Still Guilty, page 7
“See, that’s what I mean—”
Parke held up his hand. “Now, don’t you start, man.” Parke had to keep reminding himself he couldn’t speak freely in front of his friend about the Lord because Ellington was looking for a loophole. “Like I was saying, Rach and I had been a couple for less than two months when I stopped feeling us.” Parke thumped his chest near his heart for emphasis. “Our relationship was going nowhere. I called it quits. Rach wasn’t happy about the breakup, as it was with many of my past flings, but hey, she agreed that if I didn’t want to commit, then I should go. I went.”
It seemed like a fair arrangement at the time to Parke. Years later, he was shocked to learn she had a child. The insult was Rachel had given the boy a butchered version of Parke’s name.
Ellington rubbed his chin. “I would say it’s not worth sleeping with a woman, but it’s always worth it.” He grinned.
“Down, coyote,” Parke taunted. “I need a little help. If only I can get a phone number, address of the adoptive parents . . .”
“The adoption records are sealed. It was like pulling toenails trying to get the names of the adoptive parents.” Ellington paused, shrugging. “All I know is Gilbert, and his last name is Ann. Sounds like his parents were confused, or cross-dressers.”
Leaning over, Parke bumped fists with Ellington. “You are the man, besides the one upstairs. I knew I could count on you. Nothing slips under your radar.”
The air chilled. Even Penelope ceased snoring. They tried to avoid the subject, but a case did slip under Ellington’s radar, the most important one of his life—his twin brother. Louis Brown had been missing for years. Despite Ellington’s high-tech skills, he hadn’t come close to finding Louis.
Parke exhaled slowly. “Do whatever you can to track them down.” Parke glanced at his watch. “My ladies should be about dolled up by now. I’d better head home.”
Malcolm nodded and added a mischievous wink. He hadn’t been home since work. He was the only one still dressed for the office in dark slacks, a starched shirt minus a tie, Sunday dress shoes, and silk socks. “Yeah, it’s TLC night, and Hali’s probably waiting for me.”
“What?” Ellington evidently took the bait to change the subject.
“Thursdays are reserved for pampering in the bedroom, kitchen, or living room. A designated place is not a requirement. We’ve christened every room in our condo.”
A loud noise caused Penelope to bark twice, but she didn’t move to investigate. Malcolm jerked his head in the direction outside the front door. Parke leaned forward. “What was that?”
Ellington tilted his head, straining to listen. Suspicion caused his nostrils to flare. “You heard that too?” Standing, Ellington stomped to the window, angled his body as if he were on a covert mission, and peeked through a slit in the curtains. Without an explanation, he dashed to his office, almost tripping over a bowl of untouched cheddar popcorn.
“Where are you going? What’s wrong?” Parke asked. He and Malcolm stood, alarmed.
“Somebody’s trying to steal my truck. I’m going to get my gun,” Ellington yelled from another room.
“Wait a minute before we get in a gun battle. Let’s head outside first. Maybe we’ll scare them off,” Parke advised his friend. “It’s probably a bunch of kids, testing their burglary skills.”
Malcolm frowned. “The more reason I say call nine-one-one. I’m not putting my life on the line over your custom, fully loaded F-150 truck. I’m a newlywed, and if it’s God’s will, I’ve already mapped out a long, enjoyable life with my wife.”
Parke shoved his brother. “C’mon. Let’s see what’s up. Be a man, not a hubby.”
“Humph. The other option is much more rewarding,” Malcolm retorted.
Ellington raced out of his home office with a gun stuffed in his waistband. The brothers followed. The driver of a monster-size tow truck had finished strapping the wheels to drag it off private property.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing? Get away from my truck!” Ellington shouted, but the person kept working.
Parke’s jaw dropped as he back-slapped Ellington across the chest. “Man, are you having money problems? You could’ve asked me.”
“Shut up, Parke.” Ellington marched down the steps to his truck. “Listen, man, I think you—” He halted when he noticed bright red lipstick. “The repo man is a drag queen? Great. Why use a gun when my fists will do?” he mumbled as he balled his hands.
