Dying in the Dark

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  “She showed them to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did they say?”

  He closed his eyes like a kid does when something scares him.

  “I don't like to say those kinds of words,” he said, his mouth pursed like a prissy little girl, which brought to mind Old Man Morgan.

  “Tell me what the goddamn things said!” I was losing patience.

  “You fucking immoral, diseased cunt. You fucking immoral cunt. You fucking immoral diseased cunt. You have no right to live when others have died. That and other things written again and again and again down the page. Other things too nasty to repeat out loud.”

  “I get the idea. Cecil never mentioned letters to me,” I said, as much to myself as to him, but no mother in her right mind would share garbage like that with her son. “Did he know about them?”

  “Yeah, I think she may have mentioned them to him, but she didn't want him to be scared for her. She didn't show them to him because they were too mean.”

  I thought of my own son then, and how I keep things that scare me from him, and my heart softened again toward my old friend and the boy she loved.

  “What did they look like? What kind of paper?”

  “Nice paper. Like the kind you write invitations on. When she got the first one, Celia thought somebody was inviting her somewhere fancy. They had a nice feel to them, that paper. Like silk, almost. So many nasty words on such pretty paper.”

  He shook his head with a sad smile, then a light came into his eyes as if he remembered something. “They were written in red, and sometimes the letters were blurred. Not like a pencil or ballpoint pen, but real ink like my daddy used to sign checks before he died. The kind you put into a pen. The writing is prettier when it comes out than it is from a ballpoint pen.”

  Cunt. That was Annette Sampson's word for Celia. She probably had fountain pens, too, and colored inks.

  “Once she said that she thought the letters had something to do with a relationship that came out her past.”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  He shook his head at a loss. “I don't know but I think she meant something that happened a long time ago, that wasn't important to her anymore.”

  My thoughts swung back to Drew Sampson. Maybe he didn't know that Annette's relationship with Celia was over. Larry said she had asked him for money, and he had generously given it to her. Had there been more to his relationship to Celia Jones than anybody knew?

  Dawson began to play with his straw like a kid does when he doesn't know what to do with his hands. “She was going to bring the letters over to you, so you could see them, maybe help her figure out what to do about them, when she got them back from Annette.”

  ‘Annette had them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you mention the letters to the police when they questioned you?”

  “I told them, but they didn't think it amounted to much. They didn't think it was all that important. I think they misjudged her. I think they thought she was the kind of woman who would get letters like that.”

  I took a sip of my coffee, and he finished his orange soda, sucking it up loudly.

  “You knew the people in her life. Do you have any idea who could have sent them?”

  The expression on his face was impossible to read. “I thought it was Annette at first. She felt like Celia had betrayed her because she was mad and jealous when Celia moved out. She said a lot of hateful things to Celia, things you shouldn't say to anybody. I thought it was Annette, and I think Celia thought it might be, too. That was why she took them to her, to confront her, but when she came home she said it wasn't Annette.”

  ‘And she was sure it wasn't?”

  “She said Annette wanted to keep the letters because she thought she might know who wrote them, but she never told Celia who did.”

  I wondered why Annette hadn't mentioned them when we spoke. Unless she had confronted the person and thought things were resolved.

  ‘Annette was so mad at her when she broke off with her. She called her all kinds of things,” he said as if speaking to himself.

  ‘Annette told me Celia was pregnant with your child, but that wasn't true, was it?”

  “Celia told Annette that was why she was leaving her, but she was lying about that. I told Celia to go on and tell the woman the truth, but Celia didn't want to hurt her more than she had to, and figured that lying about why she was leaving, saying she was going to have a baby would make her feel better.

  “Celia had herself fixed a couple of years ago. She couldn't have no kids. She said it was hard enough for her to take care of one child without having another. She said she liked to do it without rubbers, and if she was fixed she didn't have to use them.”

