Travellin' Shoes

by V. M. Burns

  “We better get to work,” I said.

  Three hours, a hot shower, and a change of clothes later, we weren’t any closer to the truth. At the precinct, I reviewed the pictures from the crime scene, along with the crime scene technicians’ reports and the evidence they’d collected, as well as the report from the fire marshal. Apparently, the mayor had lit a fire of his own that had spread throughout the station. Our lab was overworked and underpaid, but I’d never seen such a quick turnaround.

  Harley came around the corner with his nose in a file folder. He looked up briefly. “Find anything?”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “Lab.” Harley sat at his desk and flipped through the folder.

  “Anything useful?”

  “Not yet. What’s the word going around the church? What’s the Oracle got to say?”

  From the moment Harley met Mama B, he referred to her as “The Oracle.” He said that every time he watched The Matrix, he was reminded of her. It might have something to do with the fact that Mama B had just baked cookies, and there we all were, cops and hoodlums, sitting on Mama B’s porch eating cookies and drinking sweet tea.

  “Couldn’t keep his pants on,” I said. “Apparently, he had a rep for being a playah.”

  Harley snorted.

  “You kiddin’? She said that?”

  “She did. She thinks he got those girls all worked up, and one of them killed him.”

  “Any truth in it?”

  “Beats me. We’ve got to start with the basics. Motive 101. Who wanted him dead and who benefits?”

  I should have known by the smile plastered on Harley’s face he was holding something back.

  “Maybe his wife.” Harley grinned.

  “Wife? Thomas Warrendale was married? I’m pretty sure he never mentioned a wife. It would have been all over the church.”

  “Maybe the problem is his real name wasn’t Thomas Warrendale.”

  Harley dropped the file on my desk. “They managed to get enough DNA to run it through the database.” He leaned over my shoulder while I scanned the file.

  Our friendly neighborhood choir director had a rap sheet. Mostly petty teenage stuff, shoplifting, and vandalism, and nothing recent. Thomas Warrendale was Tyrone Warren, a CPA from Cleveland. Wife. No kids.

  “Anyone contacted the wife?”

  “Not yet. Called the Ohio State Police. They’ll notify her and call us back.”

  “Now, why would a respected CPA move to another state, change his name, and pretend he was single?”

  “Lots of people dream of running away from their ordinary lives and doing something different.”

  “True, but few actually do it. We need to find out what Tyrone Warren was running away from, and whether or not his past caught up with him. Or whether someone in St. Joe ended his life.”

  “Is that it?” Harley asked.

  “No, but it’s a start.”

  The weather was unseasonably warm for May as I drove by Mama B’s. The days were getting longer, so it was still light outside. Seeing her sitting on the porch, I honked and then pulled in beside the house. She was enjoying the basketball game across the street.

  The front of the house looked out on the back of the Southeast-Side Recreation Center, an old rec center where men, young and old, hung out. Concrete and two poles with rims passed for a basketball court. The nets disappeared long before I could remember. This was not a place for the weak. These die-hard basketball fanatics were serious about their game. If you came to the Center talking trash, you’d better be able to back it up. While people of every race were welcome to watch, only serious ballers were invited to play. Today’s game was pretty intense, considering it was only Monday. Weekend games were the best, but I recognized some high school hotshots along with the regulars and knew this game would be worth watching. This was not a place for the faint of heart or those who lacked skills. Some of the toughest kids in the city passed Mama B’s house to play ball at the Center. Most stopped to speak. Some asked for a glass of water or a bite to eat. All of them cleaned up their language, even when passing, because if the weather was nice, Mama B was almost always sitting on the front porch.

  “Go on in the house and get yourself something to eat and some lemonade. It’s hotter than East Hell out here.”

  “Hotter than East Hell” was one of Mama B’s colorful colloquialisms. Apparently, East Hell was somewhat hotter than West Hell. How a good, Bible-quoting church matron like Mama B knew the temperature of Hell was another question I pondered as I went to the kitchen.

