Murder My Past

by Delia C. Pitts

  “Did you notice where she was in that conference call?”

  “No.”

  “That was her office in Miami. You could see the green shelves, the shiny white tiles on the walls. And that poster framed in bright pink behind her. A picture of an art deco hotel, I think it was.”

  “Sure. Art deco.” I had no idea if that was right, but echoing Pearl was a safe step while I regained my bearings.

  Pearl slipped to her desk again, this time opening a shallow side drawer. When she returned to the table, she balanced a small box on her palm. The carton was square, covered in eddies of cream and pink. On one side, lustrous green script read: “Rêves de la Plage.”

  I took the box and opened it. I lifted out a clear glass bottle, the size and shape of a tulip bulb. A faceted crystal stopped the bottle’s neck. The stopper’s surface was smoky pink, swirled with clouds, like a large marble. Inside, golden liquid shimmered as I tilted the bottle. “What’s this?”

  “A gift from Anniesha. The perfume she always wore. She gave it to me when we first met. Isn’t it beautiful?” Pearl’s eyes shone, a soft smile bending her lips. “Go on, open it.”

  I tugged the pink marble until it yielded. Annie’s scent drifted across my face, tangy like cherries glazed in burnt sugar. I stoppered the bottle and glanced toward the windows. Unblinking, I stared into the sun until its glare justified the mist in my eyes. “What’s the name mean? Do you know?”

  “Anniesha told me ‘Rêves de la Plage’ is French for ‘Dreams of the Beach.’ Pretty, right?”

  “Yes. Lovely,” I said.

  I balanced the bottle on my fingertips. I remembered our last night and Annie’s sweet voice: Miami’s a nice town. How Annie’s fingers had grazed my knee. How I’d choked: So I hear. Nice beach, nice ocean.

  I slipped the bottle into the box. I felt raw, exposed, but grateful too. “‘Rêves de la Plage’ fits her. Thank you for sharing with me.” I handed the box to Pearl. “Will you wear it?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t see how I could now. Knowing what it means. That scent will always remind me of Anniesha. Always. How could I ever wear it, Mr. Rook?” A pledge more than a question, the wail carried Pearl to her desk. She returned the perfume box to the drawer and pressed it closed.

  When she sat next to me again, the tenderness of the moment had faded along with Annie’s scent. “Mr. Rook, I have a suggestion.”

  “Sure, shoot.” A lousy turn of phrase, but I couldn’t take it back.

  “Have you considered phoning Anniesha’s vice president, Rick Luna?”

  “What for?” Did Pearl guess I’d tapped Luna as a potential murderer? What could she hope I’d gain from talking with him?

  “I’m sure he’d like to hear from you. From anyone who knew her.”

  Pearl had introduced the topic, so I could probe further. “Did you see the two of them together at the conference?”

  “Only twice. On the first day of the conference, Annie introduced us. She’d mentioned Rick when we talked online, so it was nice to finally put a face to the name. We talked for maybe five minutes, not more. Just general stuff. He seemed bubbly and eager to please. Like a puppy dog. Then, the day before she… before she died. I saw Rick talking with her at a little table in a corner of the lobby. He was leaning close, hanging on every word she spoke. Intense.”

  I wanted to ask Pearl if she thought Annie and Rick were lovers. Talking about sex with an ex-nun wasn’t my idea of joy, so I hoped by offering a vague phrase or two she’d get my meaning. “Did you form the impression they were more than just close colleagues? Did it go further with them, do you think?”

  She sighed and rolled her shoulders. “You mean, did I think they were sleeping together? Yes, that crossed my mind. He seemed more than warm. Passionate, I’d say. And she was sparkly and excited.” Pearl raised her eyes to catch mine, like she knew what she had to say might hurt. But she was determined to get it out anyway. “I never saw them kiss, but there were enough touches and long gazes to convince me they were more than just friends.”

  “Okay.” This information confirmed Rick could have slept with Annie the night of her murder. I wouldn’t scratch him off my list of suspects yet. “I’ve got the picture.”

