A Glimmer of Death

by Valerie Wilson Wesley

  “All I want is junk food, like chips and candy, stuff with fat and sugar.”

  “Well, these will be right on time,” I said, giving him the bag of chocolate chip cookies I’d brought. He took one and gobbled it down, savoring every crumb, jamming another in his mouth as soon as he finished the first.

  “You’re definitely into sugar and fat, but you better broaden your palate to get through what’s going on.”

  “I’ve been drinking a lot of water and tea. Calms my nerves. Not coffee, though. Reminds me too much of work. You want some, I can make you a cup.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a small teapot and a cup and poured himself some tea after it steeped.

  “My mom always served tea like this,” he said, probably noting my surprised interest. Harley had never struck me as a tea connoisseur. “Before she came to live with me, I’d just put a teabag in the cup, then take it out, but my mother liked stuff like this. Said it was how tea was supposed to be served, in a teapot after it steeped. She and her club would sip it for hours when they had their discussion. But I’m pretty sure they added a little something to it.”

  “Sounds like you and your mother were close. How come you never told me about her?” I asked, reminded again of how little I knew about Harley and his life outside of Risko Realty.

  “I was so disgusted by working at that place, I didn’t want to say her name in there,” he said.

  “Things were that bad.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes.” His expression told me he wasn’t ready to say much more about his life, his mother, or anything else, but I tried again.

  “It seems to me that your mother is still looking out for you.”

  He smiled the smile that lit up his face. “She and her earthly angels,” he said. “I don’t deserve everything, all these gifts. I hate for Mrs. Grace and those ladies to see me like this, like I’m some kind of a criminal. They dropped off all their favorite dishes. Arroz con pollo, corn beef and cabbage, chicken soup with matzo balls. Comfort foods from everywhere, that I don’t deserve.”

  He stuffed three cookies into his mouth all at once as if burying the thought, washed them down with tea, then ate another one. “I’m okay, Dessa. Please, I’m okay,” he said as if noticing my concern. But I knew he wasn’t. He’d lost weight, his skin was dull, and he looked ten years older than the spirited young man I’d known. He wasn’t yet ready to share any thoughts he’d had about Charlie’s murder, and for the next hour we talked about how to bake cookies, his mother’s love of books, and Parker’s annoying habits. It took him another hour to tell me what was really on his mind.

  “Do you know how many men end up in prison for things they didn’t do?” he said, his voice beginning to tremble. “Dudes plead guilty when they’re innocent because they don’t want to go to trial. Sometimes cops are sloppy or corrupt and put folks in jail who have no business being there. Ever heard of the Innocent Project? There was something about it on TV a couple of nights ago, and they said more than twenty thousand innocent people are in jail. Most of them are poor and black, and that fits me. I’m scared I’m going to be one of them.”

  We both knew what he’d said was true; neither of us spoke until he began again. “I didn’t do this, Dessa. I didn’t kill Charlie Risko!” he said, breaking the silence.

  “I believe you,” I said, because I did.

  Harley took in a breath, letting it out so slowly I thought it was caught in his throat. “I keep going back to that night, Dessa. I told you what happened, right? How I went in to confront Charlie, and picked up the gun, which is how my prints got on it.”

  “They were the only ones that were on it,” I said, reminding him of what I knew to be true, turning skeptical again and wondering where he was going with this.

  He leaned back on his couch, then rocked forward as if ready to share something I needed to know. “But I didn’t kill him, so somebody else had to have picked up that gun after I left. He or . . . she . . . wore gloves or something to make sure the only prints on it were mine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been over that scene so many times in my mind, Dessa. What was there, what wasn’t there. Trying to remember what was on that desk.” He paused for a moment, reasoning something out. “He kept those fancy motorcycle gloves on his desk, remember? Next to the helmet, laid across the edge like they were something special. He was always bragging about how much they cost. Two, three hundred bucks. Deerskin, I think he said. Were they still there when the cops came? Did somebody test them for gunshot residue? Maybe somebody slipped them on, shot Charlie, then put them back where they were or took them with them after he or she killed him.”

