by Angela Henry
I headed into the pantry and spied the foil-wrapped cobbler dish on the counter. My mouth started to water. I reached for the dish and detected movement to my left behind the curtains of the small window that looked out over the back porch. I turned and was frozen to the spot as the movement continued. Someone was on the back porch. I listened and could hear the creak of footsteps. I grabbed either side of the lacy curtains, yanked them open, and looked out. I was face to face with a black ski-masked face, pressed against the window. My heart jumped into my throat blocking the scream that was welling up inside me.
The person in the ski mask turned and I could hear pounding footsteps running. For some unknown reason that still escapes me to this day, I flew across the kitchen toward the back door. My hands were sweaty and my fingers fumbled first with the deadbolt then the latch on the screen door. Once I had it unlocked, I raced out onto the empty porch, tripped over a pot full of tomato plants, smacked my head against the porch’s wooden railing and knocked myself out cold. Damn! And all I’d wanted was some cobbler.
SIX
Mama found me conked out on the back porch. The too tight nightshirt I’d borrowed from Allegra had ridden up exposing my cotton granny panties to the cool night air as I hung half-on, half-off the porch. Mama thought I’d been sleepwalking. I hadn’t walked in my sleep since I was a kid. My parents used to wake up in the morning and find me everyplace but in my bed: once in the backseat of our car, another time in the basement laundry room and one place that I’ve yet to live down—Duke, the dog next door’s dog house. But I hadn’t been sleepwalking. I’d startled an intruder.
“Just let me throw on some clothes and I’ll take you over to the E.R. You need to let them check you out,” Mama said, handing me a bag of ice.
“Forget the E.R. You need to call the police. Someone tried to break in here,” I pleaded. Mama wasn’t convinced.
“What do I have that anybody would want?” She made a sweeping gesture around the room with her hand.
“Maybe someone wanted to find out if there was anything valuable in here?” “So someone tried to break in and you ran after them?”
“Yes!”
“In your nightgown with no shoes on?” she asked looking skeptical. “Yeah,” I replied in a small voice.
“And if you’d caught the person what would you have done, spit on them?” I shrugged. What would I have done? What in the world had I been thinking?
“I know you were up watching TV. What were you watching?”
I glared at her and mumbled the title.
“I didn’t hear you,” Mama said sweetly.
“Friday Foster,” I said loudly.
“Hmm. Would that be that old Pam Grier movie where she gets caught up in some kinda murder conspiracy?” I nodded.
“Well, there you have it. You watched that movie, and with everything that’s going on with your sister, had some crazy dream you were chasing after some imaginary intruder in your sleep. You were sleepwalking and tripped and fell.”
“Mama, I swear I wasn’t sleepwalking. I know what I saw.”
“And I know what I heard,” she said, firmly.
“You heard the intruder, too?” I asked excitedly.
“No. I heard you snoring. You were asleep, Kendra. Now, do you want to go to the E.R. or not?” She gently placed a warm hand on my head making it feel instantly better.
“No,” I replied. Could I have really been asleep?
“Then I suggest you go back to bed. It’s almost four in the morning and I’d like to get a couple of more hours sleep. God only know what the morning will bring.”
How right she was.
Mama, Allegra, and I were eating breakfast when Noelle called with bad news. Until she was cleared of all suspicion in Vivianne’s murder, Allegra had been suspended from Hollywood Vibe. Little sister did not take it well.
“I cannot believe they are doing this to me,” she wailed, as big sloppy tears ran down her face. She pounded her fists on the table, almost spilling my milk.
Mama and I tried to console her but she pushed us away. She wasn’t about to let us ruin her full-blown tantrum.
“I bet that bitch Noelle didn’t even stand up for me. If they want to fire someone it should be her ass!”
“Watch your language, Allie. I know you’re upset but this isn’t helping. And they haven’t fired your butt yet. Try and see it from their point of view,” Mama said.
“This is just so unfair. I didn’t do anything. Why is this happening to me?” Allegra stretched her arms up over her head toward the ceiling and shook her fists. All she had to do was vow never to be hungry again and she could have put Scarlett O’Hara to shame. All this melodrama and it wasn’t even eight-thirty yet.
