The Last Sunday (7 page)

“Would you please get to the point.”

“All right, Pastor Cleaveland. I will. Danny St. John is alive.”

There was silence on the phone.

“That's right. You and your gorilla should have checked his pulse before you left him for dead in Griffith Park.”

“A word of advice, Mr. Truman. You're in over your head with me. If I were you, I would forget you ever heard of Danny St. John. My husband was killed for being involved with him, and now it looks like you are at risk of becoming the next one.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, sir. It is not. It is, however, a warning.”

“You don't frighten me.”

“That's unfortunate, because you really should be.”

Gideon stood from his desk, still clutching the second sheet of paper with the e-mails.

“I have evidence of Hezekiah's affair with Danny in my hand, and now I know that you tried to kill Danny to cover up the affair.”

“Did he also mention to you that he was trying to blackmail me?”

“Yes, he told me. He admits that was a mistake. But that didn't give you the right to try to kill him.”

“I think it did. Anyway, it's his word against mine. You can't prove any of this. The only thing you have is a little frightened boy who let my husband fuck him.”

“You seem to forget that you confessed to that ‘little boy' that you killed your husband.”

“Who's going to believe him?” Samantha laughed into the phone.

“It doesn't matter if anyone believes him. Just the hint of a scandal like this will have the media digging to uncover every secret in your life. Your credibility will be destroyed, and with any luck, you'll spend the rest of your life in prison.”

“I can assure you that is not going to happen, Mr. Truman. You underestimate me.”

“And I can assure you I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that it does.”

Samantha laughed again. “Are you sleeping with him too? He's a bigger whore than I first imagined. Although, I must admit, he is quite lovely. Please tell Danny we have unfinished business. And now, my dear Mr. Truman, so do you and I.”

Hattie Williams had a taste for sweet potato pie. The morning had come and gone, filled with the routines that served well to keep her body active and her mind stimulated. Morning scriptures were read from the weathered leather Bible that had belonged to her mother. A fresh load of crisp white sheets, pillowcases, and towels had been hung to dry in the morning sun. A coat of lemon wax had been applied to the many wood surfaces that held the memories of her life. Now it was time to consider what she would prepare for dinner.

Even though Hattie lived alone, she never deprived herself of a full meal at dinnertime. The same love and skill she had used to prepare meals for her husband and their three children were applied each day to herself.

Her kitchen was awash in midday sunlight. Handmade sheer curtains provided little cover from the warmth that poured through the windows. The creamy yellow–tiled counters and the white- and minty-green-checkered linoleum floor were regularly scrubbed so clean with Pine-Sol that meals could have easily been served on them. “Just because we're poor doesn't mean we have to be dirty,” her mother would say. Her house always had a fresh hint of lemon in the air because of the furniture polish and the often used cleaning solution.

A circa 1950s toaster and coffee percolator and a vintage white KitchenAid mixer lined the countertop, as they had for the last fifty-some-odd years, poised and ready for duty. No microwave contraptions had ever crossed the Williamses' threshold. “If it can't be warmed up in the oven, then I don't want it in my house. I ain't in that much of a hurry to eat” was Hattie's motto.

Wrapped in her floral-print apron, Hattie reached in the root cupboard and retrieved three large sweet potatoes. Hands that were more accurate that the most precise scale estimated that she held a total of one and a half pounds. “That should do it,” she said out loud. The large pot of boiling water on the O'Keefe & Merritt was already filling the room with steam. Hattie washed each potato under cold water, sliced each one into fourths, and then dropped the pieces into the pot.

She made the pie just as her mother and her mother's mother had made it. No need for a recipe. No need to Google the ingredients. This recipe, like so many other family recipes, was etched on the strands of her DNA.
Four beaten eggs, one tablespoon of vegetable oil, and one tablespoon of vanilla,
she thought as she blended the ingredients.
Half a cup of brown sugar and half a cup of maple syrup.

“Now, where did I put my cinnamon and nutmeg?” she asked out loud, rummaging through her spice rack. “There they are. A teaspoon of cinnamon and a quarter teaspoon of nutmeg.”

Hattie emptied the ingredients into the mixer and added a half teaspoon of salt and a cup of heavy cream. Her internal kitchen timer went off, and just as always, the potatoes in the pot were like butter under the knife she inserted in them. After draining the potatoes, she peeled them. The potato skins yielded under her touch, and she added the soft orange potato flesh to the mixer.

The machine whirled and whisked just as efficiently as it had the day she made her first coconut cake fifty years ago. Hattie hadn't made a homemade crust in years. Since the day she discovered store-bought crust, she had never looked back. “That little white Pillsbury Doughboy always does just fine,” she proclaimed, rightly reasoning.

