Kendra Clayton Mystery Box Set

by Angela Henry

  “Hello?” All I heard was silence on the other end. “Hello? Is anybody there?” I heard a muffled voice speak a single word, “Mailbox.”

  “Mailbox? What are you talking about? Is Lynette okay? What do you want from me?” But I was talking to the dial tone. The person had hung up. I couldn’t even tell if it had been a man or a woman.

  I was standing in the middle of the kitchen still holding the phone when 1 realized I was being instructed to look in my mailbox. I dropped the phone and raced out my front door. I had a brass mailbox just outside my door instead of a mail slot. I ripped open the lid so hard I almost torn it off its hinges. Inside was a manila envelope. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Was someone watching me? I looked around, but all I saw were some neighborhood kids on bikes and a teenage boy cutting grass across the street. I took the envelope back inside and opened it. It was a typed letter that read:

  Be at cabin four at John Bryan Park at 8:00 p.m. Bring Vivianne’s computer disk. Don’t be late. Come alone or your friend is dead. No tricks. I’ll be watching you.

  Vivianne’s computer disk? I thought Vivianne didn’t know how to use a computer. I didn’t have Vivianne’s computer disk, and why would anyone think I did? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Vivianne’s manuscript must be on the disk Lynette’s kidnapper was so hot to get his—or hers —hands on. And there must be something incriminating in her book that someone was willing to kill to keep from being revealed. The disk must have been what the person who broke into my apartment had really been looking for. But why did they think I had the damned disk? I needed to find out what Vivianne’s book was about and the only other place I knew to look was Diamond Publishing Company in Columbus. I had a little less than eight hours to save Lynette.

  Diamond Publishing Company was a small independent publisher that had been in business for about twenty years. They were mainly known for their non-fiction titles about Ohio historical figures, and for coffee-table books of photography. They’d recently started publishing fiction. At least that’s what I was told when I called the reference desk of the Willow Public Library to get some info on the company that was publishing Vivianne’s book.

  I navigated my way through the streets of downtown Columbus in search of the eighteen-hundred block of East Broad Street. I always love coming to Columbus, as long as I don’t have to drive. The only significant time I’d spent in the capital city of Ohio was when I’d attended college at Ohio State and even then I rarely ventured away from campus. And even though Carl lives in Columbus, he does all the driving whenever I hang out with him in his hometown. I drove past the Columbus Museum of Art, regretting the fact that I couldn’t go inside, and kept an eye on the addresses of the buildings.

  It wasn’t long before I came upon a nondescript one-story brick building with smoked-glass windows that kind of reminded me of a doctor’s office. I pulled into the parking lot and noticed a group of people wearing green pants and white short-sleeved shirts with the words Haley’s Industrial Cleaners emblazoned in black letters on the back. There was even a large black van with the same lettering on the side parked in front of the entrance to the building. I got out and was immediately hit with the acrid stench of smoke. As I got closer to the building, I could see that the windows were not smoked glass at all. The windows were actually black with soot. I felt my stomach knot up.

  “What happened?” I asked one of the cleaners who was unloading supplies from the back of the van.

  “They had a fire last night.” The man replied simply and turned back to what he was doing. No shit, Sherlock, I wanted to say.

  “Anybody get hurt?”

  “Not that I know of. It happened after everyone had gone home for the day.”

  “How much damage is there?” I persisted.

  “Most of the fire damage was to the reception area, but the rest of the offices got heavy smoke damage.”

  “Do you know what caused it?”

  The man finally turned to give me a curious look then shook his head slowly. “You’d have to ask one of the people who work here. But I could have sworn I heard one of them saying something about a lit cigarette in a trash can.”

  A cigarette. The same person who’d killed Vivianne and caused the alarm to go off at Cartwright Auditorium had apparently been here, too. The killer must have decided to light the place on fire for good measure to destroy any other trace of Vivianne’s manuscript. Now I knew I was doing the right thing by not going to the police. I was dealing with a murderer and an arsonist who wouldn’t hesitate to kill Lynette. Lucky me.

  I heard the click of high heels on concrete and turned to see a stylishly dressed woman hurrying across the parking lot. She was dressed in a soft green-and-white pinstriped pantsuit over a white silk shell. Her dark brown hair was shoulder-length and her eyes were red-rimmed. She rushed right past us into the building without speaking and I followed her inside.

  I found her standing in what must have been the reception area. The smoke smell was ten times stronger here. The walls were blackened, the plastic frames of the pictures hanging on them were melted together with the prints they held, and the carpet was badly scorched. The receptionist’s metal desk had large burn marks on the top and sides. The glass that covered the top of the desk was cracked and black. What ever had been sitting on top of the desk that wasn’t burned beyond recognition was covered in a thick layer of greasy soot.

  The woman in the pinstriped suit was staring at the damage as if she was in a trance. She didn’t notice me standing behind her and let out a loud gasp when she turned around and saw me.

  “Who are you?” she asked, pulling herself together.

  “I’m Kendra Clayton,” I said, holding out my hand. She didn’t take it and I pressed on. “I’m really sorry about the fire. Is it possible for me to talk to someone in charge?”

