“What do you mean?”
“Did his wife know?”
Hillary let out something that sounded like a shriek and a laugh. The shrill noise pierced the quietness of the gallery. “Nothing went by Yvonne Harris. She calls several times a day to check on Mr. Harris, you know. Her main task is to keep up with him.”
“Would you say she’s insecure?”
“I don’t know. I guess. Definitely controlling.”
“Can you verify if there really was a relationship between Mitch and Pamela? Would others know?”
“They were discreet. Rumors would float around the firm, but they would die down. I have on occasion made reservations for Mr. Harris in out-of-the-way places, even purchased some things.” Hillary looked like something had punched her. “I didn’t approve, but they both are good people.”
“Still, they were having an affair. Somebody was bound to get hurt.”
“It was usually Pamela who got hurt the most. You know that night, not too long after Mitch and Yvonne arrived, Pamela left. She seemed upset.”
“So, you saw her leave?”
“We talked briefly earlier, and she seemed in excellent spirits. The next time I saw her, she didn’t look well.” Hillary twisted her hands. Up close, Darnell couldn’t gauge the woman’s age. She could have been anywhere from forty to fifty-five. Sprigs of gray hair sprung from her bun, which seemed to date the woman.
Hillary glanced at him and then back at the wall of photos. “I don’t want you to think I’m showing loyalty, but Mr. Harris wouldn’t hurt Pamela.”
“You seem awfully sure, Ms. Green.”
She hesitated. “Sometimes people love more than one person. I will say this. He cared for his wife and for Pamela.”
Darnell eyed the woman. “So, you kind of supported his comings and goings between these two women.”
“I didn’t approve.”
But she’d helped him. “By any chance, did you make some jewelry purchases for Mr. Harris?”
“Yes.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to have a copy of those receipts.”
“They won’t prove anything.”
“Let me decide if it’s evidence.” If he could prove the necklace ripped off of Pamela’s neck was a Mitch Harris purchase, that might give him a bit of leverage to search deeper.
“You can’t judge people for being in love.”
“This isn’t about making judgments. I need to find a murderer. I’m no Bible scholar, but I do know ‘Thou shall not kill’ and ‘Thou shall not commit adultery.’ Those two rules aren’t too far apart. All of us can slip.”
Hillary made a strange noise, like she’d been strangled with something.
Behind him he heard, “Hey, Detective, I got those tapes for you.”
“Have those tapes.” Hillary rebuked the man.
“I have those tapes for you, Detective.” Avante dragged out the word have.
What was that about? Darnell followed Avante all the way to the office, still puzzled by the exchange between Avante and Hillary.
Once inside the office, Avante said, “I think, before you leave, you might want to check this one out. Press PLAY.”
Avante hit the button on the equipment. On the screen, Pamela was looking gorgeous in the same slinky red dress she died in hours later. Her shoulders were bare except for where the spaghetti straps lay snugly against her skin. Someone, a woman, came up behind Pamela.
From the angle of the camera, Darnell couldn’t make out the woman’s features. Her body was tense. Pamela turned around; surprise covered her face. Or was that fear in her eyes? He couldn’t hear the audio, but the other woman moved closer to Pamela, her motions erratic. The woman’s hand was visible for a second, and then she smacked Pamela across the face.
“Stop the tape.” Darnell’s eyes locked in on the time. Nine–twenty-six P.M. On the tape, frozen in time, Pamela touched her face, which had to hurt. Most people reported last seeing Pamela around nine thirty in the art gallery. This incident must have hastened her exit. The face of the person responsible appeared in the corner of the screen. She looked like a cat ready to pounce.
His conversation with Hillary from a few minutes ago came racing back. Maybe he was looking at the wrong Harris. According to this tape, Mrs. Mitch Harris appeared ready to kill.
A pair of doelike eyes ogled him from behind the oak door, which stood open enough for him to glimpse the baby blue uniform. Darnell flashed his badge. “Detective Jackson. I’m here to see Mrs. Harris.”
