When Rain Falls (16 page)

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Authors: Tyora M. Moody

BOOK: When Rain Falls
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Chapter Twenty-nine
“Candace, you okay?” Beulah squinted at her employer.
“I'm fine. Are you okay about locking up?”
“Not a problem.”
Tangie came through with some towels, catching the tail end of Beulah's comments. “Problem. I don't see how you let her out of here with that bad weave.”
Beulah laughed. “Girl, you are too much. So, Candace, is she planning on featuring the salon on the news? Now, that would be something special.”
Candace shook her head. “No. I can tell you Serena Manchester was not looking for a story about the salon.” Her mind was reeling. The reporter's questions from earlier today really disturbed her more than she was willing to admit. Whoever delivered the photos to Serena had whetted the reporter's appetite to dig in areas that went far past just bringing Mitch Harris to justice.
“If you need me, call my cell.” With that, Candace headed to her car and over to the other side of town. She had a strong desire to go to Pamela's house. Find answers for her tormenting questions. If anything, just to be near her friend's things.
She pulled on her shades. The sun was high in the sky as she hit the expressway. Her thoughts were her companion.
There were many questions surrounding Frank's death. Two years after that strange night, and still no one had any answers.
He hadn't been on duty. The captain and Brunson claimed Frank hadn't been working undercover on a case. What Candace did know was that her husband had had something on his mind for days prior to his death. It had occurred to her later, when all the funeral arrangements had been made and the shock had started to wear off, that Frank's mood swings were even unusual for him. When he worked on a case, he could become withdrawn, but he was a good husband and father. Her deepest fear—it was really silly, whenever she thought about it—was that maybe Frank had met up with a woman. That thought had grieved her many nights.
He'd met someone. Man or woman, they'd shot her husband and left him for dead in an old, abandoned house.
They weren't the perfect family. Life was not easy when one was married to a cop and later a homicide detective. With Frank, she finally felt she'd made it. All her childhood scars behind her. A chance to be normal.
As she entered the neighborhood her friend had once lived in, her stomach started to churn. Was she even allowed in the house? It was a crime scene. Maybe she should've called Darnell to be sure.
She had a key, and she wouldn't be long. The garage door was closed as she approached; yellow tape and cones were still out front. She pulled up and cut off the engine. This was where Pamela lost her life, just on the other side of the door.
How often had Pamela pulled into that garage at all times of the night? Someone had to follow her or have access to her house. It didn't seem like anyone could slip in as she drove in.
Candace stepped out of the car on shaky legs. She walked past the garage, down the walkway to the front door. Maybe someone had entered the house this way and had waited on the inside. They would have had to have known when Pamela left the art gallery or even where she went afterward.
Funny, she didn't use the key often when Pamela was alive. Pamela always seemed to prefer coming over to the Johnsons' home. She was so much a part of their lives, especially on the weekends. The fifth wheel, as she often joked. Frank understood their friendship. It was Pamela who had remained by her side up until Frank passed away in the hospital bed. All through the media questions and the police investigation, her friend had tried to dig up as much information as she could.
She heard the click in the door and entered. The air was still. For a few moments she stood, adjusting to the darkness. Then she remembered the light in the hallway. Candace gazed around; she could tell the police had come through, disturbing the area.
Pamela's office was down the hallway. If her friend had anything of value or worth, she would keep it upstairs, in the master bedroom. They both knew each other's secret places for safekeeping. Maybe Pamela had left something behind, some clue about whatever she'd wanted to tell her that night. Wishful thinking, but she was going with her gut as she climbed the stairs.
Chapter Thirty
Darnell decided to drop by Pamela's home again to check her office more thoroughly. After his conversation with Judge Coleman, he had to figure out what he was missing.
He coasted into the driveway. Somebody already had the nose of their car pulled up to the garage door. He didn't think the judge drove a Honda Accord, but he had no idea what Desiree would drive. Certainly didn't expect to see the mom here at the house. When he asked the judge, he could tell from the man's face, Desiree wasn't taking her daughter's death very well.
He stepped inside the foyer, closing the door behind him.
Looking around, he saw that someone had left the hallway lights on. Maybe it was a housekeeper.
Although he'd been in the house only one time, he did remember Pamela's office was down the hall.
Just as he opened the door, he heard movements from upstairs. He drew his gun from his holster and moved toward the stairs.
The scent of her friend's perfume radiated in the bedroom. Candace trudged over to the closet, the doors of which were already open. Pamela had been quite the clothes horse; there were designer suits packed in left to right. Candace grabbed one with the price tag still attached. Her eyes grew wide. Way out of her budget.
Pamela, the diva, had it like that.
Shoes, mostly stilettos, were neatly stacked on shelves. Pamela was tall and didn't mind creating the illusion of being even taller, especially in the courtroom. Candace knelt down, moving some of the shoes around.
