by Angela Henry
“Sorry, Ms. McKee. I must have misplaced it,” I said and quickly hung up.
Harriet had picked up the typed manuscript yet she claimed not to have known about the book until after Vivianne’s death and didn’t know what the book was about. Yeah, right. It was high time I found out just what else Harriet Randall knew. I grabbed my purse and headed back to Troyer Road.
FOURTEEN
“Harriet, you got some ‘splainin’ to do,” I said, attempting Ricky Ricardo but sounding more like Pee Wee Herman. Harriet frowned at me from behind the screen door of Vivianne’s farmhouse.
“What do you want now?” She didn’t bother to hide the look of annoyance on her face, but hey, the feeling was very much mutual.
It was two forty-five. Eight o’clock wasn’t far off and I didn’t have time to waste. I pulled open the screen door and pushed past her into the house. The house, what I could see of it from in the foyer, was sparsely furnished but neat, and the furniture I could see had seen better days but must have been very expensive back in the day.
“How dare you barge in here. This is private property.” Harriet was wearing a cotton house dress decorated with large sunflowers. The hairpiece on the back of her head was crooked, like she’d stuck it on in a hurry when she’d heard the knock on the door. I wondered if she’d have bothered if she’d have known it was me.
“You lied to me, Harriet. You lied about not knowing Vivianne had written a book until after she died, and you’re lying about not knowing what the book is about, aren’t you?”
“Okay, I lied. So what! Now get out of my house!” She held the door open for me.
“You knew that book was about Cliff Preston passing for white. You had to know he would kill to keep his secret. Yet you said nothing to the police. You let them arrest my sister! How could you stand by and let my sister take the blame?”
Harriet’s shoulders slumped. She sighed heavily and sagged against the wall. “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t say anything,” she said. Tears rolled down her cheeks. It was 2:53 p.m. I didn’t have time for tears or sympathy.
“Oh, this oughta be interesting. I can’t wait to hear how you can justify letting an innocent woman go to jail.”
“He knows about Blackie. Cliff knows.”
“How?” I asked.
“Blackie had been back here for about a year when Cliff showed up unexpectedly. We never get visitors, being out here in the country with no neighbors for miles around. We hardly ever locked the door. Vivianne, Blackie and I were having supper one night and in walked Cliff, big as you please. Cliff recognized Blackie right away. He threatened to call the police.”
“So why didn’t he?”
“Because Vivianne told him she knew about him passing. She’d known for years, but he didn’t know she knew.”
“And how did she find out?”
“When she and Cliff were married she found out he was sending money to a woman in Indiana. Vivianne thought he had a mistress. She hired a private investigator and found out that Cliff was sending money to a black woman who turned out to be his mother. Cliff Preston isn’t even his real name. He’s living under a stolen identity. But Vivianne was so afraid of him she never confronted him about it.”
“If the two of you were so afraid of Cliff turning Blackie in, then why did she write that book?” Harriet wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Revenge,” she said simply. She walked into the living room and I followed her. The furniture was rust-colored silk brocade, faded from the sunlight that streamed in through a large picture window. We sat down and she continued.
“Everyone thinks that Vivianne was a bad mother. That she lost custody of Kurt because she was unfit. But it’s all lies. Vivianne loved that boy, but when she left Cliff he vowed to get even with her and he did. He ruined her relationship with her only child.”
“How? Stephanie said that Vivianne neglected Kurt and—” She cut me off angrily.
“The only things Stephanie knows about Vivianne are what Cliff told her and they’re all lies. All lies! Vivianne left Cliff because he was abusive. Her face was her claim to fame so he only hit her where it wouldn’t show. Why do you think Stephanie wears such heavy makeup? I bet he’s using her as a punching bag, too.”
“How was Cliff able to make Vivianne look like a bad mother?”
