by Angela Henry
I hopped in my car and headed out to Troyer Road where I knew Vivianne’s farm was. Harriet Randall, as far as I knew, had lived with Vivianne for years. It was hot out and my air-conditioning was on the fritz. I had all the windows in my Nova rolled down but was still sweating like a pig and knew I’d have to shower and change yet again before heading over to Rollins’s house for dinner. I was at a four-way stop about to make a left-hand turn when a silver Cadillac came flying past me headed in the opposite direction. Even though the person driving looked as though they could barely see over the steering wheel, I could tell it was Harriet by the two-toned hair. I made an abrupt illegal U-turn and started following her. Harriet drove like a bat out of hell and I had a hard time keeping up as she weaved in and out of traffic. After about ten minutes and a few near misses involving two cars and a motorcycle, she finally pulled into the parking lot of Woodlawn Nursing Home on a residential street of Park Hurst that I didn’t think I’d ever had the pleasure of driving down before. Most of the homes in Park Hurst were modest single-storied homes on slabs with tiny front yards and carports instead of attached garages.
Woodlawn Nursing Home consisted of two nondescript, white, single-storied buildings parallel to each other and joined together by another brick building in an almost U-shaped formation, kind of reminding me of army barracks. While the buildings weren’t much to write home about, a lot of attention and money had gone into the landscaping. The bushes that flanked either side of the front entrance were neatly trimmed and the lawn was the lush green that only comes from professional lawn treatments. There was a concrete walkway leading to a large, circular, stone-paved area in the center of the front lawn with some wooden benches arranged around a small fountain.
Harriet parked her Cadillac, taking up two spaces, and got out and walked in. I pulled in several spaces down from her to wait. After about fifteen minutes, Harriet emerged pushing a wheelchair occupied by an elderly black woman with silvery-white hair that hung to her shoulders. An oxygen tank was attached to the side of the chair and I could see the tube snaking from it had been looped around the woman’s ears so as to keep it positioned in her nose. Harriet pushed the chair out to the fountain, parked the wheelchair next to one of the benches and sat down. I watched her for the next forty-five minutes as she chatted to the woman, occasionally reaching out to stroke her face or long hair, surprising me with her tenderness. The woman in the wheelchair didn’t seem to have much to say and mainly stared vacantly at Harriet, who didn’t seem at all bothered by the lack of response, or she wheezed so loudly I could hear it from where I was sitting. I wondered who the woman was—Harriet’s mother, perhaps?
I kept checking my watch. It was getting late and I still had to change and buy groceries for my evening with Reverend Rollins. I knew there were women who’d cut off an ear to spend an evening with Morris Rollins. If I didn’t have to get some much-needed info on Harriet Randall, I’d have probably told him no thanks. When it appeared that Harriet wasn’t about to wrap up her visit any time soon, I reluctantly started up my car and left.
I arrived at Morris Rollins’s house around seven that evening. He had recently sold his castlelike mansion in the Briar Creek area of Willow and moved to a more modest brick ranch about a ten-minute drive outside of Willow. I couldn’t blame him. His old house held too many bad memories. His new house sat back from the road up on a hill. I turned into the long winding driveway, noting that Rollins’s gold Mercedes was parked in front of a large detached garage in the same red brick as the house. The garage had two stories and the windows on the top floor indicated that there must be an apartment up there. I knew Rollins’s daughter Inez now lived with him and wondered if she stayed over the garage. I parked behind his car and got out. Rollins must have heard my car because he emerged from the backyard dressed in faded jeans and a blue short-sleeved T-shirt. He grinned his high-beam smile when he saw me and I couldn’t help but smile back.
“You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, did you?” he asked, walking up to the car.
“I only got lost once,” I replied truthfully, handing him two grocery bags. I grabbed a cake box from my front seat and he led the way into a large backyard with a deck that ran almost the entire length of the house. I followed him through a set of sliding glass doors into a bright and airy kitchen.
