A Meeting In The Ladies' Room

by Anita Doreen Diggs

  “So, if I had gone to work this morning . . .”

  “They would have sent you home.”

  “Can they fire me just like that?”

  “No, you haven’t been indicted for the crime. However, under the circumstances they can suspend you until this serious matter has been cleared up. I’m going to try and arrange things so you will continue receiving a paycheck during that time. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Now, can you explain how your fingerprints ended up at the murder scene?”

  “I told you I was at the house two days before Annabelle died. I used that bathroom during the visit.”

  Keith ruffled through some papers and read two of them before addressing me again. “You told me that Annabelle let you in the apartment and you went down the hall by yourself to meet with her husband in the library.”

  “I stopped in the bathroom along the way.”

  Keith jumped up and slapped his desk with an open palm. The sound made me jump. He shoved the papers in my direction. “Find it!”

  I threw my hands up helplessly. “Find what?”

  “These are my notes from our first meeting and a copy of the statement you gave to the police. I want you to find just one goddamned place in any of it where you say that you used the bathroom on that morning in the Murrays’ apartment.”

  “It didn’t seem important, so I guess I forgot to mention it.” My voice was a whisper.

  “You forgot to mention it. Even if Mrs. Murray saw you go into the bathroom, she isn’t here to say so. Don’t you know how convenient that piece of information is going to sound now?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m going to call your employer now and when I’m done with that, you are going to tell me your life story. Do you hear me? Every single little thing you can remember doing, hearing, saying since the day you took your first breath. I’ll tell you what to skip and when. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  He picked up the receiver and then paused. “Jackie, how much money do you have in the bank?”

  I was confused. “About $10,000, I guess.”

  “That won’t be enough.”

  “For what?”

  “Bail, sweetheart,” he replied angrily.

  While Keith was on the phone wrangling with the Welburn lawyers, I reached the heartrending conclusion that by now everyone in the industry had seen Tiffany Nixon’s article and my reputation was irreparably tarnished. With no job, hobbies, children, or significant other in my life, I would now have plenty of time to help with the investigation and thereby clear my name. When not running around the city playing amateur sleuth and visiting with Mama, would I have any viable friendships to keep my spirits up? Would Paul stand by me? Would Victor ask me out for another date? Would Pam still help Alyssa get the job? What would the members of the Black Pack say?

  I recalled my conversation with Alyssa two months before: Well, don’t worry about me, Alyssa. I am going to help you regardless of what anyone thinks.

  What about the rest of the Black Pack?

  They’re running so hard for cover, they might pass the ghost of Jesse Owens on the way.

  If it had not been for me, the Black Pack would have kicked Alyssa to the curb and never mentioned her name again. I didn’t really blame them then and I wasn’t going to hold my banishment against them now. In fact, I felt badly about what they were going to have to suffer through in the coming weeks. In order to keep their jobs, they would have to repudiate me, denounce me, and hide any belief in my innocence in the presence of every single white person they encountered.

  Dallas Mowrey was the type of Black who would wait until the subject arose before breaking into the old soft shoe. So would Joe Long.

  Elaine and Rachel were the types who preferred to get their minstrel acts over with as quickly as possible. They would bring up the Jacqueline Blue matter first, practically disavow any knowledge of my birth, and endear themselves even more to their white coworkers and superiors.

  Keith looked exhausted when he got off the phone. My salary and benefits would remain intact for the next eight weeks no matter what happened. After that, who knew?

  20

  MAMA

  Keith didn’t hear my whole life story but he came pretty damn close. I left out my obsession with Victor Bell. It was too embarrassing to discuss, and besides, I’d sound like some kind of nut case.

  It was almost sevenP.M. when I left his office, and except for a short break to scarf down a pizza that his secretary called out for, we had been talking about the publishing industry and the people who worked in it nonstop.

  Keith was convinced that unless the real killer was apprehended almost immediately, the district attorney would respond to the intense media scrutiny by asking the grand jury to issue an indictment against me. He would not allow me to appear before a grand jury, and I had to prepare myself for a grim reality—the police would issue a warrant for my arrest. He told me that he had friends in high places so I’d be spared a humiliating perp walk in front of the television cameras and only spend a few hours in custody before bail was granted. Since I had a job, an elderly mother, and was a native New Yorker, a case could be made that I was not a flight risk so I could get bail and remain free until my trial.

  Arrested! My reputation would be ruined—I’d never get another job in my field and there was a good chance that Mama would be paralyzed by the shame. I nearly passed out in Keith’s office. And how, pray tell, would I come up with bail money if the need should arise?

  I dragged myself to Mama’s house, wondering how I was going to tell her this terrible news.

  When she opened the door to let me in, I was relieved to find Elvira there, which meant I had a short reprieve. They were sipping on cans of Colt 45. I kissed them both, threw my coat on an armchair, and grabbed a beer from their six-pack.

  There was a tempting smell wafting from the kitchen.

  “What did you make for dinner, Mama?”

  “Meat loaf and scalloped potatoes.”

