A Good Excuse To Be Bad (10 page)

“It's that bad?” her voice squeaked.

“It will be if you don't do as I say. And please, if the kids wake up, don't let them turn on the television.”

“I'm scared, Angel.”

I wanted to tell her, don't be, but I would be lying.

“Don't be scared. We're coming home soon.”

I decided the lie was better than the truth for now.

 

T
he roads were pleasantly quiet in Decatur, but the new day was rolling on despite my wish for it to slow down. I could be normal and go home. Who wouldn't want to go and hide under their bedcovers until the boogeyman disappeared?

Mama didn't raise me, nor Ava, that way. So I couldn't leave Ava here until I exhausted all scenarios that could release her from jail before her children missed her. Worst-case scenario, I would bail her out after she was formally charged. Trouble with that plan, however, was in my recollection, one of Salvador's tactics was to threaten to hold a person of interest for questioning long enough to disrupt their family's routine. He could legally hold her for two days before he presented charges to the DA's office. Since it's Friday, that more than likely wouldn't happen until Sunday morning. Let's be honest. The DA wasn't filing anything on Sunday, which meant he or she wouldn't get around to it until Monday at a time . . . I have no clue. Once those charges are made, then the magistrate judge's file clerk will put it on the docket calendar. And only God knew when that would happen . . .

“Justus, we're legally screwed,” I groaned.

My slight concussion roared between my ears and my stomach made it clear that it didn't appreciate the incessant pain. Justus watched me carefully. He knew I wouldn't be able to hang around much longer. He held my hand as he drove, and he made sure he never bounced over any bumps in Decatur's poorly paved roads. That was sweet.

We stopped at a red light.

Justus turned to me. “Angel, I'm concerned about your health.”

“You don't think I am?” I slid my hand out of his hold.

“You've only made one call since we left your sister's, and you're practically holding your head in your hands now.”

“I didn't realize I was.” I lowered my hands from my head.

“We've been going nonstop since midnight. There hasn't been time to take a breath. If I weren't with you experiencing this for myself, I'd swear we were morphed into an episode of
24
.” He began driving. “Angel, I don't swear.”

“I know exactly what you mean. My head feels like it's on a perpetual rollercoaster ride.”

“Then maybe after this we go home.”

“Maybe.”

He sighed. “Angel.”

“Justus, if you're tired, drop me off at Big Tiger's and he'll bring me home after I'm done.”

“Your concussion has clearly made you loopy if you think I will agree to that.”

“Then what do you want me to do, tell the kids what?” I folded my arms over my chest. My lips were so pursed my cheeks hurt.

“You should tell the kids that their mom will be away for a while longer. Who knows? With faith, Ava could be released on bail later today. Then she can speak to the children herself. But you”—he patted my hand—“see to yourself.”

“With faith . . .” I scoffed. “How about some facts, Justus. Ava could be stuck in the pen for days. This is the weekend. If they detain her all day, then charge her tonight after it's too late to get on an early Saturday docket, she will be here through Monday at least. Justus, we've had clients in lockup for two weeks before a bail hearing. That's too long.” I flipped my phone out. “Maybe I should call Devon's assistant to see if he can help.”

“You should have called him first.”

“Tttt . . . Sidekick, you could have called him while I was talking to Whitney.”

“I couldn't call and drive and pay attention to you at the same time.”

“Use a Bluetooth, Justus. Besides, what are you paying attention to me for?”

Justus slammed on the brakes. My car skidded slightly to the right. I could smell rubber from my tires.

“What are you doing?” I screamed.

“Pay attention, Angel. It's a red light.” His voice was stern.

“Oh.” I rubbed the back of my neck.

“One more thing . . . don't ever ask me again why I pay attention to you, why I care for you, or why I won't leave you.”

A chill ran down both of my shoulders. I shivered. “Can I say anything?”

