Come Sunday Morning (20 page)

A
n attractive woman with too much makeup stood behind the counter of the beauty spa. “Mrs. Cleaveland, how nice to see you again. Andre is in with a client right now. He'll be with you in a few minutes. He asked that we start your manicure first.”

The smell of chemicals and freshly shampooed hair filled the waiting area of the salon. A haunting song by Nina Simone played over the speakers as customers, in overstuffed chairs, sipped champagne and lemon-garnished drinks while catching up on the latest gossip. The sound of falling water came from a marble fountain surrounded by lush green plants and exotic flowers.

“Please follow me to the changing room, and we'll get you started.”

Samantha followed the young woman through white doors surrounded by carvings of grapevines and puffy-faced cherubs.

Inside, women were leisurely milling around, wearing thin blue robes with towels covering their wet hair. Some wore mint clay masks, while others had cellophane dangling from limp hair.

The buzz of hair dryers could be heard coming from an adjoining room. Samantha exchanged greetings with several women as she passed through the crowd.

“Are you having your hair colored today, Mrs. Cleaveland?” the young woman asked.

“No, just a facial and manicure.”

Monique held open the door of a small dressing room for Samantha. “When you're done disrobing, Frances will start your manicure. Would you like an espresso or mineral water?”

Samantha disliked the vapid smile of the woman, and she had always refused to address her by name. “Mineral water. Thank you.”

After having her hands massaged, nails treated and painted a classic clear, Samantha lay vulnerable on a padded table, with the hands of Andre gently massaging her face. A bright light pointed directly at her face, and steam sprayed to open pores. Samantha had grown fond of Andre, despite the fact that he was obviously gay. How could she not like someone that made her look five years younger than her age?

“I don't think you need a peel today. I'm just going to give you a good cleansing and facial.”

Andre was a well-built man with thick dreadlocked hair, which went in every direction. He wore an African-print shirt with tight black pants and boots.

The music played softly as Andre gossiped. “Victoria was in yesterday. She nearly drank a whole bottle of champagne, and then got an attitude when we refused to serve her more. She was so drunk we had to call a cab to take her home.”

Samantha smiled through the steam. “You're lucky that didn't happen five years ago. You would have had to call the police. Victoria is a lot calmer than she used to be.”

“How's that gorgeous husband of yours? I saw him on television the other day. Something about a new building.”

Samantha's body tensed. She instinctively reacted to a man referring to her husband as “gorgeous.” She looked up at Andre standing behind her and asked, “Do you think he's gorgeous? I didn't think men noticed that kind of thing.”

“Samantha, when a man looks that good, it's hard not to notice. I hope I didn't offend you.”

“Not at all. Andre, may I ask you a personal question?” she inquired as he applied a gooey substance to her face.

“You can ask me anything, sweetheart. You know you're my favorite client.”

“Why do you prefer men over women? We've never discussed it, but I assume you're gay.”

Andre's hands froze in place for a moment, then resumed. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. A friend's husband recently told her he was gay, and I guess I'm curious.”

“I knew it,” Andre blurted. “It's Victoria's husband, isn't it? I can tell a gay man from a mile away. The first time I saw Sylvester, I knew he was family.”

“It's not Sylvester. You think he's gay? That's ridiculous. What man in his right mind would want him? He looks like a buffalo in a bad toupee. Anyway, it's not him. It's no one you would know. So tell me. What attracts a man to other men?”

“I've been attracted to men as far back as I can remember. Beyond the obvious physical stuff I guess I would say it's because a man can understand me better than any woman ever has.”

“Why does that necessarily lead to sex?”

“For me they're one and the same. I can't separate my mind from my body. If I like a man, I mean his mind and how he thinks, then the physical attraction comes naturally, and that's when the fun…”

Andre had drifted easily into the usual salon chatter, when he suddenly remembered to whom he was talking.

“Samantha, darling. I really don't feel comfortable talking about this with you. My God, you're a minister's wife.” He laughed nervously.

