Dying In The Dark_ A Tamara Hayle Mystery Part 8

"The man Celia left me for." If she felt any bitterness she didn't show it.

'And you weren't angry about it?"

"Of course I was angry, and I told someone I love some very hurtful, very destructive things that I shouldn't have shared because of what happened and what she did to me. But I got over it."

"What did you tell?"

"It's done now. It's over. I don't want to repeat it."

But she took in her breath suddenly, as if she had just remembered something, and then she glanced once at the drawing on the wall and then away from me. I wondered what had come into her mind.

"So why did Celia leave?"

"Because she was pregnant."

Through her womb, the center of a woman's being.

I was the one concealing my feelings now, and it took some serious willpower to do it.

"Celia was a stupid c.u.n.t when it came to men." The use of the "c" word casually spilling out of the mouth of this supposedly wellbred woman sent a s.h.i.+ver of disgust through me, but I hid my feelings as she continued her rant.

"Half the time she screwed them and didn't use a rubber. Liked it raw, she used to say. Can you imagine that! That's the kind of thing some low-life man says to a woman, not the other way around! She could have caught anything, brought it back home to me, anything at all. She could be a dumb little c.u.n.t when she felt like it. A real dumb b.i.t.c.h." The anger poured out in her voice, in the tight line her lips formed, and the fury in her eyes. Celia had been dead for nearly four months, but the rage was still there, and it had finally broken through.

"What a terrible betrayal! Celia could definitely be a b.i.t.c.h." I hid my feelings and threw in my two cents' worth as I remembered the dust from that midnight blue Lincoln the last time I saw her. "So she was pregnant when she was murdered?" I wondered why Morgan hadn't bothered to mention it. Perhaps old-fas.h.i.+oned tact had kept his lips sealed; "Bury the secrets of the dead with them" had always been his motto.

"I don't know." Annette shrugged as if she didn't give a d.a.m.n one way or the other.

"Is Aaron Dawson the kind of man who would kill a woman over having-or not having-his baby?"

"Why don't you ask him," she said sharply. She began to collect the things that were on the coffee table, the tray, pitcher, and gla.s.ses, and headed into the kitchen with them, her not-so-subtle way of indicating that our interview was over.

But I wasn't ready to go, and I followed her, notebook in hand.

"Do you know where he lives or how I can get in touch with him? The numbers I have are disconnected."

She made me wait while she carefully washed and dried her pretty crystal gla.s.ses and climbed on a footstool to place them next to each other on the top shelf.

"Cecil knew his number. After Celia died he stayed with him for a while, but Cecil is dead now, too, so I guess you're out of luck." Her caustic tone surprised me because it came from nowhere. But I didn't have a chance to respond. Our attention was drawn to the sound of a key turning in the kitchen door lock.

"Drew?" Annette called out climbing down from the footstool.

"Yeah."

"Drew, where have you been?"

"Don't ask me that, and I told you what my name is! My name is DeeEss. Call me that or nothing. I came to get the keys." He held his small body tight, his shoulders scrunched up close to his neck. He lifted a set of car keys off a hook near the kitchen door and jiggled them defiantly.

There was a snicker behind him as Pik, dressed in the usual gangsta regalia, sauntered into the room. The young woman I had seen at Morgan's stood behind him, as if she were afraid to enter. She held her baby, who started to giggle, adding an odd note of levity to a tense situation. The girl kissed the child's forehead and cheek.

Pik picked an apple up from a wooden bowl on the table, took a bite, then tossed the remainder into a nearby trash can as if shooting for a basket. I glanced at Annette, who was clearly afraid of him. I was tempted to call him on his manners, but was caught between instinct and common sense. Scolding a strange kid these days can earn you a bullet through the head as quickly as a tongue stuck out behind your back. But this boy irked me. He had this woman cowering in her own kitchen, and I didn't like it.

"I'm Ms. Tamara Hayle," I said, looking the kid in the eye. "I saw you at my G.o.dson's funeral." The G.o.dson business was a stretch, but in different circ.u.mstances it might have been so. I stuck out my hand toward Pik in a gesture of friendliness. He stared at it for a few moments then shoved his into his pockets. I was lucky he didn't spit in it.

The baby started to giggle again, and I turned to the girl.

"Cristal, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said, and her politeness surprised me.

"That's a beautiful baby. Can I hold her?"

"Him. He a boy," said Pik, and both of us glanced at him. I reached toward the baby and Pik moved in front of her, preventing me from taking him.

"Cecil didn't have no G.o.dmother," he said.

