Kendra Clayton Mystery Box Set

by Angela Henry

  Bernie’s kitchen was the only room in the house that I felt comfortable in. The floors and countertops were done in hunter-green ceramic tile. The cabinets were rich dark cherry wood. There was a center island cooktop, and overhead was a rack hung with copper pots. Wicker baskets lined the tops of the cabinets. A brass-and-enamel baker’s rack held large glass jars of pasta in different shapes and colors, beans, spices, and Bernie’s collection of cookbooks.

  There was a woman sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Good morning,” I said quietly, trying not to startle her.

  “Kendra?” She stood and smiled. As usual, Diane Gibson, Bernie’s sister-in-law, was dressed to a tee. She was wearing a cream-colored linen skirt, worn tight and short, and a navy silk sleeveless blouse. Her long hair was tied away from her face with a navy-and-cream polka-dot scarf. Her caramel-colored complexion looked as flawless and as radiant as expensive make-up could get it. A pearl necklace and pearl-drop earrings graced her neck and ears. Her shoes were navy Italian woven-leather pumps.

  Diane looked every inch the widow of a successful businessman. She’d been married to Bernie’s brother Ben for almost twenty years when he died suddenly of a heart attack last year. Even though I knew she was in her forties, Diane didn’t look a day over thirty. Needless to say, I always feel like a potato next to Diane, even when I’m not dressed in wrinkled clothes from the night before and old tennis shoes. But I’d be damned if I was going to let her know how I felt. I strutted into the kitchen like I was dressed in a designer gown.

  “Bernice said you stayed with her last night,” she said coolly, pulling out a chair for me to sit in. “I just made some coffee. Do you want some? You know, I really wish she had called me. She could have stayed with me if she didn’t want to be alone. I mean, what is family for?” I opened my mouth to comment when she started talking again.

  “I just couldn’t believe it when she called this morning and told me what happened. Lord, what is this world coming to?” She leaned forward and stared at me expectantly as if I were about to spout some monumental tidbit of wisdom.

  Finally given the chance to speak, all I said was, “Yes, I will have a cup of coffee.”

  Clearly disappointed, Diane got up and walked to the cabinet and took out an earthenware mug. She was pouring me some coffee when Bernie walked into the kitchen. She was dressed in a blue caftan and was carrying the newspaper. She tossed it on the kitchen table.

  “I looked through the entire paper and not one word about what happened to Jordan!”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said, picking up the paper. “It was so late by the time the police arrived, the paper had probably already gone to print.”

  “You should be glad it hasn’t hit the paper yet,” Diane said, handing Bernie and me steaming mugs of coffee. I proceeded to heap spoonfuls of sugar and creamer into mine. Diane watched me with a mild look of distaste on her face and went on. “Before you know it, everyone and their mama will be over here telling you how sorry they are for your loss and bringing more food than you can eat in a year. Nothing but phonies, the whole bunch of them. They just want to get a look at the inside of your house,” she said bitterly.

  Bernie and I exchanged glances but said nothing. It was common knowledge that Diane wasn’t well loved in Willow. She liked to think that it was because people were jealous of her and of how much she had. In reality it was because she’s self-centered, arrogant, and a snob. She had a way of subtly insulting people with a smile on her face, making them think that she couldn’t possibly have meant it the way it came out, when of course she had.

  Thinking of all this now, I realized I wasn’t in the mood for Diane and that I’d better leave before she made one of her smart-ass remarks and I had to slap her. She was already eyeing my clothes with a look of half-concealed amusement.

  “Bernie, are you going to be okay?” I asked, getting up from the table. “I need to go home and change before we go to the police station, and I have to make arrangements for someone to cover for me at the restaurant.”

  “Oh, and how is your uncle’s little restaurant doing? I see he’s still in business. Good for him. You know, I’m going to have to go in there one day. I’m so used to eating at the country club that I never go anywhere else,” Diane said with an innocent smile. I ignored her.

