by Angela Henry
“My new display. Come and see,” he replied, ushering me toward the back of the shop from which he’d emerged only moments before.
I allowed him to lead me into a small room just off the shop’s main area. He flipped a switch on the wall and I felt as though I’d stepped into a shrine. The entire room was wall-to-wall Vivianne. The walls were adorned with posters from every one of her movies, including Demon Kitty. There were mannequins dressed in her movie costumes. I recognized the black skirt and yellow halter top from Asphalt City, and the midnight-blue evening gown she wore as torch singer Ginger Nolan in the movie Club Savoy. There were autographed pictures and movie props: the silk cushions she lounged on as scheming harem girl Yasmeen in the movie Arabian Adventure, the sparkling silver crown she wore during her guest starring role as alien Queen Zenobia on an episode of Star Trek, and the nunchacku she used as ass-kicking private eye Sassy Parker in the early seventies blaxploitation movies Sassy Mama and Sassy Mama’s Revenge. There was even a crate full of copies of her unmemorable one and only album, ViVi Sings, which one harsh music critic said should have the word badly tacked on the end of the title.
I wondered what Vivianne would have thought of her entire career laid out in this little room. Would she have been flattered or, like me, wondering if Donald Cabot had a cage in his basement with her name on it? I could feel Cabot’s eyes on me awaiting my reaction. I certainly didn’t want to disappoint or offend him since I’d yet to get the information I’d come for.
“This is amazing. How in the world did you get all of this stuff? Is all this authentic?”
Cabot had been grinning until I asked about the authenticity of his display, then a frown eclipsed his face and he got a little huffy. “Of course it’s all authentic. Most of it came from memorabilia auctions, and the rest I bought from private sellers.”
I noticed some of the items weren’t movie-related and must have been Vivianne’s personal things. The movie stuff didn’t have prices, but the personal items had tags on them. I looked at the tag on a cream-colored lace slip and had to keep my jaw from dropping. Donald Cabot was charging an arm and a leg to anybody who wanted a piece of Vivianne.
“I didn’t realize this kind of stuff would be so valuable,” I said.
“To be honest, there hasn’t been much interest in Vivianne’s memorabilia in quite some time. But now that’s she’s dead there’s been renewed interest in everything to do with her. You’re looking at the single largest collection of Vivianne DeArmond memorabilia in the world and it’s only going to get bigger,” he announced beaming.
“Really. Why is that?”
“Let’s just say I’ve tapped into a new source,” he said coyly. Based on what I’d witnessed yesterday, I knew who the new source must be.
“Am I the first one to see this new display?”
“Actually, I was quite honored to have Vivianne’s ex-husband and former manager, Cliff Preston, attend a private viewing of the collection. He even brought his wife and son with him. He was quite impressed.”
“Wow. When was this?” I asked excitedly. My enthusiasm may have been fake but not my interest in his answer.
“Hmm. Let’s see,” he said concentrating. “It was last Friday evening, the night before the awards ceremony. I was hoping he’d bring Vivianne with him but no such luck.” He shook his head sadly.
“How’d he even know about your display?”
“Oh, I contacted him months ago when I first heard the Starburst Film Festival was going to be honoring her. It was long overdue in my opinion,” he sniffed. “Anyway, I wrote and told him I was putting together a display and invited him to view it. I wrote to Vivianne, too, of course, but she never responded. I just know that assistant of hers probably never even gave her my letter.” I nodded in commiseration.
I’d witnessed Kurt Preston and Noelle Delaney selling a box to Donald Cabot. It had obviously held some of Vivianne’s things. I wondered if Kurt had known his mother’s memorabilia would become so valuable once she was dead. Did he get tired of her refusing to give him money and come up with a deadly plan after seeing this display? Was Noelle involved, as well? She certainly needed money, too. If I was right and Kurt and Noelle had something to do with his mother’s murder, I knew Harmon and Mercer would want proof. Even if they didn’t believe me, at least they’d have someone else to be suspicious of besides my sister.
