Kendra Clayton Mystery Box Set

by Angela Henry

  “Have you come to help or do you need your car washed?”

  “Neither. I need a favor,” I said. Honesty was going to save me time in this instance. Rollins looked intrigued.”I really need to use your computer.”

  “Sure, no problem. My office’s is unlocked. Is everything okay?” he asked, squeezing my shoulder. Our eyes met and I could tell he was thinking about our kiss last night. I broke eye contact first.

  “It will be,” I said and headed into the church.

  I sat behind Rollins’s round, oak desk, and situated myself in his leather chair before inserting the disk in the drive of his large computer. There was only one file on the disk and it was labeled Onyx. I opened it and for over an hour skimmed through Vivianne’s book. I was surprised to discover that she wasn’t a half-bad writer, though she was prone to exclamation points and flowery, unrealistic dialogue. And there was another thing that was also very obvious: she wasn’t at all sympathetic to her two main characters, Roxanne Gayle, who fled from her small town to try and make it big on Broadway, and Elwood Smalls, a black man who starts passing for white after going off to fight in the Korean War and stealing the identity of a white officer in his unit named Warren Duke.

  The book was divided into three parts: Roxanne’s story, Elwood’s story and the last part telling how their paths crossed and the fiery, tumultuous relationship that followed. Even though Vivianne had made Roxanne Gayle a prescription-drug-addicted whore who had resorted to prostitution to make ends meet before getting her big break, there were a lot of parallels to Vivianne’s actual life: She and Roxanne were both from small towns and eventually made it in show business, she and Roxanne both married their agents, and, like Vivianne, Roxanne had a child, a daughter, though her child had been born out of wedlock fathered by one of her johns. There was even a scene reminiscent of what had happened to Kurt, where Roxanne’s child gets into one of her prescriptions while she’s strung out on painkillers. But unlike Kurt, Roxanne’s daughter dies.

  As for Elwood Smalls, besides the fact that he was passing for white using a stolen identity, I had no idea what else he had in common with Cliff Preston that wasn’t a fictional embellishment of Vivianne’s. The character of Elwood Smalls had dreamed since he was a child of being in show business. He was born into a poor black farm family, who, despite looking white, were very proud of their black ancestry, except for Elwood, who felt trapped by the restrictions of his race.

  In order to escape a life of farming, Elwood joins the army just as the Korean War breaks out and is assigned to an all-black combat unit. He becomes friends with Warren Duke, a white officer in charge of his unit. During a combat mission Warren goes missing in action and Elwood is gravely injured and gets an honorable discharge. Instead of going back to the family farm, Elwood uses the name of Warren Duke to build a new life for himself as a white man in New York City. He goes on to become a sought-after talent agent who represents some of the biggest names on Broadway, eventually moving on to represent movie stars.

  It all sounded like a simple case of stolen identity until I got to the part where the real Warren Duke turns up alive and well and tracks down Elwood Smalls, threatening to expose him, which results in Elwood killing him. I sat up straight in the chair. Was that part true? If it was then, Cliff Preston had a lot more to worry about than having his true race exposed. Had he killed the real Cliff Preston? Was this the info Vivianne claimed, as Harriet had put it, would keep Cliff off her back? Did she somehow find proof that Cliff was a murderer, as well as an identity thief? I rummaged around in Rollins’s desk drawer and found a box of blank floppy disks and, figuring he wouldn’t mind, took a disk and copied the manuscript to it. By the time I closed out the file and shut down the computer it was well after six o’clock. The car wash was still in full swing. I didn’t want to interrupt Rollins again. So I stuck a note thanking him on his computer screen and headed out a side door so he wouldn’t see me.

