Not Guilty of Love Page 3

  "And that attitude is why we're not together today, Malcolm," Hallison said.

  He turned and was ready to explode when Parke stepped between them. "Save it. This isn't about you... I need your help." Parke glanced over his shoulder at the stairs. "I've got an emergency."

  They gave Parke their attention. "What's up?"

  "I just got a call from Cheney's mother on my cell phone. Cheney's father has been shot. I've got to get to the hospital."

  Hallison gasped as tears sprang into her eyes. "What? Is he alive? What happened? Do the police know who did it?"

  Parke growled. "Yes. Grandma BB."

  Chapter Two

  “What?" Hallison and Malcolm snapped in harmony as they shot questions at Parke.

  "You've got to be kiddin' me. What—" Hallison reached out and gripped Parke's arm.

  "I didn't know the woman owned a gun. Why..." Malcolm paused.

  Parke held up his hands to ward off the firing squad. "Grandma BB sent me a text message stating she was about to be handcuffed for something nobody can prove. Then I received a call from Cheney's mother. She was crying and saying that Roland had been shot by some crazy woman. He was rushed to DePaul Hospital's emergency room. I put two and two together. Things are about to get ugly."

  Malcolm glanced from Parke and Hallison. "I don't know what math you're using, but this is not adding up for me."

  "It's not making sense to me either. How is Cheney holding up? I can't believe her day ended like this. Do you need me to stay with Kami while you two go the hospital?" Hallison asked, wiping tears from her face.

  "She's not going to the hospital," Parke answered.

  "Oh, okay. That's probably better. I guess I should stay with her," Hallison volunteered, already heading upstairs. "At least we can pray together while we wait for news."

  Gritting his teeth, Parke shook his head and restrained her. "Hold on. I'm not about to upset my wife yet. I'll go to the hospital and find out what's going on before I break the news."

  "Parke, I know she's pregnant, but that's her father, and he could die," Hallison argued.

  "Then we'll have to pray he doesn't. I'll bet Grandma BB's not finished with him. Something tells me it was just a warning. That woman is having some serious issues conforming to holiness, man!" Parke rubbed his neck in frustration.

  "You think?" Malcolm muttered sarcastically, folding his arms. "It sounds like you know what's going on, and it wasn't an accident."

  Parke nodded. "It was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Listen," he said, lowering his voice as Hallison paced, "you know we consider Grandma BB part of this family, but I can't be with both of them at the same time. She is Kami's great-god grandmother, god great-grandmother, or whatever she is. Anyway, she's family. I don't want her there alone. She's probably beside herself, realizing what she's done. I'm guessing the police probably took her to the Ferguson Police Department since the shooting happened near Wabash Park. She doesn't belong behind bars."

  Mrs. Beatrice Tilley Beacon, aka Grandma BB, was Cheney's former next door neighbor. On the surface, people dismissed her as a harmless, childless, and senile old widow. It was a ploy to deceive everyone about her vulnerability. Mrs. Beacon had wrinkle-free mocha skin and snowy white strands mingled with silver hair. She was a small-framed woman whose height was five feet in heels, four-eleven in the trademark Stacy Adams shoes she wore like house slippers.

  She was known for taking catnaps during the day and terrorizing the neighborhood at night. From her living room window, she kept vigil over the normally tranquil street, shaded by mature trees and brick-covered walkways that led to each neighbor’s front door. Her loaded shotgun was the incentive that caused intruders to think twice about committing burglaries, assaults, and car thefts on the block.

  It wasn't Mrs. Beacon's age that earned her respect. It was her megawatt spotlight, which was bright enough to flag down a plane. More than a few robbers froze when the light was shone on them. Mrs. Beacon made her own decision whether to call the police. Depending on her mood, she often took matters into her own hands, using a so-called marked bullet to threaten anyone who gave her back talk.

  Cheney had slipped through her neighbor's intimidating facade. Mrs. Beacon's sweeter, gentler side flourished when Cheney accepted her first foster child, Kami. Mrs. Beacon stockpiled her house like a KB Toys store, and her back yard became a makeshift playground.

