“You talked to Candace? Last night?” Brunson glared at him. “Y’all are awfully friendly all of a sudden.”
“The woman is Pamela’s best friend. She probably knew the woman’s habits better than anyone. You got something against me talking to her?”
“Mmm.” Brunson wouldn’t even look in his direction.
“What’s your problem?” Darnell stared at the side of Brunson’s head, willing the man to look at him.
“All right, Jackson. Let’s get back to the matter at hand. I’m going to let you run with this ‘crime of passion’ scenario. I’m warning you now. Be careful with Mitch Harris. We already got the judge on our case. From what I hear, the two men are buddies. It would be really crazy for the man to murder his mentor’s daughter. Get out of here, both of you. Bring me some evidence we can take to the DA.”
Darnell wanted to talk to his partner and find out what his issues were with him talking to Candace. As he reached the door, the captain yelled, “Jackson!” Darnell spun around. “Remember, be careful. You understand me?”
He saluted the captain and shut the door. The glass door clanged behind him. He didn’t have a problem with the orders. The problem? Trouble tended to find him.
By the time Darnell reached his desk, Brunson had disappeared. Okay, now, Candace was Brunson’s former partner’s wife. But what was the deal? Even more importantly, it occurred to Darnell, he didn’t really know how Frank Johnson had died.
He checked his watch. Soon he would have to head down to the art gallery to meet the infamous owner. He’d deal with Brunson later.
Darnell sat down and then tapped his keyboard to wake the sleeping computer. Once online, he opened some of the bookmarked pages. After several clicks, he found what he needed. It took some time, but the Lafayette Art Gallery Web site loaded into his browser. He noted the address. Not sure why, he kept clicking through the site until he landed on the “Friends of the Lafayette” page.
Darnell scanned the list. One name popped out at him. Maybe he’d better check out this gallery owner dude a little closer. It seemed Avante had some nice patrons. One being Mrs. Mitch Harris.
Chapter Twenty
Candace had seen men hurt women with their fists or worse. As a young girl, she’d witnessed enough bruises on her mother’s face to know the black and blue marks often hid a different story.
It was only one time, but it was enough to make Candace look at Pamela differently from that moment forward. Only a few years ago Mitch assaulted Pamela. Her friend wrongly thought she could force Mitch to finally commit to her. That was when the veteran attorney showed his true colors, leaving a mark on Pamela. He would never leave his wife, and he would destroy Pamela’s career if she tried to weasel into his marriage.
Last night the detective appeared quizzical about her being so gung ho to accuse Mitch. She had a right to be. Her best friend was dead, and she knew one very powerful man that was prone to violence, even if it was only one time. Sometimes that was all it took.
Candace held the white business card in her hand, recalling that her husband had had a similar card. Except this card had DETECTIVE DARNELL JACKSON printed on the front. She appreciated that he had brought Rachel home. There was specialness in his actions and his willingness to listen to her rants after midnight. His presence had kept her anger in check.
What was she going to do about her daughter? She knew deep down that Rachel had acted out because she missed her daddy. Losing Pamela had dug an even deeper hole in all their lives.
Candace didn’t have the luxury of losing her cool. The investigation into Pamela’s death concerned her to the point where she could barely mourn. But something in the back of her mind told her to let the detective do his job. She could be wrong. With Pamela being a defense attorney, anybody could have followed Pamela home. But who? Her friend had always been so careful about keeping her life private, down to purchasing a home outside the city, in an affluent subdivision.
Yet something else to question. Pamela, where did you go after you left the art gallery? she asked herself.
Time couldn’t be turned back. Her mind would latch hold to one question after another, if she allowed it.
Candace placed Darnell’s card back in her purse and turned back to the spreadsheet on the computer screen. This budget needed to be her focus right now. She recalculated the numbers again. Still the same result. The salon needed to make a larger profit in order to make ends meet. Almost a thousand dollars more. What if she hired another stylist? She could raise the salon prices. Again. The last thing she wanted was to turn clients away.