Where was that box? She looked at the top shelves.
There it is.
Candace reached up for a stack of boxes, bringing them out into the bedroom. She moved the others to the side, reaching for the bottom one. It was decorated with appliqués.
Candace had a similar one in her own closet. Both friends had purchased the boxes at the same time years ago. She pulled her key chain out of her purse. She bet her key would work.
Sure enough, the latch released. As she pulled the lid back, she paused. These were her friend's treasures, her private things.
A noise startled her. What was that? Sounded like it came from downstairs. She was pretty sure she had locked the door behind her. But who would be there, and what were they looking for?
She looked around the room, processing what to do. Her eyes fell on the candlestick holder Pamela kept on her dresser. It was no match if her visitor had a gun, but it was all she had.
Chapter Thirty-one
Darnell stopped as one of the stairs creaked under his foot. He grimaced and stood still, listening. Maybe it was his imagination, but he was sure he heard rustling in one of the rooms, maybe a bedroom. Who was in here, and what were they looking for?
He placed one foot on the next step, careful to put his foot down without his full weight. So far the next step seemed to be okay. He continued his ascent, stopping at the top of the stairs, swinging his arms from left to right. Moving into the hallway, he turned right to check the first room. Just the bathroom.
A glint from the room down the hall caught his eye.
Standing still, he waited.
He saw it again. The sun was bouncing off of something.
He moved slowly toward the door. With his gun extended, he swung in place. Before he knew it, he had to duck to the floor to avoid being smashed by a sharp object.
He almost pulled the trigger before his eyes caught hers.
“Candace?”
“Darnell?”
They both began, “What are you doing ...”
Candace dropped what appeared to be a candlestick holder on the floor and covered her face with her hands. “Oh my gosh, I could have killed you.”
He jumped up from the floor. “What? I could have killed you. My finger was on the trigger, Candace.”
She uncovered her eyes and looked back at him, horrified.
Breathing hard, they both looked away, trying to catch their bearings.
Finally, he looked at her. “Are you all right?”
Candace held her hand against her forehead. “Yes.”
Remembering his gun was in his hand, he placed it back into his holster. “Okay, now, why are you here?” His voice came out sharper than he intended.
She cocked her head to the side and glared at Darnell. “I can ask you the same thing.”
“Look, I'm the detective here and will ask the questions. Why are you here?”
Candace put her hand on her hip. “Excuse me,
Detective.
Did you forget this is my best friend's home?”
“That still doesn't answer my question.” He tried to keep his emotions in check. Candace was starting to be a bit much with her snooping, or whatever she called what she was doing.
He peered into the bedroom and noticed some boxes on the bed. “Did you find out anything new?”
Candace folded her arms. “No.”
“You sure?”
She looked away. He studied her. It was almost like she didn't want him to know what she'd found.
“Candace?”
“It's just some things of hers. Private things. Diaries, photos, stuff like that.”
“Can I see them?”
“No. They don't have anything to do with the case.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know. Pamela and I had been friends since seventh grade. We kept these journals and scrapbooks, traded our thoughts. They're very personal.”
“Oh.” He remembered the judge telling him earlier about Candace's mother being a murder victim. He imagined there was quite a bit of pain that went way back in those journals, or whatever was in those boxes. Still, what if there was something significant? “May I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“If there is anything, and I do mean anything, pertinent to the case, will you share it with me no matter what?”
Candace's face fell. Finally she answered, “Yes. If there's something you need to know, I will tell you.” She went inside the room and closed one box in particular. It appeared to have a lock on it. He watched her put the others back and then pick up the one, holding it close to her chest, as though her life depended on it.
Why was she not willing to trust him? Now he wasn't so sure if he should trust her.
Chapter Thirty-two
She had to do better. The smell of the mozzarella and tomato sauce nauseated her tonight. Feeding her family pizza, burgers, and Chinese food wasn't cutting it anymore. Especially for her hips. She must have gained ten pounds over the last week. Most of the weight, figuratively, had wrapped itself around her shoulders.
The only item in Pamela's box Candace looked at was the photo album. That brought back too many memories. She hadn't realized her friend kept photos that far back. Surely, the skinny, frumpy girl in those photos couldn't be Candace, whose hair nowadays was always coifed and whose makeup was always well applied, and who made others beautiful. She couldn't deny the photo even if she wanted to. There were some images that would be forever embedded in her psyche.
She was more than happy that Darnell hadn't pressed her earlier about what was in the box. Those photos needed to remain hidden. The kids didn't even need to see those.
Candace tried to swallow. Her taste buds must have gone numb or something. This wasn't working. The slice of pizza slipped from her hands and hit the plate with a thud. She grabbed the glass of water and guzzled it down.