I set the cake box on the brown-, black-and gold-flecked granite counter top and looked around. The kitchen was huge with a dining area at one end and an island cook top in the center. It opened up into a large family room inhabited by an armoire on the back wall that was opened revealing a TV and CD/ DVD player. A large, square, glass coffee table sat in the middle of the room in front of a brown leather sectional. The walls were painted a soft yellow. A set of built-in shelves against one wall held family pictures, pieces of wooden sculpture and multicolored ceramic bowls and vases. The opposite wall housed a brick fireplace. The overall effect was warm and inviting.
“I think I like this house better than your old one.”
Rollins laughed and said softly, “Thank you, Kendra. I like it, too.” He was staring at me strangely and I suddenly wondered if I’d made a mistake wearing the skirt, lacy camisole and blouse. But the look he was giving me wasn’t exactly lustful, just curious.
“So, what’s for dinner?” He walked back into the kitchen and started looking in the grocery bags.
“You like spaghetti, don’t you? It seemed like a safe bet.”
“I love spaghetti. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you put a pot of water on to boil?”
After Rollins rounded up the necessary utensils, I got to work chopping onions and garlic for the sauce, and decided now would be as good at time as any to bring up the real reason I’d agreed to come over.
“How long have you known Harriet Randall?”
“Ah, yes, Harriet. No one can accuse you of beating around the bush, Kendra,” he said drily. I stopped chopping and stared at him until he answered me.
“I’ve known Harriet Randall since I was a kid. Her family lived next door to mine and sometimes she’d babysit me and my brother. I knew her husband Blackie for longer than that.”
“Blackie?”
“Elgin ‘Blackie’ Randall. He was quite a character,” Rollins said, chuckling.
“Why’d they call him Blackie?” I asked, thinking about the title to Vivianne’s book, The Onyx Man. Could The Onyx Man refer to Vivianne’s old love, Blackie Randall?
“Well, it wasn’t because he was a dark-skinned man. In fact, he sort of put you in mind of Ron O’Neil, that actor who played Super Fly, even had that pretty hair women seem to love so much. He was one of the flashiest cats I’ve ever known. He got his nickname ‘Blackie’ because he was addicted to black and mild cigarettes. I don’t think I ever saw him without one pinched between those long fingers of his.”
“Was he a friend of the family?”
Rollins chuckled again. “Let’s just say my mother, like a lot of women, had a thing for Blackie Randall, even though she was a good twenty years older than him.”
“Was the feeling mutual?” I asked, handing him a can of tomato paste to open.
“No. I think he thought of my mother as the big sister he never had. Blackie would show up at our place whenever he wanted a home-cooked meal, or when he needed a little bit of pocket change to buy cigarettes and liquor. But the only woman I’ve ever known him to be head over heels in love with was Annie Burns.”
“Annie Burns? Oh, you mean Vivianne.” I suddenly remembered that was her birth name.
“They were supposed to get married, but Vivianne went off to Los Angeles about a week before the wedding. Told everybody she was visiting relatives. Turns out she’d hooked up with a talent agent—”
“Cliff Preston?” I asked, interrupting him. He nodded in agreement and continued.
“She never came back. Blackie even borrowed money from my mother to fly out to California to beg her to come back to Willow.
No such luck. She convinced him to stay out there with her for a while but they never did get married.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons, the main one being that Vivianne was running around on him with Cliff Preston. And secondly, men like Blackie don’t do well in big cities. As long as he was a big fish in a little pond like Willow he was fine. But in a city like L.A.,” Rollins said, shaking his head, “he was a hick from the sticks.”
“How’d he end up with Harriet?” The short, squat, sour-faced woman was a far cry from Vivianne and her stunning beauty.
