by Angela Henry
“Okay, Mrs. Strong. If you give me dish towel, I’ll help so we can get done faster.”
Her face lit up like a Christmas tree.
FIFTEEN
It was almost two o’clock by the time I left Pearl’s house. I had to run to catch the bus. Woody’s girlfriend happened to be on the bus as well, sitting all the way in the back. I was worried she’d start up with me again but she looked at me like she’d never seen me before and stared moodily out the grimy window. I was seriously tempted to go home but instead found myself switching buses downtown and heading to Settler Avenue, where Melvina Carmichael lived. Even with what Pearl had told me about her nephew’s death, I still couldn’t wrap my head around all of the evidence pointing to Joseph Porter having been murdered, especially by his own father.
The one thing that made no sense to me was that Rollins had provided for Joseph financially. Pearl’s point about him not wanting Carla to pursue him legally was a valid one. But to me it showed that he must have cared for his son on some level. Maybe I was just being sentimental, but why would he then turn around and kill him? The insurance money could be a motive only if Rollins really needed money back when Joseph died. Rollins had told me that his wife’s wealthy family had been very generous to him while she was alive. Jeanne Rollins had died a few years after Joseph. So I assumed Rollins would still have had access to his late wife’s money at the time of Joseph’s death. I hoped my trip to see Melvina Carmichael would shed some light.
Settler Avenue wasn’t just the polar opposite of Farley Street geographically, but economically, as well. It wasn’t nearly as ritzy a neighborhood as you would find in Pine Ridge or Briar Creek but it was an affluent older neighborhood, the average age of its residents being upwards of fifty. I got off the bus in front of a supermarket a block away. Remembering my last encounter with the uptight Melvina, and anticipating her inevitable attitude, I went inside and bought a bouquet of pink and white carnations. I also swung by the book aisle and bought a copy of I Will Follow Him. I’ve always heard that authors have big egos. I figured showing up with an apology and a request for an autograph would be a surefire way of getting through the door.
Melvina’s house was the smallest on the block. It was a shotgun-style house painted dark brick red with black trim on the windows and front door. A butt-ugly chain-link fence encircled the yard, separating it from the neighbors on either side and most likely making her a very unpopular person. A white minivan was parked in the driveway in front of a small detached garage painted the same red as the house. I started to let myself inside the gate when I saw why the romance writer had a fence around her yard.
An elderly, overweight Rottweiler quickly waddled over to the fence and started snarling and barking. Though the dog had gray in its muzzle and was wheezing asthmatically between barks, it still had plenty of teeth and looked like it wouldn’t hesitate to use them on me if I stepped inside the yard. Luckily the frantic barking brought Melvina out onto her porch to see what was going on. She squinted at me from her porch then pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and put them on. To say she wasn’t pleased to see me was a supreme understatement. She visibly tensed up.
“May I help you?” she asked, charging across the yard towards me. She was wearing a jumper the color of lime Kool-Aid that gave her complexion an unhealthy greenish tint, kinda like the Wicked Witch of the West, and a black turtleneck sweater. And she sure didn’t look like she wanted to help me, either. She looked like she wanted to choke me. Apparently, I still hadn’t been forgiven for having been invited for a chat in Rollins’s office. I stepped back from the fence, and out of choking distance, before replying.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Carmichael. I’m Kendra Clayton. Remember me? I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time. I just wanted to apologize to you for the other night at the church. I got the impression that I offended you with my question about getting published.”
Melvina came closer to the fence, not taking her eyes off my hands, like she was afraid I might pull out an Uzi and fill her full of holes. Her dog had started to wag its tail when she’d come out onto the porch but continued to bark frantically at me.
“Shut up, Pookie!” she yelled, glaring at the dog. Pookie? I was expecting Killer or maybe Fang. Pookie, perhaps sensing the irritation in his owner’s voice, shut up immediately. She patted his head to show she wasn’t mad at him and he rolled over on his back for a belly rub. “He’s harmless. He’s just not used to me getting visitors,” she said, bending down to rub Pookie’s big belly. “Are those for me?” she asked, straightening up and coming over to the gate.
“Yes,” I said, holding them out to her like an offering. “Oh, and I forgot to get you to sign my book.” I was smiling at her in a way that I hoped conveyed my admiration for her creative talent but, judging by the way her eyes were narrowed suspiciously, I suspected my smile was bordering on psychotic, reaffirming my assertion that I’m a lousy ass-kisser.
“You could have just left the book with Reverend Rollins since the two of you are friends. He would have made sure I signed it for you. You didn’t have to track me down at my home and disturb my writing.” She took the flowers from my hand and stared at me.
“That was the last thing I intended to do, Mrs. Carmichael. It’s just that I’m serious about my writing and you told me I needed to pay my dues and learn about the publishing industry. What better way to learn than from a published author? And since you’re the only published author I know,” I said, pausing dramatically, “here I am!”
“Yes, you certainly are,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.
If I had a hard time imagining Morris Rollins in the throes of passion with Bonita Kidd, I had an even harder time imagining him doin’ the do with this sour-faced, humorless woman standing before me. Bedding this woman must have been an act of charity on Rollins’s part. But I knew a way to butter her up and put a smile on her face.
