The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 3

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 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, 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 and wiping my eyes, then blowing my nose.

He continued, “According to the Fire Department,” referring to his smartphone/notebook and nodding his head as he memorized by rote the chronology of events, “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 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 let her know what was happening. By the time I arrived home, it was too late to call.”

“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 over there.” 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 over there!” 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 puzzled look 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. They were unconditionally devoted to each other and were very happy together,” I said, dabbing at my tears.

“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? Anyone they argued with 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 rather call Joni. I know she would board the first flight out of Paris. Working in Paris had been a dream for her, 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 wanted to scream and give back to 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, lots of 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 can’t be!” Trembling as the tears flowed.

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoy it.