Lady Jasmine (17 page)

“
Chica,
you better be glad I love you,” Viva said, her accent thick, the way it always was when she was upset.

“Why?”

“’Cause doubling up means I gotta share my tips with you—on the floor and on the stage. They’re not gonna give us twice the money.” She paused and grinned. “Unless we—” She stopped. “Nah, you ain’t
even
ready for that.”

Jasmine could only imagine what Viva was talking about…some girl-on-girl kind of dancing. Her friend was right; she was not about to do that. Getting on this stage was going to be bad enough.

With a sigh, Viva said, “Come on, let me show you the dressing room, and then we can go shopping. I gotta get you somethin’ fly if we’re gonna do this.”

Viva had already told her that she needed a pair of platform shoes and some kind of outfit to perform in.

“Oh,” Viva said as she led the way. “You’re going to have to come up with a name.”

“For what?”

“For the DJ to call you. Do you want him saying, ‘Now here’s Jasmine Cox?’”

Jasmine shook her head. Not only did she not want anyone knowing her name, she would have worn a mask, if she could. “What name do you use?” Jasmine asked.

Viva grinned. “Dominica Divinci, but everyone calls me Double Dee.”

That’s appropriate.
“Well, obviously, I can’t have a name like that, so…”

With a big sigh, Viva said, “Do I have to figure out everything?” She stopped moving, turned back to Jasmine. “Okay, this is what some of the girls do—did you ever have a pet growing up?”

Jasmine frowned and nodded. “Yeah,” she said slowly.

Viva motioned with her hands for Jasmine to continue.

“A dog named Pepper. But what—”

“That’s good,” Viva said, without letting her finish. “Now, what was the name of the first street you lived on?”

Jasmine squinted, her confusion growing. “Pulaski Street.”

“Perfect! That’s your name,” she said, turning away and leading Jasmine toward the back again.

“Pepper Pulaski—that sounds like a stripper.”

Pepper Pulaski.
That was as far away from Jasmine Cox as she could get.
Whatever…

That was what Jasmine thought then. But it had been a name that had served her well. The men who frequented the Foxtails Hostess Club came to adore Pepper Pulaski.

But that was in 1983. No one knew her by that name now.

As if it were a snake, Jasmine picked up the letter by its edge, slowly lowered herself into the chair, then tore open the envelope.

You are running out of time. Get your husband to step down now, Pepper, or else.

Long after she read the words, her hands were still shaking. Could this have come from someone in her past?

No, that made no sense. None of those people knew where
she lived now. None of those people would have been able to walk into this church and lay this letter on her chair.

This was definitely an inside job.

Slam!

Jasmine jumped at the sound of the front door—but she’d locked it, she was sure of that.

“Hello,” she called out.

No response.

“Roxie?”

Again, nothing.

That was when her fear began to rise. She was glued to her seat, but only for a moment. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she jumped from her chair and tiptoed across the office. If she could get to the door and close it, she’d be ready for anyone who tried to come in.

But then, she saw the shadow against the wall.

She lunged toward the door, but the man was already there.

She screamed.

He frowned.

“What’s wrong with you?” Pastor Wyatt hoisted the strap of the garment bag he carried over his shoulder.

“Are you crazy?” she demanded, as she held her hand against her chest, trying to keep her heart inside. “What were you trying to do?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his forehead still creased with confusion.

“I asked who was there…you didn’t answer.”

He stared at her a moment longer. “I didn’t hear you.” And then he turned toward his office.

She slammed her door shut, but minutes passed before she was steady enough to walk. This blackmail thing was driving her straight to crazy. She had to get control of it now.

At her desk, she unwrapped the package she’d purchased earlier; she pulled out the cell phone and checked the signal.

She pressed in Hosea’s cell number, and with the text message already in her mind, she typed:
Quit now or else ur family will be n danger.
The moment she pressed Send, she felt guilty.

But what else was she supposed to do? She’d been dragged into this, and her only option was to win.

Now she turned to the second part of her plan—her suspects: Pastor Wyatt and his wife, Jerome Viceroy, Ivy, and Roxie.

The more she stared at the list, the more confident she felt. It had to be one of them—who else could it be?

Now that she was sure, all she needed was dirt on each of these people so that she could turn the tables.

So that she could blackmail the blackmailer.

T
HIS WASN’T THE BEST IDEA
Jasmine ever had.

After the way Pastor Wyatt had stalked into the church this morning, she definitely didn’t want to be alone in this place tonight. But there was no other way to do what had to be done.

Jasmine glanced at her watch.
What time is that woman leaving?
As soon as she had that thought, she heard Mrs. Whittingham’s footsteps approaching.

“Don’t you have to pick up Hosea?” Mrs. Whittingham asked impatiently.

If this had been any other day, any other time, Jasmine would have told her to mind her business. But she responded quickly, directly. “Yes, I’ll be leaving in a little while.”

“Well,” Mrs. Whittingham began with a deep sigh, “I’m ready to leave.”

