LaToya: Episode XXVII – Whispers of Suspicion

 

There seemed to me no point in returning to the hotel because the night was still young. It doesn’t make sense for me to go there now and risk having the cops pick up my trail. So I chose the smart move: I will have a few more hours to myself before I went to bed at the hotel.

On my way back to the center of Alexandra, I decided I was now ready to have a talk with Mrs. Tara Graves if she would have a talk with me, which I doubted. Time was running out for me, and I wouldn’t be staying much longer in this rich city. But I still need to cover a lot of ground before I finally leave the city.

I found a telephone booth, dialed Mrs. Tara Graves’ number and waited with great expectation. After a few moments a man’s voice said, “This is Mrs. Tara Graves’s residence.”

I figured he would be the butler.

“This is Mr. Emeka Okeke of Baltimore calling,” I said. “Put me through to Mrs. Tara Graves if you please.”

“Can I keep you on hold for a moment?” the voice said.

“Sure,” I replied.

There was silence, and time stood still. But as I was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten me, Mrs. Tara Graves came on the line.

“Hello? Yes? Who are you?” she said.

“My name is Emeka,” I said. “I am a writer. I would like to interview you about a girl you met in California last year.”

There was a pause. I could be wrong, but I believe I heard her quick breathing.

“Interview? What girl?” The voice was as cool as a bowl of ice cream.

“Can I see you? The interview will only last twenty minutes,” I said.

“Well, I suppose you can if you are sure it’ll be twenty minutes,” she replied. “But I can’t give you more than that.”

“Thanks a lot, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “Twenty minutes will cover it. I’ll be right over.”

And before she could change her mind, I hung up.

Why did Mrs. Tara Graves grant me this interview? I wondered as I left the booth. It was a big surprise to me. I had expected to be turned down flat. Getting her consent for this interview was almost too easy.

A cab slowly inched by, and I flagged it down.

“Arundel Hall, North Ridge-Rosemont,” I said as I slid into the backseat.

After a good twenty minutes, we rolled up to the grand, wrought iron gates guarding Mrs. Graves’ place, Arundel Hall, in North Ridge-Rosemont.

A security guard, dressed in a navy-blue uniform and a black hat, stepped out of the lodge, opened one of the gates, and approached the cab.

“Mrs. Tara Graves is expecting me,” I said with a grin. “The name’s Emeka.”

“Your ID  please,” he said.

Because of the darkness, I couldn’t see much of him. His voice, however, sounded tough and alert.

I gave him my driving license. He turned on a flashlight, examined the driving license, nodded and handed it back to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are welcome,” he replied.

He then opened the other gate and the cab drove through.

“This is my first time here,” the cab driver said over his shoulder. “It’s indeed good to be rich. You know, to have guards, gates and all. Oh my God!”

“Even the Bible said that money is the answer to everything,” I said, peering through the open window into the darkness. But for the headlights of the cab which picked out trees, a lot of shrubs and bushes, and the white, sand covered drive, I couldn’t see anything from the window. There was no clear view of the gardens nor of the house from the approach.

After a three-minute drive, the driver swung the cab on to a big stretch of tarmac at the foot of the steps leading to the house. Another navy-blue uniformed security man appeared from nowhere and opened the cab door.

I told the cab driver to wait for me since I will be done in less than thirty minutes. I then nodded to the security man and went up the steps to the main entrance.

The door was open and as I walked in, a tall, elderly man, who I figured to be the butler, was waiting for me.

The soft light from the hall lit up his Korean features. He was strong, and is probably nudging seventy. Even though he was Korean, I could see that he had been well-groomed to look like a dignified stateman who was about to dine with some politucian, say, the state governor. And he carried with him an atmosphere of baronial halls and lighted candelabra. I was really impressed with the way he carried himself.

“If you will follow me, sir…”

His figure and voice did not sound welcoming.

I followed him and we walked down a wide corridor. From there he opened a glass-paneled door and we walked through it, down some steps and into a vast lounge that ran the length of the house. The lounge have enough sofas and lounging chairs to seat up to sixty people. The floor was covered with an ornate richly colored Arabian carpet, which gave the room the millionaire’s touch.

“If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll inform Mrs. Tara Graves you are here,” the butler said as if reading from the script of a Shakespearean play. And after saying that, he went away silently.

