Dying In The Dark_ A Tamara Hayle Mystery Part 3

His face softened the way mine does when I mention Jamal. 'A daughter. Nia. Almost ready to go to college and leave her old man forever." He chuckled self-consciously.

'An empty nest can be a good thing for a couple. Helps them get back in touch with each other." I'd heard that on some talk show and threw it out for lack of anything better to say.

"My wife and I are divorced. Well, you want the car, Ms. Hayle, or not?" He'd changed the subject abruptly but there was no nastiness in his tone, just an eagerness to get the deal done. It told me that the breakup of his marriage had been recent enough for him not to want to talk about it, but far enough in the past for some perspective.

We headed into his office to sign the papers, and I was able to purchase the car with a reasonable down payment and manageable monthly payments, thanks to his generosity.

"Tamara, I'd like to see you again, maybe meet for dinner or a drink, something that has nothing to do with cars," he said as we walked back to the lot.

His request for a date caught me short. I was tempted, but it didn't feel right.

"No, I don't think so," I said after a moment or two. My answer surprised him, and I could see that he was hurt. He wasn't a man who was used to being turned down by women; he hadn't been in high school and he obviously wasn't now. 'Actually I'm kind of involved with somebody," I added to soften my rejection.

That was a lie, of course. I haven't been "kind of involved with somebody" since I met a s.e.xy "somebody" named Basil Dupre for a week of mayhem and l.u.s.t in Atlantic City. I'm not sure when, if ever, that somebody will turn up in my life again. Our relationship has no rhyme or reason, and I've learned to accept it for what it is. There was n.o.body else except Jake, who shows up in my dreams, and I'm too much of a realist to live in my fantasies.

Yet on a deeper level, I was was involved with somebody, and that somebody was me. I swore off men after I left Atlantic City. It was time for me to rediscover myself, cherish my own company, stop depending on somebody else to give meaning to my life. I had only a few more years at home with my son before he went to college, and I needed to focus on him, not romance. Besides that, it's never wise to mix business and pleasure. I've learned that in spades. involved with somebody, and that somebody was me. I swore off men after I left Atlantic City. It was time for me to rediscover myself, cherish my own company, stop depending on somebody else to give meaning to my life. I had only a few more years at home with my son before he went to college, and I needed to focus on him, not romance. Besides that, it's never wise to mix business and pleasure. I've learned that in spades.

"He's a very lucky somebody."

"Thanks, Larry, for everything," I said without acknowledging his compliment. I climbed into my new red car, turned the key in the ignition, and headed to Morgan's Funeral Home, my grin so wide it hurt.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Don't let me be here all night dealing with this s.h.i.t, you hear me? Don't let me be here all night," said the woman to Brent Liston, who stood next to her. There was no mistaking the voice; it was the one I'd heard on the phone yesterday morning. The speaker had a sweet-looking face marred by a mouth that looked like it never smiled. She held her small, wiry body in a fighter's stance, which didn't surprise me, considering who had his arm swung over her shoulder like he owned her. So Cecil Jones had given me his father's telephone number; they must have been closer than I thought. dealing with this s.h.i.t, you hear me? Don't let me be here all night," said the woman to Brent Liston, who stood next to her. There was no mistaking the voice; it was the one I'd heard on the phone yesterday morning. The speaker had a sweet-looking face marred by a mouth that looked like it never smiled. She held her small, wiry body in a fighter's stance, which didn't surprise me, considering who had his arm swung over her shoulder like he owned her. So Cecil Jones had given me his father's telephone number; they must have been closer than I thought.

Once upon a time, Liston had been handsome in a brutal, machismo way. The twisted scar that ran down his left cheek and his squat, broken nose had changed all that, but he'd done enough time in prison gyms to still have the body of a contender. He was dressed all in black, save for a thick gold chain that crossed his tie. I noticed Cecil's diamond ring sparkling like a pimp's on his long, thick finger. Standing there together, he and his woman looked like they'd stepped out of somebody's nightmare.

