She Had It Coming

by Mary Monroe

Genres: African American; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

"Monroe keeps the suspense high, and readers will draw a bated breath with the turn of each page." — Booklist Dolores Reese spent her childhood in foster care, like Floyd Watson, a local boy who intrigues her from the moment they meet. When one bad decision sends an innocent Floyd to prison for life, Dolores promises to stick by him. But while Floyd's world stands still, Dolores meets a new man who promises her the kind of future she's always wanted—the kind she once imagined having with Floyd. But when Floyd is suddenly freed on new evidence, Dolores is torn and must make a fateful decision. And if she isn't careful, Dolores just might find out what happens when love, dishonesty, and dangerous jealousy collide. "Monroe serves up a tasty dish of murder, deception, lust, and just deserts." — Library Journal "Full of all the drama and humor that Mary Monroe is known for." — Urban Reviews

Release date: December 10, 2013

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 417

Sample

I saw my best friend kill her vicious stepfather on the night of our senior prom. While our classmates were dancing the night away and plotting to do everything we had been told not to do after the prom, I was helping Valerie Proctor hide a dead body in her backyard beneath a lopsided fig tree.

Ezekiel “Zeke” Proctor’s violent death had come as no surprise to me. It happened sixteen years ago but it’s still fresh on my mind, and I know it will be until the day I die, too.

Mr. Zeke had been a fairly good neighbor as far back as I could remember. When he wasn’t too drunk or in a bad mood, he would haul old people and single mothers who didn’t have transportation around in his car. He would lend money, dole it out to people who needed it, and he never asked to be repaid. He would do yard work and other maintenance favors for little or no money. And when he was in a good mood, which was rare, he would host a backyard cookout and invite everybody on our block. However, those events usually ended when he got too drunk and paranoid and decided that everybody was “out to get him.”

When that happened, barbequed ribs, links, and chicken wings ended up on the ground, or stuck to somebody’s hair where he’d thrown them. People had to hop away from the backyard to avoid stepping on glasses that he had broken on purpose. There had not been any cookouts since the time he got mad and shot off his gun in the air because he thought one of the handsome young male guests was plotting to steal his wife. In addition to those lovely social events, he’d also been the stepfather and husband from hell.

Valerie’s mother, Miss Naomi, bruised and bleeding like a stuck pig herself after the last beating that she’d survived a few minutes before the killing, had also witnessed Mr. Zeke’s demise. Like a zombie, she had stood and watched her daughter commit the granddaddy of crimes. Had things turned out differently, Miss Naomi would have been the dead body on the floor that night, because this time her husband had gone too far. He had attempted to strangle her to death. She had his handprints on her neck and broken blood vessels in the whites of her eyes to prove it.

To this day I don’t like to think of what I witnessed as a murder, per se. If that wasn’t a slam dunk case of self-defense, I don’t know what was. But Valerie and her mother didn’t see things that way. They didn’t call the cops like they’d done so many times in the past. That had done no good. If anything, it had only made matters worse. Each time after the cops left, Miss Naomi got another beating. They also didn’t call the good preacher, Reverend Carter, who had told them time and time again, year after year, that “Brother Zeke can’t help hisself; he’s confused” and to be “patient and wait because things like this will work out somehow if y’all turn this over to God.” Well, they’d tried that, too, and God had not intervened.

“None of those motherfuckers helped us when we needed it, now we don’t need their help,” Valerie’s mother said, grinding her teeth as she gave her husband’s corpse one final kick in his side. She attempted to calm her nerves by drinking vodka straight out of the same bottle that he had been nursing from like a hungry baby all day.

Miss Naomi and Valerie buried Mr. Zeke’s vile body in the backyard of the house that Miss Naomi owned on Baylor Street. It was the most attractive residence on the block, not the kind of place that you would expect to host such a gruesome crime. People we all knew got killed in the crack houses in South Central and other rough parts of L.A., not in our quiet little neighborhood in houses like Miss Naomi’s. Directly across the street was the Baylor Street Mt. Zion Baptist Church, which almost everybody on the block attended at some time. Even the late Mr. Zeke. . . .