“No . . .” Justus checked the rearview mirror. The light was green, but we weren't moving. “Let's pray before we go a step further.”

“Let's not. Okay?”

“I don't know how to respond to that request, Angel, when I know that prayer is the right thing to do.”

I folded my arms over my chest. He cleared his throat. “I'll just pray in silence for a minute then.”

“You do that.”

Justus began to pray while my mind tried to rewind the events of last night and come up with a plan of action to clear Ava's name. I had nothing. I watched Justus and wished my problems could be solved as easily as he believed.

My heart thrummed mulling over what he said before his prayer request. Although I still didn't clearly understand what he meant.

Out of courtesy for him, though, I waited until he stopped praying before I reached for my cell phone and dialed Mom. I probably should have called Elvis first like I had planned, but since I have my guard up after nipping at Justus, I might be tough enough to make that call.

I put the phone to my ear. My knees twitched.
Oh no
. I heard the phone ring. My jaw clinched.
Not good.
Then the phone purred and clicked. I stopped breathing. My nose sweat. I was in trouble.

Before I could tell her the bad news, she said, “Evangeline Grace Crawford, you must have lost the last bit of your mind for calling me this early in the morning.”

I rolled my eyes to the back of my head. Its usual position when I talk to her. “It's an emergency, Mom.”

“Something wrong with my grandbaby? Whitney?” Her voice raised an octave. I heard her bed sheets ruffling through the phone. She had sat up. “Say something.”

I jumped. “No, it's Ava. Devon's been murdered.”

“Sweet Jesus!” Then she cursed.

Our mom Virginia had this weird habit of praising God and cursing the world and anybody near her at the same time. The new hubby must have been in a deep sleep, because she screamed my name and the fact that her honeymoon had to be delayed until she took care of everything, like she must do, even though she has three grown daughters about five times. Yet, I hadn't heard a peep from him.

I can't remember his name to save my life.

“Well, where is my Avalyn? Put her on the phone. I tell you what.” She huffed. “You girls run behind the wrong kind of love. Didn't she learn from you? What in the world happened? Who in this world would kill a pastor? Don't let the devil ride this morning.” She took a breath. “What are you going to do about this, Angel? I know you're going to fix this mess. Where is Avalyn? Where's Whitney . . . ?” She was about to start it up again.

I slumped down in the passenger seat and tried to remember every question Mom asked. I didn't know when she would finish so I could answer, but I better be able to answer them all and in that order. Then she coughed.

I sat up in my seat.

“Ava's on her way to Dekalb County jail. She's been detained to be questioned about Devon's murder because she was on the scene. No, of course, she didn't kill him. Whitney is at home with all the kids.”

“Holy hell, and what are you going to do about all this?”

“I'm on my way to the jail to find out what's going on.”

“Let me repeat myself, dear. I don't think you heard me clearly. What are you going to do about
all
this?”

My stomach knots returned. “I'm going to fix it, Mom.”

“You better, or it's me and you.”

“Are you coming here? Now?”

“What other reason would I have to cancel my nine o'clock hibiscus spa, ask my dear Carrolton to end our very short stay here in Grand Dunes, and have Dorothy, my travel agent rearrange our honeymoon to Italia.”

“Italy, Mom.” I huffed. “Our new dad's name is Carrolton?”

I looked at the phone and scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

“Did she hang up on you?” Justus asked while he made a left turn.

My lip quivered. I pursed my lips to keep them from falling apart. “She's going to kill me if I don't take care of this mess.”

I reached in my glove compartment and pulled out a fresh memo pad and pen. I kept them there because I never knew when Big Tiger would call me to pick up a client. I needed to jot down all the tasks I had to complete.

Justus glanced at me. “Explain to me why your mom would expect that?”

“It's been like that as long as I can remember.”

We stopped at a light. “Wait a minute. I thought Ava was the oldest child. Wouldn't she be the one responsible for her sisters instead of you?”

