by Angela Henry
Rollins had said that Blackie Randall resembled actor Ron O’Neal and had pretty hair that women loved. Even though the man in the wheelchair was old and sick, I could still see that he’d once been a very handsome man until all those black and mild cigarettes finally caught up with him.
“Does the nursing home know who he is?” I asked, looking over at the entrance to see Cookie’s large form still standing in the doorway watching us.
“No,” Harriet said sharply. “He’s registered under my late brother’s name, George Perkins. George died when he was three from influenza.”
“So, did he really help rob that bank?” I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know. Harriet’s head jerked up and she glared at me.
“He had no idea what those losers he called his friends were up to that day. They told him to sit in the car and wait while they went in to make a withdrawal. Then they came running out and stuck a gun to his head and told him to drive.” Blackie let out a loud phlegm-filled cough that made his thin frame shudder violently. Harriet rubbed his back until it was over then wiped spittle from his lips.
“I heard they found his blood in the getaway car.”
“Nosebleed. Blackie has high blood pressure and he often gets nosebleeds.”
“What about the money? What did he do with the money?”
“He told me he buried it in the woods. He was too afraid to spend it because he thought the serial numbers would be traced. That’s how they caught those other three idiots.”
“But I thought Vivianne and your husband had an affair. Weren’t you angry with her?”
Harriet shrugged. “They had a lot of history. Vivianne was Blackie’s first love. She broke his heart when she married Cliff Preston. When she came back to Willow to live I could see he hadn’t gotten her out of his system. I thought there might be something going on between them, but I never knew for sure. But I knew he loved me and more importantly he trusted me. After what she did to him, he never trusted Vivianne again.”
“Weren’t you shocked when Kurt told you about them?”
“How’d you know about—”
“Kurt told me,” I said, cutting her off. I glanced at my watch again. It was almost eleven-twenty.
Obviously, Blackie Randall didn’t have Lynette. I’d have to be going soon if I was going to be home in time to get that phone call.
“It was a long time ago. My husband is dying. I wasn’t about to rake that ancient history up because of something Kurt said.” It sounded all well and good but the grim expression on Harriet’s face said otherwise.
“So you didn’t kill her?” I persisted. Harriet stood up and towered over me. I shrank back against the bench.
“Despite all of her flaws, I loved Vivianne. She was the closest thing I ever had to a sister. She could be very kind and compassionate. She never purposefully set out to hurt anyone. She was a passionate and impulsive person and that always got her into trouble, especially with men.”
“I think her son would disagree. If she was so wonderful, then why did she lose custody of Kurt?” Harriet made a disgusted noise and sat down next to me.
“Vivianne lost custody of Kurt because Cliff Preston is a monster. He’s not the person everyone thinks he is.” I waited for her to elaborate but she wouldn’t, just sat stone-faced and staring straight ahead.
It was time for me to go, but I had more questions. “Where were you when Vivianne was murdered? I heard you stuck to her like glue at the auditorium.”
“I was in the ladies’ room when I heard the alarm go off. I suffer from irritable bowel syndrome. It was particularly bad that morning.” She rubbed her stomach. I didn’t have time to dwell on the irony of her ailment and pressed on.
“Did you know about Vivianne’s book?” I asked.
“I knew she had some scheme up her sleeve to try and earn some money for Blackie’s nursing-home fees but I didn’t know she’d written a book until after she died.”
“Why didn’t she just start acting again?”
“Because she knew how badly Cliff wanted her to and it was the only way she could think of to get back at him.” Once again I waited for her to elaborate. Once again she wouldn’t.
“Any idea what her book was about?”
Harriet was thoughtful for a moment then replied, “I’m betting it’s a love story. Vivianne always was a sucker for a good love story,” she said and let out a harsh, humorless laugh.
“Did Vivianne have a computer that could have a copy of her manuscript on it?”
“Are you kidding? Vivianne barely knew how to turn on the TV without a remote, let alone how to use a computer.”
Blackie started coughing again and I took it as my signal to leave.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” I heard her call out to me as I walked away. I looked back and she gestured toward the still coughing Blackie.
“Your secret’s safe,” I said. And I mostly meant that.
Lunchtime traffic was heavy and by the time I pulled up in front of my duplex it was 11:51 a.m. I raced up my steps and heard my phone ringing as I hurried to unlock the door. I flew across the room and grabbed my cordless phone from its stand.
“Hello.” I was so out of breath I could barely get the words out.
“Kendra, what’s wrong with you?” It was Mama. Crap!
“I just walked in. I’m expecting an important call, Mama. Can I call you back?”
“And I’m expecting you to help me with the cookout. Everybody’s here, including your sister, who really needs cheering up.”
Damn. I’d forgotten all about the cookout. If I told her I couldn’t come she’d want to know why. My only resort was to lie. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.” I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Whose call are you waiting for? And you better not say Morris Rollins. Mattie Lyons told me some mess about the two of you coming out of the Heritage Arms together. I told her she didn’t hear any such thing ’cause my granddaughter has better sense than that and—”
I listened to her rant, keeping a sharp eye on the digital clock on my microwave. It was 11:59 a.m. “Mama, we’ll talk about this when I get over there, okay? Love you. Gotta go. Bye.”