The repo man held the clipboard away from his jacket. “Do I look like a man to you?” the woman snapped in a lethal tone that would’ve been sexy under different circumstances.
Ellington was blindsided. “You look like a thief,” he argued, not deterred.
“If you paid your bill, I wouldn’t have to come like a thief in the night. Back off. I’m just doing my job. You can settle your bill—”
“Imani?” Parke asked, surprised he recognized the sass behind her voice. It had been a while since he had seen Cheney’s best friend, who was also Mrs. Beacon’s neighbor.
She squinted over Ellington’s shoulder and squealed, “Parke.” Smiling, Imani sidestepped Ellington. “Excuse me.” She hugged Parke. “Looking fine as ever, bro. How are my girls, Cheney and Kami?”
“They’re good.” Parke grinned then squinted. His eyes darted from the tow truck to her face. “What are you doing here?”
“You hang out with this guy?” Imani ignored his question as she slanted her head and popped her gum.
“Yeah, I do. We go back to our college days, but what are you doing here?” Parke couldn’t connect any dots. So far, his one friend had a loaded gun. His wife’s best friend had a tow truck with the motor running, he presumed, for a quick getaway. And Parke was waiting for answers.
Glancing over his shoulder, Parke shook his head. His brother wasn’t kidding about not getting tangled up in any mischief. Unless Malcolm, Hallison, or the Jamiesons were in imminent danger, Malcolm wasn’t going to bruise a knuckle. He would weigh his options for a best friend of anyone else. Keeping his distance, Malcolm sat on the steps and talked on his cell phone, probably to Hallison. Parke waved him over.
Parke turned back to Imani. “Wait a minute. You can’t be . . . you’re a repo woman?”
“Nope. I’m an auto recovery specialist.” Imani beamed, showing all her feminine charm disguised under a worn baseball cap and an oversized denim jacket.
Throwing his arms up, Ellington mumbled something as he stalked to the driveway to inspect his truck. Imani ignored him as she continued. “I had to get out of the friendly skies. The airlines started layoffs, and I had to maintain my own lavish lifestyle, so I changed careers for a steady income.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Not to mention my increased fear of flying. I guess the job was starting to get to me.
“It’s my first hit tonight, and just my luck, I broke a fingernail because the stupid remote control to lift my hook on the tow truck wouldn’t work. It took me longer than the estimated five minutes, or you guys never would’ve caught me.” Imani winked. “You wouldn’t believe how many cars I had to chase tonight already. I finally got one.”
Parke smothered his amusement. A repo woman with legs; he had to smirk. Of course, they were hidden under her loose-fitting jeans, but if Ellington caught one look at her shapely curves, he might consider trading his worldly possessions, except for the truck, for one hour with Imani Seagall.
“Whatever he owes, I’ll cover it.” Parke reached for his wallet.
“No, you won’t, because I don’t owe a cent. You’re not taking this—” Ellington gritted his teeth, storming back to Imani and pointing to his partially hoisted vehicle “—unless it’s over my dead body.” He barely contained his anger.
“Umm-hmm. Parke, call an ambulance in case he’s still breathing. Otherwise, the medical examiner should be notified.” Imani lifted the clipboard, removed her work gloves, and double checked her order. “This is fifty-nine thirteen Clemens, right?”
“Yeah,” Ellington bit off.
“You’re Dale Cochran, right?”
Ellington stood straighter and folded his arms. “Right address, wrong client, baby. He’s two doors down with a GMC Sierra 1500—same color.” He twisted his lips as his nostrils flared, expecting an apology.
Imani peered at her board and tapped her long nail on a line. “Oh, I guess I’ve got my numbers transposed.” Without even a slight hint of embarrassment, she shrugged. “I’ll release your vehicle. Next time, use brighter lights on your house. There could’ve been an emergency and no one would’ve found you.” Turning around, Imani strolled to her wrecker.
The sway of her hips had Ellington salivating. As if knowing her effect, Imani whirled around. “Have a good night, gentlemen. Oh, and Parke, tell Cheney I’ll holla at her later.”
