The Last Sunday (27 page)

“I had to wait until she came downstairs. I couldn't risk running into her in the hallway. Now, listen closely. We only have a few minutes until she gives a toast at the top of the staircase in the foyer. Here's the gun.” Cynthia handed Scarlett the revolver. “It's very easy to use. Just take a deep breath, steady yourself, aim, and pull the trigger. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“There's a flight of stairs halfway down this hall on the left that leads back down into the room just off the living room. Stand at the top of those stairs when you shoot.”

“Yes, I saw them,” Scarlett said intently.

“Samantha will be standing a few yards away from you at the top of the foyer staircase. Everyone will be below, in the foyer, so they won't be able to see you. This is the important part. As soon as you shoot her, go down the stairs to the living room and then come to the foyer and stand with everyone else. I'll be waiting for you at the entrance between the living room and foyer.”

“What do I do with the gun?”

“Sit the gun on the second landing of the stairs as you're coming down. I've arranged for someone to pick it up and dispose of it for us.”

“Who?” Scarlett asked in a panic.

“I told you not to worry about that. They can be trusted. Now, as soon as you hear her speaking from the steps, come out of the bathroom, get into position, and do it. Do not wait. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand. Cynthia, are you sure this will work? Are you sure we can get away with it?”

“I'm positive. Nothing will go wrong. Trust me.”

 

 

With a champagne flute in one hand, Samantha made her way through the crowd, giving everyone no more than three minutes of face time.

At 8:10 p.m. she walked over to Hattie Williams, who was still sitting by the fireplace. She placed her glass on the table next to Hattie, bent down, and said, “Mother Williams, I'm so glad you came. You look lovely.”

“Thank you, Samantha,” was Hattie's brief reply.

“I'm about to invite everyone into the foyer for a toast. I'm going to acknowledge you as a founding member.”

“That's not necessary,” Hattie said coldly.

“I thought it appropriate since you are about to leave the board of trustees.”

“What do you mean? I'm not leaving the board.”

“Yes, you are, dear,” Samantha said, looking her directly in the eye. “Now that Hezekiah is no longer with us, there's no reason for you to continue as a trustee. We need someone younger and with more business experience. I'm recommending that you be removed immediately. For your health. Are you able to stand long enough to join us for the toast?”

“No, Pastor, my knees won't allow me to stand for that long tonight,” Hattie said calmly. “I'm going to stay here. I'll be able to hear you just fine from here.”

“Very well, then, Mother.” Samantha stood and turned her back to Hattie. She raised her hand, a signal to stop the music.

“May I have everyone's attention please,” she said over the multiple conversations. “Would you all be kind enough to join me in the foyer for a toast?”

Samantha retrieved her glass of champagne from the table next to Hattie and proceeded to the foyer, with the crowd following close behind.

When everyone was assembled, she walked to the top of the stairs and looked down on the sea of diamonds, bow ties, and face-lifts.

“Tonight is the culmination of five years of work to build one of the most beautiful churches in the world.”

The crowd applauded.

“None of this could have been accomplished without the love, support, and prayers of everyone in this room. You all made it a reality, and for this I thank you. The evening is a mix of joy and sorrow for me. Tomorrow we will hold the first morning service in the new cathedral.”

Again the audience applauded.

“The joy comes from knowing that twenty-five thousand people will be assembled to hear the word of God preached and millions more will be watching around the world on television. My sorrow comes from knowing that my dear departed husband will not be standing by my side in the pulpit. I know his spirit is with me, though, and he's looking down from heaven right now and seeing that something he had dreamed of for years has come to fruition.”

Samantha raised her glass above her head and said, “Would you all please raise your glasses with me in a toast to my husband, the late, great Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

Crystal glasses were hoisted throughout the foyer. “To Pastor Hezekiah Cleaveland!” came the loud chorus as Samantha took a sip from her champagne glass.

Scarlett stood in position, with the gun aimed directly at the back of Samantha's head. She closed her eyes and, with a trembling hand, slowly applied pressure to the trigger.