“She is, by four glorious minutes, but she was sick when we were born, according to Mom. I had no problems, so I went home and Granny took care of me, while Mom stayed at the hospital to take care of Ava. I don't know . . .” I looked out the window. I could see the detention center from here. “We haven't been maternally close since.”

“How is she with Bella?”

“Everything I wished I had in a mother.” I pointed at the jail. “We're close now.”

 

O
ne thing that I hadn't lost since my departure from the
Atlanta Sentinel
was my ability to store information in my head. Ava gave me Elvis's phone number, but I also remembered that the first three digits of that telephone number told me an approximate vicinity of where he lived. From there, I could determine that he was living somewhere between downtown Decatur and Candler Park. That area was near my alma mater and fifteen minutes from the jail, mostly traffic lights. Somehow that information put me at ease. At least I knew something about the guy. He was young, but old enough to have a decent college education; he had some money saved, but treasured the trinkets of a higher standard of living, was upwardly mobile, probably drove a hybrid, and hung out with the Atlanta Jaycees on Buckhead when he had a moment free; and if he wasn't gay or overweight, he had a bevy of ladies, single and married, at this disposal. I hoped that Ava was right, that this man could help or at least set her up with one of Big Faith's many attorneys.

Justus and I were three traffic lights from the detention center now, so I dialed.

Elvis picked up on the first ring. “Hello? This is Elvis.”

His voice was groggy, but very intriguing. He had one of those British/East London accents. It was a surprised, crisp delight for me. I'd been there before on a weekend date some years ago. My heart ached in reverie.

“Sorry to disturb you, but my sister Avalyn McArthur wanted me to call you.”

“I know,” he said.

I pulled a face. “What do you know?”

“She's left him. Bishop told me last night that she was going to, but I can't believe she ran to you. That's so unlike her.”

I paused and swallowed that slight insult down. “He told you when?”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I don't mean to be rude, but I was told to keep the McArthurs' private matters private, especially from you, but if the First Lady asked you to call, well, that's another matter entirely.”

He just insulted me again. I held my breath.

Two small fists punched me between my eyes. My headache progressed. You know the kind. It's mixed with dizziness, nausea, and a huge rush to find somewhere to lay your head down or curse out every smart Elvis within earshot. I should have requested a pain reliever at the mansion earlier when I had the chance.

We stopped at a traffic light. I saw a billboard of Ava and Devon holding each other and smiling down blessings on me above the Red Lobster Seafood Restaurant.

“Devon's dead,” I grumbled.

“What?” he asked, his voice a high-pitched bark. “Did you say . . . dead?”

“Yes.”

He yelped again.

I flinched at the sound of his high-pitched bark. He sounded like a scared puppy, not sexy at all. I began to wonder whether I had this guy pegged all wrong.

Justus began driving again.

“Elvis, no offense, but I don't have a lot of time to chop it up with you. I have to take care of my sister.”

“Right.” He paused. “Absolutely right. You don't care for the bishop, so . . .” He began to make those sappy dog noises again.

I rolled my eyes again. Truly, I was just as hurt about Devon's death as Elvis was. I didn't have the patience or hearing octave to listen to Elvis mourn on my phone. Justus touched my arm. His empathetic energy must have transferred a little into me, because I calmed down and gave the man some breathing room to grieve

“What happened? Is First Lady Ava and the children okay?” Elvis asked.

“The children are fine. Ava's pretty shaken up. That's why she asked me to call you. She needs your help.”

“I'm so sorry for my rudeness before. I sincerely apologize. I'm on my way to the estate.”

Justus came to an abrupt stop. Another traffic light.

He pointed. “Look.” Another billboard.

I shook my head. “Elvis, you can't come to the mansion. It's a crime scene now.”

“Of course. Where are you and she? May I speak with her?”

“See, that's another problem. Ava has been arrested for Devon's murder. She's not speaking to anyone right now, and I really would like someone to be there with her before she says the wrong thing to the police when they question her, because . . .”

