Dying In The Dark_ A Tamara Hayle Mystery Part 17

"The authorities a.s.sume that Annette killed herself because she killed Celia Jones," I said, hoping to get some kind of a rise out of her, anything besides the silence, and I got one: a smile that was barely perceptible, but her eyes were still glued to the fire.

"Could I trouble you for some coffee or tea? It's a long drive back to Jersey, and I want to get on the road before it gets too much later," I asked. She glanced from the fire at me.

"Yes, that's a good idea. I'll make some for you, right away."

"On second thought, don't bother." That feeling of dread was back.

"It's no bother."

"Thank you," I said, grateful for a few more moments before the fire, but something wasn't right about this woman, and I wanted to be out of there as soon as possible. Now more than ever, I felt that I'd been on a fool's errand. I'd wasted my Sat.u.r.day, put more mileage on my car than I needed to, risked my life in this d.a.m.n storm, because I was worried about her safety, and she was treating me like c.r.a.p. This would be one to share with Wyvetta and her customers in the Biscuit.

Always the lady, Rebecca brought in the coffee in a carafe with a mug and some cream and placed it on the coffee table.

"Thank you so much," I said, reaching for the carafe, not waiting for her to bother to pour it. In my haste, I knocked it over, spilling coffee over the table. A photograph of her husband was in harm's way, and she screamed as she grabbed it, knocking my Kenya bag out of the way; the gun inside it made a thud as it hit the floor. She examined the photograph in her hand. Coffee had seeped inside. When she looked up at me, I was surprised by the rage in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I stuttered, as I swooped another picture off the table before the coffee could reach that one, too.

"It's ruined now, and there will never be another one taken. Never."

"I'm really sorry," I stammered again. She seemed stunned, unable to move. "Let me get something to wipe up this mess," I said as I grabbed the tray and coffee and fled to the kitchen in search of paper towels. I'd get myself some coffee on the road, I decided. Maybe stop at that 7-Eleven on the way back to the highway. The counter guy would be better company.

With a nasty att.i.tude, I poured the coffee out of the carafe, rinsed it out, and left that and the mug in the sink. Let her wash the d.a.m.n thing whenever she got around to it. I looked around the counter for some paper towels, couldn't find them, then, out of habit, looked in the cabinet under the sink where I keep my own. I spotted a roll of Bounty behind a can of Comet and a bottle of Fantastic. But as I reached for it, I tipped over a wooden box shaped like a coffin that was pushed to the back of the cabinet.

It took me a minute to get it, to fully understand what lay on the kitchen floor before me: fountain pens, blood-red ink, Seconals. And, neatly tied with a purple ribbon, those hateful letters she'd written to Celia Jones. My body tightened with fear, as if what I'd found could reach out and strike me dead, too. I stood up slowly, then made my way back to the living room and my Kenya bag where I'd tucked that .38.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

She rocked back and forth in her dead husband's chair, and the creak of that chair and the howling wind outside seemed like the only sounds in the world. I looked for my bag, but it wasn't on the floor where it had fallen. It was beside her chair, as if it belonged to her. I knew then that my gun was in her hand. She must have remembered that the paper towels were under the sink, that I was bound to find her wooden box when I searched for them. I'd found out her secret, and now she would have to do something about it. in her dead husband's chair, and the creak of that chair and the howling wind outside seemed like the only sounds in the world. I looked for my bag, but it wasn't on the floor where it had fallen. It was beside her chair, as if it belonged to her. I knew then that my gun was in her hand. She must have remembered that the paper towels were under the sink, that I was bound to find her wooden box when I searched for them. I'd found out her secret, and now she would have to do something about it.

"You know, don't you?" Her voice was tired and heavy, as if she were talking in her sleep.

"Know what?" I made my voice light and innocent.

She made a sound that could have been a laugh but it came from too deep inside her throat. "You know because you found the letters. You found the pills."

"Why did you do it?" I asked, even though I knew she wasn't going to tell me. "I can guess why you killed Annette. When Celia gave her your letters, she must have recognized your handwriting, the paper, the ink. An old friend like her would know something like that. Annette told me she always heard from you on holidays, that you two never failed to get together. But you didn't call her on New Year's Day, did you? So it probably didn't take much for her to figure out that you might have killed Celia Jones. But why did you kill her?"

