it. The police did not investigate. “Another colored woman in Hell’s Kitchen dies.” They didn’t care. The October crash of Wall Street was the news for weeks, for months, for years.
I insisted that we take you in and raise you. I do not know if my determination to keep you and give you my name was the cause for Irene’s growing madness or if the guilt over her murder finally grew too much for her, but within a year Irene took her own life. She left a note that said, ‘Cinnamon keeps winning no matter what I do.’
So we have lived as father and daughter, which in truth we are, although the world believes you to be the child of my neighbor and me a kind man who couldn’t bear to see that child sent to an orphanage. To the world I am your legal guardian.
I’m telling you this today because I wanted you to know the truth, but also because I believe in this more enlightened year of 1939 I will be able to legally adopt you and let you carry the Asher name. Your name.
Gabrielle’s favorite poem was ‘The Snow Man ’from the book Harmonium, which I have read to you so often through these last ten years. I hid a copy of the book -one I had hoped to give to Gabrielle before she died - out in Harmony Studios in New Jersey so that no one would guess who you were. Gabrielle used to say that because you were her little ‘January sun.’ The child with a ‘mind of winter.’ She called herself the ‘listener, who listens in snow.’ I believe she listens now in snow to every beat of your heart. Her heart and mine in you.
Always remember she loved you.
Your loving and ‘true’ father,
Daniel
Johnny gently laid the letter down on the coffee table and offered me the box of tissues that had been tossed onto a book about the prophecies of Nostradamus. I grabbed about six tissues and dabbed my eyes, then blew my nose without regard for losing make-up or sounding like a goose in heat.
Johnny waited until the flood had subsided a bit, then put his arms around me and simply held me. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
After about three minutes I sighed and moved away just enough so I could see his face.
He smiled at me. “You sentimental minx, you.”
“Yeah, yeah. I noticed you’re not making hysterically witty quips either, Mr. Gerard and I do believe you’ve either developed a quick allergy or there’s a suspicious dampness around those Irish green eyes of yours as well.”
“I admit it. I am also a sap.” He sat up straight, then rose from the couch and headed back to the shelves where the vinyl records were. He scanned those shelves for a second as though waiting for more revelations, then turned back to me. “You do realize we’ve just been told by the late Daniel Asher that his wife murdered the love of his life?”
“And it’s pretty obvious that Colette is the great-something of Daniel and Cinnamon. I guess Charlotte—better known as Charlie—married someone named Currie at some point.”
“Which still doesn’t tell us why Colette was killed. Maybe that locker holds patents or that silent movie?”
I rose as well but stayed by the couch staring at another photo. This one was smaller and far more recent and had been pasted on the opposite side of the scrapbook page featuring Cinnamon, Daniel and Charlie. “I don’t think it matters. I mean, yeah, it matters but I believe I’ve just discovered a different motive and a killer we never suspected.”
Johnny’s eyebrows rose. I clutched the page tightly. “I am looking at a photo of Colette Currie with a small child. Taken at the Bronx Zoo. It’s very cute. A child who, now that I’ve seen a picture of Charlie Garrity Asher, I realize resembles Colette and Charlie very much. One of the last things Colette whispered was ‘history repeats.’”
Johnny didn’t even need to see the photo but I brought it to him anyway. He spoke before even glancing at the picture. “Ellie Hayward. Not Julian’s niece—but his daughter.” He paused before adding, “his—and Colette’s.”
“‘History repeats.’ That's what Colette said. Angry wives. Cinnamon was murdered by Irene Asher. And Colette was murdered by Sheri Hayward.”
Chapter 37
“The slut got what she deserved.”
Johnny and I both turned toward the front door of Colette’s apartment. Sheri Hayward, killer, stood in the entranceway, her neighbor's key dangling from a wrist bracelet, which left her hands free for the gun she was holding.
“No one deserves that,” I muttered.
I couldn’t tell whether she’d heard me or not. She was gazing around the apartment—Colette’s apartment—like an arsonist preparing to drop the match. Her next words could have been directed at me, at Johnny or at an absent Colette and Julian.
“Did they think I was stupid? Our family lived on the Upper West Side for more than ten years. And four months ago Julian announces that a favorite cousin of his in South Carolina had died and he’d been named legal guardian of her child, Gabrielle. So a half-black brat moves in and four months later Julian announces that this great three-bedroom apartment in Hell’s Kitchen had opened up and we could move because our place was too small for three children. It wasn’t until the furniture was in place that I realized our upstairs neighbor was Colette Currie. Efficient little bitch. She got Julian the job on that awful soap opera. She got Julian the apartment. And then I met her. One look at Colette after having her brat living with me for four months and I knew.”
I was afraid to make a sound or a movement. Sheri was rambling but she was also getting very close to confessing to Colette’s murder. Not that it would matter. No one would know except Johnny and me and neither of us was exactly in a position to tell anyone.
