“You have such a good memory.” I reflect on her letting me vent when I ran in here yesterday to shelter from the storm.
“I’m a people person. I believe everyone has the right to be listened to and heard.”
“That’s very kind. How are you doing?”
“I’m great. I have a job for life. I have a pension. A nice little house and a new friend.”
“Are you always this bubbly?”
“I don’t sweat the small stuff. Now lightning, that puts a stick in my craw, but outside of that, I’m good.”
I set my purse on the counter, and I smile when I see my message icon light up. I take a peek, and as I had hoped, Taylor has responded to my text.
“Good news?” Kate says as she wipes down the counter with a rag.
“It’s my husband touching base. But anyway, I don’t think I’m going to be okay until I find out who killed my brother. For twenty plus years I’ve suppressed my feelings about what happened to him. Every time I thought about the person who killed him getting away with murder, I tossed the thought, just so I could survive emotionally. Who knew that an audition would be the thing to force me to deal with what happened?”
“On that note, let me bring you a slice of pie.” She turns away, and I tap her hand that’s still on the counter.
“No pie today. But thanks, Kate.”
Her face tenses, accentuating wrinkles I hadn’t noticed before. “You have no idea who killed him?”
“No. It was a big story in 1991. I guess it’s still a big deal because this filmmaker I was going to audition for is making a movie about my brother’s life.”
Her expression changes from serious to surprised. “Wow, that’s good. Maybe that’ll get someone to start talking.”
“She’s doing it without my family’s permission.”
“Have you spoken to her about it?”
“That’s the crazy part, Kate. She says the story isn’t about my brother—but that it’s about a man she’s been dreaming about that has the same life my brother had. And she expected me to believe that.” I wait for Kate’s brows to raise and her mouth to fall open, but she looks past me, nodding.
“That’s interesting. Maybe she’s telling the truth.”
“Kate, the man in her dreams is killed at the same age my brother was. They have the same birthday. He’s a football player like my brother. That’s way too much of a coincidence.”
“Could be,” she says. “I don’t know though. You said you auditioned for her film?”
“I was supposed to audition for it.”
She nods and pauses. “Hold on a minute.” I look over my shoulder when she heads toward the door. The mailman hands her a stack of letters and postcards, and she thanks him. He leaves, and she returns to the counter, rifling through what looks like bills and solicitations. She sets everything on the counter. “I’m confused about something. This woman somehow found out about your brother, wrote a movie about him, then held a casting session for this movie?”
“Right. She found out about him by surfing the internet. She found him on my social media pages.”
“Did she know you were going to read for a part? How could she work that out? Doesn’t your agent submit you for parts? How did she know your agent would submit you?”
“I don’t think she did. That’s where her plan backfired. Little did she know I’m an actress and that I’d end up at the audition.”
“I see,” she says, warily.
I shift on the stool, wondering why she seems to be so ready to join Team Gretchen. “You seem like you believe her.”
“I try to look at all sides of a thing. Anyway, like I said, doing a film about your brother might be a good move. It could make people start talking about the case again. If I were you, I’d give her the benefit of the doubt. Work with her.”
“But she lied. She went behind my back.”
“Do you know that for a fact? Is there any possibility that it’s a coincidence? Anything is possible. What if your brother is trying to get some message to you, through her? I’m not one to believe in a bunch of hocus pocus, but Regina, your passion and dedication to your brother is so strong, I could see something like that happening. What if the guy in her dreams is your brother?”
My throat tickles, and I try to suppress the urge to cough. I bend over, hacking, almost falling off the stool. The customers’ and Kate’s concerned voices fill the diner.
“Is she okay?”
“Catch her before she falls.”
“I’ll get her some water.”
“She’s choking.”
Kate thrusts a glass of water in my hand, and I guzzle. “I’m okay … I’m … I’m fine.” I glace at everyone with appreciation, then set down the glass and compose myself.
“I didn’t mean to get you all choked up.”