I pressed the off button just as clock flashed 12:00. The phone rang in my hand and I was so startled I almost dropped it.
“Hello?” All I heard was silence on the other end. “Hello? Is anybody there?”
I heard a muffled voice speak a single word, “Mailbox.”
“Mailbox? What are you talking about? Is Lynette okay? What do you want from me?” But I was talking to the dial tone. The person had hung up. I couldn’t even tell if it had been a man or a woman.
I was standing in the middle of the kitchen still holding the phone when I realized I was being instructed to look in my mailbox. I dropped the phone and raced out my front door. I had a brass mailbox just outside my door instead of a mail slot. I ripped open the lid so hard I almost torn it off its hinges. Inside was a manila envelope. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Was someone watching me? I looked around, but all I saw were some neighborhood kids on bikes and a teenage boy cutting grass across the street. I took the envelope back inside and opened it. It was a typed letter that read:
Be at cabin four at John Bryan Park at 8:00 p.m.
Bring Vivianne’s computer disk. Don’t be late. Come alone or your friend is dead. No tricks. I’ll be watching you.
Vivianne’s computer disk? I thought Vivianne didn’t know how to use a computer. I didn’t have Vivianne’s computer disk, and why would anyone think I did? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Vivianne’s manuscript must be on the disk Lynette’s kidnapper was so hot to get his—or hers—hands on. And there must be something incriminating in her book that someone was willing to kill to keep from being revealed. The disk must have been what the person who broke into my apartment had really been looking for. But why did they think I had the damned disk? I
needed to find out what Vivianne’s book was about and the only other place I knew to look was Diamond Publishing Company in Columbus. I had a little less than eight hours to save Lynette.
Diamond Publishing Company was a small independent publisher that had been in business for about twenty years. They were mainly known for their non-fiction titles about Ohio historical figures, and for coffee-table books of photography. They’d recently started publishing fiction. At least that’s what I was told when I called the reference desk of the Willow Public Library to get some info on the company that was publishing Vivianne’s book.
I navigated my way through the streets of downtown Columbus in search of the eighteen-hundred block of East Broad Street. I always love coming to Columbus, as long as I don’t have to drive. The only significant time I’d spent in the capital city of Ohio was when I’d attended college at Ohio State and even then I rarely ventured away from campus. And even though Carl lives in Columbus, he does all the driving whenever I hang out with him in his hometown. I drove past the Columbus Museum of Art, regretting the fact that I couldn’t go inside, and kept an eye on the addresses of the buildings.
It wasn’t long before I came upon a nondescript one-story brick building with smoked-glass windows that kind of reminded me of a doctor’s office. I pulled into the parking lot and noticed a group of people wearing green pants and white short-sleeved shirts with the words Haley’s Industrial Cleaners emblazoned in black letters on the back. There was even a large black van with the same lettering on the side parked in front of the entrance to the building. I got out and was immediately hit with the acrid stench of smoke. As I got closer to the building, I could see that the windows were not smoked glass at all. The windows were actually black with soot. I felt my stomach knot up.
“What happened?” I asked one of the cleaners who was unloading supplies from the back of the van.
“They had a fire last night.” The man replied simply and turned back to what he was doing.
No shit, Sherlock, I wanted to say. “Anybody get hurt?”
“Not that I know of. It happened after everyone had gone home for the day.”
“How much damage is there?” I persisted.
“Most of the fire damage was to the reception area, but the rest of the offices got heavy smoke damage.”
“Do you know what caused it?”
The man finally turned to give me a curious look then shook his head slowly. “You’d have to ask one of the people who work here. But I could have sworn I heard one of them saying something about a lit cigarette in a trash can.”
A cigarette. The same person who’d killed Vivianne and caused the alarm to go off at Cartwright Auditorium had apparently been here, too. The killer must have decided to light the place on fire for good measure to destroy any other trace of Vivianne’s manuscript. Now I knew I was doing the right thing by not going to the police. I was dealing with a murderer and an arsonist who wouldn’t hesitate to kill Lynette. Lucky me.
I heard the click of high heels on concrete and turned to see a stylishly dressed white woman in her late forties hurrying across the parking lot. She was dressed in a soft green-and-white pinstriped pantsuit over a white silk shell. Her dark brown hair was shoulder-length and her eyes were red-rimmed. She rushed right past us into the building without speaking and I followed her inside.
I found her standing in what must have been the reception area. The smoke smell was ten times stronger here. The walls were blackened, the plastic frames of the pictures hanging on them were melted together with the prints they held, and the carpet was badly scorched. The receptionist’s metal desk had large burn marks on the top and sides. The glass that covered the top of the desk was cracked and black. What ever had been sitting on top of the desk that wasn’t burned beyond recognition was covered in a thick layer of greasy soot.
