Yew to a Kill Read online

  He rubbed his forehead as though a headache brewed. “Yeah, you couldn’t have known. I just wanted some company.”

  I fumbled around trying to find something to lighten the mood. Finally, I said, “Guess what? Last night, Sal convinced me we were onto the right guy when we suspected Rafe. But he thinks it’s because of the people his cousin’s been hanging out with. Before Sal dropped me off, he said Rafe fell in with a bad crowd. He’s trying to get the guy to quit his association with this element, you know, sort of a family intervention program. Maybe he will—”

  Dwayne cut me off. “Did he tell you who the bad crowd was?”

  “No—”

  “No, and he won’t ever either,” he answered quickly, his face twisted in anger.

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “Look, I know where Raphael Ramirez took off to last night, okay?”

  “You do? Where?”

  He jutted his chin toward the flower shop. “Helping my boy push up posies.”

  “You’re kidding, right? That’s crazy. What makes you say such things, Dwayne?”

  He took a deep breath. “Rafe and Bubba were lovers. Not long ago, they got into a spat, and Rafe smacked Bubba around a little. Bubba decided to press charges. That’s why Rafe got arrested for assault. I know all this because I gave Rafe a ride home after he got bail. Bubba asked me to. I guess he regretted calling the cops. I don’t think they ever really got over the whole situation.”

  “You think Rafe killed Bubba? Surely you’re wrong, Dee. I mean, this all sounds like they were a caring couple.” In a very dysfunctional way.

  He glanced at the building again. “I don’t know. Rafe’s got a Mexican chili pepper temper. Bubba ran scared after what happened.”

  “Did you tell Sal all this?”

  “Ha. You kiddin’? Didn’t you hear what ole Sallie said? His cousin’s in with a bad crowd. My crowd, get it? Naw, I ain’t told him shit. I ain’t gonna tell his homophobic ass shit either.”

  “Dwayne, Sal doesn’t have a problem with gay people. He’s cool. You know this.”

  He shook his head and gave a small laugh. “Yeah, ice-cold. What he says speaks louder than how he acts.”

  I saw Sal move through the crowd of cops looking for someone. His eyes met mine, and I realized he was about to come over.

  “Um. He’s headed this way.”

  Dwayne slumped a little. “Tell him I had to split.”

  My heart thudded. “What if he needs to talk to you about Bubba?”

  “He can do like every other man who wants my ass. Look me up on Linkedin.” And he climbed into the Mustang, revved his engine and backed out, not waiting for a response.

  In a bind, caught between two tough guys, I didn’t know whether to pull my ear or crack my knuckles. I promised myself to show Dwayne some anti-social behavior in return for his putting me in the path of Hurricane Sal without makeup or perfume.

  I rushed to my car, opened the trunk and shoved the equipment in. Then I slammed it, opened the front passenger’s side door, and pulled out a cold bottle of soda I’d brought from home in the way of a breakfast of sugar.

  I met Sal halfway.

  “Was that Brown leaving? I told him to stay put.” He frowned and I saw Hell’s clouds building on the horizon.

  “Oh, said he had to go. Want some?” I handed him the plastic bottle. A fine sheen covered his forehead, and he exuded heat of all varieties. Maybe I could cool him down one way or another.

  He screwed the top off and killed nearly half of the drink in a couple of swallows. Then, he gazed down at me, and I saw the side of his face bulge a little as he gritted his teeth. “And just what was so important? Seems to me he’d want to hang around and be helpful. He’s always asking about investigations and stuff. Missing a good chance.”

  “He didn’t explain his reasons,” I blurted. “You’re going to be busy for a while here, huh?”

  “Yeah. You want to meet me later?” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “We could maybe grab some tacos from Casa Mex.”

  I fidgeted and moved away. “I can’t. Got work to do. Busy, busy, busy, you know how it is.”

  He sighed and glanced back at the activity of the crime scene. “Yeah. I do.” Then as if that reminded him, “Why are you here? Not to bring this to me, I’m sure.” He indicated the bottle before he slugged the drink again. With the back of his hand he wiped his mouth and held the bottle out to me.

