When Sunday Comes Again

by Terry E. Hill

  Samantha released the lock, and on cue Dino opened the door. Her slender calf emerged from the rear of the vehicle. The curiosity of the onlookers waiting for their cars to be brought around was fully satisfied as the beautiful woman emerged from the rear of the vehicle. The heels of her Dolce & Gabbana brown suede pumps gently clicked on the cobblestone path as she walked under a long green awning toward the glass double door entrance. The brown silk dress she wore flowed like water around her thighs as she made her way through the bedazzled onlookers.

  Even for those few in the crowd who didn’t know exactly who she was, her carriage, her stunning beauty, the exquisite liquid dress, and the sparkling diamonds that encircled her wrist immediately elevated her in their eyes to the status of celebrity. Samantha hated making eye contact with empty faces in a crowd, and tonight was no exception. She ignored the awestruck gasps and such whispers as “That’s Samantha Cleaveland,” from envy-stricken women and such replies as “My God, she’s stunning,” from their ogling male companions.

  She was greeted by the tuxedo-wearing owner of the restaurant, who eagerly swung the doors open to welcome her. “Good evening, Pastor Cleaveland. We’re so pleased you decided to dine with us this evening. I am so sorry for your loss. He was a very good man.”

  Samantha extended her down-turned hand, which the well-dressed man lifted and kissed gently. “Your dinner companion is waiting for you at our best table in the house. Please follow me,” he said with his most impressive French accent.

  Samantha, however, was not impressed. The words two million dollars continued to ring in her four-carat-diamond-studded ears. As she made her way through the restaurant behind the owner, other diners craned to see her entrance. Samantha raised the bar in the restaurant, which catered to the city’s wealthiest and most beautiful citizens. Conversations paused as she walked by. The nibbling of escargot, foie gras, and Almas caviar stopped mid-chew when her presence was felt seconds before she was seen. Everyone felt someone important had entered the building. If she had been the wind, the room’s temperature would have dropped twenty degrees, tables would have been toppled, and freshly coiffed hair would have been left in ruins.

  Victoria stood as Samantha approached. She wore a tight-fitting cream pantsuit. Her signature diamond broach shaped like a butterfly twinkled on her lapel. One hand was still gloved in sleek buttery-cream-colored leather.

  The owner stepped to one side and, with a sweep of his hand, presented to Samantha a perfectly appointed table filled with crystal, silver, and white linens. A single candle flicked in the center. He waited patiently behind a chair he positioned for Samantha as the two women exchanged air kisses.

  “Bon appétit, ladies,” said the owner, who was honored to be dismissed by Samantha.

  Before the women could settle into their comfortable chairs, a tall man with a chiseled face and wavy black locks tucked behind his ears approached. “Good evening, ladies. I am Rancor, your sommelier.”

  “I don’t care who you are, handsome,” Victoria snapped. ”I’ve been sitting at this damn table for the last ten minutes with nothing to drink. Bring us a bottle of nineteen-sixty-six Dom Pérignon.”

  “I thought you were trying to cut back,” Samantha said.

  “I am, dear. I’m only having one bottle tonight,” Victoria replied, removing the last glove. “Don’t start lecturing me again, girl. I’m a grown-ass woman.”

  “I know you are. I wasn’t lecturing, just asking.”

  The sommelier vanished, unnoticed by the women. Word slowly spread through the gold-lit dining room as to who the two beautiful women were.

  “Who is the woman dining with Pastor Samantha Cleaveland?” a man in a party of six at a nearby table asked his waiter.

  The waiter bent down. “That is Victoria Johnson,” he whispered. “Her husband is the pastor of another mega church.”

  “I must find out who Samantha’s designer is,” a stylishly dressed French woman at another table said to her tanned and toned husband. “That dress is fabulous.”

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry, honey. I forgot about Hezekiah,” Victoria said loudly, causing even more heads to turn. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral. So you finally went ahead and did it?” she said, laughing.

  Samantha leaned in and looked at her hard. “Keep your voice down. What do you mean, did it?”