Suddenly a bang echoed through the room. Samantha froze in place and looked down on the crowd with bulging eyes. She released the crystal flute sending it crashing into pieces down the marble stairs. The crowd was filled with stunned and confused faces. Samantha stumbled forward onto the first step, then the second. She grabbed her chest and began to desperately gasp for air. On the third step, she collapsed onto the stairs and, as if in slow motion, tumbled head over foot the entire length of the staircase, until she crashed on the marble floor at the feet of her well-heeled guests. She landed in a jumbled pile of organza, satin, and diamonds. Her eyes were wide open and pointing directly at her prized Picasso.

The first loud shriek was then heard. It was followed by screams from every corner of the room. Scarlett ran immediately down the hallway stairs. She dropped the gun on the first landing and continued down to the main floor, racing into a small room off the living room. As she turned the corner, she found herself standing face-to-face with Etta Washington.

Scarlett froze like a deer caught in headlights as their eyes met.

“Don't stop, Mrs. Shackelford,” Etta whispered urgently. “Go through the living room there and get to the foyer. You don't have much time. I'll take care of the gun.”

Scarlett thanked Etta with her eyes and darted through the door and into the living room. She ran so fast through the room, she didn't notice Hattie Williams watching her from the chair near the fireplace.

By the time she reached the foyer, the room was in full panic mode. People were running out the front door to their limousines. Women were crying hysterically, and seven security guards had surrounded Samantha's body, their guns fully cocked and pointing into the frantic crowd.

Trembling, Scarlett clutched Cynthia's hand. “I did it. It's over,” she whispered, crying into her shoulder. “It's over. She can't hurt me or my baby anymore.”

Cynthia placed her hand over Scarlett's quivering mouth and quickly walked her back into the living room. Hattie sat calmly by the fireplace, watching the two women as they huddled, whispering, in the corner. She clutched her purse in her lap. When they finally noticed Hattie, Cynthia sat Scarlett in a chair and quickly walked the length of the room to her.

“Are you all right, Mother?” Cynthia asked, kneeling in front of her. “I'm afraid something terrible has happened. Samantha has been killed.”

“I know, baby. I saw the whole thing.”

Cynthia looked puzzled. “But how . . . how could you have seen it from here?” she asked suspiciously.

“I see more than you could ever imagine. Now, go back to Scarlett, Mrs. Pryce. She needs you now more than I do,” was Hattie's simple reply.

Gideon spotted Jasmine standing near the front door in the foyer. She was staring blankly across the room at the lifeless body of her mother at the foot of the stairs. He quickly made his way to her, hurdling over a woman who had fainted in the melee and around men shielding their crying companions in their arms. Two security guns followed him as he dashed across the room.

“Jasmine,” he said, clutching her and gathering her into in his arms. “My God, honey, please tell me you didn't do this.”

She collapsed, crying hysterically, into his arms, unable to speak. As she pressed her body against his, he felt the heavy weight of metal against his hip. He reached into her jacket pocket and traced the outline of the gun.

“Oh, Jasmine, no!” he cried.

Suddenly he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Truman, we have to get her out of here quickly.”

When Gideon turned around, he found himself standing eye to eye with a security guard whose gun was raised at face level.

“Please follow me,” the guard said.

Gideon bundled Jasmine under his arm and pressed the gun between them with his body. They followed the guard out the front door to the steps.

“I'll take her to my home,” Gideon said to the man. “She'll be safe there.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible, sir. She will have to come with me. A secure location was set up two blocks away in the event of an emergency such as this.”

“No!” Jasmine screamed, clutching Gideon's body. “I'm going to Gideon's. Gideon, please take me with you. I don't want to be anywhere near this place.”

“Miss Cleaveland, you'll be much safer if you come with me,” the security guard said authoritatively.

“No!” she screamed again. “Let's go, Gideon. I want to leave now.”

“Sir, my car is right over there,” Gideon said, pointing to his vehicle. “You can send someone to my home and station them outside. My address is five-forty-three Hollow Point Road. Now, please call the gate and tell them to let us out. Thank you.”