  That piece of information was delivered with a smile that gave me the creeps. Risk-taking had obviously still been part of Celia's behavior. If that gun hadn't killed her, risky sex might have done the job sooner or later. What truly amazed me was the number of lovers—both men and women—who had gone along for the ride. I wondered if Celia had been tested for AIDS and if she could have tested positive. That would have given somebody a reason to shoot her through the womb.

  “So you never used condoms when you slept with Celia?”

  “No,” he said as if puzzled.

  ‘And, considering her history, you weren't afraid of catching AIDS or something?”

  “How could you say that about Celia, that she would have something terrible like that! I would have been proud for her to be the mother of my children, if she could have them. I would never have insulted her by suggesting that she could have something like that.” His voice was filled with outrage and disdain at my suggestion.

  Now this is a fool, I said to myself.

  “I think you should know something. I found out this afternoon that Annette Sampson is dead. The cops say that she killed herself, and that she killed Celia.”

  He put his hands over his face, shaking his head from side to side as if absorbing in small doses what I'd just told him.

  “No,” he said. “I don't believe that. Annette didn't kill Celia. She loved Celia, why would she kill her?”

  “I don't know, but that's what the police are saying.”

  He dropped his hands from his face. “They're wrong.” He stared at his soda, playing with the straw and finally pushing it away. “Celia and I spent New Year's Eve together. I left her early in the morning, and then somebody killed her, but it wasn't Annette.”

  “Do you have any idea who did?”

  “No.”

  “Was she expecting anybody after you left?”

  “She just said she hoped this year would be better than last year, and she would see me later on. That's all she said, and the next thing I knew she was dead.”

  He shook his head in a sad, weary motion. “Cecil said you were the last chance.”

  “Last chance?”

  “The last chance to find out who killed his mother. Celia told him about you, too. The same way she told me, that you were her used-to-be-best-friend. It was just you and him that was left over from her life. You two were the only ones she ever mentioned to me.”

  I was puzzled. “Me and him, meaning me and Cecil?”

  “No. Him. That man.” He looked at me strangely, as if I should know who he was talking about. “She never told me his name. It was the man she lost her cherry to when she was in high school. The man who she said treated her like nothing and then tried to make up for it when he saw her again. She always said she was a little bit in love with him, but not much because she was in love with me,” he added proudly, as if trying to prove something to himself.

  ‘And she never told you who this man was?”

  “She said he was an important man now. Big-time. Someone who knew a lot of people and had a lot of influence. She used to say he had respect. Big respect. And that if he could have, he would have helped her again.”

  “What did she mean by that?” I asked him
, but he shrugged, and I wasn't sure if that was all she said or if he was simply tired of talking about it. He looked tired and scared. I wasn't sure why.

  ‘And you don't think this man could have had something to do with Celia's death?”

  “She only mentioned him once. We were talking about our past, and I asked her who she had done it with the first time in high school. She was fourteen and he was seventeen. She said she'd been seeing him for a while, but it was over now for good, and that was all she said.” He paused for a moment as if still trying to figure out what all this meant, and then added something I knew.

  “If Celia didn't want to talk about something she didn't talk about it. When the letters started coming, she said the letters might have something to do with him, and then that was that. She went to Annette with them, then she was going to go to you, and then she was dead. Can I go now?” he asked, as if he were in school or still lying on my floor with my cell phone up against his head.

  When I told him he could, he beat it out of that dirty little cafe like his tail was on fire. I ordered another cup of lousy coffee and thought about what he'd just said.

  Him.

  Who had she had the biggest crush on? It had been one of the three of them, that much I knew. Larry Walton. Drew Sampson. Clayton Donovan. They had run the school and maybe one of them— or all—had slept with her. But only one had been her “first time,” as Dawson put it. What did that past have to do with this present?

  A B C D

  A for Annette or Aaron. B for Brent. C for Chessman. D for Drew.

  Once a chess player always a chess player.