“You know, Reverend Rollins did nothing but sing your praises when I chatted with him after the taping. He told me what a lovely woman you are and how he really admired your determination to become a published author. He’s actually the one who suggested I come speak to you.”
Melvina’s eyes softened and a reluctant smile spread across her face, transforming her and making her almost pretty, but not quite. Her eyes remained hard.
“Well, all right. I can spare a few minutes. But that’s all. I’m on a tight schedule. My next book is due to my editor in a week and I’m not finished.” She opened the gate and stood aside to let me come through. Pookie waddled over to me and sniffed my hand. I scratched him behind the ears and he followed Melvina and me into the house.
“You have a beautiful home, Ms. Carmichael,” I said honestly, after stepping into the airy open foyer. I had figured Melvina Carmichael’s house would be as dowdy and uptight as she seemed to be. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to see an open floor plan that reminded me of pictures I’d seen of New York City lofts.
“A couple of years ago, one of my books was optioned by a production company that was going to turn it into a movie. The movie never got made but they paid me a lot of money and I used it to redecorate the house.”
I followed her through the living room, where her laptop sat on the coffee table, over to the kitchen area and watched as she got a vase from under the sink and filled it with water. She put the flowers inside and sat the vase in the middle of the large, heavy, age-scarred wooden kitchen table.
“Have a seat and I’ll make us some coffee.” While she rummaged in the cabinet for cups, I took my coat off and sat down at the kitchen table. I looked around the room and something on the front of the stainless steel refrigerator caught my eyes. I got up and walked over to get a closer look. It was a picture of a tall teenaged girl in a Springmont High girls’ basketball uniform. She had a basketball in her hands and was posed like she was about to make a basket.
“She took after her daddy. Loved playing basketball. He played for Sprin
gmont High, too,” Melvina said in a flat, neutral tone.
I turned and watched as she poured coffee beans into a grinder. “So, is this your daughter?” I asked, coming back to sit at the table.
“Yes, that’s my Gina. That picture was taken her freshman year. She was the star of the team. If she hadn’t messed up her knee she could have been playing for one of those professional women’s basketball teams. She was that good.”
“I heard that she died. I’m sorry,” I said sincerely.
“Sometimes life can be so cruel,” she said softly. “Do you take cream and sugar in your coffee?”
“Just sugar, I’m allergic to dairy products,” I said, unable to meet her eyes. Just because I was trying to push her buttons to get info out of her didn’t mean I felt good about it.
“It’s not life-threatening, is it?” she asked, looking genuinely concerned.
“Oh, no. I just break out in hives. Nothing serious. But my sister is deathly allergic to shellfish,” I said, hoping to spark some kind of conversation about her daughter’s death.
But Melvina turned her back to me as she fixed our coffee and I couldn’t tell how my comment affected her. She didn’t say a word for a few minutes and I wondered if I’d gone too far. Finally, she placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me along with the sugar bowl and sat down on the other side of the table.
“So, what is it you’d like to know?” she asked. It took me a second to remember that I was supposed to be getting info on the publishing industry.
“First off, why did my question upset you so much? Did I breach some kind of unwritten writer’s etiquette?”
“It just gets so tiresome, you know?” she began after sipping her coffee. “Of all the questions I get asked, that’s the one that everybody wants to know. I get e-mail after e-mail. No one ever asks me how to be a better writer or about certain writing techniques. No, everybody wants to know how to get published, like there’s some secret to it. Then when I try and steer people in the right direction, I find out they didn’t really want my advice. What they really wanted was‚ how do you young people put it?” she said, squinting in concentration. “Oh, I know, a hookup. They just want me to hook them up with my literary agent or editor. And out of all the times I make the effort to answer them honestly, I hardly ever get a simple thank you. People these days want everything handed to them on a silver platter. Well, I’m sorry, but a little hard work never hurt anybody. Anything worth having is worth working for, right?” she asked, pausing for my answer.
“Of course it is. And I completely understand where you’re coming from. But I wasn’t looking for a hookup, not at all. It’s just that writing is one thing, but trying for publication is something I know nothing about. I wouldn’t even know the first thing about how to go about it. I imagine most people feel the same way, don’t you think?”
“Some of them, maybe. But, from my experience, most of the people who contact me aren’t doing so because they want me to explain how to go about getting published. The road to publication has many different paths. All I can do is share my personal experience. Then there are those who want me to read their manuscripts,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward.
“I actually used to critique manuscripts before I got so busy with my own writing. Let me tell you, people didn’t really want an honest opinion. They expected me to tell them that they were the next Toni Morrison or James Baldwin and when they didn’t hear that then suddenly I didn’t know what I was talking about, or I was just jealous.” She shook her head in disgust.
“I bet your daughter must have been very proud of you,” I said to change the subject. Something told me that Melvina could talk a blue streak about anything connected to her writing and I was hoping taking the back-door approach would make her open up about Gina.
“Not really,” she replied after a thoughtful moment. “Gina was an athlete and always on the go. She could have cared less about sitting still and reading anything. She was happiest when she was out doing stuff. I don’t think she ever read a single one of my books.”
