When Pastor Wyatt and his wife strolled in front of Jerome, Jasmine’s glance followed them as the two moved toward Enid’s seat of honor—the front pew on the other side of the sanctuary.
The couple moved together like they always did—side by side, but not in a lover’s kind of way. Enid was whispering into her husband’s ear while Pastor Wyatt just listened.
And then Jasmine saw Roxie and watched as she walked up to Jerome, kissed his cheek, then joined in the chatter with the girls. And then Mrs. Whittingham passed by. And Brother Hill…and Sister Clinton…and Brother Stevens. And all. The. Others.
She inhaled to gather herself, but the fragrance of the flowers assaulted her again and flooded her with even more memories.
Her eyes darted from one side of the church to the other, in search of the one who was torturing her.
Or maybe this had nothing to do with City of Lights. Maybe it was someone rising from the ashes of her past. There was an entire list of people who would delight in her suffering: Brian Lewis, her daughter’s biological father, who hated her as much as she hated him. And Alexis Lewis, his wife, who’d found out only months ago that her husband had fathered Jasmine’s child.
Then there were the packs of women whose husbands Jasmine had bedded over the years. Much time had passed since she’d lived that life, but the pain that came with marital betrayal didn’t have an expiration date. There were dozens of wives who’d been waiting to exact their revenge.
The list of her enemies was long; trying to count the names made her head pound as hard as her heart.
“Hello, Jasmine.”
There was so much pain in her head, she had to squint when her eyes moved to the voice.
Ivy! It had been weeks since the woman had jumped in her face at the hospital. And Ivy was on her enemy list, too.
“Are you all right?” Ivy asked.
Jasmine searched the woman’s face for any clues that she was the perpetrator. But she saw nothing but concern.
“I’m…fine,” she stuttered, feeling hot. “I need to…”
Another whiff overwhelmed her. Without finishing her thought, she grabbed her purse from the pew and dashed past the altar. The eyes were on her—she could feel them. The blackmailer was among them, of that she was sure.
But she had to get away from the scent, the sounds, the sanctuary.
She burst through the door that led to the offices. Busted through and bumped right into her husband.
“Darlin’?” His concern was instant. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she panted. “I feel…hot.”
Taking her hand, Hosea led his wife to his office, closed the door, then helped her to the couch. With the back of his hand, he felt her forehead. “You do feel a bit warm.” He filled a cup with water from the cooler and then held the cup as she drank.
She leaned back, her breathing steadier now.
He said, “You’ve been feeling faint a lot lately.”
Jasmine heard her husband’s question inside words he hadn’t even spoken. Shaking her head, she wished that his suspicions were true—she wished that it was pregnancy bringing on this anxiety.
“I’m not,” was all she said.
There was disappointment in his eyes, although he tried to hide it. “You should go home. I can have someone drive you.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’ll lie here for a little while.” Her head was already down on the cushions before she spoke the last word.
As she lay, Hosea slid her pumps from her feet, then he covered her with the jacket he’d worn to church. Her eyes were closed when he kissed her forehead, clicked off the overhead light, and left her alone.
Lord, if you help me get out of this…
Resting in the quiet, Jasmine felt the sting of held-back tears pressing hard behind her eyelids. But she wouldn’t cry. Tears did nothing to help her figure this out. She needed to put all of her energy into winning. That was the only way to survive.
There were lots of voices inside her head, inside her dreams. But these were new ones—voices from the outside.
Jasmine’s eyelids fluttered open. It took a moment to remember where she was. And the memory made her snuggle deeper into the sofa; she was safe in here.
But then she heard the voices again, coming closer.
“Why are we still talking about this?”
Jasmine sighed at the sound of Mrs. Whittingham. Obviously the service was over, too soon for her.
She pushed herself up and staggered across the room, hoping to close the door that Hosea had left partially open before the woman realized she was there.
Jasmine heard Mrs. Whittingham again, her tone sharper this time.
“You need to forget about it!”
It was the way the woman hissed that piqued Jasmine’s curiosity. Who was she talking to?
Mrs. Whittingham continued, “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“But don’t you think it’s weird? Why would it say that Mama was eighteen on my birth certificate?”
Ivy.
Jasmine pressed her ear closer to the door.
“Ivy, I don’t know. People make all kinds of mistakes. It was a human error.”
“Well, I’m worried because of my passport,” Ivy said. “I need to contact somebody and get Mama’s age corrected.”
“Please, nobody cares how old Mama was when you were born. The only reason…”
The murmur of other voices coming closer blocked out the rest of Mrs. Whittingham’s words. But Jasmine wanted to hear more. She leaned closer against the door, then suddenly…bang!
The door swung open, knocking Jasmine back. She stumbled and hit the wall.
“Ouch!” Her hand rose to the spot right above her eyebrow where the edge of the door had assaulted her.
“What the…” Hosea clicked on the light. Stared at his wife sprawled against the wall like a rag doll. “Jasmine, what were you doing behind the door?”
“I was…getting ready to come out.” She shook her head. “This really hurts.”
“Let me take a look.”
It ached enough to make her sit down, lean back, and let Hosea examine her injury. It ached enough to make her promise inside that she would never eavesdrop on anyone again.