  "I don't know, Parke. My girl still has a right to know." Hallison paused. "Wait a minute." Squinting, she cleared her throat. "If you don't need me to stay, you don't need me to go with him." She pointed nervously. "Malcolm can go alone."

  "I need Malcolm to get her out of there. Pay her bond or bail or whatever. I don't want her spending the night in a cold cell. I think she's at Ferguson's jail. Bro, you know I'm good for it. Hali, you go for backup and quote Grandma BB whatever scriptures come to mind. I can't believe this happened." Parke didn't wait for their answer. He snatched his house keys off a wall hook. He continued fussing under his breath as he raced out the door then turned back. "Remember to lock up."

  Hallison didn't feel confident about her scripture-quoting ability in Malcolm's presence. He reminded her of all that she gave up in the name of salvation. Parke and Cheney tried to stay out of Hallison and Malcolm's business, hoping they would resolve their religious differences. However, the longer the separation lasted, the more uncomfortable Hallison felt around them and Malcolm's family. She didn't want the couple to have to choose sides.

  When Hallison would've backed off, Cheney always yanked her closer. "We're sisters, Hali. We were friends before, but God made us sisters forever."

  Left standing in Parke's living room, Hallison tried to refocus as she quickly finished covering the leftovers. She raced to the kitchen and shoved dishes into the refrigerator. Malcolm trailed her without saying a word, or aiding in the clean-up. Just like a man. His expression was unreadable. What is he thinking? she wondered.

  "We'd better go, Hali," he said finally, reaching for her hand.

  With nothing more to do in regard to the food, she reluctantly accepted his hand and walked to a foyer closet. She pulled her jacket from a hanger. Malcolm lifted it from her hands and wrapped it around her shoulders, waiting for her to slip her arms in the sleeves before he put on his own jacket. Hallison sighed and took one last look at the helium balloons teasing the ceiling and the misplaced furniture. Whatever time Parke returned, she knew he would restore the area before Cheney woke in the morning. As if confirming her silent thoughts, Malcolm nudged her out the door.

  Once outside, Hallison ignored Malcolm's gleaming Monte Carlo and headed for her past-due-for-a-wash Toyota Camry. Heavy footsteps echoed behind her. Malcolm encircled her waist with his arm. "It's late. We're riding together."

  She didn't put up a fight. She couldn't. Her mind was on Cheney's father, Dr. Reynolds, praying he would make it and Mrs. Beacon, wondering why she would shoot him. Even when she and Malcolm were a couple, they rarely argued, and if they did, their standoff ended before the sun descended. At the time, they were two soon-to-be lovers who could no longer wait to consummate their commitment. Hallison left Malcolm with many unanswered questions because she was waiting on God to explain things to her.

  Retracing their steps to his car, Malcolm deactivated the alarm and opened her door. He swept a kiss against her cheek as she slid in her seat. Hallison didn't respond verbally, but her body did. She missed his comfort and attention.

  When he got behind the wheel, he took his time removing his jacket. He made himself comfortable before putting the key in the ignition and reaching for a CD as if there were no emergency. Hallison refused to take the bait, ignoring the subtle reminders of their compatibility. It had been routine for one of them to load a CD and share a kiss while Malcolm fumbled to turn the ignition without looking. Hallison glanced out the window into the darkness as Malcolm pulled away from the curb en route to the Ferguson Police Department minutes away.<
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  The R&B music was too hypnotic. It wasn't a coincidence that Malcolm played an old Earth, Wind, & Fire tune, knowing Fantasy was Hallison's favorite. She cleared her throat to drown out the song.

  "I knew Cheney had a strained relationship with her family, but it wasn't that much of a threat for Grandma BB to shoot somebody," she commented.

  Releasing the clutch, Malcolm squeezed her hand. "Baby, this proves my point, which is that church people are just as crazy as the rest of us."

  Chapter Three

  If Malcolm could've gotten away with it, he would've taken the scenic route to prolong the torture for both of them. The problem was most of the city of Ferguson was a small, basically picturesque municipality, filled with landmarks like those mansions built in the mid-1800s after the Emancipation Proclamation. Some homes were constructed with pieces from the 1904 World's Fair. One house was used to hold wakes, and several homes were built by Dr. George Case or his sons.

