“I’m fine. I didn’t see you there.”
“Well, I’m kind of hard to miss. You know six foot and all.” He grinned.
She couldn’t help but smile back. The man had a way about him that put her at ease. “Well, since I’ve managed to practically run you over, do you have a minute?”
“Sure. I was going to ask you the same. Are you sure you’re up to talking? I would understand.”
She nodded her head. Really, she wanted to go home and lie down, but owing to her talk with Hillary, her curiosity propelled her to remain patient.
“Let’s go over here.” The detective led the way to a small open office.
Once inside, she commented, “You seem to know your way around this place.”
“VG Center. I have been frequenting the place quite a bit. Recently, I decided to sign up to help with coaching the basketball team. A little extracurricular activity outside of work.”
“Interesting. My daughter plays basketball for North Valley High.”
“Yeah. She’s pretty good.”
Candace smiled. “I would say so. Not that I know much about the sport other than yelling for my daughter when she has the ball in her hand.”
“Was your husband into sports?”
She was surprised by the detective’s question. “Yes, he was very much a sports fanatic.”
Detective Jackson chuckled lightly.
His deep, throaty laugh put her more at ease. “Do you mind if I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“What did Mitch Harris tell you?” For a moment, she didn’t think he would respond. She had to know.
“Mr. Harris does have an alibi. Most of the people we talked to said Pamela left the art gallery early. So, there is a stretch of time during which we can’t account for Ms. Coleman.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our medical examiner estimates time of death between eleven P.M. and midnight. There’s some lost time before her death. We don’t know if she arrived home and faced an intruder or if she headed somewhere else and met with someone.”
“She called me.”
The detective did a double take, blinking his eyes. “When?”
“I didn’t think about this until after you left the salon. I’m sorry. My mind was jumbled. But Thursday night she called around ten o’clock.” Tears drifted into her line of vision. “I think she wanted to tell me something. She called and said, ‘We need to talk.’ But then she got all quiet. Changed her mind.”
“Did she tell you where she was? I’m assuming she called you on her cell phone.”
She swiped a tear from her face. Why couldn’t she hold herself together? This was, like, the second time she’d cried in front of this guy. Of course, she had a right to, but she didn’t need the whole world to see her fall apart.
“She wasn’t at the art gallery. I asked her that because I heard noise in the background, like other people were talking around her. She never did say where she was. We agreed to talk the next day. She did mention she was heading home.”
The detective wrote something down on a pad that had mysteriously appeared in his hand. “Okay, so she stopped somewhere to call you. That’s going to help a lot.”
That didn’t help her nerves. Why didn’t she make Pamela call her back when she got home? Yeah, she professed to being tired, but that might have prevented something or at least saved her life. “So, there is a way you can track where she might have been at that time through her cell number?”
“We will certainly study the telephone records. The last known time people saw Pamela at the art gallery was a little before nine thirty. We might be able to pinpoint the location of the call. It did take about thirty minutes to get from the art gallery to her home.”
“That means someone could have left the art gallery, gone to her home, and returned.” Candace emphasized the word returned. She wasn’t buying Mitch Harris’s denial of having anything to do with Pamela’s death.
She grew uncomfortable at the way the detective scrutinized her face.
He responded, “You seemed very determined to pin this on Mr. Harris. I’m sure being the wife of a detective, you know we have to have hard evidence. Not just a dislike. You got anything else for me?”
“Have you talked to Mrs. Harris?”
“You think she knew about the affair?”
“Please, women always know something isn’t right. Besides, it may have been a few years ago, but Pamela, Rachel, and I were out in the mall. Mrs. Harris came up to us. She walked straight up to Pamela. They had words, and then she walked away. But by doing so, she said one thing that stood out in my mind.”
“What did she say?”
Candace swallowed. “She said, if Pamela didn’t leave Mitch alone, she was going to take her down with him.”
“Sounds like any woman ready to throw down for her man.”
“Oh no, this wasn’t like that. This was on another level. Pamela told me a long time ago how Mrs. Harris’s money funded the law firm. Her money kept her husband comfortable and was the reason why he would never leave her. Believe me, the man had motive.”
“Pamela was one of the best lawyers at the firm. Do you really think he would risk harming her?”
“Talk to Mrs. Harris, Detective. Believe me, when my husband came to me to talk about a case, I could tell him a little something. Alibi. She’s probably protecting him. Or vice versa.”
A wry smile crossed Darnell’s face. “Okay, so you got a little detective in you, I see.”
“I just want justice. Pamela was my oldest and dearest friend.”
“All right, I’ll run this by Brunson. It’s been a long day, and you need to get some rest. By the way, if you think of anything else, here’s my card.”
She stared down at the white card. Candace hoped Darnell would take her seriously and really pursue all the loose ends surrounding Mitch Harris.
Chapter Seventeen
Her eyes were closed, but sleep failed to come. Not knowing what else to do after the funeral, Candace retreated under the covers. Not much comfort. Maybe God should have built humans with a key to turn the brain off. Bleary-eyed, she shuffled into the kitchen, her head still throbbing, her stomach grumbling.