“Sí, Senor.” The woman closed the door and left him standing on the steps. He turned around to view the long driveway, where exotic topiaries and rosebushes of various heights and sizes lined the edges.
The door opened, and the short, brown-skinned woman ushered him inside a larger foyer. “Mrs. Harris coming soon.” He nodded and then watched her waddle farther down the hallway and into a room. Her shiny black braid swung down her back. A few seconds later, a vacuum started.
“Detective, how can I help you?”
He lifted his head toward the voice. A pair of gold sandals with heels appeared in his line of sight. Yvonne Harris, dressed in an off-white pantsuit, seemed to float down the stairwell. When she reached the bottom, she paused and then walked over to him. He shook her slender hand, surprised by her powerful grip. Even though she was at least ten years older than her husband, placing her close to sixty, the woman defied her age. Her skin complexion and sharp features reminded him of Lena Horne, but not quite as beautiful.
“Excuse me.” Yvonne’s eyes flashed, and her mouth turned into a sneer. Darnell stepped back, not sure what to think, as she took off down the hall, toward the room where the maid vacuumed. He couldn’t hear what was going on, but the drone stopped; then the clip-clop of Yvonne’s heels across the wood floor echoed throughout the hallway. Her face was composed again, making him a little nervous. He almost wanted to check on the housekeeper to see if she was okay.
“Detective Jackson. Sorry about that. Now, you are here for ...”
“I understand you attended the gallery reception the night of Ms. Coleman’s death.” He observed her closely for her reactions, but her face remained clean of any emotions. Any traces of the exchange with her maid a few minutes ago were gone.
“Yes. It’s so sad about Pamela. Come this way.”
He followed her down the hall. He caught the eyes of the jovial woman who had met him at the door, her face now tear-stained. Man, Yvonne must have laid into her. Seemed pretty stupid, since she was hired to clean this place.
The deeper he followed Yvonne into the house, the more his skin crawled. What in the world did these two people need with all these rooms? From what he read, there were two sons; both lived in various parts of the country. Probably waiting for both parents to kick the bucket.
They entered a room where leather-covered books ran up and down the walls. Darnell’s first thought was the room resembled Mitch’s office downtown, except the square footage was double and the room had been fitted with a fireplace.
“Have a seat, Detective.” She sauntered behind a bar area. “Would you like anything to drink?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“Okay, suit yourself.” He waited until she poured her concoction. She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. Either the woman was overly confident or just ready to get this over with. Darnell pulled a chair out from under a rolltop desk and sat across from her.
“Detective, I’m not sure how I can help. You know, Ms. Coleman worked for my husband. I barely knew her.”
“Well, I thought you might have been aware of her relationship with your husband.”
Her eyes, like dark coals, glittered.
Anger issues. Maybe. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a few photos. Might as well see how far he could push the truth out now. “Did you hire someone to take these photos?”
She glanced down at the photos. �
��What are you doing with those?”
“Someone hand delivered them to me this morning at the station.”
“What? Why, that rotten man! I hope ...”
“Man? I didn’t say anything about gender. Who are you talking about?”
She sucked her teeth. “Some lowlife I hired. Look, I’ve always known my husband’s feelings about Pamela. She was too young for him when he first fell in love with her.” Yvonne stood from the couch and paced the room. “Judge Coleman was my husband’s mentor. Back then, Mitch clerked under Coleman. I believe that’s when he first met Pamela, barely out of high school.”
Darnell interjected, “So, she went off to college and . . .”
“Mitch met me. He liked me from the start or, I should say, my money.” Yvonne placed her hands on her hips; the sneer returned to her lips. She wasn’t one to tick off. Her fury emanated heat-seeking missiles in his direction. Which got Darnell’s wheels turning in his mind.
“I saw the handwriting on the wall years ago. Pamela grew up, went off to law school, and Mitch couldn’t wait to hire her. Never saw his eyes light up for any junior partner like that ever. Don’t get me wrong. She was good at what she did. I’ll give her that.”
