Schooled in Murder

by Kim Smith

  Tillie wanted to talk, I could see it in the way she kept looking at her older sister. For once, she let Nancy talk.

  “We have been advised by our advisor to think about our final arrangements.”

  I swallowed hard. If thinking about them was all they did, everything was okay. I had to ask though.

  “So…what are you saying?”

  Tillie couldn’t keep it in any longer. “We are leaving everything to you, Shannon Marie.”

  This had never occurred to me. I had never thought about being their beneficiary. And I didn’t want to think about it now.

  “I…I don’t really want to talk about this.” My heart thudded dully in my chest. The delicate subject of their passing made me very ill. “Y’all are not allowed to leave me. Ever.”

  Nancy lifted her gaze heavenward. “God, please give me strength. Listen, Shannon, this is not all. We’ve gotten word that you have a trust account set up from your parents, too. That’s what I’ve been trying to get you over here to talk about. Then, when Tillie fell at work—well, I had additional thoughts about stuff that might be passing to you.”

  “You fell?” I asked Tillie, rising from my seat. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

  “Sit,” Nancy commanded. “She’s fine. As I am after having a basket nearly plow me down at the grocery store.”

  “What?” I sat back into my chair and tried to understand. “Okay, wait. You two have been hurt and you didn’t tell me…and I have a trust account? Somebody please tell me what’s going on. Start over. Start at the beginning and tell me.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s like this: we keep having stupid incidents that might leave us with a broken hip or worse, and if we should kick off, we don’t have a will yet. So, the other day I spoke to a regular customer of ours about it. His name is Leslie Howell, and he’s the son of old Mr. Thomas Howell, the attorney that your daddy used to use. Remember him?”

  I frowned. I didn’t remember anything about the law people who had overseen my parents’ estate. I was only in middle school at the time.

  She shrugged. “Well, anyway, old Mr. Howell died recently, and his son, this Leslie Howell, took over the practice. He agreed to help us with our will problem. Because Les is sorting through all the legal stuff at his daddy’s practice, he came across some papers that spoke of a trust for you.”

  Tillie chimed in. “Yes, and it’s very exciting, Shannon. Apparently, your daddy left old Mr. Howell an advisor to a trust that we didn’t even remember existed. It was God’s providence that led us to pick this time to contact an attorney.”

  Nancy nodded. “Les said he was going to call us about the papers. Something to do with your 27th birthday and how it matured on that date. Providence, like Tillie said.”

  “Wait…I received that trust at 25, didn’t I?”

  The two sisters looked at each other beneath lowered lids.

  “Well, you were supposed to, we thought.” Nancy said, clearing her throat.

  “No, I did receive funds, it was only like 2 years ago, Aunt Nan. Don’t y’all remember?”

  Tillie tapped her lip with a fingertip. “Yeah, about that…”

  “That was from no trust account. That was from my retirement account,” Nancy said, avoiding my gaze.

  “What? I remember going to a lawyer’s office and picking up a check,” I said, voice rising.

  “You did, you did. But nevertheless, it was not from any trust. We were so mad at your daddy. He told us there was money put aside for you, but no one could locate the file.” Tillie squirmed in her seat. “We decided to not tell you and just take a bit of Nan’s retirement to give to you instead.”

  I wanted to throttle them both. Instead, I took deep breaths and tried to focus.

  “So, could this trust be the same one my dad spoke of before? Maybe the papers got mislaid or something?”

  “Yes, we believe so. Mr. Howell had things in a real mess according to Les.”

  “Okay, so…what do I do?”

  “Need to make an appointment to visit with him and see what all the trust business is about, and what kind of funds is attached to it.”

  “Well, before I start dreaming about being a millionaire, tell me more about these accidents.”

  “I tripped tail over teakettle in the kitchen at the restaurant. Somebody left a box right where I would trip over it,” Tillie said, rising. “I’m fine. A few bruises. But it could have been way worse. Off to set up the coffee for in the morning. Love you, honey.” She pressed a kiss on the top of my head as she passed by.