  “Will you call him?” She was persistent. A nun on a mission. Who did Pearl believe would benefit from the phone call she proposed, me or Rick? Or was she hoping to salve her own feelings?

  I snapped. “I’m supposed to comfort that worm? Make him feel better? No chance.” I stood, moving toward the door. This interview needed to close before it swamped me.

  “I spoke with Rick two days ago. He’s suffering, Mr. Rook. He lost someone too. Someone close. Maybe not like you did, but I think your call could help.” We’d reached the door. Pearl squeezed the knob, but didn’t turn it. “Compassion is what I’m suggesting. Or understanding. I don’t expect you to forgive someone you believe trespassed against you. Mercy is the toughest quality for any of us to achieve.” She twisted her fingers together until they shone waxy white. “But I believe it’s our obligation to strive for compassion. Can you see things from Rick’s perspective? Your marriage was over. As far as he knew, your relationship with Annie was a thing of the past. He had no reason to believe anything else. He merits forgiveness now. And I believe you will find mercy flows in both directions, Mr. Rook. Rick could use a little and so might you. Just give it a thought, would you?”

  Pearl chuckled, eyes crinkling until the blue disappeared. “And thus, ends today’s homily.” Then her voice lowered and she patted my hand. “If you can’t see your way clear to speaking with Rick, that’s okay. I understand.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I swallowed the gravel from my voice with a heavy gulp. Should I have asked Pearl flat out if she suspected Rick had murdered Annie? Maybe. But I couldn’t bring myself to dish the question. Her plea for empathy for him suggested she believed he was innocent. Besides, talking sex with a nun was one thing, speculating about murder with her was a line I couldn’t cross.

  Pearl’s moist kindness wafted over me as I stood in the reception room, waiting for the taxi to arrive. We shook hands under the bubbly gaze of Pam the secretary, who walked me to the curb. Clouds of Pearl’s sympathy dampened the atmosphere of the train ride to the city. By the time I reached my apartment, I’d folded. Pearl won. A phone call to slick Ricky Luna might serve more than one purpose. Maybe I’d learn enough to knock him from my suspects list. And maybe I’d feel better too. I’d do it. But not yet.

  Chapter

  Ten

  Norment Ross’s generous heart and the avalanche of stories he told me over those days worked. Even so, beyond my personal trips to the Continental Regent and to Poughkeepsie, I wasn’t ready to step into the work world again. Still bruised and tender, I hesitated. Norment called me “street-shy.” But Brina and her practical bluntness dragged me into the arena.

  “See, here’s how it works, Rook. This is a detective agency. Not a defective agency. You need to pull your weight around here. Or we run short of money and go out of business. Got it?”

  After that first futile attempt at consoling me, she’d spent the next nights at her own apartment. She’d given me space to recover. Maybe this new brisk tone signaled her sympathy had run its course, replaced by exasperation mixed with a residue of jealousy. Usually, my gut served me well in reading people. More often than not, I appreciated their intentions and goals, sometimes before they even recognized their own desires. I relied on sound instincts and accurate hunches to see me through rough cases. I got people, that was my private eye super power. But with Brina, I was stumped. Maybe with her, I was too close. Or maybe just heart-blind. Whatever the cause, reading her feelings was the hardest challenge I’d faced in a lifetime of tests and trials.

  Now, she tugged at the handle of the window in my office, her black coils bouncing as she tried to exchange th
e muggy interior air for equally humid outside air. After a minute watching her grapple with the stuck window, I took pity and joined the effort. With our combined force, we unjammed the swollen frame and lifted the sash upwards. A gust of steam poured into the room, ruffling the papers on my desk.

  “Right, boss. You got anything interesting for me?” I’d get back in the saddle again. But only if that saddle posed a challenging puzzle. I was her fix-it project, so Brina made it her priority to know what medicine I needed and when to patch me up. Sorrow mixed with boredom could be disastrous. I wasn’t moving on. Five days after her murder, Annie’s death remained my top case, but I needed another job.

  Brina delivered the dose. “I don’t know if you’ll find this interesting. But it is urgent. One of Daddy’s old army buddies from Vietnam, Allard Swann, operates a small nursing home about ten blocks from here near Striver’s Row. He called this afternoon to ask for our help in locating a patient who’s run away from the premises.”

