Black Princess Mystery (9 page)

“This will
be between you and me, I promise. I’ll never tell another soul anything you
say.” She hesitated for a few seconds. “If you help me, I’ll help you. I’ll
make sure you get that job.”

“All
right,” he whispered. “I can’t talk right now because my brother is in the
other room and Mom is coming home any second. Can we meet somewhere?”

“I have
some work that needs to be done behind the house,” she said. “I’ll pay you.
You’re not in school right now, are you?”

“No, it’s
Christmas break, but I could really use some money.”

“There are
some old boards in the stable. I’d like you to pile them by the tennis court
and I’ll have Mr. Johnson haul them away. Could you do that?”

“When?” he
asked.

“Tomorrow
morning? Eight?”

“Not
good,” he mumbled. “We have company coming tonight and Mom has tomorrow planned
down to the minute. I could come the next morning, though.”

“Sounds
good. Eight?”

“I’ll talk
to Mom and if you don’t hear back from me, I’ll get her to drop me off at your
place on Sunday morning around eight.”

“Good,”
Tasheka said eagerly.

She
returned downstairs to her mother and the two of them spent the rest of the day
together. They tried to pretend everything was normal, but the murder
unquestionably upset their sense of equilibrium. Yet the attempt was made. Mrs.
Green asked Tasheka in detail about school and was pleased with her high marks
in the first term.

“When you
came home last night, you didn’t seem yourself,” Mrs. Green said casually.

“I was
tired,” Tasheka replied, pouring them both a cup of tea.

“Your
studies?” she asked. “Or is something else bothering you, honey?”

“My
studies,” Tasheka returned, looking away so her mother wouldn’t see her eyes.
“In September my professor assigned me a project on serial killers. For months
I was reading about Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Jack the
Ripper. Then the professor decided he wanted me to focus on female serial
killers.” She took a drink of tea. “One day in class it just popped up when he
asked if women have the same capacity for evil as men. That very morning I had
seen my professor arguing with his wife while their three young children
watched the whole thing from the back seat of the car. It was really sad.”

“He sounds
like he wasn’t too happy.”

 
Tasheka shook her head. “He wasn’t happy. He’s
a really good-looking man, charming, accomplished, but he wasn’t happy. It
doesn’t matter what you have, even if you’re rich, if you’re not happy in life,
you have nothing. I felt sorry for him.”

“Felt sorry
for him or had a crush on him?”

“He asked
me to meet him at a motel one night for drinks, you know.”

“But he
was married?” Mrs. Green said with a penetrating look.

“Still
is,” Tasheka replied. “Anyway,” she continued, intent on changing the subject,
“I switched from male to female serial killers and it was an eye-opening
experience.”

“How so?”
Mrs. Green asked, sipping her tea.

“You begin
to look at the world differently, Momma. In a lot of ways, women demonize men
and blame them for everything. We say that they’re the ones who start the wars,
cause fights at dances, and prey on innocent women. They’re the violent ones.
We’re the mothers, sisters, and daughters. It’s a comfortable way of seeing the
world, but the reality is that women can be brutal. Now I not only distrust
men, I distrust women, too. I find myself suspecting everybody of concealing
secrets. I even noticed that with Henrietta today.”

“Yes,” her
mother interrupted, “I suppose we all have our secrets. Wouldn’t you say so,
Tasheka?”

“I suppose
we do, Momma.”

“Do you
have a secret you wish to share with me, honey?”

“No,”
Tasheka said strangely, a pained expression on her face.

A long
pause followed.

“What I’ve
found,” Tasheka continued, “is that there’s a monster lurking inside people. It
just waits for the perfect chain of events to be set free.”

“I don’t
think so, dear,” Mrs. Green disagreed, fixing her hair. “I think very few
people are capable of monstrous acts. We are not murderers by nature.”

“Human
beings are well capable of destroying their own kind,” Tasheka said, enjoying
the lively exchange as a diversion from the reality of her dead friend and his
bloody hand. “History has shown us this truth over and over again.”

