Read Hanging on a String Online
Authors: Janette M. Louard
Hanging on a String (16 page)
“Looks like Wallace has forgiven Chester,” said Dahlia as the procession passed by our pew.
The words escaped my mouth before I had a chance to stop them. “Ain't that much forgiveness in the world.”
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I left the funeral home shortly after the funeral ended. There was a reception in the adjoining room, but I wanted to get as far away from that scene as possible. I said good-bye to Dahlia outside of the funeral home as she headed south to get her subway train, which would take her back to Brooklyn. I decided to walk home, or walk as far as my legs would take me, and then catch a cab to take me the rest of the way.
As I walked, lost in my own thoughts, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I couldn't help it. After everything I'd been through the past few days, I screamed bloody murder. It was Marcus Claremont.
“You scared the devil out of me!” I gasped when I finally got my voice and my composure back.
“I'm not stalking you. I promise.” He grinned at me.
“I'm beginning to wonder,” I said. I remembered last night's kiss, and by the way he was looking at me, I could tell that he also remembered.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” I asked.
Marcus Claremont's smiled widened. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I thought you said last night that you wouldn't flirt with me anymore.”
“No,” Marcus replied. “I said that I wouldn't kiss you. I didn't say anything about flirting.”
I sighed. “After what I've just been through, flirting is just about the last thing on my mind.”
“I saw you at the funeral,” Marcus said.
“Were you there?” I asked. “I didn't see you.”
“I'm crushed,” he said. “I thought you'd sense my presence. I saw you the minute you walked in.”
I decided to change the direction of the conversation. If he kept this up, I'd end up jumping on him in the middle of a busy New York sidewalk.
“Detective ...”
“Marcus,” he corrected.
“Marcus, I assume there is some reason that you're standing on this sidewalk with me.”
He sighed. “There is. I saw you at the funeral, and you looked upset. I tried to catch up with you back at the funeral home, but you left before I had a chance to talk to you.”
“Why'd you want to talk to me?” I asked.
“To make sure that you're okay,” he said.
Inside, something indefinable melted. Easy on the eyes. Sexy dark eyes. Good kisser. And considerate. There had to be a catch.
“I appreciate that,” I said.
“But it makes you uncomfortable,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I'll try and do better,” Marcus Claremont assured me. “I don't want to scare you off. I just wanted to ... well, it doesn't matter. Where are you off to?”
“I think I'm heading home,” I said. “But I'm not sure. I've got to clear my head.”
“Be careful, Jasmine.” Marcus Claremont looked at me, with his serious dark eyes.
“I will,” I promised him.
13
S
HOWDOWN
A
T
F
UNERAL
O
F
T
WO
-T
IMING
L
AWYER
screamed the headline of the next day's newspaper. I read the accompanying article on a subway ride to the Bronx. I was heading to meet Lamarr's sister, Maizie, his only living relative, who had agreed to give me the key to his apartment. The article focused on the “dramatic entrance” of the “other woman,” Winter Reed. According to the reporter's account of the funeral, the beautiful Winter had faced off with the beautiful widow over the coffin of the dead lawyer.
Pretty accurate,
I thought. The article also mentioned that a “colleague” and “special” friend, noted attorney Nina Smyth, had come to the aid of the grieving widow when Winter refused to go quietly. Not quite the truth, but sensational just the same. I folded up the newspaper without bothering to read any more just as the train pulled into the station at 239th Street.
HOWDOWN
A
T
F
UNERAL
O
F
T
WO
-T
IMING
L
AWYER
screamed the headline of the next day's newspaper. I read the accompanying article on a subway ride to the Bronx. I was heading to meet Lamarr's sister, Maizie, his only living relative, who had agreed to give me the key to his apartment. The article focused on the “dramatic entrance” of the “other woman,” Winter Reed. According to the reporter's account of the funeral, the beautiful Winter had faced off with the beautiful widow over the coffin of the dead lawyer.