  “Thanks for staying with me last night, Kendra,” Bernie said quickly when she saw the look on my face. She came over and gave me a big hug. “I’ll walk you to your car,” she said, putting a hand on my back and gently guiding me out of the room and out of slapping distance of Diane.

  “Don’t pay her any mind,” she said as we walked out of the front door. “I think the only way Diane can feel good about herself is to put other people down, and it’s only gotten worse since Ben died.”

  “Never mind about her,” I said. “I’m worried about you. Are you going to be all right? I can always come back and stay with you as long as you need me to.”

  Bernie gave me a sad smile and hugged me again. “Thanks for offering, but I’ll be all right. I lived here by myself after Mother died. I can do it again. Listen, Kendra, I need for you to do me a small favor.” Her look of discomfort let me know that this favor might not be so small.

  “I was thinking about what you said last night, and you’re right. I’m going to tell the police that I suspected that Jordan was involved with Vanessa but...” She looked away from me. I knew there was a catch. “I don’t want the police to know that I knew for sure that they were involved and that I’ve known for two weeks.”

  “But why?” I asked. A feeling of uneasiness was coming over me.

  “Please don’t ask me to explain right now. I’ll tell you about it, I promise, but not now.” Her eyes were pleading with me but I couldn’t be sympathetic. She was asking me to withhold evidence and that could land both of us in jail.

  “You mean you want me to lie to the police, and you’re not gonna tell me why! Bernie, you’re putting me in a hell of a spot. What reason did you give for going to the house in the first place?” I demanded.

  “I told them that Jordan told me he was going over there sometime yesterday to check on a stopped-up sink, and when he didn’t show up at the recognition program, I had you drive me over to see if he was there because he had my car. Please back me up,” she pleaded.

  Thinking back on what I’d told Detective Mercer, I realized I’d already lied when asked about Jordan’s reason for being at the house. But that didn’t mean I wanted to dig myself in deeper.

  “All right, Bernie,” I finally said, hoping like hell that I wasn’t going to regret it. “But if you don’t tell me the reason for this, and if it’s not a good one, I’m going back to Mercer and tell him the truth.” I left after making arrangements to meet her at the police station later that morning.

  After going home and changing into jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals, I headed over to Estelle’s, my uncle’s restaurant. Estelle’s was named after my grandmother, Estelle Mays, and has been in business for the past five years. I’ve yet to get up the nerve to ask Alex if he named his restaurant after Mama as a tribute to her or because she cosigned for his business loan. I know for sure that it wasn’t because she had taught him how to cook. My grandfather, when he was alive, had been very strict about male and female roles. Men worked and provided for their families and were the heads of the household. Women had babies and stayed home to take care of the house. To him it was that simple. Alex isn’t a trained chef, just an extremely good cook who, when asked how he got to be that way, always insists that anybody who can read a cookbook and follow instructions can cook.

  Estelle’s is located in what used to be known as the business district—a five-block area of downtown that until twelve years ago had been a rundown mess of abandoned buildings. Many of Willow’s major companies have long since gone out of business or have relocated. My mother used to tell me stories of how when she was a little girl, downtown Willow had really been something and that no
one would be seen in anything but their best clothes if they were going to be downtown for any reason. A concept I can hardly imagine now.

  Kingford College, whose campus is right next to the old business district, bought several of the old buildings and renovated them, using some of them as rental properties for faculty and students.

  In recent years, downtown Willow has been able to recapture a little bit of its old glory. Estelle’s sits right across the street from the old city hall building, which was bought years ago by the college and now houses its admissions, financial aid, and personnel offices.

  In its former life, Estelle’s had been a dress shop on the first floor and a dance studio on the second. Alex had bought the entire building after he was laid off from his factory job after twenty years. The main part of the restaurant was on the first floor. Alex had a small stage built on the second floor, had kept the mirror-lined walls, put in a bar, and had live music on the weekends.

