by Angela Henry
“What are you, a reporter?” He wiped at his mouth again, still looking at his wife.
“Just answer the question, please.”
“The only person I saw that night was some black girl. I saw her go around the back of the shop.”
“What time was this?”
He sighed heavily. “I can’t remember exactly, maybe around nine-thirty.” He kept looking at his wife. For some reason, I was getting the biggest kick out of his discomfort.
“Did you recognize her?”
“I didn’t see her face, just her hair. She had long braids.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No,” he said sullenly.
“Did you hear anything after you saw her, like a gunshot, maybe?”
“No. I left after that.”
“Would you be willing to tell the police what you saw that night?”
“Are you crazy, lady?” His voice was high-pitched and panicky.
I glanced at a sign on the wall listing the store’s hours. They closed at six every night.
“So, I guess I don’t need to ask what you were doing here so late.” He glared at me, and started to say something, but his wife walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle. She kissed him on the cheek.
“Is my handsome husband giving you a hard time?” Handsome? He hardly looked like love’s dream to me, but what did I know. Maybe he was packing some major equipment in his pants.
“Not at all, ma’am. He’s been very helpful,” I replied, scratching the corner of my mouth to indicate where he still had some lipstick. He wiped the corner of his mouth hard before turning to plant a big wet one on his wife. Yuck.
I left the store and headed to my car. The girl he’d seen that night had braids. Could it have been Shanda? I knew there was bad blood between her and Inez because of Vaughn. But could Shanda have killed her own cousin? Maybe that was the real reason she was acting so indifferently at Inez’s funeral and why she was so willing to help set Timmy up.
I was running pretty late when I arrived at Lynette’s mother’s brick tri-level that evening. I had to park around the block and almost fell as I tried rushing down the sidewalk in high-heeled boots. Lynette’s mother, Justine, is a stickler for punctuality and I was in no mood to be on the receiving end of one of her my- time - is - precious - how - dare - you - be - late looks. Most of the time I like Justine. But she’s moody as hell. You never know if you’re going to get hugged or cussed out.
Justine Martin opened the front door before I could ring the bell. I walked straight into an overpowering cloud of her Cinnabar perfume. But I was used to how heavy she wore her fragrance and knew to hold my breath. I could tell she was pissed at me because she tossed her long, black, curly weave, which hung down her back much like a horse’s mane, and didn’t speak. She was dressed in an emerald green silk pantsuit without a shirt underneath. I could see her lacy, black push-up bra peeking out from beneath her buttoned up jacket. Her feet were crammed into heels that looked two sizes too small for her and were so high I wondered why she didn’t have a nosebleed. Her makeup was dramatic and overdone, with eyes ringed with so much eyeliner she looked like an ancient Egyptian queen. Justine’s in her fifties but doesn’t look it and is determined to retain a tight grasp on her youth, no matter how foolish she may look in the process. She took my coat; looked me up and down; gave my cashmere sweater; long vintage suede skirt; and boots a disapproving roll of her eyes, and practically shoved me into the living room where the other guests were congregating. I almost tripped over her terrier, Coco.
“The maid of honor has decided to grace us with her presence,” Justine said loudly, making my face burn hot with embarrassment. Apparently, I was the last one to arrive. The three dozen or so people in the room, most of whom I didn’t recognize, turned to stare briefly at me before turning their attention back to whatever they’d been doing when I arrived. A jazz instrumental was playing on the CD player and people were helping themselves to an abundance of finger food that had been laid out on the dining room table.
Lynette’s fiancé, Greg, looking quite handsome in black slacks and a gray turtleneck, came to my rescue and pressed a drink into my hand. I sipped it and gave him a grateful look.
“As you can see, my future mother-in-law is in rare form,” he whispered to me. “I’ve been trying to avoid her but she keeps grabbing me and introducing me to people as her future son-in-law, the bank president. I wouldn’t mind it so much but some of her people keep asking me about why their loans didn’t go through.” Greg’s actually an accountant at Willow Federal Bank, where he met Lynette, who’s a personal banker.