When she spoke, the woman's voice carried to the back of the room, but she didn't seem to give a d.a.m.n. She studied indifferently the rough, uncarpeted floor, red velvet pews, and stained-gla.s.s windows, which were designed to make the Rose Chapel, where the funeral would be held, look like a church even though there was nothing holy about the place. I was thankful she didn't spot me. Dressed as she was in her scruffy boots and cheap leather jacket, she looked like the kind of woman who would call me out by name before she knew it, and I sure didn't feel like getting into it with somebody like her today. Just walking into Morgan's Funeral Home had put me in a bad mood.

I'd buried half my family in this place, perched as it was between a gasoline station and convenience store on a busy street in the middle of town. Old Man Morgan, whose mournful expression could bring a clown to tears, spotted me and waved as he headed in my direction.

"Tamara Hayle! How are you, my dear. Has life been treating you well?" Morgan's voice always seemed to be on the verge of a sob, each sentence punctuated with a sorrowful nod. 'And here I am again, putting away another one. Boy was just in here a month ago, burying his mama. Put her away a month ago, and here I am again."

My ears perked up. "So Cecil was the one who buried his mother?"

He looked at me as if just remembering I was there. "So you knew his mother?"

"We were friends."

"I don't remember seeing you at the service." He scowled with disapproval over his half-framed gla.s.ses.

"I was out of town," I stammered unconvincingly then added truthfully, "I didn't know about it or I would have been here."

"Should have sent some flowers," he mumbled.

"Were there many people here?" I changed the subject.

"Not many. The boy. Two or three others. Not many at all. Violent deaths are always dreadful, but Celia Jones's was particularly bad. Poor woman was shot right through her-" He dropped his eyes as if embarra.s.sed.

"Right through her what?"

"Well," he sighed and added after a beat, "near her belly. Not belly exactly, but her womb, the center of a woman's being. I figure that whoever did it was trying to make some kind of statement. I've never seen anything like it, to shoot a woman right through her privates."

"Do you mean that somebody put a gun-"

"I don't know how he did it, Miss Tamara." Morgan avoided my eyes as if the mere mention of the subject distressed him. "Maybe you should ask the police. They're the ones who did the autopsy. I just got the body, that's all I do-clean 'em, fix 'em, dress 'em up. I made her presentable so her son could say his last good-bye, but I sure could see where she'd been shot."

"Was she shot more than once?" I'd read as much, but I wanted Morgan's confirmation.

"I don't know, Miss Tamara. All I know is that the poor woman is dead. That's all I know and that's all I will say." He pursed his lips, indicating that he was uncomfortable with the subject. I wasn't about to let him go, but in deference to his discomfort went in a different direction.

"Do you see anyone here today who came to Celia's funeral?"

"How am I supposed to remember something like that?" He eyed me suspiciously trying to figure out what I was up to.

I broke out my professional voice. 'As you know, Mr. Morgan, I make my living as a private investigator. I'm not just asking you these questions because I'm nosy, but because I've been hired to find out who killed Celia Jones, and in the process I may be able to find out who killed her son. I'd appreciate any help you could give me, anything at all."

"Who hired you?" Even after my little speech, Morgan was still skeptical.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Didn't the cops find out who did it?"

"No."

"Isn't that their job?"

"Often people are uncomfortable talking to the police, so they'll talk to me. Could you help me out? Please?" I pulled out the stops on the "please," my eyes begging him to recall the many funerals we'd shared.

"Well, I guess it won't do no harm for you to look and see who signed the register, but hardly n.o.body came. You can't take it with you though," he added as if I might try to steal it. "I'll leave it on my desk in my office, and you can look at it there. It's my property now since the boy is dead. I guess I can show it to you."

"That will be very helpful, Mr. Morgan. Thank you so much." I hugged him awkwardly, inhaling as I did so an odd mixture of breath mints and formaldehyde. He nodded toward the Rose Chapel. I settled into a dark corner of the last row, folded my hands piously in my lap, and watched things unfold.