  But hadn't he agreed to go with me to the cops on Monday? Or was that part of his plan, too? Celia Jones had been the only person who knew the truth about their relationship. But maybe there had been another. Maybe Annette Sampson knew something, too. The thing that she had planned to tell me before she was murdered.

  Drew Sampson hated Celia Jones, there was no doubt about that. But could their past have been intertwined in ways that nobody knew? Could his feelings have run deeper than anybody guessed? Could he and Chessman be in it together?

  A B C D

  Or did those letters mean nothing at all?

  Annette might have had an alibi for that morning. Rebecca Donovan might have seen or spoken to her then or the night before, and knew more than she should have. One thing I was sure of, she didn't know that Annette Sampson was dead, and that would give someone an advantage. Someone she might trust. Someone who knew where to find her. The hair stood up on my neck then, like it does when a breeze hits it wrong or somebody evil walks across my grave. Rebecca Donovan was in danger, I was sure of that now. I had to let her know it before she became his victim, too.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I went back to my office and called Rebecca Donovan. Her answering service told me she was out of town, which I already knew. I told the woman who answered the phone that it was a matter of “life and death,” and she promised to relay my message “when Ms. Donovan called,” but I was sure it wouldn't be relayed with the proper urgency.

  My only chance of warning her was to tell her in person, which meant I'd have to find out wherever the hell she was in Connecticut and either convince her to come home or ask her to alert the proper authorities. I couldn't remember the name of the town, although I was certain that it started with an ‘A,” so I tried to access a map of Connecticut on the Net, but the dial-up service on my old-ass computer took so long, I decided to use Jamal's computer at home. Friday night was a late night for my fish fry place, so I picked up a sandwich, fries, and a tossed salad to make me feel virtuous and headed home. After I'd eaten, I went through Jamal's geography software and scrolled through Connecticut cities and towns, until I found one that sounded familiar: Ashton, Connecticut. Population 2,100, founded in 1710.

  The town was in the eastern part of the state, about a three-hour drive from Jersey. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel like forgetting the whole thing, and spending my Saturday morning doing nothing, like I usually do, but if something happened to the woman, it would be with me for the rest of my life. Besides that, I'd get a chance to test out my new car on a serious road trip. If I left by seven, I'd be there around ten, a decent enough hour to drop in on somebody with bad news. I would offer a shoulder to cry on along with any assistance I could, treat myself to lunch at a country restaurant somewhere, and be back home in time to take Jamal to Red Lobster. I got directions from MapQuest (Jamal would be proud of me!), took a warm bath, and was in bed by eleven. Sleep didn't come easily, though. I woke up at four in the morning with a dozen what-ifs racing through my mind.

  What if Annette had told Rebecca what she was planning to tell me before she was murdered and her killer knew it? What if he was trying to get to her before she found out about Annette? What if he had killed her already? What if he was still there? That last what-if made me jump up in the middle of the night and drop my .38 into my Kenya bag.

  Drew Sampson was on my mind when I unlocked the safe where I keep it, and Larry Walton wasn't far behind, although I didn't want to believe it was him. He had always seemed like a nice man, but anyone can change from good to bad to worse. I wished now I'd gone ahead and called his ex-wife again to verify where he was when Celia was killed. Maybe he had gambled on my not doing it. His business depended on knowing what people would and wouldn't do. Maybe he had given me the number assuming I wouldn't call.

  At this point, I didn't know what the truth was about anybody— not Drew Sampson or Larry Walton. What I did know, though, was that a cell phone up against the back of the head wouldn't fool either of them. I don't like guns, but I needed to be able to protect myself and anybody else who needed protection.

  Later that morning, I put a slice of leftover fish into the microwave, made some strong coffee, and hit the Parkway with Cassandra Wilson and Mary J blasting from my CD player. It started snowing around eight-thirty It was a slushy mess, melting before my wipers could hit it good, but it was sticking to the road. There was no traffic; anybody with good sense was still in bed, and I drove cautiously, fearful of sliding. Jamal would never forgive me if I wrecked our new car.