The scene of the crime was a two-story white stucco with a two-car garage and a wraparound front porch that was often cluttered with toys and neighborhood kids like me. The front lawn was spacious and well cared for. A bright white picket fence surrounded the entire front lawn like a houndstooth necklace. Behind the house, as with all the other houses on the block, was a high, dark fence that hid the backyard, as well as Valerie’s crime.

Miss Naomi’s house looked like one of those family friendly homes on those unrealistic television sitcoms. But because of Valerie’s stepfather’s frequent violence, the house was anything but family friendly. He had turned it into a war zone over the years. Valerie’s baby brother, Binkie, referred to it as Beirut because Mr. Zeke attacked every member of the family on a regular basis, including Valerie’s decrepit grandfather, Paw Paw, and even one-eyed Pete, the family dog.

Even though there was blood in every room in that house, that didn’t stop me from making it my second home. Over the years I had learned how to get out of the “line of fire” in time to avoid injury whenever Mr. Zeke broke loose.

That night, I had innocently walked into the house and witnessed Valerie’s crime. As soon as I realized what was happening, I threw up all over the pale pink dress that had cost me a month’s worth of my earnings. I continued to vomit as I watched Valerie and her long-suffering mother drag the body across the kitchen floor to the backyard so casually you’d have thought it was a mop.

Before they reached the gaping hole in the ground that had several mounds of dirt piled up around it like little pyramids, they stumbled and dropped the corpse. There was a thud and then a weak, hissing sound from the body that made me think of a dying serpent. Somebody let out a long, loud, rhythmic fart. I could smell it from where I stood in the door like a prison guard. And it was fiercely potent. I couldn’t tell if it had come from Valerie, her mother, or if it was the last gas to ooze from the asshole of the dead man. It could have even been from me, but I was such a wreck, I couldn’t tell. I squeezed my nostrils and then I froze from my face to the soles of my feet.

I held my breath as Valerie stumbled and fell on top of one of the mounds of dirt. Miss Naomi, breathing hard and loud, fell on top of Mr. Zeke’s corpse. One of us screamed. I didn’t realize it was me until Valerie scolded me. “Dolores, shut the fuck up and help us.” Why, I didn’t know. With the tall dark fence protecting the backyard like a fort, none of our neighbors could see her. “We need to get him in this hole now,” she said, huffing and puffing. I couldn’t believe that this was the same girl that Reverend Carter had baptized less than a week ago, in the church across the street from the scene of her crime.

The Los Angeles experience was like something out of a movie. Literally. Things just didn’t happen in L.A. Being that this was where Hollywood was located, even night didn’t just happen in L.A. It made an entrance the same way Gloria Swanson did in that old movie Sunset Boulevard. Just like the demented character that she had so brilliantly portrayed, this particular night was ready for its close-up. And I was right smack-dab in the middle of it. I was not the star, but in a way I had a strong supporting role. It was not where I wanted to be.

I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and stepped into the backyard. Even in the dim light, I could see that the hairdo Valerie had spent a hundred dollars on was ruined. Her usually glorious mane, matted with dirt and saturated with sweat, looked like a sheep’s ass. With every move she made, the long curls that she was so proud of flopped about her face like limp vines. She leaped up from the ground, pulling her mother up by the hand. They then continued to slide Mr. Zeke into his final resting place. Well, it was final as long as some busybody didn’t dig him up.

“Lo, you need to hold that goddamned flashlight straight,” Valerie informed me, speaking in a voice I hardly recognized. There was a desperate look in her eyes that I had never seen before.

I was temporarily unable to speak. I moved my mouth, my tongue, and my lips, but nothing came out. All I could do was try to hold that fucking flashlight in place. Even with the porch light on, and the beam from the flashlight in my hands, everything seemed so dark, including my beautiful light pink dress. And nothing seemed real.

“Aren’t y’all supposed to wrap him up in something?” I asked in a trembling voice. It seemed almost disrespectful not to include a shroud. I even snatched a towel off the kitchen counter and held it up, waving it, hoping they would at least wrap up his head and cover his eyes. But Valerie and her mother ignored me. Mr. Zeke went into the ground with just the clothes on his back. Almost every single inch of the white shirt he’d died in had turned red with his blood.

