Dying in the Dark (9 page)

“Did
you
blame Celia for breaking up your marriage?”

“Celia didn't break up my marriage. My wife was a good woman and she deserved better from me than she got. Next time I hold a piece of gold, I'll know how to polish it.”

“You mentioned other men in Celia's life. Was one of them Drew Sampson?” I asked, aiming wildly, hoping to hit something. I realized now that the Drew he'd mentioned as one of his best friends in high school must be the same Drew Sampson who had signed Morgan's guest book and was connected to Annette Sampson. The look in his eyes told me I'd hit it.

“Drew Sampson? Why are you bringing him into this?” His brow wrinkled into a frown.

“No reason. I just saw his name in Celia's diary,” I said, stretching the truth.

He looked puzzled, “So you
are
investigating Celia's murder then.”

I gave him the truth. Or part of it anyway. “She was a friend of mine. We shared some history. I thought I'd ask around a little bit.”

“I've heard you're a good detective.”

“I have my days.”

“Will you keep me abreast of what you find out? I don't mind paying you.”

“I've already been paid, thank you.”

He looked confused, then went back to Drew Sampson. “So Celia kept a diary. Wow! I'm surprised Drew's name is in it. Drew is probably one of the best friends I have, and to tell the truth, I don't
think he's looked at another woman since he married Annette. He spends too much time counting his money from those drugstores to—”

“Drew Sampson is Sampson Drugs?” I asked with new respect, as I connected his name to the chain of small independent drugstores that had sprouted up in neighborhoods where the big guys wouldn't go.

“The same, but not for long. He just sold it, and he got a very big check from a very big corporation. He told me a couple of days ago that he's getting the hell out of Newark. Too many bad memories here.”

“Bad memories? Like what?”

He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘A lot of things have changed in Newark in the past few years.” The tone in his voice reminded me of Jake's when he talked about the way the city was growing, and that caught me by surprise.

“Not fast enough for some,” I said.

“Faster than they thought it would after the riots.”

“The riots were a long time ago.”

“Not as long ago as you think,” Larry said with a chuckle, and I left my pursuit of the truth long enough to share the affection and concern I have for our city. We spoke of the city's rebirth and our excitement about what might yet happen. We laughed about local characters we both remembered who had made the city what it was. After about ten minutes of shared remembrances, I brought the conversation back to where I wanted it.

“So Drew was sick of Newark and the life he had here.”

“Drew took a lot from Newark, but he gave a lot back, too. He
and Annette contributed to every charity there was, and he served on half a dozen boards. He wrote more checks for benefits than most folks pay in rent.”

“Where does he want to go?”

“I'm not sure. Fiji, maybe. New Zealand, places he's only read about. His grandmother was Cuban, and he talks about her a lot. He says he'd like to see Cuba before he dies.”

“He's retiring, then.”

“To tell the truth, Drew was always more interested in making money than making people healthy, and now that he's made a lot of it, he just wants to relax. He's a pharmacist with a broad knowledge of drugs. I call him whenever I need anything. But he's also a very astute businessman.”

“Do you know why he showed up at Celia's funeral? His name was on the guest list.”

He studied me for a moment as if deciding whether to level with me, then said, “He was looking for his wife. He knew that Annette would probably see the register, and he wanted her to know that he was there. At least Marva left me for another man. Drew wasn't the one involved with Celia, it was Annette. She left him for Celia Jones. It shocked the hell out of me, too,” he said, acknowledging the expression on my face. “I had no idea Celia swung both ways, as they say, but she was a free spirit, and she must have had that effect on Annette as well.”

“It must have shocked the hell out of Drew Sampson, too.”

“Shock was the least of it. Annette took their son, Drew Junior, and moved back to her father's old place with Celia and her boy. Annette has a bit of the social worker in her, and according to Celia, she
was trying to help her get her life together, which Celia both appreciated and resented.”

“So Celia told you about their relationship?”