With that Gideon whisked Jasmine to his car, carefully securing the gun between their bodies. He quickly helped her into the passenger seat and sped toward the gate. The iron bars slide open as he approached. Gideon swerved the car onto the road and sped down the dark hill.

“Give me the gun,” he said, firmly extending his hand.

Jasmine did not move or respond.

“Give me the gun!” he yelled.

Jasmine removed the gun from her jacket pocket with a trembling hand and placed it in his open palm. Gideon rolled down his window and hurled the warm gun into the dense trees and foliage of the canyon thousands of feet below, where it would never be seen again.

The police car blocked the gate at New Testament Cathedral on Sunday morning. Thousands of mourners stood weeping at the eight-foot fences and along the streets surrounding the campus. A carpet of flowers covered the sidewalks, and reporters scrambled for sound bites among the crowds.

“The world is in shock this morning over the death of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland,” announced a news anchor on one of the major networks. “Police have not released the cause of death, but witnesses at the star-studded party she hosted at her estate in Bel Air are saying she was shot.”

The camera cut to a visibly shaken woman who had been interviewed the evening before. “She was giving a lovely toast to her husband when all of a sudden I heard a loud pop. She started to gasp for air and grab her chest. The next thing I knew, she was rolling down the steps and landed right at my feet.” The woman dabbed her eye with a silk handkerchief. “It was just horrible.”

The camera cut back to the anchor. “The evening was to mark the opening of her new church in Los Angeles. But today the sanctuary doors are locked, and the members of New Testament Cathedral are in mourning.”

Cynthia Pryce watched the news from her bed. Percy sat at the foot, staring at the screen in disbelief.

“Are you okay, honey?” Cynthia asked, placing her hand on his shoulder.

He did not respond.

“I suppose this means you'll have to step in as pastor until the trustees decide what to do.”

Percy turned to her sharply. “How can you even be thinking about that right now? Are you that unfeeling? Did you really hate her that much that you can't even pretend to be upset by this?”

“You know exactly how I felt about her,” she replied coldly.

“You hated her.” He looked directly in her eyes. “Did you hate her enough to kill her?”

Cynthia sat back dismissively. “What are you talking about? I was standing next to you when it happened.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Were you in any way involved in her death?”

“They kept us there until three in the morning,” Cynthia said, standing abruptly from the bed. “I'm too tired to have this conversation with you.”

Percy grabbed her arm and yanked her back to the bed. “Answer me, Cynthia. Did you have anything to do with this?”

“No!” she yelled, jerking her arm free. “You know I could have, but I didn't. We should thank whoever did it, though. She got exactly what she deserved.”

“You disgust me,” Percy said, standing. “I don't know who you are anymore, Cynthia. Jealousy has turned you into a heartless woman, and I can't stand it anymore.”

Percy stood and walked out of the room. Cynthia followed close behind him.

“It's over now, Percy. Don't you see? Now we can have everything we've ever wanted. They'll have to install you as pastor.”

“You mean, everything
you
have ever wanted,” he said, walking through the hall into the living room. “I've never wanted to be pastor, and even if they did ask me, I would turn it down.”

Cynthia froze when she heard those words. By now Percy was in the kitchen, filling a coffee decanter with water from the sink. “Don't be ridiculous,” she blurted, bursting into the room. “Do you know what I had to do to make you pastor?”

Percy slammed the decanter to the floor, sending glass and water splashing in every direction. “I know you tried to destroy Hezekiah with those e-mails. I know you fucked Lance Savage in the backseat of my fucking Mercedes to get him to run the story. What else did you do?” he asked, sprinting across the kitchen and grabbing her shoulders violently. “Tell me! Did you kill her?”

“No!” she shrieked. “I told you I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“You're lying.” Percy raised his hand and slapped her hard on the cheek. Cynthia's body slammed against the marble island and fell to the floor. “You're lying, you horrible bitch! You killed her! I know you did!” Percy shouted as he continued to level a series of powerful slaps at her while she tried in vain to shield her face.