Malcolm cruised up behind them. Releasing a contagious hoot, Malcolm made his presence known. Parke followed as laughter rumbled from his stomach and spilled out of his mouth. Ellington huffed then gritted his teeth.
Imani wasn’t through with her antics. “Hey, Dale’s neighbor, you need to wash your truck. I’ve got a smudge on my designer boots.”
Ellington growled like a mad dog, ready to attack. Fuming, he retreated into his house and slammed the door. The Jamieson brothers traded looks.
“You think he’s upset?” Malcolm teased, stroking his beard.
“Maybe a little.” Parke laughed. Despite the night chill, Parke and Malcolm remained rooted in their spots and watched Imani creep a few doors away and work her magic at the correct address. This time, she wasn’t interrupted.
Hoping Ellington had calmed his temper, the brothers meandered back toward his home, still chuckling. When the knob wouldn’t turn, Parke touched the doorbell. Cracking the door, Ellington silently communicated he wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Parke and Malcolm bowed their heads, smothering their laughter as they entered behind him.
“I do not like that woman,” Ellington practically growled, stepping over his useless dog that hadn’t moved from her earlier spot. Ellington had admitted the mutt wasn’t a compatible pet for investigating any ruckus. She would bark to alert her owner of pending danger then leave the rest up to Ellington.
Parke fought for composure, twisting his lips to keep a straight face. Crossing his arms, he snuck a look at Malcolm, who refused to make eye contact. “That’s too bad, E, because Imani is Cheney’s friend who she wanted you to meet.”
“Humph. Forget it. Not only would I not sign a sex registry to get in her bed, but if she was hitchhiking on a dark road, I’d pick up speed. Plus, you know I prefer sistas, and she ain’t one.”
“If only you had seen her legs. You might’ve handed over your keys; and I know you’re a leg man, so don’t deny it. Didn’t you think she was fine?” Parke asked incredulously.
“Not interested.”
Parke and Malcolm shook their heads. “Fool,” they said in unison.
Later that night at home, as customary, Parke and Cheney prayed together before getting in bed. Minutes earlier, Parke rehashed the scene at Ellington’s house. Cheney couldn’t control her giggles. He warned her they could wake Kami, and Cheney sobered before starting up again.
“Baby?” He kissed the top of Cheney’s hair. The unrecognizable scent permeated his senses. Her soft feet caressed his ankles.
“Yes?” She snuggled closer.
“I guess you couldn’t get away from Mrs. Beacon’s trial today,” he stated. “I needed backup in the courtroom this morning. That judge was a pit bull with lipstick.” He sighed. “You do believe God is in this, don’t you? I mean, we do agree that this is God’s will.” Parke lifted his head to look at his wife. He needed to make sure Cheney was coherent. “He has made a way for us to have our Parke the Seventh.”
Whatever drowsy state Cheney had been under, she was fully alert now. Her eyes popped open at the same time her foot froze. Meeting his face, she squinted. “The Seventh? Parke, we buried him six months ago.”
“Yeah, but technically, the boy I’m trying to get custody of, who no doubt is mine, would be my firstborn son. By birthright, he is entitled to that name.”
She lifted her brow and calmly took a deep breath before scooting up in bed. “So, what do you suppose we do? Change the name on Parke the Seventh’s death certificate?” She paused. “Say the right answer, Parke.” Her words were soft, but her threat unwavering.
He glanced away. Lord? This is one of those times when I need a hint.
Resting on her elbow, Cheney reached out to finger-comb Parke’s curly hair then guided his attention to her. “You’re a creative soul, Parke. For ten generations, there has been some form of derivation in Paki’s descendant’s names. Your third generation great-grandfather started a new tradition by removing the R from Parker. I’ll admit, I haven’t given this much thought, but how about removing the E and K and adding a C for Parc? See, problem solved.” She smacked a kiss on his cheek. “Good night.” Yawning, she scooted next to Parke and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 9
Cheney had to skip court. She could no longer put off the work on her desk that needed her approval. She had just completed a conference call with other departmental managers when her mind drifted. She fought to focus, but she could only dwell on her ongoing family drama.
