The Truth About Gretchen

by Alretha Thomas

  Buford, now 65, is a desk officer at Shady Grove

  Police Department. He was demoted twenty-six

  years ago because of mishandling evidence. This

  was around the same time the police department

  was handling Robert’s case. Need I say more?

  My Theory:

  Maybe one of the members of that secret society shot

  Robert, and they covered it up. Maybe someone called the police about the loud music that was playing the night of the party. Miss Winter said it didn’t bother her, but maybe it bothered someone else. That someone called the cops. The police came, exchanged words with Robert, and a cop shot him. I wish I could transport to that moment in time.

  My heart racing, I get up from the computer and walk around my office, pondering Gretchen’s research. Could the Barnes brothers be covering up Robert’s murder? Miss Winter must have seen something. I have to find her.

  Back at my computer I go to www.howmanyofme.com and type in Bertha Winter. There are 233,445 people in the U.S. with the first name Bertha and 37,184 people with the last name Winter. But there are only 27 people in the entire nation named Bertha Winter. That helps narrow it down. I look up Bertha Winter, and several links to obituaries appear. I ignore death dates prior to 1991, the year Robert was killed. No deaths are listed after 1991. I click on www.BeenVerified.com. The first Bertha Winter that comes up is eighty-two. Our neighbor was my mother’s age, so she’d be in her mid- to late sixties. All the Berthas are much older than that and live outside of California. I remember Bertha once telling my mother that you couldn’t pay her to leave California, the land of palm trees and sunshine. I search for Bertha Winter on Facebook. About a dozen profiles appear, but all the women are white. Bertha was black.

  “Where are you, Bertha?” Then I think old school. I call 411.

  Verizon Wireless 411 search. City and state, please.

  “Shady Grove, California.”

  Say the name of the business you want or say residence.

  “Residence.”

  Say just the last name.

  “I don’t have the patience for this. Operator!”

  “City and state.”

  “Do you have a number for a Bertha Winter in Shady Grove, California?”

  “One moment please.”

  I say a silent prayer, hoping she comes back with the number.

  “I don’t show a listing for a Bertha Winter in Shady Grove.”

  My heart sinks, and I start to hang up. But something inside tells me to say, “Do you have a Bertha Winter in Dancing Hills, California?”

  “Hold for the number.”

  What the hell? What is Bertha doing living in Dancing Hills? Mainly rich folk live in Dancing Hills. One of the wealthiest men in the country used to live in Dancing Hills, until he disappeared. I think his name was Keith Pritchard.

  There’s no way this can be the same Bertha. She used to work as a maid. I wait for the number and then write it down. I take a deep breath and dial.

  “Winter residence. How may I help you?”

  “May I speak to Bertha Winter?” Shaking my head, I roll my eyes, knowing this is a waste of time.

  “This is she.”

  “I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.”

  Before I can hang up she says, “I receive wrong number calls all the time. Did you know that there are only twenty-seven Bertha Winters in the entire country, and only two Bertha Winters in this part of Los Angeles County? Me and a woman in Gurber Village. It’s twenty miles east of Shady Grove. I met her once. I was having an estate sale, and she came by. Lovely woman. She bought a dresser I was selling. She was out of work and wanted to know if I needed a housekeeper. I would have loved to hire her, but I already had a woman working for me. She still does.”

  I listen to Bertha go on and on, and a word Taylor ran across in one of those fancy books he reads comes to mind. Loquacious—a person who talks a lot, often about stuff that only they think is interesting. But in this case, what she’s saying has my hair standing on end. “Bertha, was the woman you’re talking about black?”

  “Uh … er … uh … she was African American.”

  “Was she stout?”

  “She was a healthy-looking woman.”

  White Bertha seems to be the poster child for political correctness. “When she asked if you needed a housekeeper, did she happen to give you her phone number?”

  “No, she didn’t. But as I mentioned, she lives in Gurber Village, near a church. She did tell me that much. I’m sorry. By the way, what’s your name?”