I looked at Justus. His attention was on the MARTA bus that just turned in front of us. Greater Atlanta Faith's blue and gold logo with Devon's brilliant white smile underneath with a speaking bubble that said, N
O
G
REATER
L
OVE IS THIS
, was panted across the side. A mobile billboard.

I dropped my head. We were about to enter a media storm.

“Elvis, she's thinking about confessing to this murder.”

“Bloody hell.” Then silence.

My brow wrinkled. “Elvis, are you there?”

“I'm here,” he mumbled.

“Good.” I exhaled. I wasn't in the mood for any more intentional hang-ups. “I'm sorry to lay all this on you, but you're the only person Ava asked me to call.”

“Of course.” His voice shook now. “Can you meet me at my family's restaurant? It's in downtown Decatur. The Biscuit Depot. Can't miss it. It looks like a railcar. You can get me up to speed there.”

“That's your place?”

I had been in there before, but never saw a guy in an apron or moving around in the back office.

“Yes, it is. You've been there?” he asked.

My stomach growled at the thought of a good old Irish breakfast: eggs, sausages, rashers, black pudding, and pan-fried potato bread. My mouth watered. Yet, I cringed. It was breakfast time in my house and I wasn't there. I had three children at home, a teenaged sister who might as well be a child, and Mom on the way. Mom . . . I felt sick again at the thought of her bursting hell wide open to get to my house. I needed to get home.

“Elvis, believe me. With all that's going on, I really need to see you, but I can't. I'm almost at the jail where Ava is being detained; then I have family obligations and I'm dead tired.” I covered my hand with mouth. “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

“No apologies,” Elvis said. “This whole news is bad.”

Justus patted my hand. “Are you okay?”

I lowered the receiver from my face. “He wants to see me now, but I'm tired. I'm so tired, man.”

“Then you're tired.” He held the steering wheel with his left hand and extended his right toward me. I took his hand. Don't know why, but it felt right. I felt rejuvenated a teeny bit.

I placed the phone in my right hand and put it to my head. “Elvis, can you meet us at the jail instead?”

“Of course. I'll call the church attorney and one of the First Lady's armor bearers to meet us there. How will I find you?”

“Look for a washed-out version of my sister.”

Silence. Again I felt like a heel. “Look for a red SUV, a tall, copper-colored man wearing locks and a track suit, and a woman wearing Hello Kitty pajamas, a gangsta tee, and a ponytail on the fringe of losing its tail.”

Justus snickered.

“Okay, I'll meet you in the visitor parking lot in fifteen minutes.”

The nausea dissipated. “Thank you.”

“No problem. First Lady needs to know that we are her family and we are here for her. Where are the children?”

“They're with family,” I said.

“That's what I said.”

“Honey, I'm the queen of wisecracks. Don't do that. Don't play.” I puffed. “Let's just start over.”

“Sorry.” He stopped. “Would you be offended if I had someone bring dinner from the restaurant for the family later?”

I grinned. “Thank you for asking. We'll see . . . but for right now, let's get this thing handled with Ava.”

“Right. We can exchange particulars once we meet. Good day, Angel.” Then he hung up.

As long as I had been talking to Elvis, we finally reached our destination.

Justus turned into the drive that led us to the massive parking garage. “You look better. What did he say?” Justus asked.

“He's going to meet us at the jail and bring one of Big Faith's lawyers with him and Ava's armor bearer. Before he gets here, can you tell me what's an armor bearer?”

“It's a new term for an assistant. Really, it's an old term. It goes back to Prince Jonathan and King David in the Bible, but you don't want to hear that preachy talk. Forgive me.” He smirked. “Anyway, the name is making a comeback in contemporary nondenominational churches.”

“Okay, Bible Yoda, and so how does this relate to Ava?”