“I’m all right.”
“Well, what do you think about what I said?”
“That Robert is the man in her dreams?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if he is, she needs to be able to tell me something that’s in her dream that’s not on the internet, something no one would know.”
“That’s fair,” Kate says. We turn toward the door when Gus enters. “Sweetie, I need to talk to Gus for a minute.”
“No worries. I’d better hit the road anyway.”
She comes from behind the counter and wraps me in her arms. “You take care of yourself, kiddo. And keep an open mind. I truly believe there’s more to this world than what we can see with the naked eye. Think about it. Maybe talk to …”
“Gretchen,” I say.
“Right. Okay, stay in touch now. Put my number in your phone.”
I add her to my contacts, nod to Gus, and leave, Kate’s words resonating in my head and heart.
On my way to my car, I notice a homeless man scrounging in a trash bin. I think about the tip I had planned to leave Kate. I take it out of my purse and give it to him. He thanks me profusely and then sends a crooked smile my way, reminding me of Ron. I get in my car and click on his number. I know he said it would take a few days to follow up with me, but what the hell? Maybe he’s heard something and hasn’t had a chance to call me. The phone rings several times before he picks up.
I wait for him to say something, but there’s dead silence, like he’s afraid I might be a bill collector or telemarketer. I break the stalemate. “Hello, Ron. It’s Regina.”
“This isn’t Ron.” I momentarily move the phone away from my ear when the woman’s bitter voice rings out.
“I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.” I start to hang up, but she stops me.
“Wait a minute. How did you get this number?”
“Ron Carter gave it to me.”
“Well, this isn’t his number, and he shouldn’t have given it to you. By the way, where was he when he gave you the number?”
“And who exactly are you?”
“This is his mother, Veronica, and this is my home number. I don’t know why he gave it to you. I haven’t seen Ron in ten years. As far as I’m concerned, my son Ron is dead.”
I grip the phone, wondering what went down with Ron and his mother to make her disown him. “I’m sorry to hear that. I ran into him at a diner in Shady Grove.”
“What was he doing? Begging? People tell me they see him around town panhandling.”
I recall his dirty clothes and body odor. Wow, he was homeless, and his phone didn’t even work. “No, ma’am. But he did look bad.”
“Karma is a bitch,” she says. “He got my daughter, Marlene, hooked on drugs, and she overdosed. It should have been him. Her three daughters were left motherless.”
My eyes sting, and I feel queasy. I want to hang up and delete the number, but I commiserate with her. “Ms. Carter, this is Regina Wilson by the way. We lived around the corner from you guys. I was Regina Parker back then.”
There’s silence and then a gasp. “Regina? Oh, Lord. Girl, I haven’t see you in years. How are
you doing? How’s your mother? Is she still with Curt? She loved her some Curt. And I’m so sorry about Robert. After all these years, I still think about him. We all do. Most of us are living on the east side now.”
“My mother lives in Inglewood, and I went into acting.”
“I’m not surprised. You used to always put on plays in the neighborhood. Marlene loved being in them. I’d love to see you. Craig is here. I don’t know if you remember my oldest. He’s successful. He owns a string of barbershops in Atlanta. He’s here for the holidays. I’m sure he’d love to see you. You know things went crazy after y’all moved.”
I think about Ron. Boy, was he frontin’ and lying. But he did tell the truth about Craig. I remember that he worked in a barbershop when we were growing up. Not cutting hair but cleaning up. There’s a lot of talk in black barbershops. Maybe he heard something that might help me step closer to finding out who killed Robert. “Ms. Carter, what’s the address? I’ll drop by for a minute.”
“That would be great. And call me Veronica. Ms. Carter makes me sound ancient.”
She gives me the address, and I head that way.
