Black Princess Mystery (12 page)

“What
strikes me as odd,” Mike commented, “is that he didn’t call the police. I don’t
know about you, but if my brother went for a walk in a snowstorm and didn’t
come home, I’d be wondering where the hell he was.”

“True,
true,” mumbled a few villagers, nodding.

“And why
would he leave in the morning like that?” Mike questioned. “He took Father
Murphy’s car, too. Explain that.”

“They
can’t find him,” Tasheka noted. “That is very strange. You can’t help but
wonder what’s going on.”

“The whole
situation is a mess,” Henrietta said. “One minute it’s peaceful and calm, and
Christmas is just around the corner, but now there’s television cameras in your
face and you have to bolt your doors. The world’s gone topsy-turvy.”

“We have
it good,” Tasheka noted. “Think of what Father Tim went through.”

Matt
looked at her with a sheepish expression and nodded. “You’re making me feel
guilty.”

“It is
human nature for us to think of ourselves,” Tasheka observed. “No matter what
disasters befall others, we have a tendency to consider only the negative
repercussions on our own lives. We’re all angry at the publicity and the need
to lock our doors now, but Father Tim’s death was disgusting and horrific.
There was no need for it.”

The others
became silent out of respect, but a moment later again began excitedly
chattering like disturbed birds on the roost. Tasheka spoke with them for a
short while and then drove home. Her mother was waiting and staring out the
window.

“Is
everything all right, Momma?”

“I guess
so,” she said feebly. “I just feel scared and sad.”

Tasheka
hugged her. “I know. I feel that way, too. But there’s nothing we can do to
bring him back.”

Mother and
daughter tried again to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but the shock of the
murder reverberated throughout the community and every house in it. That
evening, Tasheka went to her room and dressed in blue jeans and a white
sweater, then slipped on a heavy blue coat and black boots that rose to her
mid-calf. Atop her head she nestled a blue, woolen hat. Once completely
dressed, she opened the bottom drawer of her bureau to a number of knives. The
largest was in a black sheath emblazoned with the words
The Bone Cutter
. She stared at it for several seconds and then
picked out a thin, razor-sharp eight-inch knife. On the blade itself, in
italics, it read,
Green Knives
. On
the black handle, in red letters formed as if made from dripping blood, were
the words,
The Black Widow
. Tasheka
slid the knife into a sheath and then attached the sheath to the belt of her
blue jeans. She walked downstairs to her mother.

“I’m going
to the store to pick up a few things, Momma.”

“That’s
not a good idea,” said Mrs. Green.

“Why?”

Mrs. Green
looked irritated. “A man was just murdered and you don’t know who could be out
there.”

“I’m only
walking to the store,” Tasheka said matter-of-factly.

“I still
say it’s dangerous.”

“It’s not
dangerous. The Lakeside Road is well lit and there are dozens of houses and
lots of traffic. Besides, I will not be made a prisoner in my own home.” She
folded back her coat and showed the knife. “Don’t worry. Daddy taught me how to
use this if I have to.”

Mrs. Green
gazed at her daughter. “I know he did, and I know you’re just as stubborn as he
was. I pity any man who attacks you.”

“Whoever
killed Father Tim planned to kill him and him alone,” Tasheka said with
conviction. “It wasn’t a random act. It was a well-planned assassination.”

“You’re
honestly not afraid, Tasheka?”

“You only
live once, Momma, and I don’t plan on living in fear.” Tasheka kissed her
mother and smiled. “I’ll be back shortly.”

It was
pitch dark when she walked outdoors into the cold silence. Though streetlights
illuminated the Lakeside Road, on either side of the road the thick forest grew
to within ten feet of the shoulder. If a murderer was hiding there, he could be
upon her in seconds. Her eyes darted left and right and she unconsciously
touched the knife at her waist. Somewhere in the back of her mind, buried deep
within her subconscious, was a dark fear, the kind of fear a little girl feels
when crawling into bed after a frightening movie. What if the murderer did kill
again? Where would he strike, and when? Though confident in her own abilities
and the belief that the murder was an individual, specific hit, Tasheka did
feel a tinge of discomfort. But this wariness also excited her as she
approached Big Mike’s store.