“Blackie lost his step after he came back from California. Started drinking heavily. Getting into bar fights. Harriet Perkins was Vivianne’s best friend. But she’d been in love with Blackie herself all along. I think she was the one who encouraged Vivianne to go out to California to seek her fame and fortune. Once Blackie came home alone, Harriet saw her chance. She became Blackie’s rock. Got him clean and sober. Even got him into church. Blackie ended up marrying Harriet, though I don’t think he loved her the way he loved Vivianne.”
“When did Vivianne come back into the picture?”
“Late seventies. She was in her midforties and by then her career and marriage were over. Her parents were long dead and had left her the family farm. I don’t think Harriet was very happy when her ex-best friend moved back home. She kept her distance at first, but Vivianne was determined to be friends with Harriet and Blackie again, especially Blackie. Then things got bad for the Randalls.”
“You mean the bank robbery?”
“Exactly. Blackie never had a real job in his life. He used to tend bar at an after-hours bootleg joint but that couldn’t have paid much. Besides that, I can only imagine where he got the rest of his money from.”
“I bet it wasn’t from anything legal,” I added, stirring the spaghetti sauce. Rollins laughed.
“Once he married Harriet, she wouldn’t let him run the streets anymore. Eventually he got a job as an orderly at Willow Memorial making minimum wage. Harriet was mainly supporting them on her salary from her job at Bank Ohio. But Blackie had the streets in his blood. After years of being married to Harriet and never having much money, he hooked up with some of his old running buddies. He was a middle-aged man when the still-beautiful Vivianne, who he probably never stopped loving, moved back to town. I think hooking back up with his old friends made him feel young again, like when he and Vivianne were still together.”
“Were they the ones he robbed the bank with?”
“Blackie was definitely there when that bank got robbed. But his involvement has always been open to debate.”
“How so?”
“I have a hard time imagining Blackie willingly being a part of robbing the bank his wife worked at. I’ve always wondered if he even knew what was going down that day. I think he drove his friends to the bank not knowing they were going to rob it. A whole lot of people say they saw him sitting in his car in front of the bank that day looking like he didn’t have a care in the world.”
“No one actually saw him in the bank?”
“It didn’t matter whether he was in the bank or not. He still drove the getaway car. That made him an accomplice.”
“I know he got away, but did they catch the others?”
“Eventually. It took them a while to track them all down. But they never found Blackie, just his abandoned car with some blood smears that matched his blood type. People think he may have been killed by the others to keep him quiet.”
“What happened to Harriet after that?”
“Poor Harriet. Life got really hard for her. First she kept getting dragged down to the police station and questioned for hours on end because they thought she was in on the robbery. She was absent from work that day and that looked really bad for her. Then the bank fired her. She couldn’t get another job and couldn’t pay her bills. She lost the little house she and Blackie owned. And to make matters worse, some people in the community shunned her. She changed after that. She wasn’t always the hard, aggressive woman she is today. Luckily, Vivianne offered her a job as her assistant, though to be honest, since she was no longer acting, I have no idea what exactly Harriet assisted her with and where Vivianne got the money to pay her.”
“And no one ever saw Blackie Randall again?”
“Nope. There were rumors that he had been spotted as far away as Canada. The three friends of his who actually robbed the bank never admitted to killing him and would never say why his blood was in the car. They served their time for the robbery and got out of prison. Two have since died and the third one killed some guy up in Cleveland and is back in prison for life this time. I don’t think Harriet ever gave up hope that Blackie would come home one day.”
I drained the spaghetti and wondered if Vivianne’s book, The Onyx Man, was about Blackie Randall and the bank robbery. Did Vivianne find out Blackie was alive and reveal in her book where he’d been hiding for the past twenty years? Could Harriet have killed her friend for being about to reveal her husband’s hiding place? Or could Blackie Randall have found out about the book and emerged from hiding to kill Vivianne himself?
I put Rollins to work chopping vegetables for the salad. Our fingers touched as I handed him a head of lettuce. The warmth of his fingers made me feel flustered and I quickly turned back to the stove where my sauce was bubbling away, filling the kitchen with its aroma.