Percy raised his hand one last time and froze. He watched as she scampered for safety under the island. He looked up at his hand and saw trickles of her blood running down his wrist. Percy stood still and looked down on her bloody face. “If you did it, then you did it for nothing. I will never be pastor, and you will never be first lady.”

“You're no better, you fucking murderer!” she screamed as he walked out of the kitchen. “You killed Lance Savage, but you didn't have the brains to handle Samantha. I did it all for you! I swear, Percy, if you don't accept the pastorship, I'll tell the police everything!” she howled. “I'll tell them you killed Lance Savage! I mean it!”

Her final words were pounding in his head when he slammed the bedroom door. The horrible reality of his life battered his body even harder than the blows he had delivered moments earlier. Percy frantically paced the length and width of the room like a caged animal desperate to escape. Moments passed, and his pace gradually slowed as he found it more and more difficult to propel his body through the room.

Finally exhausted, he dropped the full weight of his body onto the bed, breathless and covered in perspiration. His chest heaved as he gasped for air. Percy struggled to free himself from the reality that their lives would be forever bound together by the blood of Lance Savage. But he was too tired to fight. His future was no longer his own. It now belonged to the woman cowering in the kitchen, under the marble island.

 

 

“The streak of bad luck that many are now calling the Cleaveland Curse has struck again. Pastor Samantha Cleaveland, the wife of the late Hezekiah Cleaveland, was brutally murdered last night in her home, in front of hundreds of horrified guests.”

Scarlett sat quietly in a chair in her bedroom, cradling a picture of Natalie in her arms. The curtains were drawn, and the only light in the room came from the television hanging on the wall in front of her bed. After the police allowed her to leave the estate, she'd driven home in a daze. She still had on the gown.

The night had brought her a steely resolve. I had to do it, she thought over and over again until she believed it herself. I had to stop her before she killed again. Before she killed me or my little girl. She found comfort and absolution in the words.
Forgive me, God, but I had to do it.

“Police are now distancing themselves from their original theory that Pastor Cleaveland died from a gunshot wound,” the news anchor continued. “Here's what Los Angeles Police Department chief Anthony Cordova had to say at a press conference held earlier this morning about their latest findings.”

A grave-looking Chief Cordova, standing at a podium flanked by his top brass, appeared on the TV screen.

“Contrary to what witnesses originally told police, we have just been told by the coroner's office that Pastor Cleaveland did not die as a result of a gunshot,” he said.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd of reporters that filled the room.

The police chief continued. “There were no signs of trauma to her body other than those sustained when she fell down the stairs in her foyer. We are waiting for autopsy results before we announce the official cause of death.”

Scarlett bolted upright in the chair, sending the picture frame flying to the floor. “That can't be,” she said out loud. “I shot her. I know I did.”

“There was no blood?” someone in the crowd called out.

“That is correct,” the chief said. “No blood was found at or near the crime scene.”

“Chief Cordova, Chief Cordova,” the reporters called out in unison.

“What are they saying was the cause of death if it wasn't from gunshot wounds?” one reporter yelled above all the others vying for the chief's attention.

“We're not speculating at this time. We are going to wait for the results from the autopsy, which we're expecting later today.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” asked another reporter. “Numerous witnesses said they heard a single gunshot just before she collapsed.”

“No one else was injured. We are still investigating to determine if it was in fact a gunshot that was heard or possibly something like a champagne bottle being opened by one of the waitstaff.”

“Do you have anyone in custody, and if not, have you identified any possible suspects?”

“No one has been arrested at this time, and we have not identified any suspects,” the chief said, bowing his head slightly. “As soon as we are sure of the cause of death, we hope that will lead us to possible suspects.”

“We understand her daughter was present. Did she witness the murder, and where is she now?”

“Yes, the daughter of Pastor Cleaveland was present. She was immediately removed from the scene and taken to an undisclosed secure location. She is safe and under twenty-four-hour protection.”

