by Kwei Quartey
Emma frowned. Who was lying, Dele or Augustus?
Dele abruptly stood up and announced she was getting another beer. “Do you want anything more?” she asked Emma. “How about some Malta? Come on, live a little!”
Emma smiled. “All right, then.”
“Good, I’ll be right back.”
Emma leaned back in her chair as she wrestled with the contradictions the case was sending up: Augustus’s claims versus Dele’s, Kweku-Sam’s versus Augustus’s. She felt an uncomfortable lump in her chair and reached behind her to feel a cylindrical object under the chair cover. When she pulled away the cover, she saw a portion of a metallic object between the top and bottom cushions. Working it free, she pulled it out. It was a silver vase identical to the one in Araba’s bedroom.
When Auntie Dele returned with a tray of Malta and more beer, Emma was on her feet, staring at the vase.
Dele stopped. “My God, where did you find that?”
Emma pointed. “In between the cushions. I was sitting on it.”
“Wow!” Dele put down the tray on a flat surface she somehow managed to find. “Do you know how long I’ve been searching for that? Thank you so much, Emma.”
“It looks like the one Araba had in her bedroom,” Emma said.
Dele gasped in surprise, then laughed. “How did you know that? So, you have been doing a good job on the case. You are right. I bought them in Italy when I lived there long ago. It was a set of three, so I gave two to Araba and kept one.”
“One was in the crime scene photographs. But the second of the pair was missing.”
“Well, that isn’t it,” Dele said. “This one is mine.”
“It’s beautiful,” Emma said, moving closer to a floor-standing lamp to examine the vase in detail. On an improbable whim, she also looked for any traces of blood, especially at the base, but the ornament was spotless.
Emma handed it back to Dele with a smile. “But Auntie, keep it somewhere safe. It’s too nice to be buried inside a chair!”
“You are right,” Dele said, shaking her head. “Sometimes I’m quite absentminded. I’ll put it here on the shelf, next to my masks.”
As Emma took her leave, she wondered if she had been over-cynical in looking for blood on the vase. Auntie Dele couldn’t possibly have played a part in her niece’s murder—could she?
FORTY-THREE
Eleven months after
Jojo and Ismael broke for lunch at the same time and walked to Clara’s Chop Bar to have a full lunch of fufu with groundnut soup and banku and okro stew. On the way back, Jojo said, “Chaley, can you show me the place where you saw Lady Araba dead?”
Ismael thought about it for a moment. “Okay, but don’t tell Peter, okay? Otherwise big trouble for me.”
“No problem, bruh.”
Peter wasn’t on duty, and the junior security men naturally felt more relaxed and apt to overlook minor details like writing down visitors’ license plate numbers. Ismael and Jojo stopped to josh and laugh with the guards, one of whom asked where the two guys were going.
“To check some plants down there,” Ismael said vaguely. “So, we talk later.”
He and Jojo headed to the gardener’s supply shed at the end of the Ruby Row cul-de-sac. Ismael extracted an aluminum ladder, which he hoisted onto one shoulder and carried as if it were a feather. His wiriness belied his pound-for-pound strength, making Jojo think of Lady Araba’s murder. Ismael could very easily have overpowered her.
At the rear of Araba’s home, Ismael planted the ladder and secured it. “You go up first,” he said to Jojo. “I’ll hold the ladder.”
Jojo ascended, and Ismael followed him onto the terrace. The sun was intense, but the elevation afforded a cooling breeze.
“Oh, nice!” Jojo said, looking around.
“Yeah,” Ismael agreed. “Before, when Lady Araba was around, she had all kinds of plants and flowerpots. More than this.”
“The ones you brought to her?”
Ismael nodded.
“And she bought them from you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you made plenty money from her, oo!”
Ismael laughed. “Not so much. Usually I charged her half of what people normally pay.”
“Ah, okay,” Jojo said with approval. “What about Valentine’s Day?”
“Come again?”
“Like, on Valentine’s Day, I would bring hundreds of flowers to such a beautiful woman.”
Ismael grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, like, one time I did. She was happy.”
The two sat down with their backs against the wall, which gave them some shade.
“When was the last time you saw Lady Araba?” Jojo asked
With a slight hesitation, Ismael said, “Sunday evening.”
“Okay. Do you normally work on Sundays?”
“No, I don’t. I . . . I just came to get something.”
Jojo knew Ismael was lying, but he left it for the moment. “What was she like as a person?
Ismael shrugged. “To me she was a good woman. Not everyone thought the same.”
“Is that so? Why?”
“Like sometimes, she was annoyed that the back gate wasn’t working. She said, like, what kind of security is this that someone can enter and leave without being seen? So, one day she was annoyed with Peter. He tried to tell her that they were waiting for some parts for the gate opener.”
“And Peter was annoyed with her?”
Ismael turned his bottom lip out. “To be honest, I don’t know. Peter will never show you what he is thinking. But you see, Lady Araba really cared about the place. The other residents?” Ismael made a rude sound with his lips. “They could care less. Some of them just go in and out in their cars and they don’t even greet us. Lady Araba always did.”
