Kendra Clayton Mystery Box Set

by Angela Henry

  Archer Street was a quiet, tree-lined, lower-middle-class neighborhood with a mixture of well-kept one-and two-story homes that were built back in the forties. Bernie’s house was a small, brick ranch toward the end of the block.

  As we approached the house, I could see Bernie’s blue Lexus parked in front. A red Mustang convertible, that I assumed to be Vanessa’s, was parked in the driveway. I couldn’t see any lights on in front of the house. I figured they must be somewhere in the back, like the bedroom. I pulled up alongside Bernie’s car. I could tell that despite what she’d said, Bernie was very upset to find her car here.

  “I knew he’d be here,” she said in a voice trembling with tears.

  “I wonder how long it’ll be before he notices the car is gone?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure it won’t be for a while. I imagine they’re very busy at the moment,” she said bitterly.

  “You should report your car stolen. That would teach him a lesson,” I said, half joking, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Yes, wouldn’t it be something to see his arrogant behind in jail. He’s not even worth the effort.” She got out of the car, keys in hand. “Thanks, Kendra. I’ll call you this weekend, and maybe we can have dinner or something.”

  “Call me later if you want to talk.”

  A light rain had started to fall, giving the street a glossy look under the streetlights. As I drove off, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Bernie standing by her car and staring at the house. “Bernie, just get in the car and go home,” I whispered aloud. Maybe it would help her deal with Jordan’s betrayal better if she confronted him. All I knew was that I was ready to go home. I was tired and visions of a hot bath and some wine took over my thoughts as I turned the corner.

  My mind should have been less on home and more on the road because I had to brake to avoid hitting a kid on a bicycle who came pedaling out of the alley that ran between Archer Street and River Avenue. I caught a glimpse of a black baseball cap and a fluorescent orange rain poncho. I couldn’t see his face because he was hunched low over the handlebars of the bike. I watched as the kid shot across the street and back into the alley on the other side. Probably in a hurry to get home where he belonged. Two near misses in one night were more than enough for me. It was time I got home.

  I live about five blocks from Archer in a duplex on Dorset. Sometimes it amazes me that I’m still living in this town. When I was growing up, I was so sure that I’d have some exciting life in a major city far away from Willow, population sixty thousand. It doesn’t appear to be in the cards. Ten years out of high school and I’m still here. The only time I lived anywhere other than Willow was when I was away at Ohio State getting my degree in English. After graduation, I moved back home with high hopes and started sending out resumes. However, teaching jobs were few and far between. I started working as a hostess at my uncle Alex’s restaurant. After many months—too many to mention—I finally landed a position teaching English at one of the local high schools. The job was less than rewarding. I spent more time disciplining smart-assed teenagers who thought they knew everything than I did teaching. After a year, I lost my job due to budget cuts. So, it was back to hostessing, which I actually enjoyed more.

  Bernie was a regular at my uncle’s restaurant. I always made a point of speaking to her every time she came in. That’s how I found out that the literacy center where she worked had an opening for an instructor in its GED program. I got the job and have been there ever since. I’ve found that dealing with adults is very rewarding. It’s nice teaching people who want to learn and who come to class, in most cases, because they want to be there and not because they have to.

  That’s not to say we don’t get our share of special cases. For instance, there was a woman who would only do her work with a Magic Marker because she was convinced that using a pencil would give her lead poisoning, or the man who wrote everything down in secret code so no one could copy off him. My time at the literacy center has been an eye-opening experience. Regretfully, the job is not full time. I supplement my income by continuing to hostess at my uncle’s restaurant.

  I pulled in front of the duplex and noticed that Mrs. Carson, the woman I rent from, was sitting on the porch as was her habit every evening. Mrs. Carson is a friend of my grandmother, which has its perks, one of them being a good deal on the rent. Of course, the downside is that my grandmother, thanks to Mrs. Carson, always seems to know my business—whether it be what time I get up in the morning, what came for me in the mail, or who spent the night, which hasn’t happened in a very long time. My grandmother usually knows it all and doesn’t hesitate to comment. Not that she comes right out and says what she knows. She usually let’s it slip during casual conversation. Of course, I could never question her as to how she knows so much about my life. I know it’s just her way of watching over me for my parents, who moved to Florida after my father took early retirement from his job two years ago.