We laughed, but I knew how he felt. For the longest time, Justine would introduce me to her friends as Lynette’s best friend Kendra, the restaurant owner, when she knows full well I’m just a hostess. I knew her embellishment of my career was to make people think she mixed and mingled with the elite of Willow. The only way I got Justine to stop was by saying I owned and operated the Weenie Hut on Route 40 whenever the folks she introduced me to asked me about my restaurant.
“Where’s Lynette?” I asked. Greg pointed in the direction of the kitchen and I headed off in search of my best friend.
I heard laughter as I approached the kitchen but when I walked in the laughter stopped and I was immediately met by the silent gaze of several women, three of whom I didn’t know. Lynette was sitting at the kitchen table looking uncomfortable. I instantly knew they’d been talking about me and felt my face start to burn again.
“Hey, Kendra,” said Lynette, jumping up and giving me a quick hug that I only half returned.
I greeted the other women in the room — Lynette’s sister-in-law, Abby, and Greg’s sister, Liz, both of whom I actually like a lot, and smiled at the other women, figuring they were bridesmaids, too. Lynette made the introductions.
“Kendra, these are Greg’s cousins, Celeste and Cecile Warner from Cincinnati,” she said, gesturing to two women who I just realized were identical twins. Celeste and Cecile were both tall and thin, almost to the point of being gaunt. Both twins wore their hair closely cropped and natural but one had her hair dyed a bright orange. The only other difference in their appearances was that one twin was wearing a blue, sequined cocktail dress that looked too big, while the other sported a tight red minidress and thigh-high boots. Both women were guzzling large drinks and, upon further inspection of the way they were propped up against the kitchen counter, appeared to be either drunk off their asses or well on their way to being so. I said hello and held out my hand to the nearest twin. She gave me a moist, limp handshake while her sister belched and rubbed her stomach. I quickly turned my attention to the other woman.
“Kendra, this is a coworker of mine at the bank, Georgette Combs,” Lynette said, gesturing towards the pretty, smiling, conservatively dressed young woman seated at the kitchen table. This is more like it, I thought as I held out my hand. Georgette reached out to shake my hand and I froze with shock as I saw that her fingernails were at least four inches long. Some of her nails were so long they had actually started to curl into spirals.
“Nice meeting you, Georgette,” I said, recovering quickly. I tried not to wince as my hand disappeared into hers and pushed the question of how she wiped without giving herself a hysterectomy firmly out of mind.
“Nice meeting you, too, Kendra,” Georgette replied in a high-pitched voice that sounded like she’d inhaled helium. “Come on over here, girl, and sit down next to me,” she said, patting the chair beside her. I walked over to her, willing myself not to laugh at that Minnie Mouse voice by filling my head with visions of my pet bunny, Fifi, who got run over when I was eight. I didn’t want to hurt this woman’s feelings when she seemed so friendly. However, you’d think I’d have learned by now that first impressions aren’t always accurate.
“So, Kendra, what’s this we hear about you not liking your maid of honor dress? I thought it was real pretty,” Georgette said, leaning forward in
her seat, her friendly smile gone.
“Yeah, what makes you think you’re too good to wear what the bride picked out? Ain’t none of us complained,” piped in the twin wearing the blue sequins, slurring her words slightly.
You could have heard a pin drop as they all waited for my response. I looked over at Lynette, who looked mortified.
“Well, I certainly never meant to come across that way. But this is really between Lynette and me,” I said, slowly and deliberately taking deep breaths to keep from working myself up into a full-blown snit. A certain bride-to-be was going to have hell to pay.
“Kendra, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” said Lynette, looking down at the table.
“Yes, you did. You said Kendra would rather wear a rag from the thrift store than the nice dress you picked out. Didn’t she, y’all?” Georgette said, looking around the room for affirmation. Liz and Abby just rolled their eyes and left the kitchen.
