“No. That’s not all. Don’t think this issue is over between me and you. It’s far from over,” she warned.
Melody glared at her before flicking her hair over her shoulder in dismissal.
“It damn sure ain’t over. You’re going to pay. One way or another, you’ll get what’s coming to you,” Lyric mumbled as she entered the waiting vehicle.
Chapter 3
Harmony
Harmony used the tips of her fingers to massage her throbbing temples. The headache was definitely stress induced, and it made her mind feel fuzzy. The constant rapid fire of questions from the detective had her patience at an all-time low. She wasn’t going to “break,” but she guessed Detective Brice Simpson thought the long hours of interrogation would somehow yield useful or incriminating information. She wished they would just waterboard her and be done with it.
Now Harmony understood how the NYPD got so many forced confessions. If she was some poor, young girl sitting in a dank and drab room for hours on end with two men rotating in and out to badger her with the same questions, she probably would have sung whatever tune they asked her to sing. If they wanted a singer, they had picked the wrong sister to question. She chuckled sarcastically to herself at the irony of it all, then glanced over at the two-way mirror and hoped no one was watching her. She must’ve looked crazy.
Harmony sighed and swallowed hard. She was exhausted. It had been almost twenty-four hours since the detectives had barged into her performing arts school and told her that her mother’s death had been ruled a homicide. It was just one more thing to deal with now.
Harmony and her sisters had already been struggling to deal with all of their buried hurt, pain, jealousies, and the demons of their past that surfaced after finding out that their mother had been found dead in her house. But to learn that Ava might have been murdered—this made Harmony feel like she’d been pushed into traffic with cars speeding at and around her from every direction.
She looked at the papers spread out on the table. The medical examiner’s words started to swim in front of her tired eyes.
“Let’s go over it one more time, Ms. Love—” Detective Simpson started.
“Mrs. Bridges,” Harmony cut him off. “I’m married.” Chills cropped up on Harmony’s arms as soon as she uttered the statement.
She was angry at her husband Ron, but she missed him terribly. She wondered every night if he had gone back to sleeping in the streets. Harmony rubbed at her temples again. She couldn’t help but rehash the pain of their last encounter.
* * *
Harmony had doubled back to the hotel room. Ron said he’d forgotten something, but his behavior seemed odd, which made her suspicious. Living with a recovering drug addict was not easy.
At the hotel room door, she slowly stepped inside, balancing her daughter on her hip. A fire burned in her stomach and chest. Her instincts told her not to call out to Ron. She moved through the suite slowly, her breath coming out rough and fast.
Harmony approached the bathroom door on unsteady legs. The door had been left slightly ajar. She craned her neck, trying to see through the small sliver.
Harmony heard loud snorting from inside. She stumbled back a few steps. Her heart felt like it had stopped. There he was—her husband, the love of her life, the man she had supported for the past three years—bent over the sink, sniffing white powder.
Cocaine! Her knees nearly gave out, and she came close to dropping baby Aubrey. The baby giggled, like she did when Harmony was being silly with her. Harmony’s heart seized, and her hand flew up to cover the baby’s mouth.
“Harm?” Ron called from the bathroom.
She could hear him fumbling around. Glass shattered, followed by low cursing.
“Harm, is that you?” he called anxiously.
She could hear him sniffling. She whirled around, not sure what to do next. Harmony felt untethered, like she’d just slipped off the side of a mountain and was freefalling to her death.
“Harm?” Ron emerged, a tiny dot of white powder still rimming his right nostril. Harmony’s eyes bulged at the evidence of his crime. She moved backward, no longer recognizing the man who stood before her.
“Harm, wait,” Ron said, his left hand extended. “Let me just tell you what happened.” His eyes were watery. His brow was dripping sweat. Harmony had seen him in this condition before. It was not something she hoped to repeat.
Harmony stumbled into the small hotel room desk. Her baby laughed joyfully, oblivious to the seriousness of the situation.
“Just hear me out, Harm,” he pleaded.