  I was hoping to get up the steps to my apartment with just a simple hello before Mrs. Carson could stop me and tell me all about her latest set of ailments, imaginary or otherwise.

  “Evenin’, Kendra.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Carson. How are you this evening?”

  “Oh, I can’t complain too much, ‘cept my arthritis been actin’ up with the rain and all,” she said, rubbing her knee. “My blood pressure’s up too. You know a stroke’s what took my mother years ago. I’ll probably go the same way.” She was dressed in her usual striped housedress and faded slippers. Her thick gray hair was braided into a crown on top of her head. Even in her seventies, her smooth chocolate skin was unlined.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said as I eased my way up the steps that led to my part of the house. You’d think I’d learn to stop asking. She’s a sweet woman, and sometimes I do sit out on the porch and talk for a while. But not tonight. Between my normal workday, Bernie’s melodrama, and the recognition program, I was worn out.

  “How was your program?”

  “It went just fine.” I eased my way up a few more steps.

  “Gettin’ in kind of late, ain’t you? It’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “I gave a friend a ride home.” I was resenting the fact that I was explaining myself but could see no polite way around it.

  “You young girls need to be careful runnin’ these streets at night. All kinds of crazy fools around nowadays.”

  Running the streets? I was not about to argue with her. I was too tired, and besides, I’d never win. Instead I just smiled and nodded in agreement. “Good night, Mrs. Carson,” I called over my shoulder as I climbed the remaining steps to my front door. I heard her mumbling about not being safe in your own home anymore. My phone started ringing as I stood at the door fumbling for my keys. By the time I got through the door, the ringing had stopped. I was relieved because I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. I kicked off my pumps and headed straight to the kitchen.

  After pouring myself a glass of wine, I sank down onto the couch and propped my feet up on the trunk that served as my coffee table. I looked around my apartment and mentally patted myself on the back for managing to make it look nice with so little money. The Oriental rug that covered the center portion of my living room had been purchased at a tag sale. The worn places on the rug were strategically covered by my cream leather couch, my only extravagance and bought on sale at that. I used a large tan trunk with brass trim that I rescued from the Salvation Army and cleaned up as a coffee table. An overstuffed recliner and a wicker rocking chair, both bought at garage sales, as well as various plants, lamps, and a couple of end tables rounded out my living room furnishings. I liked to think that I have a good eye for a bargain. A lot of people just think I’m cheap.

  The phone started ringing again. I reluctantly answered it.

  “Well don’t sound so excited,” said the familiar voice of my best friend, Lynette Martin-Gaines.

  “It’s hard to feel excited when you’re dead tired. But I guess you woul
dn’t know about that since your butt’s still on vacation,” I teased.

  “I’d hardly call taking care of a houseful of sick people a vacation. Ma, Monty, and India all have colds. Even the dog’s looking pitiful. I can’t wait to get out of this house tomorrow night. Have you decided what you’re going to wear yet?”

  “So, when do you have to rejoin the workforce?” I asked, purposefully ignoring her question.

  “Don’t you dare try and change the subject, Kendra Clayton. You said you’d come, and you’re gonna come if I have to drag you by that little bit of hair on your head!”

  “Calm down. There’s no need for violence.” I ran my hand through my short curly hair. “And can you really blame me for being skeptical? The last two blind dates I went on made me want to join a convent.”

  “Quit exaggerating, Kendra,” said Lynnette with a sigh. I knew she was probably rolling her eyes.

  “I’m not! Remember Antonio? The man laughed like an asthmatic donkey and had on so much foundation and eyeliner he looked like raccoon in drag. And then there was Marcus, the personal trainer.”

  “And what was wrong with him, Miss Picky?”