  I thought about what he’d said for a moment, then asked, “If the gloves were there, wouldn’t that have been the first thing the cops tested?”

  “Then maybe they weren’t there! The cops wouldn’t know about them unless somebody told them. They were there when I left.” He must have seen my doubts because his face fell. “You don’t think that could happen?”

  I searched for words to let him know I wanted to believe him and finally said, “You think that somebody came into the office after you left, put on Charlie’s gloves, shot him, then took the gloves with them?”

  “I know it doesn’t sound like it could happen, but that must be it.”

  “Maybe you should mention it to the police,” I said, for lack of anything better to say. He continued, as if he didn’t hear me.

  “Something else, Dessa, that I remember from that night. It came to me last night before I went to sleep, almost like in a dream.”

  A dream? Sounded like he was heading into glimmer territory, which gave me pause. He studied my face as if he wasn’t sure he should share it but then he did.

  “Remember when I told you what happened? How I called him on his BS, slammed the gun down on the desk, left through that back door? But it didn’t quite close. It never did when you first closed it. It always popped back open. When I was halfway down the alley I heard something. Remember I told you about those ghost whispers I heard? I heard him talking to somebody else. It came to me last night what he said. He wasn’t being mean, just like he was puzzled. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said, like he was surprised.”

  “Did anybody answer?”

  “I wouldn’t have heard it. I was on my bike by then.”

  “And you think that person who surprised him must have killed him?”

  “I don’t know who it was. I tried to think about who had been there earlier before everyone left. Vinton, Dennis, Bertie, and Louella were there earlier, and then there is something else, somebody I saw last week. He was with Louella, but he’d changed so much I didn’t recognize him.” He paused again, as if wondering if he should tell me.

  “You think that person may have had something to do with Charlie’s murder?”

  “I don’t know. He might have. He was with us in those old days. Maybe he came back for some reason. He was connected to Louella. They were close. I just don’t know, Dessa.”

  “Who did you think you saw?”

  “I don’t want to say because I don’t want to accuse him of being involved in something. He could end up the same place as me. He had changed so much, Dessa. It couldn’t have been him. The guy I’m thinking of is probably dead. After what we did to him and his family.”

  “Avon Bailey,” I said.

  “How did you know?” I couldn’t read what was in his eyes. Was it shame or fear?

  “I’ve heard his name before.”

  “Where?”

  “Just around,” I said, leaving it at that.

  I hadn’t spoken to Harley since I’d found those photos, now neatly packed back where they had been, and I knew more than he thought I did. I decided to keep it to myself for now. I didn’t say anything for a while. The only noise in the room was Parker swinging back and forth on his perch with an occasional chirp. Harley
glanced at Parker, then dropped his head to look at his hands, tightly folded in his lap. He needed to tell me whatever was haunting him, haunting all of them, and I knew if I sat there long enough he would. It finally came out, all in a rush.

  “It was about his old man’s houses. He owned three that had been in his family for a couple of generations. Landed gentry, Avon used to laugh about him. His father was mean to him, used to beat him, beat his mother. Maybe he loved him in his own way, but Avon never felt it. But you never know about fathers. Who they are, who they think they are.”

  I wondered if Harley was remembering his own father, thinking of the man who stood beside him on his bike and what memories he still had; they would have to come out sooner or later.

  “How did Avon Bailey and his father get involved with Charlie Risko?”

  “The land his houses were on was worth a fortune. Charlie knew it, and wanted to get them as quick and cheap as he could because prices were going up fast and he wanted to tear them down and make big money. You know the places I’m talking about, over there where they built those condos that cost more than most folks can pay. Over there on the border of Bren Bridge. That was Avon Bailey’s daddy’s land. Remember when Dennis Lane was bragging about buying his place over there? You’d think he would have been ashamed, but that’s not Dennis.”

  I nodded that I agreed. “So how did Charlie get them?”