  Brina pushed damp curls from her forehead and puffed upwards to cool her flushed face. She’d rolled the sleeves of her lavender t-shirt past the joint of her shoulders and untucked it from her denim skirt. As she continued the account, she raised the hem of her shirt to expose three inches of gleaming brown skin to the breeze wafting from the open window.

  “Mr. Swann says the old lady has taken off before, but only for an hour or less each time. Mostly she wanders around the block and returns by herself. But today she’s been gone for six hours and counting. They don’t know where she is and they’re getting frantic. Think you can help out?”

  That sounded like an order, not a hope. As we turned from the window, I bumped shoulders with Brina, punctuation to our bantering. “I can try, boss. Give me the address and I’ll start from there.”

  A small job, clean, simple, and healthy. I was ready.

  The Swann Memory Center occupied an elegant house on a block distinguished by its hushed calm and the heavy shade of its trees. The pink brick façade shimmered in the late August heat. A deep front porch shadowed the residence. The building’s unusual spot in the congested city was underlined by the parking space ten steps from the Center’s front door. I planned to cruise the neighborhood in search of the runaway patient. So, Brina leant me her Honda for the afternoon.

  Allard Swann greeted me when I rang the doorbell. His office might have been the library in the building’s past life as a private home. It was lined with fat books in mahogany shelves, plump upholstered chairs crowded every corner. Lucky I’d worn a white dress shirt rather than my usual black one; the Swann Center looked like a funeral home, no need to add to the gloomy impression. Wine red leather chairs in front of his desk and deep tufted sofas along two walls struck a note of traditional elegance and reliability. A black steel safe sealed with a dial lock squatted beside one sofa. Swann’s business depended on assuring anxious families that their loved ones would be well cared for under his supervision. Corralling wayward dementia patients was his core mission. Losing one to the uncertain streets of Harlem was a blow Allard Swann couldn’t afford.

  A male attendant brought iced tea on a silver platter. Swann, tight smile plastered in place, was sweating like the drinks glasses when we sat in front of his desk. His three-piece suit of light-weight gray wool was oppressive at the end of summer. But he refused to shed the uniform no matter the temperature. Swann was five inches shorter than me, but carried sixty pounds more, in the form of a pot belly suspended above long legs. Dark skin tinged with a hint of red and a full head of black hair completed the picture. If Allard Swann was as old as Norment Ross, his barber’s expert dye job kept the years at bay.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Rook. Sabrina assured me she was sending her best man for our little job. I’m glad you were able to make the time to take on this assignment.”

  The endorsement felt good, even if Brina had exaggerated the size of our agency by several magnitudes. “Glad to be of service. Dr. Swann.” A nameplate on his gigantic carved desk said he had a medical degree. And a Ph.D. “Tell me as much as you can about the situation, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  Swann gulped half the tea and launched. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I founded the Swann Memory Center eighteen years ago as a solution for families in the community seeking a comfortable residence for their loved ones stricken by dementia, memory loss, and other aspects of senility.”

  He droned like a sales brochure come to life. I fidgeted in my seat. If the old lady was on the lam, we needed to cut to the chase. “How many elderly do you keep here, Doctor?”

  Swann frowned at my phrasing, delicate lines wrinkling his brow. “We usually have fifteen to eighteen patients in residence at any one time. As you can imagine, several of our residents pass on every year. Many of them are at the end stages of Alzheimer’s or other degenerative brain diseases. For centuries, Black families have shouldered the responsibility of caring for our aging parents. We see protecting our elders as a sacred duty. But for many of us, the toll is overwhelming. The Swann Center provides Harlem families with confidence that their loved ones will be well cared for by attentive, carefully trained staff. For the final chapter of their lives, our center offers residents a home-like atmosphere that is quiet, familiar, and safe.”

  Swann delivered this sales pitch with such practiced and soothing tones, I almost signed myself into the center. I could use a long rest in a comfy rocking chair. “Tell me about the missing lady, Dr. Swann. You told Brina she’s escaped several times in the past.”

