Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (38 page)

By the way of a definition, I've got a kiss ass job. I'm Walt Johnson, and my official title is manager of the Tower Grocery and Spirits Shoppe. My store is one of fourteen in the Burkley Chain, all located in high-rise buildings in the Loop, or Near North areas of downtown Chicago. I'm the one black in the chain's management team. We have one Hispanic, one Korean, two women, and one guy who's open about his alternative lifestyle. However, we all agree on the job description.

I do an adequate, if not above average job of maintaining store appearances, stock conditions, and profit margins. I get a good buck for that end of the workload, which I justly deserve, if I may say so. But I've never been able to put a price on all the bowing and scraping I have to do.

About ninety-eight percent of the customers we serve are tenants of the buildings where our stores are located. In my case, they're either condo residents who occupy the top thirty floors, or the occupants of the various offices, which are housed on the remaining five. Not all the people I deal with are jerks. It's just that those who have that distinction certainly make up for the rest.

Case in point, Charles W. Vanders. Rude, arrogant, snobbish, and those are just a few of his better qualities. Cheap would be another of his
attributes that endeared him to my deliveryman. The times we've made deliveries, and there have been a number of them, whether it was a bottle of milk or a bottle of champagne, a “thanks” was something to rave about. I won't mention the times I've had the personal pleasure of dropping something off to him.

Vanders was a whale of a man, with a tangle of red hair that was fading fast, and an extremely pale complexion. He wasn't much more than six-one, but he was surely pushing the hell out of three hundred and fifty pounds. He did have a great tailor though, his suits doing a fine job hiding his bulk. I guessed if I had to say something nice about him that would be it. Even when Royce told me Vanders had been found in his condo shot to death, I wondered if he'd gotten any blood on the gray gabardine I'd seen him wearing earlier.

“Cops up there now,” Royce said. He was one of the uniform security people for the building, a black kid in his early twenties with about three hairs above his upper lip that served as a mustache. I've got enough years on me to be his old man, and I guess we've got that kind of relationship. He's asked for my advice from time to time, and I've enjoyed hearing about his antics.

We were standing in the hall just outside the entrance to the store where he'd beckoned me to fill me in on all the gory details.

“I got a good look before they booted me out. I swear it looked like he had three eyes, one right in the middle of his forehead all red and swollen. Must've caught him by surprise. There was a bottle of champagne on his coffee table. And he was in his robe sitting in the corner of his sofa, holding a half empty glass.”

“Did you only see one glass?”

“That's all he had in his hand,” Royce shrugged.

“No, I mean, was there another glass by the champagne bottle?”

“I didn't notice. Why?”

“Just being nosey,” I said. But I had another reason for asking. I was pretty sure it was the same bottle of champagne I'd delivered a couple hours ago. Only it had been Catherine Lake who'd answered Vanders's door. I was surprised and irritated by her being there.

She's one of the few sisters who live in the building. I'd never given it much thought, but I guess it was logical they knew each other. They lived on the same floor. Her condo was across the hall and two doors south of his. While her condo looked onto the building's mini-park atrium, Vanders's more expensive unit offered the expanse of Lake Michigan.

Okay, so I'm just hired help, but hired help has a right to their likes and dislikes. In what limited contact I've had with Ms. Lake, she had been a pleasant and even fun person to talk to. She wasn't a raving beauty, but she was pretty damn close. Shoulder length black hair, cool brown eyes, and always a wide friendly smile on her full lips. Another time and place, if I was younger, or if I had a bigger bank account, who knows? But as things stood now Catherine Lake was a person I liked, and Charles W. Vanders was a person I didn't.

And unfortunately, it could very well be that Ms. Lake had put an end to Vanders's miserable existence.

“Earth to Walt. Earth to Walt,” Royce said.

“What?”

“I thought you left me there for a while, bro.”

“Sorry, Royce, got to drifting. Cops say anything about who couldn've done it?”

“I didn't hear it if they did.”

“Murder in the Tower,” I said. “Well, I guess if you think about it, it's not a real big surprise. Seeing as how large this place is and how many people are packed in here.”

“Sounds about right,” Royce added. “Hell, we've had just about everything else here. I guess a murder was next in line. Wonder if the guys are getting a pool together on the time it takes the cops to wrap this up.”

“If they are, put me down for thirty-six hours. High-profile murders always gets the police moving a little faster.”

I got back to doing what I was paid to do. Being Wednesday, a heavy receiving day, there were orders I had to check, and invoices I had to file for payment. I'd been at it for an hour and was in the canned food aisle checking dates on our shelf stock, when Catherine Lake approached.

She could've been doing a fashion layout in Ebony. She wore tan slacks
and a dark brown cardigan turtleneck sweater. Her hair was gathered in the back by a bow that matched her slacks. And her earrings were dainty, yet quite brilliant diamond clusters.

“Mr. Johnson, may I speak to you for a moment, please?” She glanced about the immediate area. We weren't especially busy, but there was a couple in the next aisle. “In private,” she added.

“Sure, Ms. Lake, we can use my office.”

I lead the way, opening the door when we reached my modest cubicle, allowing her to enter first. The scent of her perfume lingered lightly in the air as she passed. I wasn't sure what she wanted, but whatever it was the answer was yes.

“Coffee?”

“No, no thanks,” she said. We sat down, and she fumbled with a paper clip on my desk before looking over to me.

“Mr. Johnson, I'm sure you've heard about Mr. Vanders by now?”

