A Toast Before Dying

by Grace F. Edwards

  “Why does Edwin keep her on his staff?” I asked.

  “Well, at first I wanted to believe it was because she was a good worker, but when I found out the real deal, I figured it was ego, mainly. He knew from the start that he affected her in certain ways, and I think he enjoyed watching her fall apart from time to time. Then he’d step in and build her up again, promise by promise.”

  “But meanwhile,” I said, “he was falling apart over Thea.”

  “I suppose so. Perhaps that’s why he needed my sister. As a counterbalance.”

  We ate in silence and I thought of the two women, one dead and one hospitalized, who couldn’t have been more different, both entangled with the same man.

  “Like I said,” Marian continued, “I was in the bar that night. Place struck me as sleazy the minute I walked in, but Rita was there so I stayed.”

  “You saw Thea?”

  “Oh yes. Very pretty. Stunning, you might say, but seemed as if she’d been carved from ice. I mean she sat there as if she was not really connected with anything that was going on in that place. When Edwin gave her an envelope, Rita saw it also, and I thought my poor sister was going to say something. But she was cool. She amazed me.

  “When all hell broke loose following the shooting, Edwin disappeared. Probably jumped into the first thing rolling. We blinked and he was in the wind.

  “In the confusion, we saw Henderson help himself to the envelope that was in Thea’s purse. The police had come in by then and everybody had to leave. There was only Rita and me and maybe another woman inside. Everyone else was out in the alley. So much screaming and yelling … I didn’t want to go out there.”

  “And you came to Bertha’s the next day.”

  She stopped eating and stared at me, suspicion dawning again. “How did you know that?”

  “I was there when you walked in with that other woman.”

  “What do you do? Hang out in hairdressers’ as a hobby?” She stared at my hair as she said it and I had to smile. “Vivian and Bertha are friends of mine. I’ve known Bertha eighteen years. How’d you find her place?”

  “How’d I find it? She was screaming and advertising loud enough to even wake up Thea. Yelling that she was a beautician who paid her taxes and the police had better not lay a hand on her brother. As soon as she said the name, I knew where her shop was. Bertha’s Beauty Shop, right there on Eighth Avenue.”

  “Do you think her brother did it? Killed Thea?” I asked.

  She lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. He was crying and I heard him, as clear as if he’d been standing next to me, saying he didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it. Now what was that all about? And where’s the weapon? Maybe he did it and someone else picked up the gun. There’re too many unanswered questions, so I really don’t know.”

  We were silent as people entered and stood at the take-out window at the front of the restaurant. Marian continued to eat.

  “Kendrick’s like a brother to me,” I said, breaking the silence. “He helped me when I was going through a bad time after my sister died. He was there for my nephew, and now I’m trying to help him. My nephew’ll be back from vacation soon and I promised myself that Kendrick’d be out of jail before then. Now, I don’t know how I could’ve made such a promise …”

  She dipped her fork in the greens and I marveled that she was able to eat at all. A minute later, she put down her fork and passed her hand over her face.

  “Anything wrong?” I asked.

  “Aren’t you a police officer?” she whispered, staring at me intently.

  “I was, very briefly, a few years ago.”

  “I thought I recognized you. You undercover or you really quit?”

  “I was fired for hitting another cop,” I said. “He couldn’t keep his dirty mouth shut so I shut it for him. I’m suing for wrongful dismissal.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” She whistled softly and looked at me with dawning admiration. “Who’s your attorney? I’m going to need one if they decide to play games with me.” She gestured across the street. “If I can’t get to see …”

  “Elizabeth Jackson,” I said, writing her name and phone number on a napkin. “She’s also handling Kendrick’s case. High-powered sister.”

  She put the folded napkin into her shoulder bag and brought out an envelope. She slid it across the table, where it rested against the saltshaker. “I can see you didn’t particularly like Thea, or Edwin either, for that matter. Take this. Read it when you get home.”