  I glanced through the large picture window in front and saw that Gwen Robins, my uncle’s girlfriend of the past eight years, was sweeping the floor in preparation for the restaurant’s eleven o’clock opening. When she saw me, she all but knocked over a table in her rush to greet me.

  “Is it true what I heard about Bernie Gibson’s old man?” she asked breathlessly as she clutched my arm.

  “Well hello to you too,” I said, pulling my arm out of her grasp. At five-ten and almost two hundred pounds, Gwen can be a little intimidating.

  “How did you find out?” I asked, answering her question with a question.

  “Come on, Kendra, you’ve lived in this town long enough to know how news travels, especially bad news. My friend Myra lives on Archer right across the street from Bernie’s place. She called me first thing this morning. She saw you there. Is it true that his head was cut off?”

  This was yet another aspect of the Willow grapevine. The information was usually ass backwards and upside down when it circulated. I told Gwen what happened, only leaving out minor details such as my pitiful attempt at heroism, my sore back a nagging reminder.

  “Damn,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, you know what they say, if you play you pay.”

  “So you think he was killed because of Vanessa Brumfield?”

  “I think he was killed because he was a dog, plain and simple,” she said.

  “Now, I know you don’t think Bernie did it?” It’s a thought that hadn’t crossed my mind until now. In light of Bernie’s recent request, I didn’t like where my thoughts were taking me.

  “I don’t put nothin’ past nobody anymore, and who said anything about Bernie? What about that white girl? What’s her name, Vanessa? He was found in the house where she was staying. My money’s on her.”

  “She could be dead, too, for all we know,” I reminded her.

  “Myra said that girl’s husband has been over there a couple of times and that they were arguing up a storm one night. Myra had to go over there and tell them to knock it off or she was calling the police!”

  “When was this?”

  “A couple of weeks ago. Why?”

  “Just asking,” I said. I couldn’t help but wonder if Vanessa’s husband had known about her and Jordan. Was it possible that he could have found Jordan in the house when he’d gone to see Vanessa and killed him in a jealous rage? But that didn’t account for Vanessa’s whereabouts. It didn’t seem feasible that he would have killed them both and then left only one body in the house. Provided Vanessa was dead, that is. It did ease my mind that there could be other people who wanted Jordan dead besides Bernie. If only she hadn’t asked me to go along with that lie.

  “Where’s Alex?” I asked, pushing the whole mess out of my mind for the time being.

  “He’s at the market. He should be back any time now.” I watched as Gwen checked her make-up in the chrome napkin holder on one of the nearby tables. She wouldn’t be caught dead without her makeup. I doubted even Alex had ever seen her without it.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked, turning to me and shaking her hair. Gwen considered hair to be the ultimate accessory. She owned a closetful of wigs and wore them to suit her mood. Today she was sporting a blue-black chin-length bob. I could always tell when she was in a bad mood because she wore what we at the restaurant secretly refer to as her diva wig, which was an auburn, shoulder-length pageboy.

  “Girl, you know you look good, and you know you don’t need me to tell you that.”

  She smiled broadly. Regulars at Estelle’s are always teasing Alex and asking him when he’s going to marry Gwen. He just laughs and says that there is no way he could afford to keep her in hair and make-up. In actuality, I think that fun-loving Gwen values her freedom too much to marry Alex.

  “I need someone to cover for me while I’m at the police station this morning.”

  “Sorry, honey. I’d cover for you but I got an appointment to get these raggedy nails done. I’m only here until Alex gets back.” She looked at the offending nails with a frown.

  “Evilene is supposed to come get her check this morning. She’s scheduled to work this afternoon. Maybe you could get her to trade with you. But don’t hold your breath.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. The person in question was Joy Owens, the other hostess besides Gwen and me. Joy is an art student at Kingford College. I’d always heard that artists were temperamental, but Joy takes it to another level. She’s moody almost to the point of being psychotic. Gwen swears the girl is possessed. In fact, the only time I’ve ever known Gwen to wear her diva wig for a week straight was when Joy first started at the restaurant and Gwen had to train her.

