Sleep Well, My Lady

by Kwei Quartey

  “Yes, all right.”

  He smiled at the two men. “My wife always knows where everything is.”

  “Mine too, sir,” Walter said, glad for this chance to break the ice.

  “So, what is this visit about again?” Fifi asked.

  “Well, as I mentioned on the phone, sir,” Walter said, “I’m a Web-based freelance journalist. I write articles about topics I believe are of general societal interest and rooted in the human experience, as in the case of your daughter, for which I must express our condolences.”

  “Well, thank you for that. We know she is now in paradise and being watched over by our Lord.”

  “Amen,” Walter said.

  “To which church do you belong?” Tagoe asked.

  “The Church of Pentecost,” Walter replied.

  “Ah, very good.” Tagoe looked at Gideon. “And you, young man?”

  “Action Chapel,” he lied. In fact, he was a rare Ghanaian who didn’t attend church—at least not regularly.

  “So,” the Father said, “what is your mission today?”

  “Sir,” Walter began, “I find the story of your daughter tragic, but it also seems to me that many things have been said about her that may or may not be true. So, what better way than to ask you, the parents, a little more about her life? Anything at all that facilitates our getting to know the late Lady Araba better. I’m looking for nothing salacious or sensational—just honest.”

  Tagoe nodded slowly. “We appreciate your effort, then. I think the first thing I will say—and my wife can add her observations—is that God truly blessed our daughter with talent. She was a wonderful woman—to me, she will always be my little girl, of course.”

  “I understand she has a brother?” Walter asked.

  “Yes. Oko is her beloved brother. He should be here in a little while.”

  “By the way,” Walter said, “how old was Lady Araba when she died?”

  “Thirty-three, almost to the day.” He looked at his wife. “In fact, we had just begun to plan a nice party for her, not so?”

  “Yes.” Miriam smiled warmly. “What Father Tagoe is saying about Araba is true. She was truly blessed, not only with talent, but to have been brought up in a loving home with the Lord looking out for her all the time.”

  Gideon had begun taking notes in a composition book.

  “Please tell us a little bit about the day you learned of her terrible death,” Walter said.

  “The call came from Oko a little after eight that morning,” Tagoe said. “I was at St. Anthony’s Anglican Church in a meeting. He told me Samson, Araba’s assistant, had phoned him to ask if he had heard from Araba, because everyone was waiting for her at the fashion show. Oko had tried to reach Araba without success. I excused myself from my meeting and rushed to Trasacco Valley as quickly as I could, but the traffic was terrible, and it was past nine by the time I arrived. There was a big crowd around the place—the police and I don’t know who else. I lost control of my emotions. I remember everything as if it was a dream. They tried to stop me from entering the bedroom, but I could see inside: people hanging around the bed, taking photographs of my daughter in her nightgown lying in her bed in a pool of blood. What happened then, I don’t quite recall, but I was told I fainted, and when I regained consciousness, people had carried me back into the hallway and were fanning me, trying to revive me. I couldn’t remember what had just happened.”

  Father Tagoe looked away, his reddened eyes misting over.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” Walter said quietly. “I can only imagine what a terrible experience it must have been.”

  Tagoe took a breath. “I didn’t tell my wife right away. Something in me kept saying that Araba couldn’t possibly be dead. It’s strange how the mind works. I was clinging to a thread of hope that it was somehow a mistake. But of course, it wasn’t, so I made the most painful and difficult call to Mrs. Tagoe that I ever have.”

  Walter looked at her. “You must have been devastated, madam.”

  “It was too much to bear. I don’t . . . I don’t even know how to describe what I felt as my driver brought me to Araba’s house.”

  “Understood,” Walter said, nodding appreciatively. “When was the last time either of you spoke to your daughter?”

  Tagoe looked at his wife. “We talked to her on the phone the evening before, to wish her luck with her big fashion show the following day. We were both here at home.”

  “Please, at what time was that?”

  “About nine, honey?” Tagoe consulted his wife again.

  “Yes,” Miriam agreed. “She was returning from an event.”

  “Were you planning to attend the show on Monday morning?” Walter asked, glancing at Gideon to make sure he was writing all this down. He was, furiously.

  Miriam smiled. “No. She wanted us to, but we had some schedule conflicts that prevented us.”

  That seemed odd to Walter. What kind of schedule conflict would prevent at least one of them from attending their daughter’s big event?

  “Did she seem normal when you spoke with her?” Walter asked.

  “She was positive and excited about fashion week,” Miriam said.

  “Did she always appear happy?”

  “Absolutely,” Tagoe said.

  “Oh, not appear, Mr. Busia,” Miriam said somewhat sharply. “She was happy.”

  “Father,” Walter said, “people always talk about the very special relationship between father and daughter. How would you describe the bond between you and Lady Araba?”

  The instant Walter asked that, he noticed Mrs. Tagoe’s gaze drop ever so slightly. Up until then, she had kept her eyes steadily on her husband with a look of deference and admiration.

  The Reverend, on the other hand, didn’t skip a beat. “She was the apple of my eye, Mr. Busia,” he said. “When she was born, it changed my life forever in the best way imaginable. Yes, she meant everything to me, and now that she’s gone, it’s like a part of me has been removed. Sometimes I still can’t believe she’s no longer with us.”

