by Angela Henry
That sure put a new wrinkle in things. Could Harriet have somehow found out her so-called best friend had been sleeping with her husband all those years ago? Was that the meaning of the letter opener in Vivianne’s back? Vivianne had stabbed Harriet in the back figuratively and Harriet had returned the favor literally. I didn’t have much time to think it over because Cliff had come over to join us.
“This is my husband, Cliff Preston. Cliff this is—”
“Nola Morgan,” I finished for her. Cliff gave my hand a hearty shake. He was dressed in a black suit with a gold tie. Up close I could see his eyes were the same gray as his son’s.
“She used to do Vivianne’s hair.” Stephanie stood a few inches taller than her husband and looked down at him affectionately.
“Really?” he asked, not looking convinced. “I’ve always known Vivianne to do her own hair. She had a pathological distrust of hairdressers after one messed up her hair so badly it fell out in patches. She had to wear a wig for months.” He spoke easily, but his eyes told me he smelled a rat. Uh-oh! What could I say? I looked over at Suzette Keynes, who was chatting up Rollins and got an idea.
“You caught me, Mr. Preston,” I said, laughing nervously. “The first time I did Vivianne’s hair was last night for the memorial service. I do hair and makeup for most of the funeral homes in this area. I usually try to be on hand during the services for touch-ups and things in case they need me.”
“You could have told me,” said Stephanie, squeezing my arm. Cliff seemed satisfied, as well, and gave me a friendly smile.
“A lot of people get creeped out when I tell them what I do for a living. I’ve kind of gotten used to stretching the truth.” They had no idea just how much.
“No big deal, young lady. I work in Hollywood, the land of illusion where nothing and no one is what they seem.” We all laughed.
“I bet the movie business has really changed since Vivianne’s day, huh?” I asked Cliff.
“Right you are, young lady, right you are. Movies these days are nothing but dreck in my opinion. All the great directors are gone. Now, everything is so overloaded with special effects people don’t even need to be good actors anymore.” He shook his head in disgust.
“Well, what about opportunities for black actors? Surely that’s improved, right?” I asked quickly to derail his diatribe.
“Yes, more doors are open to black actors these days, but there’s still a long, long way to go, both in front of the camera and behind,” he said. “I’m proud to say that I recognized Vivianne for the talent she was when other agencies would only have let her through the door to clean their offices. But, still, I had to fight tooth and nail for every single part Vivianne got. That’s one of the reasons she did so many independent films. The big movie studios were reluctant to cast a black woman as the lead in a major motion picture. Independent filmmakers were able to take more risks, and even then it didn’t always work to Vivianne’s advantage.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Take Vivianne’s big-break out role in Asphalt City. She played a prostitute. That role was her greatest triumph and her greatest tragedy. After that she was typecast and mainly got offered parts as prostitutes or whores, ‘fallen women,’ as Vivianne always put it. No one wanted to see her as anything but the femme fatale. It was a hard pill for her to swallow. She was a great actress and wanted to be able to show her range, but she rarely got the opportunity,” Cliff said vehemently. Stephanie sighed irritably and turned to the refreshment table piling a plate high with stuff I knew she didn’t want. Cliff cut his eyes at her but otherwise ignored her.
Even dead, Vivianne was obviously a sore spot for the Prestons. Stephanie didn’t seem to mind talking about Vivianne as long as it was negative, but she apparently couldn’t stand hearing anything remotely positive about her, especially coming from her husband. How much had Stephanie hated Vivianne? But that was going to have to be a question I’d ponder at a later date, because Harriet Randall had finally noticed me and come charging over to where I was chatting with the Prestons.
“And who might you be?” she asked without a trace of friendliness in her voice. She was wearing a brown dress with an orange-and-black scarf draped around her neck and held in place at her throat with a large, gold, star-shaped brooch. The same black hairpiece that Mama had ripped off her head at the police station was back in its place on her head. She was a short woman, but her pointy-toed, two-inch black pumps put her almost at eyelevel with me. She was so close I could see the faint trace of a mustache on her upper lip and two coarse hairs sticking out of her chin. She also reeked of Chanel No. 5. I looked around like I didn’t know if she was talking to me. I started to say something but Stephanie spoke up instead.
