by Angela Henry
“Excellent, though I have to warn you, this wasn’t used in any of her movies. This was a personal item, though she was photographed with it.” He gestured to a black-and-white photo of Vivianne in a beaded evening gown with the purse looped around her wrist. “I just had the picture of her with the purse until yesterday. I was so pleased to actually add the purse to the display.”
“Wonderful. It’ll be perfect for my collection,” I told his back as I followed him up front. “I’d be interested in seeing more of Vivianne’s handbag collection. Would you happen to be able to give me the name of the person who sold you this one?”
He didn’t answer me and I realized he was waiting for his money. I pulled out my checkbook and blew my grocery budget for a month. I held the check just out of his reach and he looked at me impatiently.
“Your seller? Do you know if he has any more of Vivianne’s handbags?” I said, waving the check in front of his face. His greedy little eyes glittered behind his thick glasses.
“That information is confidential,” he said reaching again for the check, which I still held out of his reach.
“You can’t help me at all? I’m willing to pay top dollar.” The mention of money practically made Cabot salivate.
“How about I tell my seller of your interest and see what else he may have?”
“I’d really like to talk to the seller myself if that’s possible. Of course, you’ll handle any sales that result from this meeting,” I added quickly when I saw the scowl pop up on his face at the mention of meeting with his seller.
“Leave me your name and number and I’ll see what I can do,” he said, reaching out and snatching the check. I gave him my name and number and left with my new purse.
When I got home there was a gold Mercedes Benz parked in front of my duplex. I got out and walked up the front steps. Morris Rollins was sitting on the porch with Mrs. Carson. Just great. He was the last person I wanted to see. The two were laughing like old friends even though I knew Mrs. Carson didn’t have a high opinion of Holy Cross and disapproved of Reverend Rollins’s popularity with the ladies. I was tickled to see that even my seventy-two-year-old landlady wasn’t immune to Rollins’s charm. She was giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Here she is,” said Mrs. Carson when they finally noticed me coming up the steps. Rollins stood up, making a striking figure even casually dressed in his tan pants and white crew-necked shirt. I could smell his Lagerfeld cologne as I approached the porch. I wondered if Winette Barlow liked the way he smelled, then realized it was really none of my business.
“Hello,” I called out, forcing a smile.
“I’ve got some news for you about Lynette,” he said, trotting down the steps to meet me halfway.
“You saw her?” 1 stopped and looked up at him. The sunshine made his brown skin glow.
“No. But she called and I know where she is. I thought we could go and talk some sense into her,” he said, heading to his car and opening the passenger door for me. Why did I suddenly feel like I was stepping into a lion’s den?
“Where is she?” I asked, getting in and sinking back against the leather seat. Rollins got in, started the car and pulled away from the curb before answering.
“She’s at the Heritage Arms. She said she knows you and Greg are worried and wanted me to let you know she’s okay.”
Was he kidding? The Heritage Arms was a roach motel on the edge of town that catered to cheating spouses, truckers, hookers and college students looking for a cheap place to host a party. I was familiar with the Heritage Arms because I’d lost my virginity there the summer before going off to college. I’d also had the misfortune of being attacked by a murderer a year ago in one of the Heritage Arms’s less-than-luxurious rooms. I could think of a million other more desirable places to go and be alone, like a cave, for instance.
“When is she planning on coming home?”
“I didn’t exactly get the impression that she was planning on coming home. She just told me to tell you guys she was okay,” he replied, negotiating a turn. I groaned.
“She’s getting married in four days. What is she thinking?” I’d been sympathetic to my best bud in the beginning, but now I was pissed.
“I don’t think she’s thinking at all. I think she’s running scared. Sometimes that happens when people finally get what they want.”
“Well, I could wring her neck,” I said in exasperation. “She’s got a wonderful man who loves her and wants to marry her and what does she do? She runs away.”