  I waved him away. “No thanks, Officer. I never drink and drive. Why do you think I’m here? Dwayne called me.”

  “Did he tell you anything about the vic? Said they were friends.” His voice changed. Now he was all cop. I knew this Sal only too well. He was like a hound dog on the chase, nose to the ground, sniffing for his prey.

  “Nothing more than he told you I’m sure.” My heart beat like a covey of quails.

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  I edged toward my car and prepared to flee. “I’d tell you if he confessed to anything.”

  He watched me with his melted-chocolate-colored eyes. “Very funny.”

  I opened the door and slid inside. “Gotta run.”

  “You can’t resist me forever, Chica.”

  I pretended not to hear. Our game of cat and mouse got too close some days.

  ###

  Later, when Dwayne’s cell number went straight to voice mail, I felt a moment of panic. His friend was dead. He was alone. I called him again. Same thing. It wouldn’t hurt to go by his place to check things out, right? I slid by his trailer and saw his car was home. He was likely just in the throes of grief. I had been there myself. It wasn’t pretty. I didn’t stop.

  The office needed someone to pay it a visit, so I headed out to check on the mail and phones. With all the action going on, Dwayne wouldn’t think of it. Business wasn’t exactly booming at the moment. Our lives were suspended from one video job to another like strands of a spider’s web; tangible, yet very fragile. I hated it.

  We rented office space on the main avenue through South Lake. The yellow brick building sat tucked away at the end of a row of businesses, which made our rent super cheap. We didn’t care about being easy to find. We didn’t necessarily need a prominent location, just really good advertising.

  So far, a website and Facebook page hadn’t done much for us. Client referrals seemed to be the trick. Dwayne had worked hard to spread the word by mouth, even going to some local churches to pass out business cards. I knew how hard it was for him, since most of them were intent on converting him at every turn.

  He wasn’t a heathen. He was Southern Baptist through and through. At least, he claimed Jesus as his savior on each occasion of crisis in his life. Besides, his grandmother, the bastion of faith in his life, promised him an eternity of damnation if he didn’t watch his step. He listened to her without fail. However, he didn’t choose to attend church and wasn’t officially a member of any of them.

  I drove past Fred’s department store, the lot semi-full. With the hefty Easter season just around the corner, small shops hummed from a wealth of business. Easter, thought by some to be the second Christmas, meant retailers must sally forth with the pastel-colored candies even before Valentine’s Day. This marketing ploy, skipping V-Day and going straight to Easter, distracted those of us who loved red-wrapped hearts filled with chocolate candy in all its versions. I was sort of attached to the blow-up bunnies on Fred’s front lawn, though.

  Seeing the store reminded me of the items needed at home, like toilet paper and paper towels. I hadn’t been shopping in a week. Living alone with no one to feed but myself had its advantages sometimes, but when it came to keeping the pantry stocked, it went the other way.

  I sighed and turned onto the small side street where Video Angels resided, maneuvered Betsy to my usual slot, and got out. Trudging up the metal stairs to the office, I pondered the events of the day. No doubt about it, certain facets stank.

  After letting myself in, I took in
the mail strewn on the floor in front of the door slot. I stooped over and picked it up. A Cabot Creamery catalog from an online visit and an ad from Dell for their latest wireless technology. Boo yah. Thanks, Mr. Mailman. Even catalogs and advertisements were welcome in lieu of real mail. Especially when the real mail of late was all bills.

  The important-looking stuff got dumped at the front desk, a golden oak piece in need of refinishing, and the envelopes got stuck in the sorter. I looked around at the clean floors and smelled Pine-sol from where Mr. Yoshi had been performing his janitorial duties. Yoshi was hired after Dwayne and I met him during last summer’s debacle. Yoshi needed something to keep him busy and out of trouble. He was great with dust and grime. We called him a grime fighter. It always got a smile out of him.

