Diamond Dreams

by Zuri Day

  Chapter 21

  Diamond walked to the cart with Jackson right on her heels. “Papa who?”

  “Dee,” she replied over her shoulder. “Short for David.” She jumped into the cart, started it and was off milliseconds after Jackson’s heel left the dirt.

  “Dang, girl. Slow down!”

  Diamond went on as if she were having tea in the garden instead of driving a cart forty miles an hour over gravel. “David Drake Sr. is my great-grandfather. He was born in that house on the hill. I’ll show you the room. My great-great-grandfather Nicodemus built this place…well, him and his worker friends, with their bare hands.” Diamond hit a rut. The cart rose a foot off the ground and came down with a thud. “Whoa! Sorry.”

  Jackson was busy leaving finger imprints on the dash through a Jaws of Life-style clutch. He shot a fierce scowl at Diamond. “Slow down!”

  “Ha!” Diamond pressed her foot on the gas and went from grass to gravel on two wheels. “Spoken by the person who drives a Maserati. Cute.”

  They reached the house on the hill, a two-story, square-shaped number with a red hipped roof. Compared to the Drake Estate, one would describe it as humble; yet there was a majestic quality to it, an unmistakable air of importance that emanated from the worn planks of wood. Jackson and Diamond exited the cart, their conversation muted by the energy around them.

  Jackson walked up to the side of the house that was facing them and looked into the window. He ran his hand along the pane and noted the pristine workmanship still evident a hundred years after completion. It was as if he could sense the worth of the men who’d built it, imagined their camaraderie while working together, mixed with determination and pride. “Good work,” he said.

  Diamond joined him at the window. “The entrance is around here,” she said, her voice low, reverent. “It’s locked, but there’s a secret hiding place for the key. You have to promise not to tell anyone where it is.”

  Jackson looked chagrined. “Who would I tell?”

  Diamond’s smile was soft, unreadable. “Come on.”

  They walked around to the side of the house where a porch that spanned the length of the house had seen better days. There were three short steps to the door. Jackson bypassed those and stepped directly onto the porch’s wooden planks. They creaked under his weight. Diamond walked to the edge of the porch, lifted one of the planks and retrieved a large, old heavy key. The lock protested, but eventually the knob turned and the couple went inside. Jackson’s eyes filled with wonder as he noted the excellent craftsmanship of the wooden floors, beveled windows and pressed brick fireplace. Built-in bookcases framed the fireplace, and the dining room was beamed and Dutch-paneled, with a heavy plate rail and buffet spanning the back wall. Faded floral wallpaper suggested a woman’s touch. The whole place reeked with the Obama mantra: Yes, we can.

  Jackson asked, “How’d your family get this land?”

  “My great-great-grandfather Nicodemus was part Creole, from New Orleans, and came here with his owner in the late 1800s. He and Pierre Drake, his owner, had grown up together and were more like brothers than master and slave. When they made the trip west to expand the Drake family fortunes, Pierre almost died. But Nicodemus’s mother, Henriette, was trained in the healing arts. She passed her knowledge of herbs and other natural ingredients as remedies on to her children. Aside from having a magical way with animals, Nicodemus was what was called back then a root doctor. He saved Pierre’s life. The family was so grateful that they promised to will part of the land to him, and when Pierre died, that’s exactly what happened.”

  “That’s an amazing story, Diamond. And such a rarity—people of color owning so much land.”

  “That hasn’t come without its struggles,” Diamond admitted. “More than once, various entities have tried to steal this rich property. But the Drakes were smart people, and their will was ironclad. It also hasn’t hurt that we’ve remained in contact with our White counterparts and attend their family reunion every year.”

  “Your ancestor’s former owners?”

  Diamond nodded. “When the last lawsuit came, trying to take the land from Papa Dee, it was Pierre’s great-great-grandson, now a lawyer, who successfully argued the case…and won.”