“Once, after they’d split and she’d made it clear she wasn’t coming back, Cliff had Kurt for the weekend. Vivianne was on location filming a movie. Cliff showed up on the set and just left Kurt in Vivianne’s trailer without bothering to tell her. He was only two or three. He was there for hours alone. Vivianne suffered from occasional bouts of insomnia and took sleeping pills. Kurt got into her pills and almost died. Everyone blamed Vivianne, but she had no idea he was there. Another time, Cliff beat Kurt black and blue because he wet the bed, then he told everybody Vivianne’s new boyfriend had done it and she’d stood by and let him. When she finally took Cliff to court to get sole custody, he paid people to lie about her on the witness stand. Most of them were extras on her movie sets whom Cliff promised to make stars. Vivianne lost custody of Kurt.”
“If all of this is true then why did Kurt hate Vivianne so much if Cliff is the one who mistreated him?”
“Kurt didn’t hate Vivianne because of anything she did to him. He hated her for not saving him from Cliff. Why do you think he got so mixed up in drugs? It was all Cliff’s fault. He was abusing him.”
“I’m surprised Vivianne didn’t threaten to tell his secret during the custody case to keep him from taking her child.”
“She was too terrified that Cliff would make sure she’d never see Kurt if she confronted him about his real identity. He only let her see Kurt for a couple of weeks every summer. She thought she might not even get that if she told what she knew. Not that it mattered.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s hard to be a mother to a child you only see once a year. She tried and tried to maintain a close relationship with him. She wrote him letters, sent him presents, tried to call. But Cliff was always in the way messing things up. Telling him his mother didn’t care. Throwing away her cards and letters when they arrived. Then Cliff married Stephanie and Kurt started calling her Mom. That broke her heart. By the time Kurt was a teenager their relationship was beyond repair.”
“Stephanie seems to think Cliff was still in love with Viviannne. Was he?” Harriet made a disgusted noise.
“That’s the biggest joke of all.”
“How so?”
“In his own warped way Cliff loved Vivianne very much. He still tried to find work for her until she decided to retire. I think on some level he felt guilty about what he’d done to her. Cliff’s the type of man who’d rather be respected and feared than loved. And Vivianne feared him all right.”
“Well, something must have changed if she had the courage to write that book,” I said watching her closely.
“Something did change. But all Vivianne would tell me is that she had something to keep Cliff off her back. I swear she never told me what it was.”
I hoped I wasn’t being a fool, since Harriet had already lied to me once, but something in her expression and the way she was looking me in the eye made me think she was telling the truth.
“I really need to get my hands on the computer disk with a copy of the book. I called the typing service Vivianne used and I know the disk was in the box with the typed manuscript you picked up. Cliff has my friend and he’s threatening to kill her if I don’t bring him the disk tonight.” I checked my watch. It was three-thirty.
“Then we should call the police.” She jumped up and headed for a phone perched on a nearby end table.
“Touch that phone and I’ll call the police myself and tell them where to find Blackie Randall.” Harriet froze and stared at me fearfully. “I was told not to involve the police or my friend will be killed. Look, all I need is the disk. Do you have any idea where it could be now?” Harriet thought for a moment.
&
nbsp; “Follow me.” She headed up a flight of stairs just off the foyer and I was hot on her heels. I didn’t even stop to admire the photos of Vivianne that lined the walls up the stairway. She stopped at a door at the top of the landing and pulled a key ring from the pocket of her house dress. Before she unlocked the door, she turned to me.
“You know, I really had no idea Vivianne had set up that interview with your sister. She was an impulsive woman. I never knew what she was up to half the time.”
I nodded absently and followed her into a room that looked like a cotton-candy machine had exploded all over it. Pink as far as the eye could see. Pink walls, pale-pink velvet curtains hanging in the two large windows framing a round bed with pink satin bedding and covered in big fluffy pillows made of pink fur. The carpet was plush and hot pink. The only things in the room that weren’t pink were the white vanity table and chair that were trimmed in pink, and the two white nightstands on either side of the bed. An ornate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, It wasn’t pink, either, but it might as well have been as the profusion of pink reflected in the crystals gave it a pink glow. It looked like a teenager’s room.
“Wow,” I said taking it all in.
