Dying in the Dark

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  Someone had put it back in a hurry. It was a person who didn't know the significance of those glasses and her attachment to them, someone who had that appointment I'd asked for on Thursday morning and knew her well enough to share a drink. It was the person who possessed the gun that killed Celia Jones.

  I walked out of the house in a daze. I looked for DeLorca, but he was nowhere to be seen. I walked past Drew Sampson and his son, avoiding Sampson's eyes; I didn't want him to see what was in mine. The winter sun was blinding, and I tripped on a crack as I made my way down the sidewalk. I walked fast, not looking to my left or right. I bumped smack into Larry Walton, who was making his way toward Sampson and his son. He was as shocked to see me as I was him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We seem to be making a habit of bumping into each other in tragic situations. I don't like it,” said Larry Walton. “What are you doing here?”

  “What about you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “I had an appointment with Annette Sampson,” I said, even though it was none of his business. “We made it several days ago. The cops are saying she committed suicide. They also say she killed Celia, but I have my doubts about that.” I watched him carefully for any sign of what he was thinking, but there were no revealing changes in face, voice, or manner. He just heaved out a sigh accompanied with a nod toward Drew Sampson and his son.

  “He called me a couple of hours ago and said there was trouble, but he didn't say what it was. The cops wouldn't let me in. He mentioned something about pills and liquor, which I can't say surprised me. Annette has had a drinking problem for years. But he didn't say anything about Celia. What makes them think Annette had something to do with that?”

  “They found a gun under her pillow, and they're sure it was the same one that killed Celia. But I don't think Annette killed herself or Celia, and I'm sure of it now,” I added.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don't think you want to hear it,” I said, nodding toward Sampson, who glanced at me with undisguised contempt. Larry gazed at his friend longer than was necessary, then shook his head. I couldn't read what was in his eyes.

  “I think we'd better talk. I could use a drink, how about you?”

  “Okay,” I said, far more interested in what he had to say than drinking with him.

  “Restaurant? Bar? Your place? Mine? You choose.”

  “Do you know where my office is?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Can you meet me there in half an hour? But I don't have anything stronger than tea.”

  “That's fine.” He glanced at Drew Sampson, then away from him, clearly distressed. “I need an hour, though. I want to take Drew and Drew Junior home. I've got to talk to him.”

  “Exactly what do you owe him?”

  He walked away without answering, like a man with something on his mind.

  I didn't wait around to watch Sampson's response. I wanted to get back to my office as quickly as I could to make some notes and put down what was on my my mind while things were still fresh. I wasn't sure what part Larry Walton played in all of this; I had never been sure. It was time for me to try to sort things out.

  Who was Larry Walton, I wondered, and what did he really know? Why was he so loyal to Sampson, whom I was sure had something to do with both women's deaths. Sampson had been the first one on the scene of his wife's supposed suicide. He had a key to her place, and he could have paid her a surprise visit early yesterday morning. Or maybe he had that morning appointment with her. If the boy had been staying with him like the cops said, maybe he and Annette had gotten together to talk about their son's welfare.

  They had been married once. He had given her the prescription for pills. Maybe they'd had a drink—one for old times’ sake. I knew from personal experience that Annette would have been up for that. It would be easy to dissolve sleeping pills in liquor beforehand, to make a lethal potion that would work quickly.

  As a pharmacist, Sampson knew exactly what would happen and how long it would take if you mixed barbiturates with liquor. Barbiturates depressed brain activity, and alcohol made the drugs work fast. Within thirty minutes, Annette would become so confused and dizzy she'd have no choice but to go to bed. Her blood pressure would drop to a dangerous level, her heartbeat would slow down, and she would slip quickly into a coma. He could have sat there beside her on the bed until she was unconscious, then slip anything he wanted to under her pillow and leave. Within hours, she would be dead.

  A chilling thought came to me, one so disturbing I nearly turned my car into traffic. What if my accusations at the Businessman's Club had scared him enough to make him desperate, to make him want to get rid of any suspicious links to Celia's death. Did Annette remember something that would incriminate him? Was that what she wanted to tell me?

  Was I responsible for this woman's death?

  But maybe I was wrong. God knew, I'd been wrong before.

  Maybe Annette Sampson had killed Celia Jones, then herself. Maybe it happened just like everybody said it did.

  But there was still the matter of that fancy, misplaced glass.

  If not Sampson, then who?

  Chessman.

  I could almost hear Celia say it. The only proof I had about his feelings toward Celia was his word.

  Once a chess player always a chess player, he had told me over brunch. Just how good a chess player was he?

  I parked in the lot across from my office, and popped my head into the Biscuit before I headed upstairs.

  Obviously between appointments, Wyvetta sat leisurely reading a magazine. Concern came into her eyes when she saw me. “You okay, girl? You look like hell, but your hair still looks good!” she added, giving herself a pat on the back.

  “You know that woman I was rushing out to meet at three? Well, she's dead,” I said, which brought a gasp from Wyvetta.

  “Dead! Oh Lord! What happened? Somebody did her in, huh?” Expectation mixed with morbid curiosity flashed in her eyes.