  “Killed that prick. I didn’t think you had it in you, girl. I told you to break his legs, not kill him.” Victoria laughed out loud again. “Where is that gay-ass waiter with my champagne?” she said, craning her neck, which caused the diamond butterfly on her lapel to flicker in the candlelight. “At least you know he won’t be fucking around on you anymore.”

  Samantha’s hand trembled slightly. “That isn’t very funny, Victoria. You know I didn’t kill him,” she said angrily.

  “Calm down, girl. I was only joking,” Victoria said, reaching across the table to touch Samantha’s trembling hand. “Sammy, what is wrong with you? You’re shaking. Are you all right?”

  At that moment the sommelier arrived, placing a pedestaled ice bucket next to the table. Victoria reached for the crystal flute before he could fill it completely.

  “That’s enough, thank you,” she said curtly. “What do you think I am? A drunk?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. Your waiter will be with you shortly. Enjoy your meal.”

  Victoria took a long sip and continued. “Now, what is going on with you? I know this isn’t about Hezekiah. Shit, I wish some crackhead would kill Richard. Hell, I’d pay him myself.”

  Samantha was silent and took a sip of champagne.

  “Come on, girl. I don’t like seeing you like this. Did I upset you with my big mouth?” Victoria said softly. “You know better than to take me too seriously.”

  “No, no, it’s not that. I just got a frightening telephone call on the way here.”

  “From whom?”

  “I don’t know,” Samantha said.

  “What was it about?”

  Samantha took another sip of champagne and said, “Blackmail.”

  Victoria choked on her drink when she heard the word and coughed loudly, again drawing attention to the table. “Blackmail?” she blurted. “What do they want?”

  “Please keep your voice down,” Samantha said firmly. “A ridiculous amount, two million dollars.”

  Another choking cough escaped from Victoria’s red lips. “Oh, shit,” she said, this time in a whisper. “What the fuck for?”

  “Hezekiah, of course,” Samantha said scornfully.

  Samantha surveyed the room to ensure their conversation could not be overheard. She hesitated, but Victoria prompted her to say more with a swipe of her hand.

  “I never told you this, Victoria. I guess the indignity of it was much too embarrassing for me, but Hezekiah was having an affair with . . . with a man before he was killed.”

  Victoria’s jaw fell open. She cupped her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping. There was silence at the table while the two women looked desperately into each other’s eyes.

  “Oh . . . my . . . fucking . . . God,” Victoria finally said, pausing after each word. She reached for the bottle of champagne, filled her glass to the rim, and took two long gulps. “Sammy. Honey, this is un-fucking-believable. Sleeping with every whore he could stick his dick into wasn’t enough. The bastard had to have dick too. Un-fucking-believable.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Samantha said softly.

  At that moment the waiter appeared mysteriously at the table. “Good evening, ladies. Welcome to Le Cheval. My name is—”

  Victoria immediately held up her hand. “I don’t need to know your name,” she said without looking in the shocked man’s direction. “Could you please give us a moment?” she said sharply. “We’ll let you know when we’re ready.”

  The stunned waiter vanished without another word.

  “Honey, you need to call the police.”

  “I can’t do that, and yo
u know it,” Samantha said. “If this gets out, I’ll be a laughingstock. I could lose everything.”

  “What are you talking about? People won’t blame you if your husband was a faggot. If anything, they’ll feel sorry for you.”

  “That’s exactly the point. I don’t want people feeling sorry for me over some dumb bullshit like this,” Samantha said angrily. “It’s bad enough I have to hear, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ from every asshole I talk to. And the timing could not be any worse. I’ve got the board of trustees and that bitch Cynthia Pryce watching my every move. They’re just looking for a reason to not make me permanent pastor. A public scandal like this would be just enough for them to kick my ass to the curb.”

  As she said the words, a couple appeared at the table. The woman was close to six feet tall and wore a slinky yellow silk dress. Her hair was ribbons of golden locks that cascaded around a model’s face. Her companion seemed almost half her height. A Rolex watch weighted his arm down to his pudgy side.