Samantha reacted sternly. “What does the man I'm married to have to do with anything? You think just because I'm married to Hezekiah, I wouldn't understand.”

“No, I'm not saying that. I just meant I don't want to offend you.”

“Never mind. Just change the subject.” Samantha sat through the rest of the facial in silence. Andre made several unsuccessful attempts to resuscitate their exchange, but Samantha would not participate beyond a curt “yes” and “no.”

As he walked her to the lobby, he said, “Samantha, I'm sorry if I said something to upset you. The next time you come in, your facial will be on the house.”

Without looking at him she curtly said, “That won't be necessary. I won't be back. I don't approve of your lifestyle.”

Samantha quickly paid her bill and left Andre and the salon in her past.

 

Samantha opened the door to her closet. The lights came on automatically. Bulbs lit up around a mirror that stretched the length of the wall in the closet, which was at least half the size of her bedroom. Clothes she had acquired over the years of her marriage lined the walls. A stepladder leaned against shelves filled with cashmere sweaters and silk scarves stacked neatly according to color.

The pride of her collection was the hundreds of shoes displayed on racks that ran along the base of the room. Each had been carefully selected to accompany a new suit or special event she had attended. Many of the shoes could only be distinguished from others by a fraction of an inch on the heel or a bow instead of a buckle. Rows of round boxes held the hats that served to accentuate the face that so many admired.

Samantha stood in the door and marveled at the items that meant so much to her. Rarely had she given any of her clothes to charity. She felt she gave enough of her life to others and drew the line at her cherished belongings. Garments and shoes that had not been worn in years, and would probably never be worn again, stood waiting for their chance in the sunlight.

It usually took Samantha only a few hours to prepare for church, but this was going to be a special Sunday. She needed at least a day. Samantha wanted to look her most radiant, yet wear something practical that could be easily cleaned in the event it got spattered with blood. Her heels had to be just the right height for the inevitable rapid climb up the pulpit steps to cradle the body of her dead husband.

She had to select an ensemble that would not inadvertently rise and reveal too much leg if she decided to perform the “Jackie O” lunge to dodge stray bullets.

After an extended search Samantha pulled four outfits from the racks and displayed them on hooks like suits of armor in a medieval castle corridor. They all had one thing in common; they would not fly any higher than her thigh in case strenuous maneuvers were required. Two of the outfits selected were made of vibrant floral-print fabric. One was a peach suit with a skirt designed to obediently follow the lines of her well-shaped lower half. The fourth was her favorite. She had purchased it a month earlier on a shopping trip on Rodeo Drive. It was a simple cream-colored sleeveless dress by Givenchy, and it perfectly mimicked the contours of her body. The accompanying jacket helped to partially conceal the low-cut neckline.

Over the next hour she tried on each of the dresses several times. She put each outfit through a sequence of tests that included kneeling down in front of the large mirror, walking at a quick pace across the length of the dressing-room floor, and a series of abrupt twists and turns.

She decided on the cream dress and jacket at the conclusion of the high-fashion aerobic session. The shape, and easy movement suited her purposes well And the color would serve as the perfect backdrop for his blood.

The shoes she selected were not the pair originally purchased for the ensemble. Instead, she chose a pair with a slightly lower heel and a shade darker than the dress. She did not want to risk tripping or snagging her shoe on the carpet. The accessories were the easy part. The dress would only tolerate pearls, a single strand that stopped just short of the neckline, and a matching bracelet.

Samantha stood in front of the mirror to examine her choice and was pleased. She looked like a magazine's cover model, an image that most women would never dare to try and emulate.

 

Hezekiah had already begun eating his dinner on Saturday evening when Jasmine rushed in and kissed him on the forehead. The smell of mouthwash surrounded her head. “Hi, Daddy. Where's Mommy?”

“She's around here somewhere. I think in her study. Where have you been all day?”

“Daddy, I'm not a little girl. I wish you would stop asking me that every time I come into the house.”

Etta emerged from the kitchen and set a clean plate in front of the breathless girl. “Hello, Jasmine. I hope you're hungry.”