“I loved her dearly, but Vivianne’s taste was always just a little bit on the vulgar side,” Harriet said. “I remember mailing the manuscript to the publishing company weeks ago. If the disk is still here, Vivianne must have hid it somewhere.”
She opened the double doors of a walk-in closet almost the size of my kitchen. I came over and stood beside her. The closet was filled to the gills with clothing. One whole wall was rack after rack of shoes. Purses, belts and scarves hung in plastic garment bags. The top shelves held boxes with names of various old-school designers such as Oleg Cassini, Bob Mackey and Halston. Harriet looked at the boxes and frowned, then got on her hands and knees and hunted around on the floor of the closet.
“What are you looking for?”
“There was a box of junk in here that Vivianne had been bugging me for months to take up to the attic. I don’t see it. Huh. Maybe she took it up herself.”
“What was in it?”
“Like I said, junk. Old stuff she didn’t wear anymore. Shoes, purses, some hats.”
Junk. Kurt had recently sold a box of Vivianne’s stuff to Donald Cabot. He told me he only took old stuff she wouldn’t notice was gone. Hadn’t Donald Cabot told me that the purse of Vivianne’s that I’d bought had just come in, which must have meant it was in the box he’d bought from Kurt. The purse! I gasped out loud and Harriet looked at me like I was crazy. But I didn’t care. I knew where the disk was. I thanked Harriet, whose mouth was hanging open in dumbfounded confusion, and raced back to my apartment.
Mrs. Carson was sitting on her porch and trying to say something to me about Mama looking for me, but I tossed her a breathless hello and breezed past her up the steps and into my apartment.
Once inside I had to calm down and stop to think about where I’d put the little black evening bag of Vivianne’s that I’d bought from Cabot’s Cave. I finally remembered and pulled a large suitcase from under my bed. Since my apartment was so small, I had to find creative ways to use my space. I stored all of my purses in a suitcase under my bed. I popped the lock and rooted through it until I found the purse. Really looking at it for the first time since I’d bought it, I again noticed the purse’s hard bottom that I’d originally thought must be cardboard. I turned the purse inside out and noticed a tear in the lining along one side. Something hard and blue was poking out and I pulled it free. It was a three-and-a-half-inch floppy disk. Thank God.
Vivianne must have hidden the disk in that box of junk not thinking that Kurt would steal it. I’d had the purse with me at Vivianne’s memorial service and Cliff must have recognized it as having been hers. That was the only thing I could think of that made sense as to how he’d have known I had the disk, though it didn’t explain everything. But who cared how Cliff knew? I had the disk and that’s all that mattered. It was four-fifteen. I still had time to kill and was dying to read Vivianne’s book and wanted to make a copy of the disk for the police. Only, I didn’t own a computer. I headed out, and as I passed by my landlady’s porch, she called out to me.
“Kendra, your grandma is boilin’ mad. You better be on your way over there. She done called me three times already askin’ if I’ve seen you.”
“If she calls again, tell her I’m on my way over there now,” I lied. I hopped in my car and took off. Lynette’s life and clearing Allegra’s name were much more important than barbecue at the moment. When all was said and done, Mama would understand. Until then she’d just have to get over it.
Since everyone else I knew who had a computer would ask entirely too many questions, I ended up at the Willow Public Library. The library had recently installed ten new computers for patrons to surf the Internet and do word processing. Much to my disappointment, all ten computers were in use when I arrived. I added my name to the sign-up sheet at the reference desk and waited impatiently for a computer to become available. The computer disk was burning a hole in my pocket and I didn’t know how much longer I could wait. Twenty long minutes later, I was finally able to sit down in front of a computer. Before I could insert the disk in the drive, a large hand reached over and covered the slot.
“My friend wants this computer,” said a belligerent voice next to me. I turned and found myself face to face with an overweight teenaged boy with long hair that hung in his eyes like a sheep dog’s and wearing a tight yellow T-shirt that showed off his love handles, man boobs, and sporting Kiss My Fuzzy Logic! in big green letters.