  Joy’s employment has been a major bone of contention between Gwen and Alex. I once asked Alex why he’d hired Joy, and all he would say was, “She’s had a hard life. I’m just trying to help her out.” He refused to say any more, and I didn’t ask again.

  I sat at one of the tables and waited for Joy. I watched as Gwen finished sweeping and wrote out the specials of the day on the white easel by the front door. My mouth watered as I read that Cuban black bean was the soup of the day and that a choice of fried catfish or chicken with hush puppies, slaw, and fries was the specialty.

  There were few people out on the street that morning. Most of the students at the college left this week to go home for the summer. Summer session didn’t start for a few more weeks. Permanent residents of Willow start coming out of the woodwork about this time of the year, because the college kids are gone and they feel as if they have their town back, even if it’s only for a brief time. This was always a slow period for the restaurant. Estelle’s, with its black-and-white-checked tile floor, jukebox, and exposed brick walls that house artwork by locals and students at Kingford, has become a very popular place.

  I supposed that this was how Alex had met Joy. One of her paintings is hanging in the restaurant. As much as I hated to admit it, she’s extremely talented. But the theme of her work is very dark and not exactly my cup of tea. My taste in art runs toward more upbeat themes like flowers and landscapes.

  Joy’s painting is entitled The Bird of Prey and depicts a huge black bird against the night sky with its head thrown back to reveal the blood red inside of its mouth. The wingspan takes up the entire picture from one end to the other, and clutched in its sharp talons, dangling limply, is a dead dove. It’s not exactly a painting that would stimulate the appetite of the diners, which is why it hangs at the top of the stairway that leads up to the bar.

  I wondered what sob story Joy had fed on Alex to get him to hire her. It must have been a doozy if he is still willing to keep her on when she is barely civil to the customers and can’t get along with any of the other employees.

  The bell above the door tinkled, bringing me out of my thoughts and announcing the arrival of Evilene herself. Barely five feet tall, Joy was dressed in denim overalls, a blue-and-red striped T-shirt, and high-top tennis shoes. Burgundy-tinted bangs peeked out from beneath the brim of her baseball cap. She l
ooked more like an escapee from a Little Rascals movie than a twenty-one year-old art student. I half expected a white dog with a black eye to come trotting in behind her. She was also wearing something I’d rarely seen on her, a smile. I noticed for the first time how pretty she was. The smile softened the lines that had already etched themselves into the smooth brown skin around her mouth and gave it a hard look.

  “Well, well, well, it must be a man!” boomed Gwen in her loud voice, having also witnessed the minor miracle.

  “What are you talking about?” Joy asked warily. Her eyes darted back and forth between us as her smile slipped a notch.

  “I mean a man, honey. You do know what one is, don’t you? That big smile must mean that either a good one has just come into your life or a bad one has just left. Or maybe you just got lucky last night. Now which is it?” Gwen asked teasingly.

  Joy, the smile now completely gone from her face, gave Gwen and me a look of pure hatred. “If either of you had any business of your own to worry about, maybe you wouldn’t have to wonder about mine!” Having said that, she stalked back to the locker room.

  “I don’t know what the hell her mama was thinking when she named that child Joy,” Gwen said solemnly. We both looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “I hope you know you probably just teased her out of doing me a big favor,” I said, wiping tears of laughter out of my eyes.

  I walked back to the locker room and decided to take my chances anyway. The locker room was nothing more than the old changing room left over from the days when the restaurant was a dress shop. Joy was standing by her locker looking at her paycheck, her usual frown back on her face. When she saw me, her lips curved into a sly smile.

  “I heard your girl Bernie killed her man.”

  I was thrown for a minute but hoped I didn’t let it show. The grapevine was working overtime on this one.

  “Well you heard wrong. Bernie didn’t kill anyone.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” she said in an almost singsong little girl’s voice.