“To be honest, Mr. Cabot, I’ve come here because I have a small collection myself. I collect items owned by local stars. I’d like to buy something for my collection. Is everything here for sale?” I said looking around the small room.
“Everything is for sale. What would you like?” Donald Cabot said his face glowing with excitement.
“I’m not quite sure. Do you have any suggestions? Are these all of Vivianne’s things or do you have more that I haven’t seen?” I asked carefully.
“This is everything. I think I may have just the thing for you, it came in yesterday. Vivianne was said to be quite the collector when it came to purses, although this is the only one I have,” Cabot said gesturing toward a small black beaded evening bag perching on top of the white dresser used in Vivianne’s romantic comedy Nightie Night.
I walked over and picked the bag up. It was an unusual triangle shape. The sides and bottom of the bag were stiff, silk-covered, and heavily beaded. The top was soft black cloth and closed completely when I pulled the velvet drawstring. It sort of looked like a small ornate laundry bag. I examined the price tag. Ouch. At a hundred and fifty bucks it wasn’t cheap. Not surprisingly, it was the least expensive thing on display and I knew I had to buy it to prove to Cabot I was serious. Plus, the bag was pretty cute and I needed a new black one. I’d been looking on my usual trips to Déjà Vu thrift store without luck.
“I’ll take it,” I said holding the bag out to Cabot. He grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Excellent, though I have to warn you, this wasn’t used in any of her movies. This was a personal item, though she was photographed with it.” He gestured to a black-and-white photo of Vivianne in a beaded evening gown with the purse looped around her wrist. “I just had the picture of her with the purse until yesterday. I was so pleased to actually add the purse to the display.”
“Wonderful. It’ll be perfect for my collection,” I told his back as I followed him up front. “I’d be interested in seeing more of Vivianne’s handbag collection. Would you happen to be able to give me the name of the person who sold you this one?”
He didn’t answer me and I realized he was waiting for his money. I pulled out my checkbook and blew my grocery budget for a month. I held the check just out of his reach and he looked at me impatiently.
“Your seller? Do you know if he has any more of Vivianne’s handbags?” I said, waving the check in front of his face. His greedy little eyes glittered behind his thick glasses.
“That information is confidential,” he said reaching again for the check, which I still held out of his reach.
“You can’t help me at all? I’m willing to pay top dollar.” The mention of money practically made Cabot salivate.
“How about I tell my seller of your interest and see what else he may have?”
“I’d really like to talk to the seller myself if that’s possible. Of course, you’ll handle any sales that result from this meeting,” I added quickly when I saw the scowl pop up on his face at the mention of meeting with his seller.
“Leave me your name and number and I’ll see what I can do,” he said, reaching out and snatching the check. I gave him my name and number and left with my new purse.
When I got home there was a gold Mercedes Benz parked in front of my duplex. I got out and walked up the front steps. Morris Rollins was sitting on the porch with Mrs. Carson. Just great. He was the last person I wanted to see. The two were laughing like old friends even though I knew Mrs. Carson didn’t have a high opinion of Holy Cross and disapproved of Reverend Rollins’s popularity with the ladies. I was tickled to
see that even my seventy-two-year-old landlady wasn’t immune to Rollins’s charm. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Here she is,” said Mrs. Carson when they finally noticed me coming up the steps. Rollins stood up, making a striking figure even casually dressed in his tan pants and white crew-necked shirt. I could smell his Lagerfeld cologne as I approached the porch. I wondered if Winette Barlow liked the way he smelled, then realized it was really none of my business.
“Hello,” I called out, forcing a smile.
“I’ve got some news for you about Lynette,” he said, trotting down the steps to meet me halfway.
“You saw her?” I stopped and looked up at him. The sunshine made his brown skin glow.
“No. But she called and I know where she is. I thought we could go and talk some sense into her,” he said, heading to his car and opening the passenger door for me. Why did I suddenly feel like I was stepping into a lion’s den?