“Celia and I were friends. I looked out for her son as much as I could, until Annette came into the picture. I loaned her money when she needed it. But Annette was extremely possessive, which really pissed off Celia. Annoyed the hell out of me, too.”

“She and Celia were together when Celia was murdered?”

“I'm not sure.”

‘Annette didn't go to her funeral, at least she didn't sign the guest book.”

“I usually don't bother signing those things either, do you?”

“But you signed the one at Celia's funeral.”

“I signed it for the boy, so he'd have a record of who cared enough about his mother to pay their last respects. I don't know why Annette did or didn't sign. Yesterday was the first time I'd seen her in months.”

“So that was Annette Sampson you were sitting next to? I thought it might be Rebecca Donovan. Brent Liston mistook me for her.”

“Liston mistook you for Rebecca? No way!” He laughed at that, too, and his expression told me that according to whatever criteria he was using, I came out the better.

“So the kid at the funeral, the one sitting in front of you and Annette, was her son, right?” I asked, although I'd already guessed it.

“DeeEss, he calls himself these days. He was a nice middle-class boy for a while, Jack and Jill, the whole bit, but he's definitely taken a turn in another direction. Cecil's influence, I'm sad to say. The kid's world blew apart when Annette fell in love with Celia. If you ask me, what she did was pretty damned selfish.”

“But you never know what is
really
going on in a marriage,” I said, speaking as much from experience as anything else. When I'd been married to DeWayne Curtis, I'd done so much smiling through tears my jaws got cramped.

He nodded, agreeing with me. “Yeah, but I would have fought her for the kid. Annette and Drew had what they call a traditional marriage. Drew made the money, ran the business, and she took care of the house, raised the kid, so it was natural the boy would go with her when she left. He and his father weren't all that close, although Drew loves that boy with all his heart. It was strange, though, what happened. Annette always seemed pretty happy to me,” he said, then added a moment later in retrospect, “according to Drew anyway. He blamed Celia for corrupting her, as he put it.”

“So he blamed Celia for losing his wife and son?”

“That's what he's always said. I've tried to explain to him that he couldn't blame Celia for something like that, but he insisted that she's to blame.”

When I heard that, Drew Sampson's name went in red to the top of my most-likely-suspects list.

“It seems to me that Sampson's sense of what was going on in his wife's head was about as clear as a smoky day in hell. Did Annette have a job? She must have done something when she wasn't ironing, cooking, and cleaning his house.”

Larry looked embarrassed, and I was amused again about how little the average man knows about the inner life of the average woman. Annette as “person” outside of “wife and mother” had completely escaped him. It took him a moment to come up with something.

“Come to think about it, Annette was an aspiring artist. She was very involved with the Newark Museum for a while, and one of her paintings was in a group show at a gallery for emerging artists. That was a couple of years ago, though. Look, Tamara, maybe you'd better talk to Drew and Annette about their business. If they'll talk to you.”

“I suspect Drew's number is unlisted. Do you have a number for him?”

He looked so uncomfortable, I didn't pursue it, but asked instead, “So did
you
introduce Annette to Celia?”

“Me? No. I was as surprised as Drew when she upped and left with Celia. Celia had mentioned she was involved in a new relationship that was going to be good for her, but she didn't say who it was with. She never mentioned names.”

‘And you were still seeing her at that point?”

He hesitated before he answered; his expression revealed that he wasn't sure if this was any of my business. I stared him down, as if I had a perfect right to know.

“Tamara, I think you should understand that my relationship with Celia took place a number of years before she was murdered. I looked out for her kid as much as I could, talked to her when she needed somebody to talk to, but I realized early on that I needed more from a woman than Celia was willing to give.” He smiled sadly and shook his head. “I suspect Celia had quite a few relationships between the time that we were intimate and when she got involved with Annette Sampson.”

I made a point of picking up my cup and drinking the last bit of
coffee as I tried to decide the best way to phrase my last question, the one I was sure would end our conversation, probably on a bad note.

“So, uh, did the cops talk to you when Celia was murdered?” I looked him in the eye, trying to spot any truth he was hiding.

