by Angela Henry
“We got an anonymous tip,” I told her, not quite able to look her in the eye. I was suddenly feeling really guilty for deceiving this woman. But if Clair Easton was telling the truth, and I thought she was, Gerald had stolen a lot of money from her.
This must be what Gerald was being blackmailed about. Did he find out Ms. Flack was the blackmailer and kill her? If Audrey was right about Julian Spicer having used the reunion fund money to help get Gerald out of a jam on his last job, then he must have only had to pay back a few thousand dollars. Chump change compared to the fifty thousand dollars he’d stolen from Clair Easton. Gerald was looking at jail time if Wheatley Financial had him prosecuted. I seriously doubted they’d just fire him.
“Who else have you contacted at Wheatley Financial about your account?”
“I’ve contacted several people and all they tell me is that they’re going to look into it. Until you called I thought they were just telling me what I wanted to hear to shut me up. I’m so relieved to hear that someone is taking this seriously enough to report it because I was about to call the company president, John Howard Wheatley, himself.”
“I’d give him a call anyway, Ms. Easton. He may not even know about your missing money. I can’t imagine that he’d let this go without looking into it personally. His company’s reputation is stake.”
“But what are you and the stock commission planning to do?” She was nervously clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap. I felt awful. It was time for me to go.
“Well, this interview is the first step in a very long process. Someone will be in touch with you about the next step.” I stopped the tape recorder and gathered up my things to make a hasty retreat. I stood up to go and Clair Easton jumped out of her chair, too.
“Do you have any idea if I’ll get my money back?” she asked, standing in front of me and blocking my way. She was looking down at me with such fierce intensity that I realized I’d made a big mistake in coming to see this woman. Just how big a mistake I wouldn’t find out until later. Clair Easton wasn’t wrapped too tight and the theft of her money must have caused her to unravel even further.
“Ms. Easton, if Gerald Tate stole your money, then not only will he be prosecuted, but he’ll be made to make restitution. He’ll have to pay every dime of your money back.” I stepped around her and headed for the front door.
“What do you mean if he stole my money?” she shouted as she followed me down the hall. I quickly pulled the door open but she slammed it shut before I could get out. Uh oh!
“Ms. Easton, you really need to calm down. I understand you must be very upset. But I need to go now.” I spoke to her as calmly as I could, hoping she in turn would calm down as well. She didn’t.
“You said if he stole my money. You don’t believe me, do you? I can tell you think I made it all up, don’t you?” She was red in the face and ringing her hands. Suddenly, she grabbed me by my shoulders and leaned down so close to my face that I could tell she’d had something with onions on it for lunch. I held my breath and leaned back.
“Let me go, Ms. Easton.” I pulled out of her grasp and reached around her to grab the doorknob. “Of course I believe you. Now, as I’ve told you, someone will contact you. Have a nice day.” I managed to get the door open, shove past her, and rush outside into the fresh air and sunshine.
“I’m not a liar! He did steal my money! He did! Where are you going? Come back here! I’m not finished with you!” She screamed at me as I practically ran back to my car.
I almost collided with an older couple walking past the house. They looked vaguely familiar. But I couldn’t figure out where I’d seen them. I hopped in my car and took off, leaving them staring from me to Clair Easton who was still screaming at me from her front door.
Later that evening, after my class, I waited around for Cherisse so I could ask her about Ms. Flack’s compact, which was still burning a hole in my purse. But she never showed up. I picked up a turkey sandwich from a nearby deli and headed home, resolving to go see her first thing in the morning. After I’d eaten, I poured myself a big glass of wine and settled myself in front of the TV. I was flipping aimlessly through the channels when there was a loud pounding at the door. Knowing it couldn’t be Carl, I opened the door just a crack. Detective Trish Harmon shoved the door open all the way and came in uninvited followed by her partner, Charles Mercer. Both were grim faced.
“What the hell is this all about? What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering me, Harmon nodded towards the pile of clothing that I’d worn earlier to see Clair Easton. I’d shed the bloodstained clothes as soon as I’d gotten home after my disturbing encounter with the crazy woman and hadn’t had time to toss them in the hamper before leaving for my class. Mercer picked them up and pointed out the bloodstains to Harmon.