“Go on. I’ll be okay.” Faking a smile, she continued, “There’s something I need to finish up here, something that Hosea asked me to do.” She pointed to the pad on her desk, confident that Mrs. Whittingham was too far away to notice that the page was blank. It was the woman’s frown that made Jasmine add, “This won’t take me long.” She breathed with relief when Mrs. Whit
tingham turned away. As she heard Mrs. Whittingham shifting around at her desk, Jasmine began packing her own purse and briefcase, wanting to be ready.

“I’m leaving,” Mrs. Whittingham called out.

“Have a good night.”

There wasn’t a single word of reciprocation from Mrs. Whittingham, but Jasmine didn’t notice. Her mind was beyond her nemesis, already on her mission.

She sat at her desk, glanced at her watch. She’d wait five minutes. But not even sixty seconds passed before she was up and out in the front, checking first to make sure that the door was locked. Then she stood behind Mrs. Whittingham’s desk, in front of the three file cabinets lined up side by side.

It took her a few minutes, but she found what she needed in the fourth drawer. First, there was Pastor Wyatt’s file. There wasn’t much, but she jotted down the facts she didn’t know, information she hoped to use. She did the same with Jerome Viceroy.

Scanning through the rest of the folders, she eyed the ones for Brother Hill, Mrs. Whittingham, Sister Clinton, Brother Stevens. There was even a file for Sister Pearline. But there was nothing on Roxie or Ivy. That made sense, since neither one was really part of the church.

She returned the files, stuffed the pad with all she’d written into her briefcase, then sat down at Mrs. Whittingham’s desk. Here, she wasn’t sure what she was looking for.

There was nothing but the usual office supplies—a tub filled with pencils and pens, a stapler, a dish with paper clips, rubber bands; she lifted a book of stamps—the Black Heritage ones. Surprise, surprise—the old biddy had some African pride.

She opened the top center drawer—more pens, more staples, more rubber bands. Just as she slammed the drawer, she heard the sound—a key in the door.

Jasmine jumped, tried to roll the chair away from the desk. But a wheel caught on the edge of the plastic runner. She pushed. Pushed. Then stood, a millisecond before Mrs. Whittingham walked inside.

The woman’s eyes were fraught with accusations before she even said a word. “What are you doing?” she demanded to know.

“I was…looking”—Jasmine’s eyes scanned the desk—“here.” She lifted the booklet. “I needed a couple of stamps. But if you’re going to act like this, never mind!”

Mrs. Whittingham stomped past her. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from my desk?” She opened drawers, peeked under papers, flipped through binders as if she was searching for proof of a crime. “This is my private space,” she argued, as she slammed one drawer, then opened another. “My God. Am I going to have to lock up everything because Hosea has you working here?”

“First of all, Hosea doesn’t have me—”

“This is ridiculous. All these years and now I’m going to have to put a padlock on my desk!”

“I
just
wanted a stamp,” Jasmine said, letting the woman know how silly she sounded.

“Look,” Mrs. Whittingham growled, “you stay out of my space, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

“Fine.” She picked up her briefcase and purse. Pretended that she didn’t notice the way Mrs. Whittingham stopped and was now eyeing her bag, as if she was sure the thief was escaping with evidence. Jasmine rolled her eyes and marched out the door.

Inside her car, she screeched out of the parking lot, without another thought about Mrs. Whittingham. Her mind was on the briefcase that rested in the passenger seat. What she’d gathered wasn’t much, but it was a start. With Pastor Wyatt and Jerome Viceroy.

The two men on her list.

Men.

And men were her specialty. Knowing them, manipulating them was a talent that she had honed.

All she had to do now was put what she’d learned over the years to use.

J
ASMINE SQUEEZED
H
OSEA AS TIGHT
as she could.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

He shrugged and motioned for her to follow him into the hallway.

Outside of his father’s room, he sighed. “There was no reason to call. Not really. Pops didn’t make it without the ventilator. They had to put him back on almost immediately.”

“But this morning, Doctor Lewis said that he was trying to breathe on his own.”

“It looked that way. She said we should give it a couple of days and see where he’s at before they try again.”

Jasmine rubbed her hand across his back. “I’m so sorry. I know you were hopeful.”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I’m giving up. Pops is going to make it.”

Jasmine didn’t say anything else; just wrapped her arms around him again. But as she held him, she knew now for sure: she was doing the right thing. This time, she wasn’t lying just to lie. This time, she wasn’t thinking about herself. This was all about Hosea—how could she bring the blackmailer into his life?

When he stepped away from her, he said, “I hate to do this, but there’s something else.” The way he pulled back made her heart turn into a hammer. “I got this today.”

She blinked as he scrolled through messages on his cell phone. It took her a moment to remember. Her text.

He said, “Now, I don’t want you to be concerned, but…” He didn’t finish. Just handed her the phone and let her read the text that she’d sent.