“Granted,”
Mrs. Green countered, “there is nothing new in senseless human violence. But
are all of us capable of terrible acts, or only a few? Do all of us, as you
say, have a monster lurking inside?”

“I think
there is inherent evil in all things,” Tasheka said, “just as there is good in
almost all things. And I don’t mean evil only in people. When one tree outgrows
its neighbor, it steals the light and kills the weaker one. Even animals are
evil.”

“Animals
are evil?” Mrs. Green said with fascination. “What do you mean?”

“Some
people think animals live in the perfect world of an animated movie. The rest
think animals kill only for food, so therefore the killing is natural and
justified. This isn’t true. Male lions will kill the cubs of a pride they’ve
overthrown so they can bring the females back into estrous and father their own
young. Bears do the same thing. They might eat the cubs, they might not, but
they definitely murder them.”

“But is
that evil?” Mrs. Green asked.

“When you
kill your own kind, that’s murder. Fish eat their siblings without a shred of
compunction. Even female deer chase their young away when food is scarce.”

“People
might kill for sport,” Mrs. Green said, “but would an animal ever do that,
Tasheka?”

“Kill for
sport? Oh, yes. I have a man in my psych class who worked in an African hunting
concession as a guide. He said there was this baboon, a big male called Brutus.
He was huge and extremely powerful. Sometimes he would sneak away from the
troupe and work his way through the tall grass toward unsuspecting grazing
animals. Then, all of a sudden, he would leap out of cover and grab a small
gazelle or a baby wildebeest, ripping out its throat. The other animals would
always be startled, but the big baboon would stand over the small dead creature
as if the corpse was a trophy. Then he would walk away and let the hyenas and
vultures clean the carcass.”

“But that
baboon was not evil because he did not understand evil,” Mrs. Green argued.
“Even if a baboon does kill a gazelle and leave it there, I still think he was
motivated by instinct and not by mere sport. Animals live by instinct, no
matter how strange that instinct may be. They don’t have our conscience. They
don’t have laws and principles and morals.”

“Oh, they
probably do,” Tasheka objected, “otherwise there would be chaos. Everything is
ordered, Momma. Animal groups are usually highly structured. Chimps, wolves,
and dolphins all have elaborate societies with specialized languages. They are
very much like us.”

“That’s
true,” Mrs. Green said, nodding. “I suppose that if a baboon murdered another
baboon, he might be killed by the whole troupe, or forced to leave.”

“Whatever
they decide,” Tasheka agreed. “They have their own laws, but it’s at a level we
don’t understand. The one exception is that sometimes an individual can be
exempt from laws. For instance, if the uber baboon or the alpha male lion
killed one of their own, then nothing would probably come of it. It’s like the
President of the United States ordering a drone attack on some unsuspecting sap
driving down a desert road. He could easily pull that off, whether the man was
guilty or not. My African friend described that exact scene. He said they were
hunting one day and witnessed Brutus killing a young female because she had
refused his sexual advances.”

“How did
his group react?” Mrs. Green asked, intensely drawn into the conversation.

“They were
apparently very upset, especially the females, but they fell into quiet
submission. Unfortunately for him, though, there was a rich Texan on safari who
was apparently a crack shot. Brutus was blustering and screaming on top of a
mound when a well-placed bullet ended his reign.” She shrugged. “If it wasn’t
for that bored hunter, who knows what Brutus would have gone on to do?”

“But was
he evil, Tasheka? Could a fish or a bird or a baboon really be evil?”

“I think
so,” Tasheka said. “I think many animals have animal laws and sometimes they
are broken, and the individuals breaking them know they are doing wrong. But,
like people, some of them feel no guilt, and if they are the most powerful in
the group, might becomes right. Look at Adolf Hitler. He was responsible for
the deaths of millions, but how much blood did he have on his hands? He had
none, Momma, because he had no conscience. His hands could absorb no blood. It
dripped right off. Stalin killed twenty million of his own people and he was
revered. His throne was built on a Mount Everest of corpses, but when he died,
millions wept. He was a hero, a mass murderer on the grandest scale. Ted Bundy,
Richard Ramirez, Jeffrey Dahmer and Jack the Ripper paled in comparison to
him.”