  “No. They think she killed herself.”

  “Oh Lord in heaven!” Wyvetta shook her head dramatically and raised one hand into the air as if she were in church. “Honey, maybe you should do yourself a favor, go home, make some dinner, and crawl into bed. My five o'clock canceled on me, so if you need something before you hit the road, I got that bourbon if you want to share a couple of shots,” she added.

  “Maybe later, I got somebody coming by.”

  “Who?” Her voice was apprehensive.

  “You know Larry Walton, the guy who owns Rayson's Used Cars?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do,” Wyvetta said with a grin. “Earl bought a used car from him a couple years ago, and it's still on the road. Now that's one good-looking man!” she added with a wink.

  I chuckled despite myself, realizing just how much I needed Wyvetta's sense of humor.

  ‘Ain't like that, girl,” I said. “I'm through with all that for a while.”

  “Okay, Tamara Hayle, if that's what you say,” Wyvetta added, rolling her eyes.

  “Tonight's your late night, right?”

  “Usually is, but I had two cancellations. Can you believe that? I got my last one at six o'clock, which is too early for a Friday night. But stop by before you go home, okay? Maybe we can go get something to eat,” she added, still anxious about my well-being.

  “Sounds good,” I said, heading upstairs.

  I turned on my computer, straightened up my office, washed out my extra mug, and dusted off the chair across from my desk, remembering with a stab of sorrow that Cecil Jones had been the last person to occupy it. Had I done right by the kid? I wasn't so sure.

  After about an hour, I turned off the computer and pulled out my black-and-white notebook, ready to take down anything of note that Larry might say. He was a punctual man, and he knocked on my door an hour to the minute. I made a pot of tea,
settling on chamomile, which would do my jangling nerves some good, and poured two cups.

  “Nice place you've got here,” he said as we sipped our tea. “Oh, by the way, I sent in my resignation to the Businessman's Club,” he said after a moment.

  My expression must have betrayed my feelings, because he quickly said, “Listen, maybe you shouldn't have done what you did, attacking Drew in public like that, but they sure as hell didn't have the right to throw a lady out on the sidewalk.”

  “Sorry I used your name,” I muttered.

  He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal that made me recall the incident of his shirt and my greasy fish sandwich so many years before.

  “I didn't like the way they treated you. I'm damn sure not going to belong to an organization that will treat a woman with disrespect. The moment I heard about it, I sent in my resignation, and I called other men I do business with and encouraged them to do the same; several of them have. You can expect a formal apology from the chairman very shortly. If you haven't received it by this time next week, let me know.”

  “Well, that's nice to hear. Thank you,” I said, pleasantly surprised. “But that club is not what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?”

  “No,” he said, dropping his eyes to the floor, obviously not ready to share his thoughts.

  “Why don't you tell me?”

  “You've got to understand that what I'm about to say is very hard for me. I don't like betraying my friend. But I think I'd better go with what's right, and this feels right to me.” He glanced up, his expression anguished. “I trust you, Tamara. I'm going to take your advice on whatever you say I should do.”

  “Then you've got to tell me.”

  “This is hard for me.”

  “It's about Drew Sampson, isn't it?” I asked, my eyes not leaving his.

  “Yeah. I just don't know what to think about what happened this afternoon. Annette, well—” He shook his head.

  I gave him a moment. “Do you think he had something to do with his wife's death?”

  “I don't know what to think. To tell the truth, he didn't seem as upset about Annette's death as he should have been, and that bothers me. He lived with that woman for years before Celia, she bore him a son, and for that alone he should have shown more feeling, but there was nothing.”

  “What did he say happened?”

  “He told me that the boy came back home, to Annette's house, when he found out that his friend Pikhad been stabbed to death. Drew Junior was scared out of his wits, and Annette was scared, too. She called Drew that night, and he came by to take his boy to his place. They agreed it would be safer for him there. That was late on Wednesday.”

  So her son was the one who came into the room when Annette called me Wednesday night. But had he been the only person there?

  “So what happened then?”

  “Drew said his son was with him until he found the body Friday, which was when he called the cops. They went to pick up the boy's clothes. You know the rest.”

  “So was his son with him the whole time? Did he leave him alone at any point?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Do you know what happened to my brother?” I said after a moment, going in another direction.

  Concern for me came into his eyes. “Yeah. I heard when it happened, but I didn't know how to reach you or I would have. It was a real tragedy. He was a good brother.”

  “My good brother.”

  “It happened a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, and that's why I'm bringing it up now. I'm worried about the Sampson kid. Suicide is a terrible legacy for a child. A lot of studies show that if a parent commits suicide, the child is at high risk, too. She didn't seem depressed when I saw her, and she was a smart woman. I don't think Annette would have put her child at risk like that.”

  “Liquor can change a mood quickly.”

  “Yes, that's true,” I said, conceding that.

  “So you don't think she killed herself like the cops say?” He looked worried, and I found that puzzling.