  “When did she first indicate her interest in fashion?”

  Tagoe cued his wife, who said, “Very early in her life. She always looked at fashion and beauty magazines, and she used to draw women clothed in her own designs.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Walter said. “It was very much in the blood, then. And when did she become active in that world?”

  Both Father Tagoe and Mrs. Tagoe began to answer at the same time, but Miriam quickly shut up to let her husband answer.

  “My dear sister, Dele, is a seamstress,” he said, “and she took Araba under her wing, teaching her many design and sewing techniques.”

  “Did that in any way trouble you, Father?” Walter asked.

  “Come again?”

  “I mean, fashion is such a different world from that of religion and being devoted to the service of the Lord.”

  “That is true,” Tagoe said, “but if that was my daughter’s calling, then so be it. My only duty was to make sure that she didn’t become caught up in certain evils of the fashion world.”

  “Evils of the fashion world?”

  Walter and Gideon turned at the new voice. A stout, balding gentleman had just entered.

  “Ah, welcome,” Tagoe said, breaking into a smile. “This is my son, Oko.”

  “Hi, Daddy, Mummy. Are these the journalists you told me about?”

  “Yes, that’s them.”

  Walter and Gideon stood up to shake hands, and Oko pulled up a chair.

  “What was I saying?” Tagoe said. “Ah yes, the evils of the fashion industry. You know, vanity, lust, greed, ungodliness, and so on. I felt I should protect my daughter from those iniquities, but, well, she was an adult in her own right. Would you agree, Oko?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. �
�She was a very smart woman. People often didn’t give her credit for that just because she was so beautiful, and I thought that was very unfair.”

  Miriam smiled. “Oko was so protective of her.”

  “Always helped Araba with her homework, isn’t it, Oko?” the Reverend said. “Very patient with her.”

  Oko looked self-conscious. “Well, I did my best.”

  “Oko topped the Senior Secondary Certificate Exam in his year,” Tagoe said, beaming. “The entire country.”

  “Wow,” Manu said. “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Please, let’s talk about Araba, not me,” Oko said, his abashment rather disarming.

  Miriam took the cue. “Well, what I was also about to say,” she said, “is that the paramount goal—the Reverend and I—was to bring up a girl in an atmosphere of love, which ultimately flows from God.”

  “Araba went to church regularly?” Walter asked.

  Tagoe was a little rueful. “Perhaps not as often as I would have liked, but regularly enough.”

  “I understand,” Walter said. “Now I would like to ask a rather sensitive question, and I hope you won’t find it objectionable. If so, please let me know. What was the nature of Lady Araba’s relationship with TV personality Augustus Seeza?”

  Tagoe looked bothered for the first time. “The media has made too much of this, in my opinion,” he said, a knife edge creeping into his tone. “My daughter may have strayed slightly from the right path, but the focus should rather be on Mr. Seeza. Araba had a good heart and a tendency to put others before herself, sometimes to her detriment. Mr. Seeza is a case in point.”

  “Do you believe that arresting Lady Araba’s driver, Mr. Kweku-Sam, was warranted?”

  “Perhaps they know something we do not,” Tagoe said, “but the Kweku-Sam my wife and I knew was not a monster. The person who killed my daughter is a monster.”

  Miriam, who had been quiet for a while, nodded and said, “He is. And that person is Augustus Seeza.”

  “You seem very certain, madam,” Walter said, maintaining his courteous tone.

  “He had every motive,” Miriam said. “She had broken her ties with him, and he became furious. For all we know, that drunkard was intoxicated and out of control when he killed our little girl, but whichever way you look at it, he’s a murderer.” Her voice splintered on the last word.

  “Yes,” Walter said softly. “I’m so sorry, madam.”

  “Araba was a very good and blessed person,” Tagoe said. “I didn’t say perfect, I said good. And those who cast aspersions upon her have evil motives in their hearts.”

  Walter looked at Mrs. Tagoe, who said, “What my husband says is true, and whether on earth or in the fire and brimstone of hell, the murderer will one day come to justice.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Eleven months after

  Emma was to meet Rita at the entrance of Trasacco Valley at nine on Thursday morning. Sowah had hired an E-class Mercedes and a driver for a day at an undisclosed but no doubt hefty fee. Emma waited for the driver in the lobby of the African Regent Hotel. At seven-fifty, he texted her that he would arrive soon, and several minutes later, he called to say he was parked out front. Emma left the lobby through the main entrance, where she saw a gleaming, dark-blue Benz waiting for her. It was a stunning machine.

  Emma walked up with confidence. For this assignment, she was Melody Acquah.

  “Good morning, Madam Acquah,” the driver said as he opened the right rear door for her to get in. He was young and thin, resembling a small boy. “My name is Jordan.”

  “Morning,” she replied with a nod.

  Emma got in. She had the clothes, now she just had to act the part. In real life, she would have gawked at the impeccable tan leather upholstery, the wood trim on the dashboard and along the doors, the overwhelming number of buttons, but now she behaved as if she had been born into such a privileged world.