“Most people have a hard time seeing what’s right in front of their faces,” Rollins said softly. I glared at him after I realized it was a not-so-subtle dig at me and his loud, infectious laugh filled the car. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Not me,” I replied innocently. “I know Carl’s a good man and I’m not running from him.”
“Does that mean you and Carl are getting married?” he asked. His tone was casual but I saw his hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly. He had a hell of nerve.
“Not anytime soon. What about you, Reverend? Is there a new lady in your life?” He didn’t answer until he stopped at the next light.
“Would it bother you if there was?” he asked, turning to look at me. I could have sworn I detected a bit of sadness in his eyes. I looked away.
“Why would it bother me?” I questioned, sounding cold even to my own ears. He didn’t respond and we drove in an uncomfortable silence until we were about to pull into the hotel’s parking lot.
As we were pulling into the lot, I noticed a black Nissan Altima pulling out and speeding away. It was Lynette.
“There she is,” I said, pointing to the black car. “Hey. Where’s she going?” I reached across Rollins’s lap and honked his horn. Lynette never looked back. “Follow her,” I ordered Rollins, who put his foot on the gas sending me flying back into the passenger seat.
Lynette was driving like she was in the Indy 500. Rollins’s Mercedes was right on her tail. We were on a two-lane road with cars traveling in the opposite direction, and we couldn’t pull along side of the Nissan. Rollins was honking his horn for her to stop, but she wouldn’t look back. We were close enough for me to see the back of her head and her ponytail. Her car windows were rolled up and I could hear music blaring. She couldn’t hear me. I yelled out the window again.
“Lynette! Pull over! Where are you going!” No luck. Finally there were no cars coming down the opposite side of the road and Rollins pulled alongside Lynette’s car. I was practically hanging out the window waving my arms.
“Lynette! Lynette!” Just then I saw a blue pickup truck heading straight for us. There was no way we could pull into the other lane because of Lynette’s car. I screamed. The driver of the pickup laid on his horn. Rollins grabbed my shirt and pulled me back in the car. He jerked the wheel to the left just in time and ran the Mercedes into a ditch on the side of the road. I groaned and laid my head against the dashboard. Rollins and I were both breathing heavily.
“You okay?” he asked rubbing my back in slow circular motions. I was going to be more than okay if he kept rubbing my back like that. I was going to fall asleep in his lap, not that he’d complain. Then I wondered if he rubbed Winette Barlow’s back, too.
“I’m going to kill her,” I said, sitting up abruptly, causing Rollins to chuckle. Little did he know I wasn’t entirely referring to Lynette.
We drove back to the Heritage Arms and Rollins and I went inside to the motel’s front desk to leave a message for Lynette to call, only to be told she’d checked out. Now I was really going to kill her. I didn’t need this.
“Try not to be too mad at her, Kendra. Marriage is a big commitment. I bet a day or two away from it all is just what she needs to get her head on straight,” Rollins told me on way back to my apartment. I certainly hoped he was right. At any rate, if Lynette wasn’t back the next day, Greg could tell Justine himself.
“Thanks, Reverend Rollins,” I murmured as 1 was about to ju
mp out of his car.
“Let me know what happens,” he said softly, squeezing my hand before I got out. I was relieved to see him go. The less time spent alone with him the better.
Since I was practically broke after buying the purse, and Allegra had eaten what little food I had in my fridge, I headed over to Mama’s hoping to snag some lunch. Instead, I found myself unable to park at her house. There was a big van belonging to Channel Four news blocking the entrance to the driveway. My sister, dressed in a beige pantsuit with her hair pulled pack into a conservative French roll, was standing in the middle of Mama’s big front yard giving an interview to Channel Four news reporter, Tracey Ripkey. I didn’t see my grandmother anywhere and wondered if she knew what was going on. I also didn’t see Noelle Delaney. Did Allegra even bother clearing this with her producer?