Valerie and Miss Naomi put together didn’t weigh as much as that loathsome body that they had dropped into a hole that had already been dug. I don’t know how I managed to stand there holding the flashlight in my hands, both of them shaking hard. I had to use both to hold the flashlight in place so Valerie and her mother could see what they were doing.

Mr. Zeke had dug the grave himself the day before and told Valerie’s mother that she’d be in it by the weekend. No, he had promised her. Ironically, he’d dug it long and deep enough to accommodate his six foot four, 270-pound frame.

The murder weapon, a butcher knife that could have passed for a sword if it had been any longer, was on the kitchen table with half of the blade missing. I’d find out later that the missing part of the blade had been buried with Mr. Zeke, still planted in his chest like a spike. This was a horrible way for a horrible man to die, and for some reason I felt unbearably sad. Despite everything he was and had done, he was still somebody’s son. Having never known my blood relatives, family had a special meaning to me.

In the kitchen, the blood on the floor was so thick it looked like you could dip it up with a spoon. There was a large puddle in front of the sink that covered the floor like an area rug, and a wide trail that looked like a thick red snake that led to the door. The spot in front of the stove was where Mr. Zeke had issued his last threat, and breathed his last breath. Pete, the dingy black mutt that Valerie and I had rescued from the street, had already started slipping and sliding across the floor, lapping up blood like he was at a hog trough. Pete stared up at me with his remaining eye. Mr. Zeke’s blood was dripping from his tongue, whiskers and nose.

Besides Valerie and her mother, who died from natural causes herself about a year later, and Valerie’s one-eyed dog, I was the only other individual who knew what had happened to Mr. Zeke. That night, I promised Valerie that I would carry her secret with me to my grave. And one thing I knew how to do was to keep a promise.

I had kept that promise for sixteen years. And it had not been that hard for me to do. I knew that my knowledge of the crime, and not reporting it, put me somewhere in the vicinity of the guilt. Since Valerie never talked about Mr. Zeke’s murder after that night, I didn’t know if she had shared her secret with anybody else. And I didn’t want to know.

Even though I knew that Valerie’s mouth was one of the biggest things on her body, I shared secrets with her, too. A lot of people did. When I shared something with Valerie it was usually something petty—something that a lot of our friends already knew anyway, or would hear from me eventually. But not this time.

Not only was Valerie Proctor my best friend and former roommate, she was one of the most popular bartenders I knew, because her ears were even bigger than her mouth. She was the one person I knew who’d be more than a little interested in my confession, and the only person who would have any sympathy for me. But even before I spilled the beans, I had to ask myself, “Should I be telling this woman my business?” I didn’t even have to think about my answer. I had to tell somebody. This was a load I could no longer carry by myself. Besides, what were best friends for?

“Now what’s so important you had to drag me away from the comfort of my own place of business, and a possible date with one of the hottest men on the planet this side of Denzel? And it better be good,” Valerie warned, her voice half serious, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Girl, I’ve been itching to hear some juicy news all week. I want to hear some news that is going to make my ears ring.”

“Well, I’ve got some . . .” I said, speaking with hesitation. “And, it’s real juicy . . . I think.” We occupied a patio table at The Ivy in Beverly Hills.

“Who about? Paris Hilton? Nicole Richie? Lindsay Lohan? Beyoncé? Will Smith? Star Jones? Big-mouthed Rosie O’Donnell?” Valerie served drinks to a lot of celebrities who visited Paw Paw’s, the bar she owned in West Hollywood. And it was profitable for her in more ways than one. A lot of the things she heard from the famous and not-so-famous patrons had ended up on the pages of the tabloids. She was well paid by her media contacts, even for something as petty as one of the Lakers leaving a five dollar tip on a hundred dollar tab. “Who? Who?” she said, sounding like an owl. And the way her eyes were stretched open, she looked like one, too.

“Uh . . . me.”

Valerie reared back in her seat so far her neck looked like it belonged on a goose. “You?” From the expression on her face, there was nothing I could have said that would have disappointed her more. She let out a disgusted sigh and rolled her eyes. “Shit,” she mouthed.