Harmony opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She couldn’t find the words. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t yell. She couldn’t do anything. The devastation she felt was like nothing she had ever experienced in her life. Harmony stood on proverbial quicksand—there was no hope for escape.
“I got it under control, Harm,” Ron said. “I promise you. I was a little stressed out with everything that was going on with us, um . . . with you, but I know once things are back to normal between us, I can stop.”
Ron was blaming her for his relapse? How dare he!
Harmony turned swiftly and sprinted to the door.
Ron was quicker than she anticipated; his large chest blocked the door and her exit. She tried to go around him, but he shifted sideways to stop her.
“Harmony, wait.”
“Da-da,” Aubrey cooed, stretching her chubby arms toward Ron. It was the first time she’d said the word. Harmony felt a sharp pain in her stomach. One of her worst fears realized—her daughter would grow up fatherless, just like she did. This wasn’t what Harmony had envisioned for her life when she started rebuilding it after the Sista Love breakup. Anything but this type of disappointment and pain.
“Harmony, just listen to me. I promise I can handle it. I swear it won’t be like before,” Ron begged. “It’s not like you didn’t drive me to this point.”
Without thought, Harmony slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength she had in her body. Ron’s head swung to the left; his hand flew up to his cheek as he stumbled sideways from the impact.
Aubrey started crying. Without a word, Harmony yanked opened the door and stormed out, screaming baby in tow.
“Harmony, please wait,” Ron called after her. “Just give me a minute to talk to you.”
Harmony didn’t bother to turn around. Her legs felt as heavy as lead pipes, but she forged ahead as fast as they would carry her.
“Harmony,” he called after her again, but stopped at the doorway to the hotel room. She knew that Ron wouldn’t chase her. The cocaine in the bathroom was far more enticing than Harmony would ever be to Ron at that moment. Of that, she was sure.
* * *
“Ms. Bridges? Are you okay?” Detective Simpson asked. Harmony blinked a few times, focusing on the present.
She cleared her throat and feathered her hands nervously through her hair.
“I’ve looked at it over and over again. My answers are still the same. I don’t know anyone who would want my mother dead, and I damn sure wouldn’t know anyone who could get close enough to her to poison her. Who knows, maybe she did it to herself.”
“Suicide by poison?” Detective Simpson seemed to contemplate her theory. “Not a likely MO for a woman her age.”
“There wasn’t much that was likely for Ava. She wasn’t your typical ‘woman of her age,’ Detective. My mother was alone these past few years. Perhaps she wanted to die alone as well. Maybe all of the cruel things she did finally caught up to her.” Harmony looked up at Detective Simpson wearily, the truth pressing against the roof of her mouth.
The detective nodded for her to continue.
“My mother wasn’t some little sweet old lady who baked cookies and looked forward to visits from her three daughters. Far from it. She had no friends except Murray Fleischer, and he’s so old he probably couldn’t make a cup of tea much less prepare a killer concoction. Like I told you
already, I hadn’t seen her in three years, but I would bet my life that Ava didn’t make any close friends in that time. To put it lightly, my mother was an evil bitch of a woman. She didn’t even allow us to call her mom.”
As soon as the words left Harmony’s mouth, her lips started trembling. Harmony had lived through years of Ava’s cruel treatment and name-calling: You jiggaboo, tar baby. You nappy-headed runaway slave. How did I give birth to such a black, ugly spook? She had endured vicious beatings as well—leather belts to the palm of her hands, wet towels to the back, closed-fist punches to the soft parts of the body that didn’t leave bruises. She had attended every cruel and merciless rehearsal too—up at 5 a.m., eating only one meal a day until the routine was perfect. Never allowed to eat candy or sweets to make sure she didn’t gain any weight.
Ava had also stolen millions from Harmony and didn’t bat one false eyelash about it. Sure, Harmony had wished her mother dead on several occasions. But to actually go through with killing her mother? No, Harmony wasn’t that type of monster.
“I know I’ve asked you this a couple of times . . .” the detective persisted.