  The lunchtime crowd had moved in now and conversation in the low octaves was impossible. I passed up the sweet-potato pie, paid the check, and we left.

  Outside, Marian gazed across the avenue at the entrance to the hospital. I waited, watching the whirl of activity on the avenue: folks rushing from the subway, swirling around a cadaverous crackhead holding a dingy paper cup; lines of vendors moving fast, pushing shopping carts filled with flowers, fruits, cakes and pies, and coconut-flavored ices.

  In front of the hospital, women with baby strollers sunned themselves on the stone ledges. A block away, near the parking lot, an old man tipped his chair back against the fender of his watermelon truck, sound asleep despite the noise of traffic and nearby construction.

  Finally, Marian said, “I’m going to see my sister. I’ll call your attorney if they keep me out.”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “No. No, I can handle this myself.”

  “All right.” I rummaged in my bag for my card. “Call me and let me know if you need anything else. Or if you just feel like talking.”

  “If I feel like—listen …” She put her hand to the side of her face, holding it as if it hurt.

  “Mali, do you know what Edwin’s like? I mean behind those thousand-dollar suits and that million-dollar smile? You have no idea, have you?”

  “I know I don’t like him. Never have. Never will.”

  “Well, I’m telling you this: If Rita doesn’t pull through …”

  She stopped and looked away. “Last year, Edwin arranged to take her to St. Thomas. She was ecstatic, poor thing. Couldn’t stop talking about it. When they arrived at the hotel, who do you think she found there?”

  “Thea?”

  Marian nodded, her eyes bright with anger. “Edwin had booked them in separate rooms and took turns. When Rita found out, she came home. I met her at the airport and her eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying. You have no idea how I despise that man. If anything happens, the media will hear from me and a whole lot of other people …”

  Without another word, she walked off and crossed against the traffic, and I watched her disappear through the entrance of the hospital. I walked away, and turned at 136th Street, walking past the Countee Cullen Library, where a group of day-campers were filing in for story hour. At Seventh Avenue and 137th Street, I couldn’t wait to get home so I reached into my bag and tore open the envelope.

  Dearest Thea,

  You are determined to have this baby. As I told you last week, the timing couldn’t be worse. October is a crucial month, especially in the voters’ minds. You’ll be six months by then. But I think I understand why you want this child. I’ve arranged for you to spend the final three months in St. Thomas. The condo is private and you won’t have to lift a finger except to call me and let me know what you need. You know how I feel. This is my child too so I’ll take care of everything. You are what I want and what I’ve always wanted. I would kill to keep you. I hope you will understand and not make things too unpleasant for us. You know I love you.

  Edwin

  P.S. My investigator came across an old New York Times photo. An interesting one. Perhaps you’d like to see it? Anyway, let me know what you decide. I love you despite everything and more than anything.

  I sat down on the concrete ledge of the traffic island and gazed at the rush of cars. Across the street, a small crowd had gathered outside the Rodney Dade Funeral Home. The mourners were young with caps turned back and
grief shaded behind small round sunglasses. A young woman in a long cotton skirt and matching head wrap pushing a cart of groceries paused near me and also watched. “Child wasn’t more than fourteen,” she said. “They’re leaving here younger and younger, and the rest just don’t seem to get the message.”

  I thought of Rita, also young but too much in love to listen to the advice of an older sister, and now Marian was rushing to get to her bedside.

  chapter twenty-three

  I think he did it,” Bertha said, leaning back in her chair and staring out the window at the early-Saturday-evening traffic. Bertha had just finished with one customer and the six-o’clock appointment had not yet shown up. We were alone in the shop and Bert had turned down the television’s volume. Even though I had a problem with those mind-numbing soap operas, game shows, and tell-all talk shows, I realized now in the thick silence how much they meant to her.

  She had turned off the sound and the chaos of make-believe lives in order to grab at this latest straw, and I was embarrassed that I’d earlier thought of abandoning her.

  “Yep. I think Edwin Michaels is the one. He killed Thea.”