  “I’m Margo Diamond,” she replied impatiently. “I’m the senior editor, as well as the owner of Diamond Publishing, such as it is,” she said drily, looking around at the ruins of her business. “So, I guess that makes me in charge. How can I help you?”

  She must have been the Margo I’d spoken to when I’d called about Vivianne’s manuscript the other day. I had a feeling I was going to be wasting my time with her.

  “I’m here about Vivianne DeArmond’s book. I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me anything at all about it.”

  Margo Diamond threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “I’m so sick of being asked about that damned book!”

  “How many people have been asking?”

  “I haven’t exactly been keeping a running tally but someone has either been calling or coming by on a daily basis since the woman died asking about that book. I just don’t get it.” She absentmindedly leaned back against the desk, cursed as she realized she’d got soot on her pantsuit, and unsuccessfully wiped at it with her hand.

  “Well, she was a famous actress who grew up about a half hour from here. I imagine a lot of her fans will be interested in her memoirs,” I said casually. I hoped Margo Diamond was too upset about her suit to realize I was fishing.

  “That’s just it,” she said, looking around for something to wipe her hands on. I handed her a tissue from my purse. “The book wasn’t a memoir. It was a novel.”

  “What was it about?” Memoir or not, something was in that book that someone had been killed over.

  “It was about a small-town girl who runs away from home to try and make it big on Broadway and all the heartache she encounters along the way.”

  “What kind of heartache?”

  “She becomes a prostitute addicted to drugs, has a kid out of wedlock that dies as a result of her neglect, marries a talent agent who makes her a star but he’s got a big secret of his own.”

  Hmm. So far it sure sounded sort of semi-autobiographical, but my ears really perked up at that last part. “What kind of a secret?” The eagerness of my expression must have startled her because she took
a small step backwards.

  “He’s Passing,” she said.

  “Passing?”

  “You know. He’s a very fair-skinned black man passing for white.”

  I had to practically catch my jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. Cliff Preston was passing? That would certainly explain the title The Onyx Man. Harriet had told me that Cliff wasn’t the person everyone thought he was. Was this what she meant?

  “Do you still have a copy of the manuscript?” I asked eagerly.

  “It was sent out to he copyedited. There was another copy on my office computer but as you can see—” she said, making a sweeping gesture around the room “—my computer is out of commission.”

  “Who else did you tell about Ms. DeArmond’s book?”

  “Until today, I haven’t discussed that book with anyone and I’m beginning to regret that I’ve done so with you. Who did you say you were again?” I ignored the question.

  “Did a young woman with red spiky hair named Noelle Delaney ever come here or call asking about the book?” She opened her mouth to say something that probably wasn’t going to be very nice when we were interrupted.

  “Margo,” said a timid voice from the doorway that led back to the offices of Diamond Publishing. We both turned to see a slightly overweight young woman with glasses, limp blond hair and a mild case of acne dotting her chubby cheeks. Wearing an ankle-length khaki skirt, denim blouse and flat sandals, she wasn’t exactly dressed for success.

  “What is it Alison? I’m in the middle of something,” replied Margo Diamond as though it was taking everything in her not to scream at the poor girl.

  “They told us not to touch anything. What do you want me to do?” She was staring at Margo like someone afraid of getting punched.

  “Just go home. I’ll call you later and let you know what’s going on.” Alison hesitated, then hurried past us, giving me a curious look on her way out the door.

  “I’ve done about all the talking I plan to do regarding Vivianne DeArmond’s book. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to salvage.” Margo Diamond headed off in the direction that Alison had emerged from and I left.

  The cleaners were still in the lot taking a break, though I didn’t know what from since it appeared that they hadn’t even started working yet. I was unlocking my car when there was a light tap on my shoulder. It was Alison.

  “Can I help you?” I asked the girl, who upon closer inspection looked to be about nineteen.

  “Do you know Noelle?”

  “Delaney?”

  “Yeah, do you know her?” She kept glancing over her shoulder at the building as if she was afraid Margo would come out.

  “I know Noelle, why?” Alison was clenching and unclenching her hands together nervously.

  “I gave her something the other day and she promised she’d bring it back but she never did. I really need to get it back or I’ll get fired.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “What did you give her?” Allison looked over her shoulder again before answering.

  “That actress’s manuscript. See, I was supposed to send it to our copy editor but Noelle came in that day to try and see Margo about the book. But Margo was in New York. She started telling me about how she was this big TV producer on Hollywood Vibe and she could get me a job on the show as a correspondent if I could just help her out. I gave her the manuscript and she swore she’d bring it back. But she never did.”

  That answered my question about how Noelle had gotten hold of Vivianne’s manuscript. But where was Noelle now? I thought back to the dried blood on the carpet of her hotel room and the mental images that popped into my head were grim.

  “Do you know how I can get in touch with her? Our computers are toast and she now has the only copy of that manuscript and I really, really need it back.”

  I told Alison to write down her number and promised her I’d try and track down Noelle for her, though in truth I knew that the manuscript had probably been destroyed by now.

  “Do you know if the job at Hollywood Vibe is still open?” she asked hopefully. I looked at her lank hair, round face and drab clothing and wondered how Noelle had had the heart to lie to the poor girl.

