Cross Justice (15 page)

Wasn’t it fascinating, how the effect changed so radically with such small modifications?
Mother always said image is in the detail, and she was right—

The house phone rang.

Coco ignored it. People were always calling, always hounding, wanting this and that, and he just needed a break from reality for a little while longer.

Is that too much to ask? No. Not at all.

Coco had narrowed the three outfits down to two when the doorbell rang.

They’re coming to my front door now?

He forced himself to swallow his outrage. Nothing was going to interrupt his interlude. Not today. Let them all wait. A party isn’t a party until the life of it arrives.
Am I right, Mother?

Coco decided on an ensemble composed of a black taffeta skirt from Argentina, a lavender chiffon blouse with a daring neckline, sheer black hose, and black pumps. He went to a closet door, fished a key off the top of the jamb, and turned the dead bolt.

He pulled open the door. Several bathrobes and kimonos on hooks on the inner side of it fluttered and settled. The walk-in closet was huge and filled with all manner of women’s high fashion beneath clear plastic covers. Much of it went back decades, and he had to go well beyond the vanity and makeup mirror to find space for these new additions.

He hung the Tangerine Dream outfit first, and then the indigo Elie Saab dress. Both of them were definite repeats at some point
down the road, he was sure. He placed the gladiator-strap stilettos and the orange sling-back heels on the floor beneath the ensembles and then retrieved the jewelry box.

Coco set it on a shelf beside the vanity and got to work. He taped his gender back, laid on Lancôme foundation, and glued his fake lashes into place. Feeling slightly breathless as he always did when the transformation was fully under way, he set his makeup aside for the moment.

He found a pair of naughty black thong panties left over from a trip to Paris a few years back and slipped them on. Then he put on the garter belt and hose, loving the thick black stripe up the back.

How pulpy!

Now Coco knew who he’d be for the evening, and he looked to a higher shelf filled with old wig boxes. His attention went to a blue one and he retrieved it. He wouldn’t tape the wig in place until he was almost fully clothed, but he couldn’t resist trying it on.

The hair was jet black and pulled back severely into a tight bun. Coco set it on his smooth head, adjusted it, and then eased into the black pumps.

He stepped in front of the mirror and pursed his lips in satisfaction.

Tonight you shall be the Black Dahlia,
Coco thought.
A sultry Latina with a hint of dominatrix and—

He heard a gasp. His wigged head whipped left.

A chunky, middle-aged black woman in jeans, a dark hoodie, and yellow rubber dishwashing gloves stood in the closet doorway, gaping at him.

“Oh, Jesus, no!” she whispered in a thick accent.

Then she turned and ran.

COCO KICKED OFF
the pumps, tore off the wig, and bolted after her.

The woman wasn’t in shape or athletic, and he caught up to her before she reached the bedroom door. Coco grabbed her by the shoulder, spun the woman around, and pushed her up against the wall.

“What the hell are you doing in my house, Francie?” he demanded.

“I … I forget something important, Mr. Mize,” she said, terrified. “I no know you’re here.”

“Obviously,” Mize said. “What could be so important that you broke into my house wearing rubber gloves, Francie?”

She began to cry. “I was looking for … my bank card. The ATM.”

“You figured out you were missing your bank card three months after I fired you?”

Francie nodded wildly. “Yes. Just yesterday. I look everywhere. I say, this one must to be at the Jeffrey Mize’s house. So I come. I call you from outside. I ring doorbell.”

“To make sure I wasn’t home,” Mize said.

“No! You no answer. You no hear?”

“I was busy.”

His former maid’s gaze flickered down to his black panties, garter belt, and hose, and then back to the eyelashes and makeup.

“I so sorry,” she blubbered. “I see this now.”

“My secret life?” he said. “My closet?”

“I no mean to! I just looking for—”

“Something to steal, isn’t that right?”

“No, Mr. Mize,” the maid said, and she made the sign of the cross.

Mize’s mind turned to Coco’s unique perspective again, and he said, “I was wondering why I’d been missing some of mother’s lesser jewelry. Never suspected you, Francie, but that’s my naturally trusting personality.”