  “Pastor Cleaveland,” he said, extending his hand. “We don’t mean to disturb you, but we wanted to extend our condolences for your loss. I met your husband a few times, and he was a great man.”

  Victoria let out an irritated huff in response to the interruption.

  Samantha lit up as if she were on television. Her back straightened, and she flashed her signature smile. “That is very kind of you,” she said. “May I introduce you to my friend Victoria Johnson?”

  Victoria grimaced in the couple’s direction but said nothing.

  “Again, we’re sorry to bother you. We just wanted—”

  “We got it. You’re sorry. Condolences, blah, blah, blah,” the champagne said on Victoria’s behalf. “Now, could you please leave us alone?”

  “Victoria,” Samantha said sharply. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. She just got a bit of bad news. Thank you very much for your kind words.”

  The wounded couple slipped away silently.

  “That was unnecessary, Victoria.”

  “I don’t care about them. I’m more worried about you right now. What are you going to do?”

  Samantha leaned back in her chair and placed a napkin in her lap. “I don’t think I have a choice. I can’t let even a rumor like that get out. I’ve got to pay him.”

  “Do you have that kind of money?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “How the hell are you going to explain that to your accountants?”

  “I won’t have to. I have offshore accounts that not even Hezekiah knew about,” Samantha said dismissively. “It’s not a question of the money. I’m just so mad at this son-of-a-bitch. I don’t like to be manipulated like this,” she added, clenching the champagne flute almost to the point of breaking it. “If I ever find out who he is, I swear I’ll . . .” Samantha stopped mid-sentence.

  “I told you, girl, I know people who specialize in shit like this. They can make this whole thing disappear if you want. It’ll be expensive, but nowhere near two million dollars,” Victoria said wickedly.

  “Thanks, girl. I knew I could count on you,” Samantha said, shaking off the fear that had gripped her since the telephone call, “but I think I can handle this on my own.”

  “Are you sure, girl? This could be some psycho. How do you know it’s not the same nutcase that killed Hezekiah?”

  “I don’t know that,” Samantha said, avoiding eye contact. “It did cross my mind when I was speaking to him.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to make a call for you? Believe me, these boys will root out the motherfucker in a day, and that will be the last anyone will ever hear from him.”

  “If I can’t handle it, you’ll be the first person I’ll call.”

  “All right, honey. But you better be fucking careful,” Victoria said, reaching across the table to take Samantha’s hand. “I don’t want to go to any more Cleaveland funerals this year.”

  Gideon knocked on the heavy wire-mesh security door at Danny’s apartment. His button-down downy white shirt, perfectly pleated khakis, and brown Gucci loafers seemed out of place in the respectable yet edgy neighborhood. The pounding made a familiar tinny rattle that was often heard in neighborhoods where barred doors and windows were required for relatively intruder-free living. He pounded harder the second time. The building was a two-story, 1920s fourplex splattered with bubbly beige stucco and bold wooden trim around the windows and doors. The front yard was neat, with freshly mown grass, recently pruned pine trees, and large wagging elephant’s ear plants. Oversize ferns nestled under the windows and around the porches of each of the four units.

  Gideon saw a cat lounging on the windowsill in Danny’s apartment. The scraggly gray cat seemed oblivious to the pounding on the door. Then, suddenly, the preoccupied cat casually lifted his head and looked over his shoulder into the apartment. Gideon saw the drape move slightly, and Danny appeared in the window.

  Gideon waved and held up a small box tied with a red ribbon. Danny looked blankly at Gideon and was clearly deciding whether to open the door to the uninvited guest or simply to ignore him.

  Danny disappeared from the window, and the lazy cat rested his head on the sill again. Gideon then heard the dead-bolt locks on the wooden door behind the security screen turn, and the door opened. He could see only the silhouette of Danny through the security screen.

  “What do you want?” Danny asked coldly.

  “Hello, Danny,” Gideon said. “I wanted to apologize for the other day. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Apology accepted. Is there anything else?”