“Where is she?” I asked, getting in and sinking back against the leather seat. Rollins got in, started the car and pulled away from the curb before answering.
“She’s at the Heritage Arms. She said she knows you and Greg are worried and wanted me to let you know she’s okay.”
Was he kidding? The Heritage Arms was a roach motel on the edge of town that catered to cheating spouses, truckers, hookers and college students looking for a cheap place to host a party. I was familiar with the Heritage Arms because I’d lost my virginity there the summer before going off to college. I’d also had the misfortune of being attacked by a murderer a year ago in one of the Heritage Arms’s less-than-luxurious rooms. I could think of a million other more desirable places to go and be alone, like a cave, for instance.
“When is she planning on coming home?”
“I didn’t exactly get the impression that she was planning on coming home. She just told me to tell you guys she was okay,” he replied, negotiating a turn. I groaned.
“She’s getting married in four days. What is she thinking?” I’d been sympathetic to my best bud in the beginning, but now I was pissed.
“I don’t think she’s thinking at all. I think she’s running scared. Sometimes that happens when people finally get what they want.”
“Well, I could wring her neck,” I said in exasperation. “She’s got a wonderful man who loves her and wants to marry her and what does she do? She runs away.”
“Most people have a hard time seeing what’s right in front of their faces,” Rollins said softly. I glared at him after I realized it was a not-so-subtle dig at me and his loud, infectious laugh filled the car. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Not me,” I replied innocently. “I know Carl’s a good man and I’m not running from him.”
“Does that mean you and Carl are getting married?” he asked. His tone was casual but I saw his hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly. He had a hell of nerve.
“Not anytime soon. What about you, Reverend? Is there a new lady in your life?” He didn’t answer until he stopped at the next light.
“Would it bother you if there was?” he asked, turning to look at me. I could have sworn I detected a bit of sadness in his eyes. I looked away.
“Why would it bother me?” I questioned, sounding cold even to my own ears. He didn’t respond and we drove in an uncomfortable silence until we were about to pull into the hotel’s parking lot.
As we were pulling into the lot, I noticed a black Nissan Altima pulling out and speeding away. It was Lynette.
“There she is,” I said, pointing to the black car. “Hey. Where’s she going?” I reached across Rollins’s lap and honked his horn. Lynette never looked back. “Follow her,” I ordered Rollins, who put his foot on the gas sending me flying back into the passenger seat.
Lynette was driving as though she was in the Indy 500. Rollins’s Mercedes was right on her tail. We were on a two-lane road with cars traveling in the opposite direction, and we couldn’t pull along side of the Nissan. Rollins was honking his horn for her to stop, but she wouldn’t look back. We were close enough for me to see the back of her head and her ponytail. Her car windows were rolled up and I could hear music blaring. She couldn’t hear me. I yelled out the window again.
“Lynette! Pull over! Where are you going!” No luck. Finally there were no cars coming down the opposite side of the road and Rollins pulled alongside Lynette’s car. I was practically hanging out the window waving my arms.
“Lynette! Lynette!” Just then I saw a blue pickup truck heading straight for us. There was no way we could pull into the other lane because of Lynette’s car. I screamed. The driver of the pickup laid on his horn. Rollins grabbed my shirt and pulled me back in the car. He jerked the wheel to the left just in time and ran the Mercedes into a ditch on the side of the road. I groaned and laid my head against the dashboard. Rollins and I were both breathing heavily.
“You okay?” he asked rubbing my back in slow circular motions. I was going to be more than okay if he kept rubbing my back like that. I was going to fall asleep in his lap, not that he’d complain. Then I wondered if he rubbed Winette Barlow’s back, too.
“I’m going to kill her,” I said, sitting up abruptly, causing Rollins to chuckle. Little did he know I wasn’t entirely referring to Lynette.
We drove back to the Heritage Arms and Rollins and I went inside to the motel’s front desk to leave a message for Lynette to call, only to be told she’d checked out. Now I was really going to kill her. I didn’t need this.