  When I got to my car I turned my cell phone back on and saw that I had twelve voice mails. Four of them were from Mama, furiously wanting to know where I was. Seven were from Greg wanting to know what was going on with Lynette. His messages started out angry, gave way to desperate, and his last message was downright pitiful. The final voice mail was from a contrite-sounding Allegra apologizing for lying to me about the check and wanting to know if she was the reason I was refusing to come to the cookout. Leave it to Allegra to make it all about her. I didn’t return any of their calls. Instead, I put the disk I had copied into my glove compartment, along with a note telling anyone who found it to give it to Detective Trish Harmon, just in case anything happened to me at the park that night. I put the original in my pocket.

  I was about to start up my car when I looked over and saw Winette Barlow talking to Rollins while he was washing a car. Winette was dressed in neatly creased and pressed designer jeans, a red shirt, white blazer, pumps and a long multi-strand beaded necklace that kept catching on her belt. Not exactly an outfit to wash cars in. I watched in amusement as she kept jumping back every time a stream of soapy water approached her leather pumps. She tried unsuccessfully to flirt with Rollins who was busy and looked a little annoyed. When she finally gave up and walked away, I could clearly see how upset she was. But it wasn’t until she angrily flung her long necklace over her shoulder that I remembered something Joyce Clark had told me. Vivianne had had a necklace that went missing at Cartwright Auditorium. Harriet Randall had accused one the custodial staff of stealing it. Joyce Clark had said the necklace was never found. But thinking back to what I’d seen pinned to the lost and found board in Joyce’s office, I realized they had found it and just didn’t realize it.

  I was so lost in thought I didn’t see Winette Barlow charging toward my car with blood in her eyes. Her mouth was set in a hard angry line. Her hands were curled into fists. I frantically looked over at Rollins, who had his back to us, oblivious to everything except the dirty car in front of him. I quickly started up my car and pulled away from the curb just as Winette Barlow’s well-aimed kick grazed my driver’s-side door. Crazy bitch. She was yelling something at me that I didn’t catch. I had no time for her drama. I had a best friend to save. I wasn’t sure Cartwright Auditorium was still open. It was going on seven o’clock. But I had to try and get into Joyce Clark’s office.

  I was about three blocks from the auditorium when a car pulled up behind me and started frantically honking. I looked in my rearview mirror. It was Winette Barlow. Crap! She was gesturing for me to pull over, probably so she could lodge one of her expensive leather pumps in my ass. This was not good. I ignored her and kept on driving. To my relief, I lost her at a red light and kept driving until I got to the auditorium. My heart sank when I saw that the parking lot was empty, indicating that everyone had gone home for the day. I parked, got out and tried the front doors. They were locked. Great. I headed around to the side of the building and my heart sank even further when I saw Winette pull into the parking lot and jump out of her car.

  “I don’t know what your problem is, Winette, but I’m not arguing with you,” I said as she came charging over to me.

  “Who said anything about arguing? I told you to stay away from my man. Now, you’re gonna to pay the piper, sweetie.” I watched as she kicked off her pumps. This heifer wanted to fight me.

  “You want to fight me over some man? I thought you were classier than this, Winette.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone emerging from the side door of the auditorium. I turned to see that it was the custodian emptying a trash can into the Dumpster. He had his Walkman on and didn’t notice us. He went back inside and I could see the door hadn’t shut completely behind him. I had to get in there. I made a run for the door. Winette was hot on my heels.

  “You come back here and get what you got comin’ to you,” she screamed.

  Fortunately for me, Winette couldn’t run very fast in her bare feet across a parking lot strewn with pebbles and god only knew what else. I heard her curse wh
en I reached the side door and turned to see her picking what looked like glass out of her foot. She threw it at me and I ducked inside the door and pulled it shut behind me.

  I found myself in what I thought was a dimly lit hallway. I started walking, noting the heavy curtains along the way, and realized I must be behind the curtains on the stage. I could hear someone, probably the custodian, whistling softly somewhere on the other side of the curtains. I came upon a set of about six steps that led down to an open doorway. I headed down the steps and out the doorway, listening to hear if the custodian’s whistling sounded like it was getting any closer. To my relief, I ended up in the lobby. Joyce Clark’s office was dark. The door was closed and—surprise, surprise—locked. The clock in the lobby told me it was five past seven. I debated whether to leave and head for the park, but I needed all the leverage I could get for my meeting with Cliff. I needed that necklace in case he tried to get cute.

