by Angela Henry
Sixteen
“You have got to be kidding me.” I was lying on Mason’s couch, after spending hours in the ER getting checked out.
Although I had a cut on my forehead that had bled a lot, it had taken only a few stitches to close. Miraculously, I didn’t have a concussion, but I did have a monster headache, courtesy of Dwayne Roper, who was now a guest of the Willow County Police department.
“Dwayne Roper was Dibb Bentley’s cellmate in prison?” I was still astounded. Mason handed me a mug of hot tea, and to my great annoyance sat in one of the chairs on the other side of the couch. But I guessed, given what had happened the last time we were on the couch, it was for the best.
“Apparently, they had a nice little racket going with fraud, blackmail, and identity theft. Brenda Howard got recruited once Dibb Bentley got out of prison. She was the bait in the honey trap. No telling how many victims were on the hook for that alone. Believe it or not, Bentley and Roper were telemarketers in prison. They had access to credit card information, bank records, and home addresses. And they made good use of it once they got out. But Roper got out first, over a year ago, and got greedy. Wanted it all for himself. He killed them both.”
“Are these facts or just theories?” It certainly sounded plausible, and I was happy and relieved that Lewis was off the hook. But I still had so many questions—like why was Dibb looking for Lewis? What did he leave at his apartment all those years ago? Because I now knew it wasn’t the ledger, or at least not just the ledger.
“We’re searching his place now. It’s only a matter of time before we find the murder weapons. And you dodged a major bullet. He was living with some other sucker, I mean victim, he met on Web of Love. Poor woman thought he was going to marry her. She didn’t even know his real name, let alone that he was slowly siphoning money from her savings account.” I glared at him. But he was right. I had dodged a bullet. This poor woman was the big fish he had on the hook. And now that I thought about it, Dwayne Roper’s interest in me took a steep nosedive when he’d realized I didn’t have any money.
“And what about the key he was looking for?’
“We found paperwork for a bank safe deposit box at his girlfriend’s house. He must have all his stolen money and credit cards and possibly a fake passport that he needed in order to get out of Dodge in that safe deposit box. Any clue on how he could have lost it at your grandma’s place?” His laser-like stare bored a hole in my face.
I reached down to stroke Queenie’s head as she lay on the floor next to the couch. No way in hell I was going to tell him Dwayne Roper almost got lucky in Mama’s house. Whatever Mr. Roper disclosed about that night under interrogation could be chalked up to him getting revenge on me for using him as a human pin cushion and easily refuted.
“No wonder he was so desperate to find it,” I said, ignoring his question. “But something still feels a bit off about it.” As much as I wanted Lewis to be off the hook, Dwayne Roper being the killer just seemed a little too convenient.
“You know what your problem is?”
“Enlighten me.” I took a sip of my tea and waited.
“You’re addicted to drama.”
“What?”
“It’s true,” he said, grinning at me. “You love poking around in other people’s shady business, tracking down information and digging up dirt. My mom had a word for people like you.”
“Driven? Adventurous? Truth seeker? Champion of justice?” I sat my mug down on the coffee table.
“Uh, no. That’s seven words. And if my mom was here she’d call you a busybody,” he concluded. I snorted with laughter.
“I’m sure your mother was a perfectly lovely woman, especially for putting up with you. But, sorry, she’d be wrong. You see, a busybody just gossips and constantly meddles in other folk’s business no matter the occasion. I, on the other hand, investigate and dig up clues in order to help people I know and love who are being unfairly accused of crimes they did not commit. Big difference.”
“You’re admitting that you’ve got feelings for Lewis Watts then?” he deadpanned. I lobbed a pillow at him in response. He threw it back.