“Stop being so rude, Harriet. This young lady works for the funeral home. She did Vivianne’s hair last night.” Stephanie towered over Harriet, who refused to look up at her.
“Excuse me, but I don’t need a lesson in manners from the likes of you,” Harriet said, still not bothering to look up at Stephanie, who appeared furious.
“Now, what did you say your name was?” Harriet said taking a step closer to me. I remained silent. Where was Rollins?
“Harriet, calm down. You’re causing a scene. I thought this evening was supposed to be about Vivianne,” said Cliff.
Harriet did at least turn to acknowledge Cliff, and, as she did so, the scarf at her neck slipped and I noticed three faint scratch marks on the left side of her neck. I could tell she’d tried to cover them not just with the scarf but with makeup, as well. But I could still see them and wondered what had caused them, a struggle with Vivianne, perhaps? I already knew Harriet was violent. Did Vivianne fight back and put those scratches on her neck?
CHAPTER 9
“You look awfully familiar and it’s certainly not from working here,” Harriet said, ignoring Cliff and turning back to me. “Now, I want to know who you are and what you’re doing here.”
The room had grown silent as everyone turned to look at me. Ticia was looking panicky as though her Rollins-induced trance had finally been broken and she’d suddenly realized I shouldn’t be there. I felt a firm hand on my elbow and a smelled a familiar whiff of cologne.
“I’ll take care of this, Harriet,” said Rollins smoothly. “No need for you to get yourself all worked up. I’m sure this young lady was just leaving,” he said, guiding me out of the nearby door and pulling it shut behind us. I jerked angrily out of his grasp.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed.
“Calm down, Kendra. You should be thanking me. This is the second time I saved you this evening. She was about to remember who you really are. Then what were you going to do?” he asked, walking ahead of me out of the funeral home. I silently followed him to his car. He was right, of course, though I was hoping he wasn’t going to make me cook him two dinners.
“I saw you talking to the Prestons and their son. Surely you had time to find out something useful.”
“Oh, I found out plenty, especially about your buddy, Harriet Randall.”
“Harriet? What about her?” I could tell I was amusing him. I briefly told him what Stephanie Preston had told me, hoping to wipe the smirk off his face, but he didn’t appear at all surprised.
“That’s ancient history, Kendra. What would that have to do with Vivianne’s murder?”
“Maybe Harriet found out and killed her.”
“I know Harriet Randall a whole lot better than you do. I know she can be abrasive, but she’s no murderer. I knew her husband Elgin, too.”
“What do you know about Elgin Randall?” I asked, unable to contain my excitement. Rollins grinned widely and I knew I was in trouble.
It was almost eight o’clock when I finally got home. Rollins wouldn’t tell me what he knew about Elgin Randall until I made him the dinner I owed him, which was now scheduled for tomorrow night. I’d barely made it through my front door when my phone rang. It was Donald Cabot, finally.
“He’s coming tonight,” Cabot said, foregoing any kind of greeting.
“Your buyer?” I cradled the phone against my shoulder as I sat down on my couch, kicked off my pumps and massaged my barking dogs.
“Who the hell else would I be calling you about?” he replied irritably.
“No need to get pissy. I just wanted to make sure,” I said, getting testy myself.
“Can you meet me at the shop at eight-thirty? He doesn’t have much time.”
“I’m on my way,” I said, hanging up. I quickly changed into a warm-up suit and my runners and headed out.