  “If I’d known what was going to go down with my friends, I never would have brought them into it.” Regret, embarrassment, and humiliation—everything was in his voice at the same time. I gave him a minute, then pushed him with the little bit I knew.

  “You’re talking about Louella and Tanya?”

  He nodded. “They were nice girls, well, a little what my mother would call ‘fast,’ but nice. You could say they both had an edge. They liked to play dangerous games, make fast money, go around the boundaries. I had just started working with Charlie, and he told me he had a way for us all to make some money because there were a lot of old guys with property and houses and they liked pretty young girls, and I knew pretty young girls.” I could see the shame in his eyes when he finally looked into mine. There is a word for men who use young women like that and we both knew what it was.

  “I’m not making excuses for myself, but my mother was sick and I needed some money, and they did, too, and it all seemed okay. Once Charlie got that land and sold it, we’d all make some money. We’d be out of it, and it would be over. Everybody enjoyed it for a while. Avon Bailey wasn’t the only one. There were other old men we took in. Lots of them.”

  I thought about those pictures with the empty bottles and the cash. They may have thought they were into it, but Charlie Risko had the last laugh and they all knew it, and maybe that was why he was dead.

  “So how did it work?”

  “Just how it sounds,” he said. I remembered the scams that Lennox described, swindling foolish old men out of their property, hiring a “contractor” to work on problems that didn’t exist. There were a dozen ways to fool an old man with more heart than head and a libido fueled up by Viagra or other means. Charlie Risko knew how to play it all.

  Harley got up then and walked around the room, stopping to talk to Parker and finally coming to sit back down with me. Maybe it was because he didn’t like thinking about what had happened or talking about it. I let him have the time; he needed it, and I waited a bit before I spoke.

  “Avon Bailey was your friend, too?” I asked.

  “No, he was Louella’s friend. And that was the worst part about the whole scam. I brought her in. She brought Avon in. He brought his father in, and then he disappeared.”

  “The father or the son?”

  “I heard he was dead,” Harley said, more to himself than to me. He hadn’t answered my question but it didn’t matter. I already knew which one because Lennox had told me. The younger one must still be alive. He must have been the one the cops were asking about.

  “Are you saying you saw Avon Bailey with Louella the day Charlie died?”

  “Yeah, I think I did,” he said. “And I’m wondering if he had something to do with Charlie’s death, or maybe somebody else did.”

  “Like Louella?”

  “Her story isn’t mine to tell,” he said.

  “Whose story are you talking about? Charlie and Louella? Louella and Avon? You and Louella? You and Tanya?” I threw the last one out to see his reaction, but there wasn’t one. He opened Parker’s cage, allowing him to circle the room, then cut up an apple to lure the bird back inside. He put on the kettle for more tea. I considered asking him about the photos but thought better of it. Someday, after everything was over, I’d ask him, but now was not the time.

  When I was ready to go, he asked if I would bring his mother’s Bible when I got a chance, and I said I would. I left him sitting in the dark with his bird flying around his stuffy apartment and a refrigerator packed with uneaten food. I prayed this wasn’t the end of the Harley Wilde I once knew.

  Chapter 17

  When I left Harley’s apartment, the sunlight caught me by surprise. I was so captured by Harley’s mood I’d forgotten it was midafternoon. It was sunny and warm for late October, yet I felt chilled to the point of shivering. This was how I felt the day Charlie Risko was murdered when I’d been so incensed by the casual indifference of my coworkers, I’d had to leave the office. The pain between Bertie and Louella overpowered me, and I’d taken their emotions inside of me. Only sitting in the park listening to Darryl’s playlist had brought me back to myself.

  The only real support I could offer Harley was kind words and chocolate chip cookies—and that was sad. Even a good lawyer was no insurance he wouldn’t spend the rest of his days in state prison. Every convicted felon is an innocent man, Lennox cynically observed. He might consider me naïve, but I knew Harley was innocent although I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—explain exactly how I knew. Harley’s fears were becoming my own.

