Dying in the Dark (6 page)

My ears perked up. “So Cecil was the one who buried his mother?”

He looked at me as if just remembering I was there. “So you knew his mother?”

“We were friends.”

“I don't remember seeing you at the service.” He scowled with disapproval over his half-framed glasses.

“I was out of town,” I stammered unconvincingly then added truthfully, “I didn't know about it or I would have been here.”

“Should have sent some flowers,” he mumbled.

“Were there many people here?” I changed the subject.

“Not many. The boy. Two or three others. Not many at all. Violent deaths are always dreadful, but Celia Jones's was particularly bad. Poor woman was shot right through her—” He dropped his eyes as if embarrassed.

“Right through her what?”

“Well,” he sighed and added after a beat, “near her belly. Not belly exactly, but her womb, the center of a woman's being. I figure that whoever did it was trying to make some kind of statement. I've never seen anything like it, to shoot a woman right through her privates.”

“Do you mean that somebody put a gun—”

“I don't know how he did it, Miss Tamara.” Morgan avoided my eyes as if the mere mention of the subject distressed him. “Maybe you should ask the police. They're the ones who did the autopsy. I just got the body, that's all I do—clean ‘em, fix ‘em, dress ‘em up. I made her presentable so her son could say his last good-bye, but I sure could see where she'd been shot.”

“Was she shot more than once?” I'd read as much, but I wanted Morgan's confirmation.

“I don't know, Miss Tamara. All I know is that the poor woman is dead. That's all I know and that's all I will say.” He pursed his lips, indicating that he was uncomfortable with the subject. I wasn't about to let him go, but in deference to his discomfort went in a different direction.

“Do you see anyone here today who came to Celia's funeral?”

“How am I supposed to remember something like that?” He eyed me suspiciously trying to figure out what I was up to.

I broke out my professional voice. ‘As you know, Mr. Morgan, I make my living as a private investigator. I'm not just asking you these questions because I'm nosy, but because I've been hired to find out who killed Celia Jones, and in the process I may be able to find out who killed her son. I'd appreciate any help you could give me, anything at all.”

“Who hired you?” Even after my little speech, Morgan was still skeptical.

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“Didn't the cops find out who did it?”

“No.”

“Isn't that their job?”

“Often people are uncomfortable talking to the police, so they'll talk to me. Could you help me out? Please?” I pulled out the stops on the “please,” my eyes begging him to recall the many funerals we'd shared.

“Well, I guess it won't do no harm for you to look and see who signed the register, but hardly nobody came. You can't take it with you though,” he added as if I might try to steal it. “I'll leave it on my desk in my office, and you can look at it there. It's my property now since the boy is dead. I guess I can show it to you.”

“That will be very helpful, Mr. Morgan. Thank you so much.” I hugged him awkwardly, inhaling as I did so an odd mixture of breath mints and formaldehyde. He nodded toward the Rose Chapel. I settled
into a dark corner of the last row, folded my hands piously in my lap, and watched things unfold.

They buried the boy in a cheap pine coffin, which I knew from personal experience was the bottom of Morgan's line. The coffin was open; he'd been stabbed through the heart, not the face, and Morgan had probably done a good job of fixing him up, as good a job as anybody can do on a dead body. I knew that from experience, too. Liston and his woman sat in the first row. His arm had slipped from her shoulder and was casually draped on the back of the seat as if they were waiting for cheeseburgers in a greasy luncheonette.

A child's piercing cries broke the silence in the room and drew everybody's attention to the back of the chapel. A young woman holding a wailing baby on her hip entered, accompanied by two young men who walked beside her like bodyguards. Cecil hadn't mentioned a child, but I assumed the baby was his. The woman, little more than a child herself, still carried the weight of her pregnancy, and her shiny gray suit and diaphanous blouse, both obviously bought when she was twenty pounds lighter, did little to hide it.

“Ooh this is bad! This is bad! This is so bad!” the girl kept repeating to nobody in particular.

“He dead and gone now, Cristal. There ain't nothing you can do now. Nothing you can do!” This bit of stage-whispered wisdom came from the shorter of the men. He wasn't as tall as Brent Liston, but looked a younger version of him—same powerful chest and shoulders, same bullying strut.