There was no light in her eyes when she looked at me.

"I will say that I thought you were a burglar," she said. "That I heard a sound, came downstairs and you were in my living room, going through my things, and I shot you. That's what I will tell them."

There was no logic to what she said, and I told her so. "Right, Rebecca. You're going to tell them that I broke into your house and you shot me with my own gun. That doesn't make any sense, does it? Give it to me. Before it's too late. Just give me my gun, and we can work this out together."

But we both knew there was no working anything out together. That the truth can be twisted half a dozen ways, and that it always belongs to the person left to tell it. Only one of us would be left to tell it.

She rose to face me, moving slowly like a tired, old woman, like my grandmother had the day my young uncle was killed, as if all the light had gone from her life. The light was gone from Rebecca's life, too. She was as dead as her husband and baby, and I felt sorry for her. But not sorry enough to end up like Celia and Annette.

"He told me what happened between them, and he said it meant nothing, but he must have caught it from her, and so she killed my children, the children I should have had, and she wouldn't let me have the one she carried." I remembered what Laura Hunter had told me in the Biscuit about the judge's wife and the pelvic infection that might have rendered her sterile. Infections like hers could come from an IUD, but they could also be caused by a venereal disease like gonorrhea, I knew that, too. So she thought her husband had caught a disease from Celia and infected her, "killing her children," and Annette must have told her what she'd told me, that Celia was pregnant.

Never argue with a woman holding a gun. The best you can do is piece together what you know about the situation and try to figure out what to do about it. You can agree with her, too. Play back what she told you in your own words, and that's what I did.

"Yeah, Rebecca. I can certainly understand what you're saying. You were right. She took away your babies. It wasn't his fault though, it was all on her because she wouldn't let you have her child, right?"

She nodded like a kid, grateful that I understood her point.

"I went to her that day, to Celia Jones, because it was the first day of the year. Annette had told me she was pregnant, and that it could be anybody's child, and I thought it might be Clayton's. He said he hadn't had anything else to do with her, but I thought maybe he didn't know. Maybe it was something left of him. Maybe she would let me raise it because I didn't have anything else. But she laughed in my face and told me there was no baby. But I know she was lying because Annette told me there was."

And was that when you shot her through her womb? I thought. I thought.

"Celia Jones always was a liar," I said, edging closer to the door, wondering if she would shoot me before I could make a run for it. Then I remembered I didn't have my car keys; they were in my bag. "I can see how hurt you must have been, Becky," I said, my voice kind and sympathetic. "To go there on that morning to ask her to give you the baby, and she said she wasn't even pregnant. What a liar that woman was." I shook my head in agreement, then thought maybe I should go in another direction, wondered if there was something I could say that would shock her enough to throw her off, catch her off guard so I could make a lunge for the gun. I was stronger than she was, and I knew how to fight.

So I changed midstream, making my voice wheedling and nasty.

"But you did know that your loving husband, the late great Clayton Donovan, knew her before you introduced them, didn't you?"

She looked at me blankly, wondering what I was up to, not sure how to react.

I smiled as if caught in some pleasant memory. "I remember them in high school, Clay and Celia. They were lovers then, did you know that? Did you know that your husband, the late great Clayton Donovan, was the first man she ever slept with, she told me so herself. She told me before you killed her that he was going to leave you, and they were going to go off together. Isn't that why you really killed her, Becky?"

"No!"

I smiled knowingly and went on. "They say you never forget the first man you have s.e.x with, and Clayton was her first. Did you know that, Rebecca? That's why he was giving her money before he died. How stupid could you be, Rebecca. So they were going to run off together and raise their child together."

It was coming off the top of my head, but there was just enough truth to make it sound convincing. I was sure now that Clayton Donovan was the him him that Dawson had told me about yesterday. He was a big man with lots of respect who people admired. He hadn't been able to do anything else for her because he had died. I was sure he'd broken it off, like he'd told his wife. Men like him don't leave a prissy, high-cla.s.s wife for a Celia Jones, but she obviously didn't know that. that Dawson had told me about yesterday. He was a big man with lots of respect who people admired. He hadn't been able to do anything else for her because he had died. I was sure he'd broken it off, like he'd told his wife. Men like him don't leave a prissy, high-cla.s.s wife for a Celia Jones, but she obviously didn't know that.