  “But he was still in the bar when it happened,” I reminded her. “You said you saw him.”

  “Well, then. He coulda paid somebody to cap her. That don’t take much. Get the right crackhead, they’d do it for food stamps.”

  I pointed to the letter in her hand, showing her the postscript. “If he had planned to kill her—or have her killed—do you think he would’ve bothered with this letter? Not likely.”

  “Well, then, maybe it was that fool Rita. From what you told me, she sure had enough reason to want Thea out the way.”

  I nodded and was quiet for a moment. I had no intention of revealing that Rita had killed Henderson Laws. That night, while Rita’d been in confessional mode, she would’ve mentioned killing Thea too. She’d had enough alcohol on her brain to confess to a lot of things, and one more body wouldn’t have made a difference.

  “If you look close enough,” I said, “you might see that Anne Michaels also had good reason to kill Thea. Don’t think she didn’t know what her husband was up to.”

  “Well,” Bert said, “we got a truckload of maybes, but it was Laws who ran out there and pinned it on Kendrick.”

  I poured another cup of coffee and returned to sit on the chair opposite her.

  And it occurred to me that Kendrick had been denied bail not because of some remote possibility of skipping the country, but because someone—with authority—had called the judge for a favor. Laws put him in jail, but Michaels and a crooked political system had most likely kept him there.

  “Kendrick’s in protective custody,” Bert said as if she’d read my thoughts. “At least he ain’t fightin’ so much anymore. I thought for sure he was gonna get his face marked up before he gets outta there.”

  She rose and began to pace the floor from the door to her chair and back again. “Tell me something: If that white woman is so much in love, and her money’s so damn long, why ain’t she buyin’ a judge to spring him? She got the power.”

  “She may have the power, but what if she no longer has the will? As you said, suppose Kendrick told her he wasn’t interested, do you think she’d still—”

  The bell jingled softly. I looked up to see Tad standing in the open door.

  “Hi. Do I need an appointment or do you accommodate walk-ins?” He stepped inside and leaned against the closed door, smiling a smile that looked almost radiant against his darkened skin. I sat there, staring.

  Not only had my dream come true, but it had come looking for me. Damn!

  I stared at him and imagined myself rising from the chair, forgetting all about Bertha, and floating slow-motion, like in that classic scene in Sounder when Cicely Tyson’s husband returns from wherever he’d been for the last ten years.

  I was in fact on my feet, moving, when Bertha broke the spell: “Well, hello! Who sent this fine package? If it’s from UPS, I hope they never go on strike.”

  Tad’s skin had darkened too much to betray a significant blush, but he looked at me, glanced down at the floor, and then smiled.

  “I stopped by your place. Wanted to surprise you. Your Dad said you might be here, at your cool-out spot. So: How’ve you been?”

  He was being polite and formal, but that low-bass whisper was like a heat-seeking missile, and right on target.

  “Fine,” I said, then kissed him a small kiss but wanting to taste all of his tongue and tonsils too. “Fine.”

  Bertha watched from her chair, beaming, and seemed to light up even brighter when he turned to her. “How’re you doing, Bertha?”

  “Fine. Just fine. Not bad at all.”

  “Good. What’s happening with your brother?”

  Her smile disappeared, and she remembered that she wasn’t doing so fine.

  “He’s still down at detention.”

  And my smile faded also as she continued. “But your girl here is doin’ the best she can to help get him cleared. She’s right in the middle of things. As a matter of fact, we were just tryin’ to figure …” I listened to her go on and on until finally she said, “She’s almost as good a detective as you are. You oughtta be proud of her.”

  I had been standing next to Tad. His hand was on my shoulder and I felt the pressure of his fingers steadily increasing as Bertha spoke.

  “Well, really, Bert,” I murmured, “I didn’t do much at all.”

  Tad shifted from one foot to the other and said, “Mm-hmm. She’s quite a girl.”

  “You tellin’ me? Couldn’t ask for better. She’s like the sister me and my brother never had.”

