The Yellow Hibiscus — Chapter 2
“The house flamed as if it was constructed of paper!”
Chapter 2
Two Days Earlier: Monday, April 20, 2015
The New York City subway system was unpredictable tonight. The train signals were behaving like a moody teenager. It took more than two hours to get home from Morris Park in the Bronx to my apartment on the Eastside in Manhattan. A trip I usually made in minutes on a typical night.
Stressed out from the city’s day-to-day grind, it took two cups of chamomile tea to calm my nerves before I climbed into bed. I knew the following day would bring more of New York’s unpredictability.
I’d only just entered dreamland when the telephone ringing disturbed my restless but much-needed sleep.
“Who the hell could be calling me at this hour?” I snarled, grabbing the telephone. I propped myself up on my elbow in the middle of a shuddering yawn. Still groggy, I glanced at my LED-lit caller ID on the night table beside me. It read ‘Unavailable.’ I could hear the hiss of heavy breathing as I picked up the phone, but no one spoke. As I attempted to return the receiver to its cradle, a voice said, “Miss Apika . . . Miss Shade?”
“Yes,” I answered gruffly.
“This is Sergeant Wade Willoby from the 59th Precinct in the Bronx. I am sorry to wake you, ma’am, but this is very important. It concerns your parents.”
“My who? What!” I asked, bolting to an upright position. “What’s wrong with my Mom and Dad?”
“I think I should come over and talk to you.”
I flung off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.
“What’s wrong with my parents?” I insisted.
“Can you confirm your address, please?”
“Sure, but are they alright?” I demanded, my heart racing out of my chest as I gave him my address. I was about to ask another question, but I heard a click.
I stared at the phone for a second, then offered a silent prayer. I then dialed my parent’s home phone number. Annoyed that I had to return the two expensive smartphones I’d bought them. Their house phone was busy. “What the . . . but . . they have call-waiting!”
I hung up and hugged myself as I was shivering, though not from the temperature in the room. I peeked at the clock. It was 4:32 A.M. I pressed the redial button on the phone again, but the line was still busy. I guzzled a deep breath, trembling. My mom was an early riser. Could she be on the phone? A voice suggested. But they have call-waiting! I said in torment.
I got up, put on my robe, and made my way to the kitchen. I made my way into the living room one cream and two sugars later, sipping piping hot coffee. What could be wrong with my parents circled my head like a halo as I pressed redial. Their phone was still busy at 5:00 A.M. My thoughts were running wild again.
In distress, I allowed my memory to replay last night’s episode at my parent’s house, hoping to pick up anything out of place that I might have missed.
“Honeysuckle,” I recalled Mom saying as I entered, beaming with pride yet looking me over with the discerning eye of a trainer scanning his prized filly before the ‘Big One.’
“What have you been eating? You’re thinner than my silver candlestick holder.” Hugging me as if she hadn’t seen me in years.
My parents were the epitome of happiness. Dad had retired next to the living-room window, smoking his pipe. I pictured him, seated comfortably in his leather La-Z-Boy armchair recliner, watching the Eagles vs. Jets showdown on the 55-inch Sony HD Smart TV I bought last Father’s Day.
“I love you, Mom,” I’d said after hugging her as I exited.
She waved from the door as I stepped out into the cool night air. I waved back and then headed towards Barnes Avenue to the subway. Apart from occasionally teasing me about the virtues of matrimony and childbearing, which gave me shivers, I thought about how lucky I was to have such great parents.
The downstairs buzzer screamed, throwing me back into reality. I jumped, spilling coffee all over the table. I scrambled to the intercom by the door, pressed the speaker button, and asked, “Who is it?”
“Sergeant Wade Willoby. I called earlier,” the voice explained. I buzzed him in, waiting anxiously.
Minutes later, the doorbell bleated. Through the peephole, I saw the image of an NYPD badge. I opened the door to a younger, more updated version of Lt. Columbo, one of my favorite TV detectives of the 1970s.
Sergeant Willoby had replaced Columbo’s rumpled beige raincoat with a blue, black, and white baseball jacket. Instead of Colombo’s notebook, an expensive smartphone peeked out of his right jacket pocket. However, he seemed to have a MacGyver-like personality from his demeanor when he nodded at me. As he entered my tiny one-bedroom apartment, I noticed that he was slightly taller and more handsome than Lt. Colombo,
I stood waiting for the news as his eyes scanned every detail.
“What’s wrong with my Mom and Dad?” I asked, studying his face for clues.
There was none.
He stared at me, but his thoughts seemed to be somewhere else. Then he suggested, “Can you sit down, please.”
I obeyed.
“I am sorry to tell you this, Miss Shade, but they’re dead. Their house caught fire. They didn’t make it out alive,” he related with concern.
My world stopped. My throat constricted, and my tongue felt like lead; I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. A hail of thoughts and images whisked by as I struggled to speak. My tongue regained its function; I jumped up from the sofa, screamed, and slumped to my knees.
“No!” I hollered. “No! They can’t be dead. I saw them a few hours ago!” I didn’t want to believe the man standing before me. He stared at me unflinchingly, yet I knew he was right. My parents were dead. I lost control of the montage of morbid thoughts that overwhelmed me.
He tried to help me up without speaking.
I raised my hand, signaling him to keep his distance. I knelt there, my face planted in my hands, bawling.
“Would you like me to call someone?” he asked. His demeanor was calm and professional.
I rendered a hollow stare as a river of tears streamed down my cheeks.
Images of Ari, my’ soon to be ex-boyfriend who didn’t know it yet,’ and my best friend Joni appeared before my eyes.