“Uh-huh, she did say that,” replied the twin in the red dress, loudly, filling the room with her liquor-scented breath.
“You gonna let her talk about you like that, Kim?” asked the blue-sequined twin, shaking a bony finger in my face.
“It’s Kendra, and if you want that finger, you better keep it out of my face,” I said, getting up from the table, my quest to be diplomatic short-lived. If I’d known I was walking into an ambush, I’d have kept my behind at home.
“Ooh, I’m so scared. Miss Cheap Ass is gonna beat me up, y’all,” said the blue twin, lurching around the kitchen, bobbing and weaving like she was ducking imaginary blows. Everyone in the room, except Lynette and me, started laughing hysterically.
“You guys need to quit,” said Lynette, sounding like she was about to cry.
“You were the one talking about your so-called best friend. Not us,” replied Georgette in a huff.
She and the twins were staring at Lynette and me with glittering eyes and I suddenly realized that these three crazy heifers wanted us to fight. They would like nothing better than to see Lynette and me push back the kitchen table and start brawling and tearing each other’s hair out.
I’d had quite enough of Talon Woman and the Double Lush Twins. As far as I was concerned, Lynette and I had settled the dress issue, and even though I was annoyed that she’d been talking about me behind my back, I wasn’t about to act a fool for the enjoyment of these crazy women. I pulled Lynette to her feet. “Come on and introduce me to everybody else.” I led her out of the kitchen.
“Kendra, I —” began Lynette before I cut her off.
“Not to worry my friend. We’ve already squashed the dress issue, no need to bring it up again,” I assured her.
“I swear I had no idea they were like this when I asked them to be in the wedding.” Lynette shook her head in dismay.
“Why in the world did you ask them in the first place?”
“I only asked the twins as a favor to Greg’s mother. I’d only met them once and had no idea how much they like to get their drink on. I only hope they can stay sober long enough to make it down the aisle. As for Georgette, we both started working at the bank about the same time. I thought she was my friend.”
Under normal circumstances she probably was Lynette’s friend, but there was something about planning a wedding that brought out the worst in everybody involved.
“What was that your mother told you? Watch out for jealous females when planning your wedding. Did she say anything about crazy females? You’ve got three of them in the kitchen, so watch your back.”
We made the rounds and Lynette introduced me to the groomsmen, who were much nicer than the idiots in the kitchen. One in particular, Greg’s best friend and best man, Ken Tucker, took an avid interest in me. Ken was a software engineer in Atlanta and was newly divorced. It was also evident that he was on the prowl, although he was stuttering and sweating so profusely I could tell he was way out of practice.
“K-Kendra, I’m loving th-that skirt you’ve got on, g-girl,” he said, tugging at the tight collar of his shirt. I knew he was flirting with me, or trying to, at any rate. But I couldn’t help teasing him.
“Thanks, Ken. You can borrow it anytime you want.” I smiled at him to let him know I was kidding, but he looked horrified.
“N-No, I just m-meant that you l-look good, y-you know?”
“I know. I was just messing with you,” I said and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Just then, someone in an apparent attack of nostalgia put on Zapp’s “More Bounce to the Ounce” and Ken lit up like a lantern.
“Th-This is my j-jam,” he said, pulling me into the middle of the living room to dance, which would have been fine had there been other people dancing, and would have been even better if Ken knew how to dance.
Now, I’m the first to admit that I’m nobody’s idea of a good dancer. I’m not horrible but I long ago gave up my dream of being able to dance so well that people would make a circle around me and clap and cheer. But even I’m better than Ken. Hell, if all my toes were broken and both my arms were in slings, I could still dance better than Ken. And that’s not saying much at all. Brotherman’s face was tensed up like he was constipated and his spastic, jerky footwork and furious, frenzied fist-pumping made it look like he was mad at the music and trying to pick a fight with it. I, on the other hand, was doing a tired two-step, ducking occasionally to avoid getting punched, not to mention getting drenched from all the sweat that was flying off of Mr. Dancing Machine.