Pretty accurate,
I thought. The article also mentioned that a “colleague” and “special” friend, noted attorney Nina Smyth, had come to the aid of the grieving widow when Winter refused to go quietly. Not quite the truth, but sensational just the same. I folded up the newspaper without bothering to read any more just as the train pulled into the station at 239th Street.
There are two boroughs with which I am completely unfamiliar, and one of them is the Bronx, and the other is Queens. The farthest uptown I would go as a child would be to Washington Heights. Anything past Washington Heights was in foreign territory. My knowledge of the Bronx was limited to the few trips I took to the Bronx Zoo and to the Yankee games. I am not a baseball fan, and I tend to believe that animals should be free to live in their natural habitat. Hence, my acquaintance with the Bronx was superficial at best. Lamarr had invited me once or twice to his home, but somehow I had never made it to his apartment. We would do our socializing primarily in Manhattan, or in Brooklyn if Lamarr felt adventurous.
I got off the train, with the directions to Maizie's house clutched in hand. I followed her directions, which were precise, undoubtedly a genetic trait she shared with her brother. I walked down a long, tree-lined boulevard, with imposing, prewar apartment buildings flanking it like sentries. I turned left at the appropriate avenue and walked down a side street across from a park, where people of various shades and nationalities were playing an intense game of soccer. I stopped for a moment, mesmerized by the sight of black, brown, and white legs running gracefully, in pursuit of an ever-moving white and blue ball. A crowd had gathered to watch the game, and there were two men selling Mexican food from a white cart. Judging from the lines in front of them, they were doing a good business.
Lamarr lived near this spot. He'd often told me about the Saturday soccer games, where everyone spoke a different language, yet everyone was able to come together and just play ball. If only life could be that way off the soccer field. At the thought of Lamarr, I felt a now familiar sadness descend. I still couldn't comprehend that I would never see my buddy again. At least not in this life. I
should have visited him,
I thought mournfully.
Too late for regrets.
That was something Lamarr would say often. Too late for regrets. I never understood until this very moment what it was he was talking about. I proceeded down the block, my temporary high from the soccer game now dissipated into a blue funk.
should have visited him,
I thought mournfully.
Too late for regrets.
That was something Lamarr would say often. Too late for regrets. I never understood until this very moment what it was he was talking about. I proceeded down the block, my temporary high from the soccer game now dissipated into a blue funk.
Maizie lived two blocks down in a neat row house. “Come on in!” she called cheerfully through the intercom before buzzing me in. I walked inside the foyer. Maizie stood waiting for me down a long hallway, with a wide smile on her face.
How could she be smiling at a time like this?
I thought as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to return her smile.
How could she be smiling at a time like this?
I thought as I attempted, unsuccessfully, to return her smile.
She was a smaller and darker version of Lamarr. The color of smooth mahogany, she had large, dancing brown eyes. She was thin, like Lamarr, and had many of his same sharp features. The resemblance to my dead friend threatened to bring more tears. I'd thought that I was all cried out, but apparently, I was wrong. Maizie was dressed in a long white and gold African robe, and her hair was braided into long, thin braids, which she had pinned on top of her head like a regal African queen. Lamarr had teased his sister about her Afrocentric dress. “She says that she's going back to her roots,” he told me. “I had to remind her that her roots are in Cleveland.”
But, I knew, despite the laughter, he was proud of his sister. Proud that she had forged a life on her own terms. She had been married a long time ago to a husband who had abused her. Finding the courage to leave him and come to New York, she'd worked her way through school and was now teaching African history at City College.
Maizie met me midway in the dark hallway and gave me a quick hug. “It's just so good of you to come, Jasmine.”
“How are you?” I asked. “I know it's a stupid question, but I really want to know.”
Maizie unwrapped her arms from my shoulders and stood facing me. Her eyes were dark brown, whereas Lamarr's had been light grey, but they were still so reminiscent of her brother that for an all too-fleeting moment, I had the impression that my friend was still with me.