“He was no
hero to me,” Mrs. Green said. “My grandfather died in a Soviet gulag. That
blood can never be washed away, and nothing will be hidden on Judgment Day.”
Mrs. Green touched her daughter’s hand. “Killers are the exceptions that prove
the rule. People are not evil. Don’t taint everyone by the actions of a few.”

“You’re
right,” Tasheka said, hugging her mother. “I just have to look at you to
realize there is good in the world.”

“You could
never kill anyone, could you?” she asked.

“Could you,
Momma? Could you kill someone?”

“If
someone was trying to harm you, I could, but to kill someone in cold blood, now
that took a peculiar and very individual mind.”

“Yes, a
very peculiar mind.”

Mrs. Green
winced as if tasting something sour. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. Put it
out of your mind, honey. You’re home and I just want to enjoy Christmas with my
daughter. We’ll think only pleasant thoughts.”

“Deal,”
Tasheka said with a warm smile.

They
watched the television news without speaking, but did not turn the channel when
the local murder was broadcast. There was footage of Lakeside, the snow-covered
golf course, and a body bag being pulled on a sled. The picturesque village was
highlighted, along with a few clips from locals who lamented the loss of their
beloved priest. Though the reporters mentioned he had been struck in the head
with a heavy object, they did not refer specifically to a golf club. It felt
strange to Tasheka to see Lakeside on the news and the murder itself was
macabre to the extreme. When they went to bed, Tasheka and Mrs. Green made
doubly sure all the doors and windows were locked and then kissed each other
good night.

Tasheka
went to her old, familiar room. She turned on the light, closed the door and
leaned her back against it. This was her sanctuary, the place where she had
slept almost every night of her life. A big, framed family picture stood on the
bureau. Tasheka was on a tricycle, squinting in the noonday sun and wearing a
white dress, a blue satin ribbon adorning her hair. Her cheeks and legs were
chubby, there was a gap between her front teeth and she smiled in an exuberant
way. Her mother and father were both laughing and had knelt down on either side
of their daughter and posed for the photo. On the wall, hanging where it always
did, was a framed photograph of her biological mother, a woman also named
Tasheka, and, beside it, a picture of Mikhail Bure, her mother’s first husband.
Dressed in his police uniform, he cut a striking figure. She remembered how her
mother had opened an old photo album when she was ten and that picture was seen
for the first time by Mr. Green. He insisted that it was part of who they were
as a family and that very day the two photos were hung side by side in
Tasheka’s room. Though she had never met either of them, they were important to
her, especially in times like this when she felt afraid. Of the four, only her
mother remained now.

Life could
be so cruel sometimes, but this was her room, her safe place. Her stuffed
animals were still on the end of the bed, her shelves still filled with jigsaw
puzzles and books full of word games. Her mahogany chess board sat in the
corner, the beautiful brass pieces reflecting light from the green banker’s
lamp. Beside it was a book detailing famous world championship chess matches.
Tasheka had played out every one of those games move for move, trying to
understand what was in the minds of the opponents. She loved the quiet violence
of chess, the titanic struggles waged, the victories secured, the defeats suffered.
Chess was a merciless battle between opposing forces trying to destroy each
other, winner and loser, predator and prey, murderer and victim.

“This time
the murderer is the prey,” she whispered, glancing at the photo of her mother’s
first husband. “I will sniff him out and wrap the noose around his neck. Sooner
or later, he will meet his Judgment Day.”