The maid got more frightened. “No, that’s not—”

“Sure it is,” Mize said. “You’re dirt-poor, Francie. So you steal. It’s what you do. It’s what I would do if I were you.”

She clamped her jaw shut and tried to struggle away, but he threw her back against the wall. “Please, Mr. Mize,” she whimpered. “Don’t call police. I do anything, but not that!”

Mize thought, said, “You can keep a secret, can’t you, Francie?”

She seemed not to understand for a moment, but then her head bobbled like a toy. “Of course, I no tell anyone you like dress lady-boy, Mr. Mize.”

He laughed. “Lady-boy? Is that what they’d call me in Haiti?”

Francie’s eyes darted around, but her head started bobbling again. “I sorry, Mr. Mize. Is a bad thing? Lady-boy?”

“You tell me.”

“No, Mr. Mize,” she babbled, “I no care your lady-boy secrets.”

“Then I don’t care you’re a thief, Francie.”

She didn’t know what to say, but she nodded in resignation. “
Merci,
Mr. Mize. Please, I so sorry.”

“How’d you get in?” Mize asked.

Francie looked down.

“If we’re going to share secrets, we better start by being honest, don’t you think?” Mize said in a more pleasant tone.

Tears dripping down her cheeks, Francie nodded. “I make key last year.”

“Show me?”

The maid pulled off one of her rubber gloves, dug in her back pocket, and came up with the key.

He took it, said, “The alarm code?”

Francie blinked. “You give it to me, Mr. Mize. You no remember?”

That was true. Stupid of me.

“I remember,” Mize said.

“What I do for you?” she ask. “Clean house again? It look like no clean for long time, Mr. Mize.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

“Yes, yes,” Francie said. “Anything, Mr. Mize.”

“Who else knew you were coming here to steal?”

“No one! I swear to spirits.”

“Better to work that way, I suppose.”

She nodded again. “No one knows, is better, I think.”

“Makes sense,” Mize said. “What have you stolen from me before?”

Francie looked down again. “Something silver from dining room, and maybe bracelets and necklace in other room.”

“Thin gold bracelets? Little bangles?”

“I so sorry.”

“You were desperate,” he said. “I know what that’s like.”

Francie grabbed his hand and kissed it. “Bless you, Mr. Mize.”

Mize smiled. “Well, then, I know your secrets; would you like to see mine?”

The maid looked torn.

“C’mon, if we’re sharing secrets, we’re friends now,” he said. “Let me show you the closet and all its beauty.”

Francie licked her lips, and then shrugged. “Okay.”

“Real ladies first,” Mize said, and gestured with a flourish toward the open closet door.

Uncertain, she moved past him, crossed the room, and stopped in the closet doorway. She looked around and her eyes widened.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Mize asked.

Francie’s voice was filled with genuine wonder. “I never see such things before this now. Maybe in movies.”

“My mother started the collection,” Mize said, taking a white kimono off the door hook and slipping it over his shoulders. “She loved her clothes, and she taught me to love them too.”

The maid’s face tightened. “Is good. I think.”

“It bonded us,” he said. “See the jewelry box on the vanity? It was Mother’s. She was a spendthrift with exquisite taste in jewelry. Have a look. She’d want you to see.”

Francie glanced at him tying the robe. He stopped, smiling. “Go on.”

The maid went to the vanity. The lights around the mirror were glowing. She opened the lid. Her jaw dropped.

“Now, that’s what you were hoping you’d find, wasn’t it?” Mize asked.

He’d slid in behind Francie. In the mirror, she saw not Mize, but Coco, the smile gone cold, the eyes gone vacant.

Before the maid could reply or even change her expression, Coco flipped the robe’s sash over Francie’s head.

He cinched it nice, tight, and brutal around her neck.

JUDGING BY THE
turnout for her wake that Sunday evening, Sydney Fox had been a well-liked person in Starksville. Nana Mama and I went to pay our respects while Naomi finished working on her opening statement and watched the kids, and Bree supported Cece Turnbull as she lurched toward a semblance of sobriety.

“A terrible thing,” Nana Mama said as she held tight to my forearm. “Woman like that, in her prime, gunned down on her own front porch. Bad as it was when I grew up here, there was never violence like that.”