  Dwayne had left the VX2000 on the futon in the front room. I scooped up the sleek black body and smiled. If anything incriminating showed up on our video, maybe Dwayne and I could down two giants with one throw. Sal could see it was Rafe, find out some clues about his whereabouts last night, and discover if he had gone to see Bubba. It would also prove it wasn’t kids messing around in the cemetery for Jason, so the cops would start posting a watch.

  Toting it around with one hand, I found a cable to hook it up to my computer. We purchased the old Macintosh second-hand from someone who got a newer model, but I loved the way the machine still worked for video editing. Simply a G4 Dual 800 to some people, but to me it was the Holy Grail.

  I loaded it with Final Cut Pro 4 and Photoshop, thanks to money given to me from my two little lovable aunties, Tillie and Nancy. They’d raised me since age ten when Mama and Daddy met Jesus in a tornado and were excited about helping me get set up in my own business. The programs made video creation a breeze.

  The more accepted method built into our production suite was to take the footage and pop it into an editing deck, but since I didn’t have much footage to go through, I just used the camera as a VCR—the quickie method.

  While things prepared themselves for viewing, I walked to the closet where I had set up a small shelf to house a Black and Decker coffee maker and accessories. After hooking up the pot to an electric outlet, I took the carafe into the bathroom and filled it with water. Maybe some caffeine would help my mind focus on the job at hand.

  I learned a lot about coffee and coffee making thanks to my best friend Katie. Her brother, Dave, wanted to open a coffee business and spent a lot of time giving out samples of blends he experimented with.

  After tearing open a faux foil pouch of something he called Sumatra Sizzle, I dumped it into the filter and turned it on, my mouth watering at the expectation of freshly brewed java. While it dripped, I settled into my roomy office chair and pressed play in the camera.

  In a few moments, the footage appeared. Fuzzy flashes of color zipped across the screen, went out of focus, and then became Rafe’s hoodie. When the focus became sharper, I rewound a couple of times to figure out what the little sharp appearances of color had been. Duh. His wallet chain.

  The other figures were only blurs moving across the screen, and the only audio sounds were of me, huffing and puffing as I ran. It reminded me of foot chases on episodes of Cops, one of my most favorite shows. The cameraman always sounded like he experienced the worst of the chase as he went along trying to keep the camera focused and the subject in the shot. Maybe I should watch his technique more closely next time, as this one appeared a total waste.

  I sighed and cut it off, disgusted. The shots were far too dark to make out any identifiable person or persons, or even where it was shot. Very few tombstones showed, which meant proving it had happened in the cemetery might be hard.

  Jason would never be able to prove his case by this mess, and the SLPD would just laugh at him again. And there was no way I wanted Sal and company to see bad footage from my little budding business.

  The coffee pot began making gurgling noises to signal the end of the dripping. I walked into the closet and made a cup. Non-dairy creamer and two Equal. Good and sweet. Returning to my office with it, I sat down and sipped the black magic hoping it would get an information transfer going on with my central synapses.

  While I waited for the information dump to happen, I dialed Dwayne again. This time he answered, his words a little blurry.

  “You okay?”

  “No.”

  “You want me to come over?”

  “No.”

  “Why’re you not answering your phone?”

  “I answered. You’re talkin’ to me ain’t you?”

  “Did you see the other time I called? How come you didn’t call me back?”

  “I figured if you had anything important to tell me, you’d leave a message. I ain’t really into twenty questions now, Shan.”

  “Okay, then. Call me later.”

  “I will.”

  And that was that. He really was hurting. I would go over there anyway. He had never left me alone for an instant during the trying time I’d had. I was going to reciprocate.

  Sumatra Sizzle burned down my throat, and I dissolved into a satisfied lump leaning back into my chair. I tried to come up with a way to get some goods on Rafe since Dwayne seemed so determined Sal’s cousin was involved. Maybe being right would make my friend happy.

  Sitting up, my eyes landed on my Rolodex file. Everyone harbored secrets. They usually could be found in their homes. Rafe’s mother had given me his address.