  Snow was coming down hard by the time I got to Hartford, and the roads were dangerously slippery. I don't have much experience driving in the snow. In the city, it turns to mush the moment it hits the ground. It was Saturday, so the snowplows were taking their sweet time getting out. If the roads got worse, I'd probably have to check into a motel. More than likely, though, Rebecca Donovan would offer to put me up for the night, and that meant I'd have to call Jake and ask him to let Jamal stay with him. I hadn't spoken to Jake since my last visit. Maybe it was pride or just old-fashioned stubbornness, but I was determined to wait for him to call me.

  I thought about him as I drove. The snow falling softly on my windshield and Cassandra's sensual, mellow voice reminded me of the tenderness I've always felt for the man. With or without Ramona Covington, there would always be a place for him in my heart. The question was, how big a place would it be and would anybody else ever fill it?

  Jake was on my mind as I passed the sign for Ashton and pulled into a 7-Eleven for gas. In Connecticut, as in most other states beside Jersey, you can pump your own gas, so after I'd filled my tank I went into the store to pay and check the phone book for Donovan; I hoped they were listed. There was a C. Donovan on Ebbets Road, and I assumed that was her. I called the number, but nobody answered. I hoped Rebecca hadn't changed her mind and gone somewhere else. Or that somebody hadn't reached her before me. I didn't want to think about that.

  “Getting bad out,” the man behind the counter said when I paid for the gas. He had a chiseled, thin face with the hint of a beard and an elfish grin. He looked too old to be working at a convenience store in weather like this. I made a mental note to check the status of my SEP/IRA.

  “Yeah, it's coming down.”

  “You new to these parts?”

  ‘Actually I'm looking for a fr
iend.”

  “Donovans?”

  I had to smile and was tempted to say “no” just to throw him off. “Yes, do they live far from here?”

  “Ebbets Road. Right down the road. Judge Donovan used to come in here all the time to pick up the New York Times when he was with us. Not too many folks here take the New York Times every morning, but he was in here like clockwork, every day at eight A.M. to pick up his paper. She, the missus, came in here this morning to pick up some rock salt, though. Nice lady, Mrs. Donovan. Shame what happened.”

  “Yes it was,” I said, thankful that she was home, but wondering why she hadn't answered the phone. At least she was alive this morning.

  “Nice people,” he added again.

  “So, has anybody else stopped by to get gas, somebody who might be looking for them?” I asked.

  “Somebody from out of town looking for Mrs. Donovan?” His tone said that “out of town” was a euphemism for “black person.” “Not on a day like this.”

  “How do I get to Ebbets Road?” I asked as I slipped the change from my twenty into my bag.

  “She didn't tell you?” His eyes were suddenly suspicious. “The roads around here are tricky. Most folks give their guests directions.”

  “She did, but would you believe I left them on the kitchen table, along with her number!” I squeaked out a silly-little-me giggle.

  “Not hard. Stay on this road about six miles. Take a left on Rankin Road, then turn right on Ebbets. Name's on the box. It's green, I think.”

  I thanked him, went back to my car, and cautiously pulled onto the road. A snowplow trudged ahead of me, and I was grateful for that. It was snowing so hard, I could barely see the road.

  What if he was still there?

  I took the left onto Rankin Road and then on to Ebbets Road with a sense of foreboding.

  It was a beautiful country road, and under different circumstances, I would have enjoyed the view. The road was narrow and curvy, and the trees hanging over the road were heavy with snow, and looked as if they belonged on a Christmas card. The houses were set back from the road, but I easily spotted the Donovan's bright green mailbox and pulled to the curb. It was a small, white house with green shutters that matched the mailbox. Snow had piled up high in the driveway, and several lights were burning in the living room; smoke drifted from the chimney.