  Later, famous barbecue sauce inventor Louis Maull purchased one of the Case houses on Wesley. Not far away, another house was thought to be an original prefabricated Sears home bought from the catalog. The charm of Old Town Ferguson was one reason Parke had purchased his larger-than-life house on Darst.

  When Malcolm parked in front of the police station, Hallison waited patiently for him to get out and come around to the passenger door for her. "Thank you," she mumbled.

  Before Malcolm could respond with a seducing gesture or phrase, his cell phone vibrated. Snatching it off his belt, Malcolm cursed under his breath after recognizing Parke's number. "Talk to me," he said, more annoyed than concerned. It was the first time he and Hallison had been alone in months, and he wanted to make her sweat. There used to be so much harmony between them. Now, the sweeter his former fiancée became, the angrier he became, even months after their breakup. Malcolm wanted to lash out at Hallison for choosing Christ over him.

  "Hey, man. Roland has superficial wounds to the shoulder and upper chest. He's going to be okay, but doctors are keeping him a few days for observation."

  Malcolm digested the information, relayed the update to Hallison, and disconnected. Her hands flew in the air in silent praise. Afterward, she sniffed, but said nothing as she hurried inside the police station. The lobby was small with a metal counter and a few chairs against white walls. The counter's opening was protected by glass as if it were a drive-through bank teller's window.

  "May I help you?" a woman behind the window asked as she sat at a desk. She didn't bother to look up.

  As Malcolm opened his mouth, words spewed from Hallison's nonstop. "Yes. Our friend, Grandma BB—I mean Mrs. Beatrice Tilley Beacon—we think she shot somebody. I mean that's what we heard. We really don't know."

  Malcolm contained his amusement. He loved it when Hallison was flustered. She was downright sexy. Malcolm gently scooted her over and took charge. Smiling, he winked at Hallison then cleared his throat. "We would like to pay Mrs. Beacon's bail."

  The woman casually licked her fingers before flipping a page in a magazine. "She's at Christian Northeast Hospital."

  Malcolm supported Hallison's body as she wavered. She searched Malcolm's eyes with hers before turning back to the window. "Oh, no. Was she shot, too? What's her condition?"

  The clerk shook her head, took a sip from a reusable Big Gulp cup, and sighed. "She looked okay to me. We've got a running tab up at the hospital because suspects feign heart, asthma, or bladder attacks. One woman even said she was having a baby. It turned out to be cocaine she swallowed. It's all stall tactics. The officer will finish the booking process when your grandma returns," she said dryly.

  Facing Malcolm, Hallison's brows knitted with concern. She whispered, "She doesn't have a heart problem or asthma; I don't know about her bladder control. That woman is shooting at people and lying, too."

  "See, that's exactly what I'm talking about," the eavesdropping clerk interjected.

  "Why be a saint when being a sinner will do?" Malcolm mocked, then brushed an unwelcome kiss against Hallison's ear.

  Stepping aside, Hallison leaned unnecessarily closer to the security glass. "Thank you for the information. We'll head up to the hospital." They turned to leave.

  "Ma'am, she's in police custody, so you won't be able to see her," the clerk said with finality, slurping from her near-empty cup.

  Malcolm folded his arms, contemplating their next move. He didn't mind spending time with his ex. He just didn't want to do it at a police station. "Okay. We'll wait in the lobby."

  "Unless you're her doctor, clergy, or attorney, you won't be able to see her here either. After she's charged and warrants are signed, she'll be transported over to the St. Louis County Jail."

  "Hali, we can go home and wait until tomorrow, but I know you. You won't be able to sleep." Grimacing, he stroked the hairs on his beard. His behind was already protesting a wait longer than fifteen minutes in an antique chair, but with Hallison, he would have to tough it out. "Do you really want to wait?" He knew the answer when she gave him her bring-a-man-to-his-knees angelic expression.

  "Please, Malcolm."

  He counted to three as he appeared to consider her request. "Okay. C'mon, girl. I'll try to hang." With Hallison's hand still latched on to his, Malcolm allowed her to lead him to a set of chairs pushed into a corner, and they took a seat.

  "Thank you."