  I snagged my purse off the desk by the door and hauled out of there. If Rafe was home, I could find a way for him to let me in. Snoop around some. If he wasn’t home, well, I might have to be a little more inventive. Since last summer’s events, breaking and entering no longer pelted me with guilt. I justified my criminal activity as necessary where people I cared about were involved. Bubba lay cold on a slab, and Dwayne was upset. It was justified.

  Swallowing hard, I gunned down the street. Dwayne would be with me in this. This was something that he would want to do. I tried to comfort myself with the thought if I got caught and arrested, he would bail me out and wouldn’t fuss at me for trying to help. Okay, he might fuss, but he would forgive me. I tried not to think about how Rafe might be a cold-blooded killer who recognized me from the cemetery.

  I gritted my teeth and accelerated. Comfort was sure in short order today.

  Chapter Three

  Inching up Highway 178 past the crime scene where the cops still worked, I tried to see something of importance. A car behind me honked at my rubbernecking so I took a right at the light on Greenman and drove down a block to Millis Road. Millis led to the trailer park where Rafe lived. If I didn’t have any luck there, I would just stop in and check on Dwayne. No biggie. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Oh really, Wallace? Then why are your hands sweating?

  I tried to relax and wiped them on my jeans. It was like having an angel and a demon on each shoulder. The angel reminded me of what would happen if Rafe wasn’t home, and the demon countered with things about angels having PMS.

  After turning into the trailer park, I followed Rafe’s mother’s directions. Go around the curve, take the first lane on the right, and his trailer would be the third on the left.

  I craned my neck as I pulled past. Then I whipped down another lane, turned around, and came back. The problem with surveillance on a trailer in a mobile home park is that the streets are narrow and the trailers are all scrunched together. No way to be inconspicuous. If you try to park across the road from one, you end up in another person’s yard. Neighbors wouldn’t take kindly to such, and neither would their mean, saliva-dripping yard dogs.

  I parked in front of Rafe’s rusty white trailer close enough to the front to hear the air conditioner make loud thrumming noises. Ten minutes passed, and no one came to find out what my business was.

  I climbed out of Betsy and walked toward the door. No car sat in the graveled parking area at his trailer and the lack of activity convinced me of his absence.

  Bounding up the ricke
ty wooden steps to his door, I planted my feet on a faux turf door mat and rapped a few times. If he answered, I would just pretend to be at the wrong address and pray Dwayne was right about anyone recognizing me.

  Rafe didn’t answer, so I tried to see inside the curtained window of the door.

  No luck.

  I stood there a moment contemplating jail. If I followed through with my plan, it was illegal. Demon says, “So? Is this any different than breaking into Rick’s apartment after he died to take back your belongings?”

  Either I have a crook’s mind, or I lied to myself very convincingly, or I was about to be committed into the cracker box. Regardless which it was, I jogged back to my car for a screwdriver to pop open the poor excuse for a door. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the curtains closing on the next door neighbor’s back door.

  Damn.

  I had been seen. I slowed my roll to the car.

  This made things a little more awkward. I would have to invent a reason to be there if asked. Better to be on the offense than the defense.

  I walked around the front of the neighbor’s double-wide and strolled under their awning. The neighbors were not as poor as Rafe because their trailer hosted a nice deck and plastic lawn chairs, too. A mesh-sided playpen filled with infant toys stood by the door, and I pondered knocking. If someone’s baby was disturbed, this visit might turn nasty.

  I opted for a light tap on the flimsy aluminum door, just in case.

  A blonde Pomeranian bounced up and down on the other side yipping for all her worth. So much for being quiet.

  A heavy-set lady wearing a loud floral housedress and a ratty bouffant hairstyle answered the door. She gave the term trailer trash a new reason for being.

  With a quick kick to Yippy, she opened the door a small crack. The smell of popcorn wafted to my nose and my stomach rumbled at the buttery scent.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for Mr. Ramirez. He lives next door,” I said, pointing behind her. “I’m his personal trainer, and he’s missed his workout.” I flexed my bicep and smiled, totally aware I bore no muscle tone to speak of.