  “I’m Regina Wilson. Bertha and I were neighbors years ago.”

  “How nice. I hope you reunite.”

  “I do too. Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “My pleasure. Take care now.”

  She hangs up, and I leap off the floor. I do a search for churches in Gurber Village. I’m familiar with that area. Taylor had a construction project there a few years ago. It’s the size of postage stamp. Two churches appear. The first one is in a business district. The second one’s in a residential area. Bingo. I call 411 again and ask for a Bertha Winter in Gurber Village. There’s no listing. That’s okay. After my audition, I plan to drive to Gurber Village. If I have to knock on every door in the neighborhood, I’m going to find Bertha Winter. I pick up my water bottle from the shelf above my computer, kiss it for good luck, return it to its safe spot, and head out.

  ******

  Sitting in the lobby of the Beverly Hills casting office, I fidget and shift in my seat, waiting my turn. After my search for Bertha, I went over the sides for my audition today. It’s only ten lines. I know it backward and forward. I’m reading for the part of a DMV clerk. I’m supposed to have a lot of attitude. All I have to do for inspiration is think about my current situation. The two actresses sitting opposite me have been yapping since I got here. Apparently, they’ve worked together on several projects. I don’t have a lot of friends in the business. I met Cookie in acting class. We hit if off right away. Before she became my stepdaughter, she was like the little sister I never had.

  A door opens, and a woman wearing a canary yellow top with red stripes emerges. One down and two to go, I think to myself when she leaves. The casting director, a tall woman with a pixie cut, peeks out. “Regina Wilson.”

  “I’m right here,” I say, rising. The two actresses flash fake smiles as I enter the room.

  The casting director shuts the door, and my eyes roam the white walls and tile floor. There are a couple of chairs in the room, as well as a table and a camera on a tripod. I set my purse on the chair, and she points to a blue arrow taped on the floor. I stand on it.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m great,” I lie.

  She repositions the camera. “Please say your name and height.”

  “Bertha … I mean Regina Wilson, and I’m five foot six.” I need to focus. Hell, if I can’t remember my own name, how do I expect to remember the lines?

  She picks up her copy of the sides from a table and says, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I take a moment, pushing thoughts about Bertha out of my head. I look at the casting director and deliver my first line. She responds, and after a couple of minutes, the scene ends. She gives me some direction, and I do a second take.

  “That time it was perfect,” she says with an encouraging smile.

  “Thank you.” I snatch my purse off the chair and leave. It’s a little after 10:00 a.m. I should make it to Gurber Village no later than 11:15.

  ******

  The tree-lined residential street is jam-packed with vehicles. I slow down and look for the church, wondering which house she lives in. I guess I’ll start with the first house on the block—the house of God. Your destination is ahead on the right. I close the navigation and the other windows I have open on my phone and pull into the church parking lot. I park next to the only vehicle in the lot, a blue pickup truck. Maybe the church is a good omen.


  I get out of the car and smooth my hand over my blue blouse. It’s only midmorning, but the sun is bright and in my eyes. Squinting, my eyes scan the sign on the pink building that says Gurber Village Community Baptist Church.

  I approach the entrance and peer through the double-glass doors. A man with a wiry build, dressed in coveralls, is waxing the lobby floor. He’s wearing headphones and moving to the beat of whatever he’s listening to. I knock on the glass, but he obviously can’t hear me, so I stare, hard. Taylor says it’s called gaze detection. Anytime a person stares at you for a long time, you can sense it, and you’ll turn to that person. Sure enough, after almost a minute, the man looks my way. He pulls off his headphones and walks to the door. I step back when he opens it.

  “Are you here for the trustee meeting?”

  “No, I’m not. I’m looking for a lady I used to live next door to. I think she might attend this church.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Bertha Winter.”

  He flashes a wide, open smile and scratches his silver-haired head. “Big Bertha?”

  “Yeah, that sounds like her. She used to live in Shady Grove.”