“Uh-huh,” I muttered. “Me.”

“Oh. Whatever, whatever,” Valerie said with an exasperated shrug. “Well, what did you do, mow somebody down with your Honda and flee the scene?”

I shook my head. “Valerie, I need to talk to you about something I’ve done. But you have to promise me that you won’t ever tell anybody. I . . . I can’t keep this to myself any longer,” I said, speaking in a low voice. “This is serious. Real serious.”

I was glad to see that Valerie seemed more interested now. She held her breath and stared at me for a moment. “Please don’t tell me you’ve got some fatal disease,” she squeaked, her eyes full of tears and her lips quivering. “I don’t know what I’d do without you!”

I shook my head again. “I’m not going to die,” I assured her.

“All right then. I’m listening,” she replied, letting out a loud sigh of relief.

Not only was The Ivy our favorite restaurant, but it was a regular hangout for celebrities from the A list to the D list. The only thing that Valerie and I ever ordered was the grilled garden salad. We washed it down with several glasses of Chardonnay. This was the only time that I’d pushed my salad away after just a few bites, but I’d already sucked up two glasses of wine and had just started on the third.

It was April. Even though there was plenty of sun that afternoon, the weather was cool enough for a light jacket. But I had removed my light blue Windbreaker and laid it across my lap. My body temperature always rose when I got nervous, upset, or scared. I was all three. In the hour since we had arrived, I had already soaked up four napkins wiping sweat off my face. This annoyed Valerie.

“Your makeup is beginning to look like a mud pie. Your wig is on sideways, and it looks like a baboon’s armpit,” Valerie informed me with a smirk. She reached into her straw purse and fished out a small mirror. She held it up to my face, but I waved it away. The way I looked was the least of my concerns.

“So what? Why should I care?” I snarled. I ducked when she leaned forward and tried to straighten the wig on my head.

“Because this is Beverly Hills, not South Central,” Valerie snapped. “You can’t roam around this neighborhood looking like Aunt Esther from Sanford and Son and get away with it.”

I ignored Valerie’s comment because this was one time that I didn’t care what I looked like. “Valerie, I know how hard it is for you to keep secrets. So before I tell you this, I have to know if I can trust you to keep it to yourself.”

“Will you stop beating around the damn bush? Now either you shit or get off the toilet. Don’t keep me in suspense. Spill the wine, girl! And it better be as sweet as this,” Valerie teased, waving her wineglass in my face. She peered into her mirror and patted her hair, securing a few strands back into place with a long bobby pin. “What’s the worse thing that could happen . . . if . . .” She stopped and stared at me. She sniffed and returned the mirror to her purse, her eyes still on my face.

“If you blab?” I had to take another sip of my wine before I could continue. Then I said something that really got her attention. “If you blab, they could put me up under the jailhouse. I could even get physically hurt, real bad. If this information gets to the wrong person, my life is over.”

I knew that the mention of jail would peak Valerie’s interest. She let out a loud gasp and then looked at me as if I were about to reveal the secrets of the universe.

“Jail? Did you kill somebody, too?” she whispered, blinking so fast and hard that her left contact slid to the corner of her eye.

Any reference to killing usually made Valerie nervous. And since jail was one subject that she avoided, I was surprised that she was the one who had brought it up. “No,” I mumbled. “I could never do something like that.” My answer seemed to relieve her. She exhaled a loud sigh of relief.

“Yeah, I know.” Valerie cleared her throat and gave me a pensive look. “So what did you do, Miss Muffet? Uh, are you fucking some other woman’s man?” She paused and swooned with anticipation. “You nasty ho! No, that’s not it! That’s not like you. I know! I know! I bet you stole some money from your job!” she hollered, shaking a finger in my hot face. I didn’t like the fact that Valerie was not taking a more serious position, and I gave her the kind of look that let her know that. It made her give me an apologetic look. Then she rubbed her contact back into place and continued, talking in a slow, controlled voice. At least she was truly serious now, and that made me feel somewhat more at ease. “Girl, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I whimpered.

Valerie swallowed hard and shook her head. “I won’t tell anybody. Honest to God,” she said, glancing around, then leaning over the table. I could see that she was getting impatient.