At the
side of the building, written on a piece of plywood, was an advertisement for
rabbits. In bold print, it read: “Fresh rabbit $8 whole, $10 cleaned.” She
looked into the big display window and instantly noticed that someone had
removed the little grave marker with ‘TG’ written on it. Or had she imagined
the whole thing? Had there never even been a marker with ‘TG’ written on it?
Suddenly Big Mike appeared out of the darkness.

“Mike!”
Tasheka exclaimed, stepping back, her heart pounding. “I didn’t see you.”

For one
excruciating moment he did not speak. “Sorry for scaring you, Tasheka,” he
said. “I’m just going to get some gas at Matt’s.”

“Okay,”
she said, smiling slightly and hurrying past him into the store.

A local
woman was gambling at a video terminal next to the door. She glanced up,
noticed Tasheka, and quickly went back to her pursuit. Tasheka bought a
notebook and a small flashlight, and then started toward home. Forty yards from
the store, in an area not illuminated by street lights, she looked up and down
the road. Seeing no one, she hurried into the dark woods and found the path
that ran behind Big Mike’s. It was beaten down with tracks from other people
who used it as a shortcut.

Within
minutes she was standing at Mike’s shed. She quietly moved forward and could
see the back of the store through the trees about thirty yards away. The area
around it was deserted and glowed with a yellowish light. There was also a
faint hum of electricity coming from the wires. Tasheka knew that even if
someone had been near the store, that person could not see her in the darkness.
She took a deep breath, snuck up to the single window, which was at the side of
the shed that faced Big Mike’s store, and looked in, but it was impossible to
distinguish the contents. She thought to turn on her flashlight but was afraid
to in case someone happened to come out of the store and catch her. Feeling
bold, she stole around to the front and saw a big padlock, a chunk of leather
hanging over it.

Tasheka
put on a pair of thin gloves. She clutched a small container hanging on a chain
around her neck and opened it to reveal a collection of tools. Choosing one,
she began picking the lock, constantly looking around to make sure no one was
coming. Within seconds, it fell open. Tasheka checked for danger one more time,
then removed the lock and opened the door. The rusty hinges creaked so loudly
that Tasheka winced. She paused to make sure no one was within sight, then,
after one more check, she hurriedly stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

She cupped
her hand over the end of the flashlight to concentrate the beam and turned it
on. She scanned the contents of the shed and, as Adam mentioned, there were old
paint cans and dirty rags. Also lying around was an assortment of broken
furniture, dirty bottles filled with rusty nuts, bolts and nails, a smashed
vacuum cleaner, an old washer, and a three-legged stove. Then she saw the golf
bag. It looked brand new and totally out of place, the clubs spilled out
haphazardly as if Mike had tossed them into the shed with careless disregard.

Instantly
she knelt down and took stock of each individual club: driver, putter, seven
iron, five iron…Her pulse quickened when she realized the nine-iron was
missing. Tasheka began looking around, thinking it might have been pushed
aside. She unconsciously placed her right hand on a low shelf for balance, but
instantly drew it away after touching something cold, wet and sticky. At first
she thought it was paint and trained her light on it. To her shock, Tasheka saw
a green hatchet. It was covered with frozen blood and fleshy matter. Embedded
in it was one small white hair, like the hair that grows on a man’s forearm.

“Oh, my
God!” she muttered, taking tissue paper out of her pocket and cleaning off a
clump of blood and fleshy matter on her glove. “Yuck!” she said, wrapping the
tissue in clean ones, rolling them up, and putting them in her pocket.

