A Meeting In The Ladies' Room

by Anita Doreen Diggs

  Annabelle’s funeral was held the following Tuesday at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. According to the morning newscast, a veritable Who’s Who of American industry were expected to be among the mourners.

  Four gigantic bunches of pink roses surrounded the altar which held Annabelle’s closed white casket. Every seat in the place was filled with her family and friends, leaving the Welburn employees to stand in the back.

  I was flanked by Pam and Astrid. The three of us wept softly throughout the short service. Annabelle had been a good person and she didn’t deserve to come to such a horrible end. As the tears poured down my cheeks, I wished fervently that whoever murdered her was caught by sundown and electrocuted by morning.

  There was only one eulogy, given by a distinguished-looking, elderly gentleman who spoke succinctly yet with feeling about Annabelle’s life and the sorrow that now held her family captive. As a soloist burst into what sounded like an aria, I glimpsed another Black face in the room. It was Victor. I twisted and turned to get a better look until Pam gave me a disapproving glance.

  Another musical selection followed, and then it was over.

  We all filed somberly out of Frank E. Campbell’s, and into the media frenzy. As we fought our way past the camera crews, I saw that Victor had somehow worked his way up to the front of the mob. What was he doing there? I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd to ask him, but he was gone by the time I broke free.

  A week after the funeral, Leigh Dafoe called another meeting to announce that Welburn Books was not going to be sold and our jobs were, for the most part, secure. Craig Murray was our new publisher and editor-in-chief. He would address his employees and take over his new duties as soon as the family’s affairs were in order.

  Visions of a truckload of horrible books aimed at African-American book buyers danced through my head and I left the meeting determined to land a new job before Craig took the reins.

  10

  DETECTIVE MARCUS GILCHRIST

  Late one afternoon, I was busily updating my résumé when a tall, barrel-chested white man walked into my office without knocking. He had dark, nondescript hair, piercing brown eyes, and a bushy moustache. His overcoat was gray, and even though it was a frigid February day, he was not wearing gloves.

  “Jacqueline Blue?”

  “Yes?”

  He held out a hand and I shook the icy appendage.

  “May I sit down?”

  He closed the door and sat down before I had a chance to answer.

  “Miss Blue, I’m Detective Marcus Gilchrist from the NYPD. I’m meeting with all the senior staffers here regarding the murder of Annabelle Murray. Do you have a few moments?”

  “Hold on a second.” I closed the document and turned the computer monitor away so I could give him my undivided attention. “What can I do for you?”

  “You may be able to help me catch a killer.”

  He waited for some response from me and I waited for him to go on.

  “Miss Blue, are you aware that you are the last person to see Annabelle Welburn Murray alive?”

  “What?”

  He sighed and took a little notepad from his coat pocket. “I’m afraid it’s true, ma’am. You did visit Miss Welburn on the morning that she died, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  So I did.

  “Hmmm—who else was in the apartment?”

  “I don’t know. I never went past the vestibule.”

  “And you say her eyes were red-rimmed?”

  “Yes. I’m sure she’d just finished crying.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I got back in the elevator and went to work.”

  “Were you in a hurry?”

  “No.”

  Wrong answer. Detective Gilchrist sat up straight and closed the notebook with a snap. “Yes, you were.”

  “What?”

  “There is a video surveillance camera in the lobby of that apartment building, Miss Blue. Were you aware of that?”

  “No.”

  His mouth smiled. His eyes most certainly did not. “I didn’t think so. I have a videotape that shows you running through the lobby toward the exit. It sure looks like you were in a hurry.”

  And then I remembered Jamal. “Yes, you’re right. I realized that I was late for an appointment with an author.”

  “I see.” He stroked his moustache for a moment without taking his eyes off my face.

  Detective Marcus Gilchrist was trying to scare me and I didn’t like it. “Is that all, Detective?”

  “Can you think of anyone who wanted to harm Mrs. Murray?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any information that may be helpful to us in catching her killer?”

  “No.”

  “Did you like your boss, Miss Blue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Welburn told her husband that you left their apartment in quite a huff the previous Saturday . . . something about a promotion you were expecting?”

  Oh Jesus, help me. I chose my words carefully. “Annabelle and I had discussed the possibility of my taking on some new duties. I was a little disappointed, that’s all.”

  “I’m going to need you to come uptown and give us a statement, Miss Blue, and I’ll tell you why.”

  He leaned over the desk so far that our noses were practically touching. “According to what you’ve just told me, you showed up at Mrs. Welburn’s apartment unannounced, she let you into her home, you tore through that lobby like a bat outta hell, and her sister came along only fifteen minutes later to find her sibling strangled in her own ladies’ room.”

  The editor in me wanted to correct him. The term “ladies’ room” was incorrect in this instance since the facilities were used by men as well.

  “Do you know why this story bothers me, Miss Blue?”