It escalated into a pillow fight and ended up with him pinning me down on the couch with one hand while tickling me with the other as I kicked and screamed with laughter. He finally stopped and I lay there panting and staring up at him. Our eyes locked as he let go of my wrists and gently stroked my cheek with his fingers. And then, the dam broke. I started to cry. Everything had finally caught up with me—my brake line being cut, Lewis getting shot trying to protect me, and Dwayne Roper attacking me. I’d almost been killed. Three times. I knew I was a reckless idiot. But I wasn’t made of stone. I didn’t sob. But the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. Mason pulled me into his lap and just held me. He didn’t ask me what was wrong. He knew. Nor did he offer meaningless words of comfort. He just held me so close his heartbeat echoed in my ear. And when the tears finally stopped, he picked me up, carried me into the bedroom, tucked me in bed, and kissed me goodnight.
“Mason,” I said, stopping him before he got out the door. “I’m sorry about the other night. You know: the ice cream, the kissing. Things got out of hand. I don’t want it to be awkward and weird between us.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, opening the door. “Because I’m sure not.” And then he was gone.
I slept in late the next morning and was awakened by Queenie licking my ear and whining for me to get up. Mason had long since gone to work by the time I rolled out of bed. A lemon poppy seed muffin, fruit salad, and a bottle of aspirin sat on the kitchen counter with a note that read.
Miss Busybody,
You are free to go back to your own apartment. But your grandmother’s house is off limits until further notice. Enjoy your breakfast, and I hope you feel better. Stay out of trouble!
PS: I fed and walked the Queen.
M
I smiled and made myself a cup of tea and washed two aspirin down, along with the muffin and fruit salad. After I washed up my dishes, I called work to let them know I wouldn’t be in, then I showered, dressed, grabbed my stuff and Queenie and went home to my apartment.
It felt wonderful to be home. I cracked all the windows to let fresh air, in not caring that it was only twenty degrees out. I made the bed with fresh, clean bedding, cleaned and mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors, and dusted and ran the sweeper. When I was finished I sat on my couch in front of the TV and put my feet up on the coffee table. Queenie, who’d watched me clean while lounging on the couch, jumped down, knocking over my purse, which had been on the couch between us. The contents spilled out all over the floor, including the copy of the ledger and the picture I’d taken from Brenda’s apartment. That’s when I noticed that unlike my copy of the ledger, which Mason had taken from me, Brenda’s copy had all the pages that had fallen out of the back of the original, along with notations marked through in red pencil.
Each Gem had a column that listed dates and times with clients only identified by their initials. I had no clue who the other men were besides CN, Charles Newcastle, aka Mr. Golden Shower. According to the ledger, Charles Newcastle was one of Diamond’s clients. The other Gems had regular clients as well; Ruby and Pearl often shared clients and even serviced clients together. Emerald’s, (Joyce Kirkland’s) client list had the words dates only listed next to most of her clients, which backed up what I’d read in her dissertation. She was the only Gem who didn’t have a list of sex acts next to her nickname.
The red marks that Brenda had made to the photocopied pages were only to Diamond’s sections. She’d circled a couple of dates so hard that the pencil had almost broken through the paper. The last date she circled was July 15, 1973. On that day, Diamond had three sets of initials in her column, also circled in red pencil, DB, OP, and CN. A threesome? But it was the date that really caught my attention. July 15, 1973. Why did that date seem so familiar? Getting down on my hands and knees, I rummaged through all the papers in my bag until I
found the newspaper printout from the library about Constance Newcastle’s murder, which occurred on July 15, 1973. I sat back against the couch. Pinky had told me Dibb Bentley and Otis Patterson had been involved in the break in at the Newcastle’s home. But was the CN, Charles Newcastle? Had he been involved in his wife’s murder? The newspaper said he was out of town on a business meeting.
I skimmed the rest of the red-circled notations for Diamond and saw that appointments with DB and OP were listed on half a dozen of her calendar entries. But CN was not listed on those entries. Instead, each entry consisted of a four-digit number followed by two letters: 2145PC, 4516PK, 5243PR, 3052PF, 3245PT, and 1429PL. What the hell? I thought back to what Pinky Buford had told me about the rash of break-ins in affluent Pine Knoll the summer of 1973 and suddenly realized these must have been the addresses of the homes that had been broken into. 2145 Pine Cone Dr., 4516 Pine Knoll Ave., 5243 Pine Ridge Rd., 3052 Pine Forest Lane, 3245 Pine Tree Street, 1429 Pine Lane.