  Swann scowled at my choice of verb, but let it ride. At this point the professional reputation of his business was more important than a little bruising to his ego. “Yes, Carolyn Wiley has been with us for almost two years. She’s seventy-six years old, a life-long New Yorker. Except for the signs of advanced dementia she exhibits, Mrs. Wiley is in excellent physical health for her age. She has bouts of anger and depression from time to time, but those are off-set by periods of good cheer and cooperativeness. She seems to enjoy the food, the company, and our staff a great deal.”

  “Yet, she wanders off? Why do you think that is, Dr. Swann?”

  “I don’t know. And from my conversations with her, I don’t think she has any idea either.”

  “Do you know where she goes when she disappears?”

  “No, I don’t. In the past, she has gone off shortly after we serve a snack around four in the afternoon. We think she slips out the back door, down the alley, and away. No one sees her go and we don’t even know in which direction she walks.”

  Swann didn’t run a tight ship. Mutiny roiled the ranks and now he wanted me to solve the untidy case. “Does she ever speak about her ramblings. Does she tell anyone here where she goes?”

  His neck stiffened as my questions expanded. “Not to my knowledge. The staff are all as mystified as I am, Mr. Rook. And if Mrs. Wiley speaks about it to another patient, it’s unlikely the friend would retain any understanding of what she has shared anyway.”

  “What does her family say? Are they near-by? Maybe she’s looking for one of them?”

  “Oh, no. That isn’t possible. Mrs. Wiley is a widow. She has only the one son, Carl Wiley. There are no other surviving members of her family. And her son lives in Seattle. Obviously, she’s not visiting him on her walks around the neighborhood.” Swann spelled it out in case I was losing my marbles too. Letting insults slide was the best policy.

  “How about friends? Is there anybody Mrs. Wiley might try to see? A pastor or sorority sister? A friend from work, maybe?”

  “I can give you a list of contacts we have for Mrs. Wiley here in the city. She worked for thirty-seven years in the neighborhood libraries. But none of those contacts are near-by. And none say they’ve seen her today. But if you want to check with them again, please do.” Like he didn’t trust me to do my job, but feared I might uncover he hadn’t done his.

  “Wh
en did you notice Mrs. Wiley missing this morning?”

  “About six. We do a bed check several times a night on all our patients and when we looked in on Mrs. Wiley this morning she wasn’t in bed or in the bathroom or in the kitchen or anywhere on the premises. I ordered two of our staff to search for her. We assumed she’d come back in an hour as she has done in the past. But by noon she hadn’t returned and we got worried.” Swann twisted a large ring on his right hand, turning it until the hefty medallion disappeared against his palm. “That’s when I called Norment’s agency for help. It’s hot today, and without food and water, I don’t know how long she can last. Can you do anything to find her, Mr. Rook?”

  “Give me the list of her contacts, a recent photo, and her previous addresses, too. I’ll check them as fast as possible. We’ll do our best to find her.”

  I plunked the half-full glass on the table. I wouldn’t make promises I couldn’t keep, so my assurances stayed vague. But I was itching to get on the street to start the hunt for Mrs. Carolyn Wiley.

  For two hours, I drove to the church, office, restaurants, dry cleaners, library, and movie theatre Carolyn Wiley used to frequent. Nothing new. I phoned contacts I couldn’t reach in person and cruised every street in a five-block radius of the center. How far could an old woman, even one as healthy as Mrs. Wiley, walk in six hours? Had she taken a taxi somewhere? I’d forgotten to ask Swann if she had any money on her or had access to a debit card, either her own or someone else’s.

  I returned to the center to give Swann a status update and ask for information about Mrs. Wiley’s finances. The shady spot wasn’t open when I arrived, so I double parked and hoped the meter maids would be kind. Armed with new information and more names after a flash stop in Swann’s office, I raced for the porch steps.

  A sharp voice arrested my exit. “You that nice young man looking for my friend Carolyn?”

  A woman, her face crumpled like a waxy paper bag, sat in a glider to the right of the main door. Her silver-laced hair was braided in six plaits hanging from her head like a little girl’s do.