“Hey, Pik, there go his dad,” said the other kid, who was thin with a delicate face that contrasted with the tough-guy clothes he wore.
He grinned inappropriately, and I noticed that his teeth were perfectly straight and lacked the gold and diamonds that usually distinguish the dental work of wannabe gangstas. I knew from the money I've spent on my son's mouth that teeth like that don't come cheap. I was struck, too, by the boy's use of the word “dad.” It was what I called my father when I was a kid, and he spoke the word as if it carried good memories. It made me think that he wasn't as tough as he wanted folks to think. Pik, the Liston look-alike, had enough thug in him for both of them.

“That big dude is his old man, right, DeeEss?” said Pik, whose mouth was lit up like a chandelier.

“Yeah.”

“Cecil used to say he looked like his mama, but I think he looks kind of like his daddy. He fine,” said the girl, her voice deep and dreamy. Cristal had a small pointed face and long thick hair haphazardly caught up in a metallic scrunchie. She wasn't pretty in the conventional sense of the word, but carried herself with a hoochie-mama swagger that probably appealed to teenage boys. It was troubling that my son found her attractive, but then again, I've never been a teenage boy. Pik's name was stenciled onto his black leather jacket and I realized I'd seen it painted in red letters on the facades of half a dozen buildings in the city.

“Who that woman? His moms?” Pik asked.

“Somebody killed his moms,” said DeeEss.

Brent Liston turned and stared at the three teenagers as they sat down in the row behind him. His gaze seemed to frighten the girl, and she pulled her baby close as if protecting him. Her fear was puzzling. Why did she think Brent Liston would harm his grandchild? I
realized then that she might be sheltering the child from Liston's woman, whose hard, pebble-shaped eyes stared at her with hatred. My feelings toward the girl and her child softened. Maybe something of Celia Jones had survived after all.

The click of high heels on the uncarpeted floor signaled the arrival of a middle-aged woman in a chic black suit, but her step was hesitant and unsteady, as if she were ill or had had too much to drink. She sat down in the row behind the teenagers, but perched on the edge of her seat, as if ready to launch into flight. Her clothes whispered money: tailored silk suit, black Coach bag, Ferragamo pumps, diamond earrings. I felt that pang of jealousy I often feel when I spot some woman whose outfit cost more than my office rent. But I didn't envy this woman her looks. She'd been attractive once, but her pretty face was bloated and her eyes bloodshot and puffy. It was plain to see that liquor, rather than illness or years, had aged her.

DeeEss glanced back as she slid in behind him, and she gave him a tight smile, which brought a nod. They shared the same features— same slight, pointed nose, hazel eyes set in an oval face the color of coffee with too much cream, same thin elegant frame; booze hadn't altered the family resemblance. They were mother and son, yet they were an odd pair. Had she come to pay her last respects to her son's friend or had something else brought her?

A man with wire-rimmed glasses and a conservative haircut was sitting behind the well-dressed woman. I hadn't noticed him come in, so I assumed he'd come early. He was dressed in a tan sweater and jacket and dull gray trousers. I pegged him for a teacher or guidance counselor, somebody who knew the boy casually, wanted to pay his respects, and get the hell out as fast as he could. I hoped that he
signed the guest book that Morgan had placed at the door. I made a mental note to look.

The last person to enter the place was Larry Walton. I pulled back into the shadows, dropping my head down like I was praying, but he was moving so fast, he wouldn't have noticed me anyway. He sat next to the woman in the suit and gave her a hug. She settled into his muscular body as if she belonged there. I shook my head in disgust.

Men. There was no telling about them. If you gave them half a chance, even the best of them could drive you as crazy as a flea. This man had asked
me
out not an hour before, and here he was cozying up to some woman in a funeral parlor. I was glad that good sense had prevailed and I'd turned him down, but I'd been flattered by the asking, and I'd been tempted.

When it came to men, I was about as lucky as a hot biscuit at a church supper. I felt an unwavering passion toward Basil Dupre, but he was never around long enough for me to establish anything but memories. I thought I might be in love with Jake Richards, but my sense of morality got in the way of my establishing anything with him other than friendship.