“Are these your clothes?” Mercer asked.
“Who else’s would they be?”
“Ms. Clayton, you’ll need to come down to the station with us,” she said, grabbing my upper arm firmly. I yanked out of her grasp.
“Why? What is this about?” I backed away from them.
“We need to talk to you about Clair Easton,” said Harmon, reaching out to grab me again.
Crap! She must have reported me to the police. But I wondered how she’d found out my real name.
I accompanied them to their car, thanking God that Mrs. Carson wasn’t home to witness me being placed into the back of a police car and wondering how much trouble I was in.
Chapter Seventeen
AFTER ARRIVING AT THE Willow Police Department, Harmon and Mercer left me cooling my jets in a police station interrogation room for almost an hour before they finally came in. Mercer sat an ice-filled Styrofoam cup and a can of Coke in front of me. He gave me a friendly smile that I wasn’t buying for a minute. I’d watched enough crime shows to know that they were trying to fill me full of liquids so I’d have to pee, then refuse to take me to the bathroom until I gave them what they wanted—a confession. They weren’t about to get to me though my bladder. I pushed the can away and glared at them.
“Well, Ms. Clayton, I can’t say that I’m surprised. I knew you’d end up here one day,” said Harmon. She looked so smug I was surprised she hadn’t rubbed her hands together in delight. After all, she’d fulfilled a dream by dragging me down here.
“Were you at Clair Easton’s house earlier today?” asked Mercer, managing to look much more neutral than his partner.
“Obviously you know that I was or I wouldn’t be here,” I snapped.
“Why did you go to see Ms. Easton?” Mercer again.
“Ask your partner.” I smiled at Harmon. I was happy to see the smirk vanish from her face. “She’s the one who told me that if I could find any evidence that pointed to Ivy Flack having been a blackmailer that she’d look into it. That’s what I was doing, looking for evidence. You told me I could, remember?”
Mercer looked at his partner with a raised eyebrow and Harmon flushed. “What I told you, Miss Clayton, was that I knew you would do what you wanted regardless of what I said, or thought, which is why you’re here.”
We glared at each other and I again noticed that she was looking much more put together than usual. She was wearing an expensive-looking navy pinstriped pantsuit, that I’d never seen before, with a grey silk shell and high heeled pumps. She was also wearing makeup, and she’d dyed her short hair a rich brown. But it wasn’t just the new clothes and the dye job that were different about her. She seemed much more alive and vibrant than I’d ever seen her. Unlike her usual gloom and doom expression, she actually looked happy, and not just about having dragged me into the station. I didn’t have much time to speculate on the reason for her transformation because Mercer was talking to me again.
“And just what did Clair Easton have to do with your theory that Ivy Flack was a blackmailer?” he asked calmly, always playing the good cop to Harmon’s bad one.
“And why were your fingerprints found on the pair
of hedge clippers that were used to stab her to death?” interjected Harmon, before I could say a word, causing Mercer to sigh and sit back in his chair and cross his arms.
I, on the other hand, sat bolt upright in my chair. I opened my mouth to speak, but the only thing that came out was a loud gasp. Clair Easton was dead? Killed with hedge clippers? The only hedge clippers I’d seen were the ones Mr. Diaz had left behind. The same hedge clippers that I’d picked up and carried into her house. My fingerprints were on those clippers and were on file at the police station because of another murder case I’d been involved with last year. Plus, I had bloodstains on the clothes I wore to her house. No wonder they thought I’d killed her. I had to clear this up and quick.
I filled them in on the details of my visit. I explained why I’d gone to see her. I told about Mr. Diaz cutting himself, his blood staining my clothes, and why I’d touched the clippers. I explained Clair Easton had told me that Gerald Tate had stolen money from her, about her getting upset when she thought I didn’t believe her, and her screaming at me as I left her house. My mouth was dry and I was out of breath when I finished. I opened the Coke and poured it over the half-melted ice and took a long drink, while Harmon and Mercer looked at each other.