  “Come on in.” I do so, and he goes to a cabinet in the lobby and removes what looks like a directory from the top drawer. He opens the booklet and points at a black woman with a jolly smile and big cheeks. My eyes burn, and I choke up. “Is that her?” he says.

  “Yes. That’s her. Does she go to this church?”

  “She sure does. She works here too. She’s downstairs in the kitchen. So you guys were neighbors?”

  “Yes. Over twenty years ago. She was a great neighbor.”

  “Well, she’s going to be surprised to see you. I’ll take you down there.”

  I break out in a sweat. What if she won’t talk to me? What if she didn’t see anything? What if she did, but she lies? All the what ifs make me dizzy. I stumble, and the man catches me before I hit the floor. “You better have a seat.” He ushers me to a pew, and I slump down into it. “Put your head between your legs. You might be dehydrated. When was the last time you had some water?”

  “Not since this morning,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “I think I might be having an anxiety attack.”

  “You calm down. What’s your name?”

  “Regina Wilson. Bertha knows me as Regina Parker. What’s your name?”

  “Harry Vaughn. Don’t you worry. Everything is going to be all right. You’re in the house of God.”

  “I’m starting to feel better.”

  “Good. I’ll get Bertha for you, along with some water. You wait right here.”

  He goes downstairs, and I look up at the cross above the sanctuary door, whispering a prayer for a miracle.

  Chapter 29

  Gretchen

  Standing in the kitchen, I stare at the picture of a horn of plenty, on the wall calendar hanging next to the refrigerator. Today’s Tuesday, and Thanksgiving is Thursday. I wish I could move Thanksgiving to January. By then, hopefully, Robert’s killer will be behind bars, and Lance and I will be back together. Then my father won’t have to collude with me to keep my mother from lambasting me about screwing up my relationship with Lance.

  My gaze shifts to the clock on the stove. It’s 11:30 a.m. According to MapQuest, Hudson Park is fifteen minutes away. I take the plate of half-eaten pancakes off the table and dump what I didn’t eat into the garbage disposal. Lance’s pancakes are so much better than mine. Just thinking his name makes me sad. He should be at school now, having an easy-breezy day, with the holiday on the horizon. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. I rinse off the plate and load it into the dishwasher.

  I snag the pouch from the counter and slip it into my purse. I hope my stalker is busy creeping somebody else out today. I slide my purse onto my shoulder, grab my tote, and head out, thinking about Detective Williams. Outside of the station, maybe he’ll be more open.

  ******

  I slow down when I reach a modern building with the words Community Center/Gymnasium/Pool on the front. I look ahead at the tree-filled park that’s teeming with people. A senior couple wearing shorts, riding tandem, waves to twin toddlers sitting in a sandbox. A Hispanic woman pushing a child in a stroller shoos a dog that’s escaped its owner. A trio of preschool-aged boys try to climb a merry-go-round. A couple of young mothers push their daughters on swings. I swallow the lump in my throat. No time for tears. One day this will all be over with, and I’ll be able to live a normal life—take a walk in the park, push my kid in a swing.

  I park in the visitor lot and check the clock on my dashboard. It’s 11:45 a.m. Detective Williams should be on his way. I look in the rearview mirror and brush back my bangs and tighten my ponytail. My gaze dips to the cleavage peeping out of my blue blouse. Why’d I wear this? The detective is going to think I’m coming on to him. I squish down my boobs, then pass my hands over my skinny jeans. The sun beating down on me through my windshield hits my ring, and it projects rainbows. “Is that you, Robert?” As Regina says, maybe that’s a good omen.

  I grab my purse, and its weight reminds me that I’m packing. Through my windshield I watch the innocent children frolicking, and I decide to leave the gun in the car. I’m sure Detective Williams will be armed. One gun in the park is enough. I exit the car and walk toward the playground. In the distance I see the water fountain and bench Detective Williams mentioned. I nod to passersby on my way to the bench. I glance at the time on my phone and sit. It’s five till noon. For some reason I’d thought he’d be early.

  My phone rings, the screen displaying Shady Grove Police Department.

  “Hello?”