“I was watching some of her YouTube channel,” Jojo said. “She looked beautiful. Is that how she was in real life?”
“Oh, for sure. Even better than that. Looked nice, smelled nice—everything.”
“Nice melons?” Jojo asked, cupping his hands in front of his chest.
Ismael looked at Jojo in feigned shock. “Ei! Are you like that?”
“Oh, come on!”
They laughed.
“The melons, bruh,” Jojo said. “As for that one, I can’t resist.”
“What about the ass?” Ismael said.
“What man don’t like ass? Between ass and melon,” Jojo said slyly, “which one do you like?”
“Big ass,” Ismael said, forming the shape with his hands. “Those ones that shake when the woman walks.”
“Lady Araba had it like that?”
“Well, hers was not too much big—it was correct for her size. Just nice.”
Jojo lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You saw her naked, bro?”
Ismael giggled nervously. “Chaley, stop.”
Jojo gave Ismael a playful shove. “At night, you can spy on her.”
“Like how?”
“Like through the glass,” Jojo said casually.
Ismael frowned. “I’m not like that.”
“Oh, I’m just joking with you,” Jojo said, laughing. “Why do people say she liked too many men?”
Ismael sucked his teeth. “Stupid people. What do they know?”
“Then tell me the real story.”
“It’s because she was beautiful, so women were jealous of her, and the men who couldn’t get her became frustrated. That’s what happened to Seeza at the end. He wanted Madam Araba back, but she didn’t want him anymore.”
Jojo needed to get to the heart of the matter and wouldn’t leave before then. He rose and went to the terrace door, putting his forehead against the glass and cupping his hands to see inside. Ismael joined him and did the same. Without the reflection, he could see into
the spacious room with the bed and two armchairs. Otherwise, it was bare.
Jojo looked at him. “Why were you here at Trasacco on that Sunday evening? I mean the real reason.”
Ismael turned and leaned against the wall next to the door. “I’m shy to tell you.”
“My brother, you can trust me.”
Ismael stared at the ground. “You were right. I used to come and watch her sometimes.”
“Lady Araba?”
“Yes. I wait until dark, then get the ladder and come up here.”
“Okay,” Jojo said. “Go on.”
“She had curtains over the door—the thin kind you can see through. In the nighttime when she pulls the curtains and the light is on inside the room, if I’m out here, I can see her, but she can’t see me. Sometimes she would take her shower and come into the room naked.”
“You saw her body. She was beautiful.”
“Yes . . . I wanted to stop doing it, bro, spying on her, but I couldn’t help myself, you understand?”
“I get you, my brother. It’s tough for us men to control ourselves.”
“Yeah.”
“So, how often did you do it?”
“Sometimes in the night before she slept, but other times early in the morning around five because that’s the time she used to wake up and it’s still dark outside. That Sunday evening, I came here not knowing she was out, but by that time, my wife texted me to come home, so I left, but I was feeling some kind of way.”
“Like, strange,” Jojo prompted.
“Yes. Like I needed to see Lady Araba. When I got to work around five, I saw the light was on in the bedroom, so I came up to the terrace. I looked inside the room and saw her.”
A thought flashed through Jojo’s head. He killed her.But why?
“She was dressing to go to work?” Jojo asked.
“No, no,” Ismael said with a touch of impatience. “You don’t understand. She was dead already.”
Jojo started. “What?”
“She was lying naked across the bed,” Ismael said, his voice cracking. “Blood was all over the bedsheets.”
“What did you do?”
“The door wasn’t locked,” Ismael continued. “I went inside. She was lying there just like that, and it was so pitiful. I was afraid to touch her. When I did, the body was completely cold—you know, the AC was on. But I couldn’t leave her like that, Jojo. No one should see her like that. I put her under the covers with her head on the pillow so she looked like she was sleeping. I just wanted her to rest in peace. And then I left.”
Jojo said nothing for a while. He put his hand on Ismael’s shoulder. “Chaley, tell the truth. Was it you that killed her?”
“I didn’t kill her, bro. She was dead when I came.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone about finding Araba dead until daylight,” Jojo said, more a statement than question.
“Yes, of course. Because people will ask me how I came to be outside Lady Araba’s room at that time of the early morning. For sure the police will arrest me. So, I waited until seven that morning and came up to the terrace again. I pretended I saw Lady Araba through the window by accident, called Kweku-Sam to fetch Peter, and made like the door was locked and that I had to break the glass to get in.”
“Because if they knew the door was unlocked,” Jojo said, “they would be suspicious of you.”
“Yeah.” Ismael raised his hands and let them drop limply to his sides. “So, now you know. I told you because I’ve been wanting to tell someone who I can trust, and I trust you. I didn’t kill Lady Araba myself, but I felt so much shame—as if I was part of her murder.”
“I understand,” Jojo said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you too.” Ismael smiled, the first time in quite a while.
He could be lying, but Jojo had nothing to the contrary, and he believed the man.
“The question now,” Jojo said, “is who killed Lady Araba.”
“Like I said, Mr. Seeza, of course,” Ismael said promptly. “And Peter helped him.”