“I'm fine. No, really and truly I am doing just fine.”
We walked together down the hallway and up a flight of stairs and into Maizie's apartment. Maizie's apartment was filled with sunlight. It gave the place an almost surreal look. This place was also full of brightly colored furniture. There were African masks everywhere. On the wall. On the table in her living room. There were even a couple on her windowsill. The apartment itself was small, consisting of one room, which served as a dining room/living room/bedroom, and a small kitchen and adjoining bathroom. Yet, the place didn't look crowded. It just looked comfortable and lived in.
Pictures of people who were obviously dear to Maizie were scattered throughout her apartment. In one corner was a table filled with pictures of Lamarr. There was a solitary white candle, with its flame burning, giving off the scent of vanilla.
“My shrine to my brother,” said Maizie. “My way of giving him honor.”
I sat down on the kinte cloth futon, which, I surmised, also served as Maizie's bed. “It's lovely.”
Maizie sat down beside me and held my hand. When she finally spoke, she said, “Don't mourn my brother, Jasmine.”
Maizie was asking me to do the impossible. It was as if she was asking me to stop breathing. My sadness was something tangible, irrefutable, an enemy so invincible that I had waved the white flag of surrender even before the first battle. I'd experienced the loss of someone dear to me before. My grandmother Louise. We'd expected her death, and when it came, even though there was grief, there was relief. Relief that she would no longer suffer. But with Lamarr's death, there had been no warning. One day he was here. The next day he was gone. Without warning. Without me having a chance to say good-bye.
“I can't do that,” I replied. “I can't let go of this... .”
I could not define the bad feeling that I could not run from. Grief was wrapped up in it. Anger. Guilt. Feeling plain old sorry for myself. All of it, coupled with the realization that the familiar voice of a friend was not silent. I could not shake these feelings.
“You don't have a choice,” said Maizie. “Unless you want to just lie down right here on my floor and die. You have to go on. You have to finish what my brother started. That's the way he would have wanted it. Lamarr didn't kill himself. Someone killed my brother. And that someone doesn't mean you any good, Jasmine.”
Finish what my brother started.
“Lamarr knew secrets. These are the things that got him killed.” Maizie's voice was low and urgent. “He wanted to protect you. I don't tell you this to upset you, but it's something that you must know. Lamarr was worried for you. Told me that the last time I spoke to him. He wouldn't tell me what it was that he knew. But he told me to give you the key to his apartment if anything should ever happen to him.”
“If he knew these things, why didn't he tell me? I could have helped. He'd still be alive today.”
“Lamarr knew the risks,” said Maizie. “It was his decision, even if that decision cost him his life. There were pieces to a puzzle that he was trying to figure out. He said you were somehow involved. And he said Chester was involved. But that was all he told me. I think he was close, real close, to solving that puzzle when the end came.”
“The police have already been in his apartment,” I said to Maizie. “I don't think they've found anything to convince them that Lamarr didn't kill himself.”
Maizie pressed two keys on a round key ring in my hand. “Lamarr has left behind signs that no police can read, but you can read these signs, Jasmine, and these signs will save your life. I'm convinced of it.”
I thought of Marcus Claremont and his warning to me. I had brushed him off, but I was now having second thoughts. Marcus had mentioned something about a list he found at Lamarr's apartment. A list with three names on it. A list that included my name. At the time my grief for the loss of Lamarr had been predominant. The grief was still there, but now there was something else, something that had not taken its place, but that was now existing side by side: a determination to find out what happened to Lamarr, and the fear that what happened to Lamarr, Irmalee, and probably Chester could ultimately happen to somebody else. Namely, me.
“I'm going to find out what happened to Lamarr,” I told Maizie.
“I know you will,” she replied.
“Maizie, how do you do it?” I asked, unable to keep the amazement out of my voice. “How can you be so calm after losing Lamarr? Aren't you even angry?”