Then Ken suddenly switched gears and leaned forward and started vigorously shaking his behind like it was on fire. I realized he was doing Da Butt, a dance that was popular back in my college days. Everyone was laughing at him, and rightly so. But I had to give Ken cool points because he just didn’t seem to care. Realizing I didn’t know most of the people at the party well enough to care what they thought, I started doing Da Butt, too. Soon Greg and Lynette joined us and, minutes later, everyone was dancing and laughing. Even Justine was cutting a rug, though I knew her feet had to be killing her in those too small shoes.
Dancing made me hungry. I left the others, who were now doing the Electric Slide, in the living room and headed into the dining room to get some food. With everyone dancing, Justine’s dog, Coco — taking full advantage of the unattended grub — had climbed up on the table and was lapping up the spinach dip, standing with her dirty little paws planted right on top of the cocktail bread. I quickly grabbed her and put her in a nearby bedroom, then took the tray with the doggy tainted dip and bread into the kitchen. Georgette and the Sunshine Twins were still talking and again fell silent when I walked in. Georgette got up from the table and put her hand on my shoulder, her claws draped too close to my neck for comfort.
“You’re not mad, are you, Kendra? We were just kidding. Weren’t we?” she asked the inebriated, semi-comatose twins, who nodded mutely and stared vacantly through red, watery eyes. I remained silent.
“You know, we don’t like our dresses, either,” Georgette squeaked in a low whisper. “What didn’t you like about yours?” Georgette was smiling innocently enough but I knew this two-faced cow was just trying to get me to talk about Lynette so she could run back and tell her what I said in an attempt to get more mess started.
“Let’s not talk about those dresses, okay? This is a party. Here, I brought you guys some dip,” I said, setting the tray on the table and leaving as they tore into it.
Chapter 9
Wednesday afternoon found me sitting in my car in the parking lot of Floyd Library on the Kingford College campus. I was looking for Shanda and had driven around the campus looking for her car. I’d finally spotted her Honda Civic in the library’s parking lot. I parked behind her car and had been waiting for over an hour. I didn’t want to miss her. I watched various students emerge from the library. None of them was Shanda. Finally, after another half an hour, I headed into the library to look for her.
Floyd Library had been recently renovated and it had been years since I’d been inside. Gone
was the orange and pea-green seventies decor with its outdated paper card catalog and mismatched furniture. The library was now completely automated and housed a computer lab full of new Apple computers as well as a coffee shop. The main reading room had hunter-green carpeting, dark tan leather couches and armchairs, and long wooden tables. The reference department and the main stacks were on the second floor.
I wandered around the library, pausing every now and then to glance at studious or sleeping students in my search for Shanda. I found her on the second floor, asleep in a study carrel in the reference department. She was sleeping with her head resting on arms crossed atop an open book. Her long braids hid her face like a curtain. I pulled a chair up next to her and nudged her awake. Since it hadn’t exactly been a gentle nudge, she woke up quickly, but looked bleary-eyed and confused for a few minutes before realizing it was me. She groaned softly.
“What do you want?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“For starters, I want you to tell the police what you and Vaughn did,” I said in low whisper.
“Not this again. Kendra, how do you know that Timmy didn’t kill Inez? He probably did, you know. She was already dead when Vaughn went to see her. Vaughn and I are just helping the police to look in the right direction.”
“Either you’re a fool or your boyfriend has knocked a screw loose in your head, little girl. Do you really think Vaughn Castle has any interest in helping the police do anything? He just wants to screw up Timmy’s life, and you know it.”
“Timmy’s an ex-crackhead with a criminal record who didn’t even graduate from high school. Looks to me like his life is already pretty screwed up,” she whispered loudly, standing up and tossing her books into her backpack.
“Okay, well, let’s explore another theory,” I said, blocking her way as she tried to walk past me.