  No small talk where food was concerned. Mama B cut straight to the chase. Since I was single, she was sure I couldn’t possibly be eating enough. And there was no way I was eating a balanced meal. Resistance was futile. Plus, the scents drifting out to the porch were enough for me. Pot roast, leftover collard greens, and cornbread.

  After eating till I was stuffed like a turkey, I went out on the porch, but Mama B wasn’t alone.

  “Hello, Moe … ah, I mean, Reverend Chapman.” I extended my hand.

  Mama B snorted and continued rocking. Moe and I pretended we hadn’t noticed.

  Moe Chapman occupied one of the sturdier chairs Mama B kept outside for her heftier guests. Made of metal, it was technically considered a chair and a half. Moe flashed his largest, toothiest smile. “Praise the Lord. Good afternoon, RJ. I was just on my way home from the weekly Sunday school teachers’ class at the church and saw Miss Ella out here rocking. Thought I’d come set for a spell.”

  Moe was a big man, and his flesh oozed out of the sides of the chair. Each time he moved, the chair creaked, and I could see a vein begin to twitch on Mama B’s neck.

  I decided to make the best of the situation and see what I could learn. “I’m glad you stopped by. You saved me from making a trip out to your house. With Thomas Warrendale’s murder, I need to ask a few questions.”

  Moe stopped rocking and turned toward me. For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of panic in his eyes, but it only lasted a moment. Police tend to have that effect on a lot of people.

  Moe leaned forward and spoke quietly, as if I were coming to him for spiritual advice. “How can I help you?”

  “How well did you know Thomas Warrendale?”

  Moe gave the question some thought. “Not very well, I’m afraid. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”

  “Really? That seems odd. I mean, St. Joe isn’t that big, and First Baptist Church is even smaller.”

  He smiled big. “Of course we knew each other from church, but we didn’t hang out otherwise.”

  “You used to be the financial secretary—”

  “I helped out with the books. But I wasn’t no ‘financial genius’ or nothin’. I heard Warrendale was a financial genius.” Moe laughed heartily. “But that was before I got the call into the ministry and started preaching the Word of God. Praise the Lord.”

  “And once you started preaching?”

  “Once I started preaching, I didn’t have the time to do the books. That’s when Warrendale took over.”

  “Did you like Warrendale?”

  He squirmed a bit in his chair, but maybe that was because he was wedged in so tight, his flesh had started to go numb.

  “Well, I can’t say I exactly liked him. I heard some rumors.” Moe halted and looked down a bit sheepishly. “I don’t like spreading no rumors, but I suppose this is important.” He looked at me expectantly.

  “Very important. We’re trying to solve a murder.”

  Moe hesitated just a second. “I guess you’re right. Besides, I don’t suppose anything I say will do any harm now.”

  I took my notebook out, and Mama B rocked in silence.

  Moe Chapman had his audience. “I was at choir rehearsal on Friday night, and I heard a big argument.”

  “Who was arguing?” I asked.

  “Thomas Warrendale and Sister Williams.” Moe leaned forward in his seat.

  Mama B let out a noise tha
t sounded like “Pshaw.”

  “Who’s Sister Williams? I don’t think I know her.”

  “Sister Paris Williams. She sings in the choir. She was furious.” Moe shook his head at the recollection. “She really let Minister Warrendale have it.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “It sounded like Sister Williams was accusing Warrendale of stealing. She was madder than a wet hen, and claimed she’d make sure he paid for what he’d done.”

  I looked up from my notebook. “Why didn’t you come forward with this sooner?”

  Moe tried to look sheepish, but his lopsided grin came across as sneaky instead. “I wasn’t sure it was important. Besides, I don’t like getting involved.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “I sort of came in on the tail end of the conversation, so I don’t know what Minister Warrendale said, but she was so hot you could have fried an egg on her arm.” Moe shook his head again and chuckled. “After that, she stormed out.”