Harmony threw her head back in exhaustion. “No. Not a couple of times. You’ve asked me the same things over and over again since you dragged me down here. And, trust me, despite this constant barrage of questions, my answers will remain the same.”
Detective Simpson sighed and removed his already loosened necktie. He pinched the bridge of his nose and paced the room.
He was an attractive man, with smooth skin, broad shoulders, perfect teeth, and tight, dark, scalp-hugging curls. Harmony could tell that the bags cropping up under his eyes and the strain lines around his mouth were a product of his profession and not his age. She pegged him to be roughly thirty-five years old.
“I know this all seems redundant, but Ms. Lov . . . I mean Bridges, we are trying to figure out who would want your mother dead. Who could have gotten close enough to add poison to her food and drink? But most importantly, why?” Detective Simpson leaned his back against the wall and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Harmony met his gaze and stared him down.
“So I know you’ve told me that you and your sisters were members of the singing group, Sista Love,” Detective Simpson recounted. “My little sister loved your music, by the way,” he said with a half smile. “In fact, she dragged me to two of your concerts. It was just as memorable for her as it was terrible for me, no offense. There is nothing worse than being surrounded by throngs of screaming girls. Needless to say, I couldn’t hear for a week after the concert,” he joked.
Harmony could tell he was trying to lighten the mood. She cracked a weak smile too. Maybe if she played nice for a while, he would let her go home.
“Yeah. Sista Love had many fans. We definitely had a good thing going. It’s just too bad that the ugly human side of things got in the way of our success. But, you know humans—we lie, we cheat, and we steal. Success brought the worst out in all of us. They say that sisterhood is a bond that can never be broken. Well, we proved that saying false.” Harmony’s voice cracked at the end of her statement.
“So, your mother was your manager, but then things went bad. Your mother and her partner, Murray Fleischer, were the reason things didn’t work out, correct?”
Harmony nodded. “That’s right.”
“You found out that she was secretly brokering a solo deal for your sister, Melody, and was also robbing you and Lyric blind. You finally had enough and said screw it, I’m out of here. But before you left, you had a physical altercation with your mother. No charges pressed. No police report. You later sue your mother, the label, your sister, and Murray, and win a lucrative judgment and open up your business. You move away and stay away from your family. No contact with your mother. No contact with your sister Melody, and only sporadic contact with your sister Lyric.”
“That’s a decent summary, Detective Simpson. I see you’ve been listening. At least I don’t feel as bad knowing these hours of talking didn’t fall on deaf ears,” Harmony said sarcastically. Detective Simpson rubbed his chin and pursed his lips.
“So you come back to bury your mother, and what . . . face your sisters for the first time in years?” he asked gently.
“Yes, and it wasn’t easy. Like I told you before, my sisters and I have never been as close with one another as sisters should be. Ava was cruel to me, and Lyric . . .” Harmony’s voice thickened. She closed her eyes and sighed. She hated rehashing so much of the past. She bit her lip hard. Talking about Ava made her feel angry and depressed.
“We were just kids when Ava came up with the idea of making us into stars. Ava was hanging on for dear life to a long dead singing career. The way she told it, back in her day, she was one breath away from a star on the Walk of Fame,” Harmony said dryly.
“But she got pregnant with me. From what I’ve heard, my father was the lead drummer in Donna Summer’s band. Ava, of course, was a backup singer. My father was married, and Ava was beautiful and irresistible. Like Lena Horne beautiful. A hot, one-night stand on the road and boom, a baby was on the way. I’ve always heard that Ava equated being pregnant with a terminal illness diagnosis. She was simply miserable. I apparently ruined her body and her career. Hearing her speak about her pregnancy and about me as a baby, I never understood why she didn’t just have an abortion. But I guess back then, it wasn’t as easy as it is now. Ava knew my father wasn’t going to leave his wife. She knew having a baby on the road would be incompatible with her lifestyle. And she never forgot to remind me of just how inconvenient my presence was in her life. I’m not helping my case here, am I, Detective?” Harmony chuckled despondently, wiping the tears before they could fall.