  Gideon held up the box. “This is for you.”

  “I don’t want any gifts from you.”

  “It’s not a gift exactly,” Gideon said sheepishly. “It’s more a peace offering. I felt bad that I had hurt you. You don’t need any more hurt in your life, and I was devastated to think that I had caused you any additional distress.” Gideon extended the box toward the door and said, “Please. I don’t expect anything in return, other than assurance that you accept my apology.”

  Danny stood with his feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor in the entry hall. Gideon couldn’t see the suspicious expression on his face through the black screen; then suddenly he heard the metallic churning of another lock, and the prison door swung open. Danny stood shirtless in the threshold. Gideon immediately noticed his well-defined torso. He had a swimmer’s build. His skin was like brown whipped butter spread over a perfectly flat stomach, moderately muscular shoulders and chest. He wore a pair of baggy, faded blue jeans that sagged just below the waist, exposing the red elastic band of his boxer shorts.

  “You can come in only on one condition,” Danny said flatly.

  “What’s that?” Gideon asked, slightly raising his eyebrow.

  “You have to swear you won’t involve me in any way in your investigation. It’s too dangerous, and I don’t want to live the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for that horrible woman.”

  Gideon, without hesitation, raised his right hand and said, “I don’t want you to live in fear, either. I promise.”

  Danny looked him in the eye, as if attempting to discern the sincerity of his promise. Without saying a word, he slowly stepped aside and allowed Gideon to enter. Gideon followed Danny into the living room.

  “How did you find out my address?” Danny asked in a softer tone.

  Gideon smiled and said, “You forget I’m a reporter. We have our ways.”

  “That’s the problem. I can’t forget you’re a reporter. Sometimes I think you wish I would. You want a cup of coffee or tea?”

  “Sometimes I wish I could forget myself,” Gideon said as he instinctively surveyed the room. “Coffee would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I just made a pot. Hope decaf is okay. Have a seat,” Danny said, disappearing down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “That’s fine,” Gideon called out to his well-defined back.

  Gideon sat on the edge
of the couch under the bay window and placed the box on the coffee table. The cat purred and licked his paw on the sill, unfazed by his presence. His reporter instincts immediately kicked in, and the deductions quickly mounted.

  Not many pictures on the walls, he thought. He’s not comfortable here. This isn’t home to him. Only a couch, and no chairs. Doesn’t get, or want, many visitors. Stack of newspapers all folded to stories about Hezekiah. He’s still looking for answers. The plants are wilting. Hasn’t, as of yet, gotten back into a routine since Hezekiah’s death.

  “Do you take sugar and cream?” Danny called from kitchen.

  “Two sugars,” he responded

  The apartment is neat, but a faint layer of dust is evident on the coffee table. Gideon’s observant mind continued without his consent. He can manage some chores, but that’s limited to those that make his life bearable. Less pressing ones are dismissed.

  He looked for signs that Hezekiah had been in the room, a Bible perhaps, or an expensive piece of art out of place amid the neat but thrift-store decor. But there was nothing: no photographs of the handsome pastor, no coat that looked too large for Danny hanging on the coatrack, no gold pen on the desk, no hint of a wealthy ecclesiastical presence ever having been in the room.

  Danny returned with two steaming mugs and placed them on the coffee table. While away, he had put on a white T-shirt that did little to conceal his chiseled frame. Danny sat at the opposite end of the couch.

  “Thank you,” Gideon said, reaching for the mug. “What’s his name?”

  “What’s whose name?” Danny asked suspiciously.

  Gideon pointed over his shoulder and said, “The cat.”

  “Oh . . . that’s Parker.”

  Gideon reached over his shoulder and scratched Parker behind his ear. The cat purred even louder. After several rubs he stood, stretched, and climbed down the back of the couch and found a place on Gideon’s lap.

  “Parker, get down,” Danny commanded.

  “No, he’s fine. I like cats.”

  The cat ignored the human exchange, curled, and twisted until it found just the right position.