The woman in the pinstriped suit was staring at the damage as if she was in a trance. She didn’t notice me standing behind her and let out a loud gasp when she turned around and saw me.
“Who are you?” she asked, pulling herself together.
“I’m Kendra Clayton,” I said, holding out my hand. She didn’t take it and I pressed on. “I’m really sorry about the fire. Is it possible for me to talk to someone in charge?”
“I’m Margo Diamond,” she replied impatiently. “I’m the senior editor, as well as the owner of Diamond Publishing, such as it is,” she said drily, looking around at the ruins of her business. “So, I guess that makes me in charge. How can I help you?”
She must have been the Margo I’d spoken to when I’d called about Vivianne’s manuscript the other day. I had a feeling I was going to be wasting my time with her.
“I’m here about Vivianne DeArmond’s book. I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me anything at all about it.”
Margo Diamond threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “I’m so sick of being asked about that damned book!”
“How many people have been asking?”
“I haven’t exactly been keeping a running tally but someone has either been calling or coming by on a daily basis since the woman died asking about that book. I just don’t get it.” She absentmindedly leaned back against the desk, cursed as she realized she’d got soot on her pantsuit, and unsuccessfully wiped at it with her hand.
“Well, she was a famous actress who grew up about a half hour from here. I imagine a lot of her fans will be interested in her memoirs,” I said casually. I hoped Margo Diamond was too upset about her suit to realize I was fishing.
“That’s just it,” she said, looking around for something to wipe her hands on. I handed her a tissue from my purse. “The book wasn’t a memoir. It was a novel.”
“What was it about?” Memoir or not, something was in that book that someone had been killed over.
“It was about a small-town girl who runs away from home to try and make it big on Broadway and all the heartache she encounters along the way.”
“What kind of heartache?”
“She becomes a prostitute addicted to drugs, has a kid out of wedlock that dies as a result of her neglect, marries a talent agent who makes her a star but he’s got a big secret of his own.”
Hmm. So far it sure sounded sort of semiautobiographical, but my ears really perked up at that last part. “What kind of a secret?” The eagerness of my expression must have startled her because she took a small step backwards.
“He’s passing,” she said.
“Passing?”
“You know. He’s a very fair-skinned black man passing for white.”
I had to practically catch my jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. Cliff Preston was passing? That would certainly explain the title The Onyx Man. Harriet had told me that Cliff wasn’t the person everyone thought he was. Was this what she meant?
“Do you still have a copy of the manuscript?” I asked eagerly.
“It was sent out to be copyedited. There was another copy on my office computer but as you can see—” she said, making a sweeping gesture around the room “—my computer is out of commission.”
“Who else did you tell about Ms. DeArmond’s book?”
“Until today, I haven’t discussed that book with anyone and I’m beginning to regret that I’ve done so with you. Who did you say you were again?” I ignored the question.
“Did a young woman with red spiky hair named Noelle Delaney ever come here or call asking about the book?” She opened her mouth to say something that probably wasn’t going to be very nice when we were interrupted.
“Margo,” said a timid voice from the doorway that led back to the offices of Diamond Publishing.
We both turned to see a slightly overweight young woman with glasses, limp blond hair and a mild case of acne dotting her chubby cheeks. Wearing an ankle-length khaki skirt, denim blouse and flat sandals, she wasn’t exactly dressed for success.
“What is it Alison? I’m in the middle of something,” replied Margo Diamond as though it w
as taking everything in her not to scream at the poor girl.
“They told us not to touch anything. What do you want me to do?” She was staring at Margo like someone afraid of getting punched.
“Just go home, Alison. I’ll call you later and let you know what’s going on.” Alison hesitated, then hurried past us, giving me a curious look on her way out the door.
“I’ve done about all the talking I plan to do regarding Vivianne DeArmond’s book. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to salvage.” Margo Diamond headed off in the direction that Alison had emerged from and I left.
The cleaners were still in the lot taking a break, though I didn’t know what from since it appeared that they hadn’t even started working yet. I was unlocking my car when there was a light tap on my shoulder. It was Alison.
“Can I help you?” I asked the girl, who upon closer inspection looked to be about nineteen.
“Do you know Noelle?”
“Delaney?”
“Yeah, do you know her?” She kept glancing over her shoulder at the building as if she was afraid Margo would come out.
“I know Noelle, why?” Alison was clenching and unclenching her hands together nervously.
“I gave her something the other day and she promised she’d bring it back but she never did. I really need to get it back or I’ll get fired.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“What did you give her?” Allison looked over her shoulder again before answering.
“That actress’s manuscript. See, I was supposed to send it to our copy editor but Noelle came in that day to try and see Margo about the book. But Margo was in New York. She started telling me about how she was this big TV producer on Hollywood Vibe and she could get me a job on the show as a correspondent if I could just help her out. I gave her the manuscript and she swore she’d bring it back. But she never did.”