“Bible Yoda, that's cute.” He shook his head. “With Ava's increasing responsibilities at Greater Atlanta, she probably has one or a few devoted to help her fulfill her commitments and commissions.”

“So, hypothetically, you're acting as my armor bearer right now?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I'm acting as your shepherd. I'm here to guide you down the right path, nourish you, and keep you safe.”

“Well, I'm definitely hungry. We can get breakfast afterward. This Elvis guy owns a restaurant not too far from the jail.”

“Sounds like a plan.” His focus was on driving my car through this prison maze. “I'm curious. Why do you call Greater Atlanta Church, Big Faith?”

“It's easy to remember. Why?”

He frowned. “I don't see why changing the name of a church is easy to remember.”

“It's easy for
me
to remember.” I turned to him. “The name has a meaning. Back in the day, I reported on many churches. To help me keep from confusing them, I gave them nicknames that I could remember, not just the name, but the thing about them I didn't get.”

“And what don't you get about your sister's church?”

“It's not so much her church, but what it represents; the notion that the reason bad things happen to good people is because their faith wasn't big enough.”

“And you don't agree?”

“I think it's dangerous, particularly with this economy, to say something that might possibly make desperate people question their faith. Bad things happen. I've seen it firsthand.”

“I know,” Justus mumbled.

I turned toward him. His attention remained on the road. I noticed he was biting his lip.

“You've read my old
Sentinel
column articles, haven't you?”

He shook his head. “Just the ones you wrote about organized religion.”

“You know, I wrote those articles a long time ago, and I quit the
Sentinel
soon after.”

“I do, and I assume the reason why you and Ava don't get along is because of those articles.”

“Partly . . . we have a lifetime of resentment between us. The articles merely buttressed one aspect of our disagreements and an episode in my life that I regret.” I slumped back in my seat.

“Want to talk about that?”

I shook my head. “Nope, it has nothing to do with what's going on right now.”

“But it does shed a light on what's going on with you. Perhaps those unresolved issues are what's clouding your judgment now or may give us a clue as to why Ava is willing to sacrifice her freedom rather than expose her church.”

“Justus, you're reaching.”

“Humor me.”

I scoffed. “Okay, but I don't want to talk about this anymore or you'll be fired as my sidekick.”

He chuckled. “That's not fair. From what I know about sidekicks, I'm doing a great job.”

I rolled my eyes. “Someone told you wrong.”

“No, come on. Think about it. Sidekicks are supposed to be your conscience.”

“Justus, I'm not Perry Mason, and you are definitely not Della Street.” I referred to my favorite, now-classic television detective series.

“No, not yet, anyway, but if there ever was a time to get some past troubles off your back, this is the best time. How many people do you know has their pastor chauffeuring them around?”

The man had a point.

“Here goes . . .”

I turned in my seat toward him. I knew he couldn't look at me and drive, but I wanted to read his body language. If I saw a hint of judgment, then I would end the conversation.

“When I wrote those articles I was in a bad place in my head. I wasn't objective. I wasn't doing my job, and so I quit. But it's amazing how my past continues to haunt me well after I've buried that skeleton way down in the ground. It's not right.”

“I like to think that the past releases us once we understand the true meaning of grace. You can't bury what must be raised.”

“See. There you go.” I huffed. “I know what grace is. Now, can we move past the preachy talk?”

“Oh yes. I forgot how you can't stand the preachy talk.” He veered into the detention center parking area. “Let me complete my thought, then we can end the preachy talk. Okay?”

I nodded.

“I don't doubt that you know what grace is, but I don't think you understand what it means for you. Knowing and understanding are two different things. If they were the same, there would be need for only one.”

“Uh-huh. You said the same thing this past Sunday in your sermon.”

He turned off the ignition. “And yet you still haven't heard it.”

“And I'm not today.” I turned away from him. “We were supposed to be talking about getting Ava out of jail and here you are sneaking in a Bible lesson.”