Harlem Redux (61 page)

She looked into the mirror and fingered the pearls David had given her. She held up her right hand to marvel at the sight of it, bedecked with a new diamond ring. How the thick dark fur caused the pearls to glow and the diamonds to twinkle! She looked rich, now––really, really rich. She had finally stopped being a victim. She had finally taken the bull by the horns and set matters right
.

And this was the payoff. It was better than she’d dreamed, better than she’d ever imagined.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. Surprised, she wondered who it could be.
Probably another one of those damn reporters. They had constantly pestered her since David’s conviction.
Will there be an appeal, Mrs. McKay? Do you still believe in your husband? Hell, no,
she wanted to say. It had taken all of her self-control to bite her lip modestly, to do her best to look shy and smile sadly.

“Miss Rachel?”

She swung around. Annie stood in the doorway. Rachel decided that she hated her. She would replace her as soon as possible. “What is it?” she snapped. “I told you I don’t want to be disturbed. If it’s one of those newspaper people—”

“It’s Mr. Canfield. Mr. Byron Canfield.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. Now this was a surprise. What could
he
want? Should she refuse to see him? Yes, that would be best. After all, it was his fault that David was behind bars. “Tell him to go away.”

Rachel turned her back on Annie and returned to admiring her reflection.
Perhaps, I should go back and get that black sable I liked, too.

“Miss Rachel,” Annie said, still there. “I knows you don’t wanna hear no advice from me, but when a powerful man like Byron Canfield says he wants to talk to you, it’s best you do just that, let him talk to you.”

Rachel swung back, a sharp rebuke on the tip of her tongue. But a thought stopped her. Maybe Canfield’s visit didn’t have nothing to do with David at all. Maybe the old geezer had an eye for the ladies. Maybe, with David gone, he was looking to give her a little company. A nasty little smile played about her lips. She almost giggled. Everybody knew he was one of the most important Negro men in all America, a real big shot with the Movement. He knew just about everybody. If she got in good with him, her life was made. But better not be too nice to him at first. Got to play the hurt wife, mourning for her wronged man. Oh, yes, she could do that well.

“All right. Show him into the parlor. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Byron Canfield prided himself on being a realist. He knew that no one was perfect, himself included. But he preferred to believe that he was of the superior sort—the kind of man who rarely made mistakes and when he did, moved quickly to correct them. That afternoon, he found himself at the McKay house on a mission he would’ve never foreseen. Nonetheless, he was looking forward to it with relish.

Rachel entered the room. She was exactly as he remembered her: lovely to the eye, with an air of fragile delicacy that would evoke the protective instincts of any warm-blooded man. Coming forward, she shook his hand. “You’re an unexpected guest.” Her smile was charming but restrained.

“Lovely home you have here. Exquisitely done.”

Rachel’s smile warmed. “Thank you,” she said. “I enjoy decorating.”

He was quite aware that it was Lila McKay, not Rachel, who had decorated the house, but he was of the opinion that most people gladly accept even the most blatantly undeserved compliments.

“May I offer you something to drink, Mr. Canfield? Tea or coffee, perhaps?”

He demurred. “Thank you, but I won’t be staying that long. It’s bad enough I drop in without an invitation––”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. You’re welcome …
anytime
.”

Had he heard her correctly? The slight breathiness, the sudden softness in her voice when she spoke that last word: had it really contained an invitation or had he imagined it? He gave a sharp glance that found her eye and there he saw his answer. She didn’t even try to hide it.

For a moment, the thought crossed his mind to take her up on it. Oh, it was there for less than a tenth of a second, but it was there. Then he caught himself. He realized what he was thinking and that realization appalled him. Moreover, it gave him a deeper understanding of just what he was dealing with.

He smiled at her and said, “How kind of you.”

They took seats and for ten minutes chatted amiably over this and that. Then he came to the apparent point of his visit.

“I hope there are no hard feelings, Mrs. McKay. Of course, I was very upset at the death of Jameson Sweet and I only thought it right to inform the police of what he had told me. But you must believe that it was done without any personal animosity.”

Rachel accepted this polite little speech with an equally polite and forgiving murmur. “You needn’t worry yourself over it. I understand.”

“Thank you.” He paused, then drew a deep breath. “Yes, well, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He got to his feet.

She stood and pouted prettily. “Oh, so short a visit?”

“I’m afraid so. But …” He paused.

“Yes?”

“Before I go, there is one small matter I’d like to mention.”

“And that would be?”

Rachel regarded him steadily, expectantly. He had to admire her poise, her self-possession, and the hypnotic effect of those emerald eyes.

“Simply this,” he said and went into his jacket pocket. He withdrew a thin envelope and handed it to her.

She took it, but hesitated.

He nodded. “Go ahead.”

The envelope was unsealed. Upon opening it, she found a ticket bearing her name for an ocean liner to Italy. Her brow furrowed with momentary puzzlement, then darkened with sudden suspicion. She looked up at him sharply. “What’s this?”