"Your Clayton had been seeing her off and on for years. That was the real reason he'd made sure Brent Liston spent all that time in jail." I baited her, wondering what impact my words were having, but she just c.o.c.ked her head to the side like a dog waiting to hear a master's whistle.

"He told me the truth before he died."

"The truth about Celia?"

"The truth that he had been seeing her. He asked me to forgive him. He begged me to forgive him. But I caught it from her nasty, diseased thing."

She was such a lady she couldn't bring herself to say the word she'd written in those letters. She sure could kill the girl, though, empty her gun into her "nasty, diseased thing."

"How do you know he caught it from Celia?" I grinned, teasing her. She looked at me strangely, c.o.c.king her head to the side again.

"Because she was a wh.o.r.e."

"Thou shalt not kill, Rebecca. You're a religious woman. How could you forget that?"

"She deserved to die for what she did to people who cared for her. Because she should feel G.o.d's wrath come down on her, and I could finally have some peace at last."

You need to find some kind of final resolution, one that will give you peace at last.

She had said those words to me before. How could I have missed the meaning behind them?

"Did killing Annette bring you peace as well?" She gazed at me, as if she didn't know what I was talking about, and I trotted out the theory I had about the way I thought Drew Sampson had done it, spitting it out with utter conviction, as if I'd been sitting in the room. "So you came by on Thursday morning, and she offered you a drink because she liked to drink, and you knew that she would. You sent her back for something, anything that took her out of the room, and then you put the Seconals you'd mixed with some of your husband's liquor into her drink. Enough to send her into a coma, and you two sat talking about old times until she began to get dizzy, and here's what you said to her when it started to take effect. 'Why don't you lie down, Annette? You might feel better. Let me put this pillow under your head, Annette, to make you comfortable. Try to go to sleep, Annette, and you'll feel better in the morning.' "I spoke in a high falsetto imitating a phony woman's voice, and she watched me, her gun steady on me as I continued.

'After she was out, you searched for the letters you knew she had because she had asked you about them, and before you left, you took her limp hand and made sure her fingerprints were on the gun, then put the gun and the drawing under her pillow."

"How did you know?" she said in her small, tight voice.

I edged toward the pedestal near the chair, close to the urn with her husband's ashes. The light from the fire, rather than the sun's rays, drew my attention to the golden lid this time.

"You know something, Rebecca? There were half a dozen women your husband could have caught it from. h.e.l.l, he even made a drunken pa.s.s at me, at a party a couple years ago. I knew he was a tramp, your late great Honorable Clayton Donovan, so I turned him down. He was one of the biggest c.o.c.k hounds in the city. You talk about Celia being a wh.o.r.e. He was nothing but a wh.o.r.e, and he betrayed you every time he left your side."

"No!" she said, and for a moment I thought I'd gone too far because she raised the gun slightly, narrowing her eyes. My heart jumped, and I cursed myself for pushing her.

And then the phone rang.

Once. Twice. Three times. We stood transfixed, both of us. She turned to look at it, wondering who would know to call at that moment, who could have broken the spell between us, and that was when I made my move, turning fast in one quick motion, grabbing the urn from the pedestal, hurling it to the floor with all my might. The sound it made when it hit was as loud as her scream as she swooped down to gather what lay at her feet.

"Clayton!" It was a wounded moan like an animal makes when it's been shot. She fell down in the mix of broken china and her husband's ashes, dropping the gun to her side, and I went for it fast, nearly tripping over the man's remains as I dove for it.

"No!" she screamed as she grabbed for the gun, and we fell on the floor together, my head banging hard against the edge of the dead man's chair. She got the gun, grabbing it from my hand, and I pounced on her, surprised by the smooth silk against my arm. I pulled back my fist and whammed it hard into her jaw, and she moaned, dropping the gun again. I scrambled to get it, grabbed it, and struggled to my feet.

"He's gone," she whispered, with a look on her face I knew I would never forget.

"He's been gone."

"You took the last I had of him."

"Your choice, lady, not mine."

She stood up, and began to walk toward me. My heart jumped.

"Shoot me!" she said. "Please shoot me. I have nothing else to live for. Nothing else. Shoot me."

"Stop!" I stepped backward.

"Shoot me, d.a.m.n you! I don't want to live anymore. Shoot me or I'll take that gun and shoot you and then myself. But I'll kill you first."