He looked genuinely puzzled. “Me? No. Like I said, my thing with Celia happened three years ago. Are you asking me if I killed Celia?”

“Well, uh, I'm trying to figure out how good a job the cops did, who they talked to, what leads …” I sputtered on, a phony smile fixed on my lips. Larry rescued me from myself.

“Well, Tamara, here's the answer to the question you're not comfortable asking. I was visiting my daughter in North Carolina the day of Celia's death. I read about it in the paper the next day like everybody else. Here's Marva's number so you can check out my alibi.” He jotted down his wife's telephone number on a napkin and pushed it across the table toward me. ‘As for Cecil, I was down in DC doing a deal with a guy who sold me a fleet of cars, one of which I sold you. I don't have his number, but it's in my office. I'll leave it on your machine so you'll have that, too. The police didn't ask about my whereabouts when Celia was killed because I'm not a suspect, and I never have been. I'm amazed that you could possibly think that I could have something to do with that poor woman's death.”

And with that, he paid the bill and left.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
he memory of the kid hit me
the moment I walked into my office the next morning. It had been only a week since he'd been sitting here with his tough little self, Celia's ghost trailing right behind him. I snapped on my computer, determined to put them out of my mind and do something constructive. By the time the screen lit up, I couldn't think of squat to write, so I went through my usual procrastination—made some tea, watered the orphan aloe, gazed out my dirty window.

I thought about Larry Walton and checked for a message with the telephone number of the car dealer in DC, but he hadn't bothered to leave it. Chances were his alibi would have checked out anyway or he wouldn't have mentioned it. I called Cosey Jake's contact about the job, and told him I was interested. He hired me on the spot, explaining that I'd have to start the following Monday, which was fine with me. I remembered that Jake had scribbled the number of the detective on an envelope and searched through my Kenya bag for it, then cursed out loud when I realized I'd left it on my kitchen table. I considered calling him to get it, then admitted to
myself that it would simply be a ruse to talk to him and waste more time.

When the phone rang, I answered it on the first ring.

“Ms. Tamara Hayle? Rebecca Donovan here, returning your call. My answering service said you called on Friday, and I wanted to get back to you.” She sounded efficient, like a woman who didn't like to waste your time and expected the same courtesy from you. I was tempted to ask her about her hoity-toity answering service but changed my mind. It was best to get right to the point.

“Oh, yes. Ms. Donovan. Thank you so much for calling me back.” I tucked the phone between my shoulder and chin and grabbed my notebook and pen. “I was calling about Celia Jones.”

“Celia Jones?” She paused and sounded puzzled, as if trying to place the name, then added, “Celia Jones is dead. I believe she died in January. There's absolutely nothing I can tell you.”

The note of dismissal in her voice told me she was preparing to hang up so I quickly added, “Yes, I'm aware of her death, but I've been hired to look into her murder.”

She gave a slight, well-mannered gasp. “Someone actually hired you to look into that woman's death? I can't imagine who would do that. I assumed that the police were investigating it. Isn't the trail cold by now?”

“It's hot again. The murder of her son warmed it up.” I sounded more sure than I was. I couldn't gauge the effect of my bravado, but it brought a momentary pause, after which she said, “Well, I'll certainly help you in any way that I can.”

“Thank you for your cooperation. So how did you and Celia meet?”

“I was a volunteer at a women's shelter. Celia was a person trapped in a rat's hole of a life, and my heart went out to her. As a child, I was taught to always help people in need, that it was the right thing to do, so I offered her as much aid as I could. I'm afraid, though, she needed far more than I was able to give. I was, however, able to help her get away from the father of her son.”

“You're referring to Brent Liston?”

“Yes.”

“How did you help her get away from him?”

There was silence, then a sigh. “Through my husband, Clayton. I'm the widow of the Honorable Clayton Donovan. He passed away last August. Very suddenly.”

“Oh yes, I was sorry to hear that.”

Another sigh. “There's not much else I can tell you.” She cleared her throat. “If my husband were still alive, he might be able to be of help but—”