  Diamond shared more stories as they toured the rest of the house including the bath, pantry and upstairs bedrooms, and Jackson began to see the pride and strength behind the woman he’d secretly viewed as a spoiled rich girl. While walking through the home that Nicodemus had built, he felt their lust was replaced with something deeper, stronger…something that lasted longer than an orgasm’s spasms, and unknowingly, the two became intoxicated with something else of which the house reeked—love. And they hadn’t physically touched.

  After leaving the house on the hill, Diamond made quick work of the rest of the tour, which included the hopper, presses and fermenting tanks. On the ride back, they discussed an idea that had resulted from Jackson’s offhanded comment, “Y’all should do something with that house.” A short time later, Diamond wheeled the cart back into the executive-offices parking lot.

  “I’ve got it!” she said when they reached her office. “We could turn it into a standalone honeymoon suite!”

  Jackson rubbed his jaw in thought. “Undergird the foundation, restore it back to its original luster with furnishings to match the era…”

  “It would be so charming.” Diamond reached her computer and began typing furiously, her mind abuzz. “We could even offer it as a themed wedding site, which, considering the history of this area, would go over huge!” When Jackson didn’t comment, she turned and saw him reading a text with that delectable mouth set in a firm, strained line. “What is it?”

  “Business,” Jackson said, rising.

  “Not again,” Diamond responded, her voice sounding as firm as that of a military-school teacher. She stood, adding more softly, “Not like this. I care about you, Jackson, and whatever’s going on with you appears more serious than a break-in. What is it?”

  Jackson looked at Diamond a long moment and realized that it was the first time he’d ever heard any woman other than Aunt Evie speak to him with such raw concern. “I’m getting threats,” he said evenly, his voice devoid of emotion. “Someone is vowing to kill me.”

  Chapter 22

  Diamond stared at Jackson a full five seconds before responding, “Kill you as in…dead?”

  Jackson took a page from Genevieve Drake’s book of dry wit. “What other kind of killing is there?”

  “Of course, you’re right. I’m just…taken aback.”

  Jackson walked over to a leather love seat and sat down. “It started several weeks ago, anonymous letters with no return address, and has escalated from there. Last week’s break-in wasn’t to steal anything. It was to leave a warning.”

  “What kind of warning?”

  Jackson looked at Diamond, took in her genuinely disturbed expression and decided to be truthful. “Someone came in with a silencer and shot up my assistant’s computer. They left a note saying the next bullet has my name on it.”

  “What are the police saying?”

  “Nothing. We didn’t go to the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want this getting leaked to the press. My attorney hired a private investigator. He’s flown into town and wants to meet with me. But his schedule is tight. He flies out tomorrow. So after a quick chat with the foreman to make sure all construction is on schedule, that’s where I’m headed.”

  Diamond walked over to the love seat. She reached out and touched Jackson’s arm. The thought of someone wanting to hurt him sent chills down her spine. She swallowed fear and summoned up courage. “You’ll be fine, Jackson.” She looked him dead in the eye and spoke with the confidence of God’s right-hand man. “Whoever is behind
this will be caught. The danger will pass.”

  A smile scampered across Jackson’s face. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  Diamond had to sound sure to feel sure. If something happened to Jackson, she didn’t know what she’d do. “I am.”

  “How so? Are you going to be my protector?”

  An idea instantly formed in her head. “We have people on the payroll. My father can make a call—”

  Jackson spoke sternly. “No! I can handle my business.” And then more softly, he said, “I gotta run, baby girl. Don’t worry your pretty little head about me. Because like you said, I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, Jackson sat in a living room suite at Tower 23 near downtown San Diego. Abe Swartz sat at the other end of the couch, and across from him sat one of the country’s preeminent private eyes: Frank Stanton.

  “I was surprised to learn that you already have news,” Jackson said to the well-dressed man in the wingback chair. “You work quickly.”

  Frank nodded, the slightest trace of Georgian roots coming through in his accent. “Time is money. I try and spend my client’s wisely.”