  The door to Joyce’s office looked like the type that opened with a key but locked when she left each night and pulled it shut, meaning that it could be opened from the inside. There was a large mail slot in the middle of the door. I pushed it open and stuck my hand through the slot. I was able to reach up to the doorknob on the other side but grabbing the knob and turning it was something else entirely. I pulled my hand out and had almost made up my mind to break the glass in the door when I noticed there was a gap of about an inch between the bottom of the door and the floor. I lay on my stomach and looked under the door. Light was streaming in from the office’s window and I could see the edge of the lost and found board propped up against the inner wall right by the door. If I could reach it, then I’d be able to pull it out from under the door.

  I couldn’t fit my arm under the door to reach the board. I looked around the lobby and saw a broom, the nylon kind with plastic bristles, propped against the far wall. I ran over and grabbed it then stopped to listen for the custodian. He was still whistling in the auditorium. I slid the broom under the door until the bristles touched the board then shoved gently until the board slid down the wall and landed flat on the floor. Then I lifted the broom slightly and put it on top of the board and pulled hard. The board slid across the floor and wedged under the door. Once I pulled the broom out, I was able to pull the board from under the door. Feeling entirely too pleased with myself, I started to take a look at the board when I heard the custodian’s whistling getting louder. He was headed my way. I ran across the lobby into the women’s restroom. The noisy clack of the items pinned to the board echoed loudly in the empty lobby.

  I let out a breath and took a look at the board. Nestled amongst two sets of keys, a comb, a tarnished hoop earring, a man’s tie and a watch with a broken strap was the set of dog tags that I’d noticed when I’d been in Joyce Clark’s office the first time. They were army dog tags. This had to be the necklace Vivianne had lost. The chain was broken. The name on the tags was Jasper Hairston, which must be Cliff’s real name. This must be what Vivianne had told Harriet she had that would keep Cliff off her back. She must have been frantic when she lost the tags.

  I had to hand it to Vivianne. She’d thought it all out. She knew what would happen once her book was published. Anybody who knew anything at all about her would read the book and notice all the parallels to her life. People would wonder what was true and what was fiction. Anyone curious enough to do a little research would look up Cliff Preston and find out it wasn’t his real name. Vivianne wouldn’t have had to say a thing. The reading public and the scandal-loving media would expose Cliff for her. Cliff wouldn’t dare sue her for slander, either. It was brilliant.

  I stuffed the tags in my pocket and put my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anything. I pushed the bathroom door open and peeked out. The custodian was mopping the lobby and there was no way he wouldn’t see me if I left the bathroom. My watch read 7:18 p.m. One of the bathroom’s two large windows over the row of sinks was open a crack. I climbed up onto one of the sinks, pushed the window open all the way, and with great effort, hoisted myself up and climbed out. One foot caught on the ledge and I fell right into the bushes a few feet below, scratching up my arms and knocking the wind out of me. But at least I was out and nothing was broken. I dusted myself off and ran across the parking lot to my car—and stopped cold. Since she hadn’t been able to get her hands on me, Winette had settled for my car. It was trashed. The windows were all busted out, the word Bitch had been keyed into the paint on the hood, but that wasn’t the worst part. All four of my tires had been punctured and were flat as pancakes. It was 7:27 p.m.

  I had about thirty minutes to get to a park that was fifteen minutes away and now I had no car. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to call a cab but hung up when I realized I had exactly five dollars to my name. It would cost more than five dollars to take a cab to Yellow Springs. I had more money in my bank account. All I needed to do was find an ATM machine. I spotted a Dairy Mart a half block up the street and took off running. My heart rejoiced when I saw the sign indicating they had an ATM machine. I rushed inside. I had my card out of my purse and swiped before I read the message on the screen: Temporarily Out of Order. Wonderful.