“What do you mean Noelle’s the one who should be fired?” I asked. Allegra sighed and lowered her arms, settling into a nice subdued funk.
“Noelle’s got a gambling problem, a serious gambling problem. Cards, slots, horses, sports, you name it. If there were two little kids racing on their bikes, she’d bet on it. She’s always broke. Once, she even came to work all bruised and beat up and I heard it was because she owed some guy a lot of money for a gambling debt she couldn’t pay. She’s already been to rehab a couple of times but I don’t think it took.”
“You think she’s still gambling?” Mama asked.
“She gave me a ride home from the studio a couple of weeks ago when my car was in the shop. Her car had old scratch-off lottery tickets all over the floor and backseat. I saw some betting slips sticking out of her visor.”
“As long as she does her job, why should Hollywood Vibe care about how she spends her private time?” I asked before Mama could.
“Because I suspect she’s been using money from her expense account to pay her gambling debts. She’s also been using her company cell phone to place bets. And it’s awfully funny that a lot of people at the studio have had money stolen in the past couple of weeks. Noelle’s probably resorted to stealing to feed her habit.”
Mama and I looked at each and shook our heads.
“I’m not going down without a fight. Hollywood Vibe is not gonna just kick me to the curb,” Allegra said getting up from the table. I didn’t like the sound of that.
“What are you planning on doing?” I asked.
“I’m going to let the public know I’m innocent. My fans need to hear the truth from my lips. I’m going to hold a press conference right here on the front porch.”
“Oh no you’re not,” Mama said, vigorously shaking her head. “You’re going to lay low and keep your mouth shut. Whoever killed Vivianne might think you saw something and come after you.”
In an effort to back Mama up and prove I hadn’t been sleepwalking, I opened my mouth to speak up about my encounter with the ski-masked intruder. But Allegra held up her finger to my mouth like she was shushing a child.
“Why would the killer do that?” Allegra said angrily. “I’m the one they’re suspicious of. If I was the person who killed Vivianne I’d lay low and let the police think I did it. Wouldn’t you?” she asked, turning to me. She did have a point. But I knew better than to say so in front of Mama, who was looking like she wanted to beat someone.
“As long as you are staying under this roof, you will do as I say. And I say there will be no press conferences held on my front porch, back porch or any point in between. Do you hear what I’m saying, girl?”
“Fine. I’ll go stay with Kendra then,” Allegra said, sounding very much like the spoiled child she still was. She turned to walk out of the kitchen.
Mama angrily reached out toward Allegra as she passed, as though she was about to snatch a handful of honey-blond hair out of her head, but a loud knock on the back door made us all jump. It was Carl. You’d have thought it was Santa finally bringing her long-awaited Oompa Loompa, the way my sister’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. She sashayed over to give Carl a hug. Now, I wanted to snatch her bald, too.
Even though I was on spr
ing break that week from my job at the Clark Literacy Center, I still had to work at my other job as a hostess at Estelle’s, my uncle Alex’s restaurant. Estelle’s, with its exposed brick walls, black-and- white checked tile floor and antique jukebox in the far corner, was named after Mama and had been a popular hangout with the students, faculty and staff of nearby Kingford College since it had opened several years ago.
It was early afternoon and business was slow. Kingford College was also on spring break. You could tell this by the way the locals were out in force, happy to have their town back even for a brief time. There were only a few people in the restaurant and I spent most of my shift folding napkins and silverware together, and staring out the restaurant’s large front picture window, watching people who had to have fewer problems than me walk past.
“What’s your problem?” asked Joy Owens, one of the other hostesses who’d just arrived to relieve me.
Joy is all of four foot eleven and usually wears her burgundy-tinted hair pulled back into a knot at the back of her head with bangs that cover her eyes and make her look about sixteen. Not a shy, innocent, debutante sixteen, either. More like a worldly, hard-assed sixteen. Despite her teenage looks, Joy is actually a twenty-two-year-old art major at Kingford College.