“I got married a few months ago,” I said, spitting the words out like vomit.

Valerie reared sideways in her chair and gave me an incredulous look. “Is that all? Is that what you dragged me over here to tell me? You got married. So what?” she shrieked. “A lot of people renew their vows. How come you are just now telling me this? How come you didn’t tell me about this when you did it? Was it Paul’s idea?”

“This doesn’t involve Paul,” I muttered. “Well, in a way it does . . .” I said with a sheepish grin.

“Look, Lo, I don’t know about you, but there are a lot of things on my agenda for today,” Valerie said, looking at her watch, and then back at me with her eyes narrowed. “One thing I don’t have time for is playing games. What you have said so far doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. At least not to me. You married Paul umpteen years ago. I was there when it happened. Now did you get a divorce and not tell me? Did you marry somebody else—and not tell me that either?”

I shook my head. “You remember Floyd?” I asked in a stiff voice. I had a hard time getting the words out of my mouth. “He was the brother who was going to take me to the prom . . . that night.”

Valerie gulped so hard she shuddered. Then she cleared her throat and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. Her eyes darkened, and her jaw twitched. She blinked and lifted her chin until she was looking at me with the lids of her eyes half closed. “Does this have anything to do with what happened on . . . prom night?” she whispered, leaning over the table so far her titties touched the lettuce on her plate.

I shook my head again. “Valerie, we are not supposed to talk about that,” I reminded, still shaking my head. “I know you don’t want to, and I don’t want to either. Never,” I said. She looked even more relieved. “This has to do with Floyd.”

“Floyd Watson that used to live on Baylor Street?” Valerie gave me a confused look and a tentative nod. She coughed to clear her throat, and then she blinked hard a few times. “That Floyd?”

I nodded. “That Floyd. The one that went to . . .”

It took a lot to make Valerie uncomfortable, and it bothered me to know that when that happened, I was usually the one responsible. She sucked in a loud breath and finished my sentence. “Jail.” It was one thing for me to mention jail. That was painful enough for Valerie. But when she mentioned the word herself, her face looked like it wanted to crack. “He’s in jail for life.”

I shook my head. “Not anymore. He was innocent. Just like he said he was, and just like I tried to tell everybody. He didn’t rape and kill that girl, because he was with me when it happened. DNA got him off, and he will be getting paid big time by the state for all those years he spent locked up. It was all over the news. He will be getting out of prison soon; maybe even tomorrow.” I didn’t know why I was whispering. Other than our waiter, nobody else seemed interested in Valerie and me, anyway.

“What about Floyd? Why are you bringing him up after all these years?” Valerie sighed and looked around. With her head tilted to the side, she looked at me out of the corner of her eye. Even when she was angry, with a scowl on her face that could scare the devil, Valerie was one of the prettiest black women I knew. And L.A. was full of pretty black women. A stunning up-and-coming model and two glamorous actresses from a popular television show occupied a table just a few feet from ours. But neither one of them was as attractive as Valerie. The thick black hair that she usually kept in a ponytail like her favorite singer, Sade, was all hers. But she had purchased the green eyes from Bausch & Lomb and her tall, sculptured body from three different Beverly Hills plastic surgeons. With her sparkling white, capped teeth and a face that any model or actress would have died to have, she still was not satisfied with the way she looked. She had recently started threatening to get her nose done. I didn’t tell her but she already looked more like Tyra Banks than Tyra Banks. People told her that all the time. But she was still the most insecure female I knew.

I didn’t look like a famous model or any one of the beautiful Hollywood actresses we had to compete with, but I was happy with the way I looked. I watched what I ate and I ran five times a week, so my body was in pretty good shape. I had no need for plastic surgery, but I did own several Wonderbras. My hair was a little too thin and unruly, so I owned several wigs and hairpieces. My paper-bag brown face was average without makeup, but I knew how to work with what I had. Despite my shortcomings, I had enough confidence for myself and Valerie. She never had a bad time when she was with me. Which was one of the many reasons we had been best friends for more than twenty-five years.

I poked my fork around in my salad. My lips were pressed together so hard it felt like they’d been glued shut. My hesitance was causing Valerie even more aggravation.

