C H A P T E R • 34
A wake is a place where an information junkie might overdose, and I was looking forward to having at everyone in the same room. But first I had to take care of my business. I was talking to myself as I went to get the money I had pushed through the hole in Cecelia’s wall into my house. While it wasn’t mine, it also wasn’t exactly Ceel’s. And it wasn’t stealing and I was definitely going to pay it back.
And it wasn’t there.
I crawled through our portal and ran my hand along the wall behind the cabinet looking for a sign that someone had used it. If someone did, they knew what they were doing. I had put the money there quickly when I heard Gary. But I made sure my side was tight when I went back the next day. So, who? How?
Next, I called Attorney Robinson.
“I hate to ask, but the Journal’s money is stuck in the bank. Can you front me a piece of the payroll until Tuesday? We deposited a good little sum from Veteran’s Day ads yesterday. But now it’s stuck at First. I was counting on it. I’ve alerted some of my vendors. But there are the staff checks.”
“Of course. Would a thousand dollars, do it?”
“Ummm. I was thinking more like five thousand. Some of them agreed to wait until next week when this mess is resolved. This is something to tide over a few of them.”
“You don’t have to impress me. If I remember correctly, you aren’t paying any Lear jet money over there.”
“But it’s the long weekend.”
“You’re going to take almost all the cash I have on hand.”
“If this is a hassle, I can gather together some cash from other sources. I was just trying to avoid putting all my business in the street.”
“For five, I’m going to have to charge loan shark interest.”
“I don’t know anything about loan shark interest. How much interest are we talking about?”
“I’m joking. No interest if you get it back on Tuesday. Tuesday? I thought you were leaving this weekend.”
“We’re putting out a special edition about the bank. And we had to put off the reading of the will until Monday after we get the paper out. I’ll move the money from my bank in L.A. when the banks open Tuesday after the holiday. Or, maybe, hopefully, what’s left in our accounts at First.”
“I’ll give you the money tonight at the wake. Do you have that kind of time?”
“Tonight will be fine.”
I left the house wearing my dark glasses and bought some Better Crust pies, which I left at the Miller’s. Then I walked up the hill to Benta’s Funeral Home where the clan had gathered to pay their respects.
Aretha was singing “Precious Lord” over the sound system.
I made a mental note to have Adrianne assign an article on the state of the funeral business.
As I walked through the room, I was reminded of the bebop and swing we piped in for Daddy’s going home at Gary’s church. I could almost hear it. My soul was stirred and I stopped to feel it, standing in one place for a minute, until I sensed someone trying to get around me.
Our Congressman touched my shoulder and paused before he passed. “Miss Washington. It’s so good to see you back home. I love your movies. Gives Harlem the best kind of public relations—action with heart.”
“Thank you,” I said. And I must say I was surprised. He’s good.
But he was already making his way to the next cluster of constituents as he passed through the room and finally stopped at the small group surrounding our bank president who was information central—the man with the world on his beautifully tailored shoulders.
I postponed going over to interview them and instead showed my home training by making myself walk down to the front.
Ceel looked weird—all fixed up to look like she was asleep, except gray and stiff and stuffed and surrounded by flowers. I turned away and spoke to the family who sat in the row facing her, accepting our sympathy. Mrs. Miller had been drugged, I think. She smiled a little smile to greet each of the people—are they called guests?—who stopped to give her their condolences. But the little smile frequently slipped, and a woman in white bent down to her.
She asked me to take off my glasses and her comments about my injured face distracted us a little.
Mr. Bell was sitting next to her. “Now we know what she was trying to tell us about the bank,” he said.
“You always think there will be time to do the things and say the things,” her mother said. “I often worried she’d have to take care of me in 20 years.”
Mr. Bell got up and walked with me to one of the row of chairs in the back.
“I’m so sorry,” I told him.
“I know. And I’m sorry about last night. Bobby must be desperate.”
“Did you take the money?” I said without any of the preliminaries I had rehearsed.
To his credit, he didn’t ask What money?
“You and Ceel were smart little girls. I was on your side when Elizabeth and Charles were deciding whether to let you have your hole in the wall.”
“Where is it?”
“Safe for now. Elizabeth does not need to know about this.”
“Cecelia was stealing bank money?”
He recoiled. “I would not say stealing. Not exactly. But there are people who will not be satisfied until they get it back. You do not need to put yourself in that kind of harm’s way.”