  “He’s the best,” Abe interjected, glad he was able to get Frank on such short notice. It hadn’t hurt that he had connections with a Georgia judge who just happened to be good friends with the investigator.

  “I appreciate your time.” Jackson sat back and poured a glass of lemon water from the pitcher beside him. “What do you have so far?”

  “For now, I’m focusing my investigation on your uncle’s former colleague, Solomon Dent. He has a nephew with a criminal past. Lately, it turns out, they’ve been spending quite a bit of time together. This nephew, Brandon Dent, has also been spending quite a bit of time with a guy he met behind bars, a guy who just got out of prison. Now my hunch is that maybe, just maybe, some of this has to do with you.”

  Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you think that?”

  “The timing. Brandon was released from jail in August, and this cohort of his was released a few weeks ago.”

  When it came to Jackson’s old neighborhood, more guys had gone to prison than to college. He could name a dozen people who’d experienced this fate from his block alone. “What’s the dude’s name?”

  “Right now, all I’ve got is Slim Shady.”

  Jackson all but snorted. “That’s a nickname for a rapper, Eminem.”

  “Okay.” Frank studied Jackson a moment. “Other than the names you gave Abe, is there anyone from your past you can think of who’d want to try and hurt you?”

  Jackson slowly shook his head. “I left Inglewood when I was thirteen, went back for about a month when I was sixteen and after that my focus changed.” Jackson was quiet a moment, remembering how he’d gone back to the hood for his sixteenth birthday. Visiting a popular teen hangout in San Diego one day, he’d run into the cousin of one of his childhood friends. They’d talked about the neighborhood and life “back in the day.” It made Jackson nostalgic to go home and reconnect. But two years away from the inner-city lifestyle had changed him. When what he’d thought was an innocent ride to the gas station turned out to be something totally different—something that ended in murder—his life forever changed. That incident spawned a determination to seek a more positive and successful path in life. “I had a long talk with my uncle, who brought me into the company as his protégé shortly after returning from this last trip to the hood,” he finally continued. “I made new friends out here.”

  “And what about your old friends. No further contact?”

  Jackson shook his head. “A lot of my old friends are either dead or in prison. But I can’t think of any of them who would have a beef with me. Not one that’s this deep, wanting to catch a case for murder and whatnot.”

  Frank reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and pad. “I want you to write down the names of the friends you grew up with, those guys on the block who you know went to prison.”

  Jackson hesitated, his street mentality kicking in. Naming names, for any reason, usually led to bad things for those involved. And then there was the note: Your no good snitch ass. “I don’t think it’s necessary, man. Like I said, I didn’t have any beef with any of them.”

  “But one of them might have had a beef with you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Frank shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you’ve obviously gotten on someone’s bad side, and until we figure out who that is, I think everyone should be guilty until proven innocent. Capiche?”

  A rash of images from Jackson’s past rushed into his mind: red lights flashing while sirens blared; random, illegal car and house searches; running from police and not knowing why they chased you; being handcuffed first and asked questions later; getting pulled over for DWB: driving while Black. Yeah, he capiche’d all too well.

  He stood. “I think you should keep the focus on Solomon Dent. I can’t see anyone from the block coming for me after all these years.”

  Frank also stood. “Maybe not. Like I said, I’m just going on a hunch here. We’ll keep Solomon in our crosshairs and a finger on his nephew, Brandon, as well. I’ll be in touch.”

  Jackson walked over to Frank, a looming presence for a guy who was at least seven inches shorter. “You do that,” he said as he shook Frank’s hand. “Abe, thanks.”