Chapter 13
Gretchen
My car bounces up and down as I drive over the speed bumps on the street leading to our condo, faster than I should. I called Lance again, and still no response. I recoil when I spot my mother’s Escalade, with a busted fender, parked in our driveway. Oh my god, something has happened to Lance. I park behind her car, run to the front door, and let myself in. I hope he hasn’t done anything stupid. Lance is sensitive when it comes to our relationship. I flash back to Patty’s suicide attempt. Lance, you’d better not have gone over the edge.
“Mom, where’s Lance?” I stand in the foyer, my head whipping back and forth, my gaze searching for my mother.
“We’re in the living room, Gretchen.”
My father’s baritone voice calms me. I inch into the living room, bracing for the worst. Standing in the doorway, I come face to face with my parents and a man I don’t know. They give me sympathetic looks. The short, portly, bald man in a gray suit one size too small must be a detective. Maybe Lance was attacked.
I try to speak, but my words are half-formed and breathless. “What, what, why, what, Lance, what happened to Lance? Where is he?”
My mother, dressed in her favorite rainbow tie-dye lounging pants and matching T-shirt, stands near the fireplace, next to the photo of her and my father. She peers at me with her almond-shaped brown eyes. I’ve always longed to have her eyes, straight nose, and full lips, but I took after my father—red hair, big blue eyes, turned-up nose, thin lips. He sits on the sofa arm, wearing vintage bell bottom jeans and a Patriots pullover sweater. The detective sits in the chair next to the sofa. I imagine filming the three of them, capturing the perfect shot. With their varying skin tones, the lighting would be tricky. My mother has olive skin, and my father, like me, is pale. The detective has a rich mahogany hue.
“Sweetie, come and sit down.” My father stands and reaches for my hand. I let him guide me to the sofa. We both sit. I look at him with questioning eyes, waiting for the bad news.
“Dad, what’s happened to Lance?”
My mother approaches us. “Lance is fine, Gretchen.”
I press on my ears, hoping I heard her correctly. “He’s fine?”
“Yes,” my father says.
Confused, I stand and move away from them. “Then why are you here, and who is this?” I point at the detective, and my mother gives me a look as though she’s disappointed I’ve forgotten my manners. As long as I can remember, she’s always admonished me not to point at people.
Again my father says, “Come and sit down.”
My anxiety builds. “I don’t want to sit.”
My mother clasps her hands and knits her brows. “Lance came to the shop. He’s worried about you.”
“What?”
My father chimes in. “Gretchen, he told us about what you’re going through. We understand that you’ve been under a lot of stress. It’s understandable that you’re feeling the way you are. My goodness, you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in two years.”
“I’m fine.” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Gretchen, we’re here to help, and Dr. Graves is here to help you too,” my mother says.
I wonder where I’ve heard that name before. Then everything becomes clear. Dr. Graves is the doctor Lance found. They’re here to do an intervention. Dammit, Lance.
The detective-who’s-a-doctor stands and waddles toward me. “Gretchen, I’m Dr. Graves. I understand you’re hallucinating. That’s my field of expertise.”
Hot, white anger overtakes me, and I throw up my hands, startling the three of them. “I’m not sure what Lance told you, but I’m not going through anything, and I’m not hallucinating. And I don’t need a doctor.”
My mother reaches for me, and I step away from her. She and my father exchange frustrated looks. My father motions to her to let him take charge. “Janice, Dr. Graves, can you give me a minute with Gretchen?”
“Sure,” they say.
My mother peers over her shoulder as she exits, the fear in her eyes belying the smile on her face. My father and I watch them leave, and then we turn toward each other. Sometimes we don’t have to speak; we can almost read each other’s minds. This isn’t one of those times. He pats the sofa cushion, and I sit next to him. He squeezes my hand with his hairy one. My gaze rests on his gold wedding band. For a moment I wonder if he’s the perfect man I’ve always imagined him to be, or if he’s ever cheated on my mother, like Patty’s father cheated on her mother. I glance at his thinning hair and the age spots peppering the sides of his face and force myself to believe he’s as perfect as any man could possibly be.