  “Did anyone else see or hear this?”

  “I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I just noticed the time and had to go pick up Mercedes … ah … I mean, Sister Jackson.”

  “And where did you go after you left the church?”

  “Like I said, I had a sort of date with Sister Jackson, so I went and picked her up, and then we went to dinner and spent some time together.” Again Moe flashed his big toothy grin.

  I asked a few other questions, but Moe didn’t have anything further to add. After a few more minutes, he pried himself out of the chair and left. When he was gone, I sat in the chair Moe vacated.

  “So, what do you think of that?” I asked Mama B.

  Mama B rocked in silence for a few seconds. “I thought I was going to have to call 911 to get that fat tub of lard out of my chair.”

  “I meant, what did you think of what he had to say?”

  “Moe Chapman’s a liar. He was a liar as a child. Once a liar, always a liar.”

  “He’s popular with the ladies.”

  Mama B scrunched up her nose as though she’d smelled sour milk. “You would be too if you paid them.”

  I spat out my lemonade. “How do you know that?”

  “That Mercedes Jackson was bragging to Nettie Fay how Moe sends flowers to her job every week and pays for her to get her nails and hair done. He buys her clothes, pays her rent, and springs for expensive vacations and jewelry. They went on a cruise to the Bahamas over Christmas. Can you imagine all that fat lying on the beach? Lucky they didn’t mistake him for a beached whale and try to harpoon him. If that ain’t paying for a woman, then I don’t know what is.”

  Whew. That wasn’t exactly what I was expecting when she said he “paid” for women, but it didn’t restore my faith in this supposed man of God. Where had all that money come from? I spent a few minutes trying to get her reaction to his comments about Sister Williams, but she remained uncharacteristically quiet on the subject. No matter how much I asked or what I said, she couldn’t or wouldn’t say more. Eventually, I decided to change the subject and had her fill me in on the dirt she’d gotten since yesterday. There wasn’t anything new, so I filled her in on my latest bombshell.

  She snorted. “I don’t believe that boy was married.”

  I knew that boy referred to Thomas Warrendale. Mama B’s likes and dislikes ran deep. Once she made her mind up about someone, there was no turning back.

  “I assure you he was.”

  “He certainly didn’t act like it. Just because you have a marriage certificate doesn’t mean anything.” Mama B rocked slowly. “A lot of people have diplomas, but that don’t mean they know the front end of a mule from the back.”

  “Any truth to the rumors you all were talkin’ about yesterday?”

  Mama B pursed her lips. “I don’t lie.”

  “I know you don’t lie. I mean are you sure? Was Thomas Warrendale fooling around?”

  “Mm-hmm … that’s what I heard. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “Was there anyone in particular?”

  Mama B rocked on. “I don’t know how par-tic-u-lar he was.” Mama B enunciated each syllable to make her point. “But I heard Francis Montgomery was one of the people.”

  Francis Montgomery seemed like a nice, straight-laced kid. She dressed older than her nineteen years, but if that were a crime, our jails would be packed. She’d grown up in the church. Her father was on the Deacon Board, and her mother was a member of the Nurses’ Aid.

  “Anyone else?”

  “I heard Mercedes Jackson’s name mentioned, but I didn’t believe it. Even a little fancy pants like Warrendale wouldn’t be that desperate.”

  “I thought Mercedes had hooked up with Moe Chapman? They looked pretty cozy on Sunday.”

  “Any port will do in a storm.” Mama B rocked. “I heard Tonya Rutherford got herself … in the family way. Some say it was Warrendale’s.”

  “Is it true?”

  “She’s expecting. I can tell by her face. They say she wears a tight girdle to hide her belly.”

  Mama B was a font of information.

  “Anything else?”

  Mama B rocked on for a long moment before adding, “You need to talk to my hairdresser, Paris Williams. He used to do her books. I think he was up to no good.”

  “Is this the same Paris Williams Moe Chapman was talking about?”