  He left the meeting. His mind whirled. Memories he’d suppressed for decades came back full force—his past, the old life, the secrets he’d buried under the opulence of a La Jolla mansion, a booming business and the love of an uncle and aunt who’d treated him like a son. The hurt of losing them returned, along with the fear that had accompanied life in the streets with no one to guide you. Then, into the pain crept the feeling he’d experienced earlier…when he’d stared at an old brick hearth still bearing burn marks from fires long burned out. And later, he’d been struck with an assurance not felt since his parents died: You’ll be fine, Jackson. Whoever is behind this will be caught. We’ve got people on the payroll. It was from his spoiled diva princess protector who’d come from generations of stock that never backed down. Jackson almost laughed out loud. A very special lady had his back. He could get used to this.

  Chapter 23

  “Hi, Mom.” Diamond entered the kitchen and kissed Genevieve on the cheek. Many had wondered why the wife of a wine mogul with this kind of empire would still be in the kitchen, when chefs had been hired by those with far less. The truth of the matter was that Genevieve Drake had learned the love of cooking at her mother’s elbow. The act brought her joy and peace. After what she’d heard this afternoon, it was peace she needed.

  “Hey, baby.” Genevieve turned, then resumed stirring.

  “What’s for dinner? Smells delish.”

  “Braised short ribs served with this special pomegranate sauce.”

  “Yum. Grandpa’s going to be happy.”

  “Believe it or not, he and Mama are going to a doo-wop concert at the casino. Papa Dee is a bit under the weather. It’s just us tonight. Want to make the salad?”

  “Mom! You know when they passed out cooking genes I was out to lunch.”

  “Ha! If you think making a salad is cooking, then I’d have to agree. And if it weren’t for the fact that I personally taught you a few dishes, you might get away with that claim.”

  “I’d have to get up early to get one over on you, huh?”

  “You’d better know it!”

  “Okay, let me rephrase. Your daughter knows how to cook. She just never learned to like it.” With that, Diamond reached for a carrot stick, dodged Genevieve’s swatting spoon and left the kitchen. She reached the great room and almost ran into Dexter.

  Dexter jumped back. “Slow down, fool!”

  “I love you, to
o, brother.” Diamond blew him a kiss, walked over to the wet bar and picked up an unlabeled bottle of wine. “The new pinot noir?” she questioned. “What clone is this?”

  “That’s old school, from the mother, baby girl. It’s the real deal.”

  “From Papa Dee’s secret arsenal?”

  Dexter nodded. While all of the children had been shown the process of winemaking, Dexter was the one who’d embraced it like a second skin. He’d gotten his undergrad degree in viticulture with a minor in enology and his grad degree in business. Papa Dee’s stamp of approval had come years later when after taking a sip of Dexter’s creation he said, “I think this is the best wine that I’ve ever had.” A few years later, Dexter, who also worked in business development, officially became the company’s winemaker.

  Diamond continued to admire the bottle. “Wow,” she said, her tone almost reverent. “Can I open it?”

  “Sure.”

  Dexter was proud of the clones he’d hoisted from vines his great-grandfather had planted more than twenty-five years ago. Using cuttings and buds from Papa Dee’s original, they’d created a nice blend of fine red wines. The years 2002 and 2007 were especially good, but there was a very limited selection bottled in 1989. PNDO, Pinot Noir Drake Original, was sold for one week once a year and was available by invitation only. Those on a budget need not seek admittance to this club as the cost of one bottle equaled that of a high-end computer.

  Diamond poured the wine through an aerator, filled their glasses and gave one to Dexter. There was no talking. This was serious business right here. Both of them held the glass up to the light, noting the opaqueness, the deep garnet—almost burgundy—color tinged with orange. They stuck their noses into the glass and inhaled deeply. A hint of cherry was recognized along with the blackberry fragrance. Stellar! After swirling their glasses for several seconds, they inhaled again. “Is that huckleberry?”

  Dexter nodded. “And the slightest hint of oak.”

  Diamond closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Wispy scents of cinnamon, clove and nutmeg spices ticked her nose. “The spice aromas cut through so nicely,” Diamond gushed, with unabashed admiration. “But still very fruit forward. This vintage absolutely gets better with age.”