She removed a pie crust from the refrigerator, pressed it into a pie plate, then carefully poured in the sweet potato filling. With the pie crust filled nearly to the brim with the creamy, sweet goodness, Hattie checked the oven to make sure it was a perfect 375 degrees. When she opened the oven door, her face was met with a gust of heat.
Perfect.

She slid the pie dish into the oven. As she closed the heated tomb containing the pie, she felt the familiar lightness in her head. She knew immediately what was in store for her in the forty-five minutes it would take to bake the pie. Hattie wiped her moist hands on her apron and slowly made her way to the kitchen table.
Cleanin' up is gonna have to wait till the Lord's done showing me what he wants me to see,
she thought.

Before the full weight of her body had rested in the vinyl chair, the vision began. The image of Hezekiah Cleaveland appeared in the sun-drenched window. He was in his usual black suit, with the tie cinched at his neck.

“Pastor,” Hattie said with a gasp. “My dear, sweet pastor.”

Hezekiah did not respond to her gentle greeting. Instead, he seemed focused on an energy that came from just out of her range of view. Hezekiah looked lovingly at the source of the energy. He slowly reached out his hand, beckoning for someone to come into Hattie's view. And then she saw him for the first time. A young man slowly appeared. She immediately felt the love and intense affection pouring from them both.

“Is that him, Pastor?” Hattie said softly. “Is that who all this love is for?” Even though he did not speak, Hattie clearly heard the word
yes
echo through the kitchen. Gripped by the scene unfolding before her, she didn't notice the aroma of sweet potato pie filling the kitchen.

A burst of light suddenly leapt from the scene at the point where the tips of their fingers finally touched. At that moment, as she became enveloped by the love exchanged between the two, a tear escaped from Hattie's eye.

“I'm so glad you found love in this world, Pastor,” she said. “All anybody wants on this earth is to be loved.” Hattie, for the first time, looked away from the window and said, “Thank you, Lord, for blessing him with love before you called him home.”

When Hattie's eyes returned to the vision, the figures had shifted. Hezekiah was now shielding the man from a force that was slowly eclipsing the love that was there only moments earlier. A billowing haze obscured the two men from her view. Hezekiah was pleading for the energy to leave them as he protected the cowering figure. Hattie immediately knew the source of the destructive power that now dominated the scene. It was an evil that she had felt on so many Sunday mornings. It was Samantha Cleaveland.

Suddenly Hezekiah vanished. The young man was now left cowering and vulnerable in the mist that surrounded him. Hattie could see the fear in his eyes and feel the terror pouring from his spirit.

“Help him, Pastor Cleaveland!” she shrieked. “Please help him. He needs you.” But Hezekiah was nowhere to be seen.

The man began to thrash violently on the ground, as if he were being beaten. She saw blood trickle from his mouth as each invisible blow was leveled.

“She's going to kill him, Pastor,” Hattie called out again. “You have to do something! You have to stop her.”

But the blows continued with steadily increasing force, until the young man lay on the ground, motionless. Hattie felt helpless and weak sitting in the chair. She was an unwilling witness to such mayhem and evil.

“Lord, why did you show me this?” she cried out, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. “I don't want to see this. He was a beautiful young man, and Hezekiah loved him so much. Why would you let her kill him too?”

When Hattie finally opened her eyes, the image had begun to gradually fade. She sat trembling and wept into a crumpled paper napkin, retrieved unconsciously from a holder at the center of the table.

When the image had completely vanished, she could once again see the tranquility of her vegetable garden and the freshly washed laundry on the clothesline gently dancing in the breeze. Hattie gripped the soaked napkin in her hand and said out loud, “You've got to stop her, Lord. It's just not right.”

Suddenly the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar jarred her back into the kitchen. “Oh, Lord,” she said mournfully. “Has it been forty-five minutes already?”

 

 

Victoria Johnson stopped her silver Mercedes at the iron gate that guarded the Cleaveland estate. She looked scornfully at the security guard as he approached her window.

“Good afternoon, ma'am,” the uniformed man said. “May I help you?”

“You can start by opening the gate.”

“Is Pastor Cleaveland expecting you?” he responded politely.

“Don't you have a list you can check, instead of wasting my time?”

Victoria was Samantha's oldest friend. She was the wife of the Reverend Sylvester Johnson, Pastor of First Bethany Church of Los Angeles. Victoria was the only pastor's wife with whom Samantha had never competed. The women were equals in every way, including their shared loathing for the men they had married. There were no secrets between them.