  “He told me the calorie count of everything I had for dinner. The man actually glared at me when I ordered hot fudge cake for dessert, then tried to sign me up for a gym membership. You know I don’t do sweat, Lynette, and I’m not giving up cake for nobody.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Uh, that was plenty. Plus, he wore his cologne so strong my nose hair ignited!” I didn’t care what she thought. I’d had my fill of craptastic dates and didn’t want to add another one to my already long list.

  “Well, I don’t know who hooked you up with those two fools,” she said, laughing, “but this time will be different. Drew’s cool, Kendra. And if you don’t go out with him, I can think of plenty of other women who would gladly snap him up.”

  Damn! I couldn’t see a way out of this.

  “Okay, I said I’d come, didn’t I? But if this man starts laughing like a donkey, I’m outta there.”

  “Don’t worry. Greg and I will be there. It’ll be fun. What else have you got to do?” Leave it to Lynette to point out the inadequacies of my social life as if I weren’t already aware of them.

  After she gave me a few more details about my much-dreaded upcoming double date, Lynette and I said good night. I felt the relaxing effect of the wine coming over me. That, combined with the soft tap of rain against my window, made me drowsy. Maybe I’ll skip the bath, I thought as I sank back farther into the cushions of my couch.

  I don’t know how long I’d been asleep on the couch when the phone rang again. It was long enough for me to be disoriented and unaware of my surroundings for a few seconds before I reached for the phone.

  “Hello,” I said groggily, not recognizing my own voice.

  “Kendra,” said a breathless female voice. “Oh, thank God you’re there,” the woman said, sobbing.

  “Who is this?” I asked, struggling to come fully awake.

  “He’s dead. Oh, God, he’s dead!”

  I sat bolt upright. I was wide-awake now.

  “Who’s dead? Who is this?” I asked again. Suddenly I was scared. A cold knot of fear formed in the pit of my stomach. Who’s dead? Please God, not Daddy or Alex, I prayed, remembering two years ago when I’d gotten a similar call from my mother when my grandfather died.

  “Jordan,” said the now-familiar voice of Bernie. “He’s dead, Kendra. I don’t know what to do!”

  “Bernie? Where are you?” Was she serious?

  “I’m still at my house on Archer Street. I’m on my cell phone.”

  “Bernie, calm down and tell me what happened.” I heard her heavy breathing begin to slow down a little.

  “I wanted to end things with Jordan once and for all,” she began, sounding as if she could barely get the words out. “I was going to tell him not to bother coming home and that his things would be in the garage for him to pick up tomorrow. I knocked on the door. I could hear someone moving around inside but no one would answer. That just made me even madder. I could just imagine the two of them in there laughing at me. I used my extra set of keys to let myself into the house. It was dark in there, and I couldn’t see a thing. I was fumbling around for the light switch when I heard someone go out the back door. I started walking toward the back when I tripped over something and fell. When I got up and finally got the lights turned on, I saw what I tripped over. It was Jordan!”

  “Are you sure he’s dead? Did you check his pulse?”

  “No! I didn’t want to touch him. His... his head was all smashed and bloody! It was horrible, Kendra! I felt like I was going to be sick. I ran out the back door and got on the phone to you!” I could hear the hysteria creeping back into her voice.

  “Bernie, listen, I’m on my way. You need to call nine-one-one as soon as we hang up!”

  Without thinking, I jumped off the couch, stuffed my feet into an old pair of tennis shoes, and was out the door.

  TWO

  I drove back to Archer Street. My mind was racing. Could Jordan really be dead? Then it dawned on me: Bernie hadn’t said anything about Vanessa. Was she dead as well?

  By now the rain had stopped and the streets were enveloped in fog. I turned onto Archer Street. Was the fog heavier on this street than any of the others I’d driven down? Given the circumstances, I was probably just being paranoid. I mentally kicked myself for watching so many scary movies. I made my way slowly down the street. When I came upon Bernie’s car, I pulled up alongside and looked in. Bernie was sitting behind the wheel with her head in her hands. Her head jerked up when I honked my horn. I parked in front of her and got out.