  “Do you know if there’s another ATM around here?” I frantically asked the woman behind the counter. She shook her head without even looking up from her Cosmo magazine with Cindy Crawford pouting sexily on the cover.

  “No, there isn’t another ATM around here, or no, you don’t know if there’s another ATM machine around?”

  “Only other ATM I know of is about six blocks from here,” she replied, still not looking up.

  I left and took off walking. It was 7:32 p.m. Six blocks would put me downtown. I could go to my own bank. I spotted a city bus headed downtown and flagged it down at the nearest corner. I got on and handed the driver my five-dollar bill.

  “One way, please,” I said breathlessly.

  “I need seventy-five cents. I can’t change a five,” said the driver, a squinty-eyed skinny man with slicked-back hair. He pointed a bony finger at a sign taped to the corner of the windshield: Must Have Exact Fare. Driver Can’t Make Change. Great! I didn’t have any other change.

  “You can’t make an exception this one time? I’m really in a hurry. It’s an emergency.”

  “And I’m on a schedule, lady. Either give me seventy- five cents or get off my bus.”

  “No need to get nasty,” I said, turning to the other passengers on the bus. “Is there anyone here who can loan me seventy-five cents?” I pleaded.

  No one spoke up and few turned away to stare out the window. It was 7:38 p.m. I didn’t have time to argue or plead any further. I scowled at the driver and got off the bus. He left me in a cloud of exhaust that made me nauseous. I started walking and about a block later, spotted a yard sale down a quiet tree-lined side street. As much as I love yard sales, garage sales, tag sales and estate sales, now was not the time to indulge in my love for second-hand treasure. But then I spied something propped up against a tree in the yard and made a quick detour.

  Once I got to the house in question, I could see that my eyes hadn’t deceived me. There was a ten-speed bike propped against the tree. The tag said twenty dollars. If there was one thing that my appreciation of second-hand goods had taught me, it was how to bargain.

  “Would you take five for the bike?” I asked the pleasant-looking man rocking on the front porch. He got up from his rocker, opened the screen door of the house and yelled inside.

  “Son, someone’s interested in your bike.” Seconds later, the screen door banged open with a thud and out walked Fuzzy Wayne, my library nemesis. This could not be happening. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was him all right, in all his glory, still wearing the same tight T-shirt. Now that he was actually upright, I could see his love handles spilling out over the top of his equally tight jeans. He tugged the shirt down but it didn’t do much good.

  It wasn’t until he got closer that he recognized me from the library, though I was surprised h
e could see anything with all that hair falling in his face. He gave me a nasty look.

  “Bet you’re sorry you weren’t nicer to me, huh? The price just went up to fifty dollars.”

  “The tag says twenty,” I said patiently.

  “It’s my bike. I can change my mind if I want.” Actually, I was surprised he wasn’t selling it for a lot more. It didn’t look like it had ever been ridden. Looking at Fuzzy’s less than buff physique, I knew there was no way his wide behind had ever even sat on the seat. I turned to walk away.

  “Hey, wait,” he said stopping me. “How much ya got?” “Five dollars,” I replied. He burst out laughing.

  “No way I’m selling my bike for five dollars. But I got another bike for you. You interested?”

  “Does it work?” I asked walking into the yard. Beggars can’t be choosers and it was now 7:45 p.m. “‘Course it works. I’ll let you have it for ten dollars and not a penny less,” he said smirking. I wanted to wipe up the pavement with his face. But I needed that bike so I decided to appeal to his appetite, instead. “Look, I work at Estelle’s restaurant. How about I give you the five plus a week’s worth of free dinners?”

  “Deal,” he said, snatching the five-dollar bill out of my hand. He disappeared into the house and emerged with a purple kid’s bike complete with a white banana seat and sparkly streamers trailing from the handles. My mouth fell open. Oh, hell, no.

  Fuzzy could barely contain his laughter. “Here it is. And I’ll be in tonight: for my first free meal.” Lesson learned: Never piss off a nerd.