The first thing that caught my attention when he had gone was a large oil painting of Mrs. Tara Graves that hung over the fireplace. She was sitting on the railing, looking at the distant garden, wearing a light yellow summer frock. The painting was very beautiful, with a remarkable resemblance to LaToya, and the detail of the landscape had been worked in with incredible patience and care. There was something about the style of the figure that was familiar to me, and moving closer to the picture I saw in the right hand corner the artist’s name: Quentin Powell.

Stepping back, I examined the painting with closer attention. I had no idea Mr. Powell could paint as well as this. From the sketch of LaToya Young I had seen, I had assumed he was just one of those wannabe  cover designer that were lucky enough to make a living from the job. This painting, however, showed me he was a highly skilled artist.

He had caught the feeling I had had when I had first seen Mrs. Tara Graves. In this portrait by Mr. Powell, Mrs. Tara Graves looked as cold and as remote as she had done when I had seen her. Yet in this portrait I could see and feel a flame burning behind the impersonal mask that I had sensed when I had first seen her. To me, the picture was both alive and compelling.

Then I saw her standing close to me. I nearly jumped out of my skin, for she gave me quite a start. She was within touching distance of me before I even knew she had entered the lounge. How she able to come down the steps and crossed the vast expanse of carpet to where I was standing without me noticing her still baffles me.

“Mr. Emeka? I hope I pronounced your name correctly?”

She was wearing a topless light green evening dress, and around her throat blazed a magnificent collar of diamonds. She was indeed beautiful. Her big black eyes, that glittered like her diamonds, looked right into mine, making me feel a little nervous.

“Yes, Mrs. Tara Graves,” I said, and as she didn’t appear to recognize me, I decided not to mention the Golden Triangle Club.

“From the way your name sounds, and from the way you speak, I am assuming you are from Africa, correct?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m from Nigeria.”

“Interesting,” she said. “It’s good to speak to a real African. It reminds me of my roots.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “It’s kind of you to see me.”

The Korean butler came in with a tray of drinks which he set on a table.

“Well, let sit down first,” she said, waving to a lounging chair and sat down nearby.

The Korean butler asked me what I would drink. I asked for a Vodka and Pepsi, and while he fixed it, we sat in silence. He gave her a glass of Whisky and then went away.

“So, how may I help you?” she asked as soon as he had shut the door behind him.

“I am a crime writer, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “I am interested in the movements of Breonna Adams. I understand you met her in California last year?”

She looked down at her Whisky glass, her face expressionless, then she looked up at me and her eyes told me nothing.

“I meet so many people, Mr. Emeka,” she said. “I don’t remember anyone called Breonna Adams. Are you sure you are not making a mistake?”

“You were in Hollywood, California in August last year though, Mrs. Graves?” I asked.

“Yes, I was,” she replied.

“Breonna Adams was a stripper and a showgirl, working in Hollywood, California at the time,” I said. “I learned that she had dinner with you at your hotel more than once.”

She frowned.

“That may be possible, Mr. Emeka,” she said, shrugging impatiently. “But I just don’t remember. In any case, how do you know this?”

It was hard to know if she really didn’t remember or if she were lying.  I am inclined to believe that behind her expressionless mask there was tension, but I just can’t prove it.

“Ms. Adams told her friends she had dinner with you,” I said. “Anyway, it is not that important, and I won’t bother you with it. I was hoping you will remember. Of course as a rich lady you must meet a lot of people, so you are correct. Don’t worry yourself about it. I will just check at the Hollywood Hotel.”

A little of the Whisky suddenly jumped out of her glass and made a spot on her skirt. Even though I didn’t see her start, the Whisky was a give away.

She looked up.

“Surely, you wouldn’t go all the way to California just to find out if Ms. Adams dined with me or not?” she said, staring.

“I’m afraid I have to,” I said. “The newspaper I work for requires us to check every fact before we print it. I was hoping you would remember Ms. Adams and save me the time of going to California, but as you can’t, I have no choice than to go there.”

“Very interesting,” she said. “Why is this so important?”

“I’m trying to fill in Ms. Adams’ background,” I explained. “It seems she had a talent for making friends with rich people like you,  Mrs. Graves. I have no proof of this. However, her friends tell me she claimed to know you and dined with you. That’s a very interesting story, because for an ordinary stripper to have you as a friend shows that she must have a lot of talent. It is possible that she may have been lying. If I go to California, I might dig up other wealthy people who met her.”