These addresses meant that Diamond was the mastermind behind all of them. They were probably the homes of the men who were her clients and therefore the reason why they were never reported. Now, what should I do with this info? Mason was convinced Dwayne Roper killed Dibb and Brenda. I’d bet my next paycheck that of the two of them, Dibb had killed Constance Newcastle; if that was the case both he and Otis Patterson were beyond what the law could do to them. But Diamond was just as guilty. Who was she? But first things first. I needed to find out if my theory about the addresses being homes that were broken into in 1973.
Sorry, Mason. You should have told trouble to stay out of me.
Going up to random addresses in Pine Knoll knocking on doors and asking complete strangers if they’d been burgled in 1973 was the quickest way to having the police called on you. Instead, I went to the next best source, Mama’s best friend and my landlady, Annie Ruth Carson, who’d worked as a maid in Pine Knoll for thirty years. I hadn’t talked to Mrs. Carson in a few weeks and had been purposefully avoiding her since the discovery of Dibb’s body in the trunk of Lewis’s car. So, when I knocked on her door and she opened it and saw it was me, she just stood there in her usual faded striped house dress and slippers, her grey hair braided into a crown on top of her head, with her arms crossed and a blank look on her face like she didn’t recognize me.
“Hi, Mrs. Carson. Can I come in…please?” I added when she just continued to stare. She finally rolled her eyes, unlocked the storm door, and turned to walk away. Oh, boy. As long as I’d known her, I’d never seen Mrs. Carson at a loss for words. She must really be pissed at me. I followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table.
“Wondered when you’d finally grace me with your presence, missy.” She pulled two cans of Coke from her fridge and filled two glasses with ice, setting a can and a glass of ice in front of me before sitting down opposite me.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been by. How have you been?” She took a long drink of her Coke, almost draining it, before answering.
“Could be better. Besides police crawling through your apartment after that body got found in your friend’s trunk, and all the neighbors gossipin’ ‘bout me, Stevie’s back in the county jail. Think I’m gonna let him stay there this time. He’s gettin’ too old to be actin’ like this. And I’m too old to be havin’ to bail out his behind every other month. And just when I thought he’d outgrown this mess. He had a job as a custodian over at the Pullman Apartments but got fired after a week.”
I could have pointed out that her sticky-fingered favorite child was forty years past being too old, and nothing was going to change now that he was middle-aged. But I didn’t express this opinion. Nor did I tell her that it was Stevie’s fault Lewis had even been in my apartment in the first place. I didn’t want to kick her when she was down. Plus, I could have put Lewis out and didn’t. I guess that made it both our faults.
“I’m sorry —” I began but she held a hand up, stopping me before I could say another word.
“Not your fault. I realize that now, even though at the time I wanted nothin’ more than to take a switch to yo’ behind.”
“Alright then. How about we change the subject. Okay?” She merely shrugged and then drained the rest of her Coke. “How well do you remember the summer of 1973?”
“I remember it just fine. That was the year I put Ronnie out for runnin’ round on me with that heifer who worked the counter at that rib joint. Always coming home smellin’ like smoked meat with clothes stained with barbecue sauce like I wasn’t gonna figure out what he was up to. You remember Ronnie?”
I did indeed remember hearing all about Ronald “Ronnie” Kidd. Unlike Mama, who’d found a good hardworking man in my late grandfather, her best friend Annie Ruth hadn’t been so lucky. Mrs. Carson had been married three times; Ronnie had been her second husband. The marriage had come to an abrupt end after two years when he’d gone into Stucky’s Ribs n’ More, laid eyes on Marcie Taylor, and quickly found out that in his case, the More ended up being a torrid affair. Mrs. Carson waited until he was in the shower before ordering him out of the house with a shotgun sending him fleeing from the house butt naked, then set all his clothes and shoes on fire on their backyard barbecue. How’s that for irony? Ronnie and Marcie skipped town and hadn’t been seen since.