  “Mmmm . . . any left?”

  “Yeah.”

  Mama peered at me closely. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mama spoke directly to Elvira. “Do you believe this chile is gonna sit in that chair and let that lie roll right off her lips?”

  In addition to being a gentle and thoughtful woman, Elvira was also tactful. “Now, Mozelle, maybe your daughter has a problem she don’t wanna talk about in front of me. I should be runnin’ along anyway. It’s almost time for Wheel of Fortune to come on.”

  In spite of all my balled-up anger and fear, there was still room in my heart for a lonely old woman who was putting off going to her empty rooms as long as possible. “Oh no, Miss Elvira,” I protested, “please stay a while. We can all watch the program together in Mama’s room. It’ll be good to have company while I eat.”

  Mama gave me an approving smile and Elvira looked relieved.

  The two women gossiped about their neighbors as I bustled about in the kitchen with a cyclone of unanswered questions roaring through my brain. Were Detective Gilchrist and his crew actively looking for someone other than me, or had the videotape and Tiffany Nixon’s column persuaded them to stop searching? If I did get arrested, would I have to sit in a filthy jail cell until Keith called in his favors? Why was all this happening to me?

  Mama and Elvira whooped and hollered throughout the game show. They played with such intensity, it was as though they were going to win the money themselves. Somehow I knew that Mama was not fooled by my attempts at joining in the hilarity as I shoveled food down my throat without tasting it.

  I was right. The door had barely closed on the back of Elvira’s heels when she took my wrist in a viselike grip and steered me back to her room.

  She looked scared. “What’s the matter, Jacqueline?”

  “I have something to tell you, but the only reason I’m telling you is that if it does happen,
you would read it in the papers and I don’t want that.” I was babbling and moisture was beading up around my hairline.

  “Somethin’ bad is gonna happen?” Her eyebrows were furrowed.

  “Might happen, Mama . . . might.” I patted her folded hands.

  “Just tell me,” she whispered hoarsely.

  I took a deep breath and said it fast. “Keith thinks the police might arrest me for killing Annabelle.”

  “What?” It was a scream.

  It took me almost half an hour to calm her down and explain it all.

  After that, warmed by each other’s company and united in our fear, Mama and I moseyed through our years together, reminiscing about the high points . . . my junior high school prom which Mama had insisted on attending, to my immense embarrassment . . . my high school graduation ceremony that had run more than an hour beyond schedule because the principal loved to hear himself talk . . . my graduation from the City University where Mama cried so loudly, she could be heard by the candidates crossing the stage to receive their diplomas. There were a few moments of merriment as we recalled my first boyfriend . . . a fifteen-year-old dweeb named Leo who was so afraid of Mama that he perched on the very edge of the sofa whenever he came over. Of course, he finally fell off and hit the floor one evening, and we broke up shortly after that.

  We were fine until it was time for us to turn in for the night. Hugging each other, not knowing when I would be taken away or if Keith could really pull another legal miracle out of his hat and bring me back quickly, Mama and I were both overcome with emotion. She wept unashamedly and I bawled like a two-year-old until we tore ourselves apart and I went to lie down in my old room, knowing that both of us would toss and turn until dawn.

  I heard sighs, whimpers, and bits of prayer coming from Mama’s room all night long and went in several times to rock her frail body back and forth until she went back to sleep.

  She was too depressed to get out of bed the next morning. I knew something was wrong when I didn’t hear her bustling about right after sunrise. She was just lying there in her bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

  “Mama, are you all right?”

  “No, Jackie. If they lock you up, I ain’t never gonna be all right no more.”

  The dazzling March sunlight flooded her room through the Venetian blinds and illuminated every wrinkle on her face. When had her cheeks started to sink in? How had all the light fled from her eyes so quickly? She looked very elderly and completely beaten.

  “Mama, please don’t say that. I’m going to need you by my side to get through this,” I whispered hoarsely, attempting to control a sudden fear that my mother might die of heartbreak if she didn’t sit up and put her feet on the floor.

  21

  TIFFANY NIXON STRIKES AGAIN

  Paul couldn’t believe any of this. I called him as soon as Mama got up and started moving around. He took the day off and spent it at my apartment trying to console me, but I was inconsolable. It didn’t help matters that once again, I was the star of Tiffany Nixon’s column that morning.

  WILL THE LAW APPLY TO BLUE?

  by Tiffany Nixon

  Ms. Jacqueline Blue has been suspended WITH PAY from her job as senior editor at Welburn Books, Inc., the 100-year-old publishing firm owned by the family of murdered socialite Annabelle Welburn Murray.

  Keith Williams, attorney for Ms. Blue, responded with a terse “no comment” when asked about the suspension.

  The authors in her care speak very highly of the beautiful and talented Ms. Blue. Hip-hop novelist Jamal Hunt said yesterday, “The only reason why I signed a contract with Welburn Books was to work with Jackie. She fights hard for Black authors who don’t get the same amount of marketing dollars, foreign rights sales, or point-of-sale display units as their white counterparts.”