“Didn’t that bother you?”
“No. Not really. I don’t write for anyone but myself. I don’t really need anyone’s approval. I never took it personally. Books just weren’t her thing.”
“Well, I bet your husband’s proud then, huh?”
“Actually, I’ve never been married,” she said, tensing up again and looking like she wanted to toss her coffee in my face.
“I’m sorry. I just seem to be offending you no matter what I ask,” I said with a nervous, high-pitched laugh.
“Oh, don’t worry. Most people make that mistake. Carmichael was my mother’s maiden name. I decided to use it as my pen name.”
“I didn’t realize that,” I replied. An awkward silence cropped up and I wasn’t sure how to break it. But Melvina did.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?” she said, leaning back in the chair expectantly.
“Ask you what?” I said, confused.
“About how a woman who gave birth to a child out of wedlock has the nerve to write Christian romance novels. That’s the next most-asked question I get.”
“Honestly, it never crossed my mind and, if it did, it’s really none of my business,” I concluded. I was amazed I could keep a straight face telling that big ole lie. She must have seen the glitter of anticipation in my eyes because she let out a loud, humorless laugh.
“No, it isn’t yours or anybody else’s business, but that doesn’t keep people from asking me about it anyway.” A self- righteous look had settled on her face, and I realized that I truly did not like this woman. The sooner I could get what I came for and leave, the better.
“And what do you tell them?”
“I tell them the truth, of course. I’m only human. And, just like many others before me, I once suffered a crisis of the spirit. I fell for a man I had no business falling for and I became pregnant with his child. I don’t believe in abortion. So, I had my child and raised her on my own and was blessed with sixteen wonderful years of having her in my life before she was called home to God. I’m not ashamed of the mistakes I’ve made in my life. I’ve tried to learn from them and I hope I’ve set a good example for others in the same situation.”
I expected to see a glimmer of tears in her eyes but they remained tear-free. “I can’t even begin to imagine how hard her death must have been for you,” I said. I meant that sincerely. Mama had had a child that only lived a few minutes after it was born and even fifty years later, talking about the loss of that baby still brought tears to her eyes.
“Don’t you have any children, Ms. Clayton?”
“No, I don’t,” I said with an inward sigh of relief. I didn’t know when or even if I’d ever be ready for that responsibility. Even the thought of owning a goldfish made me feel twitchy.
“Then you’re right. Unless you have a child you can never know the heartbreak of losing one.”
“Was it hard raising her all on your own?” I asked after draining my coffee cup and putting it on the table. Melvina shrugged nonchalantly.
“Even though her father and I never married, he supported Gina financially. Money was never a problem, but she was always asking about him. I never told her who he was. He’s married with a family of his own. He wasn’t interested in being a father to Gina. I didn’t want her getting her heart broken the way I did. But she did get to know him at church, just not as her father,” Melvina said, not quite able to hide the anger and bitterness in her voice. She got up from the table and took our empty coffee mugs over to the sink. I wondered what she meant about Gina having known her father but not as a father.
“How did Gina die? Was she sick?” I figured she wouldn’t mind me asking since she was being so open about her personal business, but I noticed her back stiffen before she turned to answer.
“Gina had a lot of allergies. She’d grown out of most of them by the time she was a teenager but she remained deathly allergic to bee stings. She
had an EpiPen that she was supposed to have with her at all times. But she was a typical irresponsible teenager. I was always on her about making sure she had that EpiPen. We were at our church’s annual picnic and I remember seeing her laughing and talking to her friends. An hour later, I found her unconscious in our car. By the time the squad got her to the hospital it was too late. The thing that haunts me the most is that I found her EpiPen in my purse. I could have sworn I’d made her put it in her pocket before we left for the park,” she said. She was clasping and unclasping her hands in her lap. I wanted to hug her or squeeze her hand, but I knew she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
“Could she have put it in your purse?”
“That’s what Reverend Rollins seemed to think. He saw her playing basketball and thinks she probably put her EpiPen in my purse so she wouldn’t lose it.”
How convenient, I thought. Rollins had been in the perfect position to not only kill Gina but to comfort her grieving mother and wash away any doubts Melvina may have had about what happened to her daughter.
“I only met Reverend Rollins recently. He’s quite a man, isn’t he?” Melvina’s head snapped up and she looked at me oddly.
“Yes, he is an amazing minister and an amazing man. We have quite a lot in common,” she said softly, looking down at her lap.
Indeed you do, I thought. Was it possible Melvina still had feelings for Rollins even though he’d broken her heart and never wanted to be a father to their child? Something seemed odd about that to me in light of the bitterness in her voice just a few minutes ago. I also remembered the look on her face when she’d seen me sitting in his office. Was she still in love with him?
“Does anyone know why Gina was in the car?”
“She must have been changing out of her basketball shoes. I don’t know why else she would have been in the car. I found her slumped in the back seat and a spilled pop can was next to her on the floor. When they did the autopsy there was a dead bee inside her clothes. It must have stung her on the neck. Her throat had swelled shut and she suffocated.”