“Gretchen, remember your friend Tommy?”
Leave it to my father to make me laugh. “I remember.”
“He was your best friend when you were six years old. He meant everything to you.”
“I remember, Dad.”
“He was as real to you as I am, sitting here next to you.”
“Yes, he was.” I shift my weight, wanting him to get to the point.
“But there came a time when you let Tommy go. You got a real best friend because Tommy wasn’t real. He was imaginary.”
“Dad, the man in my dream is not Tommy. He’s not imaginary. He’s as real as you are. For two years I’ve been dreaming about this good-looking black guy who ends up in a casket. And then yesterday I saw his picture as clear as day, and then I had a supernatural experience where I went back in time, and I felt every inch of this man. I became him. It’s real, Dad. It’s not imaginary. I believe I am the reincarnation of this man. His name is Robert.”
I get up from the sofa, pleading my case like my life—and Robert’s—depends on my father believing me. “Dad, Robert was killed in 1991 on his birthday, January 1. I was born January 1, 1991. The dream started on my twenty-fourth birthday. Robert died on his twenty-fourth birthday. When I wrote the screenplay, I created a character that was a football player who lived and died in Shady Grove. Robert lived and died in Shady Grove. I met his sister today. She confirmed all of that. Dad, nothing is going to make me believe any differently. Not you, Mom, Dr. Graves, or Lance. I’m going to find out who killed Robert—who killed me—in 1991.”
My father, red in the face, stands and hugs me. “Okay, baby. Okay. If you believe it, then I believe it with you—for you.”
My mother rushes into the living room, Dr. Graves close behind. “Gerald, what are you saying? You can’t possibly believe her. Why are you going along with this? Gretchen needs help.”
“Mom, why can’t you believe me? Dad believes me, and Patty believes me.”
“Your father would believe you if you told him you could fly, and Patty is unstable, Gretchen. Baby, you need help.”
“Mom, don’t.”
Tears stream down her face, and her fists clench. “You’re going to lose Lance. You should
have seen how upset he was when he came to the shop today. Gretchen, he’s worried about you. He loves you like no man ever has. He’s putting you through graduate school. You don’t have to work. You’re free to pursue your dream. Who does that in 2017? He’s been by your side through these nightmares. For two years, Gretchen.”
“Mom, I know Lance loves me, and I’m crazy about him, but—”
“You’re going to lose everything you’ve worked for, Gretchen. Is that what you want?”
“No, Mom. I want to do what’s right. What I believe. A young man’s life was cut short, and he never got justice. I believe I can fix that.”
“Gerald, do something,” she says, trembling.
“Mrs. Holloway, you’re going to make yourself sick,” Dr. Graves says.
“I’m already sick. I’ll be in the car.”
We watch her storm out of the living room. We jump when the front door slams. “I’ll check on her.” The doctor leaves in a hurry.
“Dad, thank you for believing me.”
“I can’t say I believe you, Gretchen. But I do believe in you. And because of that, I’ll support you. Be careful and keep me abreast of things. We need to return to the shop. We left Jorge and Raymond holding down the fort.”
“I will, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you too. Let me try to calm your mother down. She’ll come around.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I hope you and Lance work things out.”
“I do too.”
******
I’ve been in my home office for two hours, reading articles about Robert’s murder and studying Regina’s social media pages, taking notes. I place my fingers on my tired eyes and rub them. He was a big deal. Based on an archived exposé a Dancing Hills Bulletin reporter wrote about Robert, there was a huge celebration for him on New Year’s Eve. One other event I encountered has piqued my curiosity. On Friday, December 28, a jewelry store was robbed, and the owner was shot and killed. The video surveillance was grainy. However, it’s apparent that the three male perpetrators were black. No one was apprehended, but someone left a message on the tip line that the thieves lived in Shady Grove. I doubt Robert was involved, but he may have known who was. Maybe that information got him killed.
The Truth About Gretchen Page 10