“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked after draining the Styrofoam cup. I poured in the remaining Coke and took another sip.
“I don’t know. Do you think you need a lawyer, Ms. Clayton?” replied Harmon.
“I didn’t kill Clair Easton. When I left her house, she was alive. There was a couple walking past the house that saw her yelling at me as I left. The person you need to talk to is Gerald Tate. I had no reason to want Clair Easton dead,” I insisted.
Harmon opened her mouth to speak when the door to the interrogation room opened and a chubby, balding, black uniformed officer poked his head inside the room and gestured for them to come out. I saw that he had a piece of paper in his hand. Mercer got up and walked out of the room, and with great reluctance, Harmon started to follow him. Before she could get out of the room, I stopped her as an all too familiar, and extremely unwanted, sensation crept up on me.
“Hey! I need to go to the restroom,” I told her.
“Tough,” she said, sailing out of the room, smirk firmly intact.
Damn. They got me.
Two hours later, I was finally allowed to go home after Mr. Diaz had been questioned and backed up my story of cutting himself and his leaving his clippers at the house, and the couple that had seen me leaving the Easton house had confirmed that Ms. Easton was alive and screaming when I left. Of course, during this time, I had to pee so bad I’d have confessed to anything at that point, including shooting Tupac…and Biggie. I wondered how long it actually took them to find out the information they needed to clear me. I suspected they’d left me in that room for two hours on purpose, which is why I ultimately grabbed the empty Styrofoam cup, crouched in a corner and took a whiz in it.
I left the cup in the center of the table. When Harmon came in and told me I was free to go, she grabbed the cup too quickly and the warm contents sloshed on the sleeve of her pretty new suit. She got the strangest look on her face and I high-tailed it out of the room before she realized what was in the cup. I heard her loud exclamation of, “Jesus H. Christ!” all the way down the hall as I practically ran out of the station wondering if assaulting a police detective with pee was a felony or a misdemeanor?
I didn’t have my car with me and was on my cell phone calling for a cab when I saw the couple that had been walking past Clair Easton’s house and witnessed her screaming at me. They were going to their car. They had another younger man with them and I suddenly remembered why the couple looked so familiar. They were Dennis Kirby’s parents, and the man with them was Dennis. Great. I quickly headed in the opposite direction for the bus stop when I heard Dennis call my name. I stopped and turned to see him lumbering across the parking lot towards me.
“Do you need a ride?” he asked, shocking the shit out of me. Was this the same man who had threatened me earlier? I even looked around thinking he must be talking to someone else.
“No. I’m serious. You don’t need to take the bus. I can give you a ride home.”
“Why would you want to give a blackmailer a ride home?” I asked, trying hard not to sound pissed.
“I’m sorry, okay. I was just mad about not getting that trainer job I applied for. Then Audrey called and was crying on my shoulder about you accusing her of killing Ms. Flack. Then you showed up and I just took it all out on you. I’m sorry. I really am. Honestly, I didn’t mean any of that shit I said.” I had to admit he did look contrite. I hoped it wasn’t just an act for his parents, who were watching us from the car.
“I never accused Audrey of murdering Ms. Flack,” I said indignantly, though technically I think I had. “And I’m no blackmailer!”
“Okay, I believe you.” He held up his hands. I noticed his wrist was still bandaged. It must have been a really bad sprain to still be bandaged almost two weeks later. “I know better than anybody what a drama queen Audrey is and I know you’d never blackmail anybody.”
“Did you and your parents know Clair Easton?”
“Not really. She was always the neighborhood crackpot. Sometimes she would speak to you and be friendly, and other times she’d look at you like she’d never seen you before. How’d you know her?”
“Long story,” I said. He was waiting for me to elaborate but I wouldn’t. “Did you know Gerald was Clair Easton’s financial consultant?”
“Why would I? Gerald doesn’t discuss his clients with me.” I couldn’t be sure, but I got the feeling he was lying to me. He may not have been serious about what he’d said during our last conversation, but his loyalties were still with Audrey and Gerald.
