A Toast Before Dying (22 page)

I sat down on the concrete ledge of the traffic island and gazed at the rush of cars. Across the street, a small crowd had gathered outside the Rodney Dade Funeral Home. The mourners were young with caps turned back and grief shaded behind small round sunglasses. A young woman in a long cotton skirt and matching head wrap pushing a cart of groceries paused near me and also watched. “Child wasn’t more than fourteen,” she said. “They’re leaving here younger and younger, and the rest just don’t seem to get the message.”

I thought of Rita, also young but too much in love to listen to the advice of an older sister, and now Marian was rushing to get to her bedside.

I
think he did it,” Bertha said, leaning back in her chair and staring out the window at the early-Saturday-evening traffic. Bertha had just finished with one customer and the six-o’clock appointment had not yet shown up. We were alone in the shop and Bert had turned down the television’s volume. Even though I had a problem with those mind-numbing soap operas, game shows, and tell-all talk shows, I realized now in the thick silence how much they meant to her.

She had turned off the sound and the chaos of make-believe lives in order to grab at this latest straw, and I was embarrassed that I’d earlier thought of abandoning her.

“Yep. I think Edwin Michaels is the one. He killed Thea.”

“But he was still in the bar when it happened,” I reminded her. “You said you saw him.”

“Well, then. He coulda paid somebody to cap her.
That don’t take much. Get the right crackhead, they’d do it for food stamps.”

I pointed to the letter in her hand, showing her the postscript. “If he had planned to kill her—or have her killed—do you think he would’ve bothered with this letter? Not likely.”

“Well, then, maybe it was that fool Rita. From what you told me, she sure had enough reason to want Thea out the way.”

I nodded and was quiet for a moment. I had no intention of revealing that Rita had killed Henderson Laws. That night, while Rita’d been in confessional mode, she would’ve mentioned killing Thea too. She’d had enough alcohol on her brain to confess to a lot of things, and one more body wouldn’t have made a difference.

“If you look close enough,” I said, “you might see that Anne Michaels also had good reason to kill Thea. Don’t think she didn’t know what her husband was up to.”

“Well,” Bert said, “we got a truckload of maybes, but it was Laws who ran out there and pinned it on Kendrick.”

I poured another cup of coffee and returned to sit on the chair opposite her.

And it occurred to me that Kendrick had been denied bail not because of some remote possibility of skipping the country, but because someone—with authority—had called the judge for a favor. Laws put him in jail, but Michaels and a crooked political system had most likely kept him there.

“Kendrick’s in protective custody,” Bert said as if she’d read my thoughts. “At least he ain’t fightin’ so much anymore. I thought for sure he was gonna get his face marked up before he gets outta there.”

She rose and began to pace the floor from the door to her chair and back again. “Tell me something: If that white woman is so much in love, and her money’s so damn long, why ain’t she buyin’ a judge to spring him? She got the power.”

“She may have the power, but what if she no longer has the will? As you said, suppose Kendrick told her he wasn’t interested, do you think she’d still—”

The bell jingled softly. I looked up to see Tad standing in the open door.

“Hi. Do I need an appointment or do you accommodate walk-ins?” He stepped inside and leaned against the closed door, smiling a smile that looked almost radiant against his darkened skin. I sat there, staring.

Not only had my dream come true, but it had come looking for me. Damn!

I stared at him and imagined myself rising from the chair, forgetting all about Bertha, and floating slow-motion, like in that classic scene in
Sounder
when Cicely Tyson’s husband returns from wherever he’d been for the last ten years.

I was in fact on my feet, moving, when Bertha broke the spell: “Well, hello! Who sent this fine package? If it’s from UPS, I hope they
never
go on strike.”

Tad’s skin had darkened too much to betray a
significant blush, but he looked at me, glanced down at the floor, and then smiled.

“I stopped by your place. Wanted to surprise you. Your Dad said you might be here, at your cool-out spot. So: How’ve you been?”

He was being polite and formal, but that low-bass whisper was like a heat-seeking missile, and right on target.

“Fine,” I said, then kissed him a small kiss but wanting to taste all of his tongue and tonsils too. “Fine.”