They buried the boy in a cheap pine coffin, which I knew from personal experience was the bottom of Morgan's line. The coffin was open; he'd been stabbed through the heart, not the face, and Morgan had probably done a good job of fixing him up, as good a job as anybody can do on a dead body. I knew that from experience, too. Liston and his woman sat in the first row. His arm had slipped from her shoulder and was casually draped on the back of the seat as if they were waiting for cheeseburgers in a greasy luncheonette.

A child's piercing cries broke the silence in the room and drew everybody's attention to the back of the chapel. A young woman holding a wailing baby on her hip entered, accompanied by two young men who walked beside her like bodyguards. Cecil hadn't mentioned a child, but I a.s.sumed the baby was his. The woman, little more than a child herself, still carried the weight of her pregnancy, and her shiny gray suit and diaphanous blouse, both obviously bought when she was twenty pounds lighter, did little to hide it.

"Ooh this is bad! This is bad! This is so bad!" the girl kept repeating to n.o.body in particular.

"He dead and gone now, Cristal. There ain't nothing you can do now. Nothing you can do!" This bit of stage-whispered wisdom came from the shorter of the men. He wasn't as tall as Brent Liston, but looked a younger version of him-same powerful chest and shoulders, same bullying strut.

"Hey, Pik, there go his dad," said the other kid, who was thin with a delicate face that contrasted with the tough-guy clothes he wore. He grinned inappropriately, and I noticed that his teeth were perfectly straight and lacked the gold and diamonds that usually distinguish the dental work of wannabe gangstas. I knew from the money I've spent on my son's mouth that teeth like that don't come cheap. I was struck, too, by the boy's use of the word "dad." It was what I called my father when I was a kid, and he spoke the word as if it carried good memories. It made me think that he wasn't as tough as he wanted folks to think. Pik, the Liston look-alike, had enough thug in him for both of them.

"That big dude is his old man, right, DeeEss?" said Pik, whose mouth was lit up like a chandelier.

"Yeah."

"Cecil used to say he looked like his mama, but I think he looks kind of like his daddy. He fine," said the girl, her voice deep and dreamy. Cristal had a small pointed face and long thick hair haphazardly caught up in a metallic scrunchie. She wasn't pretty in the conventional sense of the word, but carried herself with a hoochie-mama swagger that probably appealed to teenage boys. It was troubling that my son found her attractive, but then again, I've never been a teenage boy. Pik's name was stenciled onto his black leather jacket and I realized I'd seen it painted in red letters on the facades of half a dozen buildings in the city.

"Who that woman? His moms?" Pik asked.

"Somebody killed his moms," said DeeEss.

Brent Liston turned and stared at the three teenagers as they sat down in the row behind him. His gaze seemed to frighten the girl, and she pulled her baby close as if protecting him. Her fear was puzzling. Why did she think Brent Liston would harm his grandchild? I realized then that she might be sheltering the child from Liston's woman, whose hard, pebble-shaped eyes stared at her with hatred. My feelings toward the girl and her child softened. Maybe something of Celia Jones had survived after all.

The click of high heels on the uncarpeted floor signaled the arrival of a middle-aged woman in a chic black suit, but her step was hesitant and unsteady, as if she were ill or had had too much to drink. She sat down in the row behind the teenagers, but perched on the edge of her seat, as if ready to launch into flight. Her clothes whispered money: tailored silk suit, black Coach bag, Ferragamo pumps, diamond earrings. I felt that pang of jealousy I often feel when I spot some woman whose outfit cost more than my office rent. But I didn't envy this woman her looks. She'd been attractive once, but her pretty face was bloated and her eyes bloodshot and puffy. It was plain to see that liquor, rather than illness or years, had aged her.

DeeEss glanced back as she slid in behind him, and she gave him a tight smile, which brought a nod. They shared the same features- same slight, pointed nose, hazel eyes set in an oval face the color of coffee with too much cream, same thin elegant frame; booze hadn't altered the family resemblance. They were mother and son, yet they were an odd pair. Had she come to pay her last respects to her son's friend or had something else brought her?