“Do you suspect the killer is the same person or persons who assassinated her husband? Has any progress been made in that investigation?” a reporter called out from the back of the crowd.

“We haven't ruled out the possibility that the killer is the same in both murders. That, obviously, is the first theory we are investigating at this time.” The chief then raised his hand to the crowd. “That's all I am able to say at this time. We will hold another briefing as soon as we hear from the coroner's office. Thank you.”

 

 

“Danny!” Gideon called out from the living room. “Danny, did you hear that?” Gideon was sitting in the living room, watching the morning news closely as the chief of police announced the new details. He ran to the kitchen, where Danny was cradling a cup of coffee at the table.

Gideon burst into the room. “She wasn't shot,” he said with a puzzled expression.

“What do you mean? I thought you said you heard a gunshot,” Danny said, equally puzzled.

“They think it might have been a champagne cork. They don't know what killed her, but there was no blood and no gunshot wounds. Do you know what that means?”

“What?”

“It means Jasmine didn't kill her mother.”

“Thank God,” Danny said with a sigh of relief. “I was so worried about her. She would have never been able to live with herself if she had killed her.”

“Where is she?”

“She's still sleeping. Should we wake her and tell her the news?”

After Gideon and Jasmine had arrived home from the party, he'd whisked her into the house. Two police cars and one private security car arrived only minutes after he had closed the front door.

Jasmine was silent the entire ride. When they entered the house, Danny was waiting at the front door. Jasmine ran into his arms and wept into his chest.

“Are you all right, Jasmine? I heard everything on the news.” He then looked at Gideon and mouthed the words, “Is she dead?”

Gideon simply nodded his head yes.

Jasmine did not speak. They took her into the guest bedroom and put her under the covers. The tears were flowing, but there was no expression of remorse, grief, or pain on her face. It was simply blank. Gideon and Danny sat on the bed next to her until she drifted off to sleep.

The police officers and the security guard tapped on the door only once.

“Hello, Mr. Truman. I'm Officer Bryant, and this is Officer Kantor. This is Scot Wilkins with Pastor Cleaveland's private security,” said one of the officers, pointing to a plain-clothed man standing behind him. “We just want to let you know we will be posted in the front and back of your home this evening. You all are safe tonight.”

“Thank you, Officers,” Gideon replied nervously and closed the door.

He and Danny had been awake the entire night, tormented by the thought that the girl sleeping in the next room had killed her mother and they were the only people who knew it.

“No, let her sleep,” Gideon said after hearing the morning news. “She may not have killed her, but her mother is dead nonetheless,” he added, sitting down at the kitchen table next to Danny. “Now both her parents are dead.”

“But at least she doesn't have blood on her hands.”

“It also means we're safe now, Danny. She can't hurt us anymore.”

“Poor kid. No parents. What is she going to do now?”

Gideon was silent for a moment, then said, “I hope you don't mind, but I told her she could stay here with us as long as she liked.”

“You're a very special man, Gideon Truman, and that's why I love you. Of course I don't mind. It's the right thing to do.”

Danny rested his head on Gideon's shoulder. There were moments of silence between them before Danny finally asked the question that was now on both their minds.

“Then I wonder who killed her?”

 

 

At 7:23 p.m., Sunday evening's regularly scheduled programming was stopped suddenly to provide viewers with the latest on the death of Samantha Cleaveland.

“We are interrupting this program,” reporters across the country said in unison, “to bring you live coverage of the press conference that is just about to start at the Los Angeles Police Department, where police chief Anthony Cordova is said to be announcing the cause of death of Pastor Samantha Cleaveland.”

“We've received the toxicology reports from the coroner's office,” the chief announced, reading from a prepared statement, to the sea of cameras. “Pastor Samantha Cleaveland died of a massive coronary brought on by the introduction of the substance known as digitalis into the glass of champagne she drank after giving a toast to her late husband. Traces of the drug were found in her system, on shreds of glass from a champagne flute, and in the liquid that was spilled on the steps when she dropped the glass.