  She looked up and smiled at me and I wanted to cry.

  Tad looked at me and I shrugged—or tried to. “It wasn’t all that,” I said lamely.

  The bell jingled again and a young woman came in pushing a stroller. Tad held the door open and helped her maneuver the carriage inside. The baby boy, about six months old, was asleep.

  “I had to wait,” she said, “till he decided to take a nap. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  I’m sorry also, I thought as Tad moved toward the door, guiding me firmly in front of him.

  Eighth Avenue on Saturday evening was usually pretty lively, and Alvin and I loved to walk with Ruffin for blocks and blocks. Folks sat in front of houses, or under the streetlights crowded around small card tables where the slap of cards and dominoes rose above the small talk. Knots of teenagers lounged on benches near the projects eating fish ’n’ chips and snapping to rap. The smaller kids, when they saw Alvin leading the big Great Dane, rushed over to us, wanting to pet Ruffin as though he were a toy horse. “Aw, Miss Mali, just one time …,” even though I had to say no every time.

  The hum of activity was there as Tad and I strolled up Eighth Avenue, and past the new Strivers Row town houses. But between us was a deep vacuum in which not one word was spoken since we’d left Bertha’s.

  Though we’d had no reservations at Londel’s, Tad knew the manager and we were able to get a table outdoors. Once we were seated, and dinner and drinks ordered, he looked at me.

  “Okay: Care to tell me what’s been happening while I was away?” His voice was even and his eyes were pools of smoke.

  I stared back and did not waver as I began to speak, recounting the events from the time Bertha had called crying on the phone near the Half-Moon. I spoke about TooHot and what he’d said about Laws and Kendrick. I mentioned how Flyin’ Home had seen someone leave the alley and how I had wanted him to talk to the police but he’d gotten killed. I spoke of Teddi Lovette, who was in love with Kendrick, and my meeting her and her bigoted mother at the theater.

  Dinner was placed on the table but Tad pushed his plate aside and continued to write in the small notepad he’d taken from his vest pocket.

  “And you say Thea was married to Roger Morris? Morris, the architect?”

  “Yes.”

  And finally, reluctantly, I spoke of Rita
’s confession to Edwin Michaels, and how she’d described killing Henderson Laws. I did not want to do that, but if this puzzle was going to be put together, all the pieces, no matter how painful, had to be laid on the table.

  He closed the notepad and looked at me for several seconds.

  “You know,” he whispered, taking my hands in his, “aside from the fact that I love the hell out of you, you’re quite a girl, Mali. You’re damn special. You zero in and don’t give up. I wish the hell you were back on the force.”

  “Never mind the force,” I whispered, feeling the warmth of his fingers. “Did you miss me?”

  “Did I miss—? Ah, Baby, come here …”

  He leaned over, held my face in his hands, and kissed me hard enough to make my teeth hurt. When he let me go and rested his elbows on the table, he knocked over his water glass. Diners nearby smiled and one guy actually lifted his own glass. “Bless you, brother. If I had me a fine honey like that, I’d be a little crazy myself.”

  The brother making the toast was feeling no pain, and Tad nodded and turned to gaze at me again.

  “Are you really hungry?”

  “For what?” I whispered.

  “Dinner.”

  “Depends on the menu,” I said, running my fingertips lightly against his open palm.

  “How about dessert? Dark chocolate filled with whipped cream?”

  “That’s fattening,” I said.

  “Yeah, but we can work it off, baby.”

  He paid the bill and the waiter eyed the untouched plates. “Something wrong with the food, sir?”

  “No, my man, not at all. But something important just came up.”

  chapter twenty-four

  At three o’clock on Monday afternoon, Rita Bayne died of respiratory failure.

  On Tuesday, true to her word, Marian Prince delivered to the media copies of her sister’s handwritten confession, copies of Edwin’s letter to Thea, and the canceled checks he’d given her over the years. Thea had been paid from Michaels’s office accounts, and Rita had handled all the finances.