Clients.
Pamela had never discussed her clients. Despite their friendship, some topics had been off limits. That was understandable. When Frank was alive, sometimes he shared about his investigations; other times he remained tight lipped.
Suppose this had nothing to do with Pamela’s relationship with Mitch, but with a client?
She minimized the spreadsheet software on her computer screen and clicked on the Internet browser. Speaking of cutting costs, the one beneficial expense to the salon in recent months was the Wi-Fi service. It did draw younger women from the surrounding college population. Turned out to be a great benefit for the career women on her clientele list, too.
Her home page from the content provider loaded in the browser window. Clicking around, she typed in “WYNC” in the search engine. While she didn’t pay much attention to the case, she did recall Pamela’s recent case being the feature story on the six o’clock news.
There’s something. The text link led her to a page about the funeral. She scrolled down and found a list of related stories.
CHARGES DROPPED AGAINST CHARLOTTE ART GALLERY OWNER.
That’s it. With another click, Candace found an article with a video clip included. She checked her speaker’s volume and then pressed PLAY.
“Today Avante Lafayette had all assault and battery charges dropped. The assailant would not comment on camera, except through a spokesman, who said this was simply a misunderstanding between two old friends that got out of hand.”
“Really? What started the misunderstanding?” Candace pushed the papers around on her desk and located a sticky note and wrote, “Avante Michael Lafayette.”
Her face felt warm as she saw an archived image of her friend appear on the screen. It was amazing how videos kept a person alive. Candace turned away from the monitor. Everywhere she turned, pain pulsated under the surface.
“Avante, so what happens now?” a reporter asked in the background.
Candace turned her attention back to the small screen and froze. Then she grabbed the mouse to hit the pause button on the video. That was the man. This was the same guy at Pamela’s funeral. She had forgotten about her encounter, but her unease returned as she continued to observe Mr. Lafayette on the video.
He had purposely sought her out at the funeral. But why?
Something about the man was still familiar. There was only one other man she’d encountered in her lifetime who had the ability to smile with a complete loss of emotion in his eyes.
Sociopath. That was what the experts had called the man who murdered her mother .
Stop it, Candace. Just because the man looked creepy didn’t mean he meant any harm. It was unfortunate, but Pamela had many clients like Avante Lafayette.
A rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. “Come in.”
Tangie stuck her head in. “You are Ms. Special today.” She swung the door wide open and stepped in the office, a handful of mail in her hand. “That mailman is super fine.”
Candace rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Tangie, get a hold of your hormones.”
In the stack of mail, Candace noticed a yellow cushioned envelope. She reached to pull it out. No return address.
Before she opened it, Tangie said, “By the way, there’s a woman out there wanting to talk to you. Now, she needs some serious work done to her hair. That wig she got on is not helping a sista.”<
br />
There was a movement at the doorway, and then a woman stepped into focus, her smile strained. Candace locked eyes with the visitor.
“Um, thank you, Tangie.”
Tangie shot the visitor a painful look and shut the door.
Candace stood. “Sorry about that. Tangie didn’t mean any harm with her comments. What can I do for you, Maggie?”
“I’m an old woman. Talk doesn’t bother me. It’s good to see you, Nana.”
“It’s Candace.”
“I’m sorry. I know you are a grown woman now.”
Candace directed her aunt to a chair in front of the desk and then sat down herself. Maggie seemed so old, her dark skin weathered and hardened.
“So, how are you? The kids are taller than you. I guess they both inherited their daddy’s height.”
Candace curled her toes. “Yes, they did. Rachel is sixteen, and Daniel is fourteen.”
“Mmm, this must be a hard time for all of you, with Frank passing and then your friend.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you here? It’s been a long time.”