“What is it you’d like viewers to know about your involvement in the murder of Vivianne DeArmond, Miss Clayton?” asked Ripkey. Her big blond bouffant hairdo looked like a cloud of yellow cotton candy and must have been taking up too much camera space because a member of the camera crew silently motioned for her to move so they could get a closer shot of Allegra. My sister was looking solemn and righteous as she gazed into the camera and spoke.
“I’d like everyone to know that I am completely innocent. In fact, I’m a victim, too. Whoever killed Vivianne DeArmond is still out there free while I’ve been placed under a cloud of suspicion.”
“Do you feel you’ve been treated unfairly by the Willow police department?” Allegra visibly shuddered. Her face crinkled up as if she’d caught a whiff of something foul.
“I think the Willow police department needs to be looking in every direction and not just at me.” “Can you tell us about finding Vivianne’s body?” asked Ripkey.
“I can’t comment on that due to the ongoing police investigation. But I will say that Vivianne was looking forward to our interview and told me she had an exciting announcement for her many fans.”
An exciting announcement? This was the first I’d heard about any announcement. Was Allegra telling the truth or just trying to get more attention for herself? The only other person who could back up her claim was dead. How convenient.
“Do you have any idea what this announcement was?” asked Ripkey, trying hard to look cool and professional but failing big-time. The way her eyes were shining with excitement told me she knew she’d landed a big story.
“She never said,” Allegra replied, shaking her head sadly. “I wonder if we’ll ever know.” Her bottom lip quivered. What a ham. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Ripkey wrapped up the interview and the camera crew started packing up their equipment. I walked over to Allegra, who was removing her microphone, and caught the tail end of the conversation.
“That was wonderful, Allegra. I’m sure we can run this as an exclusive tonight on the six o’clock news,” said Ripkey excitedly. She thanked my sister profusely, and Allegra held up her hand in mock protest.
“Not a problem, Tracey. I wanted to tell my side of the story. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell it.”
Tracey finally noticed me standing there and looked over at my sister, who continued to smile and ignore me. What was her problem now?
“I’m Kendra Clayton, Allegra’s sister. Nice meeting you,” I said, holding out my hand to the reporter when it became apparent no introduction would be forthcoming from Allegra. Tracey Ripkey’s eyes lit up with a greedy gleam.
“Great! I’d love a quote from you, as well, Kendra. Can you tell me how you feel about what’s going on with your sister?” she asked, fumbling for her microphone. Allegra glared at me and I finally realized she thought I was trying to steal her thunder.
“I’m sorry but I don’t have any comment at this time.” I grabbed Allegra by the elbow before the eager reporter could protest, and ushered her onto the porch. I could feel Tracey Ripkey’s disappointed stare boring into my back. I waited a few minutes while they finished packing up and left before confronting my sister.
“What was that all about? I thought Mama said you couldn’t hold a press conference here?”
“No. What Mama said was that I couldn’t hold a press conference on her front porch, back porch, or anywhere in between. I was in the front yard, and besides,” she said, plopping down into one of the wicker chairs. “It wasn’t a press conference. I came over her to see Mama and she wasn’t home. That reporter and her camera crew showed up and asked me for an interview as I was getting back into my car to leave, and I figured, what the hell. Since Hollywood Vibe doesn’t have my back, why should I keep my mouth shut and take this lying down?”
I glanced over at the driveway and noticed a red Honda Civic instead of her rented black Camry. “Whose car is that? I asked, gesturing toward the driveway.
“I had to rent another car. The police impounded my other rental this morning. I don’t know what they expect to find,” she said softly.
I didn’t like the sound of that. This just wasn’t getting any better. They truly thought my sister had something to do with Vivianne’s murder. I was worried because I’d yet to hear from Donald Cabot. What else could I do to help Allegra? While we sat silently on the porch, Mama arrived home with some groceries. We helped her unload and put them away as she heated up leftovers from last night’s dinner for our lunch.