  “I couldn’t tell you what he was going on about. But Paris Williams is a good woman. And I think you should talk to her.”

  Mama B wouldn’t elaborate on anything other than to suggest I talk to Paris myself.

  “I’ve got a cobbler in the fridge.”

  I’m going to have to go to the gym tomorrow.

  Back at the historic district, not far from Thomas Warrendale’s house or what was left of it was the home of Paris Williams. It was almost nine at night but it was still light outside, so I decided to stop, in spite of the time. It had been a long day, but when you’re working a murder investigation, time is important.

  Paris Williams’ house was a large, three-storied Georgian with a brick exterior and leaded-glass windows. Prominent and stately, it sat back from the curb like a well-preserved grand dame. Large, flowering white dogwoods and orange blossoms filled the air with a sweet, fruity aroma and dropped white petals onto the manicured lawn. From the cobblestone driveway to the wrought-iron fence, this house exuded grandeur and had river, park, and skyline views. It was not on the outskirts of the historic district like Warrendale’s home. No, this house was the historic district.

  Up close and personal, the house had seen better days. While not perfect, it had class. It looked like the one-hundred-fifty-year-old home that it was, and it wore its years well. Pausing to admire the view, I felt like I’d stepped back in time. But this trip back was a short one. At the time when this house was built, I would not have been welcome, at least not at the front door. Memory Lane was not always a street I wanted to linger on. I rang the bell.

  “The salon business must be really good,” I mumbled to myself as I waited.

  It didn’t take long before the door opened. I started to speak, and my mind went totally blank.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Franklin.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Do you want to come in?”

  The home’s interior had high ceilings, incredible crown molding, and marble floors. The walls were taped and patched and ready for paint. Paris led me into a room that was once a parlor. Drop cloths protected the hardwood floors, and a large door she was in the process of stripping was spread across two workhorses.

  Focusing on the house gave me time to catch my breath. I wouldn’t describe Paris as beautiful. Tall, medium build, with dark skin and gray eyes, she wasn’t a runway model. If you were into super-thin women, you wouldn’t have looked at her twice. But if you did look twice, you’d see that her skin was smooth like chocolate milk and her eyes were
light gray with little golden flecks in them that sparkled when she smiled. She had great curves. But mostly there was an inner beauty, peace, intelligence, and a twitch at the corner of her mouth that hinted at a sense of humor. That’s what left me speechless. But I had to say something.

  “And the answer is ‘yes,’ ” she said.

  “Excuse me. The answer to what is ‘yes’?”

  “The salon business is good.”

  “You heard that?”

  “Yeah, I heard that.” Paris tried to hide a smile. “The doorbell is also an intercom. I’ve heard a lot of interesting comments on that thing. But this house was a wreck when I bought it. It was slated for demolition. I only paid ten thousand for it. Of course, it’s costing a small fortune to renovate, but that’s where the fun lies.”

  Paris had put on a pair of rubber gloves while she talked, and she returned to stripping the pair of doors in the living room.

  “You’re not doing that right,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You’re not stripping that properly. You need to go with the grain of the wood.”

  “Really? Who’re you, Bob Villa?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve stripped wood before. Let me show you.”

  Putting on the spare pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves lying on the mantle, I took the scraper. Normally, I don’t go looking for extra work, but there’s nothing like the smell and the feel of wood. Maybe when this case was over and I fulfilled my consulting obligation, I could spend time woodworking.

  “I’m not complaining, mind you, but I can’t believe you’ve come here to strip the paint off my doors.” She picked up another scraper and started scraping, this time with the grain of the wood. “I know the police are here to serve and to protect, but isn’t this taking service a bit far?”

  “We aim to please. Actually, I came to ask you some questions about Thomas Warrendale. I understand he worked for you.”

  “That’s a little misleading. I wouldn’t say he exactly worked for me. He did the books for my salon. He used to do the books. That doesn’t mean he was an employee.”