  This would be the time when Darryl would run down his concern about my empathy: how quickly I absorbed people’s feelings, became overwhelmed by people’s troubles, took on more than I should. He tried to protect me from those he felt sapped my energy—folks who talked too much about nothing, came with too much drama, lied because they couldn’t tell the truth. He always found some gentle way to keep them out of our orbit. I wondered what he’d say about Harley, and if he would feel he needed to protect me. Would he agree with Lennox that Harley was just another “innocent” person who actually belonged in jail?

  Darryl was gone. I had to protect myself now. I thought about going to Royal’s barbecue to sit and chat with him, but he was probably busy by now. I’d see him tomorrow when I dropped off his cakes. I considered going to the office to check the list for possible sales, do some cold calls. Vinton and Bertie might be there to keep me company, at least keep my mind off Harley. But I needed to be outside; when things got overwhelming, feeling the sun on my face or the wind whispering past, and even a light drizzle of rain, could be soothing. The park had strengthened me the day Charlie Risko ended up being murdered, and when I drove past I considered stopping there again, sitting on the bench, watching kids play on the jungle gym. But I needed to go home. I had cakes to bake.

  When I climbed out of the car, the sun felt so warm I couldn’t go inside. Next week would be November, then December, then winter with its shadowy, cold days. I should enjoy this warmth while I had it. Truth was, I wasn’t yet ready to cook, despite how easy it was to lose myself when I did. Experience has taught me never to cook unless I want to. If I force it, bread won’t rise, gravy will burn, grease will splatter wildly. Besides that, I wasn’t ready to face Juniper demanding cat treats and noisily chasing his toys around the living room. I needed peace and quiet. Calmness to collect my thoughts. I needed sun shining on the darkness that Harley had left me with, to bring me back to myself and away from his sadness.

  I made my way around my house to my overgrown backyard and sat down on t
he long wooden bench we bought two summers ago. We had great plans to paint it then, but something always got in the way: It was too hot or rainy; we were too lazy. So here it was, waiting for me to fulfill our broken promise. I’ll do it in the spring, I said to myself, then smiled. I’d probably say the same thing next year when I came out here looking for peace.

  It was late afternoon, and my block was quiet, the streets empty except for a few kids riding bikes home before dinner. Our neighborhood was a peaceful one. The houses were close together and similar in age and architecture—classic Cape Cods, each with its own distinguishing feature or color.

  A single mother with two teenage boys lived in the white one on my left side. The backyard was nearly covered by a rectangular cement slab that served as a basketball court; a torn basketball net was fixed on the garage door. Darryl would routinely toss the ball around with the boys when we first moved in. They were ten and twelve then, and in the last five years their interests had switched from basketball to video games to girls. Once, when the older one was in the yard laughing with friends, I caught a whiff of marijuana wafting over the fence, but it had only been once, thankfully. I didn’t mention it to their mother because I hadn’t smelled it since.

  She worked two jobs, worried constantly, and had her hands full with two growing boys. I worried about them, too, as I do about all black boys growing into manhood, but my worries were nothing compared to hers. They were sweet, polite kids, who always offered to carry my groceries, mow my lawn, and rake leaves after Darryl died. They were growing up so quickly I hardly recognized them. The previous summer, they had a barbecue, and the block was filled with teenagers laughing, dancing, and cutting up, as teenagers do. I felt my age, wistful to see how quickly time had passed, and how life can pass you by. Overnight, it seemed.

  Julie Russell lived in the gray house on the other side and made a point of reaching out to me after Darryl’s death. She’d invited me to Thanksgiving dinner, but I turned her down. It was too soon after my loss and I felt like being alone. I regretted it, though, when I ended up eating takeout Chinese food with Aunt Phoenix, who doesn’t believe in Thanksgiving. On Christmas Day, Julie dropped off a hand-knitted shawl. I was embarrassed because I didn’t have anything for her until she confided she’d actually made it for her daughter who already had two. We’d chuckled about the joys of re-gifting and shared a glass of heavily spiked eggnog. We hadn’t spoken since, but it was nice knowing she was next door if I needed her.