Death by His Grace

by Kwei Quartey

  “We have quite a few boxes packed up already,” Cairo said. “You and Franklin can take those out to the car.”

  As they began, Jacob made his way slowly over to them yelling. “Hey! Thieves! What are you doing? Hey!”

  Darko put down his load, signaling Franklin to keep going. “Papa, come and sit down. This way. Come. No, don’t worry about that box. Just come and have a seat here.”

  He guided his father to the only chair that hadn’t yet been moved to Cairo’s house during the week.

  “There’s some Sprite in the kitchen,” Cairo said. “See if that will distract him.”

  Darko poured it into a plastic cup and handed it to his father, who took a few sips.

  “Good?” Darko asked. “You like Sprite. You always did.”

  “But you like Malta,” Jacob said.

  Darko was startled. How, if his father hadn’t even recognized him, had he remembered that Darko liked Malta? It was lightning from the blue. “Yes, Papa. You’re right. I do.”

  Jacob gave the cup back.

  “Had enough?” Darko asked.

  Jacob nodded.

  Darko knelt down by his father. “Listen, Papa. We just want you to be closer to us, so we can take care of you, okay? That’s why we’re moving you to Cairo’s house. He has more space than I do. You’ll like it there.”

  Jacob was staring at him, as if trying to decipher what Darko was saying. “But why are those men taking all my things away?”

  “They’re not,” Darko said. “Well, they are, but they’re taking them to Cairo’s place, so they’ll be with you.”

  “Who’s that man?” Jacob asked, looking at his older son.

  “His name is Cairo.”

  Cairo had turned his wheelchair to watch Jacob, and Darko saw his brother’s eyes moisten. It was harder for him, maybe because Jacob had always favored Cairo over his younger brother. Darko felt the tragedy of his father’s awful decline but not so much the pain. Maybe he should have been the one to take care of their father, but Cairo wanted to do it, and Darko couldn’t take that away from him.

  Cairo turned back to boxing up the clothes in silence, and Darko put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay, big brah?”

  He smiled up at Darko. “I’m good, little brah.”

  Three hours later, most everything was packed up and either transferred to Cairo’s car or set aside to be picked up later. Thankfully, Jacob had fallen asleep on the bed, allowing them to get through without interruption. But now it was time to get him up.

  “Papa,” Darko said, shaking him gently, “time to go.”

  Jacob lifted his head. “Where?”

  “To Cairo’s house.”

  Jacob frowned. “No.”

  “Come on. Sit up and let me put your shoes on.”

  Cairo was marking the last of the boxes and Franklin was outside moving the car so it would be easier for Jacob to access.

  “All right,” Darko said after getting his father’s shoes on. “We’re set to go. Ready?”

  As Darko led him slowly out of the house in which he had lived most of his adult life, Jacob appeared more and more confused. Once they had left the front porch, he began to resist until Darko could coax him no longer.

  “Come, Papa,” Darko said. “Let’s go. It’s okay. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

  “No, no, no,” Jacob said, pulling away. “No, I don’t want to go.”

  “Papa—”

  A stalemate was in effect. Jacob was pointed in one direction and Darko, who didn’t want this to become a dragging match that might injure his father, in the opposite. There was only one thing to do. He dipped down under his father’s arm, gripped him around the torso and swept him off his feet like he was carrying a bride across the threshold.

  Jacob began to wail that he was falling.

  “No, you’re not, Papa,” Darko said, carrying him to the car. “I’ve got you safe and sound.”

  Franklin opened the back door and Darko gingerly lowered his old man into the rear seat. “You can let go of my neck now, Papa. Papa, let go.”

  Darko managed to untangle himself and stepped away perspiring heavily. “My God,” he muttered, wiping his face. “This man will be the death of me.”

  Franklin went around to the driver’s side. Cairo transferred from his wheelchair into the front passenger seat, and Darko folded up his wheelchair to take back inside. Cairo had one at home and could always collect this one on the return trip.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Darko said, raising his voice to be heard over his father’s cries. As they drove away, Darko bent forward and rested his hands on his knees for an exhausted moment, admitting to himself the illness had taken quite a bite out of him. It would take a couple of meals of kenkey and two or three of banku to get back to normal.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  On Sunday when Darko woke up, Christine was at church with Hosiah, and only Sly was home. He was in the sitting room working in pencil on large sheets of paper.

  “Good morning, Daddy,” he said, looking up as Darko came in.

  “How are you, Sly?” he said, standing next to his son with his arm around his shoulders. “What are you drawing?”

  “A street scene,” Sly explained. “Here are some truck pushers, market sellers over here, tro-tro, Mercedes Benzes, and some other cars.”

  “Okay, yeah,” Darko said, admiring the detail. “Well done.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  There wasn’t any doubt Sly was talented, and Darko had encouraged him to keep all his drawings, even the ones he didn’t like.

  “Have you eaten?” he asked Sly.

  “Yes, Daddy. Mama says there’s fufu and light soup for you.”

  Darko rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  “Artificial fufu,” Sly added.

  “Artificial!” Darko exclaimed in dismay.