"Goes to show you, Pik, there's a lot of stuff about Cecil Jones you don't know."

He gave me what he thought was a scary look, but I've taken on scarier thugs than him, so I didn't flinch.

"I'm DeeEss," said Annette's son, who apparently had enough regard for his mother to try to keep a bad scene from exploding in her kitchen.

"Tamara Hayle." I shook his hand, which was as soft and delicate as a girl's. I thought again about what Larry Walton had said about Annette and her son, and how selfish she had been to drag her son into her new life. She had gambled everything on Celia Jones and lost, big-time.

'Are you Jamal's mother? I think he might have been in my homeroom in fifth grade. I think I remember you."

"Yes, I am."

"How's Jamal doing?"

"Fine. He's doing just fine. I'll tell him you asked about him," I said, which was a lie.

But for a moment, I glimpsed DeeEss as he must have been before Celia and her child entered his life. He was a kid who had been a friend of my son's, and my heart broke for him and his mother. Pik caught a glimpse of that boy, too, and didn't like what he saw.

"Let's hat, man," he gestured toward the door, and without a word to either me or Annette, the three of them left. I heard somebody gunning the engine of Annette's car before they pulled away.

Annette fell down on her knees. "Oh Lord, please, Lord, don't let what happened to Celia's boy happen to mine. Please, Lord, please please," she cried into her folded hands, praying like she must have at those sunrise services her parents dragged her to.

"I'm certain he'll be fine," I said, rea.s.suring her, but I wasn't so sure. Trouble usually finds boys like hers like lint finds black velvet. "If you need me or think of anything else, please call me," I said, placing my card with my cell phone number into her folded hands. When I left I closed the door behind me, but I don't think she heard a thing.

CHAPTER TEN.

The homes of the two old friends couldn't have been more different. Rebecca Donovan's house, with its well-tended yard and beautiful exterior, was a candidate for a spread in couldn't have been more different. Rebecca Donovan's house, with its well-tended yard and beautiful exterior, was a candidate for a spread in Better Homes and Gardens. Better Homes and Gardens. She didn't live in the Heights, but in a stately neighborhood in Newark, where out of loyalty and love for the city, many professionals and politicians chose to reside. In the old days, homes like these, with their wide porches and stately cupolas, could be found in many Newark neighborhoods. But they'd fallen on hard times; most now were stuffed with too many families. She didn't live in the Heights, but in a stately neighborhood in Newark, where out of loyalty and love for the city, many professionals and politicians chose to reside. In the old days, homes like these, with their wide porches and stately cupolas, could be found in many Newark neighborhoods. But they'd fallen on hard times; most now were stuffed with too many families.

As I drove down Rebecca Donovan's street, I was proud of how beautifully the neighborhood had been preserved and pleased to claim it for my city. It was like those streets I remembered driving down with my father when I was a kid. On Sundays, my father would take us picnicking on the lake in Weequahic Park, and we'd end up at the Dairy Queen on Ferry Street for cherry vanilla ice cream cones. Come spring, we'd stroll through Branch Brook Park, where the homegrown cherry blossoms challenged-and whipped-those in DC. Weequahic, Chancellor Avenue. Lyons Avenue. I could still hear the names of those grand old places rolling off my father's lips. Someday they would be back to what they were; I hoped I'd be around to see it.

The Donovan house was located across from the park. It was a red brick Dutch Colonial, with a circular driveway and an impressive front lawn that whispered cla.s.s. As I parked my car, I caught a glimpse of the s.p.a.cious backyard with flower beds that probably bloomed with tulips and impatiens in spring. A white picket fence strung with climbing vines, roses I'd bet, surrounded the yard. It was the kind of backyard kids dream about, particularly if they grow up in the projects like I did. I remembered what Annette had told me about Rebecca Donovan and got sad for her all over again. Here she had a big old house, planned for a big old family, and everything she had dreamed about had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away. I thought about my own son then, as I always do in these situations, and gave a quick prayer of thanks for my good fortune. My mind was still on Jamal when Rebecca Donovan opened the front door.

Her eyes were what struck me first. They were brown and as soft as a puppy's, but the sorrow in them revealed her grief. Yet she had the quick smile of a little girl, which lit up her face and brought a smile to mine. Her hair was streaked with gray and pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, which made me recall Annette's nickname for her. Her pretty skin, the color of unsh.e.l.led walnuts, was dotted here and there with freckles.