Bertha watched from her chair, beaming, and seemed to light up even brighter when he turned to her. “How’re you doing, Bertha?”

“Fine. Just fine. Not bad at all.”

“Good. What’s happening with your brother?”

Her smile disappeared, and she remembered that she wasn’t doing so fine.

“He’s still down at detention.”

And my smile faded also as she continued. “But your girl here is doin’ the best she can to help get him cleared. She’s right in the middle of things. As a matter of fact, we were just tryin’ to figure …” I listened to her go on and on until finally she said, “She’s almost as good a detective as you are. You oughtta be proud of her.”

I had been standing next to Tad. His hand was on my shoulder and I felt the pressure of his fingers steadily increasing as Bertha spoke.

“Well, really, Bert,” I murmured, “I didn’t do much at all.”

Tad shifted from one foot to the other and said, “Mm-hmm. She’s quite a girl.”

“You tellin’ me? Couldn’t ask for better. She’s like the sister me and my brother never had.”

She looked up and smiled at me and I wanted to cry.

Tad looked at me and I shrugged—or tried to. “It wasn’t all that,” I said lamely.

The bell jingled again and a young woman came in pushing a stroller. Tad held the door open and helped her maneuver the carriage inside. The baby boy, about six months old, was asleep.

“I had to wait,” she said, “till he decided to take a nap. I’m sorry I’m late.”

I’m sorry also, I thought as Tad moved toward the door, guiding me firmly in front of him.

Eighth Avenue on Saturday evening was usually pretty lively, and Alvin and I loved to walk with Ruffin for blocks and blocks. Folks sat in front of houses, or under the streetlights crowded around small card tables where the slap of cards and dominoes rose above the small talk. Knots of teenagers lounged on benches near the projects eating fish ’n’ chips and snapping to rap. The smaller kids, when they saw Alvin leading the big Great Dane, rushed over to us, wanting to pet Ruffin as though he were a toy horse. “Aw, Miss Mali, just one time …,” even though I had to say no every time.

The hum of activity was there as Tad and I
strolled up Eighth Avenue, and past the new Strivers Row town houses. But between us was a deep vacuum in which not one word was spoken since we’d left Bertha’s.

Though we’d had no reservations at Londel’s, Tad knew the manager and we were able to get a table outdoors. Once we were seated, and dinner and drinks ordered, he looked at me.

“Okay: Care to tell me what’s been happening while I was away?” His voice was even and his eyes were pools of smoke.

I stared back and did not waver as I began to speak, recounting the events from the time Bertha had called crying on the phone near the Half-Moon. I spoke about TooHot and what he’d said about Laws and Kendrick. I mentioned how Flyin’ Home had seen someone leave the alley and how I had wanted him to talk to the police but he’d gotten killed. I spoke of Teddi Lovette, who was in love with Kendrick, and my meeting her and her bigoted mother at the theater.

Dinner was placed on the table but Tad pushed his plate aside and continued to write in the small notepad he’d taken from his vest pocket.

“And you say Thea was married to Roger Morris? Morris, the architect?”

“Yes.”

And finally, reluctantly, I spoke of Rita’s confession to Edwin Michaels, and how she’d described killing Henderson Laws. I did not want to do that, but if this puzzle was going to be put together, all the
pieces, no matter how painful, had to be laid on the table.

He closed the notepad and looked at me for several seconds.

“You know,” he whispered, taking my hands in his, “aside from the fact that I love the hell out of you, you’re quite a girl, Mali. You’re damn special. You zero in and don’t give up. I wish the hell you were back on the force.”

“Never mind the force,” I whispered, feeling the warmth of his fingers. “Did you miss me?”

“Did I miss—? Ah, Baby, come here …”

He leaned over, held my face in his hands, and kissed me hard enough to make my teeth hurt. When he let me go and rested his elbows on the table, he knocked over his water glass. Diners nearby smiled and one guy actually lifted his own glass. “Bless you, brother. If I had me a fine honey like that, I’d be a little crazy myself.”

The brother making the toast was feeling no pain, and Tad nodded and turned to gaze at me again.

“Are you really hungry?”

“For what?” I whispered.

“Dinner.”

“Depends on the menu,” I said, running my fingertips lightly against his open palm.