Suddenly
car headlights flashed across the darkness and illuminated the inside of the
shed above her head. Tasheka instantly flicked off her flashlight and knelt
motionlessly, her heart thundering. She knew, because of the reserved spot in
which he parked, that it was Mike Power returning from the gas station. She
heard him get out, close his door and take something from the trunk. Tasheka
huddled like a mouse beside the bloody hatchet, hardly daring to breathe. She
desperately wanted to make good a comfortable escape, but to her great dismay,
Mike closed the trunk and started walking toward the shed. She could hear his
footsteps crunching in the snow and see a flashlight waving through the
darkness and casting its light on the fingerlike branches of the surrounding
maple trees.

Twenty-five
paces, twenty, fifteen.

For a
moment she thought about running, hoping he would not realize who it was, but
he was much too close now. Tasheka could hardly breathe.

“Mike!”
Gina suddenly called from the corner of the store. “You’re wanted on the
phone.”

He
stopped. “Can you take a message?”

Tasheka
was sure he could hear the pounding of her heart.

“You
better come now,” she said. “It’s Detective McNab from the police.”

“All
right,” he said with a groan. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

Tasheka
heard his footsteps receding in the crunchy snow. She waited for a couple
minutes and then slowly stood up, peeking out the greasy window covered in
cobwebs. She opened the door a crack, saw no one was there, then stepped out
and secured the padlock. She hurried along the dark path, continually looking
over her shoulder. Once she found her entry point she walked to the edge of the
woods, looked up and down the Lakeside Road and, seeing no cars or pedestrians,
hurried back to the shoulder and headed home. She took off her gloves, rolled
them into a ball, and carried them in her right hand, depositing them and the
ball of tissue in a garbage bag in a bin at the end of her driveway. When she
got home, though her mother was obviously waiting to reprimand her for her
excessive boldness, Tasheka hurried to the upstairs bathroom and washed her
hands for several minutes.

“Tasheka,”
her mother said, coming up the stairs and stopping outside the bathroom, “you
obviously are going to do whatever you want to, but that doesn’t make it
right.” She paused and sighed. “By the way, Detective Henry rang while you were
out.”

“When?”
she asked, turning off the tap so she could hear more clearly.

“Not long
before you got back.”

Tasheka
went to her room and phoned Thorston. He answered after one ring.

“You
wanted to speak with me?” Tasheka asked.

“Are you
alone?”

“Yes,” she
said. “Are you?”

“Yes.
Actually I’m right here in Lakeside.”

“You are?”
Tasheka said, surprised.

“We just
arrived at Mike Power’s store.”

“Why? Is
McNab buying you something to eat?”

“Yeah,
right,” Thorston said. “McNab is the biggest penny pincher in the world. He could
have retired years ago, but he’ll probably die an old man with a million
dollars squirreled away under his mattress.”

“Are you
arresting Mike Power?” Tasheka whispered excitedly.

“We’re
just asking questions. We’re questioning a lot of people, everyone we think
might be able to shed light on this situation. I’m in the car now waiting for
McNab.”

“Thorston,”
she said, “I have a confession.”

“A
confession?” he asked.

“When I
was at your office, I left but suddenly realized I had forgotten my purse. I came
back for it but stopped short when I overheard you and Watkins speaking. I
heard some details of the crime that you didn’t disclose to the public.”

“I see,”
he said in a measured voice. “What precisely did you hear?”

“I know
the murder weapon was a golf club.”

“You’re
not going to say anything, are you?”

“Of course
not.”

“Thank
you,” Thorston said softly. He seemed to grow slightly animated. “Want to hear
something interesting?”

“Sure.”

“Mr. Power
has ten full sets of golf clubs. It’s like the man is a collector. We went into
his room to look around and there are ten sets of clubs against the wall.
Imagine that. You can only play with one set, for God’s sake, but he had ten
sets and every of them had a full complement of clubs. We thought he might have
misplaced one, if you know what I mean. But they’re all complete sets.”