  “I was at Kringle’s putting bags in the trunk of the car when a basket came plowing right into my back and legs. I didn’t even hear it rattle across the parking lot. Hurt like the devil, I know that.”

  She stood, rubbed her lower back as though it still hurt, and shoved her chair back.

  “You’re sure you’re okay though?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. But we have an appointment to visit Les about the will next week.” She smiled. “We can’t wait to hear what the trust business is all about. Be sure to get over there before you turn 27.”

  She followed Tillie into the kitchen leaving me with a crap-load of things to think about, the least of which was my birthday on July 4th. Up until that moment, I’d tried hard to forget the fact that I was pushing thirty.

  A few minutes later, Dwayne came back inside and hollered for me. I strolled into the living room and waited for him to gush about the phone call.

  He didn’t. Instead, he plopped back onto the couch.

  “Was that phone call a big deal?”

  He shrugged. “Not really.”

  When he quickly turned away, I thought I saw a little smile on his face. He was lying. I considered telling him about the trust, but decided to wait. If he could keep secrets, so could I. And I needed time to go over it in my mind, make sense of it all. My secret was life-altering in a way his might not be.

  “I think I’m about ready to turn in,” he yawned. “We have to go to the police place tomorrow and you know that gives me nightmares.”

  “Take some of that PM stuff.”

  “No way. Makes me feel goofy all day afterwards. I don’t want to be goofy while talkin’ to the cops.”

  I wanted to tell him that being goofy around cops was what normal people did. It was called nerves.

  Aunt Tillie stuck her head around the corner and told us she had some carrot cake leftover from the restaurant if we wanted dessert. No one made better carrot cake. She used all the freshest ingredients and the cream cheese icing was so good it made my toes curl.

  “Me!” I started climbing out of the recliner, but Dwayne, ever faster, shoved me back down on his way past.

  “Too slow. I’m first.” He sprinted to the kitchen, nearly bowling Tillie over.

  While he sliced huge hunks of cake, she took out plates to dump them onto. In a little while, we dug in like contented pigs. Gun-toting hoodlums, mysterious money in a trust account, and possible men to date vanished from our minds.

  “Carrot cake can cure the world,” Aunt Tillie told us. “I think they should feed it to all the prisoners in jail. They might make a miraculous recovery from a life of crime.”

  “Or at the very least, learn how to love something worthwhile,” Nancy added.

  “Heck naw. Carrot cake is sort of like laxatives. It cleans the pipes. Must be the raisins. At any rate, it would be unfair punishment to give it to jailed people. They have toilets right in front of God and everybody.”

  Aunt Tillie choked on her cake, and spewed a mouthful in the sink. I pounded her back and glared at Dwayne. So much for forgetting dangerous criminals.

  ###

  Thursday morning, I dutifully called Sal. He had a meeting at nine and told me to come by about ten thirty. Great. Now he was mad at me and bent on putting me off as punishment.

  When I told Dwayne, he sniffed and said, “Told you so.”

  “Let’s swing by my apartment. I need to find something nicer t
o wear.”

  “Gonna use feminine wiles on him, eh? Good thinkin’.”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “Well, we’re gonna drive by and make sure no one is sittin’ in a car, and then we’re gonna enter your place with the suspicion that we could have company,” he said, patting his ankle. “Where’s your little bad boy?”

  I shrugged. “I left it at the office.”

  “The office? Damn, Wall-ass, it does you a lot of good there, don’t it? And after I trained you, and warned you and labored with you, you still don’t carry?”

  “I used to. But I think it’s a magnet for trouble, is all.”

  “Let me tell you what’s a magnet for trouble, girl. A magnet for trouble is goin’ around with people shootin’ at you off their front porches and not bein’ able to shoot back. A magnet for trouble is when your partner—”

  “I get the picture, Dee.”

  He heaved his lanky frame up out of the chair. “Do not, I repeat, do not leave the house or office or anywhere else, without it. And we’re goin’ to go get it before we go anywhere else. I don’t feel like bein’ the freakin’ gun patrol on this escapade.”