"Step back," I said.

She kept coming, her husband's ashes clinging like dust to her fancy black robe.

"Stop! Don't come any closer!" I didn't think I could shoot an unarmed woman; there was no way I could do it.

"Shoot me! Please, please shoot me!"

She was close enough now to get the gun. I took another step back, and she tried to grab it, her tiny hands grabbing and scratching my wrist.

And I thought about Celia lying there on that floor, her body filled with bullets, and Annette sipping that last drink with her trusted old friend. I thought about Jamal's laughter as we drove fast down the Parkway, about how much I loved him and how we were all each other had, and I knew at that moment that I'd be d.a.m.ned before I'd let this crazy woman make a motherless child out of my boy.

So I did what she asked.

EPILOGUE.

When all was said and done-after the cops had gone, Rebecca's story told, and I was at home with my son-Jake dropped by to make sure I was all right.

"I really feel bad about the last time I saw you," he said, as I poured the champagne he'd brought to celebrate my solving the case.

"You mean last week with what's her name?" I asked, and he smiled without comment. We laughed easily then, like we always did, and I wondered, not for the first time, if I should share my true feelings.

But something had changed between us, and I didn't know if we could get it back. I didn't want Jake to leave my life, but if he did there was no way to stop him. I could only hope he'd return. If you hold too tightly to your past, you'll destroy your future. That was one good lesson I learned from Rebecca Donovan.

Larry Walton called after Jake left. He'd heard about what happened, and realized his call to Rebecca that day may have saved my life. I thanked him for it, and when he asked me out, I said I'd go. Who knew what could come of it? A good meal, perhaps, and friendship if we were lucky.

I put Celia's locket in the place where I keep my precious things: Johnny's cuff links, Jamal's first gift, the paper dolls my grandma cut from newspaper.

"Catch you later, girl," I whispered as I closed the drawer.

And I slept well that night, like a baby in her papa's arms. My son was safe, I had two two good men who cared, a new car that was running fine, and I'd caught the person who murdered my "used-to-be-best-friend." At least for now, all was right with the world. good men who cared, a new car that was running fine, and I'd caught the person who murdered my "used-to-be-best-friend." At least for now, all was right with the world.

DYING in the in the DARK DARK A CONVERSATION WITH.

VALERIE WILSON WESLEY.

A CONVERSATION WITH VALERIE WILSON WESLEY CONVERSATION WITH VALERIE WILSON WESLEY.

Q: Why did you create Tamara Hayle?

A: I wanted to create a detective-African American, female, single mom-who had not been seen in crime fiction. Increasingly, many women are raising children by themselves. As the mother of two daughters, I know how tough it is to raise a child, and it's especially difficult when you're doing it by yourself. I have great admiration for single moms. I wanted to give them their "props," as the kids put it.

Q: Why did you choose Newark as a setting?

A: I love New Jersey, and I live near Newark, so it's easy to research settings and locations. My husband grew up in Newark and has a keen sense of the city's history, so I can write about it with a certain authenticity. Newark is a city of immigrants, like Chicago, New York, and Liverpool in the UK. But it has its own particular character. It is constantly reinventing itself which makes for interesting stories.

Q: Why after four years, did you write a new Tamara Hayle Mystery?

A: It was time! This is also the ten-year anniversary of the series. When Death Comes Stealing, When Death Comes Stealing, my first mystery was published in 1994. I was getting quite a bit of e-mail from readers asking when the next installment, #7, was coming. Writing my first mystery was published in 1994. I was getting quite a bit of e-mail from readers asking when the next installment, #7, was coming. Writing Dying in the Dark Dying in the Dark was like visiting an old friend who I haven't seen in a long time. Tamara is a bit older in this mystery, a bit sadder, and quite a bit wiser. She's accepting the reality that her son will soon be going off to college, and that she will be living alone. The proverbial "empty nest" is looming large. I think that readers will enjoy revisiting Tamara Hayle as much as I did. was like visiting an old friend who I haven't seen in a long time. Tamara is a bit older in this mystery, a bit sadder, and quite a bit wiser. She's accepting the reality that her son will soon be going off to college, and that she will be living alone. The proverbial "empty nest" is looming large. I think that readers will enjoy revisiting Tamara Hayle as much as I did.

Q: What do you want readers to take from your books?