Thanks to Beulah and some of her salon clients, the fridge was fully stocked. She reached for one Tupperware container after another, not sure what her stomach could handle. From the living room, the television blared. “Welcome to the early edition of WYNN News. At the top of the five o’clock news hour, our first story of the evening is ...”
Grabbing a container of fried chicken, she sat it on top of the counter. It wasn’t until she found a chicken wing that she realized the fridge door stood wide open. How many times had she fussed at the kids about wasting energy and running up the electric bill? She returned the container, slamming the door shut.
“Attorney Pamela Coleman was laid to rest today.”
Candace froze, her ears perked as she heard the anchorman announce her friend’s name. She walked to the kitchen door and peered into the living room. Daniel sat on one side of the couch, and Rachel in the recliner. She scooted into the living room and perched on the couch. Surely there was something new to report.
“Hundreds attended her funeral at Charlotte’s fastest-growing church, Victory Gospel Church. Our correspondent Serena Manchester joins us with an update about the investigation.”
The cameras panned to the woman Candace saw talking with Detective Jackson earlier. “Today people from all walks of life came to pay tribute to a prominent woman in our community.” The news story transitioned to footage of the church’s massive sanctuary, zooming in on the rows and rows of people. Then the screen changed again, the camera focusing on a man with sweat beading around his forehead. At the bottom of the screen, it read, “Reverend Jonathan Freeman, Victory Gospel Church.”
“Pamela was a pillar in this community. We know God has welcomed her with open arms.” He took a moment to wipe his wet forehea
d. “I’m sure He has said to her what we all long to hear. Well done, good and faithful servant.”
The camera returned to Serena, with a large man standing beside her.
“We have Captain Ransom here to update us on the case.” Turning toward the stocky man, Serena placed the microphone close to his mouth. “Captain, can you share information with the public about this case?”
“Well, I can report we have investigators actively gathering and studying evidence. If there is anyone with a tip, we encourage them to call our twenty-four-hour hotline.”
The reporter stuck the microphone closer to the captain. “We know Coleman had quite a few high-profile cases over the years. Are you seeking suspects from those cases?”
The captain’s face reddened around his cheeks. “We’re looking at a number of avenues. But I can’t go into details.”
He turned and walked away as Serena tried to ask another question. The pretty reporter turned back toward the camera. “It looks like this case isn’t going to be open and shut. We will definitely keep you posted as we gather more information. Back to the studio with you, Wesley.”
The anchorman, Wesley Cade, responded, “Thanks, Serena, for keeping us updated on the Coleman murder case. Now joining us here in the studio are defense attorneys ...”
Rachel jumped off the couch. “Those people don’t know what they are talking about. They go on and on about her like she wasn’t a real person.”
Candace’s heart broke at the tremor in her daughter’s voice. “Rachel.”
The girl stomped off down the hallway. A few minutes later a door slammed.
Candace hated doors to be slammed. She would need to talk to Rachel, but right now she was too exhausted to deal with her daughter’s outburst. It would only result in a major blowup.
She sank into the chair Rachel had vacated, Frank’s favorite chair. Holding her head in her hands, she watched as Daniel flipped channels, finally stopping on a cartoon. The characters had big eyes and talked funny.
“That’s one of those Japanese cartoons?” Candace asked.
“They call it anime, Mom.”
“Mmm.”
“Mom, who was the lady at the limo? She looked familiar.”
Her eyes flickered open. Candace didn’t realize she had been dozing. So, they had noticed Aunt Maggie. Both of her children had been so young the one and only time her aunt entered her home. That unpleasant visit from long ago had turned out to be a big mistake, leaving her estranged from her one living connection to her mother. “She’s a relative. The last time you or your sister saw her, you were very young.”
“Oh.”
Thankfully, the cartoon, or whatever Daniel called it, came back on the screen. She leaned back. Every time she sat in the recliner, she could almost feel Frank’s presence. The smooth suede fabric lulled her to sleep.
This dream seemed familiar, but different.
From the back side, Candace observed a figure moving in the darkness. She tried to comprehend her location, which appeared to be a large area of space, where unusual shapes surrounded her.
The figure up ahead stopped and then turned in Candace’s direction. When the face emerged from the darkness, Candace gasped.
Mama.
No, Pamela.
Candace drew closer to her friend. Her bushy hair was pulled back. Worry lines were etched across her high forehead.
A phone rang nearby.
Startled, Candace looked down to find a cell phone in her hand. She couldn’t recall where it came from, because she wasn’t carrying a purse. The slim, fancy phone didn’t belong to her, either. Her daughter, Rachel, always bugged her about purchasing one.
Puzzled by the phone, she looked up. Pamela’s mouth moved, as if she had something urgent to say. Her brown eyes huge and fear filled. Too big. And what was she trying to say? It sounded like gibberish.
In the distance, she heard voices. Where were they? Pamela was so close, Candace reached out her hand to touch her. She looked down at her hand. The ringing phone was no longer there.
It didn’t matter. She needed to help Pamela. Wait. The figure in front of her resembled her mama. What’s going on? Where’s Pamela?