  Mr. Yoshi’s Dodge Ram was parked in front of the office building when we pulled up. He did odd jobs around the office for us and kept the place clean. He was the best cleaning crew we could afford. He used to be my boyfriend’s neighbor.

  When I had a boyfriend. Before he was murdered.

  The thought of my past depressed me. I pushed open the door and found the little Asian man pacing in front of the receptionist’s desk, muttering.

  “Yoshi stupid. Stupid, stupid man.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  He waved a blue-veined hand at his broom lying on the floor next to a pile of garbage and the dustpan. “Dropped contact lens in pile of trash.”

  Dwayne breezed by him. “Hey, Yoshi. Excuse me.” Then he pointed at the desk and pointedly asked me, “Wanna get that item you left so we can go?”

  Yoshi moved away from the desk, tilting his head with one eye closed as he tried to make out what item Dwayne spoke of.

  I hurried over and retrieved my pistol.

  “Yoshi no like guns.”

  “I know,” I assured him. Seeing his scared look, I lied, “It’s okay. It’s not loaded.”

  Dwayne gave me the stinky eye, and I dropped the weapon in my tote bag, patting it. “I’ll get ammo later, at home.”

  Yoshi, visibly moved, shuffled as far away from me as possible. “What Angels doing at work now? Chasing bad people? Need gun for protection?”

  The reminder of our sloppy attempts to meet with Charlotte and our even sloppier attempts to have a face-to-face with Thelma struck me, and my stomach hurt from the feeling of failure.

  “We’re trying to get in touch with a teacher we need to talk to. Mrs. Thelma Denaldo. I know you don’t know who she is, and I sort of wish we didn’t, but that’s what we’re trying to do,” I answered miserably.

  As I walked to my office, I heard him walk up behind me. “Shannon needs gun to talk to this teacher?” he asked. “Guns no allowed at school. Yoshi see on television.”

  “No, sir. Not really. It’s the people she knows that makes Shannon feel scared,” I explained, smiling at the childish way I spoke. Then I turned to face him, trying to come up with a more positive utterance.

  “Yoshi know better way.”

  Dwayne sidled up behind him, and did an eye-roll. It was easier to indulge the old fellow in my opinion, so I ignored Dwayne and asked, “What would that be, Mr. Yoshi?”

  “Go to adult bookstore.”

  Dwayne backed away, stifling laughter. I tried not to snicker.

  “Excuse me? What did you say?”

  “Denaldo teacher also make lively koochie koochie movies.”

  I swallowed hard, hoping my face wasn’t as red as it felt. “You mean porn?”

  He nodded.

  Dwayne stopped giggling. “What’d you know about them?” he asked our janitor.

  “Yoshi watch movies all time. Lots of movies. Read books, too. Denaldo teacher sign books and movies at adult bookstore. Away on Parkin Road, you know the one?”

  I thought the earth was falling away. I nodded. “You’re kidding? Denise’s? The novelty place?”

  He nodded. “Denise’s. Yes.”

  Then, like a lightning bolt, I remembered the books shoved under Thelma’s bed. Some had been by a Madam T. Anonymous for Madam Thelma, maybe?

  “Good grief,” I muttered, as the full story played in my head. “There’s more to the woman than meets the eye.”

  Now Yoshi snickered. “Lots more. Go to store on Parkin Road. Many time she there.”

  Dwayne cleared his throat. “How about we try to get that contact lens out of the trash for you, Mr. Yoshi?”

  I plopped down in the nearest office chair. Thelma Denaldo Lunsford was a porn queen or author or both? Could this get any weirder?

  Chapter Fourteen

  My apartments looked just like they always did, the neighbors were at work and the surrounding area was relatively quiet. Betsy basked in the sunlight like the cougar she was named for. Seeing her reminded me to treat Dee to a dinner for his mechanical work.

  He entered my place first, crouched into a movie cop stance with his gun aimed at the living room and swung it left and right. When he rolled into the kitchen, I laughed out loud.

  “Don’t you think you are overreacting?” I said, shaking with mirth.

  He stood and holstered his gun. “No way, girl. No such thing as overreacting when it comes to safety. I’m gonna take a gander at your closet and under the bed.”