THIRTY-SIX
TRUTH AND TRUST.
That was Hosea’s mantra for their marriage. And Jasmine really did want to honor him that way. But it was hard to get this lying-to-her-husband habit under control, under these circumstances.
It was because of the blackmailer that she’d lied to Hosea this morning, told him over breakfast that she wasn’t going to the church.
“Instead,” she began her lie, “I have to head downtown and work on a project for Malik.”
He’d believed her lie, like he always did, and a part of her was saddened by that. She wanted to be deserving of the faith he had in her. And as soon as this blackmailing business was over, she would find a way to be worthy of his trust.
The taxi rolled to a stop on the corner of Fourteenth and First, and Jasmine tossed the bills into the driver’s hand. She climbed out, then dodged across the avenue, crisscrossing through the horn-blasting, driver-shouting, snarled morning traffic.
The Starbucks line was long, though most of the tables were empty since, at this hour, coffee addicts were just stopping long enough to grab their morning java.
Even though it was difficult to see through the darkened lenses, Jasmine kept her oversize sunglasses on as she checked out the crowd; there wasn’t a familiar face in the shop.
Satisfied, she ordered a Grande Chai, parked at a small table in the corner, then sipped her tea as she waited for her laptop to power up.
Her plan for the next couple of hours was already thought out—she was starting with Jerome.
It had been almost a week since she’d heard from him, but she knew exactly what she was going to say in her return e-mail. She typed:
Mr. Jerome: I was so xcited when u wrote back. Thnk u. I’ve
been so buzy @ school. I hope 1 day I can meet u, but Im kinda shy. I’m 15. Hit me back if u can.
Jasmine sipped her tea, read the words she’d written again, then hit Send.
She was playing a hunch—it started with the question he’d put in his e-mail last week: How old are you? And then her intuition grew with the way he’d held court in the sanctuary yesterday with those young girls.
Jasmine shook her head—this was a long shot, but if she was wrong, nothing was lost. She’d create a new e-mail, start again.
Now she turned to the browser, typed in “Jerome Viceroy.” She scanned through the seven screens of articles that chronicled the scandalous life of the councilman. The stories of his life read like a script from a straight gangsta movie. He’d been charged with extortion—holding corporations financially hostage unless they succumbed to his demands. He’d been charged with tax evasion a few times, and even money laundering. Federal charges had been brought against him five times, but he was his name—the Teflon Man.
Jasmine sighed and tried not to hear the question inside her mind: If the government couldn’t catch him, what made her think she could? But her hope was in the fact that the ones who’d gone after him before were men. This was her advantage—she was a woman who knew how to trap a man.
Jasmine closed that window, returned to the browser, and typed in “Eugene Wyatt.”
There were only three articles on the pastor; and as Jasmine surveyed the stories, there wasn’t anything new.
The associate pastor and his wife were from a small town—Hogeye Creek, Georgia, population, twenty-five hundred. Eugene had become the pastor of the oldest church in Hogeye Creek—Church of the Solid Rock—in 1997. During his tenure, he’d grown the church to three hundred members, making it one of the largest churches in the county.
There wasn’t much more—a couple of stories about an adopt-a-drug-baby program the church had organized, a protest march in front of the mayor’s office to get a second gas station in the town, and numerous bake sales and chicken fries held to raise scholarships for college-bound students.
The last story covered the celebration the town held for Pastor Wyatt and his wife, Enid, as they prepared for their move to New York City.
By the time Jasmine read the second paragraph, she was on the edge of her seat:
Returning to the pulpit for the first time since the accident and what would be his last time as the pastor, Wyatt addressed the standing-room-only crowd. Still wearing bandages and his right arm in a sling, Pastor Wyatt thanked his well-wishers not only for their good wishes as he and his wife prepared for New York, but also for their prayers during this difficult time. “When my brother, Earvin, and I lost our mother and father all those years ago, so many of you stepped in as surrogate parents to fill the void their deaths left behind. I know there were many of you who were disappointed in the way things worked out with Earvin, but I tell you, he was about to turn his life around. He’d served his time and had come back home to make you all proud.” The pastor went on to talk about how his brother had died too young, but that he was not one to ever question the Lord. “God spared my life for a reason,” the pastor said. “I’m here and Earvin is not. God reached down from heaven and took my brother out of that automobile, but at the same time he left me to go on. I feel like a piece of me is gone…” It was then that the pastor buckled over with so much grief that his wife had to help him from the pulpit. As the two crossed the sanctuary weeping together, there was not a dry eye in the church…
Jasmine stopped there and leaned back in her seat. Pastor Wyatt had a brother who’d been killed in some kind of accident, obviously an accident that he’d been involved in as well. And he had never mentioned this?
Surely, this was a testimony that an arrogant, self-serving man like Pastor Wyatt would have used over and over. But not once had she heard this story. Maybe it was because his brother had been to prison—the article said he’d served his time.
That’s when the tugging began—from that place inside her heart where she stored her knowledge of men.
She grabbed her cell and punched the speed-dial number. She was already talking when Mae Frances answered.
“I think I have something,” she said, not holding back her excitement.