Samantha's wealth far exceeded that of Victoria's, but their penchant for spending the alms of their followers was equal in every way. Weekend shopping trips to Paris, personal jewelers, and the latest five-figure designer bags were all theirs on demand. Victoria's claim to fame was not her oratory skills or her ability to manipulate the masses with her cunning. Instead, it was her beauty. Tall, svelte, and elegant, Victoria put all women in her presence to shame, with the exception of Samantha. Her luscious veneer hid the foulmouthed alcoholic who simmered just beneath the surface. Samantha was her friend and confidante; but the bottle was her confessional; and alcohol, the priest to whom she confessed her sins.

“May I have your name, ma'am?” the guard continued, undaunted by her growing irritation.

“Who does your list say Pastor Cleaveland is meeting at one thirty?” she replied snidely, pointing to the iPad the guard was holding like a shield.

“Mrs. Victoria Johnson.”

“Good boy. Now, open the gate.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said the now befuddled guard. “May I please see your identification? It's for Pastor Cleaveland's protection. I'm sure you understand.”

The calming effects of the vodka and tonic Victoria had consumed before leaving her home just over the hill were beginning to wear off, causing her nerves to fray.

“If you don't open that fucking gate right now, I'm going to ram this brand-new Mercedes-Benz right through it. I'm sure you'll
understand,
” she sneered through gritted pearly teeth.

“Yes, ma'am,” sputtered the guard as he sprinted back to the gatehouse. “Right away, ma'am.”

The gate, embroidered with the steel initials HZ, glided open. As Victoria sped past the guard shed, she yelled out the window, “And don't call me ‘ma'am'. I'm not your goddamn mother.”

The grounds were surrounded by an eight-foot-high white stucco wall. Lower points in the wall allowed passersby brief glimpses of the magnificent estate. Meticulously manicured grounds surrounded the home and seemed to spill down the hill into the skyline. To the left was a freshly painted green tennis court with sharp white lines. A whitewashed gazebo stood to the right and overlooked the Pacific Ocean, and a two-story guesthouse could be seen tucked behind a grove of trees. At the final curve of the driveway the trees unfurled like theater curtains, and the house could finally be seen. It was an off-white Mediterranean villa sitting on a sloped crest with spectacular views of the city and the ocean. Double stone stairways ascended to the grand main entrance under a covered porch, the roof of which was held aloft by four twenty-foot-high, white carved pillars.

Victoria was greeted at the door by Etta. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson. Pastor Cleaveland is waiting for you in the conservatory.”

Victoria whisked by Etta without really acknowledging her presence. Her only greeting was, “Bring me a gin and tonic.”

The conservatory was three walls of glass and a glass roof attached to the back of the mansion. The sun, the lush green grounds, and the crystal-blue sky served as the wallpaper. Exotic plants and flowers, stone fountains spewing ribbons of water, wicker furniture, and ornately carved statues filled the room.

“You need to fire that fucking rent-a-cop at your gate. Son of a bitch wasn't going to let me in. Thought I was gonna have to suck his dick just to get my lunch.”

Samantha laughed as Victoria approached and air kissed her cheeks. “He's just doing his job, girl. He probably thought you were my psycho killer.”

“What psycho killer? Do you have another stalker?”

“Oh, you know, girl. There's always plenty of nuts to go around. Security has been on high alert since that ugly Hezekiah incident.”

“Oh, that. Do the police think you're still in danger?” Victoria asked, resting in an overstuffed wicker chair. “Where's that woman with my drink?”

As she spoke, Etta silently entered the sun-washed room, carrying the requested beverage on a silver tray.

“It took you long enough. Just put it there.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Johnson. I had too—”

“Never mind, Etta,” Samantha interrupted. “Now, leave us alone and close the door behind you. I'll let you know when we're ready for lunch.”

As Etta walked to the door, she heard Samantha say to Victoria, “That woman is so incompetent.”

“Then why don't you fire her?” Victoria asked, knowing that Etta could still hear them.

“Because of my dearly departed husband. Five years ago, due to his ridiculous sense of loyalty, he put a clause in his will that said if I fired her within a year of his death, she would get three hundred thousand dollars. I'd rather keep her here and make her life miserable for a year than give her that kind of money.”

Etta quietly closed the door.

“The bastard is dead, and he's still fucking you. That reminds me, girl,” Victoria said, leaning forward in her seat. “What ever happened with that blackmail business? Did you ever hear from him again?”

Samantha looked over her shoulder at the door to ensure they had their privacy before responding, “I guess it was a hoax. I never heard from him again.”