  Well, I certainly couldn’t fault him for being precautious.

  I followed along behind and waited until he declared everything safe. I scooped up a pile of laundry that hadn’t been sorted yet and set it aside hoping against hope he wouldn’t notice. Another futile attempt at keeping my real life from Dwayne, the all-seeing, all-knowing diva.

  “What you gonna wear to this gatherment?” He asked this putting air quotes around the word gatherment.

  “Gatherment is not a word and you don’t need to worry about what I’m going to wear.”

  “The hell you say. I’ve been worryin’ about it ever since you said you were goin’. Now ‘fess up. What’s your plan, Shan?” He stood a little straighter, and I knew we were going to tussle over clothes.

  “I was going to wear a pair of bike shorts and a long tee.” I pointed out the clothes lying on my dresser.

  He crossed his arms and gave me the lifted eyebrow look. “No way in hell will I allow that nasty-lookin’ shit to adorn your body in the presence of one Salvador Ramirez. Uh-Uh. I think not, Ms. Wall-ass. You need to try to be sexy and make him forgive your nasty-nice way of jerkin’ him around. The man wants a date with you. Try to be womanly, how about it?”

  Exasperated, I tossed a skirt on the bed. He picked it up and noted the length. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Okay, look, I’m running out of time here. Can I please you with a skirt and some strappy sandals? Can we call it a day yet?”

  He shrugged and gave me a finger wave as he headed out of the bedroom. I followed to lock up behind him.

  “Call me when you’re ready. I’m going to get gas real quick,” he said shouldering his man-purse a little higher on his shoulder. “And while you’re at it, send me a selfie when you get all done. I’ll tell you my—”

  “Eat dirt, Brown. I’m not calling you with a selfie or any other picture of myself. And bring your tail back here in twenty minutes. We don’t want to be late, right?”

  I heard him laughing all the way down the stairs.

  Meeting with a cop when his mind was on everything but police business was a tricky deal, I considered as I showered. Sal was the trickiest of cops, too. But if dating him a few times would bring about desired results-such as getting help with my current situation-then so be it. Worse things had happened.


  While dancing around the bedroom, I also found a new temporary home for my pistol in my lingerie drawer until I returned from the PD. With all the metal detectors and protective measures, I might encounter, taking it along would be asking for trouble.

  If Dwayne wanted to have to explain his weapon to them, that was his business.

  Finally, I settled for a sassy pink skirt and scoop-necked purple shirt made of soft cotton. This color scheme didn’t scream “power babe” but it did make my legs look good. I scrambled around looking for some shoes, before settling on a pair of white sling-backs.

  I looked longingly at a sleeveless floral print dress that I’d picked up at Macy’s when I’d gotten a pair of apricot heels a few months back, but after traipsing around the cemetery with Dwayne chasing Rafe, the heels were toast. The current selection would have to do. As it turned out, Dwayne approved. He was sort of crazy about pink and purple anyway.

  During the short drive, I focused on the reason we were doing this. Our lives could be at stake. Even if Sal threw us in jail, we’d likely be better off safety-wise, I reckoned. Then I recalled what Dee had said about toilets in jail. Surely they were not really in the view of everybody?

  ###

  It was ten-thirty on the button when we slunk up to the Homicide office.

  Sal, seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, furrowed his brow as we entered. Guess our appearance wasn’t exactly a day at the beach.

  “How’s tricks?” I asked, doing a pinky wave as I slid onto the cold seat situated in front of his desk. Dwayne followed suit, silent as a spider.

  “Same. What did you need to see me about?” He swept his hand over the desk in way of explanation. “It’s busy here.”

  Uh oh. He was in a mood. What could I say to make him relax? I paused too long thinking about it because Dwayne dived right in.

  “News from the street is, a bad boy named Harpoon knows somethin’ about Dan’s case. He hangs out with the likes of one Charlotte Dillon and Thelma Denaldo. Interested?”

  Sal cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward. “Very.”

  I picked up the story. “This bad boy shot at Dee and I yesterday as we drove by his bungalow in East Memphis, hot on the trail.”