  “From the box. You mix it with water and stir.” Sly laughed. “Mama said, ‘if Daddy thinks I’m going to spend hours pounding fufu, he’s mistaken.’”

  Darko went to the kitchen muttering, “Artificial fufu. What is the world coming to?”

  After Christine and Hosiah had returned from church, Darko got on his motorcycle and rode to the Qedesh, where he found Howard-Mills preaching to a packed house in the largest of the auditoriums. Darko went around to the back of the building, where two dark, solid wood doors faced him. One was locked, but the other opened into a small office with a couple of steel-frame chairs and a gunmetal desk, the drawers of which were locked as well. So was an interior door in the room. Darko didn’t know what he was looking for, and he probably shouldn’t have been in there without permission in the first place.

  He turned as a key jiggled on the other side of the interior door. It opened to reveal John, who jumped, startled to find Darko there.

  “Oh!” he said in surprise.

  “Good morning, John,” Darko said. “Sorry; I was looking for you. I knocked.”

  “Okay, Inspector,” he said, with a smile. “It’s no problem at all. I went to get the bishop’s clothes from the laundry.” He put a pile of pressed, folded garments on the desk. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thanks. I won’t take too much of your time. I know you’re busy.”

  “Sure,” John said, taking the other chair.

  “I have one or two questions,” Darko said. “Did Peter Amalba ever tell you he was in love with Katherine Vanderpuye?”

  John rubbed his chin reflectively. “He never told me that, sir, but I know he was infatuated with her. On one occasion last year, he came to a bussell at Katherine’s home without an invitation.”

  “I didn’t know about that,” Darko said.

  “He showed up with one of the other church members,” John said. “I told him it was okay that one time, but I didn�
��t allow it to happen again. He sat staring at Kate for the whole session. It was troubling. I feel sorry for him in a way, and although we forgive him for what he did to the bishop, we should also realize that he was and still is a disturbed person.”

  “Is he so disturbed that he might harm Kate?”

  John seemed discomfited. “I’m not qualified to say, Inspector.”

  “Perhaps that wasn’t a fair question.”

  “It’s no problem. Please, is there something else?”

  “About the bishop,” Darko said. “Were you aware he left the premises of the Independence Square vigil?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  The truth for a change, Darko thought. “Do you know where he went?”

  John shook his head. “No. It’s none of my business.”

  “But you have your suspicions.”

  John smiled uncomfortably, but he didn’t respond.

  “I’ve asked you about Baden Powell Hall before, but I’m asking you again. Did the bishop leave the premises after Reverend Atiemo took over from him?”

  This time, John did not deny it with the same certainty. “I’m not sure,” he stammered. “He could have. I wasn’t with him around that time.”

  So, Darko thought, a change of story. “I understand you want to protect your boss,” he said. “What you tell me is in confidence. Was the bishop involved romantically with Kate?”

  John was apparently wrestling with his loyalties. “Please, Inspector, the bishop can’t know I’m telling you this.”

  “You have my word.”

  John lowered his head and covered his eyes. “It happened two Mondays ago in this room,” he whispered. “I was next door and heard them. He wanted sex; she didn’t. There was a struggle. She ran out of the room crying.”

  A shattering new piece of information, Darko thought. If it was true.

  He and John were silent for a while. “Do you believe he raped her?” Darko asked.

  “Oh, no, sir,” John said, demonstrably alarmed. “Not that. But an attempt. That’s why when the reverend and I attended the bussell on the following Wednesday, Kate was so sad. I felt bad for her. And I’m ashamed.”

  “Of the bishop?”

  “Yes. And myself.”

  “Why?”

  John looked up. “I should have tried to help Kate, but I didn’t. I was a coward.”

  Darko nodded. “Sometimes these things happen so quickly, and they’re over before you have a chance to act.” He stood up. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  At the door, Darko turned. “I need to tie up any remaining loose ends. Can you please put me in touch with one or more people who can vouch for your presence at the Hall on Friday night starting around eleven P.M?”

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  John scrolled through his phone list and gave Darko three names. One was Blankson, with whom Darko had already spoken, and the other two were members of the cleanup crew.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  On Monday, Darko and Safo made a trek to Prampram, a beach resort where tourists and rich Ghanaians came to play and Maude Vanderpuye owned a restaurant.

  “Inspector,” she said, “I did not hate my daughter-in-law, nor did I have her killed if that’s what you are implying.”

  She faced Darko and Safo on the restaurant patio, which provided an unobstructed, sweeping view of the blue-green sea. The tide was low. White foamy waves broke gently on the tawny sand. In the distance, fishing canoes bobbed up and down with the ocean’s rhythm.

  Maude looked like she was straight out of a beauty magazine with her long chestnut hair parted in the middle, manicured nails, immaculate makeup, long lashes, and glossy lips. Whatever fragrance she was wearing smelled French and expensive.

  Her iPhone on the table buzzed every few minutes, and each time, Maude apologized that she “had to take this.” The calls were about supplies and deliveries, or this or that catered event. She seemed furious most of the time. “What do you mean the dinner rolls are late?”