  "Hali, why are you thanking me?" He looked from their interlocking hands to the full lips he had kissed earlier. In the corner under a dimmed light and no audience was the perfect setting for a tryst, but he wasn't in the mood to fight with her over what she perceived as unwanted advances.

  "Because I know I can't make you understand why I broke it off—"

  "No, you can't," he said, shifting in his chair. He was starting not to recognize himself from the clipped tone he was using more and more with her. She was driving him insane.

  Sighing, Hallison pleaded, "Please don't hold it against me, Malcolm."

  One more request from his ex. He turned over their connected hands, admiring the slight contrast in skin tones, his—light toast, hers—medium toast. Hallison's back stiffened waiting for his response. Instead, he guided her head to his shoulder. Hallison complied without arguing. "I will always love you, Hali."

  "I'll never stop loving you either."

  Malcolm waited for her to say more, but she never did. Last New Year's Eve, he proposed, Hallison said yes. She loved him. He loved her back. They went to church. She came out converted. He didn't. She refused to marry him without a commitment to Christ. He refused to be forced. It was the beginning of the end. Hallison seemed happy. Malcolm was far from content with the women he had dated since their breakup.

  Somehow, Hallison found enough peace in the so-called night's storm to fall asleep. Her light snoring lulled Malcolm to sleep. It was the same melody that caused him to doze during one of many of their late-night pillow talks.

  Ninety minutes later, the clerk's booming voice echoed off the walls, jolting them awake. Malcolm jerked his head and braced himself to ward off any possible attack.

  "Hey, hey, your grandma's back, and just as I thought, she's fine. Once the booking process is complete, you can bail her out at St. Louis County Jail."

  Standing, they stretched. Disoriented, Hallison searched for her purse while Malcolm texted Parke: We haven't seen her yet, but we have to go to County to get her out. Oh, this is not my idea of a date.

  Escorting Hallison out the door, Malcolm led the stroll to his car. As he pulled off the lot, Hallison drifted back into her slumber.

  They arrived at St. Louis County Jail and repeated their request. Hallison and Malcolm were instructed to have a seat, this time, in cushion-covered chairs. By two o'clock in the morning, Malcolm's behind felt disfigured from sitting in one spot for hours. Yet, he was content as Hallison dozed, snuggled in his arms. He inhaled the clean scent of her hair. Malcolm was somewhat content despite Cheney's father being shot and Mrs. Beacon somewhere be
tween jails. Maybe the night's event was a blessing in disguise. He didn't know how many women he had dated since Hallison, but at the moment, only her presence satiated him.

  An hour and a half later, after learning of Mrs. Beacon's bail amount, he posted her bond. She signed the necessary paperwork and walked out into the lobby with no visible signs of anguish. "Thanks for coming to get me."

  The trio was barely outside the building when Hallison unleashed her fury. "What is wrong with you? Grandma BB, did you purposely shoot Cheney's father? I can't believe you—"

  "Hold up. Unless there are witnesses, I ain't guilty of nothing." Mrs. Beacon lifted her chin and dared either to disagree. When they said nothing, she straightened her seventy-seven-year-old body, then she switched all the way to Malcolm's Monte Carlo, strutting in pink stilettos instead of her Stacy Adams shoes, until they heard a bone crack. Mrs. Beacon continued with a slight limp that didn't slow her down.

  Hallison never opened the pocket Bible that Malcolm knew she carried in her purse. She appeared to be too troubled. "Six days ago, we were sitting in church and singing praises unto the Lord. Tonight, we're leaving jail after bailing you out. What is going on?"

  "I didn't ask you to bail me out. Personally, I liked the pink walls inside my cell at the Ferguson jail. It matched my pantsuit. Plus, I had another female roommate—I mean cellmate to keep me company. She was sixty-nine years old and slashed the tires of her fifty-year-old lover's car for cheating on her. She's probably home by now."

  "Great. A kindred spirit. Jail is not a social networking event," Hallison stated, agitated.

  "Let me tell you something, young lady." She did her roll-your-neck thing. "First of all, you didn't bail me out. Judge Matthews released me on my own recognizance." Mrs. Beacon wagged her finger.