“Look, woman, I love you to death and you are my girl, but you are working my last nerve up in here today. You better hurry up and tell me the whole story.” Valerie paused and looked at her watch again. “In about forty-five minutes I’m going to give up and go on back to my own bar where I can get me some real drinks.” She frowned and took a sip from her wineglass.

“I married Floyd,” I said sharply.

Valerie’s mouth dropped open and her eyes got wide. She suddenly looked so stiff, it looked as if everything on her had turned to stone. Even her eyes. She didn’t even blink as she stared at me for several moments before she spoke again. “The same man who went to prison for life for rape and murder?”

I gave her a sheepish look and a nervous nod.

“Uh, I don’t think I heard right,” Valerie said, slapping the side of her head with the palm of her hand. “Can you say that again?”

I folded my arms and tilted my head to the side as if preparing myself for a verbal showdown. “I married Floyd,” I repeated. This time I made the statement with a little more conviction. “The same man who went to prison for life for rape and murder.”

“I did hear you right the first time?” Valerie tossed her napkin onto the table and stared at me in slack-jawed amazement. “Girl, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” I insisted, giving her the most defiant look I could manage. “I married a man I love.”

“When?”

I dipped my head and hesitated. Then I blinked hard and looked up at Valerie, forcing myself to smile. “I’d been visiting him in the prison almost every month since he went in. Uh, he was that ‘sick friend’ in that mental clinic you and everybody else thought I was visiting. There was no sick friend in a mental clinic,” I admitted with a heavy sigh. “A few years ago he hooked up with a new lawyer and he set it up for us to get married in the, um, prison chapel. At the time I thought it was the least I could do for Floyd to make his situation a little better. It was what he wanted . . .”

“Shit!” Valerie shook her head and slapped the side of it. Mumbling gibberish, she dipped her napkin into her water glass then used it to dab at her forehead. “Girl, you’ve got me sweating like an ox up in this place!” she exclaimed.

“Well, I can’t help that,” I mumbled, tapping the tips of my fingers on the table. I had to take a few deep breaths to restore my composure. I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down. I rearranged my numb ass in my seat and crossed my legs. Next thing I knew, I was itching and sweating just about everywhere. I wiped my face with my napkin.

Valerie continued to stare at me with her mouth hanging open and her eyes stretched open so wide, I thought her contacts were going to pop out. “You married Floyd Watson. What I want to know is why?”

“You know how it was before he went to . . . uh, got in that trouble. He was the only man I’d ever been with at the time, and the only one I ever wanted to be with for the rest of my life. We were going to get married.”

“What about Paul? How did he take it? And when did you get a divorce? How come you are just now telling me?” Valerie asked, speaking so fast her sentences ran together.

“Paul doesn’t know about this! I still love him and I don’t want to lose him. . . .”

“How in the fuck did you think you could pull this off, girl?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t think that Floyd would ever get out of prison!” I wailed. “And . . . and other prisoners were getting married left and right. Even that Richard Ramirez—the Night Stalker! He really did kill somebody—tons of people! And was happy to admit it! I thought that if a devil like Ramirez could hook up a marriage, why couldn’t an innocent man like Floyd enjoy the same privilege?”

Valerie looked at me with such a horrified expression on her face, you would have thought that I’d just sprouted a beard. “I can’t believe my ears. You are married to two men at the same time!” Valerie hollered. The people at the tables on both sides of us turned to listen. “That’s bigamy, girl. You could . . . Do you know what could happen to you if you get caught?”

“I know,” I said with my head bowed and throbbing. “But I won’t get caught. Not if I watch my step and you watch my back. I just had to tell you because, uh, things are getting kind of messy. It looks like I am going to need you to help me pull this off.”

“What . . . what do you want me to . . . to do?” Valerie stuttered. She hunched her shoulders and gave me a hopeless look. She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “How can I help you pull off this mess?”

“Don’t worry. I am not asking you to do that much, yet. Right now, all I need is for you to help me make it look like I’ve moved back into your house. That’s all. I need a decoy place to hide in case Paul surprises me with one of his visits, like . . .