“I’ll take your word for your era,” I said. “And, yes, it’s bad, part of a general badness about this town. Do you feel it?”

“Every day since we’ve been here,” Nana Mama said. “I’ll be happy to go home when the time comes.”

“I’m with you,” I said. “And we’ve only been here since Thursday.”

We followed a grief-stricken couple into the mortuary.
There were very few dry eyes among the forty, maybe fifty people who had come to pay their respects. We waited in line to offer condolences to Ethel Fox, who wore an old but cared-for black dress she’d bought when her husband passed.

“I only figured to wear it again when I was dead and gone,” Ethel said. “And now, here I am, and there my baby girl is, all sealed up in a box.”

She hung her head and cried softly. “Just isn’t fair.”

Nana Mama patted her on the shoulder, said, “Anything you need, you call Hattie or Connie or me. And I’ll see you at the church tomorrow.”

Ethel wiped tears with a handkerchief, and nodded. “Ten a.m.”

I helped my grandmother into the chapel where Sydney Fox’s body lay in a closed simple casket. It was standing room only, with a crowd of genuine mourners, people who had been deeply touched by the deceased at some point, enough to appear in public and freely express their grief.

Nana Mama took a seat saved for her next to my aunts and Uncle Cliff, who clung to Aunt Hattie’s hand and looked vaguely frightened. Finding a spot just outside the doorway, I watched a few people go to the casket and pay their respects. Then I followed some others into a room where coffee and platters of Aunt Hattie’s cookies and brownies were offered.

Talking with several of the mourners, I learned more about Sydney Fox. How she’d grown up in town. How she’d married her high school sweetheart, who’d turned into a colossal asshole once he found out she couldn’t have kids. And how for years she’d endured his abuse while working as a beloved first- and second-grade teacher in the local elementary school. Many of the people I spoke to were parents of children who’d been blessed to have Sydney in their first years of school.

After a while I got angry. I’d shared just a few words with Sydney Fox, and now that seemed another crime, an armed robbery of my chance to know her.

I got a cup of coffee, ate more peanut butter–M&M cookies than I should have, and wandered back to see if Nana Mama was ready to leave. There were more people streaming in. I scanned their faces, looking for something familiar. Had I grown up with any of them? Would I recognize them after all these years?

The answer was no until I retrieved Nana Mama from the chapel and led her back for some cookies. Across the room, I spotted an imposing African American man in a dark suit, drinking coffee and munching on a brownie. He was familiar enough that I studied him.

Big dude like my best friend, John Sampson. Taller than me. Heavier than me. Ten, maybe fifteen years younger. The suit was expensive, but the body beneath it suggested hard labor. Then he changed one rough hand for another holding the coffee cup, and I knew him in a heartbeat.

I made sure my grandmother was good, walked over to him, and said, “How are you, Pinkie? Been a long time.”

THE FACE OF
my Aunt Connie’s only son, Brock “Pinkie” Parks Jr., clouded a bit at my use of his nickname, but then he realized who I was and broke into a grin.

“Alex,” he said, grabbing my hand and pumping it. “Last time I saw you, you gave me a piggyback on the sidewalk in front of Nana Mama’s place.”

I had a vague vision of that and said, “Long time ago. I think you’d break my back if I tried to do that now. I heard life’s been good for you.”

“Was until I heard Sydney died,” Pinkie said, his eyes watering. “Straight up? I loved Sydney. I loved her since I was like eight and she was ten. There was something about her, you know, like things went in orbit when she was around.”

“You ever tell her?” I asked.

“Nah, we were friends, and then not so much after she married Finn Davis,” he said. “He preferred it that way.”

“I heard Finn gave her a rough time,” I said.

“I set him straight once, but what was I gonna do? I got a good life working offshore and just couldn’t be around to protect her, especially when for a while there she didn’t want to protect herself.”

“She divorced him.”

“She told me,” he said, full of regret. “We’d been sending messages on Facebook and stuff, and I’d been meaning to come up to see her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he said. “Any word on who did it?”

“Looked like a case of mistaken identity to me,” I said, then explained about Stefan’s fiancée being blond too.