A man with wire-rimmed gla.s.ses and a conservative haircut was sitting behind the well-dressed woman. I hadn't noticed him come in, so I a.s.sumed he'd come early. He was dressed in a tan sweater and jacket and dull gray trousers. I pegged him for a teacher or guidance counselor, somebody who knew the boy casually, wanted to pay his respects, and get the h.e.l.l out as fast as he could. I hoped that he signed the guest book that Morgan had placed at the door. I made a mental note to look.

The last person to enter the place was Larry Walton. I pulled back into the shadows, dropping my head down like I was praying, but he was moving so fast, he wouldn't have noticed me anyway. He sat next to the woman in the suit and gave her a hug. She settled into his muscular body as if she belonged there. I shook my head in disgust.

Men. There was no telling about them. If you gave them half a chance, even the best of them could drive you as crazy as a flea. This man had asked me me out not an hour before, and here he was cozying up to some woman in a funeral parlor. I was glad that good sense had prevailed and I'd turned him down, but I'd been flattered by the asking, and I'd been tempted. out not an hour before, and here he was cozying up to some woman in a funeral parlor. I was glad that good sense had prevailed and I'd turned him down, but I'd been flattered by the asking, and I'd been tempted.

When it came to men, I was about as lucky as a hot biscuit at a church supper. I felt an unwavering pa.s.sion toward Basil Dupre, but he was never around long enough for me to establish anything but memories. I thought I might be in love with Jake Richards, but my sense of morality got in the way of my establishing anything with him other than friendship.

I've found out the hard way that all love and loose change will get you is a bus to Broad and Market. Personal ethics are all a woman has, and she would want to keep them as clean as her drawers. I respected Jake's marriage. As for Basil, I wasn't quite sure where to put him, so I didn't put him anywhere. The only man I was truly responsible to at this point in my life was my son, and until he left my home, I had to spend my time looking out for him. I'd be d.a.m.ned if I'd ever let him end up like Cecil Jones or the countless other young men who are gone before they're twenty.

My son's face came into my mind as the earnest young minister gave his eulogy, which I suspected he'd given at the funerals of other boys like this one. No one spoke after he sat down. n.o.body stood up to speak of grief, love, or sorrow. There were no tears or fond memories.

I considered standing myself. Somebody needed to bring the memory of Celia into this place. I was almost on my feet, when Brent Liston broke the silence.

"I want you all to know, I swear before G.o.d, I will find out who done this thing to my son, and I will take care of him good. I swear before G.o.d, I will. I swear before G.o.d!" he said, then plunked his heavy body back down in his seat, his face distorted by rage.

"Shut up, Brent Liston. In Celia's name I curse you," the thin voice of the woman in the black suit rose to challenge his. Her words were slurred, but she stood straight and tall without wavering. "Celia Jones knew who and what you were, Brent, and I know what you did to her and her son, you'll be d.a.m.ned in h.e.l.l for that. You'll be d.a.m.ned!"

Morgan, alarmed by the turn of events, rushed to the front of the room, begging for silence although the room was quiet again and filled with tension. He slammed down the lid of the coffin as if something evil was about to pop out, and motioned for the pallbearers to come take this child and his low-life mourners out of his place. Memories of another funeral I'd attended here years ago that turned into an ugly melee came back to me; I needed to leave that room as soon as I could. I quickly ducked into Morgan's office.

I searched his desk for the register, couldn't find it for a moment, then spotted it under a pile of undertakers' trade magazines. Honorable to the end, Morgan had probably tucked it away, hoping that I'd get discouraged and be on my way. I turned to the January entries and found Celia's name at the top of the page marked January 8. Only three people had bothered to sign the guest book. I wondered if others had shown up. Rebecca Donovan's name was written in elaborate script at the top of the page. Larry Walton's name followed hers. Was Rebecca Donovan the woman who sat next to him and the reason he attended both of these services? The last name on the page was Drew Sampson, who I a.s.sumed must be related to the Annette Sampson I'd left the message for on Friday. One Sampson in the book, the other at her funeral. How were they connected to Celia?