Tasheka
turned out her light but could not get to sleep. She stared at the ceiling and
saw Father Tim’s face. Her countenance again grew dark and moody, almost as if
there was another person inhabiting her body and soul. In her mind, as if it
was absolutely real, she saw Father Tim dying, calling to her, begging for her
help. Early in the morning, around four, Tasheka awoke with a start. The image
of the hand and the ring was clear in her dreams and these dreams haunted her
like ghosts. It seemed impossible that he was gone. Impossible! It didn’t
matter that it was true, she could still hardly fathom the stark reality. He
would never be back, never again fill a room with his boisterous laugh, never
charm another person with his bright smile.

“All I can
do now is find the killer,” she mumbled in the dark. “I owe you that much, Tim,
especially considering that our relationship ended in such a horrible way.”

Chapter
Six

The next
day, the Green women stayed home and acted as if everything was normal. They
listened to the radio, watched television and eagerly scanned the newspaper,
but they stayed side by side, comforting each other and finding solace in the
security of their home. Mrs. Green, though, was a creature of habit and Tasheka
knew she desperately wanted to attend church that evening, as she did every
Saturday. She called Mildred and discovered that Father Patrick, an older
priest from the city, would be replacing Father Tim.

Though
Tasheka had stopped going to church several months earlier, she accompanied her
mother to mass. The parking lot was crammed and though the church was almost
full to overflowing, Mrs. Green and Tasheka found openings in the back pew.
They hurried into place, Mrs. Green shuffling next to Linda Thompson and
placing her purse on her lap. Tasheka sat beside her.

Right on
time, as if the clock of routine would not be compromised, Father Patrick
entered wearing his Catholic robes. Everyone rose. The villagers were glad to
be standing shoulder to shoulder, drawing comfort where fear had taken hold.
The smell of incense wafted through the church and the candle flames reflected
off the inside of the high stained glass windows. Outside it was dark, but
inside, as if in a womb, they huddled together as Father Murphy was fondly
remembered. A solemn mood permeated and twice Mrs. Green squeezed Tasheka’s
hand, tears welling in her eyes.

After the
service, the congregation formed a greeting line with Father Patrick, moving
very slowly as each person took a moment longer than usual to offer condolences
and words of praise for the fallen man. In the parking lot, the Greens lingered
for a long time, hugging women and shaking hands with the men. It was a process
that allowed them to feel strangely uplifted, liberated in a way, and the two
women were in a much better mood than when they arrived for the service.

When she
got home, however, Tasheka was restless. She called several villagers and discussed
the murder, listening intently to every word and trying to fit together a
puzzle that made no sense. To calm her nerves, she played from memory the
Karpov versus Kasparov “Brisbane Bombshell” world championship chess match. She
had memorized dozens of Kasparov’s matches and this one she played so slowly
that it took three hours to finish. At times she would spend twenty minutes on
one move, trying to peer into the minds of the masters. It was almost midnight
when she crawled into bed, emotionally exhausted. Hardly had she closed her
eyes before it seemed her mother was shaking her.

“Tasheka,”
Mrs. Green said, “it’s time to wake up. Adam is downstairs. He said you wanted
some work done.”

“Yes,”
Tasheka said, yawning and stretching.

“Adam told
me he caddies at the golf course,” Mrs. Green observed. “Did you know he’s
caddied a lot for Mike Power?”

“Oh?”

“Yes.
Isn’t that amazing? We were just talking about Mike Power and by sheer chance
your hired hand happens to be his longtime caddy. Small world, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,”
Tasheka said, getting out of bed. She glanced casually at her mother. “Can you
please ask him to wait? I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“I’ll tell
him.”

Five
minutes later, Tasheka came downstairs wearing blue jeans and a large, loose
grey sweater. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Adam.”

“No
problem,” he replied, rolling his hat in his hands. He was a big, strapping lad
with youthful looks, like a child in a man’s body. “It’s not like I have a lot
else to do.”

Tasheka
smiled at her mother. “Adam is going to help move those boards from the
stable.”

“I see,”
said her mother with a knowing glance. “Don’t you lift anything, Tasheka. You
could hurt yourself. Leave the work to this strong young man.”