He walked up behind me and looked over my shoulder into the sauce pot. I could feel his hot breath on my neck. “I don’t know which smells better—you or the sauce,” he said in a low voice that sent a delicious shiver down my spine. I wiped a trickle of sweat from my brow. I was suddenly hot and it wasn’t from the heat of the stove.
“Is Inez home? Will she be joining us for dinner?” I asked hopefully.
He gave my neck a quick feather-light kiss before answering. “Inez is so busy since her new beauty shop opened that I barely see her.” He poured us each a glass of wine. I took a big gulp.
“You can relax, Kendra. I don’t bite. We’re just two friends enjoying each other’s company. Nothing wrong in that, is there?”
Yeah, right. He sounded sincere enough, but there was definitely something in his eyes that said otherwise.
“Not everyone would agree with that assessment,” I said, and filled him in on the rumor that was currently floating around town about us, at which point Rollins threw back his head and howled with laughter. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever seen him laugh so hard. I was starting to get a little offended.
“That sure explains a lot,” he said, after he’d calmed down. “Some of the church sisters were giving me mighty strange looks when I ran into them today. I couldn’t figure out why. Guess I know now.” He chuckled, taking a sip of wine.
“I sure hope your lady friend doesn’t believe it. Maybe you should call her and explain,” I said drily.
“What lady friend?” he asked, looked genuinely confused.
“Winette Barlow. I heard the two of you are an item now.” I fixed two heaping plates of spaghetti and followed him to the kitchen table.
“You heard this from the same people who are currently spreading the rumor about us, right?” I felt foolish and didn’t answer. He started laughing again. “Kendra Clayton, what am I going to do with you?” I still didn’t answer. But I could fantasize.
Two hours later, after we’d eaten the spaghetti, salad and big slices of the chocolate cake I’d brought and had done the dinner dishes together, Rollins walked me to my car and managed to turn an innocent kiss on the forehead into an erotic experience by letting his warm mouth linger seconds longer than was necessary. It was definitely time for me to go. But I had one last question.
“What do you think happened to Blackie Randall? Do you think he’s dead?” I asked. Rollins thought for a moment before answering.
“I have no idea what happened to him. But there is one interesting fact that points to him being alive,” he said, holding my car door open for me.
&
nbsp; “And that would be?”
“There were four men involved in that robbery. The police only recovered three-fourths of the money that got stolen. There’s still a fourth of that money that’s never been found or accounted for.”
“Calm down, Greg. It’s going to be okay,” I told my best friend’s fiancé. Greg had shown up at my front door first thing that morning babbling about Justine threatening to cancel the wedding. He hadn’t shaved and was dressed in a wrinkled tank top and sweatpants. I hadn’t slept well the night before and couldn’t fully focus on what he was saying. I was trying hard to get him to talk quietly because Allegra had gotten in late and was still sound asleep on the couch. But he was much too upset to care about waking up Sleeping Beauty. I finally led him past Allegra’s slumbering form back to my kitchen and made us a strong pot of coffee.
“Can she do that?” he said angrily. “Cancel our wedding, I mean? Lynette and I paid for most of the wedding. How can Justine cancel it?” He looked so lost and upset that I wasn’t sure who I was madder at: Justine, for making a bad situation worse, or Lynette for running away in the first place.
“She’s just blowing smoke out her ass, Greg. Don’t worry about Justine. We need to focus on finding Lynette. Have you heard from her at all since that first call?”
“No. Not a word and I’m really getting worried. You don’t think something has happened to her, do you?”
“I don’t know, Greg. I would have thought she’d have been home by now.” I took another bracing sip of coffee and tried to shake the cobwebs from my mind.
“You think we should call the police?”
“I’d say if she’s not back by the end of the day then, yes, we should call the police.” He sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands. Then something must have occurred to him because his hands fell away from his face and he looked panic-stricken.
