Mama Pursues Murderous Shadows (2 page)

“No deals, Simone,” Mama said.
Her
tone didn’t change.

I took a breath. “Mama, let me at least tell you what I had in mind.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re an open-minded woman,” I said as sweet as I could.

Whether Mama fell for it or not, she said, “Go ahead.”

I smiled, thinking I’d inched a little closer to convincing her. “If you let us have a party for you and Daddy,” I wheedled, “I’ll let you—”

Mama pounced. “You’ll
let
me!”

“I mean”—I hastily changed my wording—“you can make
all
the arrangements. That way, the party will be just the way you like it.”

“Simone, I don’t—”

“Let me finish,” I urged, taking advantage of the fact that her tone had become softer.

A sigh. “Go ahead.”

“You’ll pick the person who will do the cooking and someone to do the baking. I know you won’t find anybody who’s as good of a cook as you are, but at least you’ll know that the food is acceptable.”

Silence.

“Think about it,” I added quickly, praying her silence suggested that I’d pried open a tiny possibility. “I’ll come home on Saturday. We’ll talk about it then, okay?”

“If you insist.” She still sounded unconvinced. “But—”

“The party will be wonderful, exactly the way you want it to be,” I promised. “There will be
no
surprises.”

“What time can I expect you to come in on Saturday morning?”

“Around ten-thirty.”

“That’s late for breakfast.”

“Save mine,” I said.

“James is going to North Carolina on an all-day fishing trip,” she said.

“Then it’ll be a good day for us to spend together,” I told her. “Just the two of us. Mama, I love you,” I added.

“Love you too,” Mama replied before she hung up, her voice sunnier now that she knew that I was coming home again.

My father retired as a captain from the United States Air Force after thirty years of service. During that time, he and my mother parented two boys—Will and Rodney—and me—Simone. My brothers and I were fortunate in that we lived in five different countries while growing up.

When Daddy decided to retire, Mama and I shared the thought that it wasn’t right for them to move back to Otis, Daddy and Mama’s hometown. After all, Otis barely has five thousand people living in it. And those people are far from being cosmopolitan—most of them have never lived any other place. A few of them have never been two hundred miles northwest to Atlanta.

Otis used to be a town of soybeans, watermelons, and cotton fields. Large tracts of land in the surrounding county are owned by families like ours who, at Reconstruction, when the government gave each freed slave forty acres and a mule, got their first taste of land ownership. About ten years ago, a company started buying the land when older members of those families died out, moved away, or didn’t pay their taxes. That company now owns 2,500 acres. They tree-farm the land, and they, along with other farmers who decided to stop farming and plant trees, keep loggers and the Otis Sawmill busy most all year around.

My parents live in a brick ranch house on a one-acre lot on Smalls Lane. Their front yard has two sprawling magnolia trees. My father was wise enough not to allow the old trees to be cut down when he had the house built. Last year they remodeled the back of the house so that their kitchen and family room, with floor-to-ceiling windows, open into a backyard garden. One large oak sits in the center of the yard. Roses, azaleas, and annuals border a chain-link fence. Daddy’s dog, Midnight, has
access to the backyard through a gate that’s never locked.

Smalls Lane is a cul-de-sac; my parents’ house shares the street with four other homes. It was there I was headed.

“Sarah Jenkins has been admitted to Otis General.”

That’s how Mama greeted me when I walked into her home ready to do more battle with her about her anniversary party.

Sarah Jenkins, along with Annie Mae Gregory and Carrie Smalls, are the town’s gossips. I call them Otis’s historians because these three women know everything about everybody. Mama, however, refers to them as her “sources.” That’s because Sarah, Annie Mae, and Carrie have told her things that have helped her solve various cases in town. Let me explain—Mama was bitten by the sleuthing bug when I was a little girl. When one of her neighbors told her something that didn’t sit just right with her, she couldn’t rest until she tracked down the tale and found the truth. Since that time, Mama has to find the truth; she sees it as her contribution to her community.

Sarah Jenkins is a tiny, frail-looking woman with a wrinkled, pecan-colored complexion. She spends as much time in the doctor’s office as he does. So I wasn’t surprised to hear that she was in the hospital.

“Sarah’s just having a reaction to some of the many medications the doctor is giving her,” I told Mama as I sat down in front of three fat golden-brown slices of French toast. On the table was a jug of maple syrup, diced cantaloupe, apple juice, and an Ethiopian blend of coffee that Mama gets me to send her from the Caribou Coffee Shop on Peach-tree Street in Atlanta’s Buckhead district.

Mama looked doubtful. “Gertrude didn’t say what’s ailing Sarah,” she replied, shaking her head.

Gertrude Covington is Daddy’s first cousin; she works at the hospital as a nurse’s aide, a job Gertrude loves because she gets to know who goes in and out of the hospital.

“Listen, lady,” I told Mama, wagging my fork in the air, “you and I need to talk about your party, remember? After all, that’s the reason I came all the way home this weekend. Finding out which one of Sarah’s many complaints sent her running to the hospital is just not our priority this visit, okay?”

Mama’s look stayed stubborn. “I was thinking,” she said, “of Barbara Fleming.”

I waited.

“Barbara is a fairly good baker—she’d be the perfect person to do the baking,” Mama continued.

“You mean you’re going to let us throw you and Daddy the party!” I exclaimed, astonished.

“Are you going to let me get away with
not
having it?” Mama asked.

I got up, scooted around the table, and hugged
her. “Not this time, pretty lady, and you’re going to love what I have in mind—”

Mama pulled back, surprised. “I thought
I
would be the one to make the decisions on how this party will be handled,” she said.