“Try not to be too mad at her, Kendra. Marriage is a big commitment. I bet a day or two away from it all is just what she needs to get her head on straight,” Rollins told me on way back to my apartment. I certainly hoped he was right. At any rate, if Lynette wasn’t back the next day, Greg could tell Justine himself.
“Thanks, Reverend Rollins,” I murmured as I was about to jump out of his car.
“Let me know what happens,” he said softly, squeezing my hand before I got out. I was relieved to see him go. The less time spent alone with him the better.
I was feeling restless and hopped in my car and headed over to Mama’s house hoping to snag some lunch. Instead, I found myself unable to park at her house. There was a big van belonging to Channel Four news blocking the entrance to the driveway. My sister, dressed in a beige pantsuit with her hair pulled pack into a conservative French roll, was standing in the middle of Mama’s big front yard giving an interview to Channel Four news reporter, Tracy Ripkey. I didn’t see my grandmother anywhere and wondered if she knew what was going on. I also didn’t see Noelle Delaney. Did Allegra even bother clearing this with her producer?
“What is it you’d like viewers to know about your involvement in the murder of Vivianne DeArmond, Miss Clayton?” asked Ripkey. Her big blond bouffant hairdo looked like a cloud of yellow cotton candy and must have been taking up too much camera space because a member of the camera crew silently motioned for her to move so they could get a closer shot of Allegra. My sister was looking solemn and righteous as she gazed into the camera and spoke.
“I’d like everyone to know that I am completely innocent. In fact, I’m a victim, too. Whoever killed Vivianne DeArmond is still out there free while I’ve been placed under a cloud of suspicion.”
“Do you feel you’ve been treated unfairly by the Willow police department?” Allegra visibly shuddered. Her face crinkled up as if she’d caught a whiff of something foul.
“I think the Willow police department needs to be looking in every direction and not just at me.”
“Can you tell us about finding Vivianne’s body?” asked Ripkey.
“I can’t comment on that due to the ongoing police investigation. But I will say that Vivianne was looking forward to our interview and told me she had an exciting announcement for her many fans.”
An exciting announcement? This was the first I’d heard about any announcement. Was Allegra telling the truth or just trying to get more attention for herself? The only other pe
rson who could back up her claim was dead. How convenient.
“Do you have any idea what this announcement was?” asked Ripkey, trying hard to look cool and professional but failing big-time. The way her eyes were shining with excitement told me she knew she’d landed a big story.
“She never said,” Allegra replied, shaking her head sadly. “I wonder if we’ll ever know.” Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes widened in childlike wonder. What a ham. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Ripkey wrapped up the interview and the camera crew started packing up their equipment. I walked over to Allegra, who was removing her microphone, and caught the tail end of the conversation.
“That was wonderful, Allegra. I’m sure we can run this as an exclusive tonight on the six o’clock news,” said Ripkey excitedly. She thanked my sister profusely, and Allegra held up her hand in mock protest.
“Not a problem, Tracey. I wanted to tell my side of the story. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell it.”
Tracey finally noticed me standing there and looked over at my sister, who continued to smile and ignore me. What was her problem now?
“I’m Kendra Clayton, Allegra’s sister. Nice meeting you,” I said, holding out my hand to the reporter when it became apparent no introduction would be forthcoming from Allegra. Tracey Ripkey’s eyes lit up with a greedy gleam.
“Great! I’d love a quote from you, as well, Kendra. Can you tell me how you feel about what’s going on with your sister?” she asked, fumbling for her microphone. Allegra glared at me and I finally realized she thought I was trying to steal her thunder.
“I’m sorry but I don’t have any comment at this time.” I grabbed Allegra by the elbow before the eager reporter could protest, and ushered her onto the porch. I could feel Tracey Ripkey’s disappointed stare boring into my back. I waited a few minutes while they finished packing up and left before confronting my sister.
“What was that all about? I thought Mama said you couldn’t hold a press conference here?”