Maizie stood up and walked over to the windowsill. She picked up a yellow plastic jug and started pouring water on the potted plants. Her profile was so much like her brother's that once again I felt the fresh pain of loss.
“Jasmine,” she said, “I learned a long time ago that anger doesn't do a damn thing but eat you alive. I spent a lot of my life being angry, and it didn't bring me nothing but pain. I made a conscious decision not to live with pain anymore. I'm concentrating on finding out what happened to Lamarr. That's productive. That's what I'm concentrating on. The rest is all negative energy, and I just don't have the heart, or the time, for it.”
I didn't understand that kind of thinking. I come from the old eye for an eye school. The Lord said that vengeance is His, but I have often thought blasphemously that there were some times I'd love to help the Lord outâalthough I was quite certain that He didn't need my help. I admired Maizie for her serenity and her focus, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I was just a little jealous.
“How do I get to Lamarr's apartment from here?” I asked, turning my attention to more immediate matters.
Her directions, for someone on such a spiritual and metaphysical plane, were remarkably concise. “When you leave, turn right, go five blocks, turn right again, and Lamarr's apartment building is on the corner. Number 199-15. Apartment 11A.”
I thanked her and left as soon as possible. I could have spent all afternoon soaking up some of that peace that seemed to hang suspended over Maizie and everything else in her apartment, but I had a job to do, and the sooner I got around to doing it, the better for all concerned.
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I hesitated before I opened the front door to Lamarr's apartment. On the way over, I had tried, as best as I could, to prepare myself for something that was going to cause deep pain. Maizie had informed me that she had left the apartment the same way she'd found it on the day after Lamarr's death.
You have a job to do,
I told myself again, repeating the words in my head until they connected with my hands, my body, my brain, my heart. I opened the door quickly before the fear that I felt knawing somewhere deep in my stomach won the battle with my determination to find out what happened to my friend.
I told myself again, repeating the words in my head until they connected with my hands, my body, my brain, my heart. I opened the door quickly before the fear that I felt knawing somewhere deep in my stomach won the battle with my determination to find out what happened to my friend.
I walked into the living room, and although I had never been to Lamarr's home, I could imagine Lamarr sitting right there on the beige couch in front of me, listening to his beloved John Coltrane on the record player in the corner. Lamarr was the only person I knew who in 1998 still had a stereo. He was convinced that CDs were just a passing fad. “Besides,” he would often tell me in disgust, usually when he was perusing the ever-increasing numbers of CDs I kept in my office to help me make it through those long nights of case preparation, “the music sounds better on vinyl.”
Lamarr's apartment was a study of beige and white. Beige sofa, beige chairs, beige and white rugs. Beige lace curtains fluttered and danced in the wind. Trust Maizie to leave the window open in a dead man's apartment. The place had a lived-in feeling. From the mound of record albums resting on the floor by the record player to the potted plants, like those found in Maizie's apartment, which filled the apartment, to the paintings of black women that hung on the walls. Lamarr's passion had been his art. He painted his muse: black women. I remember how touched I was when Lamarr presented me with a portrait of three black women sitting on a wide, white porch. He had entitled the portrait
Content
. The picture hangs in my living room, and I am constantly refusing offers from people to buy it. “Sentimental value,” I tell them. I never dreamt just how sentimental that portrait was going to become.
Content
. The picture hangs in my living room, and I am constantly refusing offers from people to buy it. “Sentimental value,” I tell them. I never dreamt just how sentimental that portrait was going to become.
I sat on the couch and tried to drink in Lamarr's presence. Before I had entered his apartment, I was afraid that too many memories, and the overwhelming feeling of loss, would do me in. But I felt comforted by Lamarr's home, which was filled with things unfamiliar yet so reminiscent of their owner, and for a moment, a quick moment, I imagined that Lamarr was just in the next room. He would be out soon, with some herbal, decaffeinated tea or some other treat designed to make me feel good. Lamarr was good at giving comfort. He was also good at giving advice, even when I wasn't in the mood to hear it.
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