I nodded. “I'd guess the whole tower has.”

“I suppose so.” She paused. “I need to ask you a favor.” She hesitated again. “The police are going to be asking a lot of questions. Could you—kind of forget you saw me there?”

“Well, Ms. Lake, I—” I hadn't thought about running to the police with the information, nor purposely withholding it from them.

“I didn't have anything to do with his death.”

“I never thought you did,” I said, perhaps too quickly.

She smiled. “Thanks. It's nice to have someone on my side. But if the police find out I was there, they've made their case. I'm off to jail and that's that.”

“You can't be sure that'll happen.”

“Trust me.”

“I believe that's what you're asking me to do.”

She almost smiled again, an ironic little gesture this time. “I didn't do it, Mr. Johnson, I had no reason to. Charlie was one of my best clients.”

I guessed my expression must have changed. I know the implication of what she said had me looking at her more intently now.

She took a deep breath. “I've been a pro for the past six years. I'm
independent. I work mostly by referrals. When you brought the champagne up, Charlie and I were just capping off a little early evening session.”

I've been flirting with an ulcer and began to get a burning sensation in my stomach. I'd rather she'd said she was at Vanders's trying to sell him a year's subscription to the
Watchtower.
The thought of her and Vanders in a sweaty embrace wasn't something I wanted lingering in my mind.

“We cut the evening short because he said he was expecting someone. He was alive and in a good mood when I left him.”

A part of me wanted to believe her. My practical side didn't want to have anything to do with the whole mess. What did I really know about her? She had a friendly smile, and a great pair of legs.

Terrific assets, but who the hell was this woman?

“I know I'm asking a lot. But can you just help a sister out? Could you just forget I was there?”

She didn't offer herself to seal the bargain, and I somehow took that as a point in her favor. I told her if the police came by, I was simply a store manager and that's all I knew.

I should have said, maybe.

It wasn't a half-hour after she left that a Detective Hooks came into the store. He was tall and thin with graying hair, and he'd missed shaving this morning. He brought the sales receipt I'd left when I delivered the champagne. The register prints the time and date of sale on every receipt and if it's a delivery or a purchase made in the store.

Once he learned I'd made the delivery, his questions were very direct. “Was there anyone with Mr. Vanders?”

“Catherine Lake, she has the condo across the hall a few doors down from him.”

“Anyone else?”

“No one that I saw.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson, you've been a big help.”

It wasn't long after that that Royce informed me the police had taken Catherine in for questioning.

I didn't sleep well that night. I'd gone belly-up as soon as the cops approached me. I felt like the biggest wimp around. Could I help a sister out?
Hell, I'd helped her right behind bars. She'd come to me, and I'd deserted her the first chance I got.

“If you think she's innocent, you could look into this thing yourself,” Royce said.

“What?” I'd been up half the night browbeating myself and was using Royce as a sounding board over morning coffee at the Micky D's in the building. “Are you out of your mind? That's the craziest idea I've ever heard.”

Royce shrugged. “Either jump in with both feet or quit bitching 'bout it. I kind of think the cops may be right. I mean, she was there just before ol' lard ass was killed. You saw her yourself, Walt. But, if you want to still believe her, then try proving it.”

“And just how do I do that?”

“I can help. I've been reading a lot 'bout investigative techniques. I could lay it out for you. Show you how to go about it. Maybe do some digging around for you myself.”

“I think you've been putting too much sugar in your coffee.”

Royce shrugged again. “Put up or shut up, Walt. It's as easy as that, man.”

Royce's challenge stayed with me much of the morning. Getting involved in the murder investigation any more than I already had was a dumb idea, yet I couldn't shake the thought. Here I am a forty-eight-year-old store manager. I'd done a stint in the Army, been divorced twice. My only child, my daughter from my second marriage, was a month away from making me a grandfather. Nothing in my past had ever presented me with the opportunity, or desire to try to solve a murder. Could I actually do it?

And hell, what made me think Catherine Lake was innocent, anyway?

The phone rang. Betty, the cashier up front caught it, then called over the P.A. for me to pick up line one.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Johnson? This is Catherine Lake.”

“Yes, er, Miss Lake, I . . .” I said, trying to think up an excuse for what I'd done.

“I'd like to see you if I could, Mr. Johnson. Could I get a few minutes of your time?”

“Well, er, sure.” Central Police Headquarters was on Roosevelt and State, maybe fifteen minutes by cab. “What time is visiting hours?”

She laughed, the richness of it not diluted by the phone. “The police let me go hours ago. I'm back in my condo. I'd appreciate it if you'd come up as soon as you can.”

“I'll be right there,” I told her.

She was wearing a simple skirt and blouse when she answered the door. The top two buttons of the blouse undone, peek-a-booing the lace underneath. Her dark skirt draped her casually, yet didn't hide the shape of her rounded hips and thighs.

“Mr. Johnson, please come in.”

I'd never seen her wide smile any warmer, and some of the nervousness I felt as I rung her doorbell began to subside. She was barefoot, her toenails and fingernails the same lust red. Her thick piled carpet muffled our steps as she escorted me into her living room.

We sat at opposite ends of the sofa. There was a bottle of white Zinfandel and two long-stem glasses on the cocktail table. One of the glasses was three-quarters full, with lipstick smudges on its rim. I begged off her offer, and she refilled her own glass, then settled back, tucking a leg under has as she sat. I've seen some men sit like that, but I've always viewed it as a totally feminine gesture. A very attractive one at that.