  “I think somebody else did it, and the same person must have killed Celia, too, because they had the gun. It was a .22, the same caliber weapon as the one that killed Celia.”

  ‘And you think it would be better for Drew Junior to think that his father killed his mother and her lover? That he's a murderer?” He looked at me in disbelief, and I thought hard about what I was going to say before I answered him.

  “I think that he has to know the truth, whatever that is. Once a person knows the truth he can learn to deal with it. Lies are what destroy a child, especially a lie like that.”

  Larry sat for a while, sipping his tea and gazing out my dirty office window. I didn't rush him. I was pretty sure what he had to say, and the fact that he was here showed me he had decided to level with me. Finally he put the mug down and cleared his throat.

  “You know we all came up together, me, Drew, Clayton. I can't think of any other men, not any that I had as much feeling for, that I loved as much as I loved the two of them. I would have done anything for Clay and I'd do anything for Drew if it came to that.”

  “I remember the three of you as teenagers,” I said, wondering when he was going to tell me what I wanted to hear.

  “It just about killed me when Clay died as sudden as he did. We'd had a lot of fun together. He was wild as hell.”

  “So I've heard.”

  “I didn't mention this before, but Clay was the one who put me back in touch with Celia after all these years. He ran into her through Drew. She had contacted Drew looking for a handout, long before she knew his wife, I might add. He gave it to her because Drew can be a very generous dude. Most folks don't know that about him. When Clay died, all I had left was Drew.”

  “So you felt you had to lie for him about where he was the morning Celia was murdered,” I said, eagerly leaping ahead to the point I was sure he was trying to make.

  He gave me an odd glance that I wasn't sure how to interpret.

  “Most of what I told you was true,” he said. “We did get stinking drunk, and I did fall out on his couch. I was still sick about my wife leaving me and about the general state of my life. Clayton, my other best friend, had died in August and it was New Year's Eve, five months to the day of his death. I had been depressed as hell at the thought of being alone on New Year's Eve, so we decided to spend it together. I left early the next morning.”

  “How early?”

  ‘Around five, maybe six. I'd promised my daughter I'd take her to dinner on New Year's Day, and I wanted to get an early start so I'd be there on time. I just stretched the truth a little, Tamara. I was with my daughter on New Year's Day when Celia was killed.”

  “No, Larry, Celia was killed around eight o'clock in the morning, so you were on the road when Celia was killed, not with your daughter. Why did you lie to me?”

  “Because Drew asked me to say I was with him when she was killed.”

  “You think he killed her, don't you?” I looked him straight in the eye, but despite what most people believe, looking a liar in the eye won't get you anything but a lie told without blinking.

  “I don't want to believe it, but maybe he did.”

  “I'll tell you what you can believe in, Larry,” I said after a moment. He had focused his eyes on my window, looking hard at something I couldn't see. When his gaze met mine, I could see there were tears in his eyes. I wasn't sure who he was crying for—Celia, Drew, or himself.

  “You can believe in the truth, Larry. The truth always beats out a lie. It's the only thing you can build on. You told me what you know and now I want you to tell the police, because if you gave Drew Sampson an alibi and he killed Celia Jones, then he probably killed his wife, too. And if you don't come clean about what you know, you are as guilty as he is.

  “If he's a killer, you could very well be putting your life in danger, and my life, too, for that matter. You don't know what is truly in somebody's heart. You think you know, but you n
ever do, which is why folks are always surprised when the beast living in somebody's soul rears up and bites them on the ass.”

  He smiled at that, and I offered him some more tea, which he drank without comment until I broke the silence. “Drew Sampson is taking his kid and heading out of the country, isn't he?”

  “That's what he told me when I talked to him earlier.”

  “When did he say he was going?”

  ‘As soon as he can pack.”

  “I'm going to call a detective I know on the police force here in town and ask if we can have an appointment to see him. Will you come with me?”

  “Tell me when and where and we can go in together.”

  We shook hands then, and I watched him as he went downstairs, his head bowed down, his foot unsteady. He walked like a man who had wrestled with demons and wasn't sure he'd won.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  As soon as Larry Walton left, I made my call to Detective Griffin. The officer who answered the phone put me on hold for a long time. I wasn't surprised.

  ‘Ah, Ms. Hayle. What can I do for you this evening?” Griffin said when he finally picked up. I detected that trace of annoyance that creeps into the voice of weary public servants forced to deal with a pain in the butt member of society. I could almost see him glancing at his watch.

  “Thanks for taking my call, Detective. I know it's late, and I—”

  “Yes, Ms. Hayle, you just caught me. I was on my way out the door. My wife has tickets for a concert at NJPAC, and I'm running late. Could this possibly wait until Monday? As a matter of fact, it's going to have to wait until Monday.”

  “Please don't hang up, sir.” I threw in the “sir” for good measure. “I'm sure you heard about what happened over in Belvington Heights this afternoon.”

  “Yeah. I got a call from DeLorca over there. He wanted some info on Celia Jones confirmed. He mentioned that you were there on some business. By the way, he thinks very highly of you. Well, I guess that solves your case for you. You can go on back to your—”