“Too long.” Maggie’s eyes watered. Candace looked away from those eyes, which looked so much like her mama’s. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I’ve been in Charlotte for some time now. Took a while to get up the nerve to see you.”
Candace felt bad about the way their relationship had deteriorated over the years. When Candace was a child, Maggie was probably more of a mother to her than her biological mother. Everything changed after Mama died. Both of them bottled up their anger in their own way. Maggie’s anger leaked out and usually was poured on Candace’s shoulders.
The harder Candace tried to become the person she wanted to be, the more Aunt Maggie fought her with all her religious rules and restrictions. The result? She left her aunt’s home as soon as she reached eighteen, planning never to look back. They tried to keep in touch over the years, after Candace married and later had children, but the past still separated the two women.
Still not satisfied with her aunt’s sudden appearance, she tried to extract the truth from her again. “You’ve been here in Charlotte. What for?”
Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “I know we don’t have the best relationship, but you don’t need to talk to me as though I can’t be in the same city as you.” Maggie took off the hat, exposing a synthetic jet-black wig. The hair stuck out in all directions, making her facial features appear harsher. “I wanted to be closer to you.”
“Why now? My children don’t know you, and they certainly never met Mama. I don’t understand you.” Candace choked back the sob rising up in her throat. “You have always been angry at Mama, and I have been the one you’ve taken it out on. I don’t need the guilt trips back in my life, thank you. I have moved on.”
“Chile, that’s never been my intentions. I’m proud of you.”
“Now you are. You weren’t too happy with me starting this salon years ago. You practically called me a heathen.” Candace gripped her fist. She had to come into being the woman she was now by getting out from under her aunt’s roof. “When I needed you, you ...” The words hung in her throat. She couldn’t release them. When it rained, it poured. Her emotions were still fresh from losing her best friend. She didn’t need this. Mama had been dead a long time. And Candace had been just fine, or as fine as she could be, without her aunt’s overbearing presence.
Maggie’s lips trembled. Candace turned away from her. She didn’t want to see that woman’s tears. She had no right. Aunt Maggie drove people away. She probably drove Mama to her death. Candace bit her lip, ashamed of the thought.
Mama died because of her own choices, she told herself.
“Nana, look at me. Please.”
“Maggie, I can’t. We can talk some other time. Not today.” She couldn’t bear to lift her eyes. Candace ignored the accusation in her mind; she didn’t want her aunt to experience the hurt Candace held deep within.
Silence followed, and then she heard the office door close. With the click of the door, tears flowed down her face. Deep down she knew in her own peculiar way, Maggie wanted to make things right between them. How old was she now? Her aunt had to be in her late sixties. She was so much older than Mama.
Really, Maggie had raised Mama and then had turned around and raised Candace.
But Candace couldn’t forget. Forgiveness. Maybe. Again and again she’d begged God to take the pain away, but it still remained, eating her alive. Candace felt light-headed. She closed her eyes. The familiar dream burst forth, right there in her office. Her bogeyman was alive and kicking.
Mama, I miss you. All this time. I still feel like I could’ve saved you.
Chapter Twenty-one
Darnell stepped into another time and space in the foyer of the Lafayette Art Gallery. The quiet, cool stillness enveloped him. From this solemn place, he needed to retrace Pamela Coleman’s steps to her home that night. A video camera in the corner caught his attention. Were there more? Darnell headed up the two steps that led into the gallery. He observed a handful of admirers standing at various exhibits.
Out of a group of about five people, a short man with a very thin mustache turned in his direction and then started walking toward him. The man’s olive skin and slick black hair made his ethnicity unidentifiable. Could be Middle Eastern, Hispanic, or a light-skinned African American. Darnell sized up the muscular structure of the man. The assault and battery charges might have been dismissed, but Darnell’s instinct told him, if this man was provoked, he might just react violently.
As he drew closer, Darnell felt like the man was sizing him up like some prizefighter looking for a weak spot to strike a blow. When he spoke, his accent was thick, with a deep twang, almost more exaggerated than what was normally heard. “I’m the owner. What can I do for ya?”