“No problem, Joy. How about you? You having a nice day?” I asked with exaggerated politeness.
“I saw your sister on the news the other day. Hope they don’t put her fine ass in jail. Do the words prison bitch mean anything to you?” she asked with a sneer.
“Do the words kiss my ass mean anything to you?” I responded, smiling sweetly. I wasn’t about to let her annoy me. Joy is easily the most unpleasant person I’ve ever known. To say she doesn’t live up to her name would be like saying King Kong was just big-boned.
“Now, see, I was about to tell you something about your girl Lynette. But since you got such a shitty attitude, you can forget it.” I watched as she started to stalk back to the locker room.
“What about Lynette?” I called out before she could get too far. She turned and gave me a Grinch-like smile that made me wonder what in the world she was up to.
“I saw her over in Springfield this morning looking crazy as hell,” Joy said, laughing spitefully.
“Where in Springfield? When was this?” I asked suspiciously.
“Downtown by the marketplace. She was sitting on one of those benches where people catch the city bus. I saw her this morning when 1 was coming from my girlfriend’s crib.”
“When did Cory move to Springfield?”
“Cory?” she said with an angry snort. “I cut her ass loose three months ago. You know that crazy bitch almost killed me.”
Joy’s ex-girlfriend, Cory, had accidentally, or so she claimed, backed over Joy with her car almost a year ago after a heated argument. Joy still walks with a slight limp as a result. I guess I wasn’t surprised they’d broken up. But then again, I wasn’t surprised anyone would hit Joy with their car, either. What did amaze me was that Joy, with her perpetually frowned-up face and less-than-sparkling personality, was able to get a girlfriend in the first place.
“Did you say anything to Lynette?”
“Why would I say anything to her ass? She ain’t my friend,” she replied, like I’d just asked her something completely unreasonable. “Look, you made me late clocking in,” she said in disgust, gesturing to the clock on the wall behind me. I ignored her as a group of people walked into the restaurant in search of a late lunch. After seating them, I grabbed my purse and was off to Springfield in search of my best friend.
Springfield was a small city located about a fifteen-minute drive from Willow. My father, Ken Clayton, is originally from Springfield but moved to Willow after marrying my mother Deirdra. Yes, my name is a combination of theirs. They moved to Florida five years ago after my father took early retirement from his job as mail carrier.
Once in Springfield, I headed down South Limestone Street toward downtown. I drove past South High School with its impressive white domed top, hung a left onto Spring Street, and turned right onto South Fountain Avenue. I decided to park my car at the marketplace, a massive three-story brick building built in the 1890s that used to be a farmer’s market and housed city hall’s offices.
The old marketplace building certainly looked much better than Springfield’s current city hall building with its outdated 1970s architecture that reminded me of a giant parking garage. Much like Willow, Springfield had once had a thriving downtown that had become a shadow of its former self after some major businesses pulled up stakes and left town or went under altogether. The big, hulking, abandoned buildings littering Springfield’s downtown reminded me of the fossilized remains of huge prehistoric beasts. You could still see how grand they used to be, despite all the broken windows and graffiti making them look all the more sad and derelict.
I made a shortcut through the marketplace, ending up on the side that faced High Street. I spotted the benches that Joy had been talking about near the bus kiosks, and walk over to see if I could spot Lynette, though I was still doubtful Joy had actually seen her. What in the world would Lynette be doing in Springfield? I looked around for her or her black Nissan Altima. I saw about a dozen or so people lounging on or standing near the benches waiting for buses. Even though the buses had yet to arrive I thought I still detected a whiff of bus exhaust. Some of the people waiting looked like students, others were dressed in the uniforms of fast food restaurants and were obviously on their way to or from work, most were elderly people with shopping bags full of groceries. None of them was Lynette.
For the next forty minutes I walked all over downtown Springfield hoping to spot my best friend or her car with no luck. It was hot. Sweat was trickling down my back, and my feet were beginning to ache even though I had on my running shoes. I felt like an idiot for listening to Joy. She was probably still laughing. Having realized I’d wasted enough time on my fool’s errand, I headed back to my car, once again cutting through the marketplace to the parking lot. Numerous small shops had taken up residence inside the marketplace. You could find everything from handmade jewelry, antiques, leather goods and scented candles to decadent desserts, deli sandwiches and roasted peanuts.