“Mom, you all right?” Daniel asked, with his mouth full.
“Yeah, just tired of eating pizza.”
“Why don't you cook something?” He grinned.
She reached over and pinched him. “All right, young man. Don't be getting smart.”
Daniel yelped, “Ouch. I wasn't.”
The boy had a point. He was growing so much, she needed to provide him with more nutritious meals. It'd been a long time since she'd bothered to pull a pot or pan out. She wasn't a bad cook and used to like preparing meals, even catching a new recipe or two from the Food Network.
These days life didn't allow for fancy ingredients and precise measurements. There was no Frank to comment on her latest cooking adventure. Where the kids cared only for spaghetti or hot dogs, her husband had savored her meals, sneaking back into the kitchen for a midnight snack.
She smiled as she recalled Frank's face when she caught him with a fork inside a Tupperware bowl, his mouth full. He had always had the munchies late at night. That man could eat.
She remembered the night she decided to try out the chili recipe Beulah had been raving about. It was a huge pot. The kids had eaten a few bowls and gone to their rooms. As usual, she'd waited for Frank's arrival, anticipating him digging into a big old bowl of the chili with shredded cheese piled high, like he liked.
He never made it home.
Candace looked over at Rachel, surprised her daughter had decided to join them at the dinner table. Conversation consisted of either small talk or silence between the two females of the house. Rachel chewed slowly on her pizza. She seemed to be in deep thought. Like mother, like daughter.
Candace began to place the dishes in the sink. The water from the faucet mesmerized her as her mind wandered off again.
Connections. What possessed the reporter to think there was a connection between Frank's and Pamela's deaths in the first place? Maybe the woman was just fishing for a story she could sensationalize to boost her career.
But there
were
just as many questions surrounding Pamela's death, too. Like where did she go after she left the gallery? Did she go to meet someone, like Frank did? Were Frank and Pamela set up by somebody? Was it the same person?
If that was the case, she couldn't think of any good reason why Mitch would harm Frank. Ten years before, she was grateful to know Mitch Harris. Frank and a few colleagues were on trial for the shooting death of a young man. Pamela, still a law student at the time, suggested Mitch to Frank. All the men were found innocent, thanks to Mitch's savvy defense. She'd chosen to forget about the trial.
So much had happened.
She'd been so afraid of raising two young children alone.
Funny how life turns out.
She turned from the sink, her eyes zooming in on the empty chair at the kitchen table.
The doorbell rang, shifting her thoughts back to the present.
“Who could that be?” Candace turned her head from one child to the next. “Anyone invite somebody over and forget to tell me?”
If they had, neither Rachel nor Daniel seemed to remember. She walked to the door as the doorbell rang again. “Who is it?”
“Candace.” A voice came through the door, muffled but familiar.
She paused. The clock in the hallway ticktocked behind her. Candace opened the door and stared at the uninvited guest on her front porch.
“Aren't you going to invite me in?”
This was the third time in one week that she'd seen her aunt, Maggie. Strange, since they hadn't seen each other in person for years. Only an occasional exchange via a phone call during the holidays. That was all either of them could handle. Candace wasn't sure about this face-to-face contact out of the blue. She unlatched the screen door and held it open. Maggie's face appeared even more haggard than the day she showed up at the salon. Dark circles under her eyes made them appear larger.
“Come in. The children and I are having pizza.”
“Thank you. I can't wait to see them all grown up.”
Candace didn't know how else to deal with this visit, but she might as well go with the flow. The sooner she found out what Maggie wanted, the better.
Daniel and Rachel observed Maggie with quiet interest as she settled her full figure into one of the kitchen chairs. Candace remembered when Maggie's hips filled a doorway. While still a large woman, she'd lost weight, maybe due to her age.
“I don't know if you two remember her, but this is your aunt, Maggie. Last time you saw her ...” Candace began.
Maggie finished off the sentence. “Was when your mother opened her salon.”
Daniel spoke up. “I kind of remember.”
Maggie stared at Candace but kept the conversation going. “So, tell me about yourselves. Both of you were about that high when I last saw you.” She held her hand around her hip area.
Both of Candace's children simply stared at Maggie like she was a creature from outer space. Finally, Daniel spoke up, his eyes blinking behind his glasses. “Where have you been living all these years?”
Leave it to her son to open a can of worms.
“I'm not that far.” Maggie emphasized the word
far.
“Over in Rocky Mount. Your mother lived with me for many years. I called her Nana back then. She doesn't like to be called that anymore.” Maggie winked.
Her aunt might have liked reliving the past, but Candace cringed on the inside. She didn't know who had insisted on calling her Nana, a nickname drawn from her middle name, Renee. She tolerated being called Candy by close friends, like Beulah. Both nicknames had ties to memories that needed to stay buried.