We were all subdued and silent as we ate. Mama was reading the paper and I caught a glimpse of something about a memorial service for Vivianne as she folded it up. While Mama and Allegra washed up the lunch dishes, I took the paper and went into the bathroom to read. It wasn’t really much of a story, just a notice about a private memorial service for Vivianne DeArmond being held at the Walker and Willis Funeral Home at six that afternoon. The service was by invitation only. Too bad, because I planned to be there, invitation or not.
I was parked in front of the three-story turn-of-the-century mansion that: had been the Walker and Willis Funeral Home for the past fifteen years at four that afternoon dressed in a dark burgundy pantsuit with a black silk blouse. The black beaded purse of Vivianne’s was looped around my wrist. I watched for about a half hour as people came and went. How was I going to pull this off? I needed to get in there and hide before Vivianne’s service started. Then I could mingle with the family and maybe find out something that could help my sister. As I sat watching, a hearse pulled into the driveway that ran alongside the house. Roger Walker, one of the owners of the funeral home, came up out of the basement from an unseen side door. I could hear him fussing at the driver from where I was parked.
“I’ve been waiting for an hour, Sonny. Where the hell have you been?” demanded Roger, looking grumpy. Roger Walker was a tall, thin, chinless and eternally annoyed man in his early forties with big eyes that looked permanently startled. It was a good thing he mainly worked in the basement with the deceased and spent limited time with their families because his people skills were about as lively as the corpses he spent the majority of his time with.
“What’s the big rush? This guy ain’t got no place to be but in the ground,” chuckled the tall and muscular Sonny, who looked too cool for school in his black shades with a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“You’re screwing up my schedule. We’re backed up as it is, and you’re out joyriding. I better not hear about you using the hearse to run that girlfriend of yours around town. Just ‘cause you’re Ticia’s nephew don’t mean you can’t be fired.” Sonny flipped Roger the finger when he turned his back.
Roger was busy helping Sonny unload the body from the back of the hearse, and I was tempted to sneak into the house through the open basement door while their backs were turned. But I knew the embalming took place in the basement and I wasn’t about to try and sneak past any dearly departed souls. Plus, I’m not exactly the Road Runner. I was wearing high-heels and knew I wouldn’t be able to zip across the yard and down the basement steps unseen.
Finally, I got out of the car an
d headed across the street. I walked up the front steps of the funeral home and walked inside. Like most old Victorian mansions, the foyer was small and dark and it took a second for my eyes to adjust. I could hear people talking and followed the sound to the front parlor where Roger’s wife, Leticia, was talking to an elderly couple. Leticia was slightly overweight and very attractive with such a pleasant and charming personality that people were constantly amazed she was married to Roger. I stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before she noticed and gestured for me to have a seat on one of the sofas in the back of the large room. I parked it on a brown leather love seat and waited while Ticia Willis-Walker finished her business with the elderly couple, who were looking mighty uncomfortable, as though they knew it was only a matter of time before they made their last stop at Walker and Willis and didn’t want to be spending any additional time there.
The room we were in was quite nice with comfy leather furniture and plush maroon carpeting. There were vertical blinds in the windows instead of curtains and the taupe walls were covered in Monet reproductions. Cut-glass bowls filled with scented potpourri sat on most of the tables around the room. Ticia must be trying hard to make the house feel like something much more pleasant than a funeral home, especially since she, Roger and their two kids lived on the top two floors. In this room, at least, she’d succeeded.
Finally, the couple left, with a bundle of flyers on various funeral plans clutched in their hands, and Ticia turned her attention to moi. Now, my problem was: What the hell was I going to tell her?
“It’s Kendra, right?” asked Ticia, smiling a little uncertainly and sitting down in the leather chair opposite me. She was dressed in a light-gray skirt with a royal blue blouse. A multi strand of silver beads hung around her neck and shiny silver hoops dangled from her ears. Her hair was short and natural and was beginning to go gray. I wasn’t surprised she was unsure of my name since I’d attended very few funerals in my lifetime and wasn’t at all unhappy that she didn’t know me better.