Tired of Yvonne’s pacing, Darnell stood. “Mrs. Harris, you seem to know more about Pamela’s life story than you first admitted. You sure you two never talked . . . you know ... woman to woman?”
She stared at him from across the room and then slowly responded. “We had an understanding. I think.”
Yeah, right. Darnell cleared his throat. “Did you see or talk to her during the gallery opening?”
Yvonne crossed her arms. “Why would I have anything to say to her?”
“Mrs. Harris, the main reason why I came over here is I want to know what you said to upset Pamela Coleman the night she was murdered. We got both of you on tape. You exchanged words. And, I might add, someone got a little slaphappy.”
Yvonne narrowed her eyes. “Did you come into my home to accuse me of something, Detective?”
“Did you leave the gallery to follow her?”
Yvonne uncrossed her arms. “What? No.”
“Did Mitch go after her?”
“Young man, have you lost your mind?” Yvonne moved toward him and pointed at his chest. “You’ve got some nerve coming in here, accusing people.”
“Mrs. Harris, did you or your husband leave the gallery at any time?”
“That’s enough!” a voice thundered from the doorway behind them.
Yvonne’s eyes grew wide. She stepped away from Darnell.
Darnell straightened his shoulders. Just great!
“What’s going on here?” Mitch Harris stormed across the room and stepped in front of Yvonne. “Don’t you know I will have your badge for harassing my wife? Get out!”
“Sir, I’m conducting a police investigation.”
Mitch stepped closer, his face way too close for comfort. “I will sue you and the city for harassment.”
Darnell exploded. “Your employee and mistress is dead. Do you even care?” Both men faced off, breathing hard. The captain would hear about this exchange the minute he left the Harrises’ home. “I’ll let myself out.” Darnell trudged out of the room where one of two people was a possible suspect. If not, both of them. The guilt smelled so thick in the room, if he’d stayed a second more, he would’ve gagged for sure.
Chapter Twenty-two
Chocoholic. Now, that was one trait she’d picked up from Mama that she gladly indulged. Candace pulled out a drawer stocked full of chocolate. Whether paired with nuts, peanut butter, or caramel, she had it. She wasted no time ripping off the candy wrapper. The milky cocoa texture didn’t fix it, but it soothed her soul. For now.
Mama was a complex woman with plenty of vices, including a taste for alcohol. She drove her older sister, Maggie, crazy and vice versa. Aunt Maggie’s Bible quoting and harsh rules had seemed a bit much to a young Candace. After Mama’s death, Maggie was determined her niece wouldn’t fall into the same fate.
Holy ground in Maggie Washington’s household. No pants. No makeup. No curls. Forget television. And definitely no devil’s music. And church. It was almost like a second home.
She stared off into space, licking the creamy residue from her fingers. Candace had grown up a plain Jane, stifled under her aunt’s one zillion rules. It was no wonder she had become friends with Pamela. She was so different, confident, even back in seventh grade.
Just being around the tall, leggy teen had transported her away from the maddening sorrow in her life.
Candace stilled her body, her chocolate-covered fingers in the air. Pamela would have told her to try making amends with Maggie. How often her friend asked, “Have you talked to your aunt lately?”
Deep down, Candace felt ashamed for turning her aunt away. She reacted and thought about the consequences afterward. That was so like Mama, too. Those Washington girls. How often she heard those whispers in school, the grocery store, and even from the church pews.
Mama, her men, and the bottle.
Maggie, her God, and her scripture for everything.
Seemed like they were so much alike in their anger and bitterness. Neither really meeting in the middle.
It scared her. Now even Rachel had picked up the same trait. Their fighting was no different than what she’d witnessed between Mama and Maggie. Hormones out of control. Or something else maybe.
A short knock on the office door snapped closed her chest of memories.
“Candy? Are you okay?”
Her body wilted as the tension left through her shoulders. She should have known. “Come in, Beulah.”