Sheri’s eyes quit roaming and rested on two of us standing like proverbial shooting gallery carnival ducks up against the bookcase. I didn’t see anything I could use as a weapon like a nice poker or a can of bug spray or even a heavy vase.
Sheri smiled and pointed the gun at my midsection. “Do not wander, Ms. Fouchet. It isn’t polite. I’m telling you a story. That’s what you’ve wanted for these last weeks, isn’t it? The story of a woman who tried to get away with stealing my husband and didn’t.”
I just stared at her. There wasn’t much else to do.
She was definitely wound up and determined to have her say. Which, if we’d been sitting in an interrogation room at the Columbus Circle police precinct would have been fine, dandy, lovely and very enlightening. As it was, I was determ
ined to listen. I would not faint, scream, have the kind of accident four-year olds have when deprived of the facilities, or attempt to run out of the room and doubtless be shot in the back for that type of insanity.
“Julian and I went through a period of separation six years ago. The bastard wanted to leave me. He walked out on me. And he met—her. Of all the women to have an affair with! I was humiliated. I told him I wouldn’t give him a divorce and if he wanted to see his children, he’d come back to me. He did. But the affair wasn’t over.”
Johnny was braver than I. “But why shoot her?”
Sheri’s eyes narrowed. “Because it was all coming out! Bad enough she and Julian and that child were together all the time. But she waltzes into our apartment—my apartment— one evening and tells Julian that she’s found this ridiculous movie. This god-awful old movie that tells the world all about her black grandmother and her white grandfather and their little half-breed. Something about ‘January.’ I didn’t care. I knew that this kind of thing would be a publicity dream for them and a nightmare for me. Everyone would find out that Julian’s slut lived upstairs and that his own bastard lived with us. I had to stop her.”
I was still terrified of that gun but I had to ask, “And Diamond?”
“The bitch saw me put the note on her bag. She knew I was the one who wanted to hear those famous final words you were so determined to keep to yourself. I had to know if Colette had named me after I shot her. Diamond started small with her demands. ‘Sheri, I want to rent a snazzy red Corvette like my boyfriend has for this afternoon. Sheri, I want two thousand dollars in cash at the end of the week.’ It wasn’t going to end. So I took care of it.”
She smiled. I’ve seen rattlesnakes in Texas with that same smile and far less venom.
“I’m truly sorry I have to do this. I do enjoy your work on the soap. But they'll find someone else." She ignored Johnny. I supposed she wasn’t a fan of Gregory Noble. Or any and all Broadway musicals. Whatever. He and I were about to be all dead.
Unless.
It hadn’t worked too well for the character of Thea Donovan in that scene in the Fontana Inn for Endless Time but it was worth a try. I stared at Johnny. He stared back. We were in silent communication and we were going to act, no matter what.
I could see Johnny’s pinky finger lift. And the instant it fell, we rushed her. Both of us began screaming like banshees on a crack high and tackled her at the same time. It should have worked. But however crazy and rotten and evil Sheri Hayward was, she was also extremely smart. She saw it coming. She was able to get off a shot as I dropped to the floor and Johnny was leaping over a footstool to get to her.
Amazingly, the bullet went zinging past my shoulder and ended up in the turntable. But I was now hugging the floor and I figured getting up from there wasn’t going to be an easy feat. Sheri had immediately turned the gun toward Johnny and fired again. I sent prayers of thanks that the gun only fired one bullet at a time. If it had been one of those multi-round weapons, we’d’ve been speaking to Colette and Gabrielle rather than yelling to each other to dive, roll and run —in between yelling at Sheri to stop. Johnny had been hit. I could see blood gushing from his left arm and had the incongruous and inappropriate thought that it was good since he's right-handed. I say incongruous and inappropriate because honestly, would Saint Peter care which hand Johnny signed the ledger with at the pearly gates? Wouldn’t Pete sign for him or let me do the honors? Delirium. I was in panic mode delirium.
And Sheri wasn’t quitting.
I continued diving, rolling and crawling (hard to run on one’s hands and knees) and tried to get close enough to her to tackle her although she was at least eight inches taller than I so it was going to be tricky unless I also was able to get a higher start. She was still very calm. She did pause for a second as though trying to decide if it was more prudent to finish off a wounded Johnny or go for the wildly active Abby
That pause gave me just enough time. I grabbed the album cover to Minstrel in the Gallery that had held the scrapbook pages and I threw it at her. It wasn’t heavy enough to do any damage but it startled her and made her lower the gun for another few seconds.
Which was when Johnny managed to knock that gun out of her hand using one of the heavy coffee table books he’d found on the floor. She screamed with rage and bent down to retrieve the weapon.
And Johnny walloped her in the chin with his good right hand. She went down without a whimper.
I’d reached both of them by this time. I picked up the gun and gripped it tightly, then politely handed it to the man who’d just entered through the still-open door of Colette’s apartment. Gordon Clark. Followed by an angry, frantic and very frightened Julian Hayward.