Detective Simpson handed her a box of tissues and nodded for her to continue. It was oddly comforting to spill her feelings to a complete stranger.
“I never got to meet him—my father. I found pictures, though, and immediately recognized who he was. It was like looking in a mirror, that’s how much I looked like him. Same roasted coffee bean complexion, same thick, coarse hair. I didn’t need a DNA test to confirm who my father was. But my mother never had the decency to tell me anything about him, except that I looked just like him, and she hated me for it,” Harmony said bitterly.
She fell silent for a few minutes. Her words lingered over the room like a thick, suffocating fog.
Detective Simpson grunted in response, and then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry that you had such a difficult mother. It must not have been easy for you or your sisters.” For once, Harmony heard genuine compassion in his voice. She twisted the drawstring on her sweatpants around her finger and moved her legs in and out under the table.
“From the time I could remember, Detective Simpson. . . I’m talking about being two years old, and even then, Ava treated me with disdain. I remember sleeping in an old rickety, wooden, secondhand crib with no blankets and Ava screaming, ‘Shut up, you little ugly jiggaboo, ’ whenever I cried because I was hungry. She called me that name so often, I once told a lady in the grocery store that my name was ‘Ugly Jiggaboo’ and she looked at me in horror.”
Detective Simpson moved from the wall and folded into the chair in front of her. He patted the top of her hand sympathetically. She smiled weakly at his effort to console her. The mood in the room had definitely shifted from suspicious to sympathetic. Harmony knew it would once she got started.
“Yeah, I know. To other people, it sounds horrible, but to me, that was my normal life. As I got older, it got worse, especially after Melody was born. Melody’s father is a famous actor who Ava loved more than any other man—past or present. But as much as she loved him, he refused to put a ring on it. I’m pretty sure he was already married too. I remember him. Boy, do I remember him. He was a good-looking white man—tall, dusty-blond hair, shocking blue eyes. I would sneak a peek at him as he came in and out of Ava’s bedroom late at night and early in the mornings. He left all types of sweet treats fo
r Melody. Dolls, candy with fancy wrappings, beautiful dresses with frills and bows, shiny patent leather shoes, gold earrings,” Harmony recalled, shaking her head.
Detective Simpson scribbled wildly on his white legal pad. The pen scratching against the paper unnerved Harmony slightly. She didn’t know if she was saying too much, but she also couldn’t stop talking.
“I always wished he was my father too,” she said, her face going stony. “But just like everyone else in our lives, one day Melody’s father stopped coming around too. Ava cried for what seemed like months. She was depressed for a long while. Afterward, there was a dramatic change in her behavior toward Lyric and me. She became crueler, if you could imagine that even being possible. But Melody was treated more like a princess—a beautiful, honey-colored, half-white princess,” Harmony gritted.
Harmony shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. She was unearthing deeply buried, painful memories.
“Melody was perfect in Ava’s eyes. She was a pretty doll that Ava liked to play with. But me, I got called a worthless, nappy-headed nigger, a black scoundrel, an escaped slave,” Harmony rattled off.
Detective Simpson’s eyebrows shot up. Harmony met his gaze unashamedly.
“Oh, yeah . . . all types of derogatory names because of my complexion. I died a little more inside every time she uttered those words. Did you know that I had such a complex about my skin color that I tried to bleach my skin when I was fifteen years old? Twice, Ava was forced to take me to the emergency room for skin irritation and burning. I scrubbed my body each night hoping that some of the color would rub off. I prayed to God that when I woke up, I would be just as light as Melody and realize that my darkness was just a figment of my imagination. I just wanted her to see me, to love me.”
“Did you ever get to tell your mother how you felt about all of this? Have a sit-down with her, get your pain off your chest?” Detective Simpson asked, throwing his pen down on top of his pad. Harmony laughed at him.
“Sitting down to talk with my mother would’ve never happened, Detective. When my baby sister came along, I began to hate my mother even more. Lyric was an innocent child, but Ava treated her like garbage. The woman had no maternal instinct. I believe that even her relationship with Melody was more obsession based than love based.”
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