"Come in, Ms. Hayle. I'm an early bird. My husband didn't come into his own until noon. Since his death I've reverted to my own ways," she greeted me when she opened the door. I was struck by her warmth and how different she seemed from the woman I'd spoken to on the phone two days ago. The mention of her late husband so early in our conversation also surprised me, but he'd been dead only since the end of August, less than a year. She was still mourning him, and would be for a long time.

She was dressed in stylish earth-brown wool pants and a neat, rust-colored silk blouse. Tasteful gold stud earrings peeked from her ears and a thin gold chain graced her neck. In her casual way, Rebecca Donovan was as elegant and understated as her cla.s.sy home. She too could have stepped from a magazine on upscale, suburban living.

"Thank you so much," I said, suddenly conscious of my lint-covered black wool coat, which I keep forgetting to take to the cleaners. I'd meant to wear my good one, but it was the first thing I grabbed when I stumbled out of my house at what seemed like the crack of dawn.

"I hope it's not too early for you."

"No, it's fine. It does my soul good to get moving early," I said, lying. I enjoyed getting up this early in the morning about as much as a toothache. But it was a clear, bright winter's day and once I got going, I felt virtuous.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"No, thanks, I've had my quota for the day." And wouldn't have made it this far if I hadn't, I said to myself.

"You don't mind if I have some, do you? I thought we could talk in the sunroom. On a morning like this it's so cheerful and warm in there. It used to be our favorite room, mine and Clayton's. On snowy weekends, Clayton would build a fire, and we'd just sit there in front of it and chat clear into evening." Her eyes had filled with tears and she turned her head to hide them. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll only be a moment." She nodded toward a room that adjoined the well-appointed living room and I headed toward it.

I was taken aback when I entered it. The room was a shrine to her late husband. Awards and plaques from countless clubs and civic organizations filled the bookcases, many stacked against one another at odd angles. Large photographs of him alone and them as a couple covered every conceivable s.p.a.ce. Birthday and anniversary cards and thank-you notes were tucked in front of books and on the table.

I understand grief. I understand the anger it brings, and how it can drive you crazy. I understand how far you must go into it in order to come out on the other side, and the wild places your mind will take you. Yet I was overwhelmed by the depth of this woman's pain.

Walking around the cozy room, I randomly picked up items, fascinated by the life that had been preserved-his pipes, toy models of his Porsche and motorcycle, mugs, cups, and plates with his name stenciled in fancy lettering. One that said "Here Come Da Judge" brought my last conversation with Jake to mind and made me smile.

A bar in the corner of the room covered with gla.s.ses stacked next to liquor bottles looked ready for service, and a bottle of Balvenie Portwood Scotch drew my attention. My brother Johnny used to call this twenty-one-year-old Scotch "a whiskey lover's poison." He drank Johnnie Walker Red, but liked the good stuff-and this this was the good stuff-when he could get it. It was what I always gave him for his birthday. It was what he was drinking the night he put his gun in his mouth. was the good stuff-when he could get it. It was what I always gave him for his birthday. It was what he was drinking the night he put his gun in his mouth.

On the top shelf of a small bookcase was a black porcelain vase with a golden lid, which caught the morning sun and gleamed as if it had just been polished. It was a beautiful vase; I'd never seen one quite like it.

"I see you're admiring my vase. Actually it's an urn now, which contains my husband's ashes," Rebecca said, as she entered the room with a silver tray loaded with coffee, cream, sugar, and two dainty china cups. "Clayton brought it back from a trip to j.a.pan. He loved it so much, I thought it would be fitting."

"Did he collect ceramics?"

"No, he just saw that vase and fell in love with it. If Clayton collected anything it was liquor," she added with a nod toward the bar and a chuckle. "I rarely touch it, that's why there is so much of it left. I only drink when somebody insists that I join them. n.o.body ever had to force my Clayton, though. He was a serious drinker. He liked good Scotch and good times." She put the tray down on the coffee table in front of the brown leather couch.

"That's what Clayton always told me. He'd say, 'Baby this is what I want out of life-good times and good Scotch, and good loving from you.' He'd always add that when I c.o.c.ked my eyebrow to remind him." She chuckled at the memory as we sat down. It was a luxurious couch, deep, soft, and made for someone who liked comfort and didn't mind paying for it.

"Yes, my late brother liked Scotch, too," I said, trying to put my thoughts about my brother out of my mind, but they were always there, lurking in the corners. Rebecca Donovan's loss was far more recent than mine, and my heart broke for her. Sitting with this woman and the grief she still carried, I suddenly felt that those key words I'd jotted down in my notebook were irrelevant.