“I will.”

Adam
beamed like the sun as Tasheka hurried into the kitchen. She buttered two
rolls, one for herself and one for her helper, then walked out of the house
with him. He was, like everyone else who visited, awed by the property. The
house was unchallenged as the finest not only in Lakeside, but anywhere in the
entire area, yet what most impressed Adam were the grounds. He skirted around
the pool, glanced at the tennis court now under snow, and admired the high
stone wall surrounding the estate. Behind the house was the stable, and behind
that a heavily wooded area.

“This is
some place,” he mumbled, looking around like a child at a fair. “I’ve driven by
many times with my friends, but I’ve never been on the property before. It
looks different from this vantage point.” He laughed. “One of my buddies said it
looks like a castle.”

“Thank
you.”

When they
reached the heavy stable doors, Adam tried to swing them open, but was unable.
He found a shovel, dug away some snow, and the doors opened with a creaking
noise.

“I knew I
hired you for a reason.”

Adam
laughed as they walked inside. The stable consisted of four empty stalls,
though the smell of horses was still strong in the air. Half a dozen hay bales
were piled in a horizontal line against the back wall, and the bright sunshine
sparkled on a bridle hung from a post. Every item was arranged with precision,
but in the large side room a number of boards were haphazardly piled.

“You gave
away all your horses, didn’t you?” Adam asked.

“Yes, in
August, just before I went to school. Momma doesn’t have the energy anymore and
I wouldn’t be around to take care of them, so we gave all four to Mr. Brown
across the road. He takes great care of them and I can visit anytime I want.”

“That
works.”

Tasheka
sat down on a hay bale and looked Adam right in the eye. “What happened?” she
said. “Tell me everything.”

Adam
leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “What do you want to know?”

“What was
the controversy?”

“Did you
hear anything?”

“Only that
there was some kind of conflict.”

“You
already know the club tournament is the biggest thing in Lakeside. But this one
was special.”

“Why?”

“Well,
Parker Sullivan won the last ten years in a row, but sometimes when a person
wins so easily, he loses his edge. That happened to Parker this year. He lost
his desire to compete.”

Tasheka absorbed
every word like a sponge, encouraging him with her eyes to hold nothing back.
“So he didn’t play this year, or he didn’t play well?”

“He always
plays well. No, this year he sat out.”

“I see,”
Tasheka said knowingly. “That meant the championship was wide open.”

Adam
nodded. “Suddenly you had ten guys with an opportunity to win. Mike Power and
Tim Murphy both had an excellent chance, and when Mike heard Parker was sitting
out, he became obsessed with getting his name on the trophy. He started
watching golf videos for hours every day. He bought specialized training
equipment. He played every morning, even in the rain, and he hit thousands of
balls on the range. Mike even set the store television to
The Golf Channel
and no one was allowed to change it.”

“I noticed
that before I went to back to school. I thought he had a crush on one of the
women.”

“He’s
madly in love with Kelly Tilghman,” Adam said with a grin. “She’s one of the
anchors on
The Golf Channel
and when
she’s on, the world stops. Apparently he has a big poster of her in his room
and I know he carries a picture of her in his golf bag.”

“I think
she’s a little out of his league.”

“They’re
not even from the same solar system, but Mike is no fool. He understands women
aren’t interested in him. It’s not because he’s overweight and lives in a store
with his mother, it’s because his whole world is golf. I swear that if he was
in a burning building he’d stay back to see if some guy hovering on the cut
line could get up and down from the bunker in the Timbuktu Qualifier.”

Tasheka
laughed at the young man. It was the first time she felt really animated since
discovering the body.

“Mike
lives and breathes golf,” Adam reiterated. “He never married, never had kids.
Golf is his one passion.”

“Was he
paired with Father Tim in the tournament?” Tasheka asked with a glint in her
eyes.

“They use
the match play system and in the quarter-finals on Friday Mike and Father
Murphy had to play each other.”

“How was
Mike’s mood?”