“Not really, Etta. I think I'll just have salad tonight.”

Samantha suddenly appeared below the arched entry to the dining room. “Hello. Why didn't you tell me dinner was ready?”

Hezekiah continued eating and said, “Etta knocked on your door, but you didn't answer.”

“I was on the telephone.”

Samantha joined them at the table. To watch the three, one would not have known what lay ahead. The conversation was polite. No mention was made of men, alcohol, or murder. Hezekiah and Samantha never made eye contact, but they did direct several inconsequential comments to each other.

The dinner went on without an argument. Etta frequently entered the room to remove dishes and fill empty glasses. She was pleased that the pastor was able to enjoy in peace the food she had prepared for him.

Before finishing her salad, Jasmine stood. “I'm going to Shelly's.” She braced herself for her mother's response. There was none.

Hezekiah broke the silence. “Honey, I expect to see you at church tomorrow.”

“I'll be there, Daddy.” Before reaching the door, she looked over her shoulder and said, “Good-bye, Mommy.”

Samantha set her fork on her plate and said, “Good-bye, Jasmine. I love you, honey.”

Samantha waited until she heard the roar of Jasmine's car passing the window. Then she looked at Hezekiah and said, “I think you should sleep in the guest room tonight.”

Samantha retreated to the bedroom and was not seen again that evening.

 

The doorbell in Sandra's condominium rang. Cynthia walked from the kitchen, holding a fresh tray of cheeses and crackers. Lavender-scented candles had been extinguished, but remnants of their bouquet lingered in the air. Sandra quickly turned off a languid tune sung by Nina Simone.

“Are you ready, girl?” Sandra asked, adjusting the shoulders on her black suit. “That's Phillip now.”

“I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let him in.”

Sandra opened the door.

“Phillip,” she said to the man at the threshold. “Thank you for coming. I know this is awkward for you. Please let me take your coat. Would you like a glass of wine?”

Phillip Thornton graciously accepted the wine and walked tentatively into the living room.

Sandra and Cynthia sat down on the couch and Phillip sat in an overstuffed chair directly in front of them. He was a handsome man with a hint of gray at each temple. He wore a navy blue sport coat and tan khaki pants.

Sandra was the first to speak. “Let me start by saying, Phillip, that we appreciate and understand the risks you are taking by being here tonight,” she said, leaning forward on the sofa. “I know that you and Hezekiah have been friends for years, and this whole ordeal must be very difficult for you.”

“That's a nice speech, Sandra,” said Phillip, placing his glass on the table. “You seem to be under the misguided impression that I have some reservations about running the story. Let's be clear about this. I don't. Yes, Hezekiah and I are friends, but this isn't about friendship. It's about business. This has the potential to be the biggest story in the country.

“Last year alone my paper lost fifty million dollars. I've got the unions on my ass. The fucking Internet is drawing away my readers by the thousands, and on top of that, advertisers are dropping like flies. I stand to make millions if the
Los Angeles Chronicle
breaks this story. For me it comes down to either running the story or filing bankruptcy and shutting down the entire newspaper, and shutting down is not an option I want to entertain. This paper has been in my family for three generations. My great-grandfather started it in his father's garage when he was a teenager. I don't want to be the Thornton who ran my family's legacy into the ground. I'll leave that honor to my sons.”

Cynthia sat silent as Phillip continued. “Hezekiah is going to come after us with an army of lawyers when this story breaks. Cynthia, I need some assurances that you'll stand behind your story. We'll protect your identity as long as possible, but I can't make any guarantees that at some point a judge won't insist that we reveal our source.”

The room fell silent for a moment, and then Cynthia asked, “Will
Chronicle
attorneys represent me if a judge forces you to reveal who I am?”

“Yes. You will have full access to our legal department. I need to be honest with you about the risks. This story will be national and international news. You will be hounded by reporters for months, and possibly years, if your identity is made public. You'll also be setting yourself up for a potential civil lawsuit from Hezekiah.”