“Do you remember a bunch of robberies that took place in Pine Knoll that summer?”
“Sure do. That’s back when I workin’ for the Philmores on Pine Tree and the house across the street got robbed one night.”
“You know who lived in the house?”
“That would have been the Thompkin’s family, Donald and Irene. I cleaned for them a few times when they had their big Christmas party every year. They didn’t have a regular maid. It was all they could do to afford that house. The first floor had fancy expensive furniture but once you went upstairs.” Mrs. Carson laughed, shaking her head. “Not a lick of furniture!” I laughed with her.
“What got taken?” I asked.
“Never found out. I overheard Mrs. Philmore and her friends gossipin’ over coffee one day about how they never called the cops. One of Mrs. Philmore’s friends was saying Don Thompkins was spendin’ money they didn’t have on colored hookers. That’s back when they called us that.”
“Were they afraid the police were going to find out about that?”
“Hard to be tellin’. Probably. I think it was his wife that didn’t want to report it. They just changed the locks, and a few years later they moved out of town. Heard they eventually got a divorce.”
“What about the other robberies? Did you know any of those people?”
“Knew their maids. It was the same thing with them, too. No police report.”
“And you didn’t think that was odd?”
“I was there to clean the house. Wasn’t my business to try and figure out what makes rich white folks tick. But I do know this much—” she began, before stopping to pop the top on another can of Coke.
“What’s that?’ I was getting antsy and impatient, but she fixed me with a stare that instantly made me sit still.
“Whoever robbed them folks must have known exactly where to find the stuff they took. They was in and out of those houses in no time flat.”
“So, you know what got stolen?”
“Why you askin’ me all this anyway? That mess happened almost thirty years ago.”
“It’s really important, Mrs. Carson. I can’t say why yet. But I’ll tell you when it’s over.” She sighed and shook her head.
“Okay. But don’t think I’m gonna forget.”
“I won’t. I promise. Now, you were saying?”
“Let me think,” she said, then closed her eyes in concentration. “From what I remember, it was small stuff. Heirlooms. Antique vases, silver tea services, coin collections, jewelry, a gun collection. Stuff that could easily be stuffed into a bag.”
“Wouldn’t they have had to file a police report for insurance purposes?”
; “I’d have thought so. But maybe none of that crap was worth much of anything ‘cept to them. And then there was the other weird thing.”
“Which was?”
“Some of the stuff came back.”
“Huh? What do you mean some of it came back?”
“Just what I said,” she exclaimed, irritably. “One gal I knew, Bessie Hall, told me the Richmond family she worked for got robbed, and the missus got her antique silver tea service stolen. She walked right in and caught them takin’ it. Pleaded with them to take anything else and they laughed at her and took it anyway. Had been in her family for generations and she ‘bout had a breakdown. But a week later it was back and she and Mr. Richmond acted like nothing ever happened. Not long after that, Mrs. Richmond was wearing a new sapphire and diamond ring and Mr. Richmond took her to Europe for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. And if you ask me, that ring and that trip weren’t nothin’ but products of that man’s guilt.”
“Guilt? For what?”
“That woman found out something that her husband didn’t want her knowin’ about when that tea service got took. Probably about some other woman. Trust me, it usually is. He probably had to do something besides beggin’ and pleadin’ to get her to stay.”
It was beginning to make a whole lot of sense now. If the burglaries were of the homes of men who were Diamond’s clients, and Diamond let them know she had things that were valuable only to them, she could then offer to return the stuff for a fee and threaten to tell their wives they were spending time and money on black prostitutes if they didn’t pay up. She’d then split the money with Dibb and Otis. But Charles Newcastle had been a client of Diamond’s and his house had been burgled. Why did his wife die when Mrs. Richmond hadn’t?
“Did you know Constance Newcastle?”
“Yeah, I knew Connie Newcastle,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Of course, even if she hadn’t died the way she did, she had one foot in the looney bin anyway.”