That question was on my mind as I shoved Morgan's book where he'd put it, so I didn't see Brent Liston enter the room or sense his presence until he came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, and swung me around to face him. My first impulse was to slap him across his face, but he caught my hand midway and forced it to my side.

"You that b.i.t.c.h Rebecca Donovan, ain't you?" he said. His woman stood behind him, gloating the way somebody does when they know they have the better of you, and in that moment, I hated them both with everything in me. "Hey, Beanie, ain't she that Clayton Donovan b.i.t.c.h who was always in my face?"

Beanie. The name suited her well. She was tiny and hard, like a navy bean or a black-eyed pea. I glanced away from her, focusing on him. The name suited her well. She was tiny and hard, like a navy bean or a black-eyed pea. I glanced away from her, focusing on him.

"Take your filthy hands off me before I send you back to h.e.l.l," I said, and he laughed in my face.

"No, baby, you got it wrong. This one ain't her. She ain't hincty enough to be Rebecca Donovan." Beanie stared at me, her head c.o.c.ked to the side like a bird of prey waiting for its dinner.

"Who are you and what you doing here, at my boy's funeral?" Liston dropped his hands to his sides. His lips quivered, like a playground tough who has just had his a.s.s kicked, which surprised me because I was no threat to him. But I did know one thing now: The woman with Larry Walton was not Rebecca Donovan.

"I knew Celia," I said, just as Larry Walton came into the room to stand beside me.

"You all right, Tamara?"

"I'm fine." He stared Liston down, letting him know in the way that men do that I had a male protector, for what that was worth. It was a language, however, that Liston understood. He looked Larry up and down, waited a moment or two to show he wasn't scared, then left with Beanie.

"Let me walk you to your car," Larry said.

"I'm fine!" I stepped away from him, my tone letting him know that although his presence might frighten Liston, it didn't impress me. One way or the other I would have handled it myself.

"You're not as tough as you think. They might come back. Let me walk you to your car."

"That's really not necessary. I'm fine," I said, but he followed me anyway. We didn't say much as we walked toward the car. I didn't look at him as I unlocked the door and climbed in.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

I started my car. 'About what?"

'About Celia and her boy. What are you doing now?"

"Going to pick up my son."

"How about later? Can I call you?"

I thought about it for a minute, wondering what he could tell me and if it would be worth my time. "Okay," I finally said.

I was halfway down the street before I realized I hadn't given him my telephone number. Then I remembered that my number, address, and every other bit of personal information that he needed to know about me was laid out on the top of his desk in triplicate.

CHAPTER SIX.

Ever heard of a guy named Larry Walton?" I asked my friend Jake Richards. We were sitting at his kitchen table drinking red wine. After my run-in with Brent Liston, I needed something stronger, but manners and the fear of looking like a lush prevented me from asking. Jake dropped his eyes the way he does when he thinks, and I took the opportunity to gaze at his face. He got better with age. The gray in his hair and beard gave him a distinguished, wise demeanor, yet still managed to play up the kindness in his eyes. He had the kind of face I could never get tired of looking at. I asked my friend Jake Richards. We were sitting at his kitchen table drinking red wine. After my run-in with Brent Liston, I needed something stronger, but manners and the fear of looking like a lush prevented me from asking. Jake dropped his eyes the way he does when he thinks, and I took the opportunity to gaze at his face. He got better with age. The gray in his hair and beard gave him a distinguished, wise demeanor, yet still managed to play up the kindness in his eyes. He had the kind of face I could never get tired of looking at.

"No, I can't say that I have."

"What about Brent Liston?"

"Jesus, Tarn, I hope you're not having dealings with him?" He sipped his wine and scowled, which made me smile.

"Well..."

He laughed despite himself. "Try to stay out of trouble, Tamara."

"I'm already in it."