  “I’ll have to check with Noelle.” It was all the lie I could manage while staring into her eager face. I drove past the cleaning crew who were finishing up their breaks and watched as one man put out a cigarette with his foot. One of his coworkers teased him.

  “Man, you need to give up that filthy little habit of yours. I bet your lungs are as black as these windows we’re about to clean.” The smoking man grinned and flipped his coworker the finger.

  A filthy habit. Something clicked in my memory. Hadn’t I overheard Stephanie scolding Cliff about criticizing Kurt’s addictions when he had a filthy habit of his own? Did she mean smoking? If so, then Cliff could easily have been the one to set off the alarm at Cartwright Auditorium just as he could have set Diamond Publishing on fire and left those cigarette butts outside Lynette’s teepee. Was he the person I’d seen on Mama’s back porch and who had chased me with the hammer at Cabot’s Cave?

  I barely remembered the drive home. All I could think about was Cliff Preston. If he was actually a black man passing for white, then what lengths would he go to keep his secret? He must have started passing in order to have the kind of career in Hollywood that wasn’t available to a black man at the time. I sure couldn’t imagine his high-profile white clients putting their careers in the hands of a black man back in the fifties and sixties. Cliff’s talent agency used to be very prestigious and was now not doing so well. What would happen to his agency if his lie was revealed? At Vivianne’s funeral he’d mentioned how he had to fight tooth and nail for every part he got Vivianne. How successful would he have been as a black man in getting her those parts?

  Cliff had also told me that Hollywood was the land of illusion where nothing and no one were what they seemed. Boy, had he been right. No one wonder he didn’t want any more children and had gotten a vasectomy behind Stephanie’s back. No one would question him having a child that looked black with Vivianne because she was black. But the truth might have come out if he’d had a child who looked black with his white second wife, Stephanie. I’d reached the Welcome to Willow sign when I remember the manager at Cartwright Auditorium mentioning seeing an older black man going into Vivianne’s dressing room. I now knew it couldn’t have been Blackie Randall. But was it Cliff? Only one way to find out.

  It was going on two o’clock when I walked into the auditorium. This time the door to Joyce Clark’s office was open. She looked up as I walked in.

  “We haven’t found that bracelet of yours,” she said by way of greeting. I noticed an empty pizza box folded up and stuffed in the trash can by her desk.

  “I figured you wouldn’t find it. I hope whoever has it is enjoying it.”

  “If it was that expensive your boyfriend might have had it insured. Then you can get yourself another one.”

  “I’ll ask him when I get up enough nerve to tell him I lost it.” We both laughed.

  “I was just wondering,” I said, taking a seat in the chair in front of her desk without being invited. “Do you remember telling me about an older black man you saw going into Vivianne DeArmond’s dressing room the morning she was killed?”

  Joyce gave me a strange look and shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I know this is going to sound weird but was he really a black man? Could he have been white?” Joyce shook her head vigorously.

  “Nope, that man was black. But I could tell that brother was passing. He couldn’t look me in the eye, probably ‘cause he knew I could tell what he really was. I got a sister that’s light enough to pass and that’s just what she does. Ran away from home when she as a teenager and married a white man. Has to sneak home to Willow to visit her own family so her husband won’t find out her secret. I can’t see how she lives with herself.” She shook her head in disgust. I thanked her and left.


  When I got home, 1 poured myself a glass of wine and tried to figure out what to do. If Cliff was the one who had Lynette and had killed Vivianne to keep his secret from getting out in her book, then why in the hell did he think I had Vivianne’s computer disk? Maybe it was because I had been the one to tell him about Vivianne’s book the last time I’d seen him. According to Harriet, Vivianne didn’t own a computer let alone know how to use one. So who typed her manuscript? I grabbed my phone book, from the top of my fridge and flipped through the Yellow Pages in search of listings for typing services, which referred me to secretarial services, which only showed a listing for office temp agencies. Frustrated, I threw the phone book across the room, knocking my spice rack from the wall. Then I saw the newspaper wadded up in my trash can.

  I’d immediately pitched the paper that morning after seeing the hideous image of me caught in midscream at the police station last night splashed across the front page, complete with the caption,“Sister of Murder Suspect Rages At The Press.” I wouldn’t be exaggerating one bit to say my mouth was opened so wide you could see the fillings in my back teeth. I looked like a lunatic.

  I grabbed the paper, which was stained from coffee grounds and a banana peel, and quickly located the classifieds where people advertised services for hire. I found five listings for people who did word-processing. I immediately started dialing. I struck out with the first three but got lucky with the Tippy Tap Typing Service—I kid you not—owned and operated by Betty McKee. I called and inquired about Vivianne’s manuscript, pretending to be Harriet Randall and informing Ms. McKee that she’d failed to include the computer disk with the completed order. Betty did not sound pleased.

  “What do you mean you didn’t receive the computer disk? I put it in the box along with the typed manuscript, Ms. Randall. I shredded all of Ms. DeArmond’s notes just like you asked and handed you that box myself. You checked it before you paid me, remember?”