  In his peripheral vision, Darko saw Safo assessing Maude’s appearance with both admiration and disapproval.

  “I have no good reason or motive to see Katherine murdered,” Maude resumed.

  “Maybe you do,” Darko said. “Perhaps her death makes your name on the house deed all the more legal.”

  Maude laughed. “Inspector, please. The document was and is legal.”

  “Kate received threatening phone messages,” Darko said, pushing on, “some of them calling her a witch. Were you or your daughter responsible for those?”

  “Of course not!” Maude exclaimed indignantly. “We don’t do things like that.”

  Darko looked at Safo. “Do you have any questions for Mrs. Vanderpuye?”

  “Em, Mrs. Vanderpuye, where were you on the Friday and Saturday of your daughter-in-law’s death?”

  “I was at home Friday night,” Maude replied. “I went to bed around ten-thirty, and in the morning I left Accra early to come here. We had a wedding party planned.”

  “On Friday night or early Saturday morning, did you hear Solomon go out?” Darko asked.

  “No, I didn’t. Our gate squeaks, so I would have heard him. Can I make a suggestion, Inspector?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you spoken to James Bentsi-Enchill, the lawyer Katherine was hiring to sue us?”

  “Not yet. Why do you ask?”

  “I suppose you know his history with Katherine?”

  “I’ve heard a version, but I’m happy to hear yours too.”

  “They were an item in school until Solomon came along,” Maude said. “James was jealous even after Katherine and Solomon got married. Mr. Bentsi-Enchill often said nasty things about my son behind his back. Can you imagine how happy James must have felt when Katherine turned to him for help in suing Solomon? It was like the perfect revenge. He took advantage of the situation and began to show off by taking Katherine around town.”

  “How do you know that?” Darko challenged Maude.

  “Oh,” she said, tossing her head as if this was all common knowledge, “I hear the two of them were frequenting Il Cavaliere at the Polo Club and getting quite cozy with each other.”

  “What is Il Cava—whatever you said?”

  “Il Cavaliere. It means ‘The Knight,’ Inspector. It’s a restaurant at the Polo Club. It’s quite exclusive, so I’m not surprised you don’t know it.”

  Darko ignored the putdown. “When were Kate and James supposedly at the Polo Club place?”

  “They were spotted there in February.”

  “You’re saying Kate was committing adultery?”

  Maude sighed. “Look, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead . . .”

  But you’re going to, Darko thought. “Is James married?” he asked.

  “No, he’s divorced,” Maude said with a dry laugh. “A divorced divorce lawyer. What an irony. Anyway, he kept demanding sexual favors from her in return for his services, and he went too far. She rejected him.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Care to name one, madam?”

  “My daughter, Georgina, has a friend who clerks for Mr. Bentsi-Enchill and knew what was going on. That’s as far as I’ll go.”

  “What are you saying about who killed Kate?”

  “I’m just telling you what I know. You can draw your own conclusions.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Vanderpuye. We appreciate your time.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, beginning to text.

  “One other thing,” Darko said, turning back, “is Georgina here?”

  “She’s not around at the moment,” Maude responded without looking up.

  Darko exited the restaurant with Safo. The sun was
bright, cleaner than in Accra, and a sea breeze kept temperatures pleasant. A second building nearby bore the name club maude in a looped font.

  “Must be the nightclub,” Darko said. “Let’s go in.”

  Safo cleared her throat. “I don’t think there’ll be any dancing going on right now.”

  He smiled. “That wasn’t my intention.”

  The door was open, so they entered without invitation. Recessed lighting threw shadows across the dimly lit space. Cozy booths surrounded the dance floor. Behind the bar at the other end, a guy was polishing shot glasses. “Help you?” he asked the detectives.

  “Georgina Vanderpuye around?” Darko asked.

  “Who are you, please?”

  “We’re from CID. Is she here?”

  “Office, please,” the man said, pointing with his chin. “Around the corner, first door on the right.”

  Darko opened it without knocking. A woman in a tight red dress hitched up to her waist, sat astride a man in an executive chair behind the desk. He let out a yell as he saw Darko and Safo enter, the woman shrieked, and the two separated as if a water cannon had blown them apart. The man jumped out of the chair and tripped over the pants at his ankles. Pulling down her dress and rearranging herself, the woman screamed and cursed in Ga. “Don’t you know how to knock? Are you idiots?”

  “Lock the door, next time,” Darko said. “I’m Chief Inspector Dawson, CID; this is Lance Corporal Safo. You’re Georgina?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “We’re investigating the murder of your sister-in-law.”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” Georgina snapped. “You can’t just barge in like this.” She looked at her partner-in-mischief. He’d managed to get his pants back up. “Get out, Hamlet.”

  “Yes, madam,” Hamlet said, turning his face away in embarrassment. He was taller than Darko with twice the muscle mass. He shut the door behind him as he left.

  “Your underling?” Darko said.

  “The manager of the club,” Georgina replied, shooting a surly look at them. She was tall and leggy with a tiny waist, and her buttocks strained her dress. She clearly didn’t have Maude’s polish.