  I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

  “It bothers me because between the time you left the building and Mrs. Welburn’s sister entered it, no one else came in or out.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a videotape cassette. “I have the videotape, Miss Blue. No delivery men, no maids, no butlers. No one.”

  By this time, I was shaking so hard, I had to hold on to the seat of my chair.

  “I’m sure you can see why I need a written statement from you, right?”

  “I did not kill my boss, and I’m not talking to you anymore until someone finds me a lawyer.”

  Detective Marcus Gilchrist rose slowly from the chair and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “You have exactly twenty-four hours to appear at the precinct, Miss Blue.”

  When the door closed behind him, I phoned Paul.

  11

  WINNER

  As a criminal defense lawyer to the stars, Keith Williams was unsurpassed in his field. It was he, for instance, who saved a white soap opera star, Clarise Buchanan, from death by legal injection for allegedly killing her mother. He had also won an acquittal for Lawbreaker, the Grammy Award-winning rapper, after a long and costly trial. Several eyewitnesses testified that they saw Lawbreaker beat his valet with a baseball bat for trash-talking him. The servant died several hours later from his injuries, but the jury believed Keith, who told them that the valet had been complaining of excruciating headaches for several weeks before the beating and that his death could have been caused by an aneurysm. I was well aware of Williams’s reputation—that he was a shark, but in a way that had earned him the respect of his peers. He was a smooth operator who left no stone unturned in his pursuit of reasonable doubt.

  As Keith Williams recalled in his appropriately titled 1995 autobiography, Winner, which Paul Dodson edited, I decided during my first year out of law school that “not guilty” was the only verdict I would ever accept.

  Paul listened to my story. “I’m calling Keith Williams,” he said grimly.

  The two men had become good friends dur
ing the two years it took for them to pull Keith’s book together.

  “Isn’t that rather like using a machine gun to kill a cockroach?”

  “I’m not going to ask him to go to the precinct with you personally, but there are a lot of hungry young lawyers in his office. Maybe he’ll send one of them as a favor to me.”

  “It can’t hurt to ask,” I agreed.

  “I’ll call you right back.”

  It took half an hour and seemed like six months. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. My hand reached for the receiver to call Mama but she was already upset enough about how close I had come to meeting a homicidal maniac. So I surfed the net—reading celebrity news, my horoscope, which said that I should watch my spending, and online reviews of several books I had worked on. By the time Paul called back, I had bitten the inside of my cheek until it hurt.

  “Keith wants you to get in a cab and come over to his office right now.”

  “What? How much will he charge me for this?”

  “Jackie, listen to me. There is a rich, powerful white woman lying under six feet of dirt, victim of a homicide, and nobody is in jail for it. The police have everyone from the mayor to the president screaming for justice. Quick justice. That videotape of you running across the lobby is no joke, and Keith says someone will leak it to the media before the weekend. I didn’t ask Keith how much money he wants because right now I just don’t care.”

  This was crazy talk as far as I was concerned. “Paul, that detective did scare me. But now that I think about it, maybe his job is to scare everyone who Annabelle ever met until he finds the criminal.”

  “What about the videotape?” Paul asked quietly.

  “He isn’t stupid enough to arrest me just for running across a lobby.”

  “By the way, Jackie, did Annabelle ever get back to you about the position you wanted?”

  My throat closed.

  “Jackie, are you still there?”

  “She turned me down, Paul. She decided to promote Astrid Norstromm. It was to be announced on the day she was murdered.”

  Paul didn’t say anything else. There was no need to.

  12

  TRUMP

  His office was located in Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue. The reception area was decorated in muted beige and burgundy and a classy-looking Black woman with a plastic smile sat at the front desk. She used a pencil to push numbers on the telephone console and spoke to someone after I gave her my name. “His secretary will be with you in a moment,” she told me.

  I took a seat in a burgundy chair and started leafing impatiently through an Upscale magazine that lay on a circular chrome table.

  A few minutes later, a door opened behind me and I turned to face a petite little thing, about my age, who could probably fit into a size two dress. Her skin was the color of a hazelnut. She had delicate cheekbones, short dreadlocks which she wore tied up in a rubber band, and deep-set brown eyes. Her black knit pantsuit was cut smartly and matched her swank surroundings.

  “Hello, I’m Debbie,” she said. Please follow me.”

  We went down a long hallway that had offices on both sides and lots of earnest-looking men and women doing business in them. Finally, she led me into an enormous room that had white walls and carpet with silver standing lamps and glass furniture. Awards and diplomas hung on one wall and framed press clippings took up most of another. B.B. King’s “Paying the Cost to Be the Boss,” one of my favorite tunes, was playing softly on an unseen music system.

  I stood in the doorway staring at a man who spent so much time on my television screen, I felt like I already knew him. He was strikingly handsome.

  Debbie introduced us.