Avante had stopped in front of him. This is Avante Lafayette. He didn’t strike Darnell as being the artsy type. “Detective Darnell Jackson. We spoke a few times.”
“Ah, about Ms. Coleman.” Avante dropped his voice to a whisper. “Sad, man. Real sad. Going to miss her. Let’s talk over here.” The shorter man led them away from the gallery exhibits. Darnell followed him, wondering how in the world this man became the owner of an art gallery. They stopped in the corner of the gallery near the receptionist area. No one was posted behind the desk. Farther down the hallway, Darnell saw an office area.
He’d been taking notes in his head as they walked. Darnell didn’t realize Avante had continued talking. “Such a beautiful woman. It’s just a shame what happened to her. Of course, I’m forever grateful to her.”
“I guess it would’ve been hard for you on the inside, huh?”
Avante smirked. “I can handle myself anywhere. But I wasn’t going down for something crazy.”
Darnell nodded. “I hear you. So, do you remember anything about that night? How was the party set up?”
“Pretty much the way people are in here now. Guests were able to walk anywhere.” Avante stretched out his arm and pointed. “We had hors d’oeuvres in that corner. Open bar over there.”
Darnell pointed up to the ceiling. “Camera. Do you have only one of those?”
“Oh no, we have one in the back and two around the gallery.”
“Would you mind letting me view those tapes from that night?”
“Certainly. I want to do anything I can to help you. I’ll be right back. Enjoy the gallery.” Avante disappeared into the office.
Darnell decided to look for the other cameras. Passing by several paintings, he guessed they were known as abstracts, something he remembered from a high school art class. It really looked more like someone had had a temper tantrum with a paintbrush. He leaned in closer to one painting. The signature at the bottom right corner started with a huge, loopy A and ended with a scribble. So, was this Avante dude the featured artist, as well?
As he moved around a wall, the exhibit changed. Instead of paintings, giant-size, photos in black and w
hite scaled the entire wall. There were corners of buildings, a car’s taillights, a neon motel sign, and snapshots of objects he didn’t recognize.
The photo in the middle dominated the entire exhibit. Darnell stopped, taken aback by the size of the photo. He guessed it stretched at least eight feet across.
The photographer had chosen to zoom in on a pair of eyes. Despite the immensity of the photo, it occurred to Darnell that the eyes held no emotion.
He peered down at the small white card at the bottom and read the title, “Brother Lost.” Underneath the title, “Avante” was printed in block lettering.
A movement from the corner of his eye distracted him. He turned his head and saw a woman standing about twenty feet from him. Was God looking out for him or what? Mitch Harris’s secretary. Here in the art gallery.
“Ms. Green?”
The woman turned and placed her hand on her chest in fright. “Oh, Detective!”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you. You seem fascinated by that painting.”
“Well, I’m proud of the artist.”
“Avante seems to be the only artist represented in here.”
“Yes.” She swept her arm around. “This is all of his work. He’s a little rough around the edges, but he does marvelous work. It has a haunting quality about it. Don’t you agree?”
He eyed Hillary. “Do you mind if we have a seat? I’d like to ask a few questions.” He took one side of the bench and waited for her to sit.
She clutched her large pocketbook to her chest and sat down nimbly. “I know you want to ask me about her.”
“Pamela? Yes, I have a few questions.”
Her eyes watered. “I don’t know if this is a good idea. Mitch Harris is wonderful man.”
“Okay, I know how you feel about him, but what about Pamela Coleman?”
She stared off into space for a slight second. “Pamela was a good soul.”
“Really? So it wasn’t a problem that she had an inappropriate relationship with the boss man?” Darnell smirked. “Ah, come on. Don’t look surprised. I have a feeling you know a lot more than you let on.”
When Rain Falls Page 9