Jasmine’s eyes scanned the screen as if she’d never read such words. As if she could hardly believe it.

She held her hand to her chest. Widened her eyes. “Hosea!” she gasped. There was as much fear in her voice as she could muster. “You
definitely
have to step down now. You
have
to quit. You have to think about…” She didn’t have to say their daughter’s name to know that he would get the message.

He shook his head. “I only showed you this because I never want to keep anything from you. But I’m not stepping down.”

“What?” she asked. That was not the answer she’d worked for.

He said, “I’m not turning over Pops’s church to someone who would send this.”

“But you wouldn’t be turning it over exactly. You’d still be on the board,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if that was in the blackmailer’s plan.

Hosea was already shaking his head. “No.”

She crossed her arms. Paced in front of him. “So you’re going to ignore this? You can’t. This is serious!”

“You’re right.” He held her shoulders. “I’m not ignoring it; I called Detective Foxx as soon as I got the message.”

She swallowed. It took her a moment to get out, “You called the police?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, Foxx is a friend, and I knew he’d help me decide what to do.”

Jasmine shook her head, not believing this. It was getting out of her control.

“I had to call him,” Hosea said, mistaking the reason why Jasmine was muttering “no” under her breath. “Someone threatened us, and in today’s times, I think this is considered a terrorist threat.”

She was going to faint—she was sure of it. The way she couldn’t breathe, the way her head began to spin. “What…what…what did Detective Foxx say?”

“He was out on the island today, but he’s going to stop by our place tomorrow and talk to us. He wants to see the text, check it out—” Hosea stopped. “You don’t have to worry. Nothing’s going to happen…to you or Jacquie. I’ll make sure of that.”

It wasn’t until he used his thumb to wipe away a tear crawling down her cheek that she realized she was crying.

“I promise,” he said before he pulled her into his arms. “You and Jacqueline will always be safe.”

She was grateful that Hosea thought her trembling had come from reading the text. But in truth: it was being the author of that message that had her shaking like she was an earthquake registering 9.0 on the Richter scale.

A terrorist threat?

What would the police do if they found out she’d sent the message?

The man in the drugstore had assured her that the phone wasn’t traceable. That’s what he’d said when she’d asked.

“Prepaid phones aren’t traceable in any way, right?”

The man with the dark bushy mustache and turban on his head had looked at her with suspicion shooting from his black eyes.

“No, not traceable.” But he’d kept his gaze on her. The entire time—as she paid him with cash, as he gave her change, as he packed the phone—he studied her as if he was sure he’d have to pick her out of a lineup one day.

But he wouldn’t have been able to tell the police too much—her face had been well hidden.

She hadn’t been worried at all then, but she had plenty of fear now.

Inside her husband’s arms, she prayed that what the clerk had told her was true. She prayed that the phone she’d used wasn’t traceable at all.

Jasmine’s eyes were wide open as Hosea’s snores rang in her ear. It had been a bit more than an hour since they’d gone to bed. But now, Jasmine was sure that she could move.

Slowly, she slid her leg from between his, paused, then gently slipped from beneath his arm. Even though she barely breathed as she moved, she sat on the edge of the bed and waited a moment before she grabbed her robe from the recliner, wrapped herself in the silk, then tiptoed across the apartment to the room they used as an office.

Even though the meeting with Detective Foxx was heavy on her mind, she couldn’t be sidetracked—especially since Hosea refused to resign. The blackmailer was still looming, and she had to work her plan.

As she waited for the computer to boot up, her mind was already working on the lie she’d tell Hosea if he woke up. Her story would be that she couldn’t sleep. That the text message and the meeting with Detective Foxx had her on edge. At least her lie was 90 percent truth.

She clicked onto the Internet and created a new Yahoo! account. She had all the fake information ready. Name: Mariah Carter—hoping that a name similar to the singer’s might conjure up good images. Birth date: September 9, 1982—what better age than almost twenty-five? Next, she created a password and then signed on.

She started with Pastor Wyatt, since he was the married one and men with wives were always the easiest to trap.

Pastor Wyatt: I wanted to send you an e-mail to let you know
that I admire you so much. I think your sermons are beyond wonderful. I come to City of Lights every Sunday just to see you. You are an amazing man and I hope…
Jasmine stopped. Changed “hope” to
pray that you’ll e-mail me back, not that I want anything. All I want is to know that you got my e-mail and that you know that you’re appreciated. Peace and love, Mariah Carter.

She read the e-mail again before she pressed Send. Then, she typed an e-mail with a few changes to Jerome Viceroy. She wasn’t sure what she expected to get from him, since he was single. But men did all kinds of things when it came to sex and women. This was just phase one—tossing it out to see what would come back.

Her plan had been to sign off, go back to bed, and hope that by morning, her fish would have taken a bite. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

She glanced at the clock. It was after three. Surely neither of these men would be up at this time, lurking through cyberspace.

Still, she sat and sat. And she waited and waited.

Just sat and waited for something to happen.