Her aunt continued, “Anyway, I lived in that same house until I sold it two years ago.”
“Sold it?” Candace stared at her aunt.
“Yes. Candace, you sound surprised.”
Still stunned, Candace shook her head. “I remember how much you loved that house.”
“I did. Life changes things. There was no family who would have wanted it. Can't take these things with you.”
“But it was Grandmother's house.”
“Like I said, I figured you didn't want it.”
Candace bit her lip. She could have at least asked me, she thought.
Rachel spoke up. “Isn't that in the country? I would rather live in a city, maybe up north, in New York, or out in California.”
Maggie laid her hands on the table. “Oh, now, ain't nothing wrong with the Carolinas. At least you are in the city part. I grew up out in the country. Back then, during my time, a lot of colored folks, as we were called, had to leave the South to find better jobs, sometimes better conditions to live. Up north became an option. I can't say it worked out for everybody.”
Daniel pushed his glasses on his nose. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. A lot has changed. Don't matter where you are now. You got to be careful. I used to tell Cheryl to be careful.”
Candace stared daggers at Maggie.
Don't do this now.
“Who's Cheryl?”
“What? That's your mother's mama. If she was still alive, your grandmother. Candace, how come these kids don't know your mama's name?”
Candace rose from the table and started folding the empty pizza box. “I don't talk about her, Maggie. She's dead, remember?”
“Yeah, but she's ...”
“Daniel and Rachel, go to your room.”
Both kids sat riveted. Rachel's eyes stretched wide, looking curiously back and forth from Candace to Maggie. Daniel looked ready to bolt.
“I told you two to go to your rooms.” Chairs screeched across the tile floor. Two sets of feet shuffled through the door and then down the hall.
Behind Candace, Maggie's voice rose. “Candace, you got some explaining to do, girl.”
For twenty years, Candace had been able to put the past behind her—until now.
Candace cleared the table, feeling her aunt's penetrating stare. That same posture and punishing silence had motivated Candace to board a bus forty days shy of turning eighteen, leaving her aunt's home forever.
“I'm still waiting for how you are going to explain this one.”
Candace swung the dish towel across her shoulder and placed her hand on her hip. “Why did you come here, Maggie? I don't need this right now.”
“Did you figure you could just wipe her out of your memory? She was my younger and only sister. Lord knows, she just about drove me over the edge, but her memory doesn't deserve to be buried with her.”
“I don't have many memories. At least any worth remembering.”
“That's not true.”
“Excuse me. You can't tell me what I remember up here.” Candace pointed to her head. “My mama loved men. Loved her booze. She loved all these things more than me. You know that and I know that. Some things you don't need to pass along as sweet memories. Those things got her killed.”
“That's even more so why you should tell it. There is such a thing as cycles.”
“Don't go there, Maggie. I'm a good mother.”
“I know that. Your mother was the best mother she could be. She loved you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“How can you say that? She did all she could to protect you. My goodness, her whole mission most of the time was to find you a decent daddy.” Maggie grunted. “She would've been proud of that salon of yours.”
Candace held the pizza box in her hand. “Really? Why is that?”
“I know you had to remember how much your mother talked about opening her own beauty shop. That was the one thing that girl dreamed about. Either a beauty shop or a clothing store.”
“I don't remember.”
“Your mother was a beautiful woman who loved beautiful things.”
Candace sat down. “You didn't like her very well. You were always saying how she needed to use her brain. When I opened the shop, do you remember what you said to me?”
Maggie shook her head. “Candace, I'm sorry. I was a different person back then.”
“You said, ‘You're just like her.' I mean, the way you said it, I felt ashamed. You come up in here talking about me burying memories of Mama. She always disappointed you. I guess I did, too.”
Silence hung like a damp, stale cloth between them, the odor stifling.
Maggie's voice was hoarse with emotion. “I'm sorry. Sorry for the way I was. Your mother had smarts, but she always used them in the wrong way. I wanted you to use your smarts in the right way. You did. You have a beautiful family, and look at how you are taking care of everything even with Frank gone. I know that has to be hard on you.”
Tears sprang to Candace's eyes. The apology she longed to hear from her aunt had come years too late, but something deep and bitter melted inside of her. “I think about Mama all the time. I see her in my face. I see her in Rachel. She likes to visit me in my dreams, you know. But what I mostly don't like to remember are the bruises and her tears. Her drunkenness. Her men. I would rather shut that out.”
“Oh my! I'm so sorry you saw all that.”
“I saw too much.”
“You need to let go. It wasn't your place to protect your mama, Nana. You were only a child.”
A moan rose up in Candace's throat. She didn't bother to tell her aunt to stop calling her by her childhood nickname.
Mama didn't protect me
, she thought.

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