The smell of freshly baked brownies stopped me on my way out to the parking lot and led me into a bakery called Just Desserts. I bought a well-deserved—in my opinion—chocolate brownie with walnuts and thick chocolate icing and sat at a small table by the window to eat it. From where I was sitting, I could see people entering and exiting the building. I’d put the last morsel of the moist brownie in my mouth and was licking chocolate icing from my fingers when I noticed a white VW van pull up to the curb outside. A familiar-looking man got out and entered the marketplace with two equally familiar people greeting him as he walked in.
The man was middle-aged, balding and wore polyester pants in a revolting shade of avocado green. His yellow-and-red short-sleeved Bermuda shirt looked straight out of the fifties, as did his thick black horn-rimmed glasses. I recognized him as the man who’d tried to hug Vivianne DeArmond during the autograph session at the awards ceremony. Seeing the man wasn’t much of a big deal but it was the red-headed woman and the young man with her that surprised me. They were none other than Noelle Delaney and her hot-lipped lover boy—or should I say lover dude, Kurt Preston. Kurt was holding a medium-sized box that Mr. Bermuda Shirt was looking at in much the same way as I’d eyed my brownie. He started to take the box from Kurt, but Noelle stepped in front of him and held out her hand. Bermuda Shirt looked momentarily confused then pulled out a wad of money from his pocket, peeled off several bills and handed them to Noelle. Noelle counted the bills quickly before stuffing them in her purse. She gestured for Kurt to hand over the box. Bermuda Shirt looked like he’d been given a key to the city.
Well, well, well. How interesting. I could feel my curiosity racing into overdrive. I moved over to a table nearer to the door and strained to hear their conversation. But there was no conver
sation. I was disappointed to see Noelle and Kurt leave. Bermuda Shirt walked over and pressed the button for the elevator. I watched as he got on and disappeared behind the closing doors. I couldn’t stop wondering what was in the box Kurt had given him. I knew no one lived in the marketplace and figured the man had a shop someplace on one of the upper floors. I walked up to the bakery’s counter and bought a half dozen more brownies to take home, hoping also to get a little info.
“Would you happen to know a bald man who wears horn-rimmed glasses and drives a white VW van? I think he has a shop here in the marketplace,” I asked the slender woman who handed me my box of brownies. I wondered if it was willpower or a speedy metabolism that kept her so slim around so many goodies.
The woman thought for a minute before a look of recognition spread across her face. “You must be talking about Mr. Cabot. I don’t know his first name. But I think the name of his shop is Cabot’s Cave. It’s up on the second floor.”
“Thanks,” I told her and headed out to the elevator, wondering what a shop called Cabot’s Cave sold.
There wasn’t much on the second floor of the marketplace. There was a large banquet room, an antique shop and a used bookstore. Most of the second floor was made up of empty spaces that were being renovated. Paint cans, tarps and rolls of carpet lined the halls. I could smell turpentine and wood shavings. Cabot’s Cave was the last shop at the end of a short hallway. The door of the shop was light blond wood with a large frosted-glass panel in the center. The words Cabot’s Cave were painted on the glass in big gold block letters trimmed in black. Underneath that, was the name of the proprietor, Donald Cabot, and a phone number. Hanging from a hook on the wall by the door was a plastic sign that read: Closed. The store’s hours were handwritten on small piece of white cardboard taped at eye level above the doorknob: Open Tuesday thru Saturday 10am—6pm Closed Sundays & Mondays. I knocked anyway. For a second I thought I heard movement behind the closed door but no one answered. Apparently, I was going to have to wait to find out what Cabot’s Cave sold and what was in the box. I pulled a pen from my purse and wrote the shop’s phone number on top of the brownie box. I headed back to my car, stuck the Isley Brother’s Greatest Hits in my CD player, and headed back to Willow to the sounds of “Footsteps in the Dark.”