FORTY-FOUR
Eleven months after
Miriam greeted Walter, seeming neither happy nor sorry to see him. Once again, she was fully made up on an early Sunday evening. Walter took in the long scarlet dress and the pumps to match.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Busia. Father Tagoe told me you called earlier to ask if you could visit us again. I’m sorry, but he’s running a little late.”
“No problem at all. Thank you very much.” Walter sat and looked at Miriam intently. “Please, how are you doing, madam?”
“By God’s grace, thank you for asking. How is the article about my daughter going? I didn’t hear from you, so I was worried you had already sent it in for publication. You remember I asked if I could look it over before you do that—just so there are no major errors, you know.”
“Yes, madam. Well, I can say I’ve been making progress, but I had one or two other questions to ask you, if you wouldn’t mind. When the Reverend arrives, I can get his perspective as well.”
“Of course.”
Walter took out the same notebook he had used the first time he’d interviewed the Tagoes. “Madam, today I wanted to expand on a few points about Araba’s childhood. She was born here in Accra, I suppose?”
“Yes, of course. Osu, to be precise.”
“Nice. How was she as a little girl?”
Miriam laughed with a toss of the head. “Curious about everything.”
“Is that so?” Walter said, smiling. “I can just imagine. Maybe that’s where she got her entrepreneurial spirit?”
“I’m sure that’s the case,” Miriam agreed.
“Now, madam, I know that last time you mentioned you had no problems with Araba wanting to be a fashion designer. Was that always the case?” This was the same question, in slightly different wording, that Miriam had been about to answer when her husband had cut her off on Walter’s first visit.
“It could cause some friction at times,” she said. “For instance, my husband wanted her to go into one of the professions, but Araba said no way. And you know, she was right. She knew where her abilities lay. She wasn’t as academically inclined as her brother, Oko, was, and I think it was brave of her to admit that to herself and look for her own strengths.”
“But, at least initially, Father Tagoe had misgivings about her choice.”
“Perhaps so,” Miriam said evenly, “but ultimately, Araba was a Daddy’s girl. She meant the world to him. She also looked up to her older brother, who was so caring of her, looking out for her and so on. We all did that for each other, really. The love of God and family has always ruled our home. In the end, it’s love that triumphs, isn’t it, Mr. Busia? God’s love, especially, always wins.”
Her words were reminiscent of a sermon—a bit sanctimonious, perhaps, but then, she was a reverend’s wife.
“Yes, always. You’ve painted a beautiful portrait of your daughter and the full Tagoe family,” Walter said. “As I’ve said before, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. We still feel the pain of it, especially my husband, who doted on her so much, but in Romans, we read, ‘O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! how unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!’”
“Amen. I can see that it’s your deep faith that keeps you going.”
“It is, Mr. Busia.”
“Madam, I want to discuss something that I have heard, and which I feel you should have the chance to refute, given its distasteful nature. You should always have the right to rebuff anything that could tarnish the reputation of your family.”
Miriam appeared wary but curious. “What is this about, sir?”
“I mean no disrespect here,” Walter went on, “and I beg your forbearance as I say this. There has been an a
llegation that Araba was sexually abused as a child.”
Miriam went rigid as stone. Her eyes, fixed on Walter, emptied of expression as if her soul were leaving her body. Walter stayed silent and waited.
She recovered, suddenly cold. “Who told you that?”
Walter didn’t answer, and she didn’t press.
“Sexual abuse?” Miriam said, her strength of tone returning. “No. Not in this house watched over by the Lord. Why would someone say that?”
To Walter’s alarm, she covered her face with her hands and began to weep uncontrollably. Walter stood up. “I’m sorry, madam. I didn’t mean to cause you any pain.”
Walter heard a car door slam, and his head whipped around as someone called out, “Miriam?”
Fifi Tagoe. It was the worst possible timing.
The Reverend entered the room and stopped. “What’s going on?”
“Good evening, sir,” Walter said.
Tagoe advanced, looking from his wife to Walter and back. “What’s happening? What did you do to her?”
“We were talking,” Walter said, “and I said something that upset her. I’m sorry, sir.”
Tagoe knelt beside Miriam, who was now attempting to collect herself. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he said softly to her. “Are you okay? What happened?”
She shook her head but didn’t respond. Tagoe helped her up. “Let’s go to the bedroom so you can lie down, okay?”
He escorted her out. A door shut, followed by muffled voices. Walter thrust his hands in his pockets, blew out a breath, and weighed the situation. Had he just advanced the case or taken it several steps backward? Why had Mrs. Tagoe reacted so dramatically? Was it that she had become overwhelmed with the truth of her daughter’s sexual abuse as she knew it to be true, or was it a lie so shocking that she felt wounded?
Walter heard footsteps returning and he began another round of apologies as Tagoe reentered the room.
“Please, take your seat,” he said icily.
They both sat down, and Walter waited. Tagoe lowered his head and Walter realized the man was praying.
Tagoe brought his gaze back eye-to-eye. “You’ve just asked my wife whether I sexually abused my late daughter, is that correct?”