I've found out the hard way that all love and loose change will get you is a bus to Broad and Market. Personal ethics are all a woman has, and she would want to keep them as clean as her drawers. I respected Jake's marriage. As for Basil, I wasn't quite sure where to put him, so I didn't put him anywhere. The only man I was truly responsible to at this point in my life was my son, and until he left my home, I had to spend my time looking out for him. I'd be damned if I'd ever let him
end up like Cecil Jones or the countless other young men who are gone before they're twenty.

My son's face came into my mind as the earnest young minister gave his eulogy, which I suspected he'd given at the funerals of other boys like this one. No one spoke after he sat down. Nobody stood up to speak of grief, love, or sorrow. There were no tears or fond memories.

I considered standing myself. Somebody needed to bring the memory of Celia into this place. I was almost on my feet, when Brent Liston broke the silence.

“I want you all to know, I swear before God, I will find out who done this thing to my son, and I will take care of him good. I swear before God, I will. I swear before God!” he said, then plunked his heavy body back down in his seat, his face distorted by rage.

“Shut up, Brent Liston. In Celia's name I curse you,” the thin voice of the woman in the black suit rose to challenge his. Her words were slurred, but she stood straight and tall without wavering. “Celia Jones knew who and what you were, Brent, and I know what you did to her and her son, you'll be damned in hell for that. You'll be damned!”

Morgan, alarmed by the turn of events, rushed to the front of the room, begging for silence although the room was quiet again and filled with tension. He slammed down the lid of the coffin as if something evil was about to pop out, and motioned for the pallbearers to come take this child and his low-life mourners out of his place. Memories of another funeral I'd attended here years ago that turned into an ugly melee came back to me; I needed to leave that room as soon as I could. I quickly ducked into Morgan's office.

I searched his desk for the register, couldn't find it for a moment, then spotted it under a pile of undertakers’ trade magazines. Honorable to the end, Morgan had probably tucked it away, hoping that I'd get discouraged and be on my way. I turned to the January entries and found Celia's name at the top of the page marked January 8. Only three people had bothered to sign the guest book. I wondered if others had shown up. Rebecca Donovan's name was written in elaborate script at the top of the page. Larry Walton's name followed hers. Was Rebecca Donovan the woman who sat next to him and the reason he attended both of these services? The last name on the page was Drew Sampson, who I assumed must be related to the Annette Sampson I'd left the message for on Friday. One Sampson in the book, the other at her funeral. How were they connected to Celia?

That question was on my mind as I shoved Morgan's book where he'd put it, so I didn't see Brent Liston enter the room or sense his presence until he came up behind me, grabbed my shoulder, and swung me around to face him. My first impulse was to slap him across his face, but he caught my hand midway and forced it to my side.

“You that bitch Rebecca Donovan, ain't you?” he said. His woman stood behind him, gloating the way somebody does when they know they have the better of you, and in that moment, I hated them both with everything in me. “Hey, Beanie, ain't she that Clayton Donovan bitch who was always in my face?”

Beanie.
The name suited her well. She was tiny and hard, like a navy bean or a black-eyed pea. I glanced away from her, focusing on him.

“Take your filthy hands off me before I send you back to hell,” I said, and he laughed in my face.

“No, baby, you got it wrong. This one ain't her. She ain't hincty enough to be Rebecca Donovan.” Beanie stared at me, her head cocked to the side like a bird of prey waiting for its dinner.

“Who are you and what you doing here, at my boy's funeral?” Liston dropped his hands to his sides. His lips quivered, like a playground tough who has just had his ass kicked, which surprised me because I was no threat to him. But I did know one thing now: The woman with Larry Walton was not Rebecca Donovan.

“I knew Celia,” I said, just as Larry Walton came into the room to stand beside me.

“You all right, Tamara?”

“I'm fine.” He stared Liston down, letting him know in the way that men do that I had a male protector, for what that was worth. It was a language, however, that Liston understood. He looked Larry up and down, waited a moment or two to show he wasn't scared, then left with Beanie.

“Let me walk you to your car,” Larry said.