  “Thank God!” she said as she jumped out of her car and ran up to me. We both stood staring at the house for what seemed like a long time.

  “Did you call nine-one-one?” I asked finally.

  “Yes. They should be here any minute now.”

  “Bernie, did you see Vanessa in the house?”

  She looked for a second like she didn’t know who I was talking about. Then the realization of what I’d just asked hit her.

  “Oh, my God! I forgot all about her! She could be in there too!”

  “That is her car in the driveway, isn’t it?” I asked, pointing to the red Mustang.

  “Yes,” she said, looking confused. “That’s her car. But I don’t know if she’s in there, Kendra. I didn’t see her!”

  “It’s okay. Try and relax. I’m going inside to check and see if she’s in there.”

  “Bernie’s look of horror wasn’t lost on me. I wished I felt as confident as I had just sounded about walking into what could quite possibly be a murder scene.”

  “Vanessa could be in there hurt or unconscious. I have to go check to make sure.” I wondered who I was trying harder to convince, Bernie or myself.”

  “Kendra, this is a job for the police. If she’s in there, a few more minutes aren’t going to make much difference.”

  “If she is in there and she’s hurt, I’m not going to have it on my conscience if she dies when there was something we could have been doing until help arrived,” I said impatiently.

  Bernie gave me a look that told me I was on my own and went back to sit in her car. I walked around to the back of the house. I figured the door must still be open. I noticed how neglected the backyard looked. The grass was overgrown. The high wooden fence that surrounded the backyard and separated it from the alley was in need of painting, and the wood was warped in places. I also noticed that the gate that led out to the alley was open. Bernie said she had heard someone going out the door. The alley would be the quickest way to get away from the house.

  I stood at the back step and looked at the door. It was slightly ajar, and I could see that the kitchen light was on. Maybe Bernie was right. I certainly wasn’t feeling very heroic at the moment. If a crime had been committed, I’m sure the police wouldn’t want me traipsing through the house and messi
ng up evidence. On the other hand, if I were Vanessa, I wouldn’t want to be alone in the dark with only a dead body to keep me company. My mind was made up. I nudged the door open with my elbow, carefully avoiding touching any part of it. As I stepped inside, I was immediately struck by a foul smell. “Good Lord,” I said aloud and put my hand over my nose. I tried hard not to think about the probable source of that odor.

  The kitchen looked much the same as the last and only other time I’d been in the house, which was a few months ago. I’d helped Bernie get the place ready for Vanessa to move in. The walls in the kitchen were painted a bright gaudy yellow. The cabinets were white with the center panel painted in the same yellow. White lace curtains hung in the window over the kitchen sink.

  I could see that Vanessa had added her own personal touches to the kitchen. Plants lined the windowsills of the two windows that faced the backyard. The front of the refrigerator was covered in magnets that look like mini pieces of fruit and held a dozen or so snapshots in place. A few of the pictures were of children of various ages. The rest were of Vanessa with different people. In one picture she was with a group of women dressed in hospital scrubs and white uniforms. Vanessa was blowing out the candles on a birthday cake as everyone looked on. It must have been taken at work. Bernie had told me once that Vanessa was a nurse.

  I walked through the kitchen to the small dining room and stopped dead in my tracks. Lying halfway between the dining room and the living room was Jordan. He was lying on his stomach facing the wall with one arm flung over his head and the other by his side. Bernie hadn’t exaggerated. The back of his head was a mass of blood, bone, hair, and what I assumed to be brain. Dried blood stained the carpet underneath his head, as well as the back of his neck and white shirt. Thankfully, I couldn’t see his face, as it was turned toward the wall, which was also splattered with blood. The smell that had greeted me when I came in was much stronger here. Jordan must have released his bowels at the moment of his death. I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up as I hurried away from the sight in front of me. I backed right into a metal serving cart that was against the wall. The sharp corner of the cart caught me right in the back, sending a jolt of pain through me.