“And you didn’t know that she claimed he stole fifty thousand dollars from him?”
“So, what, now you think Gerald killed that Easton woman? Man, you sure don’t think very highly of us.” He laughed. I just stared at him. Pissing him off wasn’t the way to get the info I needed.
“I think I’ll take that ride,” I said, giving him a big smile.
I sat in the backseat of Dennis’s black Lexus with his mother, Emma Kirby, who was still a very pretty, petite, blonde woman in her early fifties. Ellis Kirby, Dennis’s father, sat in the front seat. Both of the Kirby’s were polite, especially Emma, who was thrilled to discover that I was the granddaughter of Estelle Mays, who used to work for her family.
“How is Estelle? It’s been years since I’ve seen her,” said Emma Kirby. Up until that point, she hadn’t really paid much attention to me beyond the bounds of common courtesy.
“She’s fine. I’ll tell her you said hello.”
“Since you’re a friend of Dennis’s from high school, you must have known Julian, right?” asked Ellis Kirby partially turning in his seat. I could see Dennis’s jaw clench briefly and wondered if it was due to his father’s assumption that we were friends, or the mention of his deceased cousin.
I also couldn’t help but notice that Dennis didn’t look much like his refined and cultured parents, both of whom were immaculately and expensively dressed in contrast to Dennis’s wrinkled Polo shirt and chinos. Beyond the blue eyes he shared with his mother and the cleft in his chin he got from his father, Dennis didn’t seem to fit. He was like an ostrich in the nest of a pair of swans.
“Well, we didn’t have the same friends. But, yes, I knew him,” I replied politely.
“Kendra was a good girl, Dad, too good to hang with the likes of Julian and me. We were wild men,” chuckled Dennis. His father gave him a tight smile.
“You mean you were a wild man, Denny. I suspect Julian just got dragged along for the ride,” replied Emma Kirby coolly. Ellis Kirby chuckled his agreement.
I could have easily contradicted that statement but kept my mouth shut because apparently the Kirbys didn’t want to hear anything remotely unflattering about their nephew. Poor Dennis. Thinking back on Audrey
’s comments at the last reunion committee meeting about Dennis playing second fiddle to his cousin Julian, it was no wonder he was such a loudmouth. He was looking for attention.
“Why were you at Clair Easton’s house? Did you know her?” asked Emma, turning towards me. Even in the dark car, I could see the curiosity in her eyes.
“I was conducting a marketing survey,” I replied quickly. I met Dennis’s eyes in the rearview mirror and his smirk told me he knew I was lying. His mother seemed to buy it.
“Poor Clair. She was always odd but when her dog died last weekend she went off the deep end.”
“Did she find out what killed him?” Dennis’s father asked.
“Jeeves was killed?” I said more to myself then anyone. I wondered why Clair Easton hadn’t mentioned that fact during our meeting.
“She found him dead in her backyard last Saturday night. He must have gotten into some rat poison that she kept in her garden shed,” replied Emma Kirby.
“Man, when she found him you could hear her screaming like she’d been shot. I bet you could hear her from six blocks away,” Dennis said, shaking his head sadly.
“That dog was all she had. She never married or had children or anything. She was alone. It was so sad,” Emma Kirby replied, pulling the sweater of her Kelly green twinset closed to ward off the chill of the air conditioning. I noticed she was wearing a gorgeous pearl drop bracelet. Before I could compliment her on it, Ellis Kirby spoke up.
“Then she should have kept the damned dog inside. She let it roam all over the neighborhood. It dug up my azaleas.” Ellis Kirby sounded highly put out.
“They’re both dead, dear. I think your flowers are quite safe now.” The sarcasm in Emma Kirby’s voice cut her husband to the quick and he gave her an embarrassed look before fiddling with the radio dial.
“Dad does have a point, Mom,” said Dennis in an attempt to lighten the mood. “She used to walk that dog at all hours. I’ve come home at three in the morning and passed her walking Jeeves. He was so hyper she was running through everyone’s yards trying to catch him. It was the funniest damned thing I ever saw.” Ellis Kirby chuckled heartily, but Emma remained silent.