  I watched as Keith advanced toward me. His pace was smooth, his pants fell meticulously over his shiny black wing tip shoes, his gray suit jacket fit perfectly on his muscular torso, and the elegant white shirt contrasted nicely with his skin. If he has a girlfriend, she must spend a lot of time worrying about the effect his looks and fame have on other women, I thought.

  He extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Blue.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off him.

  He was a handsome man, over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and muscular. His skin was the color of butterscotch with a spoonful of cream; the eyes were dark and probing. He carried himself in a sturdy, confident manner.

  “I really appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Williams.”

  “Please call me Keith.”

  The woman left us alone, closing the door behind her.

  “I love the blues,” I said nervously.

  “Have a seat,” Keith said, indicating a burgundy visitor’s chair which faced his desk.

  I sat.

  “Who is your favorite bluesman?” Keith asked, sitting down in the plush white chair behind his glass desk, which had lots of neat stacks of paper on it.

  “Robert Johnson,” I replied.

  “Good choice. I haven’t been able to make up my mind. Some days it’s Blind Lemon Jefferson, then Bobby Bland. Today, it’s B.B.” He leaned back and smiled. “Well, Miss Blue, tell me how you got yourself into such a mess.”

  “Call me Jackie, okay?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m not really in a mess. I’m only here because this detective came to my job with a videotape that might be taken the wrong way. Plus, I have to go to the police station to make a statement and I’m scared.”

  He held up a hand. “Whoa. Start from the beginning. What were you doing in the victim’s building?”

  “I went there to get my appointment book. I’d left it in her apartment two days before.”

  “What were you doing in her apartment two days before?”

  “Working on a book about Moms Mabley.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Paul mentioned something like that when he called. What made you decide to do a book about her?”

  “I didn’t. Annabelle’s husband was doing her life story. I was there to edit the project.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  I talked for fifteen minutes without stopping. Keith never took his eyes from my face. His expression was bland, so I couldn’t tell whether he believed me or not. When I finished, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully and pressed a button on his telephone system.

  A male voice came over the speakerphone. “Yes?”

  Keith said, “I need you to look into a situation for me. It’s not urgent but I don’t want to get caught unprepared.”

  “What is the situation?”

  “I have a young woman in my office who has stumbled into an unfortunate set of circumstances. Have you been keeping up with that story of the publishing executive who was strangled?”

  The voice replied. “Did I have a choice? It’s on every station. CNN ran a segment on it just last night.”

  “Good. I want you to find out everything there is to know about the victim and her husband. Where they were born, married, lived, who their friends were, who loved them, hated them. Get the picture?”

  “Got it.”

  Keith released the button and swiveled around back to me.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “One of my best detectives.”

  I folded my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. “How many do you have?”

  “Six at last count.”

  “Who are all the other people milling around?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so interested?”

  “ ‘Impressed’ would be more accurate.”

  He chuckled. “I have a few lawyers and a couple of paralegals in addition to my research team. Can we get back to your problem, now?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Annabelle Murray swore you to secrecy, why does Paul Dodson know about the project?”

  “Paul and I are close personal friends. I knew he wouldn’t say anything.”

  “You were wrong.”

  “What?”

  “He told me, right?”
/>
  “Annabelle did not want anyone in book publishing to know what her husband was up to. I doubt that she would object to Paul telling a famous criminal lawyer anything he thought would help me stay out of some serious trouble.”

  He nodded. “Fine. I’m going with you to see this detective, and when we get there, you must follow my lead. Talk when I say it is okay. Stop talking when I say stop. I’ll get a copy of the videotape and release it to the media myself.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled enigmatically. “Trust me, Jackie.”

  “I’d rather not have the videotape released at all,” I said, close to tears. “Isn’t there something you can do to stop it?”

  “No, and it is definitely not a good idea for me to try.”

  “This is going to make me look so bad.”

  “Bad?” He whirled around in his chair. “It doesn’t have to. It all depends on the spin you put on it.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for riddles. “How much are your services going to cost me?”

  He shrugged. “Paul Dodson is a good friend of mine. I’m not going to charge you anything. Unless there is something you haven’t told me, I predict that the cops will leave you alone after you give them a statement tonight.”

  I felt a whole better.

  13

  PAUL STILL WAITING

  I didn’t get home until ten that night so I missed yet another Black Pack meeting. Paul was still up, waiting for my phone call.

  “What happened?”

  “Keith went with me. You should have seen Detective Gilchrist’s face when I walked in with him. The man practically genuflected.”

  Paul chuckled.

  “He walked me through the morning Annabelle was killed. Then I wrote it all down and left.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “Keith is releasing the videotape to some reporter friend of his tomorrow.”

  “Best offense is a good defense, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I know you are upset right now, Jackie, but there is something I want to ask you when things settle down.”

  Oh no! I knew what the something was. He had been waiting to ask it for a long time.