“Uh, yes—”

“Go back and finish your breakfast,” she said.

I obeyed.

“Now,” she continued, “I’ve decided that the party will be held here in Otis at the Community Center.”

I nodded; my mouth was too full of French toast for me to speak.

“I’ll make up the guest list, plan the menu, and—”

“I know,” I said, now that I’d swallowed. “You’ll hire the caterer!”

Mama’s eyebrows raised. “You’ve got a problem with that?”

“I was just wondering whether you’re going to let me do
anything.”

The warm, glowing smile that tells me that I will always be a part of whatever she does flashed across Mama’s face. “Truth is, I was thinking that it would be nice if you and your friend Yasmine took care of the flowers, the decorations, and picking out invitations.”

“I got you,” I said, finishing up my French toast and reaching for the cantaloupe. “James and Candi’s anniversary bash is going to be the biggest thing this town has ever seen.”

“It’ll be a nice party,” Mama agreed, so low that you’d almost think she was talking to herself. “I’ve got to think of letting Gertrude and Agatha do something to help.”

I’ve already told you about Daddy’s cousin Gertrude, but he’s got another cousin who’s very important to the Covington family. Her name is Agatha; she’s a spinster who manages the family heirs’ property—the hundreds of acres of land that my great-grandfather amassed when his fellow freed slaves deeded him their forty acres and decided to migrate north.

Mama sat straight up in her chair. “First thing we’ve got to do as soon as you finish eating, Simone, is go to the hospital and visit Sarah Jenkins.”

O
tis County General Hospital, like all hospitals, is a sanctuary—a sterile place that smells of medicines and powerful disinfectants. It’s supposed to be a haven for the sick and injured. You’d think Sarah Jenkins would feel right at home in such a place, since she’s
enjoyed
so many infirmities and ailments over the years.

Today, though, it was clear that Sarah wasn’t having fun.

Mama, who is normally composed under most circumstances, couldn’t hold back her astonishment. “My Lord, Sarah, what’s wrong? What happened?”

Sarah was sitting up in bed, and although I was sure she’d been given at least a mild sedative, her coal black eyes were as large as silver dollars. Tears sparkled in them. Her trembling hands clutched the neck of her pale blue hospital garment as if she was
holding the gown closed to keep somebody from snatching it from her. I don’t know if it was because of whatever medication she had been given or her mental state, but sweat formed like little pearl beads on her forehead. “Candi,” she gasped, her voice desperate, her eyes frantic, “thank God you’ve finally come!”

I glanced at Sarah’s two constant companions. Annie Mae Gregory is a very fat, very dark woman with eyes that are small and very piercing. Set deep in her fat face, Annie Mae’s eyes always remind me of a raccoon’s—bright and extremely inquisitive. When her head is tilted a certain way, she looks cross-eyed.

Carrie Smalls, on the other hand, is tall, with mocha skin and straight, shoulder-length hair. Carrie looks younger than her two friends but that’s because she dyes her hair jet black. She also has a strong chin, thin lips, and eyes that seldom seem to blink. She has a scary strength about her. I always tell Mama that it’s Carrie Smalls’s strength that gives these three women their presence when they’re together.

Sarah’s two companions sat on chairs on each side of her hospital bed, arms folded over their bosoms like they were Roman sentries standing guard at their post. Carrie’s back was so straight you’d think she’s carried books on her head most of her life. “Pull up a chair,” she told Mama in a tone that sounded like a command.

Mama complied. I stood behind Mama’s chair.

“Candi,” Sarah wailed, gripping her hospital gown.
“You’ve got to help me!”

Mama reached over and patted Sarah’s arm. “I’ll do what I can,” she soothed. “But, Sarah, tell me exactly what’s happened.”

“You heard that Ruby Spikes was found dead in one of the rooms at the Avondale Inn, haven’t you?”

Mama nodded.

“Ruby was my godchild, Candi. After her mama and daddy died, I took out a life insurance policy on her. I’ve paid one dollar and fifty cents a week for the past ten years.”

Before Sarah had a chance to finish her story Carrie Smalls blurted out, “The insurance company won’t pay Sarah the five-thousand-dollar face value of the policy. Sarah almost had a heart attack when she found out that she wasn’t going to get her hands on that money. That’s why she’s here!”

“It ain’t right,” Sarah said dramatically. “Carrie and Annie Mae know I paid my premiums regularly!”

Annie Mae spoke for the first time, her fat body shaking like Jell-O. “That’s right. I can testify to the fact that Bobby Campbell shows up on Sarah’s doorstep every Monday morning to collect that money.”

Mama took a deep breath. “The only thing I can suggest is that you report this to Abe,” she offered. Abe Stanley is Otis’s sheriff.

Sarah Jenkins clutched her nightgown even
tighter. “I’ve gone to Abe,” she wailed. “He claims there ain’t nothing he can do to make Bobby pay the policy.”

“I don’t believe him,” Carrie Smalls interjected sternly.

“Why won’t Bobby pay the policy?” I asked, not understanding why she couldn’t get the money.

Sarah cut her eyes at me. “Bobby Campbell says that Ruby died by her own hands. And the insurance company won’t pay in the case of suicide. But I know for a fact, Ruby wasn’t about to kill herself!”

Carrie leaned forward. “I was in Capers Hardware two days before Ruby died. I heard her order a brand new washer and dryer from old man Capers. Candi, do you think Ruby would have ordered that kind of thing and then decide to kill herself?”