She constantly prayed that Parke would know in his heart that she was behind him more than one hundred percent. She would love his son as if she had birthed him, but in her state of mind, she couldn’t deal with any more “baby” drama at the moment. She had too much craziness in her life. Cheney wanted to reach out and be there for Parke, but she couldn’t take another devastating loss if it wasn’t his son. Parke was stronger than she, because silently, Cheney was still mourning the loss of their baby—the one they had created together.
She gave herself a pep talk. “Enough! It’s time for intermission from the pity party.” Cheney reached for a stack of technicians’ job orders as her phone rang. “Missouri Telephone Property Management. This is Cheney.”
“Mrs. Jamieson, this is the Mothership Jamieson,” Parke’s mother greeted in her usual singsong voice, a sound that would cheer up the most despondent person.
Charlotte Jamieson stood on the sidelines when it came to interfering in the lives of her two sons and daughters-in-law; however, at certain times, Mrs. Jamieson teetered on a thread-thin line. Warm, genuine, and saturated with a sweet disposition, Cheney was convinced Mrs. Jamieson would be a perfect candidate to represent God’s salvation. The woman seemed to love everybody.
When Cheney and Hallison broached the subject of salvation, Mrs. Jamieson’s response was always the same: “I’m coming to the Lord, but I’m waiting on your father-in-law.”
“The Bible tells us to save ourselves, Momma J,” was always Cheney’s standard reply.
Although Cheney couldn’t afford the interruption, she welcomed the phone call. “How’s my favorite mother-in-law?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” Mrs. Jamieson fussed good-naturedly. Both chuckled. “Now, down to business. Rumor has it that you’re irritable and not that much fun.”
“Kami.” Cheney doodled her daughter’s name on a notepad.
“Yep. She’s our go-between for you and my son.”
“She’s a snitch.” Shaking her head, Cheney snickered.
“Umm-hmm. She makes the best kind, but seriously, baby, I know that life hasn’t been fair to you, but don’t stop living one part of your life when another part is in turmoil. A person doesn’t stop walking when one leg is broke. Your life consists of more than this senseless trial,” Mrs. Jamieson sweetly scolded. “You need some girl time, and that’s why I’m calling. Tomorrow, lunch is on me. Hali suggested Freddie’s on Natural Bridge in the city, since it’s midway between downtown and North County, and she’s taking an extended lunch so she won’t have to rush back.”
When her mother-in-law laid down the rule to smother her family with love, standing her up was not an option. Cheney bowed to Mrs. Jamieson’s edict, licking her lips at the imaginary taste of Freddie’s wings. “I won’t be late,” she said and disconnected.
With renewed concentration, Cheney tackled her work pile—pending orders, vacation requests, and employee squabbles—in record time. “Take that!” She pushed back from her desk and stretched her arms over her head. She had put a dent in her paperwork, which left the remainder manageable. Her big bosses, who were flying in from Dallas, were sure to give her a glowing bi-yearly evaluation. She would prove to them nothing had been neglected despite her recent excused absences.
She was a card-carrying MBA graduate from Duke University’s Global Executive program. After working four years at SAS, an impressive world leader in business analyst software and services based in North Carolina, she returned home to St. Louis. She accepted the management position at Missouri Telephone with the possibility of an advancement based on job performance. To ensure the level of competiveness, the phone company had enrolled her in property and facility management classes.
Without question, Cheney was certified to fully maintain her four office buildings and prove to the eight men she supervised that she was more than an affirmative action, strikingly beautiful—her husband’s words—quota. Despite the havoc in her life, business-wise, she was still on top of her game.
The following day at noon, the three Mrs. Jamiesons strolled into Freddie’s Fish and Chicken restaurant. The Jamiesons not only supported black-owned businesses, but were a grapevine for spreading the word about mouth-watering Southern cooking. A Christian brother owned it, and Fred spared no expenses on his menu to entice suburbanites to drive into the city for his soul food.
Cheney considered her mother-in-law’s words of wisdom and concluded Mrs. Jamieson was right. Life didn’t stand still during a crisis. Cheney reminded herself of that for the second consecutive day when she didn’t go to the courthouse.