“How about dessert? Dark chocolate filled with whipped cream?”

“That’s fattening,” I said.

“Yeah, but we can work it off, baby.”

He paid the bill and the waiter eyed the untouched plates. “Something wrong with the food, sir?”

“No, my man, not at all. But something important just came up.”

A
t three o’clock on Monday afternoon, Rita Bayne died of respiratory failure.

On Tuesday, true to her word, Marian Prince delivered to the media copies of her sister’s handwritten confession, copies of Edwin’s letter to Thea, and the canceled checks he’d given her over the years. Thea had been paid from Michaels’s office accounts, and Rita had handled all the finances.

Marian also delivered the copies to Dora Peterson’s campaign people.

The senator called a press conference. I wasted a few seconds trying to adjust the television when he came on the six-o’clock news but then realized that the ashen tinge on his brown skin was not likely to go away.

He was surrounded by grim-looking campaign aides, a minister, and a tearful young woman who may have been his daughter. Dad and I listened as he read his statement:

“I am terminating my campaign for reelection and resigning my office in order to devote more time to my wife and family. As you know, my wife is currently hospitalized in critical condition due to an unfortunate accident. I need to be at her side through the coming weeks and with your prayers help her pull through this difficult period. Thank you.”

He did not look up from the paper in his hand, he did not mention Rita Bayne’s death, and he did not answer questions about his letter, his payments to the murdered Thea Morris, or his connection to Henderson Laws, also found murdered.

Dad clicked the remote and the screen went dark. “Media’s gonna give him hell.”

“He deserves it,” I said, amazed at the gall of a politician when he’s caught with his pants down. It was standard practice to trot out the old “wife and family” alibi, the need to be with them in a time of crisis.

“How come,” I asked Dad, “Michaels didn’t think about his wife when he was carrying on like a dog and chasing every leg that passed his way? Now Rita’s gone. All because of a dumb letter written by a stupid man to a woman who never really gave a damn about anyone …”

Dad looked at me. “You’re getting worked up, Mali. Michaels is out. Rita is gone. She’s gone. You can’t bring her back. You gotta let it lay. Ain’t but so much juice you can suck from a dry bone.”

“Let it lay? Kendrick’s still in jail. How can I let it lay?”

He didn’t answer and clicked the remote again,
surfing the channels. There was Marian Prince on New York 1, in front of the wrought-iron gates of her sister’s apartment building surrounded by newspeople.

“Senator Michaels caused my sister’s death as surely as if he’d held a gun to her head. He’s responsible for her death, and probably for Thea Morris’s death, and even for Henderson Laws’s death. The police need to look at all of that because surely there’s a connection.”

Her sunglasses hid her grief and her voice was soft but she spoke directly into the camera as she held up the letters.

“He abused my sister and the trust my family had in him. He may be out of office but I won’t rest until he pays for what he’s done to my sister.”

I didn’t want to see any more and left the room. Too many questions were moving around in my head. And all led back to square one. Who had killed Thea?

T
he sound of the door closing woke me and I climbed out of bed in time to see Dad stroll down the block with Ruffin, heading toward St. Nicholas Park. Long after they disappeared in the morning fog, I remained at the window, gazing out at the wet pavement. Rain had come sometime during the night and had tapered off just before dawn, leaving a mist the sun would later burn off.

Standing there, I felt as if something cold had passed through the window to settle in my bones, making me forget that it was an August morning.

I pressed my face to the window, thinking of Rita Michaels’s announcement had sent a jolt through the community, and today’s papers would probably be saturated with analyses and innuendo. But behind it all, Kendrick, the forgotten man, was still in jail.

“
We can get him out, Bert. We can get him out
.…” I had said it and not known how I was going
to do it. At one point, I’d even wanted to give up and let Bertha go solo. The idea embarrassed me now.

I thought of Gladys again, savoring four fingers of Scotch on the rocks, and determined in her way to preserve a memory of a ghost no one had known.

“
What’s done is done. I wanted to preserve her memory as is, Mali. You’ll never understand. We were beautiful. We were queens, if only for a minute. And for her to die that way—in some filthy alley with half her face gone. That’s not the Thea I want to remember.
”