“The other ticket, by the way, the one in Jameson’s name, it’s in my office safe.”

She said nothing, but her face paled, just the slightest bit, and the hand holding the ticket tightened.

He continued. “I didn’t learn of the tickets until yesterday. They were forgotten in the confusion over his death. Apparently, he intended to go away.” Canfield eyed her. “And he expected you to go with him.”

“That can’t be. You’re mistaken.” She said it mildly enough, but something definitely unpleasant slithered in the depths of her eyes.

“My dear, you needn’t deny it. The evening he died, he messaged his secretary and asked her to make travel arrangements—for two. He gave her your name.”

“Really, Mr. Canfield, I—”

“Jameson was like a son to me. And like a father, I suspected certain things but lacked the courage to confront him. There were opportunities, but I missed them and I’ll always regret it. He was distracted. His work had begun to suffer. I thought it was his wife’s illness. Now I know there was another reason.”

“You’ve overstayed your welcome. Please leave.” She drew herself up, looking every bit the indignant mistress of the house.

He was unimpressed. “David McKay’s statement that he accused Jameson of killing Gem is part of the public record. It’s a fairly complicated story and the newspapers botched most of the details. I didn’t see any point in learning them myself—not until I heard of Jameson’s travel plans. Then I sat down with Nevin Caruthers. He related every detail of the whole indelicate tale. He also showed me an analysis of the so-called medicine Jameson was giving Lilian. I made a call to Harlem Hospital and had a very interesting conversation with your former superior. It seems there’s been an unexplained shortage of the very same drugs—”

“You can’t believe—”

“I’m afraid I do.” He was assured, intent, and very determined. “Jameson was a tough attorney, but a weak man. I can’t blame him. Seeing you, my dear, I can well understand how you got him to do your bidding.”

“Leave!”

“The ticket is still valid. If I were you, I would use it. At least, I’d try.”

“I am staying here.” She arched her small head regally. “You have nothing against me. Nothing! You’re just trying to intimidate me.”

“Of course, I am.” He said it almost kindly. “My dear, have you any idea what will happen to you if you do stay? You will be arrested. Nevin Caruthers and I will work to the bitter end to see you convicted. Should we fail and you retain your freedom, then you may of course spend your life in this house. But no one will visit you. No one will open his door to you. I will see to it that you are socially dead to everyone who matters. When I’m done, you’ll be buried alive, grateful for the company of jail-house prisoners.”

She sank back down in her chair, stunned. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she looked up at him, her expression showing not only frustrated anger, but genuine puzzlement.

“Why,” she whispered. “Why would you do this?”

How could she even dare to ask? But this was her particular brand of sickness, wasn’t it? She was incapable of comprehending such matters. If she had been, then she never would have done what she did.

He nearly didn’t answer, but then decided he would. Whether she understood or not, he had to speak. He had to release some of the pain that was clenching his chest, the rage that was nearly suffocating him. But his voice betrayed none of this, none of the fury that was directed at himself as well as at her.

“Why? Because you destroyed a wonderful young man. Jameson had his failings. He was perhaps too ambitious. Too bitter. But he had pride—in himself and in his people. He had vision. You betrayed him. Worse, you made him betray himself. And for that, I will never forgive you.”

“But—”

“I was too late to save Jameson, but I owe it to myself—and to the Movement—to save McKay. He’s a good man. I underestimated him. Now he’s behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit, and you and I are to blame. I intend to make amends. And I will
make sure
that you do, too.”

He could see her thinking it over. He could sense the fear and uncertainty beneath the outer bravura.

For a moment, she looked as though she might just give in.

But then, she rallied. Her fine eyes narrowed. Her lips tightened and she drew herself up straight. She got to her feet and with slow, deliberate movements, held up the ticket for him to see. Then she tore it in half and tore it again. She kept on tearing until she’d reduced it to bits of chaff. Then she threw the mess in his face.

“There!” she said. “You’ve got no proof against me. You’ve got nothing, nothing at all.”

He brushed himself off with languid strokes. “Your little fit of pique, though certainly amusing, was useless.” He smiled with grim graciousness. “Do you actually think I’d give you the only proof of your ticket? I have the receipt in my office. It not only lists the tickets and who they were made out to, but shows who bought them and when.”

Realizing the implications, she took a new tact.

“So what?” she cried. “So what if he did buy me a ticket? What does that mean? Nothing! Who’s to say I told him to buy it? Who’s to say I even knew about it? No one! That’s who! No one!”

He didn’t answer, just looked down on her with contempt.

 
“You don’t know me,” she said, “but I am a survivor. And I’m telling you right here, right now, that you can take your threats and stick them where the sun don’t shine. Because I
will
make friends, Mr. Canfield—and very grand friends, too. I’ll
buy
them if I have to. I can do that, you see, now that I have the McKay name and the McKay money to back me!”