A pair of large hands grabbed her from behind, yanking her backward. She wrestled her shoulders back and forth, trying to free herself, but the hands held her in a vise grip. Her breathing grew constricted. The voices grew louder and closer as her assailant dragged her farther away from Pamela. Mama. Pamela.
Candace twisted awake.
“Mom, are you okay? Mom!” Her son stood hovering over her, appearing younger than his fourteen years.
She leaped up from the couch and grabbed Daniel’s arm. “What? Is the house on fire? Did you call nine-one-one?”
Daniel shook his head, his eyes wide and scared. “No.”
“Well, why didn’t you?” Candace raced down the hallway to Rachel’s closed bedroom door. The door was locked. How many times did she have to tell that girl there would be no locked doors in her house? She banged on the door. “Rachel?”
Standing behind her, Daniel yelled, “Mom, the house is fine. It’s the phone!”
Candace looked at the handset extended toward her. Confused, she grabbed the phone from her son. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Johnson. This is Detective Jackson.”
Her mind was still in a state of panic. This man was a homicide detective. She’d spoken to him earlier. “Yes. Did you have some news for me?”
The detective made a noise in the background, as though he had something in his throat. “Um, I was calling about Rachel. She got caught up with a crowd of young people gone wild, I hate to say. I wanted you to know I’ll be bringing her home.”
What! She closed her eyes as a wave of warmth flowed through her body. This was no ordinary hot flash. “Thank you, Detective.” Candace pressed the receiver button down. Almost two years ago she buried her husband. Her best friend was laid to rest earlier today. She prayed she didn’t have to bury her one and only daughter.
Because right now she wanted to kill her.
Chapter Eighteen
It wasn’t safe for her to have some of these thoughts. Still, here she sat in the living room again. What in the world would make Rachel do something this foolish? A few months ago Candace had grounded her for missing a ten o’clock curfew. At her wit’s end, she hadn’t known whether she should look for her or call the police. Candace hadn’t prayed like that in years, promising God she would never let that girl out of the house again. That was exactly what Frank would’ve done.
During that time, when a pair of headlights glared through the front windows, she’d almost tripped over her bathrobe as she rushed to the window to peek through the blinds. Before the key turned in the door, she’d twisted the dead bolt to find her sixteen-year-old daughter shocked to see her mother standing in the door. “Well, it’s so nice of you to come home. Did you, by any chance, lose track of time?”
“Mom—”
“Don’t! Do you remember what you said before you left?”
Rachel looked down.
“Speak up, young lady.”
“I said you can trust me.”
“Why? The one opportunity I gave you. Why would you blow it?”
The next day Pamela had talked to Rachel on the front porch. Candace had felt ashamed of her envy as she watched Rachel talk so easily to her godmother. Since Frank’s death, mother and daughter had rarely had a civil conversation, without one of them blowing up.
She didn’t have Pamela now to smooth the rough edges. Make both of them laugh.
Candace glanced at the clock again. The detective should be there soon. Her eyes rested on the oil painting over the fireplace, of the four of them together. Rachel and Daniel were barely preteens. Frank’s eyes appeared sympathetic. Or was that her imagination?
Her children were good kids, rarely giving her trouble, other than an occasional sibling fight that got out of hand. Good grades, good students. For the longest
, basketball interested Rachel more than boys. It was a relief, especially to Frank, who often contemplated how he would intimidate Rachel’s future boyfriends.
Candace hated that he wasn’t there.
Her husband wouldn’t have appreciated getting up in the middle of the night to have to rescue his beloved little girl from whatever she managed to get into tonight. Lights flashed outside the window. Candace dreaded facing Rachel. What would she say to her?
Somewhere she had failed to be a parent. Maybe being a mom and a dad was a bit too much. It was easier being on one side. It was all insane, and most days she preferred to be numb. Maybe that was her mistake.
The doorbell rang, jarring her from her pity party. She sprinted to the door and snatched it open. Her eyes fell on her daughter’s disheveled hair and tear-stained eyes. Candace stretched out her arms to pull her daughter close, into a hug, instead of the choke hold she’d envisioned earlier. Besides, Detective Jackson stood only a few feet away; there was no need for her to commit a crime in front of him. He probably had already labeled her as one of those bad mothers who let their children do what they wanted.
The thought tapped into an aching in her soul. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t be a replica of her own mother. Never. So, what happened?
She gripped her daughter’s chin, willing her to look at her in the eye. “You know I’m disappointed. It’s been a long, hard day.” Tears sprang into her daughter’s eyes, one leaking down the side of her face. Candace’s face twitched from the assault of emotions lingering on the surface. With a shaky voice she added, “I will talk to you in the morning.”
Before Rachel sulked off, she called to her. “Rachel, make sure you tell Detective Jackson thank you.”
Turning around, her face wet with tears, Rachel said, “Thanks.”
After her daughter left the living room. Candace faced the detective. “Detective Jackson ...”
“Darnell. I’m off the clock. Please call me Darnell.”
He had the warmest smile. Anybody taking the time to drop someone else’s kid off at this hour, smiling like that, he must be crazy or something special. “Thank you. I do appreciate this.” Afraid to ask, she proceeded tentatively. “What exactly happened? Anyone hurt?”
When Rain Falls Page 7