  “Gretchen, this is Detective Williams. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to meet you today. I was headed out the door but got called back for a meeting. Please accept my apologies. Officer Barnes wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I have to cancel. I’ll call you afterward. Or better yet, come by, so you can go through some mugshots and work with our sketch artist.”

  My hope fizzles. “Oh, okay. I’ll do that. I’ll come to the station.”

  “Great. Gotta go.”

  He hangs up. Disappointment swells in my gut. Damn. I stand and stumble backward at the sight of a man in the distance, dressed in camouflage. Paralyzed with fear, I stand there while he nears me, his face twisted and eyes full of rage. I reach into my purse for my gun then remember it’s in the car. The man passes a couple walking a dog. The dog, sensing danger, barks at him. I’m finally able to move, but it’s too late. He’s standing right in front of me now. He lifts his shirt, revealing a revolver that dwarfs my .22.

  “Sit down, bitch.”

  I do, and he sits next to me.

  How did he know I would be here? I recall yesterday’s conversation with Detective Williams. He was at the station; someone was in the room with him. That someone asked about me. That someone concocted a fake meeting, so Detective Williams couldn’t meet with me. And that someone sent this goon. That someone is Officer Buford Barnes. My eyes dart around the park, seeking an escape.

  He takes a cigar out of his shirt pocket and lights up. My eyes lock on his right wrist tattoo—AKIA. I shift, and he says, “Don’t you move your ass.”

  “Why are you following me? What do you want?”

  “Little girl, I’ve given you two warnings already, and this is number three. Three strikes, and you’re out.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You need to leave Robert Parker in the grave, where he belongs. Stop fucking asking about him. He’s dead. He’s been dead for as long as you’ve been alive. He was killed by a rival gang. That’s the end of the story. Now you and that jungle bunny friend of yours need to shut it down.”

  “Jungle bunny?”

  “Jungle bunny, coon, Aunt Jemima, sambo. The black bitch. Robert’s sister.”

  Seething, I clench my fist. “You’re the scum of the earth, and when I report you to the police, you’re going to jail.”

  He la
ughs wickedly and extinguishes the cigar into his palm. “You are a dumb bitch.” He closes the gap between us and drapes his arm over my shoulder. I squelch an urge to gag. “You’re stepping on the toes of people in very high places. And it’s my job to get you off those toes, by any means necessary. I have eyes and ears everywhere, including at the Shady Grove Police Department. I don’t want to ever see your ass in there again. Don’t even pass the place. I’m not going to tell you again. You got me?”

  Defiant, I glare at him.

  “Maybe you’ll understand this: Your fiancé is a science teacher at Shady Grove Middle School. Your parents own Holloway & Holloway Printing. Your mother drives an Escalade.”

  The blood drains from my face, and I say, “I understand.”

  “Good, because next time I won’t be slashing tires.” He drags his finger across my face, and I recoil. “And next time, I’m gonna take a trip to Culver City. It’s been a while since I’ve been coon huntin’.” He moves away from me and stands. His beady eyes fall on my chest. “Nice tits. Nice condo too.”

  He turns and walks away. Trembling with fear and rage, I try to see what vehicle he’s driving, but he passes the parking lot and disappears down the street. I collapse onto the bench, dumbfounded, at a loss, feeling like I’m being swallowed by quicksand.

  The dog-walking couple approaches me. I look up into their kind faces and grip the edge of the bench to steady myself. “Was that guy harassing you?” the man says.

  His threats ring in my head, and I blurt, “No. I’m okay. Thanks for asking.” I jump up and run to my car. I retrieve my gun from under the passenger seat, take the firearm out of the pouch, and set it on the console. Then I call Regina. My call goes to voicemail. “Regina, Detective Williams canceled our meeting, and that goon showed up instead. He’s going to come after you next, if we don’t stop the investigation. He was using you as his trump card—you and my family. Please be careful. I have a plan. I’ll tell you about it when you call me.”

  I hang up and call Patty. After a few rings she finally answers.