The salon office wasn’t very big. Candace loved the beautiful cherry desk that served as the focal point for the room. She’d found it at a state government auction years ago. There were chips in certain places, but she liked the worn look. Two metal filing cabinets sat against the wall. Since the office didn’t have a window, she’d painted it a soothing sage green. A mixture of artificial plants had been placed around the room. The bamboo ceiling fan above the desk completed the tropical feel.
Beulah popped her head in the doorway. “If my memory is still good, wasn’t that your aunt?”
“I’m sorry. Was my voice too loud?”
“I hoped I didn’t have to break you two up. That poor woman walked out of here so wilted. You must have laid it on her.”
Candace gulped and then bit her lip. “I didn’t mean to show out. She caught me off guard.”
Beulah sat in one of the wingback chairs. “Honey, that flesh, our main enemy, will rear up when you least expect it.”
Candace grabbed another piece of chocolate from the drawer. “Tell me about it. Care to have a piece from my chocolate medicine cabinet?”
“You know I’m not gonna refuse something sweet now.” As they sat in silence, munching, Candace struggled to keep her composure. But she couldn’t. Her anger overwhelmed her again, causing her to be petty and cruel. Tears stung her eyes.
“You look like you could use a hug.”
Tears escaped down Candace’s cheeks. She nodded as Beulah came around the desk and embraced her. “It’s going to be okay, Candy.” Very few people called her Candy. Despite being her employee, Beulah had become the mother figure she sorely missed growing up.
“Sugar, how about we pray?”
Candace stiffened. Maybe God would listen to Beulah. I never seem to have much success with communication. Her voice trembled. “Please.”
Beulah’s voice wavered with emotion as she began praying.
“Lord, we come to you with heavy hearts. We lost someone special to us. Oh, we know she has been yours since she was a child, but we miss Pamela so. We miss her laughter and her wisdom. Lord, we miss her smile. It’s especially hard on Candy right now. Lord, she loved Pamela like a sister. Her heart is hurting. Lord, she is still trying to heal from Frank’s death. Let her know you won’t put more on her than she can bear. In her time of nee
d, let her not forget to call on your name. Remind her you will never leave her or forsake her. We ask these things in Jesus’s name. Amen.”
I will never leave you or forsake you.
Those words pierced her heart. Candace pulled away from the embrace. Beulah’s brown eyes glistened with tears. Beulah was quite the jokester, and it wasn’t always easy to take her seriously. But one thing for sure, her eldest stylist was very serious about the Lord.
“Be encouraged and know you are loved. Pray. If you don’t do anything else, you pray.” Beulah looked at her watch and stood. “Child, it’s past time for some lunch. You want something real to eat besides what you got in that junk drawer?”
Candace smiled. “No, I don’t have much of an appetite right now.”
Beulah shook her head. “Okay. But you keep eating that stuff”—Beulah slapped her hips—“you’ll have a wide load like this.”
Candace snickered until Beulah closed the door. She turned her attention to Frank’s photo on the wall. Her Frank. Mama. Now Pamela. God kept taking away the people she held dear to her heart. She didn’t quite get that part of the plan.
Next to Frank’s photo sat the framed calligraphy piece Pamela had given her during the salon grand opening ten years ago. Protected by the glass, the words seemed to sparkle. During a brainstorming session for the salon name, Pamela had stumbled upon the Bible verses. Back then, Candace hadn’t picked up a Bible in years.
When they’d opened the Bible, the two friends had laughed as dust particles floated in the air. After some time passed, Pamela jumped up from the couch. “You need to read this. I don’t really understand it, but how about this?”
Candace had taken the Bible, noticing it was turned to Isaiah. When she was a child, her aunt had insisted she learn the names of all sixty-six books in the Bible. Funny, so many years later, she actually remembered Isaiah was one of those books, even that he was God’s prophet.
She moved her lips and read the verses from the sixty-first chapter silently.
The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
When Rain Falls Page 10