"Whenever Judge Donovan's name comes up, everyone says what a remarkable man he was and what a loss his death was to Newark. I'm so sorry I never had a chance to meet him."

That made her smile, but her eyes brimmed with tears again.

"Why don't you join me? One more cup won't hurt."

"The last time I started off the morning with too much coffee on an empty stomach, I turned into a gorilla," I said, remembering my hopped-up conversation with Larry Walton.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Oh no, I'm fine. Actually, I did have some cereal this morning, so maybe I will have a cup," I said, quickly letting her know that I wasn't angling for a meal. She poured two cups of coffee and sank back into the couch.

"You would have liked my husband. Most women did. We were older when we married, and I felt lucky to get him. Not a morning goes by that I don't expect him to come das.h.i.+ng in at dawn, after a late night out with his boys looking for a midnight snack when all I want to do is sleep." She shook her head, as if still scolding him.

I tactfully glanced away and sipped my coffee, thankful I had it. From what Jake said, those late nights out usually involved the other gender.

"His death shook up so many people," I said, stating Jake's re-peatable comment.

"Yes. But in a way, it was almost predictable."

Her response surprised me. "Why do you say that?"

"My husband loved to take chances. He was a daredevil and a half. He loved the thrill of living on the edge. I'm not sure what he saw in me, because I'm so very different."

"Opposites attract!" I volunteered the old cliche, and she nodded in agreement.

"If he'd been a more cautious man, he would have heeded the signs that his body was giving him. People die of walking pneumonia because they don't pay attention to their health until it's too late. You've got to listen to your body, slow down, take it easy, rest your bones when you're sick. Clayton was like a fireball. Nothing would stop him, not even an illness that turned deadly so quickly.

"He wouldn't rest. He wouldn't see a doctor. There was always somewhere to go, someplace to ride or late night appointment to keep, and before he knew it his lungs had filled with so much fluid he couldn't breathe. He was wheezing and coughing so hard I thought his body would break. I rushed him to the emergency room, but it was too late."

I was sorry I'd made her relive her husband's death. I remembered Annette's words about her not revealing her true feelings, but as far as I could tell, she had shared them with me. I knew from experience that it's often easier to unburden yourself to a stranger than a friend. Folks have told me unbelievably personal stories on late night flights or long train rides. The kindness of strangers has comforted me more often than I care to remember, and I was glad to play that role for her.

"The terrible irony was that I'd had a very serious and painful medical emergency of my own a few months before, and he'd brought me to the same hospital, the same cubicle even. I never want to see that place again," she added with a shudder and I nodded that I understood.

Neither of us spoke for a while. I placed my notebook down on the coffee table, and she added more cream to her cup.

"I'm sorry to burden you with this," she said after a moment. "I know you didn't come here to listen to my sad story."

"No, it's really okay. How are you doing now?"

She smiled slightly. "Not too great. I have a terrible time sleeping at night, so my doctor prescribed a very strong sedative. But I don't like to take sleeping pills, so I haven't even bothered to open the bottle. You can't take drugs forever. Sooner or later you have to face reality, and do the things that will make reality more acceptable, things that make it easier for you to get through your life. You need to find some kind of final resolution, one that will give you peace at last."

"Yes, that's true. Sometimes, I find it hard to sleep, too," I said, desperate to share something about myself, and draw her away from this painful subject. 'And when I wake up, the look on my son's face tells me that my rest was not exactly restorative."

We both laughed a little at that and she asked,"You have a son?"

"Yes. Jamal. He's growing up faster than I ever thought he could. One moment you're nursing them and the next-" I stopped mid-sentence when I noticed her anguished expression. Here I'd gone and raked up another tragic memory for the woman. "I'm sorry," I stammered.

"I see you've talked to Annette, and she's told you what happened to my little boy."

"Yes. I saw her yesterday."

Her lips drew into a thin, sad smile. 'Another irony in my life. Clayton died on the last day in August. Our baby died the same day, but three years earlier. I don't know what I'll do this year when that day rolls around again. I had Clayton to help me get through it before. Now-" She paused and then continued. "I named him after his father. Clayton Donovan Junior. He was so pleased to have a son."

When somebody shares that kind of sorrow, it's hard to know what to say. If you know them well, you ease their sadness with a hug or touch, otherwise you try to come up with words you hope will be healing, which was what I tried to do.

"Mrs. Donovan, you've given so many gifts to so many people. You've changed and enhanced so many lives, and I'm sure you will continue to do that. I'm sure your husband knew how fortunate he was to have you in his life. Your friend Annette Sampson certainly does. She has such respect and love for you, too."