I looked over my shoulder and saw another boy, who could have been Fuzzy’s twin, shifting from foot to foot impatiently like a toddler doing the pee-pee dance.
“I was here first,” I said and once again tried to insert the disk. Once again Fuzzy covered the slot. “There’s another computer behind you, lady. My friend and I want to sit together.” His voice had taken on a whiny quality that to someone like me, who hates whiners, was equal to nails on a blackboard.
“Look, I was here first and I’m in a hurry. I’m sure it won’t kill you and your friend to be apart this one time. Hey, it’s a beautiful day out. Why don’t you two go outside and get some fresh air and maybe some exercise,” I said eyeing their bulk. At the mere mention of fresh air and even worse—exercise—both boys made gagging noises as though I’d just suggested they eat maggots.
“We don’t have to take this, Wayne,” said the boy behind me in a high-pitched nasal twang.
“Are you gonna let my friend sit here or not?” asked Fuzzy aka Wayne.
“Not,” I said, holding my ground but I didn’t like the sly look that passed between the two boys one little bit.
“You asked for it, lady,” said Fuzzy, reaching over and clicking the mouse on my computer. The Internet browser, which had been minimized and out of sight when I sat down, instantly popped up and was filled with vulgar pornographic images of people in sexual positions that could only be achieved by contortionists. My mouth fell open in shock.
“Porn! Porn! She’s looking at porn!” yelled Fuzzy and his friend, pointing at me and the screen.
I frantically started pushing buttons on the keyboard and clicking the mouse trying to clear the images from the screen to no avail. New windows of filth kept opening up one on top of the other. Everyone turned to stare at me and a librarian rushed over to see what all the fuss was about. My hands were covering the screen but she could still see that what was underneath wasn’t anything G-rated. Her face turned bright red, or at least what I could see of her face underneath her long thick bangs.
“Ma’am, we do not allow this kind perversion in the library. We have impressionable young children here!” She pointed to a large sign hanging from the ceiling between the two rows of computers. It read: Absolutely no Pornography! Anyone caught viewing pornography will be banned from the library for thirty days. No exceptions!
“But
this was on the screen when I got here,” I tried to explain.
“No, it wasn’t. I watched her pull it up,” said Fuzzy Wayne smugly with his fat arms crossed over his boobs. His friend was nodding his head and looking equally smug.
“You little liar!” I said, indignantly abruptly standing up and towering over the still-seated teen. “My son does not lie,” exclaimed the librarian. I looked at her and instantly noticed the resemblance between them. Wayne had his mother’s sheep-dog hair and cup size.
“I’m telling you, this was on the screen when I got here. I really need to use this computer. I don’t have a lot of time,” I pleaded.
“She was mean to us, Mom, make her go away, please.” Wayne’s bottom lip was trembling, but when his mother looked away, he grinned at me. Unbelievable.
“Ma’am, I must insist that you leave the library this instant before I call security.”
“All right. Fine. I’m going,” I said through gritted teeth. I’d barely stepped away from the computer when Fuzzy’s friend practically knocked me over in his rush to get his round hiney in the chair.
A vision of Wayne in about ten years shoving Twinkies in his face while watching Internet porn and being supported for the rest of his life by his mother flashed in my mind as I walked away, making me realize I should probably be afraid of the little sociopath in the making. I walked out of the library with visions of tearing Fuzzy away from the computer and forcing him and his friend to run laps around the block until they puked. Now what was I going to do? Where else could I get access to a computer? Then it hit me. Rollins. Didn’t he have a computer in his office at Holy Cross? Yes, he did.
The Holy Cross Church parking lot was filled up with cars. I’d completely forgotten that today was the church’s annual car wash. About a dozen teenagers and several adults, including Morris Rollins, were up to their elbows in sudsy water washing cars. I had to park across the street. I was debating whether I should try and sneak into Rollins’s office and use his computer while he was busy washing cars when he spotted me across the crowded parking lot. He grinned as I approached and playfully flipped a wet towel in my direction spraying me with water. I laughed and looked around on the sly for Winette Barlow.