Downtown Springfield was pretty empty most of the time, but at night it really looked like a ghost town. I pulled into the parking lot of the marketplace and didn’t have to worry about finding a space. I parked next to Cabot’s beat-up white VW van. I didn’t see the green Honda that I’d seen Noelle and Kurt sucking face in and knew Kurt must not have arrived. I wondered if he’d bring Noelle with him and what they would say when they saw me. I walked up to the main entrance and tugged on the doors. They were locked. I walked around to the side entrance by the elevator and bakery. Thankfully, I found it unlocked and I walked inside. All the businesses were closed but it wasn’t completely dark. The stillness unnerved me, and I quickly walked over and buzzed for the elevator. I got out on the second floor. I could hear the faint strains of music coming from the shop as I walked down the narrow hallway. The door was ajar and I pushed it open, walked into the shop and stopped dead in my tracks.
The shop had been trashed. The display cases were smashed, their contents spilled out onto the floor. The posters had been torn off the walls, racks had been knocked over. I crept a little farther into the shop and saw a figure dressed in black, wearing a ski mask and clutching a hammer, leaning over Donald Cabot, who lay on the floor on his back. Cabot’s glasses were smashed and his eyes were wide open and vacant, staring at nothing. He was dead. I ran.
I raced down the narrow hallway, crashing into a ladder that was propped against the wall and falling flat on my face. I heard footsteps behind me as I half crawled, half ran for the elevator. I pressed the button and the doors slid open. I dived in.
I turned to see Mr. Ski Mask running down the hall after me, the hammer still clutched in his hand. The doors started to slide shut. He sped up and made it to the elevator and stuck the hammer between the doors before they closed all the way. I screamed.
He tried to wedge the doors open. I looked around frantically for some kind of weapon. He succeeded in prying the doors open wide enough for him to get through but I kicked him hard in the crotch. His eyes widened in shock and surprise and he let go, doubling over in pain. The elevator doors slid shut to the sound of his screams.
Once outside, I got in my car and tore out of the lot. I drove across the train tracks heading south and parked on a dark side street. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911 to report what had happened. Afterwards, I laid my head back against my seat and took deep breaths to try and calm down. This had to be the same person I’d seen at Mama’s house the other night. I knew I wasn’t crazy. I hadn’t been sleepwalking. But what had he wanted and why had he killed Donald Cabot? Poor Donald Cabot. Did I get him killed? Was it Kurt in the ski mask? I was in too much shock to cry. I heard sirens in the distance and started my car up to head back to the marketplace.
When I pulled into the parking lot at the marketplace, there was not only a police car but Kurt Preston’s rented green Honda. The police cruiser’s lights were flashing, lighting up the night and turning the brown brick exterior of the building a gaudy red. Kurt was standing by the Honda with a petite, curly-headed, female police officer and gesturing at the building. I parked next to his car and got out.
“I’m the one who called, officer,” I said as I approached them.
“Why the hell are you here?” Kurt asked, looking truly bewildered. He was still dressed in the same rumpled-looking suit he’d had on at the memorial service. I explained what had happened, leaving out the part about Kurt selling his mother’s things, and the officer told us to stay put while she and her partner, a muscular brother built like a haystack, went to check it out.
“I guess it’s better to show up late than never, huh, Kurt?” I said, leaning against his car.
“Okay, I’m confused. Who are you and why were you meeting Cabot?”
“Think, Kurt. Why are you here? Weren’t you supposed to be meeting a buyer for some of your mother’s memorabilia?” I watched him closely and saw by the way his face went slack that he’d finally put it together.
“You? You’re the buyer Cabot was going on about?”
“Yep. See, I know you and Noelle sold off some of your mother’s things to Cabot the other day. He told me he had a private seller and I figured it had to be you.”
“So what! What goddamned business is it of yours what I do with my own mother’s shit? I could burn it all in a bonfire and it still wouldn’t be any of your business.”
“I’m Allegra Clayton’s sister. And the police seem to think she may have had something to do with Vivianne’s murder. She had absolutely no motive for killing Vivianne. But you sure do.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded throwing his hands in the air.
“Tell me, Kurt. Did you murder Vivianne so you could make a fortune when you found out the value of her memorabilia would increase after her death? Did you kill Cabot to cut out the middle man?” He looked as though he’d been punched.