  Jordan took off, and Emma experienced the extraordinary power propelling them forward so smoothly. She sat back and took a relaxed pose, discovering very quickly just how easy that was to do in a vehicle like this. Now she understood why Benz drivers and passengers always appeared smug. It was because the car made you feel that way. Before long, that self-importance crept into your face and your every gesture. You believed you were superior to the rest of the world, which you probably weren’t.

  “Please, madam,” the chauffeur said (she granted him that title, rather than just “driver”), “you said Trasacco Valley, is that right?”

  “Yes. Correct.”

  “Please, is it the Valley or the Hills?”

  “The Valley,” she responded, impressed that he knew the difference.

  Emma’s phone vibrated, and she saw it was Mama. No, she thought. Now was not the time to engage in conversation with her mother, who always had a long catalog of things to tell Emma.

  As anyone could have predicted, morning traffic was intolerable, but they made it to Trasacco only a few minutes past nine. At the entrance, one of the security guards bent down to the window to glance inside. She wondered if he might be the Peter they’d heard about from Jojo. The guard saw Emma, stepped back, and waved the car through. Emma looked back to check if anyone was taking down their license plate number, but that didn’t appear to be the case. The guard hadn’t asked what their business was there either, and she wondered if they had grown careless about security. Had that benefited Araba’s murderer that night?

  Rita had instructed them to park in one of the four spaces reserved for visitors who, like Emma, were there for their realtor to take them around. Emma didn’t see another vehicle there yet, so the chauffeur stood in place with the air conditioner running. Just as she was wondering how late Rita would be, a silver SUV with a man in the driver’s seat pulled into the space next to them. A woman whom Emma presumed was Rita emerged from the passenger side.

  “I think this is the lady I’ve come to meet,” Emma said to Jordan. “I’ll get out now.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Jordan hurried around to open Emma’s door and she exited with what she hoped was the self-assurance of a wealthy woman.

  “Melody Acquah?”

  “Yes, good morning. You must be Rita.” They shook hands. “You may call me Melody.”

  “So nice to meet you, Melody. I must apologize for being late—had to drop off the kids at school, and then traffic—well, you know the story.”

  “Of course,” Emma said. “No worries.”

  “Come along,” Rita said, opening the rear door of the SUV for Emma. As Rita buckled up in the front passenger side, she introduced her driver as Frank.

  “We’ll drive around the estate a bit,” Rita said to Emma, “and then I’ll show the property you’re interested in.”

  Frank, who had evidently been to the Valley multiple times, took rights and lefts, twists and turns as Rita narrated, pointing out the different styles of house. Emma made only one- or two-word comments as Rita talked.

  All worth well over a million dollars, none of the houses was for sale except Lady Araba’s Duke home. The family, desperate to get it sold, had chipped at the price until it had lowered to less than 500,000 dollars. Emma reasoned that was a bargain. Why, she would buy it if she had that kind of money, ghosts be damned.

  “And here we are,” Rita said as Frank pulled in at a driveway. Rita pressed a button on the remote in her hand and the gate slid open slowly, after which Frank drove up to the entrance of the house and the two women got out.

  “This is the official entry to the home,” Rita said, leading Emma to the portico and front door. Emma looked up and saw the ceiling soared to the second level of the house.

  Rita used an ordinary key to get in—nothing fancy like a key card. She shut the door behind them, and Emma noted it was the type of dead bolt with a thumb lever on the inside. A flip to the rig
ht locked the door. From the outside, it would only engage with a key.

  “The staircase to the right takes us to the upper floor,” Rita said, “but let’s see the lower first.”

  The place appeared immense to Emma, and she couldn’t get over having both a living room and a so-called “family room.” The furniture was clearly expensive—leather and beautiful fabrics.

  “The living room opens onto the garden terrace,” Rita said, pointing to the view of the garden through the bay windows. “There’s a table out there for get-togethers.”

  “Do you mind if I take some pictures?” Emma asked.

  “But of course. Not a problem.”

  They moved along to the kitchen, where Emma fantasized about cooking up to four separate meals at the same time on all that stovetop.

  “Right, we can go upstairs now,” Rita said, leading Emma back down the corridor toward the stairs. “How are you liking it so far?”

  “I’m impressed most by the family room and the view of the garden,” Emma said truthfully.

  “Ah, yes, through those bay windows,” Rita said. “That’s one of the things I really love about the Duke design. If you don’t mind removing your shoes, as there’s white carpeting upstairs.”

  They went up the carpeted steps. Unlike the first level with tile and stone floors, the second floor was entirely carpeted in light blue on the landing.

  “A little to the left is the first bedroom, which is the master,” Rita said as they got to the landing. “Please, come in.”

  Emma loved the space and light of the master bedroom, the airiness created by the high, vaulted ceiling. The carpet was a light cream, almost white. On either side of the room was a window. A glass door opened onto the infamous bedroom terrace.

  The bed looked like a picture out of a magazine: a white-and-blue checkered spread, white pillows, and three bright blue cushions arranged largest to smallest. So, there was where Araba’s body had been found, Emma thought.