“But I was with them last night,” I wailed between gushes of tears, pushing the images away. “I had dinner there like I do every Monday night.”
Still silent, the Sergeant tried once again to help me up. This time I allowed him to assist me onto the armchair.
“Miss Apika . . . Miss Shade, how do you pronounce your first name?”
“Apikaila,” I answered.
“For now, I’ll stick with Miss Shade. What time did you leave your parents’ home last night?”
“A little after ten ‘o’clock,” I recounted, wiping my nose on the sleeve of my robe.
“That’s impossible!” He said in bewilderment, grabbing all my attention. “The Fire Department got the call around 9:55 P. M!”
I imagined I was a sight to behold as he reached for a box of tissues on the end table beside the sofa and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking out a few, wiping my eyes, and then blowing my nose.
He continued, “According to the Fire Department,” referring to his smartphone/notebook and nodding his head as he memorized the chronology of events by rote, “They got the call at 9:55 P.M. Arrived at the house at 10:05 P.M, five minutes after EMS. I got there at 10:15 P.M. EMS or firefighters couldn’t get in to save anyone. The house flamed as if it was constructed of paper!”
My eyes flew open in shock. “It took the Fire Department ten minutes to get to my parent’s house? But the fire station is only a few minutes away!” I informed him in utter disbelief.
“There was an accident on that route. They rerouted, but it was too late,” he related softly.
“I am certain of the hour,” I rebutted, “because my Mom followed me to the door, kissed me like always. Then handed me a brown paper bag with muffins, cookies, and the bread she baked earlier, then said, “it was after ten o’clock hurry home and call me when….”
He quickly cut me off. “Did you call?”
“No! Because of signal problems, the trains were delayed. I called her while I waited on the train and let her know what was happening. By the time I arrived home.”
“You took the subway home after 10 P. M?” His brows raised in disbelief, but he soon unfurled them as I pierced him with a weighty, ‘you got a problem with that. It’s New York City; everybody takes the subway’ look.
“What time did you get home?” he asked. His eyes seemed to roll around in their sockets.
“I don’t know!” I said in regret, wishing I had called.
“Weren’t you wearing a watch?”
“No. I don’t own a watch,” I said, sadness weighing heavily on my heart.
“You have two clocks in here and two in your kitchen.” He pointed towards my tiny kitchen. “Didn’t you at least look at one of them?” His provoking insinuation hung in the air.
“Your cellphone had the time, plus your cable box!” He pointed in disbelief.
“No!” I spat, hating myself for not calling. “My Mom knows I would have called her early this morning. What am I, a suspect?” I blurted out.
“That’s a premature assumption,” he said, a puzzling look etched on his face. “Are you sure about the time?”
I glared at him, wrestling with my tears to prevent them from dominating me, then tearfully let out, “I remember her saying, ‘It’s after ten o’clock, get home safe and call when you do.’ These were her last words.”
“Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your parents?”
Infuriated by the thought of that possibility, I stared blankly. Easing back my rage, I asked, “Are you implying that it’s not an accident?”
“It’s too early to tell, but we can’t rule anything out. Can you recall anyone who would harm your parents?” he pressed.
“I assure you, my parents had no enemies.”
“Everyone has enemies.”
“Well, my parents didn’t!” I said bluntly.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?” he persisted, sighing at my statement.
He was leading me down the path of temptation. For a moment, I felt as if I was in a shrink’s office, and Ari was on a chain being dangled before my eyes, luring me to call him. Right now, he was the forbidden fruit, and Eve wasn’t here. I quickly averted the thought, hoping to dispel his memories to the deep recesses of my mind.
“No,” I maintained in earnest.
“Okay, tell me about your parents.”
I sighed, wiped my eyes and nose with a tissue, then gasped, saying, just a decibel above a whisper, “Not much to tell,” dabbing at my tears. “They were unconditionally devoted to each other and were very happy together.”
“Any relatives?” he urged, still scrolling on his phone/notebook in true Lt. Colombo/Peter Falk style.
I nodded. “My mom was an only child. Dad was an orphan. They both came to America from Germany when they were young.”
“Can you remember anyone wanting to hurt you or your parents? Did they have any argument with anyone yesterday? Last year? Anyone, anywhere?”
He wouldn’t let go of that question.
I just glared at him in dismay.
“It’s normal procedure to ask such questions,” he continued.
“I am at war with no one. I am not completely at peace with everyone, but I am at war with no one, and neither were my parents.”
“Forgive me if I appear heartless, but the information I have doesn’t add up. Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?” He persists.
I nodded as an image of Ari flashed before my eyes again. Calling him, he would think I was ready. I need all the support I can get, but I would instead call Joni. I know she would board the first flight out of Paris. Working in Paris had been her dream, and I wasn’t about to spoil it.
“What is this, an interrogation?” The pain of my parent’s death was shutting my body down. I didn’t want to answer questions; I just wanted to scream and give back the world some of the pain it has given me right now.
“No,” he said, softening his tone. ”I have to ask difficult questions at the wrong time. I understand your pain, but to solve this puzzle, many questions need to be answered, and you have some answers that can help put the pieces together. The first forty-eight hours of any case are the most critical, and this,” he said, holding up his smartphone/notebook. “Is how I communicate with everyone at the precinct.”
I nodded in understanding, asking, “Could it be an accident?”
“Maybe, but we have to wait until the Fire Department finishes their investigation.”
“Oh, God!” I groaned. “They can’t be dead! They just can’t be!” Trembling as the tears flowed.
Copyright by Annelise Lords
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