“I would like to help you, Mr. Emeka,” she said, passing her slim fingers across her forehead. “Allow me to think now. I do vaguely remember meeting a girl in California. Yes, I think I do remember meeting her.”

“You did meet Breonna Adams then?”

“It is possible that I did,” she said. “I don’t recall the name of the girl I met when I was there, so I’m not sure if she is Breonna Adams. But I’m not good with people’s names though.” She drank a little Whisky before saying, “Yes, I’m sure I met one Ms. Adams. I can’t remember just how. I was on my own in California. I was waiting for Anthony, my husband. I would say the girl was fun to be with, and I do vaguely recollect asking her to dine with me.”

She did a good job of it, but not well enough to fool me.  She had remembered Breonna Adams as soon as I had mentioned her. I was so sure I can bet on that. Why had my bluff about going to California suddenly smoked her out?

“What was your hotel, Mrs. Graves?”

She looked up and for a brief flash there was an angry expression in her eyes.

“I stayed at the  Hollywood Hotel.”

“You don’t remember how Breonna Adams made friends with you?”

“That’s correct,” she said. “We probably met in a shop. I believe that was it. Now I do remember. We met in some arts shop around the corner.”

“Please go on,” I said.

I could almost hear her thinking.

“Yes – it was an art shop,” she continued. “The store keeper speaks only Spanish. Ms. Adams was in trouble with her because she didn’t speak Spanish. I came to the rescue. That was what happened.”

I was sure now she was lying.

“So you became friends?”

“Not really,” she replied. “But I must  liked her enough to invite her to dinner. I scarcely remember the girl, Mr. Emeka. I meet a lot of people. Is that all you need to know, because if it is, I’ll…” She got to her feet and stood looking at me.

I got up.

“I guess that is all, Mrs. Graves,” I said. “It was just a matter of checking. Thanks a lot for giving me your time.”

“Why are you interested in Ms. Adams anyway?” She asked. “You did say you were a crime writer. Is she in trouble?”

“Not at this time,” I replied. “She’s dead. Someone killed her on August 20 of last year. That was a few days after she returned from California. The police thinks she was blackmailing somebody.”

I was watching her closely when I said that, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “Next time I will be more careful when making friends with strangers.”

“Sure, that will be a good policy,” I said, and as she moved towards the wall bell, I went on, “That was a very beautiful portrait of you. I had no idea Quentin Powell could do work like that.”

For some reason that I could not explain, this chance remark registered. She turned quickly and her eyes were suddenly as hard as the diamonds in her throat.

“Do you know Mr. Powell?” she asked, and I saw her small hands turn into fists.

“I spoke to him awhile ago,” I said. “I can’t say I know him. You have to understand that in my job, I talk to a lot of people.”

“I agree with you. Well, good night, Mr. Emeka. Jeong will show you out,” and again she moved to the bell.

Then a sudden idea came to my mind and as she rang the bell I acted on the idea without thinking.

“I almost forgot,” I said and took out my wallet. “I have a picture of Breonna Adams right here. Maybe you could identify her for me.”

I took out LaToya Young’s photograph from the wallet and handed it to her. She took it and moved to the light, turning her back on me.

Although I couldn’t see her face, her reaction was a score for me. If I had put a baby snake into her hand she wouldn’t have reacted more violently. She dropped the photograph on the floor  and I saw a shudder pass through her. She stood motionless for a brief moment. Then with a tremendous effort of will, she bent quickly and picked up the photograph. Turning around, she handed the photograph to me. Her face was as white as a bowl of milk shake. She now looked older and less pretty, and the look in her eyes was frightening.

“Is this meant to be a joke?” She said.

“No, Mrs. Graves,” I replied. “I just wanted to know if you…”

“I don’t recognize that face,” she snapped. “She looks just like any other stripper to me. Good night, Mr. Emeka.”

She turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

I stood there for a long moment, waiting for the Korean butler to show me the way out. I could feel a surge of triumph run through me. I’ve made a big kill at last! I was sure of it. She knew LaToya Young. Before I could begin to process what my new finding was all about, the Korean butler came in and escorted me to the waiting cab.

 

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 27

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 28, which  will be published here next Sunday.