Chapter 38
“Who wants corn bread, who wants pecan pie, who wants ribs and who wants sweet potatoes and gravy?” Ivan inquired.
“Those don’t really go together, Ivan,” I stated mildly.
“And when has that ever stopped you from eating mounds of poorly combined foods?” Shay asked.
I ignored her. “Who’s left to arrive?”
I glanced around Leroy's. Madam Euphoria, Shay, Ivan and I had spent the last thirty minutes rearranging chairs. Johnny had spent the last thirty minutes bitching about not being able to help with the lifting because his left arm was still in a sling.
Shay waved to Gordon, who was just entering the soul food diner, carrying a large envelope tucked under his arm and declared, “I don’t care. I’ve got my date. We can start anytime.”
“Ah. Thank you so much, Shay, for being so unselfish about anyone who isn’t you or Detective Clark. Now excuse me while I snort loudly having said that.”
“What is she saying about me?” Gordon asked as he reached our seats. He bent down and gave Shay a kiss.
“Nothing about you. As usual, Shay was being Shay.” I winked at him. “I’m so glad you were able to come today.”
“Me too. I’ve told everyone at the precinct I am off duty unless there’s a Martian attack, which isn’t likely.” He took a seat next to Shay. “So, who’s coming?” He waved at Jane/Euphoria who was helping her fiancé bring out the poorly combined and extremely tasty grub.
“Close friends and family only. There’ll be another showing for the cast of Endless Time and Taylor Mills and even Geoff Murray and Billie-Clare Buchanan later.
“What! Why do they get to come to a special showing?” Shay demanded.
“I felt bad about accusing them of murder even though they never knew it. That's Taylor, Geoff and Billie-Clare. Not the soap cast. Oh. Kenny-Anne Townshend is also invited to that particular viewing but she may not come since she’s in the middle of divorcing Kaleb after all of six months or less marriage. Kaleb, by the way, was not invited. Oh cool! I see Julian and his tribe and they look a little lost. I’ll go rescue them.”
I ran to the front of the diner and received major hugs from Ellie and Julian. The boys were a bit shyer about the public affection bit but the boys also still appeared somewhat traumatized by the events of the past couple of week. Doubtless watching one’s mother marched off in handcuffs followed by nightly news stories isn’t conducive to keeping stress levels low.
“Hi! Come on back to the table with us. Best seat in the house.” I smiled.
“Doesn’t appear to be a bad seat anywhere,” Julian said. “But would you prefer to watch without the Hayward clan around your neck?”
I shook my head. “I love the Hayward clan. We have tons of experts to guide the younger Hayward clan in the mysteries of film. Shay can explain the whys of certain shots being filmed in such and such a way. Johnny and I can give y’all the benefit of my acting skills to explain the whys of eyes opening or lashes fluttering.”
Ellie grabbed my hand. “Are we really going to see my great-great grandmamma?”
“We are. Although it may be even one more great than that. We still have to figure out the full genealogy of your family,” I told her.
She shru
gged like a world-weary woman of sixty. “It doesn’t matter. I am descended from Cinnamon the clown and my mommy was Colette the actress. I intend to carry on the family tradition.” She grinned at me. “Whacha think?”
“I think you’re already carrying on the family tradition. You are full of sophistication and class, Ms. Ellie, mixed with a large helping of ham.”
“Well, I don’t know what sophistication is but my daddy Julian tells me I’m definitely full of it.”
I lost it. “Come on, young lady. I have no response to that and the crazy tall lady in the wacky bronze long robe thingee is waiting at our table with goodies for all of you.”
Julian quietly murmured as we headed back to where Shay and Gordon had found a spot and were raptly enjoying each other's company. “Thank you. For everything. I haven’t had a chance to tell you but my family is truly grateful.”
“Ah nuts, Julian. I didn’t do anything. Really. Managed to find a few lost pages of family history.”
“And allow the truth to come out. Allow justice to be done. Allow Ellie to grow up without the hatred spewing from that woman I married. Allow me to be free. Allow Colette’s wishes to be known.”
I couldn’t speak for a moment. I simply nodded.
We reached the table. The kids immediately dove into the feast, starting backwards with the pecan pie. More handshakes from Shay and Gordon. I looked around for Johnny but didn’t see him. I figured he might have gone outside to wait for Aura Lee who had magically phoned to tell us she was in Manhattan and would be delighted to join us. I glanced at Julian again. I realized he had snow on his jacket so Johnny probably wouldn’t wait long.
“Blizzard yet?” I asked.
Shay answered, “Let’s just say it’s more than nice dusting. Insane for June in New York. But if the film runs more than four hours, we may have to hunker down here for the night. Not to make bad puns after hearing about your clues but there’s definitely a cold wind blowing.”
Cold Wind to Valhalla (Abby Fouchet Mysteries Book 3) Page 25