“Are you insane!” he yelled. “I hated Vivianne, but I sure as hell didn’t kill her, and Cabot owed me more money, which I’m probably never going to get now. So, that blows that little theory out of the water. I oughta sue your ass for slander for even saying that shit.”
Ah, the lawsuit. Hollywood’s way of handling everything. Kurt’s hands were balled into fists and he took a step forward as if he wanted to take a swing at me. One of the officers, the female, emerged from the building and rushed over to her cruiser. We listened as she got on her radio and called in a suspicious death of a white male at the marketplace and requested the coroner and evidence techs. Then she came over and joined me and Kurt.
“Looks like the poor guy surprised a burglar,” she said, eyeing me and Kurt closely.
“The man that chased me had a hammer. He must have just killed poor Mr. Cabot with it when I walked in,” I said, but the officer shook her head.
“Ma’am, I’m not sure who or what you saw, but the deceased didn’t have a mark on him that we could see. There was no blood, either. It’ll be up to the coroner to determine cause of death. In the meantime, I’ll need you both to stay and go over what you were doing here this evening when the homicide detective gets here.”
“Stay! Officer, I just got here less than five minutes ago. I didn’t even step foot inside the building before you guys showed up. And I didn’t see any man with a hammer, either. For all we know, she made that shit up because she’s the one who broke into the shop and hurt Mr. Cabot,” he said, sneering at me and making me wish I had a hammer myself.
“Me! Why would I call the police and then come back here if I was the one who did it?” I said, stabbing a finger in the direction of his chest while he stood there and smirked. The officer stepped between us.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Richards?” she called to her partner, who’d just emerged from the building. “You two stay right here and don’t move.” We watched her rejoin her partner at the cruiser. She whispered something to him and they both turned and looked at us. Great!
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“It’s no fun being accused of shit you didn’t do, is it?” he asked, pulling out a pair of black sunglasses from inside his suit jacket that looked suspiciously like the ones his character Jabari wore on Ninja Dudes. Could he even see out of those things at night? I rolled my eyes.
“So, where’s Noelle this evening? I’m surprised you didn’t bring your little girlfriend with you.”
“
Sorry. I don’t know anyone named Noelle,” he said, his eyes hidden from me now.
What were they hiding?
After talking to a Springfield homicide detective for almost two hours, it was nearly eleven when I got home. To my surprise, Allegra was asleep on the couch in her underwear, snoring lightly with one arm flung over her head and a long leg hanging off the side. I was tempted to wake her up and tell her what had happened. But I wasn’t up for it and tiptoed past her into my bedroom. I sure hoped she’d appreciate what I was trying to do for her when this crazy mess was over.
“As far as I know, there’s no crime in selling movie memorabilia, Miss Clayton. Nor does someone having scratches on their neck make them a murderer,” said Detective Trish Harmon. I’d come to the station to see her first thing that morning to tell her what I’d found out about Kurt Preston and Harriet Randall. Not that it made a bit of difference. As usual, Harmon couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
“Then I guess Vivianne having had an affair with Harriet’s husband and her memorabilia increasing in value since her death and the fact that Kurt is desperate for money makes no never mind to you,” I said drily.
“You’ve told me nothing but gossip, Miss Clayton. Of the two people who can verify that Harriet Randall’s husband had an affair with Vivianne DeArmond, one is dead and the other one has been on the run from the law for over twenty years and could be dead, as well. As for Kurt Preston needing money,” she said with an irritated sigh, “he’s an unemployed actor, therefore it only stands to reason that he needs money.”
“You’re not even going to look into it?” I’d figured she wouldn’t believe me. Trying to get Trish Harmon to think outside the box is like trying to get Allegra to shop at K-Mart.
“Miss Clayton, I understand your concern for your sister, really I do. But I think your efforts would be better spent convincing your sister to cooperate fully with us during this investigation and come clean about what she may be holding back. Instead—” she tossed a copy of the Springfield News-Sun in front of me “—of playing detective.”