  Celebrated romance writer Willow Van Silver dissolved into tears when told of Ms. Blue’s suspension. “I’ll take to my bed and not write another word until they bring my beloved Jackie back.”

  However, an executive at Welburn Books, who prefers to remain unnamed, expressed dismay that the temperamental Ms. Blue has not been arrested. “Although Jackie had a real chip on her shoulder and was constantly getting into fights with people in the industry, I was still shocked to see her on television running away from the murder scene. Why hasn’t she been arrested and charged with this terrible crime?”

  Why indeed?

  We were huddled together in anxiety on my sofa. Paul read the article out loud and then threw the paper across the room. None of it hit the opposite wall. The pages just flew up in the air and fluttered around the room in a black-and-white shower before landing in various places on my pale green carpet.

  “What the fuck is her problem?” he screamed in frustration.

  The tears streamed down my cheeks and I hugged a cushion tightly to my chest.

  Paul gathered me in his arms and rubbed my face gently. “Don’t cry, baby,” he said. “I’m going to see you through this, no matter what.”

  But I wasn’t crying out of fear that Paul was going to split. I was crying because Tiffany Nixon was the first person who had ever called me “beautiful.”

  22

  VICTOR

  I had no intention of just sitting around waiting for the ax to fall on my head. It was time to hit the streets and start doing some detective work. The first thing I did was head back to The Dakota. The doorman, a middle-aged white man with thinning hair, watched my approach with suspicion. I gave him a smile but he remained stoic.

  “Sir, my name is Jacqueline Blue.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Okay. What is your name?”

  “Walter.”

  “Walter, I need your help. What happened to Mrs. Murray was terrible but I didn’t do it. I figure that someone else she knew and trusted had to enter the building after I left.”

  “There was only her sister.”

  I was desperate. “Isn’t it possible that you were busy on the phone and someone sneaked past you?”

  “Yes, it is possible, but then we’d have that person on the videotape. There was no one.”

  “Can you think of anything unusual that happened that morning? Something that just doesn’t seem to make sense?”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Ms. Blue.”

  “Please help me.”

  He picked up the phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  I fled.

  By the following morning, Keith knew all about my visit and he was furious. He was screaming so loudly that I had to pull the phone away from my ear.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “What do you expect me to do? Sit here until they slap the cuffs on me?”

  “I don’t care what you do. Take up knitting, go to the gym and hit a punching bag. Whatever. But you stay away from everyone and everything connected with this case.”

  “Can’t I at least talk to Craig about the Moms Mabley book? You said yourself that he didn’t do it.”

  “Jackie, if you can’t follow my orders, I will walk off this case and not look back. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  So over the next few days, I spent my time deep cleaning my apartment, holding Mama’s hand, and visiting museums and art galleries. My home voicemail system was chock-full of calls from concerned and curious authors, agents, editors, and members of the Black Pack, but I was too depressed to answer their greetings.

  Paul usually stopped by after work and stayed until it was time for me to go to bed. I felt guilty that in spite of everything Paul did for me, all of his loving kindness and attempts to make me laugh, I still felt nothing but friendship for him. It occurred to me that I should tell him so and not waste any more of his time (Rosa with the Crooked Nose was getting tired of his neglect and was threatening to kick him to the curb), but my need for someone besides Mama and Elvira to talk to was far too great for me to give him the honesty and consideration he so richly deserved.
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  It was Paul’s idea to have a Black Pack party to lift my spirits. I was lying facedown on my bed as he massaged my back when he brought up the idea.

  “Are you crazy? They won’t show up because if there is a cameraman outside B. Smith’s snapping pictures, they’ll catch hell at work,” I muttered lazily.

  Paul’s strong fingers worked my tightened muscles. “I don’t care about what happens to them.”

  “I can’t face anybody right now.”

  “Maybe you could learn something that will help your case. Someone might have overheard vital information that they don’t even realize is important.”

  That made sense to me. “All right, but I still say they won’t show up.”

  Paul stood and rubbed his hands together cheerfully. He’d finally succeeded in giving me hope. “I will get the Black Pack to come.”

  “How?”

  Paul grinned. “By providing guaranteed secrecy, plus free food and booze for them, their spouses, and significant others. We’ll have a good time.”

  Free food? I suddenly knew what he was thinking. “Don’t drag poor Richard into this. He is trying to make a go of his new restaurant and feeding all these folks might put a dent in his budget. It isn’t fair to your brother.”

  He knelt on my hardwood bedroom floor and started massaging my bare feet. “Don’t worry about Richard. We’ll work it out between us.”

  Paul was going to pay for the party out of his own pocket. I felt it in my gut and I felt a sudden rush of sadness for him. Why couldn’t I love this wonderful man?

  Keith loved the idea, too, and so, the following Friday evening, the Black Pack meeting was held at Richard’s Soul Food Diner.

  There was a huge sign on a wooden stand outside the restaurant that said CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY.

  Just in case the press had somehow got wind of the gathering, the group waited until dark and then snuck in unobtrusively one by one, at least ten minutes apart.