“Well, good morning to you, too, Jasmine Larson,” Mae Frances mumbled. “I can’t believe you call somebody and don’t even have the courtesy to say good morning. Don’t you have any manners?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. As if Mae Frances knew anything about manners. “I thought you’d want me to get straight to the gossip.”
The change in her tone was instant. “You’ve got gossip?” She sounded like a child on Christmas morning.
“Yeah, I may have something on Pastor Wyatt. I Googled him and something interesting came up.” Jasmine glanced at the article again. “Pastor Wyatt had a brother who died right before he came to New York.”
There was a long pause. Like Mae Frances was waiting for Jasmine to say more. And when Jasmine stayed silent, Mae Frances said, “I hate to break to it you, Jasmine Larson, but you can’t blackmail a blackmailer with the fact that he has a dead brother.”
“I know, but…” She bit the corner of her lip. Read over that paragraph again. “I need to find out more.” She took a breath. “I’m going to take a trip to Hogeye Creek, Georgia.”
“Why?”
Jasmine squinted, trying to understand the question that tugged inside of her. “I’m not sure, but this accident that killed his brother, why hasn’t Pastor Wyatt ever mentioned it?”
“How do you know that he hasn’t?”
“If he’d talked about it, somebody would’ve said something. You know our church. I never told a soul that Hosea wasn’t Jacqueline’s father, and everybody knows anyway. City of Lights passes more gossip along than Page Six.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“According to this article,” Jasmine continued her case, “Pastor Wyatt was in a serious car accident that killed his brother and his brother had just gotten out of prison. But he’s never once stood up during one of our Testify and Triumph services and said a word about it.”
“That’s true,” Mae Frances repeated, sounding like she was beginning to see Jasmine’s point.
“He’s the kind of man who wouldn’t let something like that go,” Jasmine kept on. “You know how he is about the media. Knowing him, he would’ve tried to get on Oprah, or at least Montel.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like to talk about it. Maybe it’s too painful. Maybe he’s embarrassed by a brother who’d been in jail.”
Jasmine thought about her friend’s words and tried to reconcile them with the Pastor Wyatt she knew. The man with the bad-boy swagger who didn’t seem to fear anything. She shook her head, then stated what she’d been thinking. “Maybe he never mentioned it because he had something to do with his brother’s death.”
Now there was a longer pause. “Jasmine Larson,” Mae Frances began softly and slowly, “this sounds like a job for my people.”
“No, I want to handle this.”
“But there could be trouble. If he’s a murderer—”
“I’m not going to confront him.” She took a breath. “I’m just going down to Hogeye Creek to see what I can find.”
“I’m going with you.”
In the seconds that passed, Jasmine wondered if that was a good idea. Would it be possible to sneak into the small country town with a loud, gruff, five-foot-eleven, take-no-prisoners-if-you-pissed-her-off, mink-coat-wearing (because since it was March, Mae Frances would definitely be sporting her thirty-five-year-old mink coat) woman who had just found Jesus? No, there was no chance for discretion if Mae Frances was with her.
She shook her head. “I would love for you to come, but I need you to do something else while I’m away. Do you think one of your connections can look into getting something on with Roxie and Ivy?” she asked, knowing that would satisfy her friend a little.
“Yeah,”
she said, sounding a bit more chipper. “But I still think you’d be safer if—”
“I’ll be fine; I promise.”
When they hung up, Jasmine perused the article once again, her fascination building.
And she had a feeling that even more captivating news waited for her in Hogeye Creek.
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE MOMENT SHE HEARD THE footsteps, Jasmine lowered the computer screen on her laptop, hiding the travel Web site she’d been viewing. She was already looking up when Roxie stood at her door.
“Mrs. Whittingham gave me this for you.”
“Thanks,” Jasmine said, reaching for the FedEx envelope.
“I’m getting ready to get out of here, unless you have anything else.”
Shaking her head, Jasmine said, “Nope.” Roxie tried to peek at her computer, and Jasmine lowered her laptop lid even more.
“What’re you working on?” Roxie asked.
“Nothing.”
Roxie sighed, but Jasmine didn’t care. Being here was her idea—and with her friendship with Jerome, Jasmine was never going to let her get close. Plus, it wasn’t like she was sure that Roxie wasn’t the blackmailer—even though she was beginning to doubt it.
Roxie said, “I was thinking about stopping by the hospital. Is Hosea there?”
Jasmine nodded.
When Jasmine didn’t add anymore, Roxie said, “Okay…well, then…I’ll see you.”
The moment Roxie was out of sight, Jasmine opened her laptop again. She hadn’t decided when she would go to Georgia, though she was leaning toward this weekend. That way, she could attend the Sunday service at Church of the Solid Rock. If that church was anything like City of Lights, it would be the best place to find a loose-lipped lady who’d want to talk about her former pastor.
With her eyes on the computer screen, Jasmine picked up the FedEx package, ripped it open, then pulled out the single page. She held it for a moment, before she turned her eyes to it and then dropped the paper